by Ann Lacey
Seeing he had made his point, Garren’s voice lightened. “Tell me, what do you make of this tryst between Cecilia Boothwell and Mr. Sandler Leedworthy?”
“I think it’s disgraceful. How can she look my brother in the face after sneaking off with another?” Thora said critically, her lovely pink lips curling into a sneer. “And Cecilia’s a fool.”
“A fool?” Garren asked, raising a brow.
“Yes, Sandler Leedworthy is just using her. This morning at breakfast he flirted with Floris and then he asked her to go on a carriage ride this afternoon.”
Garren could have told her that Cecilia may be a type of woman, and he knew many, having bedded a few, who took pleasure wherever and whenever they could and bore no guilt or shame and hardly thought themselves foolish. But it would be hard for someone like Thora to understand. She was a Mannington. Born into a noble and honorable family, she had been raised by a protective brother who sheltered her from life’s seedy side.
Garren suddenly noticed concern in Thora’s blue eyes. “What is it, Lady Thora?”
“I was just thinking about Floris. Should I stop her from going? Warn Floris what a reprobate he is?”
“No,” Garren answered, surprising her. “I hardly think Leedworthy would harm your friend. She’ll have a chaperone with her, and he openly asked her in front of witnesses. Besides, we don’t know what actually transpired between Cecilia Boothwell and Leedworthy last night.”
Thora’s bright blue eyes gave him such a contemptuous glare for thinking her so naïve that he had to choke back a laugh. Staring down into her face, he repressed the desire to brush back a brown, silken curl that escaped from her upswept hair. In a low voice, he softly murmured, “Is there anything else you would like to tell me?”
“Yes, Lord Huntscliff. Since we’re working together, I think you should call me Thora,” she said, leaving him open-mouthed and staring at her back as she left him and hurried down the hall.
When the men returned from their morning romp, the sun had changed from dawn’s soft glow into a bright, golden beacon, stretching its brilliant splendor over the manor and across its carpet of green lawns, ending the gloom of the previous day. Taking advantage of the exceptionally lovely summer day, lunch was served on the outside terrace. Tables covered with crisp, white linen cloths were set out, delicate, crystal vases holding a colorful splash of purple and yellow pansies at their center. Lunch was a repast of cold dishes consisting of meat, bread, cheese, and fruit. The men were served wine, and the women chose between tea and sweetened lemon water.
Garren took in a quick breath as Thora stepped onto the terrace. She had changed into a pale yellow gown and her cocoa-colored curls were pinned back so only a few wisps framed her face. She was accompanied by Lauryn and the petite girl’s mother, Lady Mayfield. He was seated with Nyle. He watched her search among the tables and as soon as their eyes met, his self-proclaimed crime assistant excused herself from the Mayfields and joined them, taking a seat that advantageously gave the most clear view of the other tables. They were also joined by Lady Boothwell and her daughter Cecilia, the latter brazenly planting herself close to Nyle.
Garren had to hold back a chuckle as he saw Thora’s face sour when she glanced at Cecilia. Thora wore her emotions on her sleeve and although it amused him at the moment, it did cause him worry. If he could read her so easily, then so could the killer.
“Lord Huntscliff, how is it we haven’t been introduced sooner? My daughter and I are frequent visitors at Mannington Manor and yet this is the first time we’ve had the pleasure of making your acquaintance,” Lady Boothwell pried.
Garren gave the woman a forced smile. “My work keeps me busy.”
“Oh and what work is that?”
Thora glanced nervously over at Garren, who seemed unruffled by the woman’s probing. Unaccustomed to evading the truth when asked a straightforward question, she was anxious to observe how he would deal with it.
“My father was in shipping. Since his passing a few years ago, I guess you can say I’ve been taking over the helm. Much time had to be spent overseas ensuring that the company’s relationships he maintained over the years stayed intact.” What he related to Lady Boothwell were facts. The Huntscliff family fortune was built on the shipping trade and, yes, after his father’s death, foreign business relationships needed to be reassured that business would go on as usual. But it was a company agent who did most of the traveling aboard. It was a good cover for him and one he’d used often during his days as an investigator. He bit back a grin. Not only had he satisfied the inquisitive Lady Boothwell but he found his explanation had also put an impressed look on Thora’s face and for some reason he found it very satisfying.
As the servants began to serve the guests, another topic of conservation drifted over from the other tables regarding how Viscount Simon-North had bested Marquis Brightington in racing their horses that morning.
Garren heard the Marquis sourly counter, “He won today, but it won’t be long before I outdo him.”
“Kind of reckless of those two,” Lord Langless said, nodding toward Simon-North and Brightington as he leaned back in his seat at a neighboring table. “Could have broken their fool necks, racing like the devil was on their tails, and all for a trifle of a gamble!” He shook his head as he returned to his thinly sliced venison with spinach and cucumber salad.
Thora felt a bit excluded from the others sitting with her, as the Boothwells, both mother and daughter, seized the attention of the two men at the table with their incessant chatter. Cecilia captured Nyle’s interest while Lady Boothwell monopolized Garren. Her isolation was rewarded when she saw Garren yawn when the woman turned her head to ask one of the servants for more tea.
When lunch ended, the guests mingled briefly outside before slowly returning indoors. Thora and Garren had just entered the house when from outside when they heard it, the sound stopping them in their tracks. A police rattle. Someone was using her police rattle!
Garren and Thora rushed outside, quickly followed by Lord Avery Flemington. Still seated at one of the tables was Lauryn, her face as white as chalk and her lower lip trembling. With a shaky finger, she pointed to the back of a chair a few inches away from her. Three pair of eyes followed the direction she indicated. There, on the back of the chair was the culprit: a large, long-legged spider. Without a moment of hesitation, Lord Flemington annihilated the insect with the pound of his fist. Taking a napkin from the table, he swept the remains off the chair before wiping his hand.
“Nicely done, Flemington,” Garren commented while Thora grimaced after witnessing the spider’s brutal demise.
Lauryn looked like she was about to swoon. Kneeling next to her chair and gently patting her gloved hand, Lord Flemington comforted, “There, there, no need to fret. It’s gone.”
As Thora stood watching the burly man, Garren perceived a touch of tenderness in her eyes. Her warm emotion for Flemington set his blood afire. Bloody hell! He was jealous. Soon the guests gathered, wanting to know what had happened and the source of the strange noise they heard. As the shaken Lauryn began to explain, she revealed the police rattle Thora had given her to everyone.
Thora’s shoulders slumped.
Garren motioned her aside and asked, “What’s wrong, Thora?” He’d used her given name for the first time and was somewhat surprised at how smoothly it fell from his lips.
“I gave Lauryn that rattle to protect her from a villain with two legs not an eight-legged one! Now all our suspects know about the rattles.” Disheartened, she went inside.
As the guests slowly returned to the manor, Garren remained on the terrace alone and idly rubbed his chin.
Later at dinner that night, Lord Langless used his fork to tap his water glass. The clinking sound attracted everyone’s attention. Rising from his seat, he announced, to everyone’s deli
ght, that on the following evening there would be a concert on the lawn of his estate which bordered the Mannington Manor. After a pleasant evening of music, refreshments would be served inside the Langless home before returning to the manor... As he took his seat, he stated that he and his family planned to leave early on the morrow to see to the preparations.
Looking around the table, Thora noticed that Floris and Sandler Leedworthy were the only ones who seemed to take no pleasure in the news. Cecilia was her usual self, clinging to Nyle and annoying him with her feigned coyness, while Lauryn was dividing her time with Viscount Simon-North and her newfound hero, Lord Avery Flemington. Seated beside Marquis Calder Brightington, Thora patiently endured his recitation of the race between him and Viscount Simon-North had that morning. With an air of smug confidence, the marquis assured her that his loss today to Simon-North would pale when he won their next wager.
“And what might your next challenge be, my lord? Surely not another race?” she asked.
Marquis Brightington’s eyes burned with future anticipation and he stared at her in the same unnerving fashion as he had done at dinner the other evening. Suddenly Thora felt a chill as he spoke. “No, not a race. I think I can devise something far more interesting.”
“Then I will look forward to the outcome of your next venture,” she said, taking pains to hide her disquiet.
“You will be the first to share my victory, Lady Thora,” the marquis assured.
Thora smiled. There was something in the marquis’s pale green eyes that caused her to shiver. Could she be smiling at a murderer? Suddenly she felt her staunch backbone beginning to weaken. Perhaps Nyle was right. She should leave her detecting to someone more capable. Yet the urge to find Ivey’s killer was still strong, and she couldn’t give up now.
For some reason, she suddenly felt like a young child seeking reassurance. Her eyes flew to Lord Huntscliff, who she discovered had been watching her. Their eyes met. In that moment, however brief, it seemed he was able to peek inside and read her mind, for he gave an encouraging smile. Such a slight action, but one so meaningful. It was as if . . . as if—
Her thoughts were abruptly interrupted when Lord Flemington remarked that in the light of what had happened today on the terrace, all ladies should carry a police rattle or some type of alarm-raising device to insure their safety.
Lord Langless snorted his disapproval. “Can you imagine if all the ladies of my household possessed one? Women frighten easily, I tell you. Those blasted things would be going off night and day. How would a man to get any peace?”
“Well, I’m thankful I had one today and that Lord Flemington was so quick to act,” Lauryn said defensively, gazing with admiration at the man who had come to her rescue.
Thora noticed the back of Lord Flemington’s neck color when he turned to Lauryn and, in a humble but somewhat flustered voice, said, “I . . . I was only glad to be of service.”
Outside of Lord Langless’s announcement, the evening was uneventful and Thora retired early. After changing into her bed clothes, Thora kept a vigil at her door, listening for any sounds of Cecilia leaving her room for her lover’s bed. None came and it was well past midnight before she wearily threw herself across her bed and fell asleep.
Waking well far beyond her usual early hour the next morning, she tugged the bell cord to summon her maid. A few minutes passed before a young girl named Molly entered her room. Thora instructed the girl to bring up a breakfast tray—some buttered bread, a coddled egg, and a pot of tea. When the girl left, Thora left her bed and put on her robe. Padding over to the window to draw the curtains back, she saw Viscount Simon-North and Marquis Calder Brightington dressed in their riding clothes heading toward the stables. Mother Nature had blessed them with a lovely day. Had they decided on another wager so soon?
When Molly arrived with her breakfast, Lady Thora was out of bed so she set the tray down on a night table and dragged up a chair for her mistress.
“Thank you,” Thora said, sitting down at the table to eat.
“Shall I lay out your morning clothes, my lady?”
“Yes, Molly, the pale-green gown,” she said. “The house seems quiet today.”
Molly giggled. “Lord Langless has left for his estate.”
Thora smiled. “He does have a strong voice, doesn’t he?”
“Strong as thunder, my lady,” Molly said, then sputtered, “Forgive me, my lady. It’s not that I want to be unkind, but it’s just that he’s so loud sometimes.”
Thora held up her hand to stop the girl’s apology. “I often thought he sounds more like canon fire, myself!” she quipped, easing the fretting Molly. “Has my brother gone out?”
“Yes, he and Lord Huntscliff went over to one of the tenant farms. Lady Boothwell and her daughter are taking the air on the terrace with the Mayfields. I don’t know about the others.”
“I’m sure they are somewhere about,” Thora said casually, though she inwardly noted that two of her suspects needed to be found. With Molly’s assistance, she washed and dressed and then went downstairs. She was in the center hall when Lord Flemington entered through the front doors.
“Good morning, Lady Thora,” he greeted in a bright, cheerful mood. “Just returning from my walk. Good for the breathing,” he said, inhaling deeply then exhaling smoothly. “Where is everyone?”
Thora returned his greeting then said, “Some of the others are out on the terrace. Shall we join them?”
Together they went outside and found Lauryn, her mother, and the Lady Boothwell. Cecilia was not there.
Thora chatted with her guests a few minutes before she excused herself, saying that she wanted to talk to the cook about the day’s menu. Returning inside, she directed the kitchen staff and then questioned the servants, asking if anyone had seen Cecilia Boothwell or Mr. Sandler Leedworthy. One of the parlor maids told her she had seen Mr. Leedworthy walking toward the terrace and thought he had joined the others outside. No one had seen Cecilia.
Thora thought for a moment. Nyle and Lord Huntscliff were visiting one of the tenant farmers, Viscount Simon-North and Marquis Brightington were out riding, the Langless family was at their estate, Lauryn, her mother, and Lady Boothwell were with Lord Flemington on the terrace. The only guests missing were Cecilia and Sandler Leedworthy, and it disgusted her to think what they might be up to.
Setting aside her investigating, Thora went outside. The warmth of the sun felt good on her face. Lord Flemington was right about exercise being invigorating. Before she realized how far she had walked, she was standing at the top of a rise overlooking the lake and a good distance from the manor.
Childhood memories flooded back to her as she slowly made her way down to the water’s edge where the yellow blooms of Jacob’s Sword grew wild. With a girlish giggle, she remembered tagging after Nyle and his taller friend each time they left the manor to go fishing, marching down to the lake with their poles resting against their shoulders like long rifles.
“Go back and play with your dolls,” her brother would shout over his shoulder.
To which she responded by sticking out her tongue. If she barely listened to Papa’s strident commands, she certainly was not going to mind Nyle. Happily she would skip after them down to the water and past the boathouse to the jetty where she’d settle herself beside them while they baited their hooks and threw in their lines. Garren, Nyle’s friend, as he was known to her in those early years, would kindly ask her to refrain from talking so she wouldn’t scare the fish away.
She chuckled, recalling how she had looked at him in awe and said, “But I haven’t said anything that would frighten them.” Then, dumbfounded, she stared at them as they burst with laughter. She gave an inward sigh. How innocent life was in those days, far different than the present. She strolled further, then stopped at the doors to the boathouse. They were wide wood
en doors, like those of a barn, that when opened could allow the estate’s rowing boats to be pulled in and out. The doors were closed and locked. A short distance away from the larger entrance was a side door used mainly by workers. Tugging on the door’s handle, she found it to be unlocked and went inside. With the barn-sized doors closed, the boathouse was dark as it had very few windows. In the dim light, she looked around. Neatly lined up in rows with their bottoms turned up and resting atop wide wooden blocks were a number of skiffs.
Now that it was summer, their underbellies had been scraped, inspected for cracks, repairs made if needed, and then each brushed with a new coat of paint. Nyle had talked about getting the boats ready and taking them out on the lake for fishing with the male guests while the ladies picnicked on the shore. She had replied that she had no intention of just sitting on shore twiddling her thumbs while the men had all the fun. She was going to fish!
Suddenly the hairs on the back of her neck rose. Her back was to the door. She glanced down at the floor where a long rectangle of sunlight stretched out from the open portal. Standing in the center, blocking out most of the light, was the figure of a man. Panic seized her. Before she could turn to see his face, he was upon her. A large hand covered her mouth, muffling her cry, as a strong arm went round her waist and she found herself lifted off her feet. Her struggles proved useless as he held her tightly against the hard wall of his body.
Oh, Lord, it was the murderer! She was going to become his next victim. Why had she come here alone without telling anyone, especially after both Nyle and Lord Huntscliff had strictly cautioned her not to do so? Her unknown assailant carried her with remarkable ease over to the door of a storage room where tools, paints, ropes, and sailcloth were kept. With a single kick the door swung open but, much to her surprise, he set her down gently. Keeping his hand clamped over her mouth, he spun her around.