by Ann Lacey
Nyle didn’t waste a minute. He hurried back to the house as fast as his well-muscled legs could carry him. As Nyle’s form faded into the darkness until only the light from his torch moved in the distance like a ghostly specter, Garren inwardly wailed, Thora, where are you?
As he neared the front doors of the manor, Nyle saw Lord Langless and Parry Halford, the village doctor, rushing out and heading toward him. Two servants were with them, carrying torches to light their way. Seeing Nyle, Lord Langless stopped but told one of the servants to take Dr. Halford to the pond and ordered the other to stay with him. “Nyle, when I was leaving with the doctor, I overheard the Lady Boothwell asking if anyone had seen her daughter.”
Nyle grimaced, thinking how painful the news of her daughter’s death would be for Lady Boothwell. “Did you say anything to her?”
“No,” Lord Langless replied, somewhat shame-faced.
Someone had to tell the poor woman, Nyle thought. It wouldn’t soften the blow if Lord Langless broke it to her with his thundering vocals. “I’ll handle it,” Nyle found himself saying.
Lord Langless expelled a long, grateful sigh. “Thank you, my boy. Thank you.” Before parting, the older man gripped Nyle’s arm. “I sent one of the servants to the village for the constable.”
“Good thinking,” Nyle said, then continued toward the front doors. No sooner had he entered the manor house than Lady Boothwell ran up to him, her voice shaky.
“Lord Somerville, have you seen my Cecilia? I can’t seem to find her.”
“Lady Boothwell, please come with me. There’s something I must tell you.”
Lady Boothwell gave him a fearful stare then, with mute obedience, she let him lead her to an unoccupied room.
From his previous visits to the Langless estate, Nyle was familiar with the home and ushered the woman into the one of the private parlors and closed the door. He asked her to please have a seat and then he brought a chair alongside her. “I’m afraid there’s been an accident.”
Lady Boothwell’s eyes widened. Her lips moved, but it was a few minutes before she could form her words. They came out soft and slow at first and then loudly gushed out, demanding, “Is . . . is it Cecilia? Is she hurt? Where is Cecilia? Lord Somerville, where is Cecilia? Where is my daughter?” Gazing into his eyes, she spotted the truth, and then she started to scream.
The sound of the woman’s screams echoed throughout the huge house, alarming the guests. As hostess, Lady Langless was the first to enter the parlor. Seeing her, Nyle rose, went to her, and in a low voice said, “Please take Lady Boothwell upstairs and have someone stay with her. There’s been an accident. It’s Cecilia. She . . . well, I’m afraid she’s dead.”
Lady Langless gasped and hurried over to the grieving woman. Nyle looked on as Lady Langless ably took charge of the situation. While uttering sympathetic words, Lady Langless helped Lady Boothwell to her feet and guided the sobbing woman out of the study.
“I’ll tell the doctor to look in on her later,” Nyle said as he followed them out of the room.
A number of guests had gathered in the center hall and he heard but did not respond to their questions until one familiar voice spoke out.
“What’s going on, Nyle?”
Hearing the voice, he snapped his head around and looked directly into Thora’s face. The thought of giving her the thrashing she deserved for vanishing without a word evaporated like a puff of smoke the instant he saw her. In an uncharacteristic display of affection, he pulled her to him, squeezing, her with such cobra-like tightness that it stole her breath away. “Thora, thank God! I thought . . . I thought it . . . Oh thank God you’re safe.”
Nyle’s open expression of emotion had Thora sensing that something was horribly wrong. “Nyle, what is it? What’s happened?” she asked, stepping back.
Releasing her but keeping an arm wrapped around her shoulders, he steered her out of ear range of the others and whispered, “Cecilia Boothwell is dead.”
When Lord Langless returned to the pond with Doctor Halford, the man immediately knelt down on the grass to examine the body. He pronounced what everyone present already knew—that Cecilia was dead. Then he suggested that the servants carry the body to the house for a proper examination. He turned to ask Lord Landless for the best way to enter the manor without stirring a panic. Lord Langless told his servants to carry the body to the west wing, which had a back entrance and was currently unused.
Garren followed. As they walked along, he asked Lord Langless, “Did you happen to see Lady Thora when you went back for the doctor?”
Lord Langless’s negative answer had Garren finding it hard to breathe.
Using a desktop in one of the sitting rooms for a table and asking the servants to bring in more lamps to provide better light, some clean linen and towels, and a bowl of water, Dr. Halford took off his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves to start his examination of the body. “I don’t believe she was drowned,” was the first comment he made to a concurring Garren.
From all outward appearances, Garren knew he seemed calm, but inside, his nerves were teetering on edge. His mind was on Thora. Had Nyle found her? Was she safe? Please, God, let her be safe. If she was, she was going to get a stern talking to. He might even suggest that she should be taken over her brother’s knee and her bottom paddled.
When the doctor took out some scissors from his medical bag, Lord Langless gave an uncomfortable cough. “Perhaps we should give the doctor some privacy.”
Garren nodded and followed the older man outside into the hall in time to see Nyle coming toward them. Leaving Lord Langless standing outside the room, he rushed up to Nyle. “Thora. Have you found her?”
“Yes, and she’s fine. It was Thora you saw going into the house, but no sooner had she entered than she discovered Lady Floris in a terrible state. Thora said the girl was upset, in a fit of tears, about having spilled champagne on her new gown and she went upstairs to the girl’s room to calm her down and help her change.” Nyle watched his friend’s tense face relax as they joined their host outside of the makeshift examining room.
“Have you learned anything about how Cecilia died?” Nyle questioned.
“Only that drowning was not the cause of death,” Garren answered. “We’ll have to wait for the doctor to finish his examination. Has anyone spoken to Cecilia’s mother?”
Nyle told him he had spoken to the poor woman and that Lady Langless was with her.
Hearing footsteps, all three men turned to see one of Lord Langless’s servants coming down the hall with the same constable who had investigated Mercer’s death.
“What do we have here, your lordship?” he asked Lord Langless.
“Don’t know yet, constable,” Lord Landless truthfully answered. Pointing to the closed door behind him, he said, “The doctor’s inside with the body and may be able to tell us more once he’s finished with his examination.”
While waiting, the constable took down each man’s statement, writing them in a small book that he had removed from his coat pocket. He was just about finished when the door opened and Dr. Halford motioned for them to enter.
“Well, doctor, was Lady Cecilia Boothwell murdered?” the constable bluntly asked once inside.
The doctor rolled down his shirtsleeves as he spoke. “It’s hard to say. She has a nasty bruise on her head. Just how it got there, I can’t say. She could have tripped and hit her head on one of those sculptured figures in the pond, or she could have been struck on the head with a heavy object like a rock and pushed into the water.”
Seeing the constable’s bewildered look, Dr. Halford gave a weary sigh. “I just don’t know. For the record, I will have to report it as an accidental death. Since there are no other marks on the body other than the bruise on her head, and since there is no evidence that she had been assaulted, I’m g
oing to rule out foul play.”
“Thank you, doctor,” Lord Langless said. “Before you leave for the night, could you please check on Lady Boothwell? My servants will show you to her room. My wife is with her now.”
“Of course,” the doctor said as he folded his jacket over his arm. Picking up his bag, he left the room.
“Accidental death,” the constable muttered, satisfied, and slammed his book shut before returning it to his jacket pocket. Turning to Lord Langless, he said, “I’ll go and tell the guests that there’s no need for them to stay.”
“I’ll go with you, constable,” Lord Langless said and followed him out, leaving Garren and Nyle alone in the room.
A bit unnerved in a room with the lifeless body, Nyle was about to leave when he saw Garren head to the desk and lift the sheet Dr. Halford had covered Cecilia with. Nyle caught a quick glimpse of her pale, naked body. It still chilled his blood remembering that he had at first thought it to be Thora lying in the pond. After placing the sheet back over the body, Garren stooped down to pick up the pile of wet clothes the doctor had cut away in order to examine the body, running each piece through his hands.
“What are you looking for?” Nyle asked, puzzled.
Picking up a clean towel to dry his hands, Garren turned to Nyle. “Let’s find Thora. I need to ask her if Cecilia had her police rattle with her, because it wasn’t in any of her skirt pockets. Either she didn’t take it with her or someone took it from her.”
By the time Garren and Nyle had gotten to the front hall, somber-faced guests, murmuring their shock to one another, were departing. Apparently, Lord Langless and the constable had informed them of Cecilia’s accident and they were anxious to return to their homes. What had started out as a delightful evening, had ended in tragedy.
For Garren, it seemed like an eternity since he had last seen Thora. He spotted her talking to Lauryn Mayfield and Viscount Simon-North, and though Nyle had told him she was safe, it wasn’t until he saw her beautiful face that he took his overdue sigh of relief. He was so happy to see her that he even forgot his animosity toward Viscount Radley Simon-North.
As the Mannington guests gathered together to depart, Lord Landless joined them. He told Nyle that the doctor had given a sleeping powder to Lady Boothwell and that the vicar and his wife offered to take the grieving mother into the village in the morning, where she could stay with them while they sent word to her husband, the Earl of Wexford. Thinking it best to take his family away from the scene of such a tragedy, Lord Langless said that they would return to Mannington Manor the next afternoon as planned, but it had been his intention to return with his wife and their eldest daughter Floris but now he would, again, bring all his family, which included his three younger daughters and their nanny. He didn’t want the younger girls overhearing any talk of death from a careless housemaid or footman.
“You are a very thoughtful father, Lord Langless, and your daughters are always welcome at Mannington Manor,” Nyle said.
On the return home, Nyle and Thora were joined by Garren in their carriage. As they started back to the Mannington estate, Garren noticed a perplexed look on Thora’s face. “Is something troubling you, Lady Thora? Other than Cecilia’s accident?”
How observant he is, Thora thought. Forgetting her annoyance with Lord Huntscliff, she replied, “I don’t think it was an accident. I think Cecilia was murdered. And I know who did it.”
Both men straightened in their seats, with the same word falling from their lips. “Who?”
“It had to be Sandler Leedworthy. He’s the only one who has a motive, and I saw him arguing with Cecilia before the concert.” Turning to Garren, she said, “We both heard him threaten her in the boathouse. He wanted to be free of her, but she didn’t want to let him go, so he took matters into his own hands to gain his freedom,” Thora said assuredly. “And,” she continued before either of the men could respond, “Cecilia didn’t use her rattle, so it was someone she knew. Someone she didn’t fear.”
“How do you know that Cecilia didn’t use the rattle? Maybe she tried, but she was too far to be heard or someone took it from her?” Nyle suggested.
Thora gave her brother a superior glare. “Because I saw the doctor give it to the constable just before he went to look in on Cecilia mother. He said he found it in her skirt pocket. If Cecilia had used it, it wouldn’t still be in her pocket.”
“Sound assumption,” Garren praised. Unwittingly, Thora had solved the mystery of the missing rattle for him. “But all our suspects knew about the rattle and our killer could have prevented her from reaching into her pocket to use it.”
“Hmmm,” Thora murmured. “That is a possibility, but I still think it was Sandler Leedworthy. Cecilia trusted him and thought him weak, incapable of harming her. Like Marquis Brightington advised, one should never judge a book by its cover.”
Garren raised a brow. “Marquis Brightington made that suggestion about Sandler Leedworthy? When exactly did he make that comment?”
“The other night at dinner. He cautioned me to be wary of Mr. Leedworthy.” Thora waited but Lord Huntscliff did not respond to her statement. Instead, he leaned back into the carriage’s thick, cushioned seat. Lifting a hand, he cupped his chin and then absently ran his fingers along his jawline.
Thora was about to say something when Nyle stopped her. He motioned her to rest her head against his shoulder and leave Huntscliff to his thoughts.
Chapter 6
“What do you make of it, Huntscliff?” Mason asked.
“There are three possibilities,” Garren said. “The first possibility is that it was as the doctor said—an accident. Lady Cecilia went for a walk, stumbled in the dark, fell into the pond, striking her head on one of the stone sculptures, and died. Two, she was killed by someone other than our suspects, for a reason that has nothing to do with our investigation. Or,” he said, “it’s was a case of mistaken identity.”
Mason frowned. He didn’t like the sound of Garren’s last speculation. “You mean that one of our boys mistook Lady Boothwell for Lady Thora since they were wearing similar-colored gowns and they both have dark hair. Then, realizing his mistake, quickly disposes of the Boothwell girl because she is not, shall we say, pure enough for his tastes.”
“Yes,” Garren replied, adding quickly, “As of this moment, no mention of that assumption has been made to Lady Thora who, by the way, is convinced that Sandler Leedworthy is the guilty party because he wanted to end his ties with Cecilia to be free to court Floris Langless.”
“It is a good motive,” Mason uttered. Seeing the doubting look on Garren’s face, he added slowly, “But you don’t think so.”
“No, I don’t,” Garren said. “I’m sure Leedworthy is smart enough to know that Lady Cecilia’s threat to make their affair known would cause far more harm to her reputation then his and would ruin any chance of snagging Lord Somerville.”
“So, Mr. Sandler Leedworthy is not a suspect for this murder. What about Flemington, Simon-North, or Brightington?” Mason asked.
“All three were unaccounted for,” Garren answered. “Oh, were you able to search the suspects’ rooms?”
“Every nook and niche,” Mason assured. “And as we’re speaking about Sandler Leedworthy, he has a clean slate except for some morbid mystery novels he’s been reading. Viscount Simon-North and Marquis Brightington are both members of White’s gambling house.”
“Hardly condemning,” Garren grunted, “since I’m a member there myself.”
After casting an annoyed glance at Garren for interrupting, the older man went on. “Found some love letters from a few broken-hearted females addressed to Simon-North, some shamelessly begging him to continue their romance, others sounding . . . Well, downright threatening. Typical type of letters one of his sort would get I imagine,” Mason commented. “I did get a surprise in
Lord Flemington’s room,” he continued, piquing Garren’s interest. “He had a book of love sonnets on his nightstand. Who would have thought? Flemington reading love sonnets, what with him being a boxer and all.”
Garren’s face clouded and he quickly dismissed Mason, saying that he was tired and wanted to get some sleep. While he undressed, his mind was troubled, not by Cecilia’s death but by what Mason had found in Flemington’s room. Love sonnets! Had Lord Avery Flemington been reciting a love poem to Thora while they sat so cozily together at the concert? He almost wished Mason hadn’t told him about the damn poetry book. Hours after Mason had left his room, Garren lay awake, his mind beset with visions of Thora and Avery Flemington. He tried unsuccessfully to blot them from his thoughts, but they pestered him like an aching tooth.
He envisioned Avery Flemington’s thick, hard-knuckled hands cupping Thora’s soft, lovely face, her soft pink lips puckered and her large blue eyes looking up into a face marred by a nose that had been broken, accepting the boxer’s kiss passionately. Garren groaned. He tossed and turned. Exhaustion getting the better of him, he finally fell asleep just as the sun was starting to rise. Having forgotten to draw the drapes, the bright fingers of morning’s early light stretched into the windows, prodding him to waken.
Determined to get an early start on the day, he pushed himself out of bed with a moan. With barely an hour’s rest, he found himself to be grumpy and uncoordinated. He bumped his toe on the bedpost and then cut himself shaving. He cursed under his breath. Thora was having an unsettling effect on him. Why should he care who courted Thora? It was none of his business. He was here to solve a case. Yet he couldn’t forget their kiss, the rush of heat that burned his blood and left him craving for more. He suddenly began to dress with urgency and, though he refused admit it, it was because he needed to see her, to look into those enormous eyes, hear her voice, and give her bloody hell for tempting fate by discounting Flemington as a dangerous suspect.