by Ann Lacey
He was so beside himself that his fingers weren’t working right and he buttoned his waistcoat wrong. Mumbling a profanity, he set about righting his bungle only to find that he again misaligned the buttons. Angrily, he shook off the waistcoat and flung it across the room, deciding to do without it. He threw on his jacket and was about to go downstairs when Mason, without knocking, slipped into his room. Still out of sorts, Garren gave him a stern look before asking gruffly, “Any more bad news to report?”
Mason’s brows drew together. Bad news? he thought, confused. He hadn’t given Huntscliff any bad news. Ignoring the tall man’s belligerent tone, Mason said, “I think you better come downstairs and see this for yourself.”
Garren followed Mason downstairs and out the back terrace to a stone path that led to the rose garden. They continued a few more feet when Mason stopped abruptly and led him off the path behind a high hedge. Several times Mason gave a pointing motion with his finger, indicating that what he wanted Garren to see lay behind the hedge. Crouching down and peeking around the shrub, Garren, to his dismay, saw Thora sitting on a stone bench with Lord Avery Flemington. If that wasn’t enough to further ruin his day, Mason whispered in his ear, “Listen.”
“Lady Thora, after last night, after Lady Cecilia’s tragic accident, I realized just how fragile life can be, and I gave much thought to the words you spoke last evening. Therefore, I’ve decided to throw caution to the wind and reveal what I’ve kept inside.” Like an unprepared schoolboy, Lord Flemington suddenly began to stammer lines of poetry. “‘If . . . if you be wine, then let me fill my cup . . .’”
Good God, it was awful! Garren looked at Thora. How could she sit through such torture? She wasn’t treating Flemington as a possible murder suspect, sitting there smiling so patiently. She was treating him like a suitor.
While an outraged Garren observed the pair on the bench, Mason studied his colleague’s face—the tightening of the jaw, the hardening stare, and the edges of his mouth turned down. Lord, he has it bad, he thought, shaking his head. He was further assured when Garren abruptly stood up, rounded the hedge, and marched right up to the seated couple, his tall frame casting a long shadow over them.
“Good morning, Lord Huntscliff,” Thora and Lord Flemington cheerfully greeted.
“Good morning, Lady Thora,” Garren returned, disregarding Flemington’s greeting entirely.
“We missed you at breakfast this morning,” Thora said politely.
“Not very hungry,” he returned honestly. After last night’s tormenting imagery, his stomach had been tied tighter than a sailor’s knot all morning.
After an uncomfortable silence, Thora gave him a curious glance. “Is there something you wanted, Lord Huntscliff?”
I want you to call me Garren, he inwardly roared but he outwardly replied, “I was wondering where I might find Nyle.”
“My brother is in the library, has been since early this morning, working on the estate account books,” Thora said quickly.
Then, thinking Lord Huntscliff may have some important news on the case, she abruptly turned to Lord Flemington. “Please forgive me, my lord, but I just remembered that I need to talk to Nyle about the fishing outing he’s planning.”
“Of course, Lady Thora,” Flemington replied, sounding relieved that he wouldn’t have to deliver any more lines of the poem. He rose and gently assisted Thora to her feet.
Garren offered Thora his arm and led her out of the garden with such long strides that Thora had difficulty keeping up with him. “My lord,” she said, puffing, “please slow your pace.”
Stopping, Garren glanced down at Thora’s upturned face, but the sting of seeing her with Lord Flemington was still smarting. He was angry with her and not just because Flemington was a suspect, but because he was a man. Good God, he was jealous. He shouldn’t be feeling this way. And for, of all people, Nyle’s sister. He reprimanded himself. “Forgive me, Lady Thora.”
Adjusting his strides, they strolled leisurely. Glancing at her lovely profile, he couldn’t stop himself from inquiring. “I hope I didn’t intrude on something important back there with Lord Flemington.”
“No,” Thora answered casually, “Lord Flemington was just reciting a poem he has given to memory.”
“Sounds like he needs to improve his memory,” Garren criticized.
Garren’s ridicule of Lord Flemington had Thora raising a delicate curved brow. Affronted by his callousness, Thora tilted her chin. “Can you recite poetry, my lord?” she asked curtly.
“I can,” Garren retorted, surprising himself with his own arrogance.
Unconvinced blue eyes peered up at him. “Then, I shall look forward to hearing you,” Thora said, a hint of challenge in her voice.
Garren halted his step once more. He faced the woman beside him, whom he had no doubt could inspire verse. “Perhaps this evening after dinner you’ll allow me to tempt you with my poetry.”
“Tempt me, my lord?” Thora raised a brow. “Lord Huntscliff, you sound so terribly wicked.”
There was a devilish grin tugging at the corners of Lord Huntscliff’s mouth as he leaned down to whisper, “All men are wicked, Lady Thora.”
Thora could feel the color rising to her cheeks. Quickly, she turned her face away from Huntscliff’s penetrating stare and resumed walking. “I think we should hurry before Nyle decides to leave the library to ride out to visit with our tenants.”
Easily matching her shorter stride, Garren took her arm as they entered the manor and slowly climbed the stairs to the upper floor. As they headed down the hall, they strode by a window. Peering outside, he caught sight of Mason, inconspicuously trailing behind the suspect he was assigned to follow. Reaching the library, Garren gave a few light taps on the door. Upon hearing Nyle’s approval to enter, he opened the door but stood aside to allow Thora to precede him. As she brushed by, her scent filled his senses like a euphoric drug, causing him to nearly trip over the doorway’s wooden threshold.
A flood of admiration washed over Thora at the sight of her brother seated behind the mahogany desk, which had once been their father’s, a stack of account books laid out before him. Nyle was without his jacket and his shirtsleeves were rolled up, exposing his tanned muscular forearms, hardened from his hands-on running of the estate. He was so much like Papa.
How proud their parents would have been. What would have become of her if Nyle hadn’t stepped up to see to her upbringing after her parents’ tragic death in a carriage accident? When most young men had nothing more on their minds than what lady’s bed they could charm their way into, Nyle had not only taken on the reins of managing the estate but the arduous task of raising her as well. Yet Nyle had never complained and had become more of a father to her than a brother. Appearing as though he welcomed the chance to set aside his current task, Nyle smiled and gestured for her and Garren to sit. Thora took a chair alongside Nyle’s desk while Garren sat in an oversized chair directly across it.
Garren spoke first. “About last night, do either of you remember seeing Cecilia Boothwell talking to anyone after the music had ended?”
While Thora took a moment to ponder, Nyle replied, “I do remember seeing her in conversation with the vicar, Viscount Simon-North, Lady Langless, and Lord Flemington.”
“Do you recall how long they spoke?” Garren asked.
“I really can’t say. When I glanced their way again, only the vicar and Simon-North were there. From the look on the Viscount Simon-North’s face, the vicar was most likely giving him a well-deserved sermon on the evils of drinking and gambling,” Nyle returned.
Garren turned to her. “It seems I wasn’t the last to be seen with Lady Cecilia. Two of our suspects were with her prior to her death. Lady Thora, do you have anything to add?”
“I didn’t see Cecilia with anyone, but then I wasn’t looking for h
er. I was just remembering how annoyed I was with Cecilia,” she said. “You see, last evening after I had dressed I went to her room to tell her not to forget her rattle. I spoke to her and Cecilia saw the gown I was wearing, yet she chose to wear nearly the same.” Suddenly Thora gave a gasp. “Cecilia was wearing a gown the color of mine and we both have dark hair. Do you think the killer was . . .?” Her voice lowered to a shaky whisper. “Was he after me?” she asked, frantically searching each man’s face.
Garren heard the tremor in Thora’s voice. He didn’t want to frighten her further, but she deserved to know the truth. Perhaps then she would stop taking risks and use more caution. “That could be a possibility, or it could be that Lady Cecilia Boothwell was killed for an entirely different reason, one that we know nothing about. But to be safe, I would suggest you distance yourself from our suspects.” Especially Lord Avery Flemington.
But Garren suspected that telling Thora to stay away from the suspects was like trying to keep a bee away from its hive.
He watched as her chin went up, her shoulders squared, and she defiantly spat, “And how will I ever learn anything about Ivey’s murder if I do that?”
“That’s why I’m here, Lady Thora,” Garren replied calmly.
“Nothing is going to stop me from finding the devil that took my dearest friend’s life,” Thora said, voice rising.
Riled by her unwillingness to listen to good common sense, Garren blurted, “And what did you learn from sitting alone this morning with Lord Avery Flemington, who happened to be one of the last people to see Cecilia alive, other than that his recitation of poetry is appalling.”
Nyle sprang up in his chair. “You were alone with Lord Flemington,” he exclaimed. Giving his sister a never-before-seen glare, he warned, “Thora, if I have to lock you in your room until this killer is caught to keep you safe, my God I’ll do it.”
Thora was about to protest but then remembered how Nyle had nearly squeezed the life out of her when he found that she was safe and unharmed after discovering Cecilia’s body. Recognizing that it was brotherly concern that prompted his threatening words, she stifled her objections. “You have my word that I will not be found alone with any man I suspect,” she promised, receiving a thankful look from Nyle but a skeptical glance from Lord Huntscliff.
Upon leaving the library, it seemed to Thora that Lord Huntscliff had made little progress in finding Ivey’s killer. She was seriously starting to doubt his competency, wondering if perhaps it wasn’t by choice that he was no longer with the Royal Guardians. He merely told her and Nyle to keep alert and report anything that seemed odd or unusual no matter how trivial. It was the same advice he had given them when he had first arrived. She thought he was going to make some startling revelation or that he had uncovered an important clue. Disappointed, Thora went to her room. She had no way of knowing that Garren at that moment was telling Nyle that he had narrowed the suspects down to two.
Chapter 7
The Langless family arrived at the manor later that afternoon. While Floris was quiet as a stuffed parrot, her three younger sisters, on the other hand, were as lively as a bushel of baby chicks. Floris had been an only child for twelve years before her mother surprised her with two baby sisters, Rose and Reanne. Two years later, Emily, the youngest Langless daughter, was born. The twins were now eleven and Emily, nine. They were a trio of bouncing yellow curls and high-pitched giggles. Thora found them adorable. “Good afternoon, ladies,” she greeted.
“Good afternoon, Lady Thora,” the girls each returned with a wide smile.
“I have your rooms ready. My maid, Molly, will show you to them, and then she’ll bring you some lemonade and sweet cakes.”
The girls jumped up and down excitedly, thanking her for the treat until their mother, Lady Langless, instructed the young girls that while they were upstairs their nanny would conduct their French lessons. When the girls started to grumble, Lord Langless, with feigned severity, ordered them upstairs. As the three girls turned their backs to him to follow Molly upstairs, he winked at Thora and whispered, “I’d hate to have them know how much I grumbled doing my lessons when I was their age.”
Thora chuckled, realizing Lord Langless’s bark was much worse than his bite. Sensing that he most likely would want to see Nyle, she said, “My lord, my brother is in his study if you wish to speak with him.”
“Thank you, Lady Thora, I would like to have a moment of his time,” Lord Langless said before walking down the hall toward her brother’s study.
Turning to Lady Langless and Floris, Thora said, “The ladies are gathered in the parlor for tea. We’ve been waiting for you to arrive before starting. Come, let’s join them.”
“Tea sounds lovely,” Lady Langless said appreciatively, and she and the silent Floris followed Thora into the parlor, where they joined Lauryn and her mother, Lady Mayfield. The latter, being a devoted Christian, led the women in prayer for Cecilia and poor Lady Boothwell.
After prayers were said, Lady Langless told the group that Lady Boothwell hadn’t spoken a single word after waking in the morning to go the vicarage. But what she found most disconcerting was the woman’s Lady’s empty stare. “It was as if you were looking at the eyes of a porcelain statue. They were so very cold, so vacant, it was as if . . . almost as if they had died.”
“The poor woman. Cecilia was her only daughter,” Thora said, and suddenly felt a chill, wondering whether the killer had mistaken Cecilia for her. She quickly poured herself another cup of tea. While she sipped her tea, she noticed Lady Mayfield gently squeeze Lauryn’s hand in a gesture that spoke of her thankfulness that her daughter was alive and well and sitting beside her. For an instant, Thora envied Lauryn, but somewhere deep inside her heart she knew that her own dear mother, had she not been taken away from her so soon, would have also given a similar sign of endearment. The thought gave her comfort.
Glancing over at Floris, Thora was surprised to see that the girl’s eyes glistened and were puffy. Odd, she thought, as Floris and Cecilia had never been particularly close, but then the girl was the sensitive type.
Or did she know something? Could she be aware that Leedworthy had eliminated the one obstacle that might have stood in the way of their courtship and was having difficulty dealing with it? Annoyed with Lord Huntscliff for having leaked to Nyle about her being alone with Lord Flemington, a man for reasons of her own had scratched off her list as a possible murderer, she decided to keep this information regarding Floris to herself for the time being.
While the ladies prayed in the parlor, Lord Langless sat with Nyle in the young man’s study telling him that the vicar had sent word of Cecilia’s death to her father, the Earl of Wexford, who was in Bristol on business and that Lady Boothwell was taking her daughter’s body home to be buried in the family plot. At some later date, a memorial service would be held. As Lord Langless spoke, Nyle noticed the dark circles under the older man’s eyes. It was obvious that the events of the night had put a strain on him.
“Since the ladies are occupied, it may be a good opportunity for you to catch up on some much-needed sleep,” Nyle said.
A very grateful Langless patriarch welcomed the suggestion. Leaving the study, Lord Langless wearily mounted the stares. Stepping onto the upper landing, he suddenly realized how exhausted he was and that he would need assistance getting out of his boots. As luck would have it, he spied Lord Huntscliff’s manservant in the hall. “You, there,” he called out in his usual booming voice, “aren’t you Huntscliff’s man?”
Mason winced. He was no one’s man! But remembering he was on assignment, he lowered his head, put on an unassuming air, and answered, “Yes, my Lord.”
“Good. Come with me,” Lord Langless instructed as he walked toward his room. Over his shoulder, he threw, “I’m sure your master won’t mind me borrowing you for a moment to help me yank off these blasted
boots. I’ve been in them for two days now.”
Mason raised his eyes upward. After inwardly muttering a few swearwords he vowed, “Huntscliff is going to pay for this.”
Solemnly, the ladies left the parlor. Lady Langless and Floris went upstairs to check on how much trouble the younger Langless girls were giving their nanny, while Lauryn and her mother accepted the invitation of Lord Flemington to take a quiet stroll in the garden.
Viscount Simon-North and Marquis Brightington, Thora had learned, had persuaded Sandler Leedworthy to trade his book for a pair of reins and to join them for a ride across the countryside. She didn’t see Lord Huntscliff about, and her brother’s study was empty. Apparently they must have gone off somewhere, but she didn’t dwell on it as she had other things to think about.
She went upstairs to her room and sat down at her writing desk to compose a note to be sent to Lady Boothwell, conveying her and Nyle’s deepest sympathy and letting the grieving mother know she would only have to send word if she needed anything. When she had finished, she pulled the bell cord and instructed Molly, who quickly responded, to pack the Boothwells’ belongings. They were to be sent to the vicar’s house in the village along with the letter she had written. When she’d finished, Thora told her to come back and ready her bath.
When her slipper tub was filled, she quickly undressed and eased into the warm, soothing water. Thora wanted to be alone to think. So much had happened in a relatively short period of time that she felt she hadn’t given enough thought to the case. First, there’d been Ivey, then poor Mercer, and now Cecilia. Who could have murdered them, and why? Her main suspect was Leedworthy. She knew he had a motive for Cecilia, but why Ivey? Could Ivey have seen Cecilia and Leedworthy together? Was Leedwothy afraid that Ivey would tell Floris? And where does Mercer fit into this puzzle?