by Ann Lacey
As she was about to return downstairs, she opened her bedroom door and nearly collided with Viscount Simon-North who was standing in the doorway. “My lord, is there something you wish to see me about?” Thora asked.
There was an odd mix of surprise and alarm in the viscount’s blue eyes as he hurriedly explained. “Lady Thora, forgive me for startling you. You see, Lord Langless asked me to purchase some pipe tobacco for him in the village and I forgot the blend, so I came upstairs to ask him. Since I was passing your door, I thought perhaps you might have some small service I could perform for you in the village. I was about to knock when you suddenly opened your door.” With his shoulder resting casually against the doorframe, he gave her a mischievous grin. “Is there some minor need that you would like me to fulfill for you?”
“Thank you, my lord, but I can’t think of a single thing,” she said.
Wearing an almost comical frown, he stepped aside, allowing her to walk past him.
Thora joined the three younger Langless girls downstairs in the drawing room where she found them fast at work on the puzzle. The girls’ lively chatter and playful squabbling was just the distraction she needed. The hours passed quickly and soon the time neared for the midday meal.
Lady Langless entered the room and clapped her hands, drawing her daughters’ attention. “It’s time to go upstairs and change,” she said. Ignoring her daughter’s complaints, she hustled them out of the room.
After conferring with the kitchen staff to add a body-warming soup to the menu, Thora went upstairs to change her gown. She had just entered her room when she spied a note on the floor. Apparently it had been pushed under the door. Unfolding the paper, she read the clearly printed words:
THORA, MUST SEE YOU. I HAVE SOMETHING TO DISCUSS WITH YOU. PLEASE MEET ME IN THE BOATHOUSE BEFORE MIDDAY MEAL. IMPORTANT. GARREN
So Nyle and Garren had returned from their visit with the tenant. Funny Nyle didn’t let her know he was back. Studying the note, Thora thought it was about time Lord Huntscliff showed his worth. But what delighted her more was that he had accepted her as an equal colleague on the case. Eager to find out what he had discovered, and even more anxious to see him again, she quickly changed and headed out of the manor toward the boathouse. As she strolled, she turned her face up to the sky. It had turned darker than this morning and more threatening. The wind grew stronger, bending the tops of the trees. She was more than halfway to the boathouse when an acrid odor assailed her nostrils. Smoke!
Chapter 9
Looking back toward the manor house, Thora’s first thought was that they were dark storm clouds but she soon realized that it was billows of black smoke, and they seemed to be spewing from the direction of the stables. She was tempted to run back to the manor, but the boathouse was closer, and Garren was waiting with important news about Ivey, she was sure of it. Quickening her pace, she headed for the boathouse. She’d find Garren, find out what he had learned, and together they would return to the manor.
The blustery wind had her fighting her way forward. Thora gripped her shawl tightly around her. Reaching the top of the rise, she could see the lake and the boathouse. With the dark storm clouds blotting out the sun, the water looked gray and murky, as if it hid a thousand sins. Overhead, the sky was black and ominous and she felt the need to hasten toward the boathouse. She was nearly there when Thora suddenly hesitated. Why would Garren want to meet her here at the boathouse? Only last night, he’d cautioned her to stay close to the manor. Of all places, why here? Why not just come to her room at the manor? While she pondered over Garren’s choice of meeting place, the hairs at the back of her neck suddenly rose. She had the strange sensation that she was being watched. At first she thought her imagination was just running wild, until she heard a twig snap behind her. Someone had followed her. Ordering herself to stay calm, she spun around but saw no one. “Garren, is that you?”
The only sound she heard was the rush of the wind and her own pounding heart. A feeling of terror swept over her. She rushed on, the wind whipping at the pins in her hair, its force ripping one from her tresses. A quick change in the direction of the wind sent a long, brown strand slapping across her face. Holding her shawl with one hand and brushing her loose hair from her face with the other, she fought her way against the gusty wind to the boathouse. It was almost as if the wind was trying to force her back, keeping her away from the boathouse. But she pressed on. She was running to Garren—to safety.
By the time she reached the side door of the boathouse and pushed it open, she was out of breath. Once inside, she shut the door and took a moment to ease her breathing. She took a quick look around. It was dark . . . and empty. Late again!
Well, if Huntscliff thought she was going to wait, he had another thing coming! Annoyed, she started toward the door when she heard a movement. At first it sounded like it came from inside. She scanned her surroundings but the boathouse was empty. Shrugging the uneasy feeling off, she again started for the door, only this time the sound was clear and definitely coming from outside. Footsteps. Huntscliff. It was about time. Suddenly, a chill ran down her spine as the footsteps grew louder. Was it Garren, or someone else?
If it was Garren that had followed her, why hadn’t he answered when she’d called out to him? He just hadn’t heard her. But then she remembered that his hearing was keen. Of course, it’s Garren. He asked to meet her here. Yet she couldn’t shake the feeling of alarm growing within her breast. Then she remembered that night on the back terrace, the strange figure in the fog and Garren’s warning words last night about the murderer striking soon. Panic was taking hold of her. What if it was the murderer? What could she do? Looking about, she spied a canoe paddle propped up against the wall by the door. Taking it in hand, she hid behind the door and waited, her heart thundering in her chest. A few moments later, the door’s handle started to turn. Someone was entering the boathouse. A man with a small build. It wasn’t Garren. Oh good God, it wasn’t Garren, her mind screamed. It could only be . . . It was the killer!
Well, he’s not going to get his hands on me, Thora inwardly cried, tightening her grip on the paddle. Straightening her backbone and lifting the wooden paddle high above her head, she stepped out from behind the door and lowered it atop the man’s head. It was an awful sound, the wood meeting his skull. She heard him groan and then watched as his body crumbled to the floor. Cautiously, she moved over to the prone body to see his face. She gasped, dropping the paddle. Mason Greenstreet.
“Nicely done! Thank you, Lady Thora, you saved me the trouble,” a chilling, but familiar voice sounded from inside.
Thora spun around, shocked at who she saw. The Marquis Calder Brightington stepped out of the shadows of the darkened boathouse. What was he doing here? How long had he been there? “You . . . you went to the village!” Thora uttered, confused.
A sinister smile curved Calder Brightington’s lips. “Yes,” he said, “and Viscount Simon-North will swear I never left it. But you’d be surprised how quickly you can ride back to the manor when you have a purpose.” He glanced down at the unconscious Mason. “Poor fellow,” he said with false sympathy.
Thora slid the police rattle from her skirt pocket, but Brightington roughly caught her arm and yanked it from her hand, sending it sailing across the room.
“Don’t look so disheartened, Thora. It wouldn’t do you any good. No one would have heard it, not over the wind outside and certainly not with everyone at the manor fighting the fire in the stables.”
“Fire! How do you know about the fire?” Thora asked.
“Because, my lovely, I was the one who started it,” Brightington admitted with a chilling calm. “By now everyone will be busy putting out the flames. In all the confusion, you won’t be missed.”
“You better let me go. Lord Huntscliff will be here soon!” Thora shakily warned.
Brightington released
a nerve-jangling laugh. “I do hate to disappoint you, Lady Thora, but your Garren won’t be coming. You see, I asked Simon-North to slip that note under your door, right after he asked you if you needed anything from the village.” Seeing her shock, his laugh deepened. “I saw the two of you on the back terrace the other night, when you kissed and promised to call him Garren. How sweet.”
“You . . . It was you, the figure in the fog on the back terrace. You killed Ivey!” Thora cried and went to strike him, but Brightington easily caught her wrist, deflecting her blow.
“No, darling, that wasn’t my doing. That pleasure belongs to Viscount Simon-North. He took your friend’s innocence and her life, even though we were a bit careless that night. A slip that forced me to send Mercer, your brother’s servant, to, shall we say, early retirement. He remembered I drank wine while Simon-North always took brandy, and when he went to straighten the billiard room that night he found two glasses, both with the residue of wine. And he noticed that only one cue had been chalked. When the old fool approached me with this puzzlement, I told him to meet me upstairs in my room and I could explain everything. Unfortunately, he never reached the second landing.”
Marquis Brightington’s predatory green eyes seemed to glow as he recanted his tale of murder. “Now, it’s my turn to outdo Simon-North. By taking you, it will put me ahead!”
Thora couldn’t believe what she was hearing or that she was actually speaking to a murderer. “You talk as if this is some kind of game.”
“It is a most daring game. Clever of you to figure that out, but too late, of course, darling,” he said, his fingers squeezing her wrist with punishing pressure. “It’s a game we started years ago. Back then, the women we chose were the type no one would miss. You will be my crowning glory, even though with your demise we will have quiet things for a time, or perhaps look for new grounds. The continent, perhaps.”
“And which one of you killed Cecilia?” Thora asked.
Brightington looked as if he’d been insulted. “Cecilia Boothwell. The girl was trash. Neither I nor Radley would dirty our hands with the likes of her. The clumsy little slut fell for all I know,” he said, his hand gripping Thora’s captured wrist even more tightly.
Thora’s courage was fading. If only Garren were here. Oh, Garren where are you?
Back at the manor, Lord Flemington and Sandler Leedworthy were in the kitchen brushing ciders from the fire off their clothes and hair. The cook handed each of them a wet cloth to cool their stinging eyes and wipe the smoke soot from their faces. Along with the servants and several stable boys, they had assisted in putting out the fire that had started in one of the empty stalls.
Taking yet another wet cloth to cleanse his face, Lord Flemington turned to Leedworthy. “Devil of a place for a fire to start. How do think it happened?”
Leedworthy gave him a pensive glance. “I was just wondering about that. There were no lamps lit in the stable, but I could have sworn I smelled the odor of paraffin. I think someone set the fire.”
“But why? Why would someone want to start a fire in the stables?” Flemington asked, receiving a puzzled shrug from Leedworthy.
They had just finished cleaning their faces when it was announced that Lord Somerville was back. Leaving the kitchen, the two men walked to the front hall just in time to see Nyle, Garren, and Viscount Simon-North, his wrists in handcuffs and accompanied by a constable, entering the manor. Flemington and Leedworthy exchanged shocked glances.
Nyle told the constable to take his charge into the study and keep him there. “We left word for your Chief Inspector that it was imperative he come to Mannington Manor. And he should be here shortly.”
“What on earth is going on?” Sandler Leedworthy asked.
“Before I answer that question, I have one of my own. Where’s Lady Thora?” Garren asked with urgency in his voice.
“We were out at the stables putting out a fire. I don’t remember seeing Lady Thora there,” Leedworthy replied. He then turned to Lord Flemington and asked, “Do you remember seeing her?”
Flemington shook his head. “No, none of the ladies were there.”
Both Nyle and Garren’s faces turned white. Racing up the stairs two and three steps at a time, Nyle called out Thora’s name. From upstairs, he shouted, “She’s not in her room!”
Hearing the raised voices, the other guests gathered. Avoiding the guests’ questions, Garren asked if anyone had seen Lady Thora.
“I thought she was upstairs in her room changing,” Lady Lauryn returned. “Then the fire started and everyone started running and shouting, but I don’t remember seeing her.”
“Sorry to interrupt, my lord,” said one of the parlor maids to Garren. “I saw Lady Thora leave the manor just before the fire started.”
Garren grabbed the girl, shaking her. “Please, this is very important and may very well save your mistress’s life. Do you know where she was going?”
With trembling lips, the girl said, “Looked to me like she was going down to the lake, sir.”
Seeing Nyle coming down the stairs, he shouted, “Nyle the boathouse.” He turned and, with Nyle at his heels, ran out of the house just as the storm broke, praying that he wasn’t too late.
Inside the boathouse, Brightington’s fingers painfully dug into Thora’s wrist as he tugged her along to a space he had no doubt cleared earlier to—Thora gulped—rape and murder her!
She thought of Ivey. Is this how you felt, Ivey? So afraid. So fearful. Hoping for a rescue that would never come?
The memory of her friend stirred anger in Thora. If she was going to die, then she wasn’t going to make it easy for him. She would kick, scratch, and bite, somehow leave a mark to make it difficult for him to explain after they found her . . . her body. She shivered.
At the same moment Thora decided to battle Brightington, a clap of thunder rocked the wooden structure, startling both of them. She felt Brightington’s grip on her wrist loosen. Taking advantage of the moment, she twisted her wrist, breaking free of his grasp, and ran for the door. Anticipating her move, Brightington darted to the door to block her escape. Quickly, Thora stepped backward, putting one of the overturned boats between them. Wind and rain began to beat against the roof, but it couldn’t block the pounding of her heart. Like a stalking tiger, Brightington slowly crept, the crazed hunger in his eyes nearly had her frozen with fear. Suddenly he rushed around the overturned craft and caught the sleeve of her gown.
Thora screamed, sending a message to her feet to flee. As she spun away to run, the silk of her sleeve became trapped in his fingers. It tore, setting her free but baring her shoulder. Realizing he was too fast to outrun, Thora dropped to the floor and slipped under a boat. Mounted on blocks of wood, it left just enough space for her to roll beneath.
Over the noise of the hammering wind and rain, Thora heard Brightington cackle with sick laughter. “Oh, this is going to be more fun than I imagined.”
From under the boat, Thora could see his highly polished boots as he stood beside the boat. Sinking onto one knee, he reached under the boat, trying to take hold of her. Thora grabbed his groping hand and sunk her teeth into it. Swearing under his breath, Brightington quickly drew back his hand.
All Thora knew was that she had to get away. She rolled out from under the other side of the boat and scrambled to her feet. With the width of the boat between them, Thora started to flee, but Marquis Brightington was agile and vaulted over the craft, catching her around the waist. Fighting for her life, a frenzied Thora kicked and clawed at him but to no avail. He was too strong.
He pinned her to him and pressed his lips against her ear to wickedly whisper, “Thora, don’t fight me. Let me at least give you a moment of pleasure before you shut your eyes forever.”
The thought of Calder Brightington touching her that way caused bile to rise at the back o
f her throat. She struggled, trying to free herself, but his hold on her was firm. Now that he had her, he wasn’t going to give her another chance to get away. She thought of Nyle, how alone he would feel losing yet another member of his family, and of Garren. He would never know that she . . . that she . . .
Suddenly it was as if she were a sack of flour. Brightington hoisted her over his shoulder and carried her to the spot where he planned to do his foul deed. He threw her down to the floor, knocking the wind out of her. Gasping for air, she tried to scream but could barely utter a sound. If only she could roar like the thunder outside. She fought, swinging her balled fists wildly, but her struggles proved futile. Brightington used the weight his body to keep her down, then took her hands and pinned them above her head with one hand while hiking up her skirts with the other.
Thora shut her eyes, not wanting to look into Brightington’s mad, fevered face.
Outside, the storm clouds rumbled and the wind whistled through the cracks in the boathouse walls, its shrill sound as if calling her name. Inside, trapped beneath Brightington’s heavy body, Thora thrashed her head from side-to-side avoiding his slobbery kisses. She had been so determined to find Ivey’s killer, never imagining it would cause her to share the same fate as her dear friend. Tears managed to escape her tightly shut eyes as Thora prayed, Oh dear Lord, let it be quick!
Suddenly Brightington’s crushing weight was lifted and she heard someone utter a curse. Then she heard the sound of fist hitting flesh and bone, followed by the noises of a scuffle, of things breaking and crashing. The wind called her name. Only this time clearly stronger. No, it wasn’t the wind! Her eyes sprang open. The face above her wasn’t Brightington’s. It was Nyle! In all her life, she had never been happier to her brother’s face.