A Brush with Shadows

by Anna Lee Huber

  “You keep referring to the letter in the singular, as if I didn’t witness you burning a whole stack of them.”

  She scowled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Those papers you so rudely barged into my chambers to see burning were merely old bills.”

  I sighed and rolled my eyes, annoyed with her ridiculous pretense. “Regardless, I’m not returning it. Why are you indulging in an assignation with Gage’s father anyway? I would have thought he was unworthy of your charms.”

  If she could have stamped her foot and not looked like a petulant child, I suspected she would have. “There was . . . is no assignation. There never was. That letter was from a long time ago.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I can’t be faulted with the fact that the man developed an unhealthy attraction to me while his wife lay ill. One I certainly never welcomed. I always said he was a toad-eating scoundrel.”

  “Then why did you keep his letters?”

  She stewed for a second before huffing. “If you’re not going to be reasonable, then we have nothing to discuss.”

  If she thought I would call after her and try to persuade her from leaving, she was sadly mistaken. Her words and actions had already given me ample information to ponder. As did her flustered retreat.

  * * *

  • • •

  Apparently Lord Tavistock had been kept apprised of my situation, for his first reaction upon seeing Gage escorting me into his chamber was to admonish his grandson for allowing me out of bed. “She should be tucked up resting,” he scolded. “Not traipsing about the manor.”

  Gage pulled a chair closer to the bed and then helped me to sit. “She has a mind of her own, Grandfather.”

  “Well, whose fault is that?”

  “God,” I retorted despite being winded and a bit light-headed from the walk. I appreciated the evident affection that underlay his reproving words, but that didn’t mean I was going to condone them. “I am well enough. And tired of lying in that bed.”

  The viscount grunted in disapproval and then turned to Gage. “Why are you here plaguing me, anyway? Have you found Alfred?”

  “I’m afraid not.” He pressed a steadying hand on my shoulder. “But we do have some questions for you that might help us locate him.”

  His grandfather sat back with his hands folded before him. “Then ask.”

  Gage glanced down at me, as if uncertain how to start. “This may sound unrelated, but can you tell us how your illness began?”

  The viscount frowned. “With a slight cough and some wheeziness. As it always does.”

  “No stomach complaints?”

  “No.” His shrewd eyes flicked back and forth between us. “You’re wondering if it was set off by poison. Like your mother.”

  “We thought it might be possible,” Gage replied carefully. “Particularly given the fact it looks like Alfred was also being poisoned.”

  All the blood seemed to drain from the old man’s face, and I sat forward in concern. “By whom?” he gasped.

  Gage shook his head. “We don’t know. But one can’t help but notice a pattern.”

  His grandfather turned his head to the side, staring at the open window. The fact that he hadn’t refuted this suggestion spoke volumes.

  “Can we add Alice to that list?”

  The viscount jerked his head back around to stare at him. “My sister?”

  Gage nodded.

  For a moment, I didn’t know what his grandfather would say. He sat so still, so motionless, but then he exhaled as he sank deeper into the pillows behind him. “Yes.”

  My husband’s hand tightened on my shoulder, and I knew he was restraining himself.

  “The legend they tell about Stephen’s Grave is true. I’m not sure why the family was so intent on denying that fact.” He nodded toward the window. “She met that madman at the crossroads where they erected a stone. She was there to tell him she didn’t care for him, and then he poisoned her and himself. I was away at school at the time. Learned about it in a terse letter from my father. It was never to be discussed. Not even among the family.”

  My breath caught at the long-buried hurt creeping along the edges of his voice. To be informed of his sister’s death by letter and then never allowed to ask questions about it? It was heartless. Perhaps his parents had found it too painful, but I suspected it had more to do with shame.

  “Is that the origin of our family’s supposed curse?” Gage asked.

  “A curse? Yes, I suppose it is, though I’ve always thought of it as more of a family motto.” He shook his head. “No, that’s much older.” He studied each of us in turn again. “You think someone is out for vengeance against our family?”

  It was more likely someone within the family was enacting their own agenda, but Gage did not say this. Not when it would point to his grandfather as an obvious suspect.

  “We don’t know. But it has to be considered.”

  The viscount’s gaze strayed toward the window again, as if seeing something in the distance, or perhaps the past. “Yes, I suppose it does.”

  * * *

  • • •

  I was still contemplating his enigmatic reply several hours later while Gage and I enjoyed a quiet dinner in our rooms. Exhausted from my illness and the afternoon’s exertions, I’d been too weary to descend to the dining room and fend off Lady Langstone’s barbs. Gage, Lord Tavistock, and Bree—who still scowled at me for not listening to her earlier—had all been right. I should have stayed in bed. But how could I do so when I was certain we were so close to the key to figuring all of this out?

  In any case, I was hesitant to eat any of the prepared dishes or beverages at the manor until we understood who had tried to poison me. So we requested a cold supper and an unopened bottle of wine—items we could examine and deduce with some confidence whether they had been tampered with.

  A knock sounded on the bedchamber door while I nibbled on a piece of apple Gage had sliced with his own knife for dessert. Gage and I shared a look of mutual confusion and then he called out for them to enter. I nearly choked when Lady Langstone tentatively opened the door.

  She was dressed for dinner in a gown of aubergine silk with garnets glistening at her throat and wrist. “I apologize for interrupting your evening,” she murmured far more politely than I was accustomed to.

  I scrutinized her in suspicion, pondering if she was here to discuss Lord Gage’s letters again. This time with her goal being to hurt her nephew.

  “What can we do for you?” he asked, unaware of my trepidation.

  She clasped her hands tightly before her. “I merely wondered if either of you have seen Roland today.”

  “I haven’t.” Gage’s eyes flicked toward me. “And I assume Kiera hasn’t.”

  I nodded in confirmation even as a trickle of unease slid down my spine. “I haven’t seen Rory since we returned from the moor two days ago, just before that storm began in earnest.”

  “I see.” She fidgeted. “What of you, Sebastian? Did you see him yesterday?”

  He frowned as if the same disquieting sensation was also settling over him. “No, I can’t say I did. I was too concerned for my wife.” He glanced up at his aunt. “I take it you haven’t seen him since then either?”

  “No. Not since the incident Lady Darby mentioned. I happened to be looking out the window when they came striding in from the moor.”

  “But Rory didn’t enter the house with me,” I recounted, thinking back. “He turned to go around the side of the manor. Where to, I don’t know. It had begun to rain and I was concerned with staying dry.”

  Lady Langstone nodded. “Yes, I saw that.” Her eyes flickered with something I thought might be fear. “And I saw him return a few moments later and go back out through the gate onto the moor.”

  “With a storm bearing down?” Gage said incredulously.<
br />
  “Yes.”

  He set the knife and apple aside and rose to his feet, taking command of the situation. “Have you questioned the staff yet?”

  “No,” she replied. “I . . . I didn’t want to unduly alarm them.”

  “Well, go do so now. Given the fact that Alfred is still missing, if Rory hasn’t been seen in over forty-eight hours, I think we need to assume he may also be in trouble. I’ll speak with Grandfather.”

  I pushed to my feet, shock and concern driving away much of my weariness. “And I’ll search the study. Perhaps he made note of an appointment or some other affair that would explain his absence.”

  My husband’s eyes scoured my face, as if to ascertain whether I was capable of the task given my evident exhaustion moments ago, but he didn’t protest. “Send a servant if you find anything of importance.”

  * * *

  • • •

  The same neatly arranged piles covered Lord Tavistock’s desk as before, so I set to work sorting through them. Everything seemed in order. Letters, bills, contracts, purchase agreements, crop-yield reports, repair estimates—all the things you would expect to find on such an estate. I paid particular attention to the letters at the top of the stack made up of miscellaneous correspondence, but nothing of note caught my eye. No new Swing letters. No complaints of any kind. If Rory or the viscount had kept an appointment book or agenda, I couldn’t find it.

  I was about to give up and return to our chamber when the bottom right drawer in the desk yielded something of interest. It was my sketchbook. The one I’d used the last page of to capture the image of that butterfly two days prior. The one Rory had handed back to me when I dropped it.

  I stared down at it in bewilderment. I hadn’t even known it was missing.

  Why was it in this desk? And who had taken it? Thus far we assumed Rory had disappeared immediately after escorting me back to the manor, but perhaps we were wrong. If Rory had been the one to take my book, then he would have had to enter my room sometime after I returned, but before Gage and I retired for the night.

  Of course, there was always the possibility someone else had nabbed it and stashed it here to keep suspicion away from them. But once again, why? I flipped through the pages, trying to comprehend what the culprit had hoped to find, and wondering if they’d found it. No pages were marked or missing.

  Nevertheless, I still felt vaguely violated. As if someone had tried to use my art for nefarious means. If only I knew what they were.

  * * *

  • • •

  When I returned to my bedchamber, I found Gage pacing back and forth.

  “I was just about to come looking for you,” he said, lowering his hand from his hair where he’d been raking his fingers through it in agitation. “Did you find anything?”

  “Just my sketchbook,” I replied, passing it to him.

  “Your sketchbook?”

  “I’m as perplexed as you are.” I reached up to smooth down his hair. “How did your grandfather react?”

  He sank down on the edge of the bed with a heavy sigh. “Not well. The truth is, I’ve never seen him like this. He seemed to shrink in on himself before my very eyes.”

  I sat beside him, taking his hand.

  “This could kill him,” he whispered, as if saying the words too loud would make them come true.

  “We’ll find them,” I told him, not able to bear the stricken look in his eyes. “And . . . and if they aren’t able to tell us themselves, we’ll find out what happened to them.”

  “Will we?”

  I infused all the determination I could into my voice. “Yes.”

  He offered me a weak smile of gratitude, but I could tell he didn’t believe me. Not yet.

  “So tell me the obvious, who is next in line to inherit after Rory? Your grandfather had three children, correct? One son and two daughters?”

  He inhaled, furrowing his brow in concentration. “Let’s see, it would have to be Grandfather’s younger brother. Or one of his sons or grandsons. But the last I heard they still lived in America.”

  I worried my lip. “I’m assuming this information is at least fifteen years old.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then perhaps at least one of them has returned to England.”

  “It’s possible,” he admitted, though he sounded doubtful.

  “Are you certain his brother had sons?”

  He shook his head in frustration. “I don’t know. To be honest, I never paid much attention.”

  “So what happens if none of them are alive or exist to inherit? Does it go back another generation?”

  “That’s normally the law.”

  I racked my brain, trying to think of any alternative possibilities. “You mentioned a cousin Edmund, your aunt Harriet’s son. That they live in a cottage near here.”

  Gage shook his head. “I know what you’re thinking, and the answer is no. I don’t believe Edmund is capable of killing his cousins on the chance that if he requests a special dispensation from the Crown he might inherit.”

  I grimaced in apology. “I meant no offense. I’m just trying to understand why someone would harm both Alfred and Rory.”

  He wrapped his arm around me and pulled me close. “I know.” Then he sighed again. “I’ll speak to Grandfather tomorrow, and if he doesn’t know the whereabouts of his brother and any of his descendants, then I suppose I shall have to write Father asking another favor.”

  “Is he keeping tally?”

  His voice was wry. “He’s always keeping tally.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Gage and I made the same rounds we had before, visiting all the adjoining landowners and searching the moor closest to the manor. Lady Langstone had already spoken to the house staff, and Hammett handled questioning the gardeners and stable workers. No one admitted to seeing Rory. No one knew where he might have gone.

  It was eerily similar to Alfred’s disappearance. The only difference was that Lady Langstone had witnessed Rory striding back out onto the moor, while a gardener had been the last to see Alfred do the same. Beyond that, there was no trace of him. Not even a bloody coat.

  Or had we simply not found it yet?

  While Gage rode on to speak with some of the farmers who worked the land southwest of Langstone Manor, I spurred my horse to Lorna’s cottage. If possible, she seemed even more distressed to hear of Rory’s disappearance, but perhaps it was the cumulative effect. After all, if she’d been holding out hope that Alfred would return, the disappearance of his brother must make that hope seem even more forlorn.

  When I returned to the manor, I climbed the stairs toward our chamber, planning to change out of my riding attire and wait for Gage to return. But the shrill sound of a raised voice made me stumble to a stop.

  “This is your fault! Your sole purpose in being summoned here was to find Alfred, and you couldn’t even do it!”

  Despite the strident tone, I recognized the voice as belonging to the Dowager Lady Langstone. Ascending two more stairs, I could see around the bend in the staircase to the landing above where she stood berating Gage. I’d never seen her in such a frenzied state, and the way her arms flailed about, gesturing dramatically, I believed for a moment she might actually strike him.

  “And now . . . and now Roland is missing, too! Some sort of inquiry agent you are,” she scoffed. “The great Stephen Gage’s son, foiled by a simple disappearance.” She reared closer. “Or don’t you want to find them? After all, with your cousins gone you stand to inherit more of Tavistock’s estate, even if you’ll never achieve the title.”

  Gage held up his hands in a staying gesture. “Aunt Vanessa, I’m doing all I can—”

  “Are you?” she shrieked. “It doesn’t seem that way to me.” She stabbed her finger behind her. “You should be out there scouring every inch of the moor. You
should be demanding answers. You should be . . .” Her voice broke on a sob, and she quickly inhaled, turning her head to the side.

  Gage reached a hand out to comfort her, but she shrugged it away.

  “Is this your attempt at revenge?” she sniffed, masking her fear with fury. “For what happened to your mother. After all, I know how softhearted you were when it came to her. Always ready to defend her over the tiniest slight, even if it meant violence. If only she’d deserved such loyalty,” she sneered under her breath.

  “Leave my mother out of this,” Gage snapped, his aunt having finally succeeded in riling him.

  “Why should I? She’s part of all of this. Even if, like always, she’s not here to get her dress dirty.”

  “She’s dead.”

  She shook her head as if in disbelief. “You still can’t see it. And you’re purported to be so clever. Yet your mother pulled the wool over your eyes and you’ve never removed it.”

  I was startled to hear Lady Langstone voice the same doubts I’d harbored about Emma Gage. The same misgivings about her failure to protect her son, though my view was tinted with outrage on his behalf while hers was tinged with scorn. The realization was not a welcome one.

  “Well, fifteen years hasn’t changed the fact that Emma got exactly what she deserved.”

  I knew Gage. I knew how honorable he was. He’d never raised a hand to me, and I believed he never would.

  But my first husband had. So even at this distance, I could tell the moment the idea gripped Gage. The moment his hand clenched, seeking to take out his fury on the person who’d caused it. I flinched, bending my knees and bracing for what was to come.

  Except it never happened. His body fairly vibrated with the desire to do it, but he never lifted his hand. He simply glared at her as if by a look alone he could turn her to ashes.

  Unfortunately, his aunt didn’t recognize how close she’d come to being struck. “Such a waste. She could have wed a duke if she wanted to be such a convalescent. She would never have had to lift a finger.”