Mark nodded. Nothing to be done.
He carried a lantern and began his search on the walkway outside the heavy wrought-iron gates. He could see no traces of blood, nor, in the finely manicured grounds, any sign of disturbance. Reaching the front door, he and Ian again made a scrupulous search of the marble, tile and brick that made up the entry.
The entryway was clean, as well.
“Please tell me the housekeeper wasn’t allowed to wash the floors or straighten anything once the body was discovered,” Mark said.
“As soon as I was called, I saw to it that nothing was touched. I asked her about the floors, and she said she hadn’t washed them. She had been working in the kitchen, thinking that would be where she could accomplish the most without making noise. When she first arrived, she believed Giles was still working.”
A thorough search of the floors, walls and furniture in the front of the house gave no hint of blood or disturbance.
But as they mounted the stairs, Ian just a few steps in front of Mark, the detective gave a little cry. “A smudge!”
Mark shone the lantern on the spot. Indeed, it looked like a smudge of blood, left behind by a shoe. It was small, however, and suggested only that the killer must have left by the front stairs.
“The man must have gushed blood like a volcano spilling lava,” Ian said. “Yet it appears his killer escaped the flow.”
“He was in back, no doubt behind his victim, and the blood would have spurted forward.”
“Still, it must have been a bloodbath,” Ian said.
“But we believe this killer has slain two other victims in like fashion. That would mean he learned how much blood would flow when the throat was slit.”
“Kill a man—and know enough to stay clear as he died,” Ian said with disgust.
“May I see the room?” Mark asked.
“Indeed, that’s why we are here,” Ian said.
Upstairs, in Giles Brandon’s office, it became even more evident that the killer had known what he was doing. Brandon had been killed when he had been standing behind his desk. The killer had seen to it that he had faced forward and fallen forward as he died. There was a pool of congealed blood on the desk.
The man’s typewriter, his own weapon, was caked with it.
“He was gripping his last work as he died?” Mark asked softly.
Ian nodded. “And we handed the article over to the paper—though it bashed the government, as usual. The chief thought that holding back such a piece, when word of it was sure to leak out, would be far more dangerous than allowing it in to print.”
“Quite right, I imagine. Still…the pages must have been smudged with blood.”
“The article will run in the morning’s paper,” Ian said. “Along with the news of the man’s death.”
Mark nodded. “Let’s hope there’s some sanity out there to counter it.”
In his mind, he then began to try to imagine what had happened. There was one corner in the room where someone might have stood unnoticed. Far left, behind the desk. Two bookshelves met there, filled with dark volumes. If someone stood very still…
He went to the corner, watched the desk.
“I’ll be Brandon,” Ian said quietly.
And so, together, they played out the scene.
“I believe that Brandon stood first, then heard his killer and turned,” Ian said.
“Right. Then the killer came forward,” Mark said.
“Brandon lifted his arms, so, as he realized the killer was wielding a knife…” Ian continued.
“The killer came forward…and slashed.”
“He gashed Brandon’s arms, the blood dripped down.”
“While Brandon reeled from the assault, the killer grabbed him by the shoulder and shoved him back around.”
“His throat,” Mark said, “was then slit, left to right.”
“Brandon fell forward, reaching for his article.”
“The killer stepped back instantly. The blood spewed forward. The knife, however, would have been dripping.”
“So,” Ian mused, “he must have stashed the knife quickly to keep it from dripping as he exited the room.”
“Stairway again,” Mark murmured.
Ian nodded.
They passed the one small smudge and made their way down the stairs. There, they paused.
“Back entrance,” Ian mused.
“Let’s try it.”
They took the hallway that passed by the dining room, parlor, kitchen and pantry. At the rear door, Mark angled his lantern, directing the light on the doorknob.
“Yes, he left this way.”
“I don’t see…ah!” Ian murmured. Once again, the speck of blood was so small it might have gone unnoticed forever. “The back was locked, as well.”
“The killer had the key,” Mark said.
Ian opened the door. Mark lifted the lantern. A tiled trail led into a garden setting with white-painted wrought-iron furniture. A small fountain bubbled, the sound oddly cheerful. The men looked at each other and moved toward it. There were flecks of blood on the stonework.
“Well, here’s where he cleaned his weapon,” Ian said softly. “Then…”
“Then he continued on through the back,” Mark said, wandering along a dirt path that wound between pruned oaks. He came to a dead end at a brick wall.”
“All right, how did he scale this?” Ian demanded.
Mark turned to him. “He had an accomplice, someone who waited and tossed him a rope. He climbed to the top and leapt over the wall, landing on the walkway below. Here, in the rear of the house, there is very little street traffic. There are other upper-class homes, but at that time of night, most people would be sleeping. He leapt to the sidewalk, and then he and his accomplice slipped easily through any crowd, then headed to a safe place, because some of his garments must have been bloodied.”
“A safe place or…” Ian murmured.
“A carriage,” Mark said.
“A fine carriage, one that could move through the streets with little danger of being stopped by the police,” Ian said. “I’m certain we’ll discover this person if we can only discover where the bloody clothing was left.”
Mark nodded and shrugged grimly. “Ian, the killer might well be concealing his deeds by riding away in a fine carriage, as you say. But do you really believe he would dare hold on to the bloody clothing? Why not dispose of it?”
“Because, when you dispose of something, it might be found,” Ian said firmly. “I also believe…” He paused.
“What?” Mark asked.
“I have no real basis for this, but…I don’t believe we’re dealing with a madman, but rather a cold and calculating political assassin. Still, I think this person is convinced of his own superiority. His own righteousness. Therefore I believe he keeps whatever vest or cloak or other garment he uses to hide the knife while he makes good his escape. It’s something he perhaps even gloats over. Why are you staring at me?” Ian asked. “Do you think my theory is ridiculous?”
Mark shook his head. “Not at all. But I was thinking that…all right, we know the killer is agile. Able to move in silence. Able to scale a wall with a rope.”
“Yes.”
“What we don’t know is that the killer is a man. We might be looking for a woman.”
“But Giles Brandon is—was—a large and powerful man.”
“Which may be why we see the defensive wounds. He may have thought he had the power to wrest the weapon from his attacker. I’m not saying that we are looking for a woman. I’m just suggesting that a female killer may not be out of the question.”
AFTER ELEANOR BRANDON screeched out her desperate curse, the entire castle went still, frozen in time. No one moved. It seemed as if no one even breathed.
Then again, it might have seemed that way to Ally only because she herself was so stunned and unnerved by the curse directed against her.
She fought the chill that ran up her spine and spoke herself. “Mr
s. Brandon, I am very sorry for your loss. I can only pray that God will bring you peace.”
And then Brian Stirling had hold of the woman, his hands on her shoulders. He turned her to face him. “Eleanor, please, before God, none of us would have wished Giles dead,” he said. “We’re all sorry for your loss.”
Eleanor Brandon was no longer a whirlwind, a shrieking harpy. She seemed to collapse into Brian’s arms, shaking and sobbing. She slammed her hands weakly against his chest. “What will I do now, Lord Stirling? What will I do now?” She straightened suddenly. “You will have me arrested.”
“Eleanor, I will not have you arrested.” Brian looked up. Ally knew he was seeking Camille.
She hurried forward, followed by Lady Maggie.
“Come, Eleanor, let me take you upstairs. You must stay with us tonight. I’ll get you some brandy.”
Eleanor shook her head, looking at them both. “He wrote against the Crown. I know how you felt about the articles he wrote.”
“This is Great Britain,” Camille said, “where we are free to express our opinions. Giles was entitled to his beliefs. Now, come along, Eleanor. Please, let us help you.”
The woman lifted her hand in a weak wave. “My…coachman.”
“We’ll see to him,” Maggie assured her.
“Please, everyone,” Brian said, turning to address the crowd of elegantly clad guests who still stood in the foyer, silent, gaping. “For those who wish to stay on, the musicians will continue to play.” With Camille and Maggie comforting the still-weeping Eleanor, he cut through the crowd and went straight to Lavinia. “If you’re not leaving, my dear friend, I would cherish a dance.”
“As if I would leave after such an offer,” Lavinia responded teasingly. “I would love to dance.”
As the two moved back toward the ballroom, Hunter did his part, bowing before another society widow and taking her hand. Lord Jamie also became a volunteer on the dance floor.
Ally didn’t realize that she hadn’t moved until Kat came to stand beside her. “Are you all right, dear?”
Ally smiled ruefully. “Let’s see. I’ve just found out I’m engaged, my fiancé couldn’t be bothered to appear for the announcement—perhaps he didn’t know, either?—and now I’ve been cursed. Quite an interesting evening.”
Kat laughed softly. “You forgot the part where you were held up by a highwayman, as well. Oh, Ally, please, don’t let Eleanor’s ravings become something real in your mind.”
“That was quite a curse.”
“Well, I don’t believe in curses, so don’t let this one play havoc with your mind. Meanwhile, you didn’t get your gift yet from Hunter and me. So…” Kat reached into a pocket in her skirt and produced a jewel box. “Please, Ally, take it.”
“Thank you,” Ally said softly, taking the box and opening it. The box contained a scarab, an incredible piece of workmanship, gold and jeweled and elegant. She estimated that it was worth a small fortune, and she shook her head. “I can’t take this.”
“Ally, Egyptology is what we do,” Kat reminded her. “And it’s not an artifact, it’s a new piece that we commissioned. Hunter has seen to it that the real scarab is in the museum in Cairo. But though this is a copy, it is precise, and with the precious stones arranged as they are, it is supposed to be magical. It will deflect any threat.” She smiled. “The original was given to Princess Netahula-re. It was said that her brother’s wife attempted to murder her with poison. She didn’t die, merely became sick, and her brother’s wife was caught attempting to kill her, so she met a dire fate—a rather ghastly one—instead. So this scarab, like the original, will protect you. If there is such a thing as a curse—which, of course, I don’t believe—now you’ve been protected. So all is well.”
“I don’t believe in curses, either, but I do thank you and Hunter with all my heart. But Kat, I truly need to speak with all of you. I had no idea what was really going on tonight, and—”
“Kat, there you are!” Hunter, a bit out of breath, found them in the doorway. “Oh, you gave her the scarab. Do you like it?”
“I love it. It’s beautiful. It’s too much.”
“Nonsense. You’ve grown into a woman we all hold in great esteem,” Hunter told her. He kissed her cheek, then caught his wife’s hand. “Not to be rude in any way, but I’ve now danced with a dozen oversized and aging maids and madams, and I’d like one dance with my wife. Ally, you’ll excuse us?”
“Yes, but—”
The two hurried away to the dance floor, Ally staring after them in frustration.
She lowered her head, thinking that perhaps tonight was simply not the right moment to try to talk to them and get them to understand. Somehow, though, she would have to convince them that they had done an excellent job with her education, so now she could not help but long to use it.
“My dear?”
She spun around. Lord Joseph Farrow, Earl of Warren, now her intended father-in-law, was by her side.
“You mustn’t be worried by the ravings of a distraught lunatic,” he said softly.
“I’m not worried,” she told him. Logically, she knew she was telling the complete truth, yet there was still that little edge of fear playing along her spine.
But, she reminded herself, she had the scarab!
“Will you honor me with a last dance?” he inquired. “The hour has grown quite late, and I must be on my way.”
“Of course,” she murmured.
As they moved onto the floor, she realized there was a light of amusement in his eyes.
She looked up at him questioningly, and he smiled and said, “You knew nothing about any of this until it happened, I believe?”
She flushed. “How did you know?”
“The way your jaw dropped, my dear.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Quite all right. But tell me, and tell me truthfully, are you dismayed or pleased to discover that you will one day be a countess, the wife of an earl?”
“I’m not marrying you, my lord,” she teased. “And you appear quite fit and healthy, not to mention that I wish you the longest life possible.”
“Well, thank you. But one generation must always give way to the next, and I admit to being quite grateful to have a son.”
“You are scarcely a tottering old oak, my lord. You could remarry and have many sons if you so choose.”
He lowered his head slightly, and then his eyes met hers. “I will never remarry. And you, my dear, have evaded my question. What do you think about this proposed union with my son?”
“Since I haven’t met your son, I can scarcely have an opinion.”
She was surprised that he didn’t immediately tell her that his son was a man held by all in the highest esteem or extol his virtues in some manner.
“That’s true. I had thought that one of your guardians would have explained this situation to you,” Lord Farrow said.
“I believe they intended to, although not until today,” Ally said. “And then, well…it seemed there was one interruption after another.”
“Even without knowing my son, what are your feelings about this marriage? After all, many lasses would marry a doddering imbecile in order to become a countess.”
She smiled at that. “Am I honored to be considered worthy? Certainly. And do I deeply love my guardians and appreciate all they’ve done—and continue to do—for me? Yes.”
“Charmingly said,” Lord Farrow said, bowing his head slightly and offering her a very small smile of amusement. “Frankly, I was quite worried. It all has to do with a vow, you see, though I’m afraid I’m not free to speak about any of it, really.”
Ally shook her head. “Whatever vows were made to care for me, I have been raised in a manner that will allow me to see my own way in the world. Your son certainly does not have to marry me.”
“No, my dear, the future is sealed,” he told her.
She stared at him, frowning. Then she realized the music had stopped. People were beginning to leav
e.
“But—”
She couldn’t say more, as guests were walking past, offering congratulations, applauding the union.
“My dear, I must leave,” Lord Farrow said. “No doubt we will speak again.” Then, and gripping her hands, he kissed her cheek, then made his exit. She watched him go, then felt a touch on her shoulder. She turned to see Lady Lavinia standing there.
“Mark is quite gorgeous and noble,” Lavinia told her. “What exquisite children you will have.”
Andrew Harrington, walking up behind Lavinia, laughed. “Good heavens, Vinnie,” he whispered, then shuddered playfully. “Sometimes the most gorgeous people have the most hideous children.”
“Andrew, that’s quite horrible,” Lavinia told him.
“But true.” He gave a roguish smile and took Ally’s hands. “Forgive me. I am speaking with a mouth full of sour grapes. I would gladly be your suitor. Unfair, I say, that Lord Stirling has kept you all but under wraps these many years, only to allow us all a sight of such exquisite beauty, then announce that you are to marry.”
“You’re very kind,” Ally murmured. She could see that the journalist, Thane Grier, was nearby, busily writing in his notebook.
“Not kind at all—baldly jealous,” Andrew announced. “Ah, well…we will see what befalls, eh? Still, I’m but a lowly knight—you’re being offered a future earl.”
“My deepest desire in life, sir, is to be a person who stands upon her own merits and needs no titles nor another’s grandeur to make a mark upon the world,” she said.
“Bravo!”
It was Thane Grier who had spoken, as, pocketing his notebook, he hurried toward them. “So a humble man without so much as a ‘sir’ before his name might have had a chance?”
“Might have,” Lavinia said sharply. “But Miss Grayson is now officially engaged to Mark Farrow.”
“Engaged is not quite married,” Thane said. Ally noted that he was nicely built, that his smile seemed genuine, and that his face was handsome. Then again, Andrew Harrington, with his wheat-colored hair, green eyes, superb stance and expertly tailored apparel was quite striking, as well.
And yet neither man could quite compare to the highwayman….
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