Brides of Falconfell

by Bancroft, Blair

  We had one last bit of unfinished business before we could eat. Not that there was anything about dinner to look forward to, other than it would be poor Nettie’s last as head cook. When we had returned to the privacy of the study, Thayne rang for Fraser—who crumpled at the very first question.

  “I suspected, my lord,” he burbled, “but I had not thought the thieving so wide-spread, truly I didn’t. And everyone knows her father was the fourth baron’s get. She’s a Hammersley, she’s run this household for nigh on twenty years.” The elderly butler hung his head. “Who was I to tell her she had no right . . .” Fraser’s voice faded to nothing.

  “Then it’s true,” Thayne said. “You are my employee, Fraser, yet you gave me not so much as hint.”

  “Yes, my lord, I’m sorry, my lord,” he mumbled. “I hoped my suspicions were wrong,” Fraser added in slightly less strangled tones.

  “Go. I must think on this.” As a hunchbacked Fraser reached the door, Thayne called, “And send for Mr. Ross.”

  “At once, my lord.” A severely cowed Fraser closed the door behind him.

  “Do you believe him?” Thayne asked.

  “I would like to,” I said. “Fraser has been a point of calm stability from the moment he opened the door to me.”

  “He should have come to me.”

  “Mrs. Maxwell can be very intimidating.”

  “Nothing is supposed to intimidate a butler.”

  “True.” I heaved a sigh.

  “I should let them both go.”

  My protest was cut short when Ross walked in. “I was on my way to dinner when I heard you wished to see me.”

  After considerable discussion, in which Ross concurred with our suspicions and dinner was set back twenty minutes, we agreed to wait until Mr. Fournier’s report in the morning. To say that dinner was strained would be putting it mildly. Avery did his best to nudge us into disclosing the mysteries he sensed all around us, while his mother and Thayne shut down every effort he made to discuss what was on all our minds. Ross stuck to estate matters, while I picked at my food, all too aware of the eerie atmosphere of two less at table.

  After dinner was no less uncomfortable. I felt obliged to keep Isabelle company in the drawing room, but other than exchanging a few moments of conversation about Maud’s condition, we sat rigidly silent, the dowager at her inevitable embroidery and I ostensibly reading the latest novel by Scott. I took in but one word in ten and when the men entered the drawing room, I begged to be excused.

  A short time later, as Bess was slipping over my head the only attractive night-gown in my wardrobe, I realized what a stick-in-the-mud I had become. It was not as if I were poor. I had the resources to dress well, but some ridiculous inverse pride had kept me a Plain Jane, dressing for a position of service instead of choosing garments suitable for a young woman born into the upper gentry. In fact, the day before my marriage Bess and I had paid a second visit to the attics, where we found a night-gown of fine linen, with roses embroidered around the scoop neck and a row of gathered lace at the hem and on the sleeves. Bess had washed and ironed it and happily helped me don it for the wedding night Thayne had informed me was not to be.

  Yet I wore it again tonight, though the effect was considerably diminished by my night-robe, a brownish wool of indifferent quality, which had been thoroughly mocked by my husband’s shiny silk banyan of midnight blue, embroidered in bright colors with fantastical creatures. A sight that left me feeling like Cinderella among the ashes, though goodness knows Hammersley had lost all signs of the Prince Charming he once had been.

  Nonetheless, I had to speak with him. Exhausted as I was, meekly going off to bed without discussing the events of this remarkable day was quite impossible.

  But would he talk? Certainly, he showed no signs of it at dinner.

  With determined steps I marched through my dressing room, across the sitting room, and informed Thayne’s valet that I would be waiting in the sitting room. My cheeks gave off telltale heat as I arranged myself on the sofa in a deliberate ploy to offer Thayne another opportunity to sit next to me. After a moment or two, I even loosened the belt of my ugly robe, allowing a rose or two to peek through the opening.

  Poor plain, pathetic Serena, my inner voice mocked.

  I jerked upright, ready to box my own ears. I was Serena Emilia Farn—Hammersley, and I could climb mountains, traverse bogs, and fly over shake holes. I could even conquer the ghastly events unfolding at Falconfell. Oh yes, I could. And would. Was that not why Thayne married me?

  Whether or not I could conquer Thayne was quite another question.

  My mind steadier, I folded my hands in my lap and waited. Oddly enough, I was so lost in an examination of every nuance of the first full day of my marriage that Thayne was sitting down beside me before I realized he had entered the room. Once again he wore his elegant banyan, casting my drab wool into obscurity.

  He regarded me with the grave intensity I had come to know so well over the past fortnight. “Serena, if I had so much as an inkling of what would happen here, I would never have sent for you. You must believe me. I offer my most abject apologies for plunging you into such madness.”

  “You needed help. Even more so now.” And where those words came from I had no idea. For no one was more aware than I that Thayne had the most to gain from both women’s deaths.

  I suppose I expected some form of thanks. Instead, he scarcely noticed my protestation of loyalty. “It makes no sense,” he muttered. “She was to leave today. Rab and I would have packed her up and thrust her in the carriage if she balked—”

  “Rab, not Ross?” I asked.

  Thayne focused on me, anger vying for anguish in those stormy blue eyes. “Ross had a tender spot for Justine. I could not ask him for help in this.”

  “Were they lovers?” I shouldn’t have asked, of course, but it had been that kind of day, and I needed to understand.

  “It’s possible,” Thayne conceded, a trifle reluctantly.

  Because Ross looked like Thayne, I wondered, or had Justine’s affections been engaged?

  Poor Ross.

  And yet he’d flirted with me with a right good will . . .

  “I wondered . . .” I paused, knowing I was treading on ground as shaky as Swallowin’ Sam.

  “Do you think Maud might have made a mistake when creating a bedtime composer for Justine? I mean, the first was too light, perhaps . . .” I allowed my voice to trail away.

  Thayne put fingers to his forehead, his face grim. “God knows there was no love lost between them.”

  “That’s not what I—”

  “No, but it’s what you meant. Maud’s—shall we say, eccentricities?—have increased considerably in the last few years.”

  “You think Maud killed her, then tried to kill herself.”

  Thayne’s silence spoke louder than words.

  “Could Justine have quarreled with Ross and he killed her?”

  Nearly half a minute dragged by before Thayne answered. “In the heat of the moment, perhaps,” he said at last, “not by something requiring forethought, like poison.”

  A–ah, but of course. That should have occurred to me. “I would love to consider Mrs. Maxwell a suspect,” I admitted, “but it’s doubtful she had a motive either.”

  “Either?” Thayne’s head jerked up, his eyes darkening nearly to the color of his robe.

  I huffed a breath, annoyed by my carelessness. “Logically, you had the most reason to want Justine out of the way. No matter what her relationship may have been to you, she had become an encumbrance. But since she was leaving . . .” I shrugged. “You lack motive. Nor can I see you as a man who would so forget himself—no matter how strong his anger. Losing control is simply not a part of your character. Under certain circumstances, I might be able to visualize you wringing her neck, but cold-bloodedly poisoning her? No.”

  “Perhaps I had Maud do it for me.”

  The cool rebuttal shook me to the core. Put in its simpl
est terms, I had just indicated I suspected my husband was capable of murder. “I beg your pardon,” I cried. “It has been a horrid day, and I am not thinking clearly. Please excuse me.” I didn’t quite make it to my feet. Thayne pulled me down hard, his gaze so cold and dark I thought to feel his hands around my neck at any moment. Instead, he gathered me into a kiss that bruised. Devoured. Demanded. Shock stiffened my body, followed closely by a struggle that shocked me even more. Was this Hammersley’s way of shutting me up? A demonstration of male dominance?

  If so, he was doing rather a good job of it. He had pulled me into his lap, his arms pinioning mine to my sides, the force of his lips bending me over backwards. I gave a little, softening in his embrace, and he made the mistake of lifting one hand to cup my chin. I jammed my elbow into his ribs, followed by a sound box to his ear. He swore and I ran. Straight into my room, where I shot the bolt home.

  Thayne did not follow me. There was no rattling the latch, no words whispered—or shouted—through the door.

  Fine. The Lord of Falconfell had wanted a managing, independent woman, and that’s what he’d acquired. He would have to learn to live with it.

  I glanced at the clock on the mantel. Twenty hours since I had been wakened with, “Serena, you’re needed!” Definitely, a very long day. I took off my robe, crawled into bed, and succumbed to sleep.

  Directly after breakfast, I visited Maud, astounded to find her looking a good deal better than I felt. Bess had reported that Maud took the news of Justine’s death well, but this morning she seemed oblivious, as unconcerned as if she expected Justine to walk through the door at any moment.

  Or as if Justine’s death were good news . . .

  No, I refused to believe it!

  Then again, surely suspecting Maud was preferable to suspecting Thayne.

  If only I could find a reason to suspect Mrs. Maxwell . . . or the third footman, or Old Edgar, the gardener. A monster rising out of the ominous shake holes . . .

  Hopefully, I mouthed all the right words to Maud who, I noticed with interest, seemed not to mind all the attention she was getting. When Isabelle arrived to check on the invalid, I excused myself and made my way to the Yellow Room. What Anton Fournier would say had a strong bearing not only on Mrs. Maxwell’s fate but on his observational skills. Had he found the worm in our woodwork so soon after his arrival? Or would I find him oblivious of the chaos in the kitchen? Or perhaps, in fear for his job, would he lie through his teeth, claiming all was well?

  I stood at a window overlooking the gardens, feasting my eyes on spring colors kissed by the first sun we’d seen in days when a stray thought popped into my mind. Maud’s eyes were unusually dark, almost black. A truly odd color for an Englishwoman—almost as if some distant Hammersley ancestor had brought back a bride from Arabia or India. In addition, Maud’s eyes shone with shrewd intelligence. As did Violet’s. Which were also the same color, the same shape, and held the same unknown depths as Maud’s.

  Violet was a Hammersley through and through. Surely Thayne had noticed, so how could . . .?

  Oh, dear God! He couldn’t think that Ross . . .

  Ross and Helen? I shuddered.

  Rab and Helen? Not if what I suspected about his proclivities were true. And yet, who knew? It was scarcely a subject on which I could claim intimate knowledge.

  I settled onto a settee, placed at a right angle to the fireplace and ruthlessly quelled my agitation. Anton Fournier should arrive at any moment.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The moment I saw Anton Fournier’s face, I knew what he would say. Reluctance to report what he had discovered was written all over his handsome features—and was a credit to his integrity, as well as his common sense. To fulfill his duties, he, the newly hired, would have to speak to the detriment of one or more long-time employees.

  Anton refused my offer to sit, stating that he preferred to stand. “That bad, Mr. Fournier?” I challenged.

  Stumbling for the first time since I’d met him, he said, “I–I wondered, my lady . . . is Lord Hammersley of a parsimonious nature?” His amber eyes apologized for the question, even as he stoically awaited my answer.

  “You have discovered the state of the larder,” I returned steadily, though a surge of relief shot through me. No doubt now—Nettie’s allegations were confirmed.

  “’Tis no wonder the meals are abominable, my lady,” he declared, his gaze now flashing anger. “No one could make a decent meal of the inferior foodstuffs I found in the kitchen.”

  I offered a smile, if a trifle wan. “Rest easy, Mr. Fournier. You have merely confirmed what we already suspected. It would appear Lord Hammersley’s more-than-ample allowance for the kitchen has strayed. In spite of what the account books say,” I added softly.

  “If I might speak, my lady?”

  “Proceed.”

  He shifted his feet, bit his lip, more like a twelve-year-old fearful of telling the truth than a skilled upper servant. “Mrs. Maxwell is a formidable woman, my lady. The staff walks in terror.”

  “All this in twenty-four hours, Mr. Fournier?” Color stained his cheeks; once again he studied the floor. There was, of course, nothing more to say on the subject of the culprit. He had made himself clear. Even if criticizing Mrs. Maxwell cost him his job.

  “You will make a list of supplies and you will accompany the wagon into the nearest village to select the supplies yourself. You will then give me a list of anything you cannot find there, and I will ask Hammersley to have his agents in York and London supply the remainder. You are, therefore, excused from cooking until you have acquired what you need to create decent meals. Is that understood?”

  Anton stood tall, straightening his shoulders. “Yes, my lady. Thank you, my lady.” The amber eyes gleamed. Good. Our new cook wasn’t afraid of a fight.

  After he left, I sat for a few minutes, gathering my courage. Not that I would have to deal with Mrs. Maxwell myself—at least I didn’t think so—but the dismissal of an upper servant of such long standing would create a hideous upheaval. And with no one to take her place . . . I was about to become housekeeper, as well as lady of the manor and mother of a five-year-old.

  “I will re-check the household accounts, of course,” Thayne said, “but I know they are in order. Perfect, in fact. Month after month, meticulously kept, never so much as a single column wrongly added or subtracted.”

  “What will you do then?” I asked.

  “I will also inspect the food stuffs—”

  “Would you know a bad cut of meat if it reared up and bit you?”

  Hammersley gave me a long look. “I’d have to be blind not to spot gristle and fat or a weevil in a bag of flour.”

  I peeped at him, stifling a giggle. “Check the shelves for spices. According to Nettie, the costly imported spices have run out and never been replaced.”

  Thayne groaned. “I expect the kitchen staff will be lined up, watching my every move, suppressing laughter like yours about the master sniffing about the kitchen like some clumsy beast loosed from a cage.”

  “More likely they’ll be awestruck. And when they realize Mrs. Maxwell has been found out at last, they’ll be cheering. At least in their hearts.”

  Thayne’s rueful smile quickly transformed into a frown. “This is a poor time for such an upheaval.”

  “Consider it a spring housecleaning.”

  Our eyes met and Thayne shook his head. “Alice Maxwell has been part of this household for as long as I can remember. I can only assume she believed her Hammersley blood entitled her to more than the prestige of being Falconfell’s housekeeper.” He heaved a long sigh.

  “What will you do?”

  “Retirement. A cottage anywhere she wishes, as long as it is not within fifty miles of Falconfell.”

  Ah. The quality of mercy . . . droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven. But did it, as Shakespeare said, bless the one who takes as well as the one who gives? Truthfully, I rather hoped not. Although my Christian conscience w
riggled in discomfort, I would have preferred a sterner fate for Mrs. Maxwell. I could not help but wonder if fifty miles was far enough for a woman who seemed to think a few drops of Hammersley blood gave her license to do as she willed. And then it occurred to me Alice Maxwell’s ancestors might well have been among the “barbarians” against whom the Romans built their great wall. A shiver passed through me like an echo of ancient evil.

  “When?” I asked.

  Putting both hands flat on his desk, the Lord of Falconfell levered himself to his feet. “Now,” he said.

  I wanted to linger by the green baize door or conceal myself at the bottom of the servants’ stairs, so I might overhear the shock waves caused by Thayne’s inspection of the kitchen area prior to his confrontation with Mrs. Maxwell. But the truth was, not only would the kitchen be plunged into frozen silence, but the Lady of Falconfell must hold herself above eavesdropping. I sighed, turning reluctant feet toward Maud’s room, where I warned her of the imminent change below stairs. Her response of, “Took you long enough!” set me wondering just how much she knew and for how long. Was Thayne the only person unaware of Mrs. Maxwell’s thievery? What about Helen? And Justine? What about the dowager? Surely she had never tolerated meals of poor quality?

  No, it was likely Mrs. Maxwell’s depredations had not begun until Helen’s reign, escalating to severe only during the past year as Helen’s health deteriorated.

  I left Maud glaring suspiciously at her luncheon tray and climbed the stairs to the nursery, where I paused for a moment to enjoy the view, a spectacular landscape of mountains, valley, river, and winding road that soothed the soul. Movement caught my eye, and my gaze focused on the bridge. Two—no, three—men were in close conversation: Ross, Avery, and Rab. They couldn’t have heard about Mrs. Maxwell yet, so their topic was likely Justine. Poor Justine who was in danger of being forgotten in the midst of the Maxwell crisis and the advent of a new cook. Then again, Anton Fournier’s departure in search of a wagon-load of food stuffs had been enough to set the cat among the pigeons. It was likely the three below had caught a whiff of what was in the wind.