Matthew

by Grace Burrowes

  “Jamie and Beckman are worried that somebody tampered with your pistol and left that harrow where you’d come to grief on one of your morning gallops.” Loris was of a mind to agree, and Thomas hadn’t asked Theresa her opinion.

  Not that he was avoiding his sister.

  “I appreciate their concern,” Belmont said, taking out a handkerchief and dusting along the frame of one painting. “I asked our local blacksmith about that harrow, and he doesn’t recognize it. He did recognize the welding that had been done on an old repair, and said a man whose forge is the other side of Trieshock does such work.”

  That Belmont had made inquiries was both unnerving and reassuring.

  “Who would move a harrow nearly seven miles to leave it where it could cause severe injury or death?”

  The next little portrait also got a careful dusting. “You’re making the first mistake of a new magistrate, Sutcliffe. The harrow might have been mended years ago and then sold to my nearest neighbor shortly after that—my nearest neighbor besides you. It might have been sitting in my woods for the past two years, rusting away, and some disgruntled poachers moved it, the better to hide their activities.”

  And the bad fairies might have conjured that harrow from thin air. “Would a sane man poach from the magistrate’s own home wood?”

  “My woods are extensive and teeming with game. Any man’s sanity can be imperiled if he’s had sufficient drink, or has too many mouths to feed. One learns this, being a magistrate, and one learns to proceed by rational steps.”

  Thomas took another swallow of brandy rather than point out that when dealing with Theresa, Belmont’s capacity for reason had apparently been mislaid.

  “I’m leaping to conclusions?”

  Belmont picked up the third portrait, this one of the youngest boy. “You are leaping to cause and effect. If the mending looks like it came from a forge seven miles distant, then, you conclude, some malefactor from that direction has recently moved the harrow, intent on causing me harm. You leap to cause and effect, rather than study the facts until a solution appears. Richard does not want to come home for Christmas.”

  “We are talking about a possible attempt on your life, Belmont. Two possible attempts on your life. What matter a boy’s sulks?”

  Belmont set the portrait down. “My children are due to join me here, along with my only brother, and remain for the holidays. If you have wisdom to dispense, then I’m all ears, Baron. Do I bring my children to the scene of possible murder attempts, or, because of nothing more than speculation, do I forgo a holiday with family, possibly the last time we’ll all be together?”

  Thomas shoved out of a chair that invited a man to grow old by a cozy fire. He should have brought Loris with him, and then this discussion would be taking place in a parlor or library, not this patriarchal confessional.

  “I hate messes,” Thomas said. “This is why I was such a competent factor for Lord Fairly. I cannot abide untidy situations. I put them to rights, or I unravel what makes them untidy. Instinct tells me you have a mess on your hands, Belmont. A magistrate makes enemies, and a wealthy, well-liked magistrate has too much power to be openly confronted.”

  Opposite the hearth, burgundy velvet curtains had been drawn back to let in the last of the afternoon’s light. A single flake of snow drifted down outside, or perhaps it was stray ash from a chimney.

  “Did you leave your ancestral home ten years ago because matters there were messy, Sutcliffe?”

  Good God. No wonder the district had so little crime. A pack of hounds in full cry was lackadaisical compared to Matthew Belmont intent on making a point.

  “That is none of your business, Squire.”

  Belmont nudged the curtain back from the window. “I’ve offered for your sister, you know. You and I might well end up as family, Sutcliffe. I care about my family, and my friends.”

  “Belmont, you are in love. Because I am familiar with that affliction myself, I will make allowances. Theresa was not the innocent you want to believe her to be. She embraced ruin, and when I tried to dissuade her, she made it plain my efforts were unwelcome. Grandfather offered me a sum upon graduation from university as a remittance for leaving the family seat. I took it with Theresa’s blessing.”

  The window rattled in its casement, suggesting that the wind had picked up with the gathering darkness.

  “She started it?” Belmont mused, wandering to the mantel behind his desk. “A juvenile corollary to the doctrine of self-defense. I do not dispute that Theresa started the rift, Sutcliffe, but please consider why a shrewd woman, one who professed to care for you, would cast from her side her only ally.”

  This much Thomas had worked out. As he’d inspected each room at Sutcliffe, the furniture draped with Holland covers, the porcelain, linen, and silver all carefully stored under lock and key, Thomas had admitted to himself at least part of Theresa’s motivation.

  “She was ashamed, Belmont, and didn’t want me underfoot to see that. By then she was probably anticipating motherhood, and well she should have been ashamed.”

  Belmont took an inlaid wooden box down from the mantel, possibly a humidor.

  And then he withdrew a pistol. “Motherhood is a cause for shame. Why has nobody explained this to me? Does fatherhood subject one to humiliation as well? I do hope you’ve acquainted your baroness with these facts, for she admires you exceedingly, and in the natural course of early marriage—”

  “Shut your mouth, Belmont.”

  He sighted down the barrel of an elegant little piece, one of a matched pair. The mouth of the pistol was pointed at the hearth, but at close range, Belmont could have hit any object in the room he pleased.

  And this entire digression had done nothing to disprove Thomas’s theory that somebody was trying to seriously injure, or possibly even kill, Matthew Belmont.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “I will shut my mouth,” Belmont said, “if you will open your mind, Sutcliffe. You don’t even know if Priscilla’s conception was a consensual undertaking, and yet, you—who left the scene, lucre clutched in your righteous fist—presume to judge. Priscilla must get her imagination from you. Marriage to your sister will not be dull, and that’s before my sons have made any contribution to the festivities.”

  Marriage—to Theresa. Thomas set that topic aside as a man might a draught of poison.

  “Is that firearm William Parker’s work?” And did Belmont plan to use it on his intended’s brother?

  “I favor Parker over Manton, and I favor cordial relations over awkwardness. What do you propose should be done about a potential threat to my life?”

  Thomas felt as if Belmont were delivering another series of unexpected blows to the chin. Each well placed, well timed, and all of them still somehow unexpected.

  “I suggest you be careful,” Thomas said, “though if somebody wishes you evil, they’ve had ample opportunity to do you in, and failed to accomplish that objective.”

  Belmont replaced the pistol with its twin in the velvet-lined box. “I offered to lend Priscilla a book about equitation, though the best teacher of equitation is the horse. Accompany me to the library, and I can send the book back to Linden with you. What are these opportunities for murder you allude to?”

  Thomas was relieved to quit the estate office, relieved to be moving. He was not relieved to notice that a few flakes of snow had organized themselves into a steady, light downpour.

  Belmont moved through the house at a good clip, though Thomas was aware as they traversed steps, the main hall, more steps, and a lengthy corridor, that this entire house was now the residence of one somewhat retiring man.

  A decent fellow he was too. Theresa’s tastes had improved considerably.

  “You should gather your family for the holidays,” Thomas said. “Safety in numbers being a consideration.”

  “Fewer chances to shoot me out of the saddle?” Belmont mused, leading the way into the library.

  “Well, yes. If somebody truly wa
nted you dead, then this morning’s hunt was a good opportunity. You’re off with the hounds, well ahead of the first flight, and anybody who knows the local foxes would deduce where to lie in wait for you.”

  Belmont crossed the library—a chilly room, despite a fire blazing in the hearth—and disappeared between two rows of bookcases.

  “Nobody knows the local foxes like I do, Sutcliffe, and the foxes and I have an understanding. They leave my chickens alone, and I leave the foxes alone. The fox who disrespects those rules repeatedly is the only one who must deal with the king’s man. Where could the damned book have got off to? When you have children, you’ll find that whatever item you seek will levitate—here we go.”

  Thomas liked Belmont’s library. Liked the sense of quiet, the gently crackling fire, the balance of elegance and comfort. The old hound lay flat out on the hearth rug, and on Belmont’s desk, a plate held half a sandwich, the crusts cut off to expose generous portions of ham, slices of cheese, and smears of mustard.

  Belmont’s library was not a museum for books. He spent time here, he lived here. Theresa had always loved books, and yet, the library at Sutcliffe hadn’t held but a few hundred volumes.

  “Is that your late wife?” Thomas asked, for on the wall between the bookcases hung a portrait of a blond, blue-eyed woman barely into her adult years. Her appearance was more girl than matron, though she bore a resemblance to Belmont’s children.

  “The late Matilda Belmont. I keep that portrait here for the boys. Richard once told me he could barely recall her appearance, so I’ve made sure Emmanuel and Agatha know I’ve bequeathed that portrait to my youngest.”

  “She was very pretty.” Something in her smile suggested she’d also been vain.

  “Matilda was very mendacious,” Belmont said, emerging from the bookshelves, “and I don’t think she knew much happiness, though she loved the boys and did the best she could with me. For many women, beauty is as much a burden as a blessing. This is the book I promised Priscilla, but I’m in no hurry to have it back. I particularly like the illustrations.”

  Theresa was beautiful, more beautiful than she’d been as a younger woman, even, though she’d never been vain.

  Thomas accepted the book. “Do you ever stop sermonizing?”

  Belmont regarded the dog, who remained unmoving before the fire. “I’m simply a country squire who misses his children, Sutcliffe. A humble, rather smitten, fellow facing possible attempts on his life, and—Maida?”

  From the old hound, not so much as a tail thump indicated she’d heard her master call her name. Belmont crossed to the hearth, knelt, and stroked a hand over the dog’s brindle shoulder.

  “Maida, my dearest, have you finally left me?”

  Surely a touch that gentle, a voice that loving would rouse the hound from her dreams?

  “She’s…?”

  “Taken in her sleep,” Belmont said, his hand smoothing over the grizzled head. “Carried off while napping before a cheery fire, exactly the way an old hound should go. The boys will miss her. She was a gift from them, though Matilda was of course complicit in that generosity, and if ever a man didn’t need another canine—”

  Thomas had to look away. For something to do, he took himself to the sideboard, intent on pouring the bereaved—or himself—a consolatory tot.

  “You barely touched your brandy,” Thomas said, pouring out two measures. “Doesn’t look like you finished your luncheon either.”

  Belmont had risen, nothing in his features suggesting he’d lost a friend of long standing only moments before. He was instead studying the half sandwich on the desk.

  “Sutcliffe, in point of fact, I have touched nothing on that plate. I didn’t know any sustenance awaited me here when I returned from Linden.”

  Thomas set his glass aside as cold slithered up his spine. “You went straight to the estate office when you returned from Linden?”

  “I came in through the kitchen. Because my cook has absented herself indefinitely, I foraged for bread, cheese, ham, a few pickles, some biscuits, two boiled eggs, a glass of milk, a slice of cinnamon cake—what?”

  “So a single sandwich wouldn’t even constitute a snack for you?”

  Belmont peered at the desk. “The kitchen has orders not to waste the crusts unless a loaf has been burned. I also have a violent dislike for mustard. The young ladies on my kitchen staff know that. The mustard overpowers all else, though that could be useful if poison were… Sutcliffe, am I daft?”

  Thomas’s mind took a progression of moments to assemble the hypothesis Belmont had formulated with a glance, a hunch, and a suspicion.

  Was it daft to wonder if mustard had been used to disguise the taste of poison?

  “You wonder if Maida ate half a sandwich left for you,” Thomas said, “and now she’s dead. Your kitchen help knows better than to waste crusts or use mustard on your food, and yet, somebody left that food here, on the desk you probably occupy daily.”

  Belmont sniffed the sandwich, which Thomas would not have thought to do.

  “Next you’ll take a taste.” Thomas snatched the uneaten portion from Belmont and pitched it into the fire.

  “I might have fed that to the rats and determined if it was indeed poisoned.”

  “Shite.”

  “Or I might have concluded that the meat had gone bad,” Belmont said. “In the alternative, the rats might not be susceptible to the specific poison involved, and I’d have erroneously concluded that Maida’s time had simply come, when in fact, a killer was loose in my own library.”

  A peaceful library, not a place where murder should be done, not that murder should be done anywhere.

  Amid the blaze in the hearth, the sandwich went from toast to ashes in moments.

  “You are welcome to come back to Linden with me,” Thomas said, though Belmont’s intended dwelled at Linden, and Thomas did not want to watch his sister working her wiles ever again.

  “And leave my staff here to contend with some homicidal miscreant in my absence? Not bloody likely, Sutcliffe. Half the shire was on my property today, and the house is always open when we have a hunt meet. The weather was nippy, and some people prefer to eat indoors. Mrs. Dale is prone to chills, and Mr. Dale’s gout means he wants a comfortable chair when he’s ridden in. Your own sister might have needed the retiring room, and all the while—”

  “We might be jumping at shadows,” Thomas said, because nobody else was on hand to say it. “Old dogs die. Somebody might have fixed that plate for themselves and left it here inadvertently. The situation is no different from when your gun misfired or your mysterious poachers left a rusty harrow in the worst possible location.”

  Thomas picked up his drink, intent on fortifying himself against a cold journey home, steadying his nerves, or toasting the departed hound. Something—

  “Don’t touch that brandy,” Belmont said, moving toward the door. “Any food or drink that was not under lock and key at all times today must be regarded as suspect. My home must be treated as a potential crime scene.”

  “As must your stable and your home wood,” Thomas said, setting the brandy down. “I can’t like this, Belmont. How many people have you seen tried, transported, or hanged?”

  Belmont paused at the door, sparing his departed hound a look. “I don’t think I need fret over the three I’ve sent to the gallows. They were thorough-going scoundrels, caught red-handed committing robbery and rapine on the king’s highway.”

  “You still need to consider their aggrieved families, their mates, their partners in crime.”

  Belmont preceded Thomas into a corridor grown both chilly and gloomy. “What a cheering companion you’ve turned out to be, Sutcliffe. While you’re spouting such encouraging sentiments, perhaps you’ll explain to me how I rescind the proposal of marriage I made to your sister? Anybody who wants me dead won’t quibble at endangering my intended or her daughter to accomplish that goal.”

  Well, damn…. As if sibling relations in the Jennings f
amily weren’t already beyond delicate. At least Belmont hadn’t referred to Theresa as his fiancée—yet.

  “You need not rescind your offer. I’ll simply send Theresa and Priscilla back to Sutcliffe Keep, at least until you’ve determined why your favorite dog died, your favorite pistol misfired, and your favorite bridle path became the potential scene of a fatal ambush.”

  * * *

  Axel Belmont had gathered all the intelligence he could without asking brother to peach on brother, or cousin upon cousin. He’d written to Matthew, he’d consulted his journal for clues that might lie between its pages. He’d been as patient as the uncanonized father of two adolescent males could be.

  The journey to Sussex began in the morning. Time to confront the rebel nephew directly.

  “Hand me that thread,” Axel muttered, the heat of the lantern overhead making the propagation house almost cozy.

  Richard passed over a three-foot length of black silk thread. “How do you know how tightly to wrap the graft?”

  The boy had a good mind, restless, but capable of focus. Considering he was not yet fifteen, this boded well.

  “You wrap it quite snugly,” Axel said, winding the thread about both graft and root stock. “You’re not introducing two young people at a tea dance. You’re creating a marriage, where one partner provides sustenance and the other brings all the good breeding, grace, and beauty. That takes more than a passing interest if it’s not to fail.”

  Though to be honest, Axel knew precious damned little about what made a marriage work. He’d loved his wife, and she had loved him. More than that, the passage of time was mercifully obscuring.

  “How did you learn to do this?” Richard asked, as Axel knotted the thread and knotted it again.

  “Practice, my boy. So what do you think of your papa’s interest in Miss Jennings?”

  Richard became fascinated with a pair of freshly sharpened pruning shears. “She has a daughter, and yet she’s Miss Jennings.”