Mists of Moorhead Manor

by Bancroft, Blair

  “And the truth of the matter?”

  “Lord Exmere and I are comfortable in each other’s company, my lord. I have no idea how he feels about Lady Daphne.”

  “He does not tell you about private happenings, intimacies of the family?”

  I frowned, shaking my head as if vastly puzzled. “We speak of the beauty of the landscape, my lord. The sea, the cliffs, the moor. We have visited the village. He has told me some of the history of the area. Civilities, nothing more.”

  With a soft sigh, the earl leaned back in his chair. “If only I could believe you,” he murmured. “You have been a Godsend for Vanessa, a worker of miracles, but your association with my heir must cease. No good can come of it.” His gaze drifted over my shoulder, as if he were seeking guidance from thin air.

  I had the horrid feeling that rather than thinking of my successes with Vanessa, he was weighing his options. Would I be more dangerous away from Moorhead Manor, where I might speak of what happened here? Or should he keep me close, where he could make sure I did not talk out of turn? For he truly seemed convinced that I was party to Robert’s secrets and that I was lying through my teeth.

  Which I was.

  My heart cried, even as my mind enforced a cool façade. I liked Lord Hycliffe. I did not want him to be guilty of murder.

  But my new life was crumbling around me, and there was no one to defend me save my myself. Time enough to worry about evil after I managed to keep a roof over my head. “Lady Rothbury is mistaken, my lord. I am a lady, not a fallen woman. And I promise to remember I am merely Lady Vanessa’s companion and to make every effort not to intrude into the family circle.”

  An odd look crossed his face. If I had not been so upset, I might have understood it better, but for a moment I suspected he was sorry. Yet sorry for what? For warning me away from Robert? For questioning my honor? For bringing me to Moorhead Manor? For killing his wife and her lover? For suspecting I might know about it?

  Or was he realizing he might have to kill me as well?

  Gathering my thoughts to me like forlorn lost sheep, I rose to my feet, managed a curtsy, and left Lord Hycliffe to his suspicions. Only to run, quite literally, into Kenrick—who must now revert to being Mr. Blythe—in the corridor.

  He caught me by the shoulders and set me upright, his clever and ever cynical brain having no difficulty seeing that I was disturbed. “Penny, Penny, what has the ogre said to put you in such a pelter? Shall I tell Cook to put pepper in his soup?”

  “Nothing,” I muttered. “And it is ‘Miss Ballantyne’ from now on.”

  “Ah, so that’s the way of it,” he said. “Lady Daphne’s got the wind up about your stealing her quarry.”

  I drew myself up. “Good day, Mr. Blythe,” and I stalked off with what I hoped was the arrogant pride worthy of a duchess.

  But my difficulties with men were not over. In the drawing room after dinner Lord Norvelle drew up a chair and sat down next to me, ostensibly to converse with both Vanessa and myself, but I longed to deliver a good swift kick when he seemed to direct far too many of his remarks to me. My suspicions—for which I had absolutely no basis except his being at Moorhead at the time of all four deaths—still caused my skin to crawl. My unease was amplified tenfold when Robert strolled up, engaging all four of us in light and amusing conversation. I did not have to glance at Lady Daphne to feel her smoldering gaze, her mother’s rising anger as well, the tension crowned by the sudden cessation of the earl’s strong baritone as he bit off whatever he was about to say to Lord Rothbury, Kenrick, and Huntley. “Exmere,” he barked, “you are neglecting your guests!”

  Robert straightened, turned, tossing a look at his father that seemed to deliver as much of a challenge as the one he received. But all he did was nod then direct his attention to Lady Rothbury and her daughters. “My apologies, ladies.”

  Huntley, also taking his father’s words to heart, strode to Lady Jocelyn’s side, echoing his brother’s apology. Smiles all around, though I felt Lady Daphne’s was rather brittle. When wasn’t it? A faint mee-ow echoed through my head. Fine. So be it. Why beat about the bush? I disliked her as much as she disliked me.

  Robert soon coaxed her into better spirits, however, and she entertained us with a number of intricate pieces by Domenico Scarlatti. Lord Norvelle, however, never moved from my side, though I grant his occasional whispered comments seemed directed at Vanessa as well as myself.

  Robert, miserable man, appeared totally absorbed in the music. When Lady Daphne took her bows, I declined to perform, offering from between clenched teeth the excuse that I could not possibly follow such a brilliant performance. Robert and Huntley both protested, Kenrick raised a quizzical brow. From Lord Hycliffe I received a look of approbation. My brain screamed a very bad word. My lips opened, threatening to let it out—

  Saved by the tea tray.

  By the time I delivered teacups all round, I had myself in hand. Tomorrow must be a new day. No more daydreams for either Vanessa or myself. Only reality would do, however harsh and unpalatable.

  Not a pleasant prospect.

  What I needed, I decided, was something to take my mind off my loss. Something such as the murders, or presumed murders, of four young women. Even if Lord Hycliffe killed his wife, I could not see him running mad over the moors. He was known for becoming a recluse after his wife’s death, known for seldom leaving the house, for never going outside the confines of Moorhead’s grounds. He was an important man, any aberration in his daily routine sure to be noticed. And besides, I simply could not believe him guilty of killing four young women.

  A naivety that could prove fatal, my inner voice warned, but I clung to the notion of Hycliffe’s innocence, no matter how unrealistic. He was my love’s father and I refused to think him mad.

  I considered the latest victim—supposed victim—Megan Flaherty, the epitome of a fine Irish lass, always smiling and cheerful. “Never a sour look from morn ’til night,” Mrs. Linnell had said when she went missing. So perhaps I should start there and see what I could discover.

  I found Mrs. Linnell in her small office off the kitchen. After the required pleasantries, I asked, “Do you have any idea why Megan left the house the night she went missing?”

  Mrs. Linnell folded her hands in her lap, her gray eyes solemn. “Nary a thought,” she said. “All the girls knew not to go out alone. I cannot understand it.”

  “Was she walking out with anyone?”

  “No, of course no—” Mrs. Linnell bit off her words, her face anguished. “I know I should not speak ill of the dead,” she continued slowly, “but Megan was such a gay sprite of a girl—the Irish in her, I suppose. She had an eye for the men, I fear. Had them all panting after her . . . but not one in particular that I recall.”

  “So she left the house alone that day?”

  Mrs. Linnell shook her head. “She must have . . . unless you’re saying it’s one of our own who killed her.” When I said nothing, her sorrowful look gradually turned to horror. “No, you cannot mean it,” she whispered.

  Realizing I had stumbled my way into a household nightmare, I hastened to reassure her. “I was merely curious, Mrs. Linnell. “Pray do not read more into my words than was meant. I was merely wondering if she might have run off with some young man.”

  “Without a word?” Tabitha Linnell, whom I had thought a friend, sat up very straight, looking down her prominent nose and over her ample bosom at the camp follower who had somehow been chosen, unwisely to be sure, as companion for the daughter of the house. “I think, Miss Ballantyne,” she declared, “that you should stop playing at Bow Street and get back to your duties.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Linnell.” I stood, adding softly before taking my leave, “It is my half-day, you know.” Her huff nearly blew me out the door.

  I considered questioning Allard, but he would not know as much about the maids as Mrs. Linnell. Dobbins perhaps. Who knew what he or the stableboys might have seen from positions that were frequent
ly outdoors.

  “Not riding today, miss?” he said when he saw I was not wearing my habit.

  “I am . . .” I shrugged. “Truly, Dobbins, I’m not sure what I’m doing today. Just foolishness, perhaps. I toed the straw on the floor with my half-boot, drew in the scent of manure, horse sweat, leather, and old wood. “I was wondering,” I said slowly, “if you or any of the stableboys saw Megan Flaherty on the day she disappeared. And was she alone?”

  Dobbins nodded. “I did,” he told me. “Passing the outer paddock she was, bent over as if wishin’ to hide behind the rails.”

  “Alone?”

  “Aye, alone.”

  “And you said nothing?”

  “I surely did, miss. Told Lord Exmere the minute I heard the girl was missing.”

  “I beg your pardon,” I muttered. And that was likely why so much of the search was concentrated on the moors, with Robert under no obligation to share the details with mere females. I came close to grinding my teeth.

  “Had you seen her before?” I asked. “Going alone onto the moor?”

  “Oh aye, miss. Wasn’t the first time she sneaked out. Liked the men, she did.” Dobbins looked down, the stable floor of sudden great interest. If he knew anything more, I suspected it would forever remain secret. I thanked him and made my way back to the house, where I waylaid Alice Ord as she left Vanessa’s apartments with a load of ironing over her arm.

  “Did you know Megan Flaherty?” I asked.

  “Ah, miss, everyone knew Megan. It didn’t take me but a day to pick her out from the others. It was as if the Lord gave her the moon and the stars when she was chosen for service at the Manor. And comin’ here from elsewhere I knew how she felt. It may be a great gloomy pile, beset by turmoil at times, but hearts are warm and his lordship is kind. The young gentlemen too. I’m happy to be here, and so was Megan.”

  For a moment the tragedy of it all tied my tongue, but finally I managed, “Was there any one gentleman she preferred?”

  “Ah no, miss.” She paused, considering. “Well, possibly our Davy, but then who would not?” Speechless, I could do nothing but blink as she added hastily, “I must be off, miss. My lady needs this dress by tea time.”

  I sat a long time in front of the fire in my bedchamber, my brain endlessly circling, unable to frame a single thought. I knew only that a new dragon had raised its head, its flame dormant, wings tucked hard against its sides, but the potential for disaster chilled my soul.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Sunset came early this time of year, and with it the mists rolled in, turning the dimming outside world to smoky gray well before teatime. And finding my soul gone gray as well. The very thought of descending to the drawing room and putting on a façade of pleasant good manners while Lady Daphne all but sat in Robert’s lap was more than I could bear. Particularly when a perfectly horrid thought had insinuated itself into my mind refused to go away.

  An urge to flee the house consumed me—only the cool outside air could steady and clarify my mind. Excusing myself from joining the others for tea, I slipped down the servants’ stairs and into the courtyard by a side door. There was barely enough light to see my hand before my face. Nonetheless, I set my feet toward the center of the flagstoned courtyard and kept on going. And very shortly there it was, the statue of David looming over me in the glorious fullness of his youthful nakedness. David who triumphed over Goliath, armed only with a slingshot. David who represented every young man, beautiful or ugly, who had gone forth to fight, to love, to raise a family and bring forth more young men and women to muddle along in a world both marvelous and chaotic.

  Fancy, pure fancy. Yet somehow the Davids of this world were sacrosanct. Untouchable. Impossible they should be villains. Certainly not our Davy—I should be ashamed of myself for allowing such an idea to cross my mind. Neither David nor Robert had killed those girls, I would stake my life on it.

  Which is exactly what you’re doing if you don’t consider the possibility.

  While continuing to gaze up at the statue, now nearly obscured by swirling mist and the gloom of night, I growled my inner voice to silence. Every bit of progress Vanessa had made was due to David, not to me. Just as she had played at invalid to keep him by her side, she had now come full circle and made him her inspiration for recovery. Somehow all would be well, even if it meant their leaving Moorhead Manor, never to return.

  “Penny! Penny!” Robert’s shout drove all thoughts of David and Vanessa from my head. In spite of the chill air, warmth enveloped me. I’d been missed, and my love had thought to look for me in the courtyard.

  “Coming!” I called and plunged into the fog. But my headlong dash slowed as the mists suddenly settled close around me, hemming me in, seeming almost to cut off my air. “My lord?” I ventured.

  “Penny!” Closer, thank God, and not far off the direction I was heading.

  Three more steps and a dark shape loomed over me, enfolded me in its arms, and held me tight. Like the veriest ninny, I buried my face in his chest and fought back sobs of relief. Idiot! I railed at myself, even as I hung on for dear life. There had been no danger. I had walked from the gallery to the center of the courtyard and back. That was all. And yet I was quivering from head to toe, like some faint-hearted female whose idea of horror was a glimpse of a mouse. Yet still I clung, fighting for breath, beset by demons that were wholly in my imagination.

  Or so I told myself.

  “It occurs to me,” Robert said into my hair, “that we are alone in the dark, shrouded in mist—which seems a most excellent opportunity for this.” He tilted up my chin and put his lips to mine in a kiss that threatened to never end. A kiss that sent my head spinning and roused a sleeping dragon of a totally different kind. Robert groaned and pulled away an inch. “Dear God, Penny, I want to find some warm and secret spot and not go back ’til the sun rises over the moor. No. More than that. I want to take you away from all this—away from death and sorrow . . . and brooding. I want to shut the world out, make love to you from morn ’til night and night ’til morn.”

  Abruptly, with a snort of disgust, he pushed me away. “But I am stuck with this great pile. With responsibility to keep the family functioning in spite of blood tainted by murder.”

  I wanted to protest his reasoning. And could not. He was the heir, there was no getting out of it. And his father’s guilt seemed almost certain.

  “I can never marry,” he continued, twisting the knife. “Though perhaps a melding of Huntley’s good nature with Lady Jocelyn’s may serve to carry on the line.”

  “Do not be absurd!”

  “Rob, I say, Rob, are you out there?”

  “Speak of the Devil,” Robert muttered as Huntley’s voice pierced the darkness.

  “More on this later,” I declared. Never would I allow Robert to assume his father’s blame!

  “Coming!” Robert called. “The lost is found.” And with Huntley’s voice to guide us, we made it safely back to the house.

  As any female who has ever suffered love-sickness must guess, I climbed the stairs to my bedchamber with winged feet, not at all discomposed by my love’s assertion he would never marry. All I had truly heard was that somehow he seemed to associate marriage with me. Penelope Ruth Ballantyne. Surely there could be no other interpretation of his words than he was saying he could not marry me because of his father’s transgressions. Because of a possible inherited tendency to violence, which he had already recognized in himself during long years of war.

  And at this I scoffed. Did he think me a fragile flower, ready to wilt at the first sign of adversity? A sheltered maiden who had never known violence and death, the tragedies inherent in living?

  Nonsense! I would soon disabuse him of his pretensions to self-sacrifice.

  Visions of a rosy future occupied my mind to the exclusion of all else, and I sailed into Vanessa’s sitting room shortly before the dinner hour on a wave of pure fantasy. Robert saw me as something more than another notch on his bedpo
st, and all would be well. Insulated by my own cloak of euphoria, I was actually surprised to find Vanessa in a similar state. Since she had just dressed for dinner, she was alone, Alice occupied in straightening her bedchamber, Maud and David gone down to early dinner in the kitchen.

  “I walked!” Vanessa exclaimed. “All the way from the bed to the window. Maud had my arm, of course, but truly I did it all myself. Oh, Penny, I am ecstatic! It’s happening, it’s truly happening. David and I shall be together at last. And it is all thanks to you!” She pushed herself up from her chair and threw her arms around me.

  Suddenly, her body stiffened. She stepped back, an all-too-familiar fierce scowl marring her face. “You must not tell Papa, Penny. I know you two are thick as thieves, but he must never suspect. Nor Rob or Hunt or anyone else. You must swear, Penny, swear on your parents’ graves you will not tell a soul. If Papa knew, he would let David go and . . .”

  I failed to hear the rest of her words as my visions of both of us paired with our lovers in Utopian splendor shattered, lost dreams falling in shards to the carpet. I caught my breath, swallowed hard, as reality crashed back, making the air around us heavy, as if suddenly filled with lead.

  Secrets. So many secrets. Some lethal, some only fraught with potential tragedy. David and Vanessa? Robert and I? We were as likely to come to a happy ending as Lady Hycliffe and Quenton Ridgeway. I stood there, quivering, my hand over my mouth, my eyes seeing nothing, as my brain fought to find a way out of this mire.

  I feared I might have a dash of the Celt, for the foreboding that swamped my senses was strong. Overpowering.

  “Penny?”

  I stiffened my spine, unclenched my jaw and said, “Of course I will tell no-one, Vanessa. This has been our secret from the very beginning, has it not?” But in my heart I could not help but wonder if the stability of her mind had kept up with the increased vigor of her body.