The Bad Luck Bride for comp

by Jane Goodger

  When the two men settled the body on the grass, Henderson straightened, his eyes still on Sebastian’s body. “I don’t understand it. How can another one of us have died? Just two days ago, he was telling me he was getting married. I just…” He swallowed heavily, and Alice took a step toward him, thinking to give him comfort, just as Northrup took up her hand.

  “Come on now, Alice, this is nothing for a young lady to see,” he said kindly as he drew her toward the other women huddled together.

  “I knew him too,” she said. “He was Joseph’s friend. This is horrid. How could it have happened? He was an excellent swimmer. All of them were. They used to go out and ride the surf like seals and swim and swim. I don’t understand.”

  “He may have struck his head and fallen in. I’m sure he didn’t suffer, my dear.”

  Alice took a deep and shaking breath. “I do hope not.”

  When Alice reached her friends, Harriet drew her in for a welcome embrace. “It’s a terrible thing on such a lovely day. Death is always difficult but to have it be someone we know… Who shall tell his parents?”

  “I expect the coroner will,” Alice said softly. She knew Sebastian’s parents vaguely, and wondered if they were already worried about their son.

  “Do you think it might have been foul play?” Harriet asked, and immediately snapped her mouth shut as if realizing this was not the time nor place for her love of the macabre. Alice gave her friend a look of exasperation tinged with no small amount of annoyance, and Harriet, in turn, managed to look slightly repentant.

  “I’ll stay here with him while you go into the village and fetch the coroner,” Henderson called.

  “Good man,” Northrup said, and the oddest expression touched Henderson’s face. Alice gave him a long look, and he gazed at her, his eyes bleak, his jaw set. She nodded a good-bye and he dropped his eyes. Alice got the feeling he was sick and tired of good-byes.

  * * *

  Before returning to the village, the much-subdued group gathered their art supplies. St. Claire grabbed up his painting, and for a moment Alice thought he might fling it into the sea. The fun they’d been having, just feet away from where a man lay dead, seemed somehow obscene. Alice suppressed a shiver and tried to get the image of Sebastian bobbing in the water from her mind, but it was impossible. Why had she stood there watching? Now she would never get the sight of him out of her head: his pale skin, the blond hair plastered to his head. Sebastian had been a handsome man, jaunty and lively, the one who would laugh at inappropriate moments, the one of them all who seemed to have the most life in him. And now he was dead.

  “I wish we hadn’t come today,” she said softly.

  Eliza put a hand on her arm. “If we hadn’t, he’d still be there. Perhaps he’d never have been discovered and his parents would always wonder. That would have been much worse, don’t you think?”

  Alice nodded and gave her friend a small smile of thanks. “You’re right. I am glad we found him. He wouldn’t have liked to have worried his parents.” The tears that had been pressing against her eyes threatened to spill over, and Alice lifted her head toward the wind so they would dry before falling.

  The group was silent for a long while until Northrup, who had maneuvered to walk beside her, said, “I would like to apologize to you. And I shall also apologize to Mr. Southwell when I see him next. I was unfair to him last night and judged him badly.”

  Alice smiled up at him. “He is a good man, my lord. I am glad you are able to see that. And it was very kind of you to lend assistance to the famine relief effort. I could tell Mr. Southwell was appreciative.”

  He smiled, seemingly satisfied with her response, but Alice felt slightly bothered that Northrup was befriending Henderson. Perhaps she was cynical—no doubt she was—but she couldn’t help wonder if Northrup was simply saying things he knew would please her so she would forgive him.

  “If it pleased you, my dear, I would sail to India myself and feed all the starving.”

  Alice laughed. “No need for that, sir.”

  “I want you to know I am sincere in trying to win back your heart,” he said low, but Harriet tilted her head slightly and must have heard, for she smiled.

  Alice turned away, suddenly uncomfortable with the conversation. He’d never really had her heart, so how could he win it back? She was very nearly tempted to say that, but could not, not when he’d been looking at her with such hope in his eyes.

  Chapter 11

  “Three of you dead. That is odd.”

  Henderson sat with Lord Berkley in the White Hart Inn’s small dining room, partaking of some of the best brandy Henderson had had the pleasure of drinking in years. Berkley had brought it himself. They had planned to meet to discuss their strategy for gaining influence for famine relief, but the talk all around the small village was of Sebastian’s death.

  “Young men don’t just die like that,” Henderson said, not bothering to hide his very real concern. “Not in my experience.”

  Berkley looked at him over his snifter. “You suspect foul play?”

  He shook his head. “I’m not certain, but don’t you find it odd that three of my chums from Oxford are dead?”

  “Who’s left? If you’re not the killer, some other chap is,” Berkley said blandly. “But please do not accuse some poor man of murder unless you are completely certain. It is rather unpleasant living with that sort of rumor.”

  Henderson gave Berkley a puzzled look.

  “Ah, that’s right. You’ve been out of the country and didn’t hear that I threw my wife from the highest tower of Costille.” He chuckled and swirled the brandy in his glass.

  “I take it you did not.”

  Studying his drink he said, “I wanted to, but no. I did not.”

  Henderson let out a gust of amusement. “I’m probably mad for thinking such a thing. They all died in very different ways. All accidents. Still…”

  “You need to find the answer to this question: why. If you have that, then you have a reason and the murderer. What did the three men know or see or do that could have incited someone to murder?”

  Henderson thought back on their friendship and found nothing in his memory that could have caused someone to want to murder any of his friends. And really, Gerald had been there the night Joseph fell from the roof. Certainly if he had witnessed a murder, he would have told someone. It had been a foolish thought but one he could not put from his mind. Of all their group, Gerald, who was slight and bookish, was the least likely to be capable of murder. If not Gerald, then who? Henderson couldn’t fathom why anyone would want them dead.

  “I’m being foolish,” Henderson said. “Three dead men in the course of four years. Not a very efficient killer, is he?”

  “Perhaps not efficient, but if there is a murderer about, he’s very clever. It’s hard enough to get away with one murder, never mind three.” Berkley winked, and for a moment Henderson thought the man was being serious and was actually confessing to murdering his wife. But when the older man started laughing, Henderson felt a bit ridiculous.

  “Here’s a sobering thought. If there is a murderer out there targeting our small group of friends, I could be next.”

  Berkley seemed amused by the thought, which was strangely reassuring. “You cannot die before you produce an heir. How unseemly.”

  “That hardly matters in my case. I’m not tied down by a title. If I died, it would create only the merest ripple. Perhaps that’s why I’m still alive.” Those words were still in his head, when he felt his heart pick up a beat. Each of the men who had died was the eldest in his family and most had titles.

  Berkley seemed to pick up on his thoughts. “What is it?”

  Henderson shook his head. “There was a student at Oxford, a second son. I remember only because he caused such a scene the day he was informed that his older brother had died.” He furrowed his brow. “One of us congratulated him. I cannot remember who it was or if it
was even someone from our group. I just remember him going a bit mad and thinking what an insensitive thing for one of us to say. I was rather ashamed for the chap who’d said it, even though I didn’t know who it was.”

  Berkley chuckled. “So you think he’s trying to kill off all the first-born sons to enact some sort of vengeance?”

  Henderson shrugged. “Foolish thought.”

  “Are you a first-born son?”

  Now that made him laugh. “I’m the only son.”

  “Perhaps the killer is like me,” Berkley said. “My time in America changed my perspective. I have little use for titles and fortunes and far more interest in a man’s character.”

  Henderson chuckled. “I wish every member of the aristocracy would spend some time in America.” Henderson hadn’t realized he’d allowed such a bitter tone his words, but apparently he had.

  “I take it one member of the aristocracy in particular?” he asked, raising a black brow. Henderson could feel his cheeks flush, and he cursed his fair skin. It seemed he was always blushing lately, not a very manly reaction.

  Berkley let out a sharp bark of laughter. “Only a woman could cause that sort of blush,” he said.

  Henderson looked down at his drink, wishing the conversation had not turned in this direction. His feelings for Alice Hubbard would seem ridiculous to a man like Berkley. “It matters not. She’s engaged. Or nearly so.”

  “Nearly so?”

  Henderson swore and forced a stiff smile. “I’d prefer not to discuss this. I’d rather put my bollocks in boiling oil.”

  Berkley let out another of his sharp laughs. It burst from him, starting and ending abruptly. “Perhaps I can help you on this matter. Likely more than I can help you with the famine relief.”

  Shaking his head, Henderson said, “No thank you.”

  Berkley leaned back and looked like he was enjoying Henderson’s discomfort. “A St. Ives girl?”

  “I’m not discussing this.” His tone brooked no argument, which Berkley seemed to find amusing.

  “We are already discussing this,” Berkley pointed out, sounding infuriatingly logical.

  “Yes. A St. Ives girl with a very high-placed father who would not take kindly to a bastard courting his daughter.”

  “I wouldn’t characterize you as such, sir. You seem a decent enough fellow.”

  Henderson wondered whether the man was pretending to be obtuse. “Perhaps I should be completely honest with you if you are going to help me. My family is hardly esteemed. My grandparents are landed gentry, yes, and used all of their limited influence and quite a lot of their money to get me into Eton. But my mother had me without the benefit of marriage and I have no idea who my father is. I am, literally, a bastard.”

  Berkley studied him for a long moment, so long Henderson began to feel rather uncomfortable. For many men, his birth would make a difference as to whether they associated themselves with him, and he wondered if Lord Berkley were one of them. How ironic that he’d spent much of his youth completely unashamed of his birth, when now it had become such a stumbling block. He had little doubt that if he’d had a “lord” in front of his name, he’d still be staying at Tregrennar and vying for the hand of the woman he loved.

  “You think that makes a difference to me.” It was a statement.

  “It would to many men.”

  “Perhaps if I hadn’t spent so much time in America, it would have. But living in such a raw and wild place gives a man perspective. Some of the greatest men I knew were of low birth. And they didn’t give a damn whether I was the King of England or a beggar’s son. At first, it shocked me. Bothered me quite a lot. By the end, though, as I said, nothing mattered but the character of a man. Whether I could count on him to be honest and fair. I can tell you one thing, my father was horrified by my democratic views.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  “So, you see, I am in a rare position to help you. I have a lofty title and a deep understanding of the common man. Who is this paragon who has interested you so?”

  “Miss Hubbard,” Henderson said with some reluctance, but it was strangely comforting to say her name aloud.

  Berkley let out a whistle. “Hubbard. He has a daughter who is of marrying age? Good Lord, I’m getting old. Allison or Alicia…”

  “Alice,” Henderson muttered.

  “Done,” Berkley said.

  Henderson gave the man a sharp look. “What’s done?”

  “Whatever it is that you want done, my good man.” He gave Henderson a smile that would have seemed oily on any other man. “My father taught me one thing: Information is power. And it just so happens I have some information that Lord Hubbard would not appreciate being made public. My father also took meticulous notes on all his transactions and I’m a curious fellow. I read them all.”

  “No,” Henderson said. “I admire Lord Hubbard and will do nothing to harm him.”

  Berkley widened his eyes. “Who is saying anything about harming him? I daresay we won’t even have to resort to that sort of blackmail. At least I hope not. That sort of thing doesn’t always sit well with me. Besides, I need something to take me out of my monstrosity of a house.”

  * * *

  “Now, this is strange.” Elda was holding an expensive piece of stationery in her hand.

  “What is strange, Mama?” Christina asked after swallowing a rather large bit of boiled potato, winning a smile from her older sister.

  “Lord Berkley wishes to pay us a call.” Elda gave Alice a thoughtful look, then shook her head slightly. “Have you thought about Lord Northrup’s proposal, my dear?”

  “Oh, Mama, for goodness sake. Get that calculating look out of your eyes,” Alice said, pointing her spoon at her mother.

  Christina looked from one woman to the other, clearly confused.

  “She’s thinking of Lord Berkley for me,” Alice said, exasperated. “I already have one almost-fiancé under the roof and she wants to add another.”

  Christina giggled into her napkin.

  “He’s an earl, Alice. Lord Northrup is only a viscount,” Elda pointed out, before turning to Christina and studying her younger daughter thoughtfully.

  “Mother!”

  Elda had the good grace to look slightly chagrined.

  “Don’t tell me you were thinking about me,” Christina said, shocked. It only took about ten seconds for her to embrace the idea. “What does he look like?” Alice could tell she was trying to sound nonchalant and was failing miserably.

  “He’s more than double your age,” Alice said, wrinkling her nose.

  “True, true,” Elda said with some reluctance. “But why on earth is he asking to call? Of course we shall welcome him. His father was quite esteemed.”

  “Welcome whom?” Richard asked, walking into the room the way he did everything—quickly and with little concern for what was happening around him.

  “Lord Berkley.”

  “The son?”

  And to Alice’s horror, her father immediately looked at her. Really.

  “Yes. I thought it was odd. It’s not as if we know him. I haven’t seen him since he was a young boy.”

  “What does the note say?” Richard asked, already losing patience with the conversation.

  Elda opened the note. “I would like to call on you and your family tomorrow afternoon so that I may reacquaint myself with you. Truly yours, Augustus Lawton, Earl of Berkley.”

  Richard stole a piece of sausage from his younger daughter’s plate and she slapped at his hand playfully. “Short and sweet. Do we have any prior engagements tomorrow?”

  “Not until evening. The Airsdales have invited us for a small showing. Apparently, they are hosting some French artist for the summer. Gagin or Gaugan. I’ve never heard of him, which isn’t shocking given my complete lack of interest in the world of art, but Mrs. Airsdale believes him to be quite accomplished.”

  Richard stifled a groan but smiled
at his wife. “Then of course we should accept Berkley’s request.”

  “Perhaps I can invite my friends for luncheon to even out the numbers,” Alice said, knowing her mother would object.

  “The numbers are even, my dear,” she said with calm steel. As a girl who had not yet come out, Christina could hardly be considered when “evening out the numbers” but Alice didn’t argue. To be honest, after yesterday’s events, talking about anything else was a relief.

  The Hubbards, in silent agreement, had decided not to discuss the gruesome discovery made yesterday on the beach. The entire day had been upsetting in so many ways, least of which was Henderson’s appearance on the Island. She wasn’t quite certain she believed his meeting them had been complete happenstance, though he had appeared to be surprised. Happily surprised.

  And if she had to admit it, she had been happily surprised as well. She’d imagined he would have returned immediately to London, not stayed in St Ives where he could haunt her. It had always seemed to her that cutting things off cleanly was the best course, and one she would hardly have been able to accomplish with Northrup under her roof and Henderson wandering about St. Ives looking for her. And being invited to balls where he would no doubt ask for a dance.

  I want to taste you.

  Those words, just thinking of them, made her body burn. It seemed so un-Henderson like, and made Alice wonder if their stolen time together was preoccupying him as much as it was her. If she had known what would happen and, more importantly, how it would make her feel, she never would have gone to his room. Henderson had called her naïve that night, and she hadn’t realized just how naïve until now. At the Island yesterday, he hadn’t touched her, but those words—oh Lord, just those words made her feel as if he were touching her. Worst of all, it was thrilling.

  Alice let out a sigh, which earned her a look of concern from her mother. “Yesterday’s events,” she said by way of explanation, telling the truth even though she knew her mother would misinterpret what she said. Elda immediately let it go, which Alice had known she would; her mother often refused to discuss or acknowledge upsetting events and was always visibly relieved to learn she would not have to dwell on them. It wasn’t that Elda did not care—she cared rather too deeply and wished it would all go away. That was why she was so relieved that Northrup was back and wooing Alice. It meant the end of an unpleasant chapter.