A Stroke of Malice

by Anna Lee Huber

  Her gaze flicked across the room toward where Lord Marsdale sipped broodingly from a glass of brandy, not even pretending to listen to the man prattling on beside him. “I understand,” she said. I thought she might move off then to disseminate this information, but she hesitated. Something in her dark eyes made me wonder if she was about to defend the marquess, but instead she flicked open the fan dangling at her wrist, waving it lazily in front of her face as she spoke. “I heard you’ve turned your attention to Lord Helmswick’s valet.” Her gaze drifted over the assemblage. “I think that’s a wise course.”

  I nearly rolled my eyes. Of course she did.

  Gage’s frowning visage told me he was harboring similar cynicism. “It is the natural next step in our efforts to uncover the identity of the victim. Either this valet is safely in Paris with his lordship, or he is also missing. And if it is the latter, we need to know why. Until then, we cannot make any assumptions.”

  “Naturally.” A small furrow formed between her eyes. “But I can’t help feeling that once we’ve found this valet, we’ll have our answers. So let us hope it is sooner rather than later.” She arched her eyebrows in haughty expectation, and closed her fan with a snap as she moved to intercept a lord striding across the room toward the door.

  Gage and I shared a look of mutual aggravation, for this was precisely what we’d known would happen. A convenient scapegoat he might be, but the valet was also a viable suspect. So no matter our irritation, we could not dismiss their insinuations entirely.

  Biting back the snide retort hovering on my tongue, I wandered away in the direction of Marsdale. For all his outlandish behavior, the marquess was in many ways a private man, and I’d wondered if he might speak more freely without Gage present. But before I’d taken more than half a dozen steps, I found myself intercepted by another guest.

  “Halloo, Mrs. Gage!” Lady Bearsden waved her hand, eagerly beckoning me toward where she sat ensconced with the Dowager Duchess of Bowmont in one of the alcoves created by the five windows spaced evenly across the projection of the rounded tower on one side of the room. Both distinguished ladies had claimed a Louis Quatorze chair with padded wings, perching with their backs rigidly straight except when they leaned toward each other to confer. I had observed their antics all evening, like two mischievous spiders drawing in the guests one by one to their web to tease and torment before releasing them. They rightly knew their age and status would cow people into obeying them and prevent them from responding rudely to whatever the dowagers had to say.

  Lady Bearsden being Charlotte’s aunt, I knew her to be a kindhearted, if impish old woman, and a terrible gossip. However, I eyed her friend with some misgiving. I’d faced my fair share of ridicule and condescension from the matrons of society, and the Dowager Duchess of Bowmont was rumored to be one of the most vicious.

  I hoped they weren’t about to offer me more childbirth advice. I’d already been waylaid by a number of helpful ladies offering their dubious counsel. It seemed I was safer to approach now that I was embracing the proscribed duties of a gentlewoman, namely marriage and motherhood, even if I persisted in assisting with these pesky inquiries, but at least it was as a helpmeet to my husband.

  I was swiftly set at ease. “Kiera, dear.” She gestured for me to move closer, resting a bejeweled hand on the cream silk sleeve of my evening gown trimmed with yellow ribbons and lace, and embroidered purple birds across the panels of the skirt. “May I ask you to do something for me?”

  “Of course.”

  “It’s Charlotte.” She spoke in a low voice, her eyes glinting with concern. “I’m afraid she’s taken the discovery of that body quite hard. Says she fears it’s some sort of an omen.” She leaned forward to whisper the word. “Will you speak with her?”

  “Yes, of course.” I glanced over my shoulder, searching for her pale blonde tresses. “I should have realized sooner she might be upset.”

  After all, at the last house party I’d attended with her, she’d been made to look guilty of committing the gruesome murder of a woman who professed to be her friend, and then nearly drowned by her late husband—the real killer.

  “Oh, no, no, no,” Lady Bearsden protested. “She wouldn’t wish you to blame yourself, dear. After all, you and your dashing husband are already doing everything you can to resolve the matter. But I do fear she’s taking all of this much too much to heart.” She shook her head. “Poor Rye has tried to talk some sense into her, but she’s quite shaken.”

  “I’ll speak to her now,” I assured her.

  “Thank you, dear. I believe she’s retired to her chamber.” I turned to go, but she stopped me with a tug on my sleeve, waiting until my gaze had returned to hers before speaking. “And when you’ve finished, come to my chamber.” She nodded significantly to the dowager duchess. “The three of us will have a cozy chat.”

  The dowager stared back at me steadily when I glanced at her in interest, but it was evident she had something to say. Something she did not want overheard.

  I dipped my head. “I’ll join you as soon as I may.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Charlotte and Rye had been assigned rooms almost directly above the regency gallery, so I passed through the earl’s gallery lined with portraits of the duke’s long-dead ancestors and up the stairs to the floor above. I found my cousin, Rye, leaning against the banister along the top, staring forlornly across the empty space. He straightened from his slouch at the sound of my footsteps and attempted to smooth his expression into one of indifference. But at the sight of my sympathetic smile, he abandoned the effort.

  “I hear Charlotte is struggling with the discovery of this latest corpse,” I murmured as he joined me near the head of the stairs.

  He nodded. “It’s because of what happened with her late husband, isn’t it?”

  I didn’t respond, but then I didn’t need to. He could read the confirmation in my eyes.

  He exhaled a heavy breath, turning to press his hands against the banister again. “I asked her as much, but she said she didn’t want to talk about it.”

  It was clear he was concerned, and completely at a loss as to how to help her.

  The rumble of voices and the tinkle of nervous laughter drifted upward from the rooms below, along with the soft click of a door closing. Here in the unheated corridor, the exposed skin of my arms between my puffed sleeves and long evening gloves pebbled from the cold. Ignoring the chill air brushing over my collarbone, I reached out to lay a hand gently on my cousin’s dark sleeve.

  “Let me try. I was there. I . . .” I broke off, realizing it was unnecessary to recount how Lord Stratford had nearly killed both Charlotte and me. “Perhaps she’ll tell me what has her so upset.”

  “Yes, by all means. I just . . .” Rye lowered his head, his arms straining against the wood. “I wish she would trust me.”

  The sight of his anguish squeezed something inside my chest. It was an empathy not just for him, but also for the realization that a year ago Gage must have struggled with the same emotions.

  “She does,” I assured him. “Or she would never have agreed to wed you.” I leaned against the balustrade, searching for the right words. “You must understand, after all she’s been through, after the terror of being married to a man like Lord Stratford, the fact that she is willing to cede such control to you by marrying you is an enormous display of trust. Believe me,” I added quietly. “I know from experience.”

  His dark eyes softened with compassion, even though I knew he couldn’t truly grasp what I had endured in my marriage to Sir Anthony. But I brushed this aside, returning to my point.

  “Give her time. Her heart may realize she has nothing to fear from you, but her memories can trick her into believing otherwise. At least, for a short time. But she’ll come about. She will.”

  He inhaled a deep breath and nodded.

  I offered him a smile of
encouragement and began to turn away.

  “Thanks, Kiera.”

  I glanced back, seeing the affection shining in his eyes. “Of course. We wallflowers have to look after one another.”

  His smile widened.

  I turned back to study the doors lining the corridor before me, pointing to the one on the left in question.

  He dipped his head toward the open one further along the passage, two doors to the right. “She went into the solar.”

  What once would have been used as the bedchamber of the laird and lady, and a private sitting room for the family within the castle several hundred years ago had been transformed into a cozy withdrawing room. The wide windows set into the thick stone walls were left unswathed, allowing moonlight to spill into the room through the thick panes of mullioned glass. When I peered around the doorframe, I was surprised to see a fire kindled in the hearth, and wondered if Charlotte had set it alight. She sat on a sofa covered in Aubusson tapestry upholstery, staring into the flames. I’d rounded the sofa before she finally glanced up, revealing red-rimmed eyes and a pink nose. Clearly, she’d been crying.

  “May I join you?” I asked.

  She peered beyond me into the corridor, as if expecting someone to be standing behind me, but Rye had done as I’d asked and not followed me. Taking a shuddering breath, she attempted to speak, but appeared unable to get the words out. So she simply nodded. I sank down beside her as she lifted a handkerchief to dab at the tears spilling from her eyes once again.

  I reached out to clutch her other hand. “Will you tell me what’s wrong?” I prompted when she remained silent, struggling to stifle her weeping. “Is it the body?”

  She hiccupped and nodded.

  “Dead bodies are, of course, unpleasant,” I said gently. “But I can’t see how this one could have anything to do with you. It’s nothing like what happened at Gairloch. Is that what you fear?”

  “No,” she gasped. “But . . . it’s an ill omen, isn’t it? That you should find a corpse, and a murdered one at that, immediately after Rye and I announced our engagement.”

  I studied her tear-streaked cheeks and shook my head fondly. “Oh, Charlotte. You goose. There are no such things as omens—ill or otherwise. Intuition, yes, but I can’t see how that could be speaking to you right now.”

  She stiffened as if to pull away, but I wouldn’t let her. “You’re afraid,” I stated baldly, knowing she needed someone to make her face the truth. “You’re afraid that you’ve made a mistake, that Rye will turn out to be like your first husband. And that’s understandable. But deep down you know he’s nothing like him.”

  She sniffed, gripping her handkerchief tightly in her fist. Her eyes were shadowed with uncertainty. “He’s not, is he?”

  I squeezed her hand in reassurance. “He’s not.” And then just to be clear, I added. “Rye is a very good man.”

  She nodded, but there was still a hesitance to her demeanor.

  I turned to stare broodingly at the fireplace. The wood popped and crackled, and the flames cast a flickering glow over the rug. “Did I ever tell you that when Gage initially proposed to me I rejected him?”

  Her eyes widened in surprise as I glanced up at her. “You did?”

  My mouth curled into a sad smile. “I was terrified. I wanted to be with him. Desperately. But I was afraid he could never really love me. That he merely found me useful. And . . . that he might turn out to be like Sir Anthony.” I shook my head ruefully. “I knew the latter wasn’t true, but it’s easy to convince yourself otherwise when fear has you in its grip.”

  Her head bowed, contemplating this.

  “Fortunately for me, a very wise person took me aside and told me that I was being foolish. That I shouldn’t be afraid of what my life would be like with Gage, but rather what it would be like without him.”

  “Your sister?” she guessed.

  “No, my brother.”

  This seemed to make a great impression on her.

  “He forced me to consider what my life would be like if I didn’t take the chance, if I let Gage walk away. How it would feel to never see him again, to hear of his eventually marrying someone else. Could I live with myself for being so cowardly?”

  Thoughts flitted across her features in the firelight, tightening the skin across her brow and making her throat work as she swallowed.

  “I cannot answer for you,” I murmured. “But I decided Gage was worth the risk.” My lips curled at the thought of his handsome face, his quick mind, his strong arms, and his roguish smile. “And he has proven to be. Time and time again.”

  Her eyes assessed me, perhaps guessing at some of my thoughts. “I suppose you’re right.”

  “As I said, you must decide for yourself.” I turned serious. “Just be certain you’re not blaming Rye for the sins of another man.” I lifted my eyebrows in emphasis. “Or falling prey to superstitious nonsense. You do realize that man had been murdered at least two weeks ago. So if there was such a thing as an ill omen to be attached to it, it seems to me it would be for the day of the killing, not the day the body was discovered.”

  “I hadn’t considered that.”

  Seeing how this reassured her, I wanted to call her a goose again, but I decided once in an evening was probably enough.

  Then her pink lips flattened as if she’d just recalled something, and her gaze lifted to mine almost warily. “Is it true that the body belongs to the Earl of Helmswick?”

  Having already been asked the same thing by a dozen guests, I wasn’t surprised by the query. Just as I hadn’t been surprised such a choice piece of tittle-tattle had already made the rounds of gossip.

  “It may be,” I replied. “But thus far we haven’t been able to definitively identify him.”

  This made her flinch just like all the others.

  “Why?” I tilted my head, able to tell there was some motivation behind her query other than simple curiosity. “Were you acquainted with the earl?”

  “Vaguely.” She frowned. “He attempted to court me when I made my coming out. But then Lord Stratford swooped in and took an interest in me, and, well, my father and I only had eyes for him.” Her face twisted in bitter regret.

  Being a diamond of the first water, and the most vied for debutante the year she made her come out, it was no surprise she had been courted by so many highly ranked men.

  “Well, if it’s any consolation, I’m not certain Lord Helmswick would have been much of a catch either.” Though one could hope he would not have attempted to rid himself of her once he realized she could not give him a son and heir, like Stratford had. “From everything I’ve learned thus far, he was not the kindest or most considerate of men. I do not think his marriage to Lady Eleanor has been happy.”

  Her brow furrowed, and I thought she was contemplating what her life would have been like had she encouraged Helmswick rather than Stratford. A useless exercise, in my opinion, for Stratford had been determined to have her, and had she wed Helmswick instead, she might still be trapped in a loveless marriage with a selfish, unpleasant husband. But when she spoke, I realized I was wrong.

  “Do you know if Lady Eleanor is his first wife?”

  I opened my mouth to reply, and then paused to ponder. Had Lord Helmswick had another wife? I didn’t think I’d ever heard one mentioned, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. After all, he was nearly a decade older than I was.

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “Why? Did he mention her to you?”

  “Well, no. Not in so many words. But he said something odd to me once. Frankly, it unnerved me because he seemed so angry when he said it. I think that’s why I still remember after all this time.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Something to the effect of, ‘Now, you will make a suitable bride for a man such as me. Yes, a much better countess.’ Is that not odd?”
r />   It was, and I told her so, but it didn’t mean he was speaking of a late wife. “Could his family have been pressuring him to wed someone he deemed unsuitable?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. But his father was already dead.” She glanced to the side, biting the corner of her lip. “And his mother, as well, I believe.”

  But there could have been other family members badgering him—an aunt or uncle wanting him to wed his cousin or some such thing. I would have to look into his family tree.

  Of course, the unsuitable bride could also have been Lady Eleanor, though I struggled to imagine what would make the earl reckon a duke’s acknowledged daughter as being unworthy of him. Unless he was so punctilious about bloodlines that the rumors of her parentage were too unsavory for him. But then why had he wed her anyway?

  I pushed the puzzling problem aside for the moment to focus on Charlotte. “Do you feel better now?” It was a somewhat redundant question, for she was visibly calmer and had set her sodden handkerchief aside at some point in the middle of our conversation.

  “Yes, thank you.” She smiled gratefully. “I shall think about what you said.”

  “Good,” I declared, rising to my feet, and she with me. I was reaching out to offer her a tentative hug when a movement near the door drew my attention. It was naught but the flutter of a shadow in the corner of my eye, and I dismissed it from my thoughts as Charlotte pulled me in tighter. It had probably been Rye looking in on us, or someone else searching for a moment of solitude and retreating when they’d discovered the solar was already in use.

  “I don’t want to hurt him,” she whispered, and I knew she was speaking about Rye.

  “Then think about what it is you need, what it is you want, and then be honest with him. Whatever it is.” I pulled back to look at her. “He wants you to be happy. And if you can’t be with him, then he deserves to know it. And he deserves to know why, even though it may hurt him.”

  She nodded, tears glistening on her lashes again.

  “Just . . . don’t let fear control you. If you do that, then even though he’s dead, you let Stratford win.”