I scowled blackly as I spread jam on my cold toast. “Yes, and I assume if we should go in search of this footman and gardener, they will corroborate this fictitious and completely useless story.” I took a savage bite, speaking around it as I chewed. “They might even add in a few details, just to create the right atmosphere, free of charge.”
So much for the duchess’s promise not to interfere or impose on her staff’s loyalty.
There was a knock on the door at Gage’s back, and I scoffed, expecting Wansford to have returned with some forgotten particular. This time when he opened it, my brother strode through.
“Good morning,” he declared, but after taking one look at our faces, stumbled to a stop. “What is it? Have I committed some infraction?”
I shook my head, unwilling to spread Wansford’s ridiculous tale further. “Ignore us.” Taking a sip of tea, I narrowed my eyes, scrutinizing his countenance. “You seem to have escaped your visit to The Sheep’s Heid without injury.”
He arched his eyebrows. “Oh, ye of little faith.” Bending forward, he stole two slices of bacon from my tray. “And I come bearing information.”
Given this, I chose to overlook his petty larceny. “Well, then. Out with it.”
“Renton did indeed visit The Sheep’s Heid.”
Gage sank down beside me, leaning over to steal his own slice of bacon.
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. The truth was, I’d begun asking Bree to bring extra bacon with my breakfast trays for this very reason. The gentlemen of my acquaintance seemed to have bottomless appetites, and yet the cravings of a woman with child were all that anyone commented on.
“In fact . . .” Trevor leaned back, squeezing this revelation for all that it was worth. “He spent two evenings there in the taproom.”
“Did anyone know where he was staying?” Gage asked. “Or see him leave town?”
“No. Said he came and went in the dark. But he did ask the proprietor if he’d ever been down in the crypt of the abbey ruins.”
“So he did know,” I exclaimed, nearly spilling my tea. “Someone must have told him.”
“But who? And why?” Gage frowned. “If he was lured down there to be killed, then why? The things he was threatening to reveal about Helmswick are horrid, and would be embarrassing to Lady Helmswick. But it seems fairly common knowledge that he had multiple mistresses, and an earl isn’t about to be charged with a crime for inducing his mistress to rid herself of her unborn child, if such a thing could even be proven. That is, if that part of the tale was even believed. So I don’t see how Renton’s story would be worth killing him to keep quiet.”
“If he is the victim, there must be more. There must be something we’re missing.”
Trevor nodded in agreement as he chewed his last bite of bacon. “You asked me to find out if anyone remembered his hair color. Sandy light brown was the concurrence. And . . . he had a chip in his front tooth.”
Gage’s gaze met mine grimly. “It’s him.”
I nodded. “You’ll recall, the butler remarked on his being drunk, and given the signs of liver damage, I suspect that might have been a perpetual state for him.” I set my cup aside, sinking deeper into the cushions of the sofa. “But I still don’t understand why he was wearing Helmswick’s boots.”
Gage shrugged one shoulder. “Maybe they weren’t his after all.”
“Someone certainly thought they were. They were stolen, remember.”
He conceded this. “Then, maybe they were given to him. Or he stole them. I don’t think we’ll know the answer to that until we uncover the reason he was killed.”
We both fell silent, lost in the haze of sifting through our own deductions and observations. But Trevor wasn’t finished.
“I have one more gift for you,” he declared, pulling a folded slip of foolscap from the inner pocket of his coat.
“Well, aren’t you a fount of blessings this morning,” Gage remarked, accepting the paper.
He reclined, propping his ankle over the other knee. “It’s a talent.”
I did roll my eyes at this.
Gage’s mild amusement faded as he opened the note.
“What is it?” I leaned toward him, and he held out the paper so I could read the nearly illegible scrawl along with him as he said it aloud.
“He is hiding beneath the castle’s nose.”
“Who is hiding?” Trevor asked as Gage and I shared a bemused glance.
“Surely, they must mean Colum Brunton,” I said.
He nodded in agreement.
“But what precisely does that mean?”
“I presume he, or she,” Gage amended, “is suggesting that Mr. Brunton is concealed somewhere on the estate, if not within the castle itself.”
I cradled my right arm close to my abdomen, considering the idea. “I suppose it’s possible. There must be dozens, if not scores, of buildings on the estate, and didn’t Tait tell us upon our arrival that the castle has close to three hundred rooms.”
“And nearly as many servants,” Gage replied in exaggeration, but only slightly. “I find it difficult to believe he would have dared hide within the castle itself without being discovered while Sunlaws was filled to its rafters with guests and their additional staff for the Twelfth Night Party. The only place that would have remained deserted was the doom.”
Trevor’s eyes widened. “The lad would have to be either mad or desperate to have stayed down there.”
“And have the constitution and fortitude of a Highland cow,” I chimed in.
Gage gestured with the refolded note. “Don’t forget, we didn’t see any footprints in the dust, or any signs of human passage beyond a certain point when we searched down there.”
“So not the doom.” Trevor scowled. “And not the brewery.”
I agreed. Remaining concealed at the bustling brewery for nearly four weeks now would have been even more foolhardy than attempting it at the castle. A gamekeeper’s cottage, equipment shed, fishing shelter, barn, or even the mausoleum would all be better bets. But I had another thought. “Someone must be taking supplies to him. Perhaps if you follow his friends, they might lead you to him.”
However, Gage wasn’t listening, his expression forbidding. “There is one interpretation we aren’t considering. Notice, the message doesn’t say he’s alive, merely that he’s hiding here. He could as easily be buried. Though the simplest interpretation would be to think he’s been stashed in the catacombs like Renton’s body, but we searched that as well.”
“I suppose he could have been murdered and hidden there in the three days since our search, but I can tell you don’t believe that. And neither do I.”
He nodded. “I think it more likely whoever wrote this note wanted to suggest that is what happened. Who passed it to you?” he questioned Trevor.
“One of the barmaids. Told me to give it to Mr. Gage up at the castle. Truth be told, she seemed annoyed to be made the messenger, so I passed her a coin for her trouble and asked who had given it to her. She shrugged and said it was the barman, before hurrying on to the next table, her hands full of tankards of ale.”
“Well, then, I think we need to pay a visit to this barman and see what he knows,” Gage declared, sliding forward to the edge of his seat. “For I can’t help but think there’s a connection somehow to The Sheep’s Heid. Maybe Brunton and Renton even met each other there when they were both drinking. Maybe that’s why Brunton changed his mind about spying for Helmswick, as we speculate. We won’t know what the truth is until we find Brunton.” He pushed to his feet. “Care to join me, St. Mawr?”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
“Just give me a moment to get my hat.” Gage strode from the room.
Trevor sat with his elbows propped on his knees, his hands dangling between them. He studied me uncertainly, almost as if he expected me to insi
st I accompany them. But we all knew ladies, as a rule, did not enter taprooms, so I would be less than useless sitting outside in the carriage. In any case, I had thought of a better use for my time.
“How is your shoulder?” he asked, nodding to where I still cradled my arm before me.
“Much better, thank you. I’ll still need the sling for another day or two, to keep from straining it too soon, but at least I can function without it for a short time.”
“That’s good.”
I could tell there was something more he wished to say, so I arched my eyebrows in query.
His lips curled humorlessly at this evidence of my reading him so well. “Have you received word from Alana?”
I felt a stab of anxiety about the way in which my sister had departed. “No. Have you?”
He didn’t need to say the words, for it was evident he had. “She and Cromarty returned to Blakelaw House without incident, and the children and staff are all well.”
“That’s good,” I replied, an unconscious echo of his earlier comment. I didn’t ask whether she’d said anything about me. Whether she’d expressed concern, or regret, or if she was still harboring her anger. I wasn’t certain I wanted to hear the answer if it was the latter. Fortunately, Gage returned before the silence between us stretched on for too long.
I stood with them and urged them to be careful.
Gage pressed a swift kiss to my cheek. “We won’t be long.”
Then my brother stepped forward, playfully chucking me under the chin, as he’d always done. “Cheer up, old thing. I’ll keep him safe.”
I arched a single eyebrow. “I suspect it’s more likely to be the other way around.”
Gage cast a smile back over his shoulder while Trevor chuckled good-naturedly.
I waited until the door had shut firmly behind them, and then hurried through to my bedchamber, pleased to find Bree still pottering about. “How much were you able to hear?” I asked, having no patience to pretend our voices hadn’t carried.
She looked up uncertainly as I reached for my sling draped over the dressing table. “I suspect most o’ the pertinent parts,” she finally answered as she helped me pull the sling over my head without damaging my coiffure.
“Then you understand Renton is probably our victim, which means it’s not Helmswick.” I swung to face her. “I need you to escort me to Lord Marsdale’s chamber.”
If this statement startled her, or if she felt any qualms about escorting me somewhere that she knew my husband would not approve of, she kept her feelings to herself. For all that Bree had no trouble expressing her opinions, I was grateful for the fact that she understood when it was simply best to trust me.
I looped my arm with hers, using her support to steady me if necessary. Though it forced us to take a slightly more roundabout route, we avoided the ballroom staircase, even stepping wide of it as we passed by to walk through the ballroom to the spiral stairs on the opposite side. At the landing, I urged Bree to wait for me there—a request which earned me a disapproving scowl—and then approached Marsdale’s door.
At first, there was no response to my summons, and I wondered if, it being shy of ten o’clock, the slug-a-bed marquess was still sleeping. I had raised my fist to rap again when the door jerked open. I clearly wasn’t the person he’d expected to see, for his face was twisted by a mask of rage. One that made me stiffen. But as soon as he realized it was me, it abruptly faded to reveal the pain lurking underneath. A pain he struggled to conceal with a contorted smile that I suspected was supposed to appear roguish, but merely made him look constipated.
I held up my hand to forestall him before he spoke. “No quips,” I ordered not ungently, for in the frame of mind he was in they were certain to be, at best, clumsy, if not outright vicious. “May I come in?”
“Alone?” he replied, evidently unable to keep the mockery from his voice.
I glowered at him.
He closed his eyes, exhaling a tightly drawn breath, and then nodded.
I glanced over my shoulder at Bree, who stood with her arms crossed, before following him inside and closing the door. She may have held doubts, but I knew I had nothing to fear from Marsdale, despite the evidence of the helpless anger simmering within him. Whatever he might tell me next was not meant for others’ ears, not even those as circumspect as Bree’s.
The bedchamber he’d been given was even more spacious than the one I currently occupied, though rather than being stuffed with furnishings, the arrangement of décor allowed for space to flow between them. Set into the southwest corner of the castle, it held vantages of the western braes, and the abbey ruins and the moors beyond.
He slumped against the back of one of the giltwood armchairs, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his trousers as he gazed morosely out the window. Mist draped the ruins of the abbey like gossamer lace, hiding and then revealing the ancient stone as it shifted, and the moors stood silent and still, the dormant heather adorned in a gray shroud, which seemed to suit his mood.
“You didn’t kill Helmswick,” I stated, advancing toward him.
He turned to look at me. “No.”
“And neither did Eleanor.”
His eyes searched mine, as I came to a stop before him. “No.”
I tilted my head, hearing the pain that echoed within the hollowness of his voice. “But perhaps, right about now, you’re both wishing you had.”
His brow furrowed. “Yes, well, think what you will of me, but it’s a bitter pill to swallow, thinking you might actually be given a second chance to correct the biggest blunder of your life, to be with the woman you love, to claim the life you should have led all along, had you not been such a colossal idiot.”
He turned aside, as if embarrassed he’d said too much.
“Eleanor told me what happened between you.”
The cording of his neck tightened as he swallowed. “Then you know what a contemptible blackguard I was.”
“What I know is that you were both young and afraid, and you hadn’t been shown the best example of how to comport yourselves.”
He glanced sideways at me, and I arched my eyebrows, daring him to disagree with me.
I turned to pace toward the window, knowing that he would better accept what I had to say next if I was not looking at him. “But now that you’re older, you understand that age does not necessitate wisdom, and love is often complicated. Sometimes people are the most hurtful to those they care the deepest about.”
I paused to stare out at the scene below as a shaft of sunlight penetrated through the mist, briefly illuminating a portion of the lawn, a battered wall, and the tracery of the remains of one of the abbey’s rose windows. Once upon a time, the light glistening off the stained glass must have been a glorious sight. Then the fog eddied and swirled, smothering the sun again. But if one sunbeam had penetrated, then it was only a matter of time before another would, and then another and another, until the haze was obliterated by light.
“Did you know your father outbid Lord Stratford for one of my paintings?”
The manner in which his feet shifted behind me said that he had not. I’d certainly been shocked when the murderous Stratford had revealed it to me over a year ago.
“It was one of the portraits I painted during my exile. I modeled it from my memory of a woman I’d seen sitting on a bench in Hyde Park one day. She’d looked so sorrowful, so forlorn, and I couldn’t help but wonder what had etched the sadness in her eyes. No one else paid her even the barest flicker of attention, such that when she caught me looking at her, I think I shocked her.” My mouth curled in self-deprecation. “I know I disconcerted her, for she collected her things and hurried away.
“I called the painting ‘Portrait of a Forgotten Woman.’ And I wonder if . . . maybe your father was willing to pay so dearly for it because it reminded him of your mother. Of what he’d don
e to her. If maybe, in his own way, he’s still mourning her.” I continued to gaze out the window, allowing time for Marsdale to consider this and either accept or discard it as he wished.
A few moments later, he came forward to stand beside me, his posture slightly more relaxed. He didn’t address the matter of his father, and I was content for him not to, instead turning his attention back to the matter of our inquest. “You’re certain the body isn’t Helmswick’s, then?”
“Yes.”
He didn’t react, but I could still sense the turmoil roiling inside him. It was stamped in the watchfulness of his gaze in the reflection of the window, in the twitching of his fingers at his sides, as if he didn’t know what to do with them. “Do you know who it is?”
I turned toward him then, and he twisted his head to meet my penetrating gaze. “A man named Patrick Renton. Have you ever heard of him?”
He shook his head somewhat reluctantly, and I wondered whether his hesitance stemmed from the fact that he was lying, or because he was questioning whether he should admit to knowing him even though he didn’t.
“Apparently, he was the brother of one of Helmswick’s mistresses. She died after the earl forced her to rid herself of his child. Renton followed Helmswick here to blackmail him, but the earl had already left.” I searched his tight expression, trying to decipher whether he’d known anything about this prior to my telling him. I would have expected some sort of derisive quip if he had, but he remained silent. “Do you know anything about it?”
“Nothing I can tell you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
I suppressed a sigh of exasperation. Back to this, were we? “Then I suppose you also refuse to tell me why you suspected Lady Helmswick of killing her husband?”
Marsdale scowled. “I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to. It was obvious you were trying to protect her.”
“Maybe I was trying to protect her from a false accusation.”
A Stroke of Malice Page 29