by Regina Scott
“I understand.” Her voice trembled, and she gulped back what sounded suspiciously like a sob. “I love you too. Only don’t ask me to say yes, not yet. We must talk, about many things. I don’t know whether I can be a countess, David. I’m sorry to be so craven.”
He gave a wry laugh. “You don’t need to apologize. I’ve never thought I made a very good earl, although that hasn’t stopped me from trying. As I told you, I keep moving until I hit a wall. Don’t give me that wall, Hannah. Not after what we just shared.”
“I don’t want to. I need to think. Would you, would you please light the candle, so I can go back to my chamber?”
He leaned over to retrieve the tapers. Pulling a flint from his waistcoat pocket, he struck it against the hardened beam. The candles sprung to life. She flinched away from the light, but not before he saw tears on her cheeks.
Guilt smote him. “Hannah, I . . .”
“No,” she silenced him. “Not tonight. Know that I love you and that I will do what is best, for both of us. Good night, David.”
He watched until the glow of her candle faded in the distance. Then he made his lonely way back to the east wing.
Chapter Twelve
Shopping in Wenwood was every bit as dreary as David had predicted. It failed entirely to keep Hannah’s mind off the events in the passage the night before. In truth, she had slept little again. He loved her! Each time she thought of it, joy danced through her. Unfortunately, the dancing always ceased when she remembered what a poor countess she’d make. She loved him in return, and she only wanted him to be happy. If only she could ensure that marrying her would ensure that happiness.
She could not remember much about her parents’ marriage. It seemed to her that her mother had been happy. Certainly she had seemed unhappy by her husband’s early demise. She remembered her mother often sitting in the sunlight of the window in the main room of their Banbury house, staring off across the country lane outside with a tender smile, as if she were remembering something sweet and long ago. She also remembered how her mother had encouraged her to accept Reverend Timkin’s offer of marriage.
“He’ll take good care of you, Hannah,” her mother had explained. “And he won’t mind that you paint.”
Hannah had smiled. Sometimes it seemed to her that her mother saw her painting as some sort of handicap that must be explained. “He’s older than Father,” Hannah reminded her. “And he doesn’t love me. Grandfather put him up to this.”
Her mother hadn’t denied the fact that Hannah’s minister grandfather was trying to look out for his only granddaughter. “I’m sure Reverend Timkin will be kind and understanding,” her mother assured her. “You’ll have a roof over your head and someone to look out for you.”
“Perhaps,” Hannah had replied, “I prefer to look out after myself.”
Now she wondered about the statement, said with so much pride and determination. She had made a way for herself through her teaching and was on the verge of making an even finer way with her painting. Why did she suddenly long to give it all up for a man she’d met less than a week ago?
She forced the issue from her mind to deal with her task for the day. She was supposed to be the chaperone, and outside of seeing that the girls were in bed at a decent time each night and up again in the morning, she couldn’t see that she had done all that much. Anyone would have reached out to Ariadne when the girl had been struck ill. Hannah resolved to spend more time with her charges until the trip was over. If her duty helped her retreat from a far more important issue, she was not about to question the matter.
Although the town of Wenwood was only a few miles from Barnsley, Hannah had never had occasion to visit. All the teachers did their rare bits of shopping in Barnsley or made an annual trip to Wells, and she could see why. The village of Wenwood consisted of a small country church with an oversized rectory and a cluster of laborers’ cottages surrounding a small green. The largest cottage did have an extra room in the front with some dry goods, hardware, and fabric, but that was the extent of it. The only thing that surprised Hannah was that the owner of the cottage, a Mr. Delacorte, seemed to know her ladyship well. She simply could not see Lady Brentfield shopping at the place.
“We’ll pay the vicar a call,” Lady Brentfield announced when the few bolts of fabric, all less expensive than the bright muslin of the girls’ morning dresses, had exhausted their dubious interest. The girls grumbled, but Hannah cast them looks of encouragement, and they followed her ladyship down the dusty lane with ill-disguised boredom.
The Vicar Wellfordhouse was in the midst of teaching school and was rather discomposed to find six lovely women standing in the doorway of what had once been the parlor of the rectory. Entrusting the care of the dozen or so children to his kind-faced female assistant, he hurried to greet them. He was a slight man of medium height and young for a vicar she thought. He had sandy hair and a bottle nose. His smile was gentle, and Hannah liked him on sight.
“Ladies, how nice of you to call,” he said, although Hannah was certain it was a great inconvenience. “Lady Brentfield, isn’t it?”
It did not surprise Hannah that her ladyship was not a recognized member of the man’s congregation. It did seem to surprise Lady Brentfield that she was not more memorable. “It most certainly is,” she declared. “And with me is Lady Emily Southwell, the youngest daughter of the Duke of Emerson.”
If Lady Emily noticed that the woman tended to wield her father’s name like a sword, she did not show it. She nodded with just the right amount of condescension for one of her station addressing a mere country vicar. Reverend Wellfordhouse bowed over her hand with such care that she visibly thawed.
“And these are Miss Courdebas and Miss Ariadne Courdebas, daughters of Viscount Rollings,” Lady Brentfield continued.
Daphne dipped a wobbly curtsey; Ariadne propped her up. Reverend Wellfordhouse bowed over their hands as well, setting them both to blushing. Hannah had to admire the man’s fortitude.
“And, of course, my dear niece Priscilla Tate.”
Priscilla batted her luxurious lashes at the vicar, who blinked in surprise. He hurriedly covered the movement with a bow.
“We are most fortunate to have them all visiting us at Brentfield until Easter,” Lady Brentfield explained as he straightened at last. Hannah realized with a pang of annoyance that the woman did not intend to introduce her but decided it was one battle she did not need to fight.
As it turned out, the vicar fought it for her. “I hope we can look forward to seeing you all at Easter services,” he said with a nod to the girls. Then he smiled at Hannah. “And you must be Miss Alexander, the famous portrait painter.”
Now it was Hannah’s turn to blink in confusion even as the girls beamed with pride he would recognize her. “Yes, how did you know?” she replied, trying to ignore Lady Brentfield’s censorious frown.
“You are becoming quite famous in the area,” he assured her with honest admiration that brought a blush to her cheeks. “I’ve had the good fortune to see the painting you did of Lady Prestwick. And of course I had heard about you from Squire Pentercast’s wife. She is quite looking forward to you painting their family when you return from your visit to Brentfield.”
“How is dear Genevieve?” Lady Brentfield interrupted enthusiastically, managing to bring all attention back to her. This time, Hannah did not mind. She felt a little guilty that the Squire’s lovely wife should be singing her praises when she had had to delay the work of painting the Pentercasts.
“Quite fine,” Reverend Wellfordhouse replied cheerfully. “Young Rutherford is a year and a half now, and I understand from Mrs. Pentercast’s sister that a little brother or sister is due in October.”
“Children can be such a blessing,” Lady Brentfield replied dryly. The girls exchanged looks, and Hannah tried not to cringe at the sarcasm.
“Indeed,” Reverend Wellfordhouse agreed. Hannah wondered at his wistful tone, but he continued in explanation. “I have a
lways thought I would like children of my own. Of course, first I have to find a Mrs. Wellfordhouse.”
He said it teasingly, reminding her of David, but the mere mention that he was still a bachelor propelled Priscilla, Daphne, and Ariadne into immediate flirtations. Hannah had never seen so many coy looks, batting lashes, and tossing curls in her life. Only Lady Emily remained aloof, and Hannah supposed that a country vicar, no matter how charming, was of little interest to the daughter of a duke. Within minutes, the poor man was turning red over the effusive attentions, and Hannah was red from embarrassment watching her charges. Lady Brentfield apparently had had enough as well, for as the church bell rang two, she announced that it was time to return home.
The vicar politely bowed them out, but Hannah thought he looked relieved. She rather hoped they didn’t stay for Easter services. She couldn’t imagine trying to take communion with the girls simpering at him.
As the carriage rolled toward Brentfield, Hannah felt her spirits lift. In a few more minutes, she’d see David again. Then she remembered how she had put him off last night. He had made his appreciation of her well known. She would have to make a decision, and soon. If only she weren’t so comfortable in his company, if only he weren’t so clever and funny, if only he weren’t so handsome, if only his kisses didn’t make her yearn for more.
Her dilemma was still very much on her mind as the carriage came to a stop in front of the great house. However, the sight that met her eyes drove her current worries from her mind. Asheram limped out to greet them, clothes powdered in ash and smelling of acrid smoke.
“I regret to say, ladies, that there’s been another mishap,” he informed them as they leaned out the carriage window. “If you’ll stay in the coach, I’ll have you brought around to the side entrance.”
Hannah grew cold in fear. “Lord Brentfield?” she begged, reaching out the open window to touch the man.
“Is fine,” he assured her kindly. He glanced at Lady Brentfield, who was framed in the other window, and his mouth hardened. “Just fine.”
“Thank God for small blessings,” her ladyship said, leaning back inside the coach. Trembling, Hannah could only follow her lead and settle back as well. The girls raised a volley of questions, but she could only shake her head. It was all she could do to remain calm. Asheram had said he was fine, but until she saw him with her own eyes, she feared to find him injured as well. Several times she directed the girls’ questions toward Lady Brentfield, only to find the woman staring out the window of the coach, eyes narrowed in thought. Somehow, Hannah could not believe that she worried for David too.
To Hannah’s relief, David was waiting for them when they came through a ballroom on the east side of the great house. This time she held herself back from running to him. She couldn’t help noticing, however, that his clothes were as sooty as Asheram’s, and his right hand was bandaged.
“Well, ladies,” he greeted them with a bow, “this time you missed the excitement.” He winked at Hannah, but she could see that his jovial response was strained. She managed a smile for his sake. “It seems someone left a candle burning without a holder, and it eventually started a fire.”
Hannah frowned, wondering about their adventure of the night before. Surely, they had both taken their candles when they had parted.
“Clumsy servants,” Lady Brentfield declared with a toss of her head that reminded Hannah of Priscilla. “I would take the cost of repairs out of their wages.”
“We don’t pay that well,” David informed her with bare civility. “I’m sorry to say that the blue room and the dining room have been damaged, as has the main entry. The servants are currently setting up the upstairs sitting room in the west wing for your use. If you wouldn’t mind having tea in the breakfast room, I’m sure it will be done by the time you finish.”
As they murmured their agreement to his proposal, Hannah forced herself to take a deep breath. David did not appear seriously hurt, and none of the art treasures were in the rooms he had mentioned. They had indeed been fortunate.
“Lord Brentfield,” Lady Emily intoned as they started down the corridor for the back stairs. “Where did the fire start?”
David glanced at her with a wry smile. “Ever the interest in disaster, Lady Emily?” he teased. “It started in the blue room, on the wall next to the library. I’ll show it to you later if you’d like, but somehow I don’t think everyone will be interested.”
Hannah avoided his pointed look. In truth, just knowing he had been in danger was enough to set her trembling. She had no desire to see the location.
Lady Brentfield excused herself from tea and retired to her room, pleading a headache. Hannah would have loved to do the same, particularly as David left to oversee the continued restoration. She felt it her duty to help the girls, however, so she played hostess and poured tea.
She had feared she would have to make conversation, but the girls were surprisingly quiet. It was Priscilla who requested that they also be allowed to retire to their rooms. Hannah had no choice but to retire as well, being unsure whether she could provide David with any help in his efforts or whether she would only hinder the progress.
It was one of her few moments to herself since she had arrived, and she had no doubt how she intended to spend it. She had ever thought better when she was drawing. She hurried to the wardrobe and pulled out her sketch book. Taking out a charcoal and sharpening it, she set to work.
An hour later, she was beginning to feel as if she had something. David’s heavy-lidded eyes gazed back at her, warm and inviting. She had captured his nose, she was sure, but the mouth wasn’t yet right. It was difficult to capture that half-smile he wore so often. It made her shiver just thinking about it. No, the drawing wasn’t perfect, but even if she didn’t get a chance to do more with it, at least when she left Brentfield she would have something more to rely on than her memory.
Someone knocked at her door, and the girls filed in before she could call out to stop them. She snapped the sketch book shut and rose, putting on a smile. Four somber faces regarded her, and she felt the smile fading.
“What is it?” she asked, heart starting to beat faster again. “Has something happened?”
They exchanged serious looks, which only served to frighten her further. Priscilla stepped forward. “We have something we must discuss with you, Miss Alexander.”
“And you had better sit down,” Daphne added, not unkindly.
“I brought the smelling salts,” Ariadne told her, pulling the bottle from the pocket of her gown. “Just in case.”
“Goodness,” Hannah said, sinking back into the armchair she had been using. “Are you giving me the sack?”
“Are we allowed to fire her?” Daphne demanded of her friends.
“I certainly wouldn’t want to,” Ariadne replied loyally.
Priscilla smirked. “I daresay his lordship would be furious.”
“Oh, you’re scaring her out of her wits,” Lady Emily complained. “Let me.”
Hannah braced for the worst.
“Miss Alexander,” Lady Emily proclaimed, staring her in the eye, “we think someone is trying to kill Lord Brentfield.”
Hannah felt as if the ground were shifting beneath her. She must have paled, for Ariadne hurriedly thrust the smelling salts at her. Hannah waved the noxious smell away. “I know there have been accidents, of course,” she acknowledged. “But murder?”
Daphne nodded vigorously. “I didn’t want to believe it either, Miss Alexander, but Lady Emily can be most convincing. Tell her.”
Lady Emily drew herself up to her full height, which was only an inch higher than Hannah’s. “It started with the poisoning. What did Ariadne eat that the rest of us didn’t?”
Hannah raised her eyebrows. “Did Ariadne eat something we did not?”
Ariadne hung her head. “The strawberry tarts. I know Lady Brentfield advised me against them, but they looked so luscious. I only nibbled on one, then took it and another up to my room for
later.”
“Perhaps they were spoiled,” Hannah reasoned.
Ariadne shook her head. “The little I ate was quite fresh, I assure you.”
“Quite fresh and quite deadly,” Lady Emily intoned. “And meant for his lordship. They were his favorites, remember?”
Hannah nodded, remembering.
“Then came the bookcase,” her charge continued, hands clasped behind her. “The one case that contained his lordship’s personal favorites, a case he used often, we are told.”
“Only I used it first,” Daphne admitted.
“Exactly!” cried Lady Emily. “We inadvertently foiled the murderer again. Now, today, this fire, smoldering out of sight no doubt, right next to the library where his lordship would be working, where he might have been overcome by the smoke, choking, gasping, suffocating . . .”
“Please!” Hannah stopped her, her artist’s imagination conjuring a picture that was more than she could bear. Ariadne obligingly offered the smelling salts again. Hannah shook her head.
“I told you she was convincing,” Daphne bragged.
“But why?” Hannah cried. “And who? Who could possibly want Lord Brentfield dead?”
Lady Emily stood glaring at her for a moment more, then deflated. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “It gets rather fuzzy from here.”
“None of us could think of a likely villain,” Ariadne explained.
Hannah shook her head again. The tale seemed too far-fetched, a perfect melodrama for Lady Emily. The accidents were coincidental, but surely not homicidal.
“I appreciate your insights, girls,” she assured them, “but I cannot credit that we have a murderer in our midst. Perhaps if this visit hadn’t been so tempestuous--excitement one moment and boredom the next, you might see things from a different perspective.”
Ariadne and Daphne looked thoughtful. Priscilla looked troubled.
Lady Emily threw up her hands. “I knew you wouldn’t believe me. You wait and see, Miss Alexander. If I’m right, there’ll be another attempt on Lord Brentfield’s life tomorrow, and if we’re not careful, this time it will be successful!”