by Corwin, Amy
***
Chilton drew Oriana away from her uncle’s door. He hesitated in front of his room before deciding it would be best to have privacy. He wanted to tell her why he was here and explain, if he could. There were too many terrible events swirling around them.
One look at the reluctant expression on her drawn face was enough to convince him. She needed to know she could rely on him.
He grabbed her elbow, threw open the door to his room, and dragged her inside.
Then he kicked shut the door behind him.
Feeling like a ruthless buccaneer, he kept his grip on her arm although she shook it to loosen his fingers.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“We must talk, Oriana.”
“In your bedroom?”
“I’m not planning on seducing you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Oh.” She looked vaguely disappointed.
Convinced her expression was only a trick of the light, he glanced away, trying not to focus on her mouth. He let go of her arm and walked over to the corner. Josephine and her puppies slept in contentment, still nestled within his shirt. As he gazed down at them, he felt a strange sense of loss.
“I haven’t had a chance to move them out to the stables, yet. I’m sorry.”
He glanced up in surprise. “It’s all right. I rather like having them here, although they do make a mess.” He thought ruefully of the shoe he had found this morning, damp from puppies mouthing it toothlessly and filling it with what was best left unmentioned.
“I’ll take them down, now, shall I?”
“No. I need to tell you—”
“Oh, please don’t. Really. I know my uncle. He does tend to carry one off with him on his adventures. But really, I'd rather not know—”
His mouth twisted. “No. That’s not it. You’ve a right to know why I am here.”
“You are not going to apprehend my uncle, are you?”
“What? No, certainly not. Why would you think that?”
“I—I don’t know.” She bit her lower lip. Her gaze roamed restlessly around the room. Then she looked at the bed. She blushed rosily before moving to the window where she gazed out resolutely in the direction of the barn. “You didn’t beat him, did you?” she asked in a small voice. “You aren’t going to kill him?”
His guts twisted as if she had hit him in the stomach. But she had no real reason to trust him. He had never tried to tell her the truth, until now.
“No. I didn’t intend any harm to befall your uncle. And I didn’t beat him, either time. I never lied to you about that, Oriana. The first time, there was this large man named 'Red.' He hit your uncle with a cudgel and ran off. I’d have stepped in, if I could.” He relived his anger and frustration with his inability to help when Archer needed it. His hands clenched at his sides.
“But today—your clothes—”
“I fell.”
“You fell?”
“Yes. A wagon came rattling by. I stepped off the road to let it pass. Unfortunately, I placed my foot incorrectly and fell in a heap in the ditch. It was the most humiliating experience of my life.” He touched his thigh absently.
His deuced leg had healed, but the remaining weakness in it let him down today.
“But you were coming down the road from the village—didn’t you see anything?”
“No. I didn’t get that far. I wanted some air, but I walked less than half a mile. I wish I had gone further. Maybe I could have helped your uncle.”
“Perhaps...” She half turned from the window and took a deep breath. “Did you lie to Mr. Allen about Mr. Lyndel? You know him, don’t you? He said you did.”
“I didn’t lie.” He bent over and picked up the brown puppy with fur the color of Oriana’s hair. He petted it determinedly, not wanting to see disbelief in her eyes. “I don’t know him. What exactly did he say to you?”
“I asked him if he knew you. He even described you.”
How was that possible? “What exactly did he say?”
“He said you were a tall, rough looking gentleman who looked like he had been in a few fights.” She blushed. Her fingers picked at the putty holding the window panes in place. Then she turned away from him and rested her forehead against the glass. “I am sorry, but that’s what he said.”
“That is exactly what he said?” He grinned harshly. “There’s another gentleman of Mr. Lyndel’s acquaintance that also fits that description—the man I told you about. Red something. Mr. Lyndel obviously thought you had met him and that he gave you a false name.”
“Oh?” She sounded doubtful. “I suppose that could be true. But why Mr. Dacy? How could he know that?”
“He didn't. He merely agreed with whatever name you mentioned.” He cleared his throat, suddenly not sure if he could admit his true motives. “Oriana, I want to tell you—I’m sorry. I came here with your uncle to try to regain a vowel my stepmother gave to him.”
Her skirts spun out in a circle as she turned to stare at him. “That’s why you’re here? To steal from my uncle? Does he know that?”
“No. But I’ll tell him. I promise I will tell him. If you’ll let me help you. I know no one here shot Lyndel. Let me find out what happened—you don’t have to worry. Please, allow me to help you.”
He’d done far worse for less reason. He could surely discover who murdered Mr. Lyndel. He even had a few ideas about where to start.
Assuming it had not been Oriana.
She had a sort of calm strength about her that emphasized her independence and capability. She would do anything to protect her family. And she could have shot Lyndel to save her uncle.
In fact, it seemed quite probable that she had seen Lyndel beating her uncle and had used the only weapon she had. The pistol Mr. Allen had found.
The realization brought back his deep sense of frustration and bitterness at his inability to protect the ones he loved the most. His mother had died of fever while he watched, helpless at her bedside. Now, when his friend had been attacked not once but twice, he had failed to assist him, as well.
If Chilton had been more alert and less concerned with finding the vowel, he might have guessed what was going on. He could have helped Oriana before it came to this.
Well, he could do something now. He could find out the truth. Then he would shift events, if necessary, to make sure Mr. Allen’s investigation didn’t implicate any of the Archers.
If it turned out that she had indeed emptied her pistol into Mr. Lyndel, then Chilton would do the best he could to deflect attention away from her.
If he had to, he would tell Mr. Allen that he had shot Mr. Lyndel.
“So, you are just here to steal a slip of paper.” She stared at him, her arms crossed at her waist, her hands clutching her elbows. Her knuckles were white with the strength of her grip. “And Uncle John does not know.”
“No, I—”
“And he believes you are his friend.” All expression in her face drained away.
“I am his friend—and yours.”
“Really? Quite an odd sort of friendship, isn’t it? You make yourself agreeable to my uncle to obtain a vowel from him—steal it—and then what? Just leave?”
“No. It is not like that, Oriana. I would never just leave you. I—” He wanted to tell her what he had discovered at that moment as he watched her. After the room felt cold and dark because the warmth had drained from her face.
He loved her.
He couldn’t imagine any kind of a life without her. But the worried, closed look on her face made him pause.
She didn’t trust him.
He sighed. She had no reason to believe she could rely on him. His entire adult life had been built around making people think he couldn’t be relied upon. That he was just a drunken wastrel.
And he was very adept at giving that impression.
Well, now he would earn her trust. He had to. All he needed was time.
As he stood there, wondering what to
say to convince her, Oriana turned and opened the door. Looking over her shoulder, she eyed him from the doorway. Her rich, dark hair blended with the shadows from the hall. Even her outline was smudged and insubstantial as if he had lost her already.
He blinked, wanting to pull her back into the clear light.
“You may stay if you help.“ Her hand tightened on the doorknob. “Help us find out what happened, and who beat my uncle. I didn’t kill him, you know—that Mr. Lyndel. If you do this, I’ll get your vowel for you. Then you must leave.”
A reprieve, of sorts. He nodded. “Agreed.”
“But when Uncle John wakes up—well,” she paused and then tilted her chin up, “If you had anything to do with this, then you’ll leave immediately.”
“But I didn’t—”
She shook her head. “If you did.”
“Yes, of course.”
She stepped further away. “And perhaps you should remember to call me Miss Archer, Mr. Dacy. All things considered.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
All-in
Joshua served Chilton dinner in his room since no formal table was laid. Oriana took a tray in her uncle’s room to watch over him. Miss Helen decided to retire early for the night. The house seemed hushed, almost abandoned.
After pacing all night, Chilton watched the edge of the blood-red sun rise hesitantly over the horizon. Wearily, he turned away and rubbed his heavily shadowed jaw. Then he finally went to bed to rest for a few hours when no better idea presented itself.
His valet roused him near noon with a tray of bread, cheese and ale. After eating quickly, Chilton took the gig to the village.
He stopped a mile from The Orchards where he guessed the accident had happened. He scanned the area before he got down to take a closer look. The dusty road curved around an old quince tree with branches gnarled and black with age. A few buds were already starting to swell despite the blustery weather. February had a few days yet before the month gave way to March, and even then, spring wouldn’t arrive for weeks. The clear air was cool and so crisp it nearly burned his lungs.
After tying the reins to a branch of the tree, he walked along the road, examining the ground. There was nothing to be seen in the pale, fine dirt except a few rocks and some dark spots that were already disappearing.
Only the ruts and half-moon depressions of the dozens of boot heels that passed to and from the village remained visible. Nothing indicated one man had died and another was nearly beaten to death in the shade of the tree.
Without learning anything new, he untied the reins. He climbed stiffly back into the gig, nearly falling when a searing pain arched through his thigh. He threw himself into the seat and gripped his thigh. With a stifled groan, he massaged it until the throbbing sensation diminished.
Cursing Squidgy for shooting him, Chilton snapped the leathers to get the drowsy Buttercup to lift her head from a dry patch of weeds. He eventually got her to plod onward to the village.
The first stop he planned was Mr. Allen’s house.
Except he realized after he arrived in the village that he had no idea where Mr. Allen lived. Stopping near the blacksmith's busy establishment, he gestured to two men leaning against a fence, waiting for the smith to finish with their horses.
Chilton hailed them. “I'm looking for Mr. Allen. Do you know where I can find him?”
The two men conferred briefly before one of them gestured vaguely toward the center of town. “Second lane on the left. You'll see it right enough. Big brick place.”
“Really?”
“Oh, aye. Our Mr. Allen has done quite well, he has. Owns the Pig's Toes and has a few other ventures, as well as them inquiries he does. What's your business with him?”
“Just a social visit.”
“Oh, aye,” the man replied before spitting over the fence into a well-used paddock.
Chilton thanked them and flicked the reins to get Buttercup moving again. As predicted, Mr. Allen's home was easy to find. The house was a lovely, mellow brick with a large garden, barren now in the pale, late winter sunshine.
He drove up to the house and gazed around as he tied Buttercup where she could snag some mouthfuls of hay. A stable boy hallowed him and Chilton let him lead the horse away where she could be properly watered and fed.
Five minutes later, a dark haired maid led him into Mr. Allen's study.
“Major Dacy? An honor, I'm sure,” Mr. Allen greeted him.
“Thank you.” He hesitated. “I'm sorry to interrupt you, however I wanted to ask you about the investigation.”
Mr. Allen frowned and leaned back in his chair. “I’m not at liberty to discuss the matter of Mr. Lyndel’s accident, sir.” He picked up a pitcher of ale resting on his desk and poured a tankard for Chilton before refilling his own.
“I understand.” He held up his hand. “I simply wondered if you had spoken to the squire yet about the pistol? I might be passing that way this afternoon.”
Mr. Allen studied him, his eyes shrewd. “And you thought you could help me? No, I have not visited him. Not yet.”
“I could ask him about it, if you wish. And return here to let you know.”
“Indeed. And why would you wish to do this, Major?”
“I’m determined to get to the bottom of this. I believe the Archers are all innocent.”
After snorting with amusement, Mr. Allen rearranged a few envelopes on his desk. “You are involved in the case, sir. I have no wish to have you muddy the waters.”
“Yes, but I have no motivation. I never knew the deceased. If the squire is involved, it could be awkward for you. He’s the local Magistrate, isn’t he?”
Mr. Allen nodded, his keen glance never wavering from his face.
“I have...gathered information in the past. I might be of assistance.”
“It’s an awkward situation for sure, Major,” Mr. Allen agreed. “However, you are not entirely uninvolved. I’ve been to the village, and Mr. Lyndel was putting up at the Pig’s Toes. Seems he hinted he might be making an advantageous marriage soon.”
“Interesting. However I don’t see how this presents any additional complications.”
“The fair damsel mentioned was a Miss Oriana Archer.”
If Mr. Allen had stood up and thrown his pitcher of water into Chilton’s face, he couldn’t have done or said anything more startling.
“What?”
“And you mentioned you have aspirations yourself in that direction. As you'll recall from our previous interview.”
“I do.” He bit the words off, thinking furiously. “So, I'm a suspect as well? Did you think I was jealous?”
“I did until this minute,” Mr. Allen said. He laughed so heartily the two gold fobs dangling from his watch chain clinked together as his belly shook. “The expression on your face is a mite revealing.”
“Who told you this rubbish? Are you sure it wasn’t wishful thinking? Or braggadocio?”
“A little bird down at the Pig’s Toes. Didn’t give much credence to the tale, myself. But she said Mr. Lyndel seemed very confident—and chipper—about it.”
“Miss Archer has been very popular this week, then,” Chilton said. “She also received a proposal from the squire.”
“Did she, indeed? Our Miss Archer has been quite the belle of the ball, hasn’t she?”
“I suppose.”
“Nonetheless, I don’t believe you had a hand in Mr. Lyndel’s death, sir. Since you arrived in the neighborhood, I’ve done a little investigating myself, being a curious sort.” Allen fingered one of the fobs and stared down at it with a thoughtful expression. “A few years ago I did some interesting work for Lord Castlereagh. And I mentioned you were here visiting. We had a very interesting conversation when I saw him. Recently.”
“I’ll wager you did.” Castlereagh wouldn’t have revealed what Chilton had done for him and their country. However, that wouldn’t stop him from engaging in gossip with an old friend.
Allen smiled. “Not th
at claptrap about your scar—Castlereagh told me the real story behind that. You deserved that medal, by the way. And you weren’t just in the Rifle Corps, were you? You did a bit of information gathering, as you mentioned. So, I know a bit about you. And it might be interesting to see what information you can gather now—seeing that is a specialty of yours—and in view of the squire’s involvement.“
“I’ll help if I can.”
“One awkward point, however, was raised while I was talking to Castlereagh. Seems he was about to send you here in a few days, anyway. A little matter of seepage from this area to France. Nothing serious—yet. But enough to raise concern.” Allen rubbed the area behind his left ear as if unsure how to continue. “Well. You see the trouble is, we'd narrowed down the first few parties, and this murder has rather dried up the source, if you will, but not the entire path.”
He studied him. “Don't tell me, Lyndel was the source?”
“Not entirely. Mr. Lyndel was, apparently, a master of twisting situations to his advantage. He had many 'clients' who fulfilled their debts to him by providing him with other items, in lieu of money.”
“Surely, Mr. Archer—”
“No.” Allen held out a hand to stop Chilton and chuckled. “No. We already have a man in custody, a secretary to one of Castlereagh's associates who had access to valuable information.”
“Then I don't understand.”
“We know the source of the leak. He passed the information on to Mr. Lyndel. He passed it on to another person who owed him a debt. It is that person who sold the information in France. And I fear we have now lost track of him, with Lyndel's death.”
“And you think Lyndel's death is related to this matter?”
Allen sighed and again rubbed the area behind his ear. “That's the problem. Mr. Lyndel had many interests and twisted the arms of many clients. We simply don't know.”
“But Mr. Archer and his family are innocent,” he insisted, relieved at the notion that Lyndel died as a result of his treasonous behavior.
“Normally, I would agree with you. However, Lyndel's character, and the fact that he had certain expectations regarding Miss Archer, rather muddies the waters. And there is Mr. Archer's condition. It looks bad. The London matter might simply be a coincidence.”