To Wed an Heiress (15 page)

“Acquainted?” Pevensey’s ears perked up. Apparently, this piece of information was not one that he had already learned from the servants. “How so?”

“Oh, you’ll have to ask him,” replied Eda breezily, having completely recovered her composure and preparing to lead the Runner down another path. “He had drawn up some plans for her father in the past, but I think there was more to it than that.” She looked up at him through her dark eyelashes. “I’m sure you know what I mean.”

Pevensey tapped his nose in a knowing manner. “Certainly, certainly. I’ll discuss the matter with Monsieur Bayeux. And for now, I have just one more question to put to you, Miss Swanycke.”

Eda pursed her lips. “Yes?”

“What were you doing yesterday morning when the sad event occurred?”

“Why, I suppose I was in my room, sketching.”

“Alone?”

“Yes,”—she looked him directly in the eyes—“quite alone.”

***

Jacob Pevensey shut the door to his garret room. Mrs. Alfred had done her best to find him a comfortable place to stay, but he was used to the awkwardness attending his position where he was not quite a servant and not quite a guest of the family.

The afternoon and evening had passed quickly for him, though rather more slowly, he imagined, for those waiting to be interrogated. He had spoken to most of the servants and learned some very curious things about the more genteel inmates of the house.

He flipped through his sketchbook. There was a picture of Miss Swanycke—or at least, the closest rendering he could make of Miss Swanycke—striking Miss Hastings across the face. The scullery maid, who was not overly fond of Miss Hastings, had taken great pleasure in describing the scene. She was not certain why the slap had happened, although she was absolutely certain it was for good reason. It seems that the mill owner’s daughter had leaned in to whisper something just before the vengeful slap had been administered. Pevensey would give a pretty penny to have been a blue-bottle fly on the wall close enough to hear what words had antagonized the Irish captain’s daughter.

He turned another page in the sketchbook. There was the second footman opening the door for a haughty young woman in a modish pelisse. Pevensey had added the hall clock into this picture, with the hour hand set at eight o’clock but the minute hand missing entirely. Apparently Mademoiselle Mathilde was not the only servant who paid little heed to the time, for the second footman could only give him the roughest approximation of when he had opened the door to allow Miss Hastings egress from the house.

He turned the page again. Here was a horse being led out of a shadowy stable with a lantern casting its rays into the stable yard. The groom, even though he had no clock on him, had a sharp eye for his surroundings. The sun had just been peeping over the tree line when he had led out a saddled horse for Monsieur Bayeux to ride to the village…or, at least, the village was the destination he had claimed.

Pevensey pursed his lips and rubbed his chin with a pensive thumb and forefinger. This put Bayeux outside the house before Miss Hastings had stepped out the door, with easy opportunity to meet her at the icy bridge. According to Miss Swanycke, there had been something between the two of them, an attraction, at least on Bayeux’s side—and seeing as how Miss Hastings had engaged herself to another man, the attraction had most probably not been reciprocated….

Unless, of course, they were star-crossed lovers, with Miss Hastings having been coerced into the betrothal by her
pater familias
. Pevensey snorted. That was a possibility that could not be dismissed. It was apparent to any close observer that the mill owner would have sacrificed the feelings of his offspring if there were any consequence to be gained by doing so.

Pevensey unbuttoned his waistcoat and loosened his cravat. He sat down on the green brocade coverlet that lay across the bed and began to remove his boots. William Hastings’ valet and Lady Anglesford’s lady’s maid had provided little information that he did not already know, but the important players were still holding their cards.

He must not neglect interviewing the architect on the morrow, although he suspected that the most helpful indicators in that area of the field would come not from Bayeux himself, but from the others he had not yet interviewed—the earl, his mother, his brother, and the downtrodden companion Mrs. Rollo.

“
I
say!” said Torin, chewing a hearty mouthful of breakfast while voicing his complaint. “That fellow Pevensey never came and spoke to me yesterday. Nor mother either!” He was seated at the end of the table with Haro and Eda on either side. It was a family gathering to discuss the state of affairs, missing only Lady Anglesford who had chosen to take breakfast in her room.

“He avoided me as well,” said Haro, his broad shoulders obscuring the entire back of the small chair. He tried to hide his own annoyance. It would be an unpleasant interview—he was sure of it—and he wanted nothing more than to have it over with.

Eda, warming her white hands on the sides of her teacup, gave an arch smile. “I am the favored one then, for he interviewed me just before teatime.”

“Oh?” said Torin, a hint of jealousy in his tone. “And what did he ask you?”

“This and that,” she replied mysteriously and took a sip of her tea. “He brought up that ridiculous sketch, and I put him on the trail of Monsieur Bayeux.”

Haro flushed as Eda mentioned the sketch, remembering the whole awkward episode and the trouble it had brought.

“Well done!” said Torin. “And, as I’ve said before, it was probably Bayeux that did it.”

“Now, now!” said Haro, coming to the architect’s defense. “You don’t know that.” He could not help but feel a great deal of compassion for the man, alone with his sorrow and his bottle of Blue Ruin.

“Why are you defending him?” demanded Torin. “He’s a complete stranger to all of us—shows up at the house without an invitation and starts planning to knock down walls and set up columns in the courtyard. Eda says he told her all about how he was ‘in love’ with your intended. That alone ought to make you suspicious of him. No doubt when she refused to reciprocate his advances, his temper got the better of him and he—”

“Enough!” said Haro, raising a hand to halt the conversation. “I believe Mr. Pevensey is the one in charge of gathering and sifting through the evidence. We’ll let
him
decide who to cry rope on.”

“All right, all right then,” said Torin with a sniff. “But if that Runner deigns to speak with me today, I shan’t give the Frenchman a glowing character reference.” He wolfed down a few more bites of sausage. “Did you give him an alibi for your whereabouts, Eda?”

The black-haired woman set down her teacup with nonchalance. “No. I left things very vague. Told him I was all alone, sketching in my room or doing some such thing.” She smiled provocatively at Haro.

The earl closed his eyes. Was she doing this purposely to vex him?

Torin tsked. “That was silly of you, Eda. But we can at least hope that he hasn’t heard of your drawing room duel.”

“Oh, yes. He most certainly has. It is much talked of downstairs.”

Haro began to massage his own temples. Really this whole thing would be easier if he just locked Eda in her room for the duration of the investigation. That taradiddle about the twisted ankle might come in useful to explain why she must keep to her bed. He lifted his thumbs gently away from his temples.

“Headache?” Eda enquired. “Shall I ring for Cook to send up some chamomile?”

Haro opened his eyes. “I hardly think chamomile will be of sufficient strength to cope with the problems you keep creating.”

“The problems
I
keep creating?” Her voice was indignant. “If I recall correctly, it was
you
who invited the Hastings here in the first place, and you who betrothed yourself to that trollop!”

Haro pushed his chair away from the table and stood up sternly. “Trollop? I don’t recall Arabella being the one pushing her way into gentlemen’s bedr—”

Torin cleared his throat loudly. There, standing in the frame of the open French door was the Bow Street Runner who had precipitated this conversation with his presence at Woldwick.

***

“Good morning, my lord!” Jacob Pevensey nodded to Haro and bowed with a flourish to them all. “If Mr. Torin Emison would be so obliging, I would greatly enjoy having a word with him this morning.”

“Well, it’s about time,” said Torin, but he did not get up from his seat.

Eda, her face as pink as a carnation, looked down at her half-empty teacup.

Haro abandoned his chair altogether and walked over to the window to scrutinize the frozen fog that was billowing out of the trees. He stole a glance at Eda and saw that she was too mortified to speak. How had he let the conversation spiral into accusations of that kind?

The Runner was still standing there, smiling and staring.

Haro cut through the silence. “And will you be needing
me
anytime soon, Mr. Pevensey?”

“All in good time, my lord,” said Pevensey smoothly. “I suppose you could say I like to save the best for last.”

“I’m not sure what that’s supposed to mean in this case,” said Haro, trying his best not to stiffen at the remark. He looked over at his brother. “But since Torin refuses to relinquish his breakfast, then perhaps we’d best relinquish the room to you for his interrogation.”

Walking over to Eda’s chair, Haro slid it back to help her rise. Then, taking her arm, he led her out of the room, down the hallway, and into the library.

A fire was burning in the fireplace, casting a warm glow over the parquet floor. The backs of two high wingback chairs shielded them from some of the heat from the flames, but even so, it was markedly warmer in this room than it had been in the hallway.

The library door had no sooner closed than Eda raised her hand, ready to strike. But Haro had anticipated the motion and caught her wrist between his own fingers. Eda’s left hand attempted another attack, but Haro caught that and pinioned it as well.

“How dare you!” she hissed. Her dark blue eyes blazed.

“May I remind you that
you
said the word
trollop
first!”

“Yes, well…not in reference to myself.”

“It’s not very charitable to speak ill of the dead.”

“I never claimed charitableness as one of my better qualities.”

Haro loosened his grip. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. You’ve been charitable enough not to cast my mistakes up in my face…until just a moment ago, and in front of that Bow Street Runner, to boot.”

He dropped his hold on her wrists, but he still stood directly in front of her, his face no more than a hand’s breadth from hers.

“Well, if it’s any comfort,”—she put a small white hand on the lapel of his jacket—“I’m sure my little outburst only served to prove to him that I’m a jealous virago, capable of committing any crime to steal back the man she loves.”

Haro held his breath and tried to keep his tone jovial. “Oh, so you’re in love with me still, are you?”

Eda’s eyelids dropped demurely, and her hand slid off his lapel onto the white muslin of his shirt front. “It adds a pleasant touch to the story, don’t you think?”

“A very pleasant touch indeed.” Haro’s heart was threatening to leap outside of his chest.

He reached out his right hand, ever so slowly and was just about to place it on the curve of her face when a loud sniff came from the recesses of one of the wingback chairs. With one swift, guilty motion, they both sprang apart.

Eda clapped her hand over her mouth and, motioning to Haro to follow her, tiptoed toward the door handle. The earl was no more than a step behind, and before half a minute had passed, they were back in the hallway on the other side of the library door. With tacit consent, they darted towards the main staircase and only stopped once they had put a flight of stairs between themselves and the mysterious eavesdropper in the wingback chair.

“Who
was
that?” demanded Eda, breathless, leaning on the banister. “William Hastings?”

“I don’t think so,” said Haro. “He would have been thundering away at us the moment we started talking.”

“Philippe Bayeux then?”

“Maybe….” said Haro. He would not have expected the Frenchman to sniff like that.

“If Mr. Pevensey were not with your brother, I would almost say it was him. He seems to have a penchant for surprising us.”

“Dashed annoying of him, don’t you think?” said Haro lightly. This last interruption was more than annoying—it was downright infuriating.

“Now, now, Lord Anglesford.” Eda took on a tone of mock reproof. “I must remind you to watch your language in front of a lady.”

“Oh, is that what you are calling yourself now? I beg your pardon!” Haro grinned. He had forgotten how much he loved sparring with Eda; it sharpened his mind and magnified his mirth—and made the sentimental exchanges Arabella had been so fond of all the more cloying.

“Eda, dear, is that you?” said a thin voice from a nearby room. It was Lady Anglesford lying on the sofa in her sitting room with a bottle of hartshorn in hand. “Come sit with me a while, if you will. My nerves could use some company.”

“Yes, of course, Aunt,” Eda called out. She glided past Haro, stopping in the hallway for a short moment to send him one last look.

Haro sighed and held out a hand in supplication. “
My
nerves could use some company too.”

Eda arched an eyebrow. “Nonsense. It’s really quite good for you, you know.”

“What’s good for me?”

“The prospect of being hanged. It puts everything in such glorious perspective.” She placed a hand on the door leading to Lady Anglesford’s sitting room. “But in case you feel faint without me, I’m sure your valet can find you your own bottle of hartshorn.”

“A poor substitute,” said Haro gallantly, but she had already disappeared, and he was once again left to his own devices as he waited for Pevensey to interrogate the other members of the house.

***

“Of course I will answer your question,” said Torin smugly. “I breakfasted here in this very room with my mother, and then we spent the rest of the morning together in the drawing room.”

Pevensey listened as he made a hurried sketch of the young man sitting at the table, empty breakfast plate in front of him. “And what exactly does a young man such as yourself do all morning in the drawing room?” He slid the barest hint of condescension into his question, as if he meant to imply that Torin sat at embroidery with his mother or worked on his needlepoint.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Torin’s tone turned belligerent. “A gentleman can enjoy his books, can he not?”

“Of course, of course,” said Pevensey soothingly. He could see that this one was more prone to outbursts of temper than his elder brother seemed to be. “Was anyone else in the drawing room with you?”

“No.”

“I see.” The pencil scratched across the notebook as he finished his sketch. He clapped his book shut. “Were you fond of Miss Hastings?”

“Why the devil should I have been?”

“She was engaged to your brother—three weeks away from being your new sister.” Pevensey was beginning to enjoy himself.

Torin snorted. “Not at the end, she wasn’t. He called it off.”

“Oh, but I thought he was only
intending
to call it off. Unless he actually did see her that morning and break the news to her?”

Pevensey watched Torin flounder a little. “Yes, you’re right—only
intending
to call it off. Because, of course, he didn’t see her that morning.
Nobody
in the house saw her before she wandered off alone and was attacked by some footpad.”

“A footpad, was it?” said Pevensey. “Do you have much trouble with them in this part of the country?”

Torin hemmed and hawed a little. “I wouldn’t know…you’d do better to ask the local constable, or Sir Robert, him being the magistrate.”

“I see.” Pevensey’s face was blank. “Well, I think that will be all. I have several more interviews to do this morning. Do you know if Lady Anglesford is in her rooms? Would I be able to speak with her?”

Torin had been far from helpful during Pevensey’s previous questions, and he could see that the young man regarded this last question as an even greater intrusion than the ones before.

“She is too frail to speak with visitors”—or at least visitors of Pevensey’s ilk, Torin’s tone implied. “I already told you she was with me all that morning, and I’m sure there’s nothing she could tell you that someone else has not already said.”

“I shall be very brief,” said Pevensey smoothly. “She is an important person, and I would not like to leave her out of my report.”

Torin glared. “Oh, very well, I will go speak with her and see if she can spare you five minutes.” He rose from his chair and stomped over to the door.

“Thank you,” said Pevensey to the back of Torin’s slight shoulders. It was interesting, the hostility radiating from this young man. He wondered how much of it had been exhibited to Miss Hastings. The boy had clearly disliked her and was not old enough, or worldly enough, to conceal the fact.

Pevensey tapped his chin with the end of his pencil. He would not be surprised if Lady Anglesford confirmed her son’s story. It was an alibi given by a severely prejudiced party, and Torin, ascending the stairs to warn his mother of the imminent interview, would have ample time to make sure she corroborated every detail.

***

Eda was just leaving Lady Anglesford’s sitting room when Torin popped his head in.

“How did things go with the investigator?” she asked.

Torin shrugged and gave a noncommittal grunt. The fellow had asked some extremely impertinent questions, but he felt that he had kept his wits about him through it all.

“That well?” said Eda with a grin. “Well, I suppose that
you
shall not be hanged for murder then.”

As Eda disappeared into the hallway, Torin came over and put his hand on his mother’s shoulder. “How are you feeling today?”

“I confess I’m a trifle overset at present,” said Lady Anglesford. The large frills of her dressing gown made her look even more diminutive than usual. She put her hand on her bosom as if to still the palpitations of her heart. “It’s this murder investigation,” she said with a shudder as Torin took a seat beside her. “And do you know what Eda’s just told me?” She lowered her voice. “She wasn’t with a single soul when it all happened. I’m afraid that—”

“That the Runner will think it was her?”

“Yes, well…yes. She
did
slap Miss Hastings, and there was certainly ill feeling between them.”

“
You
don’t think she did it, do you?” asked Torin.

“My dear! Of course not!” There was a great deal of energy in Lady Anglesford’s voice, and the question seemed to bring her out of her languor. “It’s impossible for
us
to think such a thing. We
know
her. But the investigator doesn’t know her, and he may be misled by the circumstances. I think it would be best to tell him she was with me that morning.”

“But he’s just asked me,” said Torin, “and I told him you and
I
were together in the drawing room!”

Lady Anglesford patted his hand. “Leave it to me.”

“Very well,” said Torin, “but I think I’d better stay for this. If your story starts becoming too farfetched, he’ll think we’re all lying and arrest
me
for murder.”