A Second Chance for Murder (12 page)

Upon leaving the library, it seemed to Thora that Lord Huntscliff had made little progress in finding Ivey’s killer. She was seriously starting to doubt his competency, wondering if perhaps it wasn’t by choice that he was no longer with the Royal Guardians. He merely told her and Nyle to keep alert and report anything that seemed odd or unusual no matter how trivial. It was the same advice he had given them when he had first arrived. She thought he was going to make some startling revelation or that he had uncovered an important clue. Disappointed, Thora went to her room. She had no way of knowing that Garren at that moment was telling Nyle that he had narrowed the suspects down to two.

Chapter 7

The Langless family arrived at the manor later that afternoon. While Floris was quiet as a stuffed parrot, her three younger sisters, on the other hand, were as lively as a bushel of baby chicks. Floris had been an only child for twelve years before her mother surprised her with two baby sisters, Rose and Reanne. Two years later, Emily, the youngest Langless daughter, was born. The twins were now eleven and Emily, nine. They were a trio of bouncing yellow curls and high-pitched giggles. Thora found them adorable. “Good afternoon, ladies,” she greeted.

“Good afternoon, Lady Thora,” the girls each returned with a wide smile.

“I have your rooms ready. My maid, Molly, will show you to them, and then she’ll bring you some lemonade and sweet cakes.”

The girls jumped up and down excitedly, thanking her for the treat until their mother, Lady Langless, instructed the young girls that while they were upstairs their nanny would conduct their French lessons. When the girls started to grumble, Lord Langless, with feigned severity, ordered them upstairs. As the three girls turned their backs to him to follow Molly upstairs, he winked at Thora and whispered, “I’d hate to have them know how much I grumbled doing my lessons when I was their age.”

Thora chuckled, realizing Lord Langless’s bark was much worse than his bite. Sensing that he most likely would want to see Nyle, she said, “My lord, my brother is in his study if you wish to speak with him.”

“Thank you, Lady Thora, I would like to have a moment of his time,” Lord Langless said before walking down the hall toward her brother’s study.

Turning to Lady Langless and Floris, Thora said, “The ladies are gathered in the parlor for tea. We’ve been waiting for you to arrive before starting. Come, let’s join them.”

“Tea sounds lovely,” Lady Langless said appreciatively, and she and the silent Floris followed Thora into the parlor, where they joined Lauryn and her mother, Lady Mayfield. The latter, being a devoted Christian, led the women in prayer for Cecilia and poor Lady Boothwell.

After prayers were said, Lady Langless told the group that Lady Boothwell hadn’t spoken a single word after waking in the morning to go the vicarage. But what she found most disconcerting was the woman’s Lady’s empty stare. “It was as if you were looking at the eyes of a porcelain statue. They were so very cold, so vacant, it was as if . . . almost as if they had died.”

“The poor woman. Cecilia was her only daughter,” Thora said, and suddenly felt a chill, wondering whether the killer had mistaken Cecilia for her. She quickly poured herself another cup of tea. While she sipped her tea, she noticed Lady Mayfield gently squeeze Lauryn’s hand in a gesture that spoke of her thankfulness that her daughter was alive and well and sitting beside her. For an instant, Thora envied Lauryn, but somewhere deep inside her heart she knew that her own dear mother, had she not been taken away from her so soon, would have also given a similar sign of endearment. The thought gave her comfort.

Glancing over at Floris, Thora was surprised to see that the girl’s eyes glistened and were puffy. Odd, she thought, as Floris and Cecilia had never been particularly close, but then the girl was the sensitive type.

Or did she know something? Could she be aware that Leedworthy had eliminated the one obstacle that might have stood in the way of their courtship and was having difficulty dealing with it? Annoyed with Lord Huntscliff for having leaked to Nyle about her being alone with Lord Flemington, a man for reasons of her own had scratched off her list as a possible murderer, she decided to keep this information regarding Floris to herself for the time being.

While the ladies prayed in the parlor, Lord Langless sat with Nyle in the young man’s study telling him that the vicar had sent word of Cecilia’s death to her father, the Earl of Wexford, who was in Bristol on business and that Lady Boothwell was taking her daughter’s body home to be buried in the family plot. At some later date, a memorial service would be held. As Lord Langless spoke, Nyle noticed the dark circles under the older man’s eyes. It was obvious that the events of the night had put a strain on him.

“Since the ladies are occupied, it may be a good opportunity for you to catch up on some much-needed sleep,” Nyle said.

A very grateful Langless patriarch welcomed the suggestion. Leaving the study, Lord Langless wearily mounted the stares. Stepping onto the upper landing, he suddenly realized how exhausted he was and that he would need assistance getting out of his boots. As luck would have it, he spied Lord Huntscliff’s manservant in the hall. “You, there,” he called out in his usual booming voice, “aren’t you Huntscliff’s man?”

Mason winced. He was no one’s man! But remembering he was on assignment, he lowered his head, put on an unassuming air, and answered, “Yes, my Lord.”

“Good. Come with me,” Lord Langless instructed as he walked toward his room. Over his shoulder, he threw, “I’m sure your master won’t mind me borrowing you for a moment to help me yank off these blasted boots. I’ve been in them for two days now.”

Mason raised his eyes upward. After inwardly muttering a few swearwords he vowed, “Huntscliff is going to pay for this.”

Solemnly, the ladies left the parlor. Lady Langless and Floris went upstairs to check on how much trouble the younger Langless girls were giving their nanny, while Lauryn and her mother accepted the invitation of Lord Flemington to take a quiet stroll in the garden.

Viscount Simon-North and Marquis Brightington, Thora had learned, had persuaded Sandler Leedworthy to trade his book for a pair of reins and to join them for a ride across the countryside. She didn’t see Lord Huntscliff about, and her brother’s study was empty. Apparently they must have gone off somewhere, but she didn’t dwell on it as she had other things to think about.

She went upstairs to her room and sat down at her writing desk to compose a note to be sent to Lady Boothwell, conveying her and Nyle’s deepest sympathy and letting the grieving mother know she would only have to send word if she needed anything. When she had finished, she pulled the bell cord and instructed Molly, who quickly responded, to pack the Boothwells’ belongings. They were to be sent to the vicar’s house in the village along with the letter she had written. When she’d finished, Thora told her to come back and ready her bath.

When her slipper tub was filled, she quickly undressed and eased into the warm, soothing water. Thora wanted to be alone to think. So much had happened in a relatively short period of time that she felt she hadn’t given enough thought to the case. First, there’d been Ivey, then poor Mercer, and now Cecilia. Who could have murdered them, and why? Her main suspect was Leedworthy. She knew he had a motive for Cecilia, but why Ivey? Could Ivey have seen Cecilia and Leedworthy together? Was Leedwothy afraid that Ivey would tell Floris? And where does Mercer fit into this puzzle?

Questions, questions, but no answers. The questions swirled inside her head and it started to ache. Deciding to set aside the case, Thora sank deeper into the water, bringing it up to her chin. Relaxing in the sweetly-scented water, she forgot her irritation with the man and let her thoughts drift to Lord Huntscliff and that kiss he gave her inside the storage room of the boathouse. If only he had meant it and not used it as a ploy to quiet her, she wistfully sighed. Then, of course, she would have called him by his given name. Garren suited him. She repeated it, only this time aloud. “Garren, oh, Garren. Oh, stop this,” she commanded, scolding herself for daydreaming like a silly schoolgirl. For all she knew Lord Huntscliff may already have someone in his life. The thought of him with another woman made her sit up with a start, causing a wave of water to spill over the rim of the slipper tub and wet the floor. Did he have a woman waiting for him in London? Had he left the Royal Guardians for the sake of his lover who found it unbearable to be apart while he was away working on a case? She had to find out. There was only one thing to do. Ask Nyle! Getting up out of the tub, she wrapped her robe around her and then tugged the bell cord for Molly.

“If I live to be one hundred years old, I don’t think I’ll ever forget the stench of Lord Langless’s feet after I pulled off those damn boots,” Mason groaned. With his face squeezed in disgust he went on, “But that wasn’t the half of it! Then he had me take off his stockings. Good lord. I’ve never seen such ugly toes. Corns. Bunions. There were more things growing on that man’s feet than in Greenwich Park!” Mason lamented inside Garren’s room later that evening.

Garren chewed his inner cheek, struggling to hold back his laughter as he listened to Mason’s whining. He went over to table where a bottle of brandy and glasses were kept then poured some into a glass and then moved back to Mason, who had dropped his weight wearily into an arm chair. “Here drink this, you deserve it,” Garren said, handing the glass of brandy to Mason.

“I do indeed, and more than one. Somehow, someway, Huntscliff, you’re going to pay for what you put me through this time round,” Mason stated, taking the glass.

As Mason drained his glass, Garren turned away to release a few chuckles before returning to his colleague to ask, “Your assignment, what was he up to today?”

“He pitched a few horseshoes with Viscount Simon-North and was quite pleased with himself upon winning. Later he went riding,” Mason reported. “Do you think he was the one who killed the Boothwell girl?”

“No,” Garren said emphatically.

“You know who did then, don’t you?”

“Yes. I believe I do,” Garren answered then told him who he believed to be the killer. Garren watched his friend’s reaction carefully.

A seasoned investigator, Mason hid his shock well. Experience had hardened him. “Are you going to send for the constable?”

“Not yet. At the moment I have no proof,” Garren stated as he began to dress for dinner.

Mason left his chair and helped himself to another glass of brandy. Setting aside the case, he returned to his seat and watched with interest as Garren carefully selected his dinner clothes.

“Planning a special evening, my Lord?” Mason asked with mock subservience. “Oh let me guess,” Mason teased, “conferring with the lovely Lady Thora Mannington.”

“I wish you would take your guise more seriously, Mason. Servants are supposed to hold their tongues,” Garren said, glowering at his colleague.

Mason rose and moved over to Garren to straighten his perfectly tied white cravat. Bowing his head in exaggerated servility and widely grinning, Mason uttered, “Oh forgive me, my Lord, but might I suggest that tonight you hold back your tongue.” Laughing, he quickly jumped backward, narrowly avoiding one of Garren’s huge fists.

Mason was still laughing when Garren left his room, slamming the door behind him.

Downstairs in the drawing rooms, the guests were beginning to gather. Nyle was standing with Lord Langless pretending to listen to the older man’s recant of his earlier military exploits. His mind was on Thora, and he suddenly felt very old. Where had the years gone? He wondered. It seemed like only yesterday they had come home from their parents’ funeral. He was one and twenty and Thora only ten years old. He could still recall the terror in her voice when she took his hand and looked up at him, pleading, “Please don’t ever die, Nyle. Don’t leave me. Please don’t ever leave me!”

She had been a brave little solider all through the funeral, but coming back home to the manor that suddenly seemed so quiet and empty her courage faltered and she’d started to cry. Slipping a handkerchief from his pocket, he dried her tears and held it to her nose for a healthy blow. Wrapping an arm around her slight shoulders, he led her to a chair and told her to sit then lowered himself to her level.

“I have no intention of ever doing that, Thora. I’m afraid you’re going to be stuck with me for a very long time.” After assuring her of his life expectancy, he gave her a hug and then teasingly yanked on one of her long plaits. “I’ll be around long after you’ve outgrown wearing these,” he said, bringing a smile to her lips.

Over the following years, he’d done his best to raise Thora, and perhaps she was more outspoken and independent than most young ladies and knew more about pistols than a woman should, but he was proud of her. She had turned into an intelligent and beautiful woman—a prize for any man. Like she had done in her younger years, she entered his study trying to disguise her true purpose with a few complimentary statements.

“Nyle, you’re looking exceptionally handsome this evening,” she flattered.

Instinct told him she was up to something. He watched as she strolled around the room, building up her courage as she had done many times before, preparing herself for whatever she was trying to waggle out of him. He leaned back in his chair, knitting his hands together on his flat stomach and waited.

“I’m so fortunate to have such an accomplished brother. You always make me so proud,” she went on to say.

Her last adulation only served to prove she was about to beseech him with some form of outrageous appeal. Last time she’d acted like this she’d wanted him to put an extension onto the manor for an art studio. An unreasonable request as she handled a paintbrush with as much grace as a butcher wields a meat cleaver.

“Your friend, Lord Huntscliff, has led an interesting life, hasn’t he? I mean, as an investigator, he must have been put into some dangerous situations,” Thora said, lowering her face to avoiding the scrutiny of his eyes.

So it was Garren she wanted to learn more about. “I’m sure he has.”

He was purposely being vague and he could tell from her pout that it was having an effect on her.

“I would imagine that as an investigator he had little time for any serious relationships.”

“I would assume so, but then again Garren has always been closemouthed about the women in his life,” Nyle answered, holding back his mirth at seeing his sister’s frustration with his ambiguous replies. “Why the sudden interest in Huntscliff’s love life?”