A Suspicious Affair (10 page)

Both of Foster’s eyes were swollen shut, his nose was covered in sticking plaster, and his lips were cracked and bloodied.

“My God,” Marisol cried. “What have you done to him?” Then she started beating Lord Kimbrough about the head with the nearest thing to hand, which happened to be the slipper she was embroidering for Foster’s Christmas present. “Wasn’t killing my husband enough?”

Foster moaned. “Told you she wouldn’t kick up a dust, didn’t I?”

Chapter Ten

“Cut line, Mar,” Foster gasped painfully through his split lips. “Not Carlinn. Lord Kimbrough wouldn’t…” He took a sip from the flask the earl held to his mouth. Then Foster tipped his head back so he could look at Marisol through the slits of his eyes. “’Sides, you work yourself into a swivet, you’re going to drop the brat here in the hall.”

Marisol was mortified at her brother’s blunt speech, which drew Lord Kimbrough’s startled glance to her enormously distended midsection, prodigiously more swollen than even the last time he’d seen her. Marisol felt all the more like a hot-air balloon with the crowd watching the inflating process. Blushing furiously, she tore her eyes off her brother and noticed Lord Kimbrough’s face for the first time; his cheek and jaw were all discolored, too.

“I’m sorry.” She lowered her hand that was still holding the slipper, embroidery threads trailing. “I never should have said what I did. I wasn’t thinking, but—” She paused. “Never tell me you had another coach accident.”

“No, blast it!” Carlinn shouted, still reeling from her attack. The woman actually continued to believe him capable of murder. Why, he hadn’t suspected her in ages, not after getting to know her and her brother. She was imperious, and loyal, and something of a spitfire, but not a killer. Carlinn could picture her going at Arvid with a shoe, not a loaded pistol. How could she still suspect him?

Foster groaned. The earl gave him another sip from the flask. “He’ll be more comfortable in his bed. I’ll help him up the stairs, then we’ll talk.”

Marisol wanted to assist, but Foster’s weight, those steep stairs—“Don’t be a nodcock, Duchess. Your footman can show us the way.” He put one of Foster’s arms over his shoulder; the young man in army uniform took the other. “Oh, yes, I forgot. This is Joshua Dimm. He’s another of Dimm’s sons. Joshua was thinking of running off to join the army, to Mr. Dimm’s regret and his family’s sorrow. So we signed him on as Foster’s batman, which should keep him from being cannon fodder. Joshua was invaluable on the trip home.”

“Well then, thank you, Joshua, and welcome to Denning Castle. We are in your debt, it seems.”

Joshua blushed and bobbed his head. He couldn’t very well bow with Foster sagging in his arms. “Think nothing on it, Your Grace. I know my way around a sickroom. That’s what comes of having a houseful of relatives and a cousin studying medicine. We’ll have him right as a trivet afore the cat can lick her ear.”

Marisol sent a message to the kitchens to prepare restorative broths, gruel, invalid foods—and a hearty tea. She was too anxious to wait for the earl’s return downstairs, so she ate half the delicacies without him and had to send for more when he got to the parlor.

Carlinn sank exhausted into the chair she offered and gratefully accepted a cup of tea, but he declined further refreshment after he watched the duchess spread strawberry jam on a watercress sandwich.

“I apologize again,” she said, oblivious of his fascinated gaze. “You have been kind to Foster, I know, and would not have hurt him. I can only plead a…a difficult time and beg your forgiveness.”

Carlinn had always heard that women in the duchess’s condition needed to be humored. He wouldn’t point out, for instance, that most people did not put lemon, milk, sugar, and butter in their tea. The duchess, however, had no one to cater to her whims and relieve her fears. Carlinn did not count that doddery aunt or that dragon of a mother-in-law. And a fine lot of support she’d get from that man-milliner Boynton. He couldn’t even support his gaming habit.

No, he shouldn’t have taken Foster away, the earl realized now, as Her Grace sugared a cucumber sandwich. He swallowed and looked away. He definitely shouldn’t have brought the boy home in this condition, giving her such a shock. And heaven only knew what would happen when he had to give her worse news, trying to explain what occurred in London. She was watching him now with those big blue eyes, waiting for him to begin. Oh hell, he should have told her he’d overturned another carriage.

“I took Foster to visit some friends of mine in the Home Guard,” he began, “in case he wanted to change his mind about a cavalry unit. I thought you might rest easier with him staying on English soil.”

Marisol nodded. Truly, the man could be thoughtful, when he thought about it.

“Foster met some acquaintances at the barracks and went off with them while I had dinner with an old comrade of mine. I thought he’d find more entertainment with the officers his own age, or I would have kept him with me.”

“But he is a young man, not a child in leading strings. It was never your responsibility to look after him twenty-four hours a day.”

“But I was supposed to be a good influence, remember? I should have guessed they would…At any rate, the sprigs did some heavy drinking.”

“As young men are wont to do,” she interrupted as the butler came in to ask if there was anything else Her Grace wished. “Yes, I’d absolutely adore some strawberries and clotted cream, please, Jeffers.”

The butler bowed and withdrew, as if there was some way on this green earth he was going to produce fresh strawberries in December.

The duchess turned back to Kimbrough. “I’m sorry, my lord. You were feeling badly that the boys were in their cups. What happened then?”

Carlinn straightened his sleeve. “Then one of the others asked about the murder. I’m sorry, but it seems your name was mentioned in an insulting manner, and Foster felt he had to defend you.”

“I see.” She sat quietly thinking, and Carlinn did not disturb her for a time.

“He incapacitated half a platoon, if that’s any consolation,” he finally said, “and impressed a lot of the officers with his courage. He’ll do well in the army.”

“If he lives long enough to join up. He cannot go around brawling every time my name is mentioned.” She pushed her cup away and reached for her handkerchief.

Kimbrough heard a sniffle, then another. He jumped to his feet. “Confound you, woman, don’t you dare cry!”

Marisol looked up. He was towering over her, scowling fiercely. “Is that an order, sir?”

“Yes, blast it! I mean, no, of course not. Just don’t. Please. It’s, ah, not good for the baby.” He grabbed up a dish of bonbons. “Here, try these.”

She dabbed at her eyes. “Thank you, I am all right now. You say Foster is not badly injured?”

“The medico in London assured me nothing’s broken, except his nose.”

“Is it bad?”

“Nothing to worry about. In fact,” the earl went on, relieved to have weathered the storm, “He’ll most likely look better—not so snooty, if you know what I mean.”

Marisol didn’t. Foster had the Laughton Nose, the same one she had. She frowned.

Kimbrough hurried on: “He’ll be uncomfortable for a time, and less than pretty to look at, but he’ll make a full recovery. The surgeon says your brother’s got a hard head.”

“I could have told him that! Mayhap some good will come of this, though, if Foster learns not to jump into battle.”

“At least not without a regiment to back him up.”

The butler returned then with a dish of what appeared to be strawberry preserves atop a vanilla cake, the whole thing covered in dollops of thickened cream. “Cook sent this up, Your Grace, with her compliments. She apologizes, but it is the best she can do at this time.”

The earl’s mouth watered, seeing the extra dish and fork on the platter. Then the duchess sent it back! “I am sorry, Jeffers, I seem to have lost my appetite. You’d better eat it, lest Cook’s nose get out of joint.”

“Very well, Your Grace,” Jeffers said. He bowed and left.

Marisol sat and twisted her hands in her lap. “Did Mr. Dimm have any news? That’s the only way I can see this nightmare ending.”

“No, more’s the pity. You are right; none of us can relax until the crime is solved. Dimm was going on about facts being as slippery as eels the last time I saw him.”

“Eels! I wonder if Cook has any pickled eels.”

*

The earl called at Denning Castle twice that week before Christmas to see how Foster was faring. The marquis looked as if a carriage had rolled over him, but he was physically fit, and bored. Both times Kimbrough called, the duchess was resting in her chambers.

“The stairs, don’t you know,” Foster confided over the game of chess Kimbrough had offered by way of entertainment.

“Then I’ll ask you to convey my greetings of the season to Her Grace now.”

“Oh, we’ll most likely see you at church Christmas Eve. The old girl is determined to get there. The dowager’s chaplain is all well and good for saying grace and such, Marisol says, but it won’t seem like Christmas if we don’t go to services in the dark. I mean, you’d never know it was the holiday season around here at all. No greenery, no gewgaws, no kissing bough, no parties.”

Foster was fondly recalling Christmases of his boyhood when the family was flush, even the elegant decorations that had prevailed at Denning’s London town house in previous years.

Carlinn meanwhile was thinking that young Laughton might have been describing Kimbrough Hall, where every evergreen for miles around had been denuded of branches, every surface was covered with some berry or bow or porcelain cherub, and every neighbor, villager, and tenant was welcomed for carols and wassail. Every neighbor but the Denning
ménage
, who were in mourning, thank goodness. He moved a rook.

“Mourning, don’t you know.” Foster was unnecessarily explaining the lack of gaiety. “The dowager swears that even a single wreath would show disrespect for Arvid’s memory.” Foster made his move, then said, “That’s just like Arvid, finding some way to ruin everyone’s Christmas.”

“If he can’t enjoy the holiday, no one should, eh?”

“That’s Arvid to the core. Not that Marisol isn’t doing what she can, behind the dowager’s back, of course.”

“Of course.”

Foster looked up at the other’s dry tone. “She just made sure there was some mistletoe for the servants’ hall, mincemeat pies, and a Christmas pudding, so all the tweenies and scullery maids can make their wishes. She made sure there were toys for all the tenants’ children for Boxing Day. Nothing disrespectful or dishonest.”

“Stubble it, bantling. I wasn’t accusing the duchess of being anything more than strong-willed.”

Foster’s face reddened, not an attractive sight mixed with the purple and yellow. “Pardon. I shouldn’t be so sensitive, I suppose.”

“No, you shouldn’t. The duchess is well able to defend herself when she needs.” He studied the board.

Foster thought of Arvid again and dropped the piece he’d been about to move. “Sorry.” Then he thought of Boynton and grinned, which hurt his split lips. “Ouch! But you should have seen Marisol light into that coxcomb Pendenning over the Yule log. She went on how the well-being of the whole house of Pendenning hinged on his going out to find a log that would burn till Twelfth Night. She said she didn’t care who was duke, but her child wasn’t going to suffer because Boynton was too lazy to help the servants find a suitable log. He was head of the household, no matter how temporarily, and he better start acting like it!”

Mulling over his move, Kimbrough allowed as how he’d dragged a huge tree limb home, too. “Silly superstition, but the house of Kimbrough should prosper, too.”

“You should have seen Marisol carrying on. And you should have seen Boynton after, with his nose all red and his hands dirty. What a sight. But we do have a Yule log ready to be brought in when we get back from church Christmas Eve. The dowager disapproves, of course. She says we should worship here because we’re in mourning and Marisol is too, ah…”

“Big with child?” Kimbrough supplied, declaring checkmate. “So naturally your sister is more determined than ever to get in the bumpy carriage and travel through the cold, dark night to a little un-heated church. Why am I not surprised?”

*

The group from Denning Castle was not at midnight services after all. Lord Kimbrough drove his own party home, oversaw the lighting of the Yule log, and toasted everyone’s health in wassail. Then he rode over in the direction of Denning Castle to see if anything was amiss.

That fancy London
accoucheur’s
timing, that’s what was amiss. Half a mile away Kimbrough could see the castle on its hill, lights in half the windows, grooms riding off in every direction.

Foster nearly threw himself into the earl’s arms in relief. “Thank heaven you’ve come. Marisol has been brought to bed two weeks early. The nearest physician is drunk with Christmas cheer, the next closest is down with influenza, and the local midwife is visiting her daughter in Oxford. I’m at my wit’s end.”

“You must be, if you’re glad
I’m
here. Jupiter, what in the world do you propose I do? I mean, if it were a mare I’d have a go at the thing.” He shrugged. “Surely one of the women…”

Foster poured the earl a drink with shaking hands. “My aunt’s never had a baby. Neither has Marisol’s abigail, the cook, or the housekeeper. The dowager had four, but forty years ago.”

“I’m sure they still do things the same way.” Carlinn tried to be reassuring, but found his own hand starting to tremble.

“That’s what I said, but Marisol won’t let the old bat near her, nor any of the local matrons like Squire’s wife. She says the dowager and her friends won’t care if the baby dies, if it’s a boy. She’s out of her head, but maybe she has a point. I don’t know. Lud, what am I going to do with her talking about dying and all?”

Foster looked as frightened as any green recruit facing the artillery for the first time. Kimbrough felt as if he’d already been shelled. Retreat wasn’t possible, so he tried a delaying maneuver. “What have you done so far?”

“Well, Sarah, that’s Marisol’s abigail, sent for her aunt at the vicarage. That’s Dimm’s sister-in-law, and she’s got three or four brats, I don’t remember what Sarah said.”

“Aha, that’s the ticket. We only have to hold out till the reinforcements arrive! And Mrs. Vicar Hambley has four children. I saw them at church not two hours ago. She’ll know what to do.”

Foster was beyond rational thought. That was his sister upstairs, cursing her dead husband. “But what if Mrs. Hambley doesn’t come in time?”