I Adored a Lord (20 page)

“No seconds will be
nécessaires
.” Monsieur Sepic leaped from his chair like a stiff little martinet. “For you, monsieur”—­he pointed to Mr. Anders—­“have an appointment with the gallows.”

Mr. Anders gaped. “For stealing a dog?”

“That is preposterous.” Lord Whitebarrow boomed. “He is no peasant to hang for snatching a loaf of bread, Sepic. He is the sole heir to a peer of the realm.”

“No' this realm,” Iona whispered at Ravenna's shoulder.

“I will not hear of it,” Lord Whitebarrow insisted. “The girl has her dog again, and Anders will face Case on the dueling field tomorrow. That is a gentlemanly end to it.”

“There will be an end to it, my lord,” the mayor said with a nod. “But not the end you believe. For I, Gaston Sepic, have discovered the answer to the more important mystery that I have pursued these four days in your midst. While I dined and dallied with you as if enamored of you, I, a proud citizen of the nation of La France, collected clues.” He lifted his arm and pointed a damning finger at the stage. “Monsieur Anders, you murdered Oliver Walsh.”

 

Chapter 14

The Stable, Despite a Promise

M
artin Anders's face went white as lambswool. “I did not!” He seemed to search the chamber for allies. “Tell him. Tell him I did not.”

“Monsieur Sepic,” Cecilia said, “I don't believe my brother murdered that man. I don't believe he is capable of murder.”

“You will of course say anything to protect him,” the mayor said with a disdainful sniff.

Ravenna willed Lord Vitor to look at her, but his attention was intent—­not upon the mayor but on the others scattered on the landing and floor below. She swung her gaze around, seeking anything amiss in the faces of the prince's guests. All seemed bemused, except Juliana Abraccia, whose pretty pale face crumpled beneath her halo of dark hair. Thrusting a trembling hand against her lips, she burst into tears and dashed from the room.

“
Carina,
” Bishop Abraccia rasped at the same moment Mr. Anders shouted, “Juliana!” He started forward but Lord Vitor put a restraining hand on his arm and spoke quietly to him. The young man fell back but stared at the empty doorway with tragic eyes.

“She did love me,” he said dully. “Not you, after all. I thought . . . But I must have been mistaken.” He turned to Lord Vitor, bowed his head, and placed his hand over his heart. “I offer you an apology, my lord, for my display of unwonted violence during our fighting scene. I am honored to have been disarmed by such a man.”

“Apology accepted.” Lord Vitor looked down the steps at the mayor. “Monsieur Sepic, what evidence leads you to conclude that Mr. Anders killed Walsh?”

The mayor snapped his fingers. “Evidence that others might have been unwise enough to toss away as mere coincidence. But in an investigation of this sort, no evidence is coincidental.
N'est-­ce pas?
”

The bees stirred in Ravenna's stomach again, this time frantically.

Monsieur Sepic reached into his pocket and withdrew Mr. Walsh's ring.

Ravenna's heart fell.

The mayor pinched the ring between forefinger and thumb and raised it so all could see. “This ring, worn by the deceased, possesses a pattern that, when it connected with the flesh of the murderer during the attack, deposited a mark on that flesh.” He gestured to Mr. Anders with the ring. “Monsieur Anders bears a wound beside his right eye that perfectly corresponds. He told me that he had received the blow to his eye three days before the murder, but I have determined that this was a lie.”

“It was a lie,” Mr. Anders admitted. “But I did not kill Walsh.” He looked darkly from the eye where the bruise was finally fading, the other eye shrouded by his lanky hair. “The afternoon before he died, I encountered him in the corridor. We fell into a scuffle.”

“A scuffle?” the duchess said.

“He'd won a pony from me at a gaming club in London in January and I hadn't yet paid up. He demanded the money like he was some sort of king. I tossed my fives at him, but he got me first, the devil.” He glowered. “But I left him after that.”

“Where did you go?” Lord Vitor asked.

“To the highest tower to cast myself down in misery,” he replied upon a moan. Then he glimpsed Lord Vitor's face and said, “To the chamber at the top of that tower. The one with the turret. I was . . . not myself, and I needed to wash off the blood. But the curtains were drawn and I dropped the candle I had carried up the stairs, so I returned to the hall. Then I went to the village. I was too purpled up to hang about with you all and I didn't want my father to see the eye.” He glared at Lord Prunesly. “By dinner the swelling had eased, so I returned here. I didn't even see Walsh again that night,” he said to the mayor, and thrust out his jaw.

Ravenna met Lord Vitor's gaze. He believed Mr. Anders too.

“At the village,” she said to the dog thief. “Where did you go and with whom did you speak?”

His eyes shifted uneasily. “To the locals' watering hole.”

“What did you do there?”

“I don't recall,” he grumbled. “My eye smarted like the very devil. I may have had a jug of wine and said a word or two I shouldn't have.”

“Such as?”

No one stirred throughout the hall. Finally he answered.

“I declared that I would pay five guineas to the man that gave Walsh what he deserved.”

A lady gasped. Gentlemen murmured.

Lord Whitebarrow muttered, “Just as I told you all: it wasn't one of us.”

“I never meant for anyone to actually harm him,” Mr. Anders exclaimed.

Monsieur Sepic clicked his tongue and shook his head. “
Non, non.
You see for yourselves,
mes amis
, that this man is desperate to escape the noose. He has—­how do you say?—­invented this confederate to throw suspicion from himself. He hopes that you will believe him, a nobleman's son, rather than the poor peasant that he accuses.
Non
. I do not believe it.”

“Mr. Anders,” Lord Vitor said, “would you recognize the men from that night if they were brought here?”

Mr. Anders shook his head. “I wouldn't.”

“Monsieur Brazil, has anyone from the village come to the chateau seeking audience with Mr. Anders?”

The butler said, “
Non
, monseigneur. No one.”

“An assassin would not seek payment in a household under investigation,” the mayor said with a snap of his fingers. “It would be imbecilic.”

“No more imbecilic than murdering an Englishman for a few coins within a mile from the village in which one has lived one's entire life,” Lord Vitor said.

“
Exactement.
This Englishman shall be tried and found guilty,” the mayor insisted.

Mr. Anders's shoulders slumped. Ravenna's stomach hurt. She had no doubt that his boast in the village pub had fallen on ears long inured to the foolish arrogance of the gentlemen that visited Chevriot. It meant nothing. To amuse herself and Lord Vitor she had goaded the mayor, and now an innocent man would hang for it.

Lord Vitor was looking at her, his brow drawn.

“But . . .” the mayor said, raising a finger into the air. “To be thorough, I shall investigate his story. I will return when I have determined that it is all lies.
Par conséquent
, your highness, if you will spare two men-­at-­arms I will take the prisoner into custody.”

“Monsieur Sepic,” Lord Vitor said. “If it pleases his royal highness, Mr. Anders may remain here in the prince's custody while you investigate the circumstances in the village. In that way, if you do discover an assassin, your jail will be available for the murderer's incarceration.”

The mayor stroked his moustaches, then nodded. “
Oui. Peut-­être
this will be useful. My deputy will interview the men Monsieur Anders encountered that night. But it will not be long,” he said with a confident smile, then pinned Mr. Anders with a hard stare. “Monsieur, prepare to meet your day of reckoning. Father!” he called to the monk. “That man will wish to confess before he hangs.” With a neat bow to Prince Sebastiao, he departed.

Everybody started talking. With a gesture, the prince summoned his guards. Head hanging, Mr. Anders left the room between them. The bishop wobbled out in pursuit of his niece.

Ravenna hurried up the steps to Lord Vitor. “You do not believe he is responsible, do you?” she said.

“Not any more than you do.”

“The note in Mr. Walsh's pocket remains unexplained.”

“My thought, as well.”

“It could have been there before he arrived at Chevriot. An old note concerning a former assignation.”

“Perhaps.” He sheathed his sword. “You mustn't take the blame for Sepic's idiocy.”

He knew her worries, like a friend she had known for years rather than days. “But I am in fact to blame,” she said.

“Wise men are never to blame for the mistakes of fools.”

“I am not, of course, a man.”

“Rather, a woman with notions of rationality.” He looked down the stairs. Lord Case stood there, close beside Arielle. The French girl's eyes shone.

“Will you allow him to pursue the duel?” Ravenna said.

“His battles are his own affair. But he has already won the prize he seeks. Perhaps he will relent.”

“What Mr. Anders said about Miss Abraccia . . .” she heard tumble from her lips. “He seemed to believe that she had . . .”

Midnight eyes upon her, he waited.

“That she had a
tendre
for you,” she finished.

“Mm.”

“Did you believe that?”

His brow dipped in pique. “How should I know one way or the other?”

“Then, you did not . . . That is to say, you haven't—­”

“I haven't seduced her in all the many hours I've had available when I was not examining a dead body, fishing you from a river, searching for hidden mountain paths, and making certain a damned mongrel doesn't destroy every one of my shoes? No, I haven't. Was that what you were thinking when you asked me where I was before I heard Miss Feathers scream this morning?”

“Oh. I . . .”

He instantly looked contrite. “Forgive me. I should not have spoken to you so.”

“I encouraged it.”

A crease appeared at the corner of his mouth. “That does seem to be a habit of yours.”

“What shall we do now?”

His attention dipped to her lips. “Do?”

She liked it. Him looking at her lips. Despite the hot tangles in her stomach or even because of them. She liked it too much. “What shall we do while Monsieur Sepic searches for the nonexistent assassin?”

Slowly his gaze rose to her eyes. “We wait.”

T
HE WAIT PROVED
interminable, but there were costumes to be sorted, a set to be struck, a prince to be consoled over the ruination of his play, and whispering gossip to be enjoyed. Everyone stayed busy. Several of the gentlemen retired to the billiards room, but the prince said he could not bear frivolity at present: one of his guests had murdered a stranger in his house and his play had been halted mid-­act. His party was an unmitigated disaster. Instead he sat with Lady Whitebarrow and her daughters, but with dull eyes and such a listless manner that Ravenna suspected he did it as an act of punishment upon himself.

Juliana Abraccia recovered sufficiently to appear for luncheon, though she merely pushed the food around on her plate before transferring it to her uncle's.

For her part, Arielle beamed. Sunshine tripped from beneath her modestly lowered lashes and a sweet smile graced her lips. She had not set down her
petite
since Father Denis returned it, and it sat on her lap throughout luncheon. At her side, Lord Case seemed not to mind it, which Ravenna had to admire.

After lunch she examined Marie and found her hale. Martin Anders had clearly cared well for her. Ravenna's guilt for placing him in danger swelled. She slipped away to the kitchen in search of a bone for the pugs and a crust of bread for the rescued captive.

Ann Feathers found her there in a corner, cutting ligament to separate a bone from the remnants of a calf's carcass.

“Monsieur Brazil said that he saw you coming down here.” She peered in wonderment at the rows of gleaming copper pots, dried herbs and meats hanging from hooks, and the cook, maid, and footmen hurrying about as they prepared dinner. Her gaze alighted upon Ravenna's hands. “Dear me, Ravenna. You are so adventuresome.”

“It's true. I am vastly adventuresome.” Neither Sir Beverley nor Petti had told anyone that she was perfectly comfortable with kitchens or any other place servants went in large houses. Only Lord Vitor knew, and it seemed he hadn't shared that information either.

“I . . .” Ann's round eyes glittered with moisture. “I
admire
him so greatly, Ravenna.”

Ravenna set down the knife. “The prince?”

Ann nodded, tiny little jerks of her head. “He is such a good man,” she said softly, fervently. “I have . . . I have heard that in his past he was somewhat . . . wild. But I have not seen it. He never does wrong, always wishes everyone to be happy, and he speaks so highly of others.”

“Does he?”

“Oh, yes. Why only yesterday he told me how Lord Vitor's piety astounds and amazes him.”

“His
piety
?”

“Why, yes. Why else do you think he has ridden up the mountain every morning?”

To find a hidden path used by a thief or murderer. “Why has he?”

“He visits Father Denis at the hermitage.” Ann's pale brow creased. “It is a singular thing to contemplate.”

A young, handsome, virile lord paying daily calls on a hermit in a mountain peak retreat? “What is singular to contemplate?”

“Wedding a Catholic.” Ann's eyes opened wide and as round as the cut of bone in Ravenna's palm. “Oh, Ravenna, you must believe me horridly presumptuous. The prince is kind to all the ladies, and I know he admires Lady Iona's beauty and Lady Penelope's elegance. And you are quite obviously his favorite. He produced the play to amuse you, after all.”