Lord Somerton's Heir (12 page)

As Isabel ascended the stairs, she passed Pierce. The old man carried a pile of clothing and was muttering to himself as he stomped past, barely acknowledging her. She caught the words ‘ruined’ and ‘never would’ve happened in the old lord’s day’.

She put a hand on his arm to waylay him. ‘Whatever’s the matter, Pierce?’

‘It’s his lordship,’ Pierce said. ‘Only gone and ruined a perfectly good set of linens. Not to mention his new jacket. I’ve no idea how I’m going to get the blood out.’

‘Blood?’

Pierce indicated the shirt. The red-brown stain on the back of the new linen told its own story.

‘Soak it in cold water,’ Isabel suggested. Gathering up her skirt, she hastened down the corridor to Sebastian’s room.

She found him sitting in a large, winged chair wearing a pair of loose trousers, a clean shirt and a green velvet housecoat. Underneath the shirt, she could see the tell-tale ridge of heavy bandaging. He had placed his slippered feet on a stool and had his nose in a book. He looked up as she entered.

‘Don’t stand!’ she said as he reached for the arms of the chair to haul himself up.

As he subsided back into the chair with a grimace, she opened her mouth, but something flashed in his eye and she thought better of it.

‘My dear Lady Somerton, if you’re here to practice your schoolroom manners and lecture me on the foolishness of riding horses when I am barely out of my sick bed, spare yourself,’ he said with a rueful smile. ‘I have been lectured by Bennet and disapproved of by Pierce.’

‘I am naturally concerned for your health, my lord. It would be most inconvenient if you were to die on me now.’

Realising what she had said, she tempered the words with a smile as he shut the book with a thump.

‘Well, I assure you, Lady Somerton, I have no intention of dying.’

‘I’m relieved to hear that.’

She wanted to tell him what a remarkable thing he had done, but something in his demeanour discouraged discussion on what had occurred in the stable yard.

He picked up the book he had been reading and held it up. ‘Are all the books in the library like this?’

‘Like what?’

He flicked the pages. ‘Uncut.’

Isabel took the book from him. Exquisitely bound in Moroccan leather and embossed with the Somerton coat of arms, its uncut pages smelt as if they had come straight from the printer. A letter opener sat on the table next to Sebastian’s chair, along with a decanter of whisky and a glass.

She handed it back to him. ‘Your grandfather purchased the library. The books were for show, not for reading.’

He opened it at the page he had been reading and, without looking up at her, said, ‘Please excuse me from joining you for dinner. I am under orders from Bennet that I am not to set one foot outside this room.’

Isabel allowed a smile to catch at the corners of her mouth.

‘You tolerate a great deal of insubordination from your batman, Captain Alder.’

He looked up at her. ‘I owe Bennet my life. He can be as insubordinate as he likes. Thank you for your concern about my health. Now you have satisfied yourself that I am not at death’s door, I will see you tomorrow, Lady Somerton.’

Dismissed, Isabel left the room, closing the door softly behind her, just as the gong rang to announce dinner.

Chapter 8

Bennet disliked horses. A Londoner born and bred, he had no understanding of them, considering them four-legged dangers to health and happiness. Unfortunately, it fell to Bennet to brave the stables and retrieve his lordship’s brand new hat that he had mislaid during his latest harebrained escapade.

Picking his way across a stable yard scattered with horse manure, he met a boy coming out of the main door of the stable, carrying a saddle. He stopped the youngster and enquired after the missing hat.

‘I’ve got it safe in the chaff room.’ The boy’s face brightened. ‘Are you Corporal Bennet?’

Bennet stiffened. ‘Mister Bennet now, lad.’

The boy smiled. ‘I’m Peter Thompson. No one’s ridden Pharaoh like his lordship did today. Even his late lordship never quite…’ Then, realising he may have spoken out of turn, the boy turned pink. ‘What’s it like in the Army? I’d give anything to join the cavalry.’

‘Would you, lad? Couldn’t imagine anything worse meself. I prefer to have me own two feet firmly on the ground.’

The boy’s eyes darted to the door of the stable. ‘I can’t leave Pa by himself now ma’s sick and Amy’s gone.’

‘Amy?’

‘My sister,’ the boy said with a downward turn to his mouth. ‘She… She died last autumn. Pa’s got no one but me now. It was a bad winter. First Amy and Ma… then we could scarce believe when his Lordship had his accident.’

Bennet’s interest piqued. ‘I ‘eard he had an accident. Do you know how it happened?’

Peter hesitated. ‘It isn’t my place to say.’

‘It’s all right. You can tell me,’ Bennet invited.

‘His lordship went a-visiting up at Lady Kendall’s,’ Peter said. ‘Near as we know, he took the hedge over by Lovett’s Bridge and the girth broke.’ The boy’s face took on a sullen, defensive cast. ‘It weren’t our fault. It were a brand new saddle. Her leddyship had given it to his lordship for his birthday only months afore and he used it all the time. We checked it regular.’

Something in the boy’s voice caused Bennet to pause. ‘Did you look at it after the accident?’

Peter’s eyes darted around the stable yard and he jerked his head at the door. ‘Come wiv me and I’ll get his lordship’s hat.’

As Bennet followed the boy into the long building, his nose wrinkled at the smell of horse — many horses. Apparently impervious, the boy led him down the line of horse stalls. He stopped at a door at the end of the row and looked back at Bennet.

‘Her leddyship told us to destroy the saddle.’ The boy shifted his weight and looked around. ‘It seemed a shame to destroy such a beautiful thing.’

Bennet looked at the boy, who shuffled his feet as his eyes slid sideways.

‘It’s all right, lad. It’s only me, you won’t get into trouble,’ he said.

‘I put it away somewhere safe.’

‘So you still have it?’ A small spark of curiosity flared in Bennet.

The boy opened the door. ‘Aye, ‘tis in here.’

‘’Ow about you show me?’ Bennet suggested.

The chaff room was lined with large wooden bins where the oats and feed for the horses were stored. Peter went to the furthest bin and lifted the lid. On first sight, it appeared to be full of chaff. Peter leaned over the edge of the bin and rustled around in the chaff. With a grunt, he pulled out a large, awkward sack and set it on the table.

He pulled off the covering to reveal an elegant, modern saddle. The leather around the pommel had been heavily tooled and bore the Somerton arms. Bennet recognized the stars, from escutcheons all around the house.

As Peter watched, Bennet turned the saddle over. He may not have liked horses but he knew enough to recognize the girth strap, which still hung buckled to the saddle. It had broken high up beneath the saddle flap on the off side. Bennet held up the torn edges. In his hands, the leather still felt new and firm. Even he could see there should have been no reason for the girth to fail. Unless…

He drew a deep breath as he looked more closely at the broken ends.

To the casual observer the strap appeared to have torn, but now, as he looked at it, he was not so certain. The first half-inch on both sides of the strap betrayed a clean cut — a knife cut. He turned the strap over in his hands, looking at the underside. Unless he was very much mistaken, the underside of the strap had been scored with a knife as well. It meant that the girth strap had been severely compromised and, put under any kind of stress, would have failed.

Bennet frowned, letting the implication of his discovery sink in. Someone had cut the girth strap. Someone had intended for it to fail. Someone had intended Lord Somerton to suffer a serious fall. He ran his hand over the embossing on the pommel. Someone had intended for Lord Somerton to be injured or…killed. His blood ran cold.

‘It didn’t seem right,’ Peter said. ‘I thought if anyone asked the question…’ He tailed off.

Bennet nodded. ‘You did the right thing, boy.’

‘What should I do with it?’

‘Just you put the saddle back where you’ve been hiding it,’ Bennet said.

‘Are you sure? Do you think his lordship should know?’

Quite possibly
, Bennet thought.

‘Just put it back and I think we will keep it our secret for now, lad.’

He watched as the boy returned the parcelled saddle to the bottom of the feed bin. As the boy turned around, Bennet looked around the room.

‘Now where’s his lordship’s ‘at?’

Bennet stamped into the bedchamber carrying Sebastian’s hat. Sebastian set his book to one side and considered his batman from over his steepled fingers. He knew Bennet’s moods as well as he knew his own. And something troubled his batman.

Bennet stood by the window, absently brushing the chaff from the beaver skin.

‘Something on your mind, Bennet?’ Sebastian enquired.

Bennet started as if he hadn’t noticed Sebastian. ‘Beg pardon, m’lord,’ he said.

Sebastian raised an eyebrow and, taking his silence as it was intended — an invitation to talk — Bennet set the hat down and crossed over to Sebastian’s chair.

‘Mind me speaking out of turn, sir?’

‘When has that ever stopped you? What’s troubling you?’

‘Well, you know as how the late Lord Somerton died?’

‘Girth broke and he came off his horse.’

Bennet nodded. ‘I… No, it don’t make sense.’

Sebastian glared at him. ‘What is it?’

‘I’ve just seen the saddle and the girth strap was cut.’

Sebastian stared at him. ‘Are you sure?’

‘As certain as I am standing here talking to you.’ Bennet took a breath and recounted his interview with young Peter Thompson. When he had finished, Sebastian sat back in the chair and let the enormity of what Bennet had told him sink in.

Anthony’s death was no accident. Someone had intended, if not to kill him, to at least cause a serious injury. He glanced at the door and thought about the residents beyond it. Someone in this house could be a murderer.

Chapter 9

Sebastian faced Bragge across the large mahogany desk in the study. He liked this room. While Freddy Lynch seemed to be in possession of the library, filling it with the nauseating cologne that he wore, this room, with its leather inlaid desk and resolutely masculine furniture, made him feel welcome.

He and Bragge had been on an inspection tour of the estate, an excursion undertaken from the back of one of the more docile saddle horses. Even so, he felt stiff and sore and out of sorts.

The state of the farms had horrified him. No money had been spent on their upkeep for years. Little wonder the returns were so low.

‘It is time for some economising. Is everything in order for the auction on Friday?’

‘It is, my lord!’ It had not taken Bragge long to organise for the sale of the racehorses, setting up an auction to be held at the Hall. ‘We should do well. There are years of work invested in those beasts and they have a good reputation.’

‘Then they should be worth something to someone whose business it is to understand these things. I have no interest in racing,’ Sebastian said. ‘Far better they go to someone who will pay us well for them.’

‘What about the rest of the stable, sir?’

Sebastian thought of the matched bay carriage horses and the elegant grey pair used for the phaeton. He could not bring himself to sell those — not yet.

‘Just the racing horses.’

Bragge scribbled in his notebook.

‘Now about this ball that Miss Lynch is hell bent on holding…’ Sebastian began, his hand straying to a small, steadily mounting pile of invoices that seemed to be associated with the soiree.

‘Well, it does seem rather an extravagance, my lord, but on the other hand, it is an excellent way of meeting the county. I used to say to his late lordship that the importance of one’s acquaintances was not to be underestimated.’

‘And he ignored your advice?’

‘He was want to ignore my advice on most matters, my lord.’ Bragge’s tight lips betrayed his thoughts on the subject of the last Lord Somerton.

Sebastian heaved a sigh. ‘The ball remains but, between us, Bragge, what am I to do with the Lynchs? They’ve been costing my cousin a fortune.’

The drain on the purse caused by those two individuals showed up in the accounts as a hefty monthly allowance paid to Freddy. The sum did not, of course, include the free board and lodging he and his sister also enjoyed. He would talk to Lynch about the ridiculous allowance his cousin had been paying. It should have been sufficient to keep him and his sister in modest comfort without the necessity of living on Somerton grace and favour.

Bragge looked surprised. ‘Your lordship doesn’t owe them anything. They are no relations of yours.’

‘I know that, but I feel some moral obligation towards them.’

Bragge averted his eyes, cleared his throat, but said nothing.

Sebastian leaned back in his chair, thinking about Freddy Lynch.

‘Tell me, Bragge, has anyone ever looked into their claim to be who they say they are?’

Bragge shook his head. ‘His lordship vouched for them. That was enough.’

‘I am not my cousin. I think before I make any decision about a settlement, I would like their claims investigated. Good reconnaissance, Bragge, is the key to a successful campaign.’

‘Do you have reason to doubt their veracity, my lord?’ Bragge ventured.

‘There is something about them that is not quite…’ Sebastian trailed off. It was not so much a word he sought as a nagging feeling of distrust, honed by a lifetime of rubbing shoulders with every sort of man. Something about Freddy Lynch did not ring true.

Bragge nodded. ‘I know a man in that line of work, my lord.’

‘Excellent. See to it and, while you’re at it, can you find out more about this “Golden Adventurers Club” — the lucky recipient of my inheritance? If for no other reason than I hope to meet one or more of them and give them a bloody nose!’