Moonlight on My Mind (25 page)

Chapter 27

J
ames MacKenzie proved remarkably talented in the art of persuasion. Within a quarter hour, he’d seen the magistrate fetched from church and had Farmington and Blythe sitting on two chairs they’d brought into the cell, ostensibly waiting for a promised confession.

Of course, Blythe had no idea who the intended confessor was.

“I understand Mr. Blythe assisted with my client’s arrest,” James said easily.
Too
easily, considering his friend looked all too ready to break a law or a leg or both.

Farmington had the good grace to at least look chagrined. “We do not have a constable here in Shippington. Mr. Blythe has been most helpful in that regard.”

“What does this have to do with Haversham’s confession?” Blythe demanded.

“I did not say the confession was my client’s.” James smiled patiently. “We have invited you here, actually, because I wanted to ask
you
some questions, Mr. Blythe. And we wanted Mr. Farmington to be present in case you say something . . .
interesting
.”

Blythe turned pale at the thinly veiled threat. “I have nothing to hide.”

Patrick stepped closer to the seated man and put a hand on the back of Blythe’s chair. Time to tell the truth, at long last. “There’s a witness who can prove I didn’t murder my brother.”

The little cell fell quiet, except for the hypnotic drip of water somewhere in a hidden corner. Finally, Farmington’s voice severed the disarming silence. “Do you speak of your wife?” he asked slowly. “She has said she will not testify.”

“There is a second witness,” Patrick admitted. He kept his eyes trained on Blythe, trying to read his cousin’s frozen face. “Who can name someone else as the killer.”

“Have you been withholding this piece of it, Haversham?” Farmington’s strangled voice finally pulled Patrick’s attention away from Blythe.

For the first time since this whole business had started, the magistrate sounded truly, legitimately angry. Not that Patrick could blame the man. Even though he was magistrate of little more than a sleepy Yorkshire town, it was still Farmington’s job to sort out the truth, not field the bits and pieces of it someone saw fit to gift him. Patrick suspected the beleaguered magistrate was already viewed somewhat precariously because of the long-delayed inquest. He was poised to look more than merely foolish if a second witness could be produced.

Patrick could almost—
almost
—feel sorry for him.

“Who is this witness?” Farmington demanded. “I’ll have his name.”

But Patrick hesitated to reveal any more. His whole point in mentioning the second witness had been to use the element of surprise as leverage against Blythe, and the bloody man had barely blinked. “All in due time, Mr. Farmington. But on the matter of witnesses, you should also know Mr. MacKenzie can place me in Scotland during my father’s illness. Which brings us back around to our original reason to call you both here.” Patrick leaned down, closer to Blythe’s ear. “Perhaps we should direct the question of my father’s death to
you
then, cousin. Because it occurs to me that you have as much to gain by his passing as anyone.”

Now, finally, Blythe’s stony gaze cracked. His eyes swung wildly between the men in the room. “What?
No!
Why would you have cause to think such a thing?”

“The chance at a title, and the accoutrements that come with it.”

Blythe stood, bristling ominously. “Then I bloody well would have killed you too, wouldn’t I have? Far better to see you dead than hanged. At least then the title wouldn’t be in question. The fact I haven’t killed you yet ought to prove I’m not capable of it.”

“Do not try to tell me I should presume you are innocent,” Patrick snarled as James grasped his cousin’s shoulder and shoved him back down forcefully in the chair. “You proved long ago what you were capable of.”

Blythe’s eyes flashed. “Is this still about those damned puppies? For God’s sake, Haversham. You’re a grown man. To accuse me of Eric’s murder is outrage enough. But the earl?” His voice cracked. “Nay. Never. The man treated me as well as a son.”

Patrick narrowly controlled the urge to wrap his hands around the young man’s neck. He could allow that strangling his cousin might make him feel a sight better, but it was unlikely to free him of a murder charge. “Where were you when my father fell ill?”

“I was in London.”

“Can you prove it?”

Blythe drew in an unsteady breath. “There are any number of witnesses who can place me in London in the weeks before he fell ill.”

“You’d best enumerate them,” Patrick warned.

“My mistress, for one. The patrons of the club I frequent.” Blythe hesitated. “You really think I could have done something so terrible?”

“History is a damnable thing,” Patrick countered. “And none of the witnesses
you
mention are here for us to question. Rather inconvenient, wouldn’t you say?”

“My mother was staying at Summersby all through September, and she can stand as witness I was not here in Yorkshire. She sent me a letter when the earl fell ill and I rushed to Summersby, worried for his health.” Blythe’s chin lifted, a hint of his usual arrogance suffusing his earlier panic. “It was the least I could do for the man, given that you were still playing the prodigal son. I didn’t kill the earl. You
know
he was like a father to me.”

“That sort of familial thinking seems to have slipped your mind when you accused me of the deed,” Patrick all but growled. His relationship with his father and brother might have been strained eleven months ago, but even at its worst it had still been based on love and respect. He could see that now, and regret the profound loss of it.

But
someone
had killed them, and he was not going to rest until he proved it.

“Your mother is not here at the moment either,” he reminded Blythe.

“Damn it, Haversham,
noone
is here.” Blythe swallowed roughly. “But Mr. Farmington can attest to the fact I was not at Summersby in the weeks before the earl’s death. He spends a good deal of time there with my mother.”

Patrick glanced away toward the magistrate, surprised.

“I . . .” Farmington looked muddled, his gray brows pulled down unhappily. “That is . . . I take dinner there, regularly, when Margaret and Jonathon are visiting Summersby. Your aunt and I have . . . an . . . understanding, of sorts. And I am afraid Jonathon is correct. He did not arrive at Summersby until after your father fell ill.”

Patrick’s thoughts wrapped tight around that.
Margaret.
The use of his aunt’s given name was rather telling, all-told, never mind that they were both consenting, unencumbered adults. But if Blythe was telling the truth, things were far more tangled than he had imagined.

Could it really be Willoughby after all?

Patrick glared down at his cousin. Damn Blythe’s ready answers, Patrick was tempted to believe him. The young man’s angst at being accused was too authentic, his anger too real. No matter his hot temper and his past mistakes, Blythe’s affection and respect for the earl was something Patrick had seen firsthand. It was almost as though his cousin had wished—or coveted—Patrick’s father as his own. He could well envision the rage that would have enveloped his cousin at the thought of someone murdering the man.

It would not be far off from the anger he felt himself.

But if he was wrong about Blythe, he was wrong about other things as well.

“Was George Willoughby at Summersby during September?” he asked Farmington, panic bumping up his heart rate.

The magistrate mopped his brow with a white kerchief. “Yes, but it is the shadiest leap of logic—”

“He was also there in November, and out with our hunting party that morning, though he hung back from the others. He has every bit the motive Blythe would have.”

Farmington shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I don’t see how this line of questioning is helpful. You’ve no evidence against Mr. Blythe
or
Mr. Willoughby, and you are facing a charge of murder, handed down by the coroner’s jury. This is conjecture, at best.”

“I need to go to Summersby,” Patrick insisted. “Willoughby is there. He needs to be questioned.” When the magistrate did no more than shuffle his feet in discomfort, Patrick felt near to exploding. “Damn it, Farmington, if Willoughby is our man, Julianne is in grave danger!”

“You’re under
arrest
, Haversham.” Farmington seemed to shrink against the back of his chair. “I cannot just release you on such little evidence—”

“You certainly have the right to move a prisoner,” James pointed out. “
Move
Haversham to Summersby. You’ll be with him, so no one can claim he’s been freed.”

Farmington’s last remaining bit of color fled at that. “This is all highly irregular. I could not bring myself to circumvent the requirements of my position—”

Blythe rose from his seat. “I find myself in agreement. Willoughby should be questioned, if nothing else.”

Though Patrick was quite sure he would never like the man, given their fractious history, he discovered that he appreciated his cousin’s verve a good deal more when it was directed toward a common goal instead of against his jaw.

“There are still guests at Summersby who could be in danger,” Blythe went on. “My
mother
is still there. Or does she suddenly mean so little to you?”

Farmington’s mouth moved a wordless moment. When he spoke, it was with a voice that seemed fraught with uncertainty. “The rules, you know. I am still expected to adhere to them.”

James stepped closer to Patrick, his big arms folded menacingly across his chest. After a tension-fraught moment, Blythe stepped in beside them. Together, they all faced Farmington down. “Hang the rules,” James said vehemently.

And for once, Patrick didn’t mind the word.

T
hey were already too late.

As Julianne and Prudence careened out onto the flagstone front steps, the man in question stepped down from the mud-splattered coach, shielded by an army of umbrella-wielding footman. Julianne muttered a foul oath, something so incongruous with a young lady’s vocabulary she ought to have her Almack’s voucher revoked. But she had neither the time nor the inclination to apologize. They were caught, like moths in a spider’s web.

And the spider had already seen them.

A prickling awareness ran the length of her spine as George Willoughby grinned up at her. Lady Haversham exited next, Mary and Eleanor tumbling out behind her, turning their innocent faces up to the sky and trying to catch raindrops on their tongues. Aunt Margaret rounded out the group, lifting her skirts high against the muddied drive.

The pulse in Julianne’s ears pounded in time with the rain accelerating on the overhead roof tiles. Willoughby didn’t
look
malicious. In point of fact, he looked disastrously ordinary, if a bit presumptuous. Stepping down from the mud-splattered coach emblazoned with the Haversham crest, his necktie starched to perfection despite the wilting weather, Patrick’s cousin seemed far too assured with his position and his future.

He herded the church-going brood toward the house under the canopy of umbrellas. Julianne struggled against her rising ire at the evidence of the young man’s now complete intercalation into the family. He’d escorted Patrick’s sisters to church, for heaven’s sake.
Bastard.
Not that George Willoughby was a bastard, per se.

Life would have been so much simpler if he was.

The dogs came streaking up from wherever they had been down near the lake, covered in mud and heaven knew what else. They slid to a raucous halt on the front steps and shook, each in turn, earning shrieks from the girls and a glower from Aunt Margaret. George, however, remained unruffled as he strode toward the door under his umbrella.

“You missed a delightful sermon today, Julianne.” He spoke loudly to reach over the rain, and smiled wide enough to swallow the sun, no matter the near-opening of the heavens. But that smile faltered somewhat as his gaze moved on to the young woman standing quietly beside her. “Have we a visitor?”

Though Julianne was relieved to hear that George did not precisely recognize Prudence, fear refused to loosen its hold. A man depraved enough to kill his relatives and then eat breakfast placidly at their table was a man who would think nothing of killing a simple servant if he felt he had been recognized. If he found Prudence remotely familiar, the situation could rapidly turn from unpredictable to desperate.

To Julianne’s surprise, Prudence delivered an unswerving performance that belied the fear the girl ought to have felt. “I was just leaving.” She looked up at Julianne. “Were you coming with me, Lady Haversham?”

Julianne hesitated, unnerved by the girl’s stalwart recital. She was not sure she could manage the same now that she was facing the man who had killed Eric. She settled a hand against her stomach, praying for divine inspiration.

It came in the form of George Willoughby.

“Is something wrong, Julianne?” he asked, raising his voice to be heard over the raindrops drumming overhead. He stepped closer. “You looked a bit peaked, truth be told. Do you feel faint again? You gave us quite a scare this morning.”

His nearness kicked her protective instincts higher. “Er . . . yes.” She widened her eyes purposefully in Prudence’s direction. “I do not think I should travel in my condition. But
you
should go ahead and discuss the matter with the relevant parties, without delay.”

Prudence paled somewhat. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Julianne nodded firmly, praying she would not argue. “Just as we discussed. Quickly, now.”

The girl picked up her skirts and—eschewing the footman’s offer of an oilskin umbrella—dashed off through the downpour toward her rented cart. Willoughby watched her go, a perplexed look on his handsome face. “She looks deucedly familiar, doesn’t she?”

Merciful heavens.
If he recognized the former maid now, before she’d even left the front drive, all would be lost. “Would you please help me inside, George?” Julianne said hurriedly.