The Stanforth Secrets (14 page)

Hastily, she said, “You can hardly cut the poor orphans off without a penny, Justin.”

He sighed. “I suppose not. How does the money get to them?”

“Your uncle set up a trust in Italy, through bankers there. The interest is paid to the Little Sisters of the Angels.”

“Painless charity,” he murmured. “And doubtless the sisters pray for my uncle’s soul, as well.”

“Doubtless. Perhaps this charity was a kind of insurance. Many people up here still have lingering sympathy for the Romish faith, and you come of an old Lancashire family.”

He looked at her with interest. “Have you studied the family history?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Lacking Hookham’s . . .”

“Were we for Hanover or Stuart in the last century?”

Chloe looked at him in surprise. A somewhat abrupt interest in history. “Well, the second baronet, your great-uncle, kept his head well down in ’45. Back in ’15, though, the first baronet showed distinct leanings toward the Stuarts and the Church of Rome. He’d married a staunch Protestant, however, and I think she kept him loyal. You should read
her
journals. A strong and rather terrifying woman. She was still alive in ’45 and I wouldn’t be surprised if she was responsible for your great-uncle’s discretion.”

“What of you?” he asked. “Do you not have a soft spot for romantic Bonnie Prince Charlie? So many young ladies do.”

Outrage jerked Chloe up straight. “I beg your pardon!”

Justin leaned slightly back and eyed her warily. “No?”

Chloe leapt to her feet, eyes flashing, and jabbed a finger hard at his waistcoat. “Justin Delamere, if I were a man, I’d call you out! The Ashbys were loyal to the Stuarts in the Civil War, but that ended when James II tried to bring back popishness. Anne created the earldom and George I, the dukedom. The Ashbys stand to a man—or woman—behind the throne.”

Forced back in his chair, Justin threw wide his hands, laughing. “I surrender. I apologize.”

Chloe retreated slightly, still fuming, but then she saw him laughing, brown eyes sparkling with merriment, skin flushed. He looked so young. He looked as he had when they first met.

He stood slowly and placed his papers on a small table there. Chloe retreated a step. Hand outstretched, he moved toward her, sober now, but with a different light in his eyes.

“No,” Chloe said.

“No?”

She couldn’t explain. It was too dangerous even to try to make sense of her tangled feelings.

After a moment he sighed and his hand fell. “As you will. I do need help in understanding all of the paperwork, though. Scarthwait spent an hour with me this morning, but most of the accounting seems to be yours, and I’m sure you would be best able to explain it.”

The last thing Chloe wanted was to be closeted with him for hours, and yet she could not escape the necessity. It would be seen as ridiculous to insist upon a chaperone. On whom could she call? The Duchess? Randal? They’d both die laughing.

At least she must have time to gain control of her mind.

“I have a few household tasks to see to,” she muttered. “Perhaps in an hour?”

“Very well.”

He stood for a moment, looking at her. Then his eyes wandered to the Dutch paintings over the mantel, as if he sought inspiration there among the dancing villagers. Chloe wished he would go. She also wished he would sweep her into his arms and seduce her from all her doubts. She saw his gaze sharpen, as if focusing on the pictures for the first time.

“That is a fine set,” he said. “I don’t remember it. Did Stephen buy it?”

“No, of course not,” said Chloe. “He had little interest in art. It was a gift from Herr van Maes. He’s a Dutch antiquarian who has been in the area for some time, studying the hogback stone and other ancient pieces. You will meet him on Thursday at dinner.”

“A handsome gift,” he said. “Given recently?”

“At Christmas.”

Chloe wondered at his interest, which seemed excessive. Then she thought it was possible he was jealous. She glanced at Justin again. He did look very serious. Jealousy was such an unpleasant emotion. Why did she feel a tiny thrill at the thought that it was eating him?

He seemed to drag his mind back to the matter in hand. “Try to help me as soon as possible, Chloe,” he said with a smile that looked a little forced. “I am drowning in indecipherable figures.”

“An hour,” she said, and he left.

Chloe looked at the pictures. Had Justin been jealous? She shook her head. If she did not intend to have him, it was despicable to want him to suffer on her behalf. Chloe resolved to give him no encouragement, then pushed the incident to the back of her mind.

What task should she busy herself in now to make good her excuse? With relief, she remembered a complaint from the laundress about the quality of the washing soda, and hurried off to the steamy little room with its boilers and dolly tubs.

The sight of Rosie, the nursery maid, chatting as she folded the baby’s napkins, distracted her from soda, and resurrected her lingering suspicions about Belinda. Here was someone who could throw light on Belinda’s actions round about the time of Frank’s death. Just how effectively had Cedric questioned the girl?

Rosie dropped a curtsy. Chloe tried a subtle method of questioning.

“When you went out yesterday with Lady George, do you know how long you were gone, Rosie?”

“No, ma’am.” The girl looked thoroughly bewildered.

“Lady George went to the rose garden first?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Then to the herb garden?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

It was always difficult to prize information out of the staff. Chloe tried for more details.

“What did Lady George do in the herb garden, Rosie?”

“I don’t know, ma’am.”

Chloe repressed an urge to shake the maid, who was doubtless only trying to be honest. “You may not know the names of the plants, Rosie, but were they leaves, flowers, or roots? And how much did she collect? If we knew how much was picked we could estimate the time.”

The girl was anxious now, twisting at her apron. “But I don’t know, ma’am!”

“Rosie, I am not expecting a botanical lesson . . .” Chloe broke off at the glazed look on the girl’s face and rephrased her statement. “I am not expecting you to know all about herbs. Did Lady George just pick a few sprigs or fill a basket?”

“But I don’t know, ma’am. I weren’t there.”

Chloe stared. “What?”

“I brought Miss Dorinda back into the house. I had her changed and ready when Lady George came in to feed her.”

“Oh, I see,” said Chloe. “And did that take very long?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Rosie.”

Chloe retreated to the Sea Room to consider. Probably Cedric had asked the same questions as she had begun with. Asking where Belinda was and assuming Rosie was with her. So Belinda, between leaving the rose garden and speaking to Budsworth in the herb garden, had been alone. She could have been with Frank.

There still was no motive for her to harm him, or none that suggested itself, but something had jerked Belinda out of her normal placidity. Chloe remembered the day before when Belinda had almost become alarmed. Chloe had been sniffing at the empty pot, she recalled, and Belinda had said something about honeysuckle.

After a minute or two, Chloe shook her head. It made no sense at all. If Belinda had met Frank, and if she had pushed him off the cliff, there still was no connection with honeysuckle. If there was any chance the young woman was a murderess, however, Chloe could not turn a blind eye. She was determined to pursue it, partly because she still regarded Delamere as her responsibility, and partly because she would teach the men not to ignore her abilities.

She found that as she was thinking, her eyes had been drawn again and again to the Dutch pictures above the fire. What was it about them?

They were in the wrong order!

Instead of being spring, summer, autumn, and winter, winter now came first. When had that happened? As with most familiar objects, she had scarcely been aware of the pictures for weeks. At the same time, something about them had niggled at her since she entered the room. She remembered discussing them with Justin earlier. Surely she would have noticed then if they had been rearranged.

She shook her head. She was fretting over trifles. One of the maids had doubtless had them down during cleaning and hung them differently. She went over and began to rearrange them. It was as she was hanging autumn that her finger caught in the back. She turned it. The backing had been neatly slit. She poked inside, but there was nothing.

She looked at the other pictures and discovered each had a slit in the backing, but smaller and less obtrusive. Had the cuts, perhaps, always been there? She could hardly imagine Herr van Maes giving her the pictures without repairing the damage. How inexplicably peculiar.

Chloe hung the last two pictures and then sat contemplating them. What possible reason could there be for such an act? Was she wrong to have this feeling constantly that things were not right at Delamere? Apart from Frank’s death, which could well have been a freak accident, she really had nothing to go on. The feeling, however, would not be banished.

She wondered if the Dowager could be the explanation for the strange happenings—the disturbed stores, the slits in the pictures. But Stephen’s mother was rarely unaccompanied and totally lacked guile.

Randal came into the room. “Are you cast into the dismals too?” he asked. “Grandmama says the weather has brought out her rheumatics.”

“Oh, poor dear. Has she everything she needs? Belinda has a whole
repertoire
of receipts for anything which ails you.”

“She is well at the moment. She says you want to leave on Tuesday.”

“Yes. That should be time enough for Justin to settle in, and we should be on our way before the winter sets in.”

“It’s only October, Chloe. Why the hurry?”

Chloe looked up. “I’ve been here nearly two years, Randal. I’ve forgotten there’s a world beyond Lancaster.”

He dropped elegantly into a chair. “There is, and it’s as boring as ever, and it ain’t going anywhere. It seems a bit heartless to abandon Justin here with bucolic Belinda.”

“Perhaps Humphrey Macy will solve that problem.”

“He’s coming, is he?”

Something in his tone alerted Chloe. “Don’t you like him?”

Randal shrugged. “He’s hardly a crony of mine but he’s
bon ton.
Seen everywhere and pleasant enough. A bit fulsome, don’t you think?”

“I suppose so, but that doubtless comes of toadying to the Prince of Wales all the time.”

“Disrespectful chit,” remarked Randal. “The Macys are an old Whig family, so it’s almost his duty, but I’m sure he fits in at Carlton House like a plum in a basket of hothouse fruit.”

Chloe chuckled. “With the Prince as a pineapple?”

Randal shouted with laughter. “God yes! And Lady Jersey a plump, juicy peach.”

“What of Lady Hertford then?”

His blue eyes twinkled. “Undoubtedly a prune, and strangely out of place.”

“As out of place as Macy here,” Chloe commented idly. “Ah well. It was kind of him to keep George company, and it must indicate devotion if he is coming north again to woo Belinda. You think he’s well-to-do, Randal?”

“He puts on a good show, but then half of Society is all tinsel and glitter over a hollow core. I’ve never seen him gamble deep, but he’d have to at Carlton House. Why so concerned?”

“If he’s tied to the wrong connections,” said Chloe, “we don’t want Belinda to marry him.”

“Don’t we?”

Chloe fixed him with her sternest look. “No. Altruistically speaking, I don’t see any reason why Belinda shouldn’t make a comfortable second marriage. In more practical terms, if she’s well-established, she won’t hang around Justin’s neck. After all, Dorinda is a cousin of Justin’s, and of mine in a way.”

Randal shrugged. “Just as long as you don’t expect me to marry her.”

“Of course I don’t. And don’t encourage her, either. I know she’s casting eyes at you, just like every woman who crosses your path. Freeze her out, if you want, but don’t raise her hopes.”

Randal sighed. “Trapped here in boredom and she denies me the only available sport.”

Chloe stood. “I’m sure you can find some pastime—”

Suddenly, she was spun down on Randal’s lap. “An offer?” he queried wickedly.

Chloe struggled, but not very hard. She was laughing too much. “Don’t be daft, as they say round here. Randal, let go.” He was far too strong so she relaxed.

“That’s better,” he approved. “I’ll let you go if you promise me some other amusement.”

Chloe found she was enjoying her position. There was nothing particular to Randal about the pleasure, other than the fact he was the only man she could imagine feeling so comfortable with. It was just that it had been a long time since she had been held by a man.

“What amusement did you have in mind?” she asked, as she leaned her head on his shoulder.

“You’re the hostess.”

“Nonsense,” she retorted lazily. “Justin’s your host. Go and discuss it with him.”

“No need,” said Randal.

Something in his voice made Chloe look up. She felt herself go red as she saw Justin staring at them with astonishment and, perhaps, anger. She leapt up before she realized this must give the whole scene an even more improper appearance.

“Pistols at twenty paces, Justin?” drawled Randal, laughter in his eyes. “If not exactly amusement, it would enliven a dull morning.”

Justin’s expression was unreadable. “Unless Chloe is claiming molestation, I see no need for that. She is her own mistress.”

“Of course he wasn’t molesting me,” said Chloe, flustered. Then she saw this did not quite give the impression she wanted. “You know Randal . . .”