The Tempting of Thomas Carrick (20 page)

“
What?
” Thomas was aghast. “All of them?”

“All that were in the breeding barn. He said they were an unnecessary drain on the estate.”

Thomas studied Niniver’s profile; as they slowed the horses to a walk, he prompted, “But…”

Manachan had loved his hounds. If Thomas remembered aright, so had Niniver.

“Sean, Mitch, Fred, and I moved some to old man Egan’s farm. He had a barn he wasn’t using.”

So she and the others still had a hunting pack.

They turned the horses onto the drive. Thomas frowned. “I thought Nigel used to like to hunt with the dogs.”

Niniver nodded. “He used to. But these days, he and Nolan go into the Highlands to hunt. Nigel said he didn’t need the hounds anymore.” She paused, then added, “Papa’s last bitch passed last summer, about the time he fell ill. He hasn’t asked after another and…I haven’t told him about the others being gone.” Reining in, she met Thomas’s eyes. “I didn’t want to disturb him then, and now he has more urgent matters on his plate.”

Thomas wasn’t about to argue. He met her gaze and nodded. “Indeed.”

* * *

Thomas and Niniver walked into the front hall just as Ferguson, in the stairway hall, raised the padded mallet and struck the gong for luncheon.

The deep sound reverberated through the house.

Screams drowned the echoes.

The shrill sounds of terror sliced through the house, emanating from more than one throat.

They came from below, from beneath the main wing.

Thomas bolted for the steps leading down. Two flights; he leapt down the latter, landed in the lower corridor, then raced toward the still room.

The screams had stopped.

He rounded the last corner and saw Lucilla. And his heart started to beat again.

She and Alice were backed against the corridor wall, their gazes locked on the still room door—which was closed.

“Lucilla?” He forced himself to slow as he reached her—forced himself not to haul her into his arms, to lock her against him just to reassure himself that she truly was safe.

The face she turned to him was white—unnaturally so. Her eyes were huge pools of green.

He struggled to rein in his reaction; regardless, one hand rose to touch her upper arm. “What is it?”

Beyond Lucilla, Alice started gasping as if she couldn’t catch her breath. Niniver pushed past Thomas and went to the healer. Murmuring soothingly, Niniver took Alice in her arms and rubbed her back.

Lucilla gulped; her gaze hadn’t left his face. “Adder.” She shuddered, then weakly raised a hand and pointed to the door. “It was just suddenly there, around our feet.”

She took another, deeper, gulp of air. Then abruptly she clutched his jacket and turned into his arms. She pressed her forehead into his chest as his arms instinctively closed about her.

Adder?
He fought to simply hold her and not crush her to him. In his mind, he heard Manachan’s voice from long ago, warning him that adders were at their most deadly on emerging from hibernation—as they would be at that time of the year.

Lucilla’s fingers fisted in his shirt. He dipped his head and heard her hoarsely whisper, “I
hate
snakes.”

Most people did. Holding her against him—he wasn’t sure he could force his arms to let her go—he glanced back at Ferguson, who had rushed down, too.

The butler had heard; he looked grim. “You and Miss Niniver get Miss Cynster and Alice upstairs.” Ferguson reached past them for the doorknob and checked that the door was shut tight. He glanced down, and Thomas and Lucilla followed his gaze. There was a gap between the base of the door and the worn stone floor.

Two footmen arrived, clattering down the corridor.

“Just in time.” Ferguson beckoned them forward. “There’s an adder’s got into the still room. I want you two to stand here and make sure the slithery thing doesn’t come out.”

Alice had finally caught her breath. “It’s a big fat one,” she said. “I don’t think it could squeeze through.”

Ferguson nodded. “We’ll hope not, but meanwhile”—he looked at the footmen—“you two keep watch while I go and fetch Fred and his spade.”

The footmen didn’t look happy but nodded.

After one swift glance at Thomas, Ferguson turned and strode off.

“Come on.” Keeping one arm about Lucilla, Thomas urged her in Ferguson’s wake. “You might not have heard, but Ferguson rang the luncheon gong just before you and Alice screamed.”

Walking slowly beside him, Lucilla managed a nod. “I heard.”

After a moment, she drew in a breath and glanced back, confirming that Alice was following with Niniver, then looked forward and, her spine straightening, raised her head. “As it happens, I really could do with a cup of tea.”

Her tone was a reasonable facsimile of her customary imperiousness.

Taking that as a sign that she was recovering from her shock, Thomas let his arm fall as they reached the top of the steps. A few paces more brought them into the corridor off the front hall. At the far end, Ferguson, aided by Mrs. Kennedy, was shepherding a flock of maids and footmen, no doubt drawn by the screams, back to the staff quarters.

Thomas and Lucilla turned in the opposite direction and walked into the front hall; behind them, Niniver called to Mrs. Kennedy and handed the still-shaken Alice into the motherly housekeeper’s care.

Nigel, Nolan, and Norris were standing in a loose group in the hall.

Nigel frowned. “What was that all about?”

Thomas told them, adding that Ferguson and the staff were dealing with the adder.

Nigel humphed and exchanged a glance with Nolan, then the pair turned and headed for the dining room.

Norris, who hadn’t frowned earlier, was frowning now. “Why on earth would an adder go down there? Where the stone is cold? They’re only just out of hibernation—they should be heading to where it’s warm.”

And that, Thomas acknowledged, was a highly pertinent point. In that season, no self-respecting adder would have gone slithering down into the cold stone bowels of the manor. That was simply too hard to swallow, so…

Beside him, Lucilla shivered. “I don’t care why it went there, as long as it’s gone by the end of luncheon. Alice and I were in the middle of a making, and we need to finish it today.”

Despite her shiver, by the end of that declaration, her tone had firmed to resolute.

Thomas waved her forward. “In that case, let’s eat.”

* * *

After luncheon, a rather short and subdued meal, Thomas escorted Lucilla back to the still room. Alice was already there, sorting various leaves on the central table. A footman with a stout broom was perched on a stool in the far corner; he didn’t look bored, but then he was watching Alice.

Pausing before the open door, Thomas quietly said, “I meant to ask before—were you and Alice in the still room all morning?”

Lucilla met his eyes, then shook her head. “We went out to the herb garden.” She looked at Alice. “We gathered those leaves to prepare a decoction she’ll need to know how to make.”

“So the room was empty for a while.”

She nodded.

He glanced at the door; it was fitted with a heavy lock. “I take it the room wasn’t locked.”

“No. Alice said Joy never locked it, so I didn’t insist.”

“Do you know where the key is?”

She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. He had to look away.

“There’s a key hanging on a peg inside—I think that’s it.” Before he could say anything, she went on, “At Casphairn, we always keep the still room locked.”

He nodded. “A sound practice. I think it best that we institute it here. I’ll mention it to Manachan. Perhaps you could tell Alice that we’re changing the rules.”

Lucilla dipped her head. “Ferguson mentioned that he’s already instructed one of the carpenters to fix a strip to the bottom of the door.”

“Good.” Thomas stepped back; he met Lucilla’s eyes when she glanced his way. “I’ll be with Manachan if you need me.”

She held his gaze for a moment, then in her usual regal fashion, inclined her head. Then she raised it, walked forward, and gently shut the still room door.

Thomas turned and walked away. And started mentally organizing all the information he had to report to Manachan—who, when all was said and done, was still the laird.

* * *

He returned to the still room in the late afternoon. Lucilla and Alice were clearly tidying up. Pausing in the doorway, he caught Lucilla’s eye. “If you’re finished here, there are several matters I’d like to discuss with you.”

She glanced at Alice.

Alice smiled. “I can finish the tidying.”

Setting down the paper-wrapped packets she’d been gathering, Lucilla nodded. “Be sure to lock the door and take the key. Keep it with you—don’t leave it anywhere.”

Alice’s expression sobered. “I won’t.”

Lucilla sent a smiling nod toward the corner where the footman was still sitting on his stool, then went to join Thomas. Stepping into the corridor, she studied his face. “Did you learn anything about what’s going on when you went riding this morning?”

He glanced along the corridor, which remained empty, but rather than answering, said, “Let’s go for a walk.”

Outside, where they ran much less risk of being overheard. She nodded. “After spending all afternoon down here, some fresh air would be welcome.”

He waved toward the stairs, then fell in beside her.

She sifted through the many questions crowding her brain. “Did you call on the Bradshaws?”

“Yes.” He described how he’d found the family, confirming her assumption that the matters he didn’t want to broach while within the hearing of others were of a different ilk.

His report continued as they climbed the stairs, walked into and through the front hall and out of the front door. Closing it behind them, he waved her on; they circled the house via the narrow terrace that followed the walls and eventually connected with the wider formal terrace that ran along the disused wing.

The instant they were on that side of the house, he said, “I wanted to ask whether there was anything in the still room, perhaps some note from Joy, or something not as it should be, that might suggest a reason for someone to kill her.”

She’d anticipated the question. “I looked, but there was nothing at all that even vaguely struck me as out of the ordinary.”

“Did Joy keep a record of those she was treating? Could there be a clue there—someone she was treating for something they might not have wanted known? Had she ever treated Manachan?”

She held up a hand to stem his questions. “Like any good healer, Joy kept a ledger. She’s been supplying tonics and tisanes for several people in the house, and also on the farms, but they are all for perfectly mundane ailments—no motive for murder there. Or, indeed, anywhere else, I’m afraid.” She paused, then continued, “I’m concentrating on making sure Alice knows how to continue to supply all of the tonics Joy was making, and what to watch out for while doing it. There are a few of the stronger tonics I’ll need to teach her more about before I leave.” She drew breath. “However, to answer your last question, no. I looked back more than three years, and there’s no record of Joy ever treating Manachan. No regular tonic—not even a pick-me-up.”

Pausing, she met Thomas’s eyes. “I truly believe Manachan could use the help a good healer can give. I’d like to see if he’ll accept something to help him regain his strength, but I know men of his age and temperament don’t like admitting that their health is failing. I wasn’t all that surprised to learn that Joy never had a chance to treat him.”

Thomas paced alongside her for half a minute before saying, “My ride about the estate confirmed that there are…escalating problems. Difficulties that need to be addressed, but that Nigel prefers to ignore. That can’t go on, but the clan farmers don’t want to bother Manachan, deeming him to have enough troubles of his own. But they can’t influence Nigel, either. And nor can I.”

She nodded. “Because you aren’t the heir, and you therefore can’t step on his toes, and he already resents you because you are closer to Manachan, or at least closer in a different, more adult way than he is.”

That she’d seen that so clearly—could state it so clearly—was a comfort in itself. He had never met any other lady who understood the complex relationships of a clan.

“It seems,” she murmured, “as if all the issues impinging on the estate stem from Manachan’s illness. Because he fell ill—and no, I don’t know what he caught, but clearly he fell victim to something—his health crumbled and his strength fell away, and so he was forced to allow Nigel to take over the estate…” She paused, then, frowning, went on, “If Manachan was restored to something like his old self, could he retake control of the estate?”

“Almost certainly, although I doubt he would—at least not unless Nigel refused to properly deal with the issues arising in the clan.”

“By properly, I take it you mean in accordance with Manachan’s wishes.”

He nodded. After a moment, he drew a deeper breath and asked, “Do you really think you can help him?”

“I can’t be sure until I examine him, but…” Looking ahead, she seemed to choose her words. “He was always such a strong and robust man. His physical strength was a hallmark. From what I’ve observed, and from when we helped him back and forth from the curricle yesterday, it seems to me that while he’s lost muscle tone—the strength in his muscles—he hasn’t actually lost that much weight.” She frowned. “His problem seems to be a lack of vigor—he seems far weaker than he should be, as if everything takes more effort than it ought, and he just doesn’t have enough energy in him.”

“Exactly.” He couldn’t keep the grimness from his tone. “I spent all afternoon with him, and even though I’d brought back information he needed and wanted to hear about the problems the farmers are facing, he was…so weak, it was distressing to watch him trying to focus enough to take it in.” He paused, then confessed, “In the end, I couldn’t bring myself to push him to act—by that time, it seemed that it was all he could do to simply keep breathing.”

They walked on for several paces before he said, “The drive to and back from the Bradshaws drained him, and then he insisted on coming down to dinner because you were under his roof—a guest.” He grimaced. “He’s sleeping now, but only because Edgar told him you were staying, so he’s determined to come down for dinner tonight, too.”