The Vital Principle (14 page)

Had she left any signs behind of her presence in his room?

He would most assuredly think her guilty if she had.

We rarely find that people have good sense unless they agree with us
. — François, Duc de la Rochefoucauld, 1613-1680

Knighton opened his door and stopped on the threshold. The room was filled with fresh air from the open window—just as he had left it—and yet, something was different. Some scent, some odd difference caught his attention. He sniffed and then filled his lungs again, tasting the air.

A slight, floral fragrance of roses, mingled with the clean scent of lavender, tickled his nose. He glanced over his shoulder before shutting the door.

That particular scent was still fresh in his mind. Just such a fragrance surrounded Miss Barnard when he met her at the top of the stairs. She appeared to have reached the landing after a visit to the library. However, she could just as easily have been returning from a search of the men’s wing.

In her favor, two books were clasped in her arms, supporting her statement that she had visited the library.

Nonetheless, his room smelled of her fragrance.

Checking behind the painting of the beagles, he found his packet of papers still there. He pulled it out and flipped through the pages.

Before he left for dinner, the divorce letter had been the second sheet in the packet. Now, it was the inner-most. And the wax seal was warm and slightly soft. He refolded and resealed the packet thoughtfully before he hid it again behind the picture.

Leaning over his bed, he checked the seascape. The packet containing the small brown bottle was precisely where he left it. The waxy seal was cold and hard.

Memory was fallible, and he supposed he might be mistaken and overly suspicious. He had been standing close to Miss Barnard to allow the others to pass on their way to their rooms. Her scent had filled the air around him. So it was possible the fragrance had lingered in his lungs and simply seemed more intense when he entered his room, flooded with fresh air from the window.

But the softness of the wax on the packet of letters was more difficult to explain.

A lopsided grin twisted his lips. He would like to believe her. He would like to think it was just his imagination that her perfume lingered in the air of his room. But he couldn’t believe that. She’d been in his bedroom, and she let him believe she’d been in the library, instead. Once again, she seemed determined to prove she was untrustworthy.

And she’d found the letters behind the beagle painting.

So Knighton had to ask himself, what would she do with that knowledge?

True love is like ghosts, which everybody talks about and few have seen
. —François, Duc de La Rochefoucauld, 1613-1680

Sunday, October 11

The next day was cold and misty, promising rain by evening. Several guests attended church services in the village, relieved to escape the sad and increasingly tense atmosphere at Rosecrest for a few hours. Knighton did not go with them. He felt too restless to sit through a long church service.

Finally, toward mid-morning, he escaped through the library’s French doors into the garden. As he passed the gazebo, surrounded by long drifts of vibrant yellow and bronze flowers, he heard sobbing. He hesitated and almost walked back toward the house to avoid intruding upon what was obviously a very private and painful moment. But the bitter, hopeless sound caught at him. He turned back.

When he climbed the gazebo’s four marble steps, he found a woman seated on one of the benches inside. She sat hunched over, her body shaking with the strength of her sobs.

“Miss Howard!” He walked over to her.

“Mr. Gaunt!” she exclaimed, her body vibrating with tension as she straightened.

Gripping her shoulder, he gently restrained her when she moved to rise. She trembled under the weight of his hand. But after a brief struggle, she crumpled, slumping on the bench. Unable to meet his gaze, she stared out through the pillars of the gazebo, her expression slack and devoid of hope.

“Please don’t run away,” Knighton said gently. “I’m sorry to intrude, but perhaps a sympathetic ear might help?”

She shook her head and hiccupped. Then she covered her face with her hands as another sob wracked her. “Nothing can help.”

“Then at least share the burden—whatever it is.”

“I—oh—what am I to do?” She dropped her hands and clenched her elbows. Her knuckles grew white as she rocked in an effort to regain control of her emotions.

Sitting next to her, he pried loose one of her hands. The fingers were as stiff and icy as death. He pressed her hand between his, warming the clammy flesh. “Do about what? If I can offer my assistance….”

She shook her head violently and let out another moan, her teeth catching her lower lip.

“Miss Howard, please. Take a deep breath. You’re making yourself unwell trying to bear whatever it is, alone. I assure you, I won’t reveal anything you wish to remain private.”

“I ca-can’t!” She shook her head. “You don’t understand!”

“Then help me understand. Trust me, Miss Howard. It can’t be that bad.”
Unless she had a guilty conscience.

“No—not to you—you’re a
man
! I’ve been a fool. There’s nothing anyone can do to help me.”

“Are you so sure? Please, you're simply tired and distraught—”

“Distraught? You believe I’m
distraught
?” Her voice rose as she jumped to her feet. “You believe I'm just a hysterical female? You have no notion!”

“Please,” he replied firmly. “If you don’t wish to tell me what troubles you, I won’t press. But I’m here. I’m willing to listen.”

She stared at him, her reddened, brown eyes nearly hidden beneath the puffy lids. “Do you want to know what he did to me? What
they
did? What I allowed them to do?”

Knighton felt his stomach tighten. A horrifying confidence trembled on Miss Howard’s lips. At that instant, he regretted pushing her to reveal her secret. Her burden, even if small, would join a host of others he’d shouldered over the years. Confidences, betrayals, and information he didn’t particularly want to be responsible for. He straightened his back, preparing.

In the back of his mind, he knew something terrible had provoked the poisoning of Lord Crowley. An emotion or event dreadful enough to convince someone of the necessity of the action. Perhaps Miss Howard's misery had a similar genesis and would reveal, at last, a sliver of truth.

He pressed her hand and waited for the inevitable.

“He…he tried to seduce me—” She broke off, her shoulders trembling as she strove for control.

“Who?”

Miss Howard stared at him, eyes hot with fury. “Need you ask?” She flicked a glance at the house. “Lord Crowley.”

“I’m sorry—”

“Sorry?
Sorry
? Did you think that was all? That it was as simple as a mild flirtation?”

“I—”

She laughed. The raw, bitter sound ripped out of her throat and shook her body. “Oh, no. He was not content with simply humiliating me—he—he had to introduce me to his
friend
. His
close
friend. The two of them—” A low cry of anguish broke off her words.

Cold anger formed a knot inside him. Some murder victims were innocent—his father had been the victim of his stepmother’s greed—but others, well, others more than deserved their fate.

In a few cases, he wondered how the victims had lived as long as they had.

“Miss Howard, who—” A man’s voice cut off Knighton’s words.

“Miss Howard!” Lord Thompson stepped into the gazebo. “Is this man bothering you?”

She stood. “No. No, he’s not. We were—we were holding a private conversation.”

“I see. And where is your maid?”

“My maid!” A short bark of laughter broke her voice. “You’re a fine one to worry about propriety, Alvin. Oh, I
beg
your pardon.” She put her hand over her mouth in an exaggerated gesture. “I should say,
Lord Thompson
, shouldn’t I? To observe your
precious
proprieties.”

“Miss Howard,” he replied in a low, warning tone. “You’re upset by Lord Crowley’s death. It’s understandable. Let me escort you back to your mother.”

“Escort me to
my mother
? Why bother? Why not simply escort me to your room? Isn’t
that
why you were searching for me? Isn’t that why you and Lord Crowley invited me here? That is, my mother and me, since it has to at least
appear
proper?”

Lord Thompson’s face flushed with anger. “That’s enough, Fanny.”

“Oh, my!” She put her fingers over her lips again in the same insultingly exaggerated manner. “That’s Miss Howard,
Lord
Thompson. We don’t know one another
well enough
to use Christian names, do we?”

“Miss Howard,
please
!” Lord Thompson ran a hand through his brown hair and glanced at Knighton. He was surprised to see something in Thompson’s gray eyes that looked like agonized shame. “Could you—would you grant us some privacy, Mr. Gaunt?”

“Miss Howard?” Knighton turned to the young woman.

She had sunk down onto the cold, marble bench, her shoulders hunched. She stared at both of them with hard anger and despair etched in taut lines around her eyes and mouth. “Yes.” She waved him away. “Why not? What difference could it possibly make, now?”

“I’ll wait for you on the path,” Knighton said, searching her face.

Unwilling to leave her without ready assistance, he moved away to a nearby crab apple tree. He leaned against the narrow trunk and prepared to wait. While he was far enough away to preserve their privacy, he was not too far away to hear if her voice rose in fear.

Unfortunately, he soon found he’d misjudged the distance. Their conversation was excruciatingly distinct. Both participants suffered from such profound emotion that neither could control the volume of their speech. He was therefore forced to hear the sad details, although to his deep chagrin, their brief, intense conversation betrayed little helpful information.

“Fanny—”

“Oh, so I’m only
Miss
Howard
when there is another man present?” She laughed, the sound razored by bitterness. “How sad when we’ve been so
intimate
in the past.”

“Fanny, please, let me—”

“What? Apologize? Request another
visit
? Oh, pray continue, Lord Thompson, I’m agog with curiosity.”

“If you would only—”

A swishing noise sounded as if she rose to stand. “But then, perhaps I’m not all that interested in a conversation with you, after all. I want to return to the house. My mother must be wondering where I am, and I can't think of a single topic of conversation to share with you.”

“Let me escort you. We must talk—”

“Must we? I rather think not. It’s pointless now, isn’t it?”

The sharp note in her voice caught Knighton’s attention. She sounded close to breaking, either into screams or tears. Whatever Lord Thompson wanted to say to her would have to wait.

He returned to the couple. Lord Thompson blocked the path when Miss Howard faced him. She held her skirts and thrust her head and shoulders forward like a wild animal about to flee.

“Miss Howard, I nearly forgot to mention, you seem to have left something in the library. Would you allow me to escort you there?” Knighton interrupted.

“Yes, thank you.” She swept past Lord Thompson.

He glared at Knighton. Then his face grew cold. Clasping his fists behind him, he knotted them together. Knighton could clearly see the muscles in his shoulders and neck tightening with his effort to restrain himself. With a slight smile, Knighton held out his arm to Miss Howard and she took it, slipping off the path to circumnavigate Thompson.

“We will speak later, Miss Howard,” Thompson called to her, his voice harsh.

She stumbled on the path but kept walking, her face expressionless and eyes fixed on the French doors ahead. When they entered the library, she kept moving until she reached the entrance to the hallway. She passed over the threshold as Lord Thompson entered the room behind them.

Knighton called to Miss Howard, “Didn't you forget?”

“I beg your pardon?” She turned back. Her eyes flickered over Lord Thompson before she fixed her gaze on Knighton.

He grabbed a book from the table near the door. A brief glance told him the author and title. He held it up, “This book, Miss Howard. I thought it might be yours.”

“Mine? Why?” Her brows rose. “What book?”

“I found it here this morning.” He raised it so she could see the title on the spine. “You were reading it, earlier.”

“Oh, yes. I’d forgotten. Thank you.” She moved quickly across the floor and twitched it out of his hand. Then, in a gesture of defiance, she raised her chin and met Lord Thompson’s eyes briefly before leaving.

He closed the library door behind her and faced the other man. A cool, distant expression smoothed over the lines of Thompson’s face. Only his eyes revealed any emotion. The corners were tight with irritation gleaming in the gray depths.

Smiling, Knighton moved leisurely toward a cluster of chairs and gestured toward the one facing the windows. “Please, Lord Thompson, have a seat.” He sat down with his back to the light filtering in through the panes, watching as his shadow elongated over the dark green and gold rug covering the floor between them.

Lord Thompson stood, one hand on the back of a chair, his angular features stark in the light. “What could we possibly have to discuss, Mr. Gaunt?”

“Many topics, some of which may even be of interest to you.” He leaned back and steepled his fingers in front of his mouth briefly before waving at the chair next to him. “Please. Sit.”

“I see no reason to hold a conversation with you. In fact, I’m considering writing to whatever local magistrate resides in this God-forsaken county, as well as the Lord Chancellor. You’ve had nearly two days. You must know by now who poisoned Crowley. You’ve no reason, or authority, to prolong this. You cannot keep us indefinitely, or question any of us.” He gestured at the door. “And you’ve deliberately prevented the local authorities from arresting Miss Barnard. Whatever your motives, you can’t keep her from justice. If you insist on being incompetent, then I shall have to take action.”

“Sit down, Lord Thompson,” Knighton repeated. The muscles in his neck tightened. Lord Thompson’s threat had teeth and from the satisfied flicker of a smile on his thin lips, he knew it.

His smile broadened and his teeth flashed in a contemptuous grin as he gracefully circled the chair and sat down. He leaned back and crossed his long legs.

“I’m well acquainted with your brother, Lord Graystone,” he remarked. “He’s not particularly proud of his younger brother’s descent into the
milieu
of paid help and tradesmen.”

There was truth in his observation.

Lord Graystone had wanted Knighton to join the church, but he felt restless and unsuited to that quiet life. And when he failed to acquiesce to the church scheme and began conducting investigations, Lord Graystone acerbically suggested Knighton “stick to finding lost cooks and dogs if he felt it necessary to indulge his inexplicable fits of curiosity.”

Lord Graystone did not appreciate his younger brother’s more serious inquiries. The sensitive cases frequently made it difficult for the new Lord Graystone to effectively create and maintain political alliances. Other peers in the House of Lords objected when his brother sporadically found their family members guilty of sordid, and politically objectionable, crimes.