The Vital Principle (8 page)

“Are you feeling better?” he asked.

She had moved over two more chairs by the time he controlled his laughter and faced her. “Perhaps you could locate the butler? Or a maid? And request a pot of tea?”

He laid the articles he had retrieved on the table in the center of the room. Then he strode over to the bell pull. “Certainly, I'll ring for a maid, immediately.”

“Oh, don't! That is, perhaps you could open the window and let in some fresh air? That would be better than tea, I'm sure.”

“Nonsense. Tea is an excellent suggestion. And you must have a maid to assist you.”

“Please open the window,” she replied sharply. When he glanced at her, she made a strained effort to smooth over her words. “Fresh air would make me feel so much better.”

He nodded and strode to the window, aware she had slid down the line of chairs again, presumably searching for the bell. After pushing one of the windows open, he turned and was not the least surprised to find Miss Barnard sitting on the last chair along the wall.

“If you wish to benefit from the breeze, shouldn't you sit closer to the window?” he asked.

“Of course,” she replied, distracted. She remained where she was, a puzzled expression on her face as she eyed the line chairs.

He choked as a low chuckled rumbled in his chest. “Is something wrong?”

“Of course not! What could possibly be wrong?”

“You were faint—”

“I feel quite recovered.”

“Miss Barnard, I can't help but notice how you keep studying the room. Are you searching for something?”

“Peace and quiet.” She stood and impatiently brushed the wrinkles off the long skirt of her elegant, dark silk dress.

“You intruded upon me, not vice versa.”

Her eyes flashed. “I didn't expect anyone to be here.”

“Obviously.” He pulled the bell and its wire frame from its pocket. “Nonetheless, I was here before you. And I found a most curious object wedged beneath a chair seat.” He held up the device. “Have you ever seen anything like this?”

Two spots of brilliant red fanned over her cheekbones. When the color receded, she looked paler than ever, her white skin in sharp contrast to her dark hair and dress. “Everyone has seen a silver bell before.”

“True.” He grinned. “But do you recognize this particular bell?”

“Recognize it?” She paused for a moment. “Why? Do you believe that bell had a role in Lord Crowley's death?”

His brows rose. “I hadn’t considered it. Do you think it did?”

“Of course not. Don't be absurd.”

“Then why do you think this bell was fastened beneath one of the chairs?”

“I—oh, you know very well why it was there.” Her hands swept impatiently across her silken skirts.

“I do?”

She laughed self-consciously. “Yes, you do.”

“You give me too much credit. I confess I do not.”

“Then how do you know that bell had nothing to do with what happened to Lord Crowley?”

“I didn’t hear a bell ring before, or after, his death. And it’s difficult to see how it could have been used to poison him.”

“A distraction?”

“Perhaps but it was never used, I must discount it.”

“That comes as a relief, since it's mine.” She held out her hand.

With a smile, he dropped it into her outstretched palm. “And what is it?”

“Despite your assurances, I feel confident you already know. It appears to be a bell. A
silver
bell that was apparently fastened under the seat of a chair. If I'm to believe you.” This time, it sounded like she was laughing at him.

“For what purpose?”

“To provide another avenue for the spirits to communicate with us? Should they choose to do so, of course,” she replied so smoothly he knew she was indulging in a fit of sarcasm to hide her previous embarrassment.

“Convenient.”

“Yes. That's the notion, precisely.
Convenience
.”

He studied her gravely before moving on to more germane matters. Apparitions and communication with the spirit realm did not seem likely to help him investigate Lord Crowley's unfortunate death.

“Where is your reticule?” he asked, hoping to take her by surprise with a change of subject.

She looked at him. He met and held her gaze. “Do you remember seeing me with one last night?”

“No. However, most women carry them. Did you?”

“I don’t normally carry one.”

Her careful evasion annoyed him. He frowned. “Did you carry a reticule last night? Yes or no?”

“No. I did not. As I said, I don’t normally carry one. And I
never
carry one when I’m asked to, um,” she glanced over his shoulder as if too embarrassed to meet his gaze, “when I try to communicate with the spirit realm. It leads to misunderstandings. Some believe I might bring something into the room.”

“Other than your slate and pencil, of course. And the bell. I see. But you naturally have pockets.” She had worn a dark dress, as he recalled, although it had not been black like the one she wore today.

“Would you like to examine the garments I wore last night?”

“No, I would not. Just answer my question. Did you wear any pockets under your skirts last night?”

“No,
naturally
I didn’t have any pockets for the same reasons I don’t carry a reticule.” She strode forward, glancing about the room, clearly ready to dismiss him.

She gathered up the wicker basket overflowing with silks and thread, and last month's copy of
La Belle Assemblée
from the round table. When she turned to face him, she clutched the items as if they were a sword and shield.

Daylight streaming over her face revealed that her eyes, which had appeared black last night, were in fact dark gray, shadowed by thick lashes. Her skin was pale—too pale. He shifted uncomfortably, noting the bruised-looking circles around her eyes. Apparently, she had not gotten much rest last night. She appeared exhausted, and the tightness around her eyes and mouth looked like worry. Or fear.

Guilty conscience?

“What’s your theory about what happened?” Knighton asked.

“My what?”

“Your theory. You must have one.”

“Why must I have anything of the sort?”

“You were seated one position away from Lord Crowley. You must have noticed something. Who else was near him?”

“I didn’t see anything, Mr. Gaunt. If you’ll recall, I was trying to wipe my skirts clean.” She dropped the items she carried onto the seat of a chair near the door and turned to face him.

“That’s not particularly helpful. You don’t want me to believe you’re avoiding my questions due to guilt, do you?”

“If I were responsible, I’d most assuredly have a theory. And I’d be positively
overflowing
with eagerness to share it with you.”

“I was unaware that innocence went hand-in-hand with evasion.”

A half-smile lit her gray eyes. She clasped her hands in front of her, looking more like a schoolgirl about to recite her catechisms than a desperate fraud accused of murder. “Evasion? Surely not.
Ignorance
, perhaps.”

“Then try to answer a question properly. You’d be amazed at how easy it is to say a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’.”

“Indeed.” Her brows rose. “
Yes
. However, I remain ignorant of who might have poisoned Lord Crowley. Everyone seemed to be milling about.” A shadow passed over her face at the memory. “I don't know how anyone could have done it. We were all there.”

“Confusion and boldness,” he commented. Then he changed the subject as his mind leapt forward like a hound sniffing for a new trail. “How is the dowager this morning?”

Her mouth tightened. “As well as could be expected after such a shock. She seems to have lost interest in everything, even eating. It’s dreadful.” She lifted the sewing box and magazine again and waved them slightly to bring them to his attention. “I'm trying to find something to distract her until her mind has time to heal.”

He nodded. “Before you return to her, may I ask your assistance?”

“My assistance?” she repeated, her tone rising in disbelief.

“Yes.” He moved to her side and placed his fingertips on her elbow to guide her forward. When she didn’t move, he relieved her of the sewing basket and magazine, and deposited them on the table. “Now, if you would join me?” He gestured for her to move closer until she stood a yard away. “I’m having difficulties remembering precisely where everyone was last night. Help me reconstruct the events.”

“I’m sure one of the others would be happy to assist you. As I said earlier, I only remember a great deal of confusion.”

“Everyone else is still abed, and you are here. Our memories are fresh. Now, please….” He moved until he was approximately where he had sat the previous night. “Stand where you were sitting when May spilled the wine on you.”

Miss Barnard sighed and folded her arms at her waist, gripping her elbows. “I—oh, all right. We’ll go through this charade, although I fail to see how it can be of any service to you.” She glanced around the room, stepped slightly backward and then frowned. “They’ve moved the table. It’s nearly over the spot where the bottle fell.”

“Just stand where you sat.
Approximately
.”

She glided a few feet closer to Knighton and then stopped. She glanced at him with raised brows. “What now?”

“We’re going to pretend I’m the maid,” he walked around her, picking up the ladies’ journal from the table and holding it in his upturned palm like a tray.

Then he moved to the sideboard and started walking toward Miss Barnard. The carpet nap changed slightly under his feet, dipping and then rising as he reached the pattern of a lotus flower. He almost tripped as he neared Miss Barnard.

She moved away slightly, holding out a hand to prevent him from getting too close. “Remember,” she said. “They moved the table. You'd have to walk on top of me to reach the exact spot where she dropped the wine.”

He nodded and dropped the journal back onto the table. “The carpet is uneven due to the design.”

“Then why are you—” She paused, examining him. “Did she stumble? As simple as that?”

“It’s possible.”

A light like hope flashed in her dark eyes before she glanced away. She stared down at the gleaming surface of the table as if to hide her expression. “I didn’t trip her. Do you believe me now?”

“Perhaps.” He ran a hand through his hair, trying not to stare at her. He was reminded again of just how attractive she was, despite her drab clothing. Or perhaps because of it. Suppressing the distraction of his emotions, he examined the area where Lord Crowley had fallen to the floor. “So, you’ve just been splashed by wine. What did you do?”

“Why, I stood up and began wiping off the Madeira.”

“And Lady Crowley stood, too, didn’t she?”

“Yes. In fact, nearly everyone stood and came around the table to our assistance.”

“Nearly everyone, but not everyone.” Mrs. Marley had not leapt to her feet. Neither had Mr. Hereford. Knighton stepped over to where Lord Crowley had stood, pouring out brandy. “This is where he was, wasn’t it?” He glanced at Miss Barnard.

She sighed and then waved him back. “You’re too close. He sat on the other side of his mother. There was quite a large space between the two of them. Don’t you recall? He had to lean partially out of his seat to grab the slate when she placed it on the far side of her—on my side.” The touch of asperity in her voice indicated what she thought of Lord Crowley’s boorish maneuver.

Knighton moved a little further away. “Here?”

“Perhaps.”

He studied the distance between them. Lady Crowley had been between her son and Miss Barnard. And there was enough room between Lady Crowley and Miss Barnard for the maid to comfortably carry the tray between them with the intention of setting it on the table.

Mentally rehearsing the scene, Knighton acted out the parts of the maid and Lady Crowley, sure that his growing irritation indicated he’d forgotten something important.

“Do what you did last night,” he ordered Miss Barnard, impatiently glancing around the room.

Her eyes flicked heavenward briefly. A sigh escaped. Then she schooled her expression to one of patience. “Can’t you simply
pretend
I’m wiping wine from my skirts? This is utterly ludicrous.”

“Do you want to hang?”

“Are you trying to
prevent
me from doing so?”

“I’d like to discover the truth.”

“Ah, yes, the ultimate, eternal
Truth
. While I admire the
truth
as much as anyone, I can’t see how standing here brushing imaginary wine off my skirts is going to prove my innocence or grant you a glimpse of this truth you love so much.”

“But you
did
stand just there, didn’t you?”