To Wed an Heiress (16 page)

Lady Anglesford rang for the footman, and within a few moments, Henry was escorting Jacob Pevensey upstairs to the mistress of the house’s sitting room. As their footsteps sounded in the hallway, Lady Anglesford pulled her lap rug up about her like an invalid, and Torin jumped to his feet and stood—arms crossed—behind the sofa where she was reclining.

“Thank you for agreeing to see me, Lady Anglesford,” said Pevensey, after the footman had been dismissed with a nod. “I was hoping to speak with you alone….” He turned a questioning glance at Torin.

“My mother is not at all well,” replied Torin, “and I will be here to support her while you ask your questions. Please, keep it brief.”

Pevensey tried to hide his smile. This young man was contorting his face into such a serious expression. It would have been a far different matter if his brother, the broad-shouldered earl, had adopted this stance, but as it was, the youth was more amusing than imposing.

“As you wish, my lord,” said Pevensey, purposely giving the young man a title that did not belong to him.

He wondered which brother the late earl had most resembled, the blond giant or the dark philosopher. The younger brother had a temper that was always smoldering, while the current earl seemed far more placid—indeed, Harold Emison almost seemed content to let others direct the part he played in this life.

But at the same time, there was also the glimmer of something more, some force that had awoken within him and given tongue two days ago when he had thundered an unequivocal denial to William Hastings and broken off the engagement to his daughter.

Was it also a force strong enough and angry enough to extinguish a life that stood in the way of his desires? Of that, Jacob Pevensey was not yet sure.

***

Pevensey had brought his notebook with him when he went to interview Lady Anglesford, but the story the lady of the house told him took him so much by surprise that his mouth fell open and his sketchbook fell closed.

“Let me make certain I understand you,” Pevensey had said. “You were in the drawing room with your younger son
and
with Miss Swanycke all morning?”

“Yes, that is what I said,” replied Lady Anglesford, her pale blue eyes blinking innocently.

“And what was Miss Swanycke doing in the drawing room all this time?”

“Sketching,” said Torin promptly. “That’s what she’s always doing.”

Pevensey raked a hand through his bright red hair. He would have given half a crown to have had this conversation with Lady Anglesford unchaperoned.

“I am sorry, Mr. Emison”—he tried to maintain a smile—“but I don’t remember you mentioning that Miss Swanycke was in the drawing room.”

“I daresay it’s because she was sitting over in the window seat and keeping quiet while I was on the sofa keeping Mama company.” Torin smirked as if he had just said something extremely clever. Pevensey, on the other hand, thought that this attempt to bamboozle him was rather feeble.

“And did Miss Swanycke leave the drawing room at any time?”

“Not that I recall,” said Lady Anglesford. “I believe she was with us when we heard the alarm raised and then learned the dreadful news.”

Pevensey stared, not knowing whether to be amused or incensed. This dowager countess was serving him one bouncer after another. Why would she feel the need to lie to protect her niece? Was she suspicious that Eda had been involved in the murder?

“Since we are on the subject of Miss Swanycke, could you tell me what transpired between her and Miss Hastings after dinner on the evening before the tragedy?”

“Something transpired?”

“According to your servants, yes.”

“I am not accustomed to listening to the tittle-tattle of servants—I can’t think what on earth you could mean.”

“Very well then,” Pevensey said, deciding to take a different tack. He peeled off the mask of charm that had done such wonders with the downstairs staff. “I have just one further question for you. Have you any proof that would contradict the prevailing notion that your elder son quarreled with Miss Hastings at the pond and strangled her in a fit of rage?”

The countess gave an inarticulate squeak. She reached for her bottle of hartshorn. “You are offensive, sir! What further proof could you need other than his proven character and position as a gentleman and peer of the realm!”

“What further proof indeed?” echoed Pevensey with a smile.

Later, after Torin had barked at him to leave Lady Anglesford’s sitting room, he had drawn the scene, the dowager countess sitting tensed on the sofa looking ready to cast aside her lap rug at any minute and hurl her bottle of hartshorn, like a gauntlet, at his face. As he sketched, a broad smile nearly split his freckled face in two. He’d wager that the story of the countess’ invalid state was as accurate as the story about Eda Swanycke sketching away the morning while her rival plunged to the depths of an icy pond. And since the countess had made a point of lying, he would have to make a point of finding out why.

I
t had been two days since Arabella Hastings’ death, and Eda had assumed that the shock and rage displayed by the victim’s father would have dissipated by now into a quieter sort of grief. It was with great surprise, however, that she heard shouting and falling objects coming from behind the closed door of the room that had belonged to Arabella.

“What on earth is going on, Garth?” she asked Haro’s valet, who had also heard the noise and had stopped polishing his lordship’s Hessians to come out into the hallway and listen.

“It sounds as if Mr. Hastings is ringing a fine peal in there.”

“Over whom? Is that a woman’s voice?”

“Aye. That’ll be Mademoiselle Mathilde, she who was lady’s maid to Miss Hastings.”

“Good lord! How on earth can he treat her so? I wonder if I should intervene.”

“I suspect Mr. Hastings’ outrage is not without reason,” said Garth carefully. Apparently, he had eavesdropped for longer than Eda had and knew some of the particulars of the row.

“Has the lady’s maid done something wrong?”

“Well—”

The screeching grew louder, and Eda, signaling to Garth to keep quiet, tiptoed over to the door and placed her ear against the panel.

“She meant for me to have them!” said the woman’s voice. “It is a standard arrangement between a lady and her lady’s maid.”

“Rubbish!” shouted Hastings, and a few worse things besides. “You’ll put everything you took back in the trunks, you thieving hussy.”

“
Mon dieu!
I am
not
a thief!”

Garth had tiptoed over to the door also, and he and Eda looked at one another with raised eyebrows.

“Quiet! And as soon as you replace the items, I want you gone from this house!”

“What? Where will I go?”

“Why should I care?”

“I served your daughter well for these three years and more. Will you at least write me a good character?”

“Absolutely not! You’re lucky I don’t send for the village constable.”

“Very well, monsieur,” said the Frenchwoman, but not in a tone of defeat. “I will give you back the gifts mademoiselle made to me, but I warn you! I will keep none of your secrets any longer—neither yours nor hers.”

“I hardly think any of those secrets matter any longer!” barked Hastings.

“We shall see!” the French maid spat back.

Garth took hold of Eda’s arm and pulled her away from the door, a familiarity for which she soon forgave him as she heard the heavy thud of William Hastings’ footsteps coming towards them. Any minute now and the door handle would turn and he would be upon them. The valet jerked his head towards a nearby linen closet that he had left ajar earlier while going about his duties. It did not take Eda more than an instant to act on his suggestion, and quickly and silently as a pair of cats, the two of them slipped into the small space afforded by the towels and tablecloths.

The chamber door opened with an angry rattle and shut again with a bang. Eda could well imagine William Hastings’ red face as he stomped by their hiding place. She was no coward, as earlier events had amply proved, but she exhaled in mild relief that she would not have to encounter him.

Once the mill owner had disappeared, the strangeness of their situation dawned on Eda and the valet. As they started to extricate themselves from the linen closet, Garth let loose a volley of apologies.

“Thank you, Garth,” said Eda primly, but with a twinkle in her eyes. “I wonder what his lordship would say if he saw us now?”

Garth grinned, smile lines rippling all the way to his graying sideburns. “No wondering about it, miss. ’Tis certain he’d have my head.”

***

After his perplexing interview with the countess, Pevensey determined that he would move outside the Emison family circle for the moment. He would have to press Miss Swanycke on the question of her whereabouts at some future point, and he had yet to hear the story of the eventful day from the earl’s own mouth—but despite this, he decided to cast his net wider and interview some of the humbler actors in this tragedy. He could think of two, the architect and the female companion, that still merited his attention.

He had already heard much to interest him in the architect, and he secured the first footman’s assistance in bringing Philippe Bayeux the message that his presence was desired.

The Frenchman, when he came into the drawing room, was sober, but from the way that he rubbed his head and squinted his eyes, it looked as if it had taken him a great deal of forbearance to be so. Pevensey’s freckled face gave a disarming smile. “Jacob Pevensey, at your service—up from the magistrates’ office in London to look into these sad events.”

The architect only grunted.

“Could you enlighten me as to why you are here at Woldwick?”

“Could I sit down first?”

“Oh, I beg your pardon, of course!” Pevensey gestured to an armchair as if the spacious drawing room belonged to him. As Bayeux collapsed into the cushioned seat, Pevensey sat down circumspectly in the armchair opposite and crossed one leg over the other. “Are you here as a guest?”

Bayeux gave a short laugh—bitter and far too ugly for a man with such sculpted features. “A guest?
Mais non
. Are
you
?”

“Not of his lordship’s, no,” said Pevensey smoothly. “Someone else invited me. Perhaps someone else invited you as well?”

“Yes. The Hastings did. I’m an architect. I was to look at making some renovations to this…relic.” He looked at the corniced ceiling with a sneer.

“And just to be specific,” said Pevensey, unable to resist pulling out his sketchbook and beginning on the Frenchman’s aquiline nose, “
which
of the Hastings invited you?”

There was a pause.

“Miss Hastings.”

“Ah.” Pevensey allowed that monosyllable to hover for a while in the air, pregnant with indeterminate meaning. “How did you become acquainted with Miss Hastings?”

“Through her father. I designed his home and some other projects that he had invested in.”

“Did you ever encounter Miss Hastings in society?” Pevensey had started shading in Philippe Bayeux’s dark eyebrows. They were perfectly shaped, like the rest of his face, but strangely inert. Pevensey had the impression that their lack of motion—no matter what Bayeux said—was due to a concerted effort on the Frenchman’s part to eliminate all emotion from his face.

Bayeux shrugged. “I think I may have danced with her a few times at assemblies or balls.”

“Ah.” There was that monosyllable again. “And was there anything…romantic between the two of you?”

“Just what are you suggesting, monsieur?”

Pevensey dropped his pencil to the floor, on purpose, and bent down to retrieve it. Clearly, Miss Swanycke was correct—there
had
been some sort of attraction between the architect and the mill owner’s daughter. Why else would he take such umbrage at the question? And yet, Bayeux was French, Pevensey reminded himself, and in his experience the French were able to take umbrage at even the most innocuous question or statement.

Pencil back in hand, Pevensey changed his tack. “And so Miss Hastings invited you here to renovate the house?”

“I have already told you as much.”

“And had you finished drawing up plans for these renovations?”

“Yes, I had. The whole face of the building was to be modernized and some of the interior as well. I had also investigated the availability of local stone so that the project might begin in the springtime.” Bayeux seemed more animated now, interested in his work instead of irritable.

“And the morning of the sad event—I understand you left the house on horseback?”

“Yes, I went into the village to see the stonemason. There is a quarry near here, and he showed me the granite and limestone he could come by easily.”

“At what time did you leave Woldwick?”

“Half past seven.”

Pevensey noted that this time sorted well with the groom’s remembrance of when Bayeux had departed. He also noted that Bayeux was the only person so far who seemed to have any cognizance of the clock on the day in question.

“How long did it take you to ride to the village?”

“Forty minutes.”

Again, the architect showed no doubt. Pevensey wondered if the precision was due to his profession or to something else. “So that puts you at the stone mason’s at ten past eight—”

“No. I went first to the tavern and had some breakfast.”

“Which tavern?”

“The only one in existence in this grand metropolis. I don’t recall the name.”

“And after breakfasting, you saw the stonemason at…?”

“Nine o’clock.”

“Had you an appointment?”

“
Oui
.”

It was refreshing to hear someone chronicle his movements so exactly, but Pevensey was well-versed enough in the study of mankind to know that precision did not always equal veracity.

***

Waiting, waiting, still waiting—Haro looked at the time and realized that tea was still several hours off. He wondered if Eda was still sitting with his mother. He paced before the tall windows in the billiards room. How did he normally pass the time when in the country? He could not, for the life of him, remember.

Reading? He flipped through the pages of a book and then tossed it away just as quickly. No, that was Torin’s province.

Drinking? He eyed the closed door of the liquor cabinet. No, he was of no mind to play the sot like that bosky Frenchman.

Filtering through the cherry wood paneling and the white wainscoting, he heard a few bars of music. Not Beethoven, not Mozart, he thought, but something far older—an intricate sinfonia in three parts written for the harpsichord a century ago.

Haro strode out of the billiards room and went to the music room, across the broad landing. He slipped through one of the double doors and stepped quietly into the room.

No sooner had the earl’s soundless footsteps touched the parquet floor than the music halted on the leading tone of a scale passage.

“Haro, my boy?” asked the piano player, his back towards the intruder. He must have had ears like a rabbit’s.

“Yes,” said Haro, glimpsing the white hair of his great-uncle with a surge of disappointment. “I thought perhaps it was Eda on the pianoforte….”

The old man played the final tone of the scale, then swung his legs around spryly and rose from the bench. “You don’t know your music, lad, if you think Eda would play that.” He gestured to the keys that had just been put through the sinfonia’s paces. His eyes caught Haro’s. “Either that, or you don’t know your cousin.”

“Oh?” Haro walked over to the instrument and ran a hand over the polished wood. “Enlighten me. What would Eda play?”

“This,” said Uncle Haro. He sat down again and began to play a sarabande—slow, stately, and full of minor chords.

“Or this.” He played something much faster, lighter, and brighter, one of Beethoven’s more exuberant creations, but still with the same grandeur of the sarabande.

Haro began to smile. He could well imagine those chords coming from Eda’s fingers. She had an innate understanding of depth, of dignity, of ceremony. But at the same time, she had a vivacity that would never sleep, a tempestuousness that would challenge and change whatever it came across. She would be the perfect queen but also the perfect consort.

“Did your Miss Hastings play?”

Haro’s smile died on his lips. “I…don’t know.”

He did not want to think about Arabella. She had certainly never played while at Woldwick. He imagined that she knew enough about the pianoforte to pass herself off as accomplished. Her father’s money had doubtless procured any necessary tutelage.

But he doubted that she had played music with her heart, the way Eda played it—or that she had drawn pictures as a quest for creating life, the way Eda did. For Eda, these things were not just accomplishments to be learned and paraded before admirers, but a part of herself.

The only time Haro had heard Arabella passionate about a subject was when discussing the architecture—or the revamping of the architecture—of Woldwick. On that cold day, walking back from the pond, she and Philippe Bayeux had gabbled on and on about the components of the building. Haro had been jealous then. Now he was simply perplexed.

“I beg pardon for disturbing your music, Uncle,” said the earl. He stepped out of the music room into the hallway and closed the door.

If the architect had been able to strike that chord in her that brought the soul to life, it should have been
his
name in the banns beside hers, not Haro’s. Eda had said the architect had a tendre for Arabella. Haro wondered if Arabella had returned the feeling. And if so, was the engagement as much of a burden for her as it had been for Haro? Would Arabella have been as relieved as he was if he had found her that morning alive and called off the match?