Mists of Moorhead Manor Page 19

  I could not believe I’d said that. Those were the words of rebuttal one usually thought up in the wee hours of the morning, long after a confrontation was finished.

  Lady Daphne’s pose was so stiff she might well have joined the statue of David in the courtyard—except, I thought with grim satisfaction, she’d likely run screaming from his nakedness. “You are an encroaching schemer and a whore,” she declared roundly. “Leave this house now, or my papa will make sure you regret it.” With that she turned and flounced out.

  I had slumped down into my chair, my cheek still stinging from her slap, when one of the downstairs maids poked her head into the room. “Oh, miss, have you seen Megan—the lass come from Ireland last summer to help in the kitchen? She’s not been seen since last night, and Mr. Allard has set us to searching the house.”

  A shiver wracked me from head to toes. Again. It had happened again.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Once again, the Wetheringtons, the Tremaines, the Ridgeways, and all the men who worked for them, searched the moor, the cliffs, and every nook and cranny of manor houses, farm houses, cottages, and shepherds’ huts. There was no sign of Megan Flaherty. “A bog got her,” Kenrick pronounced on the evening of the second day after the Irish maid went missing. “There’s no other explanation.”

  “Or her body’s not yet cast up by the sea,” Huntley added, looking as glum as I’d ever seen him.

  Lord Hycliffe had called off the search at sunset, thanked all the men, and sent them home, allowing our own young men and Lord Norvelle to sit down with the family for a meal for the first time since the search was launched forty-eight hours earlier.

  Although the four young gentlemen at table had taken the time to wash and change, they looked tired and defeated, as did the footmen who were serving the food. They too had been part of the search.

  “Foolish girl to wander on the moor by herself,” Lady Rothbury declared with a sniff of disdain.

  “I doubt she was alone,” Kenrick muttered, adding to the heresy of discussing a delicate topic at the dining table. Perhaps the sheer gravity of the situation kept Lord Hycliffe from shutting down the conversation.

  “So much time wasted on a chit who’s likely run off with a lover,” Lady Daphne declared. “A great imposition. I cannot believe you made such a fuss about it.”

  Robert’s hand swung upright, palm out. “Allow me,” he rumbled over the sputtered protests echoing round the table. I clamped my jaw tight, well aware he had likely saved me from a major faux pas. Kenrick and Huntley could be forgiven for objecting to Lady Daphne’s insensitive remark. I could not.

  Exmere offered a brief summary of the deaths of the four young women over the past six months, a recital that left Lady Rothbury and her daughters speechless. As I tried very hard to tamp down an unworthy surge of satisfaction at their discomfort, a stray thought flicked through my mind. Lord Norvelle had been a guest at Moorhead Manor when three of the young women died. But what about Mary Perkins? Had he been present then?

  I suffered agonies through the rest of dinner, my thoughts refusing to relinquish this new, and fascinating, idea. I performed my role in the evening’s entertainment with all the mechanical precision of an automaton, fought against tapping my toe while Alice helped Vanessa into her nightclothes. Vanessa, whom I dared not question for she was far too astute, as were her brothers and Kenrick—none of whom would be pleased by my suspecting their friend of villainy. Allard? Mrs. Linnell? I sighed. They too would be quick to jump to conclusions.

  Dobbins? He too would understand why I asked, but he had proved my friend. He would not betray me.

  Since a visit to the stables at this hour was out of the question, I had to contain myself until morning. But I was down to breakfast just as the dishes were being laid out and off to the stables within a quarter of an hour, startling Dobbins no end when I charged through the door. Shaking his head, he picked up the curry brush he had dropped, and said, “Surprised me, miss. A bit misty for an early morning ride, isn’it?”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, offering my most winsome smile. “I’ve merely come to ask you a question.”

  Arms akimbo, he stared at me, not saying a word.

  “Did Lord Norvelle visit Moorhead Manor last spring?”

  Shrewd gray eyes regarded me from a face lined by close on fifty years of living. “Aye,” he said. “Comes here right often. Friends with Lord Exmere and Mr. Kenrick since they went off to school. Kept on comin’ even when m’lord was off t’the Peninsula. Oh aye,” he added, laying a finger to the side of his nose, “we all knowed he was in the thick of it. Reckon he was keepin’ an ear out for word of his mum while he was at it, but when he heard about Corunna, there was no keepin’ him home. Rarin’ to fight, he was, though never a peep out of him when he came back. More’n four years gone and come back as if he’d left but the day before.”

  I was so surprised by the taciturn Dobbins’s sudden spate of words, for a moment I could only stare. Finally, I said, rather inanely, “I am confident he served with distinction.” Question? I had a question that must be asked . . . Oh yes. I forced my mind away from visions of Robert moving stealthily through the mountains of Spain, a rifle on his back, pistol at the ready, a knife in his belt, another in his boot . . .

  I drew a deep breath, ordered my voice not to waver as I asked, “Was Lord Norvelle visiting when Mary Perkins was killed?”

  Dobbins rocked back on his heels, closed his eyes, and after a half minute of silence, said, “Aye, he was. I recall he was part of the search party.”

  I swallowed hard, my fists clenched at my sides. “Dobbins, I would very much appreciate it if you would forget we ever had this conversation.”

  “Aye, miss. Nothin’ to fear from me, but watch yourself. There’s evil here, and not where we’re lookin’, I’m thinkin’.”

  “Thank you.” Feeling more than a little rueful that he seemed to be warning me away from my suspicions, I headed back through the morning mist to the house. But I clung to my theory with stubborn intent. If Lord Norvelle had killed the girls, then Lord Hycliffe, Robert, Kenrick, Huntley, and David had not.

  I climbed the stairs to Vanessa’s apartment feeling rather pleased with myself. I even went so far as to picture the horror on Lady Daphne’s face when she discovered her brother had murdered four young women.

  Of course common sense came clanging back, making a mockery of my reasoning. Instead of turning left into Vanessa’s sitting room, I turned right into my own bedchamber, where I sank down on the windowseat and stared, unseeing, at the distant ocean.

  The heirs to British peers simply did not commit heinous crimes. It was unheard of, if for no other reason than that their lives were so cosseted they never felt the need to strike out in such a lethal manner. Nor could I picture Lord Norvelle involved in the deaths of Lady Hycliffe and Quenton Ridgeway. According to Dobbins, Norvelle might have been at Moorhead in the fall of 1809 when Lady Hycliffe disappeared, but I simply could not find a reason for the heir to a marquessate to kill his friend’s mother and her lover. It made no sense.

  Which did not exonerate him from killing the girls.

  My thoughts quickly spun back to Lady Hycliffe’s death. Robert was suffering, devastated by the certainty of his father’s guilt. If only I could find another explanation, someone else with a reason to kill the lovers . . .

  Why did people kill? I asked myself. There was the sanctioned murder of war—that I knew first hand, though I doubted I would ever be able to understand it.

  Love. Or more accurately, jealous rage. A mix of love, hatred, anguish, and fury could explode into uncontrollable violence.

  But what else . . .? I thought of all I had learned during over the years—in India, the Peninsula, London, and now Devon. Crime occurred everywhere, whether on the fringes of an army or on city streets. And yes, at the core of most deaths was money. It was likely, I conceded, that ten or twenty men died for gold to every lover’s quarrel that ended in
death.

  But where could money possibly enter into an affair between Lady Hycliffe and Quenton Ridgeway?

  My gaze was caught by Robert trotting toward the cliffs on Zeus. I suppose it was only my imagination, but he seemed less than his usual upright, jaunty self. How could he be otherwise? my inner voice whispered. He believes his father killed his mother. He has just blown up an entire hill to hide the evidence.

  I returned to my theories with renewed vigor. There had to be someone else. Another reason . . .

  Like my proposing Lord Norvelle as a villain. Clearly, I was grasping at straws—anything to turn blame from the Wetheringtons. But I suddenly recalled I’d been told that Quenton Ridgeway was a nabob, a term used to describe men who spent years abroad working for the East India Company, making their fortune by hook or by crook, and returning home in triumph to live in luxury for the rest of their lives.

  If nothing was heard from Quenton Ridgeway for seven years—if he never accessed any of the money tucked away in a bank somewhere—then Thomas Ridgeway, Senior, could have him declared dead and would inherit every last penny.

  Merciful heavens! Was it possible?

  I sprang to my feet, ready to run to the stables and follow Robert. I must tell him . . .

  My impulsive dash skidded to a halt. I was long overdue for my duties as companion. I was an employee, not a pampered daughter of the house. I had no business speculating about love, money, or murders, now or in the past. Heaving a sigh that might have been closer to a huff of disgust, I set off for my daily appointment with the fate of Odysseus and the long-suffering Penelope.

  That night I once again managed a few moments alone with Robert, my new theory tumbling out of my mouth like water over a fall of rocks. To my joy, Robert’s eyes lit up. Here at last was hope that his father was not a murderer. “I have a friend from school who went into banking,” he told me. “Perhaps he can discover where the nabob’s money is and how much there is of it.”

  “Surely money is a good motive for murder,” I offered eagerly.

  He laughed out loud and hugged me tight. “Oh yes indeed, a capital motive. Dear clever Penny.” And he kissed me long and hard.

  We lingered in the bookroom, I confess, with Robert somehow ending up in a roomy wingchair with me tucked up in his lap as close as a limpet. Until the click of a closing door roused us both with a shock as loud as the crack of a bullet.

  I tried to spring to my feet, but Robert held me down. “We can only hope that was Allard making his nightly rounds,” he said through narrowed lips. “Like all butlers, he is a grand keeper of secrets.”

  “And if it wasn’t?”

  He proffered one of the marvelous smiles that used to lighten his face on a daily basis but which I had not seen for some time. “We will cross that bridge when we come to it, Penny, my dear. No sense borrowing trouble where there is none.”

  “Perhaps it is just as well,” I murmured. “It’s past time I sought my bed.” And then, noting the wicked gleam in his eye, I realized how that remark might be interpreted and felt a hot blush stain my cheeks. “Horrid man,” I muttered, pulling away. I almost made it to my feet, but he caught my hand and pulled me back into a lingering kiss that totally frazzled my senses. He had to guide me out of the room and lead me to the stairs, where I must have sprouted wings and flown to my room as I later had no idea how I got there.

  Robert. Soulmate. Surely there had to be some a resolution lurking around the corner, merely reluctant to reveal itself . . .

  To whom? To a viscount playing games with his sister’s companion? Or solely to the foolish girl who chose to believe her love was returned?

  In truth, the resolution was obvious. Satisfaction for him, ruin for me.

  Nor were romantic games the only thing we played. We were adversaries in deadly games as well. Games that made happy endings highly doubtful. Games such as my mentioning my theory about Thomas Ridgeway but not a peep about Robert’s good friend, Lord Norvelle. The truth was, I had not wanted to spoil my love’s newfound hope that his father had not killed his mother. But now when all was quiet, when I could not shut out the quiet voice of reason, I wondered if withholding information had been wise. Quashing suspicion was, I feared, almost as insidious as concealing the bones in the cave—a guilt I feared would haunt me for the rest of my life.

  After readying myself for bed, I peeked through the window draperies, taking a last look at the swelling sea, marked tonight by a long streak of moonlight. So quiet. So coldly beautiful. Yet Evil lurked. I must never become so involved in the animosities and adversities aimed personally at me that I forgot there was something worse out there. One killer? Two? An evil host bent on destruction?

  Disgusted with my nightmare fantasies, I dropped the draperies back in place and climbed into bed. I had better things to think of, after all. I would treasure those minutes in the bookroom forever and ever. If only I had some way of knowing the depth of Robert’s sentiments . . .

  The very next day, as if recent disasters had doubled her determination to be whole, Vanessa took two steps from her bed to her chair, unaided. Her blue eyes shone, her lips quivered, and then tears fell. Not just hers, but Maud’s and mine as well. We had been struggling for some time now—practicing standing upright over and over, then to a few baby steps while she clung to the back of the chair. A step from Maud to me and back again, with each of us clasping tightly to her arms. But now . . .

  After her grand feat, Vanessa grabbed for her chair, sitting down with a thunk as her legs reverted to jelly. Maud and I staggered to the bed, where we too collapsed, overcome by the culmination of our efforts.

  Not that Vanessa didn’t have a long way to go, but it was happening, truly happening. Our efforts had not been in vain.

  Like a strike of lightning, reality obliterated my euphoria. Vanessa’s thinking had come full circle—from wishing to remain an invalid in order to keep David by her side to determining that their only hope lay in running away to the United States. But in my eagerness to help, I had led them astray. I had erred in my vision of their future as surely as I erred in my vision of me standing, shoulder to shoulder with Robert, greeting guests at the top of Moorhead’s grand staircase. Fantasy, pure fantasy.

  Vanessa emigrating to the former colonies, cooking, cleaning, doing without all the elegancies with which she had been raised? David and Vanessa living on love in the New World was nothing more than romantic folly. A fool’s vision of the future, the fool being me.

  Unless Lord Hycliffe could be persuaded to give them an allowance . . .

  Perhaps when the sun fell from the sky.

  What had I done?

  Surely David would have a solution. An enterprising young man, our Davy. Somehow he would find a way. After all, it was early days yet. Vanessa’s recovery still had a long ways to go. Time enough to find a solution. Robert’s words slid into my agitated thoughts. We will cross that bridge when we come to it.

  With that vague thought I would have to be content.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  The next day, shortly before Vanessa’s afternoon nap, a tap at the sitting room door heralded a footman with a message from Lord Hycliffe. As soon as my duties permitted, I was to attend him in his study. Somehow I kept my features calm, revealing none of my dread or alarm to Vanessa, David, and Maud. After all, why should they be subjected to my worry? To them this was merely a summons to one of the frequent reports I made to Lord Hycliffe on his daughter’s progress. Only I knew this conversation might well be quite different.

  Before descending to his study, I went to my room, neatened my hair, pinched color into my cheeks, and sent up a silent prayer for courage and the miraculous gift of not letting my unruly tongue run away with me or my all-too-speaking eyes reveal the slightest hint of condemnation.

  Lord Hycliffe looked older than the last time we spoke privately a bit more than a week ago—cheeks sunken, azure eyes dimmed to ice blue, more streaks of gray threaded through his hair. H
e half rose out of the seat behind his desk then collapsed back into it as if he could rise no farther. I admit to feeling a twinge of feminine compassion. He was, after all, Robert’s father and the pattern card for what Robert would look like at a similar age. Though I hoped Robert’s face would never show such lines of suffering.

  The silence lengthened as the earl studied me, his forehead wrinkled in a frown. I laced my fingers together in my lap and stared right back. “Tell me, Penny,” he said at last, “what do you know of the collapse of the hill behind the garden?”

  “My lord?” I widened my eyes, the very picture of incredulity.

  “Surely a young woman who has followed the drum is familiar with explosions?” he returned, never taking his eyes off my face. “And I am told you are familiar with the area, frequently walking in the garden even on the foggiest days.”

  Fortunately, the goosebumps on my arms were covered by the long sleeves of my gown. “I do, my lord, and consider myself most fortunate the hill did not collapse while I was sitting beneath it, though I am told there was little damage beyond the folly’s cracked roof.”

  Lord Hycliffe leaned forward, his features shifting from bland to shrewdly calculating. “You and my son are close, are you not?”

  “If you refer to Lord Exmere, my lord, we have ridden together on occasion. I find him pleasant company.”

  The earl snorted—an inelegant noise I can describe no other way. Ignoring my response, he continued, “Close to the point of confidences, I suspect. Or were you more intimately occupied on those rides?”

  “My lord!” Shivers chased up my spine, even as my inner voice screamed, Murderer! I had longed for a different solution—to the point of conjuring a venal motive for Thomas Ridgeway to kill his own brother. But now . . . now, suddenly, the idea of the Earl of Hycliffe killing his wife did not seem so far-fetched.

  One battle at a time. I thrust away that avenue of thought and tackled the problem of my defense. Head high, I declared, “I suspect Lady Rothbury has been whispering in your ear, my lord. She cannot like Lord Exmere casting an eye on anyone but Lady Daphne.”