Phoebe chuckled as she folded the legs of the easel together and tucked it beneath her arm. “I daresay needlepoint is sounding better and better by the minute. I only dread the comments from Grandmama. Though she admires my artwork, she thinks I should spend my time on my less proficient accomplishments.”

  “I imagine so.” I held out my hand, and Phoebe relinquished the easel. “Come along. We can face her together.”

  We hurried from the grove, side by side. However, steps away from the corner, I gave in to the urge to glance one last time at the row of conservatory windows. In a flash a dark figure melted out of sight. My heart sank. At some point someone had been there watching us.

  * * *

  Adrian pulled me aside later that morning, but I couldn’t bring myself to disclose my newfound questions about Phoebe. As a loving father, he’d leap to her defense, and I wasn’t even certain anything was amiss. I’d need far more information before broaching such a delicate topic. Instead I gladly agreed to visit the stables with him to see what we could turn up there concerning Giles—particularly if the Frenchman had help.

  The swirling mist still held Middlecrest firmly in its clutches. I was glad for Adrian’s strong arm as we crossed the drive. We followed the sweep of a treed path until he abruptly tugged me into the shadows. His voice was all business.

  “I wanted you to know that I questioned our prisoner this morning.”

  My eyes widened as I considered that Phoebe and I were in the grove at the same time. Perhaps Adrian was the figure I’d seen in the window. “And did you learn anything?”

  “He betrayed nothing regarding his journey into the house, but he did seem eager to tell me what I already knew—that he was on his way to France.”

  “So he was escaping Britain.”

  Adrian leaned against the trunk of a nearby tree. “Browning was certain of the man’s identity, and I believe our little French friend already knew that. I daresay he means for us to believe he might turn on his comrades and provide us with information—if I make it worth his while. But I don’t trust him at all.”

  I adjusted my shawl. “If he was on his way to the coast, why enter Middlecrest?”

  Adrian smiled. “Why indeed?”

  I arched my eyebrows. “To contact the person he’s working with in the house.”

  Adrian crossed his arms. “My thought exactly. As I said before, the murderer could not have got to Giles alone.”

  I paced in front of the tree, then stopped. “But the Frenchman did find a way into the kitchens. He could have done the same the day of the garden party and added the poison to the oil with no one the wiser.”

  “True, but there were a great many people in the kitchens that day. Hiding in a rarely used room is one thing. Overseeing the careful administration of the poison is another. Not to mention, no one else turned up dead.” He picked at a piece of bark. “I’m convinced they meant Giles’s death to look like an accident. If we hadn’t noticed his coloring looked strange and asked Browning to come to Middlecrest, we would have had no idea poison was used. After all, the inquest declared Giles’s accident the result of a sudden heart complaint.”

  I bit my lip. “And you are certain you trust Mrs. Jennings?”

  His arms fell to his sides. “I do admit she can be a trifle flighty at times and a good deal too sensitive for her own good, but yes. She has been with my family since Brook and I were in short coats.”

  I angled my chin. “Of course, that would mean something happened right under her very nose.”

  “Or in the stables.” He extended his arm. “Could Giles have been offered something right before his ride?”

  “And there’s still the question of where and why Giles fled the house for his night away. I’m not convinced it was to separate himself from Juliana for a day or two.”

  The sweet scent of hay filled my nose long before the face of the familiar clock tower peaked over the hedgerow. A grand two-story affair, Middlecrest’s stables boasted the convenience of a large archway, which permitted the easy entrance and departure of any sort of carriage. Adrian and I passed beneath it to access the central door.

  The main stone building was a long and wide structure with the coach house that finished off an elegant L shape. The sound of the stable door must have alerted Duff, the groom, who wandered out from the nearby tack room with a leather harness in his hand. His mouth fell open at the sight of us.

  “Your lordship, my lady. May I fetch you a horse?”

  “No, thank you. Her ladyship and I came to speak with Mead. Would you mind fetching him for me?”

  The young man nodded, then bowed, his lanky legs a bit unstable as he twisted to leave. “Mead’s upstairs in the coachman’s room. I’ll get him straightaway.”

  Adrian leaned down to my ear. “Mead is head groom here. He knows everything that goes on. If anything happened that morning in the stables, he’d be aware of it.”

  It was not long before I heard the pounding of footsteps on the stairs. A middle-aged man in brown trousers and a jacket marched down the narrow aisle between the cribs, giving a jovial greeting on approach. Adrian seemed pleased as well.

  The man’s smile lengthened as he took us in. “What can I help you with on this fine mornin’?”

  “Her ladyship and I have come hoping you might be able to shed some light on a few questions we have regarding the day Mr. Harris had his accident.”

  The warm smile faded from the older man’s face. “Such an unfortunate tragedy. And the man so young.”

  Adrian’s tone echoed that of the head groom. “If you would, think back on that morning. Do you remember seeing Mr. Harris?”

  Mead rubbed his chin. “Indeed, I do. Passed his horse straight into his hands myself that very day. He was late, you see, and I waited for him with Mr. Hawkins.”

  I couldn’t help but pipe up. “Mr. Hawkins?”

  Mead cast me a quick glance. “The two gentlemen spoke to one another before mounting their horses and departing the courtyard.”

  I went on. “Did Mr. Harris seem different to you in any way?”

  Mead shook his head. “Couldn’t rightly say. Didn’t know the gentleman. Only spoke briefly with him once before, a few days prior. He seemed natural enough to me.”

  I stepped forward. “A few days prior? Was that the night he left the estate?”

  “’Twas.”

  Adrian met my gaze for a moment, then turned back to the groom. “Did he happen to mention where he was going or why?”

  “Not to me he didn’t, but if I remember right, he did have a coze with young Johnny.” Mead turned and shouted across the aisle. A boy popped out of the far crib, a look of concern across his face. Mead motioned him over. “Easy now, lad. All you need to do is tell his lordship what the gentleman said to you the night he left the estate.”

  The boy crept forward, his hat in his hand. When he was near enough, Mead thumped him on the back. “Get on with ya. Don’t keep his lordship waiting.”

  The boy’s big eyes tipped up to mine almost in pleading. “Pardon me, your ladyship, your lordship. All he said was he didn’t know when he’d be back. He asked me where he might stay in Reedwick.”

  “Did you happen to recommend the Rose Inn?”

  He smiled. “I did. Me pa is an ostler there.”

  I knelt to the boy’s level. “And did the gentleman mention why he meant to visit there?”

  Johnny scrunched his lips, the dirt on his face creasing into lines. “The gen’lman did mumble somethin’ before he left.”

  “And what was that?”

  A sheepish look overtook his face until he tilted his chin up to Adrian.

  “He told me to always listen to me rector.”

  Chapter 18

  “What about a poem for our new mama, Ewan?” Juliana smiled from across the drawing room rug, but there was an inquisitive curve to her lips that I couldn’t like. “She must not be left out of all the fun. Besides, she is not that much older than the two of us.”

  I’d been paying little attention to Ewan Hawkins’s silly recitations and Phoebe’s prattling, but my ears perked up at the mention of my new name. Juliana probably meant to fluster me with such a ridiculous declaration, but I was not so easily overset.

  “You are a poet, Mr. Hawkins?”

  Phoebe bounced where she sat on the drawing room sofa and clapped her hands. “Oh, yes! Yes, indeed. Ewan is so good at describing us. His poem for Juliana has grown to seven stanzas over the past few weeks. ‘The Determined Swan’ is most definitely my favorite. See, look how she blushes.”

  Juliana turned to the window as Mrs. Ayles rapped her cane on the floor and grunted beneath her breath. Clearly the self-appointed matriarch had little use for Ewan’s artistry. Earlier in the evening she’d perched herself in a large winged chair near the fire, her back straight as a board, her eyes cunningly sharp as they took in the room.

  She had chosen to wrangle Middlecrest’s dwindling group of people into the drawing room following dinner. Since Giles’s death she’d encouraged just the opposite, and I wondered what prompted her to push for us to be together now.

  Initially I too fought the idea of any sort of evening entertainment, worrying it might put undue stress on Juliana, but she had blossomed amid an evening of conversation, particularly with Ewan Hawkins right beside her. Perhaps I had been wrong to agree to the isolation. Time in the drawing room also afforded me the perfect opportunity to observe the family at their leisure. Beyond everything else, the murderer could very well be in this room, and I was determined to fish him out.

  I began to gracefully refuse Juliana’s little suggestion and relieve Ewan of the awkward moment when Mrs. Ayles startled me into silence with a tight-lipped, “Well this should be entertaining,” under her breath.

  I don’t know what I expected her to say, only it wasn’t that. I took a sip of tea to hide my surprise.

  No doubt sensing my discomposure, Ewan dutifully crossed the room and stopped a few feet in front of me, his eyes narrow, his gaze direct. “But can I do her justice?”

  Adrian, who’d kept quiet throughout the exchange, cleared his throat, the hint of a laugh christening his words. “I highly doubt it—as far as your talents are concerned. She’s beyond poetry.” He flicked his wrist before resting his arm on the mantel. It was a subtle movement few would notice, but I did.

  I forced myself once again to join the act. “Thank you, darling.”

  Ewan made a production of kneeling on the carpet for his performance, but Adrian walked over and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Any poetry for my wife will most assuredly be composed by me.”

  Great. More playacting. I wanted to melt into the sofa.

  Phoebe clapped. “How romantic.”

  Then the room fell silent as Adrian knelt and took my hand in his, his gaze so terribly astute. It was all I could do not to look away, to sit so very still, to allow my heart free rein.

  He raised his chin.

  “Beauty of the rarest form,

  Hair like a golden flame;

  A man could bear most anything

  If she would but speak his name.

  So call to me, my angel,

  Quench my never-ending thirst.

  Yet a captured heart can be a fickle demon,

  The highest pleasure, the deepest curse.”

  His words descended onto the room like the start of a summer rain—sudden, interesting, and wholly unexpected. What did he mean by such a poem? My hand grew cold in his grasp, but I leaned forward with a forced smile.

  “That was quite beautiful.”

  Phoebe stood. “It was nice, but not at all like Byron. What do you mean by a curse, Papa?”

  Adrian laughed as he rose to meet her. “My dear, what would I do without your levelheaded assessments of my artistry?” Then he turned back to me, adding almost absently, “I suppose love can be a curse if it’s unwanted, unrequited, or unattainable. Thank goodness that is not the case with your new mama.” He flashed me a brilliant smile, one I could almost believe, but my heart whispered caution.

  Phoebe swept past me on her way to the seat in the bow window, her earlier enthusiasm stripped away. “I don’t want to think any more about curses. Perhaps someone would play a song on the pianoforte?” Her eyes looked different as she gazed back into the room. “Juliana? You are far better than I am.”

  Juliana shook her head. “I don’t believe I shall ever feel the desire to play again.”

  Mrs. Ayles wrapped the floor with her cane, rumbling out a quick, “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re still young. The end of your story has not yet been written. Mark my words, your head will be turned again. All this foolishness. Death is not the end, my dear.”

  Ewan circled behind Juliana, running his finger along the back of the sofa. “Grandmama speaks the truth. Come along, Ju, I would love to hear you play.”

  Ju?

  Juliana hesitated to stand, but who could refuse Ewan anything? He possessed such a friendly nature and kind eyes. But was it all a performance?

  Juliana capitulated and took a seat at the pianoforte, rolling through a scale before securing some sheet music.

  She chose a beautiful song, but a sad one, the melody built on emotion but incomplete, like a leaky dam driving the listener ever forward to what could only be a bitter end. I fought back the tears I’d kept firmly in place since my arrival.

  Phoebe seemed to be fighting the same sentiment as she let out another pointed sigh. I watched as she stroked the edge of the drapes. Such a wild turn of emotions over the course of one evening. Happiness at a silly poem then sudden despondence. Was this becoming a pattern? Something was eating at her, and I didn’t like it.

  The settee inched forward as Adrian rested his hands behind me at the back. I hadn’t heard him return to my side of the room. He leaned down near my ear as if to share a pleasant secret, but his words startled me. “I cannot help but wonder what you are thinking.”

  His whisper tickled my neck. Unsure how to respond, I allowed Juliana’s poignant melody to fill the space between us for a moment.

  “Nothing exceptional, I assure you. I was only pondering the composer of this song. Whoever wrote such a haunting melody must certainly have loved and lost. Such feeling cannot be created without depth of experience.”

  He considered his answer. “Mozart did lose his mother, whom he was quite close to.”

  “That is not what I meant.”

  I glanced up over my shoulder. He returned a smile.

  “And I think you knew that.”

  He motioned with his chin toward the pianoforte just as Ewan reached over Juliana’s shoulder to turn the page for her. “What do you make of this?”

  “I am glad she chose to play.” I shrugged. “Rest assured, I have found Juliana to be a strong and shrewd young lady who means to be quite careful before she allows any man to touch her heart again.”

  His voice held a hint of surprise. “Yes, well, Ewan is not one of her suitors. I have no concerns there.” His gaze clouded as he focused on the far wall. “But if he was, you make it sound as if love is simply a choice. That Juliana could squelch such emotion at will.” He took a quick breath. “I suppose I’m glad to know there are those who possess the power to do so.” He pushed away before crossing the carpet to join Mrs. Ayles by the fire.

  My chest felt heavy as I considered his words. We were talking of Juliana and Ewan, right? Not something far more complicated—something he told me was not a part of our arrangement. Yet how could I deny the hint of emotion lurking behind such a hasty withdrawal?

  The truth was I couldn’t . . . because against my better judgment and completely out of my control, I felt something too. Adrian and I had come to a crossroads in our marriage, and it seemed neither of us knew the best course to take.

  * * *

  My confusion over Adrian’s behavior followed me upstairs for the night, even as I stopped by the nursery. Miss Barton couldn’t help but pepper me with questions about the family that I loathed to answer mainly because I didn’t know what to say. I found Juliana still grieving, Phoebe distracted, and Adrian a far cry from the man I once believed him to be.

  She must have suspected my duplicity in regard to my husband as she flashed me a keen smile. “His lordship is so very kind.”

  I pursed my lips. “I see he has won you over.”

  A blush tore across her cheeks and she dipped her head to smooth out her skirt. “I will admit, he cuts a rather dashing figure when he comes to see Isaac. The two of you make a fine pair.”

  I didn’t know why her casual remark about Adrian visiting the nursery panicked me as quickly as it did. Isaac was indeed under his protection, but why had he taken such an interest in him? My muscles twitched.

  “Lord Torrington comes here often?”

  “Most mornings I ’spect. Isaac crawls right up to him now. They’ve become great friends.”

  “Oh.” I looked away, hoping I’d not betrayed my unease. Adrian and I were supposed to be in love. Why wouldn’t I want him to be around my son? If only Brook wasn’t Isaac’s father, everything would be different. I changed the subject as quickly as I could.

  “Has the missing blanket turned up? Or the rattle?”

  She shook her head. “No sign at all. I’m beginning to worry we might never find them.”

  “They do seem to have vanished.”

  Miss Barton motioned to the adjoining room. “Poor little dear, he cried himself to sleep once again tonight.”

  “Which only breaks my heart. Do you think someone like Mrs. Ayles might have dispensed of the items on purpose?”

  “Oh dear. You don’t think?” A flame lit her tone. “I wouldn’t put it past that odious woman. She’s had nothing but ill words for Isaac. But rest assured, whatever happened, our little man will find his way past the loss soon enough. A few more nights and the blanket shall be forgotten completely. Trust me. He’s young. He’ll forget it in due course.”

  “I hope you’re right. There is really nothing to be done.” I squeezed her fingers, thankful for their strength. “I shall leave you to rest.”

 

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