Accomplished In Murder

By Dara England

Smashwords Edition Copyright © 2011 Dara England

Edited by Lauren Dee

Cover art by Dara England

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Excepting brief review quotes, this book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the copyright holder. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, real events, locations, or organizations is purely coincidental.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Accomplished In Murder is the first in a series of historical mystery novelettes featuring intrepid Victorian heroines up to their bustles in crime. These works are only loosely connected and can be read in any order.

DEDICATION

This work is for Mom and Dad, with whom I have enjoyed many a fictional murder.

Chapter One

Near the village of Morcastle, off the coast of Cornwall

Celeste’s delicate boots sank deep into the muddy earth. Her hair was mussed by the wind, her hem dampened by the dew-soaked weeds creeping over the cemetery path.

Still, she felt freer now than she had in a long time. Anything was better than being cooped up in the big house with Absalom and his horrid family. Not even the distant rumble of thunder and the wind’s promise of a coming storm deterred her resolve to seek solitude in the ancient cemetery.

Such a strange place this was to bury one’s dead. Not a church in sight, not even a wrought iron fence to keep out the wild animals and other unwanted visitors.

As she wandered among the tombstones, Celeste shivered, suspecting she was one of those unwelcome trespassers. She wasn’t of the family after all, except by marriage. Might the dead resent her intrusion? What an odd notion. But then one got strange ideas after spending enough time among the locals here. They were a superstitious lot, these Cornish.

As she walked deeper into the graveyard, she was struck by the stark contrast between the rough, stone markers standing side by side with intricately carved marble angels and crosses. Here was proof of the contrasting affluence and decline the family had experienced over the centuries.

They were suffering through one of those periods of deterioration now, as was evidenced by the overgrown condition of the rambling burial ground.

She had no sooner had the thought than a sudden wave of dizziness washed over her.

Stopping, she sank down onto an elaborately carved bench beneath the shadow of an ancient mausoleum. The bench was shaped like a pair of intertwined angels’ wings and an inscription across the seat listed the birth date and death of some past ancestor’s “Beloved Child.”

Celeste forced her mind to happier thoughts. She was far too inclined to brood these days.

Resting her palm against her as yet flat belly, she thought of her recent suspicion, one she had yet to share with her husband. She had no wish to disappoint him should her hopes prove false. Absalom could prove nasty when disappointed.

A soft rustling nearby broke into her thoughts. Over in the stand of trees lining the cemetery something large was moving behind the screen of leaves and branches. What was it? Perhaps there was a wild animal hiding in the gloom, watching her.

Even as her heart beat faster, she told herself the reaction was ridiculous. Most likely it was only a gentle deer cowering in the thicket. Or possibly a goat had escaped one of the neighboring farms and strayed onto the landlord’s property.

Nevertheless, she could not stop her thoughts from returning to other similar occasions over these past few weeks where she had felt watched by hidden eyes. It was never anything she could prove, never anything more than the tread of soft footsteps trailing her down lonely halls of the great house. The whisper of a cloak disappearing around the corner whenever she turned to look back.

But she was not imagining these incidents. Someone had begun following her with secret, possibly evil, intentions. And it might be that same someone watching her now.

Suddenly the graveyard seemed a less safe place.

Her dizziness had passed now. Even if it hadn’t, she would not have lingered here. Unease spurring her on, Celeste abandoned her seat and hurried along the path that would return her to Blackridge House.

Chapter Two

Hanover Square, London

Drucilla Winterbourne rapped softly at the closed door of her brother’s study and didn’t await permission to enter before letting herself into the enveloping warmth of the inner room. A lively blaze crackled in the fireplace and a stream of pale sunlight slanted through the window to fall across Edwin, seated in a familiar pose. Ensconced behind his mahogany desk, he was all but concealed behind a wall of precariously stacked papers.

Seating herself daintily on the edge of a plump armchair opposite him, Drucilla heaved a delicate sigh.

There was no response from her brother.

Her next sigh was a little more pronounced.

Edwin never glanced up from his work. “I suppose I am expected to ask to what do I owe the pleasure of this interruption?”

She ignored his irritable manner. “I have had a letter from Celeste.” She took her time withdrawing the rumpled missive from her pocket and offering it to him.

His curiosity did not seem piqued so she added, “She sounds rather distraught.”

“Distraught?” He did not go so far as to set aside his work, but at least he lowered it.

“Well, perhaps I put it too strongly. But I know Celeste, and there is definitely an anxious undercurrent to her message. She has returned from her marriage trip and settled into her new home in Morcastle. Now she asks for my company.”

“Why? Is she unwell?” Despite himself, her brother displayed concern. Drucilla knew he was fond of her girlhood friend. Celeste had spent so much time in their home she was practically a fixture of the house. Drucilla privately suspected Edwin had even entertained notions of offering for her hand. But that had never happened. Instead, Celeste stunned everyone this last year by suddenly choosing to marry a wealthy gentleman with a country estate in Cornwall.

Taking pity on Edwin, Drucilla assured him, “Of course she is well. I’m sure she is enjoying more sunshine and fresh air than either of us have seen for a season.”

Edwin’s relief turned to annoyance. “Then what is so urgent it couldn’t wait until tea?”

“Kindly allow me to finish, dear brother, and you shall find out. Celeste certainly sounds to be in good health, but there is something troubling her. I suspect it may have to do with her new husband or his family. She did not name the problem in so many words, of course, but it is clear she is most…anxious.”

Deep unease stirred within her as she remembered a particular passage from the letter.

Please come to me, dearest Cilla. I shall feel safe with you near.

Safe. Such an odd choice of words. Drucilla suppressed a shiver but did not quote the passage to Edwin, for she felt that would be a betrayal of Celeste’s confidence. Besides, the hint of danger it suggested would disturb her brother and run counter to her purpose.

Already, Edwin was frowning as he assumed a lecturing tone. “Other people’s marital bliss, or lack of it, is their own affair, Drucilla. I’m sure you are reading too much into this. There was probably some little kerfuffle between Celeste and her husband. She penned an agitated letter to you and forgot the matter soon after posting it. The married state is made up of such tempests in teapots.”

As if you would know. She refrained from speaking the words aloud and smoothed her skirts instead. “If you say so, dearest.”

She was always most outwardly docile when inwardly determined to dig in her heels. She knew by her brother’s narrowed eyes he was aware of the meaning behind her soft words and careful rearrangement of silk.

His forehead creased and he tried reasoning with her next, as she had known he would. “Even given there was truly some problem with Celeste’s new family, I fail to see what you expect me to do about it.”

“What I expect of you is precisely nothing. I simply came down to inform you of my plans to depart for Cornwall before the week is out. Celeste needs my support. I’ve set one of the maids to packing my things now and sent a footman out to check the train schedule.”

Edwin rubbed wearily at his high forehead, suddenly looking older than his years.

Drucilla tilted her head to one side to consider his unfortunate pallor in the grey light filtering through the window. He spent far too little time enjoying himself out of doors, she decided, and expended too much energy dabbling in politics. But apart from his paleness and the faint rings beneath his green eyes, he remained a fine looking man. His wavy golden hair was the opposite of her own dull, black mane and he had inherited the soft, narrow features of their deceased mother, whereas Drucilla carried the angular jaw and sharp nose of their father. Despite his having absconded with the lion’s share of physical virtues in the family, she was rather proud of him.

But in this case she could not allow him his way.

She said, “Would you please cease fussing over everything that might go wrong and instead set that marvelous mind of yours to work at aiding me with my travel arrangements? I mean to be away in a day’s time.”

“Impossible. You know I cannot get away so quickly.”

She smiled innocently. “But of course. I would never ask you to abandon your work. I shall manage quite well enough making the journey on my own. Naturally, I shall bring Aunt Bridget along so that all will look well and proper. I have already sent word to her of the impending journey and am certain she is looking forward to it. You would not deprive an elderly lady of a holiday to the coast, would you?”

By bringing Aunt Bridget into the plan she had managed to trap him and he knew it. That much was clear by his silence and doleful expression.

“I suppose,” he said after a long stretch of quiet, “the fresh air on the coast would do you both good.”

Drucilla smiled softly. “As you say, dear brother. I shall remove myself from town as quickly as possible.”

She quitted her seat to lean over the desk and offer him a quick peck on the cheek. For all his pomposity, he was still her only immediate family.

“You needn’t worry about me while I am away,” she said. “I vow I shall be prudence itself.”

“I very much doubt that,” he said.

She ignored his sarcasm and scurried from the room, her mind already leaping ahead to preparations for the journey.

Despite the ominous tone of Celeste’s letter, Drucilla was rather excited at the prospect of traveling to Cornwall. Whatever troubles loomed over her friend in Blackridge House, she would somehow smooth them away.

Chapter Three

Blackridge House, Cornwall

Celeste shivered as the wind cut through her hastily donned shawl. Overhead, thunder rumbled and dark clouds blotted out the moon, casting the empty rooftop where she waited into sinister shadow.

All at once, she became aware of another presence, one whose footfalls were so soft she hadn’t heard them over the wail of the wind. The familiarity of the approaching figure did nothing to still the sense of dread within her. If anything, her heart pounded a little harder.

“You’re late.” How she hated the way her voice trembled! Not that it mattered. Not that he didn’t already know she feared him. His mocking eyes said as much. She had never trusted those eyes.

He raised a dark brow. “You were so eager for my arrival?”

She refused to rise to the bait this time.

“Of course I’ve been impatient. It is positively frigid out here; I think it’s about to rain. Whatever possessed you to suggest a meeting in such a place?”

He moved nearer and leaned casually against the rail beside her. Together they peered out into the darkness, down to where the craggy rocks met the angry surf far below.

He said, “This was the only rendezvous point I could think of where I could be certain we would not be observed alone together.”

Celeste wiped suddenly sweaty palms against her skirts and tried to smother her rising alarm. She raised her voice above the gale. “And what have we to say to one another that must be kept secret? This had better be urgent, a matter of life and death.”

“Oh it is,” he assured, his eyes glinting in the darkness. “For one of us.”

There was something dangerous in his voice. An intensity Celeste had never heard from him before.

Before she could do more than draw in a startled breath, he had taken her up swiftly in his arms and she found herself held in the air.

“Good-bye, dear Celeste,” he said. “I cannot claim ours has ever been a friendly association but I think I shall miss you, in a way.”

“What are you talking about? Put me down at once!”

She wriggled in his grip but it was too late. She felt herself hoisted over the rough stone railing, skirts dragging behind her. For a terrifying moment, she was suspended between heaven and earth and only then did she remember to scream.

He released her and she clutched at him, grabbed for the railing, anything. But some frantic part of her knew it was too late.

She fell, as heavily as a stone dropped from the parapets, her amber-colored skirts billowing around her in a final, grotesque show of glory. The rocks rose swiftly to meet her.

The ocean roared and the wind wailed. Lady Celeste Litchfield was dead.

Chapter Four

Paddington Station, London

“For heaven’s sake, girl, could you move any slower if you were trying?” Drucilla asked.

It was not really a question, and the maid, puffing down the crowded platform of the train station, was too busy with her bags to answer.

Drucilla knew she was being unfair but the delay caused by her great aunt was putting her in a foul mood. And to worsen matters, they were in danger of missing their train. All because cranky old Aunt Bridget, even with the aid of her two accompanying maids, still could not get her things packed and her many bags and trunks in order.

Drucilla didn’t glance back at the entourage following her. She knew the sight of the panting Aunt Bridget and her stream of servants, trunks, and cats would only sharpen her annoyance.

It was a relief to clamber aboard the train and settle into a seat against the window, even if she was shortly joined by the breathless old lady. With an effort, Aunt Bridget arranged her bulky skirts and proceeded to bury them both under an excess of heavy lap rugs, bags containing the articles she could not do without, and a hamper of sandwiches.

At their feet, she rested another basket from which escaped the most miserable hissing and yowling sounds. Drucilla deduced from the noise and the pulsing movement of the basket that her aunt’s two cats were not pleased to find themselves so confined.

As they pulled away from Paddington Station, she thought without relish of the journey ahead. Between her elderly companion’s wheezing breaths and the smothering cloud of perfume surrounding her, Drucilla was in discomfort enough without adding the stifling heat of the unnecessary lap rugs to the mix.

Aunt Bridget tut-tutted disapprovingly as Drucilla extricated herself from the rugs. “You’ll catch a chill, my dear. Dreadfully unhealthy anyway, these trains. One never knows what manner of disease was hosted by the last occupant of one’s seat. Nor of those sharing one’s compartment.”

The old lady cast a suspicious glance at their fellow passengers.

“Bundling up is hardly likely to prevent either of us contracting disease,” Drucilla pointed out reasonably.

Aunt Bridget ignored the remark. “I cannot understand why your brother did not secure a private compartment for us. As if traveling were not danger and inconvenience enough. I do not know how I allowed you to persuade me to accompany you away from London. The country will be quite dreary this time of year. I only hope Celeste makes certain our accommodations are adequate…”

She rambled on, clearly only half-aware of any presence besides her own.

Drucilla took advantage of that and extracted from her bag the novel she had purchased at a bookstall in the train station.

However, she found it difficult to concentrate on the words before her. Unbidden, concerns at what lay ahead rose up to taunt her. She had been so anxious to fly to Celeste immediately that she had not taken the time to pen a response to the invitation. Now she wondered if that had been a wise decision. How would Celeste’s in-laws at Blackridge House react to being suddenly descended upon by unexpected guests and a hoard of servants? For that matter, what would Celeste’s new husband think?

Drucilla mulled over what she knew of the gentleman in question. It was little enough. A year ago, she had never heard the name of Absalom Litchfield and neither, she would wager, had the rest of London. Celeste had made his acquaintance while visiting relatives in the countryside last summer. Though her letters to Drucilla had been full of him at the time, there was little practical knowledge there, just the lovesick praises of an eighteen-year-old girl who had clearly been swept away by the charm of her first real suitor.

Perhaps it was unfair of Drucilla to form an ill opinion of a man she had not yet met. But there had always seemed to her something strange about the whirlwind courtship, followed by a hasty marriage. In a matter of weeks, Absalom Litchfield had walked into Celeste’s life and carried her away from her home and all her friends.

Drucilla realized Aunt Bridget had finally run out of things to ramble about and was snoring noisily beside her.

She leaned her head back as well and closed her eyes.

***

It was a tedious journey, broken only by occasional stops. At the station in Exeter they were able to procure refreshment, but there was little else to interest them and they soon continued on their way.

There was another brief stop at Plymouth and then they crossed the Tamar and entered Cornwall. The quaint little villages, walled fields, and open countryside rushing past Drucilla’s window all seemed much the same as those they had left behind.

It wasn’t until they changed trains at Penzance and then reached their final stop, the sleepy little village of Morcastle, that she was able to detect a change in the air. The breeze was fresh and carried the tang of salt, reminding her of their nearness to the ocean.

Aunt Bridget grumbled mightily because there was no one to meet them at the station. Drucilla had managed to withhold from her that their arrival was not expected and she had no intention of enlightening her now.

She spoke with the station master, who in turn directed them to a local inn where they were able to hire a pair of wagons that would carry them, the servants, and their baggage to Blackridge House.

Aunt Bridget was appalled at this arrangement. “Merciful heavens,” she moaned. “Haven’t they a more suitable conveyance?”

“They have not,” Drucilla said firmly.

When the old lady wrung her hands, Drucilla lowered her voice persuasively. “Besides, Aunt, think what an interesting experience it will be to ride about the countryside in an open cart. We shall be like a pair of rustics.”

Aunt Bridget sniffed doubtfully. “An adventure, to be sure.”

Despite this little bump in the road, Drucilla was at length able to persuade her into the first wagon and they set off. They must surely have been a peculiar sight, rumbling like a gypsy caravan with all their possessions in tow, along the rutted path away from the village.

This was hilly country and, with the rise and dip of the road, Morcastle was soon lost from view.

To Drucilla’s delight, the road soon ran parallel to the seaside and they were able to look out over the rugged cliffs to the ocean below. Even Aunt Bridget seemed impressed by the brilliant blue expanse stretched out before them. The colors of the azure sky above and the tall, waving grass along the roadside seemed somehow more vivid here.

“How far to Blackridge House?” Drucilla asked the wagon driver. He was a local man from the inn, an elderly fellow with a wild beard, a heavily lined face, and thick streaks of white in the hair spilling out from beneath his cap.

“A fair distance, young miss. A fair distance.” And that was all anyone could get out of him.

Drucilla gave up and watched the countryside roll, or rather, jounce by. The road looked as if it had suffered from a recent washout that had left it in deplorable condition, and with every rut they sank into or rock they rolled over, the wagon bounced them about. The basket containing Aunt Bridget’s precious cats was slung back and forth across the bed of the wagon until the old lady was at last obliged to wedge it firmly between her slippered feet.

Drucilla could only imagine how the servants were faring, traveling further behind them in the wagon loaded with their luggage.

As the sky began to darken and their destination remained out of sight, Drucilla grew alarmed. “See here,” she said to their driver. “Shouldn’t we be able to see the house by now?”

By way of response, he gestured silently toward the steep hill ahead. With a creaking of the harness and a noticeable strain on the part of the horse, which looked as ancient as their driver, they made their way to the crest of the hill. And there Drucilla caught her first glimpse of Blackridge House.

Chapter Five

Blackridge had been aptly named, for the manor house was a great edifice of dark stone, perched near the edge of a high cliff looking out over the ocean below. Celeste had written that the structure had been in her husband’s family since the seventeenth century and Drucilla could well believe it as she looked down at its blunt, Tudor style arches and oriel windows, upheld by elaborately carved corbels. Despite the term house, it resembled nothing so much as a small castle.

As they drew into the circular carriageway before the house, a nervous sort of anticipation welled up within Pricilla. It was all very well back in London to tell herself Celeste had invited her and Celeste’s in-laws must welcome her. But with the sinister shadow of Blackridge House looming over her, a little of her boldness seeped away. There was something about the place that made one feel insignificant by comparison, that leeched away one’s confidence.

This feeling was not lessened as they climbed out of the wagon and ascended the broad stairway. Their driver appeared thoroughly uneasy with the surroundings and even Aunt Bridget was cowed into uncharacteristic silence.

And so it was Drucilla who took the initiative. She grasped the lion’s head knocker of the great door, felt an odd shiver run through her as she touched the cool brass beneath her hand, and fleetingly wished she was back at home right now and miles away from this gloomy spot.

The moment passed and she tapped the knocker firmly against the door. Their approach must have been observed because the hollow THUNK of the knocker had no sooner sounded than one of the heavy double doors creaked open enough to reveal a round, female face peering out at them. The exotic eyes set against bronze-tinted skin were wary, suspicious, as they took Drucilla in. The strange young woman’s full, wine-colored lips formed an unwelcoming frown.

Drucilla couldn’t help but notice the girl’s exceptional beauty. Her dark hair was glossy, her face shapely, and her fingers, appearing around the door’s edge, were long and slender. She looked more like some visiting foreign princess than a woman who ought to be answering doors in a great house in Cornwall, Drucilla thought.

The young woman’s cold welcome was even more of a surprise. “Who are you and what do you want?” she demanded in a lightly accented voice. “Do you not know better than to be knocking on doors at this hour of the night, with the family just finishing dinner?”

Their driver found his tongue and stepped forward quickly. “Easy there, Mrs. Portillo. These be some fine ladies down from the big city. Friends of Lady Litchfield.” His voice was apologetic as he said to Pricilla, “This here is Mrs. Portillo, the housekeeper.”

Drucilla blinked but made an effort to conceal her surprise that such a young and attractive woman should hold such an important station within the house.

For her part, Mrs. Portillo was eying their party with new curiosity but gave no sign she was impressed with what she saw.

Drucilla forced a smile to her stiff lips. “Hello Mrs. Portillo. My name is Miss Winterbourne and this is my aunt, Lady Ashworth. We have been invited down to stay by Miss Celeste—I mean, Lady Litchfield.” It still felt strange to call her friend by the new name.

Mrs. Portillo looked incredulous. “I have no orders concerning visitors. The master never spoke a word about preparing rooms.” The tone of her voice suggested that was her final word on the matter and it occurred to Drucilla if she did not act quickly the petite woman would close the door on her.

“I am sorry you were not forewarned,” Drucilla said firmly, moving closer so the other woman would have to smash the door over her toes if she meant to close it. It was the nearest Drucilla had ever come to thrusting her foot into anyone’s door.

“Obviously there has been some mistake. But we were invited and if you will just tell Lady Litchfield we have arrived, I am sure everything will be quickly sorted out.” It was difficult to keep her gaze sincere when she was all too aware she was uttering only a half-truth.

Still, something in her look, or possibly in her dress, must have convinced the woman she was not some impoverished beggar to be sent away on a servant’s whim. The housekeeper hesitated and Drucilla seized the opportunity to press her case.

“We’ve traveled all the way from London, and as I’m sure you can imagine are thoroughly exhausted. Would you be so kind as to inform Lady Celeste of our arrival?”

No intelligent servant would risk refusing such a plainly spoken request, not when it came from a lady with friendly connections to the mistress of the house.

Slowly, reluctantly, the door opened and Drucilla and her party were ushered into a dark and drafty hall with soaring ceiling beams.

“You may wait here,” the housekeeper said imperiously, “while I inform the family of your arrival.”

Her footsteps echoed down the hall as she departed.

“Well! I must say this is a chilly reception Celeste has arranged for us,” Aunt Bridget announced when the woman had gone. “Not even to inform the servants of our coming? What sort of household is this, where rooms are not prepared before the guests arrive? And such a housekeeper! Did you see the insolent way she looked at us, as though she would like to turn us out?”

Drucilla rubbed her forehead, where she was developing a massive headache. “Oh, do be quiet, Aunt Bridget.”

“I beg your pardon?” The old lady’s eyebrows rose.

“Nothing,” Drucilla amended. “I’m sorry, Aunt. I’m just weary from the journey and things are not going quite as smoothly as I had hoped.”

She was thinking, not for the first time, that certain people at Blackridge House might not find her arrival such a pleasant surprise.

But none of that mattered. She stiffened her spine. As long as Celeste wanted and needed her here, the rest of the household could behave just as barbarously as they pleased.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the quick tread of approaching feet. Not the housekeeper this time, but an attractive young gentleman. Around eighteen or nineteen, he appeared too young to be Celeste’s husband but perhaps he looked younger than his years? Many men did.

“Ah-ha, I see we have visitors,” he said cheerfully, as he approached. He wore a riding cloak and boots, as though about to go out.

“And judging by the looks of you,” he continued, “you’re down from the city. We don’t often get such refined company around here, you see. Mostly just the old man’s tenant farmers and the like.”

He had a quick, abrupt way of rapping out words and leaping from one subject to the next.

“Old man?” Drucilla repeated.

“The Pater, of course,” he replied. “Lord Litchfield himself.”

“His lordship is your father? Then you must be Absalom Litchfield?”

He laughed sharply. “Absalom? I only wish. No, alas I am not so blessed. That name would belong to my elder brother, the future lord of the castle and heir to the throne.”

Drucilla would ordinarily have found his sarcasm and irreverent manner of speaking distasteful. But there was a mischievous sparkle in his dark eyes that somehow made his outrageous speech forgivable.

She felt it was time for some sort of explanation as to why she and her aunt were standing in his hall.

“We’re London friends of Lady Celeste,” she informed him.

“Ah, dear Celeste. Such a jewel, isn’t she?” he mused. “The ideal mate for my perfect brother.”

“Yes, well, we haven’t seen her since before the wedding and we’re dreadfully eager to speak with her again.”

“Are you indeed?” He arched a brow and an odd series of expressions passed over his face. Amusement. Curiosity. Wariness.

Drucilla was confused. Why should he feel any of those things?

But then the moment was gone, passing so quickly she wondered if she had imagined his reaction.

“Well,” he said, “I wish you much luck. Now I must take my leave.”

“Yes, of course. Please do not let us keep you,” Drucilla said, although she found it exceedingly odd that a gentleman of the house would abandon two visiting ladies to the empty entrance hall.

But the young man wasn’t gone just yet. On his way out, he paused to stick his head back around the door. “By the way, you’ll pardon the directness of the question, but who exactly are you people?”

Drucilla flushed at his rudeness and said a trifle severely, “I am Miss Drucilla Winterbourne and this is my aunt, Lady—”

“Miss Winterbourne, you say? Never heard of you. Never mind, we shall show you an exciting time here at the old house. I’m sure you’ll find us a fascinating study.”

Before she could decide how to respond to such a peculiar statement he was gone.

“What an impertinent young man,” Aunt Bridget complained but Drucilla scarcely heard her. She was distracted by the new presence that had just entered the hall.

“Miss Winterbourne and her ah, companion, I presume?” the gentleman said. He was as tall and dark as the young man who had just exited but did not possess the same beauty. He also appeared a few years older.

Being presumed a companion was too much for Aunt Bridget, who drew herself up to her full height of nearly five feet. “I am Lady Ashworth,” she corrected icily.

“Of course,” he replied soothingly while keeping his eyes on Drucilla. “You are both very welcome here. Celeste used to speak of you in particular so often, Miss Winterbourne, that I almost feel I know you.”

He took her hand briefly.

“Lord Absalom,” she responded, taking in the details of the man who stood before her. He was fine-boned and excessively narrow in the shoulders and waist, not a particularly attractive man, but there was something striking in the planes of his face. Drucilla had been expecting someone rather rustic, as country squires were often apt to be, but this man surprised her with his polished appearance. He spoke with the charming ease of one well-versed in the trivial conversation expected of polite society. She could imagine Celeste being drawn to such a man.

He said now, “I am so glad we are able to meet at last, although I regret it must be under such tragic circumstances. You’ll find us all in disarray I’m afraid. The servants are upset and the family, well, we’re still coming to grips with it. Then there’s the usual scramble to make the burial arrangements, procure mourning accoutrements, and notify everyone who must be present for the funeral. You know how difficult these things are.”

Drucilla was mortified. “Oh dear, I had no notion we were imposing on your family at such a painful time. Had we only known, we would never have intruded. But Celeste made no mention of a death, or even an illness, in the house.”

He stared at her, as if perplexed. “But surely you must know. Is that not why you have come?”

A horrible sense of foreboding settled over her and Drucilla knew even before he spoke what his next words would be.

“Miss Winterbourne, I am sorry to tell you that my wife, Celeste, is dead.”

Chapter Six

A thousand emotional responses overwhelmed Drucilla but the one that burst from her lips was, “But that’s not possible! I had a letter from her shortly before I left London. Surely there has been some mistake?”

His expression was pained. “Believe me, I very much wish there was, Miss Winterbourne. Unfortunately, this is not a matter of uncertainty. I believe I would know whether my wife was deceased or not.”

Drucilla remained too stunned to be abashed. She managed to murmur, “Yes, of course you would. I am sorry. This news is just so…unexpected.”

“I understand,” he said, his voice laden with grief. “It has been the same for all of us here.”

She said, “I hope you don’t mind my asking, but how did it happen? I realize it must be difficult to speak of it.”

“No, it’s all right,” he said. “It was a tragic accident. She suffered a terrible fall. The local doctor was called in, of course, but there was nothing to be done for her. Death was instantaneous. At least we can comfort ourselves that she suffered little.”

Such a morbid thought to take comfort in. Still, her mind had recovered enough for her to recall there was a proper protocol for occasions such as this.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” she murmured. “Has Celeste’s family been informed of the tragedy?”

She could not believe they had or the news would have reached her ears back in London.

He shook his head sorrowfully. “The death occurred only this morning, during the early hours. I have sat down and written to Celeste’s parents, however, and the message will go out on the morning train. Once they’ve received the news, I expect they will come down as quickly as they are able. We are planning to hold the funeral in a day’s time. I dislike conducting the event without Celeste’s family present but this time of year these things cannot be put off long before…” Wincing, he trailed off.

Aunt Bridget clearly felt it her duty to rescue the conversation from the gruesome level to which it was descending.

She said, “Perhaps, all things considered, it is fortunate we are here. Drucilla and I will naturally help with the funeral preparations in any way we are able. And in the event poor Celeste’s family is unable to attend, we shall stand in the place of her London friends.”

It was the first sensible suggestion Drucilla could remember the old woman ever making.

Lord Absalom looked relieved. “We would be most grateful for that, Lady Ashworth. It is a great comfort to have cool heads present at such a difficult time.”

Aunt Brigit preened visibly.

“And now,” Lord Absalom said, “you must be tired from your journey and ready to refresh yourselves. Forgive me for keeping you standing so long. The staff has been making up your rooms and Mrs. Portillo will see you up to them. The family has already dined. We’re rather informal here and my father prefers dinner served early, but Mrs. Portillo will see that something is sent up to you on a tray. Won’t you, Mrs. Portillo?”

The cold-faced housekeeper appeared from nowhere. “Of course, Lord Absalom. If the ladies will follow me?”

“I look forward to seeing you both in the morning,” his lordship said by way of farewell.

As they were led away, Drucilla thought the man was handling the unexpected loss of his wife with admirable composure. He must be under a great deal more strain than he showed.

As the housekeeper led them through the impressively sized greater hall and up one of the twin staircases leading from it, Drucilla scarcely took in her surroundings.

Celeste was dead.

And Drucilla hadn’t even wept at the terrible news. Perhaps it was her ingrained sense of propriety that prevented public tears or possibly it was only because the reality of her loss had yet to strike her in all its force. She suspected it was both. A deeper grief would doubtless come later.

For now, she tried on the idea of life without Celeste as experimentally as she might slip on a new glove. How exactly would the loss of her friend affect her? True, they had been apart for months anyway, since Celeste’s wedding. But there had always been the comforting notion in the back of Drucilla’s mind that she might leap aboard a train at any time and make the daylong journey to Morcastle.

Aunt Bridget had upheld the spirit of solemnity as long as possible but she was clearly unable to maintain her silence any longer. “Well, isn’t this an unpleasant turn of events?” she asked, apparently mindless of the housekeeper walking ahead. “This is the first time I have visited someone only to find on arrival they have had the insensitivity to die.”

“Aunt, please. I am sure Celeste’s death had nothing to do with a wish to inconvenience you.”

“You are probably right.” The older woman sounded mollified. “She was much too thoughtful a girl to do anything so inconsiderate if it could be avoided. I always liked her.”

“Everyone did.”

They paused before a sturdy door, which Mrs. Portillo opened.

“This is your room, miss. A maid will be up momentarily to see you have everything you require.”

Drucilla noted with relief she seemed to have risen a little in the housekeeper’s eyes now her presence had been welcomed by Lord Absalom. There was still a certain coldness there, but at least the woman now appeared mindful of their contrasting stations.

As Mrs. Portillo and Aunt Bridget moved on down the hall, Drucilla could hear the old lady beginning a litany of complaints about the intolerable traveling conditions between the village and Blackridge house. Not even death could achieve the monumental task of subduing Aunt Bridget for long.

It was a relief to close the door of the guest chamber behind her and shut out the rest of the world, if only for a brief time. This visit was proving so unlike anything she had expected. She had imagined by this time tonight she and Celeste would be sitting together giggling and gossiping the way they used to in finishing school.

Drucilla’s moment of solitude wasn’t to last long as a soft knock at the door announced the arrival of a pair of servants, delivering her belongings. It seemed the second wagon from the village had arrived, bringing with it Aunt Bridget’s maids and the baggage.

Her luggage was followed by the coming of a housemaid, a chatty girl named Rosie, who spoke in the peculiar way of the locals from the village. Under less sobering circumstances Drucilla would have been amused at the difference between her dignified London staff and the servants here at Blackridge House.

Drucilla sent back the promised tray of food the girl brought. She was far too unsettled to think of eating, though she’d had nothing since lunching on sandwiches while aboard the train.

Rosie returned shortly with warm water for washing, for even in a house that had lately been visited by tragedy the proper rituals could not be neglected.

Drucilla had to admit it was a relief to freshen up while Rosie chattered on about inconsequential things and unpacked her bags.

“Please lay out my dark merino, Rosie,” Drucilla requested. In the absence of proper mourning clothes, the simple, deep blue dress would have to do. It was the most subdued costume she had brought.

When she had finished washing, she felt almost normal again; the gravity of circumstances, if not eased, was at least temporarily set aside. There would come a time for mourning later. For now, she must get through the days ahead.

“I will undress myself. Thank you, Rosie,” she said, dismissing the maid.

But the girl seemed to hesitate.

“Yes, Rosie? Was there something you wanted?”

The maid’s face was openly curious. “I reckon it must’ve come as a terrible shock to you, miss, learning of Lady Celeste’s awful death so sudden like.”

So she was that sort of servant. Well, that was all right. It occurred to Drucilla she might be able to ask a gossipy maid questions it would not be tactful to ask Lord Absalom. She did need to learn more about Celeste’s death. Only when she knew the full of it could she accept the tragedy and move forward.

“You say the death was very awful?” she asked casually. “Lord Absalom neglected to tell us the details.” It wasn’t subtle but it was all the prodding the maid needed.

She said, “I reckon anybody’s death be awful, leastways for them that love them. But Lady Celeste, her end weren’t like other peoples’. It weren’t normal the way it happened.”

“What do you mean, not normal?”

“Well, they say it was a ghost that killed the lady. That’s the word from below-stairs anyway.”

“What nonsense. Why would a ghost wish to kill Lady Celeste?”

“Pardon my asking, miss, but why does a ghost do anything at all? Because it’s evil. And this particular ghost, she’s an especially wicked one. They say she was the mistress of the house in ages past, who died by foul means at the hand of her own lord. And it’s said she returned to Blackridge House to do away with the new mistress when Lady Celeste arrived.”

Drucilla frowned but played along. “Has anyone actually seen this terrible ghost of yours, Rosie?”

“Yes indeed, miss. Lots of the servants has seen her flitting down the halls in the night and hovering around the family cemetery in the moonlight. Even Lady Celeste herself seen the ghost. She used to ask me about it.”

Drucilla was suddenly alert. “Lady Celeste saw this ghost? You’re certain of that?”

“Aye, miss, sure as I can be. She was as afraid of it as anybody, too.”

Drucilla was silent. Celeste had been a very sensible girl and not at all given to flights of fancy. If she professed to have seen a ghost, to fear it even, that was a claim Drucilla was prepared to take seriously. Of course, Rosie may have got it wrong. She did not seem the most reliable of sources.

And yet, portions of Celeste’s letters came back to her. Hadn’t Drucilla sensed an underlying fear there? The problem was never directly stated, but it was clear something had troubled Celeste in her last days, something important enough to make her write Drucilla, urging her to come. Had she foreseen her own demise?

“Rosie.” Drucilla returned to her previous question. “Precisely how did Lady Celeste die?”

“Why, I thought you knew, miss. She fell from the topmost roof of the house. Fell or was pushed, folk say. And who else would do the pushing but a vengeful ghost? Plunged clean down to the jagged rocks at the bottom of the cliff, she did. They found her in the wee hours of the morning but she must’ve lain there all night. If the tide had come up any higher, the sea would’ve carried her body away and we might never have known what became of her.”

Drucilla felt faint. Knowing of Celeste’s death was entirely different from imagining it in all its gruesome detail. No wonder Lord Absalom had not given a very thorough description.

Rosie seemed not to notice her reaction. The servant was clearly enjoying the tale. It couldn’t be often she had such an interested listener.

“See here,” she said now. “Come to the window and you can look down to the cliffs and the shoreline. If we had a brighter moon, you’d be able to see the spot where they found her. She probably streaked past this very window on her way down.”

Drucilla had heard enough.

“I’m ready to sleep,” she said, bringing the conversation to an abrupt end. “You may return to your other duties, Rosie.”

After the servant had gone, Drucilla moved to the window and looked down into the darkness. The moon had scuttled behind a veil of clouds, but when she pressed open the casement she could hear the crash of the sea waves against the cliffs far below.

“Oh Celeste,” she whispered. “What really happened to you?”

Chapter Seven

Drucilla spent a restless night haunted by nightmares. In her dreams, she stood on a stormy rooftop, feeling the wind tug at her and the sea waves crashing in the distance. A figure stood before her.

“Celeste!” she called out to her friend, but the other woman appeared not to hear or see her.

A second figure appeared, the shadowy form of a man whose features were obscured in shadow. Drucilla watched as the man approached Celeste and the two spoke briefly, their words lost beneath the howl of the wind.

The man suddenly took Celeste in his arms and, as Drucilla watched in horror, began to lift her over the railing lining the roof of the house. There was a brief struggle, during which Drucilla tried to run, to cry out, to do anything that might save her friend. But her feet wouldn’t obey her commands and her screams died in her throat. It was too late anyway.

Drucilla could do nothing but look on, a helpless spectator, as Celeste was dropped over the roof’s edge to fall to her death on the craggy rocks below.

“No!” This time her scream found voice as Drucilla bolted upright in bed. Her heart thundered, and her hair clung to her face and neck in sweaty tendrils.

It took her a moment to shake off the remnants of the dream and remember where she was and what she was doing in an unfamiliar bed in a strange house.

Golden sunlight slanted through the window to lend the room a cheery glow but Drucilla felt scarce comfort as she performed her morning ablutions in the cold wash water left from last night. It seemed somehow inappropriate to ring for Rosie to wait upon her on such an unhappy morning as this. Doubtless the servants had other tasks to attend, in preparation for the funeral guests who would surely be arriving soon.

Dressing herself in the blue merino she had chosen earlier, Drucilla swept her hair into a loose knot and decided she was as dark and drab looking as it was possible to appear on short notice.

As she peered at her refection in the mirror over her dressing table, her stomach gave a dissatisfied grumble, reminding her how long it had been since her last meal.

Rosie had explained it was the custom of the family to rise and filter down to the dining hall at whatever hour they pleased, where they would help themselves from the sideboard.

On her way out of her room, Drucilla gave brief thought to asking Aunt Bridget if she would like to go down together. But no, the old lady would probably not be awake for hours yet and Drucilla was too famished to wait. Besides, she’d had all of her aunt’s company she could abide for the present.

Descending the same sweeping staircase she had climbed the night before, Drucilla was now in a better state of mind to examine her surroundings. She found the place aroused her curiosity to such an extent she could almost forget, just for a moment, the gloomy circumstances surrounding her visit. How she should have liked to have seen Blackridge House under happier conditions, to have Celeste showing her around the house and its gardens and outbuildings.

On entering the great hall that morning, she found it to be exactly as she had imagined it from Celeste’s descriptions. The beamed ceiling soared high overhead and the dark paneled walls were covered with tapestries that gave the room a distinctly medieval feel. Drucilla could almost imagine herself in an old-fashioned court instead of a present day house in Cornwall.

The atmosphere was enhanced by an enormous fireplace which took up half of one wall and was surrounded by heavy, unadorned furnishings which gave the appearance of relics left over from another century.

Curious whether parts of the house more utilized by the family had been modernized, she peered into a smaller room, opening into the great hall. The door had been left slightly ajar and Drucilla’s probing gaze quickly discovered the room was not empty.

Two gentlemen inhabited the room and she recognized one of them as Lord Absalom. The other faced away from the door so that she was presented with nothing more than the view of a broad back and a dark head of hair, lightly streaked with grey.

“I do not know how long I can keep up this pretense, Father,” Lord Absalom was saying, his tone muted but his expression perturbed. “It would be so much simpler had Celeste’s friend and her old aunt not shown up at our door.”

Neither man seemed aware they were the objects of watching eyes.

Mortified, Drucilla moved into the shadows. She could no longer see the men but could still hear their voices.

“I should not think keeping up the pretense of grieving widower would be too difficult for you,” the man Lord Absalom had named as his father said dismissively. “We both know you’re capable of much deeper deceptions than that. Besides, I do not require you to make a show of mourning for a lifetime. Once the funeral is over and its attendees sent packing, you and that woman of yours can dance on your wife’s grave for all I care. But while there are prying eyes in the house and loose tongues to wag, you will be discreet.”

“Why are you so concerned with discretion?” Absalom asked. “What is it you’re so afraid of? You are the magistrate in these parts. Surely that must be worth something. If you explain the accidental manner of Celeste’s death, then who would combat your word? Anyway, I’m done following your orders. You’ve pulled my strings quite long enough and it’s time you learned Evita and I aren’t you’re puppets.”

“If you’re referring to my intrigues behind your marriage to your departed wife—”

“Celeste had a name, in case you never noticed.”

“Interesting you should accuse me of that. I was under the impression it was you who failed to notice her.”

Absalom made an angry noise but his father didn’t pause.

“As I was saying, you ought to be thanking me for my marital maneuverings on your behalf. It was a convenient marriage, followed by what you must admit to be an even more convenient death, and look at you now. A much wealthier man for it. Confess! You know that foreign trollop you’re so enamored with could never have brought you the money your wife did.”

“I wish you wouldn’t speak of what happened to Celeste so coldly. It’s true I didn’t marry her for love but that doesn’t mean I was waiting for her to die.”

“Of course you were. Do not confuse me with those silly London women upstairs. I know what really goes on behind that polished veneer of yours. Anyway, I’m not chiding you for it. There’s no shame in marrying one woman for her money while loving another. It’s what any man of sense would do. Particularly a man whose family is of dwindling means.”

“I don’t think you care anything about my means. You only want to sink all Celeste’s money into keeping up this house. You and Southorn, you’re obsessed with this place.”

“You’d do well to imitate your brother in that respect. He gives his all for the estate. I only wish you would take as much interest.”

“I’ve done quite enough for the family. All I want now is to put this whole business behind me and move on. With Evita.”

“That, I can promise you, will never happen. I’ve told you, I don’t care if you want to keep your mistress around but never think of her as anything more than that. Such a marriage would be unacceptable, both socially and—”

“I know, I know. The money again.”

“Just think on what I’ve said. This is a dangerous period for us and not the time to court scandal, not with your wife’s corpse barely cold.”

His words appeared to sober the mood of the room and silence descended.

The sound of footsteps approaching the door was the only warning Drucilla had the men were about to exit the room.

Scurrying away, she ducked into the next open doorway, which happened to lead into the dining hall.

The conversation she had just overheard left her with such a knot in her stomach food was now the last thing she wanted. Nevertheless, she could hardly leave the dining hall right away, lest she collide with the men outside and they guess her trespass. Best to busy herself, to appear as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.

She filled a plate with eggs and ham from the sideboard and sat down alone at the long table.

It was an immense relief when neither Lord Absalom nor Lord Litchfield joined her in the dining room. Instead, it was someone more unexpected who shortly joined her.

“So. What do you think of the old man now that you’ve had a peek at him?”

Drucilla jumped, for the newcomer had slipped into the room as quietly as any ghost. She looked up to meet the mischievous eyes of the young man she had met in the hall the night before. His riding cloak was gone now and he seemed in less of a hurry.

“To whom are you referring?” she asked cautiously. His sly manner made her uneasy.

He said, “Lord Litchfield, who else? I saw you looking in on him and Absalom while they were having their spat. No, it’s no good denying you snooped. I see everything around here you know.”

“How convenient for you,” she said coolly.

“Yes it is, actually. Knowing everyone’s little secrets is a means of gaining leverage over them and I never pass up an opportunity for that. We younger sons need all the advantages we can get.”

“I should like you to know I was merely pausing outside that door to get my bearings in this big house. It isn’t my custom to listen in on other people’s conversations.”

“Of course not. Most of them are not worth hearing anyway. I can tell you, most of the chatter that goes on in this house is deadly dull. Speaking of which, the place is a regular mausoleum today, isn’t it? I’m for some fresh air and sunshine. What do you say to a stroll through the rose garden?”

She considered it. “I’d say that’s an unexpectedly charming offer, considering the source.”

He laughed. “I’m not as bad as all that. Besides, it’s my duty to play the genial host while my father and brother are occupied.”

“I’ve seen nothing of the grounds,” she admitted.

“Then it’s imperative I show you around. We wouldn’t want you losing your bearings again, would we?”

Despite his needling, his enthusiasm was at least refreshing. And he was right. It would be a relief to escape this house of tragedy.

She allowed her young host to lead her through the house and outdoors, where they entered a garden of meandering paths and twisted shrubbery. The plot was in a shocking state, the surrounding walls crumbling and the way overgrown with weeds. Drucilla couldn’t help but be reminded of what she had overhead about the family’s dwindling finances.

Her companion broke into her thoughts. “Not much to look at, is it?” He nodded toward the neglected rose bushes and the moss encrusted statuary. “My father has been putting the money my sister-in-law brought into the family to use on other parts of the estate but I imagine he’ll get to the house and garden eventually. If there’s any money left by then.”

Unaccustomed to hearing financial matters spoken of so openly, Drucilla was distinctly uncomfortable.

He appeared unaware of her embarrassment but changed the subject. “Celeste liked to come here alone. She often took moonlit walks about the grounds. I think she welcomed the solitude when she was feeling homesick.”

“Probably. She always enjoyed the outdoors,” Drucilla remembered.

“And then there was the added attraction of avoiding a disagreeable husband and an overbearing father-in-law.”

Drucilla blinked. “That is unkind and not an entirely appropriate remark, given the circumstances. Why would you say such a thing?”

“Because I sensed you wanted to hear it. You want to know how it was with Celeste after she came here. Was she unhappy? Was she afraid? You’re looking for answers about what happened to her and why.”

She didn’t deny it. “You said ‘afraid.’ What did Celeste have to be afraid of?”

He didn’t answer directly but stared off over her head. “I think you’re a very clever sort of girl, Miss Winterbourne. The sort who enjoys puzzling things out.”

She frowned. Was that a taunt? What did he know that he wasn’t saying?

But before she could badger him for more information, he called out over her shoulder. “There you are, Father. We were just discussing Celeste and how fond she used to be of the garden.”

Stomach muscles tightening involuntarily in anticipation of who stood behind her, Drucilla turned.

Chapter Eight

On seeing him up close, Drucilla was surprised how greatly Lord Litchfield resembled his youngest son. They shared the same build, handsome features, and dark hair and eyes. Only the elder man’s face was lightly marked with lines around the eyes and mouth and his hair was streaked with silver at the temples. He also lacked the glint of amusement that lit his son’s eyes.

“Father, I don’t believe you’ve met our guest yet,” Southorn said. “Allow me to present Miss Drucilla Winterbourne. Miss Winterbourne, my father Lord Litchfield.”

She became aware the older man was studying her critically. Refusing to shrink before him, she met his direct gaze with a challenging look of her own.

She thought she caught a hint of approval flickering behind his eyes but then it was gone. Aloud, he merely observed, “Yours is an unusual profile, Miss Winterbourne. You must sit for me sometime.”

It had more the ring of a command than a request.

“My father is a very skilled painter,” Southorn explained, at her baffled look.

“Hardly skilled.” Lord Litchfield waved the praise scornfully aside. “But I’ve dabbled for some years and am a capable amateur.”

Despite his words, Drucilla suspected anything at which the Master of Blackridge had been “dabbling” for years he would be more than proficient in. However, she kept the thought to herself. “I should be happy to pose for you, sir. It will be my first such portrait since I was a child.”

He nodded as if he had never had any doubt of her acquiescence and changed the subject.

“I regret your visit to Blackridge House must come at such a gloomy time. You would have found us a much livelier household when my poor daughter-in-law was still alive.”

Drucilla nodded in understanding and a sober mood overtook the conversation.

Lord Litchfield seemed to shake it off. “Well, I’m on my way out to meet Coles. Do not let me keep you young people.”

“Coles?” Drucilla asked when he had gone.

“Overseer of the estate. Father thinks a lot of him and he keeps things running smoothly around here.”

“I see. His Lordship seemed much affected by the loss of Celeste. I suppose she brightened the house.”

“Do not be fooled by his declarations of grief. This entire situation could not have played out better for him if he had orchestrated it himself.”

She stared. “What a shocking thing to say.”

“Yes, isn’t it? But come; don’t tell me you’re one of those young ladies who thinks if a thing is unpleasant it shouldn’t be said?”

“That depends, I suppose, on how much truth is in the unpleasant statement.”

“You doubt my word? How suspicious you are, Miss Winterbourne.”

“Not suspicious, just not as cynical as you. Why should your father be glad Celeste is dead?”

“For the same reason anyone is glad to see a terrible fate befall someone else. Because he has something to profit from it. You can be sure father is already mentally lining up potential brides to take Celeste’s place as soon as the necessary mourning period has passed. And why shouldn’t he? The family has obtained all the financial benefit there is to be gotten from that particular marriage. But my brother is young and generally agreed to be tolerable looking. He’s well-versed in the social graces and the heir to a title and a large, if somewhat decaying, estate. He’s the ideal bait, and one Father will not hesitate to use as long as there remains money to be made in the marriage market.”

He paused. “You’re very quiet, Miss Winterbourne. I believe you’re rather horrified by my family’s approach to matrimony. Or is it merely my frankness that is distasteful?”

“Actually, I’m finding your candor rather refreshing, in its awful way. ”

He looked pleased. “Good. I knew you were not one of those silly sorts of girls happy to go through life wearing blinders. That’s why I’ve confided in you to such a degree.”

“I’m flattered to be your confidante. But you’ve told me so much about Lord Litchfield and his schemes to wed Absalom to a wealthy young woman. What about your brother himself? Surely he deserves some say in these matters. Even if he allowed your father to bully him into wedding Celeste, surely he would not allow it to happen again?”

“Waste no sympathy on my dear brother. He doesn’t deserve it. I assure you he isn’t as passive to Father’s whims as you imagine. There’s a quiet, scheming side to Absalom most people fail to detect. At any rate, he’s capable of looking out for himself when it comes time to claim what he wants.”

“You sound positively harsh. Do I detect a hint of sibling rivalry?”

“It’d be only natural, wouldn’t it? Second son jealous of the elder and all that? It’s downright Shakespearean really. The firstborn gets the lion’s share of everything and the youngest son is left to fend for himself.”

She frowned. “Surely you exaggerate. I hardly see Lord Absalom tossing you out into the cold when he inherits.”

“Do not be too sure. We’ve an odd relationship, my brother and I.”

Odd was one way of describing it. Drucilla wondered just how deep the animosity between the brothers actually ran.

Chapter Nine

Immediately after her walk with Southorn, Drucilla looked in on Aunt Bridget only to find the old woman still abed.

“What is she doing sleeping at this hour?” she asked one of her aunt’s maids.

“It’s her stomach, miss. She’s been able to keep nothing down since breakfast. I imagine it’s the excitement of the long journey and finding herself in a strange place,” the girl said.

Drucilla snorted. “My aunt has never been excited in her life and she’s accustomed to travel and not likely to take sick from it.”

But in the end, there was nothing to be done but allow the old lady her rest in the hope she would feel more herself on waking.

Meanwhile, Drucilla found herself alone and without entertainment. It seemed the ideal time to poke about the house. There was something she’d wanted to do since she arrived.

After obtaining directions from a servant, she set off into the part of the house where the family had their rooms. It was a slightly bold thing to do, visiting Celeste’s bedchamber uninvited, but she felt that, under the circumstances, her grief could be her excuse. She felt compelled to see the place.

She soon found Celeste’s bedroom wasn’t much different from her own guest quarters. Only larger and better furnished. Blue silk draped the canopied bed and the walls were papered with a pattern of blue flowers.

An extra door led out of the room and, upon trying it, Drucilla found it opened into another bedroom, presumably that of Celeste’s husband. Drucilla had no interest in exploring Lord Absalom’s private quarters and she drew the door firmly closed.

A chill whispered over her as Drucilla examined the dressing table where Celeste’s combs, jewelry, and perfume were laid out as if she might still walk in at any moment and pick them up. Celeste seemed closer here than anywhere else in the house.

Drucilla wondered if she ought to offer to pack these things away for Lord Absalom. But if was difficult to concentrate on such mundane thoughts while in this room.

She fingered a familiar jade pin thrust through the lace doily covering the table. She had given it to her friend on the last occasion of their meeting, never guessing they would not see one another again.

She wondered what the Litchfields would do with the pin, wondered what they would do with all the wealth they had so conveniently obtained through Celeste’s death. Recalling her conversation with Southorn in the garden and the earlier argument she had heard between Lord Absalom and the elder Lord Litchfield, she felt a surge of anger at this family who had used her friend so coldly for her money.

She resolved then and there to discover the truth about what had really become of poor Celeste. If there was any possibility someone had helped Celeste along to her death, that person would not long enjoy his ill-gotten gains. Not if Drucilla could help it.

She looked around her now. Had Celeste left behind some clue to her fate? If so, the oak writing table beneath the window seemed a sensible place to begin a search.

Atop the desk rested a tidy stack of fresh stationery and a pen. A slender book was open across the desk as well as a volume of poetry. Drucilla smiled, remembering her friend’s weakness for romantic poetry. Then she noted the page to which the book was opened had been torn out.

That was peculiar. Celeste usually took good care of her things.

Drucilla tried the drawers and discovered them filled with casual correspondence from Celeste’s family in London. There was nothing of interest within the letters she scanned and it seemed wrong to pry into the private correspondence, so Drucilla quickly decided to move on.

But as she shoved the letters back into the drawer something shiny caught her eye, the slender chain of necklace, disappearing as if it had somehow slipped behind the drawer’s back panel. Drucilla pressed and tugged at the panel until it popped out.

Of course. A secret compartment. They were not unusual in such old desks.

What was more interesting was the realization that her friend had felt the need to use such a private place to stash away her secrets. As if she did not wish her husband or anyone else to find them.

Mindful she had now been in this room far too long and might be interrupted at any moment, Drucilla rummaged quickly through the contents of the hidden compartment.

It was not much, this collection of treasures. A golden locket, owning the chain Drucilla had found, and a few other odd bits of jewelry that might have been hidden for their value. And a crumbled ball of paper.

Unfolding the paper, she found it was the page of a book, doubtless the missing page from the book of poetry atop the desk.

Drucilla frowned. Hiding valuables made sense but concealing a page from a book of poems seemed odd. Unless this particular poem held special meaning to the sentimental natured Celeste.

Just then, a door slammed somewhere down the hall. Drucilla jumped guiltily and shoved the rumpled page into her pocket to be studied later. As quickly as possible, she tidied the desk and returned everything to its proper place.

Escaping the room, she pulled the door closed behind her and breathed a sigh of relief. She had not been caught snooping.

Then she turned and ran directly into Lord Absalom.

Chapter Ten

“Miss Winterbourne, what a surprise,” he said.

She froze for a moment, fumbling for an explanation. “Yes, I’m sure you’re thinking I oughtn’t be here—”

“I’m thinking nothing of the sort,” he reassured her. “You are a guest and the entire house is open to you. Naturally, you wanted to visit Celeste’s room. I should have thought to show it to you myself.”

“Thank you for your understanding. It is only that I felt this tremendous longing to see the place where she must have spent so much of her last days.”

“Of course. It is an entirely natural desire. I’m afraid I’ve been neglecting my duties as host and leaving you to wander about the place on your own.”

“You have a great deal to occupy you during this time.”

“Yes, but my wife would not have wanted a guest in our home to be ignored. Such things were important to her. She was always the perfect hostess. Please allow me to sooth my conscience by showing you around the house.”

“I should enjoy that if you’re certain it would not be too great an imposition on your time and…”

She hesitated, unwilling to use the word “grief” now she knew how little affection he had truly felt for Celeste.

She rushed on with, “Your brother has actually already shown me a little of the grounds.”

“Southorn?”

“Yes, we strolled through the rose garden this morning.”

Something in Lord Absalom’s demeanor changed. His face took on a darker expression and it was only then Drucilla realized he could bear the slightest resemblance to the other men of his family after all.

“If I were you,” he said, “I would be on my guard with Southorn.”

She blinked. “But he’s such a charming young man.”

“He can be. But he has an unfortunate penchant for playing little pranks at the expense of others. I shouldn’t take too seriously anything he does. Or says.”

Was it her imagination or was there more to his warning than was immediately clear? She thought of Southorn’s hints at the discord between Lord Absalom and Celeste. Had Southorn been exaggerating their unhappy situation for his own amusement? Or was it Absalom who had reason to make his brother’s comments seem less significant?

As if sensing her thoughts, her companion changed the subject.

“Look at me. I’m boring you with details of the family dynamics. Anyway, Southorn probably wouldn’t trouble you. He generally reserves his mischief for tormenting the servants. Now come, tell me what parts of the house you haven’t seen.”

And so Drucilla spent a diverting hour in the company of Lord Absalom, who gave her a thorough tour of Blackridge House.

Only one chamber gave him pause, as if he was reluctant to reveal its interior.

“No one goes in here much, aside from me. It’s something of a workspace.”

“You mean a study?”

“Not quite. You’re welcome to come in and have a look if you like but I’ll warn you it’s a bit of a mess.”

“Now I’m intrigued. Do lead on.”

He threw open the door to reveal a cheerful room lined by tall windows admitting golden sunlight.

The only furnishings here were a collection of half finished chairs, tables, and other pieces of what Drucilla could only describe as rubbish. The floor was dirty and heaped with wood shavings, saws of various types, and carving tools.

“I told you it was my workroom,” Lord Absalom said apologetically. “Wood carving and furniture making is a pastime I took up some time ago. Father thinks it an absolute waste of time and he’s probably right. He is about most things.”

He looked uncertain.

“Nonsense. I think your work is marvelous,” Drucilla lied, running her hand over the rough back of an unfinished chair. She immediately picked up a splinter.

Hiding the injured palm behind her skirt, she said, “However, you’ve taken me completely by surprise Lord Absalom. I should not have suspected you had the soul of an artist in you.”

“Nor any sort of soul at all, I suppose.” His smile was faintly sardonic.

When she did not hurry to correct him, he said, “You must not confuse me with my father, Miss Winterbourne. I’m aware Southorn has no doubt painted a black portrait of me. One I at least partially deserve, I’ll not deny. But I remain quite human, with all the feelings and weaknesses of any other such creature.”

“Unlike the elder Lord Litchfield?” she suggested.

“My father has his share of failings, make no mistake. But whether or not he possesses any of the other foibles of us mere mortals is a matter of debate.” He smiled then and she thought he could appear attractive, when he was of a mind to.

“You do not get on with your father,” she observed. She was aware she was being impolitely blunt but felt unable to help herself. “I am surprised. I should have thought you had much in common, both sharing a respect for artistic work.”

He shrugged. “My father may dabble with oil and canvas from time to time but it is nothing to him but a method of burning off excess energy. He has no real interest in anything save the estate and no ‘respect’ as you put it, for anyone but himself.” He spoke bitterly and she realized there was much more animosity between father and son than she had first thought.

She must proceed cautiously, lest he realize the depth of her interest. She certainly had no wish for him to guess she had overhead the argument between them. “He restricts your freedom I suppose?” she said casually. “No man can enjoy that.”

“It goes much deeper than that, Miss Winterbourne. The feelings between my father and myself are no secret. As a boy, he drove me hard, seeking, I think, to mold me into the image of himself. As you can see, he did not succeed. I believe that was a bitter disappointment to him. Our tense relations continued, even once I reached my majority. I would have continued my studies at school. He brought me home early to train me in my duties toward the estate. Later, I set my heart on seeing something of the world and traveled to Madrid, among other places. I felt free, happy while I was there. But my father interfered once more and wrote to order me home. You can imagine how that affected me.”

“Of course,” she said. “But then you met Celeste. Your father did not stand in the way of your marriage at least.” It was an attempt to bring the subject around to the present situation. She was uncertain why she wished to press him on the subject of her friend. What did she want? For him to admit to her, as he had to his father, that he had married poor Celeste for her wealth? She did not know. She only felt a certainty that she must continue in this vein.

Absalom snorted. “Why should my father have prevented my marriage? It was precisely what he wanted.”

She stepped nearer. “Why should that be so?” she asked with raised brows.

Abruptly, he seemed to realize he had strayed onto unsafe ground. “Well, isn’t it what all fathers want?” he answered vaguely. “To see their children well married and respectably settled down?”

He brought out his watch. “Ah, I see it is growing late. Perhaps I’d better check in with Father. He wanted to discuss some funeral arrangements with me. I trust you can find your way back to your room?”

Drucilla knew it was his way of letting her know he would not discuss Celeste further.

Chapter Eleven

Drucilla did not return to her room immediately. After Absalom had left her, she drifted downstairs and let herself out into the rose garden. In the privacy of the outdoors, she drew out the rumpled page from the poetry book she had discovered in Celeste’s room.

There, on a stone bench beneath the fading light of day, she read the brief, haunting tale of a new bride spurned by her husband and ruined in the worst way imaginable until at last the only solution she could see was to run away.

By the time she had finished reading, Drucilla had tears in her eyes and her hands were trembling with rage. Because she knew, she knew at last, what had really happened to poor Celeste and why this poem had meant so much to her.

And now there was someone she must confront.

***

“You are a married man, Lord Absalom,” she stated bluntly.

Around the dinner table, faces looked up in surprise, causing Drucilla to reflect that perhaps she had not chosen the best moment for this battle.

Across the table, Lord Absalom looked perplexed. “Yes, of course I am, Miss Winterbourne. Or was. But of course my title has changed to that of ‘widower’ since the death of Celeste.”

“I am not referring to your union with Celeste, Lord Absalom, but to your marriage with your true wife. Mrs. Portillo, as she calls herself.”

There was a moment’s silence and then Aunt Bridget, who had made a full recovery from her morning illness, burst out with, “Drucilla, don’t be absurd! This is a house of mourning and no place for tasteless jests.”

The old lady appealed to Lord Litchfield at the head of the table. “Please forgive my niece. As you can see, Celeste’s death has affected her deeply.”

“It has,” Drucilla cut in. “But I assure you I’m not speaking out of either ill-considered humor or hysterical grief. I retain my senses. Which is more than can be said for Lord Absalom when he first entered into his secret marriage.”

Lord Absalom’s laugh sounded forced. “Now I’m sure this is a joke. Who put you up to this? Southorn? Do you know what she’s talking about?”

But no one looked to Southorn. Drucilla believed they were all absorbed, as she was, in watching the color drain from Lord Absalom’s face. His long-fingered hands played nervously with his table-knife.

Drucilla was relentless. “After your imprudent match, you must have been very afraid of your father’s displeasure. So you concealed it from everyone, conniving instead to have the Spanish beauty you had married installed here as housekeeper. You knew it would be suspected she was your mistress but who would guess at the real truth which, to your family, would be far more shocking? You realized your father would accept his son’s foreign mistress of common origins much more easily than he could accept the same woman as his daughter-in-law and future lady of Blackridge.”

Lord Absalom’s cool façade was beginning to crumble. “I never heard such rubbish in my life. Where would you get such outlandish ideas?”

He looked bewildered.

She said, “I got the notion from no other source than yourself, sir. First, when I overheard you and your father discussing the intimate nature of your relationship with another woman. And again this afternoon, when you mentioned how you had been abroad in Madrid. It was not difficult to guess this was where you formed your initial connection with ‘Mrs. Portillo.’ Questioning one of the servants confirmed the timeline of the new housekeeper’s arrival coincided suspiciously with your return from Spain. Still, I concede you were clever in your deceit. Even I wouldn’t have guessed the truth.”

“But for what?” Lord Absalom asked, voice strained. “What gave me away?”

Drucilla thought of the love poem, still tucked inside her pocket. “A message from beyond the grave.”

He frowned. “What nonsense. You call that proof?”

“No, alone it wouldn’t be. But considering everyone at this table just heard you all but confess, I shouldn’t think any stronger evidence needed.”

His face fell.

But if Lord Absalom was prepared to give up his claim to honor with hardly a fight, his father was not so inclined.

“Absalom,” Lord Litchfield demanded. “Tell this young woman how wild and unfounded her accusations are.”

“No,” his son responded. “No, perhaps Miss Winterbourne is right. Maybe the time for half-truths is at an end.”

Drucilla leaned forward, eyes shining. She had hoped for but hardly dared expect a full confession.

“I’m sorry, Father,” Lord Absalom said. “In fact, I suppose I owe an apology to everyone at this table for my deceit.”

“The one your actions have harmed most is not present to give her forgiveness,” Drucilla murmured, thinking of how poor Celeste had been fooled into loving this man.

He misunderstood. “You’re right, I fully mean to beg forgiveness from Evita, er, ‘Mrs. Portillo’ as well. But the truth is, I never meant the pretense to go so far. I was in love, I acted on the impulse of the moment, and didn’t think of anything else until after the marriage took place. Only then did I consider what my family would say. What everyone would say. So I concocted the scheme to bring Evita here, to have her near me, even if no one could know what we were to one another. It didn’t seem such a terrible thing to do at first. After all, who did it affect but ourselves?”

“But then Celeste entered the scene,” Drucilla prodded.

“Yes. I met Celeste and father began pressuring me to court her. He threatened to cut off my allowance. More importantly, he knew there was something between Evita and me and he swore he’d throw her out of the house if I didn’t marry where he chose.”

He glanced at Lord Litchfield but appeared too weary to summon any emotion beyond defeat. “But the ultimate deceit was my own. I can blame no one else for it. In the end, it was I who acceded to my father’s wishes. I fooled poor Celeste into loving me and I married her. Only it wasn’t a true marriage in the legal sense because…”

“Because you already had a wife,” Drucilla supplied. “One who was still very much alive.”

He cleared his throat. “Yes, quite.”

There was something else she had to know. “When did Celeste discover the truth?”

He looked startled. “Why, she never did, so far as I know. On my word, I might have treated the girl less than honorably but I would never have been beast enough to let her know the true situation. She would have been horrified. Humiliated.”

Drucilla worried her bottom lip. “Nevertheless, she did discover the true state of things somehow. I’m certain of it.” She was thinking of the poem.

“If she did, it wasn’t me who informed her,” Lord Absalom insisted.

She was surprised to find she believed him.

“Very well, it wasn’t you. But it was you who shoved her off the roof when you found out she was planning to leave you.”

“What!” cried Lord Absalom.

At the same moment, his father slapped the table and shouted, “How dare you, young woman? Do you call my son a murderer as well as a bigamist?”

Drucilla struggled to keep her composure. “I believe he has already confessed to the latter. As to the former, that is my accusation, yes.”

Lord Absalom swore, sounding more shocked than angry.

Drucilla risked a glance at Southorn, but there was no support to be found in that direction. He sat back watching the scene unfold before him with as much apparent amusement as if it had been contrived entirely for his entertainment.

And a grim sort of entertainment it was.

Lord Absalom spoke with a marked effort at controlling his emotions. “Miss Winterbourne, I can understand your low opinion of me after the way I deceived Celeste. I have earned your disgust. But I beg you never to believe me guilty of directly harming Celeste in any physical way. It’s true, I didn’t love her. But she was a good, innocent girl and I would never have hurt her. I’m a deceiver, not a monster.

“Besides, you know of my attachment to Evita. So why should I have tried to prevent Celeste leaving me, if indeed she ever had such a plan?”

Drucilla looked into his earnest eyes, looked at all the questioning faces around the table. And she realized she had made a terrible error. She had forgotten the one thing no amateur sleuth should neglect: Motive. Lord Absalom had none.

She felt suddenly ill. She had dragged Lord Absalom through the mud, had unearthed secrets that could be of no help to anyone at this late date. And why? She had gained nothing and had probably done a great deal of damage to this family.

“Forgive me,” she mumbled through lips that felt numb, as she shoved back from the table. She was suddenly in desperate need of air.

She fled the dining room, ignoring the consternation that erupted behind her, and ran through the hall and up the stairs.

Bypassing her guestroom, she took another flight of stairs that led up, up to the roof.

Bursting through a heavy door and out onto the deserted rooftop, she ran to the railing and leaned her head over the edge. She felt as if she was about to be violently ill.

Wrong. She had got it all wrong. How could she have been so blind?

It had to be the father. She saw that now. The son had no reason to kill Celeste to prevent her leaving. He felt no affection for her and had no fear of scandal.

But there was one person in this house who had already demonstrated his hatred of scandal, one person who had gone to great lengths to see Celeste’s money came to the family and that Celeste herself never left it.

Despite a strong, cold wind sweeping across the roof and whipping her hair around her face, Drucilla began to sweat.

Then the door opened behind her. She was no longer alone on the rooftop.

“Not who you expected, am I?” asked a familiar voice.

She spun around and her heart seemed to freeze.

Chapter Twelve

“Southorn?” she asked. “I don’t understand. It couldn’t be…you?”

“Why shouldn’t it be? As the insignificant younger son, always shoved aside, never taken seriously, I had little to lose. Celeste alone understood me. She was the only one who had the sense to fear me.”

Drucilla’s thoughts raced. “So you taunted her and dogged her steps. You were the ‘ghost’ she spoke of.”

“Clever girl. In some ways, you’re actually much quicker at figuring things out than she was. She was wary of me but that didn’t stop her from meeting me on the roof that night. We were alone, just like now, with Father and Absalom quarreling in a distant part of the house and no one near enough to see or hear anything. There was a storm brewing. Like this one.”

He indicated the forks of lightening streaking the dark sky in the distance.

“Yes,” he continued, “this is much like that other night. Who is to say it will not end just as dramatically?”

Drucilla saw all too clearly the direction this conversation was going. Unfortunately, he saw where she was going, as she inched nearer toward the door and he moved to position himself in her path.

“Save your efforts,” he said, as she looked around her wildly. “There are only two ways off this roof. The way we both came up…or the way Celeste went down.”

Backing away as he advanced, Drucilla tried to remain calm.

“Why did you do it?” she asked, stalling for a miracle. “Celeste never harmed you or anyone else. Why should you kill her?”

“You amuse me, Miss Winterbourne—or Drucilla. May I call you that? As the man who is about to end your life, I feel we’re practically on intimate terms.” He didn’t await an answer. “You can be so clever at times and on other occasions so terribly unimaginative. For instance, you assume Celeste would have to lay a finger on me to harm me. But she didn’t need to do that, don’t you see? Her very existence hurt me. Because she was my brother’s wife, or so the world thought. And she was carrying his child. A child that would be his heir, if it were born male.”

“A child? I had no idea.”

“Neither did my brother. Funnily enough, I was the only one around who kept his eyes and ears open enough to learn the truth. As it turns out, ladies talk to their maids and some servants can be induced to confide those secrets.”

Drucilla recalled the chatty maid, Rosie, and Absalom’s remark about Southorn’s penchant for tormenting the servants. She couldn’t blame the maid for being bullied into giving information.

She said, “So you learned of Celeste’s condition before anyone else. I still fail to see your motive. Child or no child, there remains another heir to stand in the way of you becoming master of Blackridge. In order for you to inherit, something would also have to befall…”

She trailed off, realization dawning.

He smiled, crookedly. “You begin to comprehend. My plan was to dispose of Celeste in such a way as could be believed accidental. Railings grow old after all. Why shouldn’t one collapse when a lady leaned against it? I told myself after Celeste I’d wait a length of time to allay suspicion before removing the final obstacle in my path: My brother. I would have done that particular deed more carefully, of course. Poison or some such subtle means. I still will when the time comes. Do you want to know why? Because there will be no one to stop me.”

While he was speaking, he had begun removing his silk neck cloth.

Drucilla didn’t want to find out what he planned on doing with it. “But why the taunting of Celeste,” she asked. “Why the ‘ghostly’ charade?”

His eyes glinted with dark amusement. “You’re trying to put me off. But that’s all right. I don’t mind taking a moment to satisfy your curiosity. Unlike you, I’ve got all the time in the world.”

He tipped his head to the side and appeared to consider her question. “In the beginning, I was only watching her to learn her habits, to discover her weaknesses, while I plotted the least obvious method of removing her. But after awhile, it became a sort of game between us, I the hunter and she the prey. There’s something thrilling in watching your victim, knowing you’re going to kill them. What power could be greater than holding another being’s life in your hands?”

Her expression must have shown her disgust but he did not appear to mind the lack of appreciation.

“The ghost costume was a precaution,” he continued, “in case anyone should witness me stalking her about. The fact she mistook me at first for a real specter was unintended but entertaining. Rather like when I arranged for her to discover ‘Mrs. Portillo’ was Absalom’s real wife. I had known the truth there for some time but didn’t see any hope of convincing others of it. Perhaps I lack your impressive skills of persuasion.”

“So it was through you Celeste learned about the secret marriage? Why? What advantage was there to be gained?”

“I briefly entertained the idea of undermining my brother with a denouncement. Allowing the truth to be known, that his current ‘marriage’ was invalid, would make the child Celeste was bearing him an illegitimate heir. I thought I could use Celeste as a tool for bringing that about but it didn’t happen as I’d hoped. She didn’t confront him publically, didn’t even tell him she knew, apparently. And so I was forced to find a different solution to my most pressing problem, the little heir-to-be.”

He paused. “And that catches us up to our current dilemma. You proved surprisingly perceptive in sniffing out my brother’s secret. I knew then I couldn’t risk your delving into my own little mystery. And so it must end.”

She shuddered but maintained a brave façade. “Surely you don’t intend throwing me off the roof too? That has been done, after all. You don’t think it would seem a trifle suspicious for two women to die by the same ‘accidental’ means within mere days of one another?”

“Come, you must give me more credit than that, Drucilla. I am not stupid. No, I’ve chosen an entirely different method of removing you, one that will actually serve a dual purpose. Perhaps you can take comfort in that, the knowledge that your death will be particularly useful to me. You see, I’ve been looking about for a method of removing my brother and you have now provided it. As many witnesses as were present during that unpleasant scene at the dinner table, there will be no question that Absalom has an excess of motive for revenge.”

“You would frame your own brother for my murder?”

“Do not look so surprised, Drucilla,” he chided. “I thought we had already established the lengths of my ambition.”

She swallowed, throat tightening as it became clear how conveniently she had played into his hands. She said, “You’re insane.”

He shrugged. “Possibly. It depends on your definition of insanity. Is greed equivalent to madness? Because if it is, I’m not the first or the last in my family to demonstrate the signs.”

Drucilla did not realize how far she had backed across the roof until she felt the railing behind her. She was growing increasingly desperate.

Southorn seemed to sense her fear. “In case you were thinking of screaming,” he said, “if I were you, I’d save my breath. You’ll soon be needing it. Anyway, I assure you, there is no one near enough to hear.”

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

He twined the silk neck cloth around his hands. “I’ve always thought strangulation must be a rather satisfying way to kill,” he said conversationally. “What do you think? I imagine it would feel…what’s the word? Empowering?”

“Barbaric?” she suggested. “Beastly?”

“Now you’re hurling insults. I think that means we’ve talked long enough. Shall we draw this delightful conversation to a close?”

He lunged at her.

His movement was so sudden she scarcely had time to react. She attempted to dodge aside but her clumsy skirts tripped her up, so that she ended up sprawling across the roof stones.

Unable to stop, he slammed into the railing where she had stood mere seconds ago.

The ancient structure groaned beneath his weight and gave way.

Chapter Thirteen

Drucilla watched out the train window as the dark figure of Lord Litchfield standing back on the railway platform was enveloped in a cloud of smoke.

He had been kind enough to drive Drucilla, Aunt Bridget, the maids, and their baggage to the Morcastle station immediately following the double funeral of his younger son and his daughter-in-law. Considering Drucilla was at least partially responsible for his youngest son’s death and the revelation of his elder son’s shocking affairs, it seemed a generous action.

The lord had maintained admirable composure following what happened with Southorn. There was grief in his eyes to be sure but not shock. Perhaps some part of him had always suspected Southorn’s inner darkness but refused to accept it.

As for Absalom, he found his courage during the aftermath of Southorn’s death. He was determined to acknowledge Evita as his wife. Between them, Drucilla and Lord Litchfield managed to persuade him to a better course of action: to allow it to be believed that he and Evita had married only after Celeste’s death. This would spare Celeste’s London family further grief and would lessen the scandal surrounding the entire business.

But the greatest surprise was to be found in Lord Litchfield, who took Absalom’s marriage in better stride than would have been expected.

“It’s all due to you, you know,” Absalom told Drucilla during an aside before her departure. “He’s a milder man when you’re about. For that reason, I hope we can count on future visits from you again.”

His words were oddly echoed by his father a short time later.

“I hope your visit to Blackridge House was not so distasteful as to discourage you even visiting our part of the country again,” Lord Litchfield said during the carriage ride to the depot.

“My household is a sober one at present, but we would welcome the distraction of seeing you again at any time. In fact, in the unlikely event I find myself in London someday, I hope you will permit me to call on you. I realize there is a disparity in our ages but, to be blunt, I find your company stimulating.”

Started at this revelation, Drucilla glanced at Aunt Bridget, who was somehow managing to doze against the door as the carriage jounced along the bumpy road. At the old lady’s feet was the basket of restless cats, too precious to ride in the separate conveyance provided for the maids and baggage.

Drucilla said cautiously, “I fear you may find me overly frank, my lord, but I believe candor is called for in this instance. You see, I understand how your mind works regarding matters of, well, courtship and matrimony. So I think it only honest to save you a great deal of time by informing you straight off that my family, though respectable, is by no means wealthy.”

He smiled. “And allow me to assure you my interest in this instance is by no means mercenary.”

Drucilla considered him. It was difficult to believe now that she had once briefly thought him capable of murder. Difficult and yet all too easy, for there remained something in him that reminded her still of Southorn. She doubted she would ever fully trust such a man.

Nonetheless, she surprised herself by saying, “In that case, yes. You may call if ever you find yourself in town. I’m sure my brother would be interested in meeting you.”

It was true. Lord Litchfield was the most fascinating man of her acquaintance. Perhaps that was why she had said yes.

Now she didn’t regret the invitation as the train picked up speed and Lord Litchfield’s black cloaked figure faded into the distance.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Dara England is the author of numerous historical, fantasy, and paranormal works. She is a graphic designer and stay-at-home mom of two girls and a dog named Sampson. Learn more about Dara by visiting her website at www.daraenglandauthor.com. She welcomes reader questions and comments, and her email address can be found on her website.

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen