“Good to see you again, my lord.” Twoomey bowed and handed off John’s coat to a footman. He signalled to a groom to take Diabolo to the stables.
John reflected that only a few short weeks ago he would have replied, “It’s good to be here, Twoomey” and wouldn’t have meant a word of it.
He remembered how he’d felt that day when he and Mac had returned to Trewbridge, how the aches and pains from the tedious, icy journey had been forgotten as his heart had whispered, “home at last.” And his common sense had argued that Trewbridge was no longer his home.
But now he had a home—a home where decision-making was not done by consensus, a home he could shape and make mistakes with and... He drew a deep breath and smiled to himself. Lord, he felt smug, practically drunk with good cheer. “Pride comes before a fall, Trewbridge,” he reminded himself under his breath. But he couldn’t stop his lips from curling upward.
“Good afternoon, Lord John.”
Miss Ninian had come out of the small withdrawing room so quietly he hadn’t heard her. John stared. Every time he saw her, the petals had unfurled a little more. Today she was dressed in dull green, a subdued colour as befitted a secretary or companion, but somehow on Miss Ninian the colour served to emphasize her silky skin, especially where a few stray tendrils of nut-brown hair clung to her neck.
“Unnh.” His tongue seemed to have stuck to the roof of his mouth. Years of aplomb came to his aid. “Miss Ninian.” He outdid her in civility with the depth of his bow.
But he was seriously shaken. His little pocket Venus was blossoming into a lovely young lady under his mother’s aegis. The dirty fingernails and hand-me-down clothing were long gone and she had attained a quiet dignity. He had even detected the occasional hint of a flirtatious glance from beneath her lowered lashes. He loved that up-and-under look of hers, enjoying it when the long, inky lashes fluttered a little, giving away her surprise at her own temerity.
Had he been wrong when he assumed that London was not her metier? Her limp was now much disguised. The new Miss Ninian might appreciate being with her sisters attending the musicales and small dinner parties that were allowable during their period of mourning. Perhaps she might prefer that to being buried in the countryside.
Had he done the right thing?
****
The marquess worked in the library while the rest of the family sat in the small withdrawing room awaiting the first of the wedding guests from far afield. These guests would stay for several days at Trewbridge before returning home to Warwickshire and Suffolk. Edward was steadily amassing a huge number of points against John at cribbage when from outside there came the patter of running feet. Marguerite shoved aside her sewing and looked up, startled. The servants at Trewbridge rarely ran. Something was wrong. John leapt to his feet as Twoomey burst into the room, dragging an under-groom by the arm. Tight-lipped and white about the face, Twoomey snarled at the groom, “You tell him.”
The groom gasped and flicked a fearful look at John. “My lord...sir, we’re doing our best, but I don’t think we can save him. I’m so sorry—”
The man’s chest was heaving as he wrung his hands.
Marguerite felt her heart clench as John’s face whitened.
“Diabolo?” he choked.
“Y-yes, sir,” the young groom finally managed to get out.
“Oh God—no!” John shot out of the room and raced towards the stables, the groom stumbling along behind him.
Marguerite and Lady Trewbridge rushed to the window to watch. When the men were out of sight, the marchioness collapsed on to a settle, her head bent, her lips moving in a silent litany.
Marguerite stared at her employer in consternation. What should she do? She patted Lady Trewbridge’s arm and asked nervously, “Shall I—shall I order some tea?”
“No.”
Used to kind civility from Lady Trewbridge, Marguerite blinked. Clenching her hands in her lap, her body taut as a bowstring, the marchioness whispered, “Go and find out about the horse. Please.”
The anguished appeal sent Marguerite scurrying towards the stables. Her skirts slowed her down, so without pausing in her flight she gathered them up above her calves. From inside the stables she heard a terrible screaming then the sound of a shot, dulled and reverberating. Gasping, fearful, she stumbled through the stable doors and fell into a well of silence. The room reeked of sulphur.
A group of people stood, watching John Trewbridge on his knees beside Diabolo. His capable, callused hands were stroking the horse’s withers, and his head was bowed. Beside him stood his manservant, loosely holding a pistol. He was crying.
“Oh no. Oh no,” the under-groom kept saying over and over as he stood behind Lord John.
Marguerite stepped back into the shadows where the barn cat watched the proceedings, her hackles raised, hating all the noise and the people.
Marguerite knew the marchioness would have heard the shot from the house. There was no point now in reporting back to her.
The Marquess of Trewbridge burst through the door at a run. “We lost the scoundrel, damn it; we lost him!” he said to nobody in particular. “What...?” He took a deep breath and stepped towards his son, then looked at Mac. Gently he took the pistol away from the manservant and held it out to Marguerite. “Here,” he whispered. “Take this away.” Then he laid his hand on John’s shoulder.
Nodding her understanding, Marguerite took the pistol and turned back towards the house. This time she walked. There was no hurry now.
The open gun case sat on the library desk and she replaced the duelling pistol in its allotted groove. According to the inscription on the case, the pair belonged to John. She was fingering the inscription when from behind her the marchioness asked, “How is he?”
Marguerite knew she wasn’t referring to Diabolo. She swallowed. “I don’t know, m’lady. He looked devastated. They all do.”
“Did-did you see my husband?”
“Yes.”
“Did he say anything about...apprehending the persons responsible?”
“Responsible for what?” Marguerite was confused.
“According to Twoomey, Diabolo was poisoned. His oats,” the marchioness explained.
At that moment Twoomey entered with a tea tray. “I-I don’t suppose you feel like this at the moment, my lady, but dinner will be delayed because of...because of—it was terrible,” he said, unable to contain himself. “From the gardens we could hear the horse whinnying and screaming and the grooms all running about. His Lordship seems to have seen something or someone. He nabbed the new security man and the two of them raced off across the fields towards Westbury.” He placed the tray on a table with immense care. “Poor Mr. McClintock had to deal with Diabolo. I saw him running back from the stables and upstairs to Lord John’s room. Then he came out with...that.” He nodded towards the gun case. “So I knew it was bad, very bad.”
The cups and saucers clattered on the tray as Twoomey’s hands shook. Marguerite took over the tea tray and nodded to Twoomey to withdraw. Much better if the fellow went and had a glass of sherry.
The marchioness sat down and sank her head in her hands. “Poor John. He has had that horse ever since he came down from Oxford. He loves it so much. You should have seen all the hours he spent grooming and training Diabolo. And on the Peninsula they had a dreadful time of it but somehow John and Mr. Hetherington managed to bring Diabolo back. For what? To be poisoned here at Trewbridge.”
“But how? Did one of the grooms feed Diabolo green oats?” Marguerite did not see how it could have happened. “They are far too experienced for that, surely.”
“Not one of the grooms. No.”
Marguerite was conscious of a feeling of disquiet beginning in the pit of her stomach. She stared at the marchioness. “Why would anyone want to poison J—er...Lord John’s horse on purpose? I don’t understand.”
“There is somebody who might. Let us speak no more about it. My husband will take care of it,” the marchioness said.
Marguerite blinked. Usually when decisions were to be made, the marchioness was at the forefront, ready to weigh in with advice. Why was she not at the stables now, proffering solace and giving instructions? On the contrary she sat quite still, staring into space at an unpalatable vision, if her unhappy expression meant anything.
The evening chill began to settle. Marguerite fetched a shawl for Lady Trewbridge, then sat down beside her. She did not know what to say. It was best to say nothing.
As the dusk claimed the light, in ones and twos the servants drifted back to their duties. A flicker of movement caught Marguerite’s eye. Two men trudged slowly past the window. Lord John and his manservant were returning to the house. For just a heartbeat Marguerite glimpsed John’s set, ravaged face. She had always thought of him as a hard man, except where his family was concerned. But the haggard, desolate face she had just seen was the face of a man who cared too much.
Suddenly Marguerite felt afraid. Until today Trewbridge had been a haven, a place for her to heal. But today death and suspicion had come to Trewbridge and she wondered where it would lead.