“Marguerite, wake up!”
She struggled to sit up. What on earth...? She looked around. She had fallen asleep on the sofa in the small drawing room. “My lord?”
John hovered over her, chafing her hands. “You are freezing!” He grabbed the bell-rope and tugged. “We’ll get a fire going. But before anyone comes—” He sat down beside her and whispered, “Someone sabotaged the carriage. Two of the spokes were sawn nearly all the way through.”
She clapped a hand to her mouth.
“It is a miracle the wheels held as long as they did, but they were not going fast because of the patches of snow still lying about. On the road outside Devizes a snowdrift hid a couple of rocks that Morecombe didn’t see. When the wheels ran over the rocks...” John stopped for a moment and closed his eyes. “However the carriage angled off the road and they were all thrown clear. Poor Morecombe is the worst for wear since he landed on his head. Mama and Papa are terribly shaken not only from the accident, but because they realize that someone tried to kill them.”
“Oh God!” Marguerite pressed her fingers against her lips. “Who? Who would do such a thing?”
The only unrest in the district had occurred before she came to live at Trewbridge. There had been murmurings about the advent of the new big plough at Trewbridge, but those mutterings had been silenced when the workers saw the number of jobs the plough created. The labourers had been impressed at how easy the soil was to harrow after the plough had done the rough work. Best of all were the large tracts of land, once not considered arable, that the heavy plough managed to break in that were now made available for planting. Marguerite doubted an attack would come from any of the local people.
“Have brigands been seen on the roads around here?” she asked John.
He shook his head. “Not that I’ve heard.”
Her mind flew to Lord Brechin. Surely he wouldn’t...? No. Why would he? He had no need to do such a thing. It was only a matter of time before he inherited everything. And he might be a shameful excuse for a man, but he was not stupid enough to put himself in a situation where he would be the first person suspected.
Could it be someone trying to incriminate Spencer Trewbridge?
In the distance they could hear the sound of a light vehicle slowing down to take the turn into the Trewbridge driveway.
“Spencer’s phaeton,” John whispered.
“Are you sure your parents are safe?” Marguerite asked quickly.
He nodded. “Hush now.”
The noise came closer. They heard the snorting and stamping of horses, then Spencer’s voice called out “Whoa!”
A few seconds later they heard a murmur of voices as Twoomey conferred with someone, then the clang of boot heels rang out across the foyer. Twoomey held open the door.
Spencer and Terence Ottley stood on the threshold. Neither man looked to be in the pink of health. Mr. Ottley looked sick to the gills and Spencer Trewbridge looked to be ailing. His skin was marked with boils and he had lost a great deal of weight since Marguerite had last seen him.
“Well, brother, the time has come at last, eh?” Spencer boomed.
“Time?” John inquired.
“Yes—my time. I received word that our parents met with an unfortunate accident. I came post haste to find out the details.”
Without being asked, Terence Ottley sank into a chair and held his head in his hands.
“Ottley!” Spencer snapped. “Pull yourself together, man! Too much imbibing,” he explained to Marguerite and John.
“Who brought you the news?” John inquired. “We only found out ourselves two or three hours ago.”
“I sent the news earlier this afternoon,” Ottley muttered. “I was the one who found your parents. The first thing I did was to let Spencer know.”
“Oh? I did not know that. I thought one of the local farmers must have found the carriage turned over in the road. Thank you for helping, Ottley.”
“Well, in a word, I did not exactly—”
“That will do, Ottley,” Spencer interrupted. “Go back to your little farm, John. I have the situation in hand. And you, Miss Ninian, will undertake the duties of hostess here at Trewbridge till my lady arrives. Then there will be some changes. Oh yes, there will indeed.” He rubbed his hands together.
“I will go with you to see our parents, Spencer. Their bodies are in the stables,” John said stonily.
Marguerite stared at John. What game was he playing?
“You’d better come along, Ottley. The fresh air will do you good,” Spencer said, sneering at his friend.
Marguerite knew she was not expected to follow them out to the stables but she trailed after them, keeping out of sight, anxious to see what would happen. The Trewbridge sons went inside the stables, but Mr. Ottley remained outside, leaning against the stone fence that walled the alley between the stables and the Lady’s Garden.
Marguerite watched him. When he had described finding John’s parents, he had used the phrase “in a word.” Just like the anonymous letter she had received. It wasn’t conclusive, but it wasn’t a common phrase. She wondered...
She looked at him, shivering in the cold. “Are you well?” she asked him. “You do not look at all the thing.”
He stared at her, but she doubted he truly saw her.
“What have I done? I’m as bad as he is.” He gave a convulsive sob.
Marguerite sat down suddenly on the mounting block. She wished John had heard Ottley’s confession, if it could be considered a confession. Only she had heard it, and if he was challenged, Ottley would deny what he’d just said. Or would he? She stared at him. He was hunched over, shaking.
“Well?” She heard Spencer’s voice from inside the building and ignored it. Timidly she approached Mr. Ottley. “Sir? Did you have something to do with the accident?”
He raised his head slowly and stared at her. She took a step backwards. He looked—odd. She took another step backwards, and suddenly she was running, running as fast as she could around the side of the stables for the safety of the little end door where the stablelads ducked in and out. She heard the thud of his boots behind her as she stooped down and whisked through the doorway. The barn cat shot between her feet and was gone into the shadows.
“John!” she screamed, running towards the voices. Her bad leg barely hindered her as fear lent her speed. Then she skidded to a halt, her boots scraping grooves in the dirt floor. Spencer Trewbridge stood in front of her, grinning.
“Going somewhere, Miss Ninian?” he inquired.
From behind him John attacked, and Spencer and he crashed down in the straw in a tangle of arms and legs.
She heard the rasping of Ottley’s breath as he bent down to squeeze through the half-door.
Swerving into the harness room, she slammed the door shut. She scrambled up the ladder to the hayloft that ran across the tops of the boxes. Below her Spencer and John grunted and struggled. Ottley threw himself into the melée.
Her heart thudding against the wall of her chest, Marguerite scanned the walls, seeking a weapon—anything to help John. He was by far the strongest of the three men, but neither Spencer nor Ottley would fight fair. She was frightened that one of them might have a knife or pistol secreted in his boot.
Then jammed in a socket on the wall she saw it. A longe whip, used for driving phaetons and curricles, hung swaying gently in the breeze created by the men’s bodies as they jockeyed for position. She hung over the edge of the hayloft and scooped up the whip. Lord knows, she was no dab hand at using a riding crop, let along flourishing a whip such as this, but it was the only weapon she could find. She must not get too close to Ottley or Brechin with it or they would use it to drag her towards them.
She scrambled back down the ladder and peeped around the harness room door. John had a headlock on Ottley and had forced him to his knees. But behind them, Spencer Trewbridge, sweating and grunting, stood, his arm upraised. In the dim light of the big barn something flashed silver. Without hesitation Marguerite flicked back the whip and let it run its length. To her shock it gave a satisfactory smack and Spencer spun around at the same time as John flinched from the noise. She tugged it back and cast it again, not up in the air but straight forward, like a fishing rod. This time the sound was not as loud. John did not even glance up.
“Bitch!” Spencer lunged towards her, trying to grab at the whip as she struggled to yank it back. She dropped it and danced backwards, away from his grasping hands.
“Leave her, brother, or I’ll break your cohort’s neck,” John snarled. He had Ottley spread-eagled on the straw and was holding him in place with one knee.
“Think I care?” Spencer spat. He paced towards Marguerite, grinning. A trail of saliva slid down his chin and he wiped it away impatiently. If Marguerite had thought Ottley was menacing, he was nothing compared to Spencer Trewbridge. His hands reaching out for her, he was relishing the chase.
She ran as fast as she could towards the half-door. A vicious crack startled her. She spun around. Behind her, Spencer paused. John had banged Ottley’s head against one of the wooden pillars. He staggered to his feet, his chest heaving. “Try someone your own size for a change, Spencer,” he snarled as he advanced on his brother.
Marguerite barely recognized her fiancé. His lips were drawn back over his teeth and he had dropped into a crouch, stalking his brother like a wolf. She backed into a corner as he charged at Spencer, head lowered. Spencer took the full force of the blow in his stomach. Without a word he dropped down on to the straw and retched. John pulled away and stood, looking down at him. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he demanded. He dragged Spencer off the ground and steadied him. Then he looked at Marguerite. “All right?”
“Yes.”
“Sure?”
She nodded, stunned at the way John had changed from a predator to a civil gentleman in one breath.
“Will you come with us?” he asked her.
“Where? Where are you taking me?” Spencer whined.
“You’ll find out.” John grasped his brother’s arm and dragged him to his feet, then set off towards the doorway, taking most of Spencer’s weight.
Marguerite followed the two men out of the stables into the cold night.