The next day, shortly before Vanessa’s afternoon nap, a tap at the sitting room door heralded a footman with a message from Lord Hycliffe. As soon as my duties permitted, I was to attend him in his study. Somehow I kept my features calm, revealing none of my dread or alarm to Vanessa, David, and Maud. After all, why should they be subjected to my worry? To them this was merely a summons to one of the frequent reports I made to Lord Hycliffe on his daughter’s progress. Only I knew this conversation might well be quite different.
Before descending to his study, I went to my room, neatened my hair, pinched color into my cheeks, and sent up a silent prayer for courage and the miraculous gift of not letting my unruly tongue run away with me or my all-too-speaking eyes reveal the slightest hint of condemnation.
Lord Hycliffe looked older than the last time we spoke privately a bit more than a week ago—cheeks sunken, azure eyes dimmed to ice blue, more streaks of gray threaded through his hair. He half rose out of the seat behind his desk then collapsed back into it as if he could rise no farther. I admit to feeling a twinge of feminine compassion. He was, after all, Robert’s father and the pattern card for what Robert would look like at a similar age. Though I hoped Robert’s face would never show such lines of suffering.
The silence lengthened as the earl studied me, his forehead wrinkled in a frown. I laced my fingers together in my lap and stared right back. “Tell me, Penny,” he said at last, “what do you know of the collapse of the hill behind the garden?”
“My lord?” I widened my eyes, the very picture of incredulity.
“Surely a young woman who has followed the drum is familiar with explosions?” he returned, never taking his eyes off my face. “And I am told you are familiar with the area, frequently walking in the garden even on the foggiest days.”
Fortunately, the goosebumps on my arms were covered by the long sleeves of my gown. “I do, my lord, and consider myself most fortunate the hill did not collapse while I was sitting beneath it, though I am told there was little damage beyond the folly’s cracked roof.”
Lord Hycliffe leaned forward, his features shifting from bland to shrewdly calculating. “You and my son are close, are you not?”
“If you refer to Lord Exmere, my lord, we have ridden together on occasion. I find him pleasant company.”
The earl snorted—an inelegant noise I can describe no other way. Ignoring my response, he continued, “Close to the point of confidences, I suspect. Or were you more intimately occupied on those rides?”
“My lord!” Shivers chased up my spine, even as my inner voice screamed, Murderer! I had longed for a different solution—to the point of conjuring a venal motive for Thomas Ridgeway to kill his own brother. But now . . . now, suddenly, the idea of the Earl of Hycliffe killing his wife did not seem so far-fetched.
One battle at a time. I thrust away that avenue of thought and tackled the problem of my defense. Head high, I declared, “I suspect Lady Rothbury has been whispering in your ear, my lord. She cannot like Lord Exmere casting an eye on anyone but Lady Daphne.”
“And the truth of the matter?”
“Lord Exmere and I are comfortable in each other’s company, my lord. I have no idea how he feels about Lady Daphne.”
“He does not tell you about private happenings, intimacies of the family?”
I frowned, shaking my head as if vastly puzzled. “We speak of the beauty of the landscape, my lord. The sea, the cliffs, the moor. We have visited the village. He has told me some of the history of the area. Civilities, nothing more.”
With a soft sigh, the earl leaned back in his chair. “If only I could believe you,” he murmured. “You have been a Godsend for Vanessa, a worker of miracles, but your association with my heir must cease. No good can come of it.” His gaze drifted over my shoulder, as if he were seeking guidance from thin air.
I had the horrid feeling that rather than thinking of my successes with Vanessa, he was weighing his options. Would I be more dangerous away from Moorhead Manor, where I might speak of what happened here? Or should he keep me close, where he could make sure I did not talk out of turn? For he truly seemed convinced that I was party to Robert’s secrets and that I was lying through my teeth.
Which I was.
My heart cried, even as my mind enforced a cool façade. I liked Lord Hycliffe. I did not want him to be guilty of murder.
But my new life was crumbling around me, and there was no one to defend me save my myself. Time enough to worry about evil after I managed to keep a roof over my head. “Lady Rothbury is mistaken, my lord. I am a lady, not a fallen woman. And I promise to remember I am merely Lady Vanessa’s companion and to make every effort not to intrude into the family circle.”
An odd look crossed his face. If I had not been so upset, I might have understood it better, but for a moment I suspected he was sorry. Yet sorry for what? For warning me away from Robert? For questioning my honor? For bringing me to Moorhead Manor? For killing his wife and her lover? For suspecting I might know about it?
Or was he realizing he might have to kill me as well?
Gathering my thoughts to me like forlorn lost sheep, I rose to my feet, managed a curtsy, and left Lord Hycliffe to his suspicions. Only to run, quite literally, into Kenrick—who must now revert to being Mr. Blythe—in the corridor.
He caught me by the shoulders and set me upright, his clever and ever cynical brain having no difficulty seeing that I was disturbed. “Penny, Penny, what has the ogre said to put you in such a pelter? Shall I tell Cook to put pepper in his soup?”
“Nothing,” I muttered. “And it is ‘Miss Ballantyne’ from now on.”
“Ah, so that’s the way of it,” he said. “Lady Daphne’s got the wind up about your stealing her quarry.”
I drew myself up. “Good day, Mr. Blythe,” and I stalked off with what I hoped was the arrogant pride worthy of a duchess.
But my difficulties with men were not over. In the drawing room after dinner Lord Norvelle drew up a chair and sat down next to me, ostensibly to converse with both Vanessa and myself, but I longed to deliver a good swift kick when he seemed to direct far too many of his remarks to me. My suspicions—for which I had absolutely no basis except his being at Moorhead at the time of all four deaths—still caused my skin to crawl. My unease was amplified tenfold when Robert strolled up, engaging all four of us in light and amusing conversation. I did not have to glance at Lady Daphne to feel her smoldering gaze, her mother’s rising anger as well, the tension crowned by the sudden cessation of the earl’s strong baritone as he bit off whatever he was about to say to Lord Rothbury, Kenrick, and Huntley. “Exmere,” he barked, “you are neglecting your guests!”
Robert straightened, turned, tossing a look at his father that seemed to deliver as much of a challenge as the one he received. But all he did was nod then direct his attention to Lady Rothbury and her daughters. “My apologies, ladies.”
Huntley, also taking his father’s words to heart, strode to Lady Jocelyn’s side, echoing his brother’s apology. Smiles all around, though I felt Lady Daphne’s was rather brittle. When wasn’t it? A faint mee-ow echoed through my head. Fine. So be it. Why beat about the bush? I disliked her as much as she disliked me.
Robert soon coaxed her into better spirits, however, and she entertained us with a number of intricate pieces by Domenico Scarlatti. Lord Norvelle, however, never moved from my side, though I grant his occasional whispered comments seemed directed at Vanessa as well as myself.
Robert, miserable man, appeared totally absorbed in the music. When Lady Daphne took her bows, I declined to perform, offering from between clenched teeth the excuse that I could not possibly follow such a brilliant performance. Robert and Huntley both protested, Kenrick raised a quizzical brow. From Lord Hycliffe I received a look of approbation. My brain screamed a very bad word. My lips opened, threatening to let it out—
Saved by the tea tray.
By the time I delivered teacups all round, I had myself in hand. Tomorrow must be a new day. No more daydreams for either Vanessa or myself. Only reality would do, however harsh and unpalatable.
Not a pleasant prospect.
What I needed, I decided, was something to take my mind off my loss. Something such as the murders, or presumed murders, of four young women. Even if Lord Hycliffe killed his wife, I could not see him running mad over the moors. He was known for becoming a recluse after his wife’s death, known for seldom leaving the house, for never going outside the confines of Moorhead’s grounds. He was an important man, any aberration in his daily routine sure to be noticed. And besides, I simply could not believe him guilty of killing four young women.
A naivety that could prove fatal, my inner voice warned, but I clung to the notion of Hycliffe’s innocence, no matter how unrealistic. He was my love’s father and I refused to think him mad.
I considered the latest victim—supposed victim—Megan Flaherty, the epitome of a fine Irish lass, always smiling and cheerful. “Never a sour look from morn ’til night,” Mrs. Linnell had said when she went missing. So perhaps I should start there and see what I could discover.
I found Mrs. Linnell in her small office off the kitchen. After the required pleasantries, I asked, “Do you have any idea why Megan left the house the night she went missing?”
Mrs. Linnell folded her hands in her lap, her gray eyes solemn. “Nary a thought,” she said. “All the girls knew not to go out alone. I cannot understand it.”
“Was she walking out with anyone?”
“No, of course no—” Mrs. Linnell bit off her words, her face anguished. “I know I should not speak ill of the dead,” she continued slowly, “but Megan was such a gay sprite of a girl—the Irish in her, I suppose. She had an eye for the men, I fear. Had them all panting after her . . . but not one in particular that I recall.”
“So she left the house alone that day?”
Mrs. Linnell shook her head. “She must have . . . unless you’re saying it’s one of our own who killed her.” When I said nothing, her sorrowful look gradually turned to horror. “No, you cannot mean it,” she whispered.
Realizing I had stumbled my way into a household nightmare, I hastened to reassure her. “I was merely curious, Mrs. Linnell. “Pray do not read more into my words than was meant. I was merely wondering if she might have run off with some young man.”
“Without a word?” Tabitha Linnell, whom I had thought a friend, sat up very straight, looking down her prominent nose and over her ample bosom at the camp follower who had somehow been chosen, unwisely to be sure, as companion for the daughter of the house. “I think, Miss Ballantyne,” she declared, “that you should stop playing at Bow Street and get back to your duties.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Linnell.” I stood, adding softly before taking my leave, “It is my half-day, you know.” Her huff nearly blew me out the door.
I considered questioning Allard, but he would not know as much about the maids as Mrs. Linnell. Dobbins perhaps. Who knew what he or the stableboys might have seen from positions that were frequently outdoors.
“Not riding today, miss?” he said when he saw I was not wearing my habit.
“I am . . .” I shrugged. “Truly, Dobbins, I’m not sure what I’m doing today. Just foolishness, perhaps. I toed the straw on the floor with my half-boot, drew in the scent of manure, horse sweat, leather, and old wood. “I was wondering,” I said slowly, “if you or any of the stableboys saw Megan Flaherty on the day she disappeared. And was she alone?”
Dobbins nodded. “I did,” he told me. “Passing the outer paddock she was, bent over as if wishin’ to hide behind the rails.”
“Alone?”
“Aye, alone.”
“And you said nothing?”
“I surely did, miss. Told Lord Exmere the minute I heard the girl was missing.”
“I beg your pardon,” I muttered. And that was likely why so much of the search was concentrated on the moors, with Robert under no obligation to share the details with mere females. I came close to grinding my teeth.
“Had you seen her before?” I asked. “Going alone onto the moor?”
“Oh aye, miss. Wasn’t the first time she sneaked out. Liked the men, she did.” Dobbins looked down, the stable floor of sudden great interest. If he knew anything more, I suspected it would forever remain secret. I thanked him and made my way back to the house, where I waylaid Alice Ord as she left Vanessa’s apartments with a load of ironing over her arm.
“Did you know Megan Flaherty?” I asked.
“Ah, miss, everyone knew Megan. It didn’t take me but a day to pick her out from the others. It was as if the Lord gave her the moon and the stars when she was chosen for service at the Manor. And comin’ here from elsewhere I knew how she felt. It may be a great gloomy pile, beset by turmoil at times, but hearts are warm and his lordship is kind. The young gentlemen too. I’m happy to be here, and so was Megan.”
For a moment the tragedy of it all tied my tongue, but finally I managed, “Was there any one gentleman she preferred?”
“Ah no, miss.” She paused, considering. “Well, possibly our Davy, but then who would not?” Speechless, I could do nothing but blink as she added hastily, “I must be off, miss. My lady needs this dress by tea time.”
I sat a long time in front of the fire in my bedchamber, my brain endlessly circling, unable to frame a single thought. I knew only that a new dragon had raised its head, its flame dormant, wings tucked hard against its sides, but the potential for disaster chilled my soul.