CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Dinner that evening went far better than I expected, though by no means did I actually enjoy it. How could I when no one would stop talking about Lady Stratford’s detainment? Many of the guests claimed they had suspected the countess all along, but, of course, none of them found it necessary to apologize for condemning me instead. Only Lord Westlock, who was positioned on my right, now that I sat in Alana’s place, had the grace to appear uncomfortable and embarrassed in my presence. And well he should, for I still sported a lump on the back of my head that was tender to the touch.

Gage was lauded and fussed over for uncovering the murderer, while I watched in frustration as glass after glass of wine was lifted to toast his name. More than once, I was forced to bite my tongue, lest I say something inappropriate or, worse, reveal my involvement in the investigation. Perhaps I should merely have been content to have the attention and suspicion removed from me, but I couldn’t help feeling dissatisfied and even a little angry.

Philip caught my eye and smiled sympathetically as yet another round of wine was poured for Gage. I nodded in acknowledgment and raised my glass along with everyone else, choking down another sip of the burgundy while most of the others drained their goblets.

“It must be difficult sitting there holding your tongue,” Lord Marsdale leaned toward me to drawl, irritating me with the reminder of his presence.

I supposed I shouldn’t have been surprised that, as acting hostess, I would be stuck sitting between Marsdale and Westlock, a marquess and baron, respectively. Lord Stratford had declined to join us for dinner; otherwise, he would be seated in Westlock’s place. I couldn’t say I would have liked that arrangement any better. At least Lord Westlock was quiet. Though, Lord Marsdale more than made up for his silence.

“What?” I asked, having more and more difficulty hiding my annoyance with the man.

He ran his finger around the rim of his glass. “Well, after all, didn’t you have a great deal to do with catching Lady Stratford?”

I looked him squarely in the eye for the first time that night. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He chuckled. “Come now, Lady Darby. There’s no need to lie to me. Mr. Gage is intelligent and clever, but I’m quite convinced you had more to do with this than anyone is letting on.”

I contemplated the surge of pride that welled up inside me and made me want to confirm his statement, to announce to the entire table what I’d done. It seemed unfair that Gage should receive all the credit. I had to remind myself that I hadn’t assisted with the investigation for the accolades. I had done it to protect my sister, my nieces and nephew, and to clear my own name. Admitting I had taken part in the autopsy and uncovering the child’s grave would only cast more scandal on my name, and that of the family I defended. The guests might be comfortable with Gage in the role of hero, but my participation would only arouse more suspicion. It was better this way, no matter what my pride thought.

“Poor man,” Lady Hollingsworth murmured into her empty wineglass from the seat next to Marsdale, distracting me from his bold stare. “Lord Stratford must be beside himself.” Her arm wobbled as she raised the glass overhead to signal to the footman passing behind her. How much had Philip’s aunt had to drink?

“I would be horrified,” Lady Bethel bleated from across the table, pressing a hand to her rather substantial bosom. “Why, if Bethel ever did such a thing, I . . . I . . . I don’t know what I would do.”

I hoped she would contact the authorities.

“He must have had some clue as to what kind of woman she was.” The marchioness sipped from her refilled glass. “I mean, I could see it. Lady Stratford was always so cold. It’s no surprise her husband found another woman to warm his bed.”

Lady Bethel tittered, and I blushed. Stuffy Lady Hollingsworth had definitely consumed too much wine if she was willing to discuss such intimate matters at the dinner table.

She leaned forward as if to impart some juicy secret; however, her whisper emerged loud enough for half the table to hear. “Or that she was crazy enough to kill his mistress because of it.”

I frowned, not liking the woman’s suppositions. It was exactly the same kind of cruel speculation that swirled around my reputation after I was dragged before the magistrate. I set my fork aside with an audible clink, unable to palate another bite of the cook’s delicious beef tenderloin. The ladies glanced at me distractedly but were too caught up in their conversation to pay me much notice. I stared across the distance of the table, trying to capture Philip’s attention. If his aunt was this sotted, I was certain he would want to be warned about it.

“At least now the earl will be able to find a new bride,” Lady Hollingsworth declared, her words beginning to slur. “This time, one who can give him an heir.” She nodded rather conspicuously toward her daughter Caroline, who smiled at whatever the gentleman next to her was saying, blissfully unaware of her mother’s plans. I inwardly cringed. A match between Caroline and the earl would be a disaster—for Caroline. I could not care less how Lord Stratford fared.

“Oh, yes,” Lady Bethel nearly cooed. “I hear he’s desperate for an heir. If he dies now, the title and entailed property goes to some distant French cousin.” She pronounced the man’s nationality as if it carried the plague.

“Oh, how horrid!” Lady Hollingsworth commiserated.

Lady Bethel nodded and then leaned forward over the table. I worried the contents of her bodice would spill out over her plate. “But do you really think they’ll hang her? A countess?” Such a prospect seemed to appall the baroness more than anything else.

Her friend was not similarly afflicted. “But of course. As well they should. She killed another gentlewoman. If Lord Stratford’s tart had been some demirep or a servant girl, perhaps it would be a different matter. But one can’t simply go around killing gentlewomen, even if you are one yourself.”

I opened my mouth to scold the women for their extreme insensitivity when I felt a subtle pressure against my leg under the table. My gaze flicked to Marsdale, whom, in the intensity of my anger, I had forgotten. He shook his head subtly, cautioning me against speaking. Reluctantly, I swallowed the heated words, feeling them scald the back of my throat like a drink of too-hot tea.

“I’m surprised you haven’t made any witty rejoinders,” I bit out through clenched teeth, wondering at his uncharacteristic silence during the ladies’ ridiculous conversation.

He smiled sadly. “Some conversations do not deserve wit.” He glanced at the two women still deep in conversation, and when he looked back at me, there was a twinkle in his eyes. “Especially when they lack good taste.”

I couldn’t stop the small twitch of a smile from curling my lips at his implied insult to the ladies, who were completely unaware that they had just been reproached, and by one of society’s most notorious scoundrels, no less. Marsdale grinned over his wineglass, clearly pleased to have amused me.

Feeling someone’s gaze upon me, I glanced up the table to find Gage watching us. Even annoyed as I was by all the praise he was receiving, I couldn’t help but be struck by his good looks—made all the more arresting by his black evening kit. I wanted to blame it on my artist’s eye, but I knew I would only be lying to myself. Gage was attractive to me as more than just a portrait subject.

Gage nodded, just a slight dip of his head so as not to draw the others’ attention. I nodded back, wondering if the gesture was a dismissal. Now that the killer seemed to be caught, did he no longer see a use for me? An ache began to form beneath my breastbone.

“So that’s how it is.”

I turned distractedly to Marsdale, whose eyes shone with devilry. “That’s how what is?”

His head tilted to the side, a sly smile playing over his mouth. “There’s no need to play naive with me. All you had to tell me was that you preferred light . . .” he nodded toward Gage “. . . to dark.”

A flush of heat raced up my neck and into my cheeks. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t prefer anything.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“I don’t,” I insisted, reassuring myself that it was the truth. I truly didn’t care what color a man’s hair was.

“Well, then,” he drawled, wagging his eyebrows and adopting his customary lazy grin. I knew it was aimed to disarm me. “There’s still hope for me yet.”

I sighed and shook my head at the man, but he refused to be deterred, and I unexpectedly welcomed his outrageous flirting and inappropriate commentary, grateful for the distraction it provided from the rest of the table.

After dinner, I accompanied the ladies to the parlor for tea. I anticipated that I would have to endure their gossip and small talk for at least a half an hour before the gentlemen deigned to join us, so when they began to wander in no more than five minutes later, I thought perhaps Philip had taken pity on me. However, it swiftly became clear from the men’s excited talk that was not the case. Philip’s mare, Freya, was foaling. It was very late in the season for such a thing, but I knew my brother-in-law had been expecting the horse to give birth for days now. He and Mr. Abingdon had rushed directly to the stables from the dinner table, and several of the other men were talking of joining them. Not wishing to remain any longer than necessary, I decided my favor to Alana had been fulfilled and slipped out of the room before anyone could detain me.

The fire in my hearth snapped merrily, casting flickering shadows across the walls. The firelight winked and flashed in the stained glass propped atop the mantel. When I was a little girl, I had taken the two pieces from a broken window being replaced in the village church near my father’s estate, loving the way the colors merged and swirled, changing with the light. I brushed my fingers over the cool, smooth glass, watching as the shadows cast by my fingers deepened the colors almost to flat black. In stark comparison, the surface away from my fingers seemed to ripple in the firelight like water, like a living thing.

I turned away, feeling oddly hollow inside. I stared at my bed, the fatigue from so many sleepless nights pulling at my bones, but I knew my head would never rest. Not with this pit growing in my stomach and the fear and doubt coalescing in my mind. I knelt to light a pair of candles from the flames to brighten the room. Then I dragged my tired feet across the carpet and slipped off my shoes to curl up in the window seat. Hugging a pillow to my chest, I parted the curtains and peered out at the carriage house below.

It sat, quiet and unobtrusive, next to the stables, which bustled with activity. Gentlemen milled outside in the carriage yard with the coachmen and stable hands, all waiting for the foal’s birth. Even the footman who stood guard at the door to the carriage house was drawn to the excitement, though he was careful to maintain his post. I wondered if Lady Stratford and Celeste could hear the men, and whether they worried they were there for them instead of a horse.

There was a knock on my door, and thinking it was my maid, I called out. “Come in.”

“I thought you were locking your door,” a deep voice replied.

I looked up to find Gage lounging against the doorjamb, one hand cradling a bottle of champagne, and the other a pair of glasses. My heart tripped in my chest.

“What are you doing here?” Hearing the breathless quality of my voice, I swallowed and added, “I thought you would be joining the other men down in the stables.” I nodded toward the window.

“I have seen enough foalings . . .” he closed the door with his foot “. . . to last a lifetime. I have no need to see another.”

I had not pegged him for a man who cared much for horseflesh. “How many foalings have you witnessed?”

“Two. One when I was an adolescent still trying to figure out a woman’s body, and another years later, while I was deep in my cups. I did not enjoy either experience.”

A smile tugged at my lips. “You thought to learn about a woman’s body from a horse?”

He grinned wryly. “Silly, I know.”

“Do many boys do that?”

He shrugged. “I haven’t the foggiest.”

I tilted my head to the side. “Well, I suppose it’s a good thing young ladies are not allowed to view such things, or else we might never let any of you gentlemen near us.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Better the foaling than the conception.”

I threw the pillow at him and turned toward the window to hide my amusement, continuing to watch him out of the corner of my eye.

He dodged and smiled devilishly. “You would have gone to your marriage bed expecting Sir Anthony to bite you on the back of the neck to hold you down.”

“Stop!” I gasped, trying my best to stifle my laughter. I was quite sure he could hear it in my voice anyway. “I don’t want to imagine that!”

He chuckled. “Well, we certainly don’t want that. I don’t believe my manly pride could support your thinking of another man while I’m in the room.” He began to work the cork out of the bottle. It emerged with a pop.

“What’s this for?” I asked.

He poured some of the bubbly liquid into a glass and handed it to me. “I thought we should celebrate.” He smiled. “This has been an interesting four days. And they would have been much less enjoyable without your assistance.” He poured his own glass and joined me by the window seat. “Shall we make a toast?”

“Haven’t you tired of those yet this evening?” I teased.

He grimaced. “Yes. They were all acting a bit ridiculous, weren’t they?” When I didn’t comment, he laughed. “I’ll take that as your agreement. All right, then.” He perched on the padded ledge across from me. “This toast is for you, Lady Darby. For I certainly wouldn’t have found the murderer without you.” Both of our cheeks flushed at the shared realization that he would likely have accused me of the crime. He cleared his throat and raised his glass. “To your future. May it be bright and beautiful.”

I drank to that, wanting the embarrassment to stop. The champagne was sweet and peppery and burned as it rolled down my throat. I drained my glass and took a deep breath, feeling a giddy rush to my head.

Gage chuckled. “Shall I top you off?”

I shook my head. “After all the wine at dinner, I think I’ve had more than enough to drink this evening.” Indeed, I felt lethargic and just a tiny bit tipsy.

He polished off his own glass and settled deeper into the window seat. Our bent legs were almost touching. Hidden beneath my skirt, my toes curled into the cushion, tingling with the knowledge that they could stretch out and graze the muscles of his leg. I leaned forward again to see outside, hoping to distract myself from the sensations swirling in my gut. Most of the gentlemen had vanished from the stable yard, and I wondered if they had been run off or had just grown bored.

“What’s wrong?”

I glanced up to find him studying me. “What do you mean?”

“I expected to find you relieved, but you seem almost as tense as the evening we made our trip down to the chapel cellar.”

I watched my hand smooth back and forth over the velvety fabric of one of the pillows. I couldn’t understand why I was so hesitant to explain what was bothering me. Perhaps it was because my doubts seemed insubstantial, even to me. I was worried how he would react, and maybe a bit afraid he would tell me I was being foolish. It had taken considerable effort to convince him to believe in me. I didn’t want that to all be ruined by a feeling, a sensation, I couldn’t even explain.

“I’m wondering,” I began uncertainly. “If we are seeing the big picture. If we really accused the right person.”

Gage tapped his champagne flute against his leg twice and leaned over to pick up the bottle. “You don’t think Lady Stratford murdered Lady Godwin,” he stated evenly as he poured himself another glass.

“I don’t know,” I admitted, allowing some hint of my distress to creep into my voice. “I just have this feeling that we’re missing something.”

“What?”

“I don’t know.” His calm seemed to only exacerbate the turmoil I felt inside me. “There are just a few things that are bothering me.”

“Such as?”

“Well, the murder weapon. I still don’t believe that a pair of embroidery scissors was used to slice Lady Godwin’s neck. The cut was simply too clean, too even.”

He took a sip of champagne, watching me steadily over the rim. “So are you saying it is impossible that the scissors made that cut?”

“No,” I hedged, having already known he would contradict me with such a question. “Just that it is highly unlikely.”

“But by that admission you are still saying it is possible.”

I frowned at the extreme logic he was using, not liking how silly it made me sound. “Well, anyone could have taken them from her embroidery basket. Just because they were hers does not mean she used them in such a capacity.”

“True. But that means they would have also needed to steal her shawl and her maid’s apron.” The tone of his voice told me just how doubtful he was of such a thing happening. “That would take quite an organized killer—someone with a real vendetta against Lady Stratford.”

I dropped my eyes from his gaze, not wanting to see the challenge there. I couldn’t argue with his assertions. It did all seem very unlikely, but not impossible. Lady Stratford had as much, if not more, of a capacity to incite enemies as anyone present at Gairloch. Jealousy, be it of her beauty or her position, could do strange things to people, not to mention the hatred a snubbing could cause. And Lady Stratford had snubbed more than her fair share of society.

“Well, what about the amount of strength and stamina it would have taken to dig the baby’s grave?” I challenged. “You can’t tell me that you believe Lady Stratford and her maid to be capable of such a thing.”

He leaned over to set his glass on the floor. “A footman.”

I startled, uncertain I’d heard him correctly. “What?”

“I suspect a footman moved the rock and dug the grave,” he replied calmly, as if what he was saying made complete sense.

I glared at him in confusion, irritated by his insouciant demeanor.

“I spoke with the gardener to find out if any shovels have gone missing,” he explained. “And he told me that a few mornings ago he noticed one of the spades was not placed in its usual position. As if someone had used it and then returned it.” Gage leaned forward. “And the gardener specifically remembers seeing a man lurking about the gardening shed the night before.” He nodded his head in emphasis and sat back against the wall. His eyes gleamed with satisfaction at uncovering this last bit of information.

“A man?” I restated.

“Yes.”

“Did the gardener get a good look at this . . . man . . . or are you just assuming it was a footman?” I snapped in exasperation.

Gage arched an eyebrow at my display of temper. “I didn’t assume anything. It just so happens that, as of this afternoon, one of Cromarty’s footmen has suspiciously gone missing.”

I had no reply to that. A footman’s disappearance just hours after Lady Stratford’s detainment did seem exceedingly suspicious.

“I suspect Lady Stratford convinced this footman to assist her with, if nothing else, at least burying the child.”

“How? A bribe?” I had a difficult time imagining one of Philip’s loyal staff being coerced into doing something so horrible.

“Money can be a powerful motivator,” Gage replied, correctly reading my thoughts. “And perhaps the footman didn’t know exactly what he was being paid to bury. Though, I can’t imagine he would be naive enough to believe it was harmless. Perhaps he only realized just how much trouble he could be in after Lady Stratford was detained, and he panicked.”

I turned to stare at the log crackling in the hearth. Gage’s assumptions seemed logical, I could not dispute that, but how could he know that they were right? “What if the man lurking around the gardening shed wasn’t the footman?”

His eyebrows lifted in doubt.

“Well, what if it was someone else?” I persisted. “And what if this footman has disappeared for another reason? What if he’s in some kind of trouble?”

“That’s a lot of what-ifs,” he murmured dryly.

I glared at him. “And your assumptions aren’t? You’re still jumping to conclusions. Even about Lady Stratford.”

Gage closed his eyes and sighed. “Lady Darby, my father has been an inquiry agent for nearly twelve years, and I have been assisting him for a number of those. Rarely, in an incident with no witnesses, do we uncover evidence that is so cut and dry. Lady Stratford cannot convincingly explain away the shawl and the scissors, and neither can I. If I thought I could, I would do everything I could to make certain I had reached the right conclusion. There is simply no other explanation.”

“But you should have seen her this afternoon,” I pleaded with him to understand. “When I forced her to admit her barren state, she was heartbroken. Her pain and anguish were genuine. She is desperate for a child. I just cannot believe she would have cut into Lady Godwin’s womb. Kill Lady Godwin, yes. But she would never have harmed that child.”

“The child was not her own. Believe me, my lady, there is a difference. And Lady Stratford would have seen it as such.”

“No,” I replied, shaking my head. “I can’t believe it of her. And you wouldn’t either if you had seen the look on her face.”

“She was acting,” he snapped, as annoyance twisted his features. “You are inexperienced with such things, Lady Darby, but I am not. Being accused of a crime brings out the most brilliant acting you have ever seen. I have seen performances to rival any production on the stage of the Theatre Royal.”

“Then how do you know who is telling the truth?”

“You don’t. That’s why you rely on the evidence. It is the only thing that is certain. Not instincts or strange feelings, which do come in handy from time to time. However, you cannot build a solid case around them.”

I understood what he was saying. I even agreed with him—to a certain degree—but I still couldn’t escape the horrible sensation pressing down on me that, in this instance, we were very wrong.

“Couldn’t we at least follow up on any other leads?”

“What other leads?” He sighed and raked a hand back through his hair. “There is no use in pursuing this further. There is nothing else to even consider. I will find the footman and question him, and then it will be finished.”

“Maybe . . .”

“No, Kiera. It’s over. I understand you feel some compassion for Lady Stratford, but you cannot change what she has done.” His gaze turned brooding, and he seemed to look inward. “There are some people who are guilty of the crimes they are accused of.”

I turned away, confused by the personal significance he seemed to invest in those words, and hurt by the betrayal I felt because he would not help me with this.

“Now.” He rose to his feet. “I think you just need a good night’s sleep. You’ll feel differently in the morning. The dark has a way of making us see shadows where they are not.” The door closed softly behind him.

I pulled my legs up and wrapped my arms around my knees.

Was he right? Was I jumping at shadows, at memories of the time I was dragged before a magistrate and accused of unspeakable acts? I didn’t know. All I knew was how hurt and frustrated I was that Gage had not tried harder to understand. It wasn’t as if I wanted to doubt Lady Stratford’s guilt. I wanted to feel triumphant and confident we had caught the murderer, just like everyone else. My uncertainties and misgivings certainly weren’t welcome sensations. They gnawed at me like an open wound.

I leaned over again to peer out at the darkened carriage house. My sister was right. I couldn’t let this go. Not yet. Not until I knew I had done everything I could to uncover the whole truth, whatever it might be. I would try to get a good night’s sleep as Gage suggested, and when the doubts did not go away, as I knew they wouldn’t, I would start the day with a rested mind and a fresh pair of eyes. I had at least one more day to uncover the truth before the procurator fiscal from Inverness arrived, or else damn my conscience and Lady Stratford to the consequences.