For the first time since Sir Calleford’s death, a meal at the Eyrie approached something like normality, and the guest was probably the reason why. Hal was very much at ease in groups and fitted in nicely. He discussed art exhibits with Miss Hardiman, dogs with Gwen, and horses with Mr. Hardiman and Mr. Blake. Both Tommie and Mr. Mehmet asked several questions about the English legal system, and Mr. Mehmet’s eyes landed briefly on Frances with what she thought was some amusement. And Mrs. Blake seemed pleased with the way the conversation went.
Frances saw him back to the car.
“Be careful,” he whispered.
“I always am,” she said. And Hal rolled his eyes as the car pulled off.
Back inside, Mrs. Blake was giving a few instructions to Pennington, but turned when Frances reentered the house.
“Lady Frances, if it’s convenient, could I have a word with you?” The words sounded serious, but Mrs. Blake was smiling gently.
“Of course.”
Mrs. Blake led Frances to her morning room, where she clearly felt most comfortable.
“As if running a household after a death, after a murder, isn’t bad enough, I have to cope with the constabulary wandering around and that inspector asking questions and making reports.”
“Do they appear to be close to finding the culprit?”
Mrs. Blake shrugged. “Inspector Bedlow, the local man, seems to think it’s an outside gang of robbers, and perhaps a servant was bribed, although I find that hard to believe. Who knows? Meanwhile, they’ve asked for everyone to stay, except for the French guests, who were vouched for by the French embassy and allowed to leave. But to the matter at hand.” She waved away the topic and then smiled. “I understand you have arranged for Gwen to engage her own personal solicitor.”
“She’s a woman of wealth and property. And I felt she could use someone for whom her well-being was his sole concern. Mr. Wheaton is one of the most distinguished solicitors in London.” She studied Mrs. Blake closely for reaction. She gave away little, but again, Frances saw strain in her face.
“I’m sure. But Lady Frances, there is so much more than financial and legal issues. Mr. Wheaton can’t help Gwen serve as chatelaine.”
It was an old-fashioned word for the lady of a great castle, from the days when the Eyrie was new. Frances knew what Mrs. Blake meant: A lady hired and managed servants, both indoors and out. She made sure her house was the social center of the county and set standards for behavior and entertainment. Frances thought of the aristocratic Marchands, Gwen’s ancestors. Frances couldn’t think of anyone less suited to be lady of the castle than Gwen. But Mrs. Blake reveled in it.
“With her money, Gwen could hire the finest housekeeper in England.”
“And you no doubt wonder why we don’t have one? Because I couldn’t find anyone who could do what I could. Even if Gwen hired one, there is so much more to be done than a housekeeper can do. This household is the envy of England. Sir Calleford was one of the finest diplomats in Britain, and he made history here. And I gave him a household worthy of his tasks.”
So it was about purpose. The Eyrie was Mrs. Blake’s reason for living. Frances couldn’t blame her for that. So was this about fear that Gwen would send her back home to the small house she shared with her son? No doubt Christopher would marry someday, and Mrs. Blake would be sent off to a dower house, alone and forgotten.
“I’m sure Gwen won’t send you away.”
“Of course she won’t,” said Mrs. Blake with a touch of annoyance. “She needs me, and even Gwen has the wit to see that. I have to think about the years ahead. This house has been handed down to blood relations for more than three centuries, and I mean to see that that continues. Gwen will stay here. I will stay with her. She will marry and have sons or daughters who will themselves marry and have children, those who can run this when I’m gone.”
“And if Gwen doesn’t wish to marry?” asked Frances. She said it softly, and watched Mrs. Blake carefully. Red spots appeared on the older woman’s cheeks—she was angry, but she kept herself under control.
“What she wishes? We can’t all be like you, Lady Frances, with the money, intelligence, and wit to flout all convention. Gwen has no skills for that. Will you and Miss Calvin guide her for the rest of her life? I have a plan for her. I would’ve thought you realized it. She will marry Christopher. She has always had affection for him, and he has always been kind to her. I will stay on to manage things, and Gwen will be perfectly satisfied with that.”
Gwen wouldn’t mind her Aunt Phoebe looking over her shoulder, thought Frances. But if the Eyrie somehow ended up in someone else’s hands, Mrs. Blake would lose her place.
“And Christopher wants to marry her?” asked Frances.
“Lady Frances, I wouldn’t have thought that you of all people would need things spelled out. Christopher will have an obliging wife, mastery of the house he’s always loved, and his mother to run the household.”
Frances thought over her next sentence carefully. “Mrs. Blake, I don’t think a married life with Christopher—with anyone—is something Gwen desires.”
Mrs. Blake rolled her eyes. “I appreciate your delicacy, but I’m not a fool. You are not married, so maybe I have to explain to you that in a marriage, not everyone gets all they need from a spouse. Christopher will no doubt make only minimal demands on her. Please tell me I don’t have to explain further.”
No she didn’t. The couple would do what was necessary to get an heir, and Christopher would take a mistress. Many marriages in society worked that way, and the couples were content, even happy.
Mrs. Blake smiled, as if to soften her message. “Please understand I’m not trying to be cruel. I really want what’s best for Gwen. Surely you can see how this works so well for her, for everyone. Life is hard for a single woman in society—yourself excepted, of course. And if she wants Miss Calvin to live here as a sort of companion, then as you see, we don’t lack room. She’ll have the life she wants, with the security she needs.”
Frances nodded. Mrs. Blake wanted Gwen to have a place in the world, and there was no getting away from the fact that Gwen was now mistress of the Eyrie. But there had to be another solution, something besides what was essentially a forced marriage.
“Do you think that Sir Calleford would’ve wished this for his only daughter?”
“What an extraordinary question. But a fair one. Yes, I do. He was a pragmatic man. In this very house I saw him solve problems that prevented wars and saved lives. You have no idea what a great man he was.”
“It must’ve been a great privilege to run a household for such a paragon.”
Mrs. Blake stared at Frances, as if to see whether she was making fun of her.
“It was. But I think we’ve strayed from the subject at hand. Can I take it, Lady Frances, that you will use your considerable influence to see that Gwen follows my plan?”
“Let us say, Mrs. Blake, that we both wish to do what is best for Gwen, now and for the rest of her life.”
It was not the answer Mrs. Blake had hoped for, but Frances saw she was gracious about it.
“Thank you for hearing me out, Lady Frances. Things will be difficult in the coming days, with Gwen still in mourning, and we can plot a course for her later on.” She stood.
“Just one more thing, Mrs. Blake, on another topic. I assumed Mr. Hardiman was a representative of the American government. Did not his embassy also ask that he be allowed to return? I’m surprised to see he’s still here.”
“I don’t know if he is a diplomat—he wasn’t one of Calleford’s friends. He was just introduced to me as Mr. Hardiman, from somewhere in upper New York state. You should ask Christopher. He’s the one who invited him.”
“He did? You mean, to the Eyrie?”
“Yes. He said he had met some Americans while conducting business in London, and could he ask them down to the Eyrie to see the great house. Christopher hardly ever asked for a favor like that, and Calleford was happy to welcome them. Anyway, they seem delighted with it—especially Miss Hardiman. Good afternoon, and I’ll see you at dinner.”
Frances knew what to do next. So an arranged marriage was not just a wandering thought, but a definite plan, at least in Mrs. Blake’s mind. Had it been in Sir Calleford’s? And that was interesting about Mr. Hardiman. Why had he been invited? The two Americans were ciphers and it was time to find out more.
A passing footman told her he had seen Mr. Blake outside, near the stables. She headed out—it was a fine day, if a little cool. If Mr. Blake was thinking of riding, today was a good day for it.
She found him inspecting the horses, in the company of a groom, and wearing solid walking clothes. Frances thought about her own male walking clothes, and wished she could be wearing them.
“Lady Frances, a pleasure to see you. Despite the tragedy, work calls, and I always made regular inspections of Sir Calleford’s stables. He didn’t ride much himself, but he cared for his horses and wouldn’t want them neglected.” He said a few words to the groom, and dismissed him.
“Of course. And I know Gwen appreciates all you do.”
“And I appreciate all you and Miss Calvin do for her. I’ve always had a soft spot for my cousin. I heard how you—and Miss Hardiman, too—were keeping her company in this difficult time.”
“You’re welcome. And I enjoyed meeting Miss Hardiman. I went to school in America, and made many American friends. Where did you meet the Hardimans?”
“A dinner party in London. I was up in the City on business, and Mr. Hardiman was there with some business contact. He had built an enormous Great Lakes shipping empire out of nothing and had become extremely wealthy. And now, with his sons largely managing the business and his wife deceased, he thought he’d take some time and see Europe with Miss Hardiman, his daughter. He and I took to each other. In fact, the three of us are going for a walking tour of the grounds. Miss Hardiman specifically asked me. And if you’d like to join us—”
“Thank you, Mr. Blake. But actually, I just wanted to ask you a question. An entirely inappropriate question. But a friend’s happiness is at stake.”
Christopher grinned. “I’ve heard of you, Lady Frances. Ask away.”
“Has your offer for Miss Hardiman’s hand been accepted?”
His jaw dropped. “Lady Frances, Mr. Hardiman is a recent friend. I hardly know Miss Hardiman, it never occurred to me—” He stopped when he saw Frances’s skeptical look and sighed. “How did you know? Did Miss Hardiman tell you?”
“No, but it made sense. You want the Eyrie. And Mr. Hardiman can buy it for you. You invited them up here—not to your house, but to the Eyrie, which I hear you’ve hardly ever done. And Miss Hardiman is obviously enchanted with the place.”
Christopher leaned his head against a post and gathered his thoughts. “Yes. And this is going to sound like a terrible mess, but hear me out.”
Yes, Miss Hardiman had come to London looking for a well-connected husband. Wealthy New York society would not open their doors to nouveau riche like the Hardimans, but in England, there were more possibilities.
“We got to know each other. I told them about my family—we have a slender connection to the aristocracy. And I told them about the Eyrie. Believe me, I meant no harm. Dear Gwen never liked this place. I had an idea that would satisfy everyone: Effie and I would marry. My mother could then retire, so to speak, back to the home she shared with my father. We’d move into the Eyrie. Effie would become lady of the manor. I’d continue to manage the estate. Uncle Calleford would stay involved in politics as he wanted. Eventually, he would go to his final reward and Effie’s dowry would buy the estate from Gwen, who could live happily in London. I know it sounds mercenary, but everyone would get what they wanted.”
“I’m afraid it rather does, Mr. Blake, but you’re right about what everyone wants. You really want this house, don’t you? Gwen has talked about how much you loved the Eyrie. There was even talk about your marrying Gwen, the heiress.”
He eyed Frances. “Is that some sort of joke, Lady Frances? Or a test? I love Gwen like a sister and would do nothing to hurt her, nor tolerate anyone else hurting her. I make no claim to sainthood, but I’d live in an estate cottage before using that girl like that. Believe me. Gwen isn’t going to get married. I know that much.”
Frances nodded. “I understand and agree with you. But from what your mother has said, however, you and Gwen would have the banns read starting next Sunday.”
He flashed that so-charming grin again. “And if your mother had had her way, Lady Frances, you’d be married to an earl or duke by now.”
Frances laughed. “Touché, Mr. Blake. Thank you for your frankness. I promise I’ll be discreet.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Does your mother know?”
“No, not even her. I expected her to cut up rough, I’m afraid. An American girl of no background, even if she had money, and her hoping I’d marry Gwen and take over the Eyrie. Anyway, we were going to wait until the diplomatic meeting was ended, and break our news to Mother and Uncle Calleford. But so far, no one knows. I haven’t even formally asked Mr. Hardiman, although I’m sure he’s put two and two together.” He hit his forehead with the heel of his hand. “And now look at this. If we got married now, my prospective father-in-law would buy us the Eyrie right away. Mother loves running the Eyrie—to be bundled out by what she’d call an American adventuress; I can’t imagine what she’d say. And I don’t need to be a police detective to know how bad this looks. In a horrible way, it gives me a motive.”
Frances had to agree. There was no assurance that Sir Calleford would have agreed to Christopher’s idea. He could’ve lived another twenty years at least, and Effie Hardiman was not going to wait forever to move into the Eyrie. But with him gone, Gwen inherited and would be only too happy to sell the estate and return to London.
“It does look bad,” said Frances. Christopher appeared genuinely shocked. But was it that he was accused—or that he was caught?
He sighed. “Fair enough, Lady Frances. You don’t know me well. But you must’ve heard Gwen talk about me. She’ll tell you I’ve always been her friend.”
Yes, Gwen’s friend. But what about Sir Calleford’s?
“You make a good point. But if you don’t mind some advice, Mr. Blake, I’d keep your secret engagement just that—secret. Anyway, you’re fortunate in that the local man, Inspector Bedlow, seems to think an outside gang is responsible.”
“Bedlow,” said Christopher sourly. “He’s completely out of his depth. His limit is tracking down poachers.”
“Then why doesn’t your chief constable call in more experienced detectives from Scotland Yard?”
“I can see that you haven’t spent a lot of time in the country. The gentry here—and that includes the chief constable—is a tight-knit bunch. No one wants strangers from London poking their noses into county business, even when there’s a murder to solve. Things will have to get much worse for that to happen. We have influence here, especially Mother as the lady of the house, and right now the preference is to keep things local. Meanwhile, the chief constable asks all the guests to remain. I don’t know why—the police have questioned everyone.”
Because the chief constable knows that one of the guests may have committed the murder, thought Frances, even though no one wants to say it. As Christopher said, things would have to get much worse.
“Say, Lady Frances, I don’t suppose you could have a go at the chief constable the way you did at Mr. Small? If anyone can convince him, you can.” His look was so engaging in that handsome face, that Frances was inclined to think that Kestrel’s Eyrie wasn’t the only reason Effie wanted to marry him.
“It may come to that yet, Mr. Blake. Enjoy your walk—I have things to do.”
Actually, it wouldn’t come to that. She didn’t need Inspector Bedlow and she didn’t need the chief constable. She started walking back to the house, and came across Effie Hardiman.
“Why, Lady Frances, were you just out by the stables? Dad and I are going for a walk with Christopher—that is, Mr. Blake. You can join us, I’m sure. Dad will be along in a moment.”
“Thank you, but I have previous appointments. I’m sure you’ll enjoy your walk. You seem to really appreciate this house, this estate.”
“Oh, I do!” She turned, and looked at the Elizabethan masterpiece. Even from the rear, it was grand and imposing. The two women took in the house together in silence. Miss Hardiman, it was clear, was imagining herself in the great hall, presiding over a ball. But Frances just got a chill.
“Would your father do anything for you, Lady Frances? Mine would do anything for me, I know, and if you can keep a secret, just between us girls, I’m going to ask him to get me this. Miss Kestrel doesn’t seem to want it, but oh, I do.”
“What if he can’t get it for you?” asked Frances quietly.
“But of course he can,” said Miss Hardiman, as if Frances had said something silly. “He’s gotten everything he ever wanted, and if we want the Eyrie, we’ll have that too. Good day, and I’ll see you at dinner.”
She marched off to the stables. Well, thought Frances, that explained why Miss Hardiman was in no rush to leave and there were no complaints about having to stay. Her father would do anything for her. And she wanted nothing more than the Eyrie. Sir Calleford was the only possible hindrance—and now he was dead. Effie Hardiman and Phoebe Blake—two women who were both strong and strong-willed. They would both bear consideration.