He did not return the embrace, however.
“You seem troubled. What is the matter?”
“Where is Papa George?” He looked around dispassionately. “I need to speak with him.”
“He…does not like to stir about until afternoon.” She sat down next to her brother. “I sent the trap back to the inn to fetch him, and he will be along very soon.” At least, she hoped he would. His routine for each morning apparently allowed for no deviation, even while traveling. His valet said he would not stir abroad before one o’clock save on hunting days. She, on the other hand, was anxious to be out. So she had come alone, despite her stepfather’s entreaties that she join him for a morning reading from Priestley’s sermons and a half hour of what he called exercise, which usually consisted of standing on one leg for long intervals of time.
Geoffrey stood and paced several steps away from her. “Papa will join us soon, you said?”
“Well, yes, I believe so.”
“Very well.” Geoffrey sighed, his forehead creased with worry. Which was very unusual, now she thought of it. He often caused
her
a great deal of worry, but seldom if ever could she remember him displaying worry himself.
She stepped toward him. “Could you perhaps speak to me? About whatever it is that troubles you?”
“I suppose.” But he did not say any more.
“What is it, then?”
“I do not like this place, Lu.”
Lucia worked to suppress a grin—this was hardly a startling revelation on her brother’s part.
“Layers of deceit. I do not know whom I can trust.” He looked at her. “I do not even know if I can trust you, for you insist that I stay here.”
“Actually, Geoffrey, I would like very much to take you home. I only had to wait for the proper time. And now that Papa George has arrived, that time may be here.”
A relieved smile lit his features. “Wonderful. May we leave today?”
“Probably not.” She would have to find at least one physician who could be convinced to sign release papers so that they would not have to forge them again. “But perhaps we may leave as early as tomorrow or the day after.”
He shook his head. “That is too late. She told me to do it tomorrow, in the morning. And I want to be gone so that she will not know if I do not.”
“Know what? Who is
she
?” Lucia felt her face settle into a frown. What was he onto now?
“I do not know whether to trust her. She said Mr. Groves lied to me.” Geoffrey stared down, seeming to speak more to himself than to her.
“That he lied to you about what?”
“So if he lied, that would mean I have been right all this time. Does Mr. Groves lie?” Geoffrey looked up at last.
Lucia rather wished he hadn’t. His look of utter, wretched confusion made her ache for him. “S-sometimes I believe Mr. Groves may stretch the truth a bit, but I am not sure I would go so far as to—”
“She said I was right.” Geoffrey paced away from her again. “And that he lied. So if he lies, and she tells the truth,” Geoffrey spun around to face her, “then I must kill him.”
“What?” The room swam out of focus for a moment before Lucia steadied herself on the arm of the settee. Then she rushed to her brother and clasped his hands in her own. “You must not kill anybody, ever. Who told you to do this?” She searched her memory, trying to remember if her Redcloak stories ever involved a villainess of such evil propensities.
“She wore a purple cloak.”
In vain she waited for him to elaborate. “Is that all?” She squeezed his hands as if she could wring the information through his skin. “Do you not know her name? Is she a resident of this house?” Lucia glanced around, but no one else was in the room. “When did she tell you this?”
Geoffrey took a deep breath. “She said my enemy would strike tomorrow, and that I must strike first.”
“I don’t understand.” Lucia flung down his hands in frustration. “What enemy?” Then a wave of nausea coursed through her as she realized of whom he was speaking. “Dear God, you do not mean…”
“Redcloak, of course.” Geoffrey sighed impatiently. “I still see him about the house. Mr. Groves told me ‘twas not him at all but another in disguise, but
she
said—”
“What do you mean? Who is this ‘she’?”
“I think,” Geoffrey leaned in close to whisper. “I think that she is one of his sisters. That is how she knows so much about him.”
“His sister?” The sisters in her stories were sweet, vapid creatures who could scarcely stand the thought of killing the rats in the pantry, let alone a human being.
“Yes. His sister comes to visit him, just as you come to visit me. And they left together not long ago.” Geoffrey nodded toward the front of the house.
She grabbed his arm. “And it was
she
who told you to kill him?”
“Yes.”
“Are you absolutely sure it was she? The lady who just left with Lord Rutherford?” The woman he was to marry? That was plainly ridiculous. Geoffrey’s grasp of reality seemed to grow more tenuous by the day.
“Yes. It is my business to remember others’ countenances. And I do wish you would stop squeezing my arm so.” He twisted away from her. “You are worse than Helen.”
Lucia took a deep breath, trying to keep calm. Her stepfather would likely be able to persuade Geoffrey to give up this dangerous notion, even if she could not. Or they could keep Geoffrey locked in his room. She dared not tell Mr. Groves, for then he would be far less likely to allow Geoffrey to leave. But together, she and her stepfather could keep Lord Rutherford safe.
From Geoffrey.
If Lord Rutherford’s intended bride really did propose his death, however, could she not find another means?
But that was simply too much to believe. She could not possibly have asked such a thing. Geoffrey must have misunderstood, if not imagined the entire episode outright.
“Geoffrey,” Lucia licked her lips and tried to swallow through an impossibly dry mouth, “did this lady tell you…how to kill Lord—Redcloak?”
“Certainly not. I would never accept instruction on such from a lady.”
“So-so were you planning to hit him with something, or—”
“She gave me this.” Geoffrey pulled a long awl out of his boot. “From the stables. Not a gentleman’s weapon of choice, naturally, but they do not allow much freedom in that regard here.” He glanced around. “And if it catches a vital organ, it will do the job just as—”
Lucia gestured for him to stop before the waves of panic and nausea completely overwhelmed her. Inmates at Shady View were never allowed more than a spoon. Geoffrey could not have such an instrument unless someone from outside had brought it in secret.
Would Lord Rutherford’s intended wife really do such a thing? It seemed preposterous to make such an accusation. Yet if Lucia did not, if she did not warn him, he could be in danger for the rest of his life. Which might be unnaturally brief.
Better to risk appearing the fool than to chance that Geoffrey might actually speak the truth, however crazy it sounded.
She pulled her brother toward the door. “Do you know how to saddle a horse?”
“Of course. Why do you ask?”
“We’re going to ride to the village to see this lady and the man you believe to be Redcloak.” With two of the three burly Shady Groves attendants accompanying Mr. Groves, she should be able to help Geoffrey manage a temporary escape.
His face split into a wide grin. “Wonderful.”
“You had better give me that.” She pointed to the awl.
He shrugged. “If you insist.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
“As ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgment when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you know any impediment why ye may not be lawfully joined together in Matrimony, ye do now confess it. For be ye well assured, that so many as are coupled together otherwise than God’s Word doth allow are not joined together by God—neither is their Matrimony lawful.”
Heavy silence hung in the still air of the old stone church. The vicar took the opportunity to push his spectacles up the bridge of his nose.
Edmund knew plenty of reasons why they should not marry, but as he had vowed to go through with the pledge, he obviously could not voice any of those reasons now. He certainly wished someone else would, though.
But there was hardly anyone in attendance. Mr. Groves and two of his ubiquitous well-muscled assistants stood near the back of the church, along with Jeanne’s maid. They remained silent.
The vicar cleared his throat as he turned to fix Edmund squarely in his gaze. “Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor and keep her in sickness and in health, and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”
He had to answer. It was his duty to answer in the affirmative. But to promise to love, comfort and above all honor a woman for whom he held such little regard would require fortitude such as he had never been required to display in his whole life. Nevertheless, he had promised. “I will.”
The priest turned to Jeanne, whose countenance bore a look of beatific reverence. “Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honor and keep him in sickness and in health, and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye—”
“Wait, please.”
It was small voice in the back of the church, angelic and so quiet that Edmund thought at first he had only imagined it.
But Jeanne turned her head. She, too, had heard the interruption. And her saintly expression dissolved into an irritated scowl.
“Please, wait.” Miss Wright rushed breathlessly down the aisle. “I-I—There’s something I think you must know, Lord Rutherford. A reason why you should not marry this lady.”
“Miss!” the vicar hissed at her. “This is a holy ceremony and you’ve missed your time to speak your objection. Hold your peace.”
“No, let her speak.” Edmund turned to her, wishing he could reach out to soothe her trembling hands. “What is it, Miss Wright?”
Despite his efforts to speak gently, he feared his words must have come out in an overwhelming rush, for she looked to the floor and remained silent, as if she had lost her nerve entirely. “Please, tell me,” he encouraged.
“She…” Miss Wright looked up at Jeanne for a moment and then to him. “I must confess I do not remember the lady’s name. She…asked my brother to kill you.”
The last words came out so faint that they could scarcely be heard. And if hard to hear, they were even more difficult to believe.
“What?” Edmund shook his head. “I am not certain that I heard you corr—”
“You lying strumpet!” Jeanne turned on her with a gaze of cold fury. “How dare you interrupt my wedding? Will someone please remove this woman from the church?”
Edmund held up his hand. “No.” He stared at Jeanne for a moment, nearly awed by the unreasoned hatred emanating from her eyes. She really might be capable of such a feat. It was easy enough to believe she could wish him dead.
Then he looked at Miss Wright, who now trembled less, as if she drew strength from Jeanne’s malevolent stance. “I think perhaps I did hear you correctly.” He turned to Jeanne. “I think
you
heard her correctly. But the vicar did not. Please repeat yourself, Miss Wright.”
Unshed tears sparkled in her eyes as everyone in the church leaned closer to hear her words. “This lady asked my brother to kill you.”
“Edmund!” Jeanne grabbed his shoulder and turned him toward her. “I cannot believe you would listen to such an accusation.”
Edmund shook her off.
Jeanne fumed. “She
is
your mistress then. If you would listen to her and not me—”
He waved her to be quiet. “Enough, Jeanne. Now, Miss Wright, this is grave accusation you make and you must admit, your brother is not always…”
“I know. It is difficult to believe. But he had this.” Miss Wright held up an object encased in fabric. She unrolled it to reveal a leatherworker’s awl. Not a traditional weapon, certainly, but capable of some harm if wielded for deadly purposes.
Miss Wright cleared her throat. “He said she gave it to him. And he would have no means of getting such on his own.”
Edmund nodded. Flames from the altar candles reflected dully along the metal shaft of the impaling tool. “No, indeed.”
“You brought it to him,” Jeanne hissed. “You want to discredit me so Edmund will marry you instead. Well, that will not happen.”
“You are right as to the last,” Miss Wright replied, more firmly this time. “I do not intend to trick Lord Rutherford into marrying me. But I also have no desire to see him marry someone who would have him killed.”
“This is insane.” Jeanne turned away from her. “She is as crazy as her brother. You cannot believe any of this.”
The vicar shook his head as if he did not know who to believe.
Mr. Groves had come forward—he now reached out to take Miss Wright’s hand. “Why don’t you come back here and tell me all about it?”