“I’ll tell the doctor to look in on her later,” Nyle said as he followed them out of the room.
A number of guests had gathered in the center hall and he heard but did not respond to their questions until one familiar voice spoke out.
“What’s going on, Nyle?”
Hearing the voice, he snapped his head around and looked directly into Thora’s face. The thought of giving her the thrashing she deserved for vanishing without a word evaporated like a puff of smoke the instant he saw her. In an uncharacteristic display of affection, he pulled her to him, squeezing, her with such cobra-like tightness that it stole her breath away. “Thora, thank God! I thought . . . I thought it . . . Oh thank God you’re safe.”
Nyle’s open expression of emotion had Thora sensing that something was horribly wrong. “Nyle, what is it? What’s happened?” she asked, stepping back.
Releasing her but keeping an arm wrapped around her shoulders, he steered her out of ear range of the others and whispered, “Cecilia Boothwell is dead.”
When Lord Langless returned to the pond with Doctor Halford, the man immediately knelt down on the grass to examine the body. He pronounced what everyone present already knew—that Cecilia was dead. Then he suggested that the servants carry the body to the house for a proper examination. He turned to ask Lord Landless for the best way to enter the manor without stirring a panic. Lord Langless told his servants to carry the body to the west wing, which had a back entrance and was currently unused.
Garren followed. As they walked along, he asked Lord Langless, “Did you happen to see Lady Thora when you went back for the doctor?”
Lord Langless’s negative answer had Garren finding it hard to breathe.
Using a desktop in one of the sitting rooms for a table and asking the servants to bring in more lamps to provide better light, some clean linen and towels, and a bowl of water, Dr. Halford took off his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves to start his examination of the body. “I don’t believe she was drowned,” was the first comment he made to a concurring Garren.
From all outward appearances, Garren knew he seemed calm, but inside, his nerves were teetering on edge. His mind was on Thora.
Had Nyle found her? Was she safe? Please, God, let her be safe
. If she was, she was going to get a stern talking to. He might even suggest that she should be taken over her brother’s knee and her bottom paddled.
When the doctor took out some scissors from his medical bag, Lord Langless gave an uncomfortable cough. “Perhaps we should give the doctor some privacy.”
Garren nodded and followed the older man outside into the hall in time to see Nyle coming toward them. Leaving Lord Langless standing outside the room, he rushed up to Nyle. “Thora. Have you found her?”
“Yes, and she’s fine. It was Thora you saw going into the house, but no sooner had she entered than she discovered Lady Floris in a terrible state. Thora said the girl was upset, in a fit of tears, about having spilled champagne on her new gown and she went upstairs to the girl’s room to calm her down and help her change.” Nyle watched his friend’s tense face relax as they joined their host outside of the makeshift examining room.
“Have you learned anything about how Cecilia died?” Nyle questioned.
“Only that drowning was not the cause of death,” Garren answered. “We’ll have to wait for the doctor to finish his examination. Has anyone spoken to Cecilia’s mother?”
Nyle told him he had spoken to the poor woman and that Lady Langless was with her.
Hearing footsteps, all three men turned to see one of Lord Langless’s servants coming down the hall with the same constable who had investigated Mercer’s death.
“What do we have here, your lordship?” he asked Lord Langless.
“Don’t know yet, constable,” Lord Landless truthfully answered. Pointing to the closed door behind him, he said, “The doctor’s inside with the body and may be able to tell us more once he’s finished with his examination.”
While waiting, the constable took down each man’s statement, writing them in a small book that he had removed from his coat pocket. He was just about finished when the door opened and Dr. Halford motioned for them to enter.
“Well, doctor, was Lady Cecilia Boothwell murdered?” the constable bluntly asked once inside.
The doctor rolled down his shirtsleeves as he spoke. “It’s hard to say. She has a nasty bruise on her head. Just how it got there, I can’t say. She could have tripped and hit her head on one of those sculptured figures in the pond, or she could have been struck on the head with a heavy object like a rock and pushed into the water.”
Seeing the constable’s bewildered look, Dr. Halford gave a weary sigh. “I just don’t know. For the record, I will have to report it as an accidental death. Since there are no other marks on the body other than the bruise on her head, and since there is no evidence that she had been assaulted, I’m going to rule out foul play.”
“Thank you, doctor,” Lord Langless said. “Before you leave for the night, could you please check on Lady Boothwell? My servants will show you to her room. My wife is with her now.”
“Of course,” the doctor said as he folded his jacket over his arm. Picking up his bag, he left the room.
“Accidental death,” the constable muttered, satisfied, and slammed his book shut before returning it to his jacket pocket. Turning to Lord Langless, he said, “I’ll go and tell the guests that there’s no need for them to stay.”
“I’ll go with you, constable,” Lord Langless said and followed him out, leaving Garren and Nyle alone in the room.
A bit unnerved in a room with the lifeless body, Nyle was about to leave when he saw Garren head to the desk and lift the sheet Dr. Halford had covered Cecilia with. Nyle caught a quick glimpse of her pale, naked body. It still chilled his blood remembering that he had at first thought it to be Thora lying in the pond. After placing the sheet back over the body, Garren stooped down to pick up the pile of wet clothes the doctor had cut away in order to examine the body, running each piece through his hands.
“What are you looking for?” Nyle asked, puzzled.
Picking up a clean towel to dry his hands, Garren turned to Nyle. “Let’s find Thora. I need to ask her if Cecilia had her police rattle with her, because it wasn’t in any of her skirt pockets. Either she didn’t take it with her or someone took it from her.”
By the time Garren and Nyle had gotten to the front hall, somber-faced guests, murmuring their shock to one another, were departing. Apparently, Lord Langless and the constable had informed them of Cecilia’s accident and they were anxious to return to their homes. What had started out as a delightful evening, had ended in tragedy.
For Garren, it seemed like an eternity since he had last seen Thora. He spotted her talking to Lauryn Mayfield and Viscount Simon-North, and though Nyle had told him she was safe, it wasn’t until he saw her beautiful face that he took his overdue sigh of relief. He was so happy to see her that he even forgot his animosity toward Viscount Radley Simon-North.
As the Mannington guests gathered together to depart, Lord Landless joined them. He told Nyle that the doctor had given a sleeping powder to Lady Boothwell and that the vicar and his wife offered to take the grieving mother into the village in the morning, where she could stay with them while they sent word to her husband, the Earl of Wexford. Thinking it best to take his family away from the scene of such a tragedy, Lord Langless said that they would return to Mannington Manor the next afternoon as planned, but it had been his intention to return with his wife and their eldest daughter Floris but now he would, again, bring all his family, which included his three younger daughters and their nanny. He didn’t want the younger girls overhearing any talk of death from a careless housemaid or footman.
“You are a very thoughtful father, Lord Langless, and your daughters are always welcome at Mannington Manor,” Nyle said.
On the return home, Nyle and Thora were joined by Garren in their carriage. As they started back to the Mannington estate, Garren noticed a perplexed look on Thora’s face. “Is something troubling you, Lady Thora? Other than Cecilia’s accident?”
How observant he is, Thora thought. Forgetting her annoyance with Lord Huntscliff, she replied, “I don’t think it was an accident. I think Cecilia was murdered. And I know who did it.”
Both men straightened in their seats, with the same word falling from their lips. “Who?”
“It had to be Sandler Leedworthy. He’s the only one who has a motive, and I saw him arguing with Cecilia before the concert.” Turning to Garren, she said, “We both heard him threaten her in the boathouse. He wanted to be free of her, but she didn’t want to let him go, so he took matters into his own hands to gain his freedom,” Thora said assuredly. “And,” she continued before either of the men could respond, “Cecilia didn’t use her rattle, so it was someone she knew. Someone she didn’t fear.”
“How do you know that Cecilia didn’t use the rattle? Maybe she tried, but she was too far to be heard or someone took it from her?” Nyle suggested.
Thora gave her brother a superior glare. “Because I saw the doctor give it to the constable just before he went to look in on Cecilia mother. He said he found it in her skirt pocket. If Cecilia had used it, it wouldn’t still be in her pocket.”
“Sound assumption,” Garren praised. Unwittingly, Thora had solved the mystery of the missing rattle for him. “But all our suspects knew about the rattle and our killer could have prevented her from reaching into her pocket to use it.”
“Hmmm,” Thora murmured. “That is a possibility, but I still think it was Sandler Leedworthy. Cecilia trusted him and thought him weak, incapable of harming her. Like Marquis Brightington advised, one should never judge a book by its cover.”
Garren raised a brow. “Marquis Brightington made that suggestion about Sandler Leedworthy? When exactly did he make that comment?”
“The other night at dinner. He cautioned me to be wary of Mr. Leedworthy.” Thora waited but Lord Huntscliff did not respond to her statement. Instead, he leaned back into the carriage’s thick, cushioned seat. Lifting a hand, he cupped his chin and then absently ran his fingers along his jawline.
Thora was about to say something when Nyle stopped her. He motioned her to rest her head against his shoulder and leave Huntscliff to his thoughts.
Chapter 6
“What do you make of it, Huntscliff?” Mason asked.
“There are three possibilities,” Garren said. “The first possibility is that it was as the doctor said—an accident. Lady Cecilia went for a walk, stumbled in the dark, fell into the pond, striking her head on one of the stone sculptures, and died. Two, she was killed by someone other than our suspects, for a reason that has nothing to do with our investigation. Or,” he said, “it’s was a case of mistaken identity.”
Mason frowned. He didn’t like the sound of Garren’s last speculation. “You mean that one of our boys mistook Lady Boothwell for Lady Thora since they were wearing similar-colored gowns and they both have dark hair. Then, realizing his mistake, quickly disposes of the Boothwell girl because she is not, shall we say, pure enough for his tastes.”
“Yes,” Garren replied, adding quickly, “As of this moment, no mention of that assumption has been made to Lady Thora who, by the way, is convinced that Sandler Leedworthy is the guilty party because he wanted to end his ties with Cecilia to be free to court Floris Langless.”
“It is a good motive,” Mason uttered. Seeing the doubting look on Garren’s face, he added slowly, “But you don’t think so.”
“No, I don’t,” Garren said. “I’m sure Leedworthy is smart enough to know that Lady Cecilia’s threat to make their affair known would cause far more harm to her reputation then his and would ruin any chance of snagging Lord Somerville.”
“So, Mr. Sandler Leedworthy is not a suspect for this murder. What about Flemington, Simon-North, or Brightington?” Mason asked.
“All three were unaccounted for,” Garren answered. “Oh, were you able to search the suspects’ rooms?”
“Every nook and niche,” Mason assured. “And as we’re speaking about Sandler Leedworthy, he has a clean slate except for some morbid mystery novels he’s been reading. Viscount Simon-North and Marquis Brightington are both members of White’s gambling house.”
“Hardly condemning,” Garren grunted, “since I’m a member there myself.”
After casting an annoyed glance at Garren for interrupting, the older man went on. “Found some love letters from a few broken-hearted females addressed to Simon-North, some shamelessly begging him to continue their romance, others sounding . . . Well, downright threatening. Typical type of letters one of his sort would get I imagine,” Mason commented. “I did get a surprise in Lord Flemington’s room,” he continued, piquing Garren’s interest. “He had a book of love sonnets on his nightstand. Who would have thought? Flemington reading love sonnets, what with him being a boxer and all.”
Garren’s face clouded and he quickly dismissed Mason, saying that he was tired and wanted to get some sleep. While he undressed, his mind was troubled, not by Cecilia’s death but by what Mason had found in Flemington’s room. Love sonnets! Had Lord Avery Flemington been reciting a love poem to Thora while they sat so cozily together at the concert? He almost wished Mason hadn’t told him about the damn poetry book. Hours after Mason had left his room, Garren lay awake, his mind beset with visions of Thora and Avery Flemington. He tried unsuccessfully to blot them from his thoughts, but they pestered him like an aching tooth.
He envisioned Avery Flemington’s thick, hard-knuckled hands cupping Thora’s soft, lovely face, her soft pink lips puckered and her large blue eyes looking up into a face marred by a nose that had been broken, accepting the boxer’s kiss passionately. Garren groaned. He tossed and turned. Exhaustion getting the better of him, he finally fell asleep just as the sun was starting to rise. Having forgotten to draw the drapes, the bright fingers of morning’s early light stretched into the windows, prodding him to waken.
Determined to get an early start on the day, he pushed himself out of bed with a moan. With barely an hour’s rest, he found himself to be grumpy and uncoordinated. He bumped his toe on the bedpost and then cut himself shaving. He cursed under his breath. Thora was having an unsettling effect on him. Why should he care who courted Thora? It was none of his business. He was here to solve a case. Yet he couldn’t forget their kiss, the rush of heat that burned his blood and left him craving for more. He suddenly began to dress with urgency and, though he refused admit it, it was because he needed to see her, to look into those enormous eyes, hear her voice, and give her bloody hell for tempting fate by discounting Flemington as a dangerous suspect.
He was so beside himself that his fingers weren’t working right and he buttoned his waistcoat wrong. Mumbling a profanity, he set about righting his bungle only to find that he again misaligned the buttons. Angrily, he shook off the waistcoat and flung it across the room, deciding to do without it. He threw on his jacket and was about to go downstairs when Mason, without knocking, slipped into his room. Still out of sorts, Garren gave him a stern look before asking gruffly, “Any more bad news to report?”
Mason’s brows drew together.
Bad news?
he thought, confused. He hadn’t given Huntscliff any bad news. Ignoring the tall man’s belligerent tone, Mason said, “I think you better come downstairs and see this for yourself.”
Garren followed Mason downstairs and out the back terrace to a stone path that led to the rose garden. They continued a few more feet when Mason stopped abruptly and led him off the path behind a high hedge. Several times Mason gave a pointing motion with his finger, indicating that what he wanted Garren to see lay behind the hedge. Crouching down and peeking around the shrub, Garren, to his dismay, saw Thora sitting on a stone bench with Lord Avery Flemington. If that wasn’t enough to further ruin his day, Mason whispered in his ear, “Listen.”
“Lady Thora, after last night, after Lady Cecilia’s tragic accident, I realized just how fragile life can be, and I gave much thought to the words you spoke last evening. Therefore, I’ve decided to throw caution to the wind and reveal what I’ve kept inside.” Like an unprepared schoolboy, Lord Flemington suddenly began to stammer lines of poetry. “‘If . . . if you be wine, then let me fill my cup . . .’”
Good God, it was awful! Garren looked at Thora. How could she sit through such torture? She wasn’t treating Flemington as a possible murder suspect, sitting there smiling so patiently. She was treating him like a suitor.
While an outraged Garren observed the pair on the bench, Mason studied his colleague’s face—the tightening of the jaw, the hardening stare, and the edges of his mouth turned down.
Lord, he has it bad,
he thought, shaking his head. He was further assured when Garren abruptly stood up, rounded the hedge, and marched right up to the seated couple, his tall frame casting a long shadow over them.
“Good morning, Lord Huntscliff,” Thora and Lord Flemington cheerfully greeted.
“Good morning, Lady Thora,” Garren returned, disregarding Flemington’s greeting entirely.
“We missed you at breakfast this morning,” Thora said politely.
“Not very hungry,” he returned honestly. After last night’s tormenting imagery, his stomach had been tied tighter than a sailor’s knot all morning.
After an uncomfortable silence, Thora gave him a curious glance. “Is there something you wanted, Lord Huntscliff?”
I want you to call me Garren, he inwardly roared but he outwardly replied, “I was wondering where I might find Nyle.”
“My brother is in the library, has been since early this morning, working on the estate account books,” Thora said quickly.
Then, thinking Lord Huntscliff may have some important news on the case, she abruptly turned to Lord Flemington. “Please forgive me, my lord, but I just remembered that I need to talk to Nyle about the fishing outing he’s planning.”
“Of course, Lady Thora,” Flemington replied, sounding relieved that he wouldn’t have to deliver any more lines of the poem. He rose and gently assisted Thora to her feet.
Garren offered Thora his arm and led her out of the garden with such long strides that Thora had difficulty keeping up with him. “My lord,” she said, puffing, “please slow your pace.”
Stopping, Garren glanced down at Thora’s upturned face, but the sting of seeing her with Lord Flemington was still smarting. He was angry with her and not just because Flemington was a suspect, but because he was a man. Good God, he was jealous. He shouldn’t be feeling this way. And for, of all people, Nyle’s sister. He reprimanded himself. “Forgive me, Lady Thora.”
Adjusting his strides, they strolled leisurely. Glancing at her lovely profile, he couldn’t stop himself from inquiring. “I hope I didn’t intrude on something important back there with Lord Flemington.”
“No,” Thora answered casually, “Lord Flemington was just reciting a poem he has given to memory.”
“Sounds like he needs to improve his memory,” Garren criticized.
Garren’s ridicule of Lord Flemington had Thora raising a delicate curved brow. Affronted by his callousness, Thora tilted her chin. “Can you recite poetry, my lord?” she asked curtly.
“I can,” Garren retorted, surprising himself with his own arrogance.
Unconvinced blue eyes peered up at him. “Then, I shall look forward to hearing you,” Thora said, a hint of challenge in her voice.
Garren halted his step once more. He faced the woman beside him, whom he had no doubt could inspire verse. “Perhaps this evening after dinner you’ll allow me to tempt you with my poetry.”
“Tempt me, my lord?” Thora raised a brow. “Lord Huntscliff, you sound so terribly wicked.”
There was a devilish grin tugging at the corners of Lord Huntscliff’s mouth as he leaned down to whisper, “All men are wicked, Lady Thora.”
Thora could feel the color rising to her cheeks. Quickly, she turned her face away from Huntscliff’s penetrating stare and resumed walking. “I think we should hurry before Nyle decides to leave the library to ride out to visit with our tenants.”
Easily matching her shorter stride, Garren took her arm as they entered the manor and slowly climbed the stairs to the upper floor. As they headed down the hall, they strode by a window. Peering outside, he caught sight of Mason, inconspicuously trailing behind the suspect he was assigned to follow. Reaching the library, Garren gave a few light taps on the door. Upon hearing Nyle’s approval to enter, he opened the door but stood aside to allow Thora to precede him. As she brushed by, her scent filled his senses like a euphoric drug, causing him to nearly trip over the doorway’s wooden threshold.
A flood of admiration washed over Thora at the sight of her brother seated behind the mahogany desk, which had once been their father’s, a stack of account books laid out before him. Nyle was without his jacket and his shirtsleeves were rolled up, exposing his tanned muscular forearms, hardened from his hands-on running of the estate. He was so much like Papa.
How proud their parents would have been. What would have become of her if Nyle hadn’t stepped up to see to her upbringing after her parents’ tragic death in a carriage accident? When most young men had nothing more on their minds than what lady’s bed they could charm their way into, Nyle had not only taken on the reins of managing the estate but the arduous task of raising her as well. Yet Nyle had never complained and had become more of a father to her than a brother. Appearing as though he welcomed the chance to set aside his current task, Nyle smiled and gestured for her and Garren to sit. Thora took a chair alongside Nyle’s desk while Garren sat in an oversized chair directly across it.
Garren spoke first. “About last night, do either of you remember seeing Cecilia Boothwell talking to anyone after the music had ended?”
While Thora took a moment to ponder, Nyle replied, “I do remember seeing her in conversation with the vicar, Viscount Simon-North, Lady Langless, and Lord Flemington.”
“Do you recall how long they spoke?” Garren asked.
“I really can’t say. When I glanced their way again, only the vicar and Simon-North were there. From the look on the Viscount Simon-North’s face, the vicar was most likely giving him a well-deserved sermon on the evils of drinking and gambling,” Nyle returned.
Garren turned to her. “It seems I wasn’t the last to be seen with Lady Cecilia. Two of our suspects were with her prior to her death. Lady Thora, do you have anything to add?”
“I didn’t see Cecilia with anyone, but then I wasn’t looking for her. I was just remembering how annoyed I was with Cecilia,” she said. “You see, last evening after I had dressed I went to her room to tell her not to forget her rattle. I spoke to her and Cecilia saw the gown I was wearing, yet she chose to wear nearly the same.” Suddenly Thora gave a gasp. “Cecilia was wearing a gown the color of mine and we both have dark hair. Do you think the killer was . . .?” Her voice lowered to a shaky whisper. “Was he after me?” she asked, frantically searching each man’s face.
Garren heard the tremor in Thora’s voice. He didn’t want to frighten her further, but she deserved to know the truth. Perhaps then she would stop taking risks and use more caution. “That could be a possibility, or it could be that Lady Cecilia Boothwell was killed for an entirely different reason, one that we know nothing about. But to be safe, I would suggest you distance yourself from our suspects.”
Especially Lord Avery Flemington.
But Garren suspected that telling Thora to stay away from the suspects was like trying to keep a bee away from its hive.
He watched as her chin went up, her shoulders squared, and she defiantly spat, “And how will I ever learn anything about Ivey’s murder if I do that?”
“That’s why I’m here, Lady Thora,” Garren replied calmly.
“Nothing is going to stop me from finding the devil that took my dearest friend’s life,” Thora said, voice rising.
Riled by her unwillingness to listen to good common sense, Garren blurted, “And what did you learn from sitting alone this morning with Lord Avery Flemington, who happened to be one of the last people to see Cecilia alive, other than that his recitation of poetry is appalling.”
Nyle sprang up in his chair. “You were alone with Lord Flemington,” he exclaimed. Giving his sister a never-before-seen glare, he warned, “Thora, if I have to lock you in your room until this killer is caught to keep you safe, my God I’ll do it.”
Thora was about to protest but then remembered how Nyle had nearly squeezed the life out of her when he found that she was safe and unharmed after discovering Cecilia’s body. Recognizing that it was brotherly concern that prompted his threatening words, she stifled her objections. “You have my word that I will not be found alone with any man I suspect,” she promised, receiving a thankful look from Nyle but a skeptical glance from Lord Huntscliff.