She was still chatting with the Mayfields when Garren stepped into his carriage and told his driver not to spare the whip in taking him to London.
Leaving Lauryn and the Lady Mayfield chin-deep in making plans for the wedding, Thora returned inside and hurried to her room. She rang for Molly. While she waited for her maid, Thora went to her wardrobe and picked out one of her newest gowns. She wanted to look her very best for her meeting with Garren. This afternoon she was going to thank the man, who had not only saved her but who had also stolen her heart, with a kiss that would speak much more than mere words ever could.
With Molly’s help, Thora bathed and dressed and went downstairs to see Nyle, who mostly likely would be in his study, to tell him about Lord Flemington and Lauryn Mayfield’s engagement. With any luck, Garren would be there, too. In high spirits, Thora practically danced into Nyle’s study, only to find her brother in deep contemplation. Hoping to lighten his mood, Thora told her brother of Lord Flemington’s proposal to Lauryn Mayfield and of her part as cupid. She explained how she had helped him by suggesting he memorize poetry and read it aloud to her in order to overcome his shyness when it came to talking to Lauryn. She added that she told him how best to flatter and charm her friend.
“But Thora, how could you?” Nyle said. “He was still a suspect and you coached him in proposing to one of your friends?”
“Oh, Nyle.” Thora’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “Don’t you see? Would a man who was a killer of women want to marry one? Of course not. So when he asked me to help him win the woman he loved, naturally I agreed and soon discovered that underneath that gruff exterior is the sweetest, gentlest man I have ever had the pleasure to know.”
“Why didn’t you mention this?” Nyle asked.
“Because,” Thora said, sounding exasperated, “Lord Flemington asked me not to. He was a bit embarrassed.”
Trying to sound casual, Thora asked, “Where is Lord Huntscliff? I do want to thank him for saving me.”
“Garren left for London a few moments ago. There was an urgent matter he needed to attend to.” “When will he be back?” Thora asked with an undertone of hope.
“I don’t know.”
Nyle’s words were like three sharp quills piercing her heart.
How could Garren leave without saying a word when she’d made plans to talk with him?
Thora felt her body moving, as if it sensed her need to leave, to be away from her brother’s pitying stare. Getting to her feet took effort, but she forced herself to stand. She had to leave the study as quickly as possible before her tears began to flow. Fighting to keep a firm upper lip, she said shakily, “I . . . I think I’ll go upstairs. I feel a headache coming on. Please make my excuses at lunch.” Then, picking up her skirts, she ran from the room.
At a loss on what to do, Nyle dragged his hand through his hair. He had been certain that Garren and Thora had fallen in love. He’d seen the looks that had passed between them and had seen the fear in Garren’s face when they had returned to the manor looking for Brightington and found Thora gone. How could he have been wrong? Leaving his study, he went upstairs to Mason Greenstreet’s room. It was his turn to do some investigating.
“I don’t understand it. Why would Huntscliff leave so suddenly? Did he say anything to you before he left?” Nyle questioned the man who seemed just as bewildered as himself.
Mason shook his head. “Came as a surprise to me. I would have bet my last shilling that he was going to ask you about—”“To speak to me about my sister?”
Mason nodded. “Did anything out of the usual happen this morning?”
“Only that Lord Flemington proposed marriage to—”
“What? To whom?” Mason demanded, cutting him off.
“Easy, man,” Nyle said, giving him a curious look. “Lord Flemington proposed to Lady Lauryn Mayfield. Seems my sister has been playing matchmaker.”
Mason’s next action had Nyle wondering if the blow to the man’s head had caused him to lose his wits after all, for all at once the private investigator fell back on his pillows and roared with laughter. He rolled back and forth on the bed holding his sides as if they were about to burst.
“What’s wrong with you, man? I don’t see the source of your amusement.” “Don’t you understand?” Mason said between laughs. “Huntscliff and I have been observing Lord Flemington and Lady Thora for days. There were times the two seemed just a bit too cozy. You should have seen his face when he caught Flemington reciting poetry to her. He was madder than a bee caught in a jar, and he thinks . . .” He paused. “Huntscliff thinks it’s your sister that Lord Flemington is going to marry! And now he’s in a stew about it.”
Nyle frowned. “I don’t see your mirth. Poor fellow’s heart must weigh heavy.”
“Poor fellow!” Mason suddenly snapped between laughs. “After what he put me through on this case, I say let him suffer a bit. He’ll find out the truth soon enough.”
“And Thora? Should my sister suffer, too?” Nyle asked.
Mason’s laughter abruptly stopped. “Oh yes, Lady Thora, forgot about her. Rather thoughtless of me,” he said, hanging his head. Expelling a deep sigh, he threw off his covers and, much to Nyle’s astonishment, hopped out of the bed with the exuberance of a man half his age. Padding over to the wardrobe, he began pulling out clothes. Seeing Nyle’s stunned face at his remarkable recovery, he said, “Right as rain. Have been since this morning. But how could I deny Lady Thora her guilt for bashing me over the head and not enjoy having her fuss over me a bit? Besides, I enjoyed watching the smoke pour out of Huntscliff’s ears each time she played nursemaid to me.”
Strangely, Mason’s explanation of feigning injury for Thora’s sake made sense to Nyle. He nodded, acknowledging his understanding, and said, “He’s got a half day start on you. It will be late by the time you get to London. Perhaps it would be better if you left in the morning. I’ll tell my footman to have my carriage ready for you first thing tomorrow.” Smirking, he added, “I’m sure you can suffer through one more day of convalescing.”
As Nyle reached for the door handle to leave he turned. “But whatever you do, get him back here!”
“If I have to strap him to my back and walk all the way, I’ll get him here, Lord Somerville,” Mason said confidently, putting away his clothes and returning to his bed.
At dinner, everyone received the news that Lord Huntscliff had returned to London with surprise. Thora, her brother noticed, did her best to hide her distress and spoke very little. She merely picked at her food, barely sampling a morsel.
“Yes, unfortunately Lord Huntscliff had a business matter that needed his immediate attention,” he informed his guests, “but I have a feeling he’ll be back soon.”
Hearing her brother’s words, Thora gave him a curious glance. Only this afternoon he had told her that he didn’t know when Garren would be back. Was he just trying to give her hope? She stared at her brother, but he just smiled and then turned to talk with Lady Langless.
Clinging to that hope, Thora was able to sleep through the night. Early the next morning, she learned from Molly that the recovering Mr. Greenstreet was making plans to return to London. Stunned, Thora quickly donned her robe over her nightgown and raced to his room.
“You can’t be leaving us, Mr. Greenstreet! Not this soon,” she exclaimed, almost breathless after urgently knocking and gaining entry to his room. “You’ve barely had time to recover. Are you sure it is wise?” she said as he finished his packing.
Knowing her concern for his well-being was genuine, Mason pounded on his chest with his fist. “Fit as a fiddle, Lady Thora,” he assured her. “No need for me to stick around. I have an important task waiting for me in London.”
“Seems everyone has,” Thora muttered under her breath. She then moved closer and kissed his cheek. “I’ll miss you, Mr. Greenstreet, my dear guardian angel.”
She spoke the words with such tenderness that his face reddened. Slowly she walked to the door to leave. Without turning and in a voice heavy with emotion uttered, “Give my best to Lord Huntscliff, should you see him.” Then she quickly left the room.
Staring at the closed bedroom door, Mason slammed his travel bag shut, knowing he needed to reach London swiftly for Lady Thora’s sake.
Chapter 10
It was late afternoon and the sun had already begun its decent into the western sky when Mason stood outside on the steps of Lord Huntscliff’s London townhouse. Passersby threw questioning glances at the investigator as he noisily pounded the brass doorknocker repeatedly until finally Jasper, the butler, opened the door.
“Forgive me, Mr. Greenstreet, I only just heard you,” he apologized. The reason for Jasper’s delay became clear as Mason stepped into the front hall. From deep within the townhouse streamed the ear-grating sound of Lord Huntscliff singing, or rather his attempts at singing. Mason grimaced. Huntscliff’s melancholy chanting was so off-key, even a drunken sailor could carry a better tune. “How long has he been like this?”
“Since he arrived home yesterday, sir,” the butler answered. Then, seeming unsure how to phase it, he stumbled with his words. “I’m afraid Lord Huntscliff is not himself, Mr. Greenstreet. When he returned from Mannington Manor, he went straight into the study and poured himself a brandy. Then another. I’m sorry to say that he’s . . . he’s . . .” “Pickled,” Mason said, finishing Jasper’s sentence for him. After receiving a sorrowful nod, he told the butler, “Better make some coffee. I’ll go in and see him.”
“Oh, do be careful, sir,” the servant cautioned. “He threw a paperweight at me the last time I tried to take the brandy away.”
Mason waved off the butler’s warning and entered the study.
Jasper shrugged his shoulders in a helpless gesture and then hurried to the kitchen to have the cook to brew a very large, very strong pot of coffee.
Mason found Huntscliff’s long body sprawled in an armchair, a bottle of brandy in one hand and a nearly empty glass in the other.
“I told you, Jasfer,” Huntscliff slurred, assuming it was his butler who had entered. “Leave me be!”
“What are we celebrating, Huntscliff?” Mason asked evenly.
Hearing an unexpected but familiar voice, Garren’s head rose and bobbled like a small boat in choppy water. It took him a moment to steady his gaze before he said, “Oh, it’s you. Why are you here? Lady Thora, excuse me, the future Lady Flemington, too busy with wedding plans to personally tend to you?” he snarled. “How easily she forgets the one who saved her. Does she ask me to punch the nose of that skirt-chasing, murdering, male whore Simon-North? Something I’ve wanted to do since the first day I laid eyes on the man? No. She turns to her beloved Flemington, as if he had anything to do with rescuing her.”
Having been in the study on previous visits, Mason knew Huntscliff kept a water pitcher and glass on his desk. After picking up the glass, he moved over to Garren and held it out. “May I join you?” he asked.
Mason looked on as Garren’s unsteady hand held the brandy bottle over his glass and sought to fill it. The brandy bottle wavered back and forth over the glass, pouring most of its contents onto the floor. Such a waste of fine liquor was intolerable to Mason. Taking hold of the big man’s hand, he steadied it until his glass was filled. He took a quick swallow of brandy, slid up a chair, and said, “Maybe she thought you had done enough for one day. After all, your knuckles are still showing bruises from the clash with Simon-North and Brightington.”
Lifting his hand and holding up his index finger, Garren waved it frantically at Mason, shouting, “No, that’s not it, Mason. The reason she didn’t ask me was that Flemington is her hero. He’s her tangle-tongued, poetry reciter and her nose punching, spider-slaying champion.”
Huntscliff’s description of Lord Flemington had Mason gritting his teeth to hold back the laugh desperately trying to escape. “And such a kind man. Why, you yourself said that he was one of the most considerate—”
“Don’t throw my own words at me, Mason! I know what I said,” Garren growled. “And it only makes matters worse that I happen to respect the man.”
“Then you’ll be going to the wedding?”
Garren stared down into his brandy glass and slowly shook his head. The mere thought of Thora with another man was agonizing enough, but to witness her joined to him would be devastating.
“Well, I’m invited and I’m going. Should be a real gala affair. Going to be held at Flemington’s estate.”
“I would have thought that Nyle—” Garren started to mutter but then abruptly stopped, wanting to end the painful discussion of Thora and Flemington’s nuptials.
But Mason went on. “I heard Lord Flemington is sparing no expense, granting his bride whatever her little heart desires.”
“Is that why you left? Because the Nyle and Thora are at Lord Flemington’s estate? The future Lady Flemington abandoned you? Her patient?”
Mason braced himself and looked directly at Huntscliff before he spoke his next words. “The future Lady Flemington has never, as you put it, tended to me.”
Garren shook his head, and Mason half expected it to rattle before his friend gave him an accusatory glare. “Have you come here to spin lies?”
Mason took another sip of Huntscliff’s excellent brandy, and then set the glass down. “As I said, the future Lady Flemington never gave me any care. She couldn’t have cared less about the bump on my head.”
As Mason expected, his words riled the inebriated man sitting across from him. Garren sprang from his chair and Mason did likewise, ready to catch him should he topple over. But tipsy as he was Garren managed to stand erect.
“Liar. She was worried sick about you. Hovered over you like a mother over a sick child.”
“If that’s the way she cares for a sick child, then I surely hope the future Lady Flemington bears healthy offspring!”
Enough! Garren swung his fist at Mason, missing him by a mile but destroying a vase of flowers atop a nearby table, sending it crashing to the floor. The momentum of his roundhouse sent him into a spin, causing him to lose the little balance he had. He toppled to the floor like fallen timber. After expelling a groan, he passed out.
Hearing the thunderous thud, Jasper burst into the room, his eyes widening upon seeing the broken vase with its flowers strewn on the floor and his master lying in the midst of them. He shook his head. Never had he seen his master in such a state.
“Help me get him upstairs,” Mason instructed.
Jasper turned to his master then to Mason. “He’s too big for just the two of us, Mr. Greenstreet. Let me get the footman to help us.”
When the footman came into the study, his reaction was much like Jasper’s. He, too, appeared shocked at his master’s condition. Mason helped Garren into a sitting position and then locked his arms around Garren’s upper half. He instructed Jasper and the footman to each carry a leg. Though it was difficult, together they managed to haul Garren upstairs and set him down on the bed. Having completed their task, all three released an exhausted sigh. Jasper took off his master’s boots and, with the footman’s help, stripped him of his jacket. Having completed his task, the footman exited the room to return to his duties, leaving Mason and Jasper to watch over his master.
“Not much we can do here. Better he sleeps it off,” Mason commented.
They softly exited the room and shut the bedroom door behind them. Once in the hall, Mason turned to Jasper. “He’s going to have one hell of a headache when he wakes.”
“Mr. Greenstreet, do you know what caused Lord Huntscliff’s peculiar behavior?” Jasper queried.
“It is the one thing that makes a man irrational, unpredictable, and puts him on the edge of insanity. He fell in love.”
“I see,” Jasper said. “Unusual experience for his lordship. Sir, shall I prepare a room for you? You will be staying, won’t you?” “Is there any chance that I might have some dinner?”
“Oh sir, of course, sir,” Jasper returned.
It seemed to Mason that the butler was relieved to have him in the house should his master suddenly awaken.
“I’ll bring you something right away, sir. Should I serve you in the dining room?”
“The study will do fine, Jasper,” Mason retorted, suddenly feeling very blue-blooded.
While Jasper went to the kitchen, Mason returned to the study. He gathered up the remains of the broken vase and flowers and, finding no place to put them, left them in a neat pile on the floor for Jasper to take care of. Circling Huntscliff’s massive desk, he pulled out a chair and sat down. Leaning back, he put his feet up on the desk, crossing them at the ankles, and waited for his meal. It would undoubtedly be fine fare.
When he had finished dinner, he drank the coffee that was intended for the master of the house, smoked one of Huntscliff’s imported cigars, and had another glass of brandy before he used the bell cord and had Jasper show him to his room to retire.
Mason requested a full English breakfast the next morning, which he had Jasper bring upstairs to his bedroom. Sitting up in bed, he leisurely consumed his bacon, eggs, grilled tomatoes and mushrooms, and thickly buttered his toast, to which he added a layer of marmalade. He washed it all down with freshly brewed tea. Stretching his arms out, Mason gave a satisfied yawn. Then he got out of bed and rang for Jasper. The butler almost instantly appeared.
“I take it that everything was to your satisfaction?” Jasper asked wryly, seeing the practically licked-clean plates.
Giving his middle a tap, Mason replied, “Very satisfactory.”
Jasper took away the breakfast tray and returned a short time later with a basin, a pitcher of water, and a shaving kit. Mason declined Jasper’s offer to shave him. Having seen the seedy side of life as a constable for many years, he didn’t trust anyone to hold anything of a sharp nature to his throat. With a newfound regal flare, he excused Jasper.
After taking care of his basic morning needs, he dressed and went downstairs to Huntscliff’s study, leaving the door open, and waited. He was good at waiting. Most of his assignments involved waiting of some sort, but usually in less comfortable surroundings. Never in a soft leather chair with a plush footstool to rest his feet, and never with imported cigars or the finest brandy within arm’s reach or a butler to bring in the morning paper. This type of waiting was a far cry from his usual vigils, which mainly consisted of dark musty cellars, the backside of some thorny hedges or a spot outside in the freezing rain.
Mason picked up the newspaper and started to read. He was just about to turn to the last page when he heard the first groan, followed by stumbling footsteps, and then a wail.
“Jasper!”
Instead of immediately heeding his master’s call, a fearful-looking Jasper came running to the study and stood in the doorway. “Sir. Lord Huntscliff. He’s awakened!”
“Yes, I heard,” Mason calmly acknowledged. “Don’t worry. I’ll go up with you.”
“Oh thank you, sir,” Jasper said gratefully.
While a nervous Jasper waited impatiently in the doorway, Mason leisurely set the paper aside, put out his cigar, and drank the last remains of his brandy before he stood up and led the way to slowly climb the stairs, seemingly unaffected by Huntscliff’s repeated wails.
Deeming it would have taken too much effort, Garren refrained from lifting his head when the door to his bedroom opened. Instead, he sat on the edge of his bed, his feet planted on the floor, with his elbows on his knees supporting his head, which felt as heavy as a cannon ball.
“What took you so long?” he demanded of Jasper. Without waiting for an answer, he ordered, “Fetch me a headache powder.”
His servant started to comply but someone stopped him. “That won’t help you,” he said. “I’ll mix up one of my own remedies.”
Though he recognized the voice of his colleague, his brandy-fogged brain had forgotten Mason’s arrival the night before. Garren lifted his head, a mistake, since the quick action sent pain rocketing through his brain.
“What are you doing here?” he uttered in a low growl before setting his head back down in the nest of his hands.
“Remedy first, reason second,” Mason responded, disappearing with Jasper behind the door. When he came back he was holding a glass filled with an odd-colored liquid.
“Drink this,” he ordered, shoving the glass into his hand.
Garren baulked until the drums in his head began to bang harder. With a few swift gulps, he downed the awful tasting brew.
“Good,” Mason commented, taking the glass from him. “Now lie back and give it a chance to work. I’ll be back in a bit.” Like an obedient dog, Garren followed Mason’s instructions. He was in too much pain to do otherwise.
Three hours later, Mason returned. Finding Garren awake, he asked, “Feeling any better?”
“Wonderful,” Garren grunted. “Instead of a brass horn blaring inside my head, it’s now a dull bass drum thumping.”
“Ahh, you’re improving,” Mason said, smirking.
Garren found no humor in Mason’s words. He struggled to his feet. Minus his boots and jacket, he was still in the clothes he had traveled in from Mannington Manor. Moving like his legs were made of rubber, he wobbled over to a chair and dropped into it, both he and the chair letting out a groan.
“What are you doing here? Come here to see me suffer, to rub salt into the open wound, to laugh at me for letting Lord Avery Flemington steal her right from under my nose?”
“No, I didn’t come to kick a man when he’s down. I’m here on assignment,” Mason answered.
“Assignment,” Garren huffed disbelievingly, letting out a moan as the sound of his own voice ripped through his head. Lowering his voice, he asked, “What are you talking about?”
“Lord Somerville has commissioned me to bring you back to Mannington Manor,” Mason replied.
Garren gave his colleague a sneer. “You’re not making any sense. Why would Nyle want me to return to Mannington Manor? I’m finished there. The case is solved,” Garren said with the brush of his hand, as if he could sweep away its memory.
“Not to Lord Somerville’s satisfaction. Very careless of you, Huntscliff, not to tie up the loose ends. Seems you left some unfinished business, mainly his sister, Lady Thora,” Mason said sternly. Then he lightened his voice and went on with a smile. “Lord Somerville requests that you escort his sister to the wedding of Lord Flemington and Lady Lauryn Mayfield.”