Nyle’s last words had Garren realizing that it wasn’t only Thora who needed to see justice served. Nyle, too, wanted the truth uncovered, considering the murder an insult to the sanctuary of his home.
“I’ll need the names of all the guests,” Garren said, sounding very much like the investigator he was. “I’d like to do a bit of checking before I arrive at the estate.”
“I’ll have the list sent to you this evening.”
The two friends rose and shook hands. As they left his study, Garren gave Nyle a questioning glance. “By the way, how old is Thora now? She must be what, sixteen or seventeen?” he inquired vaguely, remembering a skinny-legged adolescent with bright blue eyes and long brown-plated hair, who had the most annoying habit of popping out of doorways and from around corners to give both he and Nyle a start. She had always giggled when she saw them jump. The little nuisance would then tag behind them, joining their conversations and offering opinions when none were asked.
For the first time tonight, a smile curved Nyle’s lips. “Good Lord, it has been ages since your last visit. Thora is two and twenty. And she’s changed some since last you saw her.”
“From what you told me tonight, she hasn’t changed all that much. She’s still as impulsive as the young girl I remember trying to leap over a mud hole only to find it was wider and deeper than she thought. It took both of us to pull her out of the muck. And”—Garren continued with a derisive grin—“with her arms flaying and splashing, it didn’t take long before we ended up covered in so much mud, one would have thought we fell into that mud hole as well.”
Nyle smiled but his eyes still wore their unrest.
“Don’t worry, we’ll be there to rescue her if she gets herself in too deep,” Garren reassured.
As the two men reached the front door, Garren placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I’m sorry for your troubles. I only wish I could have been of more help these past months.”
“I’m sure you hadn’t planned on being shot. Had you not been flat on your back in hospital I would have asked sooner.”
Returning to his study, Garren poured himself a glass of brandy and sat down, making mental notes of everything Nyle had told him. As he did, he began to change his original view, especially after learning that Thora wasn’t an impressionable adolescent. She was a grown woman with intuition and, unlike many a foolish man who looked upon the female insight with complete disregard, he believed that it was nothing to be scoffed at. If Thora Mannington was correct in her suspicions, he’d have two problems to contend with. First, unmasking a devious killer who boldly committed the crime while a houseful of unsuspecting guests partied, and the second, and perhaps more difficult, keeping Nyle’s sister, the amateur sleuth, from getting in over her head. He owed it to Nyle to safeguard Thora. If there was a killer, she could unwittingly tip her hand with clumsy inquiries and fall victim to the murderer herself.
Summoning his servant once more, Garren told Jasper, “Send word to Mason Greenstreet that I’ll have need of his services.”
“Mr. Greenstreet!” Jasper exclaimed, giving Garren an incredulous look. “But, my lord, I thought you weren’t taking any more cases, not since that woman . . .”
His words were quickly silenced when Garren held up his palm. Shaking his head, the butler left to carry out his master’s wishes.
Chapter 2
It didn’t come as much of a surprise to Thora Mannington when Cecilia Boothwell suggested the upstairs library to have their afternoon tea. Thora was well aware that the dark-haired, buxom Cecilia harbored an unrequited longing for her brother Nyle, and the calculating young woman knew that the library was his favorite room in the manor. He often went there to escape the pressing responsibilities of running his estate. It often amazed Thora how tolerant Nyle was of her unending persistence. Another man would have ended Cecilia’s lovesick nonsense quicker than blinking an eye, but he was like Papa, gentle hearted when it came to women. A true gentleman, he treated Cecilia, much to her discontent, with infuriating politeness.
With the prospect of the master of the house entering the room at any given moment, Cecilia kept a watchful vigil on the library door. Thora observed the excitement in Cecilia’s wide hazel eyes fade into disappointment each time the door was pushed opened by someone other than Nyle. The first to thwart Cecilia’s hopeful expectations was a young maid carrying in their tea tray and then their two other friends, Floris Langless, eldest of Lord Langless’s four daughters, and pretty, petite Lauryn Mayfield.
Since it was the beginning of summer, the tree-shaded back terrace would have been a preferred spot for afternoon refreshments. Normally Thora would have insisted on the location, but with guests starting to stream into the manor, the library suited her purpose far better. Its large, wide windows looked down on the front steps, offering the best view of the arriving visitors.
Like her brother, Thora loved the library. Ordinarily, the room would have been flooded with light pouring through the windows and onto the walls lined with bookcases, but not today. Thora had specifically asked the upper-floor maids to keep the curtains closed, holding back the summer’s sun and its heat. The room’s uncovered half-moon windows that sat above the drapery would provide sufficient light. With its simple arrangement of comfortable chairs and tables, the décor had a warm and cozy feel. Floral chintz covered the chesterfield, wing chairs, and side stool. There were two desks, a small one that Thora used for her correspondence and a huge mahogany desk where Nyle spent hours working on the estate’s account ledgers.
After entering the room, Floris and Lauryn shared the chesterfield. Cecilia had already settled herself in the wing chair facing the door, of course, while Thora, after playing hostess to her friends and then pouring herself a cup of tea, took the side stool closest to the window.
She had just taken a mouthful of tea when the sound of a carriage drawing up to the main entrance drew her attention. Thora gulped down the warm brew, ignoring the burn as it slid down her slender throat. Setting her cup down on a nearby table, she sprang from her seat and raced to the window. Her shocked friends looked on as she suddenly threw back the curtains. Squinting her eyes against the bright sun, she took a moment for them to adjust to the light. Then she peered down as the carriage pulled up to the front door. Having been visitors to Mannington Manor before, her companions were fully aware that she was viewing the arrival of one of the guests.
“Thora! Come away from the window. You shouldn’t be standing there with the curtains open gawking at the new arrivals,” Cecilia Boothwell chastised.
“I’m not gawking. I’m just observing,” Thora Mannington corrected, brushing back a wayward brown curl that had escaped from a hairpin in her haste to reach the window.
“Well, it looks like you’re gawking! And everyone knows that young ladies should not be standing in the window eyeing every carriage that draws up to their home to see who alights. It makes them appear, er, well, desperate!” Cecilia haughtily returned, giving Thora the benefit of her study of Mrs. Wrightway’s highly regarded handbook
The Proper Decorum for Young Ladies of Society
. It was a popular and widely read handbook from which Thora was certain Cecilia could recite more passages than a preacher could quote bible verses!
Unquestionably, Cecilia was correct, though Thora hated to admit it. She shouldn’t be at the window of the upstairs library in full view of the guests below, but what she had said earlier was the true. She was observing—not guests, but suspects.
“Oh, look!” Lauryn Mayfield exclaimed, having left her seat to go to the library’s other window. Unlike Thora, who boldly drew back the curtains, Lauryn only had enough courage to peek through a narrow slit she had made by parting, ever-so-slightly, one of the heavy curtain panels. “It’s Viscount Radley Simon-North stepping out of his carriage and being greeted by Lord Somerville.”
Stifling a chuckle, Thora watched as Cecilia, hearing the mention of her host’s name, made a mad dash to the window, nearly knocking the petite, golden-haired Lauryn to the floor to have a glimpse. Unfortunately for Cecilia, Nyle was facing away from the house and all she got was a good view of the back of his head.
As Cecilia’s shoulders slumped, she called to the fourth young woman in the room, Floris Langless. “You may as well come over for a look-see, Floris, before he disappears into the main hall.”
Floris gave a nervous giggle almost as if she were being formally introduced to the viscount himself.
If the meek would inherit the earth, then Floris, a mere slip of a girl, would own a healthy share, Thora thought. She watched Floris as she stood back from the window, stealing glances over the smaller Lauryn’s shoulders and, in a hushed tone, whispered, “Oh yes, he’s a dream.”
From her—as Cecilia labeled it—improper vantage point, Thora’s bright, blue eyes narrowed on the “dream” Floris spoke of. Viscount Radley Simon-North clearly seemed to have everything a man would need to lead a woman astray. He was tall and fair haired with devilish blue eyes and a mischief-coaxing grin.
Oh, Ivey,
Thora thought with an inward sigh,
was he the one?
Did one of his knee-weakening smiles persuade you to join him outside in the garden that night?
The girls were still at the windows when the next guest of interest arrived: Mr. Sandler Leedworthy, son of a wealthy shipping merchant. A man of great learning, Sandler Leedworthy was ready at the drop of a hat to give a detailed lecture on everything from the history of Cornwall to the functioning parts of a waterwheel or any other boring subject to anyone who had the misfortune of being within the sound of his voice.
Glancing over at the other three females, each bobbing their heads to gain a better view, Thora noticed a blush in timid, little Floris’s cheeks as she looked at Mr. Leedworthy and recalled the girl once mentioning what a fascinating mind he had. Like most bookworms, he wore specs, but they did not mar his fine features. He had a tall, lean build, which caused him to move more gracefully than other men, and soft grey eyes.
Thora considered him a bore, for he could only speak of things he learned from the pages of a book. How much more interesting he would be if he could talk of things he had actually experienced! With such an intelligent face, he seemed harmless enough with those round spectacles perched on the end of his nose.
Or is he
? Thora thought, keeping him on her list of suspects.
Altogether there were four men on Thora’s list of suspects. All had been at the house the night Ivey was murdered and all were bachelors. It had to be one of them, she reasoned. Ivey would never sneak away to meet someone unless he were eligible. Off in the distance, Thora could see more carriages approaching the manor. Arriving together and rounding out her list were Lord Avery Flemington and Marquis Calder Brightington.
“Doesn’t Marquis Brightington look dashing?” Lauryn sighed dreamily, still peeking from a slice in the curtains.
Thora had to agree that out of the two men Marquis Brightington stood out like polished silver against the slightly battered-faced Lord Flemington. While Brightington was tall and lean with pale green eyes, and his smartly tailored clothes smoothly hugged his trim sinewy frame, Lord Flemington had the burliness of a bear. The dread of many a tailor, his thickly muscled form made his clothing, though they were well cut, appear ill-fitting and ready to burst their seams. Surprisingly, for all his brawn the man was amazingly light on his feet, making him an excellent dancer. Thora was always delighted when she partnered with him for a lively quadrille. There was also a gentleness about him that spoke through his soulful blue eyes. She remembered Ivey telling her that if she were to have a child, she wished the babe would have eyes as blue as Lord Flemington’s. Lord Avery Flemington was a pugilist, a form of exercise he preferred over fencing or riding, and according to her brother Nyle, quite an accomplished one. Thora wished she could cross him off her list as she was rather fond of the man, but until she was certain he would have to stay on.
Satisfied that all her suspects had arrived, Thora started to return to her seat to have a second cup of tea when suddenly three voices rang out in unison, “Who is he?”
Turning back to the window, Thora peered out in time to see a man ducking his head to alight from his carriage. Planting two highly polished black boots on the ground, he unfolded his extremely tall frame. From beneath a jacket of light wool broadcloth, his massive shoulders pulled back to stretch. He wore his thick, chestnut-colored hair long, swept back from his face. His nose was straight and his chin firm.
Thora’ strained to see the color of his eyes, but they were hidden under such dark, long lashes that it seemed almost sinful for a man to possess them.
“Do you know him, Thora?” Lauryn whispered excitedly.
“No, I don’t,” Thora replied, without removing her gaze from the stranger. “A friend of Nyle’s, I suppose.” Gazing down on the tree-sized stranger, Thora suddenly felt heated, as if she were standing dangerously close to a raging fire. When the newcomer’s footman closed the gleaming black-lacquered door of his master’s carriage, her keen eyes noticed a brass family crest that seemed vaguely familiar. A shield. Narrowing her eyes, she saw what appeared to be a raised symbol of some sort, proudly displayed at its center. Now where had she seen that before? She only knew that it had been some years ago in the early days of her youth.
Suddenly, as if he knew he was being watched, the striking, large-framed visitor suddenly looked up at the library windows. His perceptive gaze startled her three companions. Gasping, Floris, Lauryn, and Cecilia stumbled backward from their concealed viewing spot, tumbling over one another like circus clowns.
Thora rolled her eyes but, unlike the other three girls, she stood her ground, meeting the stranger’s stare with one of her own. She was taken back when an unhurried smile spread across his face. That, she did not return. “Insolent rogue!” she muttered under her breath, roughly pulling the curtains shut. In a huff, she stalked back to her seat and dropped down onto its cushion. Quickly, she poured a much-needed cup of tea, sipping it slowly to hide the flush in her cheeks. The new arrival, she told herself, as impressive as he might be, was of little concern to her. It was upon the men she had pointedly observed earlier and who were now somewhere inside the manor that she needed to focus her attention.
“You’re so fortunate, Thora, to have a brother with so many handsome friends.” Lauryn sighed, returning to her seat after tidying her skirts from her topple with Cecilia and Floris. “Each time my father has a house party, his friends are either married”—Lauryn waved the third finger of her left hand——“ancient,” she went on, bending her body forward while she pretended to shakily lean onto a cane for support, “or hideously unattractive.” The petite girl playfully squished her face and crossed her eyes. Her silly antics had all the girls chuckling.
“It stands to reason that Lord Somerville would be surrounded by attractive friends. ‘Birds of a feather do flock together,’” Cecilia remarked as she and Floris took their seats. “And how wonderful of him to open the manor to guests again. I surely thought I would die of boredom cooped up for weeks on ends after Ivey’s—” Cecilia’s words abruptly ceased when Lauryn’s sharply elbowed her ribs after seeing a sorrowful shadow fall over Thora’s face. Realizing her indelicate blunder, a red-faced Cecilia expressed an apology. “Oh, Thora, how thoughtless of me to have forgotten how close you and Ivey were. Please forgive me.”
“It’s all right Cecilia. I know you meant no harm,” Thora uttered, putting down her cup. She had suddenly lost her taste for tea. Inwardly, Thora thought that if her brother ever entertained the notion of courting such a selfish, insensitive chit, she would need to have a serious talk with him. If that didn’t work, she’d resort to more drastic measures, like locking him in the wine cellar until he came to his senses. “But in a way,” she said, shaking off the horrible thought of any union between Nyle and Cecilia Boothwell, “your mention of Ivey brings something important to mind.” Thora rose and moved over to her writing desk. Sliding open the top drawer, she removed three small boxes. “I have a gift for each of you,” she said, distributing the boxes to each young woman.
“Oh I do love presents,” Lauryn squealed with delight, her blond curls bouncing.
Thora handed her one of the boxes, but Lauryn’s joy turned into befuddlement when, upon opening it and peeking inside, she found a strange-looking wooden object. “What is it?” the petite girl asked, taking it out and holding it in her dainty fingers.
Cecilia and Floris, after opening their gifts and finding the same item, also turned questioning gazes to Thora.
“It’s a police rattle,” Thora stated with a proud half-smile. “Safeguard these rattles as it took some doing to get them.”
“A police rattle!” Cecilia cried incredulously. “What are we supposed to do with it?”
“Keep it with you at all times,” Thora uttered, her face serious. Reaching into the pocket of her skirt, she withdrew yet another rattle. “I carry one myself. Remember, whoever harmed Ivey has yet to be caught and for all the police know, he could still be lurking in the area. If you ever feel threatened you can use it as an alarm to summon help.”
“How does it work?” Floris asked curiously.
Coming out of the manor to greet Garren, Lord Nyle Somerville found his old school chum’s attention lifted to the library windows. Curious, his eyes followed Garren’s gaze to the upper-floor windows. Seeing nothing of particular interest, he gave a shrug and then welcomed Garren with a warm, grateful handshake. “Huntscliff, thank goodness. I feel better now that you’re here. Let’s go inside. Before I introduce you to the other guests, I’d like to have a chat. Let’s go to the library.”