Beyond the Grave (13 page)

"Oh. Yes. I suppose." I let him go. "Why didn't I think of that?"

"I don't know." He headed up the stairs, but not before I saw his lips twitch at the corners. "Devious methods of gathering information are usually your specialty."

I
awoke
at dawn the following morning, but Lincoln was already in the kitchen when I went down, cooking bacon and eggs. The man required very little sleep. I'd not heard him return after dinner, but I'd still been so tired from the night I'd missed sleep altogether, that I slept soundly.

"Are you going to eat all of that yourself?" I asked, peering past him to the five rashers of bacon sizzling in the pan and the three boiling eggs.

"Not anymore."

I fetched another plate and eggcup then allowed him to serve me. I chose the side of the table closest to the warm range and he sat on the other. He didn't seem to feel the cold. When I'd first met him, he'd seemed more machine than human, with his lack of emotion and few needs, and sometimes I still felt as if I didn't know the man behind the mask. At least I now knew he wore a mask most of the time.

"How was the dinner?" I asked.

"Adequate. Cook's a better cook."

"You should tell him that. It would mean a lot to him."

He considered this a moment then nodded.

"I was actually referring to the conversational aspect of dinner. Did you get an opportunity to ask Lord Harcourt whether Buchanan arrived at Emberly Park?"

"No. I wasn't seated near him at dinner and he avoided me afterward."

"But you were the only two gentlemen there. Weren't you alone with him in the billiard room?"

He shook his head as he cut through a bacon rasher. "Another two were invited to make up numbers."

"But you were already two gentlemen and two ladies, an even, if somewhat small, number."

"Four ladies, four gentlemen. Julia invited the Overtons—Mr. Mrs. and Miss—and an elderly fellow by the name of Matthews."

I'd been slicing off the top of my egg, but his news caused my hand to slip. The egg and cup toppled over, spilling gooey yolk on the table. I quickly righted the cup, stuffed the egg back into it, and reached for a cloth to mop up the yolk.

Lincoln watched me from beneath long, thick lashes. "I was as surprised as you are. Julia didn't warn me."

Probably because she knew he'd refuse to go. "She seems very keen for you and Miss Overton to…become better acquainted."

"I noticed."

"And did you become better acquainted last night?"

"No."

"Surely Lady Harcourt contrived to sit you next to her."

"She did, with her mother on my other side. They soon learned that I make a terrible dinner guest and gave up attempting to converse with me."

"Did you even try to have a proper conversation? Or did you sabotage it deliberately?"

"I don't give away my secrets." His eyes gleamed like polished jet.

I couldn't help a smile, although it vanished just as quickly as it rose. "Poor Miss Overton. Do you think she will give up now and set her heart on someone else?" Or was she so smitten with him that she would continue to throw herself in his path? It was a distinct possibility. I certainly couldn't imagine setting aside my affections to consider another man.

"I don't think it's up to Miss Overton but her mother. And perhaps Julia, to some extent. She hasn't accepted that I am a hopeless case, unfit for marriage."

"You're not, Lincoln. Not in the least." I raised my fork as he opened his mouth to protest. "Can we discuss something else? Please? I don't wish to go over old ground with you again. We only seem to end up fighting, and I don't like it when we do."

"Nor do I." He rose. "Tea?"

"Yes, please. So we've hit a dead end again in the search for Buchanan."

"Not quite," he said as he checked the kettle. "I'm catching a train to Emberly Park straight after breakfast." He cast an eye at the clock on the sideboard. "Seth or Gus will drive me to the station even if I have to drag one of them out of bed."

Seth chose that moment to enter, hand over his mouth, smothering a yawn.

"Speak of the devil," I said.

Seth blinked sleepily. "Huh?"

"You're driving Mr. Fitzroy and me to Paddington station this morning. Come on, eat up or we'll be late. What time does the train leave?" I asked Lincoln.

"It's inappropriate for you to join me," he said darkly.

It was not an outright refusal. I took that as a positive sign. "It's inappropriate for me to live here with four men, and yet I do. Lincoln," I said, deliberately calling him by his first name, even though Seth was listening, "let me be involved. I think I'll be of use in questioning the servants, which I'm assuming was on your agenda." At my arched brow, he nodded. "We all know that I'm better with people than you."

After a loaded silence in which his gaze didn't waver from mine, he finally gave in. "Don't make me regret it."

"Thank you," I said, in the most dignified manner I could muster, when I really wanted to let out a
whoop
of victory.

"Pack for an overnight stay in the village. You'll act as my sister."

"We look nothing alike. No one will believe it."

"My ward, then. It's close enough to the truth."

I hadn't thought of our relationship like that. I was an adult in my own eyes, if not that of the law. I wouldn't gain my majority until I turned twenty-one. But it threw up an interesting question—who was my legal guardian? My real father was dead, and if I had living male relatives, I didn't know them. Anselm Holloway might have been given legal guardianship when he took me in, but he'd disowned me so was that still relevant? And did it really matter if I didn't have a guardian anyway? All my needs were taken care of by Lincoln, and I owned nothing, not even the clothing I wore.

"Can we simply say I'm your assistant?" I said.

Lincoln blinked, which I took as ascent.

Seth sighed. "It seems you're going to be doing more ministry work, Charlie, and that means less time for your maid duties."

"Don't worry," I told him. "I'll only leave you the dirtiest tasks. I know how you love them."

He groaned.

T
he train
to the village of Harcourt in Oxfordshire took a little under two hours, and we both read most of the way, although I regularly peeked to see if Lincoln was looking at me. He wasn't.

We secured rooms at The Fox and Hound Inn, a short walk from the station. The bedrooms were separated by a private sitting room that could be accessed from each bedchamber. Lincoln had asked for entirely separate rooms, that were not joined in any way, but the proprietor had said there were none. If we wanted a sitting room, then those were the only two bedchambers available. I'd quickly accepted them before Lincoln could announce that we were going to try another inn.

"My foot's a little sore," I lied. "I don't wish to traipse all over the village in search of another place to stay. Besides, The Fox and Hound is charming." I smiled at the innkeeper as I said it, and he smiled back, handing me a key.

"That it is, miss. The Fox is the oldest and best inn for miles. You won't get a fireplace as cozy as the one in the dining room, and our beds are clean, unlike some places I could mention. Be sure to dine with us this evening and enjoy our cook's special. You won't be disappointed."

"I look forward to it."

He led us up the narrow staircase, worn smooth in the center from centuries of trampling boots. Lincoln had to duck as we passed from the ground level to the next, and the top of his head almost skimmed the thick, black beams holding up the corridor ceiling. The innkeeper showed us into our rooms, then left. After fifteen minutes, Lincoln tapped on the door leading to the sitting room.

"Ready?" he called.

"I'll fetch my cloak and gloves."

A few minutes later we were outside, hailing a cab to take us to Emberly Park, a few miles west of the village. The term "cab" could only loosely describe the vehicle. It wasn't the hackney variety that crowded London's streets, but a crude wagon that happened to be going to the big house to deliver sacks of flour, tea, sugar and other supplies.

I sat on one side of the squinting, stooped driver and Lincoln sat on the other. Fortunately it was a lovely sunny autumn day, albeit a cool one, and we didn't require protection from the weather.

"Does Lord Harcourt own this village?" I asked as we drove along the main street, lined with shops that seemed to be a mixture of old and new. Three of them were the narrow black and white Tudor type, all leaning drunkenly to the right. "It's very pretty."

"He owns a few buildings here and there," the driver said.

"Is he a good landlord?"

He shrugged. "Don't know, don't care. He ain't
my
landlord."

"Have the Buchanan family lived here long?"

"Long as anyone alive can remember, and well before that."

"The baronetcy was named after the village when it was awarded to the Buchanan family, a little over a century ago," Lincoln explained. "They lived at Emberly Park for two centuries before that, however."

"You know their history well."

"I know the history of every noble family in the British Empire. My tutor on the subject made sure I memorized family trees."

"That sounds horrible."

"It wasn't."

Probably because he possessed an excellent memory. "Does the baron's brother come here often?" I asked the driver.

"Wouldn't know."

"Do you know if he was here recently, say about a week ago?"

"No."

We'd already asked the stationmaster, but he claimed not to know what Buchanan looked like, never having met the fellow in the year since he'd moved to the village. We couldn't rule out Buchanan having arrived by train. Not yet.

I fell into silence as we drove past thatch-roofed cottages, over a stone bridge that crossed a gently babbling stream and out of the village. I was too in awe of the beauty of the countryside to bother attempting conversation with two of the poorest conversationalists in England. Sunshine speared through the remaining autumn leaves clinging to the elm trees, turning them a fiery gold. Beyond the trees, green hills rolled into the distance, as smooth as carpet, with only some sheep and the occasional hedgerow to break it up.

I breathed deeply, drawing the cleanest air I'd ever known into my lungs. It was so clean that it even
tasted
different to the London air. The colors were much brighter than in the city too, as if someone had dipped trees, grass and sky in the same dyes used to color silk gowns and waistcoats. I'd thought the Lichfield Towers grounds were pristine—and they were, compared to London—but
this
was magical. If fairies existed, they would surely make their homes here.

"You've never been to the countryside," Lincoln said quietly.

The driver glanced at him then returned to concentrating on the horse and road.

"Not this far outside of London," I said. "Is the rest of England like this?"

The driver snorted, and I instantly regretted asking. I sounded so unworldly. Lincoln had been to the continent and perhaps further. He must think me childish. The driver certainly did.

"The countryside changes, depending on a variety of factors from the weather and soil, to the proximity to the sea, mountains and other natural landmarks."

I breathed deeply again and watched a little bird take a bath in a shallow puddle by the side of the road. "One day I'm going to go to the seaside."

I thought he hadn't heard me, but then he suddenly spoke in a rush. "I'll take you."

I glanced at him over the driver's head, but he quickly looked away.

He nodded up ahead. "There's Emberly."

I followed his gaze to the large building situated on the rise, its soft gray stone wings stretching out like a dancer's slender arms. Beyond the iron gate, the driveway circled the lawn. No smoke rose from the dozens of chimney pots, and the curtains were drawn across the arched windows. No footman greeted us either. The house seemed empty.

Lincoln jumped down from the cart before it stopped completely and came to assist me, as if I were a lady. I needed to remember to act my part and not to fall into habits picked up from living with boys' gangs. While my accent had returned to the middle class one of my childhood, over the last two months, other habits weren't so easy to adopt, like walking with a small, neat step and keeping my hair tidy.

The cart driver drove away just as the front door to the house opened. A silver-haired man dressed in a tailcoat emerged. The thrust of his chin and clear, direct gaze gave him an air of authority, but it was undermined somewhat by the ruddiness of his cheeks and his heavy breathing. He must have run to the door.

"Good afternoon, sir," he intoned in the plummiest of toff accents. "May I offer you assistance?"

"I'm Lincoln Fitzroy, a friend of the dowager Lady Harcourt's, and this is my assistant, Miss Holloway. You are?"

"The butler, Yardley. I'm afraid Lord and Lady Harcourt are in London."

"We know. I dined with them last night. We're not here to see them, we're here to speak to you."

"Me?"

"And the other servants. We're looking for Andrew Buchanan."

"He's not here, sir." The poor man looked terribly confused, and Lincoln wasn't explaining himself at all well.

"Have you seen him recently?" he asked.

"Not for a year or more. He rarely comes to Emberly."

"Are you sure? It would have been a week ago."

"Quite sure, sir," Yardly said.

"May I question the other servants?"

The butler's jowls shook with indignation. "I'm afraid not, sir. Not without his lordship's permission."

"He's not here." The steeliness in Lincoln's voice was a sure sign that his frustration was rising. "Don't you have authority in his absence?"

"Y-yes, but—"

"I'm trying to locate his lordship's brother. Are you attempting to stop me?"

"No!"

I looped my arm through Lincoln's. "It'll only take a few moments, Mr. Yardly," I said quickly. "And then we'll be on our way. We do hate to trouble you at such a time, but this is very important and his lordship is most anxious to have his brother return to the family bosom. We simply want to ask the staff some questions. One of them may have seen him."