The Tempting of Thomas Carrick (11 page)

Lucilla recognized Niniver Carrick, Manachan’s third child and only daughter; slender, with pale blond hair, she blinked at the assembled company. The dark-haired young man, barely more than a youth, who halted beside Niniver, Lucilla assumed to be Norris, Manachan’s youngest son; the resemblance was faint, but there. Norris and Niniver were dressed in day clothes suitable for a morning about the house.

Niniver recovered first. She focused on her father. “Papa—it’s…good to see you down. We came to ask what was happening about luncheon. The gong hasn’t rung.”

Manachan humphed. He looked at Mrs. Kennedy and Ferguson. “Luncheon has been put back by an hour or so.”

Norris frowned. “Why?” Then his gaze fixed on the wrapped body now resting on the tiles, and his features went blank. “What’s going on?”

“Never mind that.” Manachan waved his hand testily. “What do you know about anyone going into the old wing?”

Norris’s frown didn’t ease. “The disused wing?” When Manachan nodded, Norris replied, “As far as I know, no one’s been in there for years.”

Niniver nodded, then it was her turn to ask, “Why?”

Manachan sighed, and in a few terse words, told them.

Their shocked surprise was transparently genuine; Lucilla doubted the pair knew anything about either death. But what increasingly concerned her was Manachan’s flagging strength; she could hear the effort each breath cost him. He’d called on reserves to go out to the Bradshaws’ and was now fading fast.

She caught Thomas’s eye; she let her gaze flick to Manachan and
thought
at Thomas—and was relieved when, lips tightening, he nodded.

The instant there was a suitable break in the comments, Thomas said, “Sir—I suggest we leave Ferguson and Mrs. Kennedy to deal with the situation and get luncheon under way. Meanwhile, we should get you upstairs.”

Manachan glanced at Thomas, then softly grunted and tensed to rise. From the way Thomas’s lips thinned, and the faintly pained demeanor of the staff as they watched him, assisted by Lucilla, haul Manachan to his feet, Lucilla surmised that Manachan’s ready capitulation was seen by all as an indication of just how weak he truly was.

Once he was on his feet, she beckoned one of the burlier footmen to take her place; she wasn’t confident of supporting Manachan up the stairs. Freed from her position by his side, she circled to come up beside Thomas. Her voice low, she spoke to him and Manachan. “I’ll see to the bodies, both of them.”

Manachan met her eyes, then dipped his head. “Thank you, my dear.”

Stepping back, Lucilla watched the trio pass beneath the archway through which Niniver and Norris had come; beyond lay a small hall into which the main stairs debouched. The trio awkwardly wheeled to the right and started up.

Lucilla turned and regarded the staff. She glanced at Joy Burns’s body, and Sean, Mitch, and Fred bent to lift it again. She looked at Ferguson and Mrs. Kennedy. “Faith Burns—I take it she and Joy were related?”

Mrs. Kennedy nodded. “Sisters. Last of the Burns family hereabouts.”

“I see.” That certainly accounted for the earlier consternation. Lucilla tucked the information aside for later examination. “What have you done with Faith’s body?”

* * *

If Thomas had been disturbed by Joy Burns’s death, he was deeply troubled now.

So was Manachan. Once Thomas had, with Edgar’s help, settled Manachan on his bed, Manachan grasped Thomas’s sleeve. “Something’s going on. I need to know what.”

Unable to keep the grimness from his expression, Thomas nodded. “We’ll get to the bottom of it.” Whatever “it” was.

Manachan’s eyes searched his; his grip on Thomas’s sleeve tightened. “Will you stay until this is sorted out?”

Thomas couldn’t recall Manachan ever asking him for help; a laird did not ask for help—a laird gave it. “Yes, of course.” He closed his hand over Manachan’s and briefly squeezed.

“Good. Excellent.” Relaxing against the pillows, Manachan released him. “Come and tell me what you learn.”

An order. “I will.” Raising his gaze from Manachan’s increasingly pallid face, Thomas exchanged a meaningful glance with Edgar. “Meanwhile, just rest.”

After quitting Manachan’s room, Thomas paused in the gallery, then went in search of Lucilla.

He eventually tracked her to the library. She was seated behind Manachan’s huge desk, writing a letter.

Thomas inwardly sighed. He closed the door; she glanced up at the snick of the latch but immediately returned to her task.

He started down the long room. “It was one thing for you to stay in this house when the only dead body we had on our hands died in a farmhouse miles away.”

She didn’t even glance up. “I’m not leaving. Your uncle needs help, and so does your clan.”

“Your family will come down on Manachan’s head like avenging angels if anything happens to you while you are, however nominally, in our care.” His words were clipped. He halted before the desk. “That concerns Manachan and the clan, too.”

She waved at the letter. “I’m explaining the situation to Marcus. He’ll appreciate the need for me to remain here.” She wrote another line. “I’m asking him to send some clothes for a few days’ stay.”

Thomas leaned his fists on the edge of the desk.

She glanced briefly up at him but continued calmly writing. “I can assure you Marcus won’t create a fuss.”

Thomas had no doubt that her twin had been conditioned from an early age to stay out of his sister’s way. “Lucilla.” His gaze on her face, he waited until she looked up at him. “It’s too dangerous for you to stay.”

She had, he realized, already signed her letter. She held his gaze and, without looking away, set the pen aside and picked up the blotter. Emerald eyes, intensely green, the vibrant hue highlighted by tiny flecks of gold, never wavered. “Thomas,” she said, “I’m staying.”

And you have neither the right nor the power to gainsay me.

Lucilla held back those words, but she was prepared to utter them if he drove her to it. His amber eyes narrowed; they searched her eyes almost as if he could read that unuttered sentence inscribed therein.

His lips tightened even more; at the edge of her vision, she saw the ripple of his sleeves as muscles bunched beneath.

Eye to eye, metaphorical toe to toe, she waited.

She wondered how long she could manage without breathing.

Just when she was starting to feel a touch light-headed, the tension holding him eased. His muscles unknotted, then he straightened. “Very well.”

His tone was beyond clipped. She might have won that round, but he was not happy with the outcome and had in no way conceded the game.

His gaze lowered to her letter. He nodded curtly at it. “Let me have that, and I’ll get Fred to ride over and deliver it.”

Blotter in hand, she glanced down at her missive. There was nothing more she needed to tell her twin; Marcus was exceptionally talented at reading between her lines. Then she remembered; she looked at Thomas and arched a brow. “Would you like me to ask Marcus about the seed supply?”

He considered it; she could see him silently evaluating the pros and cons. But at last, he shook his head. “No.” He met her gaze. “Nigel is supposedly managing the estate. I should ask him first.” His brows rose cynically. “Again.”

She was growing used to reading between his lines, too. “So you don’t step on his toes?”

His lips thinned, but he nodded. “Precisely.”

When he said nothing more, she blotted the letter, folded it, and inscribed Marcus’s name on the front. There was no reason she could see to seal it. Rising, she held out the folded sheet.

Thomas closed his fingers on the paper just as the deep
bong
of the luncheon gong reverberated through the house.

For a second, he held Lucilla’s green gaze, then she released the letter. Sliding it into his pocket, he waved her to the door. “As you’re determined to stay, I’ll show you the way to the dining room. I’ll get this sent off before I join you.”

Smiling with a satisfaction that carried a definite hint of approval, she started up the room.

Patently thrilled at getting her own way.

Inwardly shaking his head—at her, at himself, at his unexpected predicament—he followed her to the door.

* * *

Luncheon was served in the formal dining room, although they were using only one end of the long table. The room was lined with wood paneling to head height; the higher reaches of the walls were plastered and painted, and played host to ornately framed landscapes interspersed with mounted stag and boar heads. The windows were lead paned and relatively small; even though the dark brown curtains were open, the illumination in the room was softly dim, as if shadows hovered about its edges.

Four places had been set, two on either side of the table, at the end closer to the door. Norris and Niniver were already seated opposite each other; Lucilla went to the place beside Norris, who stood and drew the chair out for her.

As she sat and settled the heavy skirts of her riding habit, she glanced across the table and saw Niniver watching her. The younger girl had caught her lower lip between her teeth. The expression in her cornflower-blue eyes was uncertain.

Norris resumed his seat.

Sensing his impatience, Lucilla said, “Thomas will be here shortly.”

Norris met her gaze, studied her for an instant, then nodded.

A moment later, Thomas appeared. Ferguson followed at his heels, bearing a soup tureen.

Once Thomas had taken the chair opposite Lucilla and they’d all been served and had started to eat, Norris glanced at Thomas. “I didn’t know you were coming down.”

Answering Norris’s unvoiced question, Thomas explained about the letter from Bradshaw, his meeting with Nigel and Nolan, and the subsequent letter from Forrester, which had brought him back to the estate.

Lucilla quietly ate her soup and listened as Thomas described what he had discovered at the Bradshaws’ and his ride to the Vale to ask for her aid. She detected no animosity between Thomas, Niniver, and Norris; if anything, both Niniver and Norris appeared to view Thomas’s arrival with a species of wary relief. Lucilla could sense the link between Niniver and Norris, the two youngest children, but their emotional ties to Thomas were significantly less, no doubt due to his recent absences compounded by the difference in age.

“Are the Bradshaws all right?”

Lucilla looked up at Niniver’s question and realized it was directed at her. “Yes. We discovered their well was tainted. Thomas fetched fresh water from the Forresters, and once we had that, I treated the Bradshaws. By the time we left, they were on the road to complete recovery.”

“The Forresters are there, looking after them.” Thomas set down his soup spoon.

A footman removed their soup plates while Ferguson laid platters containing a simple cold collation before them. They served themselves. As they settled to eat, Norris said, “So now we have both the Burns sisters unexpectedly dead, and if I have it correctly, both died on the same night.”

Thomas studied Norris. “Do you know anything pertinent about either death?”

Norris shook his head. “No—nothing. It wasn’t as if I knew them that well. Not as people.”

Lucilla placed Norris as being somewhere around twenty years old. He reminded her of several of her younger male cousins; he had the same unfortunate way with words. Despite how his last statement had sounded, she was certain he’d intended it merely as a statement of fact, rather than any reflection on the relative standing of young master of the house and the staff.

Bearing out her reading of Norris, Thomas accepted Norris’s comment with a noncommittal grunt.

A moment later, Norris ventured, “The one thing I don’t understand is why Faith went into the disused wing. No one’s been in there for years.”

Lucilla glanced at Thomas, then Niniver, but it seemed Norris’s puzzlement was shared by all.

When no one said anything further, she returned her gaze to Niniver. “How long was Joy Burns the clan’s healer?” She arched her brows. “Do you know?”

Niniver grimaced. “I can remember the healer before her, old Mrs. Edge.” Niniver glanced at Thomas. “You must remember her, too.” Looking back at Lucilla, Niniver went on, “Mrs. Edge retired and Joy took over as our main healer about fifteen years ago.”

“Was Joy Mrs. Edge’s apprentice?” Lucilla asked.

Niniver shrugged lightly. “She might have been, but Joy wasn’t an apprentice—not for as far back as I can recall.”

Chewing, Thomas nodded. He swallowed, then said, “Joy was a recognized healer from long before Mrs. Edge left.” He frowned as if trying to bring something into focus, but then shook his head. “When Norris was born and things didn’t go well with my aunt, I remember Joy being called in to spell Mrs. Edge, so she’s been—she was—a recognized healer at least from that time.”

So for twenty years at least. “And she was from a local family?” Lucilla asked.

Niniver answered. “The Burnses have been on the estate, a part of the clan, for generations, but only the two of them—Faith and Joy—were left.” Niniver’s expression sobered. “And now they’re all gone.”

Lucilla focused on Thomas. Accepting his implied assessment that neither Niniver nor Norris was involved in any way with whatever was going on, she stated, “The one thing I cannot readily accept is that Joy Burns was a competent and experienced healer, one who grew up and lived all her life on the estate, yet our only explanation for her death—at least to this point—is that she mistook some fungus or herb and ate something that killed her.”

Thomas grimaced. “I agree that’s not a very likely thesis.” He met Lucilla’s emerald eyes. “But until we uncover a more plausible option, that’s the only possibility we have.”

Which proves we need to investigate further.

He could all but hear the words, even though neither he nor Lucilla gave voice to them. Her determination to get to the bottom of who had killed Joy Burns, how, and why was all but palpable. She wasn’t going to let the matter rest; aside from all else, Joy Burns had been a peer of sorts.

The plundered platters were replaced with a bowl of trifle.