A Rose Before Dying (9 page)

“Then we’re fortunate I’m a plantsman instead
of a lady, aren’t we?”

“A lady rosarian may be more apt.”

“And one lacking in most, if not all, of the
finer sensibilities. So don’t fear you’ll shock me.”

“I’d hoped to retain a small scrap of your
respect, though,” he said ruefully. “If that’s not too much to
expect after my boorish behavior.”

“I wish you’d stop apologizing, my lord.
Let’s agree we were both insufferably rude and continue.”

“Very well. A few days ago, my
uncle’s…friend, Lady Banks, received a spray of small yellow
flowers. ‘Lady Banks’ roses. Shortly thereafter, she was murdered.
Subsequently, a second spray of the flowers and a note were sent to
my uncle, indicating that if he had heeded the first warning—that
is, paid attention to the first rose—Lady Banks might not have
died.”

“How dreadful!”

He took a sip of tea. “Then he received a
second spray—the flowers you identified. Unfortunately, we were
unable to prevent the death of Mr. Nivelle.” He studied his teacup,
the china looking impossibly fragile between his long fingers. Then
he looked up and caught her gaze. “I should never have accused
you—”

“No matter.” She waved her hand impatiently.
“Who’d do such a thing? Why send the roses to your uncle? I don’t
understand.”

Silence greeted this question. She shifted in
her chair, afraid he’d leave rather than answer. But he wasn’t the
only one who felt responsible. She did as well.

She looked at him, about to repeat her
question when he answered, “Lady Banks and my uncle were, um, quite
close. However, my uncle was injured a few weeks ago. He couldn’t
do some of the things Lady Banks desired. So she decided she
preferred the company of Mr. Nivelle.”

“Oh.” She couldn’t help blushing and busied
herself with the tea.

He flushed as well. “I beg your pardon—I
should have clarified—he broke his ankle. However, it hasn’t healed
properly. He limps. He can no longer dance—”

“And Lady Banks enjoys—enjoyed—dancing. I
suppose Mr. Nivelle also enjoyed dancing.”

“One presumes so. I never met the man.”

“And so it seems reasonable that your uncle,
seeing his, um,
friend
in the company of another man,
conceived this plan?”

“It does seem that way.”

“But you disagree?”

“Of course I disagree! It would’ve been next
to impossible for him to have stabbed Mr. Nivelle on the doorsteps
of Second Sons within thirty minutes of my visit.”

“A carriage…” She could not resist the role
of Devil’s Advocate. Arguing helped clarify the situation and
forced her to assemble her thoughts. She could only pray her
adversarial position would not anger the earl as much as it did her
betrothed.

He shook his head. “You sound like our
inquiry agent, Mr. Gaunt. Is it any wonder I fear my uncle may be
unjustly accused? Or involved myself in his case?”

“I see, but I must ask, is your uncle a
gardener?”

“He has a garden.” His eyes looked flat and
tired. “And he’s always been interested in roses.”

She studied him with a sinking feeling. “May
I ask who your uncle is? If he’s interested in roses, I may know
him.”

“Sir Edward Marlowe—”

“Sir Edward!” She involuntarily glanced
toward her cousin sitting by the window. However, Miss Baxter
didn’t notice. In fact, she seemed oblivious. Her lips moved as she
counted her stitches and knitted, the wooden needles clicking
softly.

“Do you know him?”

“He often came here to visit my father and
buy roses. I hadn’t realized you were related…” Her head bowed as
she considered this new information. She hesitated to add to Lord
Castlemoor’s troubles. He seemed like one of the few kind and
honorable men left in the world, but it really did appear his uncle
was the most likely suspect. “I’m so sorry.”

He stiffened. “Are you saying he’s an expert
on roses?”

“Many men have rose gardens without the least
knowledge of the roses planted therein.”

“That wasn’t the case with my uncle. Was
it?”

She ached when he refused the palliative she
offered, choosing hard truth instead. “No. He enjoyed discussing
his plantings with my father. Sir Edward spent many evenings here.”
She lightly touched his hand. “But that was a long time ago.”

“Not long enough, it seems. So Gaunt was
right. I never realized the extent of his obsession. I suppose it’s
my fault for not questioning him more forcefully.”

“At least it’s over. You’ll find the truth,
now—”

“If I haven’t already.” He placed his cup on
the table and stood. “The further I dig, the more it appears I’m
wrong to believe in my uncle’s innocence.” He took a deep breath.
“It’s a wretched business, and I’ve taken enough of your time.
Thank you for your kindness.”

“I’m sorry.” She stood, wishing he would
stay. Wishing she could chase away the sorrow in his eyes.

“You’re not to blame. The truth is, after
all, the truth.”

And with that, he took his leave.

From the window, Ariadne watched him go. Like
Lord Castlemoor, she couldn’t believe Sir Edward had murdered
anyone. He was too kind.

Just like his nephew.

Which meant someone else had murdered Lady
Banks and Mr. Nivelle.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Charles demanded of
his uncle.

Sir Edward clasped his hands over the knob of
his walking stick and rested his chin upon the knuckles. He eyed
him. “Tell you what, nephew?”

“You grow roses! There was no reason to send
me up and down the length and breadth of London to find another
rosarian—you’re one, yourself. You could have identified that rose.
For God’s sake, you could have prevented the death of Mr. Nivelle!
Except you’re most likely responsible for it. That’s the only
reasonable solution.”

“So you’re giving up? Accepting the easy
answer because Gaunt tells you I’m guilty?”

“I trusted you! Fought to prove your
innocence—”

“Then fight harder, my lord!” The lines
around Sir Edward’s mouth deepened. He winced.

“Do you expect me to believe you now?”

“Yes! If you don’t, I’ve no use for you. Go
to the authorities if you like. Have me arrested if that’s what you
want.”

“I’ve no desire to see you hung. But you had
reason…and the roses.”

“The roses?”

“Yes. Do you deny your interest? Didn’t you
visit Mr. Wellfleet to discuss them?”

“Yes, yes.” He pounded his cane a few times
before resettling his obstinate chin on his clasped hands. His eyes
glared out of dark, sunken sockets that betrayed his ceaseless
pain.

“You must have known the name of that rose,
Rosa Collina fastigiata
.”

“Do you have any notion how difficult it is
to properly identify a rose? It could’ve been any pale pink or
white rose. An Alba perhaps. Any variety.”

“And who else had reason to wish Lady Banks
and Mr. Nivelle dead?”

His uncle paled. His eyes sunk even deeper
into his gray face. “I
loved
her!”

“And she abandoned you.”

“Perhaps. But that wouldn’t have changed my
feelings for her.”

“It might’ve angered you, however. Jealousy
is a powerful emotion.”

“I only wished her happiness. Her husband…”
Sir Edward’s words trailed off. He shook his head, tears dripping
down the deep grooves between his nose and mouth. “He wasn’t an
easy man to live with. She said it was a relief when he lost
interest and found another. And I never begrudged her, her
happiness, or her desire to find a younger and more capable
partner. I knew what was coming—had known for some time. I’m not
such a fool as to think a beautiful woman would want a
cripple.”

The misery and self-contempt in his uncle’s
face twisted Charles’s gut. He turned and stared out the window,
giving his uncle time to master his emotions. “If not you, then
who?”

“Do you think I don’t ask myself that
question every hour of every day? Every night? I lay awake thinking
on it, damn you! And I’m no closer to an answer than you are,
though at least I know it.” His hands shook as he patted his coat.
Finally, he slipped a small blue bottle from his pocket and pulled
out the cork before pouring a few drops into the glass of brandy at
his elbow. When he caught Charles’s look, he saluted him with the
bottle. “Care for a nip?”

“No.” He watched as his uncle downed his
laudanum-laced drink.

Sir Edward grimaced and coughed as he slammed
his glass down on the table beside him. “Too bad. It dulls the
pain. If only for the moment.”

“It hasn’t gotten any better?”

His uncle laughed, the sound bitter and raw
with anger. “It’ll be better in a minute or two.”

“How did it happen? You never said, except
that it was an accident.”

“Because that’s what it was. An accident.
Nothing more. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to get some
rest.”

“Sir Edward—”

“So formal, my Lord Castlemoor! I can’t wait
to hear what comes next. An arrest?”

“I did not ask for this. It was you, if
you’ll recall, who requested my help. I’ve never had any desire to
dig through the private lives of others—”

His uncle laughed. “How little we know
ourselves.”

“And this will not dissuade me from
continuing—”

“Then continue, damn you!”

“I must warn you. All roads seem to lead to
your door. There’s enough evidence for your arrest. Lord knows what
the coroner’s jury will think of this. First Lady Banks and now
Nivelle.”

“Yes, well, you may as well know I’ve a
Rosa Colllina fastigiata
in the garden, too. Though I’d no
idea that the spray was of that variety. There are many that look
alike. You won’t believe me, but that’s the way of it.”

“Good lord, do you realize—”

“Of course I realize, you bloody idiot! Why
do you think I told you? Not that it’ll make a bit of difference in
the end.” He rubbed his thigh before clamping a hand around his
knee. He squeezed as if he could prevent the agony from spiraling
up his leg from his crushed foot. Beads of sweat rolled down his
ashen face. When the wave passed, he continued, “At least the
hangman will put an end to this damn pain.”

“I don’t know if I can prevent an arrest. Mr.
Gaunt has evidence. He intends to present it to the magistrate and
coroner in two days. I’m sorry.”

“What good is pity? Find the truth if you
want to help. It’s the only thing that can.”

Dissatisfied, Charles bid his uncle goodbye.
Once more, he felt sure his uncle was innocent. However, that
feeling would not last. The evidence was overwhelming.

Who else would want Lady Banks and Mr.
Nivelle dead? Possibly Lord Banks, but he wasn’t in the country,
and it didn’t seem like the kind of crime one would hire out.

The other puzzling aspect was that the
murderer used a rifle in one case and a knife in the other. That
struck Charles as odd. As odd as the taunting notes and flowers.
Almost as if the killer wanted to prove his superiority.

He could imagine his uncle, with his cynical,
overbearing attitude, enjoying those sorts of mocking gestures.

At the front door, Charles noticed his
uncle’s valet walking down the hallway with a few of Sir Edward’s
stocks draped over his left arm.

“Hoopes!” Charles called.

The bespectacled valet paused, his nervous
fingers smoothing the long white neckcloths. “Yes, my lord?”

“I was just visiting Sir Edward. His foot is
bothering him a great deal. Has it been growing worse?”

“I’m afraid so. The doctor recommended he
remove it, but Sir Edward, well…”

Charles grimaced. “I can well imagine his
reaction to that sort of butchery. Is there no other recourse?”

“No, my lord. It does not appear so.”

“What happened? I never understood how it
happened.”

“It was Lady Banks’ horse. Sir Edward was
holding the reins while she mounted. Something scared the animal.
It reared and kicked him in the ankle before coming down on his
foot. Crushed it, my lord.” He removed his glasses and wiped them
in short, nervous movements on one of the linen stocks. “Terrible
thing.”

No wonder Sir Edward refused to talk about
it.

Unfortunately, it was one more reason he
might want to see Lady Banks and her new paramour dead.

Her horse—and by proxy, Lady Banks—had
crippled Sir Edward. Then she had thrown him over for another man,
one who could dance.

It might make anyone angry and bitter enough
to want revenge.

Ariadne stroked Rose’s soft brown hair and
straightened the pink ribbon the child had picked that morning to
tie her hair back. Unfortunately, nothing seemed to be able to hold
the silky, wayward strands, just as nothing seemed able to hold the
child herself in the kitchen where she was supposed to be helping
the cook.

Instead, Rose insisted on trailing Ariadne.
She stood at her elbow while Ariadne tried to balance the household
accounts, watched as she wrote letters. Now, she solemnly observed
her while she worked to write out a set of labels for the seedlings
growing from a cross between
Rosa centifolia
, the Cabbage
Rose, and
Rosa centifolia ‘alba-muscosa’
, Shailer’s White
Moss. She had high hopes for a healthy, pale pink moss rose,
although the public’s passion for moss roses seemed cool at
best.

“Wotcher doing that for?” Rose asked, leaning
closer.

Her question startled Ariadne just as she
dipped her pen into the ink. She knocked the inkpot over with the
tip of her quill. The black liquid spilled over the sheaf of
papers, ruining the nearly thirty labels she had already
laboriously written.

“I’m writing out labels for all the little
plants we finished repotting yesterday.” She righted the small
glass pot and mopped up the ink with a sigh.