A Second Chance for Murder (15 page)

When the midday meal was finished and the guests leisurely strolled back to the manor, Thora asked Lauryn and Floris to meet her in her room. Once inside her bedroom, Thora turned to the girls and explained that since Cecilia Boothwell’s terrible tragedy they had not spent any time together.

“Was it such a tragedy?” Floris asked, shocking her companions. “If we’re honest, none of us really liked Cecilia. She was always belittling us, putting herself above us with her haughty advice on how to conduct ourselves, while all the while she was . . .”

“Floris,” Lauryn broke in. “I might not have been very fond of Cecilia,” she admitted, “but to die so young . . . There’s the tragedy!” The room fell silent.

“I guess when you look at it like that. I guess you’re right, Lauryn,” Floris stammered, staring at her hands in her lap, seemingly ashamed.

Thora sensed that Floris was more troubled than embarrassed. “Is something wrong, Floris?” she softly inquired.

The young girl just shook her head.

Getting Floris to speak further was like asking a turtle to peek out of his shell. Did she know about Cecilia and Leedworthy? Or was it something graver? Did she suspect Leedworthy had killed Cecilia?

Thora stared at her friend and suddenly realized,
she loves him! Floris is in love with Sandler Leedworthy
.

Trying to lighten everyone’s spirits, Thora exclaimed, “At least we won’t have to hear any more verses from Mrs. Wrightway’s handbook.”

Lauryn chuckled and Floris gave a weak smile, but Thora still had the feeling that Floris was holding something back, something that had the poor girl terribly worried. She would have to tell Garren about it.

Changing the subject, Lauryn told her friends that Lord Flemington had asked her to accompany him, with her mother, of course, the next day on a carriage ride. “He’s such a kind man, don’t you think, Thora?” the pretty blonde asked.

“Yes, Lauryn, beneath all that brawn I do believe there’s a tender, loving heart,” Thora answered with a quaint smile.

Later that night, Thora met with Nyle, Garren, and Mr. Greenstreet in her brother’s study. The men had been discussing the case when she entered. “So you think Lady Floris is inwardly struggling with some knowledge that may put some light on this case?” Garren asked with a penetrating stare.

Garren’s words reached her ears and Thora fully understood them, but his intense gaze had robbed her of speech. Those dark coffee-colored eyes were scrambling her thinking. Her eyes lingered on his lips, studying them for far too long. How very full they were, and their movement awakened memories of how it felt when he kissed her the previous evening, rendering her tongue useless. The only response she could offer was a nod.

“I believe you’re right about your friend, Lady Thora,” Garren agreed. “And I also believe that our killer, if he’s planning a move, will make it very soon. Therefore I urge you to be careful, and it would be most helpful if you give a subtle reminder to the other ladies to continue to be wary.”

Finding her voice, Thora promised to do so. She then rose to say that she was going to retire. When Garren offered to escort her upstairs, she welcomed his company. The thought that a killer was lurking in the house just waiting for the right moment to strike had her more frightened than she wanted to admit. Garren’s hand on her arm was reassuring, but as they strode down the hall, he suddenly opened a door that wasn’t her room.

“This isn’t my . . .” she started to say but was tucked into an upstairs closet so quickly her words were cut off. She was further stifled when, once inside, Garren pressed his lips to hers. Two large hands cupped her face, holding her still so his lips and tongue could have his way with her mouth.

Garren’s unforeseen actions had shaken her but, recovering quickly, she startled herself by absorbing his kiss receptively, causing a soft moan to rise from the back of her throat.

She slipped her hands under his jacket and around his broad back, feeling the sinewy muscle flex beneath the thin layer of his linen shirt at her touch. Disappointingly, their kiss was short-lived. Garren abruptly broke the kiss and stood motionless, leaving her breathless and puzzled.

“I hear someone coming,” he whispered.

Thora strained her ears but she heard nothing. Were his nerves becoming undone? She thought for a moment until the padding of soft footfalls sounded.
Good Lord, he has the ears of a trained guard dog!
As the person passed, she heard sobbing. But who? Silently Garren inched the door open a crack. Peeking out, Thora saw Floris walking toward her room, her face buried in her hands and her shoulders shaking with heavy sobs.

So she had been right about Floris. Something was terribly wrong. As the young woman made her way to her room, Lord Flemington suddenly appeared in the hall. Seeing the weeping Floris, he immediately went to her. Words were spoken, but they were uttered so softly that she was certain even Garren was unable to hear them. After a moment, Lord Flemington escorted Floris to her room. The pair stood in the doorway, a few more words passed between them, and then Flemington slid a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his jacket and used it to dab away the young woman’s tears. Floris appeared comforted and went inside her room while Lord Flemington turned away and continued down to his own room.

Garren searched Thora’s face for any sign of emotion in the slim line of light that streamed into the closet from the hall’s lamps. For once, her face revealed nothing, as a clean chalkboard. Nothing to imply that she might have been bothered seeing Lord Flemington give comfort to another woman.

When Floris and Flemington were no longer in the hall, Thora whispered, “I knew poor Floris was troubled. Do you think I should go to her?”

“No,” he said, shutting the door and drawing her back into his arms. “Because I’m not going to let you out of this closet until I finish what I started.” His lips met hers in a long, lingering kiss. His passion seeped into her and she returned it with equal measure. When their lips parted, she was breathless and placed her head against his chest. His chin nestled into her hair. He softly murmured her name into her tresses, his breath warming their roots.

Thora gave a deep sigh and cuddled against him, her hands resting on the broad expanse of his chest. Suddenly her fingers fell on something under the cloth of his shirt. Something felt something raised, an uneven bump—a scar. She lifted her head, her hand still on the lumpy disfigurement. “A bullet wound,” he stated casually as if it was nothing more than a cat scratch.

“Who?” Thora asked.

“A woman. A woman I trusted,” he said, his tone bitter. “We better go,” he said suddenly, opening the door carefully to ensure that the hall was empty. He escorted her to her room. At the door, he stared down at her. “Good night, Thora. Sweetest dreams.” Turning his back to her, he left.

Sweetest dreams. Thora inwardly snorted as she closed the door of her bedroom. How was she going to sleep while thinking about the woman who shot Garren? A thousand questions raced through her mind. Why had the woman shot him? Was it in a fit of jealousy? Did it happen during his days in the Royal Guardians? An occupational hazard? Nyle had never mentioned it to her when she questioned him about Garren? But what was it he said? Garren was always tight-lipped about the women in his life. Was she someone he not only trusted but cared about? An ex-lover?

Thora uttered a loud groan. Trying not to dwell on the matter, she quickly undressed, washed, then slipped into her nightgown and hopped into bed, but as her head hit the pillow, her eyes refused to close. They conjured images of Garren’s femme fatale. Of course, she was beautiful and blond with long, flowing hair, her voice soft and seductive. There was an invitation in her eyes and a pistol in her hand. What had he done to deserve a wrath so fierce that it’d caused her to shoot him?
Oh why didn’t he tell her more?

Then she thought of something that squeezed at her heart.
Was it too painful for him to speak of her? Did he love her? Did he kiss her the same way?
Thora’s troubled mind would give her no peace. Hours passed, and she tossed and turned before finally, her imagination overworked, she succumbed to exhaustion and fell asleep.

The next morning, the skies were dark and foreboding. A gusty wind whipped through the trees carrying with it the promise of a storm. She rang quickly for Molly to help her get dressed.

When she entered the breakfast room, she found most of the guests already up and enjoying their first meal of the day. Floris, Sandler Leedworthy, and Lord Langless were conspicuously absent from the breakfast table, each having requested to breakfast in their rooms. After pouring herself a cup of tea, Thora joined the group at the table. Viscount Simon-North and Marquis Brightington, she’d learned, weren’t going to let the threatening skies stall their plans to ride into the village. That was not the case for Lord Flemington’s planned carriage ride with Lady Lauryn and her mother. With the likelihood of rain forthcoming, he recommended they postpone the outing and suggested to the two ladies, and Lady Langless, if she cared to join them, that they stay inside and enjoy a game of bridge. The ladies found his suggestion most thoughtful and readily agreed.

Nyle mentioned that he and Garren, who seemed distracted this morning, would be riding out to visit one of the nearby tenant farmers and hopefully return before the impending storm. Thora inwardly pouted. She wanted to speak to Garren and ask him about the woman who shot him. Now she would have to wait. Damn.

“It seems everyone has plans this morning,” Thora said as the guests set about their intended activities. Addressing the young Langless girls, she asked, “If you girls don’t have anything to do this morning, would you like to help me with a puzzle I’ve started but haven’t been able to complete?”

The girls said they would be happy to help her.

As Thora sipped her tea, she glanced outside. The blowing wind picked up a number of leaves and twigs and sent them whirling. They struck the glass of the window without damaging the glass but for some reason it caused her to shiver. Thora quickly drained her tea and set her cup down. Turning to the Langless girls, she promised to meet them in the drawing room to work on the puzzle, but first she needed to go upstairs for a shawl.

As she was about to return downstairs, she opened her bedroom door and nearly collided with Viscount Simon-North who was standing in the doorway. “My lord, is there something you wish to see me about?” Thora asked.

There was an odd mix of surprise and alarm in the viscount’s blue eyes as he hurriedly explained. “Lady Thora, forgive me for startling you. You see, Lord Langless asked me to purchase some pipe tobacco for him in the village and I forgot the blend, so I came upstairs to ask him. Since I was passing your door, I thought perhaps you might have some small service I could perform for you in the village. I was about to knock when you suddenly opened your door.” With his shoulder resting casually against the doorframe, he gave her a mischievous grin. “Is there some minor need that you would like me to fulfill for you?”

“Thank you, my lord, but I can’t think of a single thing,” she said.

Wearing an almost comical frown, he stepped aside, allowing her to walk past him.

Thora joined the three younger Langless girls downstairs in the drawing room where she found them fast at work on the puzzle. The girls’ lively chatter and playful squabbling was just the distraction she needed. The hours passed quickly and soon the time neared for the midday meal.

Lady Langless entered the room and clapped her hands, drawing her daughters’ attention. “It’s time to go upstairs and change,” she said. Ignoring her daughter’s complaints, she hustled them out of the room.

After conferring with the kitchen staff to add a body-warming soup to the menu, Thora went upstairs to change her gown. She had just entered her room when she spied a note on the floor. Apparently it had been pushed under the door. Unfolding the paper, she read the clearly printed words:

THORA, MUST SEE YOU. I HAVE SOMETHING TO DISCUSS WITH YOU. PLEASE MEET ME IN THE BOATHOUSE BEFORE MIDDAY MEAL. IMPORTANT. GARREN

So Nyle and Garren had returned from their visit with the tenant. Funny Nyle didn’t let her know he was back. Studying the note, Thora thought it was about time Lord Huntscliff showed his worth. But what delighted her more was that he had accepted her as an equal colleague on the case. Eager to find out what he had discovered, and even more anxious to see him again, she quickly changed and headed out of the manor toward the boathouse. As she strolled, she turned her face up to the sky. It had turned darker than this morning and more threatening. The wind grew stronger, bending the tops of the trees. She was more than halfway to the boathouse when an acrid odor assailed her nostrils. Smoke!

Chapter 9

Looking back toward the manor house, Thora’s first thought was that they were dark storm clouds but she soon realized that it was billows of black smoke, and they seemed to be spewing from the direction of the stables. She was tempted to run back to the manor, but the boathouse was closer, and Garren was waiting with important news about Ivey, she was sure of it. Quickening her pace, she headed for the boathouse. She’d find Garren, find out what he had learned, and together they would return to the manor.

The blustery wind had her fighting her way forward. Thora gripped her shawl tightly around her. Reaching the top of the rise, she could see the lake and the boathouse. With the dark storm clouds blotting out the sun, the water looked gray and murky, as if it hid a thousand sins. Overhead, the sky was black and ominous and she felt the need to hasten toward the boathouse. She was nearly there when Thora suddenly hesitated. Why would Garren want to meet her here at the boathouse? Only last night, he’d cautioned her to stay close to the manor. Of all places, why here? Why not just come to her room at the manor? While she pondered over Garren’s choice of meeting place, the hairs at the back of her neck suddenly rose. She had the strange sensation that she was being watched. At first she thought her imagination was just running wild, until she heard a twig snap behind her. Someone had followed her. Ordering herself to stay calm, she spun around but saw no one. “Garren, is that you?”

The only sound she heard was the rush of the wind and her own pounding heart. A feeling of terror swept over her. She rushed on, the wind whipping at the pins in her hair, its force ripping one from her tresses. A quick change in the direction of the wind sent a long, brown strand slapping across her face. Holding her shawl with one hand and brushing her loose hair from her face with the other, she fought her way against the gusty wind to the boathouse. It was almost as if the wind was trying to force her back, keeping her away from the boathouse. But she pressed on. She was running to Garren—to safety.

By the time she reached the side door of the boathouse and pushed it open, she was out of breath. Once inside, she shut the door and took a moment to ease her breathing. She took a quick look around. It was dark . . . and empty. Late again!

Well, if Huntscliff thought she was going to wait, he had another thing coming! Annoyed, she started toward the door when she heard a movement. At first it sounded like it came from inside. She scanned her surroundings but the boathouse was empty. Shrugging the uneasy feeling off, she again started for the door, only this time the sound was clear and definitely coming from outside. Footsteps. Huntscliff. It was about time. Suddenly, a chill ran down her spine as the footsteps grew louder. Was it Garren, or someone else?

If it was Garren that had followed her, why hadn’t he answered when she’d called out to him? He just hadn’t heard her. But then she remembered that his hearing was keen. Of course, it’s Garren. He asked to meet her here. Yet she couldn’t shake the feeling of alarm growing within her breast. Then she remembered that night on the back terrace, the strange figure in the fog and Garren’s warning words last night about the murderer striking soon. Panic was taking hold of her. What if it was the murderer? What could she do? Looking about, she spied a canoe paddle propped up against the wall by the door. Taking it in hand, she hid behind the door and waited, her heart thundering in her chest. A few moments later, the door’s handle started to turn. Someone was entering the boathouse. A man with a small build. It wasn’t Garren. Oh good God, it wasn’t Garren, her mind screamed. It could only be . . . It was the killer!

Well, he’s not going to get his hands on me,
Thora inwardly cried, tightening her grip on the paddle. Straightening her backbone and lifting the wooden paddle high above her head, she stepped out from behind the door and lowered it atop the man’s head. It was an awful sound, the wood meeting his skull. She heard him groan and then watched as his body crumbled to the floor. Cautiously, she moved over to the prone body to see his face. She gasped, dropping the paddle. Mason Greenstreet.

“Nicely done! Thank you, Lady Thora, you saved me the trouble,” a chilling, but familiar voice sounded from inside.

Thora spun around, shocked at who she saw. The Marquis Calder Brightington stepped out of the shadows of the darkened boathouse. What was he doing here? How long had he been there? “You . . . you went to the village!” Thora uttered, confused.

A sinister smile curved Calder Brightington’s lips. “Yes,” he said, “and Viscount Simon-North will swear I never left it. But you’d be surprised how quickly you can ride back to the manor when you have a purpose.” He glanced down at the unconscious Mason. “Poor fellow,” he said with false sympathy.

Thora slid the police rattle from her skirt pocket, but Brightington roughly caught her arm and yanked it from her hand, sending it sailing across the room.

“Don’t look so disheartened, Thora. It wouldn’t do you any good. No one would have heard it, not over the wind outside and certainly not with everyone at the manor fighting the fire in the stables.”

“Fire! How do you know about the fire?” Thora asked.

“Because, my lovely, I was the one who started it,” Brightington admitted with a chilling calm. “By now everyone will be busy putting out the flames. In all the confusion, you won’t be missed.”

“You better let me go. Lord Huntscliff will be here soon!” Thora shakily warned.

Brightington released a nerve-jangling laugh. “I do hate to disappoint you, Lady Thora, but your Garren won’t be coming. You see, I asked Simon-North to slip that note under your door, right after he asked you if you needed anything from the village.” Seeing her shock, his laugh deepened. “I saw the two of you on the back terrace the other night, when you kissed and promised to call him Garren. How sweet.”

“You . . . It was you, the figure in the fog on the back terrace. You killed Ivey!” Thora cried and went to strike him, but Brightington easily caught her wrist, deflecting her blow.

“No, darling, that wasn’t my doing. That pleasure belongs to Viscount Simon-North. He took your friend’s innocence and her life, even though we were a bit careless that night. A slip that forced me to send Mercer, your brother’s servant, to, shall we say, early retirement. He remembered I drank wine while Simon-North always took brandy, and when he went to straighten the billiard room that night he found two glasses, both with the residue of wine. And he noticed that only one cue had been chalked. When the old fool approached me with this puzzlement, I told him to meet me upstairs in my room and I could explain everything. Unfortunately, he never reached the second landing.”

Marquis Brightington’s predatory green eyes seemed to glow as he recanted his tale of murder. “Now, it’s my turn to outdo Simon-North. By taking you, it will put me ahead!”

Thora couldn’t believe what she was hearing or that she was actually speaking to a murderer. “You talk as if this is some kind of game.”

“It is a most daring game. Clever of you to figure that out, but too late, of course, darling,” he said, his fingers squeezing her wrist with punishing pressure. “It’s a game we started years ago. Back then, the women we chose were the type no one would miss. You will be my crowning glory, even though with your demise we will have quiet things for a time, or perhaps look for new grounds. The continent, perhaps.”

“And which one of you killed Cecilia?” Thora asked.

Brightington looked as if he’d been insulted. “Cecilia Boothwell. The girl was trash. Neither I nor Radley would dirty our hands with the likes of her. The clumsy little slut fell for all I know,” he said, his hand gripping Thora’s captured wrist even more tightly.

Thora’s courage was fading. If only Garren were here.
Oh, Garren where are you?

Back at the manor, Lord Flemington and Sandler Leedworthy were in the kitchen brushing ciders from the fire off their clothes and hair. The cook handed each of them a wet cloth to cool their stinging eyes and wipe the smoke soot from their faces. Along with the servants and several stable boys, they had assisted in putting out the fire that had started in one of the empty stalls.

Taking yet another wet cloth to cleanse his face, Lord Flemington turned to Leedworthy. “Devil of a place for a fire to start. How do think it happened?”

Leedworthy gave him a pensive glance. “I was just wondering about that. There were no lamps lit in the stable, but I could have sworn I smelled the odor of paraffin. I think someone set the fire.”

“But why? Why would someone want to start a fire in the stables?” Flemington asked, receiving a puzzled shrug from Leedworthy.

They had just finished cleaning their faces when it was announced that Lord Somerville was back. Leaving the kitchen, the two men walked to the front hall just in time to see Nyle, Garren, and Viscount Simon-North, his wrists in handcuffs and accompanied by a constable, entering the manor. Flemington and Leedworthy exchanged shocked glances.

Nyle told the constable to take his charge into the study and keep him there. “We left word for your Chief Inspector that it was imperative he come to Mannington Manor. And he should be here shortly.”

“What on earth is going on?” Sandler Leedworthy asked.

“Before I answer that question, I have one of my own. Where’s Lady Thora?” Garren asked with urgency in his voice.

“We were out at the stables putting out a fire. I don’t remember seeing Lady Thora there,” Leedworthy replied. He then turned to Lord Flemington and asked, “Do you remember seeing her?”

Flemington shook his head. “No, none of the ladies were there.”

Both Nyle and Garren’s faces turned white. Racing up the stairs two and three steps at a time, Nyle called out Thora’s name. From upstairs, he shouted, “She’s not in her room!”

Hearing the raised voices, the other guests gathered. Avoiding the guests’ questions, Garren asked if anyone had seen Lady Thora.

“I thought she was upstairs in her room changing,” Lady Lauryn returned. “Then the fire started and everyone started running and shouting, but I don’t remember seeing her.”

“Sorry to interrupt, my lord,” said one of the parlor maids to Garren. “I saw Lady Thora leave the manor just before the fire started.”

Garren grabbed the girl, shaking her. “Please, this is very important and may very well save your mistress’s life. Do you know where she was going?”

With trembling lips, the girl said, “Looked to me like she was going down to the lake, sir.”

Seeing Nyle coming down the stairs, he shouted, “Nyle the boathouse.” He turned and, with Nyle at his heels, ran out of the house just as the storm broke, praying that he wasn’t too late.

Inside the boathouse, Brightington’s fingers painfully dug into Thora’s wrist as he tugged her along to a space he had no doubt cleared earlier to—Thora gulped—rape and murder her!

She thought of Ivey.
Is this how you felt, Ivey? So afraid. So fearful. Hoping for a rescue that would never come?

The memory of her friend stirred anger in Thora. If she was going to die, then she wasn’t going to make it easy for him. She would kick, scratch, and bite, somehow leave a mark to make it difficult for him to explain after they found her . . . her body. She shivered.

At the same moment Thora decided to battle Brightington, a clap of thunder rocked the wooden structure, startling both of them. She felt Brightington’s grip on her wrist loosen. Taking advantage of the moment, she twisted her wrist, breaking free of his grasp, and ran for the door. Anticipating her move, Brightington darted to the door to block her escape. Quickly, Thora stepped backward, putting one of the overturned boats between them. Wind and rain began to beat against the roof, but it couldn’t block the pounding of her heart. Like a stalking tiger, Brightington slowly crept, the crazed hunger in his eyes nearly had her frozen with fear. Suddenly he rushed around the overturned craft and caught the sleeve of her gown.

Thora screamed, sending a message to her feet to flee. As she spun away to run, the silk of her sleeve became trapped in his fingers. It tore, setting her free but baring her shoulder. Realizing he was too fast to outrun, Thora dropped to the floor and slipped under a boat. Mounted on blocks of wood, it left just enough space for her to roll beneath.

Over the noise of the hammering wind and rain, Thora heard Brightington cackle with sick laughter. “Oh, this is going to be more fun than I imagined.”

From under the boat, Thora could see his highly polished boots as he stood beside the boat. Sinking onto one knee, he reached under the boat, trying to take hold of her. Thora grabbed his groping hand and sunk her teeth into it. Swearing under his breath, Brightington quickly drew back his hand.

All Thora knew was that she had to get away. She rolled out from under the other side of the boat and scrambled to her feet. With the width of the boat between them, Thora started to flee, but Marquis Brightington was agile and vaulted over the craft, catching her around the waist. Fighting for her life, a frenzied Thora kicked and clawed at him but to no avail. He was too strong.

He pinned her to him and pressed his lips against her ear to wickedly whisper, “Thora, don’t fight me. Let me at least give you a moment of pleasure before you shut your eyes forever.”

The thought of Calder Brightington touching her that way caused bile to rise at the back of her throat. She struggled, trying to free herself, but his hold on her was firm. Now that he had her, he wasn’t going to give her another chance to get away. She thought of Nyle, how alone he would feel losing yet another member of his family, and of Garren. He would never know that she . . . that she . . .

Suddenly it was as if she were a sack of flour. Brightington hoisted her over his shoulder and carried her to the spot where he planned to do his foul deed. He threw her down to the floor, knocking the wind out of her. Gasping for air, she tried to scream but could barely utter a sound. If only she could roar like the thunder outside. She fought, swinging her balled fists wildly, but her struggles proved futile. Brightington used the weight his body to keep her down, then took her hands and pinned them above her head with one hand while hiking up her skirts with the other.