A Second Chance for Murder (3 page)

As Garren followed his friend inside, a sense of familiarity washed over him. Although it had been years since his last visit, memories quickly flooded back. Odd how the hint of lemon wax and soap that permeated from the rosewood panels in the center hall could spark recollections. It seemed time had stopped for Mannington Manor. There was the same round, highly polished table in the center hall that held a huge vase of flowers, undoubtedly picked from the manor’s magnificent gardens. Under his feet was the soft oriental carpet he remembered as a lad. It was so well cared for that one would swear it was new.

As they ascended the stairs to the second floor, he noticed with amusement the ancestral portraits hanging in their gilded frames along the staircase wall that both he and Nyle had jokingly agreed as lads bore absolutely no resemblance to the current family members. But what was most strong was the sense of brotherhood and belonging he experienced from his very first visit to Mannington Manor. During their school breaks Nyle often suggested Garren accompany him home, an invitation he readily accepted, since returning to his own home meant dealing with three pestering sisters. Here, at least, he would only need to cope with one.

He inwardly laughed, recalling how he sometimes wondered if it had indeed been the wiser choice. While he trailed Nyle down a long hallway, he almost expected Nyle’s younger sister to pop out of a doorway at any moment to give them a start. Those were good days, days he fondly cherished. As they stood before the door of the library, Nyle was about to reach for the handle when a noise emanated from the other side. Recognizing the sound, Garren pushed Nyle aside and charged into the room.

At the sight of a giant of a man bursting into the library, the young women shrieked. Cecilia and Floris clung to each other, their eyes wide and fearful. Lauryn threw herself behind the chesterfield, while Thora armed herself by taking hold of a heavy, silver candlestick from one of the side tables.

Alert and ready to combat danger, Garren’s gaze swept the room. Seeing that the occupants of the room were in no form of distress, his tensed, muscular frame relaxed. Nyle quickly circled in front him, making his presence known, but before he could speak, panicked voices rose from the hallway as servants and guests, after hearing the girls’ screams, raced to the library. Placing himself in the portal of the room, he held up his hands to gesture them to stop. Thinking swiftly, he explained, “No need for alarm. One of the ladies thought she saw a mouse.”

With relieved sighs and a few snickers, the group dispersed.

Returning inside and shutting the door behind him, Nyle tightly pinched his lips together as if holding back a torrid rebuke and gave Thora a hard stare.

Seeing Lord Somerville, Cecilia unwrapped herself from Floris who, with an amazed look at Thora, whispered, “I never dreamed it would work so well!”

“Just what is this all about?” Nyle asked sternly, his arms folded over his chest, waiting for his sister to answer.

Wanting to capture Nyle’s attention, Cecilia quickly jumped in front of him with the answer. “Your sister was showing us how to use the gift she gave us, Lord Somerville,” she said, reaching out to reveal a strange-looking object sitting in the palm of her hand.

“May I?” Nyle asked politely before taking the wooden object from her hand.

With the tilt of her head and a seductive smile Cecilia cooed, “Of course, my lord.”

Nyle swiftly took a step backward from the all-too-near Cecilia, and studied the item in his hand before gruffly asking, “What in God’s name is it?”

Before Thora could answer, the unknown guest replied, “A police rattle. Living in London, I’m well acquainted with its sound. My apologies for frightening all of you, but hearing the alarm I thought someone was in urgent need of help.” His dark eyes brushed over each woman before finally settling on Thora, who was still holding the candlestick in a threatening fashion. “That candlestick must be getting heavy. Might I suggest putting it down? I can assure you, you’re quite safe,” he said, stretching his lips to give her a dazzling smile that softened his strong, manly features and suddenly put butterflies in her stomach.

Thora slowly set down her makeshift weapon without taking her eyes off the stranger. There was something oddly familiar about him. Having watched him alight from his carriage, Thora knew he was tall, but with him standing next to her, she saw how he towered over everyone, including Nyle, who by no means was a short man.

Nyle cleared his throat to regain everyone’s attention. “Ladies, I’d like to introduce you to an old school chum of mine, Garren, Lord Huntscliff, who I’ve finally persuaded to leave London for a long overdue visit.” He then introduced Garren to each young woman.

Cecilia Boothwell nodded her welcome but never took her eyes off Nyle. Floris Langless gave a squeak of a greeting, lifting her fan to shield her blushing face, while Lauryn Mayfield demurely acknowledged him with a warm smile. Lastly Nyle presented his sister. “And the one who was ready to bash your head in is my sister, Thora. You remember my friend, Huntscliff, don’t you, Thora?”

Thora’s mouth dropped. It couldn’t be. The only Garren she remembered was a thin, lanky lad who used his long legs to distance himself from her, not this tall, disturbingly masculine, rugged-featured man who came charging into the library like some fierce, ancient warrior. It suddenly came back to her. Huntscliff, of course! The shield on the carriage and the figure inside it was the symbol for Orion, the sign of the hunter. She had seen it often when he had visited as a youth. She hadn’t known him as Huntscliff then. So he had inherited his father’s title and was now an earl. Finding her tongue, she managed, “You’ve changed since your last visit, my lord.”

The handsome man swept an appraising eye over her before saying with a widening grin, “I’m not the only one, Miss Mannington.”

So it had been Thora at the window, Garren realized. Nyle had said she had changed, but that was an understatement. He could hardly believe that the girl he remembered as having beanpole legs and a chest flatter than a floor board had blossomed into the curvaceous creature before him. Her rounded breasts proudly jutted above the narrowest waist he had seen on a woman. Gone were the two tightly twined plaits replaced by a mass of curls the color of dark chocolate, which swept up from her face and made a striking contrast against her creamy skin. Yet her eyes were the same, like the bright, blue waters surrounding some tropical isle. So clear. So large and so beguiling.
Good Lord, man, control yourself,
he chided inwardly.
She’s Nyle’s sister!

With his eyes firmly planted on Thora, it took him a moment to realize that one of the other ladies was addressing him. Reluctantly, he turned and looked down at Lauryn, the most petite of the group.

“My lord,” she started, “how is it that you live in London and have never attended any of the balls this season? You’re a man I certainly would recall seeing,” she said, batting her lashes at him.

Outwardly, Garren forced his expression to remain unchanged, but inwardly he winced remembering the weeks he had spent in a private hospital outside of London recovering from a bullet wound. Looking down at the pretty blonde, he fibbed, “I’ve been abroad, Miss Mayfield.” Turning back to Thora, he remarked, “A police rattle is an unusual gift, but in light of the most unfortunate event that occurred . . . quite clever.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Thora retorted, casting a triumphant gaze at her brother, whose irritation with her suddenly dwindled.

Like a spider creeping toward a fly tangled in its web, the flirtatious Cecilia inched closer to Nyle, intentionally giving him a generous view of her ample bosom. “Your sister is not only clever but concerned for all our safety, as I’m sure you are, my lord.”

“Yes, yes, of course, Lady Cecilia,” Nyle stuttered, squirming uncomfortably as Cecilia shamelessly pressed nearer. He quickly returned the rattle to Cecilia and uttered, “If you ladies would excuse us, Lord Huntscliff and I will leave you—”

“No need to go, Nyle,” Thora interjected. “My friends and I have finished our tea. We really should be going. I need to talk to the kitchen staff about this evening’s menu, and I’m sure my friends would like to rest before dinner,” she added, to save her brother from the inconvenience of seeking another room to reminisce with his school friend, but more importantly to rescue him from Cecilia Boothwell’s brazenness. Floris and Lauryn readily agreed as both wanted to look their best at dinner when there would be so many eligible bachelors present. Thora, too, wanted to sparkle tonight but for a much different motive. Finding a husband was the last thing on her mind. She was searching for a killer, and tonight she planned to flirt with each man on her list, hoping to loosen their tongues and perhaps learn something that would lead her to the villain who took her friend’s life.

Though Cecilia would have chosen to stay a few more moments, she also concurred, thinking a short nap before dinner would put a fresh glow in her cheeks for the master of the house to sit up and take notice. Carrying their unusual gifts, the ladies followed Thora out of the room.

With the women gone, Nyle scratched his head. “I wonder how Thora procured those rattles?” Then scowling, he added, “Bribed a constable, no doubt.”

“Actually, I have to applaud her forethought,” Garren commented. With a playful grin, he furthered, “Perhaps, she might be able to procure one for you.” Seeing a perplexed look on his friend’s face, he added with a laugh, “It may prove useful should Miss Boothwell back you into a corner!”

Nyle rolled his eyes before saying, “It would take more than that to stall Cecilia Boothwell’s advances, I’m afraid.” Turning serious, he asked, “Have you found out anything about our guests?”

“Yes,” Garren answered, slipping the guest list from the inner pocket of his jacket and handing it to Nyle.

Taking the list, Nyle saw that the names of four men on the list had been circled. He was about to ask why when Garren provided it. The reason was so shocking that it sent a chill down his spine.

Chapter 3

Leaving the library, Thora made her way to the kitchen to speak with the staff, reminding them not to serve anything with lemon to the vicar as he was allergic to citrus. She then went to her room. Alone in the silence of her bedroom, she prayed that her plan to catch the evil devil who’d taken Ivey’s life would prove successful. Though it saddened them, Cecilia, Floris, and Lauryn had all seemed to accept Ivey’s loss, but that was something she could never do, not without knowing who and why, and more importantly not without seeing that the culprit was punished.

Anger flared each time she thought of Ivey, spurring Thora on in her quest for justice. Somehow, someway, she would find her dear friend’s killer. At dinner, she would force herself to be lighthearted, to chat cheerfully, and tease playfully with each of her suspects. Then, when they were relaxed, she’d turn her conversation to Ivey and study their faces for any flicker of guilt. Even if it meant that she was putting herself in danger, she’d press further, forcing the villain’s hand. That part of her plan she had kept from Nyle.

Moving to her dressing table, she opened the top drawer for a new pair of gloves to wear this evening and suddenly paused. Lying next to her gloves, atop her neatly folded lace handkerchiefs, was a square blue velvet box. Unsure if she could bear to view its contents one more time, Thora hesitated before taking it out. Holding the box in her palm, she summoned her courage and with shaking fingers opened the lid. Resting inside lay a pretty hair comb.

A wave of grief swept over her. Thora slowly sank into the cushion-topped bench of her dressing table. “Oh, Ivey, how could anyone be so heartless to hurt someone as sweet and dear as you?” she cried, taking out the hair comb Ivey had given her. The pretty silver comb was embellished with tiny white pearls nestled in a garden of sparkling diamonds. How excited Ivey had been to give it to her.

“You can wear it on your wedding day,” Ivey had told her.

“But you won’t be there, Ivey,” Thora murmured woefully.

Wrapping her slender fingers around the comb, Thora now crushed it to her chest. “Sweet, trusting, Ivey, my dearest friend, not a day goes by that I don’t think of you. You were the sister I never had. Oh the silly, childish plans we made, each of us vowing that we were going to live close to each other after marrying the most handsome of men. We would raise our children together, visit on holidays, and of course continue to share our most secret thoughts. Oh, Ivey, you left me too soon! I want you back to make me laugh, to have tea with me, to tell me when my nose needs a dusting of powder.”

Thora’s chest tightened, her heavy heart ached, and tears threatened to spill but Thora forced them back. Coiling her fingers around the comb nestled in her palm, she made a tight fist, causing the comb’s teeth to press into her skin, yet she didn’t feel its bite.

Straightening her shoulders, she inwardly vowed,
I’ll find him, Ivey. If it’s the last thing I do I’ll find him and see that he’s punished!

Further down the hall, Nyle was in his room wearing the thick oriental carpet under his feet to a thread with his constant pacing. He was having difficulty absorbing what Garren had told him earlier in the library. After taking the guest list from Garren, he saw that the names of four men had been circled, Viscount Radley Simon-North, Marquis Calder Brightington, Lord Avery Flemington, and Mr. Sandler Leedworthy. Then with alarming bluntness, he was told that one of these men, guests under his roof, men he considered friends and with whom he would soon sit down to supper was a cold, merciless killer. Making matters worse was the fact that Garren was convinced that poor Ivey was not his first victim nor would she be his last.

Garren went on to inform him that shortly after their meeting in London, he had used his connections with the Royal Guardians to search the files of unsolved murders in surrounding areas and had discovered that during the past three years a number of murders had taken place. All were women, all raped and strangled. A pretty parlor maid, a constable’s daughter, a young governess, next was a village school teacher, and lastly Ivey Sharling. Each one had been young, pretty, and, according to the county coroner’s report, all had been virgins. But what was more frightening was the fact that all four men had been nearby at the time each murder was committed.

Nyle’s immediate thought was of Thora. He should have put his foot down and forbidden her to invite guests, but then what would she have done? He shuddered at the thought. Regardless of how much she protested, he should send her away out of harm’s way, but what would he tell her? She was too bright, too determined, and too damn stubborn to accept his command to leave without sufficient reason. Besides, as Garren pointed out, such an action may alert the killer, but Garren was thinking like an investigator not a brother. Nyle let go a sigh of sheer frustration. He had never felt so helpless in his life. As a businessman he was a smart investor, in sports a fierce competitor and could hold his own in a brawl, but this situation was beyond his scope of understanding.

“Excuse me, my lord,” Mercer, his manservant, repeated for a second time, but his words went unheeded. He noisily cleared his throat and uttered louder than before, “Pardon me, Your Grace.”

When his manservant’s words finally reached his ear, Nyle turned with a start, unaware that the man had entered the room. Recovering quickly, he asked, “Mercer, have you seen Lord Huntscliff to his room?”

“Yes, milord, and since Lord Huntscliff left his valet in London to oversee some work he was having done on his townhouse and won’t be here until tomorrow, I’ve assigned one of the house staff to tend him.”

“Thank you, Mercer. As always, you’ve anticipated my wishes. Now help me get dressed for dinner.”

Mercer immediately obliged and went to the wardrobe for one of his master’s dinner jackets. He wondered what was bothering the young master. Could it be he was worried about having guests in the house again? The elderly servant involuntarily shivered, recalling what had happened at the last house party and the awful sight when he’d discovered that poor girl. There was something he hadn’t told his master or the constables about that night, something that puzzled him, something that kept him awake at night wondering if it had any significance, and something seemingly minor that may yet prove important.

Perhaps he’d speak to the master when the young earl was in a better mood. Yes, he decided that is what he’d do. But before he took that step, he would first speak to one of the guests. Surely the gentleman would have a simple explanation that would set his mind to rest.

A few doors away, there was very little for the servant Mercer had assigned to Lord Huntscliff to do for the new houseguest. Upon entering Lord Huntscliff’s room, he was surprised that the Earl had seen to his own shaving and was already in his trousers and white linen shirt. All that was needed was to help the man into his waistcoat and dinner jacket and tie his cravat, which, being short-statured, he needed a footstool to accomplish.

Dismissing the servant, Garren sat in a chair reflecting on the case, but like an unrelenting itch, Thora kept popping into his mind. She was lovelier than a woman had the right to be with those luscious curves and hypnotic blue eyes. He doubted he’d ever forget her standing in the library, candlestick in hand, prepared to deliver a blow that would have surely left him with a three-day headache.

Garren’s broad chest rumbled with laughter. Thora Mannington was a force to be reckoned with and he had the urge to do just that. But that would have to wait. Tonight he had to concentrate on catching a killer. He needed to seek out each man and veil his questions as idle curiosity. He knew the more people talked, the more they unwittingly revealed. With that thought in mind, he left his room and went downstairs, but not before checking his appearance in the looking glass once more. Thora’s lovely face once more loomed into his mind.

In the drawing room, Cecilia Boothwell was sitting with Floris and Lauryn. While the two girls chatted about music and the latest fashions, her attention was centered on their host, Lord Somerville, who stood a short distance away talking with Lord Langless and Lord Avery Flemington. Observing his face, she had the feeling that he was anxious over something. Could it be he was ready to succumb to his manly desires? Were the pressures of running his estate beckoning him to seek comfort in a woman’s arms? Had it not been for Lord Somerville’s staunch moral code, she would have made her way into his bed by now. Lost in contemplation on how his hard, firm body would feel atop hers, she was suddenly yanked to her feet by her mother and taken aside. “Cecilia, that man who just entered the room. That’s Lord Huntscliff!”

“Yes, mother, I know. One can hardly miss him.” Cecilia snorted. “He’s an old school chum of Nyle’s. We were introduced earlier this afternoon.”

Cecilia’s mother, the Lady Boothwell, gave an exasperated sigh. “Good heavens, child, why didn’t you tell me? He’s quite a catch, and has deeper pockets than our host, Lord Somerville.”

“Really?” she said, shifting her eyes from Nyle to narrow on Garren. But her gaze quickly returned to Nyle. She had invested too much time in winning her host to change horses now. Netting Nyle would have much greater benefits for her. Secretly, she dreamed of the day when Thora would be forced to relinquish her position as Lady of the Manor in her favor. Much to her mother’s disappointment, Cecilia returned to her companions, but Lady Boothwell never believed in putting all her eggs in one basket, and she had no intention of allowing her daughter to leave the field open for another to bag the wealthy prospect. The night was young, and she would wait for her opportunity to thrust her daughter into Lord Huntscliff’s path.

Garren’s wish to subtly mingle among the houseguests was ruined as he proceeded into the room. Floris’s father, Lord Langless, loudly announced his presence. An ex-military man, Lord Langless spoke as if he were shouting orders to troops over a volley of gunfire.

“Huntscliff, my boy! I didn’t know you were one of Nyle’s guests,” he bellowed as he reached out and grasped the younger man’s hand, shaking it with surprising vigor.

“I haven’t seen you since that nasty business of stolen art pieces from the Duke of Davenford’s collection.” Leaning forward as if to conspire but in a voice that shook all four corners of the room, he commented, “I knew it was the footman all the time! What have you been up to these days? You look like you’ve shed a few pounds.”

That’s what a hospital stay will do for you
, Garren inwardly muttered, but outwardly he retorted, “I’ve been doing some traveling on the continent.” He used the same untruth as he had earlier in the library. Unnoticed by Lord Langless, he signaled Nyle to save him from his lordship’s eardrum-splitting vocals and any further talk of the Davenford theft, a case he had been secretly involved in as a Royal Guardian.

Comprehending, Nyle quickly complied. Before Lord Langless could roar another word, he introduced Garren to Lord Avery Flemington while strategically guiding Lord Langless over to the vicar, who was a frequent dinner guest at the manor and had more tolerance for his lordship’s blaring vocals, being slightly deaf in one ear.

“I seem to recall seeing you give an exhibition bout in Bristol, Flemington. Very impressive. Your opponent never saw that left hook coming,” Garren praised, drawing a modest grin from the pugilist.

“That was well over a year ago. I don’t know if I’d be as sharp now as I was then.” Avery laughed. “Although I do try to stay fit with multiple forms of exercise.” A brief conversation on the subject of boxing and fitness ensued before Nyle returned and took Garren to meet some of the others, including Mr. Sandler Leedworthy, the Marquis Calder Brightington. Leaving his last suspect, Viscount Radley Simon-North, yet to be identified.

Mr. Sandler Leedworthy, he found, was knee deep explaining the many uses of camphor oil to a yawning Marquis Calder Brightington, who appeared grateful for the interruption. “Marquis Brightington, didn’t you attend Lord Flemington’s exhibition bout in Bristol last year?” Garren queried.

“Bristol? Hmmm . . .” the Marquis pondered. “I was there along with Viscount Simon-North, but not for Lord Flemington’s exhibition. We were there at my cousin’s house party and stayed a fortnight.”

“My mistake,” Garren said, noting that Leedworthy made no mention of the fact that he also had been in Bristol at that time, supposedly attending a lecture at a local college.

Using his height to his advantage, Garren searched over the heads of those gathered until his gaze fell on Thora. She was dressed in a soft blue gown, her hair swept upward and plaited to form a crown atop her head, and through which a golden cord was intertwined. She was standing next to one of the room’s marble columns, looking very much like a Grecian goddess to be worshiped, and talking to a tall, fair-haired gentleman.

“I was hoping to have a word with Somerville’s sister, but it seems her attention has already been captured” Garren said aloud. And, as he expected, the man with Thora was quickly identified.

“That’s the ever-charming, raffish Viscount Radley Simon-North with our hostess,” Sandler Leedworthy provided.

Garren detected a hint of resentment in the scholar’s voice.

When Garren’s gaze returned to the couple, his own resentment rose. Viscount Radley Simon-North leaned far too close to their hostess. Without having met the man, Garren instantly disliked him. His animosity could have stemmed from that the fact that Viscount Radley Simon-North was one of the four men on his list, or that he was the type of man whose good looks made it effortless for him to enchant a female of any age. Or was it the way the Viscount gazed seductively into Thora’s eyes?

Like some wild animal protecting its own, Garren had an urge to pounce on the man and bloody his smiling face. Controlling this inexplicable feral reaction, he acknowledged Thora with a casual nod and soon found that his gaze wasn’t the only one to have settled on her.