A Second Chance for Murder (7 page)

Finishing their food, the men who planned to ride gathered in the center hall to collect their hats, riding gloves, and riding crops from waiting servants.

Thora overheard Viscount Simon-North and Marquis Brightington making a wager of some sort as they donned their gloves. Her eyes hardened when she heard Sandler Leedworthy poetically express to a flushed Floris how much he was looking forward to their carriage ride later that afternoon.

With smooth, confident steps, Viscount Simon-North moved next to Thora. “Thank you for allowing me to share breakfast with you, Lady Thora. Perhaps, you’ll honor me at lunch by doing the same.”

Mason, in his role as servant, was virtually ignored by the group. Smirking, he whispered to Garren, “Seems you have competition, my lord!”

After giving Mason a menacing look, he turned quickly to the Viscount Simon-North. “You’re out of luck, Simon-North, Lady Thora already promised to sit with me at lunch.” Again he could feel his fingers itching to curl into a fist ready to strike out at the handsome viscount.

Doing her best to hide her surprise, Thora confirmed Garren’s words. “Yes, I did promise to join Lord Huntscliff this afternoon, and I do hope you’ll keep your promise to tell me just how much my brother misbehaved during the time he was away at school.”

“It may astonish you, dear sister, but I was an exemplary student,” Nyle said as he put on his riding gloves.

“That’s only because you never got caught, brother dear,” Thora returned teasingly, drawing a round of laughter and a smile from Nyle.

He good-naturedly replied, “You know me too well, Thora.”

As those who would ride left for the stables, Floris hastily excused herself and hurried upstairs.

No doubt to pick a new dress for her outing with the undeserving Sandler Leedworthy, Thora inwardly sneered.

“I need to talk to you,” she urgently told Lord Huntscliff, taking hold of his arm.

The warmth of her touch sent a flash of white lightning through his body and he let her lead him down a side hall where she dragged him into a small recess. With her hand on his arm, he would have let her bring him into hellfire without protest. Huddled together, front-to-front, they were so close that the delicate lace ruffle that trimmed the bodice of her gown brushed teasingly against his waistcoat. A hint of rose-scented soap wafting from her dark locks had him wanting to bury his face in their softness and it took great effort to concentrate as large blue eyes gazed up at him and enticing pink lips began to form words.

“Last night, I saw Cecilia go into—” she started when Garren cut her off.

“Sandler Leedworthy’s room,” he stated.

“How . . . how did you know?” Thora stammered in surprise.

“I’m an investigator,” he said, ignoring the astonishment in her eyes. Mentally he noted that he had been right about the more than cordial look he had seen pass between Lady Cecilia and Leedworthy last night and would need to keep a closer tab on the bookworm. What concerned him more was Thora. It was late when they left the library. Just how did she stumble upon this information? Even after receiving a warning from himself and Nyle to be careful, she was still playing detective. He forced himself to give Thora a stern glare as he questioned, “And how did you happen to see this, Lady Thora?”

Thora gave him a sheepish look before lowering her eyes. “I went down to the kitchen for a glass of milk,” she replied, keeping her gaze lowered.

“You went alone in the middle of the night. In a house this size, you could have been accosted, pushed into some darkened corner or closet, or worse, outside where no one would have heard your cries for help,” he scolded. With two long fingers, he gently pushed up her chin so that their eyes met. “Miss Mannington, I must again stress the importance of being vigilant.”

Thora hadn’t thought for a second last night that she might have been in danger in her own home, but she had to confess that Lord Huntscliff was right. She lifted her gaze and their eyes locked, his so dark and unreadable, yet so penetrating. As if he were looking into her soul. What a little fool she must appear. The only excuse she could offer was that she was new at being an investigator. Remorsefully, she said, “I guess I just didn’t think. It was just that I didn’t want to bother the servants, after . . . well, after Mercer’s death.” She gave him a pleading look. “You won’t tell my brother, will you?”

Garren remained silent. Not to consider her question but to take advantage of the moment. He wanted to take a minute or two to study her lovely upturned face, the delicate curve of her brow, the creamy smoothness of her ivory skin, so striking against her dark hair, her mouth and full lips that he longed to taste. He could go on exploring her for hours. Finally, he answered, “Nyle doesn’t need to know about your late-night wandering but”—he warned—“should you put yourself at risk again, you will leave me no choice but to inform him.”

Thora gave a sigh of relief. “I realize now that you are right. I should have never gone downstairs alone,” Thora said repentantly before giving him her promise. “You have my word that I will use more caution.”

Seeing he had made his point, Garren’s voice lightened. “Tell me, what do you make of this tryst between Cecilia Boothwell and Mr. Sandler Leedworthy?”

“I think it’s disgraceful. How can she look my brother in the face after sneaking off with another?” Thora said critically, her lovely pink lips curling into a sneer. “And Cecilia’s a fool.”

“A fool?” Garren asked, raising a brow.

“Yes, Sandler Leedworthy is just using her. This morning at breakfast he flirted with Floris and then he asked her to go on a carriage ride this afternoon.”

Garren could have told her that Cecilia may be a type of woman, and he knew many, having bedded a few, who took pleasure wherever and whenever they could and bore no guilt or shame and hardly thought themselves foolish. But it would be hard for someone like Thora to understand. She was a Mannington. Born into a noble and honorable family, she had been raised by a protective brother who sheltered her from life’s seedy side.

Garren suddenly noticed concern in Thora’s blue eyes. “What is it, Lady Thora?”

“I was just thinking about Floris. Should I stop her from going? Warn Floris what a reprobate he is?”

“No,” Garren answered, surprising her. “I hardly think Leedworthy would harm your friend. She’ll have a chaperone with her, and he openly asked her in front of witnesses. Besides, we don’t know what actually transpired between Cecilia Boothwell and Leedworthy last night.”

Thora’s bright blue eyes gave him such a contemptuous glare for thinking her so naïve that he had to choke back a laugh. Staring down into her face, he repressed the desire to brush back a brown, silken curl that escaped from her upswept hair. In a low voice, he softly murmured, “Is there anything else you would like to tell me?”

“Yes, Lord Huntscliff. Since we’re working together, I think you should call me Thora,” she said, leaving him open-mouthed and staring at her back as she left him and hurried down the hall.

When the men returned from their morning romp, the sun had changed from dawn’s soft glow into a bright, golden beacon, stretching its brilliant splendor over the manor and across its carpet of green lawns, ending the gloom of the previous day. Taking advantage of the exceptionally lovely summer day, lunch was served on the outside terrace. Tables covered with crisp, white linen cloths were set out, delicate, crystal vases holding a colorful splash of purple and yellow pansies at their center. Lunch was a repast of cold dishes consisting of meat, bread, cheese, and fruit. The men were served wine, and the women chose between tea and sweetened lemon water.

Garren took in a quick breath as Thora stepped onto the terrace. She had changed into a pale yellow gown and her cocoa-colored curls were pinned back so only a few wisps framed her face. She was accompanied by Lauryn and the petite girl’s mother, Lady Mayfield. He was seated with Nyle. He watched her search among the tables and as soon as their eyes met, his self-proclaimed crime assistant excused herself from the Mayfields and joined them, taking a seat that advantageously gave the most clear view of the other tables. They were also joined by Lady Boothwell and her daughter Cecilia, the latter brazenly planting herself close to Nyle.

Garren had to hold back a chuckle as he saw Thora’s face sour when she glanced at Cecilia. Thora wore her emotions on her sleeve and although it amused him at the moment, it did cause him worry. If he could read her so easily, then so could the killer.

“Lord Huntscliff, how is it we haven’t been introduced sooner? My daughter and I are frequent visitors at Mannington Manor and yet this is the first time we’ve had the pleasure of making your acquaintance,” Lady Boothwell pried.

Garren gave the woman a forced smile. “My work keeps me busy.”

“Oh and what work is that?”

Thora glanced nervously over at Garren, who seemed unruffled by the woman’s probing. Unaccustomed to evading the truth when asked a straightforward question, she was anxious to observe how he would deal with it.

“My father was in shipping. Since his passing a few years ago, I guess you can say I’ve been taking over the helm. Much time had to be spent overseas ensuring that the company’s relationships he maintained over the years stayed intact.” What he related to Lady Boothwell were facts. The Huntscliff family fortune was built on the shipping trade and, yes, after his father’s death, foreign business relationships needed to be reassured that business would go on as usual. But it was a company agent who did most of the traveling aboard. It was a good cover for him and one he’d used often during his days as an investigator. He bit back a grin. Not only had he satisfied the inquisitive Lady Boothwell but he found his explanation had also put an impressed look on Thora’s face and for some reason he found it very satisfying.

As the servants began to serve the guests, another topic of conservation drifted over from the other tables regarding how Viscount Simon-North had bested Marquis Brightington in racing their horses that morning.

Garren heard the Marquis sourly counter, “He won today, but it won’t be long before I outdo him.”

“Kind of reckless of those two,” Lord Langless said, nodding toward Simon-North and Brightington as he leaned back in his seat at a neighboring table. “Could have broken their fool necks, racing like the devil was on their tails, and all for a trifle of a gamble!” He shook his head as he returned to his thinly sliced venison with spinach and cucumber salad.

Thora felt a bit excluded from the others sitting with her, as the Boothwells, both mother and daughter, seized the attention of the two men at the table with their incessant chatter. Cecilia captured Nyle’s interest while Lady Boothwell monopolized Garren. Her isolation was rewarded when she saw Garren yawn when the woman turned her head to ask one of the servants for more tea.

When lunch ended, the guests mingled briefly outside before slowly returning indoors. Thora and Garren had just entered the house when from outside when they heard it, the sound stopping them in their tracks. A police rattle. Someone was using her police rattle!

Garren and Thora rushed outside, quickly followed by Lord Avery Flemington. Still seated at one of the tables was Lauryn, her face as white as chalk and her lower lip trembling. With a shaky finger, she pointed to the back of a chair a few inches away from her. Three pair of eyes followed the direction she indicated. There, on the back of the chair was the culprit: a large, long-legged spider. Without a moment of hesitation, Lord Flemington annihilated the insect with the pound of his fist. Taking a napkin from the table, he swept the remains off the chair before wiping his hand.

“Nicely done, Flemington,” Garren commented while Thora grimaced after witnessing the spider’s brutal demise.

Lauryn looked like she was about to swoon. Kneeling next to her chair and gently patting her gloved hand, Lord Flemington comforted, “There, there, no need to fret. It’s gone.”

As Thora stood watching the burly man, Garren perceived a touch of tenderness in her eyes. Her warm emotion for Flemington set his blood afire. Bloody hell! He was jealous. Soon the guests gathered, wanting to know what had happened and the source of the strange noise they heard. As the shaken Lauryn began to explain, she revealed the police rattle Thora had given her to everyone.

Thora’s shoulders slumped.

Garren motioned her aside and asked, “What’s wrong, Thora?” He’d used her given name for the first time and was somewhat surprised at how smoothly it fell from his lips.

“I gave Lauryn that rattle to protect her from a villain with two legs not an eight-legged one! Now all our suspects know about the rattles.” Disheartened, she went inside.

As the guests slowly returned to the manor, Garren remained on the terrace alone and idly rubbed his chin.

Later at dinner that night, Lord Langless used his fork to tap his water glass. The clinking sound attracted everyone’s attention. Rising from his seat, he announced, to everyone’s delight, that on the following evening there would be a concert on the lawn of his estate which bordered the Mannington Manor. After a pleasant evening of music, refreshments would be served inside the Langless home before returning to the manor... As he took his seat, he stated that he and his family planned to leave early on the morrow to see to the preparations.

Looking around the table, Thora noticed that Floris and Sandler Leedworthy were the only ones who seemed to take no pleasure in the news. Cecilia was her usual self, clinging to Nyle and annoying him with her feigned coyness, while Lauryn was dividing her time with Viscount Simon-North and her newfound hero, Lord Avery Flemington. Seated beside Marquis Calder Brightington, Thora patiently endured his recitation of the race between him and Viscount Simon-North had that morning. With an air of smug confidence, the marquis assured her that his loss today to Simon-North would pale when he won their next wager.