Silver Splendor (46 page)

A chill slid down Elizabeth’s spine. Did the duchess have a clue to the killer’s name? Or was she herself the culprit, a madwoman warning her own victim?

“I’ll stay close to Libby every moment,” Owen said. “Good afternoon, Your Grace.”

Adelaide nodded curtly and strode off, her thickset figure disappearing around the corner.

Subduing her uneasiness, Elizabeth walked with Owen down the hall. The doctor’s door stood ajar and she rapped. “May I come in?”

“Yes, my lady.”

Late afternoon sunshine lit the office. Except for packing crates stacked neatly against one wall, the room looked as tidy as ever. The drug cabinet held an array of bottles and jars. A pair of chintz covered chairs sat before the tiny hearth, and the faint medicinal scent of carbolic tinged the air.

On the examining table, his long booted legs dangling, sat Pickering. Marsh swabbed disinfectant on the footman’s outstretched palm. Seeing Elizabeth, Pickering jumped to the floor and came to attention. “Your ladyship! Don’t mean to sit down on the job. I, er, got tangled in a hedgerow…”

Hiding a twinge of amusement, Elizabeth said, “I trust you haven’t suffered a serious injury.”

Marsh slid a glance at her. “One of the thorn pricks festered, that’s all,” he said, winding gauze around the footman’s hand. “Keep this clean now, Mr. Pickering.”

“Aye, sir. I’ll be gettin’ back to me duties.” Cheeks beet red, Pickering bowed to Elizabeth, then scuttled outside.

“I received your note, doctor,” she said. “You have something of my mother’s?”

“Ah, yes. As I was cleaning out a dresser drawer, I found this tucked in the back.” From a pocket of his frock coat, he drew forth a lace-bordered handkerchief. “It has your mother’s initials on it.”

Elizabeth took the folded square; though yellowed with age, the fine linen was as unwrinkled as if it had been freshly ironed. “LRT.” Wistfully she smoothed a forefinger over the initials embroidered in cornflower blue. “Lucy Rose Templeton. Look, Papa.”

Eyes misting, Owen scrutinized the handkerchief. “It’s Lucy’s work, all right. She always did have the prettiest hand at sewing.”

Elizabeth sent the doctor a puzzled frown. “I wonder how something of my mother’s came to be in your drawer.”

Eyes on the handkerchief, he shrugged his slim shoulders. “You’ve seen the disorder in the rest of the mansion — the handkerchief must have been left there when I moved in. I thought perhaps you’d like to keep it as a memento.”

“Thank you,” Elizabeth said, warmed by the offer. “I’ve so few keepsakes from her life here.”

“Think nothing of it.” Walking to the desk, Marsh picked up the blue and white Spode teapot from beside a spirit lamp. “Would you care for a cup of tea? I’ve some brewed and I’d be honored if both of you would join me.”

Owen frowned. “We should go back, Libby.”

She hesitated, knowing her father was right yet unwilling to pass up the opportunity to do a little detecting. She must solve this mystery so she and Nicholas could live free of fear.

“Let’s stay for a few moments, Papa? I’ve some questions for the doctor.”

Marsh turned his back to pour the tea. “I should be delighted to help you, your ladyship. Please, do sit down.”

His voice was pleasant, yet in the past he’d seemed to resent being questioned. Why was he willing today? His boyish features were amiable as he handed a china cup to each of them. Sinking into one of the chintz chairs, she wondered again if Marsh knew something vital. Maybe she could jar him into talking at last.

Owen stirred sugar into his cup. “I must apologize, doctor, for not greeting you the night I arrived. I didn’t realize you were the same fair haired boy I’d met so many years ago.”

“We all change,” Marsh said with a shrug.

“I should have guessed, though,” Owen went on. “If you didn’t have your nose in a medical encyclopedia, you were setting a bird’s broken wing or soothing Libby when she’d skinned her knee.”

“Those days seem long ago.” Marsh watched thoughtfully as Owen tasted his tea. “I’ve always been interested in healing, in restoring the wounded to health.”

The doctor offered Elizabeth a plate of brandy snaps. She took one of the rolled biscuits, though her stomach was clenched too tight for food. “Doctor, pardon me for changing the subject, but did my husband come here yesterday?”

Perching on the edge of the desk, Marsh looked surprised. “I haven’t seen Lord Hawkesford since the reading of the will.”

“Do you have any notion of why the old duke changed his will?”

“Notion? The reason is plain.” His blue eyes intently studied her over the rim of his teacup. “Because you’d returned home… where you belong.”

His softened tone left her with a vague sense of disquiet. He was hiding something; she was sure of that much. “But why not leave the money to the duchess? Or to Drew… he was loyal to his uncle for so many years. He deserves an inheritance more than I.”

“Deserves?” The doctor uttered a sedate laugh. “He’s proven today that he doesn’t deserve a farthing.”

Blinking sleepily, Owen yawned. “You heard the news, then?”

Marsh inclined his fair head. “Lady Philippa was quite distraught over her son’s disappearance. She called me this morning for something to quiet her nerves.”

At least that explained why they hadn’t seen the woman all day. “Doctor, may I ask your professional opinion on a matter of some delicacy?

“Of course, your ladyship.”

“It’s about the old duke.” She paused, hating to bring the subject out into the open, rearing the answer she might receive. Yet she must know. “I wondered if there were any chance he might have been… unbalanced.”

Marsh’s cup clattered into the saucer. A few drops splashed onto the polished wood desk; he leapt up to fetch a scrap of gauze from the cart beside the examining table. “Pardon my clumsiness, your ladyship,” he said, carefully wiping the spilled liquid. “You startled me. Why would you accuse His Grace of lunacy?”

“I’m not accusing, only seeking your professional opinion.” She sipped some tea to erase the dryness in her throat. “A week ago, someone fired a gun at me. Someone also hired a man in London to kill me.” Her voice lowered. “I’m trying to identify the culprit, that’s all. Certainly as a doctor you’re qualified to diagnose madness.”

Marsh’s eyes looked curiously empty. “I’ve read some studies on the topic. I’ve a few volumes over here.” Rising, he went to a bookshelf and stared at the leather bound spines, as if searching for a particular tome.

“It’s what I been tellin’ you, Libby,” Owen said, his voice slurred. “The duke was unhinged. Any man who’d mistreat a wonnerful woman like Lucy’s got to be mad–”

Bewildered, she gaped at him. Her father was slouched in his chair, his eyes half closed. Of course, he’d risen before dawn, but that didn’t explain why he’d nod off when he took so seriously his task of protecting her. He couldn’t have been nipping at the bottle again; she had been with him all day…

“I quite agree with you about Lucy, Mr. Hastings.” Marsh’s face remained unperturbed as he turned to stare at the older man. “In fact, I owe you my thanks for getting her away from the duke.”

Owen blinked as if struggling to focus; then his eyes drifted shut. The china cup slipped from his fingers and smashed onto the stone floor, the shards skittering in all directions. The noise failed to rouse him.

Alarmed, Elizabeth set down her cup and hastened to his side. “Papa!” She shook his shoulder and his eyelids fluttered; then his head lolled against the back of the chair. “Papa, wake up! Dr. Marsh, do something! He must have suffered some sort of attack!”

A quiet snore slipped from Owen’s lips.

“Don’t worry, your ladyship,” Marsh murmured smoothly. “He’s merely sleeping.”

Understanding swamped her in a sickening wave. She whipped her head around to gaze at the doctor. “You put something in his tea!” she accused. “What?
What?”

“A dose of laudanum, that’s all.” His lips formed an earnest smile. “Trust me, Elizabeth. I could never harm a man who loved Lucy almost as much as I did.”

Astonishment and dread roiled inside her. “What do you mean, you loved her?”

“Lucy meant more to me than life itself. The duke, however,” Marsh went on, his tone turning brutal, “never felt as I did. All those years he had me fooled. He claimed he loved Lucy, but he finally admitted the truth the night he announced the new will.”

“What truth? What are you talking about?”

“The truth about what he’d done to Lucy. She didn’t want to have an affair with His Grace. But he preyed upon her foolish feelings for him and talked his way into her bed.” Marsh’s face crumpled, his eyes tortured. “He stole her innocence, forced her to lie with him. He raped her.”

“No!” she gasped. “That can’t be true. Papa would have told me… because Mama would have told
him.”

“Perhaps she was ashamed, ashamed that she’d found pleasure in his sin.” Agitated, the doctor paced before the bookshelf. “I had to smother him, to make him pay. She was too good to be used, too gentle and kind.”

Horror paralyzed Elizabeth. “You killed him?”

“I avenged Lucy’s honor.” Plucking a royal blue book from the crowded shelf, Marsh reverently flipped the pages. Elizabeth stood on shaky legs. Marsh held her sketchbook… the sketchbook containing the drawings of her mother.

“You
were the thief who ransacked my lodgings,” she whispered.

Sadness darkened his eyes. “I had to find the proof that Lucy still lived. And I have it, right here.”

As he caressed the sketchbook like a lover, Elizabeth stared, trying to fathom his anguish. “I thought you were only a boy when my mother lived here.”

“I was sixteen. Old enough to love with a man’s heart.” Gently laying the book on the desk, he stepped closer. The blankness in his eyes chilled Elizabeth.

“I ached to show my affection for you, Lucy. I ached to touch you, to kiss you. Do you remember the day before you left here? I worked up the courage to tell you of my love, but you…”

His voice choked; he lifted a pale, clean hand as if to caress Elizabeth’s cheek. She backed away, her damp palms meeting the smoothly carved mantelpiece, her mind awash with fear. He thought she was her mother. He truly was mad.

Through the opened window drifted the clop of horse’s hooves in the stable yard, the drone of bees in the herb garden. Quiet sounds, safe sounds. If he tried to overpower her, help was near…

“Please,” she said in a low voice, “stay back or I’ll scream.”

He stopped short, hurt contorting his boyish features into a face she no longer recognized. “Don’t shun me, Lucy. You did so that other time, but everything is different now. I’m a grown man. You can’t say I’m too young for you. I’ll cherish you, take care of you. The duke won’t hurt you anymore.”

Pity for his suffering overrode her fear. “I’m not Lucy,” she said gently. “I’m Elizabeth, the Countess of Hawkesford. You need help, doctor. Let me take you to someone who can help you.”

He shook his fair head, his smile beatific. “No, it’s you who need help, Lucy. That letter Owen wrote to the duke said you were dead. But I know better. Let me heal you, Lucy, cleanse you of sin. We can share our lives… everything will be just as I’ve planned.”

She glanced at Owen; he slept peacefully. She dared not leave him with this madman. Desperately, she said, “Your plan was for my mother. Look at me, doctor. I’m Elizabeth. Lucy had green eyes.”

A faint frown creased Marsh’s brow. “Don’t try to confuse me, Lucy. You’re as beautiful as ever.” He took a step closer. “In a moment you’ll be free… free to live again with me. I’ve waited so long for you.”

Reaching into his coat pocket, Marsh drew forth a dagger. Elizabeth’s eyes fixed on the blade gleaming no more than a yard away. He intended to kill her!

Raising the knife, he started toward her. She screamed and dodged. He lunged and slashed. The scalpel sharp steel sliced her skirt, barely missing her calf.

Elizabeth dove for the door. He caught her sleeve and jerked her back around. His wiry fingers bit into her arm; his gentle lips smiled at her.

“Let me purify you, Lucy,” he murmured. “Your blood will bring you back. It won’t hurt but a moment.”

His tranquil voice squeezed the breath from her lungs. The knife lifted, glinting in the sunlight. She yanked violently out of his grip. Her sleeve ripped; she stumbled against the tea table. Crockery crashed to the floor.

She felt herself falling, saw the blade plunging. Her elbow struck the hard floor. Sobbing with desperation, she rolled away and scrambled to her feet. He followed, his dagger raised, his smile profane.

Elizabeth bumped the hard edge of the desk. Heart slamming against her ribs, she snatched up the sketch book. Utilizing all her strength, she swung at him…

“I’ll kill him,” Charles vowed, taking the stairs two at a time. “If he’s touched so much as a hair on her head, he’ll die.”

Nicholas followed the Marquess of Sedgemoor up the narrow steps of the hotel in York. “Don’t do anything rash. For Cicely’s sake, we mustn’t attract everyone’s attention.”

Dark humor invaded Nicholas. Here he was, speaking like the voice of reason when murder blazed in his own heart. He burned to tear Drew Sterling apart limb by limb, to pluck out his fortune hunting heart and cast it to the hounds of hell. Praise God the hours of frantic searching were nearing an end. Pray God they weren’t too late.

They emerged into a long hall lit by mid afternoon sunlight. The floral carpet absorbed their swift footfalls as they searched the brass numbers on the doors.

Charles’s boyish face looked grim with rage, his copper hair mussed, his ivory cravat twisted. “There,” he snapped, marching toward the end of the corridor. “There’s the room that bastard had the audacity to register in my name.” Not bothering to knock, he wrenched open the door and surged inside.

Pulses pounding in fury and fear, Nicholas strode after his friend. He entered a small sitting room, genteel yet shabby. A twin globed lamp adorned a tiny side table. A drab green armchair dwelled beside the unlit hearth. Sitting a yard apart, at either end of a brown twill sofa, were Drew and Cicely.