The Reluctant Earl (12 page)

“Niall...letter.”

Mason’s gaze flickered to Julian.

“His brother, Viscount Killiane, is with Lord Sotherton in London.” Julian leaned closer to the bed, trying to get Fleming’s glazed eyes to focus on him. “Yes, we’ve sent word of the assault. Do you remember—”

“Not Niall.” Fleming jerked his head violently to the side. “Chambelston.”

“I’m here, Fleming. We want to discover who attacked you. Can you tell the magistrate?”

But the wounded man’s eyes drifted shut in their swollen, purple sockets.

“Poor fellow.” Mason shook his head. “I’m afraid we’ll get no answers today.”

“Yes, the injuries and laudanum have rendered him incoherent.” Julian pounded his fist against his knee in frustration. “Perhaps he’ll be more lucid tomorrow.”

“I pray so. Send for me when he regains his senses.” Mason focused one last pitying look at Fleming. “Mr. Fleming, I wish you a speedy recovery.”

* * *

A gust sent dollops of snow falling as branches danced in the wind. Leah eyed the tree’s thick trunk warily, suddenly cognizant of Teresa’s contention that the attackers hid in the forest. A shame Leah hadn’t suggested the library for this rendezvous.

Fortunately Alec was right where she had instructed him to meet her.

He greeted her with a grin. “How did you escape the dragon’s lair on a Tuesday?” The afternoon breeze tossed Alec’s hair across his forehead.

Leah joined him under the leafless oak. “Lady Teresa helped.” Because the romantic girl suspected a tryst between her governess and uncle. Leah didn’t disclose that little detail to her cousin. She couldn’t predict Alec’s reaction should he learn of Chambelston’s flirtation. Especially that kiss.

Alec took Leah’s arm and led her deeper into the grove of trees. “Now what was so terrible you couldn’t wait until tomorrow to speak of it?”

“I want to know who is responsible for yesterday’s outrage.”

“By outrage, you mean the attack on Sotherton’s nephew?”

A chill passed along her spine at this confirmation of her suspicions. “So you know about it? This is a dangerous game your people play, Alec. They’ve been accused of murdering a peer. An assault such as this will only add credence to the rumors.”

Alec pinched the bridge of his nose, his expression pained. “Leah, Fleming’s presence in the district at this time, and his flogging—by all accounts, a well-deserved fate—are happenstance.”

“Then his beating had nothing to do with your group?”

“Fleming wasn’t involved in our cause. According to you—and others in the district—he was a ne’er-do-well reprobate who probably provoked the wrong man to violence.”

“He was.” And more. “But the aristocracy won’t care. They’ll see the assault as one of their own being attacked by radical revolutionaries—in the presence of a lady, no less. They involved the daughter of a powerful man in their feud, and I fear it has escalated the tensions.”

“Lady Teresa wasn’t injured, was she?”

“Not physically. But there are other ways to harm a person.” Ways that caused scars on one’s heart and soul. “She didn’t deserve to be a spectator to their violence.”

Alec’s moss green eyes stared levelly at her for several unnerving moments. “You are very attached to Lady Teresa, Leah. Perhaps too much so. Have you given further consideration to what you will do when your employment ends? I worry for you.”

Leah ignored his counsel rather than respond to his question. “Then perhaps you understand how I feel about the risks you take with your neck. I feel this will end badly. Alec, do you really believe what you do will make a difference?”

“I don’t know. I only know I must try.”

* * *

The afternoon sun glared against the snow as Julian set off on Sotherton’s prize bay. At least he needn’t compete with Fleming for use of the horse over the next few days. Maybe never, if Fleming didn’t recover from his injuries.

Was Miss Vance a party to the attack, vengeance for Fleming’s mistreatment? She had connections to radicals who’d already demonstrated a tendency toward violence—but surely she would never have involved Teresa. His mind skipped back twenty-four hours, to Miss Vance’s concern when her charge had failed to return. Perhaps Fleming’s attack had nothing to do with the radicals. But then, why Miss Vance’s late outing to the stable last night?

He steered the horse along the road, toward the grove of oak and hawthorn specified in Harrison’s note. The breeze carried the ring of a blacksmith’s anvil from the distant village. All seemed serene, peaceful. Deceptively so? Yesterday Fleming’s black-faced attackers had disappeared into a wood similar to this one.

Julian glanced over his shoulder, then started when he noticed a man scuttling out from between the trees. Rags hung on his form, and the stump of an arm peeked through a mangled sleeve. Below the floppy brim of an ancient hat, a patch covered one eye. Sadly, an all-too-familiar sight in the years since the war’s end.

The man limped closer. “A penny for a man wounded in the king’s service, my lord?”

Julian reached inside his coat. If vagrants had made camp in these woods, he and Harrison would have to adjust their plans... “Harrison?”

The beggar grinned. “If I says aye, does that mean I don’t get me penny?”

“But how do you...?” Julian stared at the severed arm.

“The art of illusion, my lord.”

Julian knew too much about illusion, and disillusionment, today.

“Come.” Harrison gestured to the wood with his visible good arm. “I’ve already investigated the area. We’ll be safe from discovery here.”

“Are you certain?” Julian eyed the well-trampled path that led deeper into the trees.

“My handiwork. Less suspicious than a pair of tracks in the snow.”

Julian climbed down from the horse and looped the reins around his hand. He ducked under a low-hanging branch as he followed Harrison deeper into the shadows. “What did you learn?”

“First, my contact in London hasn’t yet uncovered any witnesses who claim the radicals intended your father harm. Nor have I heard anything here—which isn’t particularly surprising. It takes a long time to thoroughly infiltrate such a group, my lord—weeks, months, even years. I pray our country won’t suffer strife for so long a period.”

“And Wellingborough?”

“The radicals have stationed sentries along the road to watch for any advancing troops.” Harrison paused in a small clearing. “Before you blame your governess, I remind you that many people in Sotherton’s household have access to your chamber.”

But how many knew of his interest in the current unrest—and would investigate his personal effects? “Is there anything else?” The stallion shifted and shook his head. Julian absently patted the horse’s neck to quiet the skittish beast.

“The attack on Sotherton’s nephew yesterday? I have reason to believe those responsible are part of the radicals. I spent some time with one of them after the others retired last night. Nothing loosens a man’s tongue like lots of ale, a willing listener and a triumph to brag about.”

“I shall have to keep that in mind for the future. What did this man say?”

“They’d been ordered to stop Fleming.”

“Stopping him could mean his tendency to woo the women of the district with his fist.”

“Except I’ve never met a man who would claim to have been ‘ordered’ to join a melee like that.” Harrison scooped up a handful of snow and crushed it into a ball. “Besides, they knew where and when to find Fleming.”

“So someone informed them of Fleming’s plans to ride that day.” Hawkesworth had reported no unusual messages—but then, Miss Vance had managed to deliver hers outside regular channels. Was there another spy in the Sotherton household? Or the same one?

“How is Fleming?”

“The magistrate tried to ask him about the attack, but we gleaned little from him.”

“I’ll see if I can learn any more.” Harrison gave Julian a last nod, then disappeared deeper into the trees.

Julian waited several seconds, then tugged on the bay’s reins.

Voices drifted to the clearing from beyond the trees, the distance too great for him to distinguish timbre or words. He flipped the stallion’s reins over a branch and crept through the trees until he had an unobstructed view of the road. And its occupants.

A couple approached, the woman’s arm laced through her companion’s elbow. An unknown man—but escorting a most familiar female.

Leah Vance.

Julian froze, as much from shock and disappointment as from a desire to remain concealed. The last of his admiration for her melted like snow in sunshine. They continued past him, oblivious to his presence, then paused when they reached the crossroads a quarter mile hence. At last the man raised his hand and touched her cheek in a painfully personal gesture. Then they parted, the man striding one direction while Miss Vance continued toward Rowan Abbey.

Julian observed her from his station for several more minutes before he ducked back between the trees and retrieved the impatient horse. He led the animal to the road, mounted and guided it away from Rowan Abbey, intent on approaching the house from a different direction. He’d rather not meet Miss Vance in his current mood. The horse pranced and stomped, and rather than hold it back any longer, Julian gave the stallion his head. The animal raced away to enjoy his freedom. The road disappeared in a blur, and yet, Julian’s anger endured. If only he could outrun his disappointment. His pain.

After a mile or so he steered the stallion in a loop back to the mansion. A stable boy rushed over to take the bay’s reins. “Looks like you had a good run, my lord.”

The horse had, anyway. Julian’s fury still simmered. “He’s a fine animal.” Julian vaulted out of the saddle and left the stallion with the boy.

“My lord!” a harried Hawkesworth greeted on his entrance. “We are so thankful for your return. Her ladyship is most distressed.”

Julian paused, hand on the top button of his greatcoat. “Where is she?”

“Mr. Fleming’s bedchamber. You’d best hurry, my lord.”

Despite the warmth of the house, a chill prickled along his arms. Had Fleming succumbed to his injuries after all? “What has happened?”

“I’m afraid he lies near death, my lord.”

Poor Elizabeth. Julian nodded his thanks and marched to the stairs.

Chapter Nine

L
eah slipped into the manor near the narrow back staircase, removed her coat and rolled it into a ball. She crept up the steps, the garment tucked under her arm. With luck and caution, she’d reach the schoolroom with none but Teresa the wiser that she’d even left. As she drew closer to the landing, shouts exploded from the hallway and reverberated against the walls.

Such a commotion could only portend bad news. The elderly dowager? Or Fleming?

Oomph.
Her head ricocheted off the hard skull of another. As pain shot through her temple, she forced her eyes to focus on the blurry form in front of her.

“Oh, Miss Vance. I’m so sorry.” A maid—not Molly—navigated around Leah to continue her headlong rush to the bottom of the stairs.

Leah grabbed her arm and halted her flight. “What is it?”

“Mr. Fleming. William found him near death in his bed.”

Her stomach tightened as an emotion akin to equal parts dread and delight surged through her. “When?”

“Just moments ago. Please, Miss. I must send Wetherel for the doctor.”

“Of course.” Leah started to ascend. “Wait,” she exclaimed.

The maid paused, turned.

“Take this.” She tossed her coat around the girl’s shoulders. “It’s cold out.”

“You’re very kind, Miss Vance.” The maid dashed down the stairs. Seconds later the slam of the door echoed through the narrow confines.

Ignoring the throbbing in her skull, Leah climbed the remaining stairs to the floor where the Sothertons and their guests slept. A dithering assortment of maids and footmen gathered round the doorway to Fleming’s chamber. She tapped a parlor maid on the shoulder, and the servant deferentially sidled to the left to let Leah pass.

The room reeked of the same wastes and wretchedness as Phoebe’s prison. Leah joined Lady Sotherton, Miss Godwin and even the dowager at their vigil beside Fleming’s bed. But for the barely visible rise and fall of the sheet, his unconscious form lay prostrate and unmoving. The candle’s glow highlighted the purple bruises that covered his face and neck and provided colorful contrast to his otherwise pallid skin.

Leah tamped down the burgeoning memories. How many times during the past three years had she wished for just such an outcome? But not one that involved Teresa. Would the girl blame herself for her inability to halt the attack? For agreeing to the ride or for not insisting on a groom? For the first time in many a year, Leah tendered a plea to the so-distant Almighty.

The dowager’s fist tightened around the handle of her cane, yet she swayed all the same. “The doctor is on his way, Reggie.” Fleming’s knavish treatment of women may have earned him the well-deserved thrashing, but he was still the dowager’s grandchild, second son of her only daughter. Even Leah felt a niggling of sympathy.

Miss Godwin clasped the old woman’s arm. “Come, my lady. Let me take you to your room, lest you overtax yourself. The others can remain with him until the doctor arrives.”

“No!” The old woman punctuated the word with a thump of her cane that made the candleholder rattle against the bedside table. “I will not abandon my grandson.”

“As you wish, my lady.” The companion fidgeted with her necklace.

Leah retreated a step lest the dowager’s cane strike her already injured foot—then froze as she became aware of a presence behind her.
His
presence. Chambelston marched into their midst with the calm and command of an admiral. His dark greatcoat covered all but his cravat and boots. Disarrayed strands of tawny hair wisped around his face as if he’d just disembarked from his ship.

“Of course you must stay if it brings you comfort, my lady.” He seized a chair from its berth by the window and deposited it next to the bed. “But Miss Godwin is right to be concerned for you.”

The dowager carefully lowered herself onto the seat with a brief nod of thanks, her watery gaze fixed on her grandson.

Chambelston glanced at Leah. His gaze hardened with...scorn?...then slid away. Several hours absence had made his heart grow harder. “Where is Teresa?”

“She was in the schoolroom when I last saw her.” Some three hours ago.

“Go stay with her. And collect my sister on your way, so she isn’t exposed to this, either.”

Did he mean his younger sister? A hysterical giggle bubbled in Leah’s throat at the notion of hauling Lady Sotherton away. Or at Chambelston’s sudden hostility? She muffled her response with a subservient curtsy and backed away.

* * *

Julian leaned over and pressed his ear to Fleming’s chest. “He breathes yet.” But for how much longer? He’d seen enough death and dying—too much—to identify a hopeless case. In all likelihood, Fleming would be gone before the doctor arrived. He swiveled to face Miss Godwin. “The doctor?”

“Jane ran to find Wetherel about ten minutes ago. He should have left by now. Provided he finds the doctor home...” She twisted a gold chain around trembling fingers. “Poor Mr. Fleming. I heard he was much improved since last night.”

“He was awake but confused this morning when the magistrate tried to question him.” That he now seemed so much the worse... What could even a doctor do for him if, as the doctor had indicated yesterday, Fleming bled inside?

Elizabeth edged more closely to him. “Did he remember anything of yesterday’s attack—anything to help the magistrate identify the criminals?”

“No, he spoke only of his brother. I told him you’d sent a message.”

“Thank you.” Her gaze locked on his. The depths of blue churned with distress and an unexpected remorse that called to mind Harrison’s advice about reconciliation. “Julian, I...”

“Yes, I know. See to your staff, dear sister.” He said the endearment without hesitation or sarcasm as he gestured to the hallway where frightened servants yet lingered. “Keep them occupied. They need your assurance at a moment like this.”

“You must have been a terrific officer, Julian—and I’m glad you were here during this difficult time.” She stiffened her shoulders, swept out of the room and began issuing commands with all the confidence of a field marshal.

Julian sought a chair for Miss Godwin and positioned it near the dowager. Fleming’s grandmother wilted on her seat, her face as devoid of color as the dying man’s sheets. Julian patted her locked hands, as concerned for her as for Fleming. “Let me ring for some tea for you, my lady.”

Miss Godwin had poured her employer a second cup by the time Hawkesworth escorted Dr. Grant into the room.

The doctor offered the assembled family members a curt nod as he strode to his patient. He checked Fleming’s pulse and eyes, then glanced at the bedside table.

“Fleming!” Grant shook him. “Fleming!”

Fleming’s head lolled to one side, but his eyes remained closed to the world.

Nausea stormed through Julian’s gut. He bolted to the bed and joined the doctor, but Fleming failed to revive.

After several moments Grant stepped back and shook his head. He trudged over to the dowager. “I’m so sorry, my lady. He is gone.”

The dowager clutched a hand to her chest and swayed, face pale. Miss Godwin jumped from her chair and wrapped an arm of support around the elderly woman. “There, my lady. At least he passed peacefully in his sleep.”

“Perhaps you would like a few minutes with him, my lady.” The doctor caught Julian’s gaze and jerked his head toward the door. “My lord, a word if I might?”

“Of course.” Julian followed him to the corridor and pulled the door shut firmly behind him as Elizabeth approached.

“I told Mrs. Anderson to prepare—” She stopped as she studied their faces. “Reggie? He’s not...?”

“Unfortunately so, my lady.” The doctor glanced grimly between Julian and his sister. “I’m afraid you’ll have to send for the magistrate.”

“The magistrate again?”

Julian stepped forward and touched Elizabeth’s arm. “Mr. Fleming succumbed to his injuries. The men who attacked him are now guilty of murder.”

“Not exactly, my lord.” The doctor folded his arms across his chest. “Mr. Fleming died from an excessive consumption of laudanum.”

* * *

Julian stared at Fleming’s forever-silenced form. Only one day after a brutal assault, the man now lay dead. Coincidence—or had the miscreants Julian and the grooms thwarted yesterday found another means to their end?

His father had been killed in an accident that might have been no accident. And now Fleming had succumbed to a second murder attempt in as many days. His father had essayed to alleviate the people’s suffering. Fleming had never exhibited any altruistic inclinations. If Fleming thought of others at all, it was only to ascertain how he might best use them for his own purposes and pleasures. And yet, Julian sensed an elusive link between the two murders. What was the relationship—other than the connection each had to him?

“Mr. Mason, my lord,” Hawkesworth announced from the doorway.

“How good of you to come so quickly.” Julian gestured to a chair near the leaded-glass window. “Doctor Grant is attending the Dowager Countess Sotherton at present, but he will be with us presently to advise us of his suspicions about Fleming’s death.”

“Poor woman.” The magistrate lowered his substantial girth onto the seat’s green upholstery. The delicate furniture creaked ominously. “To see her grandson laid low, and under such appalling circumstances. Losing a child is the worst blow of all.”

“Have you children?”

“Two boys. We had a daughter, but she succumbed to the fever three winters ago.” Mason’s gruff voice cracked.

“I’m sorry for your loss.” Julian stared at his hands, thoughts caught up in recollections of Maman’s pain at Gregory’s death. She had lost Elizabeth to rancor years earlier, but perhaps now that he’d found the fissure in his sister’s bitterness, Elizabeth would yet reconcile with her family.

Footsteps tapped against the parquet, and a shadow passed across the doorway as the doctor joined them.

“Ah, Doctor. How is her ladyship?” Mason ripped his stare from the body on the bed.

“Understandably distressed, of course. I administered a sedative, and Miss Godwin is with her now.”

“Lord Chambelston reports you find Fleming’s demise suspicious.”

“Absolutely.” The doctor retrieved a small brown bottle from the desk and passed it to the magistrate. “I left a full container of laudanum last night, in case Mr. Fleming experienced pain from yesterday’s trauma. And yet today I find the bottle nearly empty.”

“So you believe an excessive dose of laudanum killed Fleming rather than the beating he sustained?”

“When I arrived this afternoon, Fleming demonstrated all the signs of acute opiate poisoning. His pupils were mere pinpricks, and his respiration only a fraction of its normal rate.”

“Could the poisoning have been accidental? Perhaps the footman administered a bit too much. Or perhaps another member of the staff gave Fleming a second dosage right after he’d already consumed a measure of the medicine.”

“No. For one thing, a twofold amount might be dangerous, but most likely not deadly—particularly if discovered in time. But for another, it wouldn’t account for the substantial amount of laudanum missing from the bottle.”

Mr. Mason deposited the bottle on a table beside the bed and wiped his hands against his coat. “We need a list of everyone who entered this room today.”

A floorboard squeaked as Julian crossed the room to pull the cord. “The footman William spent most of the day with Fleming and administered laudanum on at least one occasion this morning. Doctor, how would Fleming ingest such an exceedingly large amount?”

“An excellent line of inquiry, my lord.” The doctor nodded. “Possibly in a meal, most likely in a drink.”

“Then we should also question the cook to see what food and drinks she prepared for Fleming today.” Of course Fleming had never seemed particularly abstemious on the occasions when Julian had had dealings with him. An easy task, perhaps, convincing him to swallow a bit of brandy? “Doctor, can you estimate when Fleming consumed the excess laudanum?”

“Recently. Probably within an hour of his death. That much laudanum would have killed him very quickly.”

Only moments before Julian’s return from his meeting with Harrison.

Hawkesworth marched into the room. “My lord?”

“Would you please send up William? And tell Cook we would like to speak to her in the drawing room presently.”

“Of course, my lord.” The butler backed away and pulled the door shut again.

Julian folded his arms over his chest and stared at Fleming’s lifeless body. “Wouldn’t Fleming question the taste?”

“Perhaps not if he had ingested a small amount shortly before the poisoning. He might have been confused enough not to notice the change.”

Or perhaps his fondness for drink overpowered his palate.

“My lord?” The footman shuffled into the room, his gaze darting from one man to the next.

“William.” Julian gestured to the portly man beside him. “Have you met the local magistrate, Mr. Mason?”

“I never had need of a magistrate, my lord.”

“Of course we wouldn’t expect anyone in Lord Sotherton’s employ to be guilty of criminal behavior.” Mason tucked a hand into his coat. Julian stifled a snort at the irony. If the magistrate only knew. “We have a few simple questions for you about Mr. Fleming.”

“I’ll do my best to answer them, sir.”

“I know you will. Now then, tell us about this afternoon. I am given to understand you tended Fleming?”

“Yes, sir. The maid Molly stayed with him through the night. Then Lady Sotherton sent her to rest and tasked me with caring for her nephew.”

“And did you at any time dispense laudanum to your patient?”

“Yes, whenever Mr. Fleming complained of terrible pain.”

“How many times?”

The footman wiped his palms against his breeches. “Well, Molly showed me how much to give him, so I offered him some more right before you and Lord Chambelston came to talk to him. If I’d known you were coming—”

“I understand.”

“Thank you, sir. And then I gave him a bit more tonight. Did I do something wrong?”

The doctor patted the young man’s arm. “No, a few drops two or three times today should have been fine. When did you last administer the laudanum?”