The Suspect's Daughter (22 page)

What had happened to make him so hard-edged? Surely something besides war had caused it. How tragic that a fine man like him, one in possession of a tender, valiant heart, might never give or accept love.

Before she and her father returned to London on the morrow, she had errands. Though the sun had barely risen, Jocelyn sent a note to the kitchen asking cook to prepare a basket for a family of five, and another message to the stable master to saddle Indigo. She could take the secret passageway to the village, but the lure of a bruising ride called to her. And she’d rather not carry such a heavy basket all that way.

After she broke her fast with fruit, bread, and chocolate, she dressed in her riding habit and stepped into the corridor. A maid slipped out of her father’s room and hurried down the hall. Jocelyn paused. Wasn’t that the new parlor maid?

“Are you lost? Emma, isn’t it?”

The maid gave a start. “Oi, you gave me a start, you did.” In her fright, her accent crumbled from Queen’s English to something closer to Cockney. She cleared her throat and drew herself up. “Yes, miss; I’m Emma. Just running a quick errand for Owen, miss.”

Since when did the butler send parlor maids on errands to the master’s bedroom? “I see. You may go.”

The pretty maid bobbed a curtsy and hurried toward the servants’ stairs.

How odd. Jocelyn went to her father’s room and peeked in. He had arisen to take the gentlemen on an early morning shoot, and his room stood vacant. Nothing seemed amiss. She opened the box containing his cuff links and rings, and found no obvious pieces missing. Again, she glanced around but all appeared normal.

With a shrug, she left and descended the stairs. A scullery maid trotted to her and handed Jocelyn a large basket covered with a cloth. Basket in hand, Jocelyn went to the stables where Indigo waited, saddled and ready. She secured the basket and mounted.

Each step her horse took seemed to pound directly into her chest as she drew ever near the scene of the tragedy. Would the mother be upset to see her? Or blame her for the baby’s death? Outside the humble cottage, Jocelyn fortified her courage and rapped on the door of the Johnsons’ cottage. Even the sunrise was subdued under gray clouds hanging low.

A solemn Beth opened the door. She dropped a hasty curtsy. “Miss Fairley.”

Jocelyn held out the basket. “May I come in?”

The girl held the door open for her. Jocelyn entered, set out the food, and made all the proper inquiries. In the bedroom, she checked on the mother who lay in bed as if asleep but opened her eyes when Jocelyn entered.

Nervously, she smoothed her skirts. “I came to see how you were feeling, Mrs. Johnson.”

“A little tired. I never thanked you for coming yesterday.”

She let out a shaking breath. “Not that I did any good.”

A sad smile curved the woman’s mouth. “Not your fault. I’ve birthed enough babies to know the midwife would done no better. ’Twas God’s will. We don’t have to like it.”

Jocelyn huffed a soft laugh. “My mother used to say something that.”

“I know. Fine lady, your mother.”

Gesturing over her shoulder, Jocelyn said, “I brought a basket of food.”

“Thankyee.”

Jocelyn made sure the mother had no signs of the fever that often struck mothers recently delivered of babies, changed her linens, and gave her a strong herbal drink to help suppress the production of milk, as well as made sure she ate something. Once Mrs. Johnson settled in and went to sleep, Jocelyn instructed the children to send word if she developed any sign of fever or unusual pain. She left additional herbs to help the mother’s milk dry. Jocelyn swallowed down a lump in her throat.

After visiting other tenants, Jocelyn turned back home. On the lane, another horse approached bearing Grant Amesbury’s familiar form. He slowed as he reached her.

His now-familiar voice greeted her. “I thought you’d be here. How is Mrs. Johnson?”

“Better than I feared.” At least Grant wasn’t accusing her of having ulterior motives.

He nodded. “It will be worse in a few days after the shock wears off.”

She glanced at him in surprise.

Seeing her expression, he said gravely, “My sister Margaret lost several babies. She was bad off right away and then went numb. Later, she truly grieved.”

Jocelyn nodded. “I felt that way, too, when Mama died.”

He rode next to her, strong, silent, enigmatic, and yet safe and familiar in a way she never would have expected. He used to frighten her a little with that deadly quality to his every movement. Now, his lethal presence reminded her of an armed guard, poised to protect her from every threat.

She glanced sideways at him. “How’s your head?”

“Better. Not dizzy today.”

She nodded. “And your shoulder?”

“Little sore. Nothing to fret over.”

What went on inside that head of his? Was he thinking about the lovely weather? How much he enjoyed being with her? No, he probably gave little thought to anything but the case.

“Is the shoot over?” she asked him.

His gaze slid her way. “No, I came back early. The others are still out.” He paused as if deciding how much to reveal to her. “I wanted to conduct another search in case I’d missed something.”

Cold raced through her core. “You found something, didn’t you?”

“I found something.” He retrieved two papers from his inside pocket and handed it to her.

A bill of sale for twenty five rifles glared back at her. On the second paper she found a note which read:

Expect the delivery of your rifles on the evening of the twenty second day of the month at your warehouse.

No salutation, no signature.

She sought answers in his eyes. “Twenty five rifles? I don’t understand. Why would he buy that many guns?”

“Could be used in a full on assault, charging into a meeting with guns blazing. Although that seems extreme to use on one man. And see the address to be delivered? It’s a seedy part of London next to the waterfront.”

She frowned. “I’m not familiar with that address.” She turned imploring eyes on him. “You don’t really think this means he’s involved with that plot? Surely you don’t.”

Just as she took a breath to challenge him to ask her father about the bill, he replied, “I am beginning to suspect that someone is trying to implicate him. The evidence is almost too neatly stacked against him. And it feels wrong. He doesn’t seem like the kind of man capable of this.”

“He isn’t; I vow it. He doesn’t want the position badly enough to murder someone.”

He nodded slowly. “He has too much to lose and too little to gain.” He turned his gaze her way. “Both of these were laying out in plain sight where they would easily be found. That suggests they were planted—the conspirators are deliberately leaving evidence against your father.”

Pulling Indigo to a stop, she searched Grant’s expression for the truth. “You don’t think he’s involved.”

“No.”

She let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding for days. “I can’t tell you how relieved I am to hear that.” Then his words sunk in. “But someone wants him blamed?”

“That’s the only explanation that makes sense.”

“Who would do this?”

“I’d hoped you might know. Does your father have any enemies? Anyone who might hold a grudge?”

“Not that I know of. He’s respected even among his rivals.”

“His rivals,” Grant repeated slowly. “Mr. Redding is vying for the position of prime minister. With your father out of the way, he’d be more likely to gain his end.”

“Badly enough to commit treason and murder?”

Grant shrugged. “It does seem extreme. But I don’t know Redding’s character enough to judge. Something is clearly going on. And whomever is responsible wants your father blamed.” He urged his horse forward, and she kept pace with him, her mind turning over the possibilities.

Who would want her father implicated in such a horrific plan? He was the most amiable of men. As far as she knew, no one truly disliked him. Of course, Mr. Redding might, but surely not so badly. Still, the conversations she’d overheard implied something amiss.

“What if there isn’t really a plot?” she ventured.

He turned her way with raised brows.

“What if it’s all an attempt to discredit my father—that no one really plans to kill anyone, but wants to get him in legal difficulty? The scandal alone would disqualify him as a candidate.”

He nodded slowly. “That’s a plausible theory.”

“Remember the conversation I overheard?—Not the one we both heard, but the one between people I couldn’t identify?”

“Remind me. I wasn’t quite myself.”

“Something about destroying an innocent man and sacrifices. And that their man will be the only suitable candidate.”

He stared straight ahead, deep in thought. Fascinated, she watched the way his eyes darted while his mind worked.

He finally spoke. “But didn’t they name Liverpool?”

“I can’t remember for certain. But yes, I think you’re right. I think there was mention of getting rid of Liverpool.”

He let out his breath slowly. “That coincides with our sources that there truly is a plot against the prime minister.”

“Could getting rid of Liverpool simply mean casting a vote of no-confidence?”

His brow wrinkled. “I suppose.”

“What exactly do you know?”

To her surprise, he answered. “One of Bow Street’s best Runners, a man named Jackson, arrested a high profile criminal who wanted to make a deal to lessen his sentence. He said there was a plot to assassinate the prime minister, and it would happen during this Season. He didn’t know, or wouldn’t divulge any more than that. Later, a pickpocket also spoke of that plot and named Fairley as one of the masterminds.”

“I can’t tell you how relieved I am that you no longer suspect my father.”

His mouth pulled to one side. “I’m sure.”

The idea that her father was now safe from suspicion created a cushion of comfort around her. And Grant could no longer question her motives for offering him gestures of kindness.

He paused. “It’s possible the informants were paid to provide false information to throw us off the trail of the true criminals. Or they are part of a fanatical group willing to face prison to pass information to Bow Street. If your father were arrested and imprisoned, the authorities would believe they had prevented the murder, and the real perpetrators would be left to carry out their scheme.”

A chill settled in her bones and she shivered. “That would be horrible.”

“With the king not yet crowned, the prime minister murdered, and no one to take the prime minister’s place, it would create panic all over the country until a new leader could be chosen.”

As the bigger implications sank in, the chill in her bones turned to solid ice. “What can we do?”

He offered her a grim smile. “We?”

“Well, I’m involved, whether or not you like it. And you did come to me with the bill and the note.”

A small, half smile curved one side of his mouth. “If I’m right, someone planted these and others I found in London, so I would find it. Can you think of anyone, either a guest or a servant, who might be party to such a plot?”

She shook her head. “If I thought someone in our household capable of such a thing, they would not be in our employ.”

“No, but now that you know of the possibility, review everyone in your mind and think of possible motives. Or possibly even someone who might be willing to do it on a bribe?”

“Most of our servants have been with us for years and are loyal. But perhaps someone new…” Owens had hired a number of new servants in preparation for the house party, and Jocelyn didn’t know them all. They also had one or two new servants in London. “I’ll have to give it some thought.” At the moment, the only servant she could recall was the new parlor maid who traveled with them to both houses. But when Jocelyn had checked in her father’s room, nothing had been amiss.

As the house came into view, Jocelyn glanced at her silent companion. “Before I go back, I’m going to pay a visit to the new laundress.”

He quirked a brow. “Not doing her job properly?”

“No, not that—she’s the widow with children I brought with me from London, the one I was visiting when you saved me from that terrible man.”

“I’ll accompany you.”

She smiled, grateful for his presence. They paid a brief visit to Lucy and her children. All wore healthy smiles and had color in their fattened cheeks.

Grant hung back, saying nothing, except a nod when Jocelyn introduced him. As she spoke to Lucy, Grant picked a tiny wildflower, crouched down, and presented it solemnly to little Flora. She took it, just as solemnly, and curtsied. His expression softened. Flora smiled. Two year-old Mary approached shyly, and did a little twisting kind of dance, chewing her lip and eyeing Grant expectantly. Kneeling to get eye-level with her, he offered her a flower as well. She beamed and accepted his gift as if he’d handed her a treasure.

His eyes softened and his mouth curved. A smile.

Jocelyn’s heart turned into the consistency of warm pudding. The crusty Grant Amesbury was gentle with children. And he’d smiled.

Lucy watched the exchange. “He’s a right handsome man, miss,” she said softly.

“He is.” Jocelyn agreed wholeheartedly. And this new, softer side she’d discovered in him over the last few days only added to his appeal. One day, Jocelyn would be the reason he smiled.

As if feeling their gaze, he glanced in their direction, wiped away all traces of his smile, and stood.

Jocelyn grinned at Lucy. “I bid you all a fond farewell.”

With their goodbyes and well wishes ringing in her ears, she left with Grant at her side. After riding in comfortable silence, they arrived in front of the stables. Grant quickly dismounted and turned to her with upraised hands. She released her reins and reached out to him. As his hands closed over her waist, a tingling sensation left her breathless. He carefully lowered her to the ground. Though he’d helped her down only yesterday, she had been so overset by the day’s events that she hadn’t experienced such awareness of him. Yesterday, she had even stood in his arms as she’d cried. Then she’d been only vaguely aware of warmth and comfort. Today every nerve vibrated as they stood inches apart, upper bodies almost touching, his hands lingering on her hips.