A Bride by Moonlight (37 page)

Her face began to crumple a little.

Napier reached out and laid a hand on her shoulder. “He said that people were trying to plague him to death,” he gently suggested. “Is that it? But he did not say it directly to you, I’m guessing?”

She gave a short shake of her head that set her ringlets bouncing.

“Perhaps you heard him saying it to himself?” Napier gently pressed. “Perhaps when you were playing in the pantry, and he did not know you were there? It must have sounded a little like the things Lord Hepplewood said.”

“Well, no one believed Uncle Hep, and look what came of it.” Bea’s lip thrust out a little stubbornly. “And I did not make it up. Mrs. Jansen thinks I did, but I did not. Papa said it all the time. He even said it to Craddock once. You can ask him.”

Napier patted her shoulder. “Oh, I believe you,” he assured her. “But Bea, it is something grown-ups just
say
. It’s just an expression—and our saying it means we’re frustrated. It doesn’t mean we actually believe people wish us ill.”

Her gaze locked with his, hard and fierce. “But Papa
did
die,” she said grimly. “He said it would happen—over and over—and then
it did
. They nagged and they shouted and they said vile things until he just
died
.”

Her vehemence shocked him. For a long moment, Napier considered it, and when he spoke, he chose his words with great care. “And when you say
they
, Bea, who do you mean, exactly? It will be our secret—and I’m very good at keeping secrets, too.”

Beatrice stared into the grass, her blonde eyebrows knotted. “
Gwen and Diana
,” she whispered accusingly. “Gwen shouted at him and Diana cried—Diana
always
cries—I
hate
her. And then—and then I
don’t know
what happened! Not for sure. But Papa fell down! And then he—he just
died
.”

Napier caught her hand in his and gave it a reassuring squeeze—and this time he held it. “Bea, were you in the pantry that day?” he said. “Remember, I’m just guessing. But you wrote to me, Bea, for a reason. Because you were worried. And because I catch bad people, yes? I don’t think there are any bad people in this story—merely some unhappy ones—but let’s be sure,
hmm
?”

With what looked like grave reluctance, she nodded.

“All right,” he said calmly. “Now, was the pantry door open?”

She gave a tight shake of her head.

“But there was some sort of quarrel?” he said. “With Gwyneth and Diana?”

“First Gwen,” she said resentfully, “then Diana.”

“Bea,” he said solemnly, “I think you should tell me, as best you can, exactly what you heard.”

When she did not respond, he tipped her chin up with his finger. “Bea, it troubles you,” he said. “I know it does. But I cannot understand it—or more importantly, explain it to you—unless you tell me.”

She exhaled slowly, then her gaze caught his, regretful and wary. “Gwen came into Papa’s study. She started a big fight. It was about Mrs. Jansen and that house again.”

“Ah, the dower house, perhaps?”

“Yes, that,” said the girl. “She wanted it, and she wanted to take Mrs. Jansen away to live in it.”

Napier nodded. “And what did your Papa say?”

“That Gwen needed to hush up and go to London and find a husband,” said Bea. “They fought about it all the time. But this time Gwen said that if he would not give her the house, she was going to take Mrs. Jansen and go back to Amsterdam. And Papa said she was not so big he could not put her over his knee. That she was un-
unnatural—
and wanted straightening out. And then they yelled some more, and Papa said she was going to plague him to death.”

“Ah,” said Napier quietly. “And then what happened?”

Again, the little shrug. “The door slammed, and Papa said some bad words. Then he went to the table and got his brandy. I heard him put it on the desk, and take out the stopper. It makes a
chink!
sound.”

“Yes, I know exactly.” Napier wished all his witnesses had such a memory. “You’re very good, Bea, with your descriptions.”

“Then someone knocked on the door, and it was Diana.”

“Ah. And did they quarrel, too?”

The girl’s fretful look returned. “Not at first,” she said. “Diana just cried. And then she said she did not want to marry him.”

“I see,” said Napier. “Had you overheard such discussions before?”

Bea nodded in an exaggerated fashion. “Yes,” she said darkly. “But this time Diana said that she was begging him. That she would do anything, if only he would tell Aunt Hepplewood.”

“And what, exactly, did Diana want him to tell her?”

“That he didn’t want to marry her,” said Bea.

“Ah,” said Napier.

It made sense. Diana was cowed by Lady Hepplewood. Her father was dependent upon the Hepplewood estate, not just for his position as steward, but for the very roof over his head.

“And what did your father say to that?” he went on.

“He said she was just having bridal nerves again,” said the girl, “and that it would all go away once the vows were said, and that he would be gentle. Then she cried even worse, and said she couldn’t bear it. That she did not love him, and could never love him, and did not want him to touch her. That the very notion was ab-abhorrish or something—to her.”

“Abhorrent, perhaps?”

“Yes, that.”

Napier winced. Strong words indeed—and ugly ones, too. He was glad Bea didn’t seem to grasp their full import.

“I see,” he said quietly. “Well, Bea, that is unfortunate. I think we are very right to keep it a secret.”

“And
then
they had a quarrel,” said the girl, more intently. “They started shouting. Diana said she hated him, and she was not a broodmare, whatever that means.”

“
Hmm
,” said Napier warily.

“And Papa started yelling—he never yelled—but he did, and he said she was mad as a hatter, and that a gentleman mightn’t beg off and that she could just damned well do it herself.”

Jesus Christ.

For an instant, Napier shut his eyes. “And then what?”

“I heard him cry out,” she said. “And then I heard glass break. And Diana ran out screaming that Papa had collapsed. She lied, and said she’d just found him like that. But . . . she plagued him to death. That’s what
I
think.”

Napier took her hand again. “Bea, I always want to know when something worries you. But Dr. Underwood told me that your papa had an apoplexy. That’s something no one can see and no one can predict.”

She lifted her slender shoulders again and sighed. “Anyway, he’s dead now, isn’t he?” she said sadly. “And now I wonder if—”

“Yes? If what, sweet?”

Bea cut him a dark look. “What if someone starts plaguing Grandpapa?” she said quietly. “What if he is . . .” Her little face started to crumple.

“They won’t,” he said, giving her hand another squeeze. “Bea, I promise.”

She lifted her gaze to his, looking somewhat reassured. “Well,” she said, “I still think Gwen is just mean. And I still hate Diana.”

Napier drew the child close, and set an arm about her shoulders. The responsible adult in him knew he should tell her not to hate anyone. But the policeman in him knew that many people had earned a measure of hatred.

Was Gwen one of them? Or Diana?

No. Gwen might be a bit blunt and mannish, and Diana was trapped in the thankless role of poor female relation. She had no power over her own dominion, and perhaps it had driven her to despair.

“I’ll tell you what I think we should do,” he said, standing and pulling Beatrice to her feet. “You should let me worry about all this from here out, and trust that I will deal with it. Can you do that?”

The child nodded.

“You may count on me, Bea,” he said as reassuringly as he knew how. “And tomorrow, perhaps you and Mrs. Jansen and I might take a walk into the village?”

“To the village?”

“Yes,” said Napier. “Perhaps you might like to gather some flowers for your Papa’s grave? Then we’ll take them, the three of us. I used to do that with my father. Especially when I was uncertain about things—work things, especially—I’d just go and talk out loud to him.”

“So he’s dead, too?”

Napier nodded. “Yes,” he said. “He was your Uncle Nicholas, you know, and I’m sorry he did not live long enough to meet you. But we can still talk to them, Bea. And it will reassure you, I hope, that your father is happy in heaven, and always watching over you.”

“All right,” she said softly.

He gave her an awkward pat on the head. “And after that’s done,” he added, “I think we should stop at that bakery. The one with those little cakes you told me about.”

“The
sesame
ones?” Her eyes widened.

“Absolutely,” he said, taking her hand. “The
sesame
ones.”

CHAPTER 14

A Voice from the Grave

L
isette arrived, breathless, at the top of the east staircase. The corridor was as quiet as it had been in the wee hours of the morning when she’d rushed back to her room practically naked to collapse into a sobbing heap, intent on ruthlessly forcing herself to face the truth.

Her
affaire de coeur
with Royden Napier was at an end.

She had known, of course, it could not last—that the heated passion would scorch her in the end. Yet she had allowed herself to be lulled into denial by his touch. But Lisette had laid her life’s path long ago, and if her older and wiser self now yearned to go back—to alter that awful course she’d taken—it still could not be done.

Nonetheless, she could not make herself regret a moment spent in his arms. She didn’t even regret their quarrels. She would have those memories to cling to when Napier was gone from her life.

Hastily, she passed by his door, wondering if she should knock. But she simply could not face him again until she was more settled in her mind. Instead she burst into her own room to see that Fanny was there before her.

The maid was already laying out the clothes that were to be packed. “Oh, hullo, miss,” she said. “Just leave the door open, if you please. That Mr. Prater’s gone up to the lumber room to fetch down your trunks.”

Lisette scarcely heard her. “Fanny,” she said breathlessly, “where’s my brown morocco folio?”

Fanny’s brow furrowed. “Ah!” she said, turning and going into the dressing room. “Never took it from your carpetbag, I daresay.”

Lisette followed her in, watching anxiously as Fanny rummaged. On a triumphant sound, the maid drew out the tall, thin book. Lisette seized it from her hands. Going to the window, she flipped it open on the sill and began to page frantically through the news clippings she and Fanny had diligently pasted in it for years on end. Jack Coldwater’s journalistic oeuvre, such as it was.

“What are you after?” asked Fanny curiously.

“An old
Examiner
article,” she said. “The one about the
Golden Eagle
burning.”

Fanny set a hand on her arm. “Settle down, miss. The house ain’t afire. Look to the very front.”

Lisette started over, finding it at once. “Actually, no, not this one,” she said her eyes rapidly scanning it. “The one from the
next
day. Or perhaps the day after that. About Mrs. Stanton.”

Calmly, Fanny flipped to the next page. “It’s right here, miss,” she said. “But awfully old news.”

Hastily, Lisette reread it, then gave it a good yank, ripping the entire page—newsprint, paste and paper—from the portfolio. Her mind worked frantically. Mrs. Stanton had died quickly—and for reasons no one could immediately discern. Lord Hepplewood had lingered. And then—suddenly—the end had come.

“Pencil,” she ordered, holding out a hand as she read.

“Righty-ho,” said Fanny.

Sitting down at the desk, Lisette began circling the pertinent parts of the article, Fanny bent over her shoulder. “I surely don’t see, miss, why you’re so fixed on poor Mrs. Stanton again.”

“It’s that dratted dream,” Lisette muttered, now scribbling in the margins. “It’s haunting me, Fanny.”

And the thing was, indeed, more nightmare than dream, variants of which she’d suffered through the years. Usually the dream was of Ashton reeling drunkenly as he tried to snatch the article. Other times the words vanished as fast as she wrote them.

But sometimes—more and more of late—the dream began on the docks with the gruesome sight of Mrs. Stanton convulsing and near death. Since coming to Burlingame, Lisette had dreamt pieces of it over and over. The first might have been happenstance. But beyond that? Well, there was no accounting for inner workings of the human mind.

Her scribbling finished, she folded the article and weighed her options, none especially attractive. Doing nothing was really quite out of the question. There was an inherent risk, perhaps, in passing the actual article along. But if she could not give Napier an answer to the one question he kept asking, could she give him this, at the very least?

For a moment, she drummed her fingers on the desktop. “Have you any idea, Fanny, where Mr. Napier might be?”

Fanny had returned to her pile of clothing on the bed. “Mr. Jolley said he meant to ride to Wiltshire.”

“Ah.” Something inside her fell a little.

But really, what had she expected? To find the man prostrate with grief on her threshold this morning? She snorted aloud. Royden Napier probably couldn’t even spell
prostrate
.

Still, she had promised in good faith to help him. Lisette might be a lot of things, but she did not go back on her word. Could she resolve this before his return, and prove Hepplewood’s death accidental? Diana, hen-witted though she was, might be of help.

But the time had to be now: Lisette was leaving in the morning, and this wouldn’t make for pleasant dinner conversation.

Hastily, she stuffed the page into an envelope and jotted Napier’s name across it. If her conversation with Diana turned up anything, she could decide then whether to leave it for him.

Leaping up, Lisette snatched her shawl from the open wardrobe. “Fanny, would you lay out the yellow silk for dinner?”

“Righty-ho,” said Fanny again. “Where are you off to in such a tizzy?”

Lisette was indeed already flying toward the door. “To find Diana,” she said. “I want to ask her about—”

Just then, Prater came through, carrying Lisette’s massive traveling trunk balanced neatly on one shoulder.

“Oh, Prater, thank you,” said Lisette. “How strong you are.”

He set the trunk by her bed with a grunt, then rose, blushing. “Thank you, miss.”

Suddenly it struck Lisette she was overlooking a possible font of information. “Prater,” she said, turning around again, “you worked in Lord Hepplewood’s bedchamber, did you not, taking down the watered silk?”

“Yes, miss.” He looked at her oddly.

“I was wondering—how did you do it? I mean, it’s pasted, isn’t it?”

The young man shrugged his wide shoulders. “I’m sure I don’t know, miss,” he said. “But we sponged it with warm vinegar. Devilish stuff, it was.”

“Walton did most of it, didn’t he? And removed the curtains and the bed hangings?”

“That’s right, miss.”

“Then what became of it all?”

For a moment, he looked at her blankly. “Oh, ’twas burnt,” he said. “The wall hanging, that is. It tore something frightful. The rest of it—well, I’m sure I don’t know.”

“Ah.” Lisette tapped her toe a moment. “Look, Prater, I need to speak with Dr. Underwood.”

“Sorry you’re not feeling well, miss.”

Fanny was glowering at her suspiciously now.

“Well, it’s probably nothing,” said Lisette, flinging on her shawl as she passed, “but could you ask Marsh to send word?”

The young man tugged at his forelock. “Straightaway, miss.”

Then, at the last instant, she turned around again. “By the way, Prater, you haven’t seen Miss Jeffers about, have you?”

“She went out earlier with Miss Willet on her arm. Headed toward the boathouse, I believe she said.”

“Thank you, I’ll run her to ground,” she said. “Oh, and Fanny—hold back the burgundy carriage dress for tomorrow. We’ll try to catch the first train.”

Lisette left them hefting back the lid of her old traveling truck and hastened back through the house and into the gardens. Beyond the lee of the house, the wind whipped at her shawl and tossed her hair wildly. Impatient, she marched on down the hill, but even in the shadows of the boathouse she could see no one.

Lifting her face to the hill beyond, Lisette scanned the path leading into the wood. Just then she thought she caught a little flash of yellow, high in the folly tower. But just as quickly it was gone again. A bird? Something tossed by the wind, perhaps?

With a rueful glance at her slippers, Lisette set off up the next hill, curiosity impelling her into the breeze. It was not strictly forbidden to take visitors out onto the crenellated parapet—Gwyneth had taken Lisette up shortly after her arrival—but it was dangerous in places and the wind was wicked today.

Ten minutes later she burst from the wood, puffing a bit, but at such a near angle she was unable to see much. Curious, she circled around the tower, hand lifted to block the sun. On the far side of the tower, Craddock’s masons had erected scaffolding. Repairs had begun, it appeared, high on the exterior stonework, working their way up to the crumbling section of the parapet.

Lisette went back around to the thick, rough-hewn door—unlocked as she’d sensed it would be. Pushing it open on creaking hinges, she stepped into the shadowy depths of the lower tower. High above, she could hear the wind almost howling through the balistraria, but below, the air was like that of an old church, musty and still, with a coolness that radiated from the thick walls.

Lisette started up the winding staircase, her footfalls soft on the stone. With each rise, the whistling grew more fierce—so fierce it really was not safe to climb out onto the parapet at all. But Diana, it seemed, had done so—dragging poor Miss Willet with her. Apparently they were both hen-witted.

Nonetheless, a growing sense of disquiet settled over her as she mounted step after step, growing a little dizzy from the incessant turning. After climbing what felt like a dozen flights, she was actually breathless. But she made the last turn to see that the wooden door above had been pushed wide, and a shaft of morning light shone across the last few steps.

“Diana?” she shouted up. “Diana, are you here?”

There was no answer save the howl of the wind.

N
apier left Beatrice in the schoolroom under the watchful eye of Mrs. Jansen. They were preparing to focus on Euclidean geometry for the afternoon, since Lord Duncaster, thank God, held the unfashionable view that education was not wasted on women.

It was but one more enlightenment he’d had to suffer with regard to his grandfather, he inwardly grumbled, shutting the door behind him. Duncaster was a stubborn old devil, and like most of his class, a bit arrogant. Yet through the whole of his stay at Burlingame, Napier had seen nothing to give him a distrust, or even a dislike, of the man.

It ate at him a bit as he made his way through the vast, vaulted colonnade, his heels ringing hard upon the black and white marble. More and more it felt as if all that he’d believed in—and built his life upon—had been torn asunder by this visit.

He was going to end up with a ward, it seemed—a child he liked vastly. He had discovered a deep appreciation for fresh air. He’d learned that an overabundance of gilt, marble, and gaudy French furniture did not ruin one’s life, and that the father he’d idolized from afar and followed so diligently was looking less like a tireless crusader, and more like a flawed character from a Shakespearean tragedy.

And then, to add agony to injury, he’d fallen in love. Desperately, heartbreakingly in love—with a woman who, despite all the gilt and French furniture, would likely never agree to be Baroness Saint-Bryce.

Oh, he had not given up—and he wouldn’t. But his heart was heavy with dread, and with the certain knowledge that he had brought this misery on himself; that he’d made the sort of mistake the greenest constable would have known never to make. He had pushed when he should simply have listened.

Years of experience had taught Napier that people rarely needed urging on. Were a police officer worth his salt, he’d often learn a vast deal more by simply waiting and letting the object of his query speak. Everyone showed his colors sooner or later—and usually it was sooner.

But he already knew Elizabeth Colburne’s colors. She was true as Coventry blue.

He was grimly, determinedly certain that she was the woman he’d waited for all of his life. And somehow, he had to find a way to salvage this.

He arrived upstairs to a cool, shadowy corridor. But beyond his bedchamber, some six doors down, Lisette’s room stood open, permitting the morning sun to cut across the passageway. Just then, Prater came down the servants’ stairs, a pair of portmanteaus in hand.

“Mr. Prater,” he said. “Good morning.”

“And to you, my lord.” The footman carried the bags through Lisette’s open door.

Something inside him went cold with dread.

As if drawn by a magnet, Napier strode past his own room, apprehension weighing heavier with each step. In Prater’s wake, dust motes settled back into the blade of light, dancing on the air. He turned into it, following the footman, not even thinking to knock.

Inside, the sun-warmed air was redolent with Lisette’s scent. A yawning trunk sat open in the floor. Prater set the portmanteaus at the foot of the bed. Atop the mattress, Fanny was folding clothing into the truck’s tray—and one scarcely needed a team of crack detectives at one’s disposal to grasp what was
unfolding
.

“When is she leaving?” The words came as if from a deep well, Napier barely realizing he’d spoken.

Fanny looked up in some surprise. “In the morning, sir,” said the maid, lifting her chin. “First train, she said.”

“I see.” Napier tried to think. “Yes. Well. Where is she now?”

Fanny hesitated, but Prater was less discreet. “Gone looking for Miss Jeffers,” he said. “Toward the ornamental lake.”

But Napier did not shift his gaze from the maid. “She can’t go, Fanny,” he said hollowly. “I can’t let her go. Not without me. Do you understand?”

The maid shrugged. “It scarcely matters, my lord, what
I
understand.”

But what sort of answer had he expected? She was Lisette’s servant—and confidante, no doubt.

Napier turned about on his heel, something akin to rage unfolding inside him like a slow burn. Not rage toward Lisette, but toward circumstance. Toward his own unbridled stupidity. Good Lord, was he to have no opportunity to make this right? Did she mean to give him no chance at all?

It did not bear thinking about. It would not happen. And to hell with his notion of chasing her to the ends of the earth.