A Clandestine Courtship (7 page)

He had expected an apology for capitulating to John’s tantrum. Or perhaps an offer to put the breeding operation under his control, since John had no interest in it. But the earl had been anything but amiable, lashing out before James even got through the doorway.

How dare you ravish the Price girl? After everything I’ve done for you, how can you repay me with this!

The shock had snapped his own temper. Accepting responsibility for John’s pranks was one thing, but he refused to admit to such calumny. And so he’d offered his alibi and accused John.

Liar, his father had shouted. I’ve given you chances to reform before, but this time you’ve gone too far. Denying your guilt is bad enough, but trying to pass the blame onto your innocent brother is unforgivable. I’ve often regretted your misfortune at being second, but I should have listened to those who recognized the malicious resentment you have harbored all these years. It is time to rectify the mistakes of the past by removing any opportunity for further trouble. You will leave Ridgeway forever. No more allowance; no more sweeping your crimes under the rug. I am writing you out of my will. You are no longer my son.

But the earl had died before his solicitor arrived. And the will had left James a fortune with the explanation,
for my younger son, who missed a birthright through a quirk of fate.

John had been furious. Never once had he suspected that James would inherit more than the usual second son’s portion. And he had fired the solicitor on the spot when he learned that the money had been transferred to James’s account on the day the old earl died. Bradshaw had known John well enough to expect trouble. John would never have turned over a shilling.

James frowned.
No orders.
John had been gone for six months before his death. The servants had done nothing during that time, for John had left no orders. Thus his departure must have been sudden. Why? Had he received bad news from town? Or had he been fleeing vengeance? Perhaps he had chosen the wrong victim for one of his crimes. It gave James something to investigate.

So which of the locals might have kept his anger hot for six months? He could not believe that a sudden argument had led to such a brutal crime. Killing, maybe, but not torture.

Don’t lose sight of any possibilities.
You don’t know what started that feud – or when.
It was important to identify the killer’s grievance, but it might have started two or three visits ago, or even more. John’s trips to Ridgeway had been sporadic. He had appeared without warning, inflicted instant chaos, then left within days.

James had no real suspects. And he needed help from someone who lived in the area. This visit to town proved that he had little chance of succeeding on his own. Fearing he was another John, people would tell him even less than they had told Isaac.

Which brought him back to Mary. It was odd how his thoughts always circled back to her. She knew everyone, so could direct him to people who might be willing to talk. She would know what rumors were current, who had started them, and might even know who was guilty.

But even with help, finding the killer would take time. There seemed to be a conspiracy of silence on the subject. He was going to be here far longer than the fortnight he had expected.

 * * * *

James set his plans in motion at the Northrup party that evening. But it wasn’t easy.

“You look lovely,” he told Mary, slipping up behind her the moment she abandoned the receiving line. And she
was
lovely. Her blonde hair was caught up in an arrangement of waves and curls that made his fingers itch to touch it. It would cascade to her hips once he removed the pins. The image of all that hair spread in a halo over his pillow nearly blinded him.

He cursed.

Her only adornment was a locket on a thin gold chain that he recognized as having been her mother’s. Its simplicity drew further attention to her charms.

She looked at him doubtfully. “Thank you, my lord, but I cannot hold a candle to Amelia. I doubt you recall her, since you’ve been away so long.”

And somehow he found himself talking to Amelia Northrup, with Mary nowhere in sight. The elder Northrup girl was small, delicate, and so serene that she would have disappeared into the walls if she had been plainer. After exchanging a few innocuous comments, she asked about London, so he handed her off to Harry, claiming that he knew little of the city.

It took a quarter hour to corner Mary again, because every guest wanted a word with him. They were better at hiding their fears than the servants and merchants had been, but the same questions blazed in their eyes.

“I need to talk with you for a moment,” he murmured into Mary’s ear. “Is there someplace we could go that is private?”

“Gracious! Surely you were taught better manners!” she scoffed, making no attempt to sound genial. “No hostess can leave the drawing room this close to dinner. Why don’t you relax and enjoy the evening?”

Before he could dredge up an apology, he found himself conversing with Caroline Northrup, a vivacious beauty who should have attracted his eyes earlier. But he had murder on his mind, and a ten-year-old affair was eating holes in his gut. He was so angry at the practiced way she had again slipped out of his clutches that it took him a moment to realize that Caroline’s vivacity bordered on hysteria.

She was trying to control it, clenching her hands whenever she spoke, but fear lurked in her eyes; her gaze darted about the room, studiously avoiding him; her words bumped into one another, becoming so garbled he could barely follow her conversation; and her coloring brightened and faded, sputtering like a badly trimmed wick.

Either she was terrified of him, or the excitement of the evening was too much for her. So he introduced her to Edwin. If anyone could calm her down, Edwin could.

He grimaced. In the two minutes since their last exchange, Mary had worked her way to the far side of the room. He followed.

“Thank goodness Lord Northrup finally returned,” said a horse-faced woman as he passed. “He will keep Lady Northrup in line. And about time.” Creases of disapproval were permanently etched into her face, but the words hinted that Mary was not a pillar of the community.

Pressing on, he passed Miss Hardaway, who had been the most vicious village gossip since before his birth.

“Mourning. Hmph!” she snorted at her companion. “She did not care a whit for Northrup – not that any of us did. No one would have thought twice if she had refused to mourn him, but she pounced on the chance to escape scrutiny for a year.” Another snort split the air. “But she was mistaken if she thought it would put her conduct beyond censure. We all know she visited Captain Stone twice a week for more than a month.”

“But he was recovering from injuries,” protested her friend.

“Not by then. He returned to the Peninsula when he left here.”

James bit back a retort. It sounded like John was far from Mary’s only paramour – not that her morals were his concern. But he had to wonder why Isaac was courting her if everyone knew about her liaisons. It didn’t jibe with the man who had once been his friend.

Enough!
They had business to discuss once he cleared her of complicity in John’s death – he could not picture his response if she was guilty.

But she would be innocent. The fact that everyone in the room knew about her fall from grace eliminated any motive. If John had no leverage, she had no grievance. So he could solicit her help to find the killer.

Get this over with so you can relax.

But he could not reach her. Every time he paused to respond to a greeting, she slipped farther away. Her unwillingness to face him exasperated him beyond bearing. But not until dinner did he realize her true purpose. He was seated between Amelia and Caroline, with Harry and Edwin on their other sides.

Matchmaker! Damn!

His own purpose had blinded him to hers. How could he have missed the signs? He would have to step as carefully as he had done in London. Marriage had to wait until he had finished with the past. But even if he were ready to wed, he would never choose the Northrup girls. They might be fine young ladies, but they seemed little more than children. So he set himself to be scrupulously polite but aloof. It was an act he had perfected.

He couldn’t really blame Mary, he decided over the second course. He had haunted the Marriage Mart for two months, using his spurious search for a wife as an excuse to avoid Ridgeway. She had probably seen his name in the society columns. And he
would
have to marry soon. A title carried many responsibilities, one of which was to produce an heir.

But he would not look in London when the time came. He wanted a wife who could also be a friend, one that saw beyond his wealth and title. The girls making their bows had been giggly and empty-headed, unable to converse intelligently on any topic beyond fashion and gossip. Many of them hung on his arm despite overt wariness over his kinship to John. And they were so young, so ignorant, so incredibly naïve…

Perhaps his travels had aged him unduly, but every one of the chits made him feel as old as Methuselah. Never mind that he was only three-and-thirty. It was a problem that would only worsen with time, so he had to wind up this business soon.

The ladies retired, leaving the gentlemen to their port. Conversation grew predictably bawdy as guests relieved themselves one by one in the chamber pot, but James remained silent, assessing each man as he recalled what he knew of him.

Isaac, former friend and local magistrate. Had he investigated any of John’s questionable activities? John would have retaliated, which might have forced Isaac into an escalating battle. Or John may have persecuted Isaac solely because he had been James’s friend.

Sir Richard Redfield, whose son was the neighborhood scamp. He had seen parents go to incredible lengths to protect their children. Had John threatened the boy in reprisal for a prank?

Sir Maxwell Granger, a staid, unimaginative baronet, whose estate was older even than Ridgeway. Sir Maxwell was excessively proud of its history, and frequently compared it to others – always in his own favor. Had he made disparaging remarks about Ridgeway that John had taken as personal insults? Ridgeway’s deterioration made it likely. But would that lead to murder?

Lord Holcolme and his cousin Edward. James knew little of either, but Edward was about his own age, so he would have known John in London, and perhaps also at Oxford.

Colonel Davis, still hale, though he must be seventy. His son had been stationed in India when James first arrived, though they had only spoken twice. Now the man was serving on the Peninsula. But he could imagine no conflict between the colonel and John – unless the rumors were true that John was involved in smuggling. Many smugglers aided French spies, infuriating every military man in the country.

The new vicar, who was oddly outspoken for a man of the cloth.

The doctor, two solicitors, and half a dozen young people he could not place – friends of Northrup, he supposed. They would have been children on his last visit.

His eyes finally rested on his host. Northrup had also been in India, though they had not met there. Did that hold any significance? Northrup was the one man who was truly innocent of murder, yet he was the most hostile man in the room. His eyes hardened whenever he glanced at James. Only the presence of others kept his teeth unbared. Was Northrup another who was reacting to his looks? But that made little sense. Northrup had been abroad for years. Even virulent hatred should have dissipated. Did his remain, or was it new?

Perhaps he had only recently learned of some serious offense. He might look askance on John’s affair with Mary. Or was there a worse crime that had struck directly at Northrup’s family?

 * * * *

“I really must talk with you privately,” James murmured to Mary once the gentlemen reached the drawing room. She was settling the older guests at card tables. Most of the younger ones had repaired to the music room for informal dancing.

Irritation flashed across her face. “If you are offering for one of my sisters, talk to Northrup.”

“I am not interested in either of your sisters, and Northrup cannot help me. He’s been gone nearly as long as I have. Surely you can spare me five minutes. No one will miss you. They are engrossed in cards.”

“Persistent, aren’t you?” She sighed, but led the way to a small sitting room.

He shut the door firmly behind them. “Do you have to treat me like a pariah?” He regretted the question the moment the words burst out.

“Am I neglecting my guests so you can complain because I’m not falling at your feet in adoration?”

“No. I am trying to find my brother’s killer,” he said bluntly. “But it isn’t easy. He accumulated enemies the way Shelford collects driving records.” Shelford was a noted Corinthian who spent much of his life racing.

“Why come to me? Squire Church is conducting the investigation.”

“I know. I already spoke with him, but he is satisfied to let the matter go.”

“Without evidence, what would you suggest he do?”

He shrugged. “Maybe he is right, and the killer came from elsewhere. I have men checking that possibility. But I don’t believe he ever seriously considered the local connection. Thus he hasn’t asked the right questions. Every person in the district must have a theory about who killed John. Since you knew him better than anyone, I want to hear yours.”

She frowned. “Where did you get that idea? He was Frederick’s friend, not mine.”

“Don’t lie to me,” he interrupted, anxious to get this phase of the conversation finished. “I don’t care what either of you did. John was despicable, but that does not give anyone the right to kill him. Even you.”

“Me?” she spat. “Did the Indian sun addle your wits? What earthly reason would I have to take a life?”

“I want justice, Mary.” He walked close enough to loom over her. “And I don’t care what secrets I have to expose to get it. I’ve known about your affair for years. I doubt you entered it by choice, but even if it continued until John’s death, I wouldn’t blame you. Your husband was rarely at home.” He had not intended to say that much, but the words poured out, leaving gaping wounds behind. Damn John! And damn Mary. He cared, all right. No matter how much he deplored the idea, he cared.