An Heir of Uncertainty (17 page)

Win swung out of the saddle. “No news, aside from my having spent the afternoon on a fool’s errand. I was trying to learn who might’ve bought arsenic recently, but didn’t turn up any useful information.”

“It were arsenic that killed Sam Dalkin’s dog, weren’t it, sir?” The groom screwed up his mouth in a thoughtful expression. “I believe we keep some of that here.”

“Do you?” Win said with interest. “Here in the stables?”

“Aye, sir, from when we were between cats last year. We used it to keep the mice down.”

“I’d like to have a look at it.”

“I can show thee.” The groom called a stable boy over and handed off the horse. “It’s this way, sir, in the tack room.”

Win followed the groom through the stables to the narrow room with its single window. Saddles rested on racks against the left wall, while opposite them, a line of harness and bridles hung from pegs. A stout cupboard stood at the end of the room, directly beneath the window.

The groom went to the cupboard and opened it to reveal the tools and supplies of a saddler, from carpet thread to hand punches to a small box of buckles. He squatted down on his haunches and began rifling through the shelves. “Let’s see...neat’s foot oil, saddle soap, castile soap, harness blacking...” He moved the boxes, tins and jars about, searching. “I know I saw it here afore.”

Win waited. The groom went through every shelf once, then a second time. At last he looked up. “I’m sorry, sir. It
were
here, but isn’t now.”

“Was it a tin with Ball’s Rat Killer on the label?”

The groom’s brows rose higher. “Why, yes, sir. Has thou seen it?”

“No, but at least you’ve solved the mystery of where the poison that killed Beauty came from.”

Changing for dinner an hour later, Win had the unsettling feeling that something was different about the room. He scanned his surroundings—the dresser, the bed, the mantelpiece—trying to put his finger on what it was. The maids had made up the bed and lit the fire, and the footman serving as his temporary valet had laid out his evening clothes. Was that all that had changed? Why, then, did he have the nagging feeling he was missing something?

In the end, he went down to dinner without discovering the answer, hoping his mind was simply playing tricks on him.

* * *

Lina could scarcely believe what a hive of activity the normally quiet dower house had become. The sweep and his boy were busy clearing the last of the blocked chimneys, with the master calling instructions up the chimney to his young apprentice. The carpenter, Silas Battersby, was hard at work measuring the woodwork in the entry hall, marking down his calculations with a fat black pencil, his own apprentice watching over his shoulder. The plasterer intended to come early the next day, Mr. Battersby informed her, once he’d removed the damaged wainscoting.

She was still in the drawing room, working on the mourning scene she was embroidering, when a heavy thud and a muffled oath echoed from the entry hall.

She hurried to investigate. Mr. Battersby was sitting on the slate floor, a length of wood molding in his hand and a rueful look on his face, while his apprentice struggled to stifle his laughter.

“What happened?” she asked.

“It were only me, my lady,” Mr. Battersby said. “I took a tumble.”

“Are you all right?”

“Aye, fine, fine, just clumsy.”

“Thee doesn’t know thy own strength,” said his apprentice with poorly hidden amusement. For Lina’s benefit he explained, “He went to tug on the chair rail and it came off in his hand, as easy as you please.”

“Aye,” Mr. Battersby agreed, climbing to his feet. “It weren’t proper nailed down.”

Lina regarded him in sympathy. “Oh, dear. I’m glad you weren’t hurt.”

“Only me pride, my lady.”

“And thy backside.” His apprentice peered at the wood paneling below the missing chair rail and hooked a finger behind it, pulling the panel away from the wall by an inch or two. “This bit of wainscoting isn’t nailed down neither.”

Mr. Battersby regarded the woodwork with an air of professional disapproval. “Now that’s strange like. Somebody made a right poor job of it.”

“Or some young lad pulled out the nails,” his apprentice suggested, “to make a place to hide his treasure. There’s an hole in the wall behind this section.”

A hole in the wall? “It would be lovely if you did find hidden treasure,” Lina said. “A chest of gold or a few diamond necklaces wouldn’t go amiss.”

Mr. Battersby chuckled. “Aye, my lady, now that would be a find.”

She smiled, though she’d been more than half serious about the treasure. Then, at least, she’d have money enough to live comfortably even if her baby was a girl.

The thought no sooner crossed her mind than her smile faded. It was the first time she’d ever admitted, even to herself, that she might not have a boy.

She turned away, hugging herself against a sudden chill. She’d told herself God couldn’t possibly want her child to grow up poor, couldn’t possibly give her anything but a son who would be the next Earl of Radbourne.

Unfortunately, the more she came to know Win Vaughan, the more she wondered if the Almighty might actually prefer Win’s cause to her own.

Chapter Twelve

Will you vouchsafe to teach a soldier terms
Such as will enter at a lady’s ear
And plead his love-suit to her gentle heart?

—William Shakespeare

The next morning, Win rode over to see Mr. Channing. As he neared the avenue leading to the manor house, he discovered the magistrate outdoors, down on one knee, inspecting the stone wall that ran along the perimeter of his property.

Win swung out of the saddle. With his good arm he held his horse by the bridle. “Good day, Mr. Channing.”

He expected Mr. Channing to rise and greet him, but the older man only glanced up with a surly expression. “Mr. Vaughan.”

Hardly the friendliest welcome he’d ever received. “I suppose you’ve heard about Sam Dalkin’s dog?”

“Aye, I heard the news yesterday.”

“I’ve been wondering if, as magistrate here, you have any idea who might be responsible for Beauty’s death.”

Moving away a few feet, still regarding the wall, Mr. Channing shook his head. “I can’t help you, Mr. Vaughan. We’ve our poachers and suspected poachers, the same as any part of England, but not a one I know would sink to poisoning a man’s dog. I’m not condoning poaching, mind, but Luke Haigh and the Bean lads aren’t the sort of desperate characters to go that far.”

Win patted his horse’s neck. “I was told you were at Belryth on Saturday night.”

Mr. Channing had been bent over, inspecting the bottom of his wall, but at this he straightened. “Aye, I was.” His eyes went to Win’s sling, and he frowned slightly. “The same day you broke your arm.”

“May I ask what you were doing at the abbey, given that you never attempted to see me or my brother?”

“You may ask, Mr. Vaughan, but I’m not of a mind to tell you.”

Channing had seemed friendly enough, and not half so tightlipped, when they’d met the week before. So why the opposition now? “It’s Colonel Vaughan, actually. Were you looking for Dr. Strickland?”

“If I was, that’s my business.”

“And mine as well, if you conduct it on abbey land.”

Channing blew out his breath in a huff, then considered a moment. “Aye, that’s a fair point.” He nodded. “You’re right, I was looking for Dr. Strickland—though I’d as soon keep the reason to myself.”

Win’s jaw clenched in frustration. As unsatisfied as the answer left him, he was reluctant to press a man further on what could be a private medical matter.

There was one line of questioning, however, he had no intention of giving up so easily. “When Lady Radbourne told you she was pushed in Malton that day, why didn’t you believe her?”

“Who says I didn’t believe her?”

“Dr. Strickland for one, and Lady Radbourne for another.”

“Do they, now?” Channing frowned. “I haven’t made up my mind one way or the other. It’s my job as magistrate to weigh all the facts.”

“I was present when it happened, and I’m convinced she was pushed.”

“The driver and the guard on the Mail thought otherwise. They didn’t see anyone standing close enough to her to push her—saving yourself, that is.”

“Then they’re mistaken.” With an effort, Win held on to his patience, his only concession to anger the tightening of his hand on his horse’s bridle. “You know the area and the people of the neighborhood far better than I do. Have you any theories on who might wish to harm Lady Radbourne?”

Again Channing gave him a shrewd look. “I had a vague sort of notion, but I’m less keen on it today.”

Why was he being so uncommunicative? Could Mr. Channing be behind recent events at the abbey—or perhaps the financial irregularities there? “There’s an estate matter I need to discuss with the trustees, and with Mr. Niven and Sir John Blessingame as well. I’ve already asked the others and their ladies to dinner on Friday, and I’m considering adding Dr. Strickland to the guest list. I can count on you and Mrs. Channing to join us, I hope?”

“I thought you were going back to Hampshire.”

“I’ve changed my mind,” Win said, and declined to elaborate. Two could play at the game of unhelpful evasions. “Will you come to dinner Friday evening or not?”

Mr. Channing’s glance darted to Win’s face before he looked back at the wall he’d been inspecting. He gave a tight, almost grudging nod. “Aye, we’ll be there.”

“Until Friday, then.”

Win rode away baffled by the exchange. If Channing was behind the discrepancies in the account books, he should have shown some sign of discomposure at the prospect of a meeting with Mr. Niven and the other trustees. Instead, he’d appeared more sullen than defensive. And Channing hadn’t seemed nearly as sure as Win had been led to believe that Lina’s fall in Malton had been a mere accident.

Win was most puzzled, however, by Channing’s bearing toward him. Yorkshire folk had a reputation for being stubborn, even argumentative, but not unfair. So why had the man’s manner gone from welcoming to hostile in the short time since they’d met? Channing was behaving as if he suspected
him.

Passing the dower house on his way back to the abbey, Win almost kept riding. He’d told himself it was better if he and Lina kept their distance. He had the impression she’d come to the same conclusion. But he did have news about the arsenic that had killed Beauty, and he ought to make sure that the chimneysweep and the carpenter he’d sent over had done the work he’d ordered...

A minute later, he was knocking on the dower house door. Daniel, one of the two footmen he’d sent over from the abbey, had scarcely answered his knock than Lina came sailing into the entrance hall, a smile lighting her lovely features.

“Colonel! I was just about to begin a small project, and you’re the perfect person to help me with it.”

All sign of the reticence she’d shown at their last meeting was gone. Apparently Mr. Channing wasn’t the only person whose bearing toward him had changed. Win was gratified, but also a bit puzzled. “What kind of project is that?”

“Come in and I’ll show you.”

He stepped inside. A section of woodwork was missing in the hall, and the wall looked freshly plastered. “I see the workmen have been here.”

“Yes, the plasterer finished today, and Mr. Battersby should be back soon to replace the wainscoting. The chimneys are clear again too. I can’t thank you enough.”

He kept his hat with him and followed her through the house. “I enjoy being thanked for things that require very little effort on my part.”

She laughed, a light, musical sound. “Even if the effort was minimal, the expense and the consideration were not. And you saw to it so promptly. Cassandra and I are both most appreciative.”

He had his own reason for appreciation, admiring the pleasing sway of her hips. She wore her glossy chestnut hair in a mass of curls caught up at the back, but the ends of the shining ringlets just brushed the back of her neck as she walked.

She led him to the sitting room, where a large sewing basket sat on the table with scraps of fabric laid out around it, everything from calicoes to muslins to worsted.

There was no sign of Miss Douglass. “Where’s your sister?”

“She’s upstairs having a nap.”

All the better, if he had Lina to himself. He regarded the scraps on the table. “This is the project you were talking about?”

She took the seat nearest the basket, and with a graceful gesture waved him into a chair opposite. “Yes, I wanted to do something for your daughter. I mean to make doll clothes for Margery Meanwell and Sir Charles, and if Julia likes those, I’ll show her how to sew new ones on her own.”

He took his seat, setting his hat on the chair beside him. “That’s very thoughtful of you. Julia will be delighted.”

The compliment brought a soft blush to Lina’s creamy complexion. “It was the sort of thing I enjoyed playing with when I was a girl. And sewing isn’t just an accomplishment every lady should have, but a useful skill as well.”

“I agree, though I’m not sure what I can do to help. I know how to thread a needle and sew on a button, but that’s as much as my years of soldiering taught me.”

“If you can thread a needle and sew on a button, you’re ahead of most gentlemen I know. But I wasn’t expecting you to turn seamstress’s assistant. I was simply hoping you could help me choose the materials for Sir Charles’s clothes.”

“I’d be happy to, though I expect Julia will be more interested in Margery’s trousseau. I don’t remember my sisters being half so mad as she is about fashion, and the showier the better. When playing dress-up, she gravitates toward any article that sports feathers, fur, spangles or ruffles.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, though I’ll have to take care that modest, unassuming Margery Meanwell doesn’t end up looking like a Parisian ladybird.”

He smiled ruefully. “And I’ll have to take care that Julia doesn’t end up looking like one.”

She laughed. “What brings you here today, Colonel?”

“Win,” he insisted.

She glanced about, as if satisfying herself that they were alone. “Win. Did you come to check on the repairs?”

“That, and to share a bit of news. I discovered that the poison used on Beauty came from the abbey stables. I also learned that Mr. Channing isn’t nearly as convinced as he led you to believe that your fall in Malton was an accident. Oh, and he seems to have taken me in dislike.”

“Has he? We should form a club, then. He doesn’t like Cassandra either. He takes his position as magistrate most seriously, and anyone who isn’t as dull and respectable as he is goes down in his black books.”

“He was meeting with Dr. Strickland on the night you came to my room.” When she dropped her gaze at his mention of her visit to his bedchamber, Win was emboldened enough to add, “You know, when I first met Mr. Channing, he suggested you and the doctor might be involved romantically.”

“What?” She sat up poker-straight, her green eyes stormy. “I’ve never been anything more than cordial to Dr. Strickland, and he’s entirely professional! Besides, he’d no sooner arrived in the neighborhood than Radbourne began courting me. And it’s Cassandra he admires. I would never—”

“Don’t distress yourself,” Win broke in, the vehemence of her denial dispelling any last doubts about her feelings for the doctor. “It didn’t take me long to realize Mr. Channing was entirely mistaken in almost everything he told me about you.”

Something in his tone must have satisfied her, for her indignation eased as quickly as it had come. “Thank you. It’s dreadful, the gossip small-minded people come up with.”

Win regretted having ever harbored a jealous dislike of Dr. Strickland. To cover his own small-mindedness, he pointed to one of the squares of fabric on the table, a cream pattern shot with gold. “This looks like something Julia would admire.”

Successfully distracted, Lina regarded it with a practiced eye. “The gold jacquard? I believe I have enough of that left to make a gown for Margery, or a waistcoat for Sir Charles.”

“Let’s use it for Sir Charles. He’ll look quite the peacock.”

“Then perhaps the black superfine for his coat, and the buff colored wool for his pantaloons?” She arranged the scraps side by side, examining them. A faint frown appeared between her delicate brows.

Win studied her expression. “Is something wrong with that combination? I was about to say it looks fine to me.”

“Oh, no, it’s quite dashing.” She sighed. “I was merely thinking that when I was a girl and I used to picture my idea of the perfect father, he was always wearing something like this. All that’s missing is the gold pocket watch that contains a miniature of my mother and a lock of my baby hair.” She gave Win a self-conscious, apologetic glance. “My imaginary father was always both sentimental and well dressed.”

“Speaking as a real father, we do a better job at the former than the latter.”

“My father didn’t.” She winced slightly. “I’m sorry, that sounded dreadfully bitter. You’d think at twenty-four years of age, I’d have outgrown such childish hurt feelings.”

“Not when you have a perfect right to feel that way.”

Her face took on a wistful, nostalgic cast. “I spent most of my girlhood wishing my father would come and see me, or perhaps even send for me to live with him.” She looked down, her dark lashes fanning her cheek. “I think the part that hurt the most was that I had a half-sibling, and his life was completely different from mine. He was a boy, and legitimate, born two years before me. He had everything I never had—a father and a mother both, and lineage and security and respect.”

“And where is he now?”

“He died of scarlet fever at the age of fourteen.”

“And you’re still here,” Win pointed out. “I’d say you came out the winner in that rivalry.”

She tipped her head to one side in measured agreement. “I know I should count my blessings. But as a child, that was my notion of the ideal life—to be wanted, and to belong.”

He certainly wanted her, though not in the way she meant. “When I was a child, my notion of the ideal life was to be the best at everything—the best rider, the best boxer, the best whip, the best shot.”

“And that isn’t your notion of the ideal life any more?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “Now I’d settle for simply being good at the most important things.”

She threw him a questioning look. “And what are the most important things, in your estimation?”

“Being a good father, a good provider, a good landlord...” He met her green eyes and a surge of desire ran through him, spurring him to add one last goal. “A good lover.”

* * *

Lina had been doing her best to pretend Win was only a friendly neighbor, like Dr. Strickland or even Miss Wilkins. It almost worked, if she didn’t look his way too often or think too much about that square jaw, that rugged profile and those bedroom eyes. If she kept her gaze from his tousled hair, her fingers didn’t itch to bury themselves in the thick waves. If she didn’t watch his mouth as he spoke, her lips didn’t tingle with the memory of kissing him.

And then he had to say it—
a good lover
—and tear all her careful defenses to shreds.

“And what makes a man a good lover?” It wasn’t what she meant to say at all, but the scorching awareness that sent a wave of heat rushing through her also made her blurt out the first reply that came to mind.