Emily Hendrickson (28 page)

When she met his intense gaze Chloe found her breath had taken leave of her, for she could not breathe for a moment or two. Then she drew in a ragged bit of air and thanked the cook for her timely intervention when a sound came from the hall.

The woman who charged into the room was tall, spare, and well-muscled for a female. She confronted them with a narrow-eyed stare, coming to a halt a few feet from where Julian now sat at ease behind the desk.

“Ye want to see me?” she demanded—and not in a timorous way. Rather she seemed aggressive, unlike most servants who might fear dismissal if they were overly bold in their speech or behavior.

“We have heard troubling things about the death of Lady Twisdale and seek the truth. You have been charged with replacing the whortleberries that Pollard brought you with berries from the deadly nightshade.” Julian also narrowed his gaze and Chloe was extremely glad she was not the recipient of that forbidding stare.

“Me, sir?” the cook said with a bit less bravado and seemed to shrink a trifle in size.

“Evidence on the case that has been suppressed before has recently come to my attention. Consider…Lady Twisdale had a fondness for whortleberries, but an excess of that delectable fruit would cause no more than a stomach ache—even if a trifle overripe. Pollard was an honorable man, a gardener who had served his lordship’s father before him. Unlikely that a chap with that sort of record would poison the wife of a man he served so capably and for so long.”

The cook stood in silence, her bosom heaving with suppressed emotion of some sort.

Julian continued in his decisive recitation. “However, it is known that you were not only the cook who prepared that deadly tart, but you also served it to her ladyship, something highly unusual. Is it not?” he said in a quiet, menacing voice. When she made no reply he went on.

“The maid who tended Lady Twisdale has since disappeared—without a trace, I might add. Pollard has been run down, murdered, some say.” Julian toyed with the pen that had been in the inkstand on the desk, waiting for a reaction of some kind, it seemed to Chloe.

“I had naught to do with that,” Cook burst forth, then clamped her mouth shut again.

“How much were you paid to switch the whortleberries for the deadly nightshade that was brought to you?”

The shocking words fell into the awesome silence of the room with visible effect. The cook fell back a step and her reddened face paled some. Her mouth worked just as though she would speak, but no words came forth.

“For you see,” Julian continued, “we know you have been paid to remain silent. Only we are not going to permit justice to miscarry. Lord Twisdale is to be punished for his crime. When he is called to account, he will most likely place all blame on you, for it was you who baked the poisonous tart and brought it to Lady Twisdale, not him. You are in effect the murderer.”

“Not me,” she erupted into speech. “I baked the tart, then I took it to his lordship. ‘Twere him what fed it to her ledy-ship. I jus’ baked the blasted thing.” She took another step back toward the door.

Chloe rose from her chair and darted across to prevent the cook from decamping. She took a position by the door and felt the cook sufficiently intimidated that she would not dare shove Chloe aside to flee the room.

“Do you wish to face charges of murder, hanging until you are dead?” Julian emphasized each word, sending shivers up Chloe’s spine with the dreadful picture they painted.

“No! I hain’t going to let them kill me fer that!” the woman shouted. “ ‘Twere his lordship who did all but bake the tart and I did that or be turned off without a reference.”

“Will you sign a statement to that effect?”

“I cain’t read,” she whined, all hint of her previous bravado vanished.

“You must trust my husband to do what is right,” Chloe inserted. “He is a good man and wants what is best to be done.”

The cook glanced at Chloe, then back to the man behind the desk, who now wrote on the piece of fine vellum he had found in one of the drawers.

“I will.” She crossed to make her mark where Julian pointed his finger, then stepped away. “What now?”

“By all rights you should be hung and you know it. You were an accomplice to a murder. However, in signing this paper you have helped us to nab the true criminal and for that you perhaps deserve a second chance.”

The woman looked nigh unto fainting and Chloe moved to stand at her side. “And?”

“There will be a space for you on a boat to Canada this very week. You will find a situation easily enough, for English cooks are not plentiful there. I would suggest that you resist any temptation to repeat this crime, however,” Julian concluded, rising from the desk so he towered over the now-intimidated cook.

“No, sir, never, sir. I’ll go this very minute.”

Chloe followed the woman to the hall where the butler hovered in suspicious proximity.

“Cook is to pack her things and leave immediately,” Julian said from behind Chloe.

Such was Julian’s air of authority that the butler said not a word but merely nodded his head.

The wait was not long before the cook reappeared with her belongings—a pitiful canvas satchel only half full. She had not bothered to remove her apron or her white cap.

Chloe looked at Julian but he said nothing, apparently deciding any kindness to the woman would be interpreted as weakness.

“Have a groom drive her to Squire Hopgood. He will see to her travel,” Julian commanded.

They watched the pair leave the house, then Julian escorted Chloe to where the gig still stood, the horse calmly nibbling on the plants close by.

“We ought to tether him here, ‘tis a dashed sight better-looking than before,” Julian quipped as he lifted Chloe to the seat.

“Julian, it was utterly dreadful. What if she had demanded to see the proof you claimed to have unearthed? All you had were the suppositions and reports from the squire.” Chloe stared ahead to the gate that still stood ajar, permitting them access to freedom from the gloomy place.

“A servant would rarely take such a step. They are conditioned to receive orders from their employer, not make challenges. I banked on the cook turning tail when she was accused of murder, or an accomplice in one. There is no out for a servant accused of such a crime. She would be tried and hung before she knew it.”

“It was a dreadful scene and I am relieved it is over,” Chloe said in a soft voice, almost trembling in her reaction to the raw sensations of the past hour.

“For the remainder of the day I decree that we shall enjoy ourselves,” Julian declared, placing a hand over hers. What do you say to a drive to the village. We could inform Mrs. Pollard of the new turn of events. I trust she will be heartened to learn that justice will ultimately prevail.”

“That means you believe that Lord Twisdale will learn of what has happened and come up here. Oh, Julian, I am very afraid of that man.” Chloe stared off at the passing scenery with unseeing eyes, lost in reflection of what Twisdale might do when he confronted Julian, as he most likely would.

“And you are concerned for my safety? I am touched,” Julian said the words lightly, but he truly was affected. A scoundrel rarely had anyone shed a tear over him, unless it was one of vexation for his departure.

The day went as he had ordered. Mrs. Pollard said little, but Chloe felt the woman would spread the news of what had happened. Squire Hopgood sent the cook off on the next coach that went to Liverpool, along with his most trusted deputy.

By the end of the day Chloe had begun to feel as though the entire episode had been a frightening dream.

“Dare I write Laura that she need not fear his lordship anymore?” Chloe inquired before retiring for the night.

“Best wait another few days. I would know the results of our interference first.”

Chloe paused before her door, wondering what Julian would do if she chanced to invite him inside with her. Something had to change, she knew that for certain. But what? And how?

Chapter 16

It was several days later that Lord Twisdale presented himself at the Aubynwood front door, demanding to see Julian.

When ushered into the library and then forced to cool his heels until Julian was found, Twisdale was in a most foul humor by the time Julian entered the room.

Offering a nod that barely managed to pass that which was civil, Julian strode over to his desk, standing beside it while fingering the paper he had kept to hand in the expectation of this call.

“I want you to know that I intend to sue you, St. Aubyn,” the beleaguered gentleman challenged.

“On what grounds, pray tell?” Julian calmly inquired, bestowing a look of utter indifference on his guest.

“First of all, you drove off the best cook I have had in years.” Twisdale began to pace back and forth, hands at his back and looking quite distracted.

“Dutiful, so I hear,” Julian inserted in a snide, but subtle voice.

“What’s that? Dutiful? Well, and all my servants are that, or I’ll know why.” Twisdale scowled fiercely at Julian as though he might in so doing intimidate the younger man.

“What do you do if they are not? Run them down with a coach or sell them to the slavers?” Julian took a threatening step toward Twisdale and the man paled.

“Those are damnable accusations. I’ll sue you for those as well,” he snarled. ‘There is no connection between what has happened and me.”

“Pity about that, but it is your word against mine, and at the moment I daresay I have the more credit in my account,” Julian countered.

“You made unjust accusations against me,” Twisdale said in his most blustery manner.

“I gather you operate on the theory that the best defense is an offense,” Julian said with a shrug. He again took a step toward Twisdale. “I made charges because your cook confessed to everything—that you gave her deadly nightshade berries to substitute for the whortleberries your wife so loved. And that instead of a maid or the cook, it was
you
who carried that fatal tart up to Lady Twisdale. Rather than join you in the hanging, Cook elected to take the next ship to Canada. I believe she must be at sea by this time,” Julian added with a glance at the calendar on his desk.

“No proof of anything without the cook,” Twisdale said with a triumphant sneer.

“Ah,” Chloe added in a velvety soft voice from the open doorway, “but I was present and heard everything, and besides, the cook made her mark on a statement admitting all.”

“The woman cannot read a word, it was collusion,” his lordship bluffed.

“And,” Julian said in a soft, dangerous voice, “one of my men just now informed me that he observed you out picking berries the day of Lady Twisdale’s death. You were not near whortleberry bushes, Twisdale. You were stripping berries from a plant of deadly nightshade. So we
do
have a witness to your intent who does not have to fear for his life.

“Squire Hopgood accepted the cook’s statement when he viewed it. And he will accept the word of a man the village has known and respected all his life as well,” Julian added. “You see, he has had suspicions all along—you apparently were not too successful at covering your tracks. As the Lord Lieutenant for this shire and ultimately responsible for the keeping of the peace, I charge you with the poisoning of your wife.”

“The rumor has found its way around London by now,” Chloe inserted in her gentle voice. “I made sure to write everyone I know and urged them to pass it along. Were you to return to Town at this point, you would find it most uncomfortable for you.”

Lord Twisdale looked from Chloe to Julian, then away. “She was not a dutiful wife,” he said at last.

“That was no reason to do her in, Twisdale,” came a voice from behind them all. When they turned, they found Justice of the Peace Hopgood standing at the open doorway, one of his beadles right behind him. “As a peer you will be brought before the House of Lords for your trial. Until then, you will be confined on suspicion of murdering your wife.”

“Nonsense, you cannot prove a thing!” Then Twisdale collected himself and gave Hopgood a sly, twisted smile. “I shall claim that I picked the fruit with my own hands to satisfy her demands for a berry tart and that I mistook the berries. It was an unfortunate case of a well-intentioned mistake, gentlemen and Lady Chloe.” He bowed slightly in her direction. “Just a mistake.”

“In the event that you are freed”—and Julian knew that this was highly possible, given Twisdale’s rank—”I suggest that you commence a long journey to the Continent. Even if you achieve your freedom, you will not be allowed to enjoy it in England. We will see to that.”

Twisdale went along with Squire Hopgood and his beadle, unbowed and defiant.

“That is shocking. To think a man who has murdered his wife should be allowed his freedom,” Chloe whispered, drawing closer to Julian.

“We do not know for certain that this will be so, but you are probably right and I agree that something ought to be done to the laws, so that this is not permitted. At least,” he offered as a crumb of comfort, “you need not fear that Laura will be compelled to marry Twisdale now. No mother of sensibility would think of such a thing.”

“A title is a powerful inducement to overlook anything and everything about a man,” Chloe mused. “Think of how Grandmama was about to give me to Twisdale, even when we had some doubts about his character.”

In an attempt to lighten the atmosphere Julian put his arm about Chloe and drew her along with him to the window overlooking the gardens. “I vow I shall make that large loan to Prinney. He should make me an earl at the very least. Would you not wish to be my countess?”

He turned to face her, tilting up her face so he might judge her reaction better.

That disturbing gleam appeared in his eyes again. Chloe wanted to cry out that she would be quite happy just to be his wife, but did not know just how to phrase it properly. For she wished to be his wife in more than name only and
that
was a most delicate subject to bring up. She would no doubt blush herself clear into Tuesday should she venture to say such a thing.