Escape with A Rogue (29 page)

She carefully put more questions to him, to coax him to reveal whether he knew where she had been shot at, but he only looked mortified. “I would not wish to see it,” he exclaimed. “I could be no help. I don’t shoot, and I’ve never hunted.”

That she could verify—she could write to his mother to ask. She suspected it was true. In all the years she’d known Mayberry, she’d never seen him take part in shooting parties.

His statement meant Peregrine Rhodes had been near the maze at the time of the murders. But Rhodes was dead—she could not question the musician now. If he’d intended to court her, she had known nothing about it. He’d never shown her any partiality.

“Did you know Grace well?” she asked. “Did you like her?”

“Who?” he asked sharply—he was staring at the walls of the castle’s keep. “Did I like whom?”

She’d never heard him sound so abrupt and impatient. “Grace Highchurch.”

There was something in his eyes—a panicked look that subsided. “Oh. Yes, of course. Grace Highchurch,” he repeated thoughtfully. “Well read and demure, as I remember.”

“Did you two become close?”

He faced her, horror widening his eyes. “She was a governess or a companion, wasn’t she? I care for
you
, Madeline. I would never dally with a servant of yours. You can be assured of that.
I
am not like Deverell. And on our return to the house, I shall speak to your father.”

“Speak to him of what?”

“The formalities of asking for your hand.”

“
Formalities?
You haven’t asked
me
yet.”

“No need, answer’s obvious.” Again, he was not longer looking at her. He’d lifted his hand beneath the brim of his beaver hat to shade his eyes from the light as they approached the keep. “Your letter revealed to me how much you hold me in high esteem. You need a gentleman’s hand on the reins. Our match would be perfect.”

Unfortunately, she
had
made it sound as though she needed his help—she’d written the letter to make it appear she was too woolly headed to actually suspect him. This was her fault. But she was tired of men insisting they should take charge.

“Wanting your help in finding the murderer of Grace and Lady Sarah is not the same as angling for a marriage proposal, Mayberry.”

He frowned, obviously confused. “Mama sees you as a delightful future daughter-in-law. She was quite pleased to learn of your inheritance. Madeline, we
must
marry. Mama expects it now.”

* * *

Earlier in the morning

Jack pushed open the heavy door that led from the yard to the kitchen. Heat hit him and he drank in the slightly tart aroma of blueberries and the rich smell of roasted fowl.

Memories slammed into him: the vision of Madeline diligently peeling potatoes and cooking him stew, and of how simple yet beautiful she’d looked in her farmwife’s dress, with the golden glow of the fire on her face.

Deeper memories rushed up. How much he’d liked Eversleigh when he’d come here two years ago. How greatly he’d admired Madeline for the brilliant way she ran the house. He’d savored the lightness she’d brought into his heart.

Jack stood stock still on the threshold, enveloped by the welcome of the kitchen, wishing he could have this—a manor house, an estate, horses, Madeline as his wife.

He had to be losing his mind.

The cook, Mrs. Crayle, looked up before slamming a rolling pin to the flour-covered worktable. “Looking for more breakfast?”

Jack flashed a grin, then presented the portly, gray-haired cook with a bouquet of wildflowers, which she accepted with a frown. “The delicious aroma of your pies has been tempting me for days.” He tried to be charming. “I wanted to come and compliment you on them, Mrs. Crayle. I didn’t expect to get the chance to taste one though—never thought I’d be lucky enough.”

“Didn’t you?” She flushed with delight. “Well, there are some sausages and ham left from the family’s breakfast. It’ll go to waste otherwise . . .”

He stepped into the room, sat down on a stool. In minutes he was faced with a plate piled high with meat left from breakfast. He had to admit he was hungry—he’d spent most of the previous night hunting for Blenchley. He’d wanted to follow the guard, see whether he could learn why Blenchley appeared to be working on his own, without the Crown’s knowledge. But his search had only given him clues that the guard had returned to a horse and ridden away.

Mrs. Crayle studied him as she wiped her hands on her apron. Then she peered sharply at him and his heart gave a nervous jolt. “I know yer face, don’t I?” she asked.

“I don’t think you would,” he lied, hopefully looking as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. “I’m Henry Roberts. I was hired on in the stables a while ago.” Two years ago, Mrs. Crayle had given him a slice of pie or two, but he never thought she’d paid him much attention. It astounded him that women—Madeline when she’d recognized him in prison, and the cook at Eversleigh—could see through the ravages of prison, the scars, the loss of weight, this grimness that clung to his features. He tugged his cap down further. “Before I came here, I worked for a duke in Somerset. Your meals smell much finer than anything I smelled in His Grace’s kitchens.”

In five more minutes, he had her chatting happily to him while she rolled out dough for the evening pies. Then he brought up the murders.

“So ye’ve heard about that.” She set down her rolling pin. “The man that was convicted for them was innocent. He used to be the head groom here. We thought he’d be hanged, but he wasn’t. Now it seems he’s escaped from prison.”

“I didn’t know that,” Jack lied. “But I’ve heard that people suspect Lord Philip—”

“I’ve known Lord Philip since he was in leading strings. He’s gotten into trouble with the sharps in London and got himself in debt, but he would never have strangled a lass,” Mrs. Crayle declared. “Not Grace. Not even—” She stopped abruptly.

Loyalty to the family. With the servants, he had to work within those constraints. “Lord Philip doesn’t seem like the murdering sort.” The man was a gambler by nature and Jack had seen him bully his own sister. But his defense of Philip Ashby made Mrs. Crayle relax.

“Was he in love with her? Maybe he was jealous. I’ve heard she was pretty.” He leaned close and whispered wickedly, “Did one of the other gentlemen here have his eye on her?”

“I don’t believe any of them had an interest in Miss Grace,” she answered. “Not any of those gentlemen visitors . . .” She flicked her tongue nervously over her lip and began to roll her pin hard over the dough, tearing it. “Lord Philip,” she added in a sharp tone, “is innocent.”

Something was making the woman nervous. Why was she defending Philip so vehemently? If Grace was not sleeping with one of the gentlemen or Philip, who had been her lover?

Then he knew. “I’ve heard rumors,” he lied, “that Miss Highchurch was having an affair with Lord Evershire.”

Tea sloshed over the side of the cup. The cook paled. “Where did you hear that?”

“Who else would you protect, ma’am, but his lordship?”

She fixed him with narrowed eyes, but her hands trembled. “What rubbish.” She rose from the table. “I said no such thing. And I have work to do—”

“Was Miss Highchurch carrying Lord Evershire’s child?” he asked quietly. There would be no forced wedding, no husband to salvage her reputation. Ruination had stared Grace in the face. Had she fiercely pursued Philip and seduced him to pretend he’d fathered the child?

Had Evershire killed her to get rid of her and the baby? Or had Philip discovered she was trying to marry him to legitimize his father’s child?

Mrs. Crayle’s snapping black eyes had gone large with shock. “What business is that of yours?” she demanded. “Go on with ye.”

Slowly, Jack rose from the stool and he paced toward Mrs. Crayle. “I’ve made it my business, because I’m worried about Lady Madeline. I want to keep her safe.”

Mrs. Crayle planted her hands on her hips. “Why would you be doing that, if ye’re one of the grooms in the stables?”

“Perhaps I’m more than that. Did Mr. Oberon talk to you?”

She clapped her hand to her mouth. “One of those agents of the Crown, are ye?”

He continued to stare at her, and she grew flustered, apparently taking his silence for agreement. “Those gentlemen were friends of Lord Philip’s for years.” Mrs. Crayle backed against the worktable, eyeing him fearfully. “Everyone knew Lord Philip was sweet on Grace—his friends would not have seduced her, not even that scoundrel Deverell. As for Lord Evershire—I don’t know that anything happened between him and Grace Highchurch except a lot of longing glances. I didn’t mean to cast any suspicion on the master!”

He suspected Mrs. Crayle was trying to ensure she didn’t get in trouble for her gossip. “There was another girl strangled in the maze, wasn’t there? Lady Sarah?”

“
That
one. Aye, she lived on the neighboring estate.”

“What do you mean by ‘that one’?” He laid the same disapproving stress on the words.

The cook’s tongue must have rushed on ahead of her, because she looked regretful now. “She was only seventeen and a pretty, saucy thing. Far too bold. She liked arguing with the gentlemen, attracting their attentions rather than behaving like a demure young lady. From that very door—” Mrs. Crayle pointed to the one that led to the rear yard “—I saw her arguing with Lord Deverell. He looked livid—his face was almost purple with rage. Another time, I saw her send the poor Earl of Mayberry off with a flea in his ear. They were standing by the edge of the woods, and I could see them both from the kitchen gardens.”

“Lady Sarah argued with Deverell and Mayberry?” He leaned forward. “Do you know what they argued about?”

She shook her head. “No. I was too far away. But Lady Sarah was a little devil, I tell you. She liked to find out things about people. She had a wicked tongue and could make any gentleman look like a fool when she wanted to. She even goaded that muscular one—Lord Braxton—and he likes a good fight.”

“Why didn’t you say anything about this before?”

“That Jack Travers was arrested for the crimes. Poor Lord Lindale was heartbroken and I didn’t think it would do to spread tales about his child.”

Jack had spent two years in prison thinking about the murders. He couldn’t believe he’d never looked at them from this direction before. “Thank you.” He turned to leave—

“You will watch over Lady Madeline, won’t you? All of you men of the Crown.”

He paused at the door. “Are you afraid for her safety?”

“She was almost shot! She worries about all of them—the family—but she needs someone to look after her. I don’t know why she won’t let the tragedy lie. For two years, it has been as though she stopped living. She should not be dwelling on murders. She should fall in love, have children. Lady Madeline deserves to be enjoying life.”

Grimly, Jack realized she should—and it could never be with him.

* * *

Heavens. It appeared that if his mother wanted her, that was good enough for Mayberry.

 “It was charming of you to reveal your feelings,” Madeline said, “but those murders are unsolved. Even if I could marry with that matter still open, I would not accept your proposal. I am not in love with you.”

“In love?” He blinked. “You have always been practical, Madeline, and surely you must see that you are growing older. You may not ever receive such a preferential proposal again.”

“That is a risk I will just have to take. But my answer is no, Mayberry.”

“Still, I will speak to your father. After I have had a chance to survey this interesting castle and return to the house.”

This was a stubborn and apparently oblivious side to Mayberry she had not known existed. He did not care what she thought. His mind was made up. Her wishes were unimportant.

Was such a narrow-minded, fixated man capable of murder?

She stared in amazement as Mayberry dismounted, tied his horse’s reins to a tree, and jogged to the castle like an excited schoolboy.

With a sigh, Madeline leaped down from Penelope. She walked around the outside of the castle, trying to make up her mind. Should she follow the earl and try to question him more? It would mean she would be alone in the castle with him. Or should she ride away now and return to the house, where she would be safe?

Something moved across the curved stone wall of the tower. Madeline froze and stared. Bushes had grown up close to the base, but she saw the dark shape again. A man’s shadow, starkly rendered against the stone. It disappeared when she blinked. Mayberry’s muffled voice came from inside the castle keep. No doubt he was wondering where she’d gone. He had not cast the shadow.

Mayberry could be innocent, and the murderer had been watching them—

Her pounding heartbeat roared in her ears. Without Jack at her side, she was vulnerable. The shrubs at the base of the castle’s tower shivered as though someone had pushed against the leaves. There had to be someone hiding in there. Someone watching her.

She could scream for Mayberry. She had to know who was there. “Stay,” she whispered to Penelope, then she hurried to the tower. She swung her riding crop at the thick bushes. She never used it on Penelope, but it was a weapon of sorts.

“Watch the crop.” Jack erupted from behind a shrub, scowling, his arms crossed over his chest. She had to catch her breath. With his cap pulled low and deep lines of disapproval bracketing his mouth, he looked dangerous—and breathtakingly appealing.

“What are you doing here?” she whispered.

“Watching you, Lady M.” Jack grasped her wrist and hauled her behind a large laurel bush so the leaves screened them both. Mayberry’s proposal—all assumption and no awareness—had made her indignant. Jack’s abrupt treatment did not. He was here, panting and out of breath, because he cared about her.

She was about to protest, to explain she knew exactly what she was doing, when he put his finger to his lips. “One of the footmen, Ball, verified your brother’s story. He said Lord Philip spoke of marrying Grace after
he had seen her in the maze.”