I Adored a Lord (7 page)

“Do so now, written, as well as a list of the servants who remained in the servants' hall the entire time, with the names of the guests beside their servants' names. Bring it to me as soon as you have finished it.”

“
Oui
, monseigneur.” The butler snapped a bow and hurried away, the light from his candle sparkling on the silver piping of his smart coat as it bobbed around the corner.

“How did you know to ask him that?” Lord Vitor said.

“For six years I have been a servant in a grand house whose master enjoys entertaining.”

“And now you are a lady in a castle seeking a princely groom.”

She was not, no matter what her sister wished. “I will investigate this murder whether you or the local police wish me to or not.”

There was a stillness about his contemplation of her that at once made her breathe more deeply and unnerved her.

“You have me against the wall, it seems,” he finally said.

“I do.”

“The moment I have cause for concern over your safety, I will remove you to the village.”

“You will do no such thing. You haven't the right. I may not actually be a lady, but I am a guest of the prince—­”

“Who will do as I advise.” He seemed entirely confident of this.

Suspicion prickled at Ravenna. “Who is to say you are not the murderer, and now that you know I have useful information you won't dispatch me too?”

“None but me.”

She glanced into the darkness where the butler had disappeared, then back at the tall, dark man who had subdued her quite effectively in a stable the previous night. “This is the part where you pull out the bloodstained dagger, isn't it?”

“Why wouldn't I have done it earlier, before Monsieur Brazil knew of your involvement?”

“No doubt you only thought of it at this moment.”

“It seems I am carelessly shortsighted.”

“It does.”

“Miss Caulfield?”

“You are not the murderer?”

“Go to bed.” He grasped her fingers and tucked them around the lamp handle. For a moment he lingered, his large, strong hand encompassing hers, and she thought that no man who murdered another could possibly have such a marvelously warm, gentle touch. Then he released her. “The prince will call the party together after breakfast. If you truly intend to assist in this—­”

“I do.”

“You must have your wits about you.”

“I always have my wits about me.”

“I think I am coming to see that.”

“You haven't dispatched me because you know you need my help.”

“Do I?” He took a half step closer. “Or perhaps I have not yet dispatched you because, as depraved as I am, when I look at your lips I can feel your body beneath mine in the straw. If I were to do away with you now, that scenario could never be repeated.”

Her breaths were no longer deep but tight and quick. “Dream well tonight, sir. It is all you are going to get from me again.”

He smiled.

She ducked around him and escaped.

 

Chapter 5

The Suspects

S
now fell again, casting the drawing room in a pale white light broken by spots of gold from lamps and the hearths on either side of the chamber. Prince Sebastiao's guests sat in anxious little clusters about gilded tables. Above them, paintings of long-­dead kings and queens wearing enormous ruffed collars and wigs glittered in gold frames. The prince stood at the doorway surveying his guests, Lord Vitor at his side.

“Why do ye think he's called us all together like this?” Lady Iona leaned into Ravenna's shoulder. “Do ye suppose he's already chosen a bride?”

“I don't think he could have chosen her so soon.” This awkward gathering had nothing to do with brides.

“I wish he'd choose brides for his friends. Better yet, why dinna we? I'll let ye choose whichever ye wish—­Lord Case or Lord Vitor—­an' I'll have the thither. Is it a deal?”

Lord Whitebarrow and his pinch-­nosed wife entered the drawing room. Lady Iona hummed low in her throat. “Nou, there's a laird I wouldna mind tossin' dice for,” she whispered. “For all that he's five-­an'-­forty, he's a fine man. I do like guinea hair. 'Tis a shame the Ice Shrew's already got him. She probably won him over wi' that pretty face afore she revealed her heart o' stone.”

Ladies Penelope and Grace, both cut in Lady Whitebarrow's cool image, followed their parents into the drawing room. Penelope paused beside Lord Vitor and the prince to modestly bat her golden lashes.

“I'd like to pinch that one,” Lady Iona whispered. “The one wi' the simper she leart from her mither.”

Ravenna laughed. Lord Vitor's attention turned to her and something hot and unwelcome wiggled through her belly.

The footmen closed the doors.

“I am devastated to dampen spirits so early in the festivities,” Prince Sebastiao said upon a slur that might have been affected lisp or overindulgence. At eleven o'clock in the morning, Ravenna hoped it was affectation. But he had the most wonderful accent when he spoke in English, soft over some words and uncomfortably broken over others. “Yet I fear I must announce a terrible tragedy: a death in the house.”

The room fell quiet. A few murmurs of displeasure sounded and guests cast covert glances around the place.

“Who was it, your highness?” Mr. Martin Anders finally asked, a dramatic gleam in his single visible eye; a curtain of dark hair entirely concealed the other.

“An Englishman by the name of Oliver Walsh. The trouble is,” the prince continued with a flip of a hand cuffed in military gold cording, “it seems he's been murdered.”

Lady Margaret gasped and the jewels hanging from her ears, wrists, and neck jangled. Mademoiselle Arielle Dijon's slender hands covered her mouth. Dressed all in purple gown and cape, an ancient Italian bishop who had arrived just before the snow the previous day, crossed himself with weary holiness. His taking little niece, Miss Juliana Abraccia, followed suit, bowing her dark head piously and folding her gloved hands. Miss Ann Feathers's round cheeks paled to Shetland white. Lady Iona's bright eyes stared at the prince rather blankly.

“Given the snow that has entrapped us, and the fellow not a full day cold,” the prince said with remarkably theatrical panache, “we have concluded that the murderer must be one of us.”

“Good God!”

“
Mater Dei.
”

“Your highness!”

“There's nothing to be done for it, I'm afraid,” the prince said with a sorry shake of his head. “The local police will arrive shortly to interrogate each of you.”

“Your highness.” The Earl of Whitebarrow stepped forward, thrusting out his square jaw. “This is an insult.”

“To us all,” Lord Case agreed, a gleam lighting his eyes as he looked at his brother.

“I assume you will not question the noble families present,” Lord Whitebarrow said.

“A servant must have done it, of course,” Lady Whitebarrow said, turning up her nose pointedly toward Lady Margaret and Sir Henry with their mousy daughter. “The servile class is never to be entirely trusted.”

“My Merton would not have done it,” Lord Prunesly commented abstractly, squinting through his spectacles. “Been with me for years.”

“Most of your servants were together in the servants' hall when the murder occurred,” Lord Vitor said. “As such they are largely accounted for and are now en route to the village. They will lodge there until the identity of the murderer is discovered.”

“Our servants have gone?” Lady Penelope's golden lashes popped wide. “Mama, you cannot allow this.”

“Such a pity,” Duchess McCall said, “for a lass to be beholden to servants for her beauty.” She cast a proud glance at her daughter. “If ye like, child, Iona can try to help ye.”

“Will she iron my gowns and clean my shoes as well?” the crystal-­eyed blonde shot smoothly back.

“Penelope, hush,” Lady Whitebarrow hissed. She turned to the duchess. “Duchess, living in London as she always has, my daughter is unaccustomed to the common ways I am sure your household practices so far in the north. We shall make do nonetheless. Thank you.”

Miss Cecilia Anders chuckled. Lady Penelope cast her an icy glare.

“The servants unaccounted for during the entire time the others were together,” Lord Vitor said, “include the kitchen maid, the cook, three footmen, and Lady Iona's personal servant. They will remain in the castle until the mystery of Mr. Walsh's death is solved. His highness's guards will also remain.”

Lord Whitebarrow scowled. “This is an outrage.”

“Ach,” the duchess said. “If ye didna do it, whit's got ye worried?”

“I beg your pardon?”

The duchess's eyes twinkled with the same devilish light in her daughter's. “Mebbe 'tis no' my pardon ye should be beggin', but the dead man's.”

“Well, I—­”

“Now, now,” Prince Sebastiao said with an expansive swing of one arm. “Who knows but an intruder did not arrive while we were all drinking champagne and stumbled upon the man by accident?”

“In the name of Zeus, who was this unfortunate fellow Walsh?” Sir Henry said. Beside him, his timid daughter ducked her head.

“A distant friend of the family,” the prince replied with a swift glance at Lord Case, then tipped his drink to his lips. “Why, Sir Henry? Did you know him? Perhaps well enough to wish him dead?”

Sir Henry's heavy brow cut down. “Now, see here, your high—­”

“Papa,” Ann Feathers whispered. “Please.”

Her mother rose to her feet with a creaking of stays. “Well, I've never heard of such alarming goings-­on. But if your highness requires an interview from us all, I'll be the first to agree to it. I think we all should, so the murderer can be found lickety-­quick and we can all sleep at night.” Lady Margaret affected a shuddering shiver of dread that rattled her jewels anew.

“I cannot imagine how she sleeps at all after eating both Sir Henry's and her own
pastillage
at dinner,” Penelope whispered to her sister.

The spots of red on Ann Feathers's round cheeks bloomed hotter.

“That won't do, Margaret,” Sir Henry protested. “I cannot allow a man to interrogate you, even a gentleman.”

“You will allow it, monsieur,” a small man said from the doorway. His ginger moustaches jittered as he perused the assembly. “If you do not, his highness will have you and your family incarcerated in your rooms until we have discovered the murderer's identity.
Sommes-­nous bien d'accord?
”

Lord Whitebarrow's face reddened. “Upon my word, who are you?”

“Gaston Sepic,” he said with a tight bow. “
Maire de
Chevriot these six years. The closest gendarmerie quarters on the other side of the mountain. The snow will not allow passage. So, in the absence of the police detectives, I will supervise
cette enquête
. This is Monsieur Paul, my deputy.” He gestured behind him. Loose-­cheeked and red-­eyed, the man standing there wore a long canvas coat and worn boots like he had donned them in January and forgotten about them. “He will assist me,” Monsieur Sepic said.

Monsieur Paul tugged off his cap, revealing lank hair and a loutish look about the eyes.

“I will not allow it,” Lord Whitebarrow stated.

“Come now, my lord.” Prince Sebastiao offered the earl a cajoling smile. “Let us follow the mayor's wishes and have this all finished as swiftly as we may and get on with our entertainments. Yes?”

Finally, Lord Whitebarrow nodded reluctantly.

“
Alors
,” said the mayor. “I will call the first suspects to interview
cet après-­midi
.” He snapped about to face the prince and Lord Vitor, turning a shoulder to the room full of lords and ladies.

Conversation rose in murmurs among the guests. Ravenna moved toward Lord Vitor and the mayor. “Monsieur Sepic,” he was saying as she approached, “the prince's guards have been instructed to stand watch at all points of exit and entry into the castle and village.”

The mayor leaned in to speak quietly, casting his deputy a narrow glance. “Unfortunately, monseigneur, I am hampered by the possession of this single deputy. He is, I regret,
incompétent
for such a weighty task, but we must bear with such limitations.” He shook his head. “
Mais bon
, as soon as I possess the facts, I will instruct him to return to the village and interrogate the servants you have sent there.” He studied Lord Vitor. “That was wisely done, monseigneur. But now you must leave this investigation to the professionals.” He turned to the butler nearby. “
A présent
, Monsieur Brazil, take me to the body. I will begin my work at once.” The butler led him and the deputy away.

“Wretched business,” Prince Sebastiao shook his head as though in sorrow. Then his face brightened and he clapped his hands. “Now, who's for cards?”

Several guests followed the prince from the room. Lord Case came forward.

“Saving that boy's skin again, are you, brother?” Lord Case drawled, glancing at Prince Sebastiao's departure. He turned to peruse Ravenna with appreciation, then he bowed to her. “Or perhaps your confidential conversation with Monsieur le Maire just now was intended merely to impress the lady here?”

“That's unlikely,” she said. “The other night he tried to kiss me and I attacked him with a pitchfork.”

The earl's mouth curled into a grin. “Well done, Miss Caulfield. Shall I call him out on your behalf? It's not the thing, really, shooting one's brother in the heart. But for a lady's sake I could not do otherwise.”

“Thank you. I can defend myself. And I intend to help Monsieur Sepic in his investigation.”

“Yet he wishes no help,” Lord Vitor said, turning his unsettlingly warm, dark eyes upon her. “How do you hope to surmount that obstacle?”

“However you do, I suppose.”

He offered her a slight smile.

“What do you imagine Walsh was doing here at Chevriot, brother?” Lord Case said. “At precisely the time we are?”

“I've no idea. Perhaps you do?”

“I don't.” The earl's eyes were narrow upon his brother, then they shifted to the remaining guests in the room. “Interesting . . . suspects. Does the prince have any idea?”

“No more than you or I.”

A silent communication passed between them. Ravenna watched it like a tennis game, the surprising anger in Lord Case's eyes and the steady acceptance of it in his brother's.

“Did Sebastiao or his father invite Walsh to this party?” Lord Case finally said.

“He tells me that they did not.”

“Ah.” A moment's pause. “Did you, Vitor?”

“Why, do you imagine, would I have, Wesley?”

A cry of distress sounded at the doorway. Mademoiselle Dijon stood there, her lovely eyes wide, a pale hand covering her mouth. “
Ma petite
Marie is gone!” she exclaimed through her fingers. “My dog has been stolen!”

M
ONSIEUR
S
EPIC AND
his deputy studied Mr. Walsh's body and luggage, and declared that nothing had been taken. How they could determine that, Ravenna hadn't any idea. But she had little faith in the mayor's intelligence and less in his deputy's. This mystery needed a wiser head.

She spent the afternoon and evening consoling Arielle Dijon about the loss of her dog and drinking cup after cup of tea while encouraging gossip among the ladies. When evening fell, as Monsieur Sepic enjoyed an aperitif with the gentlemen, Monsieur Paul began interviewing the ladies. Ravenna responded to his monosyllabic questions honestly. Within a quarter hour he dismissed her and reached for a decanter of wine on the table.

The following morning after lighting the fire in her own bedchamber, washing with frigid water, and walking the pugs through the yard, Ravenna returned to the parlor in which the ladies had gathered the previous day. She found only the butler, clearing away teacups and saucers. In his pristine coat and pantaloons and at his age, he looked peculiar performing the task. But with only the cook, scullery maid, and a few footmen still in the castle, and they with their hands full preparing and serving meals, lighting fires, and seeing to all the personal demands of the guests, Monsieur Brazil had to do the work of two dozen servants.