Julia Justiss (23 page)

Jenna’s sensitized nerves whispered caution, but she saw no reason to refuse. “Of course, cousin,” she said, following him into the darkened library. “What did you wish to discuss?”

L
ANE MOTIONED HER TO A SEAT
.
“Yesterday, I discovered quite by chance from one of the footmen that you paid a call upon the woman who threatened you the day of Garrett’s services. Heavens, Jenna, how could you be so reckless?”

Surprised, and not sure how much she wished to divulge to her cousin, Jenna fumbled for words. “I—I am quite safe, as you can see.”

“Praise God nothing untoward transpired! But I’m still most upset with you. The woman might have been deranged. If you were still troubled about the incident, why did you not say so? I should have pursued it for you. Whether or not you ever gratify my fondest hopes, you are still family, and I am committed to your protection.”

After that ardent vow, a week ago she might have disclosed to him the whole. But that same cautious foreboding that had shadowed her since Nelthorpe’s warning made her hold back. Perhaps, she decided, imbued with the grim sense that she could now trust no one, she ought to reveal just enough to gauge his reaction.

“I am touched by your devotion, cousin. It was just that—oh, in the wake of that visit, it seems foolish even to mention it!”

“Mention what?” he demanded.

Watching him from the corner of her eye, she rose to pace before him, as if too agitated to remain in her seat. “I’m sure ’tis naught but the fanciful imaginings of a
mind still disordered by grief, but of late I’ve had vague dreams that perhaps my fall was not an accident. Mrs. Owens did seem to have threatened me, though after hearing her fervent apology yesterday, I no longer believe she intended me any harm. Do…do you, cousin, know of anyone else who might wish me ill?”

“I can’t imagine! What would lead you to believe your fall wasn’t accidental?”

He seemed neither truly shocked by her doubts nor dismissive of them. Wishing she knew him well enough to be able to read him better, she replied, “Why would the groom mount me on a slug like Aunt Hetty’s old mare and not warn me she abhorred the whip? He knew me to be an intrepid rider. He must have suspected I would urge the beast to a faster pace as soon as we reached the park.”

“Jenna, you’ve just admitted that you’ve not been thinking rationally of late. Have you discovered anything else that would lead you to believe his omission was more than mere thoughtlessness?”

“Not really,” she admitted. “Except this continuing feeling of unease. I—I do feel particularly uncomfortable around Bayard. Much as I shrink from even thinking such a thing, you don’t suppose he might have…”

“Bayard wish you harm? No, ’tis preposterous! True, should you have been brought to bed of an heir, it would have displaced him as viscount, but you’ve seen how little he cares for that. All that matters to him are his cursed experiments. Why, just last week I discovered he spent an enormous sum—on rocks! Rocks shipped from locations all over the globe, some of them encrusted with shiny minerals, some that, he said, are supposed to glow in the dark. He wishes to persuade them to ‘yield up their secrets.’” Lane shook his head in disgust.

“He is rather…odd,” Jenna observed.

Lane snorted. “When I took him to task for squander
ing estate funds on such a thing, he became incensed and cried that nothing could be allowed to block the advance of human knowledge, certainly nothing so trivial as—” He stopped in midphrase, as if suddenly struck. “As money,” he concluded soberly.

Jenna guessed where his thoughts were likely leading. “Does Bayard have a large personal income?”

“No,” Lane replied shortly. “He, like Aunt Hetty, was happy to respond to Garrett’s invitation to live here, as it saved his slender purse the cost of maintaining a separate establishment. Being viscount might mean little to him, but continuing his experiments would mean the world. Not,” he added hastily, “that I intend to imply I believe Bayard would ever dream of, much implement, a scheme to insure he retained the title and its wealth.”

“You are sure?”

Lane hesitated a moment. “
Almost
sure. But with your safety at stake, I had better make further inquiries.”

Jenna debated telling him about the shot, then decided against it. If he followed this line of argument logically, he should soon realize that if Bayard prized unlimited funds to pursue his experiments, he might well have concluded that the coffers of the estate he now controlled would be considerably enriched by the addition of the fortune that would most likely fall to the Fairchilds at her demise.

“Do you think I’m in danger?” she said instead.

“I am nearly certain you are not. But,” he sighed heavily, “as far-fetched as all this seems, I suppose it would be wise to be prudent. I would keep your maid about you. And for the moment, I would recommend you avoid encountering Bayard or his valet.”

A sudden memory assailed her—talking with Lane the morning she’d been fired on…with Frankston lurking in the shadows.

She shook off a chill. “I will do so, cousin.”

He came over to pat her hand. “I had begun this talk hoping to allay your concerns, not create new ones! But rest assured I shall look into this matter urgently, that I might be able soon to lay all your anxieties at rest.”

“You are most kind,” she murmured, removing her hand.

“Any assistance I can render you, my dear Jenna, must always give me pleasure.”

That subtle reference to his hopes increased her discomfort, and she blessed the fact that he would not be remaining with them at Lady Montclare’s this evening. “I must leave now. Aunt Hetty will be beside herself at the possibility of arriving late.”

Lane groaned. “So she shall. Tell her I will join you in a trice.”

How genuine was Lane’s show of concern, Jenna wondered as she continued on to the parlor. The interest in her person that he radiated was real enough to make her uncomfortable. Did that automatically mean he was ignorant of any possible wrongdoing?

She had no idea of the extent of
Lane’s
personal income. If Bayard really had conspired to harm—or even remove—her, he might have promised Lane a share for turning a blind eye to his maneuvering.

Still, if Lane hoped to entice her to marry, surely he would think that an easier means of getting his hands on her fortune than by conspiring with his cousin in some risky scheme that would win him, at best, only half of it.

Damme and blast! she swore silently, almost wishing Nelthorpe had never made her privy to his suspicions. She didn’t like delving into this shadowy world of evil deeds and intentions. Just thinking about it made her head ache.

All the more reason to bring pressure to bear on who
ever might be involved, ending this anxiety of doubt by forcing the culprit into further action where he—or she—could be dealt with.

Perhaps later she would visit Bayard himself.

H
ER HEAD POUNDING IN TRUTH
,
shortly after midnight Jenna bid Aunt Hetty good-night and headed to her chamber.

Lady Montclare’s musicale had been as insipid as she’d feared. In addition, she’d endured Aunt Hetty’s sotto voce grumbling between each musical selection that Jenna and Lane’s tardy appearance had made them miss the food and conversation of the preperformance reception.

Afterward she’d had to turn aside Lady Montclare’s questions, naked curiosity cloaked in irritatingly playful tones, about Colonel Vernier’s intentions and whether his potential courtship had caused Jenna to dismiss Nelthorpe—who, she’d heard, had taken his rejection badly and was still haunting Fairchild House, bothering the servants.

As Jenna climbed the stairs, annoyance faded and a sense of anxiety returned, stronger than any that had thus far gripped her.

Was she being reckless, insisting on remaining at Fairchild House? Was Bayard really a danger to her?

Had he been present tonight, she might have asked Nelthorpe’s opinion, but not surprisingly, he had not been among the crowd of guests.

As she hesitated with her hand on the door latch, her stomach fluttering, she realized that by now, Lady Charlotte should have returned from her dinner engagement.

For a moment, she was consumed by the temptation to wheel around, march past a doubtless astounded Manson and take a hackney straight to Mount Street. But she’d
look ridiculous, fleeing to her friend in the middle of the night over nothing more threatening than a bad case of jitters. Setting her jaw, she made herself enter the room.

What would Garrett have done if
he’d
suspected someone had conspired to kill their child?

The question calmed and steadied her. For she knew without doubt that her husband would have searched to the ends of the earth and faced any risk to find the truth.

How could she do any less?

Perhaps it was good that she’d given that display of nervousness before Lane. If he were involved in some way, he’d have notified his accomplices that she was suspicious, making it more likely they might move against her.

Her adversaries in London had never known her as the colonel’s daughter. If this led to a confrontation, they would anticipate her being frightened and helpless. They would not expect armed resistance.

They’d not expect
her.

Taking a deep breath, she rang for Sancha and took out her pistol.

S
OMETIME AFTER SHE’D FALLEN
into a restless sleep, a weapon at her side and Sancha dozing at the foot of her bed, she awoke with a start. Trying to still the sudden racing of her heart, she sat up slowly and strained her ears to listen.

She heard it again, the slow, stealthy pad of footsteps in the corridor. Forcing down a momentary sense of panic, in the moonlight from the window Sancha had purposely left uncurtained, she slid to the floor and took up her pistol, motioning the maid to silence.

If she were to be attacked, she would meet the danger straight on, not cowering in her bed, she thought as she noiselessly crept to the door.

Easing it open, she spied Bayard’s valet a few paces away, his hands laden with a heavy tray that bore a single candlestick and several covered dishes.

“Frankston!” she hissed.

The valet started, nearly knocking over the candlestick as he whirled to see who’d hailed him. “L-Lady Fairchild!” he exclaimed.

“What are you doing skulking about in the middle of the night?”

“Was so sharp-set I couldn’t sleep, m’lady, so’s I went to get some victuals from the kitchen. Sorry I disturbed ye.” He gave her a quick nod and stepped away.

And then halted again, his eyes widening, as she pulled the pistol from behind her skirts and leveled it at him. “Were you hungry, you would have eaten in the servants’ kitchen—not brought food up here on a silver tray. Would you care to try your explanation again?”

“Lord, ma’am, put down that popper ’for it goes off and ye raise the house!”

“I’m more likely to level you. From this distance there’s no chance that I would miss. The truth this time, if you please, Frankston.”

He cast a fearful glance down the hallway toward Lane’s door. “Please, ma’am! I dare not wake Mr. Fairchild.”

“Then you had best speak softly and fast.”

“The victuals be for my master. He, ah, sometimes fergets to eat during the day. Gets involved in his experiments, you know, ma’am, and—”

“Frankston,” Jenna interrupted, “you try my patience. Your master dines with us at every meal. Perhaps it would speed matters if I wake Mr. Fairchild.” Keeping the pistol aimed at the valet, she took a step toward Lane’s door.

“Nay, ma’am, please!” he cried in an urgent under
tone. “I’ll tell ye everything. Only don’t be waking that one.” After another quick glance down the hallway, he continued, “The tray
is
for my master. He’s so caught up in his work, he don’t notice much when he eats, so I try to feed him summat between mealtimes, so’s he won’t eat as much then. You see, I takes care of his supplies, and over the last months, I been noticing some of his chemicals disappearing. And my master, he’s been having powerful pains in his stomach ever since your husband died. So I’ve started fixing him food with my own hands.”

That instinctive foreboding tightened in Jenna’s gut. “Just what are you implying?”

“I don’t know nothing fer sure, my lady—and what court would listen to the likes of me speaking against a nob? But Mr. Fairchild there—” he jerked his chin toward Lane’s door “—he didn’t never like my master, and since Mr. Bayard’s come into the title, he likes him even less. A cold, calculating man he is, that Mr. Fairchild. I wouldn’t put it past him to be poisoning my master, just so’s he can be viscount instead.”

The implications of having Lane possibly scheming to do away with Bayard made her dizzy. Taking a deep breath to clear her head, she motioned Frankston away. “Very well, you may go now.”

“Thank’ee, my lady. You be careful of Mr. Fairchild.”

She nodded, then watched as he scuttled down the hallway and disappeared into the darkness, the candle casting an eerie flickering glow as he went. Slowly she backed into her room, heart pounding and hands shaking.

“Did you hear, Sancha?” she whispered after she’d closed and relatched the door.