Murder Most Malicious (3 page)

“That's right,” Amelia put in eagerly. “Many choices.”

Fox finally deigned to turn his face to Phoebe, his lips tilting in a mean little smile. “You think so? As you said, the war is over. The men have come home. Time for you ladies to return to the roles for which God designed you.”

She nearly choked on her own breath. Only a throat clearing and a glare from Grams prevented her from retorting—and perhaps wringing her brother's neck.

“I propose that directly following luncheon, Julia play the piano for us.” Grams pinned her light brown eyes on Julia, turning her
proposal
into an adamant command that brooked no demurring.

“And following Julia, I wouldn't mind regaling everyone with a song or two.” This came from Lady Cecily Leighton, Henry's maiden great-aunt. Phoebe glanced up at her, alarmed by the suggestion. Lady Cecily had already proved herself thoroughly tone deaf, and on one occasion Phoebe had had to endure an entire hour of jumbled and stumbling notes. If that weren't enough, the woman's outfit today reflected sure signs of a growing disorientation, with her striped frock overlaid by a knee-length tunic of floral chiffon. A wide silk headband sporting a bright Christmas plaid held most of her wiry white curls off her shoulders and neck, giving her the appearance of a garish, holiday gypsy. The poor woman's maid must have been mortified this morning.

“Of course, Cecily, dear.” Grampapa spoke softly and gently, as he had when Phoebe was small. His perfectly trimmed mustache twitched as he smiled. “We shall look forward to it.”

Phoebe managed to suppress a groan, but Fox could not. Grams shot another glance across the table while Grampapa's eyebrows gathered in warning.

“After Julia serenades us”—fourteen-year-old Fox pulled a face—“and Lady Cecily, too, may we find something exciting to do? Grampapa, couldn't we take the rifles out for some skeet shooting?”

“Fox.” Grams arced a crescent-thin eyebrow. “I believe indoor activities are more appropriate for days such as this.”

“Oh, Grams. . . .”

“Fox.” Grampapa's stern tone forestalled any impending complaint.

The boy made a grinding sound in his throat, and Phoebe whispered to him, “When are you going to grow up?”

“When are you going to stop being so boring?”

“Terribly sorry to be late for luncheon, everyone. I had some letters to write. Do forgive me.” Clad in country tweeds, Lord Owen Seabright bowed ruefully and took the vacant seat beside Julia. His gaze met Phoebe's, and she raised her water goblet to her lips to hide the inevitable and appalling heat that always crept into her cheeks whenever the man so much as glanced her way.

Lord Owen Seabright was an earl's younger son who had taken a small, maternal inheritance and turned it into a respectable fortune. His woolen mills had supplied English soldiers with uniforms and blankets during the war. He himself had served as well, a major commanding a battalion, and for his valor he'd been awarded a Victoria Cross. Unlike Theo Leighton, Lord Owen had returned home mercifully whole but for having taken a bullet to the shoulder.

If only Papa had been so fortunate....

She dismissed the thought before melancholy had a chance to set in. Of course, that left her once more contemplating Owen Seabright, a wealthy, fit man in the prime of his life and as yet unattached. After years of war, such men were a rarity. He'd been invited to spend Christmas because his grandfather and Phoebe's had been great friends, because he'd had a falling out with his own family who disapproved of his business ventures, and because Fox had insisted he come, with Grams's blessing.

If an engagement between Julia and Henry didn't come about, Owen Seabright was to be next in line to seek Julia's hand. Phoebe wondered if Owen, or Julia for that matter, had been privy to that information. She herself only knew because Fox had told her, his way of informing her he'd soon have Julia married off and Phoebe's turn would be next.

Or so he believed. What Phoebe believed was that Fox needed to be taken down a peg or two.

“Henry isn't with you?” Lady Allerton asked.

Lord Owen looked surprised. “With me? No, I haven't seen him today.”

“No one has, apparently.” With a perplexed look, Lady Allerton helped herself to another of last night's medallions of beef bordelaise. “I do hope Henry hasn't gotten lost somewhere.”

“He can hardly lose his way.” Grampapa's great chest rose and fell, giving Phoebe the impression of a bear just waking up from a long winter's rest. “He knows our roads and trails as well as any of us. Spent enough time at Foxwood as a boy, didn't he?”

“Yes, but, Archibald,” Grams said sharply, “things look different in the snow. He easily could have taken a wrong fork and ended up heaven only knows where. Or he might have slipped and twisted his ankle.”

“Good heavens,” Lady Allerton exclaimed. “Is that supposed to reassure me?”

“Should we form a search party?” Amelia appeared genuinely worried. Phoebe sent her a reassuring smile and shook her head.

“Grams, don't be silly.” Fox flourished his fork, earning him a sharp throat clearing and another stern look from Grampapa. The youngest Renshaw put his fork down with a terse, “Sorry, sir,” and shoved a lock of sandy hair off his forehead. “But even if he
was
lost, he'd either end up in the village, the school, or the river. He's not about to jump in the river in this weather, is he?” The boy shrugged. “He'll be back.”

He sent Julia a meaningful look. She ignored him, turning her head to gaze out the bay window at the wide expanse of snow-frosted lawn rolling away to a skeletal copse of birch trees and the pine forest beyond that. Farther in the distance, the rolling Cotswolds Hills embraced the horizon, with patches of white interspersed with bare ground where the wind had whipped the snow away.

Phoebe brought her gaze closer, and noticed a trail of footprints leading through the garden and back again. Henry? But if he'd gone out that way, he had apparently returned to the house.

Grams narrowed a shrewd gaze on Julia. “I do hope there is no particular reason for Henry to have made a sudden departure.”

This, too, Julia ignored.

“As Lawrence Winslow did last summer,” Grams muttered under her breath. Although everyone must have heard the comment—Phoebe certainly had—all went on eating as if they hadn't. Grams seethed in Julia's direction another moment, then returned her attention to her meal.

Apparently, not everyone was willing to pretend Grams hadn't spoken. “Julia, you and Henry get on splendidly, don't you?” Fox snapped his fingers when she didn't reply. “Julia?”

She turned back around. “What?”

Phoebe was gripped by a sudden urge to pinch her. Though last night had obviously left her bewildered, this sort of indifference was nothing new. It began three years ago, the day the news about Papa reached them from France, and rather than fading over time her disinterest had become more pronounced throughout the war years. By turns her sister's apathy angered or saddened Phoebe, depending on the circumstances, but always left her frustrated.

“Stop it,” Amelia hissed in her brother's ear, another comment heard and ignored around the table. “Leave it alone.”

Phoebe observed her little sister.
Had
Amelia found out about last night's argument, or had she merely grown accustomed to Julia's fickleness when it came to men?

“My, my, yes, he'll be back.” Lady Cecily spoke to no one in particular. She used her knife to scrape food around her plate with an irritating screech. “He must return soon, for isn't there an announcement Henry and Julia wish to make today?”

Lady Allerton leaned in close and, with an efficiency that appeared to be born of habit, slipped the knife from between her aunt's fingers. “You asked that this morning, Aunt Cecily. And no, there is no announcement just yet. Why don't you eat something now?”

“No engagement yet?” Lady Cecily looked crestfallen. “Why is that? Julia dear, didn't Henry ask you a very pertinent question last night?”

Julia finally looked away from the window as if startled from sleep. She blinked. “I'm sorry. Did you say something?”

“We were all very tired last night, what with all the Christmas revelry.” Grams's attempt to sound cheerful fell flat. In the old days the house would have been filled with guests, but first the war and then the influenza outbreak that sped through England in the fall heavily curtailed this year's festivities. The Leightons might be second cousins, but they would not have been invited to spend the holiday at Foxwood Hall if Grams hadn't held out hope that Father Christmas would deliver a husband for Julia. The war had left so few men from whom to choose. “Henry and Julia shall have plenty of time to talk now things have calmed down. Won't you, Julia?”

“Yes, Grams. Of course.”

Phoebe doubted her sister knew what she had just agreed to. Fox sniggered.

“If you don't stop being so snide,” she whispered to him behind her hand, “I'll suggest Grampapa send you up to the schoolroom where you belong.”

Fox cupped a hand over his mouth and stuck out his tongue before whispering, “Then you should stop impersonating a beet every time Lord Owen enters a room.”

“I do no such thing.” Good gracious, if Fox had noticed, was she so obvious? She sucked air between her teeth. But no, Lord Owen was paying her no mind now, instead helping himself to thick slices of cold roast venison and responding to some question Grams had just asked him. She relaxed against her chair. Lord Owen was a passing fancy, nothing more. He was . . . too tall for her. Too muscular—good heavens, his shoulders and chest filled out his Norfolk jacket in the most alarming ways. Approaching his late twenties, he was too old as well. And much too . . .

Handsome, with his strong features, steely eyes, and inky black hair that made such a striking contrast next to Julia's blond.

Yes, just a silly, passing fancy....

“Well, now, my girls.” Grampapa grinned broadly and lightly clapped his hands. “I believe it's time to hand out the Christmas boxes, is it not? The staff will want to be on their way.”

“Yes, you're quite right, Grampapa.” With a sense of relief at this excuse to escape the table, Phoebe dabbed at her lips and placed her napkin beside her plate. “Girls, shall we?”

Amelia was on her feet in an instant. “I've so been looking forward to this. It's my favorite part of Christmas.”

Julia stood with a good deal less enthusiasm. “Not mine, but come. Let's get it over with.”

 

Eva could finally feel her fingers and toes again after trekking across the village to her parents' farm. Mum had put the kettle on before she arrived, and she was just now enjoying her second cup of strong tea and biting into another heavenly, still-warm apricot scone.

Holly and evergreen boughs draped the mantel above a cheerful fire, and beside the hearth a small stack of gifts waited to be opened. Eva eyed the beribboned box from the Renshaws. She wondered what little treasure Phoebe and Amelia had tucked inside.

Mum huffed her way into the room with yet another pot of tea, which she set on a trivet on the sofa table. “Can't have enough on a day like today,” she said, as if there had been a need to explain. “As soon as your father comes in from checking the animals we'll open the presents.”

“I think they're lovely right where they are,” Eva said. “It's just good to be home.”

“It's a shame your sister couldn't be here this year.”

“Alice would if she could have, Mum, but Suffolk is far, especially in this weather.”

“Yes, I suppose. . . .” With another huff Mum sat down beside her, weighting the down cushion so that the springs beneath creaked and Eva felt herself slide a little toward the center of the old sofa.

A name hovered in the air between them, loud and clear though neither of them spoke it. Danny, the youngest of the family. Eva's chest tightened, and Mum pretended to sweep back a strand of hair, when in actuality she brushed at a tear.

Danny had gone to France in the third year of the war, just after his eighteenth birthday. Not quite a year later, last winter, the telegram came.

“Ah, yes, well.” Mum patted Eva's hand and pulled in a fortifying breath. “It's good to have you home for an entire day, or almost so. I'd have thought we'd see more of you, working so close by.”

“Tending to three young ladies keeps me busy, Mum.”

“Yes, and bless them for it, I suppose. It's a good position you've got, so we shan't be complaining, shall we?”

“Indeed not. Especially not today. But . . . I hear you huffing a bit, Mum. Are your lungs still achy?”

“No, no. Better now.”

The door of the cottage opened on a burst of wind and a booted foot crossed the threshold. A swirl of snowflakes followed. Eva sprang up to catch the door and prevent it swinging back on her father, who stamped snow off his boots onto the braided rug and unwrapped the knitted muffler from around his neck.

“Everyone all right out there, Vincent?” Mum asked. She leaned forward to pour tea into her father's mug.

“Right as rain.” He shrugged off his coat and ran a hand over a graying beard that reached his chest. “Or as snow, I should say.”

“Come sit and have a cuppa, dear. Eva wants to open her gifts.”

“Oh, Mum.”

They spent the next minutes opening and admiring. Eva was pleased to see the delighted blush in her mother's cheeks when she unwrapped the shawl Eva had purchased in Bristol when she'd accompanied Lady Julia there in October. There was also a pie crimper and a wax sealer with her mother's initial, B for Betty. For her father Eva had found a tooled leather bookmark and had knitted him a new muffler to replace his old ragged one.