Punish Me With Roses - a Victorian Historical Romance (3 page)

"What do you mean?"

The maid bit her bottom lip, her gaze traveled to the floor. "That wasn't the way I was supposed to tell you."

"Tell me what?" She pulled her dressing gown closer to her body, but it wasn't the weather that made her shiver.

"Your cousin is dead! They found him this morning. He was lying across the floor, cold. It must have happened last night."

She tried to keep her emotions out of her voice and realized the maid couldn't look at her quite straight.
Wondering why.
"How did he die?"

"They don't know yet." She lowered her voice her voice to a whisper. "Some are saying that he drank himself to death."

"No!" She gripped the edge of the dresser.

She stared at the basin of hot water. No, it couldn't be. It just couldn't.

They heard the resounding scream at the same time, both so startled by the sound that they reflexively reached for one another. Was the second scream the sound of a person realizing that the murderer was in the same house?

The wailing continued and became more of a lingering sob than a shocked exclamation. She ran out of her room, dressing gown ignored. The cries were coming from a room two doors down. It was where Jane Winston had forgotten to be sexy after stumbling over the body of Hugh's valet: Mark Freely.

Alexander Trevelyn left Cornwall the very moment he heard the news. Hugh Clavering and Mark Freely... both dead. His father went into an inexplicable rage almost immediately, tearing about the house and demanding that Victoria Clavering be brought to justice.

"It is an insult to the entire Trevelyn family!" he roared. "Your cousin Mark may have been from the poor side of the family, but he was still blood. I will not allow that woman to go unpunished."

"We don't know for sure that she killed them. I know Mark has been filling our ears with stories of the Claverings' many disputes and dramas, but even if Miss Clavering wanted her cousin dead, why would she kill Mark?"

"Maybe because he was Hugh's greatest confidant. She knew he'd point the finger at her." He threw his empty glass at the hearth. Shards flew to parts of the study where they would never be found. "No, Alexander. Those letters Mark's been sending us over the past month explain the situation as clear as day."

He sighed. "I agree that it seems quite incriminating, but I need to sneak around Blackmoore and find out more of the circumstances. What if Hugh simply had a heart attack? Then you would have gotten worked up over nothing."

"Then get yourself to Blackmoore."

He took another long drink of port. "And remember that we might be forced to bide our time. Even if I am sure this woman did it, I believe she'd be too intelligent to be uncovered so easily."

"Then you'll have to use creative methods to discover the truth."

Chapter 2

The woman kneeled before the snowy grave. Her long, black cloak pooled around her body. Her hands were clasped before her in silent prayer, and laced through her porcelain fingers was a red long-stemmed rose.

Alexander didn't know how long he'd watched Victoria Clavering, but he'd hid in the bushes until his fingers became stiff with cold. Somehow he'd known she'd be beautiful.

The tempting murderess. The dangerous lover. He thought she fit the image perfectly with her long, dark hair and pale skin. He'd bet his best horse that her eyes were also black, with a tendency to sparkle when she became angry.

She knelt in the snow like a goddamned martyr. Was she waiting for death to remove her from her earthly desires? Was she hoping to erase her sins by becoming as cold as Mark's body was when he was found?

Alexander quickly realized that if he knew that to be her true intention, he wouldn't allow it, but only so she could pay for her crimes in a more natural way. Only to insure that justice was served, and not at all because he'd hate to see that picture-book face turned to dust.

Victoria knew she couldn't stay at Blackmoore.

"This must be quite a shock to you. You know, about the money." Mrs. Pickering continued to talk to her as if she were ten years old. She occasionally threw a glance in Nigel's direction and making it quite obvious that he wasn't wanted.

He leaned against the mantle, oblivious to the old woman's desires. "I wouldn't think it would be such a surprise," he ventured. "Jane seemed to have a good idea of how much money Hughie had hidden away."

"Well, that girl can sniff out money like a beagle on the hunt." She seemed to surprise herself with that comment and proceeded to fan herself with one ample hand.

"My cousin never discussed financial matters with me. And of course I hadn't any clue that he had wanted to leave all his money to Mark." She didn't know how she bared the intimate tete-a-tete when her entire world was crashing in upon her befuddled head.

"Leaving a fortune to a servant!" Hand went to bosom. "But you mustn't be insulted, dear. Didn't the solicitor tell you that Hugh made that will before you came into his life and that he would have changed it already if he didn't have such an arrogant opinion of himself? He thought he was to live forever!"

The more Mrs. Pickering spoke of Hugh, the more Victoria felt that she had suffered a great loss. Perhaps she could have convinced him that they could be friends? He had a lot of stubborn pride. Why couldn't she have been the mature person and tried to mend their relationship? Instead, she had killed him.

Nigel smiled at Jane from across the room. That was the last thing she needed: having to deal with both of them. He leaned forward. "Do you think they were murdered?"

It was hard for her to keep her voice calm when her thoughts were so chaotic. "I sincerely doubt that, Mr. Winston."

"Two deaths on the same night is quite uncommon, wouldn't you say?"

"I say, Nigel. Leave the poor girl alone!"

She knew that if one person was having suspicions, then others must also be wondering. She needed to get away from Blackmoore.

"Excuse me, Mrs. Pickering. Since Hugh's...accident, I've been getting fierce migraines. I feel one is coming on at this moment." She only waited for the woman's curt nod before escaping into the hall. She'd never enjoyed listening to the rich matron run on about her own ailments, and the idea was even more distasteful when she had a migraine. Even if it was fake.

She thanked the heavens that she didn't meet anyone on the stairs and made it to her bedroom unhindered. She couldn't bear to see their questioning faces, all eager to discover if there would be an inquest. Why didn't someone look at Nigel with such accusations in their eyes? He was a suspicious enough character. She hadn't much motive to kill two people.

Except that she had.

She climbed into the four-poster bed without removing her clothing. Her heavy dress tangled in the sheets as she leaned over to blow out the candle and pull the bed curtains shut. The darkness was the only thing that didn't judge her. Not even her own soul could stop itself from deciding her guilt. It had been an accident, but that wasn't really important in the circumstances. To see her uncle was a noble cause, but there wasn't anything good about putting arsenic in someone's drink. Intending to make someone sick is bad enough. To kill two people, no matter how unintentional, was...well, it was murder.

Mark Freely was never supposed to get involved. She hardly knew the quiet man, and he had seemed kind. Hugh had set much store by the valet. She wondered if he'd had a family. She'd probably destroyed many lives just by fooling with something she knew nothing about, so that she could get her way. To think she'd known anything about arsenic was preposterous! Her fear of the beggar had probably been a premonition of her own wickedness.

She didn't realize that her checks were wet until she moved again. The draft from beneath the door burned her eyes when she pulled back the hanging linens. She stumbled in the dark to find a lucifer match and the sandpaper to strike it upon. Once found, the re-lit candle cast an unwelcome glow on the entire bedroom. She realized that she much preferred the darkness. But she had things to do.

In silence, she packed all that she would need to get to Cornwall. Then she packed what she would desire once she was there. She unlocked her dresser drawer and cringed at the sight of the white powder. She took her uncle's letter and re-locked the small compartment.

If she was going to leave, it would be best to do it as soon as possible. She'd already spoken to Betsy. As long as Blackmoore belonged to Victoria, the woman's livelihood was safe. That was more than she could say for herself.

She shook her head with disgust, unfolded the letter and read it once again. It hardened her resolve. Her uncle was sick; he needed her, and so she would go to him.

Hopefully, she wouldn't be too late.

Luck was on her side when it came to the weather, at least. The coach roads had been closed for days after the Christmas snowstorms, but they were in use once again when she left for Cornwall.

She paid the coachman extra to sit inside. He looked her up and down from beneath his wide-brimmed hat. It was likely that he was wondering why such a rich-looking lady wasn't going post. She couldn't explain it to
him
, but hiring a private coach was out of the question when one didn't want to be found.

She realized it was the first time she had actually thought of her escape in that manner. Was she really leaving Blackmoore in order to save herself from prosecution? Even though she'd left in the middle of the night, she hadn't done it to be secretive. She'd done it so none of the servants--or Hugh's "friends"--would convince her to stay. No one had actually accused her of anything, so her departure was perfectly legitimate.

Then why
was
she taking the stagecoach?

As she watched the man seated beside the coachman eye the fresh horses, she told herself that she didn't really know what she was doing. And
that
was a big reason to get away. In Cornwall, she would be able to nurse her uncle
and
escape from Blackmoore. It was also a location that was in reach, considering her meager resources. She hoped the Cornish coast would afford her some quiet time to think things through. She needed to find out what she was going to do with her life and what her story would be if there was an inquest.

"Excuse me, sir?"

The man she'd approached looked down at her with a genial smile. She hoped she was a far better sight than a horse's backside.

"I wondered if you might be interested in purchasing this horse?"

The rest of their conversation was quick and to the point. They settled on a price which was decent, if not completely fair, but it wasn't as if she had any other willing buyers. And she had no sentimental attachment to the animal. It was just one of Hugh's younger mares.

The deal was complete and she struggled to hold her composure as she wondered if the horse had been one of her cousin's favorites. What had she done?

A tear slipped down her cheek. She hoped it went unnoticed as she climbed into the coach after her belongings had been thrown into the trunk. Even though she now carried her uncle's letter with her, the key that opened her secret drawer was still a reminder of what had happened. It hung around her neck, tight beneath her bodice. She felt it poking her, a nagging reminder, as she tried to arrange her skirts in order to sit down.

She finally took her seat inside, next to an angry-looking woman holding a colicky baby. She loosed a breath of tired release.

Then--over the wails of the child and throughout the entire bumpy ride--she gave in to the pain. At that moment, she truly hated herself.

The stagecoach stopped at an inn to change horses and allow its passengers to procure refreshment.

The waitress approached her with a smile, recognizing her richly trimmed dress immediately. She hoped she didn't also notice that she was an unchaperoned lady, perfect for any scheme the locals might have concocted for lone, wealthy women.

But if you continue to fear anything and everything, what will you do when the pressure is on?

"What will ye have?"

"Anything warm." The young girl seemed normal enough, she thought, while trying to calm herself down. It was the first time she'd actually sat down to take a true break. The first breather during her long run.

"That'll be a cup of Ma's best cider," the girl said with a nod, then moved to the next table.

Victoria rubbed her hands together to bring life into her ice-tipped fingers and allowed her gaze to travel across the room. It seemed the inn had a strong local following, if one might call it that. Furtively, she examined them all.

She didn't know what she was looking for in their scarred, lumpy faces. Even so, she continued to look at them, passing the time by becoming the pursuer when she felt so much like the pursued.

Her wary search ended when it landed on a man seated across the room. She was surprised to see a mirror of her own interest and immediately wanted to know why.

She removed her hands from the tabletop and placed them on her lap. She didn't want the stranger to see the way they shook under his unabashed perusal of her person, especially since she didn't understand why.

She studied him. His brownish hair was short and cropped close to his head. It was a formal, efficient style, as were his breeches and overcoat. But as much as it was obvious that he didn't care much for the current fashion, he cut a striking figure just the same. He had in him something of the untamed countryman, even though his trappings were those of a rich man. Whoever he was, a short examination was enough to cause her pulse to race and temperature to rise. Maybe she didn't need that cider after all.

When he rose from his seat across the room and walked in her direction, she desperately wished she'd looked away in the beginning. She pretended he wasn't really headed for her table. Maybe he'd recognized someone that was sitting behind her? Was the waitress late in bringing his request and he'd decided to remind her?