The Ghosts of Greenwood (15 page)

It was evening of the day following Sir John’s disclosures before Dickon found an opportunity to slip away from the Castle. He left the remainder of the house party deep in discussion of the festive activities scheduled two days hence — a Christmas pantomime featuring Harlequin and Mother Shipton; an enactment of
The Rivals;
a grand ball. All who attended this latter event would do so in fantastic dress, thus serving themselves up as admirable targets for Hubert’s maliciousness.

In point of fact, the Honourable Hubert’s malice had been less in evidence of late, a circumstance that gave rise to considerable conjecture in the mind of one who had been subject to that malice since the gentleman was in leading-strings. Older than his cousin by a few years, Dickon had been privileged to hear Hubert’s first words: a denunciation of himself. As Humbug had begun, so had he gone on.

 That spitefulness had been, if not entirely absent, very absent-minded the past several days. When questioned on the matter, Hubert had professed himself grievously wounded by the suspicions of Bow Street’s Chief Magistrate. From this, Lord Dorset concluded he was to believe that Sir John suspected Hubert was somehow involved in Connor Halliday’s death.

Dickon did not believe it, any more than he believed that Ned was of his own desire avoiding Halliday Hall.

Hubert might merely be plotting greater mischief, but not Ned.

His thoughts turned then to Livvy, as they so often did. How had they come to this? Dickon couldn’t bear to see the sadness in his wife’s lovely lavender eyes. He would have liked to console her, but Livvy was so determined to misunderstand his every word and gesture that she’d probably decide he meant to strangle her instead.

Truth be told, Dickon wasn’t certain he did not.

Because all matters in need of clarification seemed connected somehow to the Hallidays, the Earl set out for the Hall.

There, he was informed that Miss Fellowes had retired to her chamber to dose herself with laudanum, and that Mrs. Halliday had gone to the Four Nuns to confer with Mr. Crossthwaite. Only Lady Halliday remained at home.

Lord Dorset announced that he would find his own way to the drawing-room. The butler let this rudeness pass. He was wearied to the bone by ghosts and grief and ladies who engaged in near-fisticuffs several times a day.

Dickon prowled the length of the entry hall, past massive benches and chairs, venerable paintings, a large table fashioned from two pieces of serpentine. An open staircase led to the first floor.

Ill luck stalked the Hallidays, it seemed. Cade had beat his brother unconscious and then disappeared; Sir Wesley had died in Lady Margaret’s Garden; and now Connor had been murdered, the sole startling thing about the latter being that no one had done it long before.

Yet, were Connor as black as gossip painted him, could Livvy have held him in esteem? For that matter,
had
she held him in esteem? How
could
she come to care so deeply for someone she had met no more than a couple times? Lord Dorset might have been out of charity with his Countess, but he doubted she would develop a sudden passion
for a brute who had no conscience and less heart.

Or would she? Dickon’s own reputation was little better. The conclusion was obvious. Livvy had a preference for knaves.

How dare she accuse him of not caring what she did? Certainly Dickon cared that his wife flirted with another man. If he were to murder anyone, it should be Connor Halliday. Fortunately, someone had anticipated the event.

Briefly Dickon puzzled over who might have done so, then dismissed the matter from his mind. It wasn’t Connor Halliday’s death that had brought him to the Hall, nor Livvy’s unwifely conduct, but concern for Ned.

Yet he could not help but wonder— Had Livvy, like Ned, taken to clandestine trysts?

The drawing room was empty. Heavy draperies hung at the windows, darkening an already somber room. Dickon was as fervent a huntsman as any other, but had no taste for carcasses adorning his walls.

He strode toward the fireplace, where the fire was burning low, debating whether he should summon a servant to inform her ladyship of his presence, or simply take his leave. Invading a house of mourning to berate its mistress was behavior unbefitting even a knave. He moved across the room to study the large wind chart that hung on the opposite wall.

Lady Halliday, as it turned out, had not gone far. One could not sit twiddling one’s thumbs indefinitely, and it was much too early to retire, so Amanda had left to fetch her embroidery. She returned to the drawing-room to find a caller waiting, his back turned toward the door.

Amanda might be short-sighted; at a distance, details blurred; but she knew that stance, and breadth of shoulder, the texture of that dark hair. She flew across the room and burrowed into his arms. “You shouldn’t have come here, but I’m glad you did! How
could
you have— This is all my fault. I should never have revealed what Connor did, but I never dreamed matters would come to this! I shall tell no one, but you must be
careful
, Ned.”

Lord Dorset set her away from him. “You err, Lady Halliday.”

Amanda stared at him, stricken. “Oh, no.”

“But yes, I think.” Ungently, Dickon pushed her down on the duchesse. “Now that you have said so much, you must tell me the whole.”

Amanda’s lower lip trembled. “My mother used to say it was better to cry than to choke by swallowing one’s sorrow. Which is all of a piece with her other advice, which was invariably foolish, because I wouldn’t have put my foot in my mouth had I been able to see in front of my own face! Although I don’t know what else may be expected of me, for I have been thinking of poor Connor, and no matter that I didn’t
like
him, I wouldn’t have wished him to be murdered. I feel as if I’m living in one of poor Ned’s nightmares.”

In hope that Amanda might compose herself, Dickon lit several candles and built up the fire. “You seem to believe my cousin knows something of Connor Halliday’s death.”

“I don’t
want
to believe it.” Amanda hugged herself. “I had found it hard to trust in my good fortune, and now I find it harder to accept that I was right. But you don’t wish to hear about that! In short, sir, I told Ned that Connor had made improper advances, and Ned said he would take care of everything.”

“Is that all?” Dickon asked. “It wasn’t the wisest remark my cousin might have made, but nothing so terrible as all that. You have allowed yourself to become needlessly overwrought.”

Amanda picked up her embroidery, a sampler worked in satin, chain, and stem stitches on a woolen canvas. “If I have, who can blame me? Life with Connor was hardly easy, and it is
just
like the man to further disoblige me by his death. Not that I think he died on purpose, of course, but I vow that if he could have, he would. I know I should not speak so of him now that he is gone, even though I could say nothing good of him while he still lived.” She glared at Lord Dorset. “Then
you
appeared.”

Dickon couldn’t have cared less if the lady was cross with him. “Let us return to my cousin,” he said sternly. “If you will.”

“I don’t know why I should not.” Amanda winced as she ran the embroidery needle into her thumb. “I’m not altogether a pudding-head, my lord. It’s clear as noonday that you don’t approve of me. I don’t blame you for it, truly. Sometimes I don’t approve of myself. But you cannot imagine what it’s like to be surrounded by people who dislike you, and pick at you, and worse! I was prodigious lonely, and Ned is so very
good.
We’ve done nothing wrong, you know, save to spend some time together away from prying eyes. But now—
Everything considered, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if I started having nightmares too. But maybe I
am
having one, and you are merely a figment of my imagination. What think you of
that
?”

Dickon feared he might suffer a similar affliction as result of this conversation. “I think you are doing an excellent job of avoiding the subject.”

“What subject?” Amanda tossed her embroidery aside. “Never did I guess, when I agreed to wed Sir Wesley, that I would be leaping from the frying pan into the fire. But first Sir Wesley died, and then Connor, and
then
Barbary came and overturned the apple cart. Now Ned is avoiding me, and I don’t know why he should!” She burst into tears.

Lord Dorset had little patience with weeping females. Sardonically, he folded his arms and prepared to wait out the storm. “I shan’t be put off, so you may spare us both the waterworks. Why must Ned be careful? What is this secret you mean to keep?”

Amanda snatched up her sampler and dabbed at her damp face. “You’re not going to leave, are you? You mean to stand there glowering until I confess all my sins. Bring on your thumbscrews, my lord. I’m not feeling inclined to tell you anything.”

Dickon was feeling inclined to apply his palm to Lady Halliday’s plump bottom. Only anticipation of his wife’s displeasure caused him to stay his hand. “Why all this fuss and botheration? If it comes to that, you yourself can absolve Ned of any implication in Connor’s death.”

She blinked. “I can?”

Dickon frowned. “I met him returning from a ride and assumed he’d been with you. From your expression, I conclude that isn’t the case.”

Amanda bit her lip. A tear trickled down her cheek.

Lord Dorset grasped Lady Halliday by the shoulders, pulled her to her feet, and gave her an exasperated shake. “Who else knows that Ned wasn’t with you at the time of Connor’s death? And that Connor had, er, misused you?”

“Connor did not misuse me,” Amanda gasped. “He merely tried to do so. As for the other, no one can be certain whether Ned was or wasn’t with me, because I spent the morning of Connor’s death alone in Lady Margaret’s Garden, which despite its reputation is a favorite place of mine. Ned will remain above suspicion as long as you say nothing, for
I
certainly shall not.”

She had already said something, to him. Dickon had no great faith in Lady Halliday’s ability to keep her silly tongue between her lips.

“You fear for him!” Amanda breathed. “I can see it in your face. We must protect Ned, but how? I’ve been racking my brains, to no avail. W
hat
are we to do?”

Lord Dorset recalled the old adage that one should be careful what one wished for. He should have paid it more heed. Dickon had entered this house in search of enlightenment, and had received a great deal more enlightenment than he cared to have. “Nothing, for the moment. I must speak with Ned.”

Amanda peered up at him. “Do you think that’s wise? I have heard it’s not uncommon for a man to commit a violent act under some great stress and then forget it occurred —
not
that I think Ned committed a violent act, and if he did commit one, I’m sure it was well deserved! But if someone
did
do something that he shouldn’t and forgot it, wouldn’t it be better to leave the memory undisturbed? I mean, this must be even worse than having the French hot on one’s heels, and the mud sucking off one’s shoes, and nothing to eat but acorns that fed wandering herds of pigs.”

Dickon didn’t trust himself to speak. Tears filled her eyes anew. “I’m so glad you came. A burden shared is a burden halved, as my mother used to say, and in this instance she was right. I feel much better for having shared my burden with you.”

Amanda might, but Dickon didn’t; she’d cast herself again upon his chest. Although his initial, cravenly, impulse was to push the wench away from him, he didn’t wish to inspire further outbursts, and so he gingerly put an arm around her shoulder and gave her a little pat. So much did Amanda appreciate this kindness that she clung all the harder, and voiced her opinion that Lord Dorset was one of the kindest, most understanding gentlemen she had ever met.

“Rot,” said the Earl, gruffly. “I’m nothing of the sort.”

No, Dickon was not. Ned, who had entered the room in time to witness this embrace, slipped silently away.

Livvy remained abed late the following morn. Only after her husband had departed for the village, there to observe the prize-fight that was the high point of the pleasure fair, did she rise. Skirting the bed in which she now slept alone, she performed her ablutions at the corner basin stand. Her digestive system thus far demonstrating a relative quiescence, she then dressed without assistance, careful to avoid her reflection in the looking-glass.

Livvy opened her bedroom door. With dragging footsteps, she started down the hall. She wasn’t eager to encounter anyone, especially her hostess, who had an annoying ability to see precisely what one wished she would not. Perhaps it was due to this circumstance that temptation came her way.

Ordinarily, Livvy would not have stooped to snooping, save at Lady Bligh’s command. Today, when she heard raised voices issuing from behind a closed door, she lingered outside.

Here, it seemed, was another relationship grown strained. “You may take your damned questions to the devil,
gadjo
. You never asked before,” snarled Jael.

“Ah, but the pace was too good to inquire.” Hubert’s voice was surprisingly calm. “Originally you had two assets that caught my notice: first, your physical appearance; second, an absence of any scruple that might have prevented you from using the first. And use it you did. Do you expect me now to thank you for a blazing hour and tamely amble home? I rather think I won’t. But I begin to entertain certain misgivings, all the same.”

Hubert was a braver man than most people realized. Livvy moved closer to the door, hoping she was not about to overhear another murder being done.

No sound of mayhem came from the room beyond. “Chowderhead,” said Jael.

“That may be. There is definitely a streak, to put it no higher, and I have often thought it should be put a great deal higher, of lunacy in my family. Nevertheless, I have arrived at certain conclusions concerning your determination to visit Greenwood, my sweet. In short, you were not previously unacquainted with a certain individual named Giuseppe, also known as Gypsy Joe. For him, you exhibit a queer tolerance; for the villagers, none at all. Ergo, it was Giuseppe’s presence here that inspired your sudden desire to breathe country air.”