The Stanforth Secrets (18 page)

 

 

They walked out into the rain-washed, sun-gilded landscape, and Chloe felt the tangy sea breeze playing in her curls. In silent accord they detoured down toward the sea to watch the white-tipped waves, the white horses, dancing to the beach. Not so far away—ten miles or so but seeming closer—the hills and hamlets of the farther shore were picked out clearly by the sun.

“It all feels so clean,” said Justin softly. “In Portugal, even the sun seemed heavy and hot, except on the coast, and there the wind could scour the skin.”

Chloe turned, moved by the feeling in him, and laid a hand on his arm. “You are home now. I’m glad you seem to like Delamere. It needs a loving master.”

He smiled down at her. “And a loving mistress?”

Chloe looked away. “That too, I suppose.” She hurried on. “Stephen thought it too far from London. He lived in Clarges Street virtually all year round, only leaving to visit friends or popular watering places in the hottest months. And for hunting and shooting, of course. . . .”

“And you?” he asked.

Chloe felt there was an implication she had neglected her husband. “I spent the Seasons with him there,” she defended. “And I sometimes visited friends with him. Someone had to spend time here too.”

“I’m not accusing you of neglect, my dear. It’s rather the other way around. Did he feel no need to accommodate your wishes?”

Chloe did not want to discuss her marriage. She turned to walk away, but he caught her by the arms. “I need to know how it was with you, Chloe.”

“I do not intend to discuss my marriage with you, Justin.”

A calling gull swooped past the cliff to land on a rock near the water’s edge. Justin spoke at last. “Stephen stands between us, doesn’t he?”

“Do you deny him that right?” Chloe demanded, her anger stemming from her own guilt, not his. “Will you just walk in and take everything that was his?”

He turned her and looked down with a puzzled look into her troubled eyes. “He’s dead, Chloe. I am his heir.”

“To me too?” she asked sharply.

“Of course not, but if you imagine Stephen would mind us marrying, you did not know him very well.”

Chloe looked down. “He was always generous.”

“I don’t want to rush you, Chloe, but I have no intention of losing you through default. If you don’t go away in a few days, it will doubtless all work out.”

But he
was
rushing her. Chloe couldn’t sort out her warring guilt and desire. She moved out of his grasp. “But I am going in a few days, so let us make our tour of the estate as planned.”

To avoid further personal discussion, Chloe set a brisk pace through the gardens, both ornamental and kitchen, trying to keep her eyes open for anything out of the ordinary that might have been Belinda’s object, but in fact achingly aware of Justin by her side.

Chloe had hoped a businesslike tone would break the feeling of intimacy between them, but it did not. They spoke only of practical matters, yet every moment seemed to draw them closer together. They constantly found shared interests and tastes. Chloe was delighted to find him willing to discuss the business of the estate with her as an equal, and relieved to have someone with whom she could share her concerns.

She pointed out the herb garden. “Even in the one year, Belinda has done wonders here. It is her particular area of interest.”

“Perhaps she’s a witch,” Justin said lightly. “I wonder if she has any love potions.”

Chloe looked swiftly up at him. “You had better hope not,” she said coolly, “or she’ll doubtless slip one in your brandy.”

She then marched on to the vegetable plots. They spoke briefly with Budsworth and his assistant, who were turning over the carrot bed, and then took the long path down to the home farm.

Justin freely admitted he had little practical experience of farming. He had grown up mainly in London, as his father had been a hardworking member of Parliament. The small country place kept by Mr. John Delamere had been a villa, not an estate, and kept no stock larger than chickens. As Justin listened with care to the wisdom of Ramsdale, the tenant farmer, Chloe felt some of the intensity lessen and she relaxed. She was content to walk behind the two men, only entering the conversation to point out some comparison of which Ramsdale might be unaware.

Unfortunately for the state of mind she desired, it also gave her opportunity to study Justin at her leisure. What made a man so perfect in a woman’s eyes? He was not as elegant as Randal and yet his proportions seemed exact to her. His slightly wider shoulders and more heavily muscled legs were exactly what they should be. She could imagine them . . .

She stopped herself before she went too far, and turned her attention immediately to the pigs in the sty, unknowingly awaiting the slaughtering day. She felt some sympathy with them. She too seemed increasingly helpless before her fate.

Justin turned and found her studying them. “Are you a devotee of swine?” he asked. “I confess I find them appealing only in the roast form.”

“Oh do hush,” Chloe said, biting her lip. “It’s horrible to speak of their death in front of them.”

Justin laughed. “Oh Chloe, you are a delight. A wonderful mixture of common sense and whimsy, strength and delicacy.”

He held out his hand and she could not help but put hers in it. It seemed he would speak, but he just tugged her along to an examination of the Clydesdales, coming in from a work session.

Chloe and Justin returned to the house slowly, arm in arm, and though hardly anything had been said of their relationship, Chloe knew a point of significance had been passed. This simple sharing of practical things was the reality of life, and in it they had been together.

It was true what Justin had said. Stephen would never have minded her turning to his cousin once he had gone. Perhaps in time she could sort out her feelings, and accept what Justin had to offer without guilt and without reservations.

As they walked toward the stables, however, she remembered her need to pry information from her companion.

“Justin,” she said. “Something is going on at Delamere, something more even than Frank’s death, though there may be a connection. I need to know what it is.”

“Why do you think there are things you don’t know?”

“Grandmother as good as said so, for one thing.”

He looked slightly rueful. “She doubtless did.”

“And she mentioned the Duke of York. Justin, it makes no sense.”

He smiled slightly as he plucked a wild rose from the hedgerow and lightly brushed her cheek with it. Chloe knew her color would be rising to challenge the blush on the bloom and sought to remember her purpose.

“Tonight,” he said softly, a glint of mischief in his eyes.

“Tonight?” repeated Chloe, perilously close to a squeak.

She saw his eyes darken and, for a wickedly delightful moment, she thought he would crush her to him in a passionate kiss. Then his eyelids lowered and he tucked the rose through the buttonhole of her jacket, his touch causing her to tremble.

“Tonight, after our guests have all gone,” he said, “I’ll explain everything. Or at least, everything I know.”

Chloe swallowed ridiculous disappointment. “About time,” she snapped. “You have made me wait too long as it is.”

“You’re probably right,” he said, and his glance gave the statement quite a different meaning. Chloe could feel her heart begin a rapid patter, a large part of it nerves. She couldn’t let him seduce her, no matter how desirable her body anticipated that to be. She must make this lifetime decision with care and a cool head.

He was not, however, making that resolve easy for her to maintain. He took her hand as they walked to the stables. That contact, so much more intimate than the customary arm in arm, sparkled on Chloe’s consciousness like sunlight on the sea. She struggled to pay attention to his words.

“I’ll give you the bare bones now, Chloe, because I want you to help me talk to people as we go around. Last autumn some valuable government papers were lost. A sailor brought them to Heysham, and Stephen was on his way up to collect them for the government when he was killed.”

“Stephen!” This was sufficiently startling to focus her wits. Had her husband been a more responsible man than she thought?

“When we go to the village,” Justin continued, “I want to see if anyone knows anything about that sailor.”

After a short silence, Chloe stared at him. “Is that all you’re going to tell me? Why were these papers brought to Heysham? Does this have anything to do with the disturbed stores and Frank’s death? Do we have a spy loose here, attacking people?”

“I don’t know,” he said, boosting her into the saddle. “That’s one of the things I’m trying to find out, but the highest priority is to locate those papers if they still exist.”

His words were businesslike, his actions courteous, but he took her hand and again peeled her glove back to press warm lips against the skin of her inner wrist. There was nothing cool about his eyes either. They smoldered with passion. Had he also entertained wanton thoughts during that walk?

He turned sharply and swung onto his own horse. By the time he’d guided the beast over to her, he was in control again. Perhaps it was the shortage of time that made him set a sharp pace, but Chloe didn’t think so. She could not resist a satisfied smile, knowing she could stir him to insanity just as he seemed able to deprive her of her wits.

They stopped frequently to greet workers in the fields, a woman at a cottage gate, Dr. Williams in his gig; in open country they cantered. There was not time for intimate conversation, a circumstance for which Chloe was intensely grateful.

After an hour they stopped for a mug of mulled ale at the inn in Heysham village. The innkeeper was gratified to be formally introduced to the new viscount.

“There have been a lot of changes this last year,” said Justin. He had the way, Chloe saw, of being at ease with his people without losing the dignity of his position.

“That there have, Your Lordship. And some funny goings-on.”

“Yes?”

“Well, all those soldiers out searching for smugglers for a start. A right lot they were, into everything, and not above a bit of stealing.” Searching for missing papers, Chloe suddenly realized. Why had no one come to her about all this?

“Anything else?” Justin asked casually.

“We’ve had a surprising lot of people staying hereabouts this year. Almost like ten years ago when they dug up that stone in the churchyard and there were always historians and the like coming to examine it. Now, there’s only the Dutchman that’s boarding with Mrs. Holyoak. But there was a poet who said he needed to study the sea, and a man who collected shells. A Mr. Caulfield said he was seeking the sea air to recover from a lung disease and a Professor Rigley claimed to be looking for old dead creatures in the cliffs, if you’ll believe that. Good for business, of course, but mighty strange.”

“It’s a very pleasant spot, Mr. Satterley. You mustn’t be surprised if it becomes popular. Any other strange occurrences?”

“Well, going back a while, there were that sailor what ended up dead. Samuel Wright. He were here for nigh on a week, just stuffing his face and swilling, with a deep purse, if you see what I mean. Yet his boots were holey and his jacket none too thick. What do you think of that?”

“I think you’re a very observant man, Mr. Satterley.”

The innkeeper nodded, pleased. “I am that, My Lord. Innkeeping’s a people-watching kind of business. There was someone asking about Sam after his body turned up down Poulton way, and I could tell them quite a bit.”

“I’m sure you could,” said Justin, seeming only politely interested.

“Well, he made no secret of having a package from Ireland for Lord Stanforth, one that was to be given only into his hands. That was a rum setup too, when you think on it, but we all reckoned it was horse stuff. Ireland’s the place for horses, and Mr. Stephen was always on the lookout for a good hunter. Took the duty very seriously, did Sam. I’ll give him that. But he were growing impatient after a week. Heysham isn’t the liveliest spot, after all, so he started to say he would go up to the Hall to find someone to speak to about it. I reckon he must have done that the night he left here, the night before the sad news came about Mr. Stephen.”

“Did he say what happened at the Hall?”

“Never saw him again,” said Mr. Satterley succinctly. “It were next day his body washed up. It were high tide that evening. He must have slipped in somehow, though if he were off to Lancaster to find a ship, as I supposed, it were strange of him to go thataway.”

A weather-beaten sailor in a heavy jacket was sitting by the fire, puffing at a long clay pipe. Now he spoke. “I saw Sam Wright after you, I reckon.”

“After that, Tom?” queried the innkeeper.

“That evening. He walked down near the boats. He would now and then. I were mending a net in the last of the light, watching the sunset like, and we talked of this and that. He let on as how he missed the sea. Said he’d been up to the Hall and got rid of his package at last. Didn’t say who he gave it to, though, if Lord Stanforth weren’t there.”

“He surely weren’t,” said the innkeeper with a sideways glance at Chloe. He wouldn’t say it but they all knew. By that evening Stephen was dead. “Did he have his stuff with him, Tom?”

“Nah.” The man hawked and spat into the fire.

“Then he must have come back here after for it,” said the innkeeper. “Funny thing that he never said good-bye. He’d paid his shot earlier, so there was no need. He must have just slipped in when we were busy, took his kit, and gone.”

“Probably just because you were busy,” said Justin reassuringly. “Was there an inquiry into the death?”

“Well, it came under Sir Hambly Kellaway in Poulton, as that was where the body came in. He just identified him and put it down as drowning. What else was there to do? Sam lies in the graveyard down there. There was still enough coins in his pocket to pay for that.”