To Wed an Heiress (22 page)

P
evensey winced at Lord Anglesford’s words. When one’s limbs are entangled with an opponent’s, the threat of a gun being fired at close quarters is not an attractive proposition.

A bullet exploded from the dueling pistol. Pevensey winced again, just in time to feel the architect jerk away from him and go slack. A stream of blood began to pour out of Bayeux’s left shoulder and gurgle down his dark coat. Lord Anglesford, it appeared, was not only an innocent man, but also a man with a cool head, a good eye, and a level hand.

The door to the study flew open, and there were Miss Swanycke and the earl’s younger brother. “Haro! Are you all right?” demanded the black-haired beauty, her face even whiter than its normal fair complexion.

“Yes,” replied Lord Anglesford, coming around the side of his desk to examine the Frenchman who had fallen to the floor, “but I suspect Monsieur Bayeux is not. Torin, send Jimmy for Dr. Stigand.”

“And for Sir Robert,” added Pevensey. It was time to contest that forged letter and present the magistrate with the case against the real murderer.

“I’ll go myself,” said Torin, disappearing to accomplish the task at hand. Miss Swanycke disappeared as well, and Pevensey could hear her giving orders to the servants in the hallway and allaying fears about the gunshot they had all heard.

Bayeux began to moan, and Pevensey shook his head. Clearly, the man was unused to physical pain. Pevensey had been shot in nearly the same place once—and still managed to overpower his assailant and bring him to justice.

The disputed piece of paper, now crumpled and torn, was still in Pevensey’s hands. He folded it carefully and returned it to his pocket.

“Once upon a time, she really loved me,” said the architect, gritting his teeth against the pain. He tried to prop himself up on the elbow opposite his wounded shoulder. He looked up at the earl defiantly. “
C’est vrai
!”

The earl’s face clouded with some emotion. Guilt? But over what, Pevensey wondered—over injuring Bayeux’s shoulder or injuring Bayeux’s heart?

Miss Swanycke reappeared with a bowl of warm water and some cloths and walked slowly towards the wounded man.

“But she would not admit it,” the Frenchman groaned. “‘I was naïve,’ she said, ‘and you were quick to take advantage.’ It was like hearing her father’s rant all over again.”

Miss Swanycke knelt on the floor beside the Frenchman and motioned for the earl to ease the architect’s shoulder out of the coat that was covering the wound. The scene was perfectly framed by the fireplace in the background, and Pevensey pulled out his sketchbook to record it.

“I daresay you think me a fortune hunter too,” Bayeux panted savagely, a comment more directed to Miss Swanycke than to the two men.

“No,” she said softly. “I think you something worse—a murderer. But also, a murderer who needs his shoulder dressed. Come, hold still and let me tend to this.”

Pevensey looked up from his sketchbook with increased admiration for Miss Swanycke. She had heard none of the evidence he had presented, but she had apprehended the essential point as soon as she entered the room.

He wondered if she might prove useful now in more than just leech craft. Bayeux’s attempts to seize the letter from Pevensey’s hand was an indication of guilt, but the case against him would be easier if they could draw out a confession while he was still in this mood to dwell on the past.

Miss Swanycke seemed to know what was needed and pressed on. “How does it feel—to know that you have killed the woman you loved?” She pulled the bloodied white muslin shirt away from his skin and pressed a cloth on the oozing wound.

The architect did not answer, but Miss Swanycke was relentless. “If you had waited half an hour, Haro might have come upon her first. He would have jilted her, you know—ended the engagement for good. You would have come upon a very different woman on that bridge, a woman ready to throw herself on your bosom instead of heap your head with scorn.”

The Frenchman pulled away from her ministrations with a fierce cry. “
Mon dieu
! Do you have to remind me of that? Is it not the very thought that has been dancing through my dreams and turning them to nightmares?

“She told me that she was going to be the toast of London! ‘A countess,’ she said, with an earl at her beck and call. ‘A life with you would be misery,’ she said. ‘What can you possibly have to offer me?’”

Pevensey caught Miss Swanycke’s eye and nodded. It was enough.

***

After Eda had bandaged up the wound as best she could, Haro called in the footmen and had them carefully relocate Monsieur Bayeux to the drawing room. There the footmen stood guard over him, waiting for Dr. Stigand and Sir Robert to make their appearance.

The other three stood silently in Haro’s study for a moment. “A clean shot,” said the Bow Street Runner approvingly, and Haro colored at the praise. He was surprised himself at how quickly his hand had grasped the pistol and how easily his mind had made the decision to shoot.

“I did not want him to destroy that letter since it was the only tangible piece of proof against him.”

The investigator smiled. “This letter?” He pulled the folded piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to Haro.

Haro unfolded it and found the paper as white as eggshell inside. “But…what does this mean? Does Mademoiselle Mathilde really have a letter from Bayeux to Miss Hastings?”

“Oh, I’m certain she has one or two of them in her possession…as William Hastings and his pocketbook know all too well. But not, I think, the one from the morning of the murder. That one Miss Hastings must have burned upon receipt.”

“So you—”

“—assumed the existence of the letter and pretended possession of it for Monsieur Bayeux’s benefit. His readiness to believe me confirmed that I was right to do so.”

Eda let out a squeal and clapped her hands in delight.

Haro laughed. “Well done, Mr. Pevensey! Well done!”

“Thank you, my lord,” said the red-haired man with a bow and a smile of his own.

“I know Mr. Hastings has already recompensed your travel expenses and paid your fee, but I wish I could reward you for your time spent here and your unwavering commitment to discovering the truth. Alas,”—Haro held out a pair of empty hands—“the Emison estate is on the verge of dissolution.”

“I quite understand, my lord,” said Pevensey, and Haro could feel a true warmth in those words. “It has been a pleasure to meet you, despite the unpleasant circumstances, and should your lordship ever need my services again, send your card to the office at Bow Street.”

Haro hoped fervently that such an occasion would never arise, but he thanked the man anyway.

“It occurs to me that there may be a few shillings in the Harding estate to help recompense you, Mr. Pevensey.” He took a few steps over to his desk, crumpled up the outdated letter to Sir Robert, and taking a new sheet of paper, scribbled a few quick lines. “My father was the executor of Great-Uncle Harold’s will, and I believe I inherit that duty.” He folded the paper, melted a bit of wax on it, and stamped it with his seal. “I hardly expect there will be much—after all, Uncle Harold lived in an attic off the generosity of others for the last twenty years—but perhaps there are a few pounds left to the family that we could bestow on you.”

He wrote a direction on the letter and handed it to Pevensey. “Since you’re London-bound, would you deliver this letter to Mr. Godwin, our solicitor?”

“Certainly,” said Mr. Pevensey, taking the letter.

Haro offered him his hand as well, and he shook it with feeling.

Pevensey then offered his hand to Eda—a bold gesture, thought Haro—but she gave him her own hand gladly, and he brought it halfway to his lips before letting it go again. “Your servant, Miss Swanycke.”

He looked at Haro with a twinkle in his eyes. “I take it you’ll not be looking for another heiress to replace Miss Hastings?”

“I think I’ve learned my lesson on that score,” said Haro. He cast a sidelong glance at Eda, and her mouth curved up into a soft smile. There was a conversation waiting to be had there, one that he hoped would be ending with a kiss. If only Sir Robert would come quickly so he could finish the unpleasant side of this business.

***

As he departed, Jacob Pevensey crossed paths with Sir Robert in the paved carriage drive, and by the time Sir Robert approached the front door, he was already fully apprised of the new state of affairs. Torin, who had ridden back in the carriage with him, helped him up the steps, and the excitement of the moment seemed to ameliorate the usual pain from his gout.

“’Pon rep!” he said, pumping Haro’s hand and congratulating him on the fine shooting. “I always did say those French are up to no good! That confession from your uncle was very suspect I thought, very suspect indeed. It doesn’t surprise me at all to think that Frenchman planted it in his room. It had some curious turns of phrase in it, I think, that could only have been written by a foreigner.”

Haro hemmed at that, but did not contradict the notion outright. He had no wish to bring his mother into the conversation, or the fact that her maternal instincts apparently outweighed her concern for veracity.

William Hastings, who had been closeted in his room all morning, emerged to inform his host that he would be departing for the Rose and Thistle and unlikely to return to Woldwick in this lifetime.

“That Pevensey’s a good man,” said Sir Robert, congratulating Hastings on the latest discovery.

“Eh?” asked Hastings, painfully oblivious to the news.

“You haven’t heard?” Sir Robert bellowed with delight. As was human nature, he loved to be the bearer of new tidings. “It was that French fellow all along! He made an appointment to meet your daughter at the bridge, and…well, you know what happened after that.”

The color in William Hastings’ face slowly drained into the purple veins bulging on his neck. “Bayeux? My god! Bayeux! I should have known.” The entrance hall began to explode with epithets. “Fiend seize it! Where is he?”

His eyes darted to the drawing room door, but Haro intervened, unwilling for a third death to take place at Woldwick in one sennight. “I’m sorry, but it’s impossible for you to see him now. Sir Robert has not yet interviewed him.”

“Now see here!” Hastings thundered, trying to push past the earl.

“Please, Mr. Hastings,” said Haro, catching his arm. “Please! Let the law take its course.” Hastings tried to pull away, but Haro refused to let go of him. They struggled silently.

Then, suddenly, all the strength seemed to disappear from the mill owner, like water which has run out through the hole at the bottom of a bucket. Haro felt the man about to collapse and put his other hand out to steady him. “It’s over, sir. Take heart—it’s over.” He helped the man to a seat on the bench. And though he could not swear to it, he thought he saw the mill owner’s eyes glistening with a thimble’s worth of unshed tears.

***

Sir Robert questioned the accused with the footmen still present as guards. The loss of blood had weakened Bayeux enough to accept the inevitable, and he made a full confession. Henry and George later regaled the downstairs servants with all the lurid details, and Eda overheard many whispered conversations among the housemaids with phrases such as “secret trysts” and “lovers in every sense of the word.” No wonder William Hastings had been so eager to keep his daughter’s past relationship a secret!

Dr. Stigand arrived soon after the interrogation, bringing with him the village constable who would take the prisoner into custody. He unbandaged the wound, cleaned it, and extracted the bullet, complimenting Eda on the good work she had done to stop the flow of blood. “Although I think
you
deserve more compliments,” said Eda to Haro, “for drawing the blood in the first place!”

She could tell that he appreciated the praise, and the look he gave her was both tender and ardent. She felt heat rise to the top of her cheekbones. Yesterday, the murder of Arabella Hastings had been the only thing to stand between them. Today there was nothing, absolutely nothing, and all she needed to do was to wait for him to close the space.

William Hastings departed for the Rose and Thistle as he had earlier announced, although without the feelings of high dudgeon that had reverberated from him earlier that week. Eda noted that he made his farewells with a tone approaching politeness, and that even though relations with him could not be called cordial, she would no longer consider him an implacable enemy of the Emison family—which was just as well, since rumor had it that the importance of manufacturers was on the rise in England. He was still determined to stay in the village until the inquest, but there was little doubt that Philippe Bayeux would be arraigned for murder, given the evidence that Pevensey had compiled against him.

Lady Anglesford was so overjoyed by the news that she discarded her dressing gown in favor of a black day dress and gave Cook instructions to make a celebratory dinner. The resulting feast was something at which not even William Hastings would have turned up his nose—had he not already vacated the house for the easier procurement of Mrs. Lublock’s pasties.

Lady Anglesford’s eyes glistened with tears as she looked around the table at her two sons and her niece. “Two weeks ago,” she said, “the worst that I imagined could befall us was to give up our town house, to give up Woldwick, and let a place in Russell Square.” She took Torin and Haro’s hands and squeezed them gently. “My dears, how foolish I was. What does all this matter”—she nodded at the jellied eels, the crab soufflé, the servants, the tall ceilings of the dining room—“compared to the more important matters, that you are all safe and well and free to live a long life with love and happiness?”

She sighed, perhaps remembering that there was one member of the family whose life had been cut short two months ago. “Let us go to the music room as we used to. And Eda, you must play the pianoforte, some of the songs that Edward loved.”

Eda swallowed. She had been hoping to slip away to the library after dinner—and hoping that Haro would slip away as well and join her there. “But of course, Aunt Edith,” she replied, forcing a smile onto her lips. She sent a sideways glance at Haro and saw his eyebrows narrow into a good-natured frown at his mother’s plan for entertainment.

She chose Mozart. It was what the late Lord Anglesford had liked best. But the lilting melodies and delicate scales were a strange contrast with the black crepe that Lady Anglesford wore and her own dark dress. Torin yawned repeatedly, but Lady Anglesford paid him no heed. Eda could barely keep her mind on the music, stumbling far more often than her virtuosity warranted but not enough to dim Lady Anglesford’s enthusiastic applause.

She glanced at Haro, who usually enjoyed her music, but saw that even his attention was wavering. The flickering light of a score of candles only brought out the shadows on his face all the more. She saw that he was bone weary after the events of the last week but too well bred to retire.

She trilled the chords of the last cadenza and then dropped her hands into her lap with a smile. “That is all for tonight, I think.” Rising gracefully from the piano stool, she walked over to Lady Anglesford to plant a kiss on her cheek. “I am for bed, Aunt Edith. Good night.”

“Good night, my dear,” said Lady Anglesford, pressing her hand. “Enjoy your rest.”