Kiss in the Mist by Elizabeth Brady (11)

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Candace Armytage raised her hand to knock on the study door. She paused, smiled to herself, then let herself in. The space was overwhelmingly masculine, but she had grown used to and almost fond of the overstuffed leather and bookshelves lining the walls. Everything smelled earthy and rich. Not a hint of flowers or festoons. It was an office designed to function and, as she sat in her customary chair, keep one’s posterior nicely cushioned while so doing. She could honestly say her salon chairs lacked the same bounce.

Waiting gave her little to do but examine the minute changes in the room. A stack of books sat in a neat pile in one corner of the desk. There was a scrap of paper lying atop Julian’s blotter. She had the urge to peek, but… she shouldn’t.

She repositioned herself in the armchair, but the scrap was still visible sitting proudly on the blotting paper.

Curiosity niggled. It wasn’t as if the man told her all his secrets, now was it? Any personal questions were met with silence or terse answers. How was the ball? Grunt. Did you enjoy the Worthington’s? Well, that one had received a strangely unreadable sidelong glance. Though it was true that recently he was better than those first days… But how else was she to know what was going on in her son’s life? It wasn’t as if he’d hid the scrap or even tried to keep it a secret. Candace pushed herself up a little on her elbows, craned her neck, and read the scrap upside down.

He was making a list. She squinted. Scientific books, it seemed. The ones stacked, she assumed. So, her son had an interest in natural philosophy? Candace felt a grin pull her lips. As a child, Julian always had enjoyed the outdoors. She could catch glimpses of him playing from the windows sometimes. It made her happy to know that he’d taken up a childhood hobby.

It was something he wouldn’t even think to tell her about, so she didn’t mind prying. Sometimes sneaking was the only way to find out what was happening in her son’s life. She’d had years of practice. But, oh, how different it was now.

Especially compared to the first time she’d tried to speak with him in this study.

That erstwhile afternoon, she had worked up the nerve all day. She’d raised her hand to knock. And she dropped it before a single knuckle connected with wood.

You’re a fool, Candace.

But she would not be called a thief.

She’d been about to turn away when a little bolt of steel shot down her spine.

No. Not again. She’d been pushed aside so many times, she wouldn’t allow her to do it to herself. You’re a mother.

She rapped firmly on the wood before she could think.

Knock knock.

Oh my! She’d gulped, hoping to dislodge her heart from her throat.

There’d been no immediate response. Previously, she would have turned away, gone back to her salon or taken a turn in the garden. But not that day. That day, she’d decided she would not be ignored.

She’d turned the knob and stepped inside.

“Denbigh, I—” she broke off, sentence hanging in the empty room. “Now, where could he be?” she muttered.

The plush chair behind the great, mahogany desk he usually hid behind sat empty. It was uncharacteristically pushed back as if the owner had just stood up to retrieve a book for reference. Julian was usually so orderly, so exact.

Or so she thought.

She’d been barred from their lives so long, she only knew what she’d gathered by observation.

The mongrel wasn’t there, at least. A little tremor tickled across her neck. She barely tolerated the beast.

Candace walked up to the desk and ran a hand along the solid wood. How many times had she stood before this desk? She shuddered to think. Perhaps… perhaps she could find the money. If he had it lying about, she might not have to ask him…

She stepped around the desk and pulled at a drawer. She banged it shut again before it had opened an inch.

A coward and a fool, Candace!

A sound from the hall caught her attention and she lifted her head, then drew a small start of surprise. She had never seen the room from that side of the desk before.

The sun shone from the window behind her, illuminating the vast space, a representation of all that was rich and powerful.

Standing there, she could picture what she must have looked like cowering on the other side. How small she must have seemed.

Julian came in through the door. He hadn’t yet seen her. His brow was clear for once, all concentration on the stack of books cradled in one arm. They had been books on land management, she remembered. He’d been determined to study in a few weeks the knowledge of a lifetime.

“Mother!”

He looked up and her moment of reflection was gone. He was now Lord of the Manor, little boy no longer.

“To what do I owe this unexpected visit?”

No implication of pleasure—unexpected, not a surprise.

Candace hesitated.

He’d be annoyed if she told him.

He’d be annoyed if she did not.

She’d hesitated too long.

“Out with it, Mother.”

“The governess gave notice.” He cursed. Flagrantly. She’d closed her eyes and willed her voice to remain steady as she continued: “She was informed that she shall leave without reference, but that did not persuade her. However, there is the matter of wages earned, still unpaid, which is why I’ve come to you.”

Julian’s free hand tapped against his leg. “Isn’t that something you could cover with your pin money? How much could it possibly be?”

Candace’s cheeks flamed. That he had to ask meant he hadn’t seen her matters important enough to check. “I cannot cover the amount.”

“I thought that I gave orders specifically to keep your credit and pocket money exactly the same as Father had left them.”

“You did.” Everything on the estate had remained the same until he could review it. Her pin money stood somewhere between the purchase of beef for the larder and patching the stable roof.

“And you cannot cover the expense? What could you possibly have spent it on? Surely not more dresses?” She had ordered mourning and half mourning. Such an extravagance. “So how muc—” His voice had stopped at the same time his eyes widened. She’d feared for the books in his arms.

It was that moment of realization which had changed everything.

She’d been holding her breath, long enough for her desperate lungs to burn greedily for sustenance before he dared ask, “You never received money, did you?” His voice was hurt. But also ashamed. She shook her head, though the question had been rhetorical. He knew the answer.

Another curse. Full of vitriol and invention. That time, Candace shared her son’s opinion (even though he cursed his parentage). She turned automatically to exit and leave him to his foul tirade, but Julian’s voice stopped her. “Mother, please wait.”

During his months of recovery when they’d both been wracked with grief, she felt he had barely tolerated her presence. There were times when he smiled and looked at her like the little boy he once was, then the fever cleared and his gaze cooled. He thought she had abandoned him. In a way, she had. But it was time to let go of those fears and recriminations. Julian was not his father.

He’d asked her to stay. So she stayed.

Without warning, he stalked to the desk. She’d moved around the mahogany frame before he barreled into her. He’d taken a fresh page and scribbled across it furiously.

“This will give you a full line of credit. Your vowels covered by me entirely.”

His form of an apology.

For Candace Armytage, that day had changed everything.

Now, the sound of the mongrel’s nails clicking against the hallway floor ripped her from the memory moments before Julian arrived.

The beast no longer gave her shudders. Still, they had standards. “I thought we’d agreed he was to stay in the yard on drizzly days.”

“That’s what I told him when he followed me inside. It did not deter him in the slightest.”

Candace failed to hide her smirk. Though they were not yet friends, she and the mongrel had come to an understanding. Of sorts.

“Can he not wait outside while we discuss Tabitha?”

Julian gave her one of his looks. They were very hard to read, but this one said in no uncertain terms: Woman, I’d rather you wait outside. But she was his mother. And the mongrel was just that.

And Julian, despite his faults, was a good son.

He was in the midst of wrestling the door closed upon a snapping mutt who clearly desired to stay with his master when there was a knock at the door.

“What now, what now?!”

Candace jumped at his raised voice. She shouldn’t, but couldn’t help herself.

“My lord, a… a man is here to see you,” Vickers pronounced.

“I am not expecting company, Vickers, and am not admitting callers.”

“Pardon, my lord, but the man says he is an Officer from Bow Street.”

“Bow Street?” He glanced at her, but Candace shook her head. She had no notion what this might concern. Tabitha could hardly have done anything to warrant the runners sent after her. “Send him in.”

“Would you like me to—” she motioned for the door, but he shook his head.

“No, whatever this is, I will want your advice.” A thrill still warmed her heart. “It will be more efficient if you stay. Besides, if I had to relay it to you later I’m certain I would overlook those little details you always ask about. ‘What color coat was he wearing? How long were his whiskers?’ What these things matter…”

She smiled. “It all paints a picture.”

Following Vickers, a broad-shouldered man made his way into the study. Brown hair, brown eyes, a mild expression. She was certain the man had heard Julian’s outburst and he had subtly studied their quiet exchange as he approached. He made her instantly wary.

“Lord Denbigh, I am Principle Officer John Lowe,” the man said, giving a smart bow.

“I was unaware my household required your services.” Candace was amazed to hear the touch of humor in his voice. “What is your business today, Mr. Lowe?”

Mr. Lowe looked at her. Pointedly.

“If we might speak, sir?”

Julian merely raised an imperious eyebrow.

The man held his hat in his hands before him calmly. He did not nervously worry the brim, he simply kept it from falling. He also did not mince his words: “I am investigating a murder, my lord.”

Candace gasped.

Julian stiffened, immediately alert. “Not one of the servants, surely?”

Her son took a breath, likely to call Vickers for an accounting, but Mr. Lowe quickly disavowed, “No, no, my lord, though the unfortunate man has yet to be identified. His killer, on the other hand… Evidence suggests his assassin was gentry.”

It was a heinous idea. That this unassuming man dared suggest it filled her with a wave of astonished surprise. Candace swallowed her growing unease. A slight twitch of the hat in Mr. Lowe’s hands was the only indication that he, too, might be uncomfortable with his current circumstances. Yet he continued, resolutely.

“During the course of my investigation several witnesses described a gentleman, rough-dressed, fair hair, of your general height and bearing, who had alighted a hack from Mayfair and was seen walking in the vicinity on the night in question.”

Julian barked in astonishment.

Candace’s hackles rose. “You cannot possibly think that my son…”

“Forgive me, my lady, I am putting my words badly.”

“I think that you put your words exactly as you intend them.” Julian linked his hands behind his back and stared at the man, calmly, before speaking. “I readily admit that two nights ago I was at the Enthurst Cemetery.” Candace choked out a noise of protestation, but Julian continued, his eyes locked on the man. “One would have to be a fool to enter a gentleman’s house and issue bald accusations without being certain of his facts, and I highly doubt Mr. Lowe is a fool, Mother. With that evening’s singular aberration, I have a routine which can be corroborated by any number of witnesses, so the good Mr. Lowe must have proof of my whereabouts, or he can pass a devilishly good bluff.”

Mr. Lowe’s eyes—hazel, Candace now saw—lightened ever so slightly in hue. It left the distinct impression he was trying to keep from smiling.

“While I admit I was in the area where, I assume, the murder was committed, you will have to look elsewhere for further information. I was not a witness, otherwise I would have come forward immediately. I am certain that is all that is behind Mr. Lowe’s inquiry.”

“Might I ask some questions freely, to clarify a few things in my own mind?”

“Go right ahead.”

“You verify you passed through the cemetery?”

“Yes.”

“About what time was that?”

“Half-past two o’clock, I should say.”

“Were you accompanied?”

“No.”

“You had the beast with you, dear.”

“He’s not the most loquacious witness, Mother.”

“Were you meeting someone?”

“Not exactly.”

“Then what was your purpose?”

“My purpose was my own.”

“Hmm.” Mr. Lowe’s hands slid down the brim of his hat. “Anyone else about?”

Julian blinked. “None.” Very slight, almost imperceptible, but Candace noticed his hesitation. And she was certain Mr. John Lowe had, too. The hat moved in his hands.

“My Lord Denbigh, I am in an untenable position. There are usually two reasons people do not see fit to acquaint me with full fact. Either they are protecting themselves or someone else. By your own admission, you were at the scene with no others present.” His eyes narrowed, gone utterly dark, and his words were clear and pointed, “Disturbing a gravesite is a civil matter. Murder is not.”

Disturbing a grave? “What is he saying, Julian?”

It appeared her son had withheld a few things when he’d informed her of his outing. While she wasn’t unused to Julian’s stories being incomplete, having a surprise murder accusation was a bit exasperating.

Julian actually smiled. The menace in that action caused a shiver across her scalp. “If I were to commit a civil offense, I’d have no reason to withhold information because Mr. Lowe has no jurisdiction over me. Criminal, however… Well, I have no particular desire to be hanged for murder.”

Candace put a hand to her neck. “I doubt Lord Ferrers fancied such an end, either. That’s what you get for shooting your steward in temper—though they did grant him a silk rope. For you, the House might always drop down the charges to manslaughter, dear, and you could plead privilege and pay a fine.”

“This is not helping, Mother. And Ferrers hanged by plain hemp.”

Worry made her testy. “Well, silk or hemp it was nigh on fifty years ago! Either they’ll be forgiving or a little bloodthirsty after so long, but with all of that noble blood spilled in France, I doubt they’d want to string up your leathery neck and start a new fashion on this side of the Channel. Besides, you didn’t do anything, so it’s all academic.”

“I’m not sure if everyone in the room has such faith in me, Mother.”

Mr. Lowe met her son’s eyes without wavering. “My Lord Denbigh, the occupants of this room are not your main worry. The day after tomorrow, there will be a coroner’s inquest.”

Candace gasped. “So soon?”

“It had been set for tomorrow,” he said, his fingers tightened imperceptibly. “I managed to delay the matter a day in an attempt to ascertain the victim’s identity.”

“Why can it not be pushed back further? Surely two days’ time is hardly sufficient…”

“The inquest, Lady Denbigh, will determine cause of death, natural or otherwise. While I might assure you that it was very much induced by our fellow man, I am sorry to put it so bluntly, but the body is required to present physical evidence before the coroner’s jury.” He paused, searching for the most delicate phrase. “It will not remain viable much past its present state. Therefore, the timeline cannot be further altered.

“Any evidence of a culprit will come out. Circumstantial or otherwise, if there is enough to suspect a man of complicity he will be removed into custody under the coroner’s warrant. That is, unless exonerating facts are discovered and revealed before then.”

Two days… Candace watched her son carefully, but his still countenance revealed nothing. Though she didn’t read them, she had seen several published accountings of inquests. If the scandal sheets weren’t bad enough, the inquest reports could be quite damning. To have her son’s name printed alongside a verdict of willful murder?

It would devastate him.

Mr. Lowe took a step forward. Ah. They’d finally come to the heart of his visit. “Lord Denbigh, if I may venture a proposition?”

“Please.”

“Let us say that I had several… sheep in my pasture.”

“Indeed? What a surprisingly diverse fellow you are.”

Mr. Lowe patiently ignored the sarcasm. “There are far too many sheep for me to watch over on my own. While I chase a dodgy ram far afield, one of my curious lambs might trail along after and trot too close to the mountain’s edge. The edge can be seductive, but a very dangerous place for a lamb to explore. So I would need a sheepdog to keep an eye on the herd. To protect them from any harm which may threaten them.”

The silence was interminable.

“Are you asking me to be your sheepdog? Isn’t that a bit like setting the wolf to guard the flock?”

“Perhaps. But if any of my sheep go astray while I hunt my ram, I’ll know exactly where to look. And none of my sheep will go astray.”

Candace had heard many warnings in her day. The vast number of them from Julian’s sire. This statement, said so calmly from such a bland source, made her blood run cold.

Julian nodded. “Did you, perchance, give names to your willful sheep?”

“You’d recognize them at a glance. They sport the most remarkable golden fleece.”

Julian’s hands unclasped behind his back. One formed a fist at his side. “I believe we have an understanding, Mr. Lowe.”

“I’ll see you in two day’s time, Lord Denbigh. Hopefully, we shall both have some good news.” The man nodded, turned, and left with the quickest, quietest step Candace had ever witnessed.

They remained in silence, not even afforded the sound of his retreating footsteps.

Then came the scratching and whining from the hall. Julian still hadn’t moved, so Candace rose. This was part of the understanding she had with the mongrel. When Julian needed him, she would not deny it. The moment she turned the handle, the whining stopped. As soon as the door opened a crack, the beast forced his way into the room, pushing her off balance, and flashed to Julian’s side. Julian’s fist opened automatically, stroking and ruffling the rangy mutt’s fur.

“Devil take it,” Julian cursed.

“If your name is linked with a murder, it will attach itself to Tabitha by association.” Candace knew Julian wouldn’t outwardly care about his own character, but he would his sister’s.

“I know.”

Perhaps humor would work. “The man seems to have sent you on a quest. Should I have named you Jason instead of Julian? Who are Mr. Lowe’s golden-fleeced sheep?”

“The Pruetts. It has to be. Number Sixteen is right upon the cemetery.”

“Fainting Card Girl?” He’d said he assisted her home and played cards with her. By the way he’d stormed in after the ball last night… well, Candace could read between the lines.

“Yes. Miss Amanda Pruett. And her brother, likely. They were both outside that evening.”

That hadn’t yet spurred him. “It sounds as if they might be in danger.” There. His head snapped up.

“What do you think I should do?”

He appeared to her, for a moment, like a lost little boy. Adrift in a strange, glittering world, people didn’t like him. They didn’t understand him. And he only responded and interacted when he felt comfortable. Little comforted him in this world. But give him a mission and he’d undertake it. He’d do all within his power to succeed.

“I think you should return to Number Sixteen with all due haste.”

 

 

“We ought to send for Lord Darvel. He’d said that if there were ruffians about—”

“I should say not!” Great-Aunt Celia’s eyes were grey, alert, and sharply focused. When she saw Amanda’s pointed concern, she patted her arm, allayingly. “No, no,” she said. “What can the poor man do in the dead of night but worry himself? No, we’ll scratch off a note in the morning if we need any assistance. Why trouble him? Better to keep it to ourselves. Besides, he’d only order the window boarded and hire a glazier—which will have to wait until the morning as well, no need waking tradesmen in the middle of their slumber to fix a bit of a draft. The sleepy fool might drop the pane and send us a bill for double.

“Where’s that skinny lad? Rory? What are you doing behind me, boy? Move to where I can see you! Do we have any solid boards? No? Some of that heavy burlap might have to do. Step lively, now, don’t want rain pouring through the place. When you’re done with that, see if the neighbors need any brawn. Though how a skinny thing like you can be called brawn… Hmm. Well. Amanda, child, go fetch that flighty blonde and have her get a broom and a bucket. Tell Cook we’ll be wanting tea. Have Badcock do an inventory of the silver and cellars. Take your maid and Geoffrey room by room for a list of anything missing—or damaged. The owners will be keen to check, so be thorough. And when everyone’s done with everything, pack a bag. I am opening the townhouse and that’s the end of it!”

The room flew into a buzz of activity. Having a task and purpose was a calming balm to the shock still coursing through her. During the speech, Miss Heatly had carefully removed the rug, shaking the ends for any sherds of glass. Great-Aunt Celia moved a few pieces of light furniture out of the way. Everyone had something to occupy his thoughts besides the sickening, violating feeling of intrusion.

This is what it felt like to have one’s house broken into. Not what she’d thought when they’d found Victor in the library. But this.

Unsettling unease filled her. The place she ate, slept, woke—the place she was supposed to have felt safe—had been breached. What had been touched? What had been taken? What would have happened had any of them been home?

By some miracle of the universe, not a one of them had been present. Shelby had yet to return from her expedition, Cook had an issue with the beef and Maria had accompanied for safety (of the flesher). So that he wouldn’t feel completely left out while his sister danced the night away at the ball, Miss Heatly had taken Geoffrey to observe constellations in the park. But if that wagon hadn’t hopped a curb, crashing across the roadway, Rory and Badcock would have been home. The wagon driver, already behind his schedule, called for every able-bodied man to help. Since he was carrying barrels of porter and stout, he hadn’t wanted for volunteers.

The house had been left completely empty. What an amazing opportunity for the ruffians! They’d smashed into Number Sixteen first, then made their way next door. Poor Mrs. Bertram had almost screamed down the house, but she’d had two very alert footmen, one who chased the brigands down the street with a poker. He said there had been at least four of them, but could not make out any sort of description.

Without that, and since none in the neighborhood had the means for tracking down the men nor for paying the prosecution, the thieves would get away scot-free. At least this night. Though, having hit the neighborhood once, it was unlikely they’d try again. Forewarned was forearmed.

They made quick work of the inventories. There was little of value to steal, in any case. The thieves hadn’t made their way above the first floor, the family rooms were untouched, Cook’s kitchen unmolested (thankfully the tea and silver had been secured properly—Amanda didn’t want to think what they would have done to cover that expense).

The only thing, in fact, that she could find missing was her father’s plated inkstand from the downstairs study. Simple and light enough to slip into a pocket or bag, she supposed, and easy to hawk. Father had left the desk (in the otherwise barren room) cleared with a tidy stack of papers next to his ink and sander set. She’d found the papers strewn about the floor alongside the contents of the top drawer which had been extracted and tossed to the corner of the room. Luckily, it managed the flight and landing without more than a scratch.

They had left via the library, ripping out two fence planks to get through the back gate. If the brutes were happy to escape with no more than a plated inkstand worth ten shillings, Amanda was inclined to let them. Though they hadn’t needed to add the expense of the broken window—one key was much like another, they could have let themselves in if it were locked—but in their haste to the beer wagon, the front door had been left unlocked.

Geoffrey, through all of this, was uncharacteristically quiet. Without question, he followed orders and packed his bags (including, Amanda was happy to note, Homer and not Fantasmagoriana). Amanda worried that this, more than their other recent adventures, had rattled her brother and she didn’t know how to reassure him.

Though it displeased them all to do so, they decided to stay in the house the rest of the night. It was closing on four o’clock when they had finished cleaning, inventories, and makeshift repairs. They’d gathered in the drawing room to discuss their findings (as it was the only room with enough seats).

“A bed is a bed,” Great-Aunt Celia said. (Apparently necessity trumped her preference for feathers.) “Besides, I’ve just trained the stuffing in mine. It will be enough to catch a few hours sleep here for tonight. Rory and Badcock can keep watch. I offered for her to join us, but Mrs. Bertram’s nephew just arrived home from the navy and is going to stay with her. He’s expecting a visiting friend soon, too. He also has a right nasty-looking pistol to come to our aid.” She took a look at Geoffrey. “Still, it would be nice if you doubled-up with your sister. Made certain she was safe through the night.”

Geoffrey nodded, still without saying a word, and made his way up the staircase to bed.

Laconic Miss Heatly was the one to speak into the silence. “He will be fine. Children are resilient that way. Master Geoffrey likes to think more than most. Now, would you mind, Mrs. Cooke, if I stayed a while by your fire in the kitchen? It always settled me as a girl and I find tonight that I’d take some comfort in nostalgia.”

If ever a mother hen bustled her chicks to her coup, Cook puffed her feathers and took Miss Heatly under wing.

“Will you be comfortable on your own, Aunt?”

“Child, bless you! What a notion. The lids of my eyes have been reined by Somnus himself and Morpheus whispers in my ear of a warm field carpeted in poppies.”

“What a poetic image!”

She wrinkled her nose. “Hmm. Well, either poetry or I reveal I’m so fagged I’d drop to the mattress and sleep the sleep of the dead the moment my head hits the pillow.”

“Either will do.” Amanda smiled. “Though poetry suits you.”

“Good night, my girl. Keep an eye on your brother. And stand up straight, child. Even in times of stress, you should maintain posture!” This said with a rap of her cane against the floorboards.

Amanda hugged her arms about her chest, willing the shivers to stay at bay. As soon as Rory and Badcock determined the best watch rotation and left the room, she and Shelby were finally able to speak.

“Have you discovered anything at all?”

“Not much, miss, but…”

“What is it?”

“I ran into Mr. Lowe.”

“The runner?”

Shelby nodded. “He straight told me he knows we’re investigating, miss. And he said… well, he warned me that others might know, too.”

Shelby cast a knowing glance toward the broken window.

“There can’t be a connection to this!” Amanda flatly denied. “This was a random robbery! There have been reports in the area.”

“Random, or was it a perfect opportunity?” The maid shivered. “Either way, miss, I’m tending to agree with Mr. Lowe.”

Amanda shook her head, a cold feeling in the pit of her stomach. “I didn’t like the idea of you asking questions on the streets to begin with. Now, I think you should stop entirely.”

“Well, I haven’t learned much anyway, miss. An, lud I’m exhausted.” She rubbed the nape of her neck as proof. “Did you learn aught?”

Besides two men possessing their pocket watches and the third not being her suspect? Amanda shook her head. “Nothing to mull after the night we’ve had.” She gave her a wan smile. “This can’t be a happy thing for you. You thought you’d found a solid position and now you’re hiding bodies, searching for murderers, and cleaning up after thieves.”

But Shelby surprised her with a genuine grin. “There are some things, miss, a girl wouldn’t change for the world. Excepting the body. I could live my life quite happily without seeing another.”

With each step to bed, Amanda thoroughly agreed.

Upon entering her room she discovered Geoffrey had made a bivouac bed beside the fireplace and lay under his blanket, staring into the flames.

“I had hopes you would be asleep when I arrived. You needn’t take the floor, there’s room enough to share.”

“I am used to the ground and open fires when Daniel and Father take me hunting.” Well, if it comforted Geoffrey to sleep on the floor and imagine he was with missing family, she couldn’t deny him. “Besides, you kick.”

“Fair enough,” she laughed. She did kick.

“Did you discover anything about Mr. Diggs?” Geoffrey asked. His voice hovered between hesitant and worried.

“Nothing.”

“You still think Mr. Diggs is Sir Sinister?”

She didn’t know. There was so much she didn’t know. She didn’t know what she thought, she only knew once asleep she wouldn’t have to worry about what she knew, thought, or didn’t.

But she did know that if she didn’t answer, Geoffrey would ask again. And then she would never get to sleep or to run barefoot through Great-Aunt Celia’s field of poppies. “He is still my likely suspect.”

He yawned midway through, “If you truly think him a murderer, why would you keep his handkerchief under your pillow?”

“It… I…” Amanda blushed. She could hardly deny it since her brother had likely stared at the scarlet-embroidered linen tucked under her feathered cushion not five minutes prior. “It’s the safest place for it.”

“He was very kind to me.” Geoffrey’s voice drifted off into a mumble of sleep.

He snorted and rolled, kicked off half his blanket, and fell asleep legs akimbo.

Exhausted, Amanda stripped to her chemise, let her clothes fall where they may, and climbed upon her lumpy mattress. The sheets were cold against her skin and she ineffectively made a brisk rub of her feet together. They still felt like ice. Fatigue weighed down her legs—her limbs¬—and it took more effort than it should have to position her body to her pose of maximum dozing comfort. Resting her head in the crook of an elbow, her other hand slipped beneath her pillow, fingers outstretched in a reflexive search.

There!

Geoffrey had left the crumbled bit of linen right where he’d found it.

Why did she keep Mr. Diggs’ handkerchief under her pillow if she thought the man a murderer?

Amanda shuddered. She had absolutely no desire to sleep upon the keepsake of a killer.

Her thumb flicked across the crisp embroidery. She kept it there, in all honesty, because of the slightest trace of memory. Steady arms that would never fail her. A curse and a slip of footing, but she never dropped. A strong, solid chest that radiated heat like a comforting blanket. Cinnamon. Nutmeg? Again, she put the fabric beneath her nose, but could smell no trace of the cologne.

Despite what it should have represented, she kept it beneath her pillow because it made her think of that night in the cemetery when she felt safe.

She had felt protected.

She’d fallen. He’d lifted her.

Safe and sound.

If she were honest with herself, she did not think Mr. Diggs was the murderer. And that left her a bit terrified.