“Thank you for sending along the gown, Miss Stainton,” Glanville commented, studying Miss Stainton.

A flush stole over her pale cheeks. She looked away hastily, her gaze following their sisters. She looked hesitant and embarrassed. “I could hardly help it. Lady Branscombe’s maid whisked the dress away before I could protest.” Her blue eyes flashed with aggravation as her mouth tightened. She reached out to grip his arm. “Have you heard anything? Learned anything new?”

He thought about the box he’d uncovered in Blyth’s cottage. Until he could discover if it belonged there or not, there was no reason to discuss it. He had the distinct impression that Blyth’s character would shortly undergo sufficient blackening without him adding to it prematurely.

Certainly, Blyth had made at least one enemy who hated him sufficiently to kill him. Not that Glanville wished to foist the blame onto Blyth’s narrow shoulders—not at all. No man deserved to be murdered. However, the few times Glanville had met Blyth, he’d been convinced that the curate lacked both spirit and a backbone, and the weakness in Blyth’s character that Glanville had sensed had left him uneasy. Weak men often did foolish things. They frequently took the easiest course open to them, and the easiest course was often fraught with danger.

“Won’t you tell me?” Miss Stainton prompted him.

“It is not a matter of won’t so much as cannot. There seems to be nothing more to say at the moment.”

“Did you not return to the church? Surely, someone must have searched the grounds further, as well as Mr. Blyth’s cottage. There must have been something—some reason for what happened to him.” Her hands twisted together, and he noticed the dark circles under her eyes. She looked pale with worry to the point of illness.

“I did return to the graveyard,” he admitted. Despite his suspicions of her, it was difficult to watch anxiety pinch creases into her lovely face.

A wry smile twisted his mouth. Apparently, he was just as susceptible to a pretty woman as the next man. Despite his cynicism, a heartbeat later, he found himself telling her about the piece of marble used as a weapon and from which grave marker it must have come. Only the knowledge of the organ fund box remained unspoken.

She clasped his arm again when he finished, her eyes dark with anxiety as they roved over his face. “But—that confirms what I told you, does it not? Someone else was there, I heard him!”

“Or her—”

A thoughtful frown wrinkled her brow. “Perhaps I shouldn’t say this,” she said slowly. “But the vicar uses that path at times to visit those living on Carter’s Lane. It is a shortcut, you see. And I’ve often seen him returning to the church that way.” A smile trembled for an instant upon her pale lips. “Mr. Wolstenholme is really quite athletic—you should see him vault over the low wall. You would never expect it of him, would you?”

“Are you suggesting the vicar—”

“Oh, no! Of course not!” She looked at him with an appalled expression. “No. It’s simply that… Well, you see, it made me remember something my sister wrote in a letter recently. Do you think it might have been a thief?”

“A thief?” He studied her face, but she appeared serious enough.

She nodded. Her fingers tightened on his sleeve. “Martha wrote that Mrs. Wolstenholme had confessed to her that she was deeply worried about her husband. The vicar hasn’t been eating or sleeping properly, you see. He told his wife that he was worried to death about some funds that were missing—”

“Missing funds?” The image of the nearly empty box marked Organ Fund flashed into his mind. “Church funds?”

“Yes. They have been collecting to repair the organ.” She smothered a laugh behind one gloved hand. “Mr. Wolstenholme has been collecting for absolutely ages—I would have thought he could have replaced that wheezy old thing twice over by now—but Martha wrote that the money is missing. Or, as Mrs. Wolstenholme indicated, mislaid in some forgotten corner of the church, making her husband ill with worry. In any event, it made me wonder… Is it not possible that someone has been robbing the church and that Mr. Blyth tried to stop him, only to be murdered? The person I heard in the churchyard might have been the thief, escaping down the back path to Carter’s Lane.” Her eyes searched his face. “Don’t you think it likely?”

He studied her, reluctant to reveal precisely what he was thinking.

Because it occurred to him that if the vicar was so frantic about the missing money and happened to find the nearly empty box in Blyth’s cupboard, he might be extremely angry. Perhaps angry enough to hit his curate over the head with a handy chunk of marble on his return from Carter’s Lane.

Except… The facts didn’t entirely fit. Whoever it was, he had escaped down the shortcut to Carter’s Lane. If there was indeed anyone in the graveyard other than Grace Stainton and Trevor Blyth. In fact, whoever it was must have come into the graveyard along that shortcut, as well, killed Blyth, and then returned the same way.

Unless the rock had been picked up earlier for some reason. Perhaps as a reminder that the grave marker needed repair. Bringing it back to the vicar’s door again, for he would be the one most likely, other than the family of the one interred under the broken gravestone, to be interested in having the stone repaired.

Though why should Mr. Wolstenholme pick up the piece from that broken gravestone, instead of the one nearest to Blyth’s body? That remained a mystery.

He wished the grave marker hadn’t crumbled to the point where the name of the person interred there was obliterated. It might be useful to know if there were any living relatives, and if any of them had a reason to dislike Blyth.

“You are so silent, Lord Glanville,” Miss Stainton blurted out nervously. “You disagree with me, don’t you?” Her chin rose defiantly, but her mouth trembled. The lashes around her blue eyes were bedewed with tears. “You still believe that I was responsible, don’t you? You’re convinced that I am a murderess!”

“I am convinced of nothing.”

“Then you’ve had second thoughts? You don’t believe I did it?”

He pried her fingers off his arm before threading her hand through the crook of his elbow and walking in the direction his sister had taken. “There may still be some facts to uncover.”

“You may not believe this, but I would have been happy for your sister if Mr. Blyth had told me, himself, that he loved her. I would have wished them both joy and happiness.”

“Without a shred of jealousy?” he commented wryly.

“Well, of course I would have been jealous. Who would not? But I would have wished the best for them. Eventually.”

He chuckled over the touch of asperity in her reply. “Then you are a far kinder and more generous woman than I have met before.”

“Then I can only believe that either you have met appallingly few women, or terribly frightful ones. In the future, I suggest that you strive for the society of a better class of women.”

“Or at least the society of fewer murderesses.”

She stiffened and paused, but he held her hand firmly on his arm, forcing her to continue forward.

“That was a dreadful thing to say.”

“Then you consider yourself a murderess?” he asked blandly.

“I do not!”

“Then smile, Miss Stainton, and stop looking so guilty.”

“I am not guilty!”

“Then don’t act as if you were. The inquest is tomorrow. I have spoken to Sir Horace, and he is willing to take your statement and present that in lieu of your attendance. Get some rest,” he added. “You don’t want to be mistaken for Lady Macbeth, pacing her room at night and wringing her hands from guilt.”

“I don’t wring my hands!”

“Well, right now, you look like you do.”

“That is a very pretty compliment, my lord!”

“It’s not meant to be one—it’s meant to be a useful piece of advice that I suggest you heed. Unless you really do want to hang for murder.” He eyed her. “Perhaps you think it will lend you a romantic air of tragedy. Unfortunately, it won’t.”

Biting her lower lip, she glanced up at him. “I never thought that, and frankly, I have decided that I am quite done with romance.”

“What? At sixteen? Done with romance?” He chuckled.

She threw him a sharp look. “I am not sixteen. I am eighteen—nearly nineteen, in fact.”

“Quite old, then. Ancient, in fact, and old enough to be done with romance.” With difficulty he suppressed his laughter.

“Well, I am. Done with it, that is. There’s no point to romance—all it does is make one utterly miserable and prey for fortune hunters.”

His eyebrows rose. “Oh? Are you having difficulties fending off fortune hunters?” He glanced around suggestively, as if hordes of single men might be galloping down the road after them.

“Actually, yes. My cousin. Stephen.” She let out a long breath. “I am told I have inherited a modest sum. Oh, nothing like your sister, I’m sure. But something.”

“Enough for your cousin, at least.” He studied her, aware of a thread of sympathy tugging at him.

She really was lovely, even though her skin was pale and her blue eyes were set in shadowed hollows. There was a sense of strength in her despite her fragile appearance and the air of one who would not flinch from whatever fate the future held for her.

“Yes, enough for him.” Her mouth formed a firm line. “That’s why I’m not going back to London. There is no point in encouraging him.”

“But you’d hoped your modest sum might encourage Blyth, is that it?” A touch of hardness crept into his voice.

She looked up at him defiantly. “Surely, you can’t object. After all, I gathered that you did not like Mr. Blyth’s courtship of your sister. One might have thought that you would welcome any intrusion into their idyll from whatever source.”

“An intrusion, yes. Murder, well, that is another question entirely.”

Miss Stainton halted abruptly and pulled her hand away from his arm. “Why do you persist in this notion that I killed Mr. Blyth? Is there nothing I can do to prove my innocence?”

Now, here was a dilemma. Loyalty to his sister insisted that he ought to dislike Miss Stainton, and there was no better way of proving his distaste for her than to paint her as a foul murderess. But his innate honesty was appalled at such blatant disregard for the facts. The more he learned, the more he was inclined to believe Miss Stainton’s story, improbable though it might seem on the face of it.

He had witnessed her rolling the unconscious Mrs. Willow into her lap after the widow had fainted. It was not too much to believe that she had done the same when she discovered Blyth’s body. Which would certainly explain the blood on her gloves, cuff, and skirt.

Strain was clear on her pale face, and her eyes were wild with frustration as she stared at him.

And there was the nearly empty box for the organ fund… Not that anyone would suggest that the vicar had had a hand in his curate’s death. But embezzlement of church funds was an interesting and powerful motive.

“While I cannot claim to know a great deal about the matter, or speak for the coroner and his jury, I will admit that there are several facts that support your story—”

“My story! It is not a story—it is the truth.” She seemed to catch hold of her temper and wrestle it into submission before she echoed his word, “Facts?” She leaned closer to him and placed her hand on his arm. “What facts? Did you learn something?”

“Several things.” He smiled and threaded her hand through his arm again and resumed walking toward the village. “I have thought a great deal about your appearance.”

She flushed.

His smile deepened. “There were no spots of blood on your bodice as one might expect. Under the circumstances. And given the weapon used. It was not from an area that you might have passed upon entering the graveyard. Assuming Mr. Cavell supports your tale.”

She glanced at him askance at his use of the word tale, but she didn’t comment on it. In fact, her brow furrowed in concentration, and they walked a few yards in silence.

“Is that all, then?” She glanced up at him, chewing on her lower lip. “It is not an overwhelming collection of facts, is it?”

“No. I’m afraid not.”

“Will it convince the jury and the coroner?”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t say for certain. I think they will listen to reason, however. And as the jurors are from Kendle, some will at least know you. It is not hopeless.”

She flicked a quick glance up at him. “Will you—would you be kind enough to let me know if anything else is discovered?”

“I will.” He considered telling her about the box he’d found in Blyth’s kitchen but dismissed the notion. There might be an innocent explanation, and there was no point in arguing with her about Blyth’s character, or lack thereof.

Unfortunately, if there was anything awkward in Blyth’s past, it was bound to come out. Once dead, a man had little hope of keeping his affairs private. So, both his sister and Miss Stainton were bound to have their eyes opened to some extent.

Eventually.

A gleam of amusement brightened Miss Stainton’s blue eyes, and a small dimple appeared in her cheek. “No matter what anyone else says, you are a very kind man, Lord Glanville.”

He grimaced. “With a face like mine, I can’t afford to be otherwise.”

A small, gay laugh rewarded him. Miss Stainton shook her head and stepped more lightly. “I suspect you are also something of a rogue, Lord Glanville. So be warned, I am now on my guard.” She glanced up the road and waved.

His sister and Miss Martha Stainton were standing in front of St. Mary’s, talking to the vicar’s wife.

“May I call on you tomorrow? After the inquest?” he asked abruptly before they joined the other ladies, who were watching their approach with critical gazes.

“Yes, of course,” Miss Grace answered distractedly, as she studied the other women.

Separating from Miss Stainton and his sister, Lady Lenora, Mrs. Wolstenholme moved a few steps along the walkway leading to her home. When she caught his gaze, she immediately looked around before focusing firmly on the ground at her feet.

Miss Grace broke away from him and hurried to meet her sister, while Lady Lenora moved in his direction.

“Good day, Mrs. Wolstenholme. Miss Stainton.” Lady Lenora’s gaze flicked dismissively past Miss Grace Stainton as she nodded farewell to the older Miss Stainton.

The other ladies murmured their goodbyes. The Misses Stainton quickly walked past Glanville, moving down the lane in the direction of Hornbeam Manor. Their heads were bent toward each other, intent on their conversation, as they hurried away.

“What took you so long?” Lady Lenora complained, turning her back on the Stainton sisters.

His brows rose. “I was not aware that I was particularly long in joining you.”

“Well, you were.” She forced her hand through the crook of his arm and pulled him in the direction of the village shops. “I truly do not know why you insist on associating with that woman. If I had known she intended to return to pester poor Trevor last night when I was out, I would have told her she needn’t have bothered. Insolent, little hoyden. I cannot imagine what Trevor saw in that woman.”

“Can you not?” Glanville asked in a mild, amused voice.

“No, I cannot.” She flicked a scornful glance at him. “And you had best look out for yourself, now. She will have her eye on you, next. Looking for a title like her sister caught for herself, no doubt. Mark my words. She’ll set her cap at you before the week is out.” She snorted and shook her head. “Men can be so foolish when they see a pretty face.”

As his sister figuratively mounted her favorite hobby horse, he recalled her initial complaint about Miss Grace. Lady Lenora’s words echoed in his mind. “When you were out?”

His sister stumbled. Her hand tightened on his arm, and her prim mouth tightened further. “I do not understand your question.”

“You understood well enough. You said you were out.” He pulled her forward relentlessly, nodding to one of the villagers who had paused to doff his cap as he went about his business. “Were you meeting Blyth?”

“What business is it of yours what I was doing?”

“Did you see Miss Stainton last night?”

“I’d have given her something to think about if I had,” Lady Lenora replied hotly, her fingers digging into his arm.

“Did you see Blyth?”

“That is none of your business, Glanville. I can assure you, I did nothing of which to be ashamed. He was my betrothed.”

He stopped and turned to grip his sister’s arms, forcing her to look at him.

She stared back, her face pinched and her broad cheeks flushed with anger. Throwing her head back, her hard blue eyes dared him to question her further.

“Did you meet Blyth?” he asked again, enunciating each word so there could be no mistake.

“What if I did? I had every right to do so!”

Surely, his own sister… “Which way did you go? Did you use Carter’s Lane?”

“Why should I use Carter’s Lane? What is wrong with you?” She shook him off and stepped away, glancing around the busy street.

They’d almost reached the greengrocer’s small shop. Several patrons were eyeing them almost as curiously as the vegetables on display in wooden bins in front of the establishment.

“When did you see him? What time?”

“You think I murdered him?” Her voice rose shrilly as her hands fisted. She leaned toward him, flushed with fury. “You wish to shift the blame to me rather than your precious Miss Stainton?” A harsh laugh broke from her thin-lipped mouth. “You would rather see me hang than her, I suppose. Oh, I saw the way you looked at her when we met them just now.”

“You saw what you wished to see. As usual.” He gripped her wrist and forced her hand through the crook of his arm. “No one wishes to blame you. Certainly not me. I simply wish to discover the facts in the matter. When did you meet with Blyth?”

“I don’t know. Sometime around half past seven, perhaps.”

“Did you see anyone else?”

“Well, if you must know, yes. I spoke to Mrs. Wolstenholme, in fact. And I noticed the vicar going to the church, just as you might expect.”

“Anyone else?”

“I suppose you are hoping that I saw your precious Miss Stainton. Well, I did not.”

“What time did you leave?”

“How should I know? I do not carry a pocket watch with me the way you do.” When he made an impatient noise, she continued hurriedly. “I suppose we spoke twenty minutes or so. Certainly, no more than half an hour.”

“So around eight,” he murmured thoughtfully. He had arrived at St. Mary’s just a few minutes after eight.

The churchyard must have been extraordinarily busy that evening, with several people coming and going within bare minutes of each other. He considered the implications.

His sister shrugged.

“What did you and Blyth talk about?” he asked, giving in to his curiosity. “I didn’t think you’d want to see him again so soon after your little argument on Monday.”

“Argument? What argument?”

He chuckled. “Is argument too strong a word? It seemed to me that I heard something about a wedding date.”

“Wedding date?” his sister echoed, staring fixedly down at the walkway.

“I got the distinct impression that Blyth wished the date to be set sooner, rather than later. He must have truly loved you.”

Lady Lenora’s sallow cheeks reddened. “Yes. Well, there was no hurry, was there?”

“No.” He gave her a sympathetic grin and patted her hand. “You are only twenty, after all. Not quite an ape-leader, yet.”

Her flush deepened, and she refused to look at him. “I thought six months would be quite appropriate. After all, my birthday comes in three.”

“And you were having doubts.”

“Doubts?” The tremor in her voice echoed the clenching of her fingers on his arm. She choked out a light laugh. “Not at all.”

“Are you sure? Was he trying to force the matter? Did he ask you to meet him there? A graveyard can be a quiet and lonely spot at that time of night.”

She sighed and shook her head. “Nothing happened, and when I left, he was quite well, I assure you. Please do not question me further—there is no point in doing so. He is dead. Can we not leave it at that?”

“I would be more than happy to comply. However, the coroner and constable are likely to have other notions.”

Lady Lenora remained silent for a few steps, before she raised her head and glanced at him. Her eyes were circled with red and raw with emotion. “I suppose I should have cried.” Bitterness cut through her voice. “You must be thinking that he was my last chance. I certainly thought that. Who would want me except a desperate fortune hunter? I know what I look like. I have a mirror.” She laughed harshly. “And I knew perfectly well where Mr. Blyth’s interests lay. You have only to look at Miss Stainton to know that.”

“Lenora—” He pressed his hand over his sister’s fingers.

“No—I realize perfectly well. Or, at least, I began to realize Monday. He was so insistent… So, it is hardly surprising that I am not prostrate with grief.”

“But you do feel grief, nonetheless. I am so sorry, Lenora.”

Her mouth twisted into the semblance of a smile. “You certainly tried to warn me enough times. And one could well argue that I was angry with Mr. Blyth for trying to marry me for my money. Which is why I would ask you—beg you—not to mention that I met with him that night. It would be awkward… And I do not wish everyone to know the truth of the matter. You do see that, do you not?”

“I understand. Believe me, I do. However, you mentioned that you saw both Mr. and Mrs. Wolstenholme. They may have seen you, and may very well mention that at the inquest tomorrow. If they do, you will have to be questioned. It would be far better if you were to go to Sir Horace and make your statement now, so that you are not forced to attend the inquest. It would look worse if you said nothing and the Wolstenholmes spoke of your presence in the graveyard.”

He glanced away when a tear rolled down his sister’s sallow cheek. She sniffed and swallowed, struggling to bring her emotions under control.

They were in public, after all, and she always maintained a calm exterior when others were present. Or, at least, most of the time. Certainly, she would never allow herself to cry, even if she did exhibit a bit of temper on occasion. It was one of the things he admired about her—her self-control. One of many things.

And despite her plain exterior, she had always been kind and gentle, far kinder than he would ever be, despite Miss Stainton’s accusation. And somehow, Lady Lenora managed to believe in love and the goodness of others, in spite of all evidence to the contrary.

How could he not admire her?

Which was why Blyth annoyed him so much. His sister deserved better—far better. But her kindness had made Blyth’s job far too easy. He had managed to tunnel under her defensive wall—which had never been that strong, anyway—and convinced her that he loved her before Glanville could do anything to stop it.

It was truly unfortunate, however, that she’d been disillusioned Monday, just a few days before Blyth’s death. The timing was…awkward.

Lady Lenora sighed again. Her mouth tightened into a firm line as she put her handkerchief back into her reticule and tightened the strings. She looked up at him. “I will speak with Sir Horace.” Her fingers then fumbled over her reticule, yanking it open again. Finally, she pulled out a folded note. “Trevor asked me to meet him—it was not my notion.” She showed him the brief note. “I was… disappointed in him. But I did not wish him harm.” Her eyes searched his face. “You do believe me, do you not?”

“Yes, Lenora. I do. And I’ll accompany you to Sir Horace’s, if you wish.” He gave one of her hands a squeeze.

She nodded and smiled. “I would like that. Thank you, Glanville. You are a good brother.” She laughed. “We make a pretty pair, do we not? Neither of us is likely to inspire love. In the end, I suppose we will both settle for a very businesslike arrangement of convenience.”

An unaccustomed emotion twinged inside him. For some reason, Miss Grace rose to mind. Not so much her pretty face, but the fact that she, too, was facing a marriage of convenience if her cousin could convince her to marry him. The thought didn’t sit well with Glanville. Such alliances may be the way of the world, but that didn’t mean he had to like them. Or look forward to his own eventual arrangement, whatever and whenever that would be.

Hopefully, a long time in the future, yet.