Chapter Four
Michael went to the garden, where the scream had originated. Most of the other guests had arrived before him. They gathered around the fallen body of Lord Allerton. Michael knew immediately that his skill as a physician would not be required. Lord Allerton had been struck about the head repeatedly. Blood had already stopped flowing from the gashes, but enough of it was pooled beneath him to indicate that the loss was catastrophic.
He felt the weight of suspicious stares. It didn’t help that he’d been one of the last to arrive and that his disappearance from the drawing room had been noted. The local magistrate, Squire Blevins pointed an accusing finger at him. “You quarreled with this man prior to his death, Lord Ellersleigh. What have you to say for yourself?”
“I did not quarrel with him. He attempted to quarrel with me, and I walked away,” Michael said succinctly.
It was Lavinia who spoke next. Spite tainted her words, “You came here to the garden, Lord Ellersleigh, after he all but accused you of cheating. Perhaps he followed you in an attempt to force a confrontation. It would appear that he succeeded.”
That was more than enough for the squire. He puffed out his chest before turning back to face Michael. “If you cannot provide someone to account for your whereabouts, Viscount Ellersleigh, I will have no choice but to take you into custody,” the squire said, his tone quite firm.
A sick feeling settled into the pit of Michael’s stomach, along with a sneaking suspicion. Lavinia had been in the garden as well. He didn’t doubt that she possessed the necessary coldness to do murder, but did she physically possess the strength to bludgeon a man to death? Of course, it wouldn’t really matter who was guilty if the local constabulary had decided to see him hang for it. “Squire Blevins, there are any number of guests here with whom Lord Allerton was on less than harmonious terms.”
“Yes, and I was in the same room with the lot of them excepting yourself, my lord.”
“That is hardly a sound reason to convict a man, Squire.”
It was his Juliet’s voice that split the darkness. Michael turned to see Abby strolling into the garden. She had donned a heavy cape over her nightgown and wrapper. He could see the familiar lace hem beneath the cloak. Her hair had been hastily re-braided, and a few errant strands curled against her neck. She gave him a sidelong glance, and it spoke volumes. If he needed an alibi, she could provide it, but at what cost?
“Begging your pardon, Miss Barrows, but legal matters are a bit beyond your expertise,” the squire responded, his tone condescending.
Michael watched as she leveled the Squire with a look that made the man squirm. She lifted her chin and managed to look down her lovely nose at him though he stood inches above her. “Are you suggesting, Squire, that I lack the necessary intelligence to grasp that it requires more than that to convict a man of murder?”
The man stammered an apology, “Never meant to imply any such thing, Miss Barrows. I only meant to say that you hadn’t heard the whole conversation and might not have all the facts straightaway… Viscount Ellersleigh disappeared from the drawing room, and no one has laid eyes on him since. His clothes are mussed too, and that could well have happened in a struggle with poor Lord Allerton, here.”
Climbing a bloody tree would see him swinging from one, Michael thought. He looked back at Abby, and she gave the slightest of nods as she stepped forward to stand directly beside him.
With her tacit approval, he made a confession that would forever alter both their lives. “My clothing is mussed, Squire Blevins, because I climbed the tree beneath Miss Barrows’ window.”
There were gasps all around as everyone turned to her with accusing eyes. As married men and women, they could engage in all sorts of licentious behavior in full view of one another in the drawing room. Because she was unmarried, even admitting to being along with him was enough to see her ruined.
“Is this true, Miss Barrows? Have you engaged in lewd behavior with this man?” the Squire demanded.
Abby was embarrassed to her toes. She could deny it, but no one would believe her. “We were alone together at the time that Lord Allerton was so grievously injured, Squire. Surely that is all the information that you require.”
Lavinia stepped forward; her eyes were hot with anger and jealousy. “How dare you shame my husband and I this way! You will not remain in this house!”
Michael stepped between the two women. The hypocrisy of the situation galled him. “You will keep a civil tongue, Lady Lavinia, when you are addressing my future wife.”
Lavinia’s face became red with anger; her fingers curved into talon-like claws as she glared at them. “Rupert would never consent to such a union!”
“I am five and twenty, Lavinia. I do not require your husband’s consent,” Abby said mildly. This only served to spur Lavinia further into rage, and she leaped forward as if to attack. Two of the gentlemen present grabbed hold of her, hauling her back as she screamed and ranted.
The Squire stepped forward, “If I find that this engagement is a sham just to throw suspicion elsewhere—“
Michael nodded, taking Abbi by the arm and leading her away from the others. Over his shoulder, he said, “Rest assured, Squire Blevins, that Abigail and I will marry as soon as possible.”
Footmen were called to remove the body that would be sent on to Lord Allerton’s family. It was arranged for a messenger to ride ahead and warn his relatives. As the remaining guests dispersed, Michael whispered to Abby, “Get your things. You are not staying here tonight.”
“I can’t leave with you! Think of the scandal!” Abby protested.
Michael’s grip on her arm was forceful but gentle as he steered her away from the house. “It may have escaped your notice, but the only other person who was in this garden tonight was your stepsister! Given the viciousness of her temper, I do not doubt for a minute that she is more than capable of murder.”
Abby looked over her shoulder and saw that Lavinia was still spewing venom. She didn’t doubt it either. “I’ll meet you at the stables,” she said.
Michael’s expression hardened, his lips firming. “No, we’re leaving now…I’ll have a maid gather your things and send them to Blagdon Hall. It is too dangerous for you to go in alone. You cannot afford to trust anyone here. At present, I am the only person you can be sure isn’t a murderer.”
He was right, of course. Given how quickly the squire had moved to point the finger at him, there could be no question that it was what Lavinia wanted everyone to believe. Squire Blevins didn’t sneeze unless her sister gave him leave to do so.
Abby watched as he delivered instructions to a footman, and then returned to lead her to the stables. In her bare feet, the damp grass was chilly, but she didn’t complain. Thinking of Lord Allerton, she realized she had very little to complain about.
~*~*~
By midnight, Abby was once again in her velvet draped bed at Blagdon Hall. The return trip atop Lord Ellersleigh’s mount had been an eye opening experience for her. She’d never before been so close to any man, unless one counted her near misses in Rupert’s clutches.
Thinking of Lord Ellergsleigh, and the ease with which he’d mounted the horse and then hauled her up before him as if she weighed nothing more than a feather, left her breathless. Given that many had previously referred to her as being full-figured, or good country stock, that was a bit of a revelation. For the nearly half hour journey on the road between Whitby House and Blagdon Hall, she’d been seated before him on his horse, cradled between his strong thighs with his arms wrapped about her. Pine and sandalwood would ever remind her of him.
As she prepared for bed, she was painfully aware that he was just down the hall. Only a few doors separated her from a man who was an inveterate rogue. She was also far from immune to him, and he knew it. And they were engaged to be married, for possibly the worst reason ever. If they didn’t wed, he would be hanged for a murder he didn’t commit. If on the off chance Lord Allerton’s true murderer was discovered, she would be ruined if they didn’t go through with it. They were well and truly stuck, and she knew nothing about him.
Glancing around at the familiar walls, she sat down heavily on the bed and tried to calm her racing nerves. “This is a fine fix,” she said aloud. Weary, she extinguished the candles and climbed into bed, knowing that sleep would not come.
~*~*~
Michael didn’t even attempt to sleep. He was too disturbed by the night’s events and the impact those events were having on his future. He’d left London to end his entanglement with one woman, and within a matter of days, he found himself on the verge of marriage to another one. It was disconcerting to say the least.
Deciding that brandy was a necessity, he made his way to the small library. It was where he had first encountered Abigail, shrieking at a misbehaving feline with her bottom on luscious display. She’d painted a charming picture that day, just as she had at dinner, and later in the small morning room. The memory of her in her prim night clothes with her dark hair cascading about her would haunt him.
She had hair like a gypsy, a mass of wild, dark curls that tumbled over her shoulders and breasts in glorious disarray. He could easily picture her dancing around a fire in flowing skirts with gold coins winking from her ears and wrists. Of course, those thoughts did little to ease his restlessness.
He poured the brandy and drained the glass. Under normal circumstances, he would have savored the slow burn of the liquid. He had discovered that the brandy on hand at Blagdon Hall was not the sort one savored but the sort one prayed to survive. If it would give him a peaceful night’s sleep, he didn’t care.
He refilled his glass and carried it with him as he headed for the stairs. He was halfway up the narrow, curving staircase when he felt an all too familiar sensation. His skin prickled and the hair at the nape of his neck rose alarmingly. His breath puffed out in front of him, misting in the newly chilled air.
His eyes rose of their own volition. She stood at the top of the stairs. Her hair was dark like Abigail’s, but straight. It hung to her waist in a thick sheet, framing a face that was both lovely and frightening. She didn’t speak; she merely pointed. She raised her arm slowly, the belled sleeve of her medieval gown falling away from a delicate wrist as she pointed to the window.
It lasted only seconds, and then she was gone. She had simply disappeared. He walked past the spot where she had stood, unease snaking through him. He peered out the narrow window, looking in the direction she’d pointed. I
In the woods between Bladgon Hall and Whitby House, he could see strange flickering lights. Torches, he thought, and a great number of them to boot. They flickered and moved through the woods, almost as if in a dance. It was like some pagan ritual. What was happening? What sort of madness had he stumbled into?
Michael turned, heading towards his own room, but unable to stop himself; he paused outside Abbi’s door. He listened for a moment, but no sound came from inside. He supposed it was a blessing to know that his new bride did not snore. He downed the last of the brandy and strode towards his own room, and a bed that would offer no solace.