His Wicked Smile Page 9

  “You don’t know about this, I suspect, or you’d have said something,” she told him.

  “I take it this isn’t about my medicine,” he agreed.

  “Keep a firm grip on Noel. I don’t want you to startle him.”

  He had no idea why she’d said that, but he wrapped his arms firmly around his warm little bundle. Ann unlocked the box with a key from around her neck, and rifled through a sheath of papers. Finally, she pulled one out and spread it open on the table in front of him.

  His first impression was red. Lots of red paint. Then, he began to understand, as the horror of the painted scene hit him. It was childish work, but the man depicted was nonetheless undeniably dead. He was mature, with dark hair and staring blue eyes. Blood dripped from lips of almost the same color. He saw some kind of stick poked into the man’s torso in a couple of places, bloody wounds in others. When he saw the man was wearing an old uniform jacket, he thought he understood. “Wells?”

  She pursed her lips together and nodded. “Fern found him. She’s never spoken a word since. She screamed continuously that morning until I got enough poppy syrup into her to put her to sleep. That was the end of her voice.”

  “She was ten?”

  “Yes. I had given her a box of paints that year and she drew this about a week after the murder. She’s never painted since.” She folded the disturbing image back into her box.

  Gawain wondered what else was in the box. “I did not know your husband had been murdered. At the inn?”

  “Yes. I had hoped leaving there would help her.”

  He wondered why she had waited so long, given that she had the ability to support herself. “She seems happy enough now. Does she have nightmares?”

  “If she does they are silent,” Ann said. “I’m a heavy sleeper.”

  “I should ask if your husband’s murder was solved.”

  “No.” She glanced away. As if just noticing the teapot, she jumped up and started pouring fresh dark tea into teacups.

  He had to say it. “Of course, you didn’t kill him.”

  “No.” She frowned and added sugar to the teacups.

  She was being evasive, but not suspicious. “Do you know who did?”

  She poured milk in next. “No idea. We suspected a horse thief, because Fern found Wells in the stable.”

  “Were any horses missing?”

  She set a teacup in front of him. “No, but Wells could have surprised someone.”

  He smelled Indian spices wafting from the cup. “Did anyone suspect you?”

  “Never, Gawain.” She took a deep breath and he knew he was about to hear the rest of a bad story. He freed one hand and she grasped it. “I was with child. Visibly. And I lost the baby after. The baby stopped moving inside me and I went into labor a day later. I was out of my mind. I loved Wells so much. To lose the child too—”

  “You must have been devastated.” He wanted to reach for her, but he had the baby against his chest.

  She squeezed his hand and stared at Noel. “I was lost. But Fern needed me, and I didn’t have anywhere to go. I owned the inn, after all, as Wells’s widow. But I never went in the stable again.”

  “Of course not,” Gawain said. “How could you?”

  “You don’t think I’m a coward?”

  “Not at all.” He squeezed her hand and smiled at her. “I am amazed you stayed as long as you did, especially with the crime unsolved.”

  “His killer was long gone.” She withdrew her hand and stirred the contents of her teacup. “I can’t imagine he would ever return to The Old Hart for fear of discovery.”

  Noel snuffled and bleated. Ann immediately reached for him, and when the baby was calm, she insisted on massaging Gawain’s hip again. Like the previous night, her touch was impersonal but effective. When he had dressed again, she handed him an oiled pouch containing his mixture.

  “You have the instructions,” she said.

  “I do. I look forward to trying it.”

  “It will be painful.”

  He laughed. “You know I am used to pain.” His hip felt ten degrees hotter than the rest of his body, thanks to her manipulations. But he knew he would walk better tomorrow as a result. Would he see better too?

  “Take a day to rest your hip, then come again on Thursday,” she said.

  “I’d like to see Noel every day.”

  “Very well. Come in the evenings.” Her eyes narrowed for a moment, then her impassive expression took hold again.

  He nodded. “Tomorrow we shall discuss our wedding plans.”

  She glanced at the ceiling for a moment before looking back at him. “Until tomorrow.”

  He put his hand on her shoulder, then kissed her cheek, hoping she would turn into the kiss. She didn’t. As he left the flat, he wondered what it was about their engagement that she disliked so much. Was she upset that she hadn’t received a betrothal gift? Or that he hadn’t spoken to the head of her family? Did she consider Harry Haldene to be the head of her family?

  He considered going to Leeds to talk to Harry, since Fern couldn’t tell him anything. But for now, he found a cab and went home, clutching his precious pouch of herbs.

  The next morning he was resolved to deal with a mound of correspondence and visit his warehouses, but the first post brought a letter from Hatbrook Farm.

  This was nothing unusual. Too much of his family resided or visited there, but he rarely had a note from the marquess himself. He always opened these wondering if he was being notified that Lady Beth had returned home. It couldn’t yet be a congratulatory note as there had not been time for a response, or indeed, time for his letter to have arrived in the south.

  He glanced at it again and realized he’d been so distracted by the pain lingering in his eye from the treatment that he hadn’t noticed it wasn’t a letter but a telegram.

  He slit it open and stared at the words.

  FAMILY EMERGENCY COME AT ONCE

  Chapter Seven

  Late that afternoon, Gawain stepped down from the cab and went up the front steps at Hatbrook Farm. He wondered all the way south what had happened. Something with one of the babies? A health emergency for one of his parents? But that telegram would most likely have come from Redcake Manor.

  Mindful of Ann’s revelation about Noel’s early birth, he wondered if Alys was expecting again and something had gone wrong.

  Matthew, one of the footmen, opened the door. “Oh good,” he exclaimed.

  Gawain raised an eyebrow. “What is going on?”

  “It’s a right mess, Mr. Redcake. Everyone is at sixes and sevens.”

  “I assume your master is well. Your mistress?”

  “Very angry, both of them.”

  Angry. Well, this was a clue. In fact, he even had a suspect. “Has Theodore Bliven made an appearance?” Why had he not thought of what Bliven would do next? The man must have returned to England looking for more than money.

  Matthew nodded vigorously. “He has, and a dreadful racket it has been around here ever since he appeared last night, expecting a bed from the marquess as if they were still the best of friends.”

  “Did Hatbrook give him one?”

  “Sent him to the inn and said they would talk in the morning. But then who arrives today? Miss Matilda, here to celebrate Lady Redcake’s birthday.”

  Gawain slapped his hand to his forehead. His mother’s birthday. It had completely slipped his mind. At least he’d sent a card on Friday, just before he’d seen Ann again. But this reminded him that today was Valentine’s Day and he should have sent something to Ann, even if she didn’t want to see him today.

  Why wouldn’t she have wanted to see him on this lover’s holiday? Perhaps it had slipped her mind. Neither of them had expected to be engaged, after all. Should he send a telegram? He couldn’t get back to London tonight.

  “Why didn’t Matilda go to Redcake Manor?”

  “Lady Mary Ellen has a cold and Lady Hatbrook didn’t want her to leave the house, so ev
eryone came here.”

  “Even me,” he said with a sigh. “Is Bliven here now?”

  “Everyone is here,” Matthew said with emphasis. “In the winter parlor.”

  Gawain held out his hands as if they were manacled together. “Take me to the battle.”

  Matthew took his valise and Gawain stepped into the passage. He retained his cane, the travel having already diminished the effects of the previous night’s massage, but he was pleased to see he didn’t really need it for balance.

  Matthew, ahead of him, threw open the double doors into the winter parlor. Alys had refreshed the room with ivory wallpaper flecked with ivy leaves. Fires burned in enormous fireplaces on each end of the long room. All traces of the trademark rose furnishings of Hatbrook’s late mother had vanished in favor of tasseled green sofas and solid tables that no baby could push over. Vividly imagined paintings of rural landscapes decorated the walls. Gawain wondered who had chosen the paintings. They seemed far more Hatbrook than his sister, who would probably have decorated her home like she had decorated Redcake’s, with photographs of cakes.

  He hovered in the doorway, thinking he’d like Ann and Noel to be photographed. There were plenty of studios in London. The thought left his mind when he saw his father’s florid face in an attitude of outraged anger as he rose from one of the sofas.

  “How could you allow that man to descend on us again? And you gave him money?” Sir Bartley Redcake stalked toward him.

  Gawain thumped the floor with his cane and moved forward to meet his father. “Bliven is gone again?”

  “He is in the village as we speak.”

  “Better than being in the house. What has it to do with me?”

  “He told us he saw you.”

  “Yes, he came to my club. I did meet with him at the house. You know I had hired him before I knew of his, er, inappropriateness with Matilda.”

  Matilda stood, white-faced, clutching her son Jacob a bit too tightly.

  “What?” he asked his sister. “He came with goods that I had paid for. Why shouldn’t I see him?”

  She turned away. Sir Bartley tucked his fingers into his waistcoat pockets and glared at him. “Not well done, Gawain, and on your mother’s birthday, too.”

  Gawain waved to his mother. “Happy birthday, Mother.”

  She smiled faintly, then bent her head to baby Lady Mary Ellen, who was snuggled in her arms.

  “Did anyone receive the letter with my news?” he inquired.

  “What news was that?” Hatbrook asked, setting a newspaper aside. He was tucked into the corner of a sofa next to Alys.

  “My engagement?”

  He heard Matilda squeak her outrage. She had the right to be annoyed, but he wanted the subject changed. Why hadn’t he sent a cable to the Farm instead of hopping the next train? Still, he supposed he’d have to be the one to confront Bliven in the village.

  “I haven’t seen the mail today,” Hatbrook said. His gaze met Gawain’s.

  He knew the marquess was thinking of their chat so long ago when he’d asked for Beth’s hand in marriage. Hatbrook must think this was his way of moving on, giving up on Hatbrook’s sister. The family would soon find out the truth, that there was a baby involved here as well.

  “Her name is Ann Haldene. Her parents were a British officer and an Indian maharani. She is the widow of a Lieutenant Wells Haldene, who perished a couple of years ago.”

  “Where did you meet such a person?” Sir Bartley asked.

  “In Leeds. She owns an inn there. Lord Judah and Cousin Lewis met her as well.”

  “Right when Beth disappeared?” Hatbrook said. “You’ve been courting her all this time?”

  “No,” Gawain said. “She’s come to London now.” He did not reveal she worked at Redcake’s. Alys would figure that out soon enough.

  “Absurd,” Sir Bartley said. “Why on earth would you choose a half-Indian innkeeper to be your bride?”

  “She has royal blood,” Hatbrook said. “And no doubt some aristocratic connections here in England, given that she’s the daughter of an officer.”

  “Not that I’m aware of,” Gawain said blandly. “When you meet her, you will understand my commitment to her. We will marry soon.”

  “From the Manor?” his mother asked.

  “No, in London. We will be making our home there. I have no connection to Sussex and neither does she.”

  “And I’m exiled to Bristol,” Matilda said bitterly. “Aren’t you going to ask what Mr. Bliven wanted?”

  “Tell me,” Gawain said, “if you are so inclined.”

  “He wanted to see his son,” she said.

  “Did you allow him?”

  “No.” Her mouth twisted. “After what he did I owe him nothing.”

  He glanced around the room, looking for the final member of the family party, his sister Rose. “Where is Rose?”

  “She is at the Manor,” Alys said. “With a fever. She didn’t want to pass it to the babies.”

  “Do you want me to go to the inn and tell Bliven to get the next train out of here?” Gawain asked.

  “I can do that,” Sir Bartley growled.

  “Then why send for me?” He turned back to Hatbrook. “I thought a serious illness or accident had taken place, rather than an emotional maelstrom.”

  “Your name was being impugned, given that Theodore said he’d seen you,” Hatbrook said.

  “Forgotten telephones exist?” Gawain asked. “You could have called the house. I had a telephone put in for business.”

  “A telephone is not a good mechanism for a family meeting,” Hatbrook said.

  “Matilda can make her own decisions. She is, what, twenty-three now, and a mother. What do you want to do, Matilda?”

  Her lips trembled. Her skin had never looked more pale against her shocking orange hair. “I would have said a son should know his father, but such a father.”

  “I can learn his intentions if they were not clearly stated,” Gawain said.

  “Are you going to do more business with him?” Sir Bartley asked.

  “That all depends on the quality of his offerings. The tea is good but it will be a month before I know if the herbs he found are efficacious.”

  “What kind of herbs?” Alys asked. “Culinary?”

  “No, medicinal. I am testing them now.”

  “Did he explain himself?” Matilda asked.

  He could tell she was close to shrieking. “His fiancée married someone else before he could get to her. I can’t say more than that, like why he didn’t write to propose to you when that marriage fell through.”

  “I expect he stayed in India until your money ran out, then came back with whatever dregs he could drag up to sell to you,” Hatbrook said.

  “None of it was dregs,” Gawain said. “He made some effort. I did not have a long conversation with him.”

  “Why not?” Matilda demanded. “Do you not think it was your duty to do so?”

  “Without knowing what you want, Matilda, what would I ask? Do you want him to marry you?”

  “Of course not,” she snapped.

  “Why not? Isn’t it the right thing for Jacob?”

  “I can take care of him.”

  Because their father allowed her the money to do so. He shared doubts with his father about his sister’s ability to manage the mills and factories, but his father was letting her try. Rather shocking, really. “Then that is an end to the matter. I’ll rid ourselves of him.”

  “I can do that,” his father said.

  Gawain threw up one hand. “Then do so, and kindly leave me out of it.” He limped to his mother and kissed her cheek. “I am sorry I did not bring a gift.”

  “Just seeing you is gift enough,” Ellen Redcake said. “Will you stay for dinner?”

  “I shall have to, given the time of day.” He gestured to a lingering maid to bring him a chair and resolved to spend the evening avoiding both Matilda and his father.

  Out of sheer stubbornness
he was successful, and after dinner excused himself to ride down to the inn. Upon entering Hatbrook’s stable, he was reminded of Wells Haldene’s death in a similar milieu. He didn’t like the idea of leaving such a mystery unsolved. How could the family be so sure it was a random crime? What if the murderer eventually came after Ann, Fern or Noel? The only reason he could think of not to solve it would be that the person who did the killing was more important to Ann than the crime itself. He didn’t suspect her for a moment, as she had clearly been besotted with her husband. Then there was Harry Haldene. How much prestige and money had he received by the happy accident of his brother’s death?

  He had the stableman find him a horse with a steady gait, since he was much too urban a fellow to ride often, and went into the village. Past the pub where he’d met Sergeant Bowler Martin the year before, he ran across an ancient inn, wreathed in Tudor charm. As it was the closest to the Farm he suspected he’d find Bliven inside.

  In fact, Bliven was the first soul he ran across, seated on a low chair in front of the fireplace in the main room. The man didn’t look at all surprised to see him, just lifted a thin, tanned finger to the serving woman. She came over as Gawain pulled off his muffler and unbuttoned his coat.

  “A bottle of port,” he said. “One glass.”

  Bliven chuckled. “Not going to share?”

  “You are turning into a demander,” Gawain said flatly.

  “I am no blackmailer. I simply wanted to see my son.”

  “Did you not realize that my sister is his mother? A real, flesh and blood woman you ruined?” Gawain bared his teeth at the man when Bliven tried to speak. “I don’t care what the particulars were. You knew you had no intention of marrying her if she got into trouble, and she fancied quite the opposite.”

  “I just wanted to see my son,” Bliven repeated calmly.

  “And then what?” The woman brought the port, an inferior bottle, he guessed from the looks of it, and set it down on a small table, then added a glass. He tossed her a coin.

  “I don’t know. Isn’t it natural for me to want to see my own child?”

  “He’s as little your child as it is possible to be. Why don’t you go away?” He poured himself a glass and took a sip. The port had a sour taste to it.