A dolt would have noted the look of suspicion flaring in Lord Denham’s handsome eyes. Worse still, her grandfather and Lady Denham’s flirtatious banter at dinner had drawn more curious looks from the earl. When Lara had stolen a moment to air her concerns to Montague, he kissed her cheek, patted her arm and promised all would work out as intended.
“Have faith,” he’d said.
Faith?
Faith that the earl would still speak to her again when he learned of the deception? That he wouldn’t reclaim the mistletoe berry and crush it beneath the heel of his boot?
Frustration drew a sigh from her lips.
Lara sat up in bed, plumped the pillow and flopped back down.
Guilt brought the lump back to her throat. Her thoughts returned to the earl, to the terrible crime that had left him subdued all evening. And to her ever-growing need to feel those muscular arms wrapped around her in a strong embrace. The more time she spent in his company, the more she dreaded leaving Wollaston Hall.
She closed her eyes, but numerous thoughts plagued her mind. It occurred to her that if she helped the earl solve the crime against Mr Bellham, he might forgive her one small lie.
The fire’s amber flames stole the chill from the air, and so she threw back the mound of blankets and sheets, climbed out of bed and paced the room while rousing her logical brain into action.
Someone must have been waiting at the gate for Mr Bellham. By the viscount’s admission, his friend had been desperate to leave the Swan, desperate to reach Wollaston Hall. But why? And what had taken him so long?
Perhaps the culprit had seen Mr Bellham talking to someone at the gate, had crept outside for a reason unbeknown and thrust a blade into his chest? It would be helpful to know whose bedchambers overlooked the drive. Who might have had their nose pressed to the window awaiting his arrival?
She parted the curtains and glanced outside. Her room overlooked the manicured gardens and the path leading to the orchard, to the walled garden and the old bothy where Mr Bellham lay cold and dead.
The world was like a dull canvas of a pure white marred by black shadows. Thick storm clouds in the distance promised more snow, but for a brief time, moonlight bathed the garden in a soft glow. Lara stared, lost in the irony that the severe weather was not the thing to fear. The real danger lurked somewhere in the warm and secure walls of the house.
Then the glow from a lantern caught Lara’s attention. She noticed a gentleman on the path cutting through the giant manicured hedges, hurrying towards the orchard. Lara rubbed her tired eyes and looked keenly at the figure, whose top hat sat askew. Odd. The person moved not with the straight linear steps of a gentleman, but the graceful, shorter feminine ones that marked the midnight walker a woman.
With no time to dress, Lara yanked on her stockings and boots. She thrust her arms into her wrapper and tied the belt before creeping downstairs.
The sound of conversation spilling out of the drawing room captured her attention. More so, when she heard Lady Denham’s raised voice. Though eavesdropping was almost as shameful as lying, she couldn’t help but tiptoe closer to the door.
“I was a young girl of eighteen,” Lady Denham protested. “You know the control my father had. Even if it had been possible to deny him, the devil weaved his wicked words until I could no longer think straight. Money and duty. Duty and money. The man whined like an out-of-tune organ.”
“You could have run away, come to me. I would have taken care of you.” Pain clung to Montague’s words. Lara had seen the hurt in his eyes when he told her of his love for Lady Denham. “I’d have shot your father between the brows rather than lose you.”
“And you would have paid the price for the rest of your life.” The heavy tone of regret tainted Lady Denham’s voice. “It’s been forty years, Montague, must we argue about it now?”
Montague sighed. “Forty years, yet the pain is as raw as if it were a day.”
“That didn’t stop you carousing with Lady Bagshaw, Mrs Dutton and a host of other unsuitable ladies.”
“You married Bartholomew de Wold. A man does foolish things when he’s hurt. Tell me, Penelope, what was I supposed to do to numb the pain?”
Lady Denham started sobbing. “I’ve been so lonely.”
Knowing she should respect their privacy, Lara stepped away.
She found her cloak in a cloakroom further along the hall, and so wrapped herself in the thick garment and raised the hood. One did not need to follow the midnight walker to know of her intended destination. But what was it about Mr Bellham’s body that had drawn the woman out of the house? What had persuaded her to don gentlemen’s clothes?
Lara hurried along the path to the orchard and followed the only pair of footprints in the snow. Confusion reigned when she caught sight of the dark figure slipping inside the bothy. Lord Denham had locked the door and taken the key. The person who had let themselves into the old brick building was not as tall or broad or as inherently masculine as the earl. So how the devil had they found a key?
Hidden behind the stumpy trunk of one of fifty apple trees, she peered at the bothy’s tiny window. Only a fool would enter the building and demand to know what the devious vixen was up to. If one could kill a peer’s nephew, then why not a peer’s granddaughter?
She waited for the glow of the lantern to illuminate the room in the hope of seeing something through the window. Indeed, she was so focused on the bothy, she failed to hear someone creeping up behind her until they slapped a gloved hand over her mouth.
Her first instinct was to thrash and writhe against her attacker, but the whisper of a rich masculine voice was one she knew well.
“Don’t move, Miss Bennett.” Lord Denham drew her back against his hard chest. One strong arm snaked around her waist to hold her still. “I shall remove my hand, but you’re not to make a sound. Is that understood?”