By rights, they should inform the coroner, but the authorities would be quick to blame the hired help for the murder of an aristocratic gentleman. And he’d not throw Miss Venables to the wolves. Not without substantial proof of guilt. Indeed, he was more intrigued to know why Miss Harper had lied.
“Miss Venables risks her position every time she slips into the viscount’s bed,” he said, steering the conversation away from suspects and murder. “It’s a tale of old. One that usually ends in disaster for the woman involved.”
The drawing room door swung open. Lord Northcott strode into the room with his usual arrogant flare. Miss Harper looked equally confident and self-assured. Had she batted her eyes with the same look of sincerity and lied to the coroner, too? Had the viscount manipulated both women to do his bidding?
One of them had slipped into Hugo’s room last night and torn the place apart. Had Miss Venables watched him leave the house? Had she taken the opportunity to search his room for the note Bertie had hidden in his boot? Had she moved to examine the body when her efforts proved unsuccessful?
A desperate need to discuss his theories with Miss Bennett rose in Hugo’s chest. But the coroner called the lady and her grandfather next. As she left the room, she cast him a nervous glance. He wanted to take her in his arms, caress her back in soothing strokes and tell her she had nothing to fear. He wanted to tell her he understood her reason for lying. He wanted her to kiss him in the way that excited the soul, to see the hazy look of desire swimming in her eyes once again.
“Montague mentioned leaving this evening,” Penelope said sadly. “Talk to him, Hugo. He doesn’t want to go, but I’m convinced he thinks you disapprove. Tell him it’s ludicrous to venture out in this weather.”
Hugo patted his mother’s arm. “I shall address the matter once we’ve concluded this business with the coroner.” And once he’d found time to speak to Miss Bennett alone and made a heartfelt apology.
Chapter Twelve
The coroner was not interested in theories or opinions. He tried to suggest that Lara might have seen a vagrant fleeing the murder scene. At this time of year, when work was scarce, poor men often acted impulsively. Lara confirmed that she had seen no one on the lane. She might have said that the only footprints led to the house. That the murderer was, without doubt, residing within these stately walls. But the coroner’s eagerness to steer her opinion roused feelings of distrust.
On her return to the drawing room, the mood was subdued.
Lord Denham approached. “Would you care for a glass of sherry, Miss Bennett? I would say to settle your nerves, but you’re one of the few people I know who can remain calm during trying situations.”
“By trying situations, do you mean when I’m not being free with the truth?”
There was little point skating around their argument when he offered an olive branch. In helping her grandfather, she had hurt Lord Denham. And she was truly sorry for that. Equally, his cutting response to her confession had cleaved her heart in two.
“I mean when comforting a dying man. When hiding in the orchard preparing to pounce on a suspected murderer.”
His reply brought a smile to her lips. “Perhaps we should draw a truce, my lord. When I leave this evening, I would rather do so as friends, not enemies.” Her heart lurched at the prospect of never again experiencing the taste of his lips. For some bizarre reason, Wollaston felt like home—he felt like home.
“Must you go?” He swallowed deeply. “Having spent the last forty years apart, would you deny our kin precious time together? Besides, it’s not safe to travel anywhere. Being a man of sense and responsibility, I must forbid it.”
“Forbid it?” She arched a brow as a playful reprimand. The reasons he offered were logical and yet she wished he had said he enjoyed her company, said that letting her leave would cause a painful ache in his heart. “The last thing I want is for my presence to offend you.”
“Nothing about you offends me, Miss Bennett.” And there it was. That heated look in his eyes that said so much more than words. “Can we not discuss this somewhere else, somewhere private?”
The last word roused memories of their passionate kiss in the orchard. The feel of his mouth moving sensually over hers was indelibly marked into her brain. Who wouldn’t want to experience such a heavenly moment again?
“We’re to dine soon, and Lady Denham wishes us to gather together afterwards to celebrate your birthday. Miss Harper insists on organising games to amuse us.” Miss Harpy—a fitting monicker—had a mischievous look in her eyes that spelled trouble. Lara wouldn’t miss having to be polite to that vulture. “Indeed, the lady is keen to win your approval.”
So keen to win his approval that she broke up their tête-à-tête, clutched the earl’s arm and said, “Come, we need to do something to lift the mood. It is your birthday, and there is nothing we can do for poor Mr Bellham. Turn the sheets for me while I play something lively.”
Other than batting the lady off with a stick—and even that might prove hopeless as Miss Harper gripped the earl with her mighty talons—Lord Denham had no choice but to oblige the lady’s whims.
Miss Harper tinkled the keys with a maestro’s precision, tackling pieces far too dark and complex to be entertaining. Clearly, she had something to prove. Evidently, she was out to snare an earl. Every time Lord Denham leaned forward to flip the sheets, Miss Harper caught his gaze and moistened her lips.
No one seemed more relieved than Lord Denham when, at the slightly earlier time of four o’clock, the gong rang for a Christmas feast worthy of a king’s banquet. Roast beef and venison, goose and pheasant, a delicious assortment of squash and vegetables filled the dining table. Guests gorged on gingerbread, shortbread, trifle, plum-pudding and rich brandy syllabub, and yet all found room for candied fruit and dessert wine after the splendid repast.
Three hours later, the guests and Lord Denham’s servants gathered in the drawing room to raise a glass for the festive season. While most households rewarded their staff with gifts on St Stephen’s Day, Lord Denham preferred to mark his birthday by distributing boxes after the toast. The earl had just asked Lara to assist his mother in handing out the gifts to the maids, but Miss Harper barged in between them in one of her mercurial moods and practically snatched a box out of Lord Denham’s grasp.
Lord Northcott cast a disdainful smirk and drew from his pipe as he observed the event while lounging in a chair. Surely one responsible for a man’s murder would act with more dignity. Did he not bear an ounce of remorse? Indeed, his arrogant manner led one to believe that he might not be guilty at all.
As the night progressed, Miss Harper grew more officious in her efforts to show she had the necessary requirements to become the next Countess of Denham. She took it upon herself to arrange a game of snapdragon, whereby a bowl of brandy filled with raisins would be set alight. The guests had to try their luck at stealing one and popping the scorching fruit into their mouths.
“Come.” Miss Harper clapped her hands repeatedly to get everyone’s attention. “It is a good old tradition played in many grand houses. If we can’t use raisins, we’ll use candied fruit.”
“Be warned, you may all wake on the morrow with fat blisters on your lips,” the viscount retorted. “I’ve even known some lose an eyebrow or two.”
Miss Harper cast her brother an irate glare. “And a snapdragon is far easier to stomach than a miserable curmudgeon.”