ChapterNine
The house was in chaos—the suspect at large.
Harried servants scoured the rooms looking for the absconder, who they believed had killed one man and might kill again. The magistrate, Sir Percival Wold, had taken Sebastian into the study and slammed the door, their shouts almost rocking the foundations. Needing more men, Mr Hope had sent word to Guildford and now sought to take advantage of every resource.
“You are not using my precious hounds to track Mr St Clair.” Lady Brompton stared down her nose, defiant in her objection. “Having stolen Lord Denton’s horse, he will be miles away by now. And it’s almost midnight. There’s no point tearing about the countryside in the dark.”
Seated quietly on the sofa in the drawing room, Helen spoke up. “Mr St Clair did not steal my brother’s horse. He is family and is welcome to take the beast.” She had wanted to shout in protest but hadn’t the emotional strength to raise her voice.
Nicholas was gone.
And she might never see him again.
Now she knew why he’d kissed her so passionately. It was his way of saying goodbye, and she had been too caught up in the moment to notice. The truth had been there on his lips. Amid the erotic flavour of lust and longing, she’d tasted a note of sadness.
Lady Brompton softened her gaze. “Chin up, gal. There’s nothing more inspiring than a man who defies the authorities. One must commend Mr St Clair for having the gumption to act on what is an obvious injustice.”
Mr Hope gasped. “My lady, you’ve heard the evidence. You’ve read the letter we found in Mr Holland’s bedchamber.” Still a little drunk from the wine, the man slurred. “There can be no denying Mr St Clair had a motive for murder.”
“Poppycock.” Lady Brompton was quite sober. “I confess, it is all rather convenient. If Mr St Clair wanted a man dead, I imagine he would be clever in his approach, not present himself as the only suspect.”
Mr Hope was emboldened (mainly by the claret) to defend his position. “Innocent men do not run, my lady. And the gentleman is prone to violent outbursts. In his bid to escape, he might have killed your footman.”
Lady Brompton scoffed. “Yes, he might have stabbed him to death with a dinner knife. Instead, he punched him on the jaw.”
“Mr St Clair did not kill Mr Holland,” Helen said firmly. She would defend Nicholas with her last breath. “You have driven him away when you should have considered other motives, other suspects.”
Mr Hope sighed. “There are no other suspects.”
“Have you questioned Mrs Waltham?” Helen asked in frustration. “Indeed, what happened to Oakmere Hall if Mr St Clair swings from the gallows? What of the valet? Mr Holland has tried to dismiss Laurent twice this week, but the man refuses to leave.”
Lady Brompton clapped her hands together in glee. “Oh, this is all rather fascinating. Yes, and Lord Bowden’s father despised Robert Holland. The men fought a duel over a mistress many years ago. There is still some animosity between the families, I fear.”
Mr Hope squirmed in the chair. “Well, I—”
“And are you not curious about Miss Thorndyke’s reaction?” Helen pressed. The woman had spent the evening sobbing and hurling into a chamber pot. “Yesterday, I saw the lady whispering privately with Mr Holland. And her brother discovered the body. His handkerchief was found at the scene, covered in the victim’s blood.”
When they arrived at the folly, Mr Thorndyke explained he had stepped in blood and used the handkerchief—embroidered with his initials—to clean his boots.
Perhaps feeling embarrassed and somewhat inadequate, Mr Hope stood abruptly. “Based on this new information, I shall conduct further interviews tomorrow.” He glanced at the mantel clock and tried to stifle a yawn. “It’s late. I shall bid you good night, so I might make an early start in the morning.”
He bowed and made a quick exit.
“Well, you’ve impressed me, my dear,” Lady Brompton said once they were alone. “Such foresight and logical thinking are rarely seen in a woman.” She paused. “And yet there was that dreadful business with Mr Parbrook at the Hamptons’ soiree, where you appear to have lost all rhyme and reason. Hmm. Curious. Curious indeed.”
Heat flooded Helen’s cheeks, but she daren’t fan her face with her hand. “You’ve read theScandal Sheet, my lady?”
“Who hasn’t?” She tapped her finger to the side of her nose. “But a sharp-witted woman doesn’t find herself alone in a dark corridor. How convenient Mr St Clair should be on hand to deal with the problem.”
Lady Brompton was fishing for information.
“You must feel a little guilty,” the matron continued. “The incident earned St Clair the reputation of being a man prone to violence.”
Oh, this lady knew how to find the chink in a woman’s armour. Yes, like a rabid dog, guilt ate away at her conscience. After hearing about the fight with Mr Parbrook from a guest, the coroner seemed convinced Nicholas had lost his temper in the folly and killed his blackmailer.
“I’m told a gentleman must be savage when it comes to protecting his family, my lady.” At the Hamptons’ ball, Nicholas had acted with no thought for himself.
Lady Brompton laughed. “But he is not family in the true sense, is he? You do not look at your brother the way you look at St Clair.”