Chapter 29

Chapter Twenty-Nine

I f someone had told Xenia that she would be having tea with a marquess, marchioness, and an earl, she would have laughed and asked for the punchline of the joke. Yet the event had somehow come to pass. When Xenia had brought in the tea cart—thank goodness for Mrs. Johnson who, despite last night's fracas, had managed to bake her delectable scones—she'd planned to deposit the refreshments and leave.

Ethan had had a different plan, however. He'd blocked her path, taking her by the elbow and turning her to face his entire family.

"Everyone," he'd said calmly, "may I introduce to you my housekeeper, Xenia Wood? Mrs. Wood, these are my parents, the Marquess and Marchioness of Blackwood. My younger brother, Lord Owen Harrington. You already know my other siblings."

"It is, um, an honor." Xenia had curtsied and stammered. "A true, um, pleasure to make your acquaintances."

Ethan's parents had exchanged a look that made her cheeks warm. However, they and the rest of his family greeted her with nothing but politeness, as if Ethan introducing his housekeeper to them was a perfectly normal thing to do. Then, before she could make her escape, Lady Gigi hopped aboard Ethan's train of madness.

"Do come sit with me, Xenia." Lady Gigi had patted the seat next to her on the settee. "If things get boring, we can finish the discussion of Jane Eyre we started last night."

Xenia had no way of knowing if Ethan's sister meant anything by referring to the novel about a forbidden romance between a gentleman and his servant. Seeing no polite way to refuse, however, she went and sat. As Ethan's family did her the courtesy of not gawking at her, she tried to return the favor. It wasn't easy. Seeing the Blackwood clan together was akin to looking into the sun: they were a physically dazzling bunch.

Xenia saw that Ethan and Lady Gigi had inherited their looks from their mama, Lady Pandora Harrington, who occupied the chaise across the coffee table. Although she must be in her fifties, the Marchioness of Blackwood's glamorous beauty was ageless. Her upswept raven curls were lustrous and rich, the few streaks of silver adding dramatic flair. Her tip-tilted eyes were a familiar stormy violet-blue, and her delicate features had a few lines to honor the passage of time. She wore a smart cerulean carriage dress which accentuated her voluptuous figure.

Standing behind her chair was the marquess, Lord Marcus Harrington, who'd obviously passed his looks to his eldest son and heir, Lord James, the Earl of Manderly. The men shared the same bronze-colored hair, grey-blue eyes, and brawny build. The Marquess of Blackwood's hawkish countenance was pleasantly weathered, and he had the kind of upright bearing that Xenia associated with military men.

Sprawled in an adjacent chair was Lord Owen Harrington. He combined his parents' traits, having his father's blade of a nose, his mama's full mouth, and eyes that appeared to range from grey-blue to grey-violet, depending on the light. Yet he also possessed characteristics entirely his own. His skin was darker, tanned from exposure to a strong sun. His gaunt face held shadows that looked as if they'd been inked on by exhaustion. Although his build appeared naturally rawboned, he was nonetheless too thin. The same height as Ethan, Lord Owen probably weighed three stone less.

The frequency with which he ran a hand through his shaggy brown hair suggested this was a nervous habit. He was fidgety in general. The reason for Lord Owen's agitated state was obvious to Xenia: his eyes kept darting to Ethan who, on the other hand, assiduously avoided the other's gaze. Because she knew Ethan, she knew that he was not unaffected—quite the opposite. Despite his indolent stance by the fireplace, he was struggling to maintain his composure, and his earlier words came back to her.

"I cannot be angry at Owen. But I cannot not be angry at him either."

She wished with all her heart that she could ease Ethan's torment. Even though she did not know Lord Owen, she felt a welling of compassion for him too. He seemed to mirror Ethan's emotions, but he was far worse at hiding his pain. A cloud of dark energy seemed to surround him, letting out lightning flashes of anger and shame.

If it hurt Xenia to witness the tension between the brothers, she couldn't imagine how it felt for their family members. What she did know was that there was no shortage of love in the room. It was there in the way Lord Blackwood kept a proprietary hand on his wife's shoulder, as if he craved a physical connection with her and this small gesture was what propriety allowed him. The way she looked up at him, with the adoration of a newlywed despite their years of marriage. The way they both looked at their children, with pride and anxiety and fierce protectiveness.

Seeing the familial closeness reminded Xenia of her old longings. There'd been a time when she yearned for her mama's love and approval. She could have endured Mama's beatings and tongue-lashings…but Papa's murder had been the last straw. That horrific act had made her realize that her mother was a monster from whom she wanted nothing .

Yet even good and loving parents had their crosses to bear. Despite their wealth and power, the marquess and marchioness could not change what had happened to Lord Owen in the war. Or what happened between Lord Owen and Ethan afterward. Or the losses Ethan had sustained while trying to help his brother. The ongoing tension between the Blackwoods' sons yanked and thrashed like a fish caught on a hook, straining the bonds between all the family members who were simply trying to hold on.

Standing by the fire, Ethan felt none of its warmth. Cold rage spilled through his veins, triggered by his brother's presence. He didn't know what Owen was doing here—why their parents had thought having them in the same room together was a good idea after the last time. In that instance, Owen had been drunk while the rest of the family, as usual, made excuses for his behavior. Resentment had swelled in Ethan, overwhelming his self-control. Before he knew it, he'd dragged Owen out of his chair, throwing him against a wall.

"You're a selfish wastrel," he'd roared in his brother's face. "Destroy yourself, if you must, but have the courtesy of not taking the rest of the family along with you. I've already lost everything because of you. Isn't that bloody enough?"

"I didn't ask for your help or anyone else's," Owen had shouted back. "You should have left me alone!"

Seeing red, Ethan had thrown the first punch. Owen had fought back, and it had taken Papa and James to break them apart. Mama's weeping echoed in Ethan's head now as he surveyed his younger brother. At least Owen didn't appear soused. Conflict twisted Ethan's gut as he realized that his brother looked like shite…like he wasn't eating or sleeping properly. Was Owen still up to his old vices? Was he drinking, gambling, and whoring?

What Owen does is none of your damned business. Because of him, you lost your ability to play and perform. How much more are you willing to sacrifice?

His chest heaved, and he instinctively looked at his hands…his uncovered hands. After exposing his scars to Xenia, he'd worn the gloves less and less and now rarely did so when he was at home. Gigi hadn't commented upon this change, but he knew that she'd noticed and the rest of his family noticed too. He saw the hope in his parents' and James's expressions. And he saw Owen looking at his damaged hand while pretending not to.

Ethan didn't know how he felt about any of that.

He looked over at Xenia. The understanding in her eyes felt as soothing as her balm. In truth, he'd maneuvered her into staying for two reasons. The first was that she was an important part of his life, and he wanted her and his family to meet. The second reason was purely selfish: with her by his side, he felt calmer and better able to deal with his brother. She had liked that he'd protected her, but what she didn't realize was that, in her own way, she protected him too. From his temper and tendency to brood on the past.

"So." As usual, James took charge, breaking the awkward silence. "The rumors of the ghost are proving more than rumors, then?"

Ethan held on to his patience. "There is no bloody ghost."

"But Gigi wrote us a letter informing us of a curse. That is why we came with such haste, dearest." Mama gazed at him, her brow pleating. "Gigi wrote about slaughtered chickens, a piano covered with bloody fingerprints, and a sighting of a specter in chains. And now your gazebo went up in flames? Clearly, something is going on."

Despite her ladylike appearance, Mama had a spine of steel. She'd been a loving and indulgent mother, but she was no pushover. Ethan and his siblings had discovered this the hard way.

"The sighting was not verified," Ethan replied. "A former cook was the only one who supposedly saw the ghost. At any rate, I am taking care of the matter. There is no need for interference on your part." He narrowed his eyes at Gigi. "Or anyone else's."

"Don't glower at your sister, dear," Mama said. "She was only trying to help."

"I was only trying to help." Gigi nodded righteously. "As you haven't made inroads into finding the culprit, it wouldn't hurt for you to accept assistance, would it? There's no need to be stubborn."

"I am not being stubborn," Ethan retorted.

Unfortunately, he was, and he didn't know why. Perhaps it had to do with the time immediately following his injury, when his family's desire to help him had felt too much like pity. Perhaps it was his pride and desire to show them that, despite his altered condition, he was still his own man and could handle his affairs.

"Perhaps your family could help review possible suspects?"

The suggestion came from Xenia, of all people. All gazes swung in her direction, including Ethan's. He didn't hide his annoyance, but she only raised her brows as if to say, If you didn't want my participation, then you oughtn't have plunked me in the middle of your family gathering.

He supposed she had a point.

"What suspects?" Mama asked intently.

Sighing heavily, he provided a summary of the suspect list, including Patrick Harlow and the Corrigans, former footman Dobson Gill, and his new suspicion arising from last night's fire.

"This is serious business, son." Papa frowned. "And you have cause to believe that whoever committed the arson is amongst the staff?"

"I think the arson was committed by someone in the manor," Ethan corrected.

It took an instant for the others to grasp what he was saying.

"You don't think Canning or Parkhurst was involved?" Incredulity laced Gigi's voice.

His cronies had gone into the village to give him and his family time to catch up. With a prickle of guilt, he wondered if their ears were burning.

"I don't want to think that either of them is guilty," he said. "But it would not be the first time I was betrayed by someone close to me."

He'd been referring to Blake, but he saw Owen flinch. Guilt and self-recrimination lined his brother's haggard features, and once again, Ethan felt a violent internal tug-of-war. A part of him recognized what the battlefield had done to Owen and wanted to forgive him and ease his pain. A smaller, meaner part wanted Owen to suffer.

Shouldn't Owen feel remorse over depriving me of my passion and destiny?

"What motive would Canning or Parkhurst have to do such a thing?" James asked.

Grateful for the distraction, Ethan exhaled. "I don't know. Last night, I had a misunderstanding with Canning, for which I take full blame. I apologized to him right before he left for the village, and he seemed receptive. Truth be told, the business with Blake hurt my friendship with both Canning and Parkhurst, but they seem to have let bygones be bygones. And they proved themselves to be loyal friends when they escorted Gigi here after her latest scrape."

"Speaking of that ‘scrape'"—Papa aimed a stern gaze at Gigi—"your mama and I will have a discussion with you shortly, young lady."

"Yes, Papa." Gigi sighed.

She shot Ethan a look of pique; he gave her a smug smile, enjoying the tit for tat.

"You've discussed revenge as a possible motive for that gang leader, Harlow," Mama said. "And also for that disgruntled footman, Gill. What about the other staff? Do they bear you ill will or have other reason to resort to mischief?"

"Obviously, I can vouch for Brunswick, Valentine, and Spencer," Ethan said. "They've proved their loyalty through the years. As for the rest…well, Mrs. Wood can speak to that better than I can."

Although Xenia looked nonplussed to be at the center of his family's attention, she recovered splendidly.

"I hired the original maids, Daisy and Berta, at the mop fair over a fortnight ago," she said. "Both grew up in the area and had good references, although a previous employer found Daisy's personality ‘irksome' because of her need for attention. Anyway, she was convinced Bloody Thom was behind the dead chickens and quit after the piano business. Apparently, she's been spreading tales about the ghost, which hasn't helped in finding her replacement. Berta, on the other hand, is Daisy's opposite, mild-mannered and hard-working. But she gave notice this morning; the destruction of the gazebo frightened her off, and I can't say I blame her."

"Neither have reason to act against my son?" Papa asked.

Xenia shook her head. "Not that I am aware of, my lord. As for the three remaining maids, they are the young nieces of the village dressmaker. I cannot see them participating in mischief either."

"Other than the kind involving a fellow, that is." Gigi's eyes twinkled. "According to Colette, they are obsessed with gaining a follower. Apparently, they have taken to chasing the footmen."

"They can be a bit silly," Xenia allowed. "But they are hard workers and good girls, even if poor William and Fred have to hide from them."

"William and Fred are the footmen, I presume?" James inquired. "What do you know about them?"

"They are sensible lads from local families," Xenia said. "William has twelve siblings and counting, and he works to support them. He can be shy, but since he started using the spot-reducing cream I made him, his confidence has improved. As for Fred, if you assign him a task, he will see it done. His true talent is with animals; in fact, he's the only one who can manage Brutus, our resident rooster. I am trying to convince Lord Ethan to give Fred a shot at working in the stables."

James gave Ethan an amused look. "I think your housekeeper is a soft touch."

Ethan smiled faintly. "She is."

"I am not," Xenia protested. "But I cannot see anyone belowstairs participating in these hoaxes. The only person we haven't discussed is the cook, Mrs. Johnson. And she's a godsend: steady as a rock and always ready with a cup of tea when anyone needs it."

"What is Mrs. Johnson's background?" Mama asked.

"She is a rather private person," Xenia admitted. "She's never spoken of a husband; the ‘Mrs.' is an honorific. She did, however, have glowing references from two homes she worked at—one in Lincolnshire, the other in Devonshire, I believe. And her scones speak for themselves."

She gestured at the tiered serving plate, which now held only crumbs.

"Did you correspond with her prior employers?"

Xenia drew her brows together. "There wasn't time, my lady?—"

"It isn't Mrs. Wood's fault, Mama," Ethan cut in. "As I was tired of subsisting on Brunswick's cooking, I told her to hire someone at the mop fair. Mrs. Johnson was the most qualified candidate by far, and because she is not from the area, she was not frightened off by the rumors of the curse. We had to make do, and we did."

"Hmm," Mama said.

"What are you thinking, my love?" Papa asked.

"That we ought to find out more about Mrs. Johnson."

"Where was everyone last night when the fire happened?"

The question came from Owen, who'd been silent until now. He flicked his gaze around the room, tapping his fingers idly against his thigh.

"Good question, son," Papa said. "Perhaps we ought to have started there."

"I was in bed," Gigi piped up. "Colette can vouch that she helped me get ready."

"No one needs to vouch for you, Gigi." Ethan rolled his eyes.

"If we are going through everyone's alibis, it's only fair that I supply one too," his sister said blithely. "As for Canning and Parkhurst, after you, um…decided to have an early night, they stayed up and played cards. Xenia and I left them to it. Did you go straight to bed afterward, Xenia?"

"N-no," Xenia stammered. "Not quite yet."

"Forgive my curiosity, Mrs. Wood." Although Mama's tone was pleasant, her gaze held a familiar shrewdness. "It was mentioned that you were the first to notice the fire around two in the morning. Was there a reason for you to be up at that hour?"

Seeing Xenia freeze like a cornered doe, Ethan recognized her dilemma. She didn't want to lie to his family. But she couldn't tell the truth either: that she had been having a late-night rendezvous with him.

"Mrs. Wood was with me," he said.

Speculative glances darted through the room. Xenia stared at him, wide-eyed.

"I had overindulged," he clarified. "Mrs. Wood wanted to make sure I was all right and found me in the stables. Good thing she did, too, as she was the one who noticed the burning smell. If it hadn't been for her, the damage would have extended beyond the gazebo. She has my full trust."

The lines eased around Mama's eyes.

"If that is the case, then you have mine as well, Mrs. Wood," she said softly. "And my gratitude."

A knock sounded, and Brunswick entered. "Pardon, my lord, but the constable has arrived. Shall I have him wait?"

"No, bring him in," Ethan said.

Rawlins was ushered in, looking as rumpled as ever. Introductions were made.

"I apologize, my lord," he said to Ethan. "I would have arrived sooner, but I was delayed by a new development…"

He hesitated, clearly uncertain what he could say in present company.

"You may speak freely," Ethan said. "My family knows everything."

"It concerns Dobson Gill, my lord."

"You've found him?" Ethan said alertly.

"Yes." Rawlins glanced at Mama and Gigi. "The matter is somewhat, er, delicate?—"

"There is no need to shilly-shally, sir," Mama said briskly. "Given that my son's well-being is at stake, the sooner we know Mr. Gill's whereabouts, the better."

"Very good, my lady." Rawlins cleared his throat. "However, Mr. Gill is no longer a threat to his lordship's, or anyone's, well-being. He was found this morning…drowned in a creek."