Chapter 13

13

Charles shut the door of Dougald's Spartan office with his usual concern for his master's delicate sensibilities, but Dougald saw immediately that his faithful valet was disturbed. Disturbed, and Dougald knew why.

Hannah had arrived outside his door.

He paused, his quill hovering over the book of estate accounts. "Yes, Charles?"

"My lord, Madame is wishing to speak with you…again."

"Is she?" An unusual urge grew in Dougald. The urge to smile. He had been thwarting Hannah's wish for private conversation for almost a fortnight. He enjoyed it, and probably far too much, but he forgave himself the unrestrained emotion. Ignoring Hannah seemed such a small retaliation for so many years of worry and disrepute.

"She begs to speak to you, my lord." Charles imbued a great deal of Gallic histrionics in his plea.

Histrionics would do no good. "Begs?" Dougald snorted. "I doubt that."

"Perhaps that is not quite the term she used, but she sincerely wishes a moment of your time to ask a question."

Dougald didn't need to talk to Hannah to know what she wanted. She wanted to know about her family, or perhaps what he intended to do about their marriage. Neither of which he intended to tell her right now. She would know the answer to both those questions when he decided she would know, no sooner. "Tell her to go away. I don't have time to deal with a mere companion to my aunt." Once more, he lowered his head to the long column of numbers. Figuring the income and output of the Raeburn estate had proved to be a challenge, especially when so many different lords had had the keeping of the books these last few years.

Charles sighed. Charles did not approve of his master's torment of his estranged wife, although Dougald didn't understand why. After all, Charles had considered Hannah a dreadful nuisance and an unworthy wife, and he had been proud of his part in routing her from Dougald's life. He had interfered in their marriage. Then he had bragged to Dougald that he had rescued him from a wretched union. Bragged, when nothing was more wretched than the loneliness and apprehension that followed.

Dougald still felt a trickle of shame that he had allowed himself to be so misled. He had allowed his own pride and ignorance, and Charles's opinions, to destroy his marriage.

Shame, Dougald had discovered, only made him more ruthless in his handling of Hannah. "Charles!"

Charles brightened, if the slight lightening of his melancholy expression could be so labeled. "My lord?"

"Did you find out anything about the deaths of the last two lords?"

Charles's face fell back into its usual sagging lines. "Oui, my lord, I did, but I thought to discuss it with you when I had your full attention. Right now, Madame—"

"She can wait." Dougald wiped off his quill and placed it on the blotter. "Come. Sit down. Tell me if my suspicions are correct."

Unhappily, Charles glanced at the door. "But Madame is waiting. I should tell her—"

"Miss Setterington"—Dougald emphasized the lesser title—"is nothing but an employee. She may wait upon my indulgence for as long as it pleases me. Sit down and tell me the results of your investigation."

"As you wish, my lord." Ten years ago Charles would have been offended by Dougald's tone of voice, and he would have shown it. Now he obeyed with alacrity, knowing himself to be on eternal probation. He sat in the straight-backed chair and faced Dougald across the desk, an aging Frenchman dedicated to the well-being of Dougald's family. Folding his hands fussily in his lap, he said, "I first came to Raeburn Castle five years ago while, on your orders, I searched for Madame's…Miss Setterington's family. There was talk in the district then of the deaths of the noble young sons—definitely an accident, my lord, unless the killer somehow managed to cause a storm at sea."

Dougald nodded. He had heard enough to be satisfied with that explanation.

"I heard that the old lord was dying—again, the natural advance of age rather than any human cause—and I naturally knew of your connection to the title—"

Dougald steadily regarded Charles. "I had scarcely heard of it at that time. How did you?"

"Your father—"

"Of course. My father." Charles didn't need to say another word. Dougald well remembered his father's avaricious pursuit of nobility, respectability and wealth. All in the name of the Pippard family. Everything for the continued glory of the line. And he had made himself like his father.

Dougald's eyes closed for a moment, and he thought of Hannah outside his door, sitting, or pacing, or cursing him. She would be the mother of his child, the carrier of the Pippards' continued glory. He hoped she appreciated the honor done her, for he would make sure that she got damned little gratification from her position as wife to the lord.

Charles said, "I came back periodically—"

"Why?"

"I found myself fond of the area, and in those days when you so kindly granted me a holiday, I returned here."

Dougald stared at him. It wasn't true, of course. Charles never went on holiday without purpose. He had been returning to Lancashire to check on the title, hoping against hope that fate would favor his lord. As indeed it had.

Charles dropped his gaze away from Dougald's, and in a rapid voice, said, "If what I have discovered is true, my lord, then I must agree that the two previous lords were killed by some deliberate means."

"Pushed down the stairs. Helped off the cliff…" If Dougald didn't know better, he would say Charles had been behind those crimes. After all, Charles saw nothing wrong with serving the Pippard family in any way he could, and he might imagine inheriting the title would soften Dougald's displeasure with him. But Charles wouldn't have had Dougald shot, if for no reason other than the fact that his own fortunes would fall with his master's.

Dougald looked down at his fingers. One joint on his thumb was still slightly swollen, and it pained him to bend it. Cracked, he supposed, or the joint was jammed. He sported a fading bruise from cheekbone to forehead, and he liked to keep his ankle elevated. He'd never been beaten so badly, and if not for his street-fighting experience he wouldn't have escaped. As it was, he'd left two men unconscious and another with a broken arm. He had hurried back to Raeburn Castle as quickly as possible, hoping to send someone back for them. But only crazy Alfred had been awake and he refused to let Dougald in. The stupid drunk had kept shouting about the family curse and how the ghost had returned until Mrs. Trenchard had been roused by the clamor. She, of course, had set things right, rendered first aid, sent for Charles and dispatched men to search for Dougald's assailants. The attackers were gone, and no trace of them was found in the district.

Damn. Damn! If Dougald had just one of them, he'd find out who was behind this nefarious plot and he'd be swinging by a noose before the year was out. "Who do you think is doing this?"

Charles ducked his head. "I am a miserable failure, my lord, not worthy to wipe your shoes."

"Yes, yes, but you're the most intelligent agent I have working for me."

"But I was not able to find the assailant on either of the previous lords, or on you."

"Seaton," Dougald pronounced. "That squirrelly fop is the only one who has cause."

Charles's mouth twisted one way, then another—he was thinking of how not to offend. "With all due respect, my lord, for your superior intellect and vast experience in judging your countrymen—I don't think Sir Onslow has the stomach for it, my lord."

Dougald offended Charles on a regular basis, but in this case he was almost tactful. "That's why he hires thugs to do his dirty work. He's a nasty piece of work."

"Gossipmongering does not a murderer make."

Dougald eyed his valet. "What are you getting at?"

"You know about the falseness of assuming murder. You have been trapped in that injustice yourself." Charles sat forward, his hands clasped. "Think, my lord, how obviously Sir Onslow relishes the tales surrounding your supposed crimes. Think how obviously he courts Madame, even though you immediately made your interest clear."

Yes, on that first morning Dougald had been blatant in placing his claim on Hannah. He shouldn't have, but with the pain, he hadn't been himself. "Since then, I have kept my distance."

"Causing even more talk, my lord." Pressing his lips together, Charles flung up his hand to stop any of Dougald's protests. "But no, that is not the point. The point is, if you were killed, Sir Onslow would be the prime, indeed the only, suspect."

"Because he's the heir to the title and fortune."

"Because he spreads slanderous gossip about you. Any man who had killed the previous two lords would show more stealth in his handling of you."

Dougald leaned back in his chair. Charles had made his point. To have pursued a goal with such single-minded determination, Seaton would have had to scheme and plot for years—and for what? To allow his greed and dislike to sabotage him so close to his goal? Of course it was possible, but…"Why do you care so much whether I suspect Seaton?"

"Because, my lord, if you are wrong—the person who wishes you dead is still undetected."

"Yes…" Dougald caressed a still-tender bruise on his forehead.

"At least entertain some doubt. You have Sir Onslow under surveillance." Charles knew his master, so it wasn't an inquiry.

"Yes." Dougald had not thought to rehire the three detectives who had watched Hannah so soon, but he had sent for them. They had arrived. They followed Seaton, visiting where he visited, blending in with their dark coats and their gentlemanly demeanor. They were damned expensive, but Dougald couldn't depend on anyone at Raeburn Castle. Not anyone.

"I do not know who the culprit is, but I will continue to watch for him, and watch your back." As was his wont, Charles struck a pose, fist on his chest. "You are safe, my lord, as long as Charles is with you."

In the current circumstances, a little posturing was admissible. "Thank you, Charles."

"Now, my lord, may I invite Miss Setterington to join you?"

Posturing, but not manipulating. "No." Dougald picked up his pen, dipped it in the inkwell.

"But Miss Setterington has been waiting—"

Dougald pointed the pen at Charles. "I don't want to hear you say another word about Miss Setterington."

"But my lord—"

"Not a word." Dougald returned to work.

***

Outside of Dougald's study, Hannah sat knees together, hands folded, mouth pursed, her exasperation swelling to unmanageable proportions. What was wrong with Dougald? She needed to talk to him about one thing. She needed his permission to invite Queen Victoria to Raeburn Castle. That would take approximately a minute, but she had not been given a minute. It was not appropriate to ask at dinner. Every day for a fortnight, she had traipsed down from the aunts' workroom, through the corridor, through the great hall, through the chapel, and to the dim, windowless anteroom outside Dougald's office. And every day she found Charles surrounded by candles, sitting at his desk, looking like the devil incarnate with his thin, white, wispily erect hair and his big, black, tormented eyes. She would state her desire to speak with Dougald. He would go into Dougald's office and shut the door. And he would be back almost immediately with the report that Dougald was too busy to see her.

Today he was taking longer.

She ought to give up and send a message through Charles, but she was stubborn. She had already lived through this same scene time and again during her married life, and she liked it even less now.

Standing, she paced through the anteroom and out into the chapel. This tiny chapel had been an original part of the castle, built when Saxons and Normans fought for preeminence. On the left side on one high wall, stained-glass windows depicted the life of Saint Martha and shed colored shards of light throughout the temple. A patina of age covered the ceiling's carved, vaulted rafters. Whitewashed plaster covered the walls above, intricately carved and polished wood below. The pews gleamed, worn smooth by the hands and bodies of so many worshipers. A small door near the altar led into the vestry. Candles burned eternally in their iron sconces upon the altar, and a sense of peace pervaded the very walls of stone, plaster and wood.

If only Hannah could find that peace for herself.

"Charles, I need to speak to Dougald now!"

Charles stared down his nose at Hannah. "Monsieur Pippard is much too busy to be bothered by domestic matters during his workday. Take your pressing matter up with him tonight."

"I am his wife. I have the right to talk to him when I wish!"

"Better yet, don't bother him with your trifling concerns. A true woman makes her man comfortable when he returns from a busy day. She makes sure the house is tidy, she pretties herself, and she never complains."

"I don't need to be told how to care for my husband."

"Obviously you do, or you would not be here now."

The echoes of that miserable time still sounded in her ears. How dare Charles presume—then or now—to judge her need unimportant? And how dare Dougald ignore her in such a manner? She was the former proprietress of the Distinguished Academy of Governesses. Young ladies had quailed beneath her gimlet stare. And she couldn't even get into Dougald's office to stare at him in a gimlet-eyed manner!

Turning, she cast a dark look through the chapel at the closed office door. Charles had been in there for a very long time. Perhaps that meant Dougald had satisfied his childish need to make her wait and would at last speak to her.

"For God's sake, Hannah, do you have to go on about that dress shop? I'm tired of hearing you whine."

"I'm not whining, I'm reminding you of your promise."

"Forget the promise! Don't I provide for you well? Don't you have servants to fulfill your every whim? Aren't you dressed in the finest clothing?"

Hannah could almost taste her despair. "Yes, yes, but that's not what I want. At least tell Charles to let me run my household. I have nothing to do!"

"Don't be silly. Most women would be happy to live as you do." Dougald frowned at her. "You must stop complaining about Charles and learn to get along with him. He is my most trusted servant, and I will not dismiss him on a girl's whim."

"You don't trust me as you do him."

"Darling, don't be silly." Dougald pulled her toward him and kissed her forehead. "You're my wife."

Which wasn't an answer. She had known it even then.

Her greatest fear was that Dougald believed she actually yearned to be with him now as she had yearned to be close to him during their brief time together.

She didn't. She saw Dougald every day during breakfast, and every day during dinner, and if she saw his remote, sardonic, demonic visage more frequently she would suffer nausea and perhaps hives. Not only did she see him during meals, but she had to be polite to him. She had to pretend respect for his position of lord of Raeburn, and not snort when he requested his daily update of her activities. She had to speak civilly to him, and if she took the opportunity to insinuate he should help her determine her correct duty, he also took the opportunity to insinuate he'd tell her when he was infernally good and ready.

She had to put up with his staring at her. He watched her endlessly, his green eyes relentless. He listened when she spoke. He made a general nuisance of himself with his inarticulate attentions, which she knew must be aimed at making his criticism clear. If only she could speak to him freely, without the gleeful eavesdropping of the aunts and Seaton. Then she would tell him she didn't give a damn about his attentions, and he could just stop trying to make her apprehensive because it just wasn't working.

Dougald and Hannah were performing a dance, one where she pursued and he evaded, and dammit! she didn't want to pursue him.

Struck once more by the injustice of the situation, she sank down in the front pew and stared forward. Did the Dougald she married no longer exist? Had he ever existed, or had he been a figment of her imagination? For she didn't recognize this difficult, brooding lord who seldom bothered to hide the dark corners of his soul. If she had just been introduced, if she didn't know the truth, she would easily believe that he had killed his wife.

Perhaps she would be wise to use caution when speaking to him.

If she ever got to speak to him.

There had to be a solution to this situation. Perhaps she could find it here. For all six hundred years, the altar had been the heart of the castle. The steps were worn with the tread of hundreds of feet shuffling forward to receive communion. The altar itself had been formed of oak, and cleaned and waxed diligently so that the pure golden grain still shone, and a shining white, crisply ironed, and embroidered cloth draped over its edges.

This chapel had seen birth and death, heard prayers and curses, and within its walls countless baptisms had been celebrated, countless funerals had been performed. Beside those life-changing events, Hannah's current adversity could not compare, but still she bowed her head and asked for guidance.

When she raised it again, she looked around eagerly, expecting to see a celestial solution presented before her. Instead she observed, in a gleam of blue light from the window, a rough place in the wall on the left side of the altar. It was near the floor—one of the carved panels looked as if it had rotted away from the wall.

She glanced toward Dougald's office. The door remained stubbornly closed, so she went to investigate the damaged plank. Kneeling, she saw that the panel had indeed been scarred with rot or—she rubbed at it when her fingertips—some sharp object had been used to gouge the edge until it separated from the plaster beneath.

What had happened here in some musty corner of history? Had a child carelessly done this with his toys? Had a resentful servant sought to destroy a piece of the lord's chapel?

Hannah caught the edge of the board with her fingernails. Yes, it was loose, and as she pulled it back, she saw, not plaster as she expected, but a shadowed cavity between the board and the stone castle wall. Perhaps something was hidden here—

She needed a candle to peer inside, but as she half rose, she hit her head. Hard. So hard she fell to her knees and for a moment, just a moment, saw nothing but swirling black and red.

When she recovered, her forehead rested on the floor and she heard Charles calling her.

"Madame. Madame! Are you ill?"

He was bending over her, and all she could think was that her head hurt and she felt silly. "I hit my head," she said.

Charles took her arm and helped her to her feet. "On…what?" He sounded amazingly skeptical.

She looked up to see, but blinked against the glare of light from the stained-glass window. "I don't know. I didn't even know I was under anything, but when I tried to stand…"

Charles helped her to the pew. "Sit, s'il vous plait, Madame, you look quite peaked."

"I tell you, I hit my head on something!"

"I believe you," he said in a soothing tone that irritated her yet more. He didn't seem concerned with her condition, he was too busy craning his head around, and just when she was ready to snap at him to leave her alone, he pointed toward the floor. "Look, that's what it was."

"What what was?"

Leaning over, he picked up a carved, wooden curlicue. "This must have fallen off one of the rafters."

Cautiously this time, she looked up and scanned the beams. "I don't see any place it could have come from."

"It's very dark up there, and the carving is old. I will tell my lord Raeburn that he should renovate the chapel soon before someone is hurt."

She glared at Charles.

"Hurt further," he amended. "May I suggest you go upstairs to your chamber and sleep? I will explain to the aunts that you have taken ill, and have a repast sent up on a tray. You should rest after such a blow on the head."

Contrarily, his kindness made her testier—she knew very well what it meant. "Will his lordship speak to me?"

Charles actually managed to appear contrite, and even wrung his hands. "I'm sorry, Madame, he hasn't the time."

"I don't really want to see him. You know that, don't you?"

"I do understand that, Madame."

"I just have a single question which only he can answer."

"Perhaps if you told me the inquiry, I could pass it on to him…"

She hissed.

"Or perhaps not," he allowed.

"He's playing a game, and he's going to lose," she said.

"I fear you are right."

Charles was humoring her, and that made her even more irritable. Dougald was playing a game, but she didn't have a chance of winning, and she and Charles both knew it. "He isn't going to like what happens next."

Charles bowed. "Do your worst, Madame."

Infuriated by his civility—her head ached too badly to deal with an amicable Charles—she stood. Ragged bits of black crossed her vision, and for a few humiliating moments, nausea threatened.

"I think I should escort Madame to her bedchamber," Charles said.

"That won't be necessary, my dear man." She took deep breaths and steadied herself. "It will take more than a blow to the head to stop me."

"I see that."

She suspected sarcasm, but it was too much effort to respond. Slowly, carefully, she made her way out of the chapel, down the corridor, up the stairs and, after only a moment's hesitation in which she debated whether she should return to the aunts, she proceeded to her bedchamber. There she took out her portable secretary, sat down at the table by the narrow bed, and started a letter which began, "My dear and gracious sovereign, Queen Victoria…"