Chapter 26

A half-hour later, Clarissa was trudging through the snow with Rupert. He was wearing his jacket, and Clarissa had borrowed a blanket from the hunting cabin to wrap around herself.

“Hopefully our absence hasn’t been remarked upon,” Rupert said.

Clarissa thought this might be too much to hope for. Judging by the sun, it was mid-morning, but she expected most of the house party to sleep until noon after staying up late to attend the ball.

They might be able to slip back into the castle unobserved. But the fact that she and Rupert had disappeared before the supper dance was likely to have been noticed.

They made much faster progress in the daylight than they had last night. It was difficult to say if anyone spied them stealing up to the castle from one of its many windows, but they were able to slip inside the back entrance without encountering anyone. “Go on,” Rupert whispered, taking the blanket from Clarissa. “You head upstairs. I’ll stash this somewhere and give you a bit of a head start.”

Clarissa squeezed his hand as she nodded, then hurried toward the servants’ stairs. She made it up to her room without being spotted, then hurriedly removed her gown, draping it over the back of a chair.

She slipped beneath the fluffy white counterpane and spent a pleasant hour somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, hugging the spare pillow and dreaming she was snuggled up with Rupert.

Someone knocked softly at her door.

“Come in,” Clarissa called.

Lady Helmsley slipped inside the room. “There you are, Miss Weatherby. I had been wondering where you disappeared to.”

Clarissa sat up in bed, pulling the counterpane up to her chest. “I apologize, my lady. I retired early last night. I had a bit of a megrim.”

This was, of course, a lie, and judging by Lady Helmsley’s skeptical expression, not one she found convincing.

The countess cast a pointed look toward the clothes Clarissa had borrowed from Lady Emily last night. The slippers were drenched from trudging through the snow, and the bottom eight inches of the dress was similarly damp.

“Perhaps I am willing to accept that explanation,” the countess said. “But I very much doubt that every guest at this house party will do the same, especially considering that Rupert absented himself from the party at exactly the same time. Servants gossip, too, and you will note that the fire in your room has already been made up this morning.” She gave Clarissa a speaking look. “I had a word with the chambermaid who visited your room, which I hope will prevent any gossip. But you know how these things have a way of getting out.”

Clarissa felt her cheeks warm. “I… er…”

Lady Helmsley sighed, then drew one of the chairs from the table next to the window to the side of Clarissa’s bed. Sitting, she pressed Clarissa’s hand. “There is one surefire way of silencing any potential talk. A wedding.”

Clarissa couldn’t suppress her smile. “I am pleased to reassure you, then, that these rumors will be silenced in the coming days.”

The countess clapped her hands, delighted. “Good! Very good. It cannot have escaped your notice that Rupert is very, very dear to our family. It will be a relief to see him settled with someone who clearly cares for him.”

“I do,” Clarissa confessed. “Very much.”

“I am happy for you both.” Lady Helmsley gave her a firm look. “You’ll need to act with some haste. Without question, you must settle things by the end of the house party to make sure my guests don’t fan out across the country spreading goodness knows what sort of rumors.”

“I agree, and I will speak to Rupert about it after breakfast.”

The countess nodded, satisfied. “Excellent. There was one more thing I wanted to mention, my dear.”

Clarissa stifled a yawn. “Oh?”

Lady Helmsley’s eyes were warm. “It was kind of you to cajole Mr. Higginbotham into dancing last night. I despaired of him even attending the ball, much less dancing, given how hard this time of year is for him.”

Clarissa tilted her head. “Why is this time of year hard for him?”

The countess started. “Oh, did you not know? Five Decembers ago, his wife died in childbirth. The babe did not survive, either. A little girl.” She shook her head. “It was just before Christmas. In fact…” She tapped a finger on her chin. “I believe today might be the anniversary of their deaths.”

“How terrible,” Clarissa said, her thoughts aswirl. That would certainly explain why Mr. Higginbotham had slipped away from the party as the clock struck midnight to hold a silent vigil in the chapel.

Lady Helmsley nodded sadly. “Poor man. It was a love match, you know. I’m given to understand that he couldn’t even bear the sight of his old house in Thirsk. That was the reason he gave up his seat in Parliament, you know.”

Clarissa leaned forward, clutching the counterpane to her chest. “He gave up his seat? Here I thought Mr. Baxter defeated him in the election.”

The countess waved a hand. “He had already filed to run for reelection at the time of his wife’s death, so his name was on the ballot, it’s true. But after Helen’s death, he decided to move to York and return to his first profession as a solicitor.” The countess dropped her voice low. “Just between you and me, Mr. Baxter would never have won that seat had Mr. Higginbotham wished to retain it. Mr. Higginbotham is a local, you see. But everyone in Thirsk knew of his wishes to leave that house where his wife and child died, and that is the only reason they voted for Mr. Baxter instead.”

Clarissa’s thoughts were flying. “So, there is no bad blood between Mr. Higginbotham and Mr. Baxter?”

“Gracious, no.” The countess patted her hand, then stood. “In any case, I wanted to thank you for the kindness you showed to Mr. Higginbotham.” She strolled over to the door, then paused, giving Clarissa a speaking look. “Resolve the other matter. Today, if possible.”

Clarissa nodded. “I will arrange the announcement with Rupert.”

“Good.”

Once she was alone, Clarissa flopped back on her pillow. It seemed that Mr. Higginbotham was not a likely suspect after all.

Who, then, could it possibly be? Their initial trio of suspects did not seem promising, and it turned out that Mr. Higginbotham bore Oliver Baxter no ill will.

Someone wanted to kill the man, though. Clarissa tried to recall the other names Rupert had mentioned in the library. Could it truly be Percival Ponsonby, angry at having been given the nickname Priggish Percival? Or Francis Ditherington, whose fuchsia satin waistcoat Mr. Baxter had derided? Surely men did not kill over such things.

She climbed out of the bed and rang for a maid to help her dress. She paced the room as she waited. There was also Granville Smith-Nugent-Smith. Rupert had said the wager he had lost to Mr. Baxter was for two hundred pounds. It didn’t seem worth killing over, but perhaps the loss had come at a bad time. And it certainly seemed a stronger motive than having been called an unflattering nickname…

She hadn’t thought of any more likely suspects by the time she made her way down to the breakfast room. As it was just past noon, the spread included both breakfast items, for those like Clarissa, who had slept in, and traditional lunch fare for the early risers who had broken their fast hours ago.

She found Rupert standing at the buffet, almost finished filling his plate. Clarissa sidled up to him with an empty plate, striving to look casual. “I learned something from Lady Helmsley,” she murmured. “We need to talk.”

“Meet me at the orangery in one hour,” he whispered.

She gave a subtle nod, and he turned to find a seat.

Clarissa was helping herself to a soft-boiled egg when a man loomed next to her. Startled, she fumbled the spoon, dropping the egg back onto the platter.

She glanced up and saw it was Oliver Baxter. “Mr. Baxter, good morning!” She laughed awkwardly. “How clumsy of me.”

He grunted in response.

She attempted to recapture the egg, but her hands were clumsy, and she struggled to get it into the spoon. “I apologize,” Clarissa said after a moment. “Am I blocking you from reaching the soup?”

His voice was put-upon. “Not the soup, but the rolls.” She stepped to the side, and he took two rolls. “I believe it is crawfish soup. As I mentioned the other day, I cannot eat shellfish of any kind.”

“Of course. I did not realize it was crawfish… crawfish soup.”

Mr. Baxter had already moved away, leaving her talking to herself. But Clarissa’s thoughts were flying. The soup that had been poisoned… that had also been crawfish soup, too. She was almost certain of it.

The poison had been put in a dish Mr. Baxter never ate. Of course, if the would-be assassin was a passing acquaintance, they might have been unaware.

But now that she thought on it, the bullet had been fired into the morning room, which seemed like a more likely haunt for Mrs. Baxter than her husband.

And the wheel of the curricle had been sabotaged. For most couples, one might reasonably assume that the intended victim was the husband.

But Mr. Baxter was a terrible driver. Surely, he did not take the curricle out on a regular basis.

It was his wife who was the great whip.

What if… what if they had been wrong all along? What if Oliver Baxter wasn’t the killer’s target?

What if it was his wife, Rosalind?

Clarissa pretended to be absorbed in the paper while she picked at her breakfast. Her thoughts were so scattered that she could not possibly have kept up the thread of a conversation.

Now that she thought on it, even the attempts on Mr. Baxter’s life at the house party seemed suspect. It was Rosalind Baxter who had been pacing in the garden before the stone was pushed from the battlements above. Her husband had only joined her seconds before the stone fell.

No attempts had been made on Mr. Baxter’s life while his wife remained sequestered in their rooms. Then, as soon as she emerged, the shot had been fired in the woods. Clarissa had assumed that Mr. Baxter was the target, but Rosalind had been standing next to her husband…

Clarissa somehow made it through breakfast in her distracted state without spilling tea down the front of her dress. She consulted the clock on the mantelpiece. She didn’t need to meet Rupert for another fifteen minutes, but she decided to head over to the orangery to gather her thoughts.

As she was exiting the breakfast room, she spied Rosalind Baxter coming down the corridor.

Deciding she had enough evidence that a warning was needed, Clarissa hurried up to her. She dropped her voice low. “Mrs. Baxter, might I have a word with you? There has been a material development in the case. One that concerns you.”

Her eyes went wide. “Of course. What have you—”

“Anything that concerns my wife concerns me,” a man’s voice said firmly from over Clarissa’s shoulder.

She turned and saw Oliver Baxter, his forehead creased into a frown.

Clarissa gestured with an open palm. “Of course, Mr. Baxter. Let us find a place where the three of us can talk.”

She checked a handful of rooms, but they were all occupied. Sensing the annoyance radiating from Mr. Baxter, Clarissa gestured to the back doors. “It’s cold out, but this won’t take long. Let’s speak in the gardens.”

At least the gardens were deserted. Clarissa led them toward the entrance to the hedge maze. She turned to Rosalind. “Something occurred to me this morning. A piece, falling into place. You, Mrs. Baxter, are in grave danger.”

Rosalind gasped, but Mr. Baxter scowled. “What is this nonsense?”

Clarissa ignored him. “I fear we have been wrong. We have been wrong from the very beginning, and the killer’s true target is—”

“Cease this nonsense!” Oliver Baxter shouted.

“It isn’t nonsense,” Clarissa insisted, keeping her eyes fixed on Rosalind. “Consider the first attempt. The poison was put in the crawfish soup. But your husband cannot eat crawfish soup. He—”

“That is hardly common knowledge,” Mr. Baxter snapped. “They probably slipped the poison in whatever dish they could lay hands on.”

Clarissa ignored him. “And then the shot through the window. Which one of you spends the most time in the morning room?”

“I do,” Mrs. Baxter said. “I was at my writing desk, as I often am at that hour. Oliver happened to have come in to ask me a question, and—”

“You’re being delusional,” Oliver barked. “The idea is absurd on its face. Why would anyone want to kill you? You’re not important enough to justify the effort.”

Rosalind flinched, looking wounded. Clarissa glared daggers at Oliver Baxter. “That is your opinion, sir,” she said in a voice as frosty as the snow-encrusted gardens. “One that does you no credit, might I add. But I intend to follow the evidence.” She turned to Rosalind. “The curricle—which of you drives it more frequently?”

“I do.” Rosalind gasped. “In fact, on the day of the accident, I was the one who asked for the horses to be harnessed. I was going to take a turn about the park, but Oliver received an urgent summons from Lord Liverpool, so he wound up commandeering it!”

Clarissa seized her hand. “Surely you see the reason for my concern. That the soup was poisoned could have been an accident perpetrated by an ignorant assassin. But when you look at the three attempts altogether—”

Oliver Baxter stepped forward, snatching Rosalind’s hand away from Clarissa. “I will not have you filling my wife’s head with this nonsense!” he roared. “She is frightened enough as it is. It is cruel of you to prey upon the fears of a hysterical woman.”

“She has never struck me as hysterical,” Clarissa countered. “And I say this not to frighten her, but so that, armed with knowledge, she can take necessary precautions.”

“ I will decide what is necessary for my wife! You are not to speak to her again, Miss Weatherby. And you should know that I intend to ask Lord and Lady Helmsley to remove you from this house party.” He huffed. “As soon as I return to London, I intend to speak with the Home Secretary. I am appalled that the Home Office employs such incompetent agents!”

Clarissa ignored him, locking her eyes on Rosalind’s. “Go up to your room. Go up to your room and lock the door. Admit no one but myself or Lord and Lady Helmsley.”

Rosalind nodded and started back toward the castle.

Oliver cast a poisonous glare at Clarissa, then turned and stalked after his wife. “Rosalind! Come back here this instant!”

Swallowing, Clarissa hurried toward the orangery. For the life of her, she could not understand Oliver Baxter’s callous disregard for his wife’s safety. She knew many men paid little heed to their wives’ thoughts and feelings, but Mr. Baxter seemed strangely determined to override Rosalind at every turn. What did it hurt him if she wanted to stay in their room?

She opened the door to the orangery. A quick search revealed that Rupert was not yet there—which was unsurprising, as she was ten minutes early.

Peering out through one of the tall glass windows lining the front wall, she saw that Rosalind had not, in fact, retreated to her room. She and her husband were still standing in front of the hedge maze, arguing animatedly. He was standing between her and the back door to the castle, and Clarissa watched in shock as he blocked her from going back inside once… twice… three times. Finally, Rosalind threw her hands up in frustration, then spun on her heel, disappearing into the hedge maze. Oliver watched for a moment, then hurried inside the castle himself, the great hypocrite.

Trying to tamp down the dread pooling in her stomach, Clarissa hugged herself, waiting for Rupert to arrive.