Chapter 9

T he following morning, Rosalind Baxter exited the breakfast room just as Clarissa was about to enter it.

“Mrs. Baxter,” Clarissa said, stepping into her path, “I apologize for the imposition, but could I speak with you and your husband privately? The situation is urgent.”

Comprehension flared in Mrs. Baxter’s eyes. “My husband was just finishing his coffee. I will bring him to you. Where shall we meet?”

“The orangery,” Clarissa said quickly. “I doubt anyone will be in there this time of the morning.”

Mrs. Baxter nodded tightly, and Clarissa headed for the back gardens.

The orangery was a lovely building set on a picturesque rise on the far side of the garden. Its architectural style echoed that of the castle, with faux towers on the corners and crenellations on the roof. A covered walkway connected it to the main castle, and Clarissa was grateful that it did, as eight inches of snow had fallen overnight, and she was wearing a pair of slippers borrowed from Lady Emily rather than her own sturdy half boots.

Even after so short a walk, stepping into the warmth of the orangery was a relief. A quick lap around the building confirmed it was deserted. She was just admiring the sweet scent of a lemon tree in bloom when she heard the glass door swing open.

Clarissa hurried over. “Mrs. Baxter, Mr. Baxter, thank you for taking the time to speak with me. I have news for you from Bow Street and the Home Office.”

She led them to a cluster of chairs beneath the glass dome at the center of the orangery’s ceiling. Once everyone was settled, she handed Mr. Baxter the letter from Sir Henry. Mrs. Baxter leaned in, reading over her husband’s shoulder.

“I knew it!” Mrs. Baxter exclaimed. “Did I not tell you that—”

“ Hush , Rosalind,” he said, holding his hand palm out. “Let me read.”

Mrs. Baxter quieted but shifted anxiously in her seat as they finished reading the letter.

“Well,” Mr. Baxter said once he was done, “that certainly is concerning. Arsenic in the soup! That suggests that whoever is behind this managed to infiltrate our household.”

Mrs. Baxter wrung her gloved hands. “All of the servants have been with us for years. I can’t believe it would be any of them. Do you think it could be someone at the butcher’s shop, or perhaps the greengrocer—”

“That is one point of comfort,” Mr. Baxter said, bowling over his wife. “That whoever is behind this, they remained in London.”

“But how can we be sure?” Mrs. Baxter asked.

“Well, the only servants we brought up with us are your maid and my valet. Surely you don’t think it was Lydia or Pritchard?”

“Gracious, no!” Mrs. Baxter cried. “They are the last two I would ever suspect. But—”

He held out a palm. “No buts, darling. You’ve been so anxious about this situation, and I must now admit that there seems to be something to your concerns. But we’re safe here. I want you to rest and enjoy the Christmas season.”

Mrs. Baxter fell silent, but she did not look comforted.

Mr. Baxter was studying Clarissa. “Say, how did a young lady such as yourself come to be the bearer of such a missive?”

“The Home Office employs me to perform certain sensitive tasks. I trust that you will both keep that in absolute confidence. I will also be endeavoring to keep you safe, Mr. Baxter, for the duration of the house party.”

Mr. Baxter smirked, seeming to find her offer more amusing than anything else, but before he could say anything, his wife leaned forward. “Are you truly an agent for the Home Office?”

“I am,” Clarissa said firmly. There was no need to mention what a short duration she had been employed in this capacity. Not when Mrs. Baxter was so clearly nervous.

“That is such a relief,” Mrs. Baxter breathed. “There are a few things I’ve thought of since I spoke with Bow Street. Details that did not strike me as being important until after the fact. Firstly—”

“Darling,” Mr. Baxter said, “let’s not trouble Miss Weatherby with your ruminations.”

“No, truly, I would like to hear them,” Clarissa said. “You never know which detail might turn out to be significant.”

Mr. Baxter laughed. “Trust me when I say, not these details.”

Mrs. Baxter flushed. “But—”

“Run along to the house, darling,” Mr. Baxter said. When his wife opened her mouth to protest, he added, “ Now .”

Mrs. Baxter’s eyes were fixed on the floor as she rose from her seat and headed for the orangery’s exit.

Her husband stood as well. “I apologize for my wife, Miss Weatherby. She is hysterical.”

She had not struck Clarissa as hysterical. And, even if she were, some degree of nerves seemed natural, given the circumstances.

But she did not wish to alienate the man she was charged with guarding. “That is quite all right. I will speak with Mrs. Baxter privately and—”

“There’s no need,” he said crisply. “As I said, the threat remains in London. We will have a nice respite here in Yorkshire, and when we return home, I’m sure the Home Office will be able to assign an officer who is a little bit more”—his lips twisted upward, but not in a nice way—“seasoned.”

Clarissa knew well enough what that meant. The truth was, she wasn’t seasoned. She’d only had time for a month of training before necessity had thrust her onto the road alone.

But Oliver Baxter did not know that, and she would have bet her favorite brown ballgown that what he really meant was that she was a woman.

A month ago, Clarissa would have told him off. She’d spent the past two years feeling bitter, convinced the whole world was pitted against her, and it had made her temper short.

But now, Oliver Baxter was one irksome man, not one of the legions she believed to be arrayed against her.

That made it easier to exercise some patience for once in her life.

“As you prefer, Mr. Baxter. I will remain vigilant and inform you of any new developments. It would be better if we were not seen returning together.” She gestured toward the door. “Please, go ahead, and I will follow in a few minutes.”

She waited for five minutes, then hugged her arms to her chest as she stepped outside. As she walked along the covered gallery, she admired the lovely scene of the snowy garden with the castle in the background. A hedge maze occupied the central part of the garden, and the recent snowfall made it look like a frosted confection.

Mrs. Baxter had gone down into the garden and was pacing back and forth along the graveled path closest to the castle. Her posture was stiff and her head angled down. She looked nervous, even from this distance.

A cluster of snow falling from the roof above Mrs. Baxter caught Clarissa’s eye. Looking up, she could just make out a black-clad figure moving around behind the crenellated wall—a servant, perhaps, checking to see how the roof was holding up after the heavy snowfall?

Mr. Baxter suddenly burst into this scene, jogging down the six steps that led from the covered walkway down into the gardens. He strode briskly down the path, looking intent upon retrieving his wife.

That was when Clarissa heard it—a scraping sound of stone upon stone. Her eyes flew to the roof. A large stone disrupted the crenellations’ even spacing, the same type used to construct the castle. Someone had hefted it up onto the battlement wall. She could just make out the black-clad figure standing behind it.

Clarissa realized what was about to happen an instant before there came a second creak of stone upon stone. The black-clad figure had positioned themselves just above the spot where Mrs. Baxter was pacing.

Where her husband would be standing in mere seconds.

“Look out!” Clarissa cried, her voice stark in the empty garden. She broke into a run. “Above you! Move back, move back!”

Her heart in her throat, Clarissa sprinted along the covered gallery, wondering if she was too late.