Chapter Twelve. Setting the Scene …Perhaps Unsetting It

C HAPTER T WELVE

Setting the Scene… or Perhaps Unsetting It

IN the dozen years since my exile from New York, I had lived freely, without a care for polite society or the repercussions of my actions—and here at long last they had caught up with me in the manner I least expected. I suppose if one breaks the rules long enough, people begin to expect the worst of one. It wasn’t fair —but the world has never cared a whit about fairness. And I could either allow that fact to dictate my actions, give up and allow my past to land me in prison for a murder I did not commit, or I could take the necessary steps to save myself.

I chose the latter.

And the latter led me back up to Lucy Campbell’s room to see if she’d left any clues for me that I’d missed when I’d come up here the night she died. It had only been what? Not even a full day and yet the room, which had been neat as a pin earlier, now looked as if someone had thrown three alley cats in a wet sack, set them loose, and locked the door.

Jars were broken and books lay splayed open-faced on the ground. The contents of the packed carpetbag were now spilling out of the open top. Chemises and blouses pulled from the drawers of the nearby wardrobe. Dresses lying in heaps on the ground. Whoever had been here was in a hurry, and hadn’t been particularly careful in their search. I gingerly stepped around the debris, holding my breath as I took in the disarray. A broken vase lay in pieces on the dressing table, water dripping from the surface onto what appeared to be glass plate negatives lying scattered on the rug. Two of the negatives had broken and I stooped down, gathering up the bits of glass, trying to piece them back together.

Once again I had been too slow. Just as I’d been the night she died. Whoever it was remained two steps ahead of me.

I picked up the negatives, hastily riffling through the plates one by one—pausing now and then to be certain no one was coming—whoever I’d interrupted must have taken off when they heard me coming down the hall. Odds were, they wouldn’t return, at least not for a while—and if they did… well, then at least I’d know who or what I was dealing with.

Probably not the wisest course of action, but it was the one I was taking nonetheless.

I shuffled through the plates, quickly trying to make sense of what I’d found. At first blush, one might have thought I’d stumbled upon a stash of Victorian pornography, but upon closer inspection the images weren’t particularly lurid—though the subject matter was decidedly carnal—there was an almost clinical or scientific feel to the images.

While the faces of the figures on these images remained obscured, the photographs left little else to the imagination. I was no novice to cabinet cards—goodness knew I’d acquired them for Mr. Owen’s more adventurous customers—but these were more than simple pornography. I moved to the window, examining them in the waning light of day. A sexual ritual, perhaps? The indifference with which I studied them shocked even me. But I’d seen my fair share of this sort of ephemera since taking on my position working with Mr. Owen.

I was about halfway through the set when one particular image gave me pause. Something wasn’t quite right about it and I couldn’t put my finger on it. The images were voyeuristic, and gauging from the fact that several were missing from the sequence—these were what the killer was after. They had to be. I counted them—a dozen in total—before stuffing them into my pocket for safekeeping.

A rustle of fabric froze me in my tracks, my left hand rested protectively over the pocket where the negatives were nestled against my belly. My right reached for the revolver that I realized was sitting in the drawer of my dresser on the floor below.

A creak came from outside the door.

Then nothing.

One.

Two.

I began to count my breaths, slow and steady.

Silence.

I waited several more heartbeats before I moved at last. Finally, satisfied that whoever—or whatever—had been outside the door had gone, I crept out of the room, shutting the door behind me, and hurried to my own chamber. The lamp was still burning in my room when I returned, as it had been when I left. However, the door connecting mine to Mr. Owen’s room was open. He must be feeling better, that or trying to keep an eye on me. One could never tell with him.

Regardless, he was precisely the person I needed to talk to as the old man was in possession of the most extraordinary collection of early wet plate photographs and photographic equipment that I’d ever seen. Perhaps he’d have an idea as to the age of the images. Not that I’d ever seen him handle a camera in his life. It was yet another collection he kept under lock and key in the private library, housed with his most precious books and artifacts.

“You’re back.” Mr. Owen looked over the top of his gold-rimmed reading glasses and set down his most recent serial novel. His color had vastly improved from this morning. Perhaps whatever tincture Ruan brought him had helped. I spied a large chunk of what appeared to be a lovely Wensleydale sitting on the table before him. I reached over, taking his silver knife and cut a piece of the wheel, plopping it onto my tongue. Yes. Most certainly Wensleydale.

“Where’d you find that?” I mumbled, licking a softened crumb from my thumb.

“A man must have his secrets.”

“Yes, well. I’d appreciate it if everyone had a few less secrets at present.” I pinched another bite of the grassy cheese between my thumb and forefinger.

“I bought it off a man on the train, if you must know.”

I rolled my eyes, failing to disguise my amusement at the scene. “Leave it to you to clandestinely procure cheese.”

He smiled again, but it died away. “You’re growing thin. Mrs. Penrose will have my skin.”

“Serves you right for bringing me here under false pretenses.” I took another bite, letting its deliciously smooth texture melt on my tongue. “Mmm. On second thought, just feed me cheese and I’ll forgive any and all sins.”

A strange expression crossed Mr. Owen’s face. “All of them, my love?”

“Certainly most of them. Have you any grave ones you haven’t told me yet?”

“Stop torturing the cheese,” he grumbled, casting a glance at an uneaten piece still between my fingers. I stuck it in my mouth dramatically. Mr. Owen continued on, eyeing me much as Mrs. Penrose had been of late. Both of them complained that I needed to eat more, but my nerves always went to my stomach. “Ruan came by looking for you earlier. Tell me you’re not detectiving again.”

“That’s not a word—”

“I mean it, Ruby. I could not bear it if something happened to you because of me. This place… I should not have come here. Should not have brought you here—Manhurst has been nothing but trouble.” He pulled his glasses from his face and rubbed his eyes.

“That’s quite the understatement.” I spied an apple sitting in the bowl before him and snatched it up, taking a bite. It seemed I’d found my supper this evening. “Have you given any thought to who might have wanted Lucy dead?”

He shook his head. “No, my love. Though I fear it has to do with me coming back here. I’ve avoided this place far too long. The ghosts are angry. They demand their price.”

I frowned, leaning forward, my apple momentarily forgotten. “Mariah, you mean? The spirit from the séance?”

He stared at his hands, flexing his fingers before sighing. “I do. Lucy was her twin sister. I would have thought she’d forgiven me after all these years but perhaps not.”

I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. “Forgiven you… for what… exactly? As it stands right now the inspector thinks I killed Lucy. I really need you to tell me everything you know about this place. Anything that could help me.”

His breath hitched but he did not speak at first.

“Captain Lennox told me I should ask you about Mariah. I’m asking now, Mr. Owen. Tell me about Mariah.”

“Andy gossips like a fishwife.” Mr. Owen took a swig of his Scotch and sighed. “But aye, I knew her. I do not know what you want me to say about her that would do any good after all these years. I once knew a woman, radiant as the sun. I loved her and now she is gone. It is the way of things I suppose.”

I blinked at him, taken aback by the sudden honesty. “She was your lover?”

“She was my wife .” He flexed his fingers, studying them in the waning light of day. “I wonder if there was truth in what she said. If I had killed her somehow. Pushed her away until she—”

“Your… wife…” I repeated slowly, the revelation rattling around in my brain. “Might you have told me a bit earlier?”

“What difference would it have made?” He grumbled, lifting his eyes to mine. “You don’t tell me everything either. Like how you know this Mr. Sharpe fellow. Were you going to tell me that, hmm, lass?”

I sucked in a breath. “How did you know…”

“Ruan also gossips like a fishwife.”

I snorted back a laugh. I had never known Ruan to gossip, but I supposed there was no harm in Mr. Owen knowing about my past—in fact there was a bit of relief in it. One fewer secret between the two of us. “What exactly did Ruan tell you about him?”

He shook his head. “Not much. Only that he did not trust him. That you were afraid of him and to watch him.”

I arched a brow. “And nothing else?”

He shook his head. “No. Is there more to it?”

I wet my lips and shook my head. It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him about New York, and my suspicions about Mr. Sharpe’s true identity, but I could not bring myself to add to his worries—at least not when I didn’t know for certain myself. “No. Nothing. How did she die?” I asked, bringing us back to safer waters—for me at least.

He shook his head. “I don’t know. She disappeared one night. Some say she drowned in the lake. Others that she ran away from me. But I loved her, Ruby. Gods, did I love that woman.”

“How long has it been?”

He wet his lips. “Over forty years. I still recall the first time I saw her. Truly saw her. She lived here at Manhurst and my family… we had some holdings nearby.”

I eyed the mostly empty bottle of Scotch on his table, the reason for his uncharacteristic honesty. I longed to ask more, but it was wise to hold my tongue when Mr. Owen was speaking candidly.

“Our families had always assumed that she would marry Malachi, as they were closer in age. Besides, I had no time for a country lass. Worldly git that I was. My head so far up my own arse…”

I laughed at the image and leaned across the table, setting down the half-eaten apple, and I patted his arm through the garish orange dressing gown sleeve. “I take it not much has changed?”

He gave me a soft wistful smile. “Oh, Ruby, you should have seen her that night. You’d have loved her too. I’d not so much as looked at the lass in probably five or six years. I’d been away in London leaving Malachi to handle things here. I only came back as he asked me to attend their engagement party, and as I was paying a fortune for the damned thing I thought I better show my face. He’s my only brother and I loved him then.”

“Do you love him now?”

“He’s kin, Ruby.” He covered my hand with his own and gave it a light squeeze. “Let me finish this sorry tale before I lose the courage to tell you. It’s important you know. I fear… I fear there is a connection between the two deaths but I cannot see it. I cannot fathom how or what I could have done to have caused this.”

I paused, not liking the tone in his voice. “What do you mean?”

He wet his lips. “I stole my brother’s intended.”

“You what ?”

He wrinkled his nose, white mustache twitching. “It was an accident.”

“Mr. Owen, one does not accidentally abscond with one’s brother’s fiancée. How exactly did you accidentally manage that?”

He leaned back in his chair, eyes taking on a wistful expression. “I was tired. My train had been delayed and then the bloody coach broke an axle and I was two hours late for the ball. I was supposed to have arrived here at Manhurst long before luncheon.”

Mr. Owen took a sip from his cup, running a finger along the lip. “I dressed myself for the evening but could not bring myself to make an appearance in the ballroom. Instead I took myself off to the orangery with a book. I thought if I had a few minutes’ peace I might work up the courage to face the gauntlet.” He winced at the memory.

I leaned forward, intrigued by Mr. Owen’s past. He’d never done more than crack open a window in the place, and this afternoon he’d opened the front door and let me come inside and I loved him all the more for it. “What happened then?”

He let out a soft laugh. “ She happened. The foolish creature had the same thought at her very own engagement party. Book in hand, she’d found herself wandering the darkened glasshouse. She must have spied my lantern and came to see who else was hiding from the world.”

“Please tell me nothing untoward happened—because I am quite enjoying this story right now.”

He shook his head. “No. That was the most peculiar thing. I’d had more lovers by that time than I could count. You might not want to hear it, but I had a reputation as a bit of a rake as a young man. Until I found Mariah.” I could hear the tears behind his words. “She should have run away, left me to my work and my books. If she had, and married my brother, she would still be alive. Instead the foolish woman sat down on the bench beside me. I was… enchanted. She had a book of botanical cyanotypes—I’d not given much thought to photography at the time, but the way she spoke, the passion in her voice. It was—”

“A surprise?”

“Oh, don’t look at me like that, Ruby. I have always known women to be as clever as any man, but something about Mariah knocked me arse over teakettle and I haven’t come up for air in nearly fifty years.”

“And she chose you…”

He shrugged as if none of it mattered. “She threw him over that very night unbeknownst to me. If I’d known her intentions when we parted in the orangery then I might have talked her out of it. It was the worst of scandals, for after she called off the engagement it came out that we had been seen together. Oh I know I was a poor bargain for a husband, but when she told me she loved me—that she chose to be with me—I was helpless to say no.”

“I am sorry.”

His eyes met mine and he mustered a weak smile. “You remind me of her. Your spirit. Your clever mind. Mariah always wanted a child, but we never—we couldn’t—” He cupped my hand in his own. “You are the daughter I’d always hoped we’d have, Mariah and I.”

My eyes grew wet and I slipped my hand away, wiping away the irritating tears. “You should have told me about her.”

“Aye, my love, I should have. But after a while sometimes the lie becomes easier than the truth. I’ve not been that man in a very long time. Sometimes I think he disappeared alongside her that night.”

Something in his words gave me pause. My family had holdings near here. Dread climbed up my throat. “Mr. Owen… what man do you mean?”

“You will not like me very much when I tell you this.”

My chest tightened.

He couldn’t look at me as he drew in a shallow breath.

“What… man… Mr. Owen?”

“The Viscount of Hawick.”

The words were sharp and I couldn’t decide what was worse—that he’d lied to me, that he thought I’d be upset by his revelation, or worse—that I was upset by his revelation. “You’re… Lord Hawick.”

Suddenly the inspector’s insinuations made a great deal more sense. That Hawick fellow they assumed was my lover was actually Mr. Owen. The man I had lived with for the last few years.

I fell hard into the armchair, my back against the fabric as I stared at the ceiling.

“Say something, Ruby. Please. I am sorry for keeping it from you. It’s just—”

It’s just you’ve lied to me for over three years. Tears pricked at my eyes as I swallowed down the betrayal. “It’s all right.” It wasn’t. But I supposed it would be in time. Because for all his faults and probably against my better judgment I loved the meddling old man. Whoever he was.

“Oh, Mr. Owen. Do you have any other secrets?”

He let out a strangled sound and shook his head. “No, my love. No. I don’t think I do. Will you forgive me?”

My silence wounded him. I could see it in his eyes as he watched me, hoping that I would say yes. That I’d laugh and think it a lark as I often did. But this was a great deal more important than what he’d had for supper or why he was sending me to Gloucester on an errand. Mr. Owen had lied about who he was. About what he was. That was a difficult thing to get past.

I stood, my hand bumping into the forgotten glass plate negatives in my pocket. It wasn’t the time to ask him. It might never be the time to ask. I walked over, and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “We’ll speak in the morning.” And then I went to my room, closing the door behind me.

It wasn’t the answer he was wanting, but it was the only answer I was capable of giving.