Chapter Twenty-One. A Curious Discovery

C HAPTER T WENTY-ONE

A Curious Discovery

THERE’S always been something about sitting in a kitchen that soothed my mind—hiding deep in the belly of the home, safely away from the outside world and all the problems that came with it. As a girl, I scarcely left our family’s kitchen. Always underfoot, swiping something sweet from the larder, or simply watching our cook Mrs. Carty prepare for supper. But for some reason, here at Hawick House, with all the bustling and preparation going on around me, my mind remained fixed upon the memory of my mother’s simple picnic hampers. Every Saturday and Sunday for as long as I can recall, Mother would send the staff away, and the house would grow still and quiet. She would wake me up before dawn, and we’d steal away into the kitchen, filling a basket to the brim with whatever struck her fancy, and the two of us would set out—spending those precious hours together on the small catamaran Father had bought her. When we were in the city, we’d sneak out onto the Atlantic for a handful of days, but in summer Mother and I would escape for weeks on end and sail the Great Lakes. I hadn’t thought about those precious days with her in years.

But kitchen notwithstanding, there would be no comfort for me until I found out who truly killed the two mediums—for I feared that Genevieve was right and that the missing woman was just as dead as poor Lucy Campbell.

I toyed with the chain around my neck, my finger loosely hooked in the ring.

“Something the matter with your soup, miss?” Bridget asked with a cheery smile looking down at my long-forgotten bowl of vegetable stew that had grown cold before me. The young maid had been hovering ever since I left Ruan’s bedside. She’d stay and fuss over me for a few minutes before going off to complete another chore, only to return and repeat the same cycle again and again. This was the fourth or fifth time we’d been through this particular routine and it was growing downright suspicious.

“When did you say Captain Lennox would be returning? I need to borrow his driver.”

She paled and shook her head. “I do not know, miss. The young master is a private man. He said he would return this evening, that’s all I know.”

“Did he take his automobile?” I arched a brow. “I’m certain he wouldn’t mind my borrowing it.” I actually wasn’t certain, but she didn’t need to know that.

“No, miss. Captain Lennox said that you were not to leave without his permission. I cannot let you go.” The rapid flutter of her pulse was visible beneath the thin skin at her throat.

“Bridget…” I began, pinning her with my stare. “Where is he?”

Her jaw worked and she shook her head, glancing behind me to the cook who offered her no aid. “I told you before, I do not know. He does not tell me such things. It’s not my place to know any more than I am told.”

She was lying. I could tell by the way she twisted her fingers into her white apron. The way she subconsciously placed her body between me and the servants’ stair at the opposite end of the room.

What was Andrew Lennox hiding? I rose, inadvertently knocking the spoon from my bowl and splattering the cold stew all over the tabletop. I grabbed a nearby cloth and hastily mopped it up.

“Miss, where are you going? You must stay calm and rest. The young master said that you must rest yourself.”

“Am I your guest here or am I not?”

“No, miss. No. I mean yes you are a guest, but you were shot, that is, but… it’s only—”

“It’s only what?” I folded my arms beneath my breasts. I knew I was intimidating her and I didn’t mean to—at least not wholly—but the young maid’s caginess about Andrew’s whereabouts was making me increasingly concerned that she was hiding something. The only question was what that thing was?

“He said I was to keep an eye on you,” the girl said at last in exasperation. Her cheeks flushed.

“Am I in need of a keeper?” Well, considering the fixes I found myself in, probably so…

She shook her head again, face beet red. An iota of guilt rankled. The poor girl was simply following orders, but I couldn’t see why would it matter where I went as long as I had someone accompanying me. At last, I decided to spare the maid any more discomfort and took a different tack, one taken from the pages of Mr. Owen’s very own book: I would lie.

“I believe I shall take a walk in the garden. Assuming walking is acceptable to Captain Lennox?”

She worried her pink lower lip before nodding. “In the garden…” she repeated. “I suppose there’s no harm in that. I’ll fetch you a shawl, miss. You wait right here and I’ll accompany you.”

I waited until Bridget disappeared down another corridor. Once her footsteps grew quiet, I darted up the servants’ stair in search of Andrew, determined to find out for myself what the girl was hiding.

I T ONLY TOOK a handful of minutes to locate his room. The door, of course, had been unlocked, which was his error—not mine. If the man didn’t want interruptions he should employ locks. Not that locks deterred me either, but as my picks were back at Manhurst they would have given me pause in this instance. However, immediately upon entering the shadowy room, I recognized my grievous mistake.

I had misread the clues entirely .

Andrew Lennox was asleep, his expression peaceful in the muted light breaking through the parted curtains. The exhausted lines on his face smoothed in his dreams, making him look far younger than his years. I looked over to his partner, whose stubbled cheek rested against Andrew’s bare chest.

It was an intensely domestic scene: two lovers partaking of a midafternoon nap and my own treacherous heart ached with jealousy. Not over Andrew—goodness, no—but of his ability to find a moment of peace when the world had gone utterly mad around us. Oh, what I would give for one second without the voices in my head, the increasing nightmares or my worsening headaches. One damned second without remembering that everyone I ever cared for had either left of their own accord or been taken from me.

I started for the door, furious at myself.

Andrew opened his eyes and his entire body tensed.

That brief moment of peace melted away into anger. A righteous rage as I’d intruded on his privacy and witnessed something we both knew was illegal.

He mouthed the words, “Get out.”

I obeyed without argument, silently shutting the door behind me. I waited for several seconds in the hall, watching as Bridget came barreling up the stairs, a gray woolen shawl clutched in her hands. She made a sound of horror in the back of her throat. “Miss! Miss! You must come away!”

The girl had been protecting Andrew all along and I felt wretched for the way I’d treated her downstairs.

I opened my mouth to say the same when the door opened again and Andrew stepped out, tying a saffron-colored dressing gown tight around his waist. “It’s all right, Bridget, you may leave us.”

She murmured something beneath her breath before bobbing and scurrying off.

As she disappeared his expression hardened. “You, on the other hand—”

“—I see Mr. Owen’s extravagant taste in dressing gowns runs in the family.”

“Amongst other things,” he grumbled. “Did no one teach you to knock in your American finishing schools?”

“I never went to finishing school.”

Andrew muttered beneath his breath, then let out a weary sigh. “May I ask what was important enough for you to intrude upon my privacy when I specifically gave instructions to be left alone for the afternoon?”

His tone sounded precisely like Mr. Owen’s when he’d noticed I’d misshelved his Romantic poets.

Andrew rubbed his jaw. “I presume you know enough to hold your tongue about what you saw in there.”

“Of course, I do. I’m not a fool.” My chest ached and I reached up absently, rubbing at the tender scar. “I don’t even know why the government cares what happens willingly behind closed doors between adults. One would think with everything going on in the world that they would have better things to do with their time than worrying about what we do with ours .”

Andrew arched a brow. “Pretty words without action, Miss Vaughn.”

I bristled, but deserved his ire. “Be that as it may—in my experience, one cannot control whom one loves. Trying to do so would be like changing the tide or making the sun rise in the west—a pointless endeavor at best.”

The edge of his mouth twitched slightly as he leaned back against the dark wood paneling. “My father does not hold such modern opinions. I think he’d prefer to be well shut of me if I weren’t the heir. Unfortunately for him, he’s quite thoroughly stuck with me.” Andrew’s face took on a wistful expression as he stared into the empty hall behind me. “Uncle Owen understood though. I think sometimes that’s another reason Father despises him so. He thinks that Uncle had some hand in the fact I prefer the company of men to women. An absurd notion as I scarcely even knew Owen until I was at Oxford, and by then I’d already had my first lover and was plenty old enough to know my own mind.”

“Your father knows about him?” I tilted my head to the shut door.

“I’d not meant for him to learn of it, but yes. Father begrudgingly accepts the fact I will not give him up. Though I think he does eventually hope I’ll do what Uncle Owen did.” Andrew’s accent broadened dramatically as he did a terribly good impression of his father’s speech. “‘Why don’t you go on and marry a bonny lass, boy? Surely you can get at least one bairn on her before you go back to your way of sin.’” He gave me a sad small smile and shrugged. “But alas, poor Andrew. See that’s the difference between my uncle and me. I cannot bring myself to live a lie. I won’t do it.”

A shiver ran up my spine. “What exactly do you mean, do what Uncle did? ”

“Come now, Miss Vaughn. Surely you know some of his past. How can you not? What has he told you?”

“Little,” I admitted with a frown. “I know he’s Hawick and that Mariah had been engaged to your father before Mr. Owen married her and that’s why the two of them don’t get along.”

Andrew cocked his head in acknowledgement. “That was certainly part of their bad blood, but not all of it. From what I understand Uncle Owen and my father were nothing alike. My father’s always been a religious man. Strict and hard like his mother. Uncle Owen…” Andrew sighed. “He loved books and art and the unknown. He had a healthy disregard for rules of polite society, even when he ought to have been a bit more careful in his dealings.”

“I don’t understand what you’re trying to tell me…”

“Only that my uncle was one of the greatest rakes in British history. His list of lovers as a young man was legendary, and put even Lord Byron to shame. It’s a wonder he settled down at all to marry Mariah. But after she disappeared—the way they tell it—he nearly drowned himself in liquor, leaving a trail of devastation a mile wide before he finally disappeared, only to reappear a few years later with a proper second wife. Father was angry with him before, but after that… he forbade Owen from setting foot in Hawick House ever again. I don’t think he’s ever forgiven Uncle for moving on with his own life after Mariah died. Father saw it as an insult to her memory. It’s mad, I know—but my father has never been a reasonable man.”

“I need to speak to him.”

“My father? Why on earth would you want to talk to him? The man is an utter nightmare.”

I let out a laugh. “Well. Yes, I probably ought to speak with him too—but I meant Mr. Owen. I need to get to Rivenly. I have some questions for him that I’d meant to ask before he confessed to killing Lucy.”

“Are you still seeking out the killer?”

“I cannot let Mr. Owen suffer for something we both know he didn’t do.”

Andrew hesitated, but thought better of whatever he was about to say. “Hugh, my driver, can take you as far as the ferry to the Isle of May then bring you back here straightaway. I’ll try to keep Kivell from killing me before you return.”

A smile tugged at my lips. “That would be splendid, but Andrew, I have one more question. And I need you to be completely honest with me.”

“Of course, Miss Vaughn.” He mirrored my position, folding his arms across his chest.

“Why were you following Genevieve? I don’t believe you wish Mr. Owen harm. I don’t believe you wish me harm. But there is one—possibly two—dead mediums now and you were seen in the third’s room. I need you to tell me why.”

Andrew shifted where he stood. “For the same reason as you. I love my uncle—and I am determined to find out who means him harm.”

“And what would you do if you found them?” I asked.

He cleared his throat and straightened. “Let me have Hugh bring the car around. You should make haste to Rivenly, it’ll take most of a day to get there and back.”

And as I watched Andrew walk away, I began to wonder what I might do if I found the person who meant Mr. Owen harm. He wasn’t my blood, but he was family all the same. Mr. Owen, Ruan, Mrs. Penrose, even the dreadful cat. They were mine, and I had learned one fundamental truth about myself in the last few years—I would allow no one to harm what was mine.