Leslie LaFoy (36 page)

Francis cocked a brow, but it was Mother Rivard who sailed into the awkward silence. “Wyndom would be honored to escort you, wouldn't you, Wyndom, dear?”

“I'd love to,” he replied, his tone and frown belying the assertion. “As long as Darice doesn't mind a cripple hobbling alongside her. My knee is not mending well.”

“Perhaps Lady Claire can make a compress that would help,” his mother suggested, casting Claire a meaningful look. “Something that might take the swelling down. It would be a shame to attend the ball and not be able to dance. Don't you agree, Lady Claire?”

“Absolutely,” she replied politely. “And I'll see to a compress immediately after luncheon. I'm sure what I need can be found in the storehouse. It won't take long at all.”

Wyndom perked up a bit at the promise. With something resembling a genuine smile, he grasped his cane and leveraged himself upright. He addressed everyone at the table saying, “If you all would please excuse me, I'll start for my room now so that I have a reasonable chance of being there by the time Lady Claire is ready to work a miracle.”

Amidst the murmurs of acceptance and encouragement, he ungracefully edged out from between the chairs and haltingly made his way toward the door.
Everyone fell silent, watching his slow progress. Claire was about to excuse herself to see to the making of the compress when Richard Henry turned to her and inquired as to which medicinal herbs she intended to use. Unable to politely escape, she resigned herself to answering and finishing out the meal with the others.

C
LAIRE MAINTAINED
a sedate pace as she moved down the pathway toward the storehouse, resisting the urge to gather up her skirts and run. She could feel Darice's gaze burning a hole in her back. Take a walk in the gardens with the woman? Not for all the tea in Boston Harbor. If Mother Rivard hadn't already provided her with an excuse to beg out of the ladies' excursion, she'd have conjured one up on her own.

The door creaked open on stiff hinges, allowing a shaft of bright afternoon light into the dark room. Claire slipped the iron dog into place with her foot, propping open the door so that she had the light necessary to find what she needed. She knew from previous searches that the shelf secured against the farthest wall held the crated bags of dried fruits and vegetables the kitchen garden had produced in years past. The tall shelf that stood as an island in the center of the storeroom's floor was the one packed full of the crocks containing the dried herbs and flowers used for both cooking and medicine.

Claire moved directly to it, scanning the brown paper labels neatly twine-tied around the various containers, searching for marigold, marjoram, thyme, lavender, and parsley. When she had found all of the dried plants, she retrieved an earthenware mixing bowl from the long, freestanding workbench behind her and set about creating the combination she wanted. “Equal parts marjoram, thyme, and parsley,” she said quietly to herself, placing a handful of each into the bowl. “Two of
lavender—one to reduce the swelling, one just because it smells so good.” She smiled and removed the cork from the last of the crocks, adding, “And three of marigold, Mother's instant cure for whatever ails you.”

Shifting the dried bits of plants through her fingers, she thoroughly mixed them together, breathing in the sweet fragrance. “Water or apple cider vinegar?” she asked herself aloud, dusting her hands clean over the bowl. Water wouldn't compromise the blend of scents, but neither would it contribute anything to the healing process. Vinegar, on the other hand, was a mild anti-inflammatory in its own right. And what would Wyndom care about scent anyway? All he wanted was to be able to walk without excruciating pain. Vinegar would certainly accomplish that goal much more quickly than water would.

“Vinegar, then,” she decided, turning away from the table.

She started at the clank of pottery, the creak of protesting wood, and looked up just as the whole of the world toppled over and came crashing down.

IVEN
L
ADY
L
YTTON'S
general demeanor at the table,” Francis Lightfoot mused, pouring a round of after-dinner brandies, “might I reasonably infer that she's a bit put out with you for having married someone else?”

“Ever the keen observer, Francis,” his brother quipped as he settled into a chair beside the library hearth.

Unfazed, the younger Lee handed Devon a snifter and went on with a grin, “You're lucky to have escaped with your life. She's killed three husbands, you know.”

“Figuratively speaking, of course,” Richard Henry quickly added.

Devon narrowed his eyes and studied the dark spirits in his glass, remembering.

Francis snorted, but it was his brother who actually commented, “You don't honestly suspect foul play, do you, Devon?”

Suspecting murder and proving it were two very
different things. And a careful search of Lytton Hall had turned up nothing that could even be considered circumstantial evidence. Devon shrugged and took a sip of his drink before replying, “All I know for sure is that Robert Lytton was barely a score of years older than I and every bit as healthy when he dropped dead last year.”

“He might have had a bad heart,” Francis suggested. “As I recall, his father died young.”

“His father was thrown by a horse and trampled to death,” Devon retorted. “According to my mother, his grandfather lived to be well over seventy.”

“Lady Lytton has quite the reputation. It could well be that he was simply ridden to death.”

“Francis!” his brother censured. “Lurid insinuation is for the pages of
Fanny Hill
. The Widow Lytton is a proper lady.”

No, Devon silently corrected. Darice wasn't proper and she wasn't a lady. She just dressed better and had loftier airs than most whores. And while her reputation was indeed the stuff of legends, it was also false and wholly dependent on her lovers being gentleman enough not to share the details of their experiences.

“You don't believe that's possible?” Francis pressed, leaning close. “The bad heart? I heard he died in her bed.”

“I didn't say a word,” Devon replied. He took another sip of his brandy, trying to banish the memory of Robert Lytton's blue-tinged face, the memory of how the hair on the back of his neck had prickled at the sight of the man lying stiff and cold among the lace-edged pillows of Darice's bed.

“My keen observational skills,” Francis said quietly, leaning closer still, “are telling me that there's a story to be told here.”

“If you suspect foul play,” his brother added, “you have a legal and ethical obligation to speak up, Devon. An inquest can be convened to make a formal inquiry.”

An inquest that would require him to publicly admit to having bedded the Widow Lytton in order to conduct his own investigation into Robert's death. He'd come up empty-handed and a group of his peers wasn't likely to do any better. No, hell would have to freeze before he made his suspicions and actions public knowledge. It was bad enough that his friends and family knew what he'd done. Even if they weren't privy to his true motivations. No one—friends, family, and the public alike— would believe them, and in the end he'd look the fool for trying to put a noble light on having bedded the damn woman. Humiliating himself wasn't likely to bring Darice to justice and it sure as hell wasn't going to bring Robert Lytton back from the dead.

Devon polished off the last of his brandy and set the snifter aside. “I don't see any real cause for calling an inquest,” he began, choosing his words carefully. “I think—”

The rest of what he'd been about to say died on the tip of his tongue as Mary Margaret Malone staggered into the doorway, gasping for air and clutching the jamb for dear life.

“Meg!” he cried, instantly starting for her, her panic already his own. “What happened?”

“In the storehouse,” she rasped. “Lady Claire—”

His heart shot into his throat and he didn't wait to hear any more.

As Hannah's frantic efforts succeeded in creating an opening in the debris, Claire summoned a reassuring smile.

“Are you sure you're not injured?” Hannah asked, peering at her face and moving aside yet another handful of shattered pottery.

Claire spat out a bit of what tasted like oregano before carefully turning her head to look up at the
underside of the workbench and answering, “I got most of myself under the table. It's just my legs that are sticking out, I think. They don't hurt, but I can't move them for all the weight on my skirts. I can move my arms, but I'm afraid I'll cut myself if I do.”

“No, child. Just lie there quietly and let me clear it away.”

“Claire!”

Devon. Bless him. He was as terrified as she'd been when the shelf first toppled over.

“I'm all right,” she called out as Hannah disappeared from sight. In the next instant, Devon was there, reaching through the opening to cup her cheek in the warmth of his hand. She turned her head, placing a quick kiss in the calloused palm. “Really, Devon,” she assured him as she snuggled her cheek back into the comfort of his touch. “I just can't get myself out.”

“Don't even try to,” he crisply commanded, drawing back. “We'll have you free in just a moment.”

Claire winced as she saw him kick aside not only bits of broken pottery but some of the pots that had somehow survived the fall. Her heart sank. All the crocks. All the herbs. Years of labor, lost.

“On three, Richard Henry. One… two… three!”

There was a sudden groaning of wood, the crash of still more crockery. Bits of dried plants swirled through the air and drifted down around her. Claire held her breath, wondering how many pots there were left to fall. She turned her head to look back over her shoulder and saw Devon's booted, muscled legs amidst the debris. As she watched, he reached down, grabbed a crock in each hand, and flung them away.

“Devon,” she protested over their shattering, “please don't do any more damage than has already been done. There's no great hurry. I'm all right.”

“By the grace of God, it would appear,” she heard Francis Lightfoot say in the vicinity of her head. “How
on earth did you bring that shelf down on yourself, Lady Claire?”

“I didn't,” she countered, shifting about to see him widening the opening Hannah had made. Over the continued noise of pottery breaking all around her, she said, “At least not by doing anything that I'm aware of. I was working at the table and had turned around to go get vinegar when it simply tilted over and came down.”

“Thank goodness the table is a sturdy one,” Richard Henry observed from somewhere—judging by the sound—near Devon. “Any less stout and it might not have sheltered you.”

“If she'd been any less quick in diving for cover,” Devon growled, “the sturdiness of the table wouldn't have mattered.”

She'd be dead
, Claire silently finished for him. Her stomach twisted and went leaden as a cold certainty swept through her. Telling herself that the danger was past, that she'd survived, didn't ease her trembling in the least. Neither did berating herself for cowardice. Her poise deserted her and she pushed herself up, suddenly desperate to escape the confines of her makeshift shelter.