A Shadowed Charade (The Lockwood Family #4)

Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Melody sat heavily in the chair and rubbed her tired, aching feet. The hours of dancing had weighed on her, and she wasn’t sure how much more she could endure. There were far more pressing matters demanding her attention, yet here she was, trapped in a seemingly endless dance lesson.

Wesley took a seat beside her and offered an approving nod. “You are a remarkable dancer,” he said, his voice warm with admiration.

“Thank you, and so are you,” Melody responded, straightening in her chair despite her fatigue. “But how much longer do you think Mr. Durand will keep us here?”

Looking at the long clock in the corner, Wesley replied, “I think we have only just begun.”

She groaned, leaning back in her chair. “Do not tell me that.”

Wesley’s expression softened with a hint of sympathy. “It is merely the truth,” he said, gazing at Elodie on the dance floor. “The only good thing is the dancing master seems to focus all his attention on your sister.”

Melody followed his gaze, watching as the dancing master critiqued her sister’s every move. “Elodie has never quite taken to dancing,” she remarked.

“And yet you have,” Wesley observed, looking back at Melody. “How do you seem to excel at everything you do?”

“That is hardly true.”

Wesley gave her a pointed look, his eyebrow raised in challenge. “Name one thing you are not good at.”

Melody paused, considering his words. After a moment, she replied, “I am not very good at taking a compliment.”

“That is fair,” Wesley conceded with a smile, “but what else?”

She sighed, her eyes drifting back to the dance floor where Elodie was now twirling in Lord Belview’s arms. “I am boring.”

“Pardon?”

Melody met his gaze and repeated, “I am boring.”

“You are hardly boring.”

“No, it is true,” Melody said. “I follow the rules and do what is expected of me. Even Elodie thinks I am boring.”

Wesley pressed his lips together. “You are many things, but boring is not one of them. Stubborn. Maddening. Thinking you know what is best?—”

Melody spoke over him, her tone edging towards irritation. “Do you have a point, my lord?” She wasn’t entirely sure whether to feel insulted or not, but she was leaning towards being insulted.

He chuckled. “I do,” he replied. “You have a certain charm about you that captivates the attention of everyone around you.”

Melody turned away, dismissing his words with a wave of her hand. “Now, I think you are just attempting to flatter me.”

Wesley reached out, gently touching her arm to recapture her attention. “I would not say it if I did not mean it,” he replied earnestly. “I find you to be irresistibly engaging and I have cherished every letter you sent me.”

“Those letters mean nothing,” Melody insisted.

“To you, perhaps,” Wesley said, letting his hand drop from her arm. “I have kept every letter you have sent.”

Melody blinked, surprised. “Why?”

A smile came to Wesley’s face. “Because they came from you.”

Melody stared at Wesley, trying to decipher his meaning. Their correspondence had been mostly business-coded messages with little personal sentiment. Yet, something in his eyes suggested those letters held more significance to him than she had realized.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a loud clap from the dancing master, who had appeared beside them. “Why are you not dancing?” Mr. Durand demanded.

Perhaps it was exhaustion, or maybe she was fed up, but Melody was no longer in the mood to comply. “I am done for the day,” she announced firmly.

Mr. Durand’s eyes widened in disbelief. “I think not!” he exclaimed, his voice rising. “I will tell you when you are done, and you are not done. Now, dance!”

Melody rose slowly, her movements deliberate. “No. You will have to go on without me,” she said, her voice resolute.

Mr. Durand’s nostrils flared in anger. “Lady Melody, you are under my tutelage?—”

She took a step closer to him, her gaze unwavering. “I have had enough for one day, and I am going to my bedchamber to rest.”

Elodie, who had been observing the exchange from across the room, took the opportunity to chime in. “If Melody is done, can I be done as well?”

“No one is done!” Mr. Durand declared, gesturing dramatically with his hand. “Not until I say it is so.”

Melody knew her mother would likely have words for her later, but she was beyond caring at this point. “Good day, Mr. Durand,” she said, turning on her heel and starting to walk away.

“Lady Melody, if I may…” Mr. Durand began, his frustration evident.

She spun around, her patience wholly gone. “No, you may not!” she snapped. “Save your breath, sir. Nothing you say will change my mind.”

“Mine, either,” Elodie added quickly, hurrying to join her sister.

As Melody exited the music room, Elodie followed closely behind, her expression one of admiration. “That was the most interesting thing you have ever done. Well done, Sister.”

“I am going to take a nap,” Melody said as she headed towards the grand staircase.

Elodie moved to walk beside her, a hint of concern creasing her brow. “Are you all right?”

“I am,” Melody answered, though her voice lacked conviction.

“I have just never seen you so… feisty before,” Elodie said with a small smile. “I think I like it.”

Melody wasn’t in the mood for Elodie’s antics. “Do you have a point?”

Elodie reached out, gently stopping her at the base of the staircase. “You seem rather agitated.”

“I am fine,” Melody said, not wanting to give anything away. She was stressed. Exhausted. And someone was trying to kill her. She was anything but fine, but she couldn’t bring herself to tell her sister that.

Elodie studied her closely, clearly unconvinced. “I do not believe you.”

Melody brushed past her, eager to end the conversation. “It is the truth,” she lied.

“Well, I am here if you wish to talk,” Elodie said, remaining rooted in her spot.

“Thank you,” Melody responded over her shoulder. She knew her sister was in earnest. Despite her quirks and odd remarks, Elodie had always made time to listen, and for that, Melody was grateful.

Once she reached her bedchamber, she quickly locked the door behind her and collapsed onto the bed, her body heavy with exhaustion. Perhaps a nap would help ease her troubled mind as she nestled into the soft covers. But just as she began drifting off, she noticed something that sent a jolt of alarm—someone was trying to turn her door handle. The slow, deliberate movement was unmistakable.

She reached for the pistol under her pillow and jumped out of bed. Thankfully, she’d locked the door and knew no one could enter. But who had been trying to?

Her pulse quickened as she quickly unlocked the door and, in one swift motion, yanked it open, her pistol raised and ready.

But the corridor was empty.

She stepped out cautiously, her eyes scanning the long corridor. There was no sign of anyone. Had she imagined it? No, she was certain of what she had seen. The door handle had definitely moved.

With her pistol still in hand, she hurried down the corridor. She had just reached the top of the stairs when she saw Wesley ascending them, his expression immediately turning serious as he noticed the pistol in her hand.

His eyes sharpened with concern. “What has happened?” he asked in a low voice, stopping before her.

Melody slipped the pistol into the folds of her gown, not wanting to attract any further attention. “Someone tried to break into my room,” she informed him.

Wesley’s face darkened with worry as he moved closer. “Are you all right?”

“I am, but it was rather unnerving,” Melody admitted.

“I have no doubt,” Wesley declared. “I am going to London to secure a special license. You will come with me, of course.”

Melody’s brows knitted in frustration. “I am not going to London with you, nor am I going to marry you,” she asserted.

Wesley looked unpleased, his jaw tightening. “Melody?—”

“Please, can we not discuss this now?” Melody interrupted, bringing a hand to her forehead. “I am tired and in desperate need of a nap.”

He exhaled, clearly reluctant to let the matter drop, but he nodded. “All right,” he conceded. “But I am not going to give up.”

“I wish you would. My answer won’t change,” Melody said.

Wesley gently placed his hand on her sleeve, his touch light but reassuring. “All I want is for you to be safe. Nothing else matters.”

Melody met his gaze and saw the sincerity in his eyes, a warmth that made her heart flutter despite herself. “Thank you,” she said, unsure of what else to say.

“When you awake from your nap, we need to create a list of people who could harm you,” Wesley said.

“I can’t think of one person.”

“But you must,” Wesley asserted. “Someone is here to kill you.”

Melody tossed her hands up in the air. “Why me?” she asked. “All I do is decipher codes. I am the least interesting person at the agency.”

“That is not the least bit true. Your contribution is vital to the war efforts,” Wesley said.

As he spoke, Melody realized that his hand was still resting on her sleeve, providing a comforting presence that was far more reassuring than it should have been. Wesley seemed to realize it, too, as he quickly withdrew his hand, clearing his throat.

“You look tired,” he remarked gently.

Melody pursed her lips, not sure whether to feel offended or grateful. “That is not very kind of you to say.”

“Would you prefer I lie to you?” Wesley asked.

“No, I would not,” Melody replied, glancing over his shoulder as her exhaustion caught up with her. The events of the day—the endless dancing, the strain of the situation, and the weight of her responsibilities—were wearing her down.

Wesley said in a soft, concerned voice, “Allow me to walk you back to your bedchamber.”

“People will talk,” Melody murmured.

A hint of a smile played on Wesley’s lips. “Let them talk,” he responded.

Melody reluctantly nodded, partially because she was too tired to argue. “Very well,” she agreed.

As they returned to her bedchamber, Wesley glanced at her sideways. “I’m sorry that this is happening to you.”

“It is not your fault,” Melody said.

“Perhaps not,” Wesley replied, his tone somber, “but I recruited you into this life.”

Melody stopped outside of her door, turning to face him. “If I wanted a quiet, safe life, I would have turned you down. I wanted this.”

Wesley smiled, but it looked tight, strained, lacking its usual warmth. “Be sure to lock your door behind you.” He paused. “I would suggest you let me inspect your bedchamber for anything suspicious, but I have a feeling you would refuse.”

“You are right. I would,” Melody responded as she opened the door. She stood there for a moment, not quite ready to say goodbye. Wesley’s presence was comforting and made her feel everything would be all right.

He must not have felt the same because he took a step back. “Enjoy your rest,” he said.

Melody tipped her head in acknowledgment before she disappeared into her room, locking the door behind her. Dear heavens, what was happening to her? This would not do. She couldn’t—no, she wouldn’t—allow herself to develop feelings for Wesley.

With that resolution firmly in place, Melody placed the pistol under her pillow and slipped under the covers, determined to focus on her rest and not on the unsettling emotions swirling within her.

Wesley paced back and forth in his bedchamber, each step increasing his agitation. His mind raced with thoughts of Melody and the ever-growing danger surrounding her. He was responsible for her safety. But how could he protect her when she resisted him at every turn?

Why wouldn’t she marry him? It made perfect sense, at least to him. It wasn’t just about protection, though it was a significant part. No, there were also those pesky feelings he was beginning to develop for her.

Botheration.

His thoughts were interrupted when the door opened, and Watkins entered the room. The man held up a piece of paper, his expression serious. “I spoke to the butler and compiled a list of all the recently hired servants at Brockhall Manor.”

Wesley extended his hand, eager to see the information. “Give it here,” he ordered.

Watkins stepped forward and handed him the paper. “As you will see, a gardener and various household staff members were recently hired.”

“Have you spoken to them?” Wesley asked, his eyes scanning the names and positions on the paper.

“Not yet,” Watkins replied.

Wesley reviewed the list carefully, his mind working through the possibilities. “I want you to speak to each one of them discreetly. See if any of them arouse suspicion.”

Watkins tipped his head in acknowledgment. “Yes, my lord.”

As Wesley returned the paper to Watkins, he added, “Someone attempted to enter Lady Melody’s bedchamber.”

“I take it that they weren’t successful.”

“No, thanks to Lady Melody’s foresight in locking the door,” Wesley said. “I do not like this. Not one bit. I shudder to think what would have happened if someone had been successful in entering her bedchamber.”

“The important thing is that Lady Melody is unharmed.” Watkins folded the paper, tucked it into his jacket pocket, and spoke cautiously. “I did make some inquiries about Jasper, as you requested.”

Now, Watkins had his full attention. “What did you discover?”

“No one is quite sure where he is staying, but he has been keeping close to Brockhall Manor, particularly near Lady Sarah,” Watkins revealed. “I have overheard a few maids whispering that Jasper appears to be quite taken with Lady Sarah.”

“That is hardly of interest,” Wesley said.

“Beyond that, there is little information about Jasper,” Watkins remarked. “He is an anomaly, at least to the household staff.”

Wesley walked over to the window, looking out over the gardens, deep in thought. “I don’t like that. I need to know if I can trust him.”

Watkins observed him for a moment. “What did Lady Melody say about Jasper?”

“Not much, but she seems to trust him.”

“Is that not enough, then?” Watkins asked.

Wesley leaned against the window frame, his arm propped up as he sighed heavily. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “In my opinion, Lady Melody is far too trusting. She has no idea what she is up against. The agency was so careful with her identity, associating her only with a number. Very few people even knew her true name.”

“I just received word that the agent responsible for the leak was caught and interrogated, but he gave up nothing useful,” Watkins said. “We don’t know who he spoke to or what he might have revealed.”

Pushing against the window, Wesley straightened, his expression grim. “Well, we know that someone sent Lady Melody a message, and I have no doubt they intend to make good on their threat.”

“We will keep her safe, my lord,” Watkins stated.

“How?” Wesley asked. “Lady Melody is intent on going about this whole thing on her own. How do I make her see reason?”

“If anyone can, you can,” Watkins encouraged.

A knock at the door interrupted their conversation.

“Enter,” Wesley commanded.

The door opened and a footman stepped inside. “You asked to be notified the moment Mr. Artemis Nelson awoke.”

“I did,” Wesley confirmed. “Thank you.”

Once the footman had departed, closing the door behind him, Watkins turned to Wesley with a skeptical look. “Do not tell me that you actually intend to question Mr. Nelson?” he asked, his tone laced with doubt.

“What kind of spy would I be if I didn’t investigate him?” Wesley retorted.

Watkins didn’t look convinced. “You truly believe he might have poisoned himself just to divert suspicion?”

Wesley shrugged. “It is not completely unheard of.”

“He nearly died,” Watkins argued. “That is quite a risk to take.”

“True,” Wesley conceded, “but he is a botanist. He knows precisely how much poison to administer to bring himself to the brink without crossing the line into death.”

Watkins put his hand up in surrender. “If you think Mr. Nelson is so dangerous, would you like me to accompany you when you interrogate him?”

“There won’t be an interrogation,” Wesley replied, crossing the room to the door. “I am simply going to ask him a few questions and see if I can deduce whether he is lying.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Watkins said.

Wesley paused with his hand on the door handle. “No, I do not need your assistance. I can handle the botanist.”

Watkins’s expression remained wary. “Very well, but I won’t be far off if you need assistance.”

Stepping out into the corridor, Wesley walked to Mr. Artemis Nelson’s room. He knocked firmly on the door, his mind already focused on the task ahead.

A moment later, the door opened slightly, and a servant peeked out, his expression cautious. “Yes, my lord?”

“Is Mr. Nelson available to speak for a moment?” Wesley asked, his tone polite but firm.

“Give me a moment,” the servant said. “I will see if he is up to speaking.”

The door closed briefly before it opened again, this time wider, as the servant gestured for Wesley to enter.

Wesley stepped into the bedchamber, his gaze immediately falling on Artemis, who was sitting up in bed, propped against the wall with a look of irritation etched across his face.

Artemis did not look pleased to see him. “To what do I owe this grand honor, my lord?”

“I came to see how you were faring,” Wesley replied.

With a huff, Artemis replied, “How do you think I am faring? The doctor just informed me that he believes I poisoned myself when I was examining the plants.”

“And did you?” Wesley prodded, his eyes narrowing slightly as he watched for any telltale signs of deceit.

A flash of annoyance flickered in Artemis’s eyes. “How can you ask that question? I can assure you I know how to handle plants. It is my passion, my livelihood.”

Wesley took a few steps closer to the bed, his gaze steady. “Then how do you account for your sudden illness?”

“I don’t know, but it was through no fault of my own,” Artemis declared, his voice rising with indignation. “Just the insinuation is insulting to me.”

Knowing he needed to proceed carefully, Wesley asked, “Do you think someone might have poisoned you?”

“Me?” Artemis asked, furrowing his brow. “Are you mad? Why would someone wish to poison me?”

“It is merely a question,” Wesley replied. “One that needed to be asked.”

“No one has a reason to poison me,” Artemis said, crossing his arms over his chest. “I have no enemies, at least that I know of.”

Wesley nodded, seemingly satisfied with the answer. “Very good. Although I do have one more question.”

Artemis looked mildly bored but gestured for Wesley to continue. “Yes, my lord?”

“Could your symptoms be explained by inhaling a plant from the gardens here?” Wesley asked.

“I suppose a few plants located in the gardens could have caused similar symptoms, but as I said before, I did not poison myself,” Artemis insisted. “I am good at what I do. I wouldn’t want my associates to know I mishandled a plant.”

Wesley raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. “You handled a plant?”

“Yes, but I wore gloves,” Artemis remarked, his tone almost defensive. “I am not an idiot, my lord.”

“Which plant?” Wesley pressed.

Artemis hesitated, a look of discomfort crossing his face before reluctantly admitting, “An oleander plant.”

Satisfied, Wesley’s expression softened slightly. “Thank you for your time,” he said. He briefly glanced at the servant in the corner before moving to the door.

As Wesley stepped into the corridor, he found Watkins waiting for him. “Well, what did you discover?” he asked.

Wesley motioned for Watkins to follow him as they made their way back to his bedchamber. Once inside, Wesley spoke quietly, “Mr. Nelson admitted to handling an oleander plant, which could explain the symptoms he experienced.”

“Do you truly believe he poisoned himself?” Watkins asked.

Wesley sighed, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “I am unsure, but I cannot dismiss him as a suspect. He has the knowledge and means to kill someone with plants.”

Watkins gave him a pointed look. “There are likely a dozen ways someone could be poisoned in the gardens of Brockhall Manor, and I suspect most of the servants are aware of that.”

Wesley tensed. “I can’t make a misstep. Not again,” he said, his voice hardening with determination.

“My lord, Dinah—” Watkins began, his tone gentle.

He cut his valet off with a sharp gesture. “No. I do not want to discuss her.”

“You never do, but her death was not your fault,” Watkins asserted.

“You keep saying that, but it does not make it any less true,” Wesley retorted. “I should have taken the threat on her life more seriously.”

Watkins stared at him, his eyes filled with disbelief. “You did everything you could.”

Wesley’s voice rose, the pain and guilt he carried breaking through his calm facade. “Everything but save her life! I failed, and I won’t make that same mistake again with Lady Melody.”

Walking over to the wardrobe, Watkins reached for a black dinner jacket. “We should get you dressed for dinner. The dinner bell should be ringing shortly.”

Wesley knew that Watkins was just trying to help him, but he had lost the only woman he had ever loved. She was gone, and it was because of him.

The faint chime of the dinner bell echoed through the hall, pulling Wesley from his thoughts.

Watkins approached him with a look of sympathy. “My lord?—”

Wesley cut him off, not wanting to hear anything more, not wanting pity. Nothing could bring Dinah back, and the memory of her loss was a constant reminder of why he should remain alone. “I don’t have time for this. I need to leave for dinner.”

“Yes, my lord,” Watkins said, his voice resigned.

As Wesley dressed for dinner, his mind retreated into the familiar haze of regret. He had been recruited out of Oxford by the spymaster, eager to do more with his life than simply inherit a title. But what did he have to show for it? Nothing. He couldn’t even protect the agents entrusted to him.

The guilt was a shadow that clung to him, one he feared would never fade.