A Shadowed Charade (The Lockwood Family #4)

Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

Dressed in a pale yellow gown, Melody stepped out of her bedchamber and was surprised to find her sister waiting for her in the corridor. Elodie leaned casually against the wall, her expression unreadable.

Melody raised an eyebrow in question. “What are you doing loitering outside of my bedchamber?”

“I wished to speak to you,” Elodie replied.

“You couldn’t have knocked on my door?” Melody asked, amusement in her voice.

Elodie shrugged. “I could have, but I want this conversation to be private.”

“And you thought the corridor was more private than my bedchamber?” Melody pressed, trying to grasp her sister’s logic.

With a casual gesture down the hall, Elodie suggested, “Why don’t we walk to the dining room together for breakfast? We can talk on the way.”

“Very well,” Melody conceded.

As they walked side by side down the corridor, Elodie glanced at Melody sideways. “I could have sworn I heard male voices in your bedchamber last night.”

“Voices?” Melody echoed, forcing a tone of innocent confusion, though her heart quickened. “As in more than one male voice?”

“I know it sounds ridiculous, but?—”

Melody quickly cut her off. “That is because it is ridiculous, Sister. Why would I entertain gentlemen in my bedchamber? I would be ruined if anyone even suspected such a thing.”

Elodie lowered her voice as they walked. “Then what are you involved in?”

“Nothing,” Melody answered quickly, perhaps too quickly. She hoped the urgency in her voice didn’t betray her. But her sister wasn’t easily swayed, and Melody could see the doubt deepening in her expression.

“You have always been the perfect daughter, the perfect sister, but now I wonder if it was all just an act,” Elodie remarked.

Melody stopped at the top of the stairs, turning to face her sister. “I am the same sister that you have always known.”

“Perhaps. But now, you are far more interesting. You have secrets, I can tell.”

“I am not the least bit interesting,” Melody attempted.

Elodie gave her a pointed look. “Then explain why Lord Emberly keeps swapping plates with you at meals.”

“I cannot speak for him.”

“And yet, you allow him to do so without even raising a complaint,” Elodie said. “It is just odd.”

Guilt washed over Melody as she struggled with the lies she was forced to keep. She longed to tell her sister the truth, but it was too risky to do so. No. This secret needed to stay hidden, especially from Elodie.

Placing a hand on her sister’s sleeve, Melody remarked, “I assure you, nothing is amiss.” But Elodie shook her head, her expression softening into one of concern. “You are keeping something from me. What is it?”

Melody sighed and dropped her hand. “You are reading too much into this.”

The conversation was abruptly cut short by a knock at the main door. They both turned to see White crossing the entry hall to open it. The door swung open to reveal Mr. Bramwell standing on the threshold. His eyes immediately sought out Melody.

“Lady Melody,” he greeted with a polite bow.

She tipped her head in response before turning back to Elodie. “Come, let me introduce you to Mr. Bramwell.”

Together, the sisters descended the grand staircase, stopping before the vicar. Melody gestured towards Elodie. “Mr. Bramwell, allow me to introduce my sister, Lady Elodie.”

Mr. Bramwell bowed again, his eyes flickering between them with mild curiosity. “You two are truly identical, are you not?”

Melody smiled playfully. “Only until you get to know us,” she quipped, sharing a quick glance with Elodie, who wore a slight smirk of her own.

Mr. Bramwell chuckled. “I have something to look forward to, then.”

Knowing what was expected of her, Melody extended her hand towards the drawing room. “Would you care for a cup of tea?”

Mr. Bramwell’s next words came out in a rush. “No, actually. I was hoping, at least I thought, if you had the time, that perhaps you might take me on a tour of your gardens.”

Melody decided to take pity on Mr. Bramwell. “I would be honored to.”

A broad smile lit up Mr. Bramwell’s face as he offered his arm. “Wonderful. Shall we?”

With a nod, Melody placed her hand lightly on his sleeve, and together, they walked towards the rear of the manor. A footman opened the door to the veranda, allowing them to step outside. The crisp morning air greeted them, and they began strolling down the garden path.

After a few moments, Melody slipped her hand off his arm, clasping her fingers together as she listened to the cheerful chirping of the birds in the trees. “It is a beautiful morning, is it not?”

“Yes, quite beautiful,” Mr. Bramwell promptly agreed, though his gaze remained fixed on her.

Noticing his rigid posture, Melody decided to set him at ease by asking, “Have you settled into your cottage?”

“I have,” Mr. Bramwell replied. “It is rather quaint.”

Melody smiled. “I have many fond memories of that cottage. It is where my dear friend, Mattie, grew up.”

“I understand she is now your sister-in-law,” Mr. Bramwell remarked.

Melody’s smile widened. “Yes, Mattie and Winston were perfect for one another. Everyone could see it—except for them, of course. But they eventually came around.”

Mr. Bramwell clasped his hands behind his back as they walked. “You should know that Lord Wythburn speaks very highly of you.”

“He is a kind man,” Melody replied.

“That he is, but he is also an excellent judge of character,” Mr. Bramwell added.

Melody pointed towards a shaded bench and asked, “Shall we sit?”

Mr. Bramwell glanced down the path ahead, his brow furrowing slightly. “If you have no objections, I would prefer to continue walking. I was hoping for some privacy.”

She did have an objection. Trees shrouded the path ahead, and she did not doubt that her sister, likely watching from one of the windows, would lose sight of them. A slight twinge of unease crept into her thoughts.

“I think it might be best if we sat in view of the manor, for propriety’s sake,” Melody said.

“Of course,” Mr. Bramwell responded with a smile. “My apologies. I have no wish to make you feel uncomfortable.”

Melody gracefully sat on the bench, and Mr. Bramwell followed, ensuring he left a respectful distance between them. A brief silence settled over them until Mr. Bramwell cleared his throat, his nerves clearly resurfacing. “I must admit, I am truly awful at this,” he confessed. “One would think Eton would offer a class on polite conversational skills with a young woman.”

Melody grinned, amused by his honesty. “You are most fortunate, then. I happen to be quite skilled in the art of conversation.”

Mr. Bramwell’s expression lightened. “Are you, now?”

She shifted on the bench to face him more fully. “Indeed. Let us start with something simple. Where do you hail from?”

“Sussex,” he replied, his tone still somewhat clipped.

“I understand that you are a grandson of a marquess,” Melody continued.

Mr. Bramwell settled back onto the bench. “Yes, I am.”

“Our conversation would go much more smoothly if you expanded on your answers,” she teased.

He chuckled. “I’m sorry. I find that I am remarkably nervous around you.”

“There is no reason to be nervous,” Melody assured him.

Mr. Bramwell turned his attention towards the manor, his gaze lingering on one of the lower windows. Melody followed his gaze and wasn’t surprised to see Elodie, peering at them from behind the curtain.

“Is your sister always so protective of you?” Mr. Bramwell asked, clearly bemused by the sight.

“She tends to have the unfortunate habit of eavesdropping on private conversations,” Melody said. “But yes, we are very protective of one another. A plight of being a twin, I suppose.”

“Are you two similar?” Mr. Bramwell asked, bringing his gaze back to meet hers.

Melody let out a soft laugh. “Heavens, no! We are as different as two sisters can be, but those differences keep us close.”

“My sister and I are rather close,” Mr. Bramwell admitted. “Our parents died when we were young, and we were sent to live with my grandfather. Given his responsibilities as a marquess, we had to rely on each other since he wasn’t around very much.”

“I am sorry to hear about your parents,” Melody acknowledged.

“It was the fever,” Mr. Bramwell explained, his voice growing more dejected. “It took them both within days of each other.” He paused. “But that is not what I wish to discuss with you.”

Just as he was about to continue, Melody noticed movement on the veranda. She turned her head and saw Wesley stepping out, his eyes meeting hers with a steady gaze. He gave her a nod before leaning against the wall, adopting a less formal posture. His presence seemed to shift the air between her and Mr. Bramwell.

Mr. Bramwell must have noticed, too, as his expression grew tight. “Do you have an understanding with Lord Emberly?”

“An understanding? With Lord Emberly?” she repeated. “Good heavens, no. We are merely friends.”

Furrowing his brow, Mr. Bramwell remarked, “Lord Emberly seems rather protective of you, more so than your sister.”

“He can be rather intense at times. But I assure you that he means no harm.”

Abruptly, Mr. Bramwell rose from the bench. “I should be heading back to my parish,” he said, his voice suddenly distant.

“Didn’t you wish to speak to me about something?” Melody asked, rising.

Glancing at Lord Emberly, he replied, “It can wait.” He extended his arm. “I do apologize for calling upon you at such an early hour.”

“I found it to be a most enjoyable way to start the day,” Melody said, accepting his arm. Her words seemed to puff Mr. Bramwell’s chest with pride.

“You know how to flatter a gentleman, my lady.”

“It was merely the truth,” Melody stated.

After a moment of silence, Mr. Bramwell asked, “May I call upon you again?” He seemed to hold his breath as he waited for her reply.

Melody bobbed her head. “You may.”

While Mr. Bramwell led her back to the manor, he inquired, “I understand that you are quite the linguist?”

“You could say that, sir,” she responded, a bit surprised by the change in topic.

“That is an impressive feat,” Mr. Bramwell said. “Not everyone can read and understand Russian.”

At his words, Melody’s back stiffened. She halted mid-step, turning to look at him fully. “How did you know I speak Russian?”

Mr. Bramwell shrugged. “Lord Wythburn mentioned it to me. I hope that is not an issue.”

“It is not common knowledge, especially since my father would not be pleased if he found out,” Melody shared.

“Forgive me,” Mr. Bramwell said. “I shall not speak of it again.”

As they approached the veranda, Melody’s thoughts were clouded with confusion. She found it odd that Mr. Bramwell knew such a specific detail about her—something she had only shared with a select few. Mattie knew she spoke Russian, but why had she passed that information along to her father? Russian was not a common language for young women of the ton , considering it was primarily regarded as an uncouth language.

Once they reached the veranda, she discreetly withdrew her arm from his and took a small step back, putting more distance between them.

Wesley straightened and stepped forward. “Good morning, my lady,” he said with a bow. “Mr. Bramwell.”

Mr. Bramwell’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Lord Emberly,” he responded.

Turning his attention towards Melody, Wesley asked, “Shall we adjourn for breakfast?”

“I think that is a grand idea,” Melody said.

Wesley sat in the drawing room, a book in hand, watching Melody quietly absorbed in her needlework. Across the room, Elodie played the pianoforte, her fingers gliding effortlessly over the keys, filling the air with soft music.

Despite the calm atmosphere, Wesley’s body remained tense, his mind burdened by the weight of his assignment. His duty was to protect Melody, and the frustration of his failure to uncover the identity of her would-be assassin gnawed at him. Days had passed, and he was no closer to finding the person who sought to harm her than when he had first arrived.

What if he failed her?

The thought threatened to consume him, but he clenched his jaw, pushing it away. No. He wouldn’t allow that to happen. He refused to fail anyone else. He already carried too many regrets.

Lady Dallington swept into the room and her eyes settled on Melody. “Child, why don’t you sing something for our guests?” she suggested, though her tone made it clear it was more of a command than a request.

Melody looked up from her needlework, her expression reluctant. “I believe we are all rather content listening to Elodie’s performance.”

“Nonsense,” Lady Dallington replied. “You two perform so nicely together. Go on.”

At that, Elodie stopped playing and rested her hands on the keys, glancing at her sister with an amused glint in her eyes. “What do you want to sing, Monkey?”

“I am not a monkey,” Melody asserted.

Elodie’s grin widened as she teased, “Are we not just performing monkeys for Mother’s enjoyment?”

Lady Dallington did not look amused by Elodie’s antics. “Dear heavens, I think I shall turn you over to the circus and let them deal with you.”

Elodie perked up in her seat. “Do you promise?”

Melody rose from her chair, moving towards her sister with a whisper Wesley couldn’t catch. Then, turning to face the room, she smiled faintly, though Wesley could sense her hesitation. “This is a song that I wrote myself,” she announced.

Wesley leaned back in his seat. He had heard Melody had a lovely voice, but he didn’t realize she wrote her own music.

As the music began, the melody was soft and gentle at first, matching the lightness of Elodie’s touch on the keys. Then Melody’s voice filled the room. The first few notes took Wesley by surprise—her voice was rich, captivating and undeniably beautiful. He found himself staring at her, entranced, wondering how she had ever managed to keep such a gift hidden. Each note seemed to reveal something deeper, more intimate, about her, and the longer she sang, the more Wesley found himself lost in the sound.

There was something about her voice, something about her presence, that made everything else—the dangers, the uncertainties—fade away. And in that moment, he silently hoped she would never stop singing.

But all good things must come to an end.

Melody stopped singing as the music came to a close. Wesley jumped up from his seat and applauded. “Well done!” he praised.

Across the room, Lord Belview also stood, joining in. “Bravo!” he called out.

Elodie came to stand next to Melody and joked, “Why didn’t I get this reaction for my playing?”

Wesley made his way towards Melody. “You have the most extraordinary voice,” he praised.

Melody ducked her head, a hint of pink rising to her cheeks. “Thank you,” she murmured.

A maid entered the room carrying a tray and Elodie’s eyes lit up. “Biscuits!” she said with excitement, excusing herself quickly to investigate the treats.

Wesley leaned in closer, lowering his voice. “Why do you not sing more often?”

She brought her gaze up. “I do not enjoy the attention my voice commands. It makes me stand out.”

“For a good reason,” Wesley replied.

In a quieter, more serious tone, Melody added, “I prefer anonymity. It makes accomplishing what I need to easier without drawing unnecessary attention.”

Wesley understood her point, but he couldn’t help feeling it was a shame to keep such a gift hidden. Her voice had moved him in a way he hadn’t expected, and he found himself wishing to hear it again, despite her reluctance. Just as he was about to say more, Jasper stepped into the room, meeting his gaze.

“Please excuse me,” Wesley said to the ladies before turning and walking over to the Bow Street Runner.

Rather than remain where she was, Melody followed him and asked, “What is it, Jasper?”

Jasper tipped his head. “May I speak to you both for a moment?”

“Follow me,” Melody said, gesturing for them to follow her out of the drawing room. She led them through the manor and onto the veranda.

Jasper had a solemn look on his face. “A traveler was discovered in the woodlands,” he began. “He was found unconscious, beaten badly, and his clothes were missing. The innkeeper called for a doctor, but the man didn’t wake for two days. When he finally did, he kept repeating the same words: ‘Brockhall Manor.’”

“He said nothing else?” Melody asked.

“No, but that is not the worst of it,” Jasper said. “In an effort to identify the man, the doctor spread the word around, hoping someone would come forward with information.”

Wesley let out a groan, sensing where this was going. “Tell me that the man is still alive.”

Jasper shook his head. “I’m afraid not. The coroner investigated and ruled it was natural causes. His heart supposedly gave out.”

Wesley’s fists clenched at his sides, a familiar anger simmering beneath the surface. “Were the windows shut and the door locked?” he asked, already suspecting the answer.

“They were,” Jasper responded, eyeing Wesley with curiosity. “How did you know that?”

“Because he was murdered,” Wesley declared.

Jasper crossed his arms over his chest. “There were no signs of a struggle or marks of asphyxiation.”

“There never are,” Wesley said. “But I have seen this before, multiple times, in fact. It is the perfect murder. The coroners dismiss the possibility of foul play too easily.”

“I could speak to the coroner about reopening the case,” Jasper offered.

Wesley exhaled heavily. “It won’t matter. He will reach the same conclusion unless we can produce solid evidence.”

“And do you have any evidence of what you are saying?” Jasper asked.

“No,” Wesley admitted, running a hand through his hair.

Melody gently placed a hand on Wesley’s sleeve, her touch comforting. “This is not your fault.”

Wesley turned to face her. “Then whose fault is it? I was supposed to stop this person, and now they have claimed another life. I have failed again.”

“You are doing your best…” she insisted.

Wesley huffed. “My best is not good enough. You are at risk as long as this person is out there.”

Jasper cleared his throat, his gaze shifting between the two of them. “Do you want to explain what you two are involved in?”

“It is not important,” Wesley replied dismissively. “What did the man who was murdered look like?”

It was evident that Jasper had more to say on the topic, but thankfully, he let it drop. “The man was short, thin and spoke with a French accent.”

“He was French?” Wesley asked.

Jasper nodded. “Yes, the doctor confirmed it.”

Wesley walked over to the railing, his gaze drifting over the grounds of Brockhall Manor. His mind raced with questions. Why would a Frenchman be involved with Brockhall Manor? What connection did he have to the danger surrounding Melody?

Melody stepped up beside him. “What are you thinking?”

“I have to stop him,” Wesley replied.

She offered a small smile. “You will.”

“And what if I can’t?” he asked, feeling the doubt creep in. “How many more people will die because I am incompetent at my job?”

Melody reached out, placing a firm hand on his sleeve, turning him to face her. “Do not speak like that. We will figure this out, and we will do so together.”

Wesley winced, guilt gnawing at him. “You are in danger because of me, Melody. This is my fault.”

She gave him a stern look. “Are you quite done feeling sorry for yourself? I only ask because we have work that we need to do.”

“Melody…” he began.

Melody’s expression grew thoughtful. “I think we should talk to Artemis,” she said. “Someone poisoned him, but he didn’t die. Why?”

“Maybe they gave him the wrong dose?” Wesley suggested. “Or perhaps it was just a warning—to you?”

Before Melody could respond, Jasper stepped closer to them. “I am sorry to interrupt, but I am still here.”

Melody barely spared Jasper a glance as she continued with her thoughts. “This person has killed before, so why would he have administered the wrong dose? It makes me wonder if this person used poison to kill others.”

“But no drink or food is ever found beside the bed,” Wesley pointed out.

Melody’s eyes grew wide. “What if they inhaled it?” she asked, her voice quickening with excitement. “There would be no trace of it after the fact.”

A slow smile spread across Wesley’s face. “That is precisely what is happening. We need to speak to Artemis and see what plants could be fatal from inhaling them.”

Jasper rocked back on the balls of his feet. “I am a Bow Street Runner, in case anyone needed to be reminded,” he said dryly.

Wesley chuckled despite the gravity of the situation. “We are well aware,” he said. “Come, let us go inside before anyone misses us.” He offered his arm to Melody before he led her inside.

As they stepped back into the manor, Wesley felt a flicker of hope he hadn’t experienced in days. The pieces of the puzzle were finally starting to fall into place, and for the first time, they had a direction—a tangible lead that might reveal the truth. And it was all because of Melody.

His Melody.

The thought hit him out of nowhere, catching him off guard. No. She was not his. Where had that thought even come from? No matter how deeply he admired her, she was not his to claim. His job was simple: track down the killer, ensure Melody was safe, and then walk away.

He repeated the thought in his head. Walk away .

It was what was best—for both of them.