Who Killed The Earl Of Moran?

Chapter 1

A fter placing the last of her neatly folded dresses into the suitcase lying open on her bed, Mary Alder straightened and glanced once more around the room that had been hers for less than a year.

It was of a decent size and functional, and being in the attics, it was reasonably warm, but now, denuded of all that had made it comfortable and welcoming to her, the space seemed cold and impersonal.

Although presently curtained against the night, the small dormer window gave an uninspiring view over the roofs of neighboring houses, but if one squinted to the left, across the busy street, the trees in Hyde Park offered the promise of pleasanter vistas.

Ten years ago, three weeks after she’d been informed of her husband’s death at sea, she’d accepted the position of companion to the Dowager Countess of Moran and had considered herself blessed.

There hadn’t been many places to be found where having a three-year-old toddler in tow was accepted without a blink.

At that time, the dowager had lived in a house in Regent’s Square, and for nearly ten years, Mary and her son, Julian, had called the town house home.

Then, in the middle of the previous year, the earl had decided to move the dowager into the huge mansion on Park Lane that, for generations, had been the London home of the Earls of Moran.

From Mary and Julian’s perspective, the move had been neither here nor there; through shared summers at the earl’s country estate, the staff of Moran House had already known Mary and Julian well and had accepted them and the dowager’s other staff into the larger household without fuss.

They’d settled in and become a part of the Moran House staff.

Then, three days ago, the earl had called Mary into his study and informed her that he was terminating her employment.

He’d given no reason, leaving Mary to surmise that the dismissal was more by way of restructuring the staff than any reflection on her performance, which she knew to be exemplary.

However, along with the rest of the staff, the dowager had been shocked by the news.

But the dowager was ageing and growing frailer; soon, she would be better served by a nurse rather than a companion.

Mary was genuinely fond of the old lady and truly wished only the best for her, and if that meant Mary and Julian leaving the household, so be it.

The dowager had helped them when they’d needed it; it was only fair that they return the favor.

Initially, Mary had felt stunned by the abrupt change that had come without warning, but literally within a day, some until-then-unrecognized inner voice had started suggesting that moving on might not be a bad thing.

She’d joined the dowager’s staff as a way to gain time to find her feet after her husband’s death.

Now, ten years on, she was a different woman from the anxious gentry-born mother with a small child in her arms, desperate to find a safe place to lay their heads.

She’d saved diligently, adding to the sum her husband’s employer had paid in compensation for his death, and over recent years, Julian had found what work he could and had insisted that virtually all he earned was tipped into their communal pot.

Recently, he’d found full-time employment with the Curtis Inquiry Agency, under the wing of Mr. Curtis himself, who, according to Julian, could do no wrong.

Mary smiled at the thought of Julian’s enthusiasm for his new position, and she couldn’t deny that having met and assessed Curtis for herself, she was relieved that her son had settled on Curtis as his mentor. Although reserved, the man exuded steady, dependable common sense.

In part due to Julian’s wages from his work with Curtis, Mary and Julian’s nest egg was now sufficient to allow them to find lodgings in a decent area of the city and live quietly while they decided what to do with their lives.

Like the trees in Hyde Park, the possibility of a different and potentially better life beckoned.

Only one more night, and then we’ll be off on the next stage of our lives.

Smiling at the thought, she glanced around again, searching for items she’d yet to pack.

Her gaze fell on the small clock on her shelf, which showed the time as five minutes to ten o’clock.

She widened her eyes. “I’d better go.” She shook out her skirts and turned to the small mirror that hung above the washstand.

Large hazel eyes fringed by long brown lashes stared back at her.

A swift scan of her heart-shaped face confirmed that her pale English-rose complexion bore no errant smudges, although several silky mid-brown tresses had escaped her otherwise neat bun to bounce about her ears and throat.

Deciding that taming them would take longer than she could afford, she ignored the curls and picked up the list she’d earlier prepared.

“Wouldn’t want to be tardy in performing my last duty. ”

When the dowager had returned to Moran House, the earl had decreed that Mary was to deliver a list of the dowager’s appointments for the following day to his study desk every evening at ten o’clock.

Although the earl had never explained his need of the information, the staff had speculated that knowing the dowager’s movements allowed him to make greater use of the footmen and coachman and carriage on which the dowager had first call.

The walls between the attic rooms were paper thin, and Mary could hear that in the room next door, Julian was moving about; he, too, was packing.

She walked into the narrow corridor and paused in the open doorway of Julian’s room.

He was bending over the narrow bed, placing a jacket into his small case. Hearing her step, he glanced her way. His gaze found her, and his face lit.

As she smiled at him, Mary’s heart turned over.

His features were a blend of hers and his father’s; his hazel eyes he had from her, while his golden-brown hair he’d inherited from Jonathon.

Although Julian was nearly fifteen years old, his countenance remained wide-eyed and youthful, yet he was growing quickly— so quickly—and already there were discernible hints of the handsome man he would become.

He straightened; he was of average height but adding inches by the month, his frame still coltish, his build slight but filling out.

Mary waved the list. “I’m heading down to the study.” She arched her brows. “My last duty, as it were.”

Julian smiled encouragingly. “And then you—we—will be done with Moran House.”

She nodded and glanced at his case, then surveyed the room. “You’re nearly finished, it seems. I’ll be back to tuck you in as soon as I’ve delivered this.”

“Muu- um .” Julian rolled his eyes. “I’m nearly fifteen!”

She laughed. “Indeed, you are, but you’re still my little boy.”

The frequent exchange was something of a joke between them, yet the affection that underlaid it was valued by them both. With a chuckle and a wave, Mary continued along the corridor, passing the doors of the rooms of other members of the staff.

She reached the head of the dark staircase the servants used, glanced down, then moved back as Polly, the parlor maid, came trudging up.

Polly stepped into the passage and blew out a breath. “Right. I’m done for the night. Everyone’s in the drawing room again, the dining room’s cleared, and Winslow and the boys”—by “boys,” she meant the footmen—“are hovering in case they’re needed.”

The door one back from the stairs opened, and Orla, dresser to Lady Victoria, the current countess, looked out. Her gaze landed on Mary. “I thought it might be you. Don’t you and Julian dare leave tomorrow without saying goodbye.”

“Indeed, you’d better not!” Polly looked outraged. “Bad enough you’re going at all.”

Many of the staff were still up in arms on Mary and Julian’s behalf.

Hoping to defuse the situation, Mary laughed. “I promise we won’t slip away without saying goodbye to you all.” She waved the list. “But I’m off to leave this on the earl’s desk, so I’d better hurry.”

All the staff knew about the earl’s insistence on being informed of the dowager’s movements. Orla and Polly nodded, and Mary stepped past Polly and onto the stairs and hurried down.

On reaching the small foyer at the stairs’ foot, Mary turned away from the short corridor to the servants’ hall and walked briskly along the passages that served the front of the sprawling mansion.

Eventually, she reached the corridor that led to the earl’s study and fetched up outside the study door.

As usual, the door was closed.

Mary smoothed her skirts, then, as the clocks throughout the house chimed for ten o’clock, she rapped on the door and waited to hear if the earl was inside.

She listened but heard nothing. The earl had instructed that if he was not in the study, she was to enter and leave the list on his desk.

Mary knew the entire Fitzhugh family had been summoned to dinner that evening—she’d been the one who’d penned the invitations—and Polly had just said that everyone was in the drawing room.

Assuming that meant the earl was there, too, Mary opened the door and walked into the study.

She halted over the threshold, leaving the door ajar.

The room was well-appointed, with a solid mahogany desk placed squarely across one side wall, before a low sideboard topped by and surrounded by shelves.

On the other side of the room, the wall opposite the desk hosted a central fireplace, flanked by more bookshelves, with two leather-covered armchairs angled toward the hearth.

A fire burned brightly in the grate, usual for that time of the evening, and together with the twin lamps on either end of the desk shed warm light over the room.

The wall facing the door was largely filled by two sets of French doors, the long windows currently concealed behind drawn curtains, while book-filled shelves covered the wall shared with the corridor.