Chapter 30
“She does not understand, Baxter,” Henry said, swirling his third glass of brandy.
He had no hope of sleeping that night when his wife no doubt despised him, thought him a rogue and a scoundrel like his father, as selfish as that vile man.
To make matters worse, she was not even within the safety of the manor; she was out there at the boathouse, as far from him as the grounds permitted.
Four footmen had been sent to watch over her, and that was where he planned to spend his evening once the hour was late enough that he would not be seen in the darkness. At the lake shore, making sure no one harmed her.
Even though I am the one who has hurt her.
“With respect, Your Grace, I am not certain that I do, either,” the butler replied, standing rigid by the study’s fireplace as if awaiting an order.
Henry puffed out an exasperated breath. “I cannot tell her that I will stay when I do not know who harmed her. If it is someone from this household, if it is my brother, then I have no right to be anywhere near her. I cannot stay if it is my family that almost killed her.”
“Ah…” Baxter gave a slow nod. “Yes, I can see how that would be difficult to navigate. Although, if I may, would that not ultimately be her decision?”
Henry frowned at the man. “What do you mean?”
“If you do find out that it was your brother, should it not be up to Her Grace to decide if she can live with that?” he replied. “You can still tell her that you want to stay. If she cannot live with it, the worst she can do is ask you to leave.”
A cold sort of laugh escaped Henry’s mouth. “And that would kill me, Baxter. That is why it is better to say nothing at all, until I know who has done this.”
“What if it is no one?”
Henry’s eyes narrowed at the butler. “What?”
“It remains a possibility, Your Grace. What if she was just coming up to the tower to see you, and she slipped?” Baxter cleared his throat.
“I cannot deny that someone wished to harm her four years ago and, of course, that person or persons must be dealt with. But… what if she just lost her footing?”
“I cannot believe you are saying this,” Henry muttered, knocking back a mouthful of brandy.
But the butler continued regardless, “It was late, it was dark, those steps are treacherous at the best of times. You said yourself that you did not hear anything unusual, until you heard her cry out.” He paused.
“You heard no footfalls on the staircase, you heard no sound of doors or fleeing. No one was seen leaving the manor.”
Henry lifted his gaze from his drink, a grating voice of suspicion scratching at the back of his mind. “Tell me again, where were you?”
They had been over Baxter’s account of the evening several times, yet Henry could not help it; the butler was, after all, the last person that Thalia had seen that night.
“After I escorted Lady Frances to her carriage, I fetched Her Grace her usual cup of evening tea, and then I retired for the night,” Baxter replied with a weariness in his voice, as if he had been waiting for this.
“Is there anyone who can verify that?”
The butler shook his head. “Alas, no. All I can ask is for your trust; that I would rather cause injury to myself than ever see harm befall Her Grace.” He swallowed. “She has always been very kind to me.”
“I do not have much room for trust, at present,” Henry replied, staring at Baxter as if he might see some missing piece.
Would it really be him, though? He has had years to harm her if he wished to. It was not lost on Henry that the same could be said of his brother, but he would deal with that tomorrow. He and Walter had arranged to meet.
“I understand that, Your Grace.” Baxter bowed his head. “I wish that I could do more to help, but I have also reached something of an impasse with my investigations.”
It was all no good. Henry had no answers, Baxter had no answers, Owen had not had any luck with the rudimentary drawing, and the list of viable suspects seemed to be nought.
“Could someone have put something in her evening tea?” Henry asked, hopeless.
Baxter shook his head. “I prepared it myself, as I always do. It had not been tampered with.”
Downing what was left in his glass, Henry got to his feet. “I am going to take up my watch outside.” He headed for the door and paused. “I do trust you, Baxter, and I pray that I am not wrong to do so.”
With that, Henry made his way out into the chilly night to stand guard over the woman he loved. A woman who, at present, wanted nothing to do with him.
Although she had asked him to keep his distance, fifty paces from the boathouse would have to suffice.
The following morning, exhausted to the marrow after keeping watch through the night, Henry returned to the manor. He washed, grateful for the awakening splash of icy cold water, and changed for his meeting with Walter.
He did not want his brother to be the culprit but, at that moment, he just wanted to be able to hold someone responsible.
What if it was just an accident? How foolish will I look? He could not bear the thought as he donned his greatcoat and made his way downstairs.
Halfway down the last set, he halted.
Standing by the silver post tray near the door was Thalia, sifting through the letters that had just arrived. A task for Mrs. Fisher or Baxter.
“Thalia, I—” he began, but her sharp glare stopped him.
“I am afraid I cannot pause to talk. Frances has just written to say she is coming to join me for tea, so I must ready myself,” she said crisply.
As she approached and made to move past him, so she could head up the stairs, every instinct screamed for him to grasp her by the arm, to stop her and tell her that he would stay forever.
But the prospect of Walter’s potential part in her injury was still too strong, holding him back.
Even his vague doubts about Baxter would have been reason enough to leave and never return.
“Enjoy your tea,” was all he could say.
“I will, thank you,” she replied flatly, as she breezed by him, leaving the scent of lavender and pine in the air. The perfume of the boathouse.
Henry lingered there for a short while, torn between running to her chamber door and riding out to meet the last suspect on his list for a second time.
Through the window, he saw his horse being led to the front of the porch… and his decision was made. And if his discussion with Walter came to naught, maybe then he would have to admit, to himself and to his wife, that the night of her accident was simply that: an accident.
As for the first incident four years ago. Maybe, that was just what it seemed too: a threat from an irate debt collector who could not wait any longer for Gibbs to give back what was owed. And the chances of Gibbs giving up the name of the person he had owed were nonexistent now.
But I can handle that in time. It is enough for me to be able to tell her that I will stay.
Encouraged and disheartened in equal measure, Henry strode out into the gray late morning, and rode out to meet with his brother.
“If you were hoping to catch Frances and James, they left hours ago,” Walter said with a smile, setting down the book he had been reading. “I would not dare to think you had solely come to see little old me.”
Henry stared at the book for a moment. He had seen it before, on Thalia’s bedside table: a romance novel.
“Ah, yes.” Walter held up the book, grinning. “I have been savoring all of the things I cannot easily get in Tangier.”
Henry frowned. “I did not come here for a discussion about your import difficulties,” Henry said curtly. “Indeed, I am not here to have a friendly conversation at all.”
Setting his book back down and crossing one leg over the other, Walter cast a curious gaze at his brother.
“No, I sensed that with your oh-so warm greeting.” He sighed.
“What is it that you wish to say to me? Am I to be scolded for absconding? Are you going to make me stay here in dreary England, being a dutiful brother?”
“I want to know when you returned?” Henry said coolly.
Walter seemed surprised by the question. “A week before the garden party, more or less. I spent a couple of days in London, recuperating from the voyage, visiting an old friend or two, and then I traveled here.”
“Have you proof of that?”
“I have the document from the dock officials at the London townhouse,” Walter said, sitting up straighter. “What is the meaning of this? Why are you asking me such things?”
Henry began to pace the somewhat gloomy drawing room, his attention split between a spreading patch of damp near the window and the tattered armrest of the settee. As he walked, he talked, detailing everything that had happened to Thalia, from the first incident to the second.
Walter listened without interruption, his mouth parted in shock, his eyes widening with every twist and dead end in the tale.
“I cannot guarantee my wife’s safety until I know who is responsible, and have dealt with them accordingly,” Henry concluded. “And the only person I have left on my list is you.”
His brother blinked as if he had been struck. “You think I did this? Me? A man who has been, admittedly, in hiding for far longer than you have been married?”
“There is no one else who knows Holdridge well enough to escape detection,” Henry said, doubts prickling in the back of his mind.
Tutting under his breath, Walter shook his head.
“As much as it warms me to see how greatly you care for your wife, how you seem to adore her… I cannot help you in this regard. If I had the documents with me right now, I would show you. I was either still in Tangier or sailing home when this happened. Four years ago, I was certainly in Tangier.”
“That does not mean you did not order it,” Henry countered. “Perhaps, you asked a member of staff to execute your instructions.”
Walter narrowed his eyes at his brother. “Why would I do such a thing? What would I gain?”