Chapter 15
Adrian turned, seeking the woman who’d caused the disturbance. Her scream had come from the right, where an arched doorway flanked by pillars led to the game room. Numerous guests were crowded there, making a fuss.
He glanced at Samantha, saw that she shared his need for answers, and grabbed her hand. Together, they crossed the dance-floor where frozen couples remained, unsure of what had occurred. With the music no longer playing, the chatter seemed louder — a drone of annoying sounds.
“She says someone’s dead,” a man declared.
“Who?” someone else asked.
“What do you mean, dead?”
“A man or a woman?”
“Where are they?”
The questions filling the air weren’t so different from the ones filling Adrian’s head as he shoved his way past a few people who glared at him in return. He ignored them in favor of making his way to the front, where the woman stood, her face pale with shock.
Adrian froze, his muscles tensing as he recalled the last time he’d seen Evie’s friend, Miss Leonora Brighton. It had been at Edward’s birthday ball last April.
“You would do well to stay away from dishonorable men,” he’d told her back then, his thumb gently stroking her cheek. Not because he’d wanted her but rather to teach her a lesson. “Set your sights on finding a suitable match instead.”
She’d swallowed hard, her throat working roughly with the effort as she’d held his gaze. “How can I when I’m irrevocably drawn to you?”
Her foolishness had been all the more pronounced because of the killer who went after upper-class women.
“I recommend caution when choosing whom to seek out in dark corners,” he’d warned before heading back into the ballroom where Evie had introduced him to Samantha.
Now, Miss Brighton stared at him as though praying he’d be her salvation. And then her gaze slid to Samantha. She blinked, a second that felt like a lifetime, before she collected herself enough to say, “He’s in the conservatory. There’s so much blood.”
Her hand flew to her mouth in a futile attempt at stifling the sob that followed. The tears filling her eyes overflowed, streaking her cheeks.
Lady Moorland was quick to put her arm around the weeping woman while Moorland himself turned his strained expression toward the general area where the victim would likely be found. When his full attention returned to the ballroom, he was ready to issue instructions.
“Marsdale. I’m leaving you in charge of my guests until I return.
If you have any questions, either my wife or my butler can be of assistance.
It goes without saying that no one leaves until they have my permission to do so.
” Moorland’s gaze swept the sea of faces, pausing briefly before honing in on Adrian. “Mr. Croft. Please come with me.”
Adrian, still holding Samantha’s hand, followed the duke out of the ballroom and into the hallway beyond. Moorland stopped there in order to tell his butler to send a message to Bow Street at once.
When this had been accomplished, the duke’s grave gaze sought Samantha. “I fear our findings will be difficult for you to face, Mrs. Croft. It’s probably best if you wait for us in there with everyone else.”
“While I appreciate your concern, you must know by now that I’m made of sterner stuff than most men,” Samantha told him politely.
He snorted, then added a look that seemed to say, You’re not wrong. “Very well.”
No more was said as he led them through the hallway, past various doors and alcoves on either side.
They entered a sunroom which probably boasted a lovely view of the garden during the day.
From there, a door opened onto a small space on the opposite side of which two glass doors led into the dimly lit conservatory.
The secluded spot offered a private location for any couple wanting to be alone. Unchaperoned.
Considering the number of young unmarried ladies in attendance, Adrian was surprised it hadn’t been locked.
He glanced at Moorland, prepared to ask about it, when the duke, who was in the process of lighting a couple of lanterns said, “Mrs. Goore does the rounds before we host our social gatherings. I’ll have to ask her why this part of the house was left accessible.”
Satisfied they would learn more about this lapse in duty later, Adrian accepted one of the lanterns Moorland offered and entered the humid space.
It was likely kept warm by heating a boiler that then distributed steam through the pipes placed against the base of each wall.
The tall windows probably helped as well, allowing sunshine to spill into the room on cloudless days.
A variety of smells filled his nose: damp soil, clay, fresh wood filings, and a mixture of sweet floral scents. He stepped between a pair of large ficuses that were stretching their branches toward the ceiling, his shoulder brushing a few broad leaves as he passed. And paused in admiration.
“There’s a sitting area on the opposite side of the koi pond,” Moorland said, coming to stand at Adrian’s right shoulder while Samantha remained at his back.
The water feature was splendid. A long rectangular basin that stretched to the far side of the room.
Densely planted ferns on either side bowed over the water while uneven pavers built into the pond provided a series of stepping stones that snaked their way through it.
The occasional rippling of water gave evidence of the activity found beneath the surface.
Preferring to use the pathway circumventing the basin, Adrian started along it, marveling at the miniature jungle the Moorlands had built.
“How long did it take to create this retreat?” Samantha asked, her voice an awe-filled whisper.
“Five years, more or less,” said the duke.
“The basic construction was fairly quick, but installing the heating system, purchasing the plants, and waiting for them to grow to a reasonable size took time. The water lilies and other aquatic plants initially died, forcing us to start that part of the project again before adding the fish.”
“It’s an impressive accomplishment,” Adrian said. “I’ve seen other conservatories before though nothing that comes close to this.”
“I feel like I’ve been transported to an exotic place far from England,” Samantha said. “It’s no wonder guests might be drawn to explore it once they know it exists.”
Her comment added a weightiness to the mood since it reminded them of what they expected to find.
Adrian followed the path to the right as it opened onto a small interior patio.
Several pieces of cane furniture stood along the periphery.
There was a loveseat and a pair of armchairs, all with low, glass-topped tables between them.
A larger glass-topped table stood directly before the loveseat, offering those who might occupy it a perfect spot to take their tea.
Or possibly even luncheon, if they weren’t too particular about having to sit at a proper table.
Farther forward, nearer the tall glass doors leading out to the garden, were a pair of chaise lounges. And on one of these, lay the man they’d set out to find.
Adrian crossed the mosaic stone circle that made up the patio, his lantern held high so the light could spill across the immobile body. Unprepared for what was revealed, he flinched and muttered a curse which Moorland soon echoed.
Samantha’s gasp served to further underscore the horror of what they’d discovered. No wonder Miss Brighton was beside herself after witnessing this.
“Any idea who that is?” Adrian asked his host.
“I…” Moorland took a deep breath. “That’s, um…Mr. Keith Orwell. Mr. and Mrs. Jacob Orwell’s eldest son.”
Adrian gazed down at the stricken expression captured in death.
Orwell’s glassy eyes stared toward the ceiling, but it was his mouth that snared the attention.
A white length of fabric was stuffed inside, causing the cheeks to bulge.
Mr. Orwell’s cravat, no doubt, since this was missing from around his neck.
Instead, the flesh there was bare, marked by the brutal wound that had killed him.
Blood was smeared across his neck, shirt, and parts of his jacket.
Something crunched and Samantha winced. “I think there may be glass on the floor.”
Adrian lowered the light to the glistening fragments strewn across the tiles. Remnants from a shattered glass, the spilled liquid a sparkling pool of exquisite champagne.
Samantha, having stepped in it, retreated. “There doesn’t appear to be any signs of a struggle.”
“I’m guessing that means Mr. Orwell wasn’t afraid of the person who killed him,” Moorland observed.
Adrian frowned and returned the light to Orwell’s person. “He’s no small man. Had he realized his life was in danger, he should have been able to fight off his assailant with some success. Especially if it was a woman.”
“Does that mean a man did this?” Moorland asked.
Adrian blinked a few times in rapid succession before admitting, “I’ve no idea. We need more information and…I have to talk to Kendrick.”
“He’ll probably be here within thirty minutes,” Moorland said. “In the meantime, Mr. Orwell’s parents are in—”
“Moorland?” A man’s firm voice called to them from the entrance to the conservatory. Clipped footfalls began approaching. “Are you in here, Moorland? There’s talk of a murder and I can’t find my son.”
“Excuse me.” Moorland made a swift departure to go intercept Orwell’s father.
“If I’m not mistaken,” Samantha said once Moorland was gone, “this looks a lot like the crime scene Kendrick described when he came to ask for your help with that case he can’t solve.”
Adrian slid his gaze toward her. She was staring at Orwell’s face, or possibly at his throat, her eyes sharply assessing. “There’s not enough blood there.”