Chapter Nineteen
Lady Matheson’s belongings were decidedly slim for a woman of her stature.
She didn’t have nearly as many dresses as Bridget had, and barely any jewelry.
Perhaps she’d decided against the risk of taking her jewels and expensive gowns on a trip.
That seemed sensible to Bridget, but most of the titled ladies she’d come across were far from sensible.
Bridget removed Lady Matheson’s neatly folded dresses from her drawer and carefully checked between them for the portrait.
When she found nothing, she tucked the dresses into the lady’s traveling trunk and moved on to packing her corsets, petticoats, bonnets, and gloves.
The final drawer in Lady Matheson’s dresser housed a row of shawls.
Just as Bridget crouched to open the last drawer, a light knock sounded on the chamber door, and before she could respond, the door opened, and Miss Jennings stepped inside.
Bridget stood and blinked back her shock. “Miss Jennings! Is something the matter?”
“I wanted to offer my help. I heard Louisa is feeling unwell, and you’ve been so kind to me. I want to repay you in some small way.”
“Oh, you needn’t worry,” Bridget said, “I’m almost fin…” Bridget saw Miss Jennings’s cheeks color. The humiliation of rejection was written on her face. Bridget swallowed. How could she be so callous? Miss Jennings was not the type who found extending herself easy.
Bridget smiled. “That would be wonderful. I can use some help.”
Miss Jennings entered the room and closed the door behind her.
“I’m just emptying this last drawer where she kept her shawls, and then we can go through her shoes.” Bridget lifted a pile of shawls out of the drawer, laid them on the bed, and then carefully refolded each one as she looked for the portrait.
Miss Jennings ran her hand over the night table. “Did you pack all her trinkets away already?”
“She didn’t have that many.” Bridget pressed another shawl into the traveling trunk. “She didn’t bring much with her, from the looks of it.”
“Perhaps I can find the carrier for these.” Miss Jennings bent to pick up Lady Matheson’s soft black leather lace-up boots. “Lady Armstrong likes to keep her shoe cases under the bed.” And before Bridget could say anything, Miss Jennings was on her knees, peering under the bed.
Bridget laughed softly and compressed the clothing in the trunk with her hands. It warmed her heart to see Miss Jennings assert herself a little. But her smile faded as Miss Jennings emerged from under the bed, holding an exceedingly sharp knife in her hand.
*
Bridget’s heart leapt into her throat as she backed away from Miss Jennings, despite there being a bed between them. “What are you doing?” she managed to gasp.
“It was under the bed.” Miss Jennings dropped the knife onto the bed as if it were a snake.
Bridget then took a cautious step forward and peered at the knife. It was a pocketknife with a sharp blade and an ivory handle. “Was it open with the blade exposed when you picked it up?” she asked.
“Yes, it was lying under the bed, blade out. I don’t know what a lady would be doing with a knife,” Miss Jennings spoke in a faint whisper as if she were afraid to say the words out loud.
Bridget walked around the bed to where Miss Jennings stood and picked up the knife.
She inspected it closely, turning it around and looking at both sides of the blade and handle, but what she was looking for, she did not know.
And then she saw something—two tiny flecks of bright green on the tip of the blade—only visible when she squinted and held the blade close to her face.
“Do be careful,” she heard Miss Jennings’s faint voice behind her. “You might poke yourself in the eye.”
“Can you see this?” She pointed to the green flecks on the tip of the blade.
Miss Jennings squinted at the blade but declined to get too close. “I don’t see anything.”
“There’s a little bit of green on the tip of the blade. I do believe it’s spots of paint.”
“Paint?” Miss Jennings blinked in surprise.
“Yes. I think that this knife was used to slash Mr. Angert’s paintings. Perhaps, he’d done a bit of touch-up on one of them and it wasn’t completely dry, so a spot of paint got onto the knife.”
“You…you think Lady Matheson destroyed Mr. Angert’s paintings?”
“I do,” Bridget said. “It all makes perfect sense. Those paintings were horrible. They exploited George’s death.
Anyone who cared about George would have been highly offended by them.
I know I was. The pain of losing a loved one, be it a friend or family member, is brutal.
It can make you want to destroy things.”
The agony Bridget had felt upon learning that her papa had died by his own hand and that his body had been desecrated and buried at a crossroads came flooding back to her.
She would have destroyed everything in her path had she not taken herself out of the house and screamed her throat raw in the open air.
“Miss De Lacey?” Miss Jennings backed away from Bridget, her eyes fixed on the knife.
Bridget looked down at her hand and realized that she was squeezing the knife so hard her knuckles had turned white.
*
“You need to trust me,” Nate pleaded with Helen. “I cannot give you any details, but I’m telling you that it might not be safe here, and I think it’s best you take Henry back to Scotland.”
“Are you really that threatened by my having a little fun with Rupert?” The corners of Helen’s pink lips curved into a smile.
Nate squeezed the back of his neck, which felt as though it might snap from tension.
Helen truly would not give up the fantasy that he might still have an interest in her.
He cared about his son, and that was all.
“I told you that Rupert may not be trustworthy. We don’t know anything about him, and there may be a killer on the loose. ”
“You said Lady Matheson died from a bad heart, and that poet’s killer is in jail, so what’s to fear?”
Nate massaged his jaw. Every part of his body ached with tension.
He would have to tell Helen that Lady Matheson was poisoned, but could she be trusted?
He didn’t think so. Still, he had no choice.
Henry’s safety was at stake. “We’re not a hundred percent certain that Lady Matheson died from a bad heart.
There may have been arsenic involved,” he said.
“Please don’t say anything to Rupert—for your own safety. ”
“So you think Rupert gave her arsenic?” Helen laughed.
“No…what I mean is…I don’t know yet. It could have been anyone. We don’t know the level of danger, so it’s better to be safe.” Feeling his frustration build in his chest, he paused and turned to look at the green fells. Then he inhaled and turned back to Helen. “I need Henry to be safe,” he said.
“Henry is perfectly safe. And he is having fun. He’s become quite attached to Rupert. He spends more time with Henry than you do.”
“That’s because you won’t let me spend time with him,” Nate said through gritted teeth. “I will gladly—”
“Well, which is it? Would you like to spend time with your son, or would you like to send him away?”
Nate closed his eyes and inhaled. Why had he thought trying to reason with Helen a good idea?
“Scotland is a terrible bore. My husband—a man I married to secure your child’s future as the next Earl of Luxton—is old enough to be my grandfather.
Yet, you have chosen to resent me for it.
I offered you a chance to be Henry’s father when the earl dies, but your pride won’t allow it.
And now, you still think you can dictate how I live my life. ”
Nate felt his nostrils flare as he worked to keep his anger in check.
How was it that she had abandoned him at the altar, yet had somehow turned it around to make him the one who’d rejected her?
He swallowed his frustration. “I’m not trying to dictate you.
I only want to ensure your and Henry’s safety. ”
“Indeed,” she said spitefully. “Well, I shan’t go back. I’m having too much fun with Rupert, and if you could stand to give up your little blond orphan, then the fun could have been all yours. But then you’ve always been a hopeless romantic, haven’t you?” she said mockingly.
Beautiful as she was, Nate suddenly wondered how he’d ever been attracted to her. She’d lied, cheated, and behaved selfishly at every turn, yet she was Henry’s mother, so he was stuck with her. He only hoped she’d do nothing to hurt their son in the future.
*
Nate placed the magnifying glass in his eye and peered at the blade.
“Yes,” he said, “I see it. That lovely emerald green Angert uses in his paintings.” He lowered the knife and looked at Bridget.
“I think you’re right. There’s a good chance that Lady Matheson used this knife to slash Angert’s paintings. ”
“So it follows that Angert took his revenge by poisoning her.”
“It sounds plausible to me. I certainly think him capable of murder.”
Bridget sighed. “Now all we have to do is find a way to get inside his room and search for the portrait. If he has that in his possession, we’ll know for certain he is guilty.”
Just then, a knock sounded on the study door. “That’ll be Louisa.” Bridget rose and went to open the door. Louisa stood in the doorway with Harriet, who held a tea tray.
“Thank you, Harriet,” Bridget said, taking Louisa by the arm and leading her to one of the soft leather armchairs across from the desk. Harriet followed, carrying the tea tray, which she set down on the sturdy mahogany desk. Then she departed.
Bridget poured three cups of tea. “How do you prefer your tea, Louisa?” she asked kindly.
Louisa seemed taken aback. “I…”
“Cream and sugar?” Bridget suggested.