Chapter Nineteen
“Do sit down, Lord and Lady Eamont.” Nate invited the viscount and viscountess to sit on one of the buttoned-leather chairs in what had been Mr. De Lacey’s study.
He’d been reluctant to take it over, not having the heart to ask Bridget to pack away her father’s things.
He sensed the study meant a lot to her. It was no doubt filled with precious memories.
“What can I get you to drink? Brandy for you, my lord, and a port for her ladyship?” Nate asked.
“Yes,” they both answered simultaneously.
Nate poured two brandies and a glass of port, served his guests, and then sat behind his desk.
Lord Eamont took a sip of his brandy. “I imagine you’ve asked us here because you want to tell us that you’ve come to your senses and are now ready to commit to our daughter, Adelia.”
“It’s too late for that,” Lady Eamont trilled. “We already have one wedding to plan. I can’t possibly think about two weddings.”
“What are you talking about?” Lord Eamont’s thick eyebrows came together in a frown. “They can have a double wedding. That way, I need only pay for one. Lord knows Westerly will be expecting a substantial dowry.”
Nate’s chest burned at the reference to his brother’s demand for a dowry. How dare Edward humiliate him thus?
“Don’t they all.” Lady Eamont sniffed her port and then placed her glass on the desk.
Nate frowned, wondering if there was something wrong with the drink.
“Well, Squires, I have discussed the matter of a rather large dowry with your brother, but—”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, my lord, but I have not brought you here to ask for your daughter’s hand. My position on marriage hasn’t changed. As I told my brother, I plan on remaining a bachelor indefinitely.”
“You told Lord Westerly what?” Lord Eamont’s face reddened.
“He wants to remain a bachelor,” Lady Eamont repeated. “That’s what I heard him say.”
“That’s not what Lord Westerly told me.” Eamont scowled at Nate. “You have a duty to follow your brother’s orders. No wonder your father put him in charge of your well-being.”
Nate’s jaw tightened. Who was Lord Eamont to judge him? He’d just been cavorting openly with his mistress in front of his family. All sympathy he’d had for the man after Madam Bouffant’s death flew out the window. “Insulting me won’t change my mind,” Nate said.
“Now, look here, sir”—Lord Eamont wagged a finger at Nate—“Lord Westerly and I have an agreement, and you need to adhere to it.”
“That’s between you and Lord Westerly, not me.” Nate extracted the red-silk pouch from his drawer, opened it, and tipped Madam Bouffant’s brooch onto the table.
Lord and Lady Eamont fell instantly silent. For a moment, at least. Until Lord Eamont appeared to find his voice once more.
“Where did you get that?” Lord Eamont spluttered as his ears turned beet red.
“Your daughter, Miss Adelia, gave it to Miss De Lacey.”
Lady Eamont remained quiet and shifted in her chair.
Her husband didn’t appear to notice. “Adelia? Why would she do that? Where did she get it?” he asked weakly.
“She claims that Lady Eamont stole it from Madam Bouffant’s chamber after she died. Adelia found it hidden under a chair cushion in her mother’s room. And she took it and gave it to Miss De Lacey. I’m not sure why.”
“Stole it?” Lady Eamont exploded then, ignoring everything Nate had said about her daughter. “I have no need to steal what is mine, sir!”
Meanwhile, Lord Eamont had gone deathly pale and as silent as he had been in the hours after Madam Bouffant’s demise.
“Yours?” Nate placed the brooch back in its silk bag.
“Mine.” Lady Eamont’s jaw was so tightly Nate wondered how she could speak at all. “Now give it to me.” She stretched out her open palm.
Nate hesitated.
“My husband paid for it, so it belongs to me. Now hand it over!”
Nate glanced at Lord Eamont, who sat silently, tightly clutching his brandy.
“Mr. Squires! Do you see this ring?” She turned her hand over and flashed the matching ring she wore over her glove. “It’s part of a set, purchased for me by my husband. Now, give me that brooch.” She held out her other hand, palm up.
Her husband shifted beside her. “It’s true,” Lord Eamont said in a low voice. “I purchased that brooch for my wife as part of a set.”
Nate had expected such a reaction from Lord Eamont, but he wasn’t ready to give up yet. “I’m sorry, my lord. It’s just that we all saw Madam Bouffant wearing this brooch on more than one occasion.”
“What you saw must have been a cheap copy she picked up in the theater,” Lady Eamont snapped. “Actresses always have costume jewelry.”
“Well, where do you suppose that brooch is now?”
“How should I know? Perhaps one of your servants stole it. We both know my ring was stolen and then replanted in my room, so you could cover for your servants.”
Nate pursed his lips. He couldn’t argue with that accusation. Or rather, he decided, he wouldn’t.
“Honestly,” Lady Eamont continued, “I think Lord Eamont should have a word with your brother about what’s been going on in this establishment of yours. If people hear that they are treated like common criminals at your inn and accused of all sorts, then I am certain no one will deign to come here.”
Lord Eamont hung his head in apparent resignation.
“I’m waiting!” Lady Eamont said, her hand still outstretched to receive the brooch. She wiggled her fingers.
Nate nodded reluctantly and dropped the silk pouch in Lady Eamont’s palm.
He had his answer. She’d stolen the brooch just as Adelia had claimed, but that didn’t prove she’d pushed Madam Bouffant down the stairs, and even if she had done so, what could he or anyone else do about it? Madam Bouffant was a courtesan.
Lady Eamont was a viscountess.
The magistrate had ruled Madam Bouffant’s death an accident. That was the end of it.
Bridget would have to drop her desire to find out the truth lest she wanted to see Villa De Lacey destroyed.
One word from Lord Eamont and his brother would slash his allowance.
And with Villa De Lacey’s reputation in ruins, he wouldn’t be able to keep the place afloat.
He’d be stuck, living in a crumbling ruin for the next seven years.
Nate sighed. He doubted Bridget would understand.
She was adamant that Madam Bouffant had been murdered and was determined to find the killer, something he couldn’t help but wonder had to do with her need for justice for her father.
The man had died by his own hand, but who was really to blame? Edward, that’s who.
In the end, the aristocracy always won, and it would be no different this time.
Lady Eamont extracted the brooch from the pouch and affixed it to her dress, pricking her finger in the process. Blood seeped through the fingertip of her white glove, but she continued to secure the brooch.
“There,” she said, “Now it’s where it should be.” She stood up. “I thank you for bringing it back to me, Mr. Squires.”
“Yes, thank you, Squires.” Lord Eamont stood as well, albeit more slowly. “Do give some more thought to what we discussed. Your brother and I are quite determined to see our families joined.”
Nate stood and gave his departing guests a slight bow, hardly registering anything but the blood stain on Lady Eamont’s white glove.
*
Bridget slid into her seat next to Nate at the dining room table and welcomed the bowl of white soup that the footman set before her.
It had been a trying day. She’d hardly eaten a bite at Lydia’s tea celebration because she’d had to slip out early and search the chambers.
And then her encounter with Adelia Eamont had been harrowing.
She hadn’t had a chance to speak with Nate again after giving him the brooch during their ride, but what would Lady Eamont do once he gave it to the magistrate?
She glanced across the table at the aforesaid lady and almost dropped her spoonful of soup.
Lady Eamont was wearing the brooch, proudly displayed on her chest.
How did she get it? Had Nate given it to her? Or had she somehow managed to steal it again?
But more importantly, why was she wearing it? Was it as some sort of badge of honor? Did she intend to advertise to everyone that she’d murdered Madam Bouffant?
She nudged Nate’s arm under the table, and when he turned to look at her, she tried to indicate with her eyes that he should look at Lady Eamont.
He must have gotten the message because he turned and looked, but his reaction was not what Bridget expected.
Instead of appearing surprised, shocked, and outraged, he simply returned to eating his soup.
Bridget elbowed him a second time, and when he turned, she mouthed the word, “How?”
Nate picked up his glass of port and brought it to his mouth. “Later,” he mouthed back, his word hidden behind his glass, before taking a sip of his drink and then turning to say something to Frederick.
She shifted her gaze to Miss Adelia. The young lady seemed subdued—all trace of her earlier outburst and raw display of emotions gone—as if someone had given her a bout of laudanum to mute her.
She was focused on her soup as if she had not even noticed the incriminating piece of jewelry on her mother’s chest.
Meanwhile, her sister Lydia sat beside her, chatting amiably about her upcoming wedding to all who cared to listen and Dodsworth, now seated beside his intended, looked forlorn.
Next to him, Mr. and Mrs. Harley appeared equally miserable though in truth, Bridget had yet to see them smile since they’d arrived.
Apparently she wasn’t the only person observing the guests at the table, because suddenly Lady Darby said, “I say, isn’t that the dead woman’s brooch?”
Her words instantly shut off Lydia’s incessant chatter.
Once again, Bridget saved herself from dropping her spoon. She lowered it gently back into the bowl as she gaped at Lady Eamont, wondering what the woman’s response would be now that she was trapped.