Chapter Twenty-Eight
Bridget approached the rose garden cautiously, causing an impatient Bijou to scamper ahead of her.
The horror of seeing Abigail’s body floating in the fountain that morning replayed in her mind with each step.
She stopped at the fountain’s edge and inhaled, shaking away the image, before straightening her shoulders and forcing herself to look at the water.
She searched for missed clues, but there was nothing except a few floating leaves on the surface of the fountain.
She circled the area slowly, her eyes scanning the ground, but again she found nothing.
The rose garden was the most-cared-for part of the garden, and Thomas kept it flourishing and manicured.
And it seemed that he’d already cleaned any mess that would have evidenced Abigail’s suffering and murder.
Bridget sat on the fountain’s rim and listened to the soft trickling of the water. It had always been the most tranquil area of the garden. She glanced up and studied Venus’s perfectly sculptured face. Her stone eyes were serene and all-knowing. What did you see? If only you could speak.
Whoever killed Abigail had shown her no mercy.
But what drove a person to act in such a way?
High emotions had to be at play. She thought of the pain and fear that had engulfed her upon learning of her father’s death.
Though it was self-inflicted, she’d wanted to blame someone else.
Had she come face to face with Nate’s brother in those early, agonizing weeks, or the ignorant men who’d probably desecrated her father’s body before they’d buried it at a crossroads, she might have wanted to lash out at them.
Even now, she could feel the anger rise in her chest. The truth was, one could love so strongly that it turned into hatred.
Had that been the case for Madam Eamont?
If so, it followed that jealousy—or, rather, humiliation—fit as motivation in her case.
And if Abigail had witnessed her push Madam Bouffant, she’d need to silence her.
As to the vicious nature of the crime, her own two daughters had testified to the woman’s propensity for cruelty.
But how to prove such a thing short of a confession from the woman? If only there was something…
Bridget stood and turned to the carefully tended bushes of red, pink, and white roses.
They were arranged in clusters of color next to the fountain.
The little rose garden had been her mother’s favorite area and because of that, it became a sanctuary for her father.
He often tended to the flowers himself, getting on his knees beside Thomas to prune them.
A stab of guilt almost took Bridget’s breath away.
She had not been to visit her father’s memorial for several weeks, not because she didn’t think about her papa constantly, but because visiting his grave had become too painful since Madam Bouffant’s murder.
The horror of seeing the woman’s battered corpse had killed her fantasy of her papa resting peacefully in his grave.
She had been forced to face the truth: her papa’s mangled body, destroyed by his own hand, lay at some unknown crossroads amongst thieves and murderers.
All she could do was pray that his soul had found its way home, to her and Aunt Marianne. She had to believe that, or she’d go mad with grief.
Bridget leaned forward to smell a bush of white roses.
Her father had loved the white ones the most. They were pure and innocent like her mama—that’s what he’d always said.
She evaluated the flowers, looking for the most beautiful white rose on the bush to pluck for her father’s makeshift grave.
It was time she swallowed her pain and paid her respects again.
The grave might only contain a lock of his hair, but it was all she had left.
*
Grief’s heavy weight bore down on Bridget as she drew near her papa’s gravestone.
Then she saw something that made her freeze: an arrangement of red roses lay on her papa’s grave. Her heart shattered in her chest.
“Oh, Aunt Marianne,” she cried and strode forward. Bijou picked up his pace and followed, staying close to her side. “Oh, my poor dear aunt!” She sank onto the ground beside the grave and Bijou settled by her side, wagging his tail. “You’ve been coming to pay your respects all alone.”
Aunt Marianne had suffered terribly upon learning that her brother’s body would not be returning to Villa De Lacey, and Bridget had hoped the little grave would give them both comfort.
Instead, it had proved to be a painful reminder that he’d been denied a Christian burial and that his family had been denied his remains.
For this reason, Aunt Marianne had started avoiding the site, but now it seemed that she had taken some comfort in the little spot, just as Bridget had hoped she would.
She lay the white rose next to the arrangement of red roses. The flowers, she saw, were fresh. When had Aunt Marianne come? Surely, she had not picked these roses today. Mayhap yesterday?
Just then, Bijou pounced onto the mound and started digging furiously, sending the arrangement of roses scattering.
“Bijou, no!” Bridget scolded.
But the enthusiastic terrier just buried his face in the dirt; when he lifted his head he shook it as if he’d caught something. He growled fiercely and wagged his tail with excitement.
“What is it? What do you have?”
Bijou gave the object another shake, freeing it from the ground. Then he proudly revealed his prize to Bridget—a black lace handkerchief.
“Where did that come from?” Bridget took the handkerchief out of Bijou’s mouth.
It must belong to Aunt Marianne, but how did it come to be buried in the ground?
She peered at the hole Bijou had dug, took off her gloves, and started to push the earth he’d removed back over it. But something inside her made her stop.
She had a sudden urge to retrieve the little box in which her father’s lock of hair was secured. She wanted to gaze upon the lock of hair once more, to touch it, smell it. She reached down for the box, but it was no longer there.
Bridget started digging furiously. Watching her, Bijou yapped and pounced on the grave to help, digging by his mistress’s side. The hole they made grew, but the box never materialized. Bridget stared at the gaping space in the earth and creased her brows. Someone has taken it.
*
Bridget got to her feet and wiped the dirt from her dress.
Then she retrieved her gloves and started toward the villa, followed by Bijou.
Had Aunt Marianne taken the box containing Papa’s hair?
She couldn’t think why her aunt would do such a thing.
But if not her, then who? The only other people who knew about Papa’s little grave were the gardener and the servants.
Just then, Bridget heard Nate’s voice—he was angry. She looked up to see him standing with Lady Luxton a few feet away and froze. Sensing the anger emanating from the two people, Bijou cowered at her feet.
“Was it because of Frederick? Is that why you did it?”
“Did what, Nathaniel? You sound like a lunatic raving about nonsense.”
“You know what I’m talking about. You killed those two women! First, you pushed Madam Bouffant down the stairs after you caught her coming out of Frederick’s bedroom and then you murdered the housemaid because he was sleeping with her too.”
“Now I see that you really are a raving lunatic. Why should I care if Frederick whores himself out to an actress and a housemaid?”
“Because you like to be the center of every man’s world—mine, Frederick’s, my brother’s!”
Lady Luxton’s mouth clamped shut.
“So, it’s true,” Nate said, his voice clipped.
“He forced me. He was determined that we should not be married.”
“Are you saying my brother forced himself on you?” Nate growled.
“Not in that way. He…well, convinced me. He’s a powerful man.”
Nate threw back his head and laughed. “You’re ridiculous, trying to convince me that my brother seduced you. Edward is a block of ice; he couldn’t seduce a harpy.” He shook his head. “To think I let you manipulate me using that child. Your son, for God’s sake!”
“He’s your son too!”
“I’ll never know, will I? His mother is so untrustworthy that he could be anyone’s child—Lord, he might belong to the butler or the gardener!”
Lady Luxton’s face flushed red. “How dare you!” she said, swiping her nails across Nate’s cheek.
Bridget gasped, but the pair didn’t notice her. They were too absorbed in their anger and pain.
“I’ll make sure you never see Henry again!” Lady Luxton spat the words. “Never!”
Bridget could see Nate’s body sag, and her heart ached for him.
“You truly are evil, Helen,” he said. “I don’t know how I could have stayed blind for so long. I think you are capable of hurting anyone who gets in your way, and that includes Madam Bouffant and Abigail.”
Lady Luxton laughed. “A whore and a maidservant are no threat to me. Now, why don’t you go back to playing magistrate with the orphan you are so fond of? I am going to gather my husband and my son and leave this place. And I dare you to try and stop me!” Lady Luxton strode back toward the villa.
Nate put his hands on his hips and cursed out loud.
Bridget remained paralyzed, uncertain about what to do. Why hadn’t she walked away earlier?
Nate turned then, and she saw the shock on his face as he registered her presence. “Bridget, what are you doing here?”
“I’m sorry,” she said, going toward him. “I was about to start walking back to the villa and”—she shook her head—“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to listen.”
Nate ran a hand through his hair. He looked positively miserable, and for a moment, they both remained silent. Bijou, still sensing the tension in the air, remained close to her side. Finally, Bridget said, “I’m sorry about what she said—about Henry.”
“I don’t know why I accused her—I should have left well enough alone. But I was so angry after finding out about…” He squeezed the bridge of his nose. “Now, Henry will be lost to me forever.” He dropped his hand and looked at her with grief in his eyes.
“Then you didn’t mean what you said. You don’t think she’s a killer?”
“I doubt it. Helen is too vain to be threatened by the likes of Madam Bouffant and Abigail. She’d take greater pleasure in stealing their lovers than killing them. No, Helen wants her victims alive. That way, she can enjoy torturing them.”
Bridget swallowed. She wished there was something she could do to help ease his pain, but she knew better than anyone that there was no magic potion that could erase the agony of loss.
Nate glanced at Bridget’s soiled gloves and dress. Then his gaze fell on Bijou’s earth-smudged face and paws. The little terrier, frightened by the acrimony in the air, had been extraordinarily quiet.
“Have you two been doing some digging?” he asked, coming forward to pet Bijou. Seeing Nate’s friendly smile back on his face, Bijou wagged his tail and moved to greet him. “My, you are a mess.” Nate ruffled Bijou’s fur.
“I’m afraid something awful has happened,” Bridget said. “My father’s grave has been raided. Someone stole the box containing his lock of hair and my mama’s letters,” Bridget choked on the last word.
“What? Why? Who would do such a thing? Did your father have enemies in the town—people he owed money perhaps?”
Bridget shrugged. Had someone asked her that question six months ago, she would have replied, Of course, not!
But she wasn’t certain of anything anymore.
“The box and the lock of hair aren’t worth money, so I don’t know why someone would want it.
Someone must have acted out of malice.” She bit her lip, unable to imagine anyone hating her father.
He’d had his faults, but he’d been a good person.
“Malice or love,” Nate said. “Both of those emotions are strong motivators. And malice often follows love.”
“What are you saying?” Bridget asked.
Nate ran a hand over his jaw and frowned in thought. “Your father spent a lot of time in London, didn’t he?”
“Yes, gambling, so I’ve learned.”
“But what if he went for another reason also? What if he had a lover there?”
Bridget recoiled with surprise. She’d never thought about another woman in her father’s life, but of course, it was possible. But who? “And you think his lover came here to dig up his lock of hair?” The idea was absurd.
“Perhaps she’s already here. Mayhap she’s one of the guests. And if her love has turned to malice, for whatever reason, she might have come here to wreak havoc and spend her anger.”
Bridget took a step back. “You think…whoever took my papa’s lock of hair also murdered Madam Bouffant and Abigail?”
“I think it’s possible,” Nate said.
“But who?” Bridget said. “Lady Eamont?” She laughed. “Or Lady Luxton?” She shook her head. “No. It’s impossible.”
“What are you saying? That it’s impossible someone loved your papa?”
Bridget stiffened. “Of course not. But your theory is too far-fetched. Those two women are only capable of self-love. You know that as well as I do. And who else is there? Mrs. Harley and Lady Darby?” She gave another nervous laugh. “It’s utterly preposterous.”
“We have to consider every possibility, no matter how unlikely it seems.”
Bridget frowned. Love or malice. She repeated the words over in her mind, letting them marinate. Could someone at Villa De Lacey have been in love with her papa? And if so…who?
Suddenly, with a sinking in her stomach, it dawned on her.