Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Isobel’s mornings at the Gramfield estate had a way of filling her with an air of frustration. She would wake up, hopeful that things would be different, but unfortunately, the outcome almost always remained the same.
No new leads, no new suspects, and the case was still very much a present problem.
Not today, however, she had noted as she got out of bed earlier than usual. Before the frustration over her position and task could settle upon her, she recalled a few facts.
Valerie was awake. Valerie was immensely grateful for Isobel’s efforts and even more thankful for her presence. Richard said he had a plan to get them definite proof of the culprit’s actions.
Those were all things she did not have yesterday morning, or the morning before that. Or the one before that.
And she chose to see it as a sign that things were going to be just fine, despite how slightly ridiculous Richard’s words had been when he had addressed the situation and proposed a solution before breakfast.
“We need evidence of her misdeeds. So I propose that you make your way through her room as discreetly as possible. I will keep her distracted and buy you some time.” He had told her seriously.
Isobel had balked, promptly demanding a more detailed explanation and plan.
“I do not think I can –”
“Valerie is counting on you. You are the only one who can do this. I promise – you will be just fine.” Richard told her earnestly.
His eyes had been so clear as they bore down on her, and for the first time in her life, she felt as though she could trust someone wholly with her life. Every passing moment she spent with this man broke down the resolve she had pulled up in his absence.
His plan might have been risky, but it was all that they could do in the meantime. And so Isobel nodded, praying that this would not backfire.
After breakfast, the plan was set into motion.
Isobel stood near one of the large windows in one of the drawing rooms, pretending to admire the snow–covered gardens.
Her true agenda was to keep an eye on the duke as he moved through the room, dripping easy confidence as he made his way to the subject of his focus.
Several other guests milled about the room, having gathered after breakfast for morning tea and conversation in a bid to relax before the day’s activities began.
Deborah was sitting in a comfortable chair near the fireplace, a cup of tea balanced delicately in her hands, and her face lit up when she noticed Richard approaching her.
The sound of Isobel's heart hammering against her ribs as Richard approached her aunt seemed to grow louder and louder the closer he got. She inhaled shakily and turned back to the windows, sternly telling herself to calm down and ensure this went as smoothly as possible.
The plot was simple enough; Richard would retain Deborah’s attention, and Isobel would use the opportunity to search her aunt's chambers for any evidence of her involvement in Valerie's poisoning.
The danger was apparent straight away. If Deborah realized what they were doing, or if someone else noticed Isobel's absence and went looking for her, the entire plan would fall apart. And it would be worse if they were somehow wrong and Deborah had nothing to do with it.
But they were rapidly running out of time. The wedding was tomorrow, and they still lacked concrete proof of who had tried to harm Valerie and why.
“Mrs Wightman,” Richard said, his voice carrying across the room with perfect aristocratic pleasantness. “Might I have a word with you?”
Deborah was clearly pleased by the attention, and she sat up even straighter. “Your Grace! Of course. Please, do sit.”
Richard settled into the chair beside hers, and Isobel watched with rapt attention as he leaned in slightly, adopting the posture of someone about to share something confidential.
“I find myself in need of some advice,” Richard started, his tone warm and engaging.
“I have heard that this topic is one that carries your interest, and seeing as you are a woman of excellent taste, I thought perhaps you might be able to offer some guidance. You see, this matter has plagued my mind for a while now.”
“Oh?” Deborah's expression brightened further. “I would be delighted to help in any way I can, Your Grace.”
“You see,” Richard continued, and Isobel had to admire his acting skill, “I have been considering establishing a small plot of land on my estate specifically for growing vegetables. For my future wife, you understand. I believe the lady of the house should be granted the opportunity to entertain hobbies and interests outside her duties. If she has her own garden to tend, she would have something to occupy her time and also benefit the household through the acquisition of fresh produce.”
Deborah's eyes lit up with genuine enthusiasm, as though she had been waiting for someone to inquire about this interest of hers.
“What a wonderful idea! I myself maintain several garden plots at my own estate. I assure you - there is something so immensely satisfying about growing one's own vegetables. Nothing quite like the satisfaction of harvesting one’s marvelous-looking produce! And it tastes much better than what is purchased in the market!”
“My thoughts precisely,” Richard agreed easily.
“But I confess, I know very little about such matters, and because I want to prepare it all ahead of the arrival of my duchess – whoever she might be – I need to put things in order soon. What vegetables would you recommend for a beginner? Which are most suited to English soil and our climate?”
Isobel watched as her aunt put down her teacup as though she had been challenged to defend her honor, launching into an animated discussion of root vegetables and brassicas.
Isobel was meant to take advantage of Deborah’s captured attention as quickly as she could, in order to do what was needed, but she felt rooted by the strange mixture of confusion and amusement.
Why on earth had Richard chosen vegetable gardens as his topic of choice to distract her aunt?
She could not deny it was working, though. Deborah was completely absorbed in the conversation, making grand, enthusiastic gestures as she described the merits of various planting techniques and seasonal rotations. But something about it still felt purposefully engineered on Richard’s part.
As though the duke sensed something was amiss, he shifted his gaze to Isobel and glanced at the door, sending a message she received clearly.
It was time.
Isobel set down the teacup she had been nursing for a while, moved casually toward the door, offering polite smiles and nods to the other guests as she passed. She had forced herself to maintain an unhurried, calm pace, despite the dizziness she felt that had been induced by her racing heart.
But she made it out without attracting the attention of anyone, and once she was a safe distance from the drawing room in the hallway, Isobel picked up her skirts and hurried toward the guest wing where Deborah's chambers were located.
The corridors were thankfully empty – with a majority of the servants with morning duties in other parts of the house, and the guests were gathered in the drawing rooms and library.
She quickly arrived at Deborah's door and paused, listening carefully for any sound of movement inside. Once she was sure there was no one on the other side, she inhaled deeply to steady her nerves, turned the doorknob, and slipped into the room, shutting the door quietly behind her..
Her aunt's room appeared to have been neatly organized – not that she should have expected anything less from Deborah.
A large bed dominated the space, its covers laid perfectly, without a single crease.
A wardrobe stood against one wall, a writing desk against another.
A small table near the window held a stack of books and some correspondence.
Isobel moved quickly to the writing desk first, opening and shutting drawers and rifling through papers as carefully as she could while still maintaining a brisk pace.
Nothing of interest was found – merely mundane correspondence, invitations to various social events, and some drawers had been left empty.
There had been no bottles of poison or even incriminating notes about Valerie.
She moved to the wardrobe next, feeling along the top shelf and through the pockets of hanging gowns, frustrated when her search came up empty.
Isobel inhaled deeply, aware that precious moments of time were ticking by, and she needed to hurry.
The bedside table yielded nothing but a handkerchief and a novel that looked well-worn–worn and under the pillow, Deborah had unearthed a rosary. She was beginning to feel desperate, her palms sweating despite the chill in the room.
Where would Deborah hide something she did not want found?
Her gaze drifted to the small table by the window – the one with the books stacked on it.
She had initially dismissed it because she could tell the books were an eclectic combination of novels and poetry, and there was even a botanical guide.
Knowing she had nothing to lose by closely examining them, Isobel crossed over the small table.
As she ran her fingertips along the spines of the books, she noticed the edge of a piece of paper, seemingly lodged between two volumes near the bottom of the stack.
Curious, she carefully extracted the paper and realized it was a letter when she unfolded it. The handwriting across the page was elegant but hurried, as though the composer had been writing quickly. And it was incomplete – the letter ended mid–sentence, as though the writer had been interrupted.
Dear Valerie,
I must let you know that there is a danger lurking around you. I have tried to warn you in subtler ways, but you have not heeded my concerns. I fear for your safety, and for the safety of your family. There are those who would see you harmed, who resent the elevation of your marriage –
And that was where the letter ended.
Isobel stared at the words, her mind racing. This was not a confession – it was a warning. Someone had been trying to warn Valerie about the danger. The only question was – who?
If the culprit was not Deborah, then why hadn’t she given the letter to Isobel? There had been plenty of chances, moments when they had been alone, or sent her the letter.
But if Deborah was the culprit, perhaps she had caught whoever had written the letter and stopped them from alerting Valerie.
Isobel sighed, distressed that she had more questions than answers.
Either way, she had been here long enough and needed to leave.
She quickly refolded the letter and put it back between the books carefully, hurrying to the door.
She opened it carefully, and when she was sure there was no one in the hallway, she slipped out of the room and quickly began to leave the area.
But she was soon stopped in her tracks when a hand wrapped around her wrist. She turned around, praying to God that her aunt had not caught her exiting her room, surprised to see an unfamiliar man standing behind her.
He was tall, his light brown hair neatly brushed away from his forehead – no doubt to ensure his pleasant features were not in full display. He looked surprised to see her, but his expression quickly shifted to delight.
“Valerie!” he exclaimed, stepping closer before she could react. “My darling, I have missed you terribly!”
Isobel's mind remained blank as she studied his face.
Who was this man? She was certain Richard had never mentioned him during their lessons when they talked about guests.
Why was he speaking to her so familiarly?
And more importantly, how was she supposed to respond when she had no idea who he was?
The man seemed to sense her confusion. His smile faltered as he regarded her a little closely. “Valerie? Are you all right? You look as though you have seen a ghost.”
“I...” Isobel stammered, desperately trying to think of something to say.
Because of how close he was, she was able to see the very moment he realized something was amiss. His eyes widened slightly, and his grip on her hand went slack.
“You are not Valerie,” he said slowly.
Before Isobel could confirm or deny, a familiar voice cut through the hallway.
“Adrian!”
Isobel had never been so relieved to see anyone.
Richard appeared at the end of the hall, his expression a careful mask of welcome that did not quite reach his eyes.
His gaze fixed on where the man – Adrian, still held Isobel's hand, and there was something dark and dangerous in them that made Isobel's pulse quicken for entirely different reasons.
“Ah, Richard,” Adrian said, his expression still bearing the strain of confusion. “I think –”
Richard moved with surprising speed, reaching out to pull Adrian's hands away from Isobel with perhaps more force than was necessary. “Adrian, my friend. Welcome. I trust your journey was pleasant?”
Adrian looked as though he had more pressing matters to discuss than his journey, and Richard seemingly knew as much, because in the next moment, he had grabbed Adrian and was leading him elsewhere.
Isobel watched them go, also confused but thankful that Richard had come in time to save her. With a glance around to ensure that no one had witnessed the interaction – or seen her leaving her aunt’s room – she continued to make her escape.
Only to stop five steps later as the realization of who that man was hit her.
Adrian Holbrook. Valerie’s betrothed.