Chapter 16
Thomas had warned against Alexander and Arabella meeting in daylight, but since they reasoned the boathouse by the lake at the far end of the Wellwood estate was secluded and far away from the residents and staff areas, it felt relatively safe.
Alexander watched as Arabella wandered around the wooden outbuilding, looking at the peeling paint and boats covered in thick dust. The air was musty, and dust motes floated in the shards of sunlight that cut through the dimness of the walls between the windows.
“Captain Morrison provided evidence,” Alexander announced.
“That suggests he has a perpetrator in mind?” Arabella swung around to look at him.
“He believes he does, sadly.”
Arabella frowned. “But how can that be unhappy? Finding the murderer is precisely what we need to take your plight to the magistrate!”
“He suggests the killer is my younger brother, Marcus,” Alexander advised, regretfully.
He waited for Arabella to react in outrage, but instead she dropped her eyes to the dusty wooden floor and simply said, “Oh.”
“Oh?” Alexander frowned. “Are you not astounded and appalled?”
Arabella looked up at Alexander with sorry, sad eyes. “I cannot claim the news shocks me, no.”
“But why?” Alexander breathed, indignant.
Arabella shrugged and stared out the window at the lake wistfully.
“Marcus is not like you. Alexander. His behaviour is erratic and frightening. He is hell-bent on agendas that nobody else values. I cannot honestly say I would put any extreme atrocities past him.”
“But to kill our own father?” Tears sprang into Alexander’s eyes. He could not accept that Arabella was not as outraged as he felt; he had assumed she would be his compatriot.
Arabella looked sadly at him, but he did not want her pity. He kicked out at a rotting timber that lay on the floor.
“Tell me what evidence the captain has produced?”
Alexander sniffed. “Gambling markers with signatures and documentation outlining debts to dangerous criminals. Captain Morrison and Thomas suggest Marcus is so caught up in this criminal underworld that he killed our father to gain complete control of the Wellwood estate finances.”
“That does sound rather incriminating …” Arabella observed gently.
“My brother is a victim in all this mess! Why am I the only person who can see it? He is clearly being victimized by sophisticated criminals who prey on inexperienced young men from wealthy families!”
Alexander’s face flushed with the stress of the situation, and he paced the floor in agitation.
“He is na?ve and vulnerable. Remember, he was barely out of university when the responsibility of becoming an earl fell to him. He is young of mind and out of his depth.”
Arabella listened, but Alexander noted how she did not nod or oblige him with any form of agreement. She turned and wiped a finger over the hull of an upturned rowing boat, observing the dust between her finger and thumb, distractedly.
“Have you spent much time with Lord Carrington since your arrival back here in London?”
“Thomas? A little. Though no meeting of substance. Our time together has been merely to discuss the logistics of this malignant predicament.”
Arabella did not meet his eyes, feigning nonchalance. “Does he speak of my sister at all?”
“Miss Charlotte!” Alexander laughed and rocked on his heels in a moment of forgotten levity. “He does!”
Arabella’s eyes lit up, and she looked up at him. “Is that so?” she teased. “Pray, tell me, what does he say?”
Alexander simply smiled at Arabella without speaking, as he contemplated how to respond. Holding each other’s amenable gaze in this way felt comfortable and warmly familiar.
“He says …” Alexander joined Arabella at the boat, maintaining a respectable distance, “how fond he is of Charlotte. How they share a similar humour and could talk all afternoon yet still have topics to discuss.”
Arabella fought to repress a smile that tempted her lips. “Then he is fond of her?”
“I would say he is, yes.”
Arabella laughed happily.
“May I be so bold as to assume that the feeling is mutual?” Alexander looked up at her through his eyebrows.
“Oh no, not at all. My sister thinks Lord Carrington a brute! Each time he arrives to walk with her, she bemoans her misfortune!” Arabella delivered the line with a teasing smile.
Alexander laughed heartily—how good it felt to fall back into their charming banter. Arabella laughed with him, and there was a moment where they said nothing and only appraised one another with twinkling eyes.
“When next you speak with Lord Carrington, perhaps–” Arabella’s words were cut short as they heard steps approaching on the path outside the boathouse.
They both straightened up, tense and primed for discovery. Their eyes held each other’s as they listened to the steps outside, hardly daring to breathe.
“Hide!” Arabella mouthed at him, her eyes wide. Alexander carefully crept deeper into the boathouse and hid behind a boat. Once she was satisfied he was well hidden, she took a deep breath and ventured out the door onto the veranda.
“Good day!” Alexander heard her call out. He found a small knot hole in the wooden slatted wall and peered through. He could see the groundsman speaking with Arabella and breathed easy that it was somebody familiar and likely not harmful.
“Your dog?” he heard Arabella saying. “Yes, I saw it run over the way …” She pointed over the side of the estate, and the groundsman tipped his hat before disappearing to follow the direction she had pointed.
When she re-entered the boathouse, Alexander emerged from the shadows.
“It seems nowhere is safe,” she declared.
“That’s because nowhere is,” Alexander agreed and hung his head.
***
Alexander had waited at the boathouse long after Arabella returned to the house.
He could not risk the groundsman seeing him because he would definitely be recognized.
When he left, he felt enough time had elapsed, but as he rounded the corner of the boathouse, there was the dog the groundsman had been searching for.
Alexander froze. The dog’s hackles went up, and he bared his teeth. This was an unprecedented danger that Alexander had not thought through. He was essentially an intruder on a private estate, and this dog would surely be primed to attack strangers on the land.
As they stood in a standoff, Alexander realized this dog was familiar—he had known the groundsman’s dog, and if he was fortunate, it was the same dog he used to chuck under the chin on his daily walks and throw sticks to on occasion.
“Sonny?” Alexander asked, and the dog’s mouth closed, his ears pricking up and his eyes taking on a curious light.
Very slowly and cautiously, Alexander bent to his knees and, taking a deep breath for courage, he tentatively reached out a hand in a benevolent gesture. “Sonny? There’s a good boy …”
The dog bowed his head, not taking his eyes from Alexander’s gaze, and began to take hesitant steps towards him. He sniffed his hand, and when it seemed any animosity had dissipated, Alexander bravely began to stroke his silky head.
“There you are, Sonny,” he said, their familiarity now evident. “Yes, you remember me!”
Alexander got quite caught up in the joy of the moment—some requited affection and a minute of levity. Then he realized that if the groundsman was still searching for Sonny, he might well come back around, and this was no longer safe.
“Go–” Alexander told the dog, standing up. “Don’t tell anyone you saw me!” he quipped and rounded the corner to pick up a stick, threw it as far as he could for Sonny to chase, and then he ran in the other direction and jumped over a fence into the fields beyond.
Upon instruction from Thomas, Alexander headed to his next temporary shelter, an abandoned mill that Thomas had secured through his shipping connections. Relocating every night was becoming exhausting, and he knew not how long the facade would have to continue.
At this point, it felt as though it would go on forever. He could envisage no end to the hiding and fruitless attempts to clear his name.
As he settled into the vast, musty arena of the mill, he at least found comfort in the idea that Thomas had guaranteed this space would be safe for one night.
His main concern now was not for himself but for his poor brother.
The longer this situation was protracted, Marcus was put in greater peril.
Alexander's protective instincts towards his brother surged beneath the surface. He felt so angry at those people close to him who suspected Marcus. They misunderstood his temperament and did not consider his mental instability with compassion, which disappointed Alexander greatly.
Am I the only one to defend you, brother? Alexander asked into the dark silence.
His instincts conflicted with his need to remain concealed—he wanted desperately to confront the moneylenders directly. He knew criminals were unlikely to exercise empathy, but if there was any way he could shield Marcus from their threats, he would do it.
Alexander was reminded of days in the past when he protected his younger brother from schoolyard bullies—Marcus had been persistently victimized for his small stature and sensitivities.
He would cry easily and act with oddities that made him stand out to the other children as somebody they would classify as different.
Even at home, Marcus’s lack of resilience during childhood would attract harsh criticism from their father.
Alexander knew that the earl loved them both, but even as a child, he could see that their father did not hide his disappointment in his youngest son and would reprimand him habitually for characteristics that were innately in Marcus.
Alexander would defend his little brother against their father’s caustic words, and just as he had protected Marcus back then, he wished he could emerge from the shadows now and defend him in the same spirit.
But his hands were tied. Alexander must endure this constriction.