Chapter Eleven #2
There was real warmth in the sun that afternoon. Which probably explained why Harold Jenson had carted out a table and chairs to the little terrace at the side of the house. There was a lovely little sun trap there. Now the maids were fussing about with cushions, cloths, cutlery, and crockery.
It hurt Bert every time he saw Peggy. He hadn’t been able to believe his luck when she had smiled upon him.
Of course, being in service, she wasn’t meant to have followers, so they’d had to be discreet.
But it had been an open secret and for several months Bert had been blissfully happy, longing only for the day when they could be married.
He had been saving his pay, meagre as it was, to try and turn the outhouse by his parents’ cottage into a proper little dwelling that would at least be a start. ..
And then Edward had come, and his beautiful Peggy had been dazzled—much, Bert thought bitterly, as he himself had been. Still was... He watched her quick, graceful movements as she flitted about the table, distributing this and that, and ached with longing and bitterness.
Nearly all the servants were out here. The kitchen would be quiet right now, with Mrs. Riley too busy to notice him...
On impulse, Bert dropped his spade and ran down to the back door. He was right. Mrs. Riley didn’t look up from the oven, from which she was extracting a tray that gave off mouth-watering cake smells.
Bert knew where the bastard was. He walked quite casually across the kitchen to the housekeeper’s sitting room and sauntered in. Beyond it was Mrs. Ballam’s bedchamber, where they’d ensconced Edward in comfort. The door was open. Bert walked in, flexing his fingers.
Edward, his handsome head bandaged, lay on his back in the bed, his head slightly to one side, his eyes closed.
Bert drew nearer, gazing down with loathing at the man who had wrecked his dreams and taken his Peggy from him.
Rumour varied as to whether Peggy had dismissed Edward, or the footman had abandoned her.
Bert didn’t much care. Either way, Peggy would never look at Bert the same way again.
He had known that on Saturday night and he knew it now.
Bastard.
Flexing his fingers again, Bert leaned over the bed.
***
LAST MONTH AT HAYBURY Court, Piers had tried to teach April pall-mall.
Although she had seemed amused, it hadn’t really held her interest. He guessed she didn’t really see the point.
Games were a novelty she didn’t quite grasp.
Alone since the age of seven at the most, and intent on survival, she’d had no time for playing.
And while she was happy enough to pass a few minutes in laughter at a new experience, she had no real competitive spirit.
He saw that again in the game at Temper House.
She did her light-hearted best but didn’t mind in the least when she played a poor shot, or when anyone else in her team did.
Her laughter rang out, natural and infectious.
Piers was glad to see the others smile spontaneously.
Even those compelled to win, like Hale and Hubb and Claudia seemed to lighten under the influence and simply enjoy the fun.
Piers wondered if he had been too dismissive of her theories where they were concerned.
She did not have his past with them, which meant she did not have his knowledge.
On the other hand, she did not carry his baggage of loyalty and friendship either.
Regarding his friends, her mind was probably clearer than his.
Could he be blinded by sentiment? Sentiment which was based on old familiarity.
And yet their friendships had always been largely intellectual in nature.
It was more than possible they had never truly understood each other’s emotions.
“I asked them to serve tea outside,” April murmured after he had taken his last turn in the game. “I think it’s warm enough.”
“Excellent idea.” Something whisked past his vision, someone in the distance, hurrying toward the back of the house.
“And Lady Temperley was invited. Stewart has gone to escort her.”
“Good choice,” Piers said. “Would you mind staying here and holding the fort, as it were? I’m just going to the kitchen...”
She looked faintly surprised, as well she might. The source of his urgency wasn’t clear to him either, beyond the fact that most of the servants were outside, and someone else was in a hurry to go in.
He was breathless when he reached the kitchen. Mrs. Riley, arranging cakes on a plate, glared at him.
“What now?” she demanded.
He didn’t answer, merely strode across the kitchen and entered the housekeeper’s sitting room. The door to the bedchamber was closed. It shouldn’t have been.
He yanked it open, and his stomach dived.
A young man bent over the unconscious Edward, his fingers on the footman’s throat.
The young man jerked back from the bed, his eyes wide and staring at Piers in confusion.
“What are you doing here?” Piers snapped, striding to the bed.
“Nothing, sir. My lord.”
“Indeed? It looked to me as if you were strangling an unconscious man.”
The youth, whose skin was deeply weatherbeaten, paled beneath the bronze.
“I thought about it,” he all but whispered. “But I only touched him.” In a stronger voice, he added, “He ain’t worth swinging for.”
There was no sign of bruising or even the faintest of red marks on Edward’s neck. His pulse, if anything, was slightly stronger when Piers felt for it.
Relieved, Piers raised his eyes to the intruder’s face, took in the soiled hands and rough clothes. “I don’t suppose you’re Godley the gardener?”
“I’m Bert, Godley’s son,” the man said humbly.
“The undergardener. I understand you are no friend of Edward’s.”
“God, no.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
“I wanted to see if it was true,” Bert blurted.
“Why?”
Bert blinked in confusion. His gaze fell. “Suppose I wanted to gloat.”
“You hate him.”
The nod was slow, but Piers hardly needed it. “Did you hit him on Saturday night?”
“’Course I didn’t.” Bert actually sounded weary.
“Where were you at about two o’clock that night?”
“Asleep in bed, of course.”
“Can someone vouch for that?”
“My ma and dad, I suppose.”
“Then you won’t mind my asking them?”
The lad flushed. “I’d be grateful if you did it discreetly. Ma won’t like it if I’m under suspicion.”
Piers considered him. “Behaviour like this...” He gestured toward the bed, in particular to Edward’s pristine neck. “Will keep you under suspicion.”
“I know. I shouldn’t have come.”
Piers said, “What time did you come home from the inn on Saturday?”
It was guesswork. Lots of working people went to inns and taverns on a Saturday evening, because they could sleep in on Sunday morning. But Bert looked at him as though suspecting him of sorcery.
“Between ten and eleven I suppose,” he said nervously. “But I was with my dad, and we both went straight to bed.”
“Who else was at the inn that night?”
“Lots of people...”
“Jenson the blacksmith?”
“I think so... but he usually only has a pint and goes home.”
“Harold?”
“Nah. Harold was working here.”
“What about Troy from Edgwick Farm?”
“Yes, he was there.”
“Drunk?”
“As usual.”
“A fighting drunk, I imagine.”
“Never fought with me,” Bert said, a bit warily. “Nor my dad.”
“Was he still drinking when you and your father left?”
“Oh yes.”
“When would the innkeeper have sent him home?”
Bert shrugged. “Depends how many other people still wanted to drink.”
“Could it have been later than midnight? One o’clock?”
Bert spread his hands. “I got no idea, my lord. I-I’m sorry I came in here. I wouldn’t never have hurt him, you know. He’s too...helpless.”
And yet the gardener’s strong fingers had been around that helpless throat.
Without leaving a mark.
“Best get back to work,” Piers said, hoping his stern expression conveyed that Bert would be watched from now on.