Chapter 20 #2
Even in bed, he lay wakeful. Perhaps he should dress, creep across the park, and break into the dower house.
Why, though? He knew the room was there, and what more could it tell him?
Could it tell him who his lady was? Or that she had been true and loving?
He laughed at his own folly. Despite everything, he was a blind prisoner in Gaza, still hoping to learn that his Delilah hadn’t betrayed him, even as he remembered the poisoned loving cup she had set to his lips.
With dawn, he gave up any attempt at sleep and wandered the misty grounds, listening to the first fervent birdsong, but keeping well away from the beckoning dower house.
He hoped he looked normal at breakfast and when he took his leave of his hostess and his brother.
Doubtless not in the latter case. Bey was devilish about reading people.
All he said, however, was, “Don’t forget to keep your eyes open at Wenscote.”
“Why? It’s a straightforward case. The heir is a Cotterite and he’ll take over the property when Sir Digby dies.”
Bey drew him down the front steps toward the waiting coach, carefully out of earshot. “He became the heir upon the death of another nephew, William Overton.”
“Not unusual, surely?”
“What if William Overton was murdered?”
Brand stared. “It’s not like you to chase wild theories, Bey. If the death was suspicious, we’d surely have heard of it.”
“William Overton was a man very like Sir Digby, and not a great deal younger. He ate and drank ‘merrily’ as people put it, and suffered the consequences. No one was greatly surprised when he keeled over one day after a large meal.”
“But you suspect foul play?”
“Exactly the same thing happened last winter to a Mr. Josiah Crayke, heir to an estate over near Northallerton.”
“Northallerton?” Brand echoed, his mind starting to stir.
“There are estates near there,” Bey said sharply, clearly irritated by Brand’s abstraction.
“Yes, of course. Who owns it now?”
“One Samuel Barlow, a recent convert to the heavenly rewards promised by the New Commonwealth. Mr. Crayke left two daughters, so Squire Barlow has settled money on them and the widow, but the estate has been given to the Cotterites. He’s taken to the life himself, even sharing his house with a number of unmarried farm laborers. ”
“And Crayke died of an apoplexy?”
“Or something of the sort.”
Brand’s attention was caught, by that and other matters. “It could be coincidence.”
“I am always suspicious of coincidence. It’s remarkably clever.
So many men are feeble through food and drink.
If Sir Digby Overton keeled over one day after a hearty dinner—a respectable time after his nephew’s demise of course—would anyone be surprised?
Really,” Bey added with asperity, “both he or his senior nephew should have attended to the matter of the succession.”
“That’s rich, coming from you.” Then Brand wished he could bite the words back.
“I have brothers,” Bey said, unmoved. “Some of whom seem naturally enthusiastic about marriage and procreation. You see now, I hope, why I want you to pay attention to more than cart horses at Wenscote.”
“Yes, of course. It would be a shame for Sir Digby to come to an untimely end.”
“It would be a shame not to catch them in the act. You will apparently be traveling with the heir, who has spent the night here.”
After little sleep, Brand wasn’t fit for mental gymnastics, and he stared at his brother. “I’d hardly think he was one for balls.”
“Apparently Lady Overton threw him out of Wenscote, so he came running to his uncle.”
“Lord, Bey, how do you always know everything?”
“If I knew everything, my life would be a great deal easier. Find out what caused Lady Overton to react that way.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Brand,” said his brother with obvious forbearance, “you say you want to know nothing more about your lady, yet she is sitting in your mind like a canker. This is dangerous.”
Brand closed his eyes for a moment, knowing he should tell his brother about the dower house. He couldn’t. He didn’t know what Bey might do. “Did you find out anything from the countess during the ball?”
“If she enjoys dalliance, she does not indulge at public functions.”
“You tested her?”
“I did my best, within polite boundaries, to invite myself to her bed.”
“’Struth. Would you have gone?”
“Noblesse oblige. She’s quite skilled at that game, but seemed remarkably untempted. I guessed as much. Unless my instincts are seriously dulled, she is a virgin, though not a naive one.”
“So, not my lady. I didn’t think so. Perhaps she knows, but short of torture, there is no way to make her give up the knowledge.”
“I doubtless have the thumbscrews in my baggage somewhere….”
Brand laughed, but his mind was swirling over other things. “The inn I remember last,” he said, “the place where I was probably drugged, was near Northallerton. And I’ve just realized why the name Barlow sounds familiar. Is the estate called Rawston Glebe?”
“Yes.”
“It lies next to one I was looking over for us. I was asking questions about Rawston Glebe, since neighbors are often as important as the estate itself. Probably asking questions about the New Commonwealth. So if they murdered Mr. Crayke …”
“Especially if they knew who you were. Did they?”
Brand shrugged. “I travel incognito, but I don’t make a performance of hiding my name.”
“And I have no doubt word had already traveled north that the King is fretted about the New Commonwealth and had appointed me his investigator. Your sufferings could well be laid at my door.”
“At the Cotterites’ door, you mean. By gad, but I’ll be glad if you bring them down. And I thought George Cotter not a bad sort of man.” He glanced over. “Here comes Sir Digby and his nephew. I must go.”
Rothgar put his hand briefly on Brand’s arm. “Take care.”
“You think they might attack again? I’m not after them.”
“But they don’t know that. Be careful what you eat and drink.”
“I’ve learned that lesson.”
Brand walked over to the waiting coach, mocking himself for the joyous warmth that stirred inside. If he’d been drugged by the New Commonwealth, then at least his lady hadn’t abducted him for her pleasure. She really had rescued him.
Some of it had been honest, after all.
Most of it, in fact. She’d claimed all along to simply be taking payment for her help.
Edward Overton was already in the coach, all gray disapproval, but Sir Digby was just climbing in. He settled with a blown-out breath. “Odd’s death, I think I truly will reform my ways. My head’s pounding and all I could put in my stomach this morning was a bit of toast. I enjoy a good breakfast.”
Brand had intended to ride, but that would leave poor Sir Digby alone with the chilly-looking Cotterite.
He ordered his horse tied to the coach, and climbed in, taking the backward seat without protest. He wondered briefly whether Sir Digby could have been fed something noxious last night, but accepted that it was simply overindulgence.
“Moderation does have its blessings,” he said to support Sir Digby’s good intentions.
“Are we to understand,” asked Edward Overton, “that a Malloren lives moderately?”
“Yes, Mr. Overton. No one has ever accused me of excess.”
“A virgin, are you?”
“Hey, nevvy!” Sir Digby intervened. “That’s no way to talk!”
“No,” said Brand, almost amused, “I’m not a virgin. Do you truly think any sex excessive?”
“Outside procreation within marriage, yes.”
“Then I assume you are a virgin.”
A little color flared in the pale face. “I was a sinner once….”
“Oh, shut up, Edward,” said Sir Digby with a groan. “My head’s pounding and you’re being damned impolite to Lord Brand. Come to that, you should be sitting with your back to the horses, humble servant that you are.”
Edward Overton pursed his lips and turned to watch the passing scenery. Brand shared a slight smile with Sir Digby. He did like the older man.
Though the rough road twisted up the dale, it took less than an hour to reach the small village by the river, and the gray stone house that dominated it. The coach turned between the open gates that broke a high stone wall.
“Very defensible,” Brand remarked.
“Aye. Well, the place is three hundred years old,” Sir Digby said, “and there’s been times when good walls were welcome.”
The coach drew up between the house and a charming garden. Beyond, screened somewhat by trees, Brand saw stables, but not of a size for a stud.
“Rosie’s stables are outside the walls,” Sir Digby said as the steps were let down and a manservant hovered to assist him to alight. “I wonder where she is? I sent word I was bringing a guest.”
Brand wondered if the lady regretted her ejection of Mr. Overton—though he was sure it was justified. He hoped he wasn’t going to be witness to embarrassing family arguments.
Climbing down after Sir Digby, he breathed in the perfumes of a precious garden.
He couldn’t resist wandering closer to the waving banks of blossom.
Someone had lavished care on this over many years.
It might just be an excellent gardener, but he suspected Lady Overton had played a part.
The garden spoke of a very personal kind of love, and conveyed a powerful sense of sanctuary.
When Sir Digby called, he went into the cool house. “I was admiring the garden. It’s as lovely as I’ve ever seen.”
Sir Digby beamed. “My wife’s work, of course. She’s a dab hand with plants. It was just a garden before she came here. Now it’s something more.”
Brand caught a pinched look on Edward Overton’s face. “You don’t approve of gardens?”
“We do not believe in wasting good land and labor on useless plants. Not that we ban flowers altogether,” the man conceded. “There are many that have practical purposes.”