Chapter 11
The following morning, immediately after breakfast, Richard accompanied Rosalind and Regina in taking a turn about the Grange’s well-stocked conservatory.
Rosalind had been tasked by Mrs. Hemmings to keep her sister close.
At the very least, under her eye. Mrs. Hemmings was still in two minds about the murderer possibly being a lurking vagabond—a notion that still held currency among the older matrons—and had taken to fussing over Regina’s safety, something Regina didn’t appreciate but bore with a long-suffering air.
Consequently, Richard was ambling beside Rosalind, keeping pace as she, in turn, followed her idly strolling sister along the wending paths between the potted plants that transformed the glassed-in room into a jungle of verdant green.
In truth, Richard was keen to engineer a moment alone—preferably two or more—with Rosalind.
He wanted to…explore the sense of like-mindedness, the camaraderie of sorts that had steadily grown between them over the past few days.
He wanted to see if she was, by any chance, thinking along the same lines he was.
There was nothing quite like being involved—too closely involved—in a murder investigation to strip away all superficialities, revealing people for who they really were behind their glossy social facades.
Courtesy of the events of the past days, he’d come to understand and appreciate Rosalind—her personality and her strengths—in ways he never otherwise would have.
And somewhat to his surprise, he’d found himself in complete agreement with his aunts’ assessment.
Rosalind Hemmings would make him an excellent wife.
The only fly in that ointment was that he wasn’t sure if she was so inclined. Despite his extensive experience of ladies—earned via the string of well-born lovers of whom he’d long ago lost count—nothing in that history had prepared him for how to take the next step.
Hardly surprising. I never imagined marrying any of them.
So now, he paced beside Rosalind—close but not too close, just close enough that her skirts occasionally brushed his trouser legs and the scent from her hair wafted and teased his senses—and wondered what his next move should be.
They were admiring the orchids, several of which were in bloom, when Alison Waterhouse walked in. On seeing them, Alison paused, but when Rosalind smiled encouragingly, Alison smiled back and joined them.
“Hello,” Rosalind said. “Are you looking for ways to pass the time?”
Alison’s grin was quietly confident. “I think most of the company are. Everyone’s waiting to see what the investigators do next.”
Regina smiled warmly at Alison and indicated a pretty pink-and-white orchid. “Isn’t this just perfect?”
Alison agreed and fell in beside Regina, and the pair continued down the line of pots, examining blooms and commenting on the variety of colors.
Richard caught the sidelong glance Rosalind threw his way. Their gazes met and held and, as had happened frequently over the past days, it seemed they were both thinking along the same lines…
Then, Regina and Alison walked on, and with what sounded like a half-stifled sigh, Rosalind looked ahead and followed.
Richard was wracking his brains to find some way of creating the moment it seemed both he and Rosalind desired when, after a whispered conversation, Regina and Alison turned, walked back, and halted before Rosalind and Richard.
“Alison and I need to stretch our legs rather more,” Regina said, “so we’re going for a stroll in the gardens.”
“Just for half an hour or so,” Alison put in. “It will be a relief to get out of the house.”
“You don’t need to worry—we’ll stay together,” Regina said. “And we’ll keep within sight of the house so we won’t get lost.”
It was plain that Alison and Regina did not want to be supervised. Over recent days, the pair had become friends, and Alison appeared to have a sound head on her shoulders.
Richard glanced at Rosalind and saw that she was debating whether or not to agree, torn between strictly following her mother’s injunction and allowing her sister reasonable freedom while also seizing some time for herself and him…
He murmured, “That should be safe enough.”
Rosalind slid a glance his way and met his eyes. After a moment, she returned her gaze to Regina and Alison. “Yes. All right. But make sure you’re back before morning tea, or Mama will fret.”
Regina beamed. “Yes, of course.”
Alison looped her arm with Regina’s. “We promise to be back by then.”
Rosalind inclined her head, and the pair rustled off toward the conservatory doors, heads already dipping close.
As they passed out of the room, the sound of their tinkling laughter drifted back to Richard and Rosalind.
She glanced at him. “In the circumstances, that’s a nice sound to hear, and truth be told, their burgeoning friendship is something of a relief. Alison’s a sensible girl, and I’ll be happy if Regina follows her lead.”
As Rosalind swung to face him, he arched a brow at her. “You’re sensible, too. And reliable and well-grounded.”
She blinked in surprise and met his eyes.
He smiled understandingly, but knew he had to seize the chance Fate had offered.
“As it happens—as I think you know—I’ve been wanting to speak with you about”—on impulse, he opted for the shockingly direct—“whether you might be inclined to sensibly follow the direction suggested by your parents and my aunts and consider marrying me.”
She blinked again, then her lavender-blue gaze grew more intent, and she studied him unabashedly. After several heartbeats, she asked, “Is that a proposal?”
He tipped his head this way, then that, then confessed, “Actually, it’s more a straightforward question.” He held her gaze. “It’s simple, really—do you think that marrying me would be a good idea?”
She eased back a trifle, closely scanning his expression, his eyes, then her lips twitched. “I suppose that depends.”
“On what?”
More confidently, she tipped up her chin. “On what the boundaries of the role are, at least in your mind.” When she met his gaze, hers had turned challenging. “Perhaps, given we are—for once—blessedly alone, we might discuss your requirements?”
His grin was entirely genuine. “Yes,” he agreed. “Let’s.”
Once again, Penelope led Barnaby and Stokes into the front hall of Patchcote Grange.
The tattoo of her heels striking the tiles reflected their determination to ask what they hoped would be their final questions, the answers to which would shine an unforgiving light on the murderer in the company’s midst.
The previous evening, they’d debated whether to return immediately and pose those questions, but as most would be directed to the staff, who would be frantically busy during the evening, they’d reluctantly decided against what might prove an unproductive foray.
As Stokes had pointed out, they needed considered, accurate answers, not replies flung at a run.
Now, as the hall’s cool shadows embraced them, Penelope acknowledged that their forbearance had been wise.
As Barnaby had remarked, there was an outside chance that they’d missed some vital clue and the killer was someone other than their three—really two—prime suspects.
If so, then actively investigating literally under the avid attention of the entire company could well give the guilty party a chance to cover his tracks or even escape.
Consequently, albeit reluctantly, they’d elected to play their cards close to their collective chest and arrive to pursue their investigations at a more normal hour.
They paused in the otherwise empty hall, and when a footman duly appeared in response to the sounds of their arrival, Penelope instructed, “Please fetch Gearing. We’ll be in the library.”
The footman bowed. “Yes, ma’am. At once.”
She turned toward the library. Stokes opened the door and held it, and she swept inside.
By the time Gearing arrived, they’d arranged themselves in their now-customary armchairs. He half bowed to them, then looked at Penelope. “Yes, ma’am?”
“We realize,” Penelope said, “that on Monday morning, the staff would have been in something of a tizzy, but do you recall picking up any letters that had been left on the hall table?”
Gearing looked relieved. “Why, yes, ma’am. On that morning, there were three letters left on the salver for me to post. All were from Mr. Percival. One was addressed to Viscount Seddington, who I believe is Mr. Percival’s ward.”
Penelope smiled. “That’s correct. Now, has the Earl of Leith left any letters for you to post?”
“No, ma’am.” Then Gearing amended, “Not as yet.”
Penelope widened her eyes. “Perhaps he hasn’t brought them down yet. Do you know if he’s been writing letters in his room?”
Gearing hesitated, then no doubt remembering his mistress’s instructions to render all assistance possible to them, he offered, “I could ask the maid who tidies his room if there are any letters there, perhaps unfinished or yet to be addressed?”
“Thank you, Gearing.” Penelope inclined her head. “That would be helpful.”
Stokes clarified, “Whether just started, half finished, or even discarded. We’d like to know if there’s any evidence of letter writing in Leith’s room.”
Gearing bowed. “I’ll find Gemma—the maid who tends those rooms—and ask and return with her answer.”
Barnaby nodded. “Please do.”
Gearing bowed again and departed.
After the door closed, Stokes stated, “That’s our second question in hand, and Percival is looking less and less suspicious.”
“Which of our questions should we tackle next?” Barnaby asked.
Stokes considered the list in his notebook. “It’ll be faster if we split up, and”—he glanced up and met Barnaby’s and Penelope’s gazes—“I’m getting that itching between my shoulder blades that insists time is of the essence.”
Barnaby grimaced. “You, too?”