Chapter 40
Forty
Grey
Grey had listened to all the groveling he could tolerate in an entire lifetime.
His so-called heir practically wept objections to Percival’s self-aggrandizing tales of collusion.
To hear Stew tell it, Percy had been the one wishing to be rid of a critic who stood in the way of artistic greatness.
Who knew an art history scholar was so powerful?
Giving up on the whining, Hunt had sent Stupid Stew out of the Great Hall and left Percy to tell his side of the story. Hunt had promised the hack he wouldn’t seek hanging if Percy told the truth.
Who the devil knew what truth was at this point?
According to Percy, Stupid Stew had hired him—multiple times—to find people to kill Grey.
Given what Grey had just learned of Stew’s empty pockets, that seemed unlikely.
Although given the level of incompetence involved, Stew got what he’d paid for.
Or maybe the coward had pockets to let because Percy bled him dry. Who knew?
Grey’s rage only needed the one truth, his own. Percy may have been the one to shove him into the river, but Stew had attempted to finish him off. Exhausted, he would almost certainly have drowned if Stew had succeeded in kicking him into the water.
But no thanks to his heir, Grey was still alive, so it wasn’t murder. Possible assault was the most he could hope for—and judges turned blind eyes to the habits of aristocrats.
Given what Stew had said about Grey courting Eleanor though. . . She wasn’t safe while his heir roamed free. Stew was having fantasies as mad as any lunatic in Bedlam if he thought Grey intended to marry anyone. . .
Because of Stew and his murderous wishes? There was a miserable thought he’d rather not examine.
“If we have my cousin convicted of attempted murder and transported, can the law remove him as my heir?” Grey asked Sutter in disgust during a break in the proceedings.
“Not my area of expertise, but I can find out.” The lawyer jotted a note. “You could always marry and beget a son. I highly recommend the wedded state.”
“Not if Stew means to kill me so no begetting happens. Marriage simply gives the wretch years to find new and exciting ways to hasten my demise, or attack my wife and child. Not a fair solution.” But if Stew really was the hand behind all those incidents—
Grey could almost see his way out of the curse that had held him imprisoned for so long. An infant had no more control over his mother’s death than a boy had over measles or his father’s drunkenness. People died.
It had been all the other incidents on top of those that had him believing his life was cursed. But if they could be blamed on Stewart and Percival’s ineptitude. . .
Grey was simply having difficulty grasping such gross maliciousness, but it wasn’t as if either of the louts were very bright, just pockets-to-let and desperate.
Stupid Stew the Wastrel had borrowed against his entire trust and parts that weren’t even his. If the law couldn’t hang him, Grey might strangle the scoundrel himself.
They’d taken a break from the trial for everyone to relieve and refresh themselves. Hearing shouts from the portico door, those heading for the buffet swung about and drifted, en masse, down the hall toward the excitement.
Grey hesitated over following the crowd—until he recognized the screamer—Peg.
The lady’s maid should be with Eleanor.
With no hesitation, he shoved past old ladies and men twice his size. Seeing the little maid in tears, catching the words “gallery” and “Leonard,” Grey didn’t stop to listen. He burst past Peg and the footman and anyone else blocking the door to race down the drive.
All his fault, always his fault. He could explain the curse six ways from Sunday. That didn’t make it go away. If anyone had hurt Ellie—he’d hang himself. Let the estate go to rack and ruin. The world wasn’t worth living in if it could harm a perceptive, intelligent, beautiful soul like hers.
He could hear others pounding after him, but Grey’s only reaction was to reach the gallery now. He burst through the open door, terrified of what he might find.
The place was empty. No one stood about, weeping or screaming. Ellie wasn’t lying dead or injured. . .
Arnaud shoved past him to light a lantern. “The maid just might be the hysterical sort. Women wander. Thea said she left her here alone. There’s no reason Miss Leonard should have remained. We’ll have men scour the market, pub, and chapel.”
Grey knew better. “Did Ellie say she’d watch the gallery?”
Arnaud growled agreement as he began searching behind counters and tables.
“If she said she’d stay, she wouldn’t go to the pub. She does exactly what she says she will do.” Although she had not mentioned visiting the gallery. Grey held up the lantern, looking for any sign of her earlier presence. Had she worn hair ribbons? He hadn’t seen her leave. . .
“Thea said she left Miss Leonard examining paintings. When she returned, the maid was here, raising a fuss. There wasn’t time to go far. Want to check the privy? Thea had it fancied up.” Arnaud started in that direction.
The lantern light caught on a dark wet spot on the floorboards before Grey was halfway across the room. Everything that was him sank through the rough planks with the sight. “Blood.”
And odd wheel marks that might be a trail? Oil stains leaving a smear?
In abject terror, Grey left Arnaud yelling for aid, while he traced the almost invisible trail until it vanished into the filth of the floor at the back, near a door to what was most likely storage.
“Does the place have a cellar?” Grey called to the artist, while he searched the shoemaker’s corner and scoured the floors for any evidence of Ellie’s presence.
Arnaud’s shouts only produced one footman.
Everyone else had scattered to search the market.
Andrew was undoubtedly on his way down, but his lame foot prevented speed.
He might be hooking up his new pony cart.
Grey wasn’t certain he could face her brother if anything had happened to the redoubtable Miss Leonard.
Not finding any evidence of Ellie’s presence, he eased open the door to the storage room to peer in.
“The foundation is built up in back to level the floor.” Leaving the footman at the door to pass on word if anyone found Ellie, Arnaud returned to Grey’s side.
“There’s a trap door that opens into the space.
It’s not really a cellar. Don’t know the original purpose.
Nothing much down there but dirt. Too small for much else. ”
Inside the windowless storage area, Grey held up a lantern to examine a cart with no sides. “Hold your light over here.”
Blood glistened on the cart bed. The blood was still wet. The killer had carried her through the gallery on a cart. . .
Killer. Grey’s blood ran cold. “Who was in here this morning?”
“No one that I know of besides Thea. They’re all up at the manor, waiting to see if Mort or Percy will hang.”
Was that a moan? Or wishful thinking? Standing in the stuffy, crowded storeroom, Grey held up his hand for silence. Definite moan. “Where’s that cellar?” The storage area was a clutter of crates, canvas, frames, and miscellaneous from the shoe and clock makers. No trap door was obvious.
“How would—” Arnaud quit questioning at the look on Grey’s face and began shoving aside open crates. “It’s around here somewhere. It’s too small—”
“So is that cart, but Miss Leonard isn’t terribly large. Listen, can’t you hear it?” Grey shoved crates, just to be certain they were all empty.
Why the devil would anyone harm Eleanor? She knew nothing. The killers were all under guard. He shouted her name.
A thump and muffled moan followed.
Grey heaved canvas and other rubbish out of the way—until a crack in the old warped boards appeared.
Arnaud threw aside a stack of empty frames to reveal the door. “There’s no handle. I had to jimmy it to look in earlier. I didn’t think anyone knew of it.”
“People who lived here all their lives—” Like the Bradfords. Five of them, his cook had said. Grey had only met two of the lot, plus Blackie, but he hadn’t lived here for long.
Arnaud found a palette knife that lifted a board enough for Grey to slide his fingers under. The muted thumping became louder.
“Lantern,” Grey demanded, leaning over the opening as they shoved aside the door, revealing a dark hole—and movement!
Not waiting to see more than where she was so he didn’t crush her, Grey threw his legs over the side and slid down.
He had to bend almost in half to lift his brilliant Ellie out of the dirt and spiders.
He yanked out the cloth muffling her cries.
In his awkward position, the movement caused him to abruptly crumple into a sitting position.
That worked. He pulled her on his lap, hugged her close to prove she breathed, then kissed her brow and sent heartfelt prayers of gratitude to the heavens.
She stopped struggling and leaned into his arms as if she belonged there. Grey buried kisses in her hair, welcomed the crush of her breasts against his coat, and called up to Arnaud, “Knife, now.”
“They’re just strings. I almost broke them,” she said through muffled sobs. “When I woke, I tried to spit out that nasty rag, but I couldn’t. I should practice.”
She was weeping as she said this. Grey hoped she was hysterical. Spitting rags. . .
Standing carefully, rearranging her in his arms, he lifted her out of the hole, into the hastily cleared space above.
He climbed out after her and grabbed Arnaud’s knife.
While she leaned into his hold, he severed the strings on her wrists and ankles.
Ropes weren’t easily available in galleries, but packages needed twine. Her attacker had been resourceful.