Chapter Thirteen
Lady Mary
It might have been stocked merely for appearances’ sake, but the library in Perrin Manor held an exemplary collection.
And with steady sunlight now streaming through the windows on the first truly clear day since I’d arrived, I desired nothing more than to find a good book and take my seat in the wingback by the fireplace with a plate of Cook Clem’s pastries by my side.
Unfortunately, I didn’t have time for leisure. Also, a maid had said the last of the previous day’s sweets had already been claimed. I sniffed.
To further my pique, I found my chair already occupied when I entered the library.
“Good day, Lady Mary.” Mr. Ryder rose and inclined his head. A plate dusted with crumbs rested on the side table next to him. “Lovely morn.”
I eyed the plate with suspicion. “Yes.” Turning my back, I wandered to the bookcase that held botanical reference books. I hadn’t found anything about plants that could be used as poisons yesterday, but I’d only skimmed through half the shelf devoted to botany.
“I didn’t realize you were interested in gardening.” Ryder spoke from right behind me. He reached over my shoulder and removed a book on garden design. “Do you have much of a garden at your home in London?”
“It’s adequate.” There was space for me to sit in the sun in good weather and plenty of colorful plants to cheer my eye.
I left the care and tending of it up to my staff.
I pulled out a book, flipped through the pages, and replaced it.
What I needed was a book with illustrations of flowers so I could see if poisons lurked in Perrin’s own gardens.
“I saw you took An Enquiry Concerning the Principles of Morals up to your room last night.” His arm brushed against my shoulder as he reached for another volume.
I frowned and stepped to the side. “What of it? Does it surprise you, a woman reading something other than a novel?”
Ryder tapped the book he held against his thigh. “My only surprise is that you would enjoy it. I’ve always found Hume’s writing dry and his conclusions uninteresting.”
I muffled a snort of laughter. I hadn’t expected that.
I gave him a considering look. My assumptions about the president of the London Society for Morality and Decency led me to believe he would have approved of any book with ‘morals’ in the title.
But then, Hume found morality largely to be based on passions, not reason, and that theory I could easily believe Mr. Ryder to find abhorrent.
I couldn’t imagine the man ever succumbing to passion.
Seeing a book entitled British Botanist, my hopes rose. I pulled it out and, yes, there were illustrations. Quite detailed and lovely ones, in fact.
“Did you find anything in your late night reading to help you understand why someone would kill your brother-in-law?” Ryder tucked a thumb into the pocket of his waistcoat, the movement showcasing his admirably flat abdomen.
I sighed. I shouldn’t forget how shrewd the man was. Of course, he would know I would continue to look into Perrin’s death. “Do I detect disapproval in your tone?”
He looked at me, his milk chocolate eyes serious. “You shouldn’t spend your time investigating murders. Leave it to the authorities.”
I tapped the toe of my boot against the floor. “And what, pray tell, should I be doing with my time instead?”
His forehead furrowed. “My advice was intended as a warning about placing yourself in harm’s way, not a criticism of your hobbies. But now you mention it, there are more appropriate activities a woman of your station could pursue. Needlework?”
Needlework? I ground my back teeth. Of course, he would wish to relegate me to the most boring activity ever devised. “I have bad eyes.”
He rubbed his jaw. “Pianoforte or harp?”
“I lack an ear for music.”
“Charitable works?”
“I’m already on the boards of London Ladies of Mercy and The Charity for the Houseless Poor.
” How much more charitable did a person have to be?
“My French is atrocious, I detest journaling, and I couldn’t paint anything recognizable if you held a pistol to my head.
As you can see, not all women have the capacity, or inclination, to excel in the feminine arts you seem so desperate to relegate us to. ”
“But you are skilled in argumentation, one of the most feminine arts of all,” he said dryly. He shook his head and wandered to one of the windows. The bits of silver in his golden-brown hair caught the sun. “You remind me of my wife.”
I blinked. “You’re married?”
Ryder chuckled. “You don’t have to sound so surprised a woman would consent to marry me.” His face sobered. “I was. My wife died only two years after we wed. She fell down the stairs in our home after imbibing one too many glasses of wine.”
“Oh.” I didn’t know why I’d never considered that Ryder would have had a wife. He looked well enough now; he was probably quite handsome in his youth. He was well-spoken and intelligent, and if—
“Just one moment.” I planted a hand on my hip. “Are you implying I overindulge? I have a glass of wine with dinner, and a glass or two of something stronger only if the situation demands it.” My brandy was more medicinal than anything else.
He held up his hand. “I wasn’t implying that you drink too much, and that wasn’t my wife’s habit, either. The comparison was purely of the stubbornness of the two of you. You know what the sensible course of action is, but you refuse to follow it.”
That only partially unruffled my feathers. “It would be quite a dull life if one only did what was sensible.”
He twisted his lips. “Perhaps. Well,” he said, arching an eyebrow, “what have you learned?”
I narrowed my eyes. His turn seemed too good to be true. “Not much. There are four guests here with known motives to want Perrin dead.” Five if you include Miss Smith’s harebrained theory.
“I hope I am not included in your tally.”
“No.” I tucked the botany book under my arm. “You arrived too late to be the perpetrator. The stable master confirmed it.”
His lips twitched. “How fortunate for me.” He sat back on the windowsill. “Of course, you did notice how attentive Perrin’s secretary was to Miss Smith. And the clandestine meetings the two of them have had since Perrin’s death.”
“Of course.” I rolled onto the balls of my feet. “I’ve spoken with Miss Smith and she is no longer a suspect in my eyes.”
“But Mr. Taylor hasn’t been similarly cleared?”
I inclined my head. “He has not.”
“A pity.” Mr. Ryder smoothed a hand down his cravat. “No one here seemed to be overly fond of Lord Perrin, except perhaps for Miss Walker. She seems quite distraught at his death.”
“Too distraught?” I asked. I joined Ryder at the window. The man might be infuriating, but he did seem to have a strong ability to read people’s motivations. I was curious if he thought Miss Walker might be overplaying her hand.
“Too distraught over the man, perhaps.” He cocked his head. “But over the loss of a dream, of wealth, status, no, her mourning might be in proportion to all that.”
Yes, a lost dream was one of the hardest things to mourn.
I stared out the window. A large pond glittered in the sunshine, making me believe spring had finally arrived.
The ice house stood nearby, a small domed structure dug into the earth that had been Perrin’s resting place these past three days.
I should be thinking about how soon he could be laid to rest in a proper grave.
Instead, I wondered what he might have known about my and his brother’s lost dream.
“Have you noticed Lady Havenstone’s eyes?”
I blinked, the change in topic jarring. “No. What about them?”
“Her pupils have been unusually large on several occasions. Some women attempt that for cosmetic purposes, but I have seen her rubbing her lower back frequently. I believe she suffers from some ache.”
“And?” My brow cleared. “Oh. And a treatment for pain relief is belladonna. Drinking the juice from the berries also dilates the pupils, and in large enough amounts, kills. Lord and Lady Havenstone may have access to a poison that could have killed Perrin.” I’d ask Marie to confirm that one of the vials in Havenstone’s potion case was belladonna.
I gave Ryder an approving look. “For all your complaining about leaving these matters to the proper authorities, you seem to have a natural talent at investigating yourself. Anything else you’ve noticed?”
“Only that Mr. Withers enjoys gambling more than is healthful.” He pressed his lips into a white slash. “He tried to make his townhouse a stake in a game of hazard he and Havenstone played last night. Fortunately, Havenstone was not so reckless.”
My breath hitched. I knew Bertram liked his games, but I hadn’t realized he liked his stakes so high.
Perhaps when Perrin had swindled him out of his gaming winnings, it had been a bigger blow to Bertram than I’d thought.
Perhaps he had needed those winnings to cover great losses he may have sustained elsewhere.
There was no way to ask Bertram the question without both putting him on notice he was a suspect and having him tell me it was none of my business to my face.
But there was someone of my acquaintance who might have answers. He also might tell me to mind my own business, though in a much more civilized manner. Then again, he might not. I’d send a letter to him as soon as the post was able to reach London.
Mr. Ryder held out his book. “If you want to understand why someone would kill, there is no better instructor than Thomas Aquinas.”
I reached for it, but he held on for a moment, the book connecting the two of us. I swallowed. “Thank you. More light bedtime reading, I’m certain.”
Ryder grinned, his eyes crinkling at the edges. “You are a most challenging woman, Lady Mary. I do hope you will remember that while sensibility might lead to a bit of tedium, its opposite can have much more hazardous effects. Do be careful.”
As I could see he was in earnest, I bit back a flippant response. “I will.” Or I would try, at least. I always did try to be careful; matters just went askew at times. I pulled the book from his grasp.
Ryder lifted his face and sniffed. “Is that….?” He pulled his watch from his pocket. “Two o’clock. I believe luncheon has been set out. Shall we see what Cook Clem has prepared today?” He crooked his elbow.
I took his arm. Having someone to keep pace with seemed the only way to restrain myself from racing into the dining room and greedily piling my plate unbecomingly high. “Let’s.”