Chapter 21
Annabelle stared at the dead woman in stupefied horror. Lucy, dead? Had the villains who’d held her at gunpoint gone after the maid when Annabelle raced for the flats?
But, no. The innkeeper’s wife confirmed that she’d returned to the hotel. She’d spent the night, and then set off the following morning for London.
Sterling’s booted feet crunched over the gravel as he moved to stand before her, blocking her view.
She swallowed, battling nausea. “Is that what the villagers wanted to discuss with you?”
He nodded once, his expression grim. “You know this woman, I take it.”
“Yes, she was my…er…chaperone.”
The dubious look he sent her spoke volumes. “Your chaperone.”
She licked her lips. The task proved impossible. Her mouth had gone dry as dirt.
He sighed. “A moment, please.” He strode to the cart, making fast work of covering Lucy’s body. “I came here with the intention of storing the victim’s body in the kiln.”
“Victim, you say? Sh-she was shot?”
“Not shot, no.”
When she opened her mouth to ask what precisely had happened to Lucy, he held up a hand to silence her. “You’ve suffered an ordeal, Annabelle. I’ll see you safely back to the castle and give you time to collect yourself. Afterward, we’ll talk.”
***
Some two hours later, Annabelle awaited Sterling in his office.
Seated in an armchair near the hearth where a hardy fire crackled, sipping a warm cup of rich cocoa, she flipped through the pages of a book on astronomy she’d plucked from his bookshelf.
She felt almost restored, thanks in no small part to Babette.
The lady’s maid had tended Annabelle with the determination of a nurse treating the wounded on the battlefield and the gentleness of a mother hen combined, helping Annabelle out of the filthy, borrowed gown, ridding her of the soot and dirt caking her skin, and brushing her hair ’til it gleamed, all the while murmuring soothing words.
Nevertheless, Annabelle could not banish the lifeless face of her previous maid from her thoughts, nor stop asking herself how she’d wound up dead.
One thing had become clear, however. She should never have come here.
Lucy had died thanks to her, and for what?
She’d been so consumed with proving her worth to her parents, proving that she was more than a pretty face to attract a beneficial suitor, that she had neglected to consider the possibility that might not be true.
The idea she could solve Gaston’s murder now seemed ludicrous. What’s more, what would it change if she did? Gaston, her mother’s beautiful, blue-eyed boy, would still be gone, and nothing would alter that. Having a daughter was, apparently, no consolation.
On the cusp of that depressing thought, Sterling waltzed into the chamber. He strode to the mantel to face her.
He looked so strong. So thoroughly capable and vital—and handsome. He’d washed, shaved, and changed into clean clothing. She wondered if he’d remark on her latest ensemble. Poor Caroline would have nary a dress in her wardrobe, at this rate.
She set her half-drunk cup of cocoa in its saucer, then placed the saucer on the tray beside her. “I’m very glad to see you, sir. Did you discover anything of import in the kiln?”
“Oh, by all means, ask your questions, my lady.”
For no reason she could think of, his acerbic tone stung. It was not as if they were friends—just because he’d kissed her twice.
Technically once. The first time, she’d kissed him. Still. Their shared kisses, then, apparently amounted to nothing more in Lord Randall’s book than a passing pleasurable experience. She must adopt the same philosophy.
She stared him down and said nothing more.
One corner of his fine mouth crooked upward. “Chip and I noted several telltale signs that someone—or several someones—have been inside. Recently, or not so recently, we could not determine.
“Nor could we discern a clear purpose for someone having ventured inside. It’s possible someone took refuge during the recent storm.”
“But you do not think so,” Annabelle prodded.
“There are no signs of anyone having set up camp there. And even if that was the case, I can comprehend no reason why anyone would wish to do you harm. Which brings me to my first question: Annabelle, why did you go into the castle kilns?”
Annabelle. He’d certainly grown accustomed to calling her by her Christian name. If only she would become inured to the sound, uttered in his rich baritone. Every time she heard it, a rush of heat swarmed through her.
“As to that, Sterling,” she said, enjoying the flash of humor in his obsidian eyes, “after breakfast, I decided to take a walk. I thought you’d prefer if I avoided the townsfolk who would, undoubtedly, leave via the main road, and so I made it a point to stay on property.”
He folded his arms over his chest. “Very thoughtful.”
“I came across the kiln. The openings—”
“Keyholes, they’re called.”
“Keyholes,” she repeated. “When I saw that they were bricked up, I started to go back, but then I noticed that one of the access ways had been left open. I had never seen the inside of a kiln. I was curious.”
“Madam, have you ever heard the adage, curiosity killed the cat?”
She envisioned herself in the small chamber again, trapped. Trapped, like before.
It shouldn’t have impacted her so. If she hadn’t reacted, if she’d thought it through, she’d have reasoned that someone would eventually come looking for her.
“Annabelle, I…”
She glanced at him, taken aback by the concern in his voice.
He stared at her, thick brows beetled. “I misjudged. You are not up to talking about this.”
She considered herself from his vantage point. Realized she’d begun scrubbing her palms over her skirts, displaying her nerves, again. She knew better. She’d had years of training.
Whimpering is unattractive in the extreme, and quite off-putting. No one wishes to be subject to another’s sniveling. Look at Gaston. Do you ever see him displaying such feebleness of character?
“I am perfectly fine,” she answered, fisting her hands at her sides. “Besides, I have questions of my own.”
He did not look entirely convinced, but he moved from the mantel to take up the adjacent armchair to hers. “Very well. When you were inside, did you notice anything? Hear anyone? What, precisely, do you recall?”
Her heart fluttered in her chest, remembering her passage through the shadowed, dusty interior. “I did have an odd sense of someone watching me.”
He leaned forward slightly. “And then?”
“And then, I reached the kiln pot chambers. I noted several piles of what I took to be rubbish, abandoned tools, and the like.” She drew a sharp breath as a memory surfaced. “I saw something shiny.”
He appeared nonplussed.
“On the ground, behind the kiln pot. Something glinted in the sunlight. I ducked inside to investigate.”
“And? What was it?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“Alas, no. Enlighten me.”
“It was a diamond.”
His brows shot upward. “You have this stone?”
“Well…no. I forgot about it the moment the walls started to topple. But now I understand.”
“Understand what?”
“A ring of jewel thieves has taken up residence on Holy Island and uses the kilns as their home base. They must’ve been there when I entered, and decided to teach me a lesson to dissuade me from disturbing their lair in future. Or perhaps they merely did not want me to be able to identify them.”
He shook his head in disbelief. “May I suggest you’ve been reading too many crime novels like the one that inspired you to make this foolish quest?”
As his words hit much too close to home, she scowled at him. “Fine. No earthquake, no jewel thieves. Meanwhile, I’ve yet to hear you come up with one viable reason for what happened to me.”
He inclined his head in reluctant acknowledgment. “While I’ve yet to determine the why of it, I have no intention of allowing a repeat of the event. Madam, you will stay away from the kilns for the remainder of your time here.”
She would venture back inside the kiln only under threat of death. Nevertheless, his heavy-handed approach grated. Oddly, it also steadied her, whereas glimpsing his tender side…didn’t.
“Now, then, tell me about Lucy,” he ordered.
“Very well. Lucy was my—” She broke off when he arched a challenging brow at her.
“She was my lady’s maid,” she admitted.
His expression said he was not the least surprised.
“How did you know?”
“She was not of the upper class. For all her fine clothing—clothing reminiscent of your own—her boots, her hands, spoke of the working class.”
Lord Randall was nothing if not observant. And abrasive. And arrogant.
“Kindly explain yourself, madam,” he demanded in a curt tone.
She sighed. And, he was persistent. “When Mama and Papa left on holiday, I knew I had only a short period to travel across the country to test my theory as to your whereabouts. Certainly no time to hire a chaperone—”
“Especially one who might approve your scheme, and refrain from revealing it to your parents?”
Her cheeks thrummed with heat. “In the interest of time, I had Lucy alter one of my old gowns to fit her, and we set off. As you know, I had every intention of returning to London the following day.” With you, hung in the air between them.
A sardonic smile played at his mouth. “Yes, I recall.”
Upon our arrival, Lucy and I learned of Holy Island’s accessibility issues.
Thus, we went in search of a guide to lead us across the tidal flats.
Later, we departed the hotel, reached the causeway, and the rest you know: Robbers accosted us, Lucy turned tail and fled with that cowardly guide, and I crossed on my own.
“I assumed she made it back safely to the hotel with the guide, and the innkeeper confirmed my theory, stating that my travel companion had departed the previous day, taking all of my belongings with her, no less. She even left a note attesting to the fact.”
Her hand fluttered to her neck. “Seeing her…like that, earlier…It was a shock.”
“I’m sorry for that.” His regret was palpable.
“I do not fault you, sir. In essence, you saved me.”
He shifted in his chair, looking distinctly uncomfortable with her praise.
“Now, sir, kindly inform me of what happened to her. I won’t say she was a particular favorite of mine, not like…
” She waved a dismissive hand, flustered by the ill-conceived words she’d nearly spilled.
Why on earth would she think to compare the woman to Babette?
Babette wasn’t even her servant. “What I meant to say is that I feel responsible for what befell her.”
“Annabelle, you are hardly that.”
She ordered herself not to react to the gruff gentleness in his tone. “I am, am I not? If she had not come on this fool’s journey with me, as you so aptly termed it, she’d surely still be alive.”
His mouth firmed, but he said nothing.
She cleared her throat. “You said she wasn’t shot. I ask you again. What did happen? I really must know.”
“Very well. Someone strangled the woman before ridding himself of her body in the channel.”
A queasy feeling rolled through her, imagining Lucy’s body sinking under the waves.
“If you are going to be ill—”
She held up a hand. Swallowed. “I am fine. Go on.”
Slanting her a dubious look, he proceeded with his tale. “Suffice it to say, her body washed up on the shore. The fishermen discovered her and brought her here to me. I’ve since sent for the coroner to collect her.”
“I see. But you’ve no idea who did this, or why.”
“No. Only a vague assurance that her death occurred on the mainland. Did she have any rejected suitors, or disgruntled coworkers, or enemies of any sort that might have followed from London?”
She considered that. “None that I know of. Lucy was not the most amenable of housemaids, but I still cannot imagine a scenario whereby someone would go to the trouble of trailing her from London. As for beaus, she was not what anyone would call popular.”
She licked her lips and voiced the question she was not entirely sure she wanted answered. “Do you not think it more likely that she was killed by the same men who accosted me?”
A muscle ticked, rapid-fire, in his jaw. “I don’t know. I mean to find them, however, and ask them that very question.”
“Oh. I don’t think…Sterling, I don’t think that’s wise, do you? You could get hurt.”
A sudden, roguish smile curved his lips and warmed his dark eyes. “Why, Annabelle, are you concerned for my welfare?”
Yes. She did not speak the word aloud. However, she feared her expression might have given her away because his smile faded, and his expression turned guarded.
“I suppose this delays your departure further, as now you’ll need to send for an actual chaperone?”
She sent him a confident smile. “Rest assured, I sent for an actual chaperone, sir.” The perfect chaperone.
He did not appear convinced. “If you say so.”
“I do. But…” She twined and untwined her fingers. “Perhaps, given all that’s occurred, you now see the merit in what I broached this morning.”
His expression went from dubious to stony. “You refer to your inane suggestion that you return home to London, on your own, fortified by a set of widow’s weeds? Forget it, Annabelle, especially now.”
“Sir, if it’s the inconvenience of purchasing a ticket—”
He surged from his seat, eyes blazing. “A bloody ticket, madam? Are you mad? I can afford a ticket.”
She blinked up at him. Then, unwilling to crane her neck to look at him, shot to her own feet.
The end result was that they stood far too close, and she was still forced to tilt her head back to meet his eye, but at least they were on equal footing.
“Am I mad? What about you? Did you, or did you not, make it plain as the nose on your face that you wished me to leave Stoneford Castle, all but accusing me of setting out to entrap you into a marriage born of scandal?”
He glared down at her, but did not refute her claim. How could he?
She spread her arms wide. “And now, now that I am offering to do the thing you requested, you call me mad?”
“It isn’t safe,” he said through his teeth. “Someone murdered your maid.”
Some of the steam went out of her at that. “Are you saying…are you saying you fear for my life if I travel alone?”
“Yes.”
She scrunched her brows, trying to make sense of his words. “But this morning,” she began again, scrubbing her hands on her skirts, “when you summarily dismissed my suggestion, you knew nothing of Lucy’s death. What reason did you have, then?”