Chapter 15
At first there was just silence. Master Everel’s body had been carried in out of the rain and lay now on the gallery floor, but none of the few there to witness it uttered a word.
The horror of Gillingham’s death seemed both a long time ago and all too close as Nic stared down at the man who had been a staple of his life for as long as he could remember.
An oft-hated staple perhaps, but he could not imagine Monterris Court without Master Everel to stalk its halls.
Eventually, the duke said, “There is, I presume, no doubt he is dead, Doctor?”
“No doubt, Your Grace, no.” Dr. Fanshaw rolled up his damp sleeves all the same and, kneeling beside Master Everel, pressed two fingers to the man’s pale neck. “No pulse, Your Grace, and he is already growing cold.”
Nic found himself staring at his father. Master Everel had been his vowsmith, his secretary, his everything for more years than Nic knew, yet the duke stood as cold as stone while at his feet the doctor performed a cursory check of the body.
He was just a valet, the duke had snarled after Rowerre’s death. Too well could Nic now imagine his father saying, He was just an indentured vowsmith.
Words started forming on Nic’s sluggish tongue, but before he could utter them, hurried footsteps preceded the arrival of the Serral brothers.
“Val, my man said—” Lord Charborough halted in the archway, forcing Lord Ricard to step around him.
“By God, I was sure it couldn’t be true.
” His gaze darted around the small circle. “What happened?”
“Lord Monterris and Master sa Vare went to fetch the echoes and found him by the pavilion,” the duke said, his voice remarkably steady even for him.
Lord Ricard barked a harsh laugh. “Lord Monterris and Master sa Vare seem to have a bad habit of running into dead bodies.”
Dashiell drew himself up with a scowl. “This one had an arrow in it.”
“An arrow?”
The doctor gestured to the arrow lying on the stones, removed when they’d laid him out in a more dignified manner. “In his back, my lord.”
“Killed?” Lord Charborough said. “Surely not. An accident. It must be.”
Before anyone could answer, the three young ladies of the Serral party arrived, followed by their harassed chaperone. They had all changed their sodden clothes, though by the look of Leaf’s hair, there hadn’t been time for her maid to so much as brush it before the news had reached her.
“Leaf,” Lady Theresa hissed, trying to shepherd her out. “There is no need for this. It is unbecoming to take such interest.”
“What happened?” Leaf demanded, ignoring her. “Dr. Fanshaw?”
“An arrow to the back, my lady,” the doctor said.
“Quite deep, so unlikely to be a glancing blow. However, as I doubt it would have hit any major organs, the fact that he did not call for help means he probably went into shock and bled out. Not a particularly reliable method of killing someone, but in this case clearly effective.”
“Doctor!” Lord Charborough spun a furious glare upon the man. “My daughter does not need to know such sordid details. You will give her nightmares.”
Dr. Fanshaw bowed. “My apologies, my lord,” he said, though he didn’t look at all sorry, nor Leaf at all horrified.
“Theresa, take the girls away; they ought not see such a thing. Refreshments have been served in—”
“I don’t want refreshments, Papa,” Leaf said. “I want to know what happened. I’m not a child and this lock-in is to negotiate my marriage contract. If a man is murdered because of it, surely you must agree it is important to understand why.”
“Murdered? Nonsense. An accident. Arrows flying all over the place.”
“How can you be so sure, Papa?”
“Because what you are suggesting is ridiculous.”
“More or less ridiculous than three people just happening to die quite by chance since we locked ourselves in? Someone,” she went on, turning her fierce stare around the gathered group, “doesn’t want this contract to go ahead. So who will be next?”
“Nonsense,” Lord Charborough blustered again. “Who would—?”
“My uncle, for a start,” Leaf said, causing all eyes to turn Lord Ricard’s way. “You never wanted Papa to make an offer for Nic, did you, Uncle?”
Lord Ricard’s grin grew glassy. “No,” he agreed, amicably. “It’s a foolish marriage and I don’t mind saying so. And I would be well pleased if Vale called it off. But you’ll have noticed, dear niece, that I was the only one without a bow in my hand today.”
“And the rest of us were in pairs the whole time,” Lord Charborough pointed out. “Someone would surely have noticed had anyone slipped away.”
A small gasp pulled attention to Lady Theresa, whose hand trembled before her lips. “Oh no, I’ve just had the most horrible thought.”
“Spit it out, my lady,” Lord Ricard snapped. “Reticence does not become you now.”
Lady Theresa glared at him. “I was only thinking that Her Grace disliked the poor man so much, and she, you know, was very skilled with her bow.”
Nic hated that she was right. His mother could have loosed an arrow at the old vowsmith perhaps without even thinking, the way she sometimes sat pulling petals off flowers. And in her darker moods…
I fear in this mood she would harm him, given the opportunity.
Nic felt the world stutter to a halt, felt the gazes slide his way as they had on the balcony overlooking Gillingham’s body.
His mother’s reaction had been the true horror that night and now he could only be glad she wasn’t present as words defending her lodged in his throat.
Beside Nic, his father remained as silent, leaving Lord Charborough to set his hands upon his hips and step forward.
“Georgiana was with me all afternoon, Theresa,” he said in a tone of disbelief. “And I can assure you she neither missed a shot nor loosed any extra arrows. This is an extraordinary circumstance, I grant you, but that is no reason to turn such accusations upon our hostess.”
“But someone must have done it, Papa,” Leaf pointed out as Lady Theresa shrank back. “Where exactly was he found? And which way was he lying? Perhaps if we could map out the ground and consider where everyone—”
“No.” Gone was Lord Charborough’s usual smile, replaced with a forbidding scowl that could have rivalled even the duke’s.
“I will have neither the poor man nor our hosts humiliated for your childish desire to play detective, Leaf. Oh, you thought I wouldn’t hear you’ve been poking around the house?
Well! This stops now. Unlike in your silly books, there is no murderer here, just a series of unfortunate accidents. ”
Leaf’s eyes widened in the face of her father’s fury as he turned to Dr. Fanshaw. “Doctor, perhaps instead of making idle conjecture you could help the servants transport the body to the crypt. The poor man has lain upon the floor being stared at quite long enough.”
What could be said in the wake of such words?
The duke gave his permission with a nod and Master Everel’s body was carried out, hanging heavy between two footmen like an unwieldy roll of carpet.
In his wake, Nic found he wanted more than anything to escape, to change his sodden clothes and take a moment just to think, but one pressing question remained unanswered.
“What happens to the contract now?” he said, giving it voice. “Without Master Everel, I mean.”
A wary murmur had sprung up, and Lady Theresa had renewed her attempts to get the young ladies out of the room, but Nic’s words struck silence back into the gathered party.
Most eyes turned to Dashiell, but it was the duke who sighed and said, “There is nothing for it. I will have to take his place.”
“No.” Lord Ricard shook his head, a flash of fury in his eyes. “That is unacceptable. I will not have you getting your hands on the negotiations.”
The duke eyed Lord Ricard with disdain. “You have another suggestion? I am all ears, as I have no desire whatsoever to waste my time sitting in on the negotiations when I have your audit to prepare for. Master sa Vare?”
Appealed to, Dashiell cleared his throat.
“The statutes do allow for changes in unusual circumstances and this surely counts as unusual. The rest of the Monterris team can do the actual negotiations, but a pair of vowsmiths are required to manifest the completed contract and His Grace is the only other man here to have attained the required rank.”
“This is ridiculous!” Lord Ricard cried. “The man cannot be allowed to negotiate his own contract unless we are allowed—”
“You are welcome to sit in on the proceedings, my lord,” Dashiell said coldly, his hauteur only slightly diminished by the damp shirt still sticking to his chest. “However, as it is my job to ensure your interests are maintained whether you are present or not—no matter the identity of the opposing negotiator—I do hope you are not questioning my professional standing? You may, of course, break the contract and withdraw instead if you so choose.”
“No.” For the second time, Lord Charborough’s voice resounded through the gallery, seeming to quiet even the rain outside.
He turned a glare on Lord Ricard. “We will not be withdrawing. The negotiations go ahead. I have full confidence in Master sa Vare to ensure our interests are maintained, and I won’t hear a word otherwise. ”
Lord Ricard threw a sneer at the duke. “Killed him yourself so you could get your hands on the negotiations, eh, Val?”
“Ricard!”
“Hardly,” the duke said. “The loss of Master Everel to this house will be felt far beyond this moment.”
“Good. May you know how it feels.”
“Enough,” Lord Charborough hissed. “Not another word of this.”
With an ugly smirk, Lord Ricard bowed. “As you wish, Brother. But if you’ll excuse me, I’ve had quite enough of you all for the day.” He turned to leave, only to pause beside Dashiell. “It seems this contract is cursed. I’d watch my back if I were you, Master sa Vare.”