Sir Humphrey nodded. They reached the porch, and he halted and beckoned the constable who’d been standing unobtrusively against the house’s front wall. “Sergeant Crickwell.” Sir Humphrey waved at Sebastian. “This is the Marquess of Earith. He and a lady—Lady Antonia Rawlings—have permission to ride out as they wish. Everyone else, however, staff as well as her ladyship and the guests, are to remain at the house. They can walk the lawns, but for the moment, no farther.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll pass the word.” Sergeant Crickwell nodded and stepped back into the shadows.
Blanchard had heard their voices; he opened the front door before they reached it. Sebastian walked beside Sir Humphrey into the house. Blanchard closed the door and followed; he anticipated their direction and moved to stand by the drawing room door.
Frowning, Sir Humphrey halted and turned to Sebastian. “A man, don’t you think?” he murmured.
Sebastian considered, then said, “Most likely, but not necessarily. Whoever stabbed Ennis, he had to have known them to allow them to get that close.” He saw the scene in his mind, imagined how it would have played out. “As I recall, there was one clean strike—angled upward to hit the heart. I didn’t see any signs of a scuffle, did you?”
“No.” Sir Humphrey grunted. “And I suppose you’re right. With a sufficiently sharp weapon, a woman could have delivered that blow.”
“I believe,” Sebastian said, “that from the time they quit the dining table, all the ladies were together in the music room. If so, they can vouch for each other.”
“Excellent. We’d best get that out of the way first.”
Blanchard was hovering, his gaze flicking from Sebastian to Sir Humphrey, presumably seeking some hint of Sir Humphrey’s stance on Sebastian’s possible guilt.
Sir Humphrey noticed. He humphed and gave Blanchard the same instructions he’d given Crickwell. “No one at all to depart, mind, and that includes all the staff, although his lordship here and Lady Antonia are free to come and go.”
“We will, however, be remaining as part of the house party,” Sebastian clarified.
Blanchard inclined his head. To Sir Humphrey, he said, “The murder has shaken the staff, sir, as one might expect. If there’s any reassurance I might convey…?”
Sir Humphrey sighed. “At this moment, Blanchard, there’s nothing I can say that would reassure anyone.” He nodded toward the drawing room. “I’m going to ask a few more questions, then allow everyone to retire for the night. I’ll leave constables on watch inside and outside the house—that should calm any imminent hysteria. I expect to be back tomorrow morning with the inspector Scotland Yard will send down. You might ask among the staff if anyone saw or heard anything that might be relevant—for instance, whether anyone unexpected was seen leaving the house around ten o’clock.”
Blanchard bowed. “Very good, sir. I will inquire.” He moved to open the drawing room door.
Sir Humphrey led the way in. Sebastian followed. As the door closed behind him, he surveyed the company spread around the room. Everyone had looked up, but most gazes flitted over him and fixed on Sir Humphrey as the magistrate walked forward.
Only Antonia continued looking at Sebastian, incipient concern in her eyes. He met her gaze, infinitesimally shook his head, and strolled to reclaim his position on the sofa beside her.
Sir Humphrey, meanwhile, took up a stance at the end of the rug directly opposite the fireplace and faced the assembled company. “Now, if you will bear with me, I have a few simple questions, and then you may retire. I understand that, on rising from the dinner table, the ladies gathered in the music room, which from memory is toward the rear corner of the ground floor, beyond the breakfast room. At what time did you rise from the dinner table?”
The ladies exchanged glances, then Cecilia mumbled something around the handkerchief pressed to her lips, and Mrs. Parrish, beside her, spoke up. “It was about twenty minutes past nine o’clock.”
A murmur of agreement came from various female throats, and some of the men nodded as well.
“Excellent. So the ladies gathered in the music room. Did you all go there directly?”
“I believe so.” Mrs. Parrish looked at the other ladies for confirmation.
Antonia’s clear voice cut across the resulting chatter. “Miss Wainwright and I were the last of the ladies to reach the music room. As I recollect, all the other ladies walked ahead of us, and all of us went directly into the music room.”
Melissa Wainwright nodded. “That’s correct. We brought up the rear, and all the others were ahead of us. No one went anywhere else.”
“And you all remained in the music room until the murder was discovered?”
“Yes” and “Definitely” came from all sides.
Then Miss Bilhurst said, “I was at the piano for most of the time—until we heard the alarm. I was playing, and from the stool, I could see all the ladies and the door. No one was rude enough to leave—I noticed. Everyone was still there when we heard…” She waved vaguely.
“Thank you.” Satisfied, Sir Humphrey cast his gaze over the gentlemen. “So the ladies left at twenty minutes past nine. I assume the gentlemen remained to pass the decanters?”
Most of the men nodded.
Sebastian stated, “As I recall, all the gentlemen remained in the dining room, at the table, for only a relatively short time. About ten minutes after the ladies left, Ennis excused himself on the grounds of having some pressing matter of business to deal with.”
Sir Humphrey glanced around, and a number of men murmured agreement. “So,” Sir Humphrey concluded, “the critical question for all the gentlemen will be where each of you were between half past nine and ten o’clock, when Lord Earith found Ennis dead.”
There was silence for a moment, then Mrs. McGibbin exclaimed, “Great heavens, sir! You can’t possibly think that any of those here stabbed his lordship.” She sounded faintly incredulous and genuinely shocked.
“I gather the study window was open,” Hadley Featherstonehaugh said. “Surely Ennis came upon some vagrant rifling his desk, and the miscreant stabbed him and escaped.”
Sir Humphrey inclined his head. “We are pursuing that notion.”
“Good Lord!” Mrs. Parrish had paled. “A murdering vagrant on the loose. Why, any of us might be murdered in our beds!”
Antonia uttered a muted but plainly derisive sound.
With his hands, Sir Humphrey gestured for calm. “There’s no cause for panic—I will be leaving constables on watch inside the house and around about. You needn’t fear any villain will get in. However, I must insist that, until the inspector arrives and gives you leave, you must all remain at the house.”
The announcement elicited various mumbled comments and several grumbling ones, but in the face of Cecilia’s grief, her guests refrained from making any more strident complaint.
“So can we go to our rooms, then?” Melinda Boyne asked somewhat plaintively.
“Yes, indeed.” Sir Humphrey gave a short bow. “Thank you for your forbearance. I will return in the morning with the inspector, and we’ll evaluate where we are then.”
The company didn’t wait for further encouragement. Most rose and made for the door in twos and threes.
Sir Humphrey walked to where Cecilia sat, exchanged a few quiet words, then, with a last general nod, headed for the door.
Antonia looked at Sebastian. When he met her eyes, she murmured, “We can’t talk here. Let’s go up.”
Together, they rose and fell in behind Mrs. Parrish and Mrs. McGibbin, who between them were supporting Cecilia upstairs.
Considering Cecilia—considering the depth of shock he’d glimpsed in her eyes—Sebastian wondered if she’d known anything of Ennis’s fears. He did not for a moment imagine she was in any way complicit in her husband’s murder; quite aside from her eminently sincere grief, he couldn’t imagine that becoming a widow would ever have been a part of the future Cecilia had planned. If he’d been asked, he would ha
ve said she’d enjoyed her life as it had been; she and Ennis had understood each other, and regardless of their dalliances, had got along well.
He and Antonia left Mrs. McGibbin and Mrs. Parrish helping a wilting Cecilia into her room.
The instant they’d passed under the archway and into the east wing, Antonia’s fingers curled into his sleeve, and she tugged, then towed him up the corridor to her room.
She opened the door. He glanced quickly down the corridor—confirming it was deserted—then followed her inside and shut the door behind him.
Antonia lit the lamp that stood on a side table by the armchair near the fireplace. She adjusted the wick until the lamp shed a golden circle of light over the area before the hearth. Then she straightened and looked at Sebastian; he’d followed her and had halted before the hearth, and now stood gazing into the fire. “What on earth did Ennis mean?” she asked. “Gunpowder here. Here, where?”
Lit principally by the firelight, Sebastian’s features appeared chiseled and harsh. His lips thinned. “Precisely. Here meaning England. Here meaning south-east England, including London. Here meaning Kent or this stretch of coast. Or here meaning this estate or even just the house.”
She folded her arms and gripped her elbows. She felt chilled, as if the proximity of violent death had cast an icy pall over her. “He could have meant any of those as far as I can see.” She started to pace back and forth, a yard before the hearth and parallel to it—driven by restlessness more than anything else.
“Hmm.” Sebastian straightened his shoulders, then glanced at her and saw her pacing. He hesitated for a second, then turned and fell to pacing, too. His longer strides carried him around her on a roughly oval track.
She knew he paced when deep in thought. Fixing her gaze on the floor, she paced in more restrained fashion. “Presumably, ‘gunpowder here’ is the crux of the message Ennis intended to give Drake. If they—whoever they might be—have some gunpowder here—wherever ‘here’ is—what are they planning to do with it?”
“Blow something up.” Sebastian paced on. “But what?”
“But that’s a clue, isn’t it?” Antonia swung around and paced back. “Who would think to gather gunpowder and blow something up?”
“Given Ennis’s connections to the Young Irelanders, I can’t see the ‘who’ being any other group.”
“I thought the Young Irelanders—those left after the rebellion was put down—were more peaceable, these days.”
“Those remaining in the public eye are, but no doubt there are more militant elements still skulking in the shadows.”
“So if it is the Young Irelanders, what would they be likely to want to blow up?”
His gaze on the floor, he shook his head. “Most likely something in London, but it might be elsewhere—for instance, Windsor Castle.”
The edge of her skirts flicked into his field of vision. Abruptly, he halted—just in time.
With a suppressed squeak, she pulled up—less than an inch away. With a sliver of air—heated and heating—separating her breasts from his chest.
She swayed with the suddenness of her halting, even as her head jerked up, and her eyes met his.
Wide gray eyes, roiling with surging heat, with passion, with desire—with hunger. In that instant, he saw it all—and was seized with a powerful, nearly overwhelming urge to reach out and take—to raise his hands, close them about her waist, and jerk her the last inch to him.
And what then?
His mind reeled. He felt himself teetering at a metaphorical fork in his path. This way—or that?
But the decision was irreversible.
Antonia stared into pale green eyes—warlock’s eyes with the power to mesmerize. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think. But she could feel temptation—rich, alluring, compelling—slide across her skin.
It whispered to her senses, stroked them beguilingly.
Enticed her…
Her lips felt fuller; the lower throbbed.
As if he knew, his gaze fell to fasten on her mouth.
For a second, they stood frozen.
Then he hauled in a breath and stepped back. Without meeting her eyes, he turned to the door. “We should sleep on our questions.”
The ones about you and me, or the ones about gunpowder? As he crossed to the door, she was tempted to ask. Once she was free of his immediate orbit, her wits functioned with their customary facility.
“No doubt we’ll see things in a clearer light come morning.” He paused at the door, his hand on the knob, and through the shadows looked back at her. Then he nodded somewhat curtly and went out.
She watched the door quietly close behind him, then heard his footsteps, muted by the runner, continue down the corridor to his room.
She discovered she could breathe again, although her lungs still felt constricted. Standing, staring at the space where he’d last been, she considered what her senses told her was the portent of that last dark look of his.
He’d been as tempted as she, but he’d set the personal aside and stepped back from taking the next obvious step in what seemed to be evolving between them in favor of dealing with the mission—the mission that was increasingly looking as if it involved a threat to the realm. Gunpowder suggested a fairly major event and a significant target.
She supposed she had to accept his decision as the sensible way forward.
She rang for Beccy and spent the next twenty minutes immersed in the commonplace, in the routine of preparing for bed.
But once Beccy had left, and she lay under the covers, shrouded in darkness, she finally allowed her mind to refocus on the evening’s events…
Sebastian had been right, but for her, clarity had already arrived.
And courtesy of that, concern was slowly welling inside her.
If Ennis had been killed in order to prevent him from speaking to Sebastian, then presumably the killer had guessed that Sebastian was Drake’s surrogate. But the killer had fled before Ennis had died.
What if the killer started to worry that, despite being at death’s door, before he’d died, Ennis had managed to pass his message on to Sebastian—not just two words but the whole message?
Wouldn’t the killer seek to kill Sebastian?
Sebastian, who was being accommodated by Sir Humphrey and already being treated differently than the other guests.
There was more than enough in the situation to make any killer nervous.
Admittedly, Sebastian had let everyone else believe Ennis was already dead when he’d reached him, but being Drake’s surrogate, he would have done that regardless. Such a pretense wouldn’t protect him from a nervous killer.
Should anything occur to delay me…
Her eyes narrowed. Sebastian had suggested that the magistrate might detain him, but how likely was that? As he’d already demonstrated, he’d had no difficulty winning Sir Humphrey to his cause.
No—he’d foreseen the possibility that the killer might come for him, and that was why he’d extracted that promise from her.
Fierce determination rose within her—a compulsion powered by potent and forceful emotions. The feeling was so startlingly strong, it took her several moments to identify it. Protectiveness, but of a strain she’d never before experienced.
Now she’d finally come to her senses and fully appreciated what Sebastian was to her—and it appeared he’d finally focused on her, too—she was not going to allow any killer to get in the way of what she already considered their joint future.
Of course, that future was still undecided and might not come to be, but if so, it would be at their determination; she was not of a mind to allow any killer to interfere, much less dictate.
She lay staring up at the ceiling as possibilities and options revolved in her mind.
As it happened, the best way forward was relatively easy to define.
She would stick like glue to Sebastian’s side through whatever investigative forays he made; that, she felt certain, as her lids fe
ll and she slid toward slumber, was the only viable way of ensuring that the killer in their midst had no chance to derail the future she was now determined to explore.
Chapter 6
The following morning, feeling decidedly grim, Sebastian walked along the gallery and started down the stairs. He’d spent far too many hours over the past night thinking—of Antonia and that fraught moment in her room.
If he had the time again, he was almost certain he would react differently—that he would give in to the urgent compulsion that had gripped him, if only to see where it led.
Anything would be better—less aggravating—than all the hours he’d spent tossing in his bed.
Yet despite the lust that hovered like a combustible cloud between them—a cloud he knew very well would grow only more dense, more intense, the longer they refrained from igniting it and letting it burn—despite the fact the scales had now fallen from his eyes regarding her, and if he was any judge, had fallen from her eyes regarding him as well, now was not the time to pursue such a connection. Not with a murderer under the same roof, and God alone knew what danger hovering.
Gunpowder. Here.
Ennis’s words haunted him, constantly replaying in his mind.
Duty and Drake’s mission came first. Antonia and whatever might come of their new level of interaction could safely wait until later.
That said, he’d already realized that he wouldn’t be able to concentrate on the mission, on figuring out which ‘here’ Ennis had meant, if he—the less civilized male inside him—wasn’t assured of Antonia’s safety.
With a murderer in the company, the only way to ensure she was safe was to keep her with him.
Given her typical feminine curiosity and her predilection for involving herself in whatever was going on, he felt confident keeping her by his side wouldn’t require any great effort.