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She couldn’t get Amelia’s letter out of her head. Much as Celeste tried, it was as if the lines had engraved themselves onto the inside of her eyelids, forcing her to review them again and again, awake or asleep.
That she had been able to rest at all bore testament to how draining the previous day had been. Between her anxiety over her arrival in England, the meeting with her future family and the argument with her brother-in-law-to-be, even her sister’s ominous words had not managed to keep her awake for more than one or two additional hours. She considered this nothing short of a blessing. Meeting the Viscount and Viscountess had been an intimidating prospect even before she had found out there was something seriously wrong in Windcroft Manor.
As she followed Effie trough the Manor now, moving towards breakfast and a likely meeting with her intended and his brother, she tried to put together what she knew.
Fact one: someone had been after her sister, and if she was unlucky, that someone was one of the very people she was to live with. But the question remained: was the fact that someone had stalked her enough to assume Amelia had been murdered? Her death, as shocking as it had been, could still be nothing more than a terrible coincidence, a freak of nature, one more unfair fate among millions.
What if she was deluding herself? A part of her wanted Amelia’s death to have been unnatural, to have been more than a senseless whim of fate. She wanted to believe that there was a reason her beloved sister was gone. But accepting that also meant accepting that one of the people sleeping under the same roof as her could be a murderer. A murderer that, under certain circumstances, viewed her as the next obstacle to be removed. She recalled the words Amelia had used in her letter – “Francis is expecting to meet with me soon, and I don’t know what he wants”.
Had he lured her into a trap? But what motive would Amelia’s fiancé have had to murder her? There were far easier, not to mention more lawful and ethical, ways to get out of an engagement. Francis Somerset had struck her as aloof, but not as immoral.
Or was his brother the culprit? Mr. John had made quite clear that he did not trust her motives; who was to say that he had trusted Amelia? Then again, his worry for his brother had seemed genuine enough, and antipathy did not justify murder. As little as she thought of him – that uncouth, arrogant, presumptuous bastard – she couldn’t allow her feelings to cloud her judgment.
Her reverie was interrupted when Effie suddenly stopped. “Here we are, Miss Celeste.”
“Oh.” They stood in front of an arched doorway, undoubtably the breakfast parlour she had asked to be escorted to. Open doors granted a view of light wooden panelling and a buffet table stood against the wall. Snippets of conversation, too quiet to make out clearly, drifted out into the hallway. She had been so lost in her musings that she had hardly taken notice of her surroundings up until this very moment. She offered her guide a small smile; a paltry token of gratitude, but it would have to do. “Thank you, Effie. You may go.”
“Of course, Miss.”
With that, Effie curtsied and left her to steel herself on her own. Quite likely, whoever was inside that room already knew she was there, so she merely took a deep breath, righted her posture, and walked inside with her head held high.
Both Mr. Francis and Mr. John were already seated at the table, and both rose at her entrance. She gave them her prettiest smile; the last thing she wanted them to have was any inkling of what she knew. “A good morning to you, gentlemen. I hope I’m not late.”
“Not at all. I trust you slept well?”
“I have, Mr. Francis, thank you.” She filled her plate at the buffet and took her place in the proffered chair, whereafter the men resumed their seats as well. Next to Mr. Francis’ plate were several pieces of paper, letters by the look of them, while Mr. John had a newspaper close to his. Obviously, they had both been reading, but neither of them seemed in a hurry to resume. “I haven’t interrupted you, have I?”
Instead of the paper, Mr. John picked up his teacup. “The courteous, if untrue, answer to that question would be no.”
“I see.” She smiled politely. “Courtesy can be a tricky business, can it not?”
His face remained perfectly calm despite the barely hidden barb. “Not at all. I merely happen to not be overly fond of affectation, or of the joy my social class finds in talking in circles around facts.”
Before Celeste could answer, still smiling and perfectly friendly, of course, Mr. Francis cleared his throat. “Miss Hayes, I want to apologize again for leaving so abruptly last evening. That was uncourteous of me, after you had just arrived.”
“It is really no matter, Mr. Francis. You have your duties, after all.”
“Quite. Nevertheless, John told me just now that he showed you our gardens. I hope they were to your liking?”
“They were lovely. At home, there isn’t much space for sprawling gardens, so I’m looking forward to taking a more extensive walk to appreciate them fully. Perhaps you would be kind enough to accompany me?”
Her smile garnered her nothing but an absent-minded nod. “That would certainly be appropriate.”
“If you find the time.” Obviously bored of the conversation, Mr. John picked up his paper once more. “Didn’t you just say you are drowning in work?”
“Nevertheless, spending time with Miss Hayes is the appropriate thing to do. She just arrived, after all. Unless you are keen to cover for me again?”
Mr. John lifted his brows. “I strongly suspect the goal behind her suggestion was getting to know her fiancé better. Which, unless plans changed, isn’t me.”
“You don’t need to trouble yourselves over me.” A footman offering her tea distracted her for a moment, and she accepted the cup gratefully. “If you tell me which parts of the house I am to keep away from, I am perfectly content spending my time familiarizing myself with everything.”
“Leaving you to yourself would hardly be a mark of hospitality, Miss Hayes.” Surprisingly, the remark came not from Mr. Francis, but his brother.
A snide remark about how little he had cared about making guests feel welcome in his home not even a day ago was on her tongue, but she swallowed it as she would have swallowed bitter coffee. There was no point in confusing Mr. Francis with passive-aggressive remarks he couldn’t possibly understand just to let his brother know she had neither forgotten nor forgiven his insinuations. Worst came to worst, that kind of behaviour would achieve nothing but making her seem like an ill-tempered harpy.
“No need to trouble yourself, Mr. John. I wouldn’t want you to be kept from important business on account of a mere stranger in your home. If I end up bored, your library will offer me ample entertainment. If I am permitted to use it, of course.”
The words were no epitome of civility, but at the very least, she had kept a neutral tone. By her estimation, that would have been enough to keep even Delia from executing her on the spot for her insolence.
„Of course you may use it,“ Mr. Francis said promptly. „This is to be your…your home, after all.”
“Thank you. I didn’t want to presume.”
“Grandmother will love that decorum”, noted Mr. John. “I take it you’re an avid reader? Your sister,” he glanced sideways at his brother, who looked down, but said nothing, “loved to read as well, from what I’ve heard.”
“She did,” Mr. Francis said brusquely. “She mentioned our collection would be of interest to you, Miss Hayes.”
Again, his harsh reaction to mention of her sister left her at a loss. His irritableness might very well be born of grief, but to herself, those little reminders of Amelia were cause for sorrow rather than anger. She forced a smile. “Reading was probably the one passion we shared, and even then, our tastes were rather different. But that only meant we could learn from each other. It was fun.”
Both she and Amelia had liked both novels and more serious, non-fictitious work – while their parents had kept them from higher education, their father had seen no harm in giving them free use of his library, or even in procuring works they were interested in. They had whiled away many an evening sharing knowledge and commentary, even if those evenings had become less and less frequent the older they had gotten. There had been so many arguments, so much laughter, so many barbs. And they would never spend an evening like that again.
Her throat constricted.
She would never spend an evening like that again. Amelia would never spend an evening again at all.
Deep breaths. Staring at her plate and focusing on breathing for a few seconds helped, but turning her attention back to her breakfast partners was a struggle. Nevertheless, she pressed forward. She couldn’t fall apart. She wouldn’t.
“Your collection is quite large, so if I ever feel the need to while away the hours, I’m sure it will keep me busy.”
“Good. Maybe they’ll finally be of more use than catching dust.” With that, Mr. John turned his attention squarely back on his newspaper, and as Mr. Francis seemed greatly occupied with his breakfast, the conversation was, for the moment, at an end. At the very least, that meant she could finally eat. After her cold dinner of the previous evening, Celeste was too glad of the warm, hearty meal to voice complaints about the quality of conversation. It also gave her a chance to really take in the parlour. From the walls, hung with paintings of landscapes and hunting scenes, her gaze drifted over to the windows. The room looked out onto the gardens and a blue sky hung with clouds, so different from the rainy grey she had expected of England. It was the perfect day to explore the outside areas of her new home. She could only hope there would be an opportunity – if Mr. Francis found it in himself to spend time with her, perhaps she could even try to pry some information out of him.
I should be worried about how much rather I’d think of him as a murder suspect than as my future husband…
Of course, there was an alternative culprit right in that room: his brother. Regardless of his worry for Mr. Francis, Mr. John might have interpreted something Amelia had done as a threat to his family. Quite likely, she hadn’t even realized it was a threat; he hadn’t needed actual proof for his insults against her either, after all. Surely, a former soldier knew how to take lives. And even if he wasn’t the culprit, he was a useful tool to gather information about his brother.
She needed that information. Without information, there was no point in trying to draw conclusions, at least if she wanted those conclusions to lead her anywhere. And to get information, she would have to talk to the brothers – despite the anger roiling in her stomach whenever she turned her eye on Mr. John. She couldn’t forget his words; not that she had tried very fervently. Had he merely warned her to respect his family’s grief, she could have forgiven him, but she didn’t think she would ever forgive the insinuation that she took joy in Amelia’s death.
“Is there a reason you are trying to burn a hole through that paper?”
The remark had, as she discovered quickly, been directed from Mr. Francis to his brother, who was indeed staring at the paper as if it had offended him personally. Brows furrowed, he looked up at them. “The Turkish grand vizier was shot. As if things on the continent weren’t bad enough already.”
“Do they know who did it?”
“Not yet.” He folded the paper and put it down on the table. “And as if that isn’t enough, there is still unrest because of that suffragette’s death a few days ago.”
That had her perk up. “Emily Davison? The one that was run over by the King’s horse?” Onboard the ship that had carried her across the Atlantic, there hadn’t been a lot of news, but she had heard enough while waiting for her chauffeur at the seaport. Even now, she wasn’t sure what to think. She supported the suffragettes and what they stood for wholeheartedly, even if she had never quite plucked up the courage to get personally involved. Even so, running onto a racecourse seemed irresponsible and pointless to her.
Mr. John nodded. „The very same.“
“What a horrible way to die.” Celeste shuddered. “To be in a coma for days, only to never wake again…” At least that consolation she had: her sister’s death, if not painless, had been quick. Only that doesn’t make her any less dead. She swallowed hard as she once again came face to face with the realization that she would never see her sister again. Someone had murdered her, had taken her away from her, possibly one of the men now sharing a table with her. She put her fork down; she found she had suddenly lost all appetite.
The men took – or chose not to take – no notice of her words or action. “Gemma will have opinions about this at dinner tonight,” Mr. John said to his brother.
“Doubtless. So will Grandmother.” Mr. Francis shuddered. “How bad will it be, do you think?”
“Providing cover for ourselves beforehand might be a wise precaution.” Only then did Mr. John spare a glance at Celeste as if he had suddenly remembered her presence. “Our cousin is a very avid supporter of women’s suffrage,” he explained.
“Oh, will she attend the dinner?” Secretly, she had been hoping only the inhabitants of the manor would attend. During her debut in New York society, she had attended larger dinner parties, but she had never been forced to prove herself as she would have to this evening. She could only hope the family hadn’t invited the whole of their acquaintance. Other than the added pressure, it would also only serve to complicate her efforts of gathering information without anyone noticing.
Mr. Francis cleared his throat. “She is a distant cousin. Her estate, Barrington House, is situated not too far from here, so we often invite her to such semi-formal events. She is somewhat…headstrong, but I am sure you will get along well.”
“I’ll do my best to make a good first impression.”
Francis nodded. “Is there any other interesting news, John?”
In lieu of an answer, his brother handed him the paper and stood. “I trust you haven’t forgotten how to read. Well, if no one objects, I will excuse myself. I promised Father to inquire about that lame horse before he returns. Francis. Miss Hayes.”
With that, he left her alone with Amelia’s fiancé – her fiancé – for the first time since her arrival. It still did not seem quite real that she was to wed the man in less than three months; a man she didn’t know much more about than the few anecdotes her sister had told her in her letters. Looking at him now, Celeste wasn’t sure it would feel real even when they were standing before the altar.
Not that it mattered. There was little she could do about the situation without disappointing her parents most dreadfully. And first, she first had to find out if her dear fiancé wasn’t involved in her sister’s death – were that to be the case, she wouldn’t have to worry about a wedding one way or another. Even Delia wouldn’t expect her to wed a murderer.
At least she hoped so.
She cleared her throat to breach the silence. “Do you have many duties regarding the management of the estate? I fear my lessons did not cover the involvement of a peer’s heir in his duties.”
That caught his attention only briefly before he once again looked down at his breakfast. “It varies, as you can imagine. My father, for instance, wants me to be prepared for my future duties and wants our tenants to know me…and I them. I fear it takes up a good deal of my time.”
She supposed that this was his way of warning her that he would spend little time with her – even up until now she had seen more of his brother than of him, after all. For a moment, she wondered if that was the true reason. She wasn’t blind. People had been telling her how alike she and Amelia looked ever since her adolescence; they both took after their father far more than after their mothers. She couldn’t even fault Francis for finding it difficult to look at her; every glance at her face must remind him of her dead sister.
But did that difficulty stem from grief…or guilt?
It was up to her to figure that out. Step one: she had to gain his trust. So she took a breath, smiled prettily, and nodded. “Your commitment to your duties is admirable. It quite reminds me of my father.”
“Thank you.” He didn’t smile but cleared his throat once more and picked up the paper his brother had given him. Obviously, he considered their conversation finished, and as Celeste didn’t want to annoy him by forcing one anyway and needed to think up a strategy, they spent the rest of their meal in silence. Francis waited until they were both done and showed her the way to the garden doors at her request before he politely excused himself. Apparently, this was to be a busy day for him, and he couldn’t promise to be present for luncheon, but would see her at afternoon tea at the latest.
And so, it transpired that Celeste, after putting on her jacket and hat and making her way outside, took her walk in the garden on her own. The morning was bright and clear, not exactly warm, but at least it wasn’t raining. Here and there, she could even see fragments of that blue sky behind the clouds, and the air smelled fresh and clean – filled with the scent of the flowers planted alongside the well-groomed path – completely unlike everything she knew from home. Right outside the door, the path led off in three directions; straight ahead to the folly Mr. John had pointed out the previous evening, left between flowerbeds towards the creek on the edge of the garden and right towards high hedges, passing more flowerbeds. On a whim, she decided to go to the right. Strolling along, she once again let her thoughts wander towards her theories.
She could be sure of precious little. Amelia had come to England to be wed. Then she had discovered some sort of terrible secret, had feared someone hunting her, and now she was dead. Had she been right? Whose secret had she discovered? Was it a Somerset family secret, or was the family not involved at all? But Francis had been the last one to see her alive. Had they had a falling out? Had she learned something about him he wanted to be kept hidden? She needed to ask someone about their behaviour before the murder, but whom could she trust, if she didn’t have even the slighted inkling of who was behind it? Mr. Francis, his brother, and even Effie were all possible suspects. Only one thing was clear: she needed a plan, and she needed it soon.
But what direction to take if one stood in the middle of a dark forest without a flashlight, with roots to trip one up and predators lurking in the shadows, only waiting for a chance to strike? One wrong step could be her end. Just trust in the starlight, Amelia would have said, but even in Celeste’s mental image, she didn’t see so much as the hand before her eyes.
For the moment, her best bet was to focus her efforts on the Somerset brothers. If they weren’t involved, they, especially Francis, had likely noticed something amiss. As of yet, she couldn’t say which of them was the more likely murderer – there was that ominous meeting with Francis Amelia’s letter alluded to, but John had seemed more hostile to her than his brother. Then again, she needed to consider who would be more amenable to being subtly questioned – Francis was busy all the time, but she wasn’t in the mood for more insults from John, either.
Get your priorities in order, Celeste. Mood or no mood, if a conversation with him helped clear up what had happened to her sister, she had to talk to him. She owed it to Amelia.
Lost in her thoughts, she had reached an opening in the towering hedges. One glance inside made her realize what she had stumbled upon: a hedge maze, the kind said to be a staple of English country houses. In most stories she had heard, there had been some treasure at the centre, but she forced herself to keep following the path. The last thing she needed was the embarrassment of having to be rescued out of a hedge maze on her very first day.
She followed the path until she reached another bridge across the same creek she had traversed the previous evening with Mr. John. Briefly, she considered throwing in another coin to wish for an answer to her many questions, but decided against it. Nobody got to where they wanted just by wishing for it, especially in important matters, her father liked to say – only by throwing oneself into work. Sighing, she crossed the stream, only to see several benches arranged in a semi-circle around a stone birdbath, sheltered by the branches of a thick, gnarled oak tree. In summer, this place had to be a haven of shadow. If only I had taken a book with me when I came out here. Ah well, something to remember.
It was good to know that there was at least something her she could find joy in, if she pushed her dark suspicions aside for a moment. Smiling, she ambled on. Even though this was only a garden surrounded by fields, hardly comparable to roaming through nature, Celeste was so little used to big gardens that this excess of vibrant flowers, trees and bushes left her entirely enchanted.
And so she wandered, stopping now and then to take in some flowers or the sunbeams shining through the leaves, painting pictures on the path, until she reached an iron-wrought gate; obviously the garden’s rear exit. As a test, she pushed down the handle, only to find it open. Good to know the Somersets put so much importance on safety. She was about to close the gate once more when she caught sight of Mr. John marching towards her. He paused when he spotted her, before resuming his steps at a more measured pace.
“Miss Hayes, what a surprise to run into you here, of all places.”
He didn’t smile, only inclining his head politely as he slipped past her through the gate. She couldn’t tell if this kind of cool politeness was merely his habit – as the previous evening suggested – or if he too hadn’t forgotten their argument.
Even though there was no one around to observe impoliteness on her part, she gathered her years of etiquette lessons around her like a cloak and nodded. “I could say the same to you. I thought you wanted to go to the stables.”
“And there I have been.” He turned around to lock the gate again, which at least answered her question about safety. Only after that, did she get his full attention. “But I find the way through the gardens far more scenic than the front door.”
“How is the horse?”
“Fine. Only a sprain it will soon recover from.” Instead of leaving it at that and returning to the house to let her continue her walk in peace, he studied her carefully. “I assume I interrupted your walk?”
“Indeed. I hope you don’t think I got lost on the way to my room or suffered a bout of confusion.”
“Not at all. I never doubted your intellect.” Clearing his throat, he seemed to consider for a moment before continuing. “If want company for your walk, I can offer mine.”
“Thank you, but I don’t wish to bother you.” She hoped her years of practice made her smile at least somewhat believable. “After all, you have already shown me around yesterday.”
He didn’t look convinced. “My parents are sure to be quite put out if they hear my brother and I left you to yourself.”
“Mr. Somerset, I assure you, it’s not necessary.” The last thing she wanted was to spend more time with this man before she had had a chance to consider which information she wanted to get out of him and how. Since he still looked at her as if he wanted to argue, she met his gaze unflinchingly and added: “You have made clear enough that you don’t trust me, but I assure you, neither am I making plans on how to best use your family, nor how to best get away with the family silver.”
He arched his eyebrows. “I highly doubt your family has need of our family silver. You were better off trying to steal one of our antiques. Or the family register.”
“Do you happen to have any recommendations on which antiquities are the most suitable? Just while we’re at it.” The fact that the answer was deeply sarcastic did not perturb him in the slightest. Quite the opposite, in fact. The corners of his mouth raised as he pretended to ponder the question.
“I’d say that depends on your intentions with them. Your family is not lacking in money, so the fiscal value can be neglected, while impressiveness is key. You want to bludgeon viewers with prestige, after all. Moreover, it should be something whose disappearance isn’t immediately noticeable, while it must be small enough to be easily concealed. Sadly, our antiquities of the highest prestige happen to be those whose disappearance we would notice first.”
Only the strongest restraint kept her from laughing and shooting back that in that case, she had better find a good counterfeiter. She felt as she had the previous evening when his mocking commentary on upper-class excesses and the faults of Empire had reconciled her with the embarrassment she had suffered on her arrival. But that had been before he had accused her of being a heartless, faithless title grabber. It didn’t matter that he was a pleasant conversationalist if he so deigned. No one could expect her to fall for the same trick twice, especially if it was played by someone with as little empathy as John Somerset.
So she smothered her smile, straightened her posture, and looked him in the eye. “I wouldn’t know. I have never attempted to steal anything.”
“Comforting to know, although I assume neither of us ever had the need to.” He let his gaze wander over the fields beyond the gate. “After all, both of us have been born with a silver spoon in our mouths, as the saying goes.”
“You’d be surprised how many people not in need of more steal anyway.” Of course, her father did not want her to be informed about such matters, but Celeste had heard of enough businessmen using any and all available loopholes to make bigger gains than they had a right to. Amelia especially had ranted on several occasions about how unfairly workers were treated in the name of the bottom line and how little some of them had to live on.
Listening to her had always made her thankful for the privileged life she had been born into.
John’s face darkened. “Believe me, I have seen enough of the world not to underestimate greed.” His gaze swept over her once more, then he took a step towards the house. “But I’m keeping you from your walk. Please, enjoy the rest of the gardens.”
She herself had already turned away when a thought struck her. It wasn’t smart, it wasn’t thought through, but the question burned on her tongue like acid. She couldn’t help herself from asking it. “Mr. Somerset, a question?”
He glanced back at her and raised a brow.
“Did my sister endure a similar treatment to the one you afforded me yesterday? I cannot imagine you trusted her motives more than mine.”
“I trusted in the fact that your family was first and foremost interested in our position and that she wasn’t averse to gaining the title, that much I admit.” He shrugged. “But my brother spoke very highly of her, and I trust his judgment. I saw no reason to do more than keep an eye on her.”
This he said with such careless arrogance that Celeste didn’t know if she should be insulted that he had attacked her outright, unlike Amelia, or relieved that his suspicion wasn’t a personal attack against her, as much as it had felt like one. “What a relieve to at least know your opinion of me.”
He studied her again. When he spoke, his voice seemed more sincere, in a way she couldn’t quite pin down. “I feel similarly. I see now that your stepmother likely exaggerated in her letters, but I had to be sure.”
Letters? “What does Delia have to do with this?”
“Francis had me read some of the letters your stepmother sent my parents. In those, she stressed your excitement in taking your sister’s place and what a good Viscountess you’ll make. I admit I shouldn’t have put much stock in it – my parents are much the same, I’d wager – but I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”
Of course, Delia had gushed about how excited Celeste had been, while Celeste herself had, in truth, spent more than one night of the past month crying herself to sleep. She hadn’t raged at Delia’s idea of her marrying Francis Somerset in Amelia’s stead – but that had been the best she had been able to offer. Learning that Delia had not even had the decency to tell the truth – that she did as she was bid out of duty – didn’t surprise her a whit.
What did surprise her was that a man as cynical towards the lies of Good Society as John Somerset had swallowed those pretty falsehoods wholesale.
“Her words don’t excuse yours,” she told him quite calmly. “You didn’t consider for a second that your family wasn’t the only one that was suffering, but had to doubt my affection for my sister, whom, as I want to remind you, I will never see again.” Her chest constricted, but she refused to let grief overwhelm her now. Resolutely, she took a breath and soldiered on. No matter how badly she missed Amelia, she wouldn’t cry now, burning tears behind her eyelids and yawning chasm in her chest be damned. A lady didn’t cry in public, especially not in front of a bastard like John Somerset.
“As I said.” His voice was just as measured as hers. “I misjudged you. I apologize for any pain I caused you, but I was only thinking of my family.”
“I suppose I will have to accept that.”
He gazed at her. “I can live with that. Even if I get the feeling that you will neither forgive nor forget.”
For a change, he was right on both counts, but Celeste only smiled. If she wanted information being at odds with him would be of no benefit to her. “You presume to know me quite well, Mr. Somerset.”
“Had you seen the look on your face yesterday, you wouldn’t say that.” He cleared his throat. “Is there anything else you wanted to discuss?”
“If we’re being honest with each other…” Quite likely, what she was about to say was both bold and inadvisable, but she didn’t care anymore. “What do you think of the fact that some American is to marry into your family? Circumstances notwithstanding?”
“Marriage in the upper classes has always been a matter of business first and of affection second. In that regard, my brother’s engagements with you and your sister are not out of the ordinary.” He shrugged. “Regarding your nationality, it is common practice, even in families far more influential than ours. Even the Duke of Marlborough has an American wife.”
“I recall. Consuelo Vanderbilt. I also recall that the Duke and Duchess have separated.”
John smiled sardonically. “The prerogative of those marrying for position and currency without wanting to suffer the indignity of a divorce when they discover that both eventually lose their charm as topics of conversation.”
She didn’t ask if this was the future he envisioned for her and his brother – even if her fears ran in a similar vein. “And your opinion of Americans?”
“I think your frankness is quite refreshing, to be honest. I assure you, where you come from wouldn’t have been a reason to speak out against the match. Even if I didn’t know my family could make good use of your, I assume, considerable dowry.” He raised his brows. “You are excessively curious regarding this topic, Miss Hayes.”
“Can you blame me for wanting to prepare myself against further attacks from you?”
“There will be no further attacks, I assure you.” His tone of voice turned almost gentle. “And on that head, as enlightening as this conversation has been, I should return to the house before someone wonders what we have been doing here, hidden from view as we are. I wish you a pleasant walk, Miss Hayes.” Bowing his head once more, he left. Celeste stood staring after him for a moment before slowly taking up her walk again, trying to put in order all the facts she had learned in this short interview.
He had impressed her as genuine, she had to give him that. Far more genuine than she had expected of an English noble. If his discourteousness of the previous evening had proven one thing, it was this: he didn’t hide his misinformed opinions. That hardly made him – as much as she had enjoyed their little tête-à-tête – a pleasant fellow, but it made her doubt he would be duplicitous enough to hunt and murder Amelia. He struck her as the type far more likely to confront her directly.
Unless, of course, he was a remarkable actor aiming to gain her trust by putting up a ruse of painful honesty. But that didn’t quite fit his erratic behaviour – his trick immediately after her arrival, the pleasant, witty conversations they had shared, destroyed by an insult that, objectively, may very well be the ill-advised behaviour of a man made helpless by his family’s pain. A pain he, she realized, couldn’t soothe and couldn’t even share in because he hadn’t known Amelia well enough to mourn her. In that position, striking at the first apparent source of danger that presented itself seemed realistic. That explanation didn’t make his behaviour towards her in any shape or form acceptable or forgivable, but it was plausible. She would need to observe his interactions with the rest of his family to decide if he would be too loyal to sabotage Francis’ engagement.
But what if that very loyalty had sealed Amelia’s fate? What if she had discovered a Somerset secret, one he was ready to protect at any cost? That her pursuer was a family member would explain why Amelia hadn’t felt comfortable mentioning more than vague allusions in her letter.
No matter how she twisted and turned her mind, every theory, every deduction led to a thousand new questions and possibilities. Every step forward put her two behind. But she would figure out the truth, come hell or high water.
Whoever had done this to Amelia would not get away with it. That much, she swore.