“My lords?” Pocket said, closing the door again. “I am afraid I have some disturbing news. One of Mr. Skerrit’s servants found him with a pistol ball to the brain.”
“What?” Ethan rose. He’d left the man very much alive no more than three hours ago.
“There’s more,” Pocket said. “It seems a card bearing Lord Selbourne’s name was on the body. The magistrate”—he consulted a card—“a Squire Gravener, is downstairs, and he has requested an interview with both of you.”
“A card with my name?” Alex stared at Pocket. “How the hell did he come by that?”
“Damn.” The deeply lined mouth of the man in the portrait now seemed to smirk. Ethan closed his eyes.
Perhaps everything wouldn’t go as planned.
Three
“I’m almost done, miss,” Helen, Francesca’s lady’s maid, said, stifling a yawn before pinning another curl.
Francesca stole a look at her maid in the mirror, feeling a pang of guilt at waking the already harried servant so early. But she had to run to the stables to see Thunder before her father heard the news of her latest addition.
“I’m sorry to squirm so, Helen, but the weather is perfect today. I must be out in it.”
In the oval mirror of the tulipwood dressing table, her eyes left Helen’s face and strayed to the reflection of the Hampshire countryside surrounding Tanglewilde. When she’d bounced out of bed and pulled the pink silk drapes from the window a mere half an hour earlier, the horizon had been just tinged with gold, but now the sky was streaked with fast-fading pink and orange. For a November morning, the weather was exquisite—bright sunlight beaming through a pale blue, cloudless sky. She couldn’t wait to escape the stuffy house and enjoy the sunshine.
And perhaps the fresh air would keep her thoughts from the past and, most especially, from Winterbourne.
Helen tied a red ribbon into place and stepped away to admire her work. Half an hour from now, Francesca’s hair would once again be a tangle of curls, the ribbon lying forlorn and forgotten in a patch of clover. But Lady Brigham demanded her daughters adhere to the rules of Society even in the country, which meant Francesca’s hair and dress must follow the latest styles. Francesca considered it a monumental waste of time.
She glanced at her reflection in the mirror then looked quickly away again. Her features were still plain and uninteresting, and even the most fashionable coiffure wouldn’t change that.
A quick rap sounded at the door, and Lucia burst inside, wearing her blue mantle and a bonnet with blue ribbons trailing from one hand.
“Cesca! I’m so glad I caught you. I thought you might have already gone.”
“I’m leaving this minute,” Francesca answered, turning to her maid. “Thank you, Helen. That will be all for now.”
Helen gave a quick curtsy and exited. Francesca turned back to her dressing table, taking a moment to straighten her matching ivory comb and brush. “What did you want to see me about? Isn’t Miss Russell waiting for you?”
“Miss Russell!”
In the mirror, Francesca saw Lucia drop her mantle and bonnet then flop onto the large pink-canopied bed, her blond curls bouncing. “What do I care for Miss Russell?” Her sister leaned eagerly forward. “I heard from my maid who heard from one of the grooms that you brought Mr. Skerrit’s horse home last night. Is it true?”
Francesca whipped her head around. “You’ve already heard?”
When Lucia nodded, Francesca turned back to the table and squeezed her eyes shut. Bracing herself, she wrapped her fingers around the first object in front of her. The ivory comb’s teeth bit into her palm. “Do you think Daddy’s heard as well?”
“I don’t know.”
Francesca opened her eyes in time to see Lucia shrug her shoulders. “Only one way to find out.”
At fifteen, Lucia had no worries except how to avoid the day’s French lesson. Francesca wished her life were so simple. Or so charmed.
Lucia’s exuberant personality made her popular. The fact that she was already showing signs of growing into a blinding beauty didn’t hurt either.
Lucia: tall, willowy, golden-haired, and ivory-skinned. A glittering summer sunrise. Francesca: short, round, brown, and drab. A cloudy January day. No man would ever forget having met Lucia.
“So,” Lucia piped up. “Can I go with you to the stable to see Skerrit’s horse?”
Francesca laughed. Impulsive, persistent, beautiful Lucia. How could anyone not love her? But that didn’t mean Francesca wanted to spend the day with her. “That’s not a good idea.” Francesca pushed her chair back and stood. “You’ll miss your morning lessons. Miss Russell, not to mention Mamma, will be furious.”
“Oh, I knew you would say that!” Lucia flopped onto her back, sending two pillows bouncing off the bed.
“If you knew what I would say, then why did you come in here?” Francesca scooped up the pillows and sat next to her.
“Well, I had to try, didn’t I?” Lucia put an arm over her eyes in a perfect imitation of her mother, and Francesca tried not to grind her teeth. Instead, she said a silent prayer that her sister’s theatrics were only a phase and not a permanent state—as her mother’s were.
“You just don’t know how much I suffer, Francesca. I hate Miss Russell, and I hate my lessons.”
“I had my share of governesses and lessons as well,” she reminded her sister. “And I survived. You will too.”
“But it’s not the same,” Lucia wailed.
Francesca couldn’t help sliding her gaze back to her bedchamber windows. The sun had climbed higher in the sky, and she was losing the morning.
“It’s only for a few more years, Lucia.”
“Years, Francesca. Years! ” Lucia collapsed again. “Oh, I can’t wait until I marry. Then no one will tell me what to do!”
Francesca snorted. “Your husband will tell you what to do. Men like ordering women about.” And they weren’t always nice about it.
Lucia gaped at her, and Francesca realized her words had sounded harsh and bitter.
“Don’t you want to marry, Francesca?”
Francesca met her sister’s azure gaze. “No. I’ll never marry.” She’d never allow any man that much control over her.
Lucia scrambled to sit, dislodging yet another pillow, much to Francesca’s annoyance. “Never marry? You’ll be a spinster. An old maid!”
“Better an old maid than at the mercy of some man’s whims and fancies.”
Lucia blinked. “What do you mean?”
Francesca bit her lip and looked away. She’d said too much. Of course her sister would want to marry. What girl didn’t? And not every betrothal ended the way hers had. Francesca forced a smile. “I don’t mean anything. Forget it.”
“But last year you wanted to marry the Earl of Roxbury. You were even betrothed to him.”
“Well, we ended the engagement.” Francesca hopped off the bed and went to gather her mantle and gloves. As she bent over the pink-and-white striped chair, she could feel Lucia’s hurt stare boring into her back. Throwing the mantle over her arm, she turned around. “I’m sorry, Lucia. I didn’t mean to snap. I”—she swallowed—“I don’t like to talk about Roxbury.”