Page 7 of The Curse of Ill-Gotten Gains
She and Regina were sharing a room, and from the moment they’d risen from their beds, the tension gripping Regina had been obvious. At least to Rosalind. She’d asked if anything waswrong. Far from easing her mind, Regina’s brittle assurance that all was perfect had only increased Rosalind’s concern.
She’d kept a watchful eye on Regina through breakfast, but after they’d left the table and Regina had stated her intention of joining the bevy of younger ladies making for the conservatory, Rosalind had elected to go upstairs and quietly read in their room.
It had been pure chance that she’d glanced through a window and seen Regina hurrying across the rear lawn, apparently set on being somewhere.
Concern flaring, Rosalind had rushed downstairs and started out in pursuit. Of course, not wanting to attract attention, she’d had to pretend to be merely strolling the grounds. Then, she’d realized Regina was making for the orchard. With thoughts of her impressionable and inexperienced younger sister rushing to keep some clandestine meeting circling insistently in her head, Rosalind hadstrolledas fast as she’d dared toward the orchard.
On reaching the archway, she’d looked in but hadn’t seen anyone. Puzzled, she walked down the row of trees…
The shock of finding Monty Underhill’s body had thrust all thoughts of Regina from Rosalind’s mind.
However, half an hour ago, when Rosalind had gone upstairs to wash before luncheon, she’d found her maid, Cilly, in the room she and Regina shared. Cilly had been grumbling under her breath as she’d scrubbed at the hem of the gown Regina had worn to breakfast—and to rush around the gardens and, possibly, into the orchard. When Rosalind asked Cilly what was amiss, Cilly had shown her the thin line of blood staining a short section of the hem.
Cilly had groused, “Why she had to get so close to a dead body as to get blood on her hem, I have no notion!”
Rosalind hadn’t corrected the maid’s assumption.
But Rosalind knew beyond question that Regina hadn’t approached Monty Underhill’s body at any time after Rosalind had come upon it.
She’d thought Regina had gone into the orchard. Now, she knew she had. So where had Regina gone? Had she found the body, panicked, and fled through the orchard into the wood beyond?
Why hadn’t Regina raised the alarm?
Consumed by that question, with her gaze fixed on Regina, Rosalind realized that Percival was watching her. She glanced his way and met his eyes. The shrewd, assessing look she found there had her drawing in a breath. He was far too observant for her peace of mind.
Casting about for distraction, she looked toward Regina again. While the rest of the younger crew were growing more animated, Regina remained subdued.
Of course, Percival had followed her gaze. In a faintly questioning tone, he said, “At their age, a dead body is more cause for excitement than concern.”
“Hmm. Apparently.”But not so for Regina.Determinedly, Rosalind asked about Percival’s estate, which she’d heard was in Lincolnshire.
He held her gaze for an instant more, then smoothly, obligingly, followed her lead and replied.
CHAPTER 2
As the Adair carriage wended its way up the long Patchcote Grange drive, Penelope peered out of the window at the large, sprawling Jacobean mansion with its many chimney pots rising to the sky. The building appeared in excellent order, and the extensive grounds were in similar condition with thick plantings of established trees and manicured lawns enclosing the mansion in a green embrace.
The carriage drew to a smooth halt on the graveled forecourt. As she waited for Stokes and Barnaby to descend, Penelope checked her small watch. They’d made excellent time from Mayfair; it was only just two o’clock.
Having heard the clop of hooves, Richard walked out of the house with the local magistrate, Sir Henry Coutts. They paused on the porch, and recognizing Phelps, the Adairs’ coachman, on the box of the carriage, Richard owned to some relief.
He and Sir Henry, a sensible sort, had just come down from speaking with Lady Pamela. Despite the shock and, somewhat unexpectedly, very real grief Pamela transparently felt, she was bearing up well and had insisted that the investigators Richard had taken it upon himself to summon were given free rein to find and apprehend her husband’s murderer.
Stokes descended from the carriage first. At a trifle over six feet tall and of solid build, the experienced inspector exuded an aura of command. His harsh-featured face and dark hair and eyebrows added to the image, and his steely gray gaze, already scanning the house assessingly, suggested that little escaped him. Richard had encountered Stokes in a professional capacity before, and in the present circumstances, there was no other police officer Richard would rather see. Stokes was gentry born, well-educated, and able to move within the ton, navigating society’s shoals as few others in the force could.
Early in his inspector days, Stokes had crossed paths with the Honorable Barnaby Adair, and immediately, the pair had struck up a friendship. Shared values and a mutual thirst for justice had seen friendship deepen into a lasting bond.
Now, Barnaby followed Stokes from the carriage and, like Stokes, paused to look around. An inch or so taller than Stokes but with golden curls and striking blue eyes, Barnaby was the epitome of a tonnish gentleman—the sort many young gentlemen aspired to become. No one seeing his aristocratic features and the understated elegance and quiet assurance that clung to his broad shoulders like a cloak could doubt that he was an earl’s son. His knowledge of the ton and government institutions and his connections within those spheres were extensive, and his influence opened doors that would otherwise remain closed to Stokes and most others. His unwavering focus on seeing justice done regardless of the victim’s status had, in more recent years, broadened into social projects aimed at improving the lot of those less fortunate.
After glancing around, Barnaby turned back to the carriage and offered his hand. The third member of their investigating team, Barnaby’s wife, Penelope, grasped his fingers and climbed down the carriage steps.
In marked contrast to Barnaby and Stokes, Penelope was petite, a pocket Venus with dark hair and beautiful dark eyes perennially screened behind the spectacles she’d worn since girlhood. On other women, spectacles might detract from their appearance, but with Penelope, they were simply a part of her mystique, and she remained strikingly pretty and, it had to be said, precocious. If Barnaby represented the apogee of the conventional gentleman, Penelope was deliberately and determinedly unconventional in many ways. Although now the mother of two young boys and the undisputed general who ran their household, she was also an expert in ancient languages, much in demand as a translator and widely respected in academic circles. With her unrelentingly curious, inquisitive, and inventive mind combined with her intuitive grasp of people’s feelings, she brought to the group an intellectual and emotional depth, the importance of which was impossible to overstate.
As she was even more auspiciously connected with the major ton families than Barnaby and was also an accredited darling of the ton’s grandes dames, she was a force to be reckoned with on many levels, and her knowledge of ton mores was beyond compare.
Richard couldn’t think of a trio of investigators he would rather have dealing with this case. He glanced at Sir Henry. “Come. I’ll introduce you.”
On firm ground, Penelope shook out her skirts in preparation for greeting Richard and the older man with him. But before the pair could descend from the porch, the sound of heavy carriage wheels rolling up the drive had them all pausing to watch as the ponderous police wagon drew up behind the carriage.
