Page 143 of Too Good to Be True

Ian hesitated, but caught my expression and said, “No.”

“So what happened to her?”

“She was found hanging in the buttery.”

I blinked. Slowly.

Then I asked, “She killed herself?”

“That was what it was ruled. A suicide.”

I stared hard at him. “I sense there’s more to this story.”

Another sigh from Ian and, “It was known by everyone she was not the kind of person to suffer suicidal ideation. She was the queen of her castle and loved that role, flaunted it, lorded over the house, the village, even her social set, because of her beauty, wealth, her position in society and this house. She also wasn’t the kind of person to ever be caught belowstairs. That was beneath her in more ways than locationally. If she were to do what it was ruled she did, she wouldn’t have chosen the buttery to do it in.”

“So someone killed her?”

He shook his head, but said, “That’s the gossip. The staff hated her. Everyone in the village hated her. Her supposed friends were not friends because they hated her too. And by then, David had fallen in love with Virginia.”

And then I remembered.

1922.

The end of Joan’s tenure was the same year as the beginning of Virginia’s.

David hadn’t even waited a year to replace his first wife.

“Are there more happy stories about Earls and Countesses Alcott?” I asked, maybe a little desperately.

“My grandfather worshipped my grandmother. I’ve heard stories, and it was much the same with my great-grandfather and great-grandmother. Then there’s the story of Earl Walter Alcott, who was rumored to have a part-time hobby as a pirate and was the one who significantly augmented the wealth of Duncroft, likely from his efforts at illegally acquiring booty, and his lady wife Anne, who he loved so deeply, he ordered his body be buried in her coffin when he passed a year after she did.”

If that didn’t scream gothic romance, nothing did.

“Well…shoo.”

Ian smiled.

Then he asked, “Are you going to get ready for Lou?”

“Yes.”

He lifted his chin at me, a gesture I’d never seen him make. It wasn’t a jerk or brusque movement. It was tender, affectionate, intimate, and I liked it a whole lot.

“See you when you’re ready,” he murmured.

“Okay, honey,” I replied.

He left.

I got out of bed to see if the girls had unpacked my toothbrush.

But in my head, all I could think was David Alcott might have had a habit of killing the no-longer-needed women in his life.

And he didn’t mind taking care of that particular business in his own home.

Twenty-Four

THE PINK TOPAZ ROOM

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