The Lady By His Side (Cynsters Next Generation Novels Book 4) by Stephanie Laurens
Sebastian hesitated, yet it was ten o’clock. He reached back, returned the door to its almost-closed position, then strolled toward the desk and put out a hand to draw back one of the pair of chairs angled before it.
The chair behind the desk was pushed hard—jammed—against the shelves. Almost as if…
Swallowing an oath, Sebastian strode around the desk—and looked down at Lord Ennis.
Ennis was lying on his back, one arm outflung, his other hand pressed to a wound on his left side from which blood was steadily pouring.
Sebastian leapt to the bellpull and yanked hard three times, then he lifted the heavy chair, set it aside, and crouched in its place beside Ennis. Even from his first rushed glance, Sebastian knew Ennis was done for; his lordship’s eyes were closed, but, this close, Sebastian could just hear the man’s shallow breathing. “Ennis? Who did this?”
Surely the most important question.
At the sound of his voice, Ennis rallied. He opened his eyes, then fractionally shook his head. He shifted his outflung arm, raised that hand, and gripped Sebastian’s wrist.
Ennis tensed, plainly fighting for breath.
Sebastian leaned nearer.
Ennis’s mouth worked. His lips moved. “Gunpowder.” The word was a thready gasp. Ennis gripped Sebastian’s wrist as if to draw strength from him and forced out, “Here.”
The effort was too much. Ennis’s eyes lost focus, then his lids fell, and all tension left his body. At the last, his fingers relaxed, and his hand fell limply from Sebastian’s wrist to the floor.
Sebastian closed his eyes. He hung his head for a moment, then, slowly, he rose.
A sudden rush of footsteps sounded in the corridor. Blanchard pushed the door wide and raced in.
He saw Sebastian and pulled up short. “My lord?”
Blanchard glanced around, clearly expecting to see his master.
His face like stone, Sebastian gestured to the figure at his feet. “I was to meet with Lord Ennis at ten o’clock. I arrived to find the door ajar and your master…” Sebastian looked at the body on the floor.
Blanchard came around the desk. The butler’s eyes grew huge. “Oh, my good Lord.”
“Indeed. I found his lordship lying there dead—murdered.” Sebastian glanced at Blanchard, who was now chalk white. “Who is the local magistrate?”
Without looking away from the body, Blanchard answered, “Sir Humphrey Rattle, my lord.”
Sebastian drew in a not-quite-steady breath. “I suggest you leave a footman on guard in this room, put another at the door to keep everyone away, and send for Sir Humphrey immediately.”
Blanchard drew in a deep breath and straightened. He nodded. “Indeed, my lord.” Then Blanchard looked suspiciously at Sebastian. “And you, my lord?”
“I,” said Sebastian, most unwillingly, “will break the news to the others.” He thought, then added, “Please summon everyone to the drawing room. I’m sure Sir Humphrey will prefer us all to be together in one place when he arrives.”
Chapter 5
Shock was never a pleasant experience. Sebastian had seen dead men—even murdered men—before. He’d killed three himself in the furtherance of one or other of Drake’s missions, but they’d been villains and not men he knew.
Finding Ennis dying, stabbed in his own study, had been an experience of a different caliber.
Despite having drunk a cup of tea followed by a large brandy, he still felt chilled and was grateful for Antonia’s soft warmth close beside him as they sat on one of the smaller sofas in the drawing room.
The members of the house party had dutifully congregated, summoned by Blanchard and the footmen with the message that there was some serious news Sebastian had to impart to them. Once they’d all assembled, he’d told them of Ennis’s death; for Cecilia’s sake, he’d been as gentle and as vague as possible.
Cecilia now sat huddled between Mrs. Parrish and Mrs. McGibbin, weeping quietly; Sebastian judged her to be shocked and truly grieving. He could see no reason for Cecilia to have murdered her husband; despite her affairs—and Ennis’s—they’d been sincerely attached in the way of couples who rub along well enough together, and who had made a life and had children together. Although desire might have waned, affection had remained.
The other guests sat in small groups around the room; most still looked stunned. He’d told them the magistrate had been sent for and that it would be best for them to await Sir Humphrey’s arrival, rather than retire. Blanchard had advised that Sir Humphrey lived less than fifteen minutes away and would most likely ride to the Hall.
Over the soft sound of Cecilia’s weeping, the guests exchanged comments in hushed tones.
Sebastian scanned the faces, wondering which of them, if any, was the murderer. Despite the apparent message of the open window, he was disinclined to believe that the murderer came from outside the house—not with the way Ennis had been behaving.
Someone presently under Ennis’s roof had murdered his lordship.
Why wasn’t quite so clear.
Sebastian glanced at Antonia. Other than an initial “Oh, no!” she’d said nothing, just sat beside him and offered wordless support. He studied her face; her complexion was paler than usual, but her eyes were clear as they moved from face to face around the company.
He reached out and took her hand.
Immediately, she glanced at him, but didn’t draw her fingers from his.
He lifted her hand across so that he could cradle it between both of his. Just the simple fact of feeling her fingers under his soothed some part of him and cleared some of the fog from his mind. Looking at the other guests again, under his breath, he murmured, “I need you to do something for me.”
“What?” she murmured back. Instantly, without the slightest hesitation.
He would have grinned if the matter wasn’t so serious. “Should anything occur to delay me—like the magistrate insisting on taking me off somewhere for questioning—I need you to return to London and tell Drake, or if he’s not back, then his masters in Whitehall, what Ennis said.”
There was a second’s silence, then she breathed, “What he said?”
Until then, he hadn’t mentioned Ennis’s last words, not to anyone. “When I found him,” he continued, his words a bare whisper, “he was still alive. I asked who had stabbed him, but instead of answering that, he used the last of his strength to say two words. Gunpowder. Here.”
She, too, appeared to be looking idly across the room. She stiffened, then drew a slow, shallow breath and murmured, “Good Lord.”
“Indeed. He clearly believed those two words were more important than naming his murderer.”
Antonia shifted her hand in his hold and gripped his fingers as he was gripping hers. Her mind darted this way, then that, evaluating, imagining. Despite the scarifying implication of Ennis’s last words, she didn’t like the notion of leaving Sebastian to his fate, but he was a marquess and perfectly capable of acting as one of the higher nobility and pulling rank when he chose to do so. She felt confident he wouldn’t be taken up, but she could understand that, to him, having her agreement that, in such an eventuality, she would take Ennis’s words back to Drake was important… She forced herself to nod. “All right. If anything happens to detain you, I’ll take the message to London.”
And then, if he had, indeed, been detained, she would come straight back, dragging Drake, or St. Ives, or even her own father with her to ensure Sebastian was immediately released.
Unaware of her full intention, he squeezed her fingers in wordless thanks.
Instinctively, she returned the comforting pressure, then they heard voices outside. He released her hand, and she drew it back. Along with the other guests, they looked expectantly toward the drawing room door.
But the sound of heavy footsteps marched past, and the door did not open.
“The magistrate will have gone to examine the body,” Sebastian stated, his gaze resting on Cecilia, who gulped and tried val
Five minutes later, they again heard footsteps approaching. This time, the door opened to admit a robust gentleman of above middle years, yet still hale and hearty. His face looked the sort that would normally be graced with a genial expression, but tonight, Sir Humphrey Rattle looked grave. After one swift survey of the room, with a brisk gesture, Sir Humphrey directed a constable to wait unobtrusively beside the door, then he walked forward and bowed before Cecilia, who, with an effort, managed to give him her hand.
“Dreadful business, my dear.” Sir Humphrey patted Cecilia’s hand, then released it. “You stay where you are—I’m sure your guests and I can introduce ourselves.”
Sir Humphrey proceeded to circle the room. He didn’t shake hands but attentively noted every name, asking the obvious questions that allowed him to link this one with that. As he moved on, the gentlemen, who had risen at his approach, remained standing.
Eventually, Sir Humphrey reached Sebastian, who, like the others, rose to face him. “Earith,” Sebastian said, “I’m here as escort to Lady Antonia Rawlings.” He waited while Antonia gave Sir Humphrey her hand, and the magistrate bowed over it.
As Sir Humphrey straightened, Sebastian said, “It was I who found the body.”
Sir Humphrey eyed him shrewdly. “You did, heh?” After a second of studying him, Sir Humphrey turned to face the room. “I’m afraid, ladies and gentlemen, that due to the serious nature of this crime, I am obliged to report the matter to Scotland Yard. I’ve already sent off a courier to notify the Yard, and I expect we’ll see an inspector here by tomorrow morning. Until then, you will all need to remain at Pressingstoke Hall. As I gather the house party has only just commenced, that shouldn’t create any difficulties for any of you.”
Sir Humphrey paused as if waiting for a protest that didn’t come. He cast a sidelong glance at Sebastian, then said, “Now, ladies and gentlemen, if you would oblige me by waiting here for the next few minutes, I’ll have a quick chat with Lord Earith and then decide what’s best to be done.”
“It was Cynster—Earith—who found Ennis.” Worthington looked unnaturally pale. “None of the rest of us even went near—the butler and the footmen kept us away. Can’t see what good keeping us cooped up here will do.”
“Nevertheless,” Sir Humphrey said, and now there was steel in his tone, “for the moment, I require you to remain in this room. My chat with Lord Earith will not take long.”
With that, Sir Humphrey directed an inquiring look Sebastian’s way and, with a tip of his head, indicated the door.
Sebastian fell in beside the magistrate. As they neared the door, Sir Humphrey, his head lowered and his hands clasped behind his back, murmured, “You’re St. Ives’s son, aren’t you?”
“Yes. The Marquess of Earith is a courtesy title.”
“I see.” Sir Humphrey opened the drawing room door and waved Sebastian ahead of him. After closing the door behind them, Sir Humphrey said, “I’ll get Blanchard to find us a room, and you can tell me—”
“Actually”—Sebastian halted in the middle of the hall and, looking back, met Sir Humphrey’s eyes—“might I suggest we speak outside?”
“Outside?” Sir Humphrey frowned.
Sebastian gestured to the front door. “There is a reason for my request. If you would humor me?”
Sir Humphrey debated for all of one second; he couldn’t gainsay a man of Sebastian’s lofty rank, not without having a very good reason. He nodded curtly. “Very well.”
Sebastian led the way to the door; a footman sprang to open it. Walking onto the front porch, Sebastian noted a constable standing in the shadows along the front terrace. Looking ahead, he pointed to the circle of open lawn beyond the sweep of the drive. “There should do.” He started down the steps, making it clear he expected Sir Humphrey to follow.
Sebastian crossed the gravel drive and walked on until he was several yards beyond its edge. Then he halted and waited for Sir Humphrey to join him.
The magistrate stopped and faced him, regarding him through narrowed eyes. “What’s the reason for this, heh?”
Sebastian met his gaze. “I want to be one hundred percent certain that what I say to you will not be overheard.”
Sir Humphrey blinked.
Before the magistrate could pose another question, Sebastian asked, “Have you heard of Winchelsea? Of the role he plays?”
Sir Humphrey’s expression grew wary. “You mean Wolverstone’s heir? Another marquess like you?”
Sebastian nodded. “Just so. But the important point is whether or not you know what Winchelsea does.”
Sir Humphrey studied Sebastian for a moment, then grudgingly admitted, “I’ve heard he works for the Home Secretary in some secretive sort of capacity.”
“Indeed.” Sebastian judged he had to take the chance and tell Sir Humphrey of the mission. “What I am about to tell you must be held in the strictest confidence. I’m attending this house party ostensibly squiring Lady Antonia, who is a family friend, both of my family and also of Winchelsea’s. In reality, I’m here in Drake’s—Winchelsea’s—stead. He sent me here to act as his surrogate and receive a message from Lord Ennis.”
“A message?”
“Ennis wrote that he had information of vital significance to lay before Winchelsea, but that he would not commit that information to writing. Instead, he wanted to meet Winchelsea face-to-face and suggested he attend this house party for that purpose. Unfortunately, Winchelsea had a pressing engagement elsewhere—in Ireland, as it happens. Consequently, he was very interested in hearing what Ennis had to say, but couldn’t be in two places at the same time. I’ve occasionally assisted Winchelsea before, so he asked me to stand in for him and come to the house party—and we arranged for me to attend as Lady Antonia’s escort. My brief was to contact Ennis and receive whatever information his lordship wished to divulge.”
“I see.” Sir Humphrey frowned; he stared at the trees bordering the lawn. “So what happened? Did you get the information?”
“Yes and no. I only managed to speak privately with Ennis this morning, when I alerted him to the fact that I was Winchelsea’s surrogate. We couldn’t talk further then—we were in the middle of a game of croquet. Ennis suggested we should meet tonight at ten o’clock in his study, the implication being that he would give me the information for Winchelsea then. I arrived outside the study door just after the clocks struck ten, and found the door ajar. I went in and, subsequently, found Ennis stabbed and dying—you saw where the body was.”
“Dying?” Under his bushy brows, Sir Humphrey’s eyes flew wide. “Blanchard said Ennis was already dead when you found him.”
“He wasn’t, but I let everyone assume he was.”
“So did he say anything?”
“After summoning the staff, before they arrived, I asked Ennis who had stabbed him. He shook his head and, instead of answering, used his last breaths to say two words. Gunpowder. Here.” Sebastian heard the grimness in his tone. “Then he died.”
“Gunpowder? Here?” Sir Humphrey all but goggled.
“Indeed. And no, I have no idea what that actually means.”
The night’s cold silence engulfed them. From deep in the wood to the side of the house came the hoot of an owl.
Sir Humphrey shifted, then he cleared his throat and gruffly said, “No insult intended, my lord, but do you have any proof of this business?”
Sebastian stirred. He reached into the inside pocket of his coat. “I have the letter from Ennis to Winchelsea—you’ll be able to verify it’s Ennis’s handwriting—and a copy of Winchelsea’s reply.” He offered the folded sheets to the magistrate.
Sir Humphrey took the letters, walked back to stand beside one of the lanterns lighting the edge of the drive, and silently read both.
Sebastian followed. Facing the house, he halted beside the magistrate and waited.
Then Sir Humphrey frowned and shot him a look from under his shaggy brows. “Why call you ‘th
Sebastian sighed. “That was Drake’s misplaced sense of humor. Six years ago, Lady Ennis and I were, for a short time, lovers. Ennis was aware of that. Hence, Drake surmised I was not a man Ennis would want to see.”
“Ah.” Sir Humphrey glanced again at the signatures on the letters, then refolded them and handed them back. “I rather think those are proof enough. I know Ennis’s signature. This sounds like a serious business, and clearly you wouldn’t have killed Ennis when he was the source of the information you and your friend Winchelsea wanted.”
“Just so.” Sebastian tucked the letters back into his pocket. “It’s possible that Ennis was killed to prevent him passing on the information. Alternatively, he might have been killed for some other reason entirely. At this point, there’s no way to tell.”
“You’ll have to show those letters to the inspector when he arrives.” Sir Humphrey grimaced. “Reading between the lines, I take it the Irish are involved?”
Sebastian admitted, “We’re assuming we’re dealing with some offshoot of the Young Irelander movement. I suspect Ennis was a sympathizer, but most in the movement would see the use of gunpowder as a step too far.”
“Indeed.” Sir Humphrey tugged one ear lobe and frowned at the lawn. After several moments, he said, “So how do you think we should proceed?”
“Until the murderer is caught, I would caution against allowing anyone—English or Anglo-Irish—to leave. As you mentioned, all the guests had expected to be here until Thursday, so there’s no reason they can’t remain until then, at least.”
“Oh, we’ll definitely keep everyone here. The inspector should arrive in the morning, and we can decide what’s next then.” Sir Humphrey turned toward the house. “I’d best get back to the others. I have a few questions, then I’ll tell everyone they can find their beds. I’ll leave constables on guard to make sure no one bolts.”
Sebastian fell into step beside Sir Humphrey; as they crossed the forecourt, he said, “One thing—if you would, please instruct your constables to allow myself and Lady Antonia to ride out tomorrow. There’s a gentleman who lives nearby who might be able to shed some light on whatever plot Ennis had got wind of—especially given Ennis’s ‘here.’ If there’s some local connection, this gentleman might know more of it. As Winchelsea is almost certainly still in Ireland, there’s no sense in me rushing to get Ennis’s two words back to London. It would be more profitable for me to see what I can find out at this end—and to wait to see if you and the inspector can identify the murderer.”