Had Hugo known of the horrific sight waiting to greet them at the iron gates of his ancestral home, he would have escorted Miss Bennett through a different entrance. Had he known a party to appease his mother’s need for an heir would involve murder, he would have withdrawn the invitations.

  The first sign something was dreadfully amiss occurred when Miss Bennett pointed to a black heap by the arched gateway, half-buried in the white snow, and said, “Lord, what on earth is that? Tell me some poor fellow hasn’t collapsed from the cold.”

  Hugo drew Spurius to a halt at the gate. He dismounted and moved with caution towards the dark mass squirming and groaning amidst the drifts. Thieves and blackguards often preyed on charitable folk during wintertime when food was scarce and few ventured from their firesides.

  “You there!” he called out and waited for a response. He hoped the man’s accomplice wasn’t hiding in the hedgerow, ready to mount a surprise attack. Miss Bennett would be more use in a fight than Flanders. “Are you hurt?”

  Miss Bennett climbed down from Hugo’s mount and hurried to his side. “I have a terrible feeling about this. But we cannot stand here and do nothing. What if he’s injured?”

  “Perhaps I should ride up to the house and fetch a few men from the stables?” Flanders’ suggestion rang of cowardice.

  “Wait there!” Hugo snapped. “I am quite capable of dealing with a drunkard in the road.” The comment was to reassure Miss Bennett, not Flanders.

  The lady gripped his arm. “Be careful.”

  Hugo glanced at the dainty hand resting on his coat sleeve. He wasn’t sure whether his heart raced because of her caring comment, because the instant connection sent a rush of energy shooting up his arm, or because the vagabond’s groan grew louder.

  His fingers slipped over Miss Bennett’s hand, but the action in no way calmed his rapid pulse. “If he attacks, you’re to mount Spurius and ride to the house. Is that understood?”

  She nodded, though he suspected this lady did not run away from trouble.

  Hugo crept closer.

  Only when crouched at the fellow’s side did he notice the blood. The pool glared a shocking red against the pure white snow. There were spots of blood splattered about the blank canvas like flicks of paint from an artist’s brush. Hugo grabbed the man’s shoulder and rolled him onto his back.

  “Good God!” Though he recognised the ashen face instantly, his brain struggled to accept the disturbing vision. “Bellham?” The word left Hugo’s lips on a gasp when his friend’s greatcoat gaped and he noticed the blade pushed deep between Bellham’s ribs. A smear of blood tainted the unusual mother-of-pearl handle. “Who did this? Footpads?”

  Footpads did not work in these harsh conditions. Footpads did not leave a dying man without stealing his expensive coat and boots. Indeed, Bertie’s gold medallion was still attached to the silk ribbon poking out of his fob pocket.

  Nausea rolled in Hugo’s stomach.

  His heartbeat thundered in his ears.

  “You know this gentleman?” Miss Bennett came and knelt beside him. She pressed her fingers to Bertie’s neck, remained still for a time before shaking her head and sighing. “There’s little hope of saving him, I’m afraid.”

  “By Jove!” Flanders steadied his anxious mount. “I’ll fetch help from the house.”

  This time Hugo did not protest.

  “Were you expecting Mr Bellham?” Miss Bennett asked as Flanders rode off up the drive.

  “He was to spend the festive season at Wollaston. When he failed to arrive with the other guests three days ago, I presumed he’d changed his mind.” He gripped Bellham’s outstretched hand though struggled to decipher his mumbled words. “Rest now.”

  Miss Bennett was right. He’d lost too much blood. His face was grey, his lips blue. One could sense his life slowly ebbing away.

  “I think he is trying to tell you something.” She leaned closer and whispered, “I doubt he has long left. Perhaps he knows who did this.”

  Bertie responded with another groan. He reached for Hugo’s lapel and tugged with the strength of a newborn babe. The weak mutterings failed to penetrate his addled mind.

  “Might I try?” Miss Bennett did not wait for his reply. She took Bertie’s hand and leaned over his blood-soaked body. “Sir, I promise you we will seek justice for this crime, but you must help us.”

  Bertie murmured something about his boots.

  Miss Bennett yanked down her hood, gathered her hair to one side and pressed her ear to Bertie’s mouth. His friend’s faint mutterings drifted through the frigid air like ghostly whispers.

  A hundred questions flooded Hugo’s mind while he waited. How would they reach the coroner and magistrate? How the hell would he tell his guests? Terrified ladies were hard to console. More so when trapped in a house with no means of escape.

  Miss Bennett raised her head. She cupped Bertie’s cheek and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Rest now, sir.”

  And with that, Bertie Bellham drew his last breath.

  Chapter Four

  Should a man’s dying message not carry an air of finality? Should he not whisper words of love for a sister or mother? Should he not convey fear as darkness approached? So why did Mr Bellham’s offerings sound so utterly peculiar?

  “I don’t suppose you heard what he said.” The earl drew a gloved hand over his friend’s eyes to close them, brushed snow off the rim of his hat, icy flakes off Mr Bellham’s cold cheeks. “We met at school,” he added. Loss hung heavily in his grave tone and slumped bearing. “Most men liked him unless they had a sister or daughter of marriageable age.”

  Lara knew how grief ripped at the heart, tore it to shreds. She took the earl’s hand and drew him to his feet before their legs were too numb to stand. For some reason, she found herself brushing snow off the shoulders and arms of his greatcoat.

  “I heard some of what Mr Bellham said, though it made little sense.”

  Lord Denham looked to the mass of grey storm clouds and then at her. “We should take shelter, discuss this in the house. We’ve been outdoors for too long.” He reached out and raised the hood of her cloak, tucked a stray lock of hair inside. “You cannot risk catching a chill.” The intimate gesture did not shock or come as a surprise. When sadness lived in the heart, people looked for ways to ease the crippling ache.

  She gripped the lord’s arm again. “Mr Bellham said the murderer came from the house.” Well, he hadn’t put it quite so succinctly.

  “The house?” The earl jerked his head. “My house?”

  “Yes, and he said something about protecting his boots.”

  Lord Denham frowned. “Bellham believed a member of my household staff took his life so viciously? Who else would want to steal a dead man’s hessians?”

  “I haven’t the faintest notion.” The gentleman had said a few other things, all too ridiculous to repeat. “Confusion blurs the mind as life slips away. But he kept repeating that the murderer is in the house.” She pointed to the multitude of footprints leading to Wollaston Hall. “Any number of people might have made those tracks.”

  The earl fell silent.

  The only signs of his inner turmoil were the puffs of white mist bursting from his lips whenever he exhaled a ragged breath. Oh, she wished her grandfather were here to assist in these alarming matters.

  The earl glanced at the spattering of blood, closed his eyes and shook his head. After a moment, he looked towards the lane. “Bellham didn’t arrive via West Chisenbury else we’d have seen him. And from the prints in the snow, only one horse approached on the lane from Upavon. So where is Bellham’s mount?”

  Lara shrugged. “Perhaps the murderer spooked the horse. With luck, the animal will find its way back.”

  Muttering a curse, he turned to look at the grand house sitting amidst the snowy splendour. “Do you think Bellham spoke in earnest? I cannot conceive how any of the guests are capable of committing such a heinous crime.” He rubbed his jaw and sighed.

  Lara’s attention moved to the blood he’d unwittingly smeared on his cheek and chin. Mr Bellham’s blood. Despite the extremities, she pulled off her glove. “My lord, allow me a certain liberty.”

  He seemed confused, more so when she rubbed gently back and forth across his firm jaw. Suspicion flashed in his eyes. He captured her wrist and held it in a tight grip. “Tell me. Did my mother invite you here? Was your late arrival a ploy to gain my attention? Is this all some part of a devious plot to see me wed?”

  “This?” She glanced at the lifeless body of poor Mr Bellham. “Please say you are not speaking of murder.” Good Lord! Did he think his mother would stoop so low? Did he think Mr Bellham would rise imminently from the dead and laugh at the joke?

  “Of course I am not speaking of murder.” He waved his hand back and forth between them. “I speak of your womanly tactics to seduce me into marriage, Miss Bennett.”

  Astounded that he had drawn such a ridiculous conclusion, all she could do was blink while she gathered her thoughts. “My lord, you’ve blood on your gloves. You wiped it onto your face. I was attempting to remove it for two reasons.” She snatched her hand from his grasp. “No doubt your mother would swoon again when faced with evidence of a murder. And I wished to spare you any further distress.”

  Silence ensued.

  Lord Denham cleared his throat. “So, you do not wish to marry me, Miss Bennett?”

  “No, my lord.” A few times this evening, she had thought about kissing him, about pulling him into an embrace and assuring him all would be well. But certainly nothing more than that. No, nothing more than that. “I could never shackle myself to a man simply for convenience.” And she doubted he would want to marry a liar.

  “Then it is my turn to beg for forgiveness for making the wrong assumption. This whole damn party reeks of dishonesty and distrust.”

  Guilt flared for the untruths she had told. But surely the earl understood the sacrifices one made for the people they loved.

  “I am at fault,” she confessed. “What else are you meant to think when a lady removes her glove and caresses your cheek? Having spent eight years living with Montague Forsyth, one learns to act on impulse.”

  The earl inclined his head. “Having spent a lifetime with Penelope de Wold, one learns to be cautious of people’s motives.”

  “Then I will forgive your suspicions.”

  “And I shall forgive your impulsive displays of affection.”

  They continued to stare at one another as the flurry of snow fell around them. In his company, it was easy to forget the outside world existed. Indeed, another pang of guilt forced her to shake her mind back to the recent and tragic event.

  “My lord, might I be so bold as to say that while your birthday looms over your head like an executioner’s axe, Mr Bellham will never see another sunrise. Should we not move him? Find a quiet, restful place to lay his body while we wait for the magistrate and coroner?”

  Exhaling a weary sigh, the earl moved to crouch next to his friend. Seconds passed while Lord Denham became lost in thoughtful contemplation.

  “We cannot bring Bertie into the house,” he eventually said. “Not with every fire blazing. It might be days before the magistrate can make the journey by carriage. Sir Ellis is too frail to travel on horseback.”

  “Then perhaps there’s an outbuilding we might use. Somewhere peaceful, away from the house.”

  “Yes, I’m sure there’s a suitable place where—”

  The thud of a horse’s hooves captured their attention. Lord Flanders cantered down the drive towards them, while grooms and stable hands hurried along behind. Two carried lanterns. Two pulled a hand cart.

  They spent the next twenty minutes moving Mr Bellham to the old bothy near the orchard. Lord Denham insisted on spending a few moments alone with his friend before locking the door and slipping the key into his coat pocket.

  Before walking back to the main house, the earl informed his groom that, at first light, he was to attempt the four-mile ride to Pewsey and deliver a letter to Sir Ellis. The magistrate would need to alert the coroner, who lived three miles further on the road to Marlborough.

  Having stabled his horse, Lord Flanders caught up with them as they mounted Wollaston’s stone steps. “What do you plan to do now, Denham?” Lord Flanders said, panting to catch his breath. “How the devil will you break the dreadful news to the guests?”

  The earl cast Lara a sidelong glance before replying. “I shall inform them during dinner. That way, the ladies may comfort one another. We should discuss the incident openly, not whisper about it behind closed doors. Do you approve, Miss Bennett?”

  “Indeed, my lord.” Questions needed asking. And his mother would have no option but to display the composure of a countess when amongst company. “As none of us have much hope of leaving, it is vital we discover some details concerning Mr Bellham’s demise.”

  Once inside the house, Lord Denham took control of the situation, as one would expect from a man of his elevated position. So why did he not deal with his mother in the same confident manner? The earl instructed Lord Flanders not to mention a word about what had occurred this last hour. He spoke briefly to his butler. While Lara noticed the wariness in the earl’s eyes upon hearing news that Viscount Northcott had arrived at Wollaston Hall, he made no comment.

  “Allow me to escort you to your room, Miss Bennett. Crudging assures me a maid has lit the fire and is currently unpacking your valise.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  They mounted the stairs in silence. Tension radiated from every firm muscle as he directed her along the landing towards the west wing. Perhaps it was the effects of the cold that made her fingers throb and tingle. Perhaps it was the sudden need to offer physical comfort to the man silently struggling with distress. A light touch on the arm might suffice. But no. She mustn’t. Not after the misunderstanding earlier.

  They came to a halt outside a bedchamber door.

  “I will need your help, Miss Bennett,” he whispered. He stood so close she could feel the essence of the man penetrate her clothes. “You’re the only other person here who possesses a logical brain.”

  The compliment caused a strange fluttering in her heart. “What would you have me do?”

  He bent his head, flooding her nostrils with the alluring scent of his cologne. “If we’re to believe Bellham’s parting words, someone in this house is capable of murder. We must be vigilant. Together, we must hunt for clues to assist the magistrate in bringing the culprit to justice.”

  Feverish anticipation raced through her veins. “But the only other gentleman in attendance is Lord Flanders, and he was with us in West Chisenbury.”

  Lord Denham looked her keenly in the eyes. Heaven help her, he was dreadfully handsome. “You forget that Lord Northcott arrived this evening. Perhaps he had a gripe with Bertie, and he’s to blame. Perhaps there’s a more terrifying explanation.”

  “Such as?”

  “A lady committed this dreadful crime.”

  “This is not the time for hysterics,” Lara said calmly to Miss Mason-Jones. With a flick of the eyes, she gestured for Lord Flanders to comfort the lady weeping in the dining chair on his left. She glanced at the other guests’ morbid faces as they stared aimlessly into their soup. “No doubt Mr Bellham came across footpads desperate to relieve him of his purse. Indeed, we have every reason to believe they stole his horse.”

  Having made a pact with Lord Denham that neither would reveal Mr Bellham’s final mutterings, they had agreed upon expressing the opinion that thieves were to blame. Should the culprit learn of their suspicions, heaven knows what he or she might do. Besides, if the earl understood that lies were sometimes necessary, when Montague arrived, he might be more understanding of her plight.

  “Are footpads common in these parts?” Miss Venables said, offering her companion, Miss Harper, use of her handkerchief. “Only a desperate man would attack a gentleman at the gates of such a grand house as this.”

  Lara had learned from Lord Denham that Miss Venables was a gentleman’s daughter who had fallen on hard times after her father’s death. Paid companions were often middle-aged spinsters with wisdom and moral compass. Miss Venables was no older than five and twenty. Her vibrant red hair and coy smile marked her as a willing counterpart for a lady out to cause mischief.

  “Unless Bertie was attacked further along the road and made an attempt to find help,” Viscount Northcott said, pushing a lock of black hair from his brow. The lord bore the same arrogant air as his sister. One look at the mischievous twinkle in the peer’s eye and Montague would label him a rake. “He might have crawled to the gate.”

  “Oh, Lord!” Miss Mason-Jones continued to blubber.

  Lara cast Lord Denham a sidelong glance as he sat quietly observing his guests’ reactions. Beyond his devilishly good looks, she found an intelligent man with an impressive ability to command a room. His broad shoulders conveyed a strength of character as well as a muscular physique. He looked masculine and masterful yet had a wicked glint in his eyes that hinted at a playful side, too.

  “Bellham did not crawl anywhere. He was killed at the gate.” Lord Denham snatched his wine glass and sipped his claret while continuing to study the faces of those seated around the table. “The advantage of snow is that you can follow a blood trail.”

  “Must we talk about the gruesome details during dinner?” Lady Denham complained. “The coroner and Sir Ellis will arrive at the earliest convenience, and then they may deal with the matter. The soup will be cold if we wait a moment longer.” She flicked her fingers at Miss Pardue. “Eat. Let us worry about this dreadful business later.”

  “The guests should be aware that it’s not safe to leave the house, Mother. Not until the culprit is apprehended.” The earl’s signet ring clinked against the crystal glass causing everyone to look up, some with their soup spoons a mere inch from their mouths. “Indeed, it is better I take notes regarding our whereabouts at the time of the crime. Sir Ellis has a way of making the innocent appear guilty, and I would assure him no one in this room witnessed anything untoward.”

 

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