“I can’t—” He wanted to say he couldn’t believe it. But the brutal, unbearable truth was that he could believe it. He had overheard Henry in that stable and slapped a weapon into Greymoor’s hands, then allowed the earl to court death by entering the barn first.
Douglas had been stunned and sickened, listening to his younger brother chatter blithely with Astrid about murder and worse. Through the long, cold night since, Douglas had done nothing but think of all the signs he’d missed, all the clues he’d ignored.
“I don’t know what to say.” He came to rest like a rudderless ship against the end of a long set of shelves. The smell of books came to him over the pleasant scent of the wood fire. What would prison smell like? What was the scent of complete social ruin, and did Douglas care either way?
The assemblage seemed to expect more words of him, and his fool mouth obliged. “I simply do not know what to say. I had suspicions Henry was up to no good when he didn’t stay put with Mother, and he didn’t tell me he was leaving Town. Details, such as motive and opportunity, began to fall together, so when I got word he’d taken a notion to travel through deep snow in this direction, I trailed him here. Then I found his horse at the bottom of the lane, shivering, in a sweat such as a decent animal ought never to be left… But about all this… I am at a loss for coherent speech.”
Greymoor resumed his place beside his wife, a cozy couple in an informal posture before the hearth. Thank God they, at least, were alive.
Greymoor took his wife’s hand and kissed her knuckles. “If you want my suggestion, Douglas, you say as little as possible. We will inform the magistrate Henry’s gun, damp from the snow, misfired while he was cleaning it out in the stables. The magistrate can be given to understand Henry was not coping well with his beloved older brother’s death, and might conclude we are putting about a polite fiction—unless you would prefer to tell the magistrate something else?”
Douglas heard the words and comprehended them. Across the room, Fairly was once again studying the view toward the stables, as if covering up attempted murder and suicide were all in a morning’s work. Douglas reviewed the words Greymoor had spoken, and found they held the same meaning, still, and yet his mind must continue to examine them.
“Come on, man,” Heathgate growled from his desk. “We need to decide this before the bloody magistrate comes bumbling up the drive.”
Fairly didn’t turn, but rather, drawled over his shoulder, “The bloody magistrate can bloody wait in the bloody guest parlor, swilling your finest gunpowder and chatting up the rather buxom maid. Astrid, my apologies for the language.”
Douglas paid attention to not a word of that exchange—though Fairly was being protective of him, and that was remarkable—because he’d found a name for what was being offered here: sanctuary.
A safe place, a place where one need not be always on guard. He didn’t want to trust it, but his defenses were in shambles, and he frankly lacked the strength of will to resist the lure.
“That plan should suffice,” he told Greymoor, his voice shaking a bit. “What of my mother?”
“Mothers,” said Greymoor with a glance at his wife’s belly, “are always a complication. I see no need to provide the dowager Lady Amery any details at variance with what’s told to the magistrate.”
A look passed between members of the Alexander family, but Douglas was at a loss to interpret it. Pity, maybe? Dismay? His mental faculties had become like those of some mute beast, capable of observing human behaviors, but unable to make sense of them.
“All right,” Fairly said briskly, again facing the room. “If that’s settled, then what say I found the body? Went out to check on my mare, and alas, tragedy had struck.”
That turned the discussion to the story to be prepared for the magistrate. When that matter had been dispatched, the next order of business became Henry’s final arrangements.
“We have a family plot on the estate,” Douglas said, drifting back to the sofa. “I can deal with it there.”
Greymoor glanced at his wife again, an assessing glance the lady probably didn’t even notice. “I’d rather you held at least a memorial service in Town. Henry was well liked among the hunting set, and it would save both my wife and my brother the journey to your estate.”
The sense of sanctuary, of being protected, swelled again in Douglas’s chest. “You really need not make that effort.”
“Oh, yes, we really do,” Heathgate said. “The man we bury would have been uncle to Astrid’s child, and there will be no taint on the family honor if we can manage it.”