The Maid of Fairbourne Hall(66)

His gaze pierced hers in the lamplight. “Do you not?”

Why did she feel like he was asking her, and not Nora the housemaid? She shook her head. “I do not. Besides,” she faltered. “Your brother is . . . That is, I believe another woman has already captured his heart.”

“Are we speaking of Miss Lyons again?”

“No, sir. Not a London lady.”

“What makes you think so?”

She hesitated. For Lewis’s heart might have had nothing to do with those late-night rendezvous. She felt her cheeks heat at the thought. “I . . . It’s just that . . .”

“You needn’t protect him, Nora. I am familiar with my brother’s . . . proclivities. But I want to find out who did this.” He gestured toward the unnaturally still figure in the bed. “Anything you can tell me about Lewis’s affairs, so to speak, might be important.”

She nodded. “It is only that I have seen him come in very early in the morning.”

“An early ride, perhaps.”

“No, sir. I mean very early. Five or six o’clock in the morning. As though he’d been out all night.”

“And what are you doing up so early . . . beyond spying on my brother?”

“Spying?” She pulled a face. “You forget, sir. While you are still abed, I am up by five thirty, opening shutters and polishing grates.”

He slowly shook his head. “How you must hate it, having to rise before noon.”

She lifted her chin. “I have never slept so late, sir. Even before I . . . came here. What must you think of me!”

His gaze roved her eyes, her face, her cap. “I don’t know what to think of you.”

Did he look at her with approval or disapproval? It was difficult to tell in the dim light.

He drew himself up. “It proves nothing. How do you know he had been out all night?”

“He wears the same rumpled clothes and is in need of a shave.”

His eyes glinted. “How closely you regard him, to notice such detail.” He paused. “Still, he might have been out with friends, playing cards or some such.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Based on what?”

How awkward this was. How did one describe the subtle things—not the obvious smell of perfume, nor lip rouge on his cravat. But his warm, tousled look. His smirk of satisfaction. His lack of interest in trifling with her . . .

“Let us just say feminine intuition.”

He quirked a brow. “I don’t suppose your feminine intuition can conjure the name of this theoretical female friend?”

She shook her head. “No, but he comes home on foot through the side door, so she cannot live too far away. Weavering Street, I would suppose. Or Maidstone.”

He studied her. “And are you jealous of this phantom woman, whoever she is?”

“Not at all.”

His eyes narrowed. “I hope you speak the truth.”

A snort interrupted them. On the settee, Mrs. Welch smacked her lips and muttered something under her breath. The wooden frame creaked as she struggled to sit up.

Nathaniel shook his head and, with an empathetic grimace, slipped from the room. Margaret guessed he hoped to spare the woman the embarrassment of being found asleep on duty. She hesitated, surprised to realize she thought so charitably, so highly, of Nathaniel Upchurch now. Had he changed since her arrival, or had she?

“What? Who’s there?” Mrs. Welch murmured. “I was only restin’ me eyes.”

“It’s all right, Mrs. Welch. It’s only me, Nora.”

“Ohhh.” The old woman exhaled in relief. “Forget the tea tray again, did you?”

Margaret smiled to herself. “That’s it. Good night.”





Hudson left early the next morning to return to London. In his absence, Nathaniel made the rounds of the estate on his own, but he did not tarry, unwilling to leave his brother for too long. Later, Nathaniel sat at the desk in the library reading correspondence and scouring newspapers for further reports on the slave revolt and its aftermath. Helen had yet to join him.

Now and again he looked across the room at his brother lying so still in the transplanted sickbed. He liked to be near Lewis. Keep him company in this way, even if Lewis was unaware of his presence. Four days and he still hadn’t wakened.

The under butler, Arnold, appeared in the doorway and coughed. “Sir, there is a Mr. Tompkins to see you. I’ve put him in the morning room.”

Tompkins? Was that not the name of the runner who had already questioned Hudson?

Nathaniel rose. “I’ll see him there.”

“Very good, sir.”

The man who stood when Nathaniel entered the morning room was short, slight, and bald. He was perhaps thirty or five and thirty, not old enough to have lost all his hair naturally. Nathaniel fleetingly wondered if he shaved his head and why he would do so. The skin of his face was smooth, his brows giving evidence of hair that would be brown, had he any to show.

“Mr. Nathaniel Upchurch, I presume.”

“Yes.”

“John Tompkins.” The man offered neither hand nor bow. “I have a few questions to put to you, sir, if you don’t mind.”

“And if I do?”

“Well, sir”—his eyes glinted—“then I might think you had something to hide. And we wouldn’t want that, would we?”

Nathaniel crossed his arms. “I have nothing to hide, personally, but nor do I want my family’s business bandied about the county. Who sent you?”

“I am not at liberty to say.”

Nathaniel was tempted to refuse to answer the man’s questions but tried another tack. “A pity, for I would be happy to share your employer’s expense. For you see, I too am very interested to learn who shot my brother.”

“You assume that’s why I am here, sir?”

Nathaniel frowned. “My steward told me you were here yesterday asking about it.”

“Ah.” Tompkins nodded his understanding.

Nathaniel regarded him. “Perhaps I might hire you to reveal the name of the person employing you?”

Tompkins grinned. “Ah. That’s a good one, sir. But I’m afraid I’ve got my hands full at present.”

Nathaniel said, “One wonders how the matter came to the attention of someone in London—where I assume whoever hired you lives, you being a Bow Street man.”

The small man regarded him, eyes alight. “Perhaps you ought to consider a career in detection, sir. You have a gift for it.”

Nathaniel shrugged.

“Have you any idea who might have done it?” Tompkins asked.

“What, me do your job for you?” Nathaniel smirked. “Actually, I do have several ideas.”

“Thought you might,” the man said wryly.

Nathaniel had been thinking about what Margaret had told him, but he was not ready to dismiss Saxby as a suspect yet. He said, “I don’t like to malign anyone without proof, but I have heard from several sources that the fight was over a woman.”

“Usually is. Who are these ‘sources,’ if I may ask?”

“A friend of Lewis’s, a housemaid who saw him returning after being out all night, and his own valet.”

“Might that friend be Piers Saxby, sir?”

Nathaniel hesitated, surprised. It had crossed his mind that Saxby might have hired Tompkins, but would the runner name him if he had? In either case, Nathaniel felt no obligation to protect Saxby. “Yes, as a matter of fact, it is.”

Tompkins shrugged. “I have already spoken to Mr. Saxby about . . . well, several items.”

“What items?”

“Oh, you know,” Tompkins said casually, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “About that brawl between you and your brother in Mayfair, which he witnessed, as did so many shocked ladies and gents. Such threats. Such violence. But then you know all about that, so I won’t bore you.”

Nathaniel gritted his teeth. “If you have spoken to Saxby, then I trust he told you all about his feud with Lewis over one Miss Lyons?”

“Miss Lyons?” The man’s endless brow furrowed. “I don’t recall him mentioning that lady by name. Though several others did enter the conversation, including a Miss Macy.”

Nathaniel stilled. Knowing Tompkins was watching him carefully, he attempted to retain a neutral expression, though inwardly alarm bells sounded. Miss Macy—what has she to do with it?

“Did you and your brother not ‘feud’ over that young lady at one time?”

Is that what he was getting at? Nathaniel wondered. “That was years ago.”

“Still, resentments left to fester often lead to violence in the end.”

Nathaniel clenched his jaw. “I did not shoot my brother, Mr. Tompkins. I was here, in the house, when they brought him in by wagon.”

“So your Mr. Hudson said.”

“You don’t believe him? Then ask my sister. Besides, do you not think Lewis’s valet would have recognized me, masked or not, had I been the man?”

“Recognized maybe. Reported? Not likely. Servants—and sisters for that matter—are so dashed loyal, I find. Makes ferreting out the truth, as well as other hidden . . . things, quite difficult.”

Nathaniel felt his temper rising but held his tongue.

“Any other ideas?” Tompkins asked, clearly humoring him.

“You have heard, I trust, of the thief who calls himself the Poet Pirate?”