The Maid of Fairbourne Hall(67)
“Indeed I have, sir. There is quite a reward offered for his capture.”
“I know.” Nathaniel said dryly. “I am the man who offers that reward.”
Tompkins appeared skeptical, nearly amused. “You don’t expect me to believe the Poet Pirate did this?”
“Why not? The man’s real name by the way is Abel Preston. He burnt my ship and stole from me—why not shoot my brother?”
He felt the man’s amused condescension. How desperate to throw off suspicion he must appear. He thought of mentioning Sterling Benton—how Lewis had provoked the man by threatening to elope with his moneyed stepdaughter. But he decided against it.
Tompkins shook his head. “I shall take it under advisement, sir. But while I’m here, I would like to speak to the valet and that housemaid you mentioned. What was her name?”
Nathaniel wished he had never mentioned her, but refusing to name her now would only make them both seem suspect. “Her name is Nora, though I doubt she can tell you any more than I have.” He frowned at the man. “I am surprised you did not speak to Lewis’s valet during your first call. As he is the only known witness to the events of that morning, I would have thought interviewing him your first priority.”
For the first time, the implacable man looked ill at ease. “I . . . take your point, sir. An oversight I shall redress promptly, if you would be so good as to arrange such an interview.”
“Very well, I shall send him in directly.” Nathaniel turned. Inwardly, he breathed a sigh of relief, hoping he had successfully diverted Mr. Tompkins’s attention from a certain housemaid. At the door, he turned back. “If you learn the identity of my brother’s assailant, I should very much like to know.”
The man’s eyes glinted. “I am sure you would, sir.”
His knowing smirk irritated Nathaniel, but he thought it wiser not to display the temper that had already made him a suspect in someone’s eyes.
Margaret came in the servants’ entrance with Fiona. The Irishwoman carried a basket of fresh laundry from the washhouse, while Margaret carried a bundle of chrysanthemums—the last of the season, Mr. Sackett had said.
“Nora.”
Margaret looked up. Connor stood there in the passage, his skin pale and glazed with sweat.
She stopped where she was. “What is it?”
“There’s a man wants to speak to you. In the morning room.”
“Who?”
“A Mr. Tompkins. He’s looking into Mr. Lewis’s . . . situation.”
Confusion snaked through her. “Does Mr. Upchurch know?”
He nodded. “He’s the one who sent for me. Tompkins said he wanted to speak with me first, then you.”
She knew Nathaniel was eager to learn the identity of the other man involved. But even so she was surprised he thought she had any information to offer.
She placed a hand on Connor’s arm. “I am sorry you had to go through that again.”
He nodded, eyes downcast, and took his leave.
Fiona shifted the basket to one hip and held out her hand for the flowers. “I’ll take them to the stillroom and put them in water for ya.”
“Thank you, Fiona.”
Margaret walked upstairs, through the servery, and past the dining room toward the front of the house. She felt her hands perspiring and wiped them on her apron. She had no reason to be nervous, she told herself. But her accelerating pulse paid her no heed.
She stepped inside the morning room, hands clasped before her. The man sat at the modest table, bald head dipped over the tea someone had brought him. Betty or Mrs. Budgeon most likely.
He looked up, and her nerves gave a little start. Did she know him? Or was it just the surprise of his youthful unlined face beneath the incongruous bald head?
He set down his cup and rose. “Nora, is it?”
She nodded.
He gestured toward one of the other chairs around the table. “Won’t you be seated?”
She sat primly on the edge of the chair across the table from his, posture erect, hands clasped in her lap. If he looked familiar to her, might she look familiar to him?
He resumed his seat. “And what is your surname, if I may ask?”
“Garret.”
With a stubby drawing pencil, he jotted her name in a small notebook. “Nora Garret. And how long have you been in service here?”
“A few months now.”
One sable eyebrow rose. “A newcomer, then. Have there been any other new arrivals to the house?”
“Besides Mr. Hudson, you mean?”
He nodded, adding, “And not necessarily among the servant ranks.”
She shook her head. “Only me, sir.”
“And where were you before that?”
She shifted on her chair and primed her tongue to deliver her best working-class accent. “London, sir. But wha’ has that to do with Mr. Lewis? Is that not why you’ve come?”
“Who told you that?”
“Why, Connor, sir.”
He crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, regarding her. “London, you say? Perhaps that is why you seem familiar. I may have seen you there.”
She swallowed. “Perhaps. Though London is an awful big place.”
He nodded vaguely. “So, working behind the scenes here, I imagine you’ve learnt quite a lot about the Upchurch family. Their comings and goings. Their affections and arguments. What they are capable of.”
“A bit. Though maids don’t mix with the family much, do they?”
“Don’t they? You tell me.”
“I did see Lewis Upchurch coming in a few times early of a morning, as though he’d been out all night. That’s why I thought maybe he had a lady friend nearby. I assume Mr. Upchurch mentioned it and that’s why you’ve asked to see me?”
He studied her through narrowed eyes. “I’m not really certain anymore.”
Keeping his focus on her, he withdrew something from his coat pocket and laid it on the table beside his saucer.
She felt her gaze drawn to it, and her heart lurched. It was a framed miniature portrait—her portrait. The very one Sterling had shown to the staff weeks ago. She schooled her expression, hoping her anxiety was not as apparent as it felt. She lifted her gaze from the portrait to the man’s face, forcing her features into placid unconcern.
He looked away first but not before she remembered where she had seen the man before. He had been at Emily Lathrop’s house when she’d gone there with Joan. The runner who’d ridden up and spoken to Sterling and Mr. Lathrop on the stoop.
He said, “You have heard, perhaps, that Nathaniel Upchurch once courted a certain young lady, only to have her spurn him in favor of his elder brother?”
She swallowed. “I may have heard somethin’. But that was long afore I come.”
He glanced down at the miniature. “Many a man would fall for such a beauty. Would fight for her. Even kill for her.”
Margaret frowned. “Wha’ are ya sayin’? That Mr. Nathaniel tried to kill his own brother, over some vain chit wha’ knew no better? If you think that, then you don’t know Nathaniel Upchurch. He would never do such a thing. He’s an honorable, God-fearing man.”
One side of the man’s mouth quirked into a wry grin. “But you don’t mix much with the family, you say?”
She felt her cheeks burn. “We servants see things, sir—know things.”
He slid the miniature across the table toward her. Wiping her hands once more on the apron spread over her knees, Margaret picked it up. Looked at it without really seeing, heart pounding in her ears.
“Have you seen her? Has she been here?”
She took a deep breath and called upon every ounce of acting ability she possessed. “I ’ave seen her.”
He sat up straight. “Have you? Where?”
She handed the portrait back. “A man come here some weeks back. Showin’ off this pretty picture. One isn’t like to forget such a face.”
He looked from the portrait to her. The mantel clock ticked once, twice, three times. “No. One is not.”
Nathaniel sat in the library near Lewis’s bed, telling Helen about Mr. Tompkins’s inquiries. The door opened, and Lewis’s valet entered, toilet case in hand.
“Connor, there you are. How did it go with that Mr. Tompkins? He wasn’t too hard on you, I hope.”
The young man ducked his head. “No, sir. Fine, sir. He’s talking to Nora now.”
“Nora?”
The young valet looked up, surprised. “He said you knew. Told me you’d suggested he do so.”
Nathaniel’s heart began pounding dully. He didn’t like the thought of that man alone with Margaret. That man seeking hidden things. “I . . . did, yes. Still, I didn’t think he would need to speak with her after speaking with you.”
“And why’s that, sir?”
“Because you were there, of course, while she was not.” He turned to his sister. “Helen, might you come with me a moment?”
She set down her needlework and rose, unconcerned. “Am I to be questioned next?”
He took her hand and pulled her along with him out the door and across the hall.
“Nate, what is it?”
“Probably nothing, but I don’t trust the man.” Or whoever hired him.
He burst into the morning room without knocking. Margaret stood at the table poised to flee. Mr. Tompkins sat opposite, tucking something into his pocket as they entered.