Murder Most Malicious Read online

  Amelia Renshaw’s sweet face banished any annoyance Eva might have felt. At fifteen, she was a budding beauty. Not Lady Julia’s glamorous, moving-picture star beauty, but a quieter, deeper sort one often finds in country villages like Little Barlow. Her hair was darker than either Julia’s or Phoebe’s but still golden, a color reflected in her eyes, which sometimes shone hazel and other times brown, but always with bright gold rims. If Phoebe took after their dear but somewhat plain mother and Julia took after their dashing father, Amelia had inherited a pleasing combination of both that would surely endure throughout her lifetime.

  “If you’re worried about your frock, my lady, look.” Eva held out the gowns, using one hand to unfold the bodice of Amelia’s green velvet. “I’ve almost got the stain out and Mable will vanquish what’s left.”

  “I don’t care about that,” Amelia said with a dismissive wave. “You keep the gown. I wanted a private moment to wish you happy Christmas.”

  “Lady Amelia, wherever would I wear such a garment? And as for Christmas, you wished me happy yesterday.” Slinging both gowns over her shoulder, she reached to button the cuffs that traveled halfway up Amelia’s forearms. “Had you forgotten?”

  “Yes, but yesterday was a work day for you and this afternoon you’ll be free to enjoy as you like.” She switched arms so Eva could button the other sleeve. “I may wish you happy from one carefree person to another. That’s quite different, don’t you think?”

  Puzzled, Eva frowned at her young charge, but only for an instant. “I think it’s a lovely gesture and I thank you very much, my lady.”

  “There’s more. I wanted you to know there’s a special surprise in your box from Phoebe and me. There’s something from Julia, too, something she purchased, very lovely and thoughtful, but Phoebe and I made our gift ourselves. But you’re not to open your box until you’re at home with your parents.” Amelia bounced on the balls of her feet with excitement. “We made one for your mother as well.”

  “How terribly sweet of you. But you’re very mysterious, aren’t you?” Eva reached out and affectionately tucked a few stray hairs behind Amelia’s ear. In some ways she was blossoming into a gracious young lady, while in others she was still very much a little girl. Sadly, one with too few memories of her mother. Poor child, one parent lost to childbirth—along with the babe—and the other to war. Eva hoped she helped fill the gaps, on occasion at least, even if only in the smallest ways. “Whatever it is, Mum and I are sure to love and treasure it always. Happy Christmas to you, my lady.”

  To her mingled chagrin and delight, Lady Amelia reached her arms around her and squeezed.

  “With this deplorable weather keeping us inside, we’ll have to use our imaginations to keep ourselves occupied this afternoon.”

  Maude Renshaw, Countess of Wroxly—Grams as Phoebe and her siblings called her—stood as tall as she had as a young woman, if the photographs were any indication. If anything she seemed even taller now, although Phoebe knew that to be an illusion created by the uninterrupted black she habitually wore, from the high-necked collars of her dresses to the narrow sweep of her skirts. With smooth hair the color of newly polished silver worn in a padded upsweep culminating in a topknot at her crown, Grams was a study in dignified elegance that caught the eye and held it whenever she entered a room.

  Strengthening the illusion of Grams’s Amazonian height, Phoebe’s youngest sibling, Viscount Foxwood—Fox—walked at Grams’s side, holding her hand in the crook of his elbow. Fox had yet to enjoy a major growth spurt, much to his chagrin as this set him a good head shorter than many of his classmates at Eton. Together Fox and Grams led the small procession of family and guests into the Petite Salon, tucked into the turret of what had been the original portion of the house.

  This room was one of Phoebe’s favorites. Crisp wainscoting offset by calming green walls and an airy cove ceiling made a welcome contrast to the dark oaks and mahoganies in other parts of the house. Best of all, the room was a partial oval, with a rotunda of windows overlooking the south corner of the gardens.

  An enthusiastic blaze danced behind the fireplace screen, and Mr. Giles and the footmen, Vernon and Douglas, stood at attention, waiting to serve. The table had been laid with leftovers from last night’s dinner—roast goose and venison and medallions of beef, with Mrs. Ellison’s apple-chestnut stuffing, among other delicacies, and for dessert, the leftover Yorkshire pudding and cranberry trifle. Supplemented by a platter of sandwiches, the leftovers provided easy fare designed to allow the kitchen staff, along with the rest of the servants, to finish up early and set out on their afternoon holiday. The day promised adventures for everyone—for the servants as they pursued their personal interests, and, Phoebe thought wryly, for the family and guests as they endeavored to look after themselves for these next several hours.

  “Where is my son? It’s not like Henry to be late to a meal.” Lucille, Marchioness of Allerton, regarded her son’s vacant seat at the table. Whereas Grams’s stoic self-discipline had sculpted her figure into lines of angular elegance, a longstanding habit of overindulgence had softened the marchioness’s figure, rounded her hips and shoulders and upper arms, and produced rather more chins than a body required.

  “Come to think of it, he wasn’t down for breakfast either.” Grams spoke lightly, but shot a suspicious look at Julia. Julia didn’t appear to notice, but Phoebe winced, wondering if somehow Grams had gotten wind of the debacle in the drawing room last night.

  “He and Lord Owen must have gone out.” Grampapa turned his broad face toward Mr. Giles for confirmation.

  “I believe Lord Owen is still in his room, my lord. If Lord Allerton has gone out, he left no message that I know of.”

  Lady Allerton’s frown deepened. “Hmm . . . That, too, is most unlike Henry. Did he take his motor car?”

  “No, my lady. His Silver Ghost is still in the carriage house.”

  “Hmm . . . How very odd, indeed.”

  “Really, Mama, why all the fuss?” Lord Theodore Leighton—Theo—reached for a roll and his butter knife with a bored expression. “Henry’s a grown man.”

  He fell silent without any further reassurance and buttered his bread with meticulous strokes as if creating a work of art. This proved no simple task, not for Theo, and Phoebe quelled the urge to reach over and offer assistance. The knife quivered in his grasp, bringing attention to the scarred flesh of his fingers and the backs of both hands. The rippled skin ended at his sleeves and reappeared in angry blotches above his collar to pull the left side of his face into a perpetual sneer. Phoebe wondered that he hadn’t grown whiskers to hide the scars. Like Henry, this second son of the Leighton family was handsome, or had been, before the war had left its mark on him.

  Mustard gas, in the trenches of the Battle of Somme. Phoebe remembered the day a distraught Lady Allerton had telephoned to deliver the awful news. Theo’s injuries had taken him out of action for nearly six months—he’d very nearly died—but when everyone had expected him to return home, he returned to the trenches instead. He made it abundantly clear at every opportunity he wanted no one’s pity, no one’s help. He’d butter his own roll, thank you, if it took all morning.

  Phoebe tried never to feel sorry for him, even tried to like him, but he made it a ticklish task, especially in moments like this. This might be Henry they were talking about, but he and Theo were, after all, brothers, and Theo exhibited not the slightest concern.

  While the elder generation discussed where Henry might be, Phoebe glanced across the table at Julia. Had her argument with Henry driven him away? She noted that Julia’s arms were well-covered in deep blue chiffon, with a velvet shawl draped over that, to hide any evidence of last night.

  What Julia needed, what they all needed, in Phoebe’s opinion, was a life free from the old pressures to marry and marry well. The war had changed life for so many others, but those changes seemed worlds removed from Foxwood Hall. It was as if the Renshaw family, and other families like thei
rs, had become mired in an earlier time dictated by an endless procession of luncheons, dinner parties, and potential beaux. She sighed.

  A mistake.

  “What’s wrong, Phoebe?” Beside her, Amelia looked both pretty and smart in a new shirtwaist with blouson sleeves.

  She should know better than to show even the slightest sign of distress in front of Amelia, for where Julia cared little about the goings-on around her, Amelia was apt to care rather too much. She regarded her younger sister’s concerned expression.

  “Wrong? Nothing, Amelia.”

  “Then why are you moaning?”

  “I am not moaning. I sighed. There is a difference.” She didn’t dare discuss what happened last night with her innocent sister, but it was too late to pretend nothing was wrong, for Amelia was far too perceptive to be fooled. Phoebe cupped her mouth to prevent Fox overhearing. Fox always seemed to be listening in on other people’s conversations, storing away bits of information to be used at his convenience. “The truth is, I’m horribly bored. I miss . . .” She paused. How to phrase this without sounding unfeeling and self-absorbed? “I miss the activity of the war. Not the war itself, mind you. I’m happy and relieved it’s finally over. But we made a true difference to a good many people. And now . . . I fear life has lost its color.”

  Her sister nodded, her large eyes keen with understanding, just as they had always been from Amelia’s earliest age. Even as a baby she had seemed to possess an uncanny wisdom when it came to reading the moods of others. Sometimes Phoebe yearned for those plump, little-girl arms hugging her tight as they once so often had. Julia could use one of those hugs now, though it had been years since she had admitted to vulnerability of any sort or accepted that kind of closeness—not from Amelia and certainly not from Phoebe.

  Amelia nodded sagely. “You’re afraid all we’ll have to look forward to from now on are parties and such, like in the old days?”

  “You have read my mind exactly.” Yes, let gentle Amelia believe that was all that was wrong. “The old ways seem so purposeless now. I’ve been thinking—”

  “You should be thinking of finding a husband before the dust gathers on that shelf you’re sitting on,” Fox whispered out of the side of his mouth, his gaze still fixed across the table at the elders as if he hadn’t been listening in on Phoebe and Amelia.

  “I’m nineteen, Fox. That hardly qualifies me for any shelf and besides, what difference should it make?” Phoebe shook her head at him. “It’s a new world and women will no longer be relegated exclusively to the home. We have choices now.” Or should, she silently amended.

  “That’s right,” Amelia put in eagerly. “Many choices.”

  Fox finally deigned to turn his face to Phoebe, his lips tilting in a mean little smile. “You think so? As you said, the war is over. The men have come home. Time for you ladies to return to the roles for which God designed you.”

  She nearly choked on her own breath. Only a throat clearing and a glare from Grams prevented her from retorting—and perhaps wringing her brother’s neck.

  “I propose that directly following luncheon, Julia play the piano for us.” Grams pinned her light brown eyes on Julia, turning her proposal into an adamant command that brooked no demurring.

  “And following Julia, I wouldn’t mind regaling everyone with a song or two.” This came from Lady Cecily Leighton, Henry’s maiden great-aunt. Phoebe glanced up at her, alarmed by the suggestion. Lady Cecily had already proved herself thoroughly tone deaf, and on one occasion Phoebe had had to endure an entire hour of jumbled and stumbling notes. If that weren’t enough, the woman’s outfit today reflected sure signs of a growing disorientation, with her striped frock overlaid by a knee-length tunic of floral chiffon. A wide silk headband sporting a bright Christmas plaid held most of her wiry white curls off her shoulders and neck, giving her the appearance of a garish, holiday gypsy. The poor woman’s maid must have been mortified this morning.

  “Of course, Cecily, dear.” Grampapa spoke softly and gently, as he had when Phoebe was small. His perfectly trimmed mustache twitched as he smiled. “We shall look forward to it.”

  Phoebe managed to suppress a groan, but Fox could not. Grams shot another glance across the table while Grampapa’s eyebrows gathered in warning.

  “After Julia serenades us”—fourteen-year-old Fox pulled a face—“and Lady Cecily, too, may we find something exciting to do? Grampapa, couldn’t we take the rifles out for some skeet shooting?”

  “Fox.” Grams arced a crescent-thin eyebrow. “I believe indoor activities are more appropriate for days such as this.”

  “Oh, Grams. . . .”

  “Fox.” Grampapa’s stern tone forestalled any impending complaint.

  The boy made a grinding sound in his throat, and Phoebe whispered to him, “When are you going to grow up?”

  “When are you going to stop being so boring?”

  “Terribly sorry to be late for luncheon, everyone. I had some letters to write. Do forgive me.” Clad in country tweeds, Lord Owen Seabright bowed ruefully and took the vacant seat beside Julia. His gaze met Phoebe’s, and she raised her water goblet to her lips to hide the inevitable and appalling heat that always crept into her cheeks whenever the man so much as glanced her way.

  Lord Owen Seabright was an earl’s younger son who had taken a small, maternal inheritance and turned it into a respectable fortune. His woolen mills had supplied English soldiers with uniforms and blankets during the war. He himself had served as well, a major commanding a battalion, and for his valor he’d been awarded a Victoria Cross. Unlike Theo Leighton, Lord Owen had returned home mercifully whole but for having taken a bullet to the shoulder.

  If only Papa had been so fortunate....

  She dismissed the thought before melancholy had a chance to set in. Of course, that left her once more contemplating Owen Seabright, a wealthy, fit man in the prime of his life and as yet unattached. After years of war, such men were a rarity. He’d been invited to spend Christmas because his grandfather and Phoebe’s had been great friends, because he’d had a falling out with his own family who disapproved of his business ventures, and because Fox had insisted he come, with Grams’s blessing.

  If an engagement between Julia and Henry didn’t come about, Owen Seabright was to be next in line to seek Julia’s hand. Phoebe wondered if Owen, or Julia for that matter, had been privy to that information. She herself only knew because Fox had told her, his way of informing her he’d soon have Julia married off and Phoebe’s turn would be next.

  Or so he believed. What Phoebe believed was that Fox needed to be taken down a peg or two.

  “Henry isn’t with you?” Lady Allerton asked.

  Lord Owen looked surprised. “With me? No, I haven’t seen him today.”

  “No one has, apparently.” With a perplexed look, Lady Allerton helped herself to another of last night’s medallions of beef bordelaise. “I do hope Henry hasn’t gotten lost somewhere.”

  “He can hardly lose his way.” Grampapa’s great chest rose and fell, giving Phoebe the impression of a bear just waking up from a long winter’s rest. “He knows our roads and trails as well as any of us. Spent enough time at Foxwood as a boy, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, but, Archibald,” Grams said sharply, “things look different in the snow. He easily could have taken a wrong fork and ended up heaven only knows where. Or he might have slipped and twisted his ankle.”

  “Good heavens,” Lady Allerton exclaimed. “Is that supposed to reassure me?”

  “Should we form a search party?” Amelia appeared genuinely worried. Phoebe sent her a reassuring smile and shook her head.

  “Grams, don’t be silly.” Fox flourished his fork, earning him a sharp throat clearing and another stern look from Grampapa. The youngest Renshaw put his fork down with a terse, “Sorry, sir,” and shoved a lock of sandy hair off his forehead. “But even if he was lost, he’d either end up in the village, the school, or the river. He’s not about to jump in the
river in this weather, is he?” The boy shrugged. “He’ll be back.”

  He sent Julia a meaningful look. She ignored him, turning her head to gaze out the bay window at the wide expanse of snow-frosted lawn rolling away to a skeletal copse of birch trees and the pine forest beyond that. Farther in the distance, the rolling Cotswolds Hills embraced the horizon, with patches of white interspersed with bare ground where the wind had whipped the snow away.

  Phoebe brought her gaze closer, and noticed a trail of footprints leading through the garden and back again. Henry? But if he’d gone out that way, he had apparently returned to the house.

  Grams narrowed a shrewd gaze on Julia. “I do hope there is no particular reason for Henry to have made a sudden departure.”

  This, too, Julia ignored.

  “As Lawrence Winslow did last summer,” Grams muttered under her breath. Although everyone must have heard the comment—Phoebe certainly had—all went on eating as if they hadn’t. Grams seethed in Julia’s direction another moment, then returned her attention to her meal.

  Apparently, not everyone was willing to pretend Grams hadn’t spoken. “Julia, you and Henry get on splendidly, don’t you?” Fox snapped his fingers when she didn’t reply. “Julia?”

  She turned back around. “What?”

  Phoebe was gripped by a sudden urge to pinch her. Though last night had obviously left her bewildered, this sort of indifference was nothing new. It began three years ago, the day the news about Papa reached them from France, and rather than fading over time her disinterest had become more pronounced throughout the war years. By turns her sister’s apathy angered or saddened Phoebe, depending on the circumstances, but always left her frustrated.

  “Stop it,” Amelia hissed in her brother’s ear, another comment heard and ignored around the table. “Leave it alone.”

  Phoebe observed her little sister. Had Amelia found out about last night’s argument, or had she merely grown accustomed to Julia’s fickleness when it came to men?