A Murderous Marriage Read online

  Eva barely heard those last words; the ones that preceded them rang in her ears. Though she typically employed a strict policy of not questioning her employers unless invited to do so, she nonetheless blurted, “What do you mean by ‘not really’?”

  Her frock hooked and buttoned, Julia once again held out her arms, this time for the matching coat, which fell open in front to show the dress beneath. “I’ve seen him kiss her cheek. What kind of employer kisses his staff? Has my grandfather ever kissed your cheek, Eva?”

  “Indeed not, my lady.” Lord Wroxly had never done more than shake her hand at Christmas. But she had certainly heard of employers taking liberties, and she very much wished she could remain on board as part of the honeymoon staff. Hetta would be going along, but Hetta couldn’t very well keep her ears open for clandestine conversations that might explain the connection between the viscount and Miss Blair.

  “And yet, with all these tagalongs, Gil had the audacity to suggest the photographer stay behind.”

  Eva froze. “The photographer, my lady? He’s coming, as well?”

  “Why, yes, of course he is. He’s to keep a record of our trip, of all the sights we see. And Gil was completely for it until we were taking the last of the pictures out on deck. Then he started mumbling about wishing he could replace the man. Mr. Mowbry is his name. I think he’s quite accomplished. Professional, patient . . . Did you see the care he took in making certain each photograph was perfectly staged?”

  Indeed, Eva had noticed how the man had taken particular pains to make sure Julia stood just so, held her face in just such a position. Perhaps the viscount had noticed, as well, and hadn’t appreciated the man’s familiarity with his bride. Looking at Julia’s expression now, at her utter bemusement with her husband’s objections to the photographer, Eva believed she hadn’t noticed anything unusual during the picture taking. But then, Julia often missed subtleties in favor of the larger picture, the larger picture in this case being her desire to look her best in her wedding album.

  “There doesn’t seem enough time to employ another photographer,” Eva ventured, though she, too, found prudence in the notion of doing so.

  “No, indeed there is not. Not if we are to set sail tomorrow morning, as Gil wishes. I asked him, ‘Why all the hurry to be away?’ and ‘Wouldn’t it be nicer to wait another day and visit with the relatives who are lingering in Cowes?’ But no, he wishes to be off at the earliest opportunity, so barring deplorable weather, we sail at first light.” After checking her appearance in the full-length mirror, she passed back into the sitting room. Eva and Hetta trotted after her. “Don’t forget what I said, Eva. Find excuses to watch Mildred Blair. If she protests, tell her I asked you to keep an eye on things.”

  “She won’t like that. She’s already asked us to keep out of the way.”

  “I don’t care what she likes. If she has a problem, she may come and see me. My husband has allowed her far too much license. It’s time for her to learn that the Viscountess Annondale isn’t nearly as tolerant of her antics, not by half.”

  CHAPTER 3

  “What the devil is going on in here?” Gil Townsend tapped his way into the dining room, only to stop and scowl at the toppled table and the culinary chaos surrounding it. He slowly and deliberately raised his gaze to his cousin, assessing every inch of the mortified young man. “Ernie. I might have known you’d be the cause.”

  “Oh, no,” Amelia began, “it was actually—”

  Balancing her plate in one hand, Phoebe cut her sister off with a nudge to her wrist and a shake of her head. Judging from Gil’s forbidding expression, she didn’t think explaining how she and Amelia had brought on such a bout of jitters would help poor Ernest. She didn’t understand it herself. They had merely wished to sit with the young man and become better acquainted. They were family now, after all.

  Miss Blair appeared from a passageway at the far side of the dining room and walked quickly over. “Oh, dear. We’ll have this cleaned up in a trice.” Three waiters had followed her into the room, and she made a hand motion that set them to work. “Is the table defective? If so, I shall have it replaced.”

  “Hardly.” Gil sniggered rather meanly. “The only defective here is . . . well.”

  “Oh, Gil, do stop tormenting poor Ernie.” Veronica Townsend squeezed through the onlookers, some of whom had jumped to their feet at the sound of the crash. She stopped beside her brother and surveyed the damage. “Poor Ernie, you managed to really do it this time. Ah, no matter.” She slid a sideways glance at Miss Blair. “Gil’s trusty secretary will make it appear as if nothing ever happened.”

  Phoebe wondered at both Miss Townsend’s shadowed glance and those last words, or, rather the tone in which she had spoken them, which hadn’t sounded at all complimentary. Meanwhile, Ernest Shelton’s face had turned fiery—not that it hadn’t been scarlet previously. The poor man, lanky, angular, rather too thin, stood wringing his hands and mumbling apologies. Phoebe’s heart went out to him. The waiters began clearing away the mess, but Ernest remained where he was, watching them sweep up food only inches from his feet. Murmurs rose like crickets at nightfall as the guests’ attention remained on him.

  Phoebe decided it was time to go to his rescue. “Mr. Shelton, we met earlier. I’m Phoebe, and this is my sister Amelia. Won’t you join us . . .” She glanced around the room. There didn’t appear to be three unoccupied seats together anywhere. With her plate, she gestured toward the doorway. “Perhaps outside? Would you care to fill another plate first?”

  “Er, n-no . . . that is, I’d be happy to, er, escort you . . .”

  “If I were you girls, I’d be careful he doesn’t accidentally knock you overboard. Eh, Ernie?” Gil let out a laugh. Several others joined in, some heartily, others tentatively. His sister, however, grasped his shoulder and turned him almost roughly to face her.

  “You really are insufferable,” she whispered. “Why must you insist on lording it over those who can’t fight back?”

  “It was a joke, Veronica,” he replied in a low rumble. “Why must you insist on taking everything so seriously?”

  “Well, then,” Phoebe said with an attempt to sound as though the past few moments hadn’t been painfully uncomfortable, “why don’t we proceed up to the top deck and enjoy this . . . em . . . glorious weather?”

  She and Amelia stepped around Gil and his sister, and Ernie Shelton moved to follow. Gil slapped him on the back as he passed by. Rather than a friendly thud, the blow made a sharp thwack, which caught Phoebe’s concern, but not just for Ernest Shelton.

  No, her concerns were for Julia. Was Gil given to bursts of temper? Would he turn that temper on his wife?

  Mr. Shelton accompanied her and Amelia up to the top deck, where more tables had been set up. The numbers here were thin at best, and those few burrowed into their coats and tucked their chins into their collars. Not the most comfortable position in which to consume a meal. Amelia immediately began to shiver, and while Phoebe wouldn’t have blamed her sister for excusing herself and returning inside, she herself had no intention of doing so.

  Instead, she pulled her cashmere wrap tighter around her and huddled lower in her chair. “Mr. Shelton, I believe you are Gil’s cousin?”

  “Once removed, yes. My father was his first cousin.”

  “I see. Why, that makes you his . . .”

  “Heir, yes. For now. Until your sister, uh . . .” Another wave of color engulfed his face.

  Phoebe nodded her understanding, making it unnecessary for him to continue. Besides, she had already known of Ernest Shelton’s place in the family hierarchy. She had merely wished to start the conversation somewhere. While her initial reason for suggesting he join them had been to provide the man with an escape from the scene of his embarrassment, now she desired to learn more about her brother-in-law. She had the distinct feeling Mr. Shelton could provide her with details no one else would, assuming she could entice him to speak at all.

  “Are y
ou a close neighbor of Gil’s?” She lifted her fork and knife and sliced off a piece of her chateaubriand.

  “I live on the estate, actually.” He didn’t seem to derive any pleasure from the fact.

  Phoebe ignored his downcast features and went on brightly. “Do you? Then you and Julia must know each other quite well.”

  He shook his head. “Not well, not yet. I . . . er . . . don’t live at the main house. I’ve a cottage on the edge of the home farm. With a surgery.”

  “You’re a doctor,” Amelia said with no little amount of surprise. It surprised Phoebe, too, exceedingly much. She could hardly imagine this timid bundle of nerves having the presence of mind and steady enough hands to treat patients.

  “Not exactly.” He smiled, a self-conscious and apologetic gesture that revealed how one front tooth overlapped the other. “I’m the estate veterinarian.”

  “How splendid!” Amelia put down her fork and clapped her hands together. Her shawl slipped from her shoulders, but for the moment, it appeared she had forgotten the cold. “What kind of animals do you tend to, Mr. Shelton?”

  “All kinds. Large and small. Farm animals, horses, dogs, and cats. Whatever needs tending.”

  “If I were a man, I’d certainly become a veterinarian. I do love animals.” Amelia remembered her wrap and tugged it back over her goose-pimply arms.

  “You can be a veterinarian if you wish to be,” Phoebe was quick to tell her. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Shelton?”

  “Er . . . well, it’ll take a bit of schooling first . . .”

  “I’ll be graduating this year. I’ve done quite well in the sciences, actually. Our curriculum was changed a couple of years ago to include more academics. Our grandmother wasn’t too keen on it at first, but she’s come round. She and Phoebe ran the Haverleigh School for a bit after poor Miss Finch . . . Ah, well . . . I don’t suppose you’ll wish to hear about that. Not now, at any rate. I’m afraid it’s not a very happy story.”

  Mr. Shelton gave Amelia his undivided attention, though Phoebe had the distinct impression he hadn’t the faintest idea what to make of her ramblings. That he would indulge a child, and not make her feel as though she were talking out of turn, raised him quite high in her estimate.

  “I suppose Gil’s horses and dogs were taken for the war effort, the way ours were.” Amelia traded a sad glance with Phoebe. “Only my pony, Blossom, didn’t go. She was too small.”

  Horses from all over England had been commandeered by the army during the early years of the war. Grampapa had sent them willingly enough, but he had mourned their loss, along with that of his foxhounds and pointers. Well-trained dogs had become an asset on the battlefields, allowing messages to be delivered from trench to trench without risking soldiers’ lives. Grampapa still hadn’t found the heart to bring new dogs to Foxwood Hall, using the excuse that he had grown too old for the hunt, and would leave it to Fox to someday revive the old tradition, if he chose to.

  “Actually, no,” Mr. Shelton was saying in reply to Amelia’s observation. “My cousin’s horses were not sent to war.”

  Amelia’s brow creased. “How can that be? I thought everyone had to make sacrifices, terrible though they might be.”

  “He did send this boat,” Ernest said.

  Amelia waved this notion away as being of little consequence. “That’s no sacrifice. Who cares about an old boat? Horses and dogs have feelings. And we have feelings for them.”

  “I completely agree.” Ernest sat a little forward in his chair. “It’s not as if the animals had any choice in the matter.”

  “No, indeed,” Amelia said indignantly.

  “Did you fight in the war, sir?” Phoebe asked him.

  “I served in my capacity as a veterinarian.” He frowned. “You wouldn’t think that would put me in much personal danger, but at times I found myself at the front lines, treating everything from scratches to thrush to bullet wounds.”

  “Bullet wounds?” Amelia looked about to cry. “Oh, how beastly we were to send them. We never should have allowed it, should we, Phoebe?”

  “I’m afraid we had little choice, dearest. Our soldiers needed them.”

  “Well, I, for one, can’t fault Gil for not sending his.”

  Phoebe didn’t reply to this, especially since Amelia’s position on the matter seemed to have suddenly shifted. But she silently wondered about her brother-in-law’s failure to support the war effort as fully as he might have. And one detail about his refusing to send his horses puzzled her. “Is Gil able to ride?”

  Ernest shook his head. “He hasn’t ridden since . . . well, you know.”

  “His leg,” Amelia whispered, and Ernest nodded. She screwed up her features. “Then why keep horses?”

  “He breeds them,” the man said succinctly.

  Money. The realization that Gil hadn’t sent his horses to France for purely financial reasons struck Phoebe with an almost physical impact. All over England, people had sacrificed and suffered privations, while their men had gone off to fight. Many had returned home maimed or never returned at all. But Gil Townsend had put his monetary investments above all that. Above his country.

  “Phoebe, are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” she replied to Amelia, but it was all she could do not to burst out about what she considered Gil’s treason . . . his selfishness . . . his greed. Was she judging him too harshly? No. Sending Foxwood Hall’s animals to help with the war effort had nearly broken dear Grampapa’s heart and had aged him a good several years. Papa’s death had certainly taken even more years off his life. Money had never been a consideration in his sacrifice or his grief.

  What kind of man had her sister married?

  * * *

  Leaving Hetta in the stateroom, Eva made her way to the galley. Most of the food had been prepared in Cowes, at the Royal Yacht Squadron, and brought on board, so the activity here consisted mainly of ensuring there were enough plates, glasses, and cutlery available for the guests, along with opening bottles of wine and champagne. No one paid her any mind as she walked through the bustle, careful not to get in anyone’s way but alert for Mildred Blair’s presence. The woman was nowhere to be seen.

  That would not deter her. Lady Julia had set her the task of keeping an eye on the woman, and she intended to do just that. In fact, if Miss Blair had gone upstairs, it might provide Eva with the perfect opportunity to observe her with the viscount. Perhaps her behavior was nothing more than that of a devoted, fiercely loyal employee. Or perhaps there was something more at play.

  At the far end of the galley, a doorway led into a short, narrow hallway that ended with a spiral staircase leading up. At the top she discovered another door, which she guessed led into a service pantry, but just as she was about to swing the door open, familiar voices, speaking low but urgently, stopped her.

  “You’re overreacting, Hugh. Being ridiculous.”

  “And you’re not taking this seriously enough.”

  She recognized the first speaker as Viscount Annondale, and the man he addressed as Hugh must be Sir Hugh Fitzallen, his best man. They sounded upset, contentious. Fully aware that whatever they discussed was none of her business, except where it might concern Lady Julia, she pushed the door slightly open with her fingertips, ready to simply walk through, as if on an errand, should they spot her.

  But they didn’t.

  Sir Hugh thrust an unfolded card under the viscount’s nose. Eva recognized the Annondale crest included in the design of the wedding invitations. “How can I be overreacting to this?”

  The two men stood facing each other. Sir Hugh’s back was to her, but over his shoulder, she had a clear view of the viscount. He curled his upper lip as he replied, “It means nothing. Merely a prank.”

  “A rather nasty prank. And what if it isn’t? What if—”

  “That’s why we’re pushing out to sea tomorrow, where we’ll be safe.”

  “We can’t stay on this tub of yours forever.”

  “
We won’t need to. I’ve got my people tracing this.”

  “I don’t see how.”

  “Take my word for it, we’ll soon know who our nuisance is. Probably a disgruntled worker at one of my factories, thinking he’ll make my life uncomfortable. Which he hasn’t.”

  “You’d better be right.”

  “I am.” The viscount spoke with conviction, but uncertainty peeked out from his eyes and raised Eva’s apprehensions. Usually light blue, those eyes had become dark and glassy. Dilated. A sign of fear.

  Her nape prickled, and she longed to confront the men. Could Lady Julia be in some kind of danger? Not for the first time, Eva wished she had remained the sole lady’s maid in the Renshaw household. Then she would be accompanying Lady Julia on this honeymoon voyage and would be on hand if needed. Would Hetta be able to identify a threat to her mistress?

  “We should get back.” The viscount spoke gruffly. “That damned photographer wants a few more family pictures, and I can’t think of a reason to put him off without inviting questions from my wife.”

  Her mind whirling, Eva watched the two men return to the dining room. She counted off twenty seconds; then she, too, pushed through both doors and entered the dining room. She came upon Miss Blair immediately. Or, rather, Miss Blair blocked her from taking another step.

  “Where do you think you’re going? You can’t come in here.”

  “I have a message for Lady Julia.”

  Miss Blair raised a sable-black eyebrow. “Lady Annondale, you mean.”

  Eva pretended not to notice the woman’s hauteur. “I have a message for her.”

  “Tell it to me, then, and I’ll see she gets it.”

  Impossible woman. “It’s of a personal nature.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss . . .”

  “Huntford.”

  “Yes. I cannot allow this. I myself am here only because there was a bit of a mishap earlier, and I was needed to supervise.” Her face set, Miss Blair held out an arm to shoo Eva back into the pantry, at the same time advancing on Eva to force her retreat. Eva had no choice but to comply or create a scene, and she would not do the latter. As they descended the spiral stairs, she spoke over her shoulder.