His lips lifted in that familiar smile so wistful, like Mama’s. “Of course. I shall be happy to burn it for you, right in front of Docia, too.”
She smiled back, hope filling her for the first time. “That won’t be necessary, but I appreciate the sentiment.”
*
“Do you thinkshe did it?” Sander asked Noah.
“Absolutely not.” But what did Noah really know of Miss Wimbley, except for the forthrightness that matched the bold stroke of her handwriting? Had Hicks attacked her? No, that didn’t feel right. The man had been with them for over twenty years. A grim smile touched him. “She did do us one favor.”
“What is that?”
“With all the unwanted guests hastening away, Stonemare can now return to normal.” Noah’s somber jest fell short, watching as his uncle strolled, unsmiling, to the windows and looked out with his hands clasped at his lower back.
“Except for the matter of another dead body,” Sander said.
There was that. Noah rubbed his chest, unable to ease the ache there.Hicks, dead. Noah couldn’t believe it. As with Sander, Noah and his brothers had been closer to Hicks than Father. There was no wife or children to inform. The man had been a loner. Yet that didn’t alleviate the loss.
Baldric ambled in. “Parish constable’s here for Hicks,” he growled in his gravelly timbre.
The parish constable moved into the library. At once, Noah was comforted by the sturdy presence of the man. He was shaped by years of outdoor work and his no-nonsense approach to life. His face, weathered and ruddy, bore the marks of a lifetime spent in damp winds and harsh elements, with a nose slightly reddened by the chill and a beard perpetually flecked with raindrops or mud.
Sander shook his hand. “Thank you for coming so quickly, Constable.”
Nodding, the man tugged off his broad-brimmed hat, clutching it in hand. His eyes, sharp and observant, carried a glint of keen intelligence despite his otherwise-plain appearance. They appeared to miss little as they swept the room. “Another one, eh? Getting to be a regular thing around here. Won’t be able t’ keep this ’un quiet.”
Noah winced. “No.”
With the constable’s help, they’d been able to quell the details of Father’s death from broad knowledge. Hicks’s death, however, would be all over London by nightfall. Hell, nearly half thetonhad been in residence. Witness to Lady Westbridge’s hysterics. And the fact that Geneva Wimbley had been covered in his blood… It didn’t bear thinking about. The unkind, persecuting rumors that would unfold with brisk and undue efficiency—how was Noah to mitigate the damage with a group of gossipmongers who thrived on such abhorrence?
And when had Noah decided it was up to him to take up the cause? But cause of what? Finding who’d murdered his father or saving Miss Wimbley’s beautiful neck?
Not to mention… there was a killer in their midst. “Do you think the murderer could have been a guest?” Noah asked.
The constable’s feet shifted. “It’s possible—”
“Doubt it,” Baldric interrupted. “He was stabbed. In the heart.”
The words stalled at the blood rushing Noah’s ears. “What?”
Sander shoved a hand through his hair. “Jesus. Same as Damien,” he breathed. “It’s as if the family’s cursed.”
A knot coiled deep in Noah’s gut. The sense that things had taken a sinister turn erupted gooseflesh that traversed the surface of his skin, despite the fire in the grate and the brandy he’d sipped. “What the hell is going on?”
Chapter Seventeen
The next morning,Geneva woke to the tantalizing fragrance of coffee after a hard and not-so-restful sleep. Her body ached from head to toe. She wriggled her toes. Yes, definitely sore.
“Oh, good, you’re awake,” Pasha said from across the chamber. She held up one of Abra’s day dresses in soft peach.
Geneva frowned. “Tell me Abra did not leave half her wardrobe behind.”
“Just a few things she thought you could use,” was the pert reply.
Shaking her head, Geneva struggled to sitting, feeling each and every taut muscle. She crawled out of the huge bed. Her neck cracked, her shoulders, her spine. She wobbled on unstable knees that also cracked. “Did I miss something?”
“Not yet. But you did promise Mister Julius an audience.”
Geneva put a hand to her head and let out a low growl. Or groan. Both seemed right.
