“It was all a lie,” Bastian whispered. “There was never an Isadore. She was working with another man to dupe Alexander—the enquiry agent he had hired to locate his sister. Your accident... it was all their doing. I saw everything as it transpired. She clubbed him and ran off, and somehow Alexander followed them down the stairs. You arrived not moments later. I... I dreadto think what would have become of us if you had not come. Thank you, Your Grace.”
“You would have survived,” Margaret said. “The both of you have much more life to live yet.”
They settled into silence as they rode toward home.
A little while later, as the road curved around Old Sarum, Carlisle signaled for them to stop. He turned back wordlessly at Margaret. She felt Bastian tense in front of her, wondering what he had seen. Squinting against the darkness, she heard Thalia before she saw her.
Steadying Bastian, she slipped out of the saddle and approached the abandoned horse. Thalia stepped back defensively, shaking her head as Margaret tried to reach for the reins. Eventually, the mare allowed Margaret to approach. She scanned the road ahead for signs of Isadore or her accomplice. Another step forward, and the metallic sound of coins rang out from below, where Margaret had kicked them in the mud.
Carlisle walked Arion forward, bringing his lantern so that Margaret could see. The road was covered with coins and banknotes—Alexander's ransom, left with Thalia, spilled out when she had fallen.
Her breath caught as she followed the trail of money to the ditch, where two lifeless masses lay by the roadside.
“It’s them,” Alexander breathed. “Ripley and the actress.”
“Thalia must have thrown them off,” Margaret said, face twisting in disgust at the sight of the two unmoving bodies. Her stomach churned. “Do you think they are...”
“By the looks of it, yes. A horse always remembers a rider,” Bastian said from behind them. “She avenged herself in the end. And all this for some burrs...”
CHAPTER 26
Once Doctor Burnside returned to Somerstead Hall, it took less than a day before word spread about his visit—and soon the whole county learned of Bastian’s abduction, and the night they had all been drawn to that inn outside of Old Sarum.
Alexander’s involvement was no small matter. The scandal threatened to eclipse even the resurfacing of Viscount Pembroke, who had been spotted in the area before fleeing northward with his wife, evading all questions about his recent exile.
It was unknown to the average reader whatexactlyhad taken them all to The Stone Lion. Like most good stories, there had been talk of duels and love affairs, deals made in the dark, only some of which approached the truth—still too much for Alexander’s liking.
The bodies on the roadside had naturally added to the mystery. Alexander thought it had only been right to identify Ripley,in case any loved ones wondered where he had gone. His accomplice, Sarah Grimes, was an actress of little repute in the backwaters of London. Given the state in which they were found the next morning—surrounded by bank notes traced back to the duke—the story of a highway robbery began to unfold. Alexander, seeing no reason to dredge up the past, allowed the rumors to circulate unimpeded until they cemented themselves as fact: Mr. Hawthorne and the Duke of Langley must have been traveling back from a Salisbury dinner when they were accosted on the road by Mr. Hawthorne’s latest courtship and the man who had led her astray.
Bastian remained at the manor for two days before his family learned of his whereabouts. The countess was relieved to find her son mostly alive and decisively unmarried. The rest of those in residence at Somerstead Hall ensconced themselves in the manor for the following week, refusing to accept callers—except the exceedingly insistent Lady Jane and her niece, Miss Helena Talbot, who was quoted as saying she would be writing a book about the affair once Mr. Hawthorne was well enough to be interrogated...
Alexander listened to Margaret read from the scandal sheet, rubbing his brow at her summary of their retellings.
“Honestly, I expected them to do much worse,” Margaret said, setting down the paper. She swung a leg over the side of his desk, peering down at him. “Do you remember what they wrote aboutour little tryst? Much more salacious... I think they’ve lost their touch.”
“These writers don’t conjure things out of thin air, you realize,” Alexander argued in good faith, leaning back in his seat. “There were no real witnesses to what happened that night. They can only provide their readers with guesswork.”
“A good thing did come out of this.”
Alexander looked up, unconvinced.
“The residents near Old Sarum collected anenormoussum from the scene of the crime. I take it you are not interested in recuperating our losses?”
“Blood-stained money—quite literally. Let them have it, I say.”
“I’m glad Carlisle and I came just late enough to avoid meeting this Mr. Ripley on the road. He sounds like an awful character—may he rest in something akin to peace.” Margaret smiled devilishly, leaning forward to brush back Alexander’s hairline. “It’s no wonder you collapsed. The stress alone could topple a giant, let alone a bump to the head with a candlestick. That looks like a nasty strike.”
He closed his eyes as she stroked his hair. “Am I a pitiable sight?”
“You could never be, not in my eyes.”
The softness in her voice caught him off guard. He opened his eyes and found her gazing tenderly down at him.
“Are you angry at me for coming after you?” she asked, dropping her hand to his cheek. “For dragging your uncle into this mess?”
“How could I be? You saved our lives. I doubt I could have managed the walk back with Bastian alone. We would have died without you and Carlisle.”
Margaret took her hand away. She had been avoiding Carlisle all week. Something must have happened on the journey through Old Sarum. But when Alexander had asked, both had changed the subject.
