But these were modern times, and justice wasn’t supposed to be meted out like that.
Even more importantly, Mitchell had information Julian wanted.
Into the almost vibrating silence, he said, “Clearly, you’ve been acting on someone’s orders. Whose?”
Mitchell’s head came up, a vestige of hope sliding through his eyes, but again, the hope faded, and he drew back, although his lips tightened into a thin line as if he fought to stop himself from answering the question.
When Julian finally succeeded in catching Mitchell’s gaze, the man stared at him for a second, then fractionally shook his head and looked down again.
During his years in Ireland, Julian had witnessed the same sort of behavior when people were acting under orders and were too frightened of the reactions of those who gave those orders to identify them.
He’d learned there was value in being patient, even when it was the last thing he wanted to be.
“Very well.” He bit out the words. “I assume you’re aware that I’m the local magistrate and able to bind you over to the next assizes without further trial.”
Mitchell didn’t react to that at all. If anything, his posture seemed to indicate he’d expected as much.
Julian glanced at the other men, then looked at Hockey, whose color was still high and whose hands remained tightly fisted. “Let’s see how he feels after spending a day or two in the dungeon.” That was another benefit of being the local magistrate. There was a proper cell for holding prisoners in the castle dungeon, which had long ago been converted into a simple cellar, but in this instance, “dungeon” sounded more appropriate.
Hockey slapped a fist into his palm. “Leave it to us—the boys and I’ll see he’s put into the cell.”
Julian murmured under his breath, “Undamaged, please. I want him to cooperate, and I won’t be able to trust anything he says if he makes statements under duress.” He’d learned that lesson in Ireland, too.
Hockey looked disgusted, but nodded. “Aye. We’ll deposit him in the dungeon without harming a hair on his head.”
Looking back at Mitchell, who had looked up to try to listen to what Julian and Hockey were saying, Julian caught the man’s eye. “While on your own in the cell, you might want to ponder whether you wish to go to the gallows for attempting to murder an earl, a countess, an earl’s son, and anyone else who might have got caught in those traps you laid, or if you’d rather tell me all you know and sail off to Botany Bay. Your choice. I would counsel you to exercise wisdom in making it.”
With that, Julian offered Melissa his arm and, when she took it, entirely ignoring Mitchell, walked with her out of the stable yard.
As they started up the path to the side terrace, Melissa let out a long sigh.
When he looked her way, she met his eyes and smiled. “There is one definite bright side to this morning.”
He arched his brows, inviting her to tell him.
“With our perpetrator caught, we won’t have any further accidents.”
He smiled in turn and inclined his head. “There is that. We might not have discovered who’s behind the attacks yet, but we’ve reached that point at least.”
With Mitchell in the dungeon, life in the castle calmed and returned to something approaching normality.
Julian, usually with Melissa in attendance, spoke with Mitchell on several occasions over the following two days, but the man remained stubbornly silent. While he didn’t attempt to deny responsibility for any of the attacks, neither did he confirm his involvement, and most crucially, he refused to open his lips and name whomever it was who had given him his orders and, presumably, was also behind the attacks that had occurred in London.
On Sunday, Julian decided to leave the man to his own thoughts. “Perhaps uninterrupted solitude in which to contemplate his future will soften his stance and loosen his tongue.”
“We can but hope,” Melissa replied. There was definitely something holding Mitchell back, some compulsion forcing him literally to bite his tongue regarding whoever had sent him to murder Julian. Yet as both she and Julian had noted, Mitchell hadn’t denied that such a person existed or that he’d been acting at someone else’s behest.
Setting aside their frustration, they went down to breakfast late, then Melissa ambled about the rose garden with Ulysses while Julian retreated with Felix and Damian to the library to read the London papers. After a relaxed family luncheon, Julian reminded her of his suggestion of the previous evening, namely that he and she take the castle punt and drift along the stream and out onto the castle’s lake.
The day was warm, the air almost balmy, and she readily agreed.
Located at the bottom of the sloping south lawn, the boathouse was built on the banks of the stream that wended down through the wooded heights to the west of the castle to flow eastward along the southern edge of the grounds and spill into the lake, which lay southeast of the castle.
Frederick had mentioned that the stream continued eastward and eventually joined other minor tributaries and turned south, ultimately merging with the river Derwent a little way north of Derby.
Inside the boathouse, Melissa helped Julian launch the single punt, then scrambled in as he took up the pole and pushed them out onto the lazily meandering stream.
With a sigh, she lay back in the prow and, past the rim of her straw hat, looked up at the cerulean-blue sky. A few puffy white clouds sailed majestically across the expanse, while the sun beamed steadily down; it was truly the most perfect early-summer day.
