Richard thought the answer obvious. “We need to send for the local magistrate and the police.” He delivered the pronouncement in a tone that brooked no argument. He was aware that several there, having no wish to become embroiled in any official investigation, let alone one for murder, might think to somehow sweep the business under the proverbial rug.
He was relieved when all the younger men and those his age agreed without question.
Several of the older gentlemen frowned.
Elliot, a sensible man, said, “I’ll get the butler to send for the magistrate.”
Grateful, Richard added, “Ask Gearing to send a footman with a sheet. The footman will need to remain on guard until the authorities get here.”
Elliot nodded and retreated, trailed by several of the younger gentlemen who looked rather wan.
“I say, Percival.” Lord Morland, another of the older men, shifted his bulk uncomfortably. “Shouldn’t we at least have Monty carried to the house?”
“That will risk the ire of whoever is sent to investigate.” Richard had already decided to dispatch his groom hotfoot to Scotland Yard. “Underhill’s been murdered. There’s no getting around that. No denying it. The police will be summoned.”
A strangled cry drew everyone’s gazes to the gathered ladies. One of the men returning to the house had told them what had been found. Indeed, Lady Pamela would have insisted on being told, and now she’d heard the news, she’d fainted into her sister’s arms, and the other ladies were closing supportively around their hostess.
The men with wives in the group promptly returned to their ladies’ sides.
A footman came flying from the house with a folded sheet in his arms.
Carrington, one of the eligible bachelors, helped the footman unfold the sheet and decently cover the body.
With that done, solemn and concerned, the remaining gentlemen turned and slowly filed out of the orchard and walked heavily back to the house, following the ladies, who were already retreating.
Richard checked with the footman that he knew he was to remain on guard.
Standing ramrod straight, the lanky man declared, “Until the police or the magistrate say I can go.”
With an approving nod, Richard turned to Rosalind. His gaze following the men crossing the lawn toward the house, he murmured, “Did you see Vincent Underhill?” Aged about twenty-five, Vincent was Monty and Pamela’s only son.
“No.” Rosalind softly snorted. “He’s probably still abed.”
“That is a possibility.” Richard had noted that others—Vincent’s friends—had also not appeared.
Rosalind glanced at the sheet-draped form resting in the grass. “That might be just as well.”
The retreating gentlemen had reached the forecourt. Richard saw a rider appear from the rear of the house and gallop hard down the main drive.
Richard looked at Rosalind. “Are you up to facing the inevitable inquisition?”
He’d dallied to give her time to regroup.
She looked at the house and sighed. “If they get too bad, I’ll pretend to feel faint.”
He almost laughed, but, instead, offered his arm. “Come, then. I’ll escort you back.”
She regarded his raised sleeve, and her brows arched. “Into the lions’ den?”
“Worse. Into a gathering of ton gossips who know you know what they want to find out.”
That surprised a faint laugh from her, and she took his arm and raised her head. “Onward, then.”
With her on his arm, he strolled as slowly as was reasonable out of the orchard and over the lawn.
As they neared the house, Rosalind cynically observed, “What would you wager that all too soon, many of the ladies, both young and old, come to view this house party as one they were especially lucky to have attended?”
“Because once they return to town, they’ll be in high demand to divulge every scandal-laden detail?”
