“The documents that I received in London omitted to say that the word ‘whore’ was written on Bridget’s dress in her own blood. Did you know that? Did the groom who found her tell you? Whenever I look for the blasted man, he’s always busy with a bloody horse.”
An implacable look covered Stone’s face but he shook his head, staying silent; so Lucas continued, “Christ, at least that’s saved me questioning half the labourers. Most of them couldn’t spell their own names, let alone the word whore,” he thundered.
Suddenly, he smelled roses and looked to his left. He jerked as Miss Trewent gently raised his hand and pressed a whisky glass into his palm. “You shouldn’t be listening to this,” he said, his voice lowering, “but thank you. It’s a little early and…but most welcome, nonetheless.”
She gave him a faint smile and turned to sit on the chaise. The whisky burned down his throat, but the heated touch from her fingers was having more effect. Calmly, he asked, “How well do either of you know the man’s wife, Lady Daphne Webster?”
Miss Trewent was first to answer. “A very nice lady; I like her, but she doesn’t attend many social occasions, so I don’t know her dreadfully well. Chestnut-brown hair and blue eyes. She’s quite young, compared to Sir Hector.”
“Stone?” The man remained silent but Lucas could see his fists clenched hard, tension radiating from him. “Stone?” he said more forcefully, and finally the earl looked up.
“Local girl. Daughter of the Rothwells.” And he shrugged, again.
“Can no one tell me anything more about Daphne Webster?” Lucas felt his exasperation in every tense muscle.
“Oh, such a lovely girl. Shame she married that oaf. All those animals, do you remember, my lord? Birds, hedgehogs, squirrels…” The housekeeper, a Mrs Reynolds, bustled around, setting a tea tray and chatting away, seemingly oblivious to the atmosphere in the room.
“You know Lady Webster?”
The housekeeper looked up; chocolate-brown eyes twinkled at him in a round, pleasant face. “Well, of course, my lord. The Rothwell estate neighbours Stonebridge to the east. Dear little Daphne and Lord Stonebridge were thick as thieves as children–”
“Thank you, Mrs Reynolds,” Stone interrupted. “That will be all.”
Lucas held up a hand. “No, please continue.”
The housekeeper now looked discomforted, biting her lip. “Oh, I don’t want to upset anyone.”
“Hah,” Stone barked, tipping his chair back, throwing his head against the wall and closing his eyes. “Please, go ahead, Mrs Reynolds.”
“Well…as children, Benny and Daphs.” There was a quashed snort from the chaise and, even in this serious matter, Lucas couldn’t help a quirk of his lips. He focused on the housekeeper.
“Well,” she continued, “they were always playing together, despite the age difference. They both loved animals see, but neither of their parents approved, so we’d have all the animals in the kitchen – lame dogs, flightless birds, earless cats… Then my lord went on his Grand Tour and Daphne…well, her parents married her off to Sir Hector.”
“How old was she?”
The housekeeper pondered, but Stone replied tightly, “Sixteen.”
“Thank you, Mrs Reynolds, for everything.” Lucas smiled his gratitude.
Waiting for her to leave, he looked to Stone. “I presume his wife is the reason you avoid visiting Sir Hector?”
Stone nodded.
“Do you know where Lady Daphne Webster is?” Lucas asked in a quiet voice.
The man opened his eyes and stared directly back. “No,” he said softly.
“I can’t reach, guv.”
Preparing for a formal dinner with only Billy to help was difficult. He would’ve asked Stone to lend a valet but wasn’t best pleased with the earl at present. How was he supposed to hunt for a murderer when his host and dare he say friend hid information?
“Hold on there a mo.” Billy scampered over to a fretwork chair, picking it up with ease. He placed it behind and from the mirror, Lucas could see him crawl atop, his shoes scuffing the delicate satin.
“That’s better,” the boy said as he yanked Lucas’s deep-green coat. It was a sad day when a man needed help with his jacket, but the damn thing was so tight he couldn’t find the arm hole unaided.
Privately, he didn’t think Stone was the killer. The man was secretive but not much of an actor; Lucas was fairly sure he’d lied about not knowing the whereabouts of Lady Webster too – but was she dead or alive?
“Any gossip from the servants, Billy?”
