How had someone managed to encourage a shy girl into the woods in the first place? Was it someone close? Or had she been drugged? Was she killed elsewhere and then moved?
If he’d seen the deceased, he might have been able to ascertain something from the bodies. As it was, he was in the dark.
Five people had seen Miss Risley’s body: Stone had discovered her, but Ridges and Sir Hector had helped move her. And then, of course, Mr Risley and the curate. Three of them had been unable to tell him much and Ridges he had yet to find. Hopefully, although he didn’t hold out much hope, Sir Hector would have more information.
He couldn’t even rule out that the killer wasn’t a woman, despite the sighting of a mysterious man with Bridget. In fact, it would be easier for a woman to cajole another female into the woods, and knives really didn’t take much strength – even Rosalind had one…
As he rode through the village, cloaked in grey mist, the Green Man stared down warmly from his perch outside the inn. His knowing leafy gaze seemed to bore into Lucas: “Take the weight off your shoulders,” the Green Man’s expression said, “talk to the good folk inside and rest your weary soul.”
Lucas didn’t argue.
Lounging at the library door, Lucas watched. Rosalind hadn’t noticed him, being utterly engrossed in what she was doing. Her auburn hair had come loose, and odd strands hung down her back, straight and long.
He had to question her, and he didn’t want to.
If she lied, it would hurt…and he knew she would lie.
There was something in her past that she didn’t want to tell him, and Stone wasn’t budging on the matter either. He’d even prodded O’Carroll for more but all he could say was that he’d never seen any sign of illness. In fact, the Irishman had been quite tight-lipped compared to his usual voluble self.
He didn’t particularly mind that she had secrets, didn’t everyone? But what he didn’t know was whether they related to the murders – to Stone – and if they did, how far would she go to protect him?
Scribbling something, she shook her head and laughed to herself, making Lucas smile. Whatever had happened in the past, it hadn’t made her bitter like Lady Hurst. Instead, she had become bright and funny, and it turned his insides to mush.
Again, that feeling he knew her fluttered at the back of his mind, and he peered at her hard, willing his memory to concur.
But it didn’t; he didn’t know this woman.
Rosalind sniggered again, jotting down another word, and Lucas sighed. What was he doing? Looking at a woman with such… He searched for the word…with such want.
Yes, she had kissed him, but did that really mean she wanted him in any way? She may enjoy his company, she may enjoy their flirtation, she may even have enjoyed the kiss.
But, at the end of it all, he was not the man for her.
His shoulders wilted. Miss Trewent needed someone like Stone, congenial, unblemished and…smaller, someone who could sit on those damn dainty chairs without them creaking in protest.
For the first time in a while, he felt true anger. Anger at the war, anger at the French and anger at life.
Hearing a sigh, Rosalind looked up. Lucas was standing there, but his eyes had glazed over and he looked both annoyed and slightly defeated. She would have to cheer him up.
“Did you know that plashy is a word according to Dr Johnson’s dictionary?”
“What?” He shook his head.
“And maffle.”
Finally smiling, he walked in. “Are you compiling a list of words to use on Stone?”
“Yes. I knew you’d understand. He’s so supercilious sometimes. I will be able to slip them in at dinner. I especially like meretriciousness.”
Shaking his head again at her slow pronunciation, he asked, “Is Mrs Mereworth around? I wish to speak to her.”
“’Fraid she’s in bed with a bad stomach. I blame the vicar’s table talk last night.”
“Let me know if it gets worse as I have some herbs for that. And Stone, where is he? He promised we would talk this afternoon.”
“Oh. He went to Knutsford, something about a horse so he won’t be back till late.”
She watched the smile fall and his eyes darken in annoyance. He dropped into the chair opposite and then leaned forward. “Miss Trewent–”
