Page 11 of A Lady’s Guide to Murder
CHAPTER 10
A Tussle in the Dark
It was almost eleven when the manor house at Kennetford loomed into Henrietta’s view across sloping parkland, its wisteria-laced stone facade pale grey in the light of the waxing moon.
As she walked her horse into a woodland edging the demesne, an owl swooped from a tree, startling her. She took a moment to steady her nerves. It wouldn’t do to be jittery when she was about to confront a potential murderer.
Just inside the woodland, she extracted her horse’s bit and tied him loosely to allow him to graze. Then she removed her bonnet, tied it to a tree branch, and checked the pistol she’d put into the pocket of the borrowed frock. After ensuring it was properly loaded with wadding, gunpowder and a ball, she stuck it into her scooped bodice, between her breasts.
Leaving her horse, she paused at the edge of the woodland, surveying the house across the rolling hills of the demesne. She knew James’s bedchamber was on the front right corner of the first floor. Her eye had lingered there often on previous visits to Kennetford, especially during the lonely garden walks she’d take to pass long evenings when Edmund and James had neither wanted nor needed her company after obligatory, stilted dinners.
As expected, no candlelight shone from the windows at this time of night, for James was a gentleman farmer, early to bed, early to rise. So far, all was as she’d hoped – she’d wanted to sneak into a sleeping house, so none of James’s servants saw her disguise. After running from the beastly Hawke, she was a fugitive. Assuming James wasn’t the murderer, she’d still be on the run tomorrow and still the top suspect. With only a handful of small coins for the tolls given to her by the innkeeper, Henrietta wouldn’t easily be able to acquire a second disguise.
And if James was the killer, well, Henrietta wasn’t quite certain how she’d apprehend him, but that’s why she had the pistol. She’d never shoot to kill, but her brothers had once told her to aim for the thigh in a desperate situation. It would cause enough pain and blood loss for her to gain the advantage.
With her eyes focused on those darkened windows, she exited the wooded area, keeping alert to the possibility of a groundskeeper or watchdogs. She walked slowly into the open. One step. Then another, looking sharp all the while.
A twig snapped behind her, a man’s quick curse sounded and Henrietta flew into action, grabbing her pistol as she spun, turning upon a sixpence.
Or rather, she began to . Someone large and very strong grasped her, entrapping her in a pair of constricting arms, with her back pinned against an exceedingly hard chest.
‘Running to your lover, Your Grace?’ The voice was instantly recognisable and proved yet again that Theodore Hawke was the bane of her existence. ‘I meant to catch you in the act, but I’m unaccustomed to trailing someone in the woods – curse these twigs and roots – and certainly I can’t have you waving that pistol about. Drop it and let’s talk, eh?’
She didn’t waste her breath answering back. She fought back, kicking up a heel, twisting it around his leg and hitting his knee from behind. When his leg buckled, she jutted her bottom directly into his pelvis, causing him to fold over with a grunt and creating enough room for her to duck down and slip out of his arms. It was the work of one second more to shove her pistol against his neck.
His eyes widened then. Clearly, he hadn’t expected her proficiency as a fighter. She pressed her free hand to his upper chest and backed him into a tree, and he complied without resisting.
Once he was pinned, she cocked the hammer. ‘Move again and I shall shoot.’ He was in no real danger, for it was a modern percussion pistol not yet fitted with the cap that would spark the gunpowder; even if he fought back and caused her finger to pull the trigger, the gun wouldn’t discharge. But he couldn’t know that, because with the barrel under that firm jaw of his, he couldn’t possibly see it was capless.
Defiance flared across his face. ‘I shan’t let you succeed with this.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Admirable bluster, but you are entirely at my mercy, of course. Now, explain how you managed to follow me from Wargrave without my hearing.’ Henrietta prided herself on her hunting skills and as slowly as she’d been travelling, she couldn’t imagine how she’d missed the sound of a following horse.
His lips curled into that familiar smirk. ‘I’m not merely a handsome face and a witty pen. My talents are endless.’
‘You mistake sensationalism for wit, but I’m not unimpressed with your tracking skills, Mr Hawke.’ She also admired his gumption, displaying cheekiness in the face of what he thought was mortal danger.
‘Impressed enough to put away your pistol?’
She scoffed. ‘Of course not.’
‘I noticed you didn’t deny my handsomeness; would it not be a shame to destroy such good looks?’
Henrietta hid her amusement by casting him a scathing glare. ‘I’m sure I’ve never given a single thought to your appearance,’ she said, lying.
Perhaps he thought he’d distracted her sufficiently with his silly conversation, for he suddenly attempted to push off from the tree and strongarm the gun away, but Henrietta wasn’t so easily overwhelmed. She fought back, pinning his right side harder against the trunk by digging her shoulder against his large biceps and her hip into his groin. With the elbow of her gun arm, she pinned his left side and dug the pistol sharper under his jaw.
‘Really, Mr Hawke,’ she started to say, only to find that she was quite out of breath. He was pushing back against her and since he had the stability of the tree as an aid, it was only a matter of time before he’d overpower her. Even now, her boot was slipping against the soil and she couldn’t risk moving her foot to feel for an anchoring root or rock.
She had to speak fast.
‘Really, Mr Hawke,’ she said again as he pressed his chin against her forehead, using every available part of his body to fight her. ‘You are a constant thorn in my side, but I’ve never underestimated your intelligence, so stop fighting me and think . If I were indeed a cold-blooded killer, I would have blown out your brains the moment I pinned you against this tree. But I didn’t! And why haven’t I, even though I despise you? Because I’m not evil . Because I’m not a murderess . I didn’t kill my husband and I won’t kill you. For God’s sake, stay still so we can speak rationally!’ She raised her voice for he was resisting more effectively than ever.
‘I might believe you,’ he said, his voice laboured and his breath hot in her hair. ‘If not for your suspicious behaviour. Why would an innocent lady of means and station – a duchess of this land, no less – flee in the manner you did, swapping gown and horse with an innkeeper’s daughter and travelling the countryside in shadow? If you are innocent, why not seek assistance from your father and brothers? Your actions imply guilt, madam, and I shall find proof of it soon enough.’
She clenched her teeth, allowing her frustration to bring her more physical strength as she pushed back. ‘Mr Hawke, you have always deliberately misunderstood me and now you’re permitting your prejudice to narrow your reasoning so it arrives only at the vilest possible conclusion, rather than considering I might have other reasons for behaving as I have. You pride yourself on your truth-seeking, so hear this truth, Mr Hawke: I loved my husband. I would never, ever have harmed him.’
He started to protest, but Henrietta cut him off.
‘Oh, hush!’ she said, exasperated. ‘ Hush and listen. If I could get rid of you, make you stop following me, I would, but I can’t, because, as I’ve already said, I’m not a murderess. I am innocent of my husband’s death. And despite what you have persistently assumed, I was a loyal wife who always had my husband’s best interests at heart.’
‘You admit to being alone with him when he died.’ Hawke strained against her. ‘And there were marks of violence on his body.’
‘Yes, I know,’ she replied, holding her grip though her muscles shook from the exertion and a fine sweat dampened her upper lip. ‘Scratches on his cheek and on his neck. Edmund himself did that, when he was choking to death, from what I believed until this evening was a seizure. But once my initial shock wore off after you told me he was poisoned, I realised you were correct. What’s even more significant is that Edmund knew he’d been poisoned. His last sentence wasn’t “my dear sweet killed me”. His last sentence, which he struggled to form, I now realise was to tell me that the Madeira – the wine – was poisoned. Ma-deer-ah-sweet-killed-me. That is what he said.’
Hawke’s body tensed and stilled, doubt flickering in his eyes.
Perhaps she was finally convincing him. ‘He drank two glasses of wine – of a very special Madeira he had acquired – about an hour before his death. When he drank his first glass, he was disappointed in the taste. He thought it too sweet . But I told him mine was lovely, so he poured himself a second glass and said it was perfect. Neither he nor I thought much of it then – but now I know he realised, as he was dying, why the taste was off with the first glass.’
At last, Hawke stopped resisting her. He softened against the tree trunk, and, in her relief, Henrietta slumped against him as her shaking muscles relaxed. His coat smelled of newspaper ink.
‘Edmund knew wines,’ she said, her forehead on Hawke’s shoulder because she didn’t yet have the strength to stand on her own. She eased her grip on her pistol as she let her hand rest on his chest. ‘He was trying to explain before he died, but I was frightened and I didn’t understand. And then he was gone.’
For a moment, all was still but for Hawke’s breath against her cheek.
Then he pounced, grabbing her gun and clasping both her wrists in one hand. She didn’t even attempt to resist. As he held her hands captive, he disengaged the hammer of the pistol and pocketed it.
She sighed. ‘Well done. You have overpowered me with your superior size and strength, an accident of your birth, because you are a tall, strong man, and, although I am a tall, strong woman, I am not as tall and strong as you.’
‘Now, come!’ he said, obviously annoyed. ‘Don’t make me feel like a churl, when you were the one thrusting a gun under my jaw a moment ago.’
‘That was simply my natural reaction to being grabbed from behind by a man, Mr Hawke. But tell me, now that you have me helpless, with my only weapon in your pocket, what will you do? Throw me over your horse and take me to London? Hand me to Sir Robert Baker and his Runners? Incite hate against me through your pen – you can do it, you know you can, because you did it once before – and then gloat as the crowds jeer during my hanging? Or do you want to consider, just for a second, that you might be wrong about me ? That perhaps you were always wrong about me? Because I can prove that you were – and I can prove it tonight. And if you are half the truth-seeker you profess to be, you will at last see some shades of grey in your black-and-white world.’
He looked at her, lips flattened, and then sighed heavily. ‘I am no doubt a fool, but fine. Speak and I will listen. What can you prove to me tonight? Do you know who murdered your husband?’
‘No, but there were only three men who could have slipped poison into Edmund’s drink and every one of them had some type of disagreement with him before his death. I further know that the very last word Edmund uttered was the name of one of those three men: James Beaucastle.’
Hawke frowned. ‘Never heard of him.’
‘No, you wouldn’t have. He’s no one, particularly.’ She nodded to the house. ‘This is his estate and he prefers a country life, but he was a dear friend of Edmund’s for many years. And while I have a hard time believing James capable of murder, I do know that he and Edmund were angry at each other at the time of Edmund’s death – that James had come to London, which he despises, for the express purpose of speaking to Edmund, and then they quarrelled dreadfully. Since Edmund uttered his name last, I decided to begin my investigation here. If you release me, Mr Hawke, I shall allow you to accompany me inside – after all, I certainly can’t let you out of my sight to run back to London with tales of my flight and my disguise.’
‘Perhaps you want me to accompany you inside so your lover can kill me.’
‘Ugh!’ She stamped her foot. ‘You and I both know I could have killed you already if I wanted to. In fact …’
She threw herself forward, pushing his shoulders, causing him to fall hard on his bottom. She then pounced and straddled him, pinning him fully to the ground with her hands on his wrists and her knee at his groin. He struggled, but she pushed him down forcefully.
‘Don’t tempt me to cause you significant pain, Mr Hawke.’ She positioned her knee against the soft bulk at the apex of his legs and waggled her eyebrows as she leant forward. ‘I think you know what I mean.’ He went perfectly still and she smiled, her hair curtaining their faces. ‘There now – that’s better. You know, you really must stop underestimating me. I grew up with the five most boisterous elder brothers any girl ever had, and they taught me to fight as soon as I could stand. Will you now admit that if I intended to kill you, I would’ve done so twice over already – if not more?’
He met her gaze, still defiant. ‘I could regain the upper hand if I wished.’
‘You’re delirious. Yet I’m tempted to let you try, because it’s been many years since I’ve enjoyed a good tussle.’ His brows shot up, his expression as shocked as a dowager watching a waltz. Henrietta couldn’t help but laugh. ‘It’s not seemly for a duchess to fight,’ she said. ‘Even if it is good fun.’
He appeared to be pointedly avoiding letting his gaze drop, perhaps because her breasts were all but nestled against his neck. ‘I agree we should stop tussling, as you term it. Immediately.’
Only then did Henrietta realise that the area her knee pressed against wasn’t as soft as it had been before.
It wasn’t soft at all .
Mortified, she leapt to her feet and retreated into the shadow of a nearby tree as he rose. With no better way to fill the awkward silence, she attempted to compose herself by running her fingers through her long hair while Hawke dusted off his clothing, with his back to her.
But startling thoughts popped into her head. Aren’t you seeking a man to father a son for Edmund, Henrietta Percy? Well, Theodore Hawke is not unattractive. Quite the opposite. He’s a stubborn ass, but he’s intelligent and resourceful – and he certainly seems endowed with plenty of the necessary equipment and stamina.
Equally repelled and fascinated by the turn of her mind, she raked her fingers through her hair more frantically than before. Was Hawke attracted to her? If she initiated a kiss, would he respond? Her only point of comparison was Marlow, but the thought of Hawke excited her far more than the viscount ever had. She suspected the journalist’s tongue would not be a slimy slug in her mouth, like Marlow’s had been, but what would a kiss from Hawke feel like?
When he turned, sudden shyness overcame her, and she returned his gaze from the corner of her eye. The play of moonlight and shadow accentuated his jawline, the slight cleft of his chin, the ridge of his nose and the length and thickness of his dark lashes. Yes, Hawke was no hardship to look at, even though she hated him.
But of course she couldn’t actually take him as a lover.
He’d never keep quiet about the affair.
Or would he?
‘Here,’ he said, returning her pistol. ‘Thank you for not shooting me.’
She tucked it into her bodice. ‘You were never in any danger. It’s a percussion primer, not a flintlock. Perfectly safe until I fit a cap on the nipple.’
His gaze trailed to the pistol. ‘Fit a cap on the what, now?’
‘The nipple.’ She pointed to the small metal projection near the gun’s hammer, which rested at the cleft of her breasts. ‘Here. This bit that looks like …’
She stopped, suddenly realising exactly why the projection was called a nipple.
But then she caught Hawke’s eyes and found it quite impossible to repress a bubble of laughter, and he flashed a grin in turn. ‘Please don’t cease your explanation now , Your Grace. Better yet, show me a comparison.’
His boldness spiked Henrietta’s pulse, but she couldn’t let him know that. ‘Your brain really does take the wildest flights of fancy, does it not, Mr Hawke?’
His eyes sparkled. ‘ You chose to speak of nipples, madam. Far be it from me not to indulge the conversational whims of a duchess.’
Feeling the danger of continuing on a path that edged far too close to flirtation, Henrietta lifted a cool chin. ‘The only conversation for which I have time is one with Mr Beaucastle, not this nonsense with you, Mr Hawke.’ Tossing her hair out of her way, she marched towards the house and his long strides soon caught her up. Her skin felt overwarm and sensitive with him so close.
There was nothing for it but to change the subject to one that couldn’t possibly lead them astray. Easily enough done, considering they were engaged upon a grim task. ‘Mr Hawke, do you believe the laws in this nation are fair?’ she asked, speaking over her shoulder.
He took a moment before replying. ‘That’s a complex question, the answer to which could be intelligently debated for days on end. At the risk of a gross oversimplification, I shall respond thusly: the criminal code is brutally harsh and desperately in need of reform, but if justice were applied equally to all people, regardless of class, and if all people had the same access to defence, there would be a sort of fairness. Currently, that doesn’t exist in Britain.’
‘You told me before that my class believes itself to be above the law.’
‘Some of you do. Some of you get away with murder.’
Henrietta prepared herself to admit that which she’d never told another person. He had to know, if he was coming along with her – and she wasn’t about to let him out of her sight to run back to London with what he surely must consider gossip gold. ‘Mr Hawke, according to the law, my husband was a criminal, merely because he acted in accordance with his good and honourable nature. That is why I say no truth is absolute.’
‘You persist in believing me incapable of seeing the world as anything other than black and white, but I assure you, no one who has lived the life I have could feel that way.’ He gave her an odd look, a bit pitying, a bit mystified. ‘You appear to possess a peculiar na?veté not in accordance with your stage and station in life, and I’ve not yet determined if it is an act, or if you genuinely don’t realise you’ve revealed your husband’s secret already?’
She came to a sudden halt, her heart thundering. ‘What do you mean?’
He stopped beside her, moonlight reflected in his eyes. ‘Mr Beaucastle was your husband’s lover, of course.’
Her jaw slackened. ‘But … but … how did you know?’
‘I’ve inferred it from your conversation tonight,’ he replied, gazing at her with wary disbelief. ‘As nearly anyone would.’
‘But how have you heard of such a thing?’ she asked, more confused than ever.
He tilted his head. ‘I should think most people have heard of this type of love between men.’
‘You act as if it were … commonplace?’
He considered. ‘I really can’t speak to that. I should imagine it happens often enough, but with the consequences what they are, naturally, it’s not spoken of openly. But I can say that there are known brothels catering exclusively to the trade, ignored by the Runners, and public opinion is growing increasingly intolerant of punishing the practice.’
‘So you would never judge two men for engaging in sexual love together?’ she asked. ‘You would never report their actions in The Hawke’s Eye , knowing they might be pilloried or hanged?’ And when he replied that her conclusion was correct, she crossed her arms under her bosom. ‘I admire your generosity of heart, Mr Hawke, for I am of a like mind, but this does beg the question of why you did not apply that same kindness to me? You knew a report of adultery could’ve destroyed me – perhaps less absolutely than a noose, but certainly more thoroughly than an afternoon in a pillory? Had not my husband chosen to support me, I might’ve ended up destitute. No home, no family, no friends – and no legal recourse. So tell me, how do you justify what you did to me?’
There was a very long pause, broken only by the sound of the nighttime breeze shifting the trees’ leaves and the distant hoot of an owl.
‘I cannot,’ he replied at last, his manner subdued. ‘I cannot at all, Your Grace. And I am so terribly sorry for how I wronged you.’