Sneak Peak Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

July 19, 1841

Patchcote Grange, Surrey, England

No one had seen.

No one was around that side of the house.

Breathe—no need to panic.

The red haze of fury was slowly ebbing, leaving in its wake a strange lassitude.

Rational thought rose through the miasma, urging caution.

Still…it had felt so good. That moment when the stake had connected with Monty’s skull had brought such a surge of satisfaction.

As if that outcome was exactly, precisely how things had to be.

Now…

Breathe deeply and think about what lies ahead.

The next step was to find that wretched document. In fact, that was the only thing left to do.

The only thing that stood in the way of a comfortable and carefree life.

* * *

The Honorable Richard Percival closed the door of his room on the first floor of Patchcote Grange and, carrying his three recently completed letters, walked toward the main stairs. Idly, he wondered what the day would bring and inwardly admitted he was not as unexcited by the prospect as he’d expected to be.

Attending house parties had never been a favored occupation, but having requested his aunts’ assistance in identifying a suitable bride, he’d felt obliged to come to Patchcote Grange and cast his eye over their prime prospect. That said, he’d fully expected to spend his time in Surrey discovering and subsequently demonstrating why his aunts’ selected candidate would not do.

Indeed, he’d had little faith that a lady both suitable and compatible even existed.

After meeting Miss Rosalind Hemmings at dinner the previous evening, he was no longer so certain that was the case.

She was in her mid-twenties, and far from tripping over her toes to capture his attention and impress him, she’d regarded him assessingly—almost suspiciously. Certainly measuringly and with reserve, as if she was expecting to be disappointed and to summarily dismiss him. That reaction alone had made him look twice. He wasn’t a coxcomb, but he knew how highly he rated in the eligible-bachelor stakes.

Then again, the Hemmingses were wealthy and well-connected, which was at least in part why his aunts had chosen Rosalind to bring to his attention. Presumably, she could and would make her own choice in the matter of selecting a husband.

Rather unexpectedly, he was willing to explore the possibility that he might want to be that man.

He reached the head of the stairs and started down the first long flight.

In his earlier years, he’d never thought of himself as the marrying kind. But then, his brother, Robert, the late Viscount Seddington, had died in mysterious circumstances along with his wife, and Richard’s nephew and niece had disappeared, and he’d discovered just how important family was to him. Through his own endeavors—but even more through those of Robert’s stepdaughter, Rose, and her husband, Thomas—Richard’s nephew, William, and his niece, Alice, had been kept safe from the cousin who had sought to murder them and have Richard accused and convicted of the crime, thus clearing the way for that cousin to inherit the Seddington title and the exceedingly large entailed estate.

In the wake of that drama, Richard had reunited with William, Alice, and Rose and had formed a close friendship with Thomas Glendower, Rose’s husband. Given Richard was a bachelor and Rose and Thomas were very willing to keep William and Alice with them, over recent years, the pair had spent most of their days in the Glendower household. But it was Richard who currently managed Seddington, the significant estate that would ultimately fall to William, as Viscount Seddington, to run, and given Rose and Thomas lived outside tonnish society, it would be Richard’s responsibility to steer William into that world and, equally pertinently, to oversee Alice’s emergence into the ton.

It had been Richard’s evolving understanding of the role he would need to play in securing his nephew’s and niece’s futures that had prompted him to rethink his attitude to marriage.

To do the best for William and Alice, to best repay and keep his silent vows to Robert, Richard had accepted that he needed a wife.

The right wife. One who would stand by his side, perform as required, and not irritate him beyond all measure in the process.

Despite his aunts’ knowledge of the ton and of him, he hadn’t expected to find that elusive lady at Patchcote Grange, yet it seemed Fate might have taken a benevolent interest in his plans.

As he crossed the landing and started down the last flight, he was conscious of rising expectation. The muted sounds of female voices reached him, with the clack of billiard balls a staccato counterpoint.

Looking ahead down the length of the front hall and through the open front doors, Richard saw the sunlit lawn stretching beyond the forecourt. Should he indulge in the quiet of the library or head outside?

The company assembled for the weeklong party was large, with a good selection of eligible, older, and younger gentlemen to complement the gaggle of young ladies and their mothers. No doubt, he would find other gentlemen of his ilk in the library, perusing the news sheets.

He was on the second-last stair when a scream ripped through the sleepy somnolence of the summer morning. A scream for help.

Richard halted.

The scream had come from outside. A second scream followed, its tone even more urgent.

Swallowing a curse, Richard leapt to the hall tiles and sprinted for the open doorway. Passing the hall table, he tossed his letters toward the silver salver resting on the polished surface and continued headlong for the front porch.

He raced past the open library door and heard the men in the library rousing.

He cleared the doorway and leapt down the porch steps, then skidded to a halt on the gravel forecourt and looked around.

Lawns, trees…where?

The next call was fainter. “Help! The orchard!”

While strolling the previous evening, he’d noticed the stone-walled orchard in one corner of the grounds. He ran toward the entrance archway, which stood at the nearest corner.

As he closed the distance, through the archway, he saw Rosalind Hemmings standing halfway along the first row of trees, her hands to her white face as she stared at something in the grass at her feet.

Unexpected emotion clutched at his chest.

He cleared the archway and slowed. His gaze tracked to what Rosalind was staring at, then, as horror-struck as she, he couldn’t look away.

He halted beside her and stared at their host stretched out, face down, in the grass, with the back of his skull cracked open.

No more able than Rosalind to draw his gaze from the grisly sight, Richard reached out one arm and gently drew her to him, exerting just enough pressure to turn her into his shoulder so she was no longer looking at the murdered man.

She didn’t sag against him, yet neither did she resist his direction. The scent of her glossy brown hair reached him and, together with the warmth of her slender form, at some deep level, reassured him.

“Dear God.” The horrified whisper fell from his lips, and he took a step back, drawing Rosalind with him.

Montague—Monty—Underhill lay sprawled a few feet from the trunk of an old apple tree. He lay with his face in the longish grass, his head closer to the trunk, his skull caved in to the extent there was no need to check for signs of life. A pool of blood had gathered beneath and to one side of the body.

Richard felt Rosalind draw in a huge breath, then she raised her head from his shoulder. Her voice choked, she managed, “I was out walking…and there he was.”

Richard squeezed her arm, then carefully released her. He could hear others rushing their way. He stepped to the side of the body, crouched, and for form’s sake, set two fingers to Monty’s throat, but as anyone could have predicted, there was no pulse to find.

Watching him through wide lavender-blue eyes, Rosalind gulped. “I already checked. He’s dead.”

Richard glanced at her, then rose. He looked over his shoulder at the approaching men, then moved back to Rosalind. Her gaze had returned to the body. Focusing on her face, he asked, “Are you all right?”

“Hardly.” She swallowed, then raised her head and met his eyes. “But I’m definitely better than he is.”

The crisp reply assured him that she wasn’t about to dissolve into hysterics.

He nodded, then turned to the others striding, rather uncertainly, into the orchard.

He waved to halt them. “Better you keep your distance.”

“Oh, I say!”

“Good Lord!”

A chorus of shocked exclamations filled the air as more of those arriving—most of the gentlemen, as far as Richard could see—caught sight of the body.

Richard raised his head and looked over the orchard wall and saw that the ladies were gathering in an agitated cluster on the lawn, but none, thank heaven, was showing any signs of venturing closer. Among the group, he saw Mrs. Hemmings, Rosalind’s mother, both his aunts, and Lady Pamela Underhill, Monty’s wife.

“Great heavens!” Lord Wincombe, one of the older gentlemen, spluttered. “We have to do something, but what? What should we do?”

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?”

“Exactly.”

Supporting her up the low steps to the front porch, equally cynically, Richard replied, “Betting against the ton’s rampant curiosity is a wager I would never take.”

* * *

Penelope Adair sat behind the desk in her garden parlor and doggedly slogged her way through the remarkably boring yet difficult translation she’d agreed to complete for the British Museum’s history department.

“For my money,” she muttered to herself, “this is one scroll that could have vanished beneath the sands with no one the poorer.”

But she’d agreed to do it, so she would.

The knowledge that this would be her last project before August and the family’s regular summer excursions to visit her sisters at their homes and then Barnaby’s family at Cothelstone Castle helped to keep her focused on the arduous, not to say mind-numbing, task.

Finally—finally!—she reached the last page, the last line, the last character.

“There!” Triumphantly, she blotted her last line, read it over to make sure she hadn’t made any mistake, then sat straight in her chair and set aside her pen. “Wonderful!”

“And you haven’t even heard the news yet.” Barnaby walked in, a letter in his hand, a smile on his face, and an intrigued expression in his blue eyes.

Penelope opened her eyes wide. “What’s happened?”

Advancing, Barnaby waved the missive. “Monty Underhill’s been killed, and Percival is there, at Patchcote Grange, attending a house party, and he’s written to beg us to come down and help Scotland Yard investigate.”

“Have they been notified?” Penelope held out her hand for the letter, and Barnaby handed it over.

“Richard says he sent for Stokes directly.” Barnaby paused while she read, then asked, “How’s the scroll going? Can you manage a few days away?”

Having perused Richard’s scant and uninformative few lines, Penelope looked up and beamed. “I’ve finished! That’s what I was celebrating when you walked in.”

“Excellent.” Barnaby grinned back.

Penelope glanced again at the letter. “A house party at Patchcote Grange. That’s Pamela’s regular event, which is always devoted, first to last, to matchmaking. Especially now that her daughter has made her come-out and her nieces, Susan’s two, have as well. And Richard’s there?” Dark eyes gleaming, she looked at Barnaby. “Well, well…”

Trying to hide his smile, Barnaby shook his head at her. “I expect it’s his host’s murder that Percival wants our help with, not his love life.”

Penelope pushed back from the desk. “I can’t see why he shouldn’t have the benefit of our expertise on both fronts.”

As she rose from her chair, the doorbell pealed. She met Barnaby’s eyes and arched her brows. “I wonder…”

Barnaby waved her on, and letter still in hand, she led the way along the corridor to the front hall.

Sure enough, Stokes had arrived.

He looked up as she and Barnaby neared. “Have you heard?”

Penelope waved Richard’s letter. “That Monty Underhill’s been murdered? Just now. And yes, we’re free.”

Stokes blew out a breath. “Good. Because I’ve been instructed that in light of the personages involved, your assistance is highly recommended. Indeed, the Commissioner’s tone suggested that he considered your inclusion in the investigative team all but mandatory.”

“In this case,” Barnaby said, “the Commissioner’s instincts are sound. I can guarantee that some there will be only too keen to quash any investigation.”

“And that’s regardless of whether they have anything at all to hide,” Penelope added. “For some, keeping the police at bay is still second nature—an ingrained habit.”

Stokes huffed. “So we’ll have our work cut out for us.”

“At least,” Barnaby said, indicating the letter with a tip of his head, “Percival is there.”

“True,” Stokes said. “That means we’ve at least one pair of reliable eyes and ears among the company.”

“I suspect his aunts will be there, too,” Penelope said. “Lady Campbell-Carstairs and Lady Kelly. Both are old, but they’re observant and will know more than I about many of the guests. The ladies, at least.”

“So what do you know about this gathering?” Stokes asked.

“It’s a regular event—a summer house party hosted by the Underhills at Patchcote Grange, with the primary focus being on introducing marriageable young ladies to suitable, eligible gentlemen.” Her gaze distant, Penelope paused, then refocused on Stokes. “And you might need to be aware that Patchcote Grange—the house and attached estate, which is considerable—is owned by Lady Pamela.”

Stokes frowned. “Not Mr. Underhill?”

Penelope shook her head. “Lady Pamela is one of two daughters of the previous Marquess of Skeldon. Patchcote Grange was the property her father settled on her for her lifetime, and on her death, it will pass from her to her eldest son, Vincent Underhill.”

“Is that a common arrangement?” Stokes asked.

Again, Penelope shook her head. “However, when it comes to daughters of the nobility, it’s not without precedent. It ensures that the property, which was originally a part of the marquessate, ultimately passes to the marquess’s grandchildren and cannot be diverted via a spouse gaining control.”

“I see.” Stokes continued to frown, clearly working his way through the implications.

Helpfully, Barnaby confirmed, “Because of that, there’s no inheritance involved in Underhill’s murder. Whoever killed him, it wasn’t in order to inherit Patchcote Grange.”

Stokes grunted. “Well, that’s one motive less.” He eyed Barnaby and Penelope. “Regardless, the sooner we get down there the better, so when can you leave?”

Penelope volunteered, “Patchcote Grange is in Surrey, a stone’s throw south of Beddington Corner, so only about an hour away.”

“That close?” Stokes looked hopeful. “With any luck, we’ll be there by the afternoon.”

Barnaby had been exchanging a look with Penelope. He raised his brows. “Can we set off from here in half an hour?”

She beamed. “I can’t see why not.” She turned to Stokes. “So half an hour from now, and don’t be late.”

Stokes huffed and turned for the door.

* * *

After returning to the house and escorting Rosalind to the morning room, where her mother and all the other ladies had taken refuge to talk in hushed tones of the horror of the discovery, Richard had diverted to his room and dashed off two notes that he’d dispatched with his groom to be delivered poste-haste to London. Subsequently, he’d remained in his room, staring into space while trying to fix in his mind all he’d noticed in the orchard, before finally stirring and making for the library, where, predictably, the gentlemen had gathered. Most had helped themselves to tots of brandy from the tantalus. All appeared shaken, some more than others.

Sinking into a spare armchair close by the door, Richard noted that most of the men of the company were there. The sole exception was Vincent Underhill, whom Richard had glimpsed supporting his distraught sister upstairs. Vincent’s friends—Patterson and Fentiman—had joined the company at some point. Richard wondered if they’d been abed or somewhere else on the estate.

“Dreadful business,” the Earl of Leith quietly stated.

Lord Morland, standing with Leith a few feet away from the chair Richard occupied, took a healthy swig of brandy. “I gather there’s nothing much we can do until the magistrate gets here.”

Lord Wincombe walked up to the group. “Gearing said the local magistrate, Sir Henry Coutts, lives quite close, so hopefully, he’ll be able to get here soon.”

Richard noted that while it was plain every man there heartily wished Underhill had not had his head bashed in, as yet, none had voiced any opinion as to who had done the deed, much less why.

That, he had to admit, was hardly surprising. While without much thought, Richard could name any number of ton gentlemen that no one would be all that surprised to learn had been violently murdered by persons unknown, Monty Underhill definitely didn’t belong in that category.

Apparently, Morland was thinking along the same lines. His brow deeply furrowed, he ventured, “Can’t for the life of me imagine who would want to do that to Monty. Gentle soul, always helpful. Never a malicious bone in his body.”

Frowning, Wincombe nodded. “It’s certainly perplexing.”

“And potentially worrying,” Leith put in.

When the others, Richard included, looked questioningly at Leith, he shrugged. “It would be worrying indeed if the killing was some random act and Monty being the victim was simply a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Morland tipped his head in acknowledgment. “Possible, I suppose.”

Richard bit back the observation that murder victims were rarely so conveniently unconnected to their killers. Leith and Morland were merely putting words to the thoughts of most in the room. Indeed, possibly most in the house.

Gradually, the quiet conversations drifted to more normal subjects, such as the outcomes of recent race meets and sales at Tattersalls and the latest prize fight.

Time seemed to crawl as all there tried to distract themselves from the image of their host bludgeoned to death in his own orchard on a bright summer day.

Eventually, to everyone’s unvoiced relief, Gearing, the butler, appeared. Glancing around, Gearing spotted Leith and Richard and headed their way. He stopped beside Richard’s chair and bowed. “My lords. Mr. Percival. Lady Pamela has retired to her rooms, but she suggests the company should carry on with normal activities, at least until the authorities arrive. To that end, I am here to inquire whether the gentlemen wish to partake of luncheon. The ladies have announced they will do so and have gathered in the drawing room. Lady Campbell-Carstairs dispatched me to alert you and invite you to join them.”

Richard and Leith exchanged glances, then looked at Morland and Wincombe. It was an awkward situation, but starving themselves wouldn’t help, and perhaps acting normally for the time being might help people find their mental feet.

Correctly divining the general consensus, Leith said, “Thank you, Gearing. We’ll join the ladies.”

The rest of the gentlemen had drawn nearer. Richard and those seated rose, and as a group, they followed Gearing out of the library and across the hall to the drawing room.

Richard was among the first of the gentlemen to enter the long room. Spotting Rosalind standing by a window halfway down the room, he made his way to her, noting, as he did, the hushed voices and wide eyes of the female contingent. As husbands joined their spouses and the younger gentlemen approached the younger ladies, in the quick, quiet questions and the murmured answers, Richard sensed welling curiosity over what, exactly, had happened. Over who had killed Monty Underhill and why.

Given Monty’s character and personality, the general feeling of complete bewilderment, of being unable to reconcile that such a thing had happened, wasn’t surprising. Quite literally, no one could conceive of what might have moved anyone to such an act.

Rosalind was standing a little apart from the other guests. She registered Richard’s approach and acknowledged his presence with a vague nod, but her attention remained fixed across the room.

Richard halted beside her and tracked her gaze to the group of younger ladies and, now, younger gentlemen. Rosalind’s expression carried a frowning quality as she stared at her younger sister, Regina.

Richard looked back and forth. He sensed Regina was aware of Rosalind’s regard but was pretending to be oblivious. Returning his gaze to Rosalind, he quietly asked, “Are you all right?”

She glanced his way, considered him for an instant, then replied, “Well enough.” Then she grimaced faintly and added, “I’m not the swooning sort.”

Richard nodded. “Duly noted.” With a certain relief, what’s more.

From the doorway, Gearing announced, “My lords, ladies, and gentlemen. Luncheon is served.”

With Pamela and her family absent—including her sister, Susan—Richard’s aunt Agatha, Lady Campbell-Carstairs, was the senior lady present. She rose from an armchair by the hearth and waved her cane at Leith—the senior nobleman—and he obediently crossed to offer his arm.

Together, Agatha and Leith led the company forth. While some of the elders present made an effort to observe precedence, most simply fell into line with whomever they’d been standing beside.

Meeting Rosalind’s soft blue gaze, Richard offered his arm. “Shall we make our relatives happy?”

Her lips lifted a fraction, then she laid her hand on his sleeve and raised her head. “Why not?”

Rosalind walked with Percival out of the drawing room and fought not to let her awareness slide sideways, yet her senses seemed irresistibly drawn to the gentleman pacing with easy grace beside her.

Percival was proving to be something of a conundrum. While on the one hand, fully half her mind was focused on her sister and what was going on in Regina’s head, Percival was proving to be an effective distraction.

And if she wished to be seen as behaving normally, then it was unquestionably he to whom she should be paying attention.

Over six feet tall, broad shouldered, lean, and powerful, he exuded an air of effortless control somewhat at odds with his undeniably rakish handsomeness. Sable-brown hair, slightly wavy locks in fashionably rumpled disarray, combined with unusually dark-blue eyes set beneath black eyebrows, well-defined cheekbones, and the spare angular planes of a face that veritably screamed his aristocratic antecedents to create an image of male beauty that any female with eyes would notice.

She’d noticed, but she’d told herself that beauty was as beauty did, and Percival’s reputation as a hedonistic rakehell was of far more weight in the matrimonial scales.

And yet…

She’d expected to instantly take against him—on meeting him, to immediately have any number of sound arguments with which to quash the suggestion that he and she might suit. Instead…

The gentleman she’d met the previous evening had been…something other than what she’d imagined he would be.

He’d been—and still was—attentive without being pushy, supportive and willing to step in and assist her as she wished, not as he deemed he should. Certainly, he was far more intelligent and capable than she and, she suspected, wider society had assumed. He was incisive, decisive, and rational in a way that appealed to her. She preferred stability, and with his innate understanding of their world and his straightforward way of dealing with it and, it seemed, her, he was—entirely unexpectedly—shaping up as an excellent prospect, possibly her best prospect, for achieving all she wished for in life.

As they passed into the dining room, she slanted a faintly puzzled, distinctly curious glance his way.

He seemed to feel her gaze. Briefly, he met her eyes, then they reached the table, and he drew out a chair for her almost midway down the board.

She owned to feeling pleased when he claimed the chair beside her and sat. For some incalculable reason, she felt safer with him near. She told herself it was because, with him beside her, she didn’t need to make conversation with anyone else, and he seemed amenable to eating and observing the company without needing to chat all the time.

She used the moment when everyone was shuffling about and sorting themselves into a semblance of appropriate seating to locate her sister. To Rosalind’s eyes, Regina appeared unusually pale, and as she sat between two of the younger gentlemen—Patterson and Fentiman—farther down the table on the opposite side of the board with the other younger ladies and gentlemen, Regina seemed notably subdued.

With typical youthful resilience, the rest of the younger crew had largely rebounded from the shock and uncertainty their host’s murder had evoked. Judging by their expressions and the comments traded back and forth, a sense of curiosity and readiness to be intrigued and, indeed, entertained had taken hold.

Percival offered a platter, and Rosalind was forced to pull her mind and her gaze from her sister. But once the wider company settled to consume the cold collation the staff had put out, as, understandably, most felt weighed down by the unexpected and inexplicable murder, conversation grew sporadic, allowing Rosalind to continue to ponder Regina’s strange behavior.

She and Regina were sharing a room, and from the moment they’d risen from their beds, the tension gripping Regina had been obvious. At least to Rosalind. She’d asked if anything was wrong. Far from easing her mind, Regina’s brittle assurance that all was perfect had only increased Rosalind’s concern.

She’d kept a watchful eye on Regina through breakfast, but after they’d left the table and Regina had stated her intention of joining the bevy of younger ladies making for the conservatory, Rosalind had elected to go upstairs and quietly read in their room.

It had been pure chance that she’d glanced through a window and seen Regina hurrying across the rear lawn, apparently set on being somewhere.

Concern flaring, Rosalind had rushed downstairs and started out in pursuit. Of course, not wanting to attract attention, she’d had to pretend to be merely strolling the grounds. Then, she’d realized Regina was making for the orchard. With thoughts of her impressionable and inexperienced younger sister rushing to keep some clandestine meeting circling insistently in her head, Rosalind had strolled as fast as she’d dared toward the orchard.

On reaching the archway, she’d looked in but hadn’t seen anyone. Puzzled, she walked down the row of trees…

The shock of finding Monty Underhill’s body had thrust all thoughts of Regina from Rosalind’s mind.

However, half an hour ago, when Rosalind had gone upstairs to wash before luncheon, she’d found her maid, Cilly, in the room she and Regina shared. Cilly had been grumbling under her breath as she’d scrubbed at the hem of the gown Regina had worn to breakfast—and to rush around the gardens and, possibly, into the orchard. When Rosalind asked Cilly what was amiss, Cilly had shown her the thin line of blood staining a short section of the hem.

Cilly had groused, “Why she had to get so close to a dead body as to get blood on her hem, I have no notion!”

Rosalind hadn’t corrected the maid’s assumption.

But Rosalind knew beyond question that Regina hadn’t approached Monty Underhill’s body at any time after Rosalind had come upon it.

She’d thought Regina had gone into the orchard. Now, she knew she had. So where had Regina gone? Had she found the body, panicked, and fled through the orchard into the wood beyond?

Why hadn’t Regina raised the alarm?

Consumed by that question, with her gaze fixed on Regina, Rosalind realized that Percival was watching her. She glanced his way and met his eyes. The shrewd, assessing look she found there had her drawing in a breath. He was far too observant for her peace of mind.

Casting about for distraction, she looked toward Regina again. While the rest of the younger crew were growing more animated, Regina remained subdued.

Of course, Percival had followed her gaze. In a faintly questioning tone, he said, “At their age, a dead body is more cause for excitement than concern.”

“Hmm. Apparently.” But not so for Regina. Determinedly, Rosalind asked about Percival’s estate, which she’d heard was in Lincolnshire.

He held her gaze for an instant more, then smoothly, obligingly, followed her lead and replied.

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