A Perfect Deception Page 6

  “Do you think, after committing murder, even an accidental killing, Mr. Shirely would have been able to hold that secret for all these years?”

  “No.” Thomas shook his head. “Then who did?”

  Mr. Davis smiled, touching his finger to his nose again. “I do not speak ill of my previous employers.”

  “You said Mr. Shirely did not kill his brother.”

  “I did.”

  What was Thomas missing? If Robert Shirely hadn’t killed his brother, who would have, that he was willing to stay silent all this time? An idea burst in Thomas’ mind. Who was the one person he would lie for? Benjamin!

  “Did one of the other children have a hand in the death of Jeremiah?”

  “Ah, Mr. Reid. You are an intelligent man.”

  “Which one?”

  “That I cannot say.”

  Thomas arched an eyebrow. “Why have you not gone to the constable?”

  Mr. Davis tilted his head. “Who would verify my accusation, Mr. Reid? Mr. Shirely continues to claim Jeremiah fell and hit his head.”

  “Do you think the person responsible for the death of Jeremiah would kill Mr. Pierce?”

  “I’m not certain of the motivation behind the death of Mr. Pierce.” Mr. Davis’ eyes flicked to Thomas. “Who does his death benefit?”

  Thomas shrugged, his mind racing through his conversations with Miss Randall. “Mr. Pierce’s nephew, a man by the name of Peter Pierce, inherits the cottage and the wealth.”

  “Mr. Pierce has been out of the country for the past month.”

  “He has?”

  “His mother’s health is failing. Out of desperation, he took her to a doctor specializing in Eastern medicine.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “I am a busy man, Mr. Reid. His Lordship has given me several people to chase down since we discovered Mr. Morris was not working alone.”

  Thomas mulled over Mr. Davis’ confession. How many other people had Benjamin investigated? “I cannot think of one person who benefits from Mr. Pierce’s death.”

  “Then, we need to get to London as soon as possible.” Snapping the whip over the horses, Mr. Davis verbally encouraged them to run faster. He turned his gleaming eyes on Thomas. “I would consider that body a warning from Mr. Morris.”

  “A warning to whom?”

  “To anyone who stands with the Hastings’ family.”

  Chapter Six

  “I am quite capable of climbing off a horse.” Daphne peered down, calculating the distance between the horse’s back and the stable floor. It seemed safe enough.

  “As you wish,” replied Mr. Flannery, lowering his arms and stepping away.

  As he shifted, so did Shadow. Daphne lost her balance and slid off the horse, crashing to the ground. Her foot rolled sideways, a sharp pain shooting up her leg, which buckled. She collapsed on the ground with a moan, curling into a ball.

  “Miss Clemens!” Mr. Flannery dropped beside her, his eyes filled with concern. Lifting her from the floor, he gently positioned her on a nearby hay bale, then knelt at her feet. Removing her shoe, he carefully examined her ankle, his fingers probing the sore area, which swelled under his soft touch. She winced. Sighing, Mr. Flannery shook his head.

  “Is it bad?” asked Daphne, sinking her teeth into her lower lip. No more horseback riding, no more long morning walks, no more dancing… well, the last one she did not mind so much.

  “It looks like a sprain.” Mr. Flannery clucked his tongue and lowered her foot, setting it lightly on top of her shoe. “I’m afraid I will have to carry you to the house.”

  “Aunt Abigail is never going to forgive Mr. Reid.” Daphne shook her head. What could she say to save Mr. Reid from his aunt’s ire? She had never seen Aunt Abigail angry; however, Daphne was certain it was a frightful experience.

  “Why would she be angry with Thomas?” Mr. Flannery slid his arms under Daphne, lifting her from the bale.

  “Mr. Reid swore to return me in the exact state as when I left. This is not how I left the house this morning.” She gestured to her ankle and sighed. “With a sprain, I shall be restricted to indoor activities.”

  “I will explain what occurred and accept the full blame for your accident.” Mr. Flannery adjusted Daphne, rolling her into his chest, the movement jostling Daphne’s ankle. She sucked in a sharp breath as a burst of pain shot through her leg. Mr. Flannery froze, his face pinched.

  “I’m alright.” Placing her hand on his shoulder, she forced a smile.

  “Mr. Reid may earn Aunt Abigail’s ire, but I will earn his,” Mr. Flannery replied, slowly moving toward the open stable doors.

  “How so?” Daphne asked through a clenched jaw. Shaking her head, she waved off Mr. Flannery’s worry.

  “You were under my care.” He stopped again, glancing down. “Thomas entrusted you to me.”

  “I do not blame you for my injury.” Her ankle throbbed, pulsating. She turned away, hiding her grimace.

  “Who do you blame?”

  “Myself.”

  “That is quite practical,” he replied in an odd tone, resuming his slow pace. They passed through the doorway, stepping into the bright mid-morning sunlight.

  Squinting, Daphne shielded her eyes with her hand, returning her gaze to Mr. Flannery. “Do you consider that a fault?”

  “Not at all, practicality is a rare quality, between Alana and Samantha…” He smiled and shrugged.

  “I have been trying to be less practical today.”

  He frowned. “Why?”

  Daphne’s eyes flicked over the courtyard. “Miss Hastings and, I assume, your sister have the most extraordinary lives. They are unconventional, adventurous, and unique ladies.”

  “That is an interesting way to describe Alana.” Mr. Flannery smirked, murmuring to himself, “A lady.” He trudged toward the veranda, his mouth crooked in a half-grin. “Miss Clemens, I have very little experience in society, but I believe their behavior is discouraged, gossiped about frequently, and considered quite inappropriate.”

  “It is.” Nodding, Daphne returned her gaze to Mr. Flannery. “I’m not certain I agree with society’s rigidity anymore.”

  “Then you have chosen two excellent examples to emulate.” Mr. Flannery shifted her in his arms, climbing the steps leading to the veranda.

  “Mr. Flannery?” Daphne’s hesitant question caused him to stop, mid-stride, and glance down. “Would you leave me on the veranda while you discuss the discovery of Mr. Pierce with Mr. Hastings?”

  His forehead wrinkled. “Your ankle needs to be attended.”

  Daphne’s head oscillated between the house and veranda, a heavy weight pressing against her chest. She was not willing to relinquish her freedom yet. “My ankle will only draw attention away from the matter at hand. Please see to Mr. Hastings. I am certain nothing will happen to me while sitting on the veranda.”

  “The last time I listened to your request, you fell off a horse.” A tight smile appeared on Mr. Flannery’s mouth.

  “I will not fall off the bench.” She grinned. “I swear.”

  His mouth twitched. Setting her carefully on a carved wooden bench, he slid the end forward, placing her foot on the lower rung of the railing surrounding the veranda. With a nod, he turned toward the entryway, raising his hand to rap on the door.

  “Aidan, what are you doing here?” Mr. Hastings ripped open the door before Mr. Flannery knuckles touched to wood.

  “Thomas sent me with a message.”

  Mr. Hastings’ eyes flicked to Miss Clemens, skating down her raised leg. His mouth folded into a thin line. “Would you like to discuss this matter in Benjamin’s office?”

  “There is no need, Edward.” Mr. Flannery indicated Daphne with a graceful hand. “Miss Clemens is aware of the incident.”

  A sigh escaped Mr. Hastings, his eyes flicking heavenward. “What happened?”

  “During their riding lesson this morning, Thomas discovered Mr. Pierce.”

  “That is
excellent news! Miss Randall will be so relieved. Where is he?”

  “Hanging in a tree, roughly a half-meter from the estate.”

  “Aidan!” Mr. Hastings jerked his head toward Daphne. “That discussion is not appropriate for mixed company.”

  “Miss Clemens was with Thomas when the body was discovered.” Dropping beside Daphne, Mr. Flannery squeezed her arm. “She was quite brave.”

  Scooting onto the veranda, Mr. Hastings yanked the door closed behind him, dragging his hand through his hair. “Who else knows of this tragedy?”

  “The four of us and Mr. Davis.”

  “And where are Mr. Davis,”—Mr. Hastings flinched as he said the name, clearly aggravated with Lord Westwood for sending his manservant with news of his elopement with Miss Hastings—“and Thomas?”

  “They have left to recover Benjamin.” Mr. Flannery snickered. “Apparently, he is lost.”

  Daphne snorted and rouged immediately, covering her mouth with her hand. Mr. Flannery winked, sharing her amusement. He patted her arm, rising and turning toward Mr. Hastings, who ground his teeth.

  “He may prefer to stay lost once I am finished with him.”

  “Would you make your sister a widow so young in life?” asked Daphne, her eyes rounding at Mr. Hastings’ threat.

  “He is teasing, Miss Clemens.” Leaning over, Mr. Flannery whispered in Daphne’s ear. “Edward would never do anything to upset Samantha, including killing her husband.”

  “That is your opinion, Aidan,” Mr. Hastings snarled, slamming his hand against a wooden post along the edge of the veranda.

  The corner of Mr. Flannery’s mouth twitched. “Edward, I think it best we contact the constable and have him remove Mr. Pierce before anyone else happens upon his body.” As he spoke the words, a scream echoed through the trees.

  “I fail to see why Lady Westwood is hosting an impromptu ball this evening.” Miss Randall floated through her bedroom, lifting a string of pearls from a small table and holding them to her hair.

  “We are celebrating the engagement of Miss Hastings,” said Daphne, sinking onto a bench next to Miss Hastings.

  “It is not an engagement if they are already married.”

  “It has not been announced, Miss Randall. The official wedding is not for another month, until then, I remain Miss Hastings.” Miss Hastings’ eyes flicked to the mirror. She sat frozen on the bench as Miss Larson yanked her hair into an elaborate design.

  “Who throws a ball with three hours’ notice?”

  “Lady Westwood,” Miss Hastings and Daphne said at the same moment, laughing.

  “Not one person would dare turn down an invitation from Lady Westwood,” added Miss Hastings, “even a late one.”

  “How many people did she invite?” Miss Randall paled, dropping the pearls onto the table.

  “Do you not enjoy balls?” asked Daphne, spinning around toward Miss Randall.

  “I have never attended one without my aunt,” replied Miss Randall. Gliding toward an armoire, she stuck her head into its wide-open mouth. Daphne swallowed, her eyes flicking to Miss Hastings, catching her eyes in the looking glass. Miss Hastings shook her head, a subtle signal for Daphne to hold her tongue. Daphne widened her eyes, indicating her displeasure at lying to Miss Randall.

  A hasty conversation had followed the quiet arrival of Miss Hastings and Lord Westwood or Lord and Lady Westwood—but they were not to be addressed as such since they had secretly married in London that morning. The decision to withhold the death of Mr. Pierce from Miss Randall came from Mr. Hastings, a notion which was quickly agreed to by all parties involved in the discussion… with the exception of Daphne, who did not voice her opinion.

  As the dialogue concluded, Mr. Hastings strode over to Lord Westwood and narrowed his eyes, punching him squarely in the jaw, an action which drew not one shocked response from anyone in the study. Grinning, Lord Westwood wrapped Miss Hastings in his arms and brushed his lips across hers, claiming he would repeat his actions no matter how many times Mr. Hastings struck him. Miss Hastings giggled, drawing Mrs. Hastings’ attention, who chastised Miss Hastings for encouraging Lord Westwood’s inappropriate decision.

  “You never attended your engagement luncheon!” fumed Mrs. Hastings, glaring at Miss Hastings. The notion for a ball blossomed from Miss Hastings’ insincere apology. Mrs. Hastings latched onto the idea of hosting an engagement ball instead, which Lady Westwood vehemently supported, expressing her desire to celebrate her son’s soon-to-be wedding.

  Three hours later, here they sat, combing through dresses of varying hues for a ball which Daphne had no desire to attend. Was no one concerned about Mr. Morris? Surely, he was responsible for the murder of Mr. Pierce. Although the body was found near the Shirely property, she believed with her whole heart, no Shirely was not responsible… but someone had to be. Mr. Morris could not have lifted the body by himself, not while still recovering from a gunshot wound administered by Miss Hastings, and that person had to be nearby…

  “This will be Miss Clemens first ball without her mother as well.” Miss Hastings patted Daphne’s hand, startling her from her morbid thoughts.

  “Is your mother not attending?” asked Miss Randall, her muffled voice came from the armoire.

  “Aunt Abigail refused to invite her,” replied Daphne. She snickered, pressing her hand to her mouth. “It is a horrific snub; Mother will be livid.”

  Miss Randall, her upper body buried deeply in the cherry colored armoire, leaned back and peeped around the open door, a little wrinkle forming between her eyebrows. “And you fear her wrath?”

  “No…” Daphne hesitated, then expelled her trepidation. “With Miss Hastings’ engagement and upcoming nuptials, I fear Aunt Abigail and Lady Westwood will turn their matchmaking attention to me.”

  “Is that all?” Miss Randall laughed. “Miss Hastings is matched terribly well. Do you not agree, Miss Hastings?”

  “Indeed, I do,” replied Miss Hastings. A grin—a private memory—burned through her cheeks. She glanced at Daphne and forced the smile from her lips. “Yes, I believe Lord Westwood and I are well suited. However, neither Lady Westwood nor Mrs. Stanton had any hand in our relationship.”

  “Are you certain?” asked Miss Randall, her eyebrows rising in a light taunt.

  Miss Hastings spun around, dragging Miss Larson along with her sudden movement. Miss Larson, to her credit, never released the grip she had on Miss Hastings’ hair. “Miss Randall, I am curious to learn why you believe otherwise.”

  “Do you remember the Allendale ball?”

  “I do,” nodded Miss Hastings, her face scrunched in concentration.

  “Do you remember dancing with Mr. Reid?” asked Miss Randall.

  “I do,” repeated Miss Hastings in a curious tone.

  “While you were on the dance floor, Mrs. Stanton held a quiet conversation with Lord Westwood regarding his future wife.”

  Miss Hastings tilted her head. “Intriguing. What was discussed?”

  “Lord Westwood was considering proposing to Miss Shirely.”

  “Miss Alice Shirely?” interrupted Daphne, her voice squeaked.

  Miss Randall nodded, her eyes never leaving Miss Hastings’ face. “Mrs. Stanton voiced her objection to the match. She recommended you as a suitable alternative.”

  Miss Hastings’ jaw dropped. “How did you learn of this interference?” she whispered.

  “I was standing behind them—next to Aunt Hattie—when the conversation occurred. Aunt Hattie was furious, her face twitching with rage when Mrs. Stanton dismissed Alice as an improper fiancée.” Miss Randall grinned and dove into the armoire again. She extracted a light purple frock and popped back out again, addressing Daphne in a soothing voice. “I would not concern myself with their meddling, Miss Clemens. Obviously, Mrs. Stanton and Lady Westwood are quite adept at matchmaking.”

  “They probably arranged a husband for me already,” muttered Daphne with a grimace. There was only one man she was intereste
d in, and he was not interested in her.

  Miss Hastings leaned over, dragging Miss Larson with her again, and squeezed Daphne’s arm in a comforting gesture. “Do not worry, Miss Clemens. Wilhelmina will not allow them to interfere too much.”

  Miss Randall approached the bed and snapped her fingers. Pausing in the middle of Miss Hastings’ upswept hairstyle, Miss Larson spun, accepted the dress, and deftly yanked it over her mistress’ head. She fastened the material quickly, her nimble fingers flying over the dress while Miss Randall smoothed invisible wrinkles from her skirt. “How many gentlemen have requested your dance card this evening?” she asked, her gaze rising to Daphne.

  Daphne thought a moment. “Lady Westwood told me there are a few gentlemen who requested a dance, including Mr. Shirely, although I am unsure of how well I will dance on my ankle.”

  “Wilhelmina refused Mr. Shirely,” Miss Hastings replied quietly.

  Relief poured through Daphne’s body. At least she wouldn’t have to endure Mr. Shirely’s brutish behavior.

  “Mr. William Lockhearst also requested a dance.” Miss Hastings’ nonchalant comment drew Daphne’s attention. She had not yet corrected his mistaken view of the amount of her dowry… and yet he still requested a dance. Perhaps, she had misjudged him.

  “That is an odd choice,” replied Miss Randall, pirouetting in the looking glass.

  Daphne shrugged. “He stated I made him want to be a better man.”

  “Who else is on the list?” Miss Randall encouraged with a smile.

  “Mr. Reid,” replied Miss Hastings.

  Miss Randall stopped twirling and glared into the mirror, her eyes narrowing. “Mr. Thomas Reid?”

  “Mr. Asher Reid,” said Miss Hastings.

  “I have never heard the name.”

  “He is the cousin of Lord Westwood and Mr. Reid,” said Daphne, gesturing in the general direction of the barn. “I met him this morning.”