The Bad Luck Bride (The Brides of St. Ives #1)(34)
Elda shook her head. “That is not something to be repeated, Alice. The magistrate declared her death a terrible accident. Suicide. Better to be a murder than that.”
Henderson cleared his throat. “At any rate, I’m meeting the man this afternoon to discuss famine relief. Do you know when the old Lord Berkley died? The butler at Cavendish Square wore a black band but I saw no other evidence of mourning at the London house. When I went to Costille, however, it was shrouded.”
“I didn’t know he had passed until we arrived here,” Elda said. “I imagine it must have been fairly recent, though, for I don’t recall reading about his death in the Times when we were in London. I would have said something to you when I saw your list. I fear you’ll find little help in that quarter, Mr. Southwell. Lord Berkley has not been involved in politics at all; that was his father’s domain. From what I gather, he has spent a great deal of time in America. Chasing cows, I think. He was a bit of a ne’er do well, an embarrassment to the old earl.” Elda tsked softly as she spread marmalade on her scone.
Deeply discouraged by Lady Hubbard’s words, Henderson wondered if he should keep his appointment. Even if the new Lord Berkley was amenable to trying to help, what sort of influence could he possibly have on the men who made decisions about famine relief?
*
“They say he murdered her and that the only people who could vouch for his whereabouts were his closest friends. The old Lord Berkley never got over the scandal of it and some say it killed him.”
Sometimes when Harriet spoke so melodramatically about a murder, it was difficult for one not to roll one’s eyes, Alice thought. The four of them—herself, Harriet, Eliza and Rebecca—were all together for the first time since Alice’s return from London. It was so good to see them all, to gossip as they always had, to laugh. No one could brighten her day the way her friends did, and she’d missed them all dearly when she was in London. They pretended to meet to knit together, but the true purpose of their gatherings was to gossip. Harriet had it down to an art form and often led the discussion as she was this day. That’s why it was so difficult to understand how someone so lively could become so subdued in social situations.
“Why would he murder her?” Eliza asked, her pale blue eyes wide. She tucked a stray curl behind her ear, a habit encouraged by the fact her wildly curly hair was often coming unsprung from whatever hairstyle her maid had attempted that day. “One must always have a motive.”
Harriet shrugged. “I haven’t heard anything that would inspire murder. Still.”
“Still what?” Alice asked on a laugh. “Still it wouldn’t be nearly as entertaining to talk about Lord Berkley if he wasn’t a murderer?”
Harriet made a face, but said, “Of course.”
“Didn’t you tour Costille once, Harriet?” Rebecca asked. “Did you see the tower where it happened?”
Harriet nodded. She was in her element, and Alice settled in to hear a detailed accounting of the home where Lord Berkley resided. Harriet had an uncanny memory, like nothing Alice had ever witnessed before. If she saw it, read it, heard it, she remembered each detail so well, Alice had long stopped questioning her.
“We only toured the public part of the house, of course, but the Lawton family has maintained it wonderfully. We were even able to explore the dovecote, though they don’t use it as such now, just back in the fifteen hundreds. Can you imagine something three centuries old?”
Eliza shuddered. “I shouldn’t like to live in such an old place. Imagine all the ghosts that must be wandering about.”
“Including his dead wife,” Rebecca said, her brown eyes twinkling.
“Stop it, all of you,” Alice said, laughing.
“You must admit, it is rather exciting that Lord Berkley is back after all these years,” Harriet said. “The old lord was such a stodgy curmudgeon.”
“Who’s to say the new lord isn’t much the same?” Alice asked. “At any rate, I hope he is not a maniac, for Mr. Southwell is on his way there today.”
Harriet lifted her head at the news Henderson was in St. Ives, and Alice made an effort to keep her expression bland, even as she felt her cheeks blush remembering their kiss. Her breasts suddenly felt heavy, her nipples ached, and only because he was the topic of conversation. What was wrong with her?
“Mr. Southwell is in St. Ives?”
“Here we go again,” Rebecca said, pressing her lips together in an obvious attempt not to laugh aloud. “You’re not going to make a cake of yourself again, are you, Harriet?”
Harriet sniffed. “I was but a girl with a silly crush and can be forgiven for falling for a handsome young man. And of course I’m going to make a cake of myself. Why wouldn’t I? I’m certain he would be sorely disappointed if I did not.”
Alice laughed. “Henderson is not quite the flirt he was when you all last saw him. He’s grown up a bit himself. He’s far more serious now than he was before. In fact, the entire reason he is in St. Ives is to solicit assistance in raising awareness of the famine in India. He’s quite passionate about it.”
“You mean to say he’s not here to see me?” Harriet asked in mock despair.
“Alas, the only reason he is in St. Ives at all is because this is where Lord Berkley is at the moment. I daresay he’d already be on his way back to India had he concluded his business in London.”