The Bad Luck Bride (The Brides of St. Ives #1)(50)

Alice nodded and gave her friend a small smile of thanks. “You’re right. I am glad we found him. He wouldn’t have liked to have worried his parents.” The tears that had been pressing against her eyes threatened to spill over, and Alice lifted her head toward the wind so they would dry before falling.

The group was silent for a long while until Northrup, who had maneuvered to walk beside her, said, “I would like to apologize to you. And I shall also apologize to Mr. Southwell when I see him next. I was unfair to him last night and judged him badly.”

Alice smiled up at him. “He is a good man, my lord. I am glad you are able to see that. And it was very kind of you to lend assistance to the famine relief effort. I could tell Mr. Southwell was appreciative.”

He smiled, seemingly satisfied with her response, but Alice felt slightly bothered that Northrup was befriending Henderson. Perhaps she was cynical—no doubt she was—but she couldn’t help wonder if Northrup was simply saying things he knew would please her so she would forgive him.

“If it pleased you, my dear, I would sail to India myself and feed all the starving.”

Alice laughed. “No need for that, sir.”

“I want you to know I am sincere in trying to win back your heart,” he said low, but Harriet tilted her head slightly and must have heard, for she smiled.

Alice turned away, suddenly uncomfortable with the conversation. He’d never really had her heart, so how could he win it back? She was very nearly tempted to say that, but could not, not when he’d been looking at her with such hope in his eyes.





Chapter 11


“Three of you dead. That is odd.”

Henderson sat with Lord Berkley in the White Hart Inn’s small dining room, partaking of some of the best brandy Henderson had had the pleasure of drinking in years. Berkley had brought it himself. They had planned to meet to discuss their strategy for gaining influence for famine relief, but the talk all around the small village was of Sebastian’s death.

“Young men don’t just die like that,” Henderson said, not bothering to hide his very real concern. “Not in my experience.”

Berkley looked at him over his snifter. “You suspect foul play?”

He shook his head. “I’m not certain, but don’t you find it odd that three of my chums from Oxford are dead?”

“Who’s left? If you’re not the killer, some other chap is,” Berkley said blandly. “But please do not accuse some poor man of murder unless you are completely certain. It is rather unpleasant living with that sort of rumor.”

Henderson gave Berkley a puzzled look.

“Ah, that’s right. You’ve been out of the country and didn’t hear that I threw my wife from the highest tower of Costille.” He chuckled and swirled the brandy in his glass.

“I take it you did not.”

Studying his drink he said, “I wanted to, but no. I did not.”

Henderson let out a gust of amusement. “I’m probably mad for thinking such a thing. They all died in very different ways. All accidents. Still…”

“You need to find the answer to this question: why. If you have that, then you have a reason and the murderer. What did the three men know or see or do that could have incited someone to murder?”

Henderson thought back on their friendship and found nothing in his memory that could have caused someone to want to murder any of his friends. And really, Gerald had been there the night Joseph fell from the roof. Certainly if he had witnessed a murder, he would have told someone. It had been a foolish thought but one he could not put from his mind. Of all their group, Gerald, who was slight and bookish, was the least likely to be capable of murder. If not Gerald, then who? Henderson couldn’t fathom why anyone would want them dead.

“I’m being foolish,” Henderson said. “Three dead men in the course of four years. Not a very efficient killer, is he?”

“Perhaps not efficient, but if there is a murderer about, he’s very clever. It’s hard enough to get away with one murder, never mind three.” Berkley winked, and for a moment Henderson thought the man was being serious and was actually confessing to murdering his wife. But when the older man started laughing, Henderson felt a bit ridiculous.

“Here’s a sobering thought. If there is a murderer out there targeting our small group of friends, I could be next.”

Berkley seemed amused by the thought, which was strangely reassuring. “You cannot die before you produce an heir. How unseemly.”

“That hardly matters in my case. I’m not tied down by a title. If I died, it would create only the merest ripple. Perhaps that’s why I’m still alive.” Those words were still in his head, when he felt his heart pick up a beat. Each of the men who had died was the eldest in his family and most had titles.

Berkley seemed to pick up on his thoughts. “What is it?”

Henderson shook his head. “There was a student at Oxford, a second son. I remember only because he caused such a scene the day he was informed that his older brother had died.” He furrowed his brow. “One of us congratulated him. I cannot remember who it was or if it was even someone from our group. I just remember him going a bit mad and thinking what an insensitive thing for one of us to say. I was rather ashamed for the chap who’d said it, even though I didn’t know who it was.”