The Bad Luck Bride (The Brides of St. Ives #1)(75)

“And have a clever little mustache above his upper lip. You’ve just described St. Claire, you ninny,” Rebecca said, laughing.

“Have I?” Eliza asked with an exaggerated tone. “He is rather perfect, isn’t he?”

“If you say so,” Rebecca said, wrinkling her nose. “I could never marry anyone who dresses better than I. That’s why he’s perfect for you, Eliza.”

She grinned. “He is, isn’t he? Alas, he is leaving in just two weeks to head back to London. Perhaps I will see him during the little season. He has hinted as much.”

All the knitting and pretense was put away, and the women carried on with their gossip for several long, wonderful minutes, until Mrs. Anderson entered. Her daughters must have sensed her presence long before the others, for they immediately straightened and schooled their features. Giving the group an assessing look, one that reminded Alice of the way a teacher will survey a roomful of naughty children, Mrs. Anderson walked to the mantel on the far side of the room and picked up a vase. It was such an obvious ploy that Alice nearly laughed.

“Rearranging, Mrs. Anderson?” she asked, pressing her lips together when Rebecca gave her an amused look that acknowledged her courage.

“I am, Miss Hubbard,” she said. “Harriet, have you inquired for refreshments for your guests?”

“No, Mother. I didn’t think so soon after luncheon—”

“Really, Harriet,” she said, looking about the room for approval. “How many times have I told you that you must always offer your guests refreshment. How many?” She shook her head as the women sat silent, embarrassed for their friend.

“Too numerous to count,” Harriet said with just a hint of rebellion in her tone, just enough to make Alice tense. It never worked out well when Harriet showed even the smallest bit of backbone, and she had long since stopped trying. Part of Alice wanted to applaud Harriet, but she knew her friend would suffer her mother’s wrath unless she was in an unusually forgiving mood.

Mrs. Anderson gave Harriet a long stare, but Clara saved the day with her bright smile. “Mother, we were talking about who our perfect husband would be. When you were a girl, what did you believe you wanted in a husband?”

Fortunately, Mrs. Anderson was distracted by Clara’s question and her face softened. “I married him.”

If anyone else had said that, Alice might have sighed at the romance of it all. But Alice knew Mr. Anderson and disliked him nearly as much as she disliked The Termagant.

“Let’s all go to the garden, shall we?” Rebecca asked. “I’m heartily sick of knitting at any rate.”

Alice looked down at her scarf, realizing with a start that she’d neglected to complete even a single row.



*



Robert Bennet made up the entire constabulary of St. Ives. His office was in the town hall, a tiny space tucked next to the clerk, where he would spend most of his long days either reading or napping. St. Ives was not a hive of criminals, and it was often weeks between arrests. Most of his time was spent, if not reading or napping, trying to solve disputes between fishermen or sending someone who over-imbibed safely home. St. Ives had two small holding cells for the more serious criminals or those too drunk to make it safely home, and on most days, the cells remained empty. Indeed, one had become a bit of a storage room for the town hall, a fact that didn’t bother Constable Bennet in the least.

But this last week had been trying. Bodies didn’t turn up every day in St. Ives, and this particular one had caused a bit of indigestion, especially when he heard the rumor that the gentleman had been stabbed in the back before floating off into St. Ives Bay. Thankfully, that rumor was completely false. The wound in the gentleman’s back had been a deep scrape, no doubt caused by one of the many jagged rocks along the bay.

It had been an especially trying week, so Bennet had resorted to long naps to relieve the stress of it all, and that was how Henderson and Lord Berkley found him the day they went to visit him with their theory that St. Ives was harboring a man they suspected of murdering as many as five victims.

A soft snore sounded from the office, and Henderson gave Berkley an amused look before knocking, loudly, on the door. From the sounds of a small commotion behind the door, Henderson suspected the knock had startled the constable nearly out of his seat. When the door was flung open, St. Ives’ sole police officer stood there, all five feet of him, eyes bloodshot, hair askew, looking about as irritable as a man can look. Henderson suspected Bennet’s day was about to get much worse.

After they’d carefully detailed what they knew of events, from the time the five boys were building that tree fort to the day Sebastian’s body was found, Bennet sat back, looking rather ill. And then he swore, loudly. “That’s a fine kettle of fish, gentleman, a fine kettle of fish. I knew I should have retired two years ago when we got that recommendation the department should be disbanded. Four men, you say?”

“Yes, sir. Five if you count Mr. Stewart.”

Bennet closed his eyes briefly. “Do you know where this…” He looked at his notes. “…Mr. Grant resides?”

“No, sir,” Henderson said. “When he was a lad, his parents lived on Trelawney Road, but I’ve no idea if he still resides there.”

“Easy enough to find out. Clerk’ll have that information. All right, then. Thank you both for coming in. I know how to reach you, Lord Berkley, but where are you residing, Mr. Southwell?”