Beyond a Doubt(18)

Being without escort did present a few problems. Males in attendance with her same predicament sought her company more frequently than she would have liked. When they sauntered close, she would find someone else nearby, bat her eyelashes, smile and began to speak. This worked to keep those hounds at bay.

Within a few hours the group was soused. Lucy waited for her opportunity. She’d left her leather pouch at home, and instead carried one of blue embroidered silk. As the afternoon had progressed, Lucy made note of a myriad of places that would work to “carelessly leave” the object.

Separating from a group, Lucy studied a particular ancient piece of armor. From the corner of her eye she spotted movement. She spied a handsome man. It was Reginald Spalding. Honey-colored hair reached the nape of his neck. His blue eyes tilted upward at the corners. He attracted a crowd as he told a seemingly entertaining story.

The men guffawed at the ludicrous nature of the tale while the women fluttered their eyelashes and fanned with their hands. Indeed the man was a sight to behold. He had high cheekbones and a defined torso. The man wore a simple brown outfit that covered him from neck to knee. Even his riding boots matched in color. If one didn’t know better, they would believe him going on a hunting trip instead of attending a private art showing.

It was generally known that Reginald Spalding considered himself the cream of high society.

Peering over her glass, Lucy could understand the reason he held this belief. The man had a distinct charisma and charm, and even Lucy felt drawn to him.

Wine passed her lips, and the reason for her visit to the private collection retreated to the recesses of her mind as Reginald’s voice filled the room.





Chapter Thirty-Three




Bryce wondered what he’d done to make Lucy leave. Perhaps he’d come on too strongly? Maybe he shouldn’t have kissed her? He was hurt that she was gone without a word.

He stopped pacing and noticed his reflection in the looking glass. He wasn’t unattractive, or at least he didn’t think so. After all, he was a Cameron and his family was notorious for their good looks.

Bryce twitched his lips upward on the right side then threw his hands into the air. Who was he trying to fool? He should go back to shrugging. Any uses of his mouth of late had only gotten him in trouble.

Not wishing to remain idle, Bryce fed and brushed the horses. Then he cleaned out their stalls. Once finished, he looked around for other things to occupy his time.

The backyard appeared to have once held a garden. The rich earth was cut in a semblance of rows and a shed remained behind the house. Bryce found tools and began turning the soil. Thoughts about what he could plant occupied his mind.

As his muscles stretched in work, he felt tension move out of his body. Time slipped by, but nagging worry remained.

Why had Lucy left so suddenly? Was she angry with him? Was she coming back? What was he going to do about his future?

Engrossed in his thoughts, he was surprised by a shaft of pain shooting across the back of his head. What sounded like a dozen cackling hens reached his ears.

****

“Dear sister, whatever will we do?”

“Winnie, I say we call the magistrate.”

“But Winifred, that puny man could never lift this monster. Besides, why would we call the magistrate?” asked Winnie.

“Because this man doesn’t belong here,” replied Winifred.

“But he is gardening. Hardly a threat to society.”

“Doesn’t matter. He shouldn’t be here.”

Bryce woke. Opening his eyes a fraction, he noted two tiny gray-haired women, or maybe it was one and he saw double? Whatever the case, they argued above him.

His head ached. After studying and listening, he realized there were definitely two women. They appeared to be in disagreement about what to do with him.

His hand trembled as he placed it to his head. A moan escaped his lips. The women rounded on him. One hefted a metal shovel set to descend upon him once more. Bryce shifted his hand to protect himself.

“Stop beating on the child, Winifred.”

“But Winnie—“

“Let me handle this.” Winnie faced him. He sat up, and his sitting stature almost reached the height of her standing position. “Now sonny, who are you and what are you doing in this yard?”

Winifred interrupted before he could respond.

“Now Winnie, you know he is going to lie. Why ask him anything? I say we hit him on the head again and get the magistrate to come and cart him away.”

“And I say we ask the lad to state his business.”

“Look at him! His breeches stop at his knees!”

“Winifred, my dear, those are Scottish trews.”

“Humph. Look like short breeches to me,” Winifred muttered under her breath. Louder she added, “I’m sorry I’m not as cultured as you. Father didn’t send all of us on an adventure.”

“Winifred Townsend! That was fifty years ago! And it wasn’t an adventure. Father sent me off to marry and when I met the man I ran away. The end. Now stop this nonsense so I can ask this man his business.”

Winifred crossed her arms over her tiny chest. Her wrinkled chin lifted upward in a snobbish air. Her eyes rolled back in her head. It was clear she distrusted Bryce.

Winnie turned back to him and said, “Now sonny, state your business and be quick about it. My sister will only hold her tongue for so long and then she will be off again.”

Bryce opened his mouth and moved his jaw back and forth. It felt locked, probably from the bump to the head. Once his voice returned, he said, “I’m a friend of Lucy Bard.”

Both women raised their eyebrows. Winnie questioned, “Lucy Bard?”

“Aye. I escorted her from Scotland.”

“See, I told you he’d lie,” said Winifred, glaring at him.

“Winifred, hush. Maybe you just hit him too hard. You have to admit the information is close to the truth.” Winnie tapped her finger to her head then pointed it straight into the air. “I know. The man needs tea. We will clear up this mess after a good pot of tea.”

“Winnie, tea won’t make this better. The man’s dangerous.”

“He’s a gardener, dear sis. You go make the tea and I’ll stay and talk with him. When he is ready I’ll bring him along.”

“I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Duly noted. Tea, please.”

Winifred left in a huff. The other lady placed a hand under his arm and attempted to lift him from the ground. Bryce found the effort risible and assisted before the woman injured herself.

Once he was standing, the world seemed to sway, and it sent him bouncing into Winnie. Surprisingly strong for her size, she steadied him.

“I believe Winifred was a wee bit overzealous when she struck you. But don’t be too angry with her. The poor dear is so immature. There is only so much that can be done with a youngster these days.”

The woman must have noticed his incredulous look, because she continued, “I’ll speak with her later, don’t you worry. She will be reprimanded.”

It took all his strength not to burst forth with laughter. Winnie appeared to be at least seventy years old. Her gray hair was pulled tightly back into a neat bun. Her face was covered in wrinkles, and her stern expression softened only when she smiled. Her sister, Winifred, who had been sent to make tea, was almost an exact copy of Winnie.

Bryce asked, “Are ye neighbors with Lucy?”

“Ooo, I love the Scottish burr. The trills of your r’s always did leave me breathless.” Winnie placed a conspiratorial hand on his arm. She looked around before speaking. “What I said earlier wasn’t exactly true. I mean about my adventure to Scotland. I did see the man.

“He was a huge, burly, attractive Scotsman. I would have stayed with him forever. But he took one look at me and declared I was too small to bear his children and sent me home. ‘Course I never told anyone what really happened. He was probably right. If I heard correctly, he had more than one wife die during childbirth. Besides, my sister needed me. I couldn’t leave her.

“Oh, you asked a question. Lucy, our neighbor? Not exactly. What I mean is the child is rarely ever home. So you couldn’t exactly call her a neighbor. Thomas, the old butler, comes every now and then and checks on the house and things hereabout. But no one has really lived here since old Mr. Lombard was murdered.”

“Mr. Lombard?”

“Aye, Lombard not Bard. He was a lawyer and someone shot ’em. Poor man. Took cases no one else would touch. Defended those who awaited burning for their faith. Or those set to lose their property for their beliefs. Didn’t win many of those cases, though.”

“Who shot him?” asked Bryce.

“Don’t know for sure. His daughter, Lucille, found him in an alley, brought him home, and he died. No one ever did discover the culprit, to my knowledge. And after that Lucille was never the same. First never leaving the house, then all of a sudden becoming flighty and you never saw her at home.