The Secret of Pembrooke Park(86)

“I understand, Miles,” Abigail said. “And I don’t blame you.”

He met her gaze. “And will you forgive me for not being completely honest with you?”

“Yes.”

He reached out and tapped a finger beneath her chin. “What a dear creature you are, fair cousin. If only everyone were half as understanding as you.”



Later that evening, laudanum administered and pain beginning to ease, William and his father sat companionably in the Pembrooke morning room.

Mac looked around him at the fine furnishings and old portraits on the paneled walls. “How strange to be here,” he murmured, “to have one of my children sleeping in Pembrooke Park. Never would I have believed it.”

William looked at his father’s pensive profile and said, “But I am not the first of your children to sleep here, am I?”

Mac looked away without answering.

William asked gently, “Were you ever going to tell me . . . if Miles Pembrooke hadn’t returned and forced your hand?”

His father shrugged. “You were so young when it happened. One doesn’t entrust important secrets like that to a four-year-old. Later, when the thing seemed to have been largely forgotten, it seemed risky to bring it out again, to open old wounds. Leah seemed to want to forget, to pretend it never happened. I suppose it made it easier to live day to day. And I certainly thought it the wisest, safest course, not to talk about it.”

William regarded the older man. Wondering what else he didn’t know about his family. About the past. “So many things I want to ask you . . .” he began, then winced his eyes shut, trying in vain to focus his laudanum-dulled thoughts. “Were you here that night?”

“Aye. That I was.” Mac slowly shook his head, his gaze straying to the door and the hall beyond.

“Show me where it happened,” William urged, pushing aside the bedclothes.

“No,” his father protested. “Not after the day you’ve had. Stay in bed.”

“I don’t feel too bad, not with the laudanum taking effect.” William swung his legs over the side of the sofa and made to stand.

His father stepped quickly to his side and took his arm to steady him. “Oh, very well. But just for a moment.”

They went out into the hall. Mac’s gaze swung around the soaring room and trailed its way up the grand staircase. “There.” With his free hand, he pointed to the front door, then up the stairs. “The valet, Walter Kelly, rushed in with the news that Robert Pembrooke was dead. Murdered. And not long after, Walter himself died right there.” He pointed to the bottom of the stairs.

“An accident—a fall—as we’ve always been told?” William asked. “Or was he pushed?”

Mac grimaced. “He and Clive Pembrooke argued at the top of the stairs. I believe Clive struck him a mortal blow, perhaps with the butt of his gun or some other object, then pushed him down the stairs to make it appear an accident.”

“You didn’t actually see it happen?” William asked.

Mac shook his head. “No. But I heard it.”

William watched him, unsettled by the eerie glint in his father’s eyes. Then he looked around the open two-story hall for possible places of concealment. Seeing only a hall cupboard, he asked, “Where were you?”

For a moment, Mac didn’t answer, his expression distant in memory. Then he whispered, “In the secret room.”



Abigail was about to blow out her bedside candle when she heard someone pounding on the front door below. She tied on her dressing gown over her nightdress and left her room, pushing her long hair back over her shoulder. Who would be calling at this late hour? She hoped Mr. Chapman was all right.

She descended the stairs and reached the hall in time to see Mac standing at the open front door, talking in a low voice to an adolescent male caller. Mac nodded and shut the door.

Concerned, Abigail asked, “Is everything all right?”

He turned, wearing a grimace. “Nothing to alarm you, Miss Foster. It’s only that Mr. Morgan’s favorite hound has gone missing. Like a second son to the man he is. And as I am his land agent . . .”

Abigail shook her head. “Don’t tell me you’ve been asked to go out and find the man’s dog . . . at this hour?”

“I’m afraid so. William is sound asleep or I wouldn’t go. I think he’ll sleep through the night, especially after the hefty dose of laudanum Dr. Brown sent over. Still I hate to leave him, should he waken . . .”

“I will ask my father to look in on him. Or Duncan.”

“Thank you, Miss Foster. Don’t disturb your father, but if Duncan will check on him, I think it will be all right to leave for an hour or two.” He retrieved his overcoat from the hall cupboard.

Abigail hesitated. “I’m curious, Mac. Why did you hire Duncan? No offense, but he clearly isn’t fond of working here. If he didn’t treat my father so well, I likely would have dismissed him before now.”

Mac bit his lip, then said, “I was afraid of that. It’s a bitter pill to find himself a house servant. He’d hoped for more. Please be patient with him, lass.”

Abigail studied his earnest face. “Very well.”

“Thank you.” He picked up his hat and turned to the door. “Well, I’m off. Hopefully, the dog will have shown up at Hunts Hall by now.”