Part 19 (1/2)

She nodded. ”No one could disprove the charge, though Ridgeway was entertaining house guests during most of his stay. And the girl married Mr. Derwyn shortly after the rumors started, putting paid to most of them. They moved to York.”

”Unexpectedly?”

She shook her head, her eyes fading into disappointment. ”He had accepted a position as steward to Lord Thorne. 'Twas what allowed their marriage. He had courted her for two years.”

He must discover the details of the marriage. Derwyn may not have known the truth until after the ceremony. Sir Tristan could have packed the girl off to avoid further embarra.s.sment or arranged Derwyn's post because she was increasing. Either man might have taken steps to avenge his honor.

Honor was a powerful motivation. He knew two young lords whose escalating animosity was entering its third year. The quarrel had begun over a perceived slight by one to the inamorata of the other. But instead of settling the matter in a duel-which would have been the end of it-the injured lord had insulted the other, who had replied in kind. Each attack had provoked a counterattack. Neither now cared that the girl had long since wed another.

He swallowed a bite of cake. ”Does anyone else have a recent grievance?”

”Your tenants. They all believed that he was about to raise the rents again.”

He nodded, though he had not heard that particular story. Why had Walden not mentioned it? Or Jem?

Walden had left yesterday, a tepid recommendation in his pocket. James had agonized over the wording for days. Now he wondered if letting him go had been a mistake. Had Walden been responsible for John's death?

He had discounted the notion earlier. Walden must have known what John was doing to the tenants, yet he had not raised a single protest. But a demand to raise rents yet again might have been more than even a spineless coward could tolerate. Weak men rarely struck back at their persecutors, so their rage built. When they finally exploded into action, they could be even more vicious than their quick-tempered friends.

Walden was the one person who could have easily drawn John away from the house. And he could have recovered the note before anyone suspected John was missing. No one would have noticed the steward visiting the library.

”Barnes grumbled for months about the damage John's guests inflicted on the inn,” continued Miss Hardaway.

”I know about that, and have taken steps to rebuild the wing. Are there any other tradesmen with grievances?”

”The Ridgeway account was six months in arrears with the chandler-but that was a chronic problem with every merchant.” She frowned. ”There was an argument in the linen draper's about a year ago.”

”John actually visited a shop?” He sounded so incredulous that she smiled.

”No. Now that I think on it, Lord Northrup caused that contretemps. Mrs. Ruddy was attending a sick relative, so when Ruddy's daughter contracted influenza, he asked Rose Moore to watch the shop for a few days. But she wasn't very knowing about the stock. Northrup thought she was disrespectful and knocked her down. Ruddy came down from Alice's sickroom and found what Northrup needed. Gave him a good price, too, just to smooth over his temper.”

He couldn't see how the incident related to John, but he would relay it to Mary. Frederick had died shortly thereafter.

Miss Hardaway continued to ramble, relating old gossip, rumors, and speculation, but nothing of interest turned up.

He reviewed her information as he drove back to the Court. The gossip had confirmed his impressions of Robby. The lad had talked more freely after meeting with Forbes, but he knew little more than what Mary had already reported. He had hired on after Frederick's death, so his sole contact with John had been the morning the note appeared. Veiled warnings from the other employees had revealed that John was a man to fear. Other mutterings gave the impression that John and his friends engaged in outrageous practices, but no one ever spoke of specifics for fear of reprisal. Since Robby had witnessed nothing for himself, he wasn't much help.

He sighed. No one else was willing to talk beyond generalities. But the note did help, moving the tenants to the bottom of his list of suspects. Not that their grievances were petty, but John would never have met one away from the Court. Of course, the note might have lied, claiming to be from someone else. He thought it unlikely, though. Few of the tenants could write, and none could write well enough to forge the hand of someone John would trust. Besides, impersonating a friend would require intimate knowledge of John's affairs-information unlikely to come a tenant's way. But a tenant might have taken advantage of finding him out alone.

Unlikely, he decided, recalling die isolation of the ridge. So who were his prime suspects?

Mr. Derwyn lived too far away to be responsible for the attack near the quarry, so he joined the tenants at the bottom of the list.

Sir Tristan was another matter. He was the owner of the estate beyond Brewster's Ridge, the estate reached by that rarely traveled path. The rumors were vague, but the fact that they had carried so far from Sir Tristan's home gave them veracity. So Sir Tristan was a definite suspect.

Walden could both have written and destroyed the note. He was the one man John had met with before his death. If they had argued, John would not have ridden out to meet him, but even a minor incident might have snapped Walden's temper. Or he might have discovered that John meant to turn him off. No evidence supported such a plot, but John may have wanted a more villainous steward.

What about Bridwell? He had a past he wanted to hide. Perhaps John had threatened to expose him or was trying to force him into some new crime. Bridwell could have summoned him on the pretense of accepting his orders.

Or Barnes could have lured him. He might have overheard something incriminating at the inn. And he might have samples of handwriting that would allow him to impersonate one of John's friends. His anger would have been hot when Frederick died, and John's refusal to repair the damage-which bit deeply into Barnes's income-would have kept his temper on the boil for months.

How many of the local gentlemen had John fleeced at cards?

His head ached. He had never thought of himself as naive. He had traveled the world, witnessed the depredations of war, watched easily inflamed Latin pa.s.sions explode into mayhem, ignored the torture and butchery that petty Indian princes inflicted on their enemies. But even knowing John since before birth had not prepared him for finding such evil and pain in his own home.

He slowed his team as he entered the woods. Since the attack, driving here had made him nervous, but this was the shortest route from town. Taking the longer road would add miles to the journey and concede victory to his unseen enemy.

Yet he hated these woods. Eyes alert, he scanned the trees, looking for any hint of movement. He had seen nothing the first time, though the culprit must have been fairly close. The difficulty of throwing that rock between the trees would have jumped drastically with even a small increase in distance.

Every rustle made him flinch. But only birds and squirrels roamed today. Their friendly chatter declared that he was alone.

Miss Hardaway was beginning to accept him. Everyone else in town had been polite, but wary-Barnes, Ruddy, Bridwell, the inn's head groom, the chandler, the confectioner. They did not trust him. It might take years before they welcomed him.

He breathed a sigh of relief as he left the trees behind. But his imagination was far from dead. He could feel eyes boring into his back as he carefully skirted the quarry. Rounding the narrowest corner, he flinched, picturing the long fall he would have taken if Mary had not somehow halted his team. His eyes followed the ribbons and measured the width of the road. How had she done it?

He s.h.i.+vered.

His mind needed a rest. For the remainder of the trip, he considered ways to convince Mary to dance with him at Sir Richard's party.

Pulling up before the Court, he handed the phaeton to a groom and headed for the library. But he had hardly settled into his chair when Forbes appeared in the doorway.

”What is it?”

”Matt asks that you come to the stable, my lord.”

James frowned, but Matt was his own groom, who had been with him for fifteen years, had accompanied him on his travels, and had no connection to Ridgeway.

He was halfway to the stable before he thought of the other possibility. He had only Forbes's word that Matt had requested this meeting. Was Forbes conspiring with whomever had killed John? The butler had seemed less suspicious since receiving Turnby's endors.e.m.e.nt, but it might have been an act.

His eyes darted right and left. A hedge screened the stable yard from the formal gardens. Was someone lurking behind it? Where was the usual bustle? No grooms exercised horses. No stable boys carried used straw to the refuse pile. No coachmen polished the bra.s.s fittings on their conveyances.

Silence thrummed in his ears. Chills crawled up his spine.

Then Matt appeared in the doorway, and the scene returned to normal.

Laughter echoed from beyond the dog run. Peering around a corner, he spotted two stable boys fencing with staves, cheered on by half a dozen grooms. One of the boys tripped, sprawling face first into the mud. Renewed laughter rolled across the yard. The lad's opponent helped him to his feet, then squared off for another round.

Matt touched his arm. ”I thought you should see this,” he said softly, leading him around the other end of the building. He squatted, pointing to the phaeton.

Red mist welled up to blind him. Someone had cut halfway through the rear axle. Another attempt.

” 'Twere fine when you left,” vowed Matt. ”I checked her meself. Don't trust the lads here none.”

”Why?”