She looked at Tristan, expecting to see some degree of apology. Instead, he met her gaze with a steady, assured—confident—expression. She took due note of that last, inclined her head. “Good morning.”
The “my lord” stuck in her throat. She would not soon forget his notion of an appropriate finale to their reconciliation the previous evening. Later, he’d dressed her, then carried her out to the carriage, overridden her by then thoroughly weak protest, and accompanied her to Montrose Place, leaving her in the tiny parlor of Number 12 while he collected Henrietta, then escorting them both to her front door.
Suavely, he took her hand, raised it briefly to his lips, then held her chair for her. “I trust you slept well?”
She glanced at him as he resumed his seat beside her. “Like one dead.”
His lips twitched, but he merely inclined his head.
“We’ve been telling Tristan here that Cedric’s journals do not, at first glance, fall into any of the customary patterns.” Humphrey paused to eat a mouthful of egg.
Jeremy took up the tale. “They’re not organized by subject, which is most usual with such things, and as you’d found”—he dipped his head to Leonora—“the entries are not in any type of chronological order.”
“Hmm.” Humphrey chewed, then swallowed. “There has to be some key, but it’s perfectly possible Cedric kept it in his head.”
Tristan frowned. “Does that mean you won’t be able to make sense of the journals?”
“No,” Jeremy answered. “It just means it’ll take us rather longer.” He glanced at Leonora. “I vaguely recall you mentioned letters?”
She nodded. “There are lots. I’ve only looked at the ones in the past year.”
“You’d better give them to us,” Humphrey said. “All of them. In fact, any scrap of paper of Cedric’s you can find.”
“Scientists,” Jeremy put in, “especially herbalists, are renowned for writing vital information on scraps of whatever comes to hand.”
Leonora grimaced. “I’ll have the maids gather up everything from the workshop. I’ve been meaning to search Cedric’s bedchamber—I’ll do that today.”
Tristan glanced at her. “I’ll help you.”
She turned her head to check his expression to see what he really intended—
The hysterical wails came from a distance. They all heard them. The cries continued clearly for an instant, then were muted—by the green baize door, they all realized, when a footman, startled and pale, skidded to a halt in the parlor doorway. “Mr. Castor! You got to come quick!”
Castor, a serving dish in his ancient hands, goggled at him.
Humphrey stared. “What the devil’s the matter, man?”
The footman, completely shaken out of his habitual aplomb, bowed and bobbed to those around the table. “It’s Daisy, sir. M’lord. From next door.” He fixed on Tristan, who was rising to his feet. “She’s just rushed in wailing and carrying on. Seems Miss Timmins has fallen down the stairs and…well, Daisy says as she’s dead, m’lord.”
Tristan tossed his napkin on the table and stepped around his chair.
Leonora rose at his shoulder. “Where is Daisy, Smithers? In the kitchen?”
“Yes, miss. She’s taking on something terrible.”
“I’ll come and see her.” Leonora swept out into the hall, conscious of Tristan following at her heels. She glanced back at him, took in his grim expression, met his eyes. “Will you go next door?”
“In a minute.” His hand touched her back, a curiously comforting gesture. “I want to hear what Daisy has to say first. She’s no fool—if she says Miss Timmins is dead, then she probably is. She won’t be going anywhere.”
Leonora inwardly grimaced and pushed through the door into the corridor leading to the kitchen. Tristan, she reminded herself, was much more accustomed to dealing with death than she was. Not a nice thought, but in the circumstances it held a certain comfort.
“Oh, miss! Oh,
“Now, Daisy.” Leonora reached for one of the kitchen chairs; Tristan anticipated her, lifting it and setting it for her to sit facing Daisy. Leonora sat, felt Tristan lean his hands on the chair’s back. “What you must do now, Daisy—what would be most help to Miss Timmins now—is to compose yourself—just take deep breaths, there’s a good girl—and tell us—his-lordship-the-earl and me—what happened.”
Daisy nodded, dutifully gulped in air, then blurted out, “Everything started out normal this morning. I came down from my room by the back stairs, riddled the grate and got the kitchen fire going, then got Miss Timmins’s tray ready. Then I went to take it up to her…” Daisy’s huge eyes clouded with tears. “Swept through the door I did, as usual, and plonked the tray on the hall table to tidy my hair and straighten up before I went up—and there she was.”
Daisy’s voice quavered and broke. Tears gushed, she mopped them furiously. “She was lying there—at the bottom of the stairs—like a little broken bird. I rush over, o’course, and checked, but there was no point. She was gone.”
For a moment, no one said anything; they’d all known Miss Timmins.
“Did you touch her?” Tristan asked, his tone quiet, almost soothing.
Daisy nodded. “Aye—I patted her hand, and her cheek.”
“Her cheek—was it cold? Do you remember?”
Daisy looked up at him, frowning as she thought. Then she nodded. “Aye, you’re right. Her cheek was cold. Didn’t think anything of her hands—they always were cold. But her cheek…yeah, it was cold.” She blinked at Tristan. “Does that mean she’d been dead for a while?”
Tristan straightened. “It means it’s likely she died some hours ago. Sometime in the night.” He hesitated, then asked, “Did she ever wander at night? Do you know?”
Daisy shook her head. She’d stopped crying. “Not that I ever knew. She never mentioned such a thing.”
Tristan nodded, stepped back. “We’ll take care of Miss Timmins.”
His gaze included Leonora. She stood, too, but glanced back at Daisy. “You’d best stay here. Not just for today, but tonight, too.” She saw Neeps, her uncle’s valet, hovering, concerned. “Neeps, you can help Daisy get her things after luncheon.”
The man bowed. “Indeed, miss.”
Tristan waved Leonora before him; she led him out of the kitchen. In the front hall they found Jeremy waiting.
He looked distinctly pale. “Is it true?”
“It must be, I’m afraid.” Leonora went to the hall stand and lifted down her cloak. Tristan had followed her; he took it from her hands.
He held it, and looked down at her. “I don’t suppose I can convince you to wait with your uncle in the library?”
She met his gaze. “No.”
He sighed. “I thought not.” He draped the cloak about her shoulders, then reached around her to open the front door.
“I’m coming, too.” Jeremy followed them out onto the porch, then down the winding path.
They reached the front door of Number 16; Daisy had left it on the latch. Pushing the door wide, they entered.
The scene was exactly as Leonora had imagined it from Daisy’s words. Unlike their house with its wide front hall with the stairs at the rear facing the front door, here, the hall was narrow and the head of the stairs was above the door; the foot of the stairs was at the rear of the hall.
That was where Miss Timmins lay, crumpled like a rag doll. Just as Daisy had said, there seemed little doubt life had left her, but Leonora went forward. Tristan had halted ahead of her, blocking the hall; she put her hands on his back and gently pushed; after an instant’s hesitation, he moved aside and let her through.
Leonora crouched by Miss Timmins. She was wearing a thick cotton nightgown with a lacy wrapper clutched around her shoulders. Her limbs were twisted awkwardly, but decently covered; a pair of pink slippers were on her narrow feet.
Her lids were closed, the fading blue eyes shut away. Leonora brushed back the thin white curls, noted the
