“The ones swimming in chicken broth and slivered almonds?” Axel passed him the bowl. “Noticed yours disappeared in record time, and you aren’t even setting a good example for Day and Phillip.”
“He needs a hothouse.” Abby smiled at her guest as he dug into his vegetables. “I’m sure you have some plans around for something modest, don’t you, Axel?”
“I have plans.” Axel grinned at his wife. “Modest, immodest, and everything in between.”
Abby rolled her eyes at Ellen. “See what I put up with? Let’s leave these reprobates to discuss the state of the realm, Ellen, and take our dessert on the terrace.”
“Splendid notion.” Ellen rose, bringing the men to their feet, as well.
“Abandoned.” Axel sighed. “Well, let them eat cake.”
“The last person reported to say that lost her head rather violently,” Val pointed out.
“I’ve quite lost my head, as well.” Axel leered at his wife’s retreating figure.
Val rolled his eyes. “Open a window. I need some air.” Or perhaps he just needed some privacy with Ellen.
For reasons of his own, Darius Lindsey had made an agreement with himself that he could spend the summer, riding Val Windham’s coattails, hiding here in the wilds of Oxfordshire. He expected there would be an element of penance about the whole thing, even if there was also a much greater element of benefit to him.
To his surprise and chagrin, he was enjoying himself immensely. In some ways, it was turning out to be the most pleasurable summer of his adult life. He swung out of his hammock and stretched slowly, seeing Val’s army of workmen and cleaning ladies were knocking off for luncheon.
No. It was Saturday, so they’d be heading home for the day no later than one of the clock, leaving the premises unoccupied.
By the time Darius had demolished a serving of raspberry pancakes with butter and preserves—Val had taught him how to prepare this meal earlier in the week—each and every laborer had departed for home. The afternoon stretched, perfect for lazing by the pond with a book and dozing in the wonderful silence of a hot summer day.
God bless Axel Belmont, Darius thought as he gathered towels, soap, clean linen, shaving kit, and a jug of cold mint tea.
“Hullo, the house!”
Well, hell. Darius stepped from the springhouse and spied a man on a handsome chestnut gelding. The rider was blond, blue-eyed, sat his horse like he knew what he was about, and wore the kind of ensemble that was comfortable because of its exquisite tailoring and fine fabric.
“Greetings,” Darius answered evenly, towel over his shoulder, shaving kit in his hand. “Darius Lindsey. Welcome to Mr. Windham’s property. And you might be?”
“Just in time for a swim, it appears. Or a bath.” The man swung down uninvited and extended a hand. “Sir Dewey Fanning, at your service, Mr. Lindsey. I believe Mr. Windham might be expecting me. We discussed a call when we met at market on Wednesday.”
“He mentioned it,” Darius said, taking his guest’s hand briefly. “And my swim can wait. Val said you’re serving as magistrate?”
“I have that honor.” They stabled Sir Dewey’s horse and were shortly up the ladder. “So from whence fell your stones?”
Darius showed him around then obliged further inquiries by giving Sir Dewey a tour of the house.
“Francis would be pleased,” Sir Dewey remarked as they reached the kitchen. The counters were being redesigned to accommodate a huge cookstove that sat squat and black in the middle of the room. Glass fronts had already been installed on the upper cabinets, and a new pump graced one end of a long, glazed porcelain sink.
“You knew the late baron?”
“In little more than passing,” Sir Dewey said, running a hand over the smooth surface of the sink. “He’d approve of the restoration of the place and would never have let it get to this state, much less let the farms be mismanaged.”
“Val will set it to rights.” Darius watched as Sir Dewey frowned at the tile floors. They might be replaced once the heavier work was done. For now, sawdust, wood shavings, and the occasional screw or nail littered the floor.
“Are your crews in the habit of working in bare feet?” Sir Dewey asked, squatting by a door leading to the cellars.
“Assuredly not. One rusty nail in the foot and a man’s life might be over.”
“Then you’d better have a look at this,” Sir Dewey muttered. “It’s not good. Not good at all.”
Sir Dewey Fanning presented himself at Candlewick just as Abby Belmont was preparing to preside over tea with her guests. Ellen had disappeared abovestairs, leaving Val with such a sense of untethered restlessness he was almost grateful for Sir Dewey’s arrival.
Until he heard the man explain that he and Darius had found two bonfires laid in Val’s manor house, one in the attics, one in the basement, both surrounded by the dusty imprints of small bare feet, and both with a can of lamp oil tidily stowed nearby.
“So what do you make of it?” St. Just asked the magistrate. “Is somebody recruiting children to do this mischief, or are we dealing with children wandering the property in addition to arsonists and would-be murderers?”
“Hard to say,” Sir Dewey replied. “Belmont, any insights?”
“God above.” Axel ran a hand over his hair. “My only suggestion is that we adjourn to the library and switch to something besides tea. It seems to me the situation is complicated with neither motive nor suspect very clear.”
“The motive,” Val reflected when Axel had put a drink in his hand, “seems to be to discourage me from my project, at least.”
“If not to discourage you all the way to the Pearly Gates,” St. Just groused.
“Probably not quite.” Val took a considering sip of his drink. “As Sir Dewey has pointed out, the fires were laid but not set. The slates that fell from the roof didn’t hit a single person, and the likelihood they’d actually strike me wasn’t great.”
“Could children have loosened those tiles?” Axel asked.
Sir Dewey nodded. “Half-grown boys could easily with the right tools. They could have piled up those scraps of lumber, sneaked about of a night or a Sunday afternoon, and because they frequent your pond, Mr. Windham, nobody would think a thing about it did they see a pack of boys heading up your lane or across your fields.”
“I can’t help but wonder”—Val’s gaze met his brother’s—“if whoever doesn’t want me to proceed also discouraged Ellen FitzEngle from maintaining the place.”
St. Just scowled at his drink. “Interesting point. Why don’t we just get the lady down here and ask her a few very direct questions?”
“Because she’s a suspect,” Sir Dewey said, his voice damnably gentle while his blue eyes pinned Val with piercing clarity. “Isn’t she?”
“Ellen?” Val blew out a breath, trying to balance his heart’s leanings with the facts. “In my opinion, no. She has neither this kind of meanness in her, nor would she hurt others.”
“But using your head?” Axel prompted when no one else spoke up. “What does logic tell you?”
“Logic?” Val pursed his lips, studied his drink, and looked anywhere but at his brother.
St. Just spoke up in the ensuing silence. “Logic says she has a life estate on the property that she neither disclosed nor took care of. Logic says she’s hiding something; logic says if she hasn’t taken an interest in the house so far, what does she care if it burns to the ground or if renovations stop well before they’re completed?”
“That doesn’t tell us her motive,” Sir Dewey pointed out. “It tells us questioning her directly would likely be of little use.”
“So question her indirectly,” St. Just shot back. “Snoop about, get the solicitors talking, and circle around behind her fortifications; exonerate her or see her charged.”
“It seems to me,” Val said, “we’ve convicted the lady of serious crimes without identifying either her motive or her opportunity. She’s been with Day and Phil for most of each day except for when she’s been with me here. She
