“I do not know what the characterization of his death is…unless you know.” Max paused for a moment, giving the investigator an opportunity to add something. But the man was doing the same thing he was—gathering information. Nizal said nothing, so Max continued, “Harlow indicated that they believe Tipton’s death a crime of opportunity.” He poured ample brandy into each of the three glasses. He handed glasses to Nizal and Harlow. Picking up his, Max took a sip and swallowed, then set the glass in front of himself. “Any suspects? What are your thoughts?”
The stocky man sat back in his chair and laid the pad in his lap. “They suspect murder, my lord. And while the evidence does not wholly support it, Viscount Winters is making noises that his niece has run from the crime and is offering a reward for her return.”
“I found her nearly beyond help in the rain with only her dog to warm her a few days past. I am sure Harlow has apprised you of the details.”
“Yes, he has. She is in danger until we can find the man that did this. It was a man or a very large woman. Lord Tipton was not an easy target,” Nizal returned.
“Have you heard of a man named Nash Slade?” Max felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand at his own mention of the name. It made no sense. Slade had left Meg alone and did not take her the night he found her. Yet she had just seen him here on this property. He needed to protect her. And, he reminded himself, he needed to protect his heart. She was not his.
“Yes. I know of the man of whom you speak. He is dangerous—usually a hired hand, if you take my meaning.” The three men nodded in quick acknowledgement. “Perhaps you could tell me what you know of him.”
Max recounted all Meg had told him. Slade had been plundering her father’s home, then left, only to reappear on Max’s property.
“Slade is here only because he feels Lady Tipton has or knows something important to him. We need to protect her.” He looked at Harlow. “Lord Harlow asked me to engage several of my best men, which I have done. They should be here shortly. My strategy is to protect the house. We should flush out Mr. Slade,” he paused, “but only after I have a better idea of what concerns him in this. Can I meet with Lady Tipton?”
Max felt his body tense each time Nizal referred to Meg as Lady Tipton. It was as Harlow had said. Meg was being setup—perhaps being made to be a suspect in her husband’s death. He was sure she was innocent. But why would Winters do this to his own niece? He took a deep breath to relax himself. “Yes. But perhaps lunch tomorrow would be better.”
The investigator bobbed his head in agreement.
“My mother is upstairs with her now. I will let her know you wish to meet with them during the lunch meal. Gentlemen let us adjourn to dinner and continue the fact-finding tomorrow. Cook reports she is trying out some new recipes. She has promised soup for those who are cautious, but everything she makes is good.” He smiled. “I trust that you are hungry.”
“Yes, yes. The brisk weather and ride here worked up an appetite.” Nizal leaned back, expanding his visible girth against the chair.
“I will meet you both in the dining room shortly.” He got up and left the room, fighting the impulse to take the stairs to Meg’s suite two at a time. His brain told him to put distance between himself and Maggie, but his heart reminded him that she was near. He wanted to hold her again but stopped himself at the base of the stairs and grabbed his coat. A few minutes of the chilled air and an opportunity to think might help him gain perspective on where life was taking him.
Chapter 7
The lack of sunshine cast a dull look to the new day’s winter scenery outside. It looked dismal, which was close to how she felt. Maggie had been dressed for a while but lingered in her room, unsure she wanted to eat the noon meal with the family. She had had a fitful night and was uncertain she was ready to face a repeat of the obvious questions from the investigator and others. For the first time in days, she felt presentable. Lady Worsley had gotten the local seamstress to alter some gowns in the shop using Angela’s measurements. Amazingly, Angela was almost identical in size.
She sat on the window seat and gazed out at the gloomy afternoon. The copse of trees that had been to Slade’s back the day before still held frost on their branches and seemed almost magical—a sharp contrast to the terrifying feeling that had washed over her when she sighted him watching. A cold front was approaching. Mrs. Andrews had commented that she smelled snow. She was probably right, since the sun could not sufficiently dry up the foggy frost covering that heralded the morning. Her mother had had an uncanny knack for forecasting the weather. Maggie could not recall a time when her mother had not been right. She leaned back against the wall. The familiar smell of winter in the air beckoned her back to a time when her parents were alive, and all seemed right with the world.
It was just before her parents were leaving to shop for presents and other holiday fripperies in town. Mother was picking up their holiday dresses. Almost a foot of snow covered the ground and all its appointments from the night before. The day before them was crisp, bright, and snow-covered. Snow and icicles covered the trees, and the fountain outside the window of her father’s study stood frozen with solid sprays of glistening
