“Seen Maria, Archie?”
His manservant raised a supercilious eyebrow. “I beg your pardon, sir?”
“Not my business, eh?” Richard guessed, straightening his sleeves with sharp tugs. “If you don’t want people to know you are seeing Maria, you might want to wear a higher collar,” he said with a grin, and strode to the door, leaving Archie fumbling at his clothing and peering at his reflection in the mirror.
Feeling more like his old self, Richard made his way to Sir Henry’s rooms to make sure all had gone to plan. Will Jackson was outside the door, awaiting Lord Horace Gilfoyle, who was the last of the shooters to be questioned and had inexplicably gone off somewhere.
“Any possibilities yet?”
“Not really. There was one thing. Mr. Branson said something odd, about Sir Henry’s deserving to be brought down a peg or two. If I didn’t know better, I’d almost believe he was glad Sir Henry was shot.”
Richard nodded, thoughtful. “He’s an odd chap. Seems to resent Sir Henry’s occupying the house that used to belong to him. Well, I suppose we can understand it, but why accept an invitation from a man he hates?”
“Unless he wanted to see him ‘brought down a peg or two,’ ” Will quoted.
“Yes, good point. You’d better go find Lord Horace and see what he has to say,” said Richard. “Then we can begin to put it all together.”
“And who did you see nearby when Sir Henry was shot?”
Horace held up his hands and counted on his fingers. “I saw Charles Smythe, John Little, Richard Eversham, Sir Henry of course, and a couple of local chaps he was employing as gamekeepers, whose names escape me. I didn’t see you.” He looked smug.
Will was writing down the names. So far no two witnesses remembered the scene in the same way although there were some consistencies. He sighed and put down his pen. “Thank you, Lord Horace. I think we’re finished here for now.”
After Horace had left, Will looked over the list in front of him. There was one man whose name had been missing from all of the accounts, and now here it was again. Mr. Branson. Lord Horace hadn’t mentioned seeing him, but then he’d made a point of saying Will himself wasn’t there, and Will definitely had been.
Will shuffled back through the statements, looking for Branson’s. Yes, here it was. He glanced over it. Branson claimed to have seen everyone else in the shooting party and, according to him, he’d never been apart from them at any stage.
So why hadn’t they seen him?
The sun was streaming in the window when Tina woke again, to the smell of tea and toast as Maria put a tray down on the side table.
“Oh, Maria, what time is it?”
“It’s eleven o’clock, miss. Most of the ladies are having a late breakfast after the ball last night although Miss Allsop was asking for you.”
“Margaret? Oh Lord, now what? First it was Mr. Little, and now Mr. Freer. Perhaps she’s found a new man.”
Maria ignored her levity. “Lady Isabelle is celebrating Sir Henry’s recovery and is planning an afternoon tea on the terrace.”
“Will Signor Veruda be singing?” Tina asked, remembering the scene she’d been a witness to last night.
“I think Signor Veruda has gone. I saw him with all his bags on the carriageway this morning waiting for his coach.”
So Lady Isabelle had made her choice between love and duty. Duty, was that what marriage was all about?
Richard had spoken of the possibility of marriage last night although he hadn’t actually said the word “marriage.” Secure your future, he’d said, or some such thing. If that is what you want.
Well Tina wasn’t sure she wanted to marry anyone just now. The thought of being at someone else’s beck and call, being obliged to act in a manner that wasn’t to her liking, well, suddenly she didn’t want to do it. She’d escaped Horace—imagine being married to him with all those other women!—and she wasn’t keen to consider stepping up to the altar again. Did that make her improper?
Tina smiled to herself.
She was beginning to like being improper. What was the point in being a perfectly behaved lady when she was poor? Surely the best part of being poor was doing exactly as one pleased. She’d heard that the lower classes lived their lives to a different set of rules than everyone else, and Tina was beginning to think she might enjoy that.
She stretched and yawned. “I must get up and dress. Everyone will think I’m a slugabed.”
“I’m quite sure they all think you’re a well-brought-up young lady, miss, who behaves just as her parents would wish.”
The tone of disapproval was obvious.