Ernestine shifted her gaze to Stacie, then waved a hand before her face and rose. “If you will excuse me, my dears, I believe I need…my smelling salts.”
Stacie smiled understandingly. “Yes, of course.”
As the door closed behind Ernestine, Frederick returned to their review of events. “Actually, that attempt in the park tells us quite a bit about the hired thug’s capabilities. He was about twenty yards away from us, standing still and steady. We were right in front of him, and even though we were moving, we weren’t moving fast, and there was nothing more than a light breeze. Anyone familiar with a pistol should have hit one of us, and if not one of us, then at least one of our horses. That he managed to miss us entirely suggests he’s not used to handling a gun.”
Stacie’s brows rose. “Perhaps that’s why, for his next two attempts, he opted for a knife.”
“Very likely. A thug of that type would be comfortable with knives.”
Stacie drew in a breath that wasn’t entirely steady. “He nearly managed to kill you on the way back from the Broughams.”
Frederick reached across, caught one of her hands, and gently squeezed. “If it hadn’t been for you—then, and again, outside St Martin’s—he might have succeeded.”
Stacie met his eyes. She held his gaze for several seconds, then, as if drawing strength from the contact, filled her lungs and said, “So he came with a gun today.”
Frederick nodded. “He came with a gun, and he came to the music room.”
She frowned. “That could have been a good guess—you are well known to be a pianist. He might have thought the music room would be the best place to look for you.”
“But how did he know where the music room was? In fact, how would a thug of that type know about music rooms at all? Yet he came over the wall in the right spot to approach the music room directly—in fleeing, he would have gone the same way.” Frederick leaned back in the chair, grimly accepting what that meant.
Stacie put it into words. “Our villain knows this house or at least where the music room is.”
“Which narrows the field to all the guests Mama has entertained here over the decades.”
Stacie wrinkled her nose. “And I suppose all the other times, he might simply have been following us.”
Frederick tipped his head in agreement. Still holding her hand, his thumb gently rubbing circles over the soft skin, he let his mind skate back over all they’d said. “Our villain is someone familiar with this house, but has insufficient funds to be able to hire a competent assassin. And while I feel Ernestine’s point—that the attacks commenced after our wedding—is both correct and somehow relevant, I can’t see how it fits.”
When Stacie looked at him, he met her gaze.
After a moment of studying him, she said, “I can’t help but see a parallel between what’s been happening to us and what my mother caused to happen to Mary and Ryder.” He frowned, and she went on, “That was all about the succession—so the pertinent question in this case might also be: Who is your heir?”
His face cleared. “Carlisle, who you’ve met. And with Carlisle, what you see is the genuine man.” He shook his head. “I can’t see him being in any way involved in this—he’s definitely not the bloodthirsty, or even the desperately acquisitive, type.”
Stacie’s eyes narrowed. “Hmm. But it was Rand who was Ryder’s heir, not Mama, and Rand was entirely clueless as to Mama’s plotting.” She refocused on Frederick’s eyes. “What about Aurelia? She wasn’t thrilled over me joining the family—I thought she was thawing at our wedding, but when I spoke to her before we left the wedding breakfast, she was still distinctly chilly.”
Frederick frowned. “She was?”
Stacie nodded decisively, but after a second’s further thought, she grimaced. “Then again, I’ve heard that Aurelia is frequently chilly to everyone, so I’m not sure that counts.”
Frederick forced himself to consider the prospect that the motive behind the attacks was the succession. Eventually, he said, “No matter how I try, no matter what pressure he might be under, I can’t see Carlisle doing anything so mercenary and inherently messy and risky as plotting my demise. He would be much more likely to approach me for help. And as for Aurelia”—he shook his head and met Stacie’s eyes—“while I accept that she has as much to gain as Carlisle by my death, I can’t see her being behind these sorts of attacks, either. Hiring a low-class thug—even through an intermediary—is definitely not Aurelia’s style.”
Stacie humphed. “I doubt she’d even countenance an intermediary who would associate with thugs.”
Frederick grinned and tipped his head. “That’s true.”
A peremptory rap fell on the study door, then it opened and a determined-looking Mary walked in with Ryder, grim-faced, at her heels. They were closely followed by Frederick’s mother and Emily, both looking concerned and, if Frederick was any judge, faintly miffed at not having been summoned sooner.
Ernestine brought up the rear. She shut the door, waited until the others disposed themselves in the various armchairs, then crossed to retake the chair she’d earlier vacated. With a defiant tilt to her chin, she looked at Frederick and Stacie and announced, “This is a time for family to rally around.”
Given the expressions on the faces now turned their way, Frederick accepted that there was no point in arguing. In fact, it probably was time to seek wider counsel. He inclined his head in acquiescence and let his gaze touch each face. “Thank you for coming.”
Mary, who’d looked poised to annihilate any argument he attempted to make, narrowed her eyes on him. “Perhaps you might open our discussions by telling us all of the attacks that, apparently, you and Stacie have been subjected to.”
Frederick exchanged a glance with Stacie and, at her encouraging nod, proceeded to outline all the incidents and included their thoughts on what each suggested about their assailant and who had hired him.
While listening to their observations regarding the thug, and what that might mean, Ryder nodded several times.