Mortal Arts (A Lady Darby Mystery) (2 page)

CHAPTER TWO

T
rue to Philip’s word, a few hours later we stopped at an inn on the outskirts of Linlithgow and piled out of the carriages and into the private parlor he had procured for us. Typical of a roadside tavern, the furniture was shabby and worn, but its cleanliness and sturdy construction were a testament to the innkeeper’s pride in his establishment. The ruddy man grinned cheerily as he ushered us into the room before bending over the enormous rough stone fireplace to add more wood to the flames.

By the time the meal was delivered and the children settled, Alana’s illness had subsided enough to allow her to eat. Philip spread butter across a slice of fresh-baked bread while I piled small amounts of string beans and apple compote on her plate. By unspoken agreement, we all knew the slices of mutton in rich gravy would be too much for Alana’s tremulous stomach.

Trying to ignore my sister’s strained expression as she nibbled at her bread, I sliced into my meat and turned to Philip. “Did you speak with that rider who passed us a few miles back?” An approaching horse’s canter had slowed to a trot as it came upon our carriage and when I peered through the window, it was to see Philip’s steed dropping back.

He made a grunt of remembrance and set aside his knife to reach into the pocket inside his navy blue frock coat. Swallowing the bite of food in his mouth, he unfolded the letter. “It was a messenger sent by my aunt Jane. You remember Lady Hollingsworth?”

I nodded. She had attended Alana’s house party at Gairloch Castle a few months back, along with two of her children. I had grown quite fond of Philip’s cousins, but chosen largely to avoid his aunt, a rather formidable matron who felt no qualms about making known her disapproval of me. To the Dowager Marchioness of Hollingsworth, society and decorum were everything, and I was considered far too disreputable.

My sister was also not particularly fond of her husband’s aunt, though, for the sake of familial harmony, she tried to keep her disparaging thoughts to herself. Unfortunately the aversion was mutual, and Lady Hollingsworth was not so circumspect. Alana and I shared a look of wariness.

Philip continued on, either oblivious to or choosing to ignore our unspoken exchange. “It appears my cousin Caroline is engaged.”

Alana looked up at her husband in surprise, a welcome flush of color entering her cheeks. “Oh, but that’s wonderful. Do we know the groom?”

“We do.” Philip smiled. “It’s none other than our Mr. Dalmay.”

I leaned forward. “
Michael
Dalmay?”

“One and the same.”

“I didn’t know Caroline and Michael were acquainted.”

“Apparently so.”

Alana forked a bite of her beans. “Now I understand why he expressed so much regret about not being able to attend our house party in August. He must have been courting Caroline even then.” She paused, her head tilted in thought. “I wonder why your aunt never mentioned the possibility of such a match.”

I was thinking much the same thing. I would have thought Lady Hollingsworth would have considered a possible alliance with the wealthy and well-connected Dalmays something to crow over.

Alana’s eyes dropped to the note in her husband’s hands. “So she went to the great trouble of sending a messenger to find us on the road to Edinburgh just so that she could share such news?”

His smile faded and he glanced back at the missive. “I’m afraid not. It appears there is some kind of unforeseen problem with Caroline’s betrothal.”

Alana and I shared another speaking glance.

“What kind of problem?” I queried.

His brow furrowed. “She doesn’t say. But she pleads with me to join her at Dalmay House immediately.”

“She doesn’t say anything more?” Alana leaned forward to see the letter Philip held.

He tilted it so that she could read it. “I’m afraid not.” He sighed. “Aunt Jane is never one to elaborate when she thinks demands and histrionics will get her way.”

“But surely she would give you some clue as to the source of the trouble,” I pressed. Lady Hollingsworth was a woman used to having her every request met with the bare minimum of effort on her part, but I would have expected her to treat her nephew with more consideration.

Philip’s face tightened, likely entertaining a similar thought. “Not even a hint.”

Alana glanced up from her perusal of the letter. “Do you think it has something to do with Michael?” she asked, doubt stretching her voice.

He seemed almost appalled by the suggestion. “Surely not. I may not have seen much of him in the past two years, but I doubt the man has changed so much in that time.” He contemplated the matter for a moment and then shook his head. “No. I can’t believe there is anything objectionable to be discovered about Michael Dalmay.”

I had to agree with him. Michael had been one of Philip’s closest friends since attending Cambridge, but Alana and I had known him even longer. We had grown up with Michael and his siblings, running through the forests and meadows of the Borders region, and rowing our boats back and forth across the River Tweed. The meandering river was all that divided our families’ properties, much as it divided Scotland from England. Blakelaw House, my childhood home, was located just outside of Elwick, England, while Swinton Lodge stood across the river in Scotland.

The Dalmay family’s residence at Swinton Lodge was only supposed to be temporary, while the new manor Michael’s father had commissioned to be built on the Dalmay estate to replace their old, drafty castle could be completed. However, numerous delays had dragged the project out longer than expected, and it wasn’t until late 1817 that the majority of the family had decamped to Dalmay House along the Firth of Forth, north of Edinburgh.

It had been many years since I had seen Michael Dalmay, but, knowing the young man he had been, I had a difficult time believing Lady Hollingsworth could find any great fault with him.

“What could it be?” Alana asked, biting her lip. “Surely it can’t be anything with the marriage contracts. There wouldn’t have been time to draw them up. And, in any case, such matters would be conducted between Michael and the head of the family, her eldest son, the current Lord Hollingsworth, not Aunt Jane herself.”

Philip shook his head. “No. It can’t be that.”

We ate in silence, each of us lost in our own thoughts.

“Do you think it has to do with the title?” Alana suggested.

He glanced up at her from his contemplation of his mutton. Her eyebrows arched, urging him to consider the matter. “Possibly,” he hedged, and then sighed. “Likely.”

“What do you mean?” My gaze darted back and forth between them. “What title?”

“The barony of Dalmay,” Philip replied.

“What about it?” I asked.

Philip and Alana both stared at me as if I was the one who wasn’t making any sense. “Aunt Jane is probably pushing Michael to petition the Court of Chancery to have his brother declared dead so that the title can be legally passed on to him,” he explained.

I was stunned. “He hasn’t already done so? But William . . .” I felt an odd pang in my heart at speaking his name after so much time. “He’s been missing for, well . . . it must be nearly a decade now.”

“Aye. And Michael’s been urged to do so since his older brother’s disappearance passed the seven-year mark. But Michael refuses. Or, at least, he still was very much against it the last time I spoke to him.” He stabbed his fork into his pile of string beans and twirled it around. “He insists that William is alive, and he won’t rob him of his inheritance.”

I stared morosely down at my own plate, wondering if I would do the same should my brother or sister go missing. How did one accept a loved one’s death without proof of it, or at the very least, word of where, when, and how it had happened?

“He’s acting in his brother’s stead.”

Philip nodded. “Yes, but that’s not the same as his holding the title outright.”

“And Lady Hollingsworth would certainly see the difference,” Alana pointed out with a wry twist to her lips. “I can’t imagine her being happy with such a circumstance when her daughter could be made a baroness instead.”

Neither of us argued with such an assertion, for we both knew it to be true. Lady Hollingsworth was nothing if not calculating. She had likely agreed to the betrothal thinking she could convince her future son-in-law to petition for the title, and now that he was proving difficult she wanted assistance from Philip in doing so. The dowager did not know her nephew very well if she thought he would simply bend to her demands. Philip would speak to Michael about it, but he would never threaten or force his friend to do such a thing.

Philip frowned and sat back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “Aunt Jane is placing me in a difficult position. I do not want to show up at Dalmay House uninvited, no matter my aunt’s assurances of our welcome, but I also cannot justify ignoring her summons. Not when her oldest son, James, has only recently seen the birth of his son and heir. I would hate to see him called away from his wife and child at such a time, and I know Aunt Jane will send for him if I do not rush to her aid.”

“What do you wish to do?” Alana asked.

He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck, staring down the table at his chattering children. “I hate to make such a detour with your stomach giving you so much trouble. Your health . . .” his gaze dropped to her still nearly flat abdomen “. . . and that of the babe, is more important than whatever catastrophe my aunt has imagined.”

She rested a hand on his arm. “Yes, but Dalmay House is on the road to Edinburgh, is it not?”

“Yes,” he admitted somewhat reluctantly.

“Then a stop there will not take us much out of the way.” She smiled in reassurance. “My health can handle a slight detour. In fact, it might do me some good to stand on solid ground for longer than a twelve-hour span. Once this matter is resolved, we’ll continue the two or three hours to Edinburgh.”

Philip’s gaze softened at his wife’s valiant display of unconcern. My brother-in-law and I both knew this stopover was no small matter. Being ill in one’s own home was one thing, but being forced to endure a queasy stomach in unfamiliar surroundings was quite different. We were both eager to see Alana settled in Edinburgh and replace the weight she had lost on the journey.

He reached out to take hold of the hand she had placed on his arm and lifted it to his lips. “Thank you, my dear. I promise we shall not stay longer than necessary.”

I dropped my gaze to my plate, trying to squash the uncomfortable surge of jealousy I felt flooding me—a sensation that had been happening more and more often of late. In the past their displays of affection had always warmed me, but now they left me feeling itchy, anxious. I knew they were not the ones to blame. I was the one who had changed. Somehow in the short space of a few months my life had begun to chafe. Where once I had felt comfortable and content in my exile, I now felt frustrated and alone.

I welcomed the move to Edinburgh if for nothing else but the change of scenery and the opportunity for new company. I loved my sister and her family, but their constant companionship had recently begun to pall. That the annoyance had been sufficient enough to motivate
me
to seek other associations should be indicative of the severity of the situation. I, who hated society and its insipid conversations, who despised petty gossip, was willing to venture out among the lions simply to indulge in a bit of idle talk with someone other than a family member.

So to hear that we would be stopping at Dalmay House where I might speak with old friends, who were far less likely to judge me or flay me with their barbed tongues, should have made me quite pleased. After all, Michael Dalmay and his sister, and even Philip’s cousins, were sure to be excellent company, regardless of the problem with Michael and Caroline’s betrothal. However, I felt a surprising amount of distress at the postponement of our arrival in Edinburgh.

It wasn’t difficult to understand why. Despite my mixed emotions concerning the man, and my fervent denials—even to myself—that I did not care for him, I evidently had been looking forward to seeing Gage. I reminded myself that it was ridiculous to think he would leave the city in just the two or three days we would spend at Dalmay House, if, in fact, he was even still residing in the Scottish capital, but my taut nerves would not be persuaded.

I sighed, resigned to our detour. I wasn’t about to argue with Philip and my sister about the necessity of stopping at Dalmay House, not when they were certain to see through my excuses to the truth of the matter. Besides, it seemed a bit heartless to ignore Caroline’s plight, though I could have cared less for her mother’s distress. And I did want to see Michael Dalmay again.

So I did not give voice to my disappointment when, upon suddenly recalling my presence, Alana turned to ask me, “Is that all right, Kiera?”

“Of course,” I replied with forced indifference, not that my opinion mattered anyway. “I’m in no rush. And, in any case, it will be lovely to see the Dalmays again.”

Alana smiled. “Yes, it will.”

CHAPTER THREE

“O
h, my,” I gasped as I leaned forward to peer out the window as the carriage emerged from the shelter of trees onto a circular drive. “It’s rather . . .” Words failed me.

“Sprawling? Ostentatious?” Philip supplied wryly, joining me at the window. Following luncheon, he had elected to join us in the carriage, allowing his horse to be led along behind the coach. He laid his hand against his wife’s head, careful not to jostle it where it lay on his lap. “Yes. The old Lord Dalmay never did anything by halves.”

I felt that might be the understatement of the century.

Perched on the crest of a small rise, Dalmay House dominated the landscape. The rambling Gothic manor, with its ornamental Coade stone chimneys and highly decorated crenellations, was so sharp and delineated as to be almost aggressive, like a warrior attired in a full suit of armor and ready for battle. No plants or flowering bushes softened the harsh lines of the south front or lightened the color of the stalwart gray stone. Even the chimneys, beautiful as they were, seemed to stab forcefully toward the heavens like daggers and pikes.

As we rounded the drive, the manor’s numerous wide, mullioned windows glistened in the late afternoon sunlight, blinding me. I turned to the east to see that the lawn, which was a brilliant green next to the drab stone, stretched down toward the dark water of the Firth of Forth, whose choppy waves eventually spilled out into the North Sea. Ancient forests stood sentinel on either side in golden autumn finery, as if guarding the processional route from the house to the sea.

“It’s quite something, isn’t it?” Philip said on an exhale.

I nodded.

The carriage pulled to a halt and within moments the dark double doors were thrown open to reveal a coterie of blue-and-gold-clad footmen. While Philip helped Alana to sit up and straighten her appearance, I allowed one of the waiting footmen to assist me out of the coach onto the gravel drive. I couldn’t stop my gaze from traveling upward. From this angle, the glittering façade was even more imposing.

“Oh, my,” my sister exclaimed in an unconscious imitation of my earlier reaction as she stepped out of the carriage beside me. I turned to see that her chestnut hair and Prussian blue traveling costume were restored to order. But for a few wrinkles in her skirts and the paleness of her complexion, one would never have known she had fallen ill again after luncheon. My appearance was all the more shabby for the stark comparison, in an old russet brown dress with tendrils of hair escaping their pins to trail down my back, per usual. Even had Alana not soiled my two best traveling ensembles, I still would have appeared a bedraggled mess next to her. It was not that I was unkempt; I simply could not be bothered to notice or care that my hair was mussed or my gown wrinkled, until it was too late to alter the opinions of the people scowling at me. As was the case now.

An expression of disdain flickered briefly in the Dalmay butler’s eyes as he stared down his rather hawkish nose at me before he ushered us into the entryway. Ignoring the servant’s condescension, I handed him my cloak, bonnet, and gloves and moved toward the stone archway leading into the entry hall.

My eyes widened in appreciation. The soaring two-story chamber was topped with a decorative hammer-beam ceiling, and its walls were covered in portraits of the Dalmay family’s many noble ancestors. Such artwork was a feast for my eyes, and I planned to spend many an hour over the next few days devouring their canvases, dissecting the pieces to discover just how the various artists had achieved their effects. It had been quite some time since I had been given the opportunity to study another’s artwork—I had long ago exhausted the paintings at Gairloch Castle of their educational value—and I felt a thrill at the chance to do so now.

Philip and Alana joined me in my examination of the beautiful chamber. Black-and-white tiles covered the floor, leading to the creamy marble of the staircase and the red runner trailing up the center of each riser. The stair rail was molded in black rod iron and topped with warm oak. The furniture positioned in the room had appropriately been kept to a minimum. Two red wingback chairs and a round table topped with a floral arrangement of fragrant asters and bellflowers were all that occupied the space.

As we stood absorbing our surroundings, a man rushed in to greet us through a door on the left, his footfalls echoing off the walls of the cavernous chamber. A wide, boyish grin flashed across his face, summoning an answering smile to my own.

“Cromarty, I’m so glad you could join us,” Michael Dalmay exclaimed.

“Glad you could accommodate us,” Philip responded, clasping his proffered hand.

A subtle undercurrent of tension tightened Michael’s shoulders, as if in the excitement of seeing us he had forgotten our real reason for being there. “But of course. You’re always welcome,” he demurred. His eyes still warm and bright, he turned to bow over my sister’s hand. “Lady Cromarty, how lovely it is to see you.”

“Thank you,” she replied with obvious pleasure. “But when did we become so formal? Alana, if you please. After all, were you not the young man who took a pair of scissors to one of my braids?”

I laughed, having forgotten about that particular incident.

Michael’s gaze flicked toward me, his soft gray eyes dancing with mirth. “Aye. And I discovered I wasn’t too old for my father to take a switch to me. I couldn’t sit for nearly a week.”

“Well, it was no more than you deserved,” Alana proclaimed with mock indignation. “My other braid had to be lopped off at the shoulder to even it out. I was mistaken for a boy for almost half a year.”

“Oh, Alana, you could never have been mistaken for a boy. Even at the age of nine.”

She blushed becomingly, giving her wan cheeks a welcome wash of color.

“And it taught you an important lesson.” He leaned toward her. “Young ladies should never spy from haylofts upon adolescent boys. Not if they don’t want an eyeful.”

“And an earful,” Alana added with a teasing arch to her brow.

This time it was Michael’s turn to blush. Nearly all of the tension that had tightened his frame moments earlier was gone, and I was grateful to Alana for putting him at ease, whether it had been her intention or not.

He turned to take my hand, flashing me the same dimpled grin I remembered from childhood. Even at eight years my senior, Michael had never acted too old or important to pay attention to a quiet little girl. Nor too mature to tweak my nose when I was ignoring him in favor of my sketchbook. “Lady Darby. Kiera,” he corrected, likely hoping I wouldn’t also dredge up some embarrassing story about our shared past. “You are looking very well. The Highlands must agree with you.”

“They do. Though I cannot say I will miss their cold and darkness this winter.”

His grin widened in agreement. “Still painting, I hear.”

“I am,” I answered in some surprise.

“Caroline has spoken of little else in the past few hours,” he replied by way of explanation, though it only served to perplex me further. But before I could ask for clarification a loud commotion called our attention to the entryway. “Ah, the children,” our host exclaimed.

The next few moments were occupied in assisting the rather frazzled-looking nanny in wrangling the children. They were all introduced to Michael and then herded up the stairs toward the nursery. “Laura’s babe is also there. I imagine the little scrapper will enjoy the company,” Michael told us.

“Oh, yes. I had forgotten your sister welcomed her first child but a year ago,” Alana said. “What is the lad’s name again?”

“Nicolas. And what a charmer he is. You’ll see.” His eyes shone with genuine affection for his little nephew. “Now, I imagine you would like to rest and refresh yourselves after your journey. We normally dine at six o’clock,” he declared, opening his pocket watch and then snapping it shut again. “I would be happy to ask Mrs. MacDougall to postpone it another half hour if you would like to join us. Or I can have trays brought to your rooms.” The last was directed at Alana with some measure of sympathy. The man had not missed the signs of her recent illness.

“Oh, we don’t wish to be an imposition,” Alana began.

“No imposition,” he declared, interrupting her. He reached out to take her hand between his own again. “I’m simply glad you are all here.” He smiled warmly in turn at each of us, but I thought I detected some measure of sorrow in his eyes. The somber emotion confused me. The tautness that had returned to his frame I could understand, as he undoubtedly knew why his future mother-in-law had sent for us, but sadness seemed oddly out of place. Unless he worried Philip would advise his aunt to end Michael and Caroline’s engagement, or be unable to convince her not to. But what could Michael have done to warrant such a drastic measure?

In the next moment, he blinked and the sheen of grief was washed away, making me wonder whether I had seen it there at all. “What shall it be?” he asked Alana.

My sister glanced at her husband, who gazed down at her, waiting for her to make the decision. “We will dine with you,” she said with a smile.

“Excellent. Then, if you’ll follow me.” Michael offered me his arm and guided us toward the stairs, allowing Philip and Alana to fall into step behind us.

Catching my gaze on the portraits hanging above, he patted my hand where it rested on his arm. “Still painting mostly portraits?”

“Yes.” I waved my arm at the array of artwork decorating the chamber. “This is quite a collection.”

He nodded. “Aye. The whole host of Dalmay ancestors since the barony was granted over three hundred years ago. There’s more hanging in the dining room, the drawing room, and the library.” My eagerness must have shown in my eyes, for he chuckled. “You are welcome to wander at your leisure.”

“Thank you.”

He waved it away. “Someone should appreciate it.”

I glanced up at the wry tone of his voice.

He smiled tightly. “I’m afraid I find the gaze of all my forefathers bearing down on me rather heavy.”

I did not reply—not knowing what to say—but I was more certain than ever that the conflicting emotions I had seen in Michael’s face had been real, and I was intensely curious as to why. Was the possibility of losing his fiancée all that distressed him, or was there something more?

Before I could ask, however, our host’s attention was diverted by a man at the top of the stairs. Michael’s arm stiffened beneath my hand, and I glanced between the two men, trying to read the silent communication passing between them, for it obviously distressed Michael in some way. Even though the man was not attired in the Dalmay livery, from the hunched posture of his shoulders and the worn appearance of his clothing I could see that he was a servant. A gardener, perhaps, or the stable master? But what one of those employees would be doing on the upper floors of the manor, I could not fathom.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Michael’s subtle nod, and then, as quickly as the man appeared, he was gone.

“I must apologize.” Michael turned back toward me to announce, “There is a matter I must see to.” His soft gray eyes were strained. “I’m afraid it cannot wait.”

“Of course,” Philip replied. “Think nothing of it.” The tone of his voice told me he believed the matter had something to do with the usual running of an estate, but I was not so certain.

And if the gaze Michael continued to level at me was any indication, he was aware of my interest. He did not seem worried by it, merely attentive, and this in and of itself heightened my curiosity even more. I wished we were alone, so that I might ask him. Only Alana’s and Philip’s presence behind us kept me from voicing the questions forming on my lips.

Michael’s gaze broke away from mine. “Mrs. MacDougall will see you to your rooms,” he informed us as we approached the landing where his housekeeper stood waiting for us. “I look forward to seeing you at dinner.”

Then, with a quick bow, he hurried around a corner and out of sight, in the same direction the mysterious servant must have gone. I glanced over my shoulder to see if my sister and her husband had noticed the strange altercation, but they seemed consumed by their own worries for Alana’s health and the reasons behind Lady Hollingsworth’s summons.

I turned back to the housekeeper, listening absentmindedly to her greeting while most of my attention remained with Michael and the grizzled servant. I couldn’t help wondering if there had been something Michael wanted to say to me. Would he approach me later, or would time and distance persuade him to hold his tongue? I was anxious to join the others in the drawing room before dinner, if for no other reason than to catch a few moments alone with our host.