A Convenient Bride Read online

  She did not like sleeping alone. “Good night, Richard.”

  “Good night, Brenna.”

  Christmas Eve came with the excited squeals of children, as all the little ones who resided on the property came to collect the presents and treats prepared for each. The servants and tenants were not left out of the celebrating. Each received a gift and a side of pork or a turkey; and the household staff, a Christmas bonus.

  Brenna made Richard a robe of deep blue velvet, and he gave her a pendant of emeralds and diamonds. But her most cherished gift of the holiday was watching Richard watch the children open their gifts and to see the happiness in his eyes.

  “Your husband is more at ease than I’ve ever seen him,” Lucy said. She and Brenna stood back from the melee. They would exchange their gifts the next morning, when Brenna’s parents arrived late from London.

  “He does take well to the children.”

  Lucy shook her head. “It is more than that. He is not nearly as sober as when we first came, and he smiles more often. I believe the man has accepted you and the marriage, though I do not think he realizes it yet.”

  “Perhaps.” Brenna wanted so much for Lucy’s words to be true. “However, he still keeps me at arm’s length.”

  “That will change.”

  Brenna looked at her friend. “I hope so.”

  The evening grew late. The tenants left for home, and the servants retired to their rooms, leaving the household quiet again. Lucy yawned and went off to bed. Richard took Brenna up and saw her settled for the evening.

  “It was a very nice day,” she said, squelching a yawn of her own. “I enjoyed the children’s laughter.”

  “As did I.” Richard kissed her cheek. “I shall see you in the morning.” He prepared to leave through the sitting room.

  “Wait.” He turned, and Brenna walked to him. “I have one last gift.” She stood up on her toes and kissed him full on the mouth. He seemed hesitant for a moment. However, it did not last. He swept her against him and deepened the kiss with a hungry sweep of his tongue.

  Brenna melted. She wrapped one arm around his neck and splayed the other flat on his chest. She felt his rapid heartbeat beneath her hand.

  A shout broke them apart.

  There was commotion from somewhere below. Richard left Brenna and went to the staircase. Taking the stairs down two at a time, he was shocked to see smoke coming from the library. A footman ran by, clad in only his trousers and shirt, carrying a pair of buckets filled with water.

  Richard darted after him. The children’s tree was ablaze. Luckily the tree was small, and the water buckets doused most of the flames rather quickly. A second footman and his buckets took care of the final smoldering branches.

  “What happened here?” he asked. Luckily the fire was limited to the tree, though there was some minor soot damage to the ceiling.

  “I do not know, Milord,” Mrs. Beal said, her voice high. I came down for a glass of milk and found the tree burning.” She pointed to a melted candle beneath the black branches. “When I retired upstairs, I know the candle was not there.”

  She seemed so certain that Richard believed her.

  Could this be the work of the culprit who damaged the wheel? The idea could not be dismissed easily.

  “Oh, dear. The tree,” Brenna said from the doorway, her hand over her mouth. “Thank goodness the fire was contained before it spread.”

  “Someone accidentally left a candle burning near the tree.” He walked over and took her by the arm. “Go back to bed. I will see to the cleanup.”

  “Such a shame,” she said, as he led her out. He watched her go back upstairs.

  The footmen filed out with empty buckets in hand. When he and Mrs. Beal were alone, he joined her by the tree.

  “I am certain about the candle,” she said.

  Richard pulled the blackened candleholder from under the tree with the edge of his sleeve. The metal was hot. “I believe you.”

  “Do you think someone set this on purpose?” she asked. “Who would do such a terrible thing?”

  “We do not know what happened,” he said. “Unless we have proof of mischief, we must take this as an accident. Please do not say anything about your suspicions to my wife.”

  “Yes, Milord.” Mrs. Beal frowned and left him.

  The dull ache of dread settled into his stomach. From a place in the back of his mind, he knew this fire was no accident.

  The holidays passed, and the new year came with several inches of snow. Richard had taken to getting up during the night and walking the halls, just to reassure himself that all was well. After weeks and then months passed without further trouble, he began to convince himself that the fire had been accidental.

  Spring planting began in earnest with the arrival of warmer weather, and Richard was often out overseeing the work on the property as soon as the sun came up.

  This left Brenna and Lucy time alone to prepare for the baby. There was so much to do. With Mrs. Beal’s assistance, the nursery was aired out and a nanny hired. Clothes were made and Richard’s old cradle brought down from the attic and repaired.

  “I think my feet have swollen to twice their previous size,” Brenna groused during a quiet moment, as she put her feet up on the stool in her sitting room. “I do not know how I am expected to attend the spring ball tonight when I cannot see my feet.”

  “You could beg off and spend the evening in front of the fire with a book,” Lucy said, dropping into a chair beside her. Her friend looked trim and youthful in a dress of pale pink cotton. Brenna felt a slight twist of jealousy. Beside Lucy, she was positively bovine.

  “I cannot. If I do not keep an eye on that woman, she will snatch Richard away from me. Did you see her last evening? That gown barely concealed her nipples.”

  Lucy rolled her eyes heavenward. “Nonsense. Your husband has no interest in Bethany and never will, in spite of her nipple display. You worry too much about her.”

  “You saw the gown she wore three evenings ago,” Brenna said, annoyed. “I am quite certain I caught a glimpse of her nipples at least twice. It will not be long before Richard finds comfort in her bed.”

  “He only notices you,” Lucy insisted. “The man would not take so many cold baths if he was enjoying the favors of other women.”

  Brenna’s interest perked up. “What is this news?”

  Shrugging, Lucy examined her fingernails. “I may have overheard a whisper or two about how His Lordship has taken to cold baths these last few months. That does not sound like a man who plans to cuckold his wife. It sounds like a sexually frustrated man who is waiting for his child to be born before taking his rightful place in her bed.”

  The idea was both preposterous and endearing all at once.

  “I think your imagination has taken flight,” Brenna said, and stood. She walked into her bedroom and stared down at the silver dress laid out on the bed. “Richard knows he can come to me at any time and has not done so. If he found me so desirable, why then does he not press his intentions?” She felt the baby move and looked down. Her shoulders slumped. “Only a bull elephant would find me appealing.”

  Lucy giggled. “Patience, dearest. Your time draws near. Soon you will have your husband on his knees begging for your favors.”

  The ball was festive and fun, as everyone from the park, and beyond, came to celebrate. Within the next few weeks, most of the citizenry—particularly those with marriageable daughters—would be leaving for London to partake in the new season.

  “Oh, to be young,” Mrs. Turner said, from her seat beside Brenna. “I have not danced in years. My ancient bones will not allow such activity.”

  Brenna murmured something unintelligible as she watched Richard and Miriam join a line of dancers. Envy filled her. The shy spinster was dressed in a gown of cream and rose and was smiling brightly at Richard. Why had Brenna never noticed how pretty she was?

  Mrs. Turner must have noted that her attention had wandered as well as who was t
he focus of her perusal. “What have you done with that girl? She has certainly blossomed since I last saw her at Christmas.”

  There had been a change in Miriam over the last few weeks. Brenna had been so busy she had not done more than take casual notice. Miriam was positively glowing with happiness and good cheer.

  “I have done nothing to her,” Brenna said glumly. Miriam smiled brightly at Richard. He responded in kind.

  “Does she have a beau?” Mrs. Turner pressed. Not waiting for an answer, she went on. “She must have a beau. She has the look of a girl who is smitten.”

  Brenna had a ready denial, but it failed to materialize. Truthfully, Miriam could have had ten beaus, and Brenna wouldn’t have noticed. She was focused on the baby.

  Frowning, Brenna watched Miriam look at Richard like a love-struck schoolgirl. Her stomach dropped. Richard did not find Miriam attractive. Or did he?

  Before her mind could put the pair into a steamy affair, George approached, a young man in tow. He bowed before Mrs. Turner. “Mrs. Turner, you look lovely tonight. Perhaps I can persuade you to give up that chair and dance with me?”

  Mrs. Turner harrumphed. “You know I do not dance, and not with the likes of you, George Bentley. You have too much charm for your own good.”

  George grinned. He turned to Brenna. “Lady Ashwood, this is Mister Clive Ever—” A drunken guest jostled against him, and his smile wavered. He watched the guest stumble off and darted a tense glance at his companion. She suspected the two men had been arguing. George continued, “He is visiting the park and staying with Lord Ponteby.”

  Brenna allowed the young man to bow over her hand. There was something familiar about him. An unpleasant feeling came over her.

  “A pleasure, Lady Ashwood.”

  The man was tall and blond and impeccably, if not expensively, dressed as a young man of some means.

  He released her hand and straightened. “I see you find me familiar.” He winked, and she frowned. “You probably notice my resemblance to my uncle, who you do know. Mister Everhart?”

  Brenna winced.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  How much did Clive know about his uncle’s kiss at the ball and her subsequent slap? She was sure she’d seen something calculating in his eyes when he mentioned his uncle, as if he knew the entire tale in detail.

  “Yes, Mister Everhart and I have met,” she said. If he expected some emotional reaction, he’d not get one. She kept her features bland. “You do look much like him.”

  Their appearance was not the only thing the two men shared. Clive, whether intentionally or not, shared his uncle’s ability to pique her temper.

  “Why don’t you two run along,” Mrs. Turner said. She pointed across the ballroom. “I believe I see some frilly young things better suited for your attentions.”

  Bowing, the two men left. “You do not like the older Mister Everhart,” Mrs. Turner said. “Nor do you like the nephew.”

  Brenna nodded. “No, I do not like the elder Everhart. He is charming, yet I’m not entirely comfortable in his presence.” She watched the two men approach a gaggle of girls, and soon they were all laughing together. “He is very forward with his attentions.”

  The baby kicked. Brenna instantly forgot anything but the child. She placed a hand over her abdomen.

  “The baby comes soon.”

  “He does,” Brenna said. She scanned the room for Richard. He was speaking to a gentleman in dusty travel clothes. Curious, she watched, realizing there was something familiar about the man, though she could not see his face.

  The music died, and Richard’s companion turned.

  Jace Jones? She blinked. It was him. Why was he here? Had something happened to Simon?

  Richard noticed Brenna’s interest in Jones. “We need to find a private place to talk. You have drawn the attention of my wife.”

  He turned and led Jones from the ballroom and out of the house. He’d never met the man before Jones approached him in the ballroom, but the stranger knew him and insisted they speak privately.

  The brisk air was welcome after the heat of the ballroom. The bright stars and lamplight from the windows lit the garden as Richard led Jones away from prying eyes. Jones followed him to a small courtyard.

  Once he was certain they’d not be overheard, he faced his companion. “Now tell me what this is about.”

  “Simon Harrington sent me to check up on Brenna.”

  “What? Why?” His temper flared. Did Harrington think Richard incapable of tending to his own wife? “Brenna is my concern,” he said bluntly. “Tell Simon he need not worry about her.”

  He stalked a few steps away before Jones’s voice brought him upright. “Wait. There is more.”

  Richard released a harsh sigh and turned back.

  Jones rubbed his eyes with his palms. There was weariness in the man that came from a hard ride from London. “A few weeks past, there was a murder at the Mayfair home of a client. A maid was found strangled in the mews behind the house,” Jones began. “Bow Street is investigating, but they are unable to come up with a suspect at this time.”

  Another death? His interest peaked as his mind drifted to the dead maid from Dover. “We’ve heard nothing of this murder.”

  Jones settled back on his heels. “It was kept quiet. The Runners think it might be part of a rash of murders. They are hoping not to cause panic.”

  This was interesting. “We have heard of the deaths of a maid from Bath and the other in Dover. Are they connected? We were under the assumption that those were accidents.”

  “The Runners believe the incident in Bath was accidental. The girl had fallen before.”

  “And Dover?” Richard pressed. Though he had no idea what this had to do with Simon’s concern for Brenna, it was a bleak and fascinating story.

  “They are convinced that one was murder.”

  Richard glanced back at the house. “Two murders so far apart does not mean the same man has killed both women. The man would have to have the means to travel to commit those crimes. It would be no common killer.”

  Jones stared at him in the darkness. “True. But when you add another maid in Hastings and a tavern wench in Oxford, it makes a compelling case.”

  This was a surprising turn. “Four murders?” Richard shook his head to clear it. Jace Jones had not come all the way out here on a lark. There was more to this story; he knew it in his knotted gut. “Why don’t you tell me the real reason Simon sent you here. I suspect it was not to see if I am mistreating my wife.”

  The stranger took a step closer, the light filtering over his hard features. “I have reason to believe the killer is somewhere in or near this park.”

  Brenna froze. A killer in the park? She stepped from the shadows into the small opening in a circle of hedges leading to the fountain outside the meeting hall. The two men turned to her, clearly startled by her appearance.

  “There is a murderer. Here?”

  Richard came to her and took her by the arm. He walked her to a bench and eased her onto the surface. “You should have stayed inside, Brenna. There is no need to alarm yourself. This is all speculation, with no proof.”

  She shook off his arm and faced Jones. “I am not a child. Tell me what is happening, Jace.”

  “You know each other?” Richard asked, but Brenna was focused on Jones. He should have known that they’d be acquainted. The man knew Simon Harrington. It wasn’t a stretch for Brenna to know him, too.

  Jace nodded. “There is a series of killings of women.”

  “Jones,” Richard interjected. The warning in his voice carried no weight. It earned an exasperated sigh from his wife.

  “Continue,” she said, unabated by Richard’s desire to protect her from this dark news. “I am no wilting flower in need of protecting.”

  Jones nodded. “Four women have been murdered.” He moved to take a seat beside her and glanced at her stomach. His face grew troubled. “Perhaps you should return inside, Brenna.”
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br />   “You do not need to coddle me, Jace.” She encompassed both men in her glare. “I want to know everything you know. If there is a chance the women of this park are in danger, I should make sure they are warned.”

  Jace glanced at Richard, who shrugged. Brenna knew neither man wanted to tangle with her. She might be close to birthing, but she was still a formidable opponent.

  “Two years ago, a maid was murdered in Hastings. She was found strangled in a meadow. The case was never solved. Last year, another woman suffered a similar fate, though her body was discovered in a churchyard. The Dover maid fell from the cliffs, but she had marks on her neck. The constable thinks she may have fought off her attacker and fallen while trying to flee him.”

  “And the maid in London?” Brenna pressed.

  “That is where the story takes a turn. She was stabbed to death.” Jace paused. “There seemed to be no connection. It was after the girl had been dead for two days that marks became visible on her neck. The culprit had tried to strangle her but could not finish the deed. So he stabbed her.”

  Brenna clasped her hands, saddened by the tale. She knew every maid in her family’s employ and here at Beckwith Hall, too. It frightened her to think that any one of the girls could suffer a similar fate.

  “What leads the Runners to believe the killer has come here?” Richard asked.

  “Underneath the last victim was part of a torn note. There was only enough to deduce that it was directions to an inn about a half hour from here. We have no proof that the note was lost by the killer; it could have blown into the alley at any time before the murder. But it is too big a clue to leave uninvestigated. The Runners have gone to the inn to see what they can find.”

  A moment of quiet followed. Then Richard spoke. “The killer could be out of the country by now. There is no reason to believe he has come here.”

  “True,” Jace conceded.

  “Why, then, do you think we need to be dragged into this sordid business?” Richard said.

  Jace leaned his elbows on his knees and stared at the ground for a minute. When he lifted his eyes, he met Brenna’s gaze. “Though the note was torn, I recognized the letterhead from letters Simon received from you and shared with me. The paper was yours, Brenna.”