“But he’s a murderer!” Molly patted her chest, as if the very mention of Lord Darlington was giving her palpitations. “Did away with his wife, didn’t he?”
“There’s no proof he—”
The lady beside her silenced her with a hiss. “Don’t be daft, girl. Everyone in England knows he did away with his wife.”
A murmur of assent rose from the crowd, and a craggy-faced man stepped forward and shook his finger in Cecilia’s face. “Sent her off to an early grave. Make no mistake about it, miss. He’s the Murderous Marquess, sure as I’m standing here.”
Cecilia pressed her lips together. They called him the Murderous Marquess here in Edenbridge, as well? She’d thought the nickname an invention of the ton, but it seemed folks here were quite as capable of being horrible as those in London were.
Perhaps Lord Darlington was a murderer, and perhaps he wasn’t. Lady Clifford had tasked Cecilia with unraveling that particular mystery while his lordship was in London with his betrothed, Miss Fanny Honeywell. Cecilia had seen him there herself just yesterday, walking in Hyde Park with Miss Honeywell on his arm.
For her part, Cecilia didn’t think he looked much like a murderer. Given the gossip about him, she’d been expecting a sinister, monster of a man, but if Lord Darlington had committed the wicked deeds he was rumored to have done, his sins didn’t show on his face.
Even her friend Georgiana, who knew a great deal more about sins and murder than Cecilia did, had admitted that if Lord Darlington was a murderer, he was an exceedingly elegant one. Of course, Georgiana had also pointed out a handsome gentleman in a fine silk waistcoat was as likely to murder his wife as any other. More so, really, as people were quicker to condemn a plain face than a pretty one.
But it wasn’t his handsome face that inclined Cecilia in his favor. No, it was the protectiveness with which he held Miss Honeywell’s arm, his head bent graciously toward hers as he guided her over the uneven pathway. He was a large man, far larger than Fanny Honeywell, who was a petite, fair-haired creature, and he handled her with great care, as if she were a delicate china figurine on the verge of shattering.
Try as she might, Cecilia couldn’t imagine so civilized a gentleman would murder his wife, not even when Georgiana reminded her the notorious highwayman John Rann was thought to be quite charming and elegant, and his neck had still been fitted for a noose.
Cecilia hadn’t argued the point with Georgiana. She knew herself to be too soft-hearted by half, and too apt to think the best of everyone, including the murderous—that is, including Lord Darlington—But there was no proof he was a murderer. Just ugly gossip, never in short supply in London.
Lady Clifford might have been content enough to leave him alone to molder away in his castle if his betrothed, Miss Honeywell, hadn’t been niece to Mrs. Abernathy, and Mrs. Abernathy a generous benefactor of the Clifford School. But poor Mrs. Abernathy had fallen into a hysterical fit when the betrothal was announced, and Lady Clifford had been obliged to promise she wouldn’t allow Miss Honeywell to toddle off to her doom without lifting a finger on her behalf.
“Some say as he smothered her with a pillow.” Molly drew closer to Cecilia and lowered her voice to a horrified whisper. “Others say he poisoned her and hid her poor murdered bones in the castle walls, but I think he drowned her in his moat.”
Cecilia shuddered. “Heavens, how vile!”
“I don’t know for sure he done that, mind, but he’s done something with her, and I don’t see why he’d bother digging about the castle walls when he has a moat. I can’t speak to that for sure, but I can tell ye this much—there’s not a soul in Edenbridge who saw the poor lady put proper-like into her grave.”
“Aye, he’s a murderer, all right,” said the man with the waggling finger. “But the good Lord sees our sins, and Darlington won’t get away with his wicked deeds. The marchioness is back again, come to take her revenge.”
“Back?” How could the Marchioness of Darlington be back? There were plenty of rumors about Lady Darlington’s death flying about, but no one seemed to doubt she was, in fact, dead. So, how could she come back to take her revenge?
Unless…
A chill rushed over Cecilia’s skin. “You can’t mean—”
“That the poor marchioness as was is now a lonely, wandering spirit? Aye, miss. That’s what I mean. Half a dozen people in the village have seen her ghost drifting through the woods behind Darlington Castle. They call her the White Lady, on account of her white gown and hair, and a face paler than death itself.”
Cecilia’s mouth dropped open. No wife wished to be consigned to the murky depths of her husband’s moat, but at least then she could rest peacefully. It struck Cecilia as dreadfully unfair a murdered wife should be put to the trouble of haunting the husband who’d murdered her.
“A ghastly sight she is, floating in the air, with only the toes of her white slippers dragging over the ground. Old Mrs. Crocker saw her t’other night, and she’s been in a hysterical fit ever since.”
“A hysterical fit?”
“I’ve never known Mrs. Crocker to be silent a day in her life, but not a word has crossed her lips since she saw that ghost. She sits and stares, her mouth frozen open in horror.”
“Ye don’t have to go there, Miss Cecilia.” Molly clutched at Cecilia’s arm. “Ye can go back to London right now, and never spare Darlington Castle another glance.”
Cecilia cast a longing look at the stagecoach driver. She could be back in London in a matter of hours, back at the Clifford School where her friends would welcome her with smothering kisses and squeals of delight, and she’d be petted and soothed until she forgot the cowardice that made her break her word to Lady Clifford.
She might have done it—she might have let her misgivings get the better of her, despite her best efforts. Indeed, she’d actually taken a step toward the stagecoach when it occurred to her that nothing material had changed since she’d boarded the stagecoach in London.
Moats, and skeletons hidden in the castle walls, ghosts and hauntings—it was just more gossip, much the same as the gossip she’d heard in London. More lurid, yes, but still gossip, nonetheless.
Ghostly rumors or not, her task was to discover the truth about the marchioness’s death, and Lady Darlington was, alas, as dead as she’d ever been.
Or undead, if the villagers had the right of it, but Darlington Castle might be stuffed to the rafters with frightening ghouls, and Lord Darlington the fiend all of England supposed him to be, but she would keep her promise, even if it meant she ended her days floating face-down in the Murderous Marquess’s moat.
“No, that won’t do, Molly.” Cecilia bent to grasp the handle of her case, then straightened and met Molly’s eyes. “I’ve already accepted the post. Mrs. Briggs, Lord Darlington’s housekeeper, is expecting me.”