“Or on the part of the son.” Alexandra placed a chilling puzzle piece in place. “Where is he now? And who is he? I suddenly wish I paid more attention to the haute ton.”
Francesca leaned forward conspiratorially. “He sits on the Queen’s Bench as Justice of the High Court.”
Cecelia gasped. “You mean—”
“Yes. The High Court justice rumored to be the empire’s next Lord Chancellor. Sir Cassius Ramsay.”
“I’ve heard of His Worship.” Cecelia made a face and set her tea down as if it had put her off. “He’s said to be all fire and brimstone. Forbidding, merciless, and utterly moralistic.”
Francesca shuddered. “Sounds horrifying.”
Cecelia nodded her agreement. “The Vicar Teague plans to vote for him, if that’s any indication.”
It was all they needed.
“It certainly would help Ramsay’s chances at a chancellorship with the traditionalists if he were to inherit an earldom,” Alexandra ventured.
“It certainly would.” Francesca’s eyes sparkled with spite.
“Which gives him ample motive,” Cecelia said.
Alexandra went to the sideboard and poured them all a spot of brandy, thinking that the news of the night certainly called for something stronger than tea.
And the worst was yet to come. She’d yet to reveal her blackmailer.
Francesca appeared both doubtful and indecisive as she mulled over her problem. “At the time of the massacre, Ramsay would have been seventeen. Almost eighteen. Old enough to commit a murder, but I wouldn’t dare say old enough to instigate such a concentrated effort.”
“The question remains, why, after all this time, would you be summoned to wed his younger brother? Does Redmayne really want to marry you? Or did Ramsay orchestrate the entire thing to lure you here in order to cut the last branch from the Cavendish family tree?”
“There really is no way of knowing until we find evidence.” Cecelia brooded as she finished the plait in her hair. “It was right of you to call us here.”
“And find it, we shall.” Alexandra handed the ladies their brandies and touched the rim of her glass to theirs. “You shan’t be alone until we’ve uncoiled the mystery and discovered the culprit.”
“Have you entirely eliminated the theory that the Duke of Redmayne simply fancies you and would like you to be his duchess?” Cecelia asked.
Alexandra gave her a fond smile. Cecelia’s logic often battled with her innate sense of goodness and romantic naïveté. It was so beyond her to be anything but kind and honest that she forever fought the notion that others could be capable of brutality.
A grimace preceded Francesca’s own distinctive eye roll. “That man is as fond of me as he would be of a rash on his arse, which is another reason I suspect his motives for marriage. Why wait until I’m a verified spinster before calling me to heel?”
It was an excellent question, Alexandra had to admit. “What is he like?”
Francesca stuck out her tongue. “He’s not at all like a gentleman of his status should be. More concerned with hunting and horses and hounds than being a duke.”
“I should think you’d like that,” Cecelia said. “You love hunting and horses. And … probably hounds. Who doesn’t like hounds? Is he handsome?”
Francesca shrugged, taking a generous swallow of her brandy. “He might have been once but now he’s just a brutish old boor. Big, dark, and hairy. I hardly see him but he’s dressed like a barbarian, rushing from one venture to another.” Francesca made a face. “You’ll meet him tomorrow, and see for yourselves how incredibly ill-suited we are. Were we to marry, our life would be years and years of senseless battles, him trying to put me in my place, and me trying to murder him in his sleep. I’m telling you, I won’t do it.”
“You won’t have to,” Alexandra soothed. “We’ll help you out of this mess, one way or another.”
“Our first order of business is to find a way into the duchess’s locked rooms,” Cecelia said. “Hopefully before the masquerade in two days’ time. It’s better if this is all sorted out before your betrothal to Redmayne becomes public.”
“I agree.” Alexandra expelled a troubled breath. “But how?”
“Tomorrow morning, Redmayne and I meet in his study with the solicitors,” Francesca said. “I’ve gleaned that Redmayne keeps the key there in a box. I can pilfer it then and we can sneak away to the family wing during the masquerade.”
“It seems too great a risk to take it right in front of his nose,” Alexandra protested.
“You forget I’ve been a gypsy as well as a lady. I perfected sleight of hand much faster than I did French.” Francesca held up Alexandra’s bracelet with a victorious smile.
“I had no idea you were so skilled!” Cecelia clapped delighted hands as Alexandra set her teacup down so Francesca could fasten the small gold chain back on.
Cecelia yawned, stretching her voluptuous body in one lithe motion. Alexandra became certain all the men Cecelia studied with must struggle to keep their minds on mathematical figures, when her figure was on display.
“I’d almost hoped you’d fallen in love. Despite our vow,” Cecelia confessed. “I find I should have liked to be Aunt Cecelia.” She pursed her lips in a sly smile. “Or Uncle Cecil.”
“Not to a Redmayne git, you wouldn’t,” Francesca snorted. “They’re all inelegant Viking brutes with more strength than sense.”
“Yes, but we’d teach them to be proper little heathens, wouldn’t we?” Cecelia’s eyes danced with mischief.
“Can you imagine? Me with a brood?” A shudder appeared to slide all the way down Francesca’s spine. “I’d much rather remain a spinster until death, I’ll thank you to remember.”
Her friend’s laughter spilled warmth over Alexandra’s unsettled soul, the effect much like a languid bath.
Tomorrow, she promised herself. They could only handle one murderous crisis at a time. Tomorrow she’d reveal her own treacherous secret, and hope the women remembered this moment, because “until death” might just be sooner than they all thought.
* * *
To soothe the pervasive restlessness in his blood, Piers escaped the hoard of guests the next morning and unleashed Mercury on the Maynemouth Moors. He set off from the stables at a slow canter, warming Merc’s muscles for a hard ride. If he turned right, he’d follow the lowland moors to the village. And so he pointed the stallion’s head left, climbing and descending the soft slopes along the cliffs over toward the ruins of the old Redmayne fortress at Torcliff’s edge. It was only a mile or so across gentle hills, and from there he could unleash Mercury’s full speed over Dawlish Moor.
If he skirted the forest, he’d avoid the hunting party that had left before dawn, many of them still a bit knackered from the night before.
Mercury kicked dew from the vibrant clover and thick, mossy grasses beneath him, pumping his powerful neck as he cantered higher along the sea cliffs toward Torcliff’s edge. The skeleton of the medieval Redmayne fortress slowly crumbled over a black cliff edifice into a hungry sea.