A Midsummer Bride (25 page)

The stone building was nothing more than a charred husk, but she inspected it inside and out. Was it possible something she was working on had gone awry? Or perhaps someone had tampered, intentionally or accidentally, with her equipment?

She inspected more, trying to determine the cause of the fire, but nothing inside appeared to be the culprit. Instead, she found a line of scorch marks on the outside wall, as if someone had poured lamp oil down the wall. This was no accident.

This fire was intentionally set.

Penelope walked back down to the house with Marchford, leading people away from the scene to a safer area. The worst of the fire was over. Now they needed to soothe the nerves of the frightened guests.

“See to the guests,” said Marchford. “I will check on the book.”

The book! In all the excitement she had forgotten. She wanted to run to the library herself, but she doubted her legs would carry her.

In the entryway of the house, she quickly arranged for wine punch to be available to take the sting out of the sad night. The guests began to request hot water to bathe and other amenities, which kept the house busy and led to a bit of confusion.

The duchess, Langley, Sir Antony, and Lady Thornton emerged from their intense game of whist, so focused they had not heard the warning cries. They were immediately concerned and were quickly informed of the unfortunate events.

Last to arrive was Harriet. A more bedraggled creature one could not imagine. Her dress was ripped and stained, her face covered with soot.

“Come with me.” Penelope took Harriet’s hand and led her through the glaring crowd and up to her bedroom. “You need sleep.”

“We need to speak,” whispered Harriet.

Penelope nodded and ushered her up to her room. Whatever she wanted to talk about, it would certainly not be for the ears of the assembly.

“The fire was intentionally set,” said Harriet when they were alone in her room. “This was no accident.”

“How do you know?” asked Penelope.

“Scorch marks on the outside of the building, leading up to where the roof was.”

“But could that not happen during the fire?”

“Forgive me, but I have had my share of setting minor fires, accidentally of course, and I have some experience in noting the patterns. This fire did not begin in my laboratory. It was intentionally set from outside. What I cannot understand is why. Who would do such a thing?”

“I think I know why,” said Penelope. “But who remains the question.”

“Why?”

“I shall call for some water for you,” said Penelope, standing to leave and attempting to divert Harriet’s attention. “Please get some rest.” She needed to tell Marchford this news.

Harriet caught her hand. “Please tell me why. I have a sense I am caught up in some larger game, and since someone seems to have taken pains to implicate me, I want to know what is amiss.”

Penelope sighed. It was only fair. “You know Marchford has been holding meetings to discuss strategy for the war. He suspects a spy or traitor among us. He attempted to set a trap tonight. I would conjecture that the fire was a diversion.”

Harriet took a moment, digesting the new development. “How do we catch this spy?” She sat straight, her eyes clear and bright. She may have appeared ragged, but she was far from defeated.

“Let me talk to Marchford and see what our next move will be.”

Harriet stood. “I will come too.”

“No, please stay here. Lock the door. I will let you know what he says.”

“Promise me.” Harriet once again took her hand in her steady grip. “I do not know why I was involved in this, but it has done more damage than you can know and to someone…” She paused and swallowed back emotion. “To someone very special.”

“Thornton.” Penelope did not have to guess.

“Yes. I cannot stand idly by and see him hurt. I want to find whoever did this.” Harriet’s eyes burned with an intensity that made Penelope take a step back.

“I will let you know. But rest now. You will need your strength.”

***

Penelope found Marchford in the library. He had washed the soot from his hands and face and put on his coat, but when she walked nearer, he still held the telltale aroma of smoke. He acknowledged her with a brief nod, his face gray.

“Is the book gone?” she asked, but she already knew the answer.

Marchford gave another short nod. “I have searched the place looking for clues. I have found none. I do apologize about the book.”

“I expected it. I believe the fire was set purposefully as a diversion.” Nothing else could be said about her book. It was gone.

Marchford gave her his full attention. “Continue.”

“I spoke with Miss Redgrave who said she found scorch marks on the outside of the wall of the building. She says this means the fire was set from outside. Someone set it intentionally.”

Marchford frowned. “It is as I suspected.”

“You do not believe it was caused by one of Miss Redgrave’s unholy experiments?” Penelope had expected more of a fight on this point.

Marchford shook his head. “Too coincidental. The castle bursts into flame at the same time I attempt to catch the spy—this was no accident. No, it was the spy. But who?”

“Who knew you would be hiding in here? Why would the thief not just take the book, thinking you were outside?”

“Must have been suspicious. No one but you knew I was here.”

“Did Lord Thornton know you had set a trap?”

“Yes, but he would not have told anyone.”

“Forgive me, you are not going to like what I have to say, but have you considered the possibility that Thornton himself might be responsible?”

“Thornton a French spy? Don’t be absurd.” He waved a hand at her to dismiss the comment.

Penelope sat across from him, her back straight, her hands folded neatly over her soiled dress. It was time to give bad news, and she found it was best to get it over with quickly. “Here are the facts. When we searched for the thief of the pearls, Thornton was not accounted for outside. He has been getting up early for some unknown reason. I often see him coming back into the house, his boots muddy, when I have just come down for breakfast, and I am one of the first to rise. Tonight, he was the only one who knew you were in the study, waiting.”

“Stop.” Marchford’s voice was gruff. “Thornton is a friend and one I would trust with my life. Besides, he would hardly set his own castle ablaze with all his livestock inside.”

“I do not know the particulars regarding what was in the keep, but maybe there was a reason he wanted it destroyed. And you cannot deny that his financial situation would make him an easy target.”

“A target yes, but easy, never.”

Penelope raised her hands to surrender. “Just think about it. I sincerely hope it is a false accusation, but we need to look at all the information we have.”

“Enough. Thornton is a good man.” But the seed of doubt had been planted.

***

By morning, Thornton felt like hell. Truth was he had felt that way since the fire. His throat burned, his head pounded. He spent most of the night running after his horses and trying to find neighbors and townspeople willing to house them. He could not even begin to think of the financial impact this was going to have. The keep was nothing more than a burned shell. All his hard work, all his money—it was all gone. Gone. Just like Harriet was gone.

How could she have seduced him all while she was engaged to d’Argon? She was false. And everything he thought he knew about her was false too. He pushed away the thought that perhaps he had been the one to seduce her. Or perhaps they seduced each other. Or maybe it was the faeries at work. In any event, she was engaged to another, to that bastard d’Argon.

Thornton dragged himself back to the house in the gray light of morning. He wanted to toss out every houseguest, turn the keys over to Crawley, and curl up in some hole. Instead, he stumbled up the stairs to his room and collapsed on his bed.

“It was not her, you know.” Marchford walked into his room and sat down across from him. Marchford handed him a glass of cold water. It felt good.

“What do ye mean?”

“Miss Redgrave. It was not she who set the fire.”

Something inside him burned at the sound of her name. “How would ye know?”

“The fire was started as a diversion to get me out of the room and get the book we set as bait.”

“The spy! Did ye catch him?”

“No. I put out a fire. The book was left and we lost it.”

“Ye lost it?”

“Stolen. By the person who set the fire.”

“I know it was not Miss Redgrave who started the fire,” said Thornton. He did not say he knew it because he had been with her the whole time. “She is getting married now, so it hardly matters what I think.”

“I doubt it.”

Thornton rubbed his temples. “You doubt what?”

“I doubt she will marry d’Argon. First, she declared that she had never agreed to any such union, and then, when he discovered that her fortune is lost, he disappeared.”

“Wait, what?” Thornton’s world was spinning. Harriet had lost her money? The duc was gone?

“Yes,” said Marchford slowly, as if to help Thornton’s tired brain understand. “Apparently, if the rumors are to be believed, Miss Redgrave’s fortune has been lost. She is poverty stricken, or at least that is the gossip over eggs this morning. Langley denies it, of course, but my grandmother and Miss Rose are strangely quiet on the subject, adding fuel to the rumor. The duc has not been seen since last night.”

“Gone,” murmured Thornton.

“That’s not all that is gone,” said Harriet, standing in the open doorway.

The men turned to her and Thornton attempted to struggle to his feet. So many emotions pulsed through him at the sight of her he could not discern one from the other. All he knew was she made his head hurt and his knees weak.

“Please do not get up,” Harriet said to Thornton.

“Forgive me for the intrusion,” said Penelope, who appeared at her side. “But we have been looking for you both. This morning several ladies were complaining of missing jewelry.”

“They blamed me,” said Harriet with a smile that was not at all amused.

Marchford frowned. “I received some complaints of missing watch fobs and misplaced snuff cases. I had thought in the confusion of last night some articles may have been misplaced. Perhaps it is more.”

“It appears our French friend has chosen to take leave just as a thief has struck,” commented Thornton.

“Too bad d’Argon has got away from us,” said Marchford.

“Let us go after him,” said Thornton, managing to stand. He splashed water on his hands and face.

“In all this wilderness?” asked Marchford. “He is long gone by now.”

Thornton shook his head. “This is my land, my people. It may not mean much to some, but he would be hard pressed to go anywhere without my people knowing.”

“Perhaps, but I have not found your people forthcoming when it comes to information.”

Thornton had to smile. “Forgive me, but to many, ye will always be naught but a
Sassenach
. They will not tell ye, but they will tell me.”

Marchford lifted an eyebrow. “Lead on, my friend. Lead on!”

“We shall come too,” demanded Harriet.

“No!” said Thornton and Marchford together.

“It is my reputation this traitor has attacked,” argued Harriet. “I am being blamed for everything from petty theft to arson. If the crops fail, I should not be surprised if I was burned at the stake as a witch.”

“I will clear yer reputation, Miss Redgrave. I owe ye that much at least,” said Thornton. With a chill, he realized he would do anything for her. Anything.

The men bowed to the ladies and quit the room.

“I suppose we shall have to wait for them to return,” sighed Penelope.

But Harriet shook her head. “I have no intention of letting him run off into goodness only knows what without me.”

“They shall not take us, so how can we follow them?”

Harriet smiled. “I’m an American. I can track.”

The Frenchman had covered his tracks well. He bribed the locals, threatened townsfolk, and even cut across country, which, considering his genteel upbringing, showed an athleticism Thornton would not have thought possible. At one point, the Frenchman attempted to steal one of Thornton’s horses. The crofter described with some detail the number of times d’Argon had attempted to ride bareback and was thrown from the horse. Eventually, he had taken the crofter’s packhorse at the point of a pistol, which was not an animal known for speed.

“He must be getting desperate to go to such measures,” commented Marchford as they remounted to continue the search.

“He does not believe anyone will follow him,” returned Thornton.

“It is comforting to be so underestimated.”

They continued down the road until they came to the next township. It was small, but there was a lodging house.

“I warrant he would be tired from riding on that pack mule,” said Thornton.

“I would think so.”

Inquiries within the inn brought wide eyes and quick shakes of the head. These were people unknown to Thornton; they had no loyalty to him. He switched tactics and asked the questions again in Gaelic. This time the answers were forthcoming.

“And what language are you speaking?” asked Marchford, as they stepped out of the common room.

“Gaelic.”

“How was it I never knew you spoke such a tongue?”

“My mother wished us to be English.”

“But still, I should have known. You have depths, man, that I have yet to fathom.”

“I wish ye would no’ fathom my depths if ye please.”

Marchford smiled. “What did the good innkeeper say?”

“He reported an irate Frenchman is upstairs, first door on the right. Our man has threatened rather unspeakable harm to the innkeeper’s daughter if he ever revealed his presence.”

“I believe it is time to pay a social call,” said Marchford, straightening his jacket.

“If that is a polite euphemism for drowning him in the loch, then count me in. Do ye believe him to be yer spy?”

Marchford shrugged. “I would not have thought the aristocracy to be in league with Napoleon, but anything is possible. It would be rather convenient too, so let us hope.”

After some discussion, the innkeeper knocked on d’Argon’s door and said he had brought a wine punch. At Marchford’s direction, the innkeeper scuttled back down the stairs, leaving Marchford and Thornton to face the duc.

The door unlocked and opened a crack. Both Marchford and Thornton put their shoulders to it and banged the door open, sprawling the Frenchman to the floor, a pistol in his hand. Thornton jumped in, again knocking d’Argon to the floor as he tried to rise and retrieve the pistol. Marchford walked in, pocketed the pistol, and shut the door behind him.

“My dear duc d’Argon,” said Marchford in a mild tone. “What an unusual place to find you. We have had such an adventure following your trail.”

“What do you want?” The Frenchman stood tall, his hand on the back of a chair.

Thornton walked over to his trunk and dumped it onto the floor.

“What are you doing?”

“Merely helping you pack for your journey,” said Marchford. “You are going on a journey, are you not?”

“I am the Duc d’Argon. I demand you stop this insult at once!”

Thornton rifled through the trunk, caring not how he handled the man’s belongings. If he was rough, d’Argon should be grateful Thornton did not have his hands on him.

“Sit down, d’Argon,” ordered Marchford. “You are in no position to demand anything.”

Finding nothing, Thornton moved to the room, tugging the blankets off the bed, then the sheets, looking for the stolen items. If they couldn’t find them, they would have some explaining to do.

“Stop this immediately or I will call for the magistrate!” yelled the chevalier.

“Be my guest,” said Thornton, picking up the mattress itself and searching through and under it.

“My dear d’Argon, I would be interested to know why you left in such haste?” asked Marchford.

“Am I your prisoner? I owe no answers to you!”

“Perhaps, but to Miss Redgrave you most certainly do. Did you not woo her and declare your intent to marry her?” asked Marchford.

“No, I never intended marriage,” hedged the duc.

“My memory can be faulty, but I believe it was just last night that you declared to all the company that you were engaged to Miss Redgrave,” drawled Marchford.

“It was a mistake,” stated d’Argon.

“The only mistake,” said Thornton, jumping into the conversation, “is that when ye discovered her money was gone, ye pinched what ye could and stole away in the night, like the snake and coward that ye are.”

“I am insulted. I demand satisfaction!” cried d’Argon.

Thornton crossed the room in two large steps and struck the surprised man on the jaw, knocking him to the ground. “Consider yerself satisfied.”

The duc put his hand to his jaw and said nothing, standing up slowly.

“Gentlemen, such display is unseemly,” said Marchford with an aloof tone. “
Monsieur
, we have come for the pearls and other items.”

“What pearls?”

“The pearls ye stole, ye rat,” said Thornton, moving on to the wardrobe. “And if ye want satisfaction for that I’ll be happy to oblige ye.”

Marchford raised an eyebrow at Thornton. “I am seeing you in an entirely new light, my friend. I do not believe I have ever seen you so angry in the twenty years we have been friends.”

In true caveman fashion, Thornton grunted in reply.

“Now d’Argon,” said Marchford. “I suggest you tell us everything you know before my friend, who has apparently regressed into some sort of primitive man, turns from tearing apart the room to tearing apart you.”

“I know nothing about no pearls,” said the duc.

“Careful, your accent is slipping,” cautioned Marchford. “Time for a true confession. Remember, Thornton is one of those Highlanders. Oh, he looks domesticated from the outside, but I am fast learning what passions course through his blood.”

“If he wanted the chit, he should have made an offer.”

“I would advise caution,” said Marchford.

“No, he is right,” admitted Thornton. “If I had proposed to Miss Redgrave, there may not have been an opportunity for a fortune hunter like him to prey on her good nature.”

“Good nature?” d’Argon snorted and Marchford had to step in to prevent Thornton from ill-advised violence.

“Where are they? Where are the jewels?” demanded Thornton.

“I have taken nothing. I demand you leave. I will be calling the magistrate to make you answer for your crimes.” The duc lunged for the door, opened it, and called for the landlord to rouse the magistrate before Marchford dragged him back into the room and shut the door.

“We are not done with our visit,” said Marchford mildly. “Though I confess we may overstay our welcome if need be.”

“You have damaged my property and accosted my person. You will answer for this!” challenged d’Argon.

“You have abandoned your fiancée,” accused Marchford.

“I debate that term. If she thought that, then she was confused.”

“You are a liar and a thief!” Thornton experienced an odd new feeling. He was out of control. He wanted to rip this man limb from limb. He had never experienced anything like it before. He was always the one pulling his friends back from the brink of disaster, keeping them safe, being the voice of reason. But now all sense of reason had gone, or at least it had shut up and was watching something feral take its place. Marchford turned to him again, with a raised eyebrow and an expression somewhere between surprise and worry. If Thornton lost control, who would pull him back from the edge?

Thornton wanted to reclaim rationality, but it was elusive. Maybe he was wrong, maybe the duc was only a fortune hunter who was slipping away, not a jewel thief. Then he would have grounds for a complaint against him and Marchford. He had to find those jewels or there would be consequences, and he was going to have enough of those in the coming weeks. Perhaps the items were on the Frenchman himself. Thornton went to the man’s coat, rummaging through it, even pulling out the lining, the seams ripping.

The duc yelled in protest again, but somehow the ripping sound was cathartic. Thornton liked causing destruction. He moved toward the Frenchman, but Marchford intercepted.

“Allow me to search his person,” said Marchford. “I would hate to have to visit you in prison for killing the man.”

Killing the man? Not an all-bad idea. Thornton shook his head. What was wrong with him? He was allowing this man to control his emotions and turn him into someone other than himself. He sat down on the mangled bed and took a deep breath. This was not like him. He was angry at d’Argon, but he would not let the man control him.

“He does not appear to have the jewels on him,” said Marchford.

Thornton felt a prick of desperation. He needed to find them. A tiny rapping at the door caught their attention. He and Marchford exchanged a glance and Marchford opened the door. The innkeeper stood outside, a worried expression on his face. Another man in a bright-blue cloak stood behind him.

“I heard raised voices and such a crashing, then someone called for the magistrate,” said the innkeeper. He motioned to the magistrate, who proceeded into the room with an air of confidence Thornton did not share. How were they going to explain their behavior without proof?

“What seems to be the matter here?” asked the magistrate.

“Good day, sir,” said Marchford, taking on a business like tone. “I am the Duke of Marchford. I believe you are acquainted with Lord Thornton, and this man is the duc d’Argon. Until this morning he was a guest at Thornton Hall. He left unexpectedly early this morning and we followed due to our suspicions.”

“And what suspicions are those?” asked the magistrate.

“We believe he has been stealing from the guests at Thornton Hall,” said Marchford.

“This is untrue!” demanded d’Argon. “They are jealous because I won the heart of a lady Lord Thornton desired. He has created this fabrication!”

The magistrate surveyed the room quietly. “It seems you were thorough in your search of the room. Looks to me the work of an angry man. I’ve never known ye to loose yer temper before, Lord Thornton.”

“There! You see, he is enraged over this lady,” declared d’Argon.

“A lady involved, eh?” asked the magistrate. “Never knew Lord Thornton to be much of a skirt chaser either. Who is this lady?”

“Her name cannot be important,” said Thornton.

“I understand. Well, sir,” said the magistrate looking at the duc, “if ye won the heart of this maiden, what was the outcome? She rebuffed ye?”

“No! She wished to marry me!” The Frenchman’s pride got the better of him.

“But ye dinna want her, is that the lay? Ye run off from Thornton Hall to avoid her?”

“Slightly more sinister than that,” said Marchford. “He proposed marriage then ran away when he found she did not have quite as plump a dowry as he needed to pay off his debts.”

“Ah! What say ye to that, sir?” the magistrate asked d’Argon. While the Frenchman was searching for an answer the magistrate continued, “I canna like such an unscrupulous man, no sir, I canna like it one bit. But more to the point, do ye have proof this man has been stealing?”

There was the rub. Thornton and Marchford glanced at each other again. If they had no proof, this was not going to go well for them.

“We have yet to find where he hid them,” said Thornton.

“I have stolen nothing!” growled the duc. “I have been accosted by these two gentlemen without cause. I demand they both be arrested!”

“Well now,” said the magistrate slowly. He glanced between Thornton and Marchford. “If ye have any other evidence, my lads, tell me now. Otherwise, I must side with the Frenchman here.”

Thornton’s stomach sank. What if they were wrong? He did not like d’Argon, but he could not say he knew for sure if he was a thief. One thing was certain: things were going to go poorly if he could not find proof of the man’s guilt in the next few seconds.