Page 59 of Make Mine a Marquess

By the time Landon arrived for the afternoon performance by the twin sisters, everyone had already gathered in the music room. Chairs had been brought in by footmen and he selected one in the back by the door.

Clarice sang first while Elaine played the piano. They were to exchange places later.

Most of the women sat together. Beatrice, he noticed, was seated beside Phoebe’s mother. He’d overheard Hillary Dawson tell Beatrice that Phoebe suffered a headache and rested in her room. He wanted to inquire about her health, but knew it wasn’t his place. He’d have to wait until after the performance to ask Beatrice.

He waited until Clarice broke into her second song before slipping out. Both Malvern and Roxborough looked like they were close to sleeping. Willard, who sat between Lady Delmont and Lady Milton, appeared to be in pain as they spoke to him behind fluttering fans. Watching his cousin squirm in quiet agony was almost worth staying to watch.

Almost.

Landon had other plans. No one noticed his departure except Aram, who was to keep watch.

After making sure the hall was clear of servants, Landon hurried to the main staircase and took the steps two at a time to the second floor. He knew which bedchamber his cousin occupied. Rather than take over the master chambers in Landon’s absence, Willard had opted for another large chamber. Landon suspected Willard was aware that it would look badly upon him to occupy the missing marquess’s quarters.

Landon looked both ways down the empty hall, then slipped inside Willard’s room. His cousin’s cologne, a cloying sage, permeated the space. He didn’t prefer it. The coverlet was dark blue, almost black, and made the room look like Hades’s underworld.

Where to start? He headed for the escritoire by the window. Opening drawers, he riffled through the papers. The cabinet was organized alphabetically, the script on each file written in bold black block letters. More bills and miscellaneous papers. His fingers followed a path along the drawer, looking for any imperfection or cracks. He stopped midway down the surface of the drawer. A raised edge made him hesitate.

His pulse quickened as he pressed down and felt a release.

A hidden latch.

He opened the compartment. A single piece of folded foolscap was visible. Landon pulled it out and unfolded it. The ink had faded but it was still readable. A delivery receipt for saltpeter. Forty pounds of it. Landon leaned forward in the chair as his heart rate escalated. Saltpeter was the main ingredient for gunpowder.

Had he found the incriminating evidence he needed? Could he summon the constable and have his cousin arrested for the murder of more than two dozen sailors and the attempted murder of a marquess of the realm? He needed to think clearly. First, the receipt was in Willard’s accomplice’s name, Aiden Cawley. It did not directly implicate his cousin. Willard was too smart for that. Second, saltpeter wasn’t flammable by itself but needed another compound, like charcoal, to combust.

He scanned the receipt and experienced a thrill when he realized the supplier was in Hertfordshire. He and Aram would pay this supplier a visit. More questions arose. How did they manage to get that much into the ship’s cargo without notice?

His mind went back to the fire. The ship had gone up in flames swiftly, catching everyone off guard. He’d thought it unusual then and had often tried to recall the events before the ship’s mast had fallen, and he’d blacked out. The acrid, bitter scent had burned his nostrils, and great gobs of reddish smoke had marred the sky. Like fireworks. No wonder the sailors never had a chance to douse the flames.

Damned bastard. Willard was behind all of it. A man like Aiden Cawley could not afford forty pounds of saltpeter. Every nerve in Landon’s body throbbed with the need for vengeance. Still, this was evidence, and he was getting closer, and he’d use any means necessary to bring down the baron.

Any means.

Clenching his teeth, he turned in his seat to look outside. A flash of movement caught his attention.

What the devil?

A figure emerged from behind the fountain, and he easily recognized her by the graceful movement. Phoebe.

Dressed in a dark cloak, she made her way back to the manor. And when her hood slipped, the shade of golden hair was unmistakable. He was not the only one to escape the mind-numbing musical performance. Her claims of a headache were false. As he watched, she ducked behind a hedgerow, peered ahead to make certain no one was about, then hurried back to the house and slipped inside the front door.

Where the devil have you been?

His search of Willard’s room had been a success and revealed another layer of his cousin’s treachery. He’d also learned Phoebe had her own secrets. A cynical part of him wondered if she knew of Willard’s nefarious nature, knew about her betrothed’s murderous attempt to gain the marquessate. Perhaps she had no initial part in his crimes, but she’d learned of them since.

After the shipwreck, he’d sworn to examine everything with open eyes. That meant to consider the evil in everyone. It had taken him weeks to trust Aram when he’d woken up in his home. He’d been too naive, too trusting before the shipwreck. He’d sworn never to make that mistake again.

So where had she been?

…

Phoebe barely had time to change from her outing in the village before there was a knock on her bedchamber door. Smoothing her skirts and hair, Phoebe opened the door to find Lord Willard leaning against the doorframe.

He straightened. “Hello, Phoebe. I hope I’m not disturbing you. Your mother mentioned you had a headache and had to miss the afternoon musical performance.”

His continued use of her name without her consent irritated her. “Yes, I was sad to miss it. But I’m feeling much better.”

“Good to hear. Are you feeling well enough to spend some time together?”