Page 23 of The Case of the Curate

Kate felt sick. She wasn’t surprised to see Rupert whiten. She had to distract their attention from him, give him time to recover.

“It’s all circumstantial,” she said. “There is no evidence for such a heinous accusation.”

“Rot, there’s enough to hang him,” Remington growled. “Unless he can give us a name. Who was the father of her child, Grande?”

“I cannot say.”

“Then I’m arresting you on suspicion of murder. You’ll be held pending further inquiries.”

Kate jumped to her feet and went to stand in front of him. “But you can’t! He didn’t do it. For one thing—” For one thing, he was with me for a large part of that time in the orangery, and—

“Kate,” Rupert said, setting his glass on the table and rising to his feet to set her gently aside, “don’t worry. It’s a misunderstanding that will soon resolve itself.”

He took her hand, his eyes boring into hers. “Not a word,” he breathed. “Promise me, Kate.”

He gave her no time to answer, merely bowed briefly over her hand before dropping it. He picked up the glass again, knocked the rest of the brandy down his throat in one practiced movement, and smiled to the company in general.

“Hie me to the dungeon, then! And would someone be so good as to tell Mrs. Bancroft that I won’t be in for tea after all?”

He strolled to the door ahead of Remington. A large constable waited there. Remington nodded to him and closed the door behind them.

“A word, Lady Ambrose,” Chadbon said coldly.

Chapter Five

Chadbon had always known that maid would be trouble. She was much too pretty, her eyes too bold. The footmen had all lusted after her, and even Chadbon’s most austere guests tended to notice her. He should have made Marjorie get rid of her, but the country had seemed a safer place to keep her than the London house, where she had already distracted several good men—including Nye, the old reprobate, and Newman, the young one. Even Otteridge had looked. But then, Dinah had been damned decorative. He had never minded looking at her himself.

Until she’d been lying on the ground with his own dagger through her heart.

The scandal of a pregnant maid in his household could have been dealt with. A murdered one on the premises was harder, but pregnant and murdered presented difficulties that would have daunted a lesser man. Even without his young ally Ambrose’s wife interfering and defending the likely murderer.

“Forgive me, Lady Ambrose,” he said more softly as soon as they were alone, “but I fear I must remind you of your promised discretion and your duty to your husband.” And to me. He didn’t need to say the words. She was a quick little thing and would take the hint.

She swung away from him, but not before he had glimpsed the emotion in her eyes.

Good God, don’t tell me she’s fallen for the curate’s pretty face? But then, his family had been neighbors of hers. Chadbon could forgive old loyalty, provided it was tempered by good sense and a healthy sense of self-preservation. And current loyalty, of course.

“There is no need,” she said with deliberate lightness. “I am well aware of my duties and my husband’s debt to you. Nor have I forgotten our mutual aims. Which is why I would counsel you against this rash arrest of Mr. Grande.”

Chadbon stared at her. “He was bent over the body, almost holding the knife! He has a sordid past with her, a fact an innocent lady like yourself may not have understood from his answers, and a dashed good reason to keep that quiet. It is not I but the evidence that moves against him.”

She nodded, which was something of a relief. “I quite see that, but as you say, our aim is discretion. A churchman accused of such a crime is bound to cause unsavory gossip and draw attention to the location of the murder.”

“Not if it is done quietly. Grande has been in Chadleigh less than three weeks. No one will notice the lack of him.”

“Mr. Bancroft might.”

“Mr. Bancroft didn’t wish for a curate in the first place. Grande will quietly disappear, be tried in a provincial court, and vanish without fuss.”

“A man with such a surname?”

“It is not unique. He himself says the Winsters do not acknowledge the connection. Your scruples do you credit, Lady Ambrose, but they are neither necessary nor wise.”

“And yet we would not wish to be known as the people who had rushed an innocent man to his death while letting a murderer go free.”

Chadbon frowned. In spite of everything, her words caused a pang of unease. In truth, he didn’t much care whether Grande had committed the crime or not. His attention was on the larger picture. But she had a point about its becoming known.

“We must cover our backs,” she said.