A Night Of Secrets, A Paranormal Romance Page 5

  Grayson grabbed Jack’s reins and pulled the mount forward. “How, then, do you suggest he died?”

  “Most likely fell off his horse, hit his head while intoxicated.”

  Of course, but that would be too easy. They moved through a wooden gate and onto a dirt lane while he toyed with how to tell her he knew the truth. Was she playing dumb? Best to just get it over with and judge her reaction. Already she was steps ahead.

  “Miss James.”

  She sighed, but stopped.

  “I’m no expert but it seems to me that Lord Brockwell was murdered.”

  Her face paled, a reaction that could not be faked. He cursed. What the bloody hell was he thinking? She started to sway. Grayson dropped Jack’s reins and wrapped his arm around her waist, bringing her close. Around her hovered the sweet scent of flowers mixed with a hearthy smell of baked goods. His stomach rumbled and his body heated. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to eat her, or kiss her.

  Her long lashes blinked rapidly, panic flaring. “Oh dear God, poor Beth. We mustn’t tell her.”

  “I’m afraid we must. These things have a way of spreading and it’d be best she heard it from a friend rather than someone else.”

  Jack snorted behind him, breaking the moment. Meg blinked, her gaze jumping from his face to his arm wrapped around her waist. Her lips parted on a gasp as if she’d just realized the situation had become even more improper. Her heart beat against his chest. Clenching her jaw, she pressed her hands against his chest and stumbled back. Before he could contemplate the sudden emptiness he felt, she started down the lane without him.

  “Yes, yes we must tell Beth.”

  “You know the family well?” he asked, catching up to her.

  “Beth, yes, very.”

  “And do you have any idea who would murder Lord Brockwell?”

  “Of course not. As I said, the man was wild.” She started to wring her hands together, her annoyance toward him replaced with worry. “I suppose it could have been any number of people.”

  “How many sisters do you have?”

  She stumbled over the root of an apple tree that had inched its way under the fence line. “Excuse me? Sisters? Why?”

  He rubbed the back of his neck, realizing how ridiculous and amateurish his question sounded. Damn, but he was used to forcing the truth from people. Subtleties had never been his forte. If he showed her his true nature, she’d be admitting her deepest, darkest secrets in a matter of moments. So why didn’t he? Because he wanted to slip in unnoticed, find Collette and leave. “Well, with a murderer on the loose, you must be careful.”

  Meg pressed her hand to her chest, the panic returned. “Oh dear, I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Yes, and how many did you say?”

  She hesitated a moment. “Well, two here and one passed on.”

  “And which of the two young ladies I met were your sisters?”

  Her brows furrowed and she glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, the suspicion making her eyes sparkle. “Sally and Mary Ellen.”

  He was making her nervous. Yet, he couldn’t help but ask. He needed to get as much information about the girl called Hanna as he could. “And the child you mentioned, Hanna, she is not your sister?”

  She continued on, her footsteps stiff and hurried. “No, she is the child of my deceased sister.”

  His mind paused at the possibility. Could it be true? Had he come all this way for nothing? Another false lead, another false hope? Damn it all. “I see. I’m sorry. You’ll, um, want to keep them close until the suspect is apprehended.” Hell, he didn’t know how to be sneaky, he was used to demanding answers.

  Meg nodded and lifted an overhanging yew branch. “We’ve arrived.” She paused at an iron gate, her lower lip trembling. He followed her gaze to a house of light yellow stone. Shutters hung at odd angles, some missing, the others flaked and in need of a good painting. Chickens ran loose in the front yard, kicking up dust and debris. A house of some nobility at one time, now the place was a pathetic shadow of its former self.

  “This is where they live?” The shock must have come through in his voice, for she spun around to face him, her eyes narrowed into slits of outrage.

  “Yes, and Beth does what she can with what she has.” He admired the way her anger brought a flush to her cheeks, but mostly he admired the way she defended her friend. Damn it all, he didn’t want to admire her. Humans weren’t to be admired. They were to provide amusement and when not that, nourishment.

  He gave her a quick bow. “Of course. I meant no offense by my remark.” He pushed open the gate, the hinges squeaking high with inattention. She swept past him, shaking her head. “And only this morning I’d told her he’d come back.”

  Grayson pulled Jack through the gate. “Well, he has returned, so you didn’t lie.”

  She threw a glare over her shoulder. Chickens clucked, scattering feathers in their wake. Meg waved her hands through the air, shooing the birds aside. Not a soul came forward to take his mount. He looped the reins on a tree branch and patted Jack’s flank. He had to step over a missing board as they made their way up the stairs and his curiosity intensified. Meg knocked. No one answered. She knocked again. They waited. No one answered.

  She flushed and the left corner of her mouth quirked into a half smile, as if embarrassed for her friend. Clearing her throat, she pushed the front door wide and peeked inside. “Beth?”

  He followed her into the cool hall. The place was clean, he’d give them that much, but nary a piece of furniture littered the hall. Light squares where paintings used to hang marked the peeling wallpaper, but there was no sign of décor, of life.

  “Beth?” Meg’s voice echoed down the hall.

  A woman appeared at the end of the corridor, a towel in hand, flour smeared across her bodice. He supposed she could be considered attractive, but her red hair was pulled back into a tight bun that seemed to pinch her face. She wore a simple gown with a high neckline and a white apron around her trim waist. Was she maid, or was this Lady Brockwell?

  “Oh,” the woman whispered, her face flushing and adding color to her dour expression. “I wasn’t expecting anyone.”

  “Beth, I …” Tears filled Meg’s large blue eyes.

  Lady Brockwell started forward, her brows knit together. “What is it? Tell me Meg.”

  “Your husband.”

  The woman stopped, her face paling so that the freckles across the bridge of her nose stood out. “Yes?”

  Meg’s lower lip trembled, but she couldn’t seem to get the words out. Grayson sighed and stepped forward. “My lady, your husband is dead.”

  Meg gasped and shot him a glare. “You could be a bit more sensitive about it!”

  Beth sank back against the wall, her thin body visibly shaking. “What?”

  “Dead, darling. They found him in the creek just a bit ago.” Meg took the woman’s hands and led her into a side room. They settled on the settee and as it was the only piece of furniture in the space, Grayson remained standing in the doorway. He was surprised to see a large vase of wildflowers on a small table near the windows. The vivid colors gave a touch of warmth to the empty home and made the stiff Lady Brockwell seem more human.

  “Tell me you’re mistaken.” Lady Brockwell reached up and grabbed Meg’s forearms, the woman’s fingers white at the knuckles. Her reaction was true; she was no actress. Now, if only he could be sure about Meg. “Tell me you jest.”

  Meg shook her head. “No, it was him.”

  Lady Brockwell pulled away from Meg and stared blankly at the wall. “I’m free?”

  Grayson stiffened. The words were spoken so softly, it was obvious they weren’t meant for his ears. Slowly, he leaned against the wall, forcing his face to remain passive, but all the while he watched them, looking for indication of guilt.

  Meg glanced at him, as if making sure he hadn’t overheard her friend’s inappropriate question, then quickly looked back to Beth. “You need to rest. Come, I’ll
take you upstairs.”

  Beth shook her head. “No, Mother needs her tonic.” The woman gasped and pressed her hands to her chest. “How will I tell the Dowager her son is dead?”

  “Would you like me to tell her?” Meg asked.

  “Elizabeth? Are you down there? What is that racket?” A raspy voice called out from upstairs. Grayson could only assume she was the mother-in-law they spoke of.

  Beth stood and smoothed down her gray skirt. “No, Meg. I would never do that to you. I will tell her.”

  An old woman appeared at the bottom of the steps like some ghost come to call. Her gray hair fell into a long braid that twisted and curled down her white nightgown. Spotting Grayson, she gasped and clutched her wrap closed in front of her.

  “Who are you? How dare you enter unannounced.”

  Grayson sighed, feeling a twinge of annoyance as he moved from the doorway to the fireplace. Women usually reacted in one of two ways when he was near, they were either attracted to him, sensing the mystery within. Or feared him. Those who feared him were usually the kind who knew evil when they saw it. The elder Lady Brockwell certainly knew evil. Really, he didn’t have time for such nonsense, he had more important things to discover than who killed the local rake, a man so foul his own wife didn’t mourn his death.

  “What is going on?” the woman demanded.

  “My lady.” Beth started forward.

  Grayson thought it odd she’d call her mother-in-law such a formal title, but then nothing had seemed normal since this morn. Merde, if it wasn’t for Emma, he’d leave the ladies to their bizarre lives and ride back to London this very moment.

  Beth stopped in front of her mother-in-law. “Lady Brockwell.”

  The old woman wavered on her feet and clutched at the doorframe. “Don’t say it. Don’t you dare!”

  Grayson slowly rubbed his jaw with his knuckles. So, the Dowager had expected her son to die young. Apparently, no one was surprised by the man’s death. So why couldn’t he shake the feeling that the death was a warning of what was to come?

  “Lady Brockwell, he’s dead.”

  The woman slapped Beth across the face. The sound combined with Meg’s gasp and hung in the air.

  “How dare you.” He didn’t think it possible, but the shuffling hag actually launched herself at Beth.

  “Now see here.” Grayson rushed forward and pushed between the two. Meg took Beth’s arm and pulled her back to the settee.

  The old woman turned her wrath on Grayson. Tears streamed down her wrinkled face, and she slapped at Grayson’s chest with her claw-like hands. He knew he should have felt something, sympathy, empathy, but he’d lived too long and seen far too many dead to feel anything. His lips lifted, a hiss escaping before he could prevent the sound.

  The old woman stumbled back, quivering against the wall. Damn, he didn’t know what to do, had never been good around emotional human females, didn’t have the experience to handle such a situation.

  Pointing a long, knobby finger at Beth, Lady Brockwell said, “You finally did it.”

  Beth swallowed hard, her gaze focused on her lap.

  “You killed my son!”

  Grayson blinked in surprise. Mon dieu, this day was becoming more bizarre by the moment.

  “Lady Brockwell,” Meg cried. “Surely you do not believe that Beth-”

  “Shut your mouth, you common whore!”

  “Enough,” Grayson yelled.

  The room fell silent. In the hall, a slight movement caught Grayson’s attention. A young girl cowered outside the door, watching from the safety of the hall. “You there, are you a maid?”

  She nodded, her wide, hazel eyes unblinking.

  “Escort Lady Brockwell upstairs, now.” The woman scampered forward and took Lady Brockwell’s arm. The old woman didn’t bother to fight. She seemed defeated, but Grayson knew she’d regain her strength soon enough. He sure as hell wasn’t going to be here when she did.

  “You’ll all see, you will. You’ll get what you deserve, what you’ve always deserved.” The old woman’s voice lingered like some mythical curse long after she’d disappeared. For a long moment, not one of them moved. Grayson merely waited to see what would happen next.

  Finally, Meg sat next to Beth and took her friends hands in hers. “Are you all right?”

  The woman was trembling so hard Grayson was sure she’d fall to the floor. “I think so.”

  “Come home with me. Stay with us.”

  Lady Brockwell shook her head.

  “Do you want me to stay here with you?”

  “No, please. I just…I just need to be alone.”

  Meg nodded, but he could see the hesitation in her gaze. It fascinated him, this show of devotion that human’s had toward each other. “Of course.” Meg stood. “Beth, there’s something else.”

  “What is it?”

  Meg hesitated, her hands twisting her skirt. “He was killed.”

  Grayson wondered when she’d get to that little tidbit.

  Lady Brockwell’s brows drew together, but other than confusion, no other expression crossed her features. “Someone murdered him?”

  It wasn’t the reaction he’d expected from the man’s wife. “Lady Brockwell, do you know of anyone, anyone at all who would have done this?”

  “Who are you?” the woman asked, standing and playing in a nervous manner with the lace collar of her dress. It was as if only just now she realized she had a guest and was torn between mourning and playing the hostess.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, Beth this is…this is…” Meg’s face flushed and he realized he’d never given her his name.

  “Grayson Bellamont. I recently purchased Pease Manor.”

  Lady Brockwell looked him up and down and he found her cool curiosity in the face of her husband’s death amusing and exasperating. Playing the hostess then. “I haven’t heard that name before. Is it French?”

  Grayson resisted the urge to demand answers. He tried not to let his irritation grow, knowing that humans dealt with death in different ways. Apparently, Lady Brockwell liked to ignore her problems, and talk about inconsequential things. “Yes, although I was raised most of my life in England.”

  “You’re French?” Meg asked.

  Was it just his imagination, or had her voice become a bit high pitched? Grayson’s gaze slid to Meg. Her face was white, her fingers digging into the arm of the settee and that pulse flickered wildly along the side of her neck. “Yes.”

  She bolted to her feet. “I should go. Father will need me. And you…you should go to the Constable.” She gave Beth a peck on the cheek. “If you need anything, send for me.”

  Beth nodded and Meg rushed from the room, a whisper of apple blossoms and fear lingering behind. Grayson suddenly found himself alone with Lady Brockwell. He cleared his throat, shifting in unease. “I’m sorry for your loss, Lady Brockwell.”

  She nodded.

  “I…I should leave you to your mourning.” He bowed and left the house, eager to escape. On the front stoop, he was finally able to breathe. What was it about the home he found oppressive? Ahead, Meg had already reached the gate and was starting down the lane. Grayson glanced at the sky, noting the breaking clouds. He had only moments.

  “Miss James,” he called. She didn’t slow, nor look back. “Meg.”

  She stopped, her back to him. Grayson grabbed Jack’s reins and went after the woman.

  Her gaze was focused on the ground as he hurried through the gate.

  “You’ll go to the Constable?” she asked.

  “Yes, of course I will, but you must know that he will likely question not only your friend, but you.”

  Meg sucked in a breath, her nervous gaze flickering from left to right. “Me? But, why me?”

  “Because you are friends with Lady Brockwell and were near to the scene of the crime.”

  She twisted her skirt in her hands. “But I didn’t even know he was there. Oh dear God, we were swimming with a dead body!”

 
“Yes, well, at least it was downstream.”

  She released a disgusted huff, threw him a glare and stomped down the lane, but underneath her anger, he sensed her nervousness.

  “What is going on, Miss James?”

  She paused and slowly turned. “What do you mean?”

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  Her cheeks flushed a charming shade of pink. “Nothing. I’ve told you the truth. Lord Brockwell was not a favorite. ‘Tis no surprise he was found dead.”

  And he knew immediately she wasn’t telling him all. His fingers curled as he resisted the

  urge to force her to tell him the truth. It would be so damn easy. Yet, he’d sworn when he arrived he would cause no uproar. He would find Collette and they would slip away, living a quiet life; attempt to blend into the human way. Too many of his kind had disappeared, he would not let Collette become a victim. But his time was running out. He needed to find the child before she turned completely and everyone knew what she truly was.

  “And could his wife have killed him?”

  “How dare you!” The pink in her cheeks turned red and he thought, for a moment, she

  might slap him. “You do not know us, Mr. Bellamont. You are not a part of this town, and you cannot rush in here on your horse and act the King. We are very loyal to each other. We respect each other and no one, in the least, will believe anything you have to say.”

  No, he didn’t belong. Familiar words that no longer stung.

  “True, I don’t know you, but someone was found murdered on my property and I aim to figure out what happened.”

  “But that does not give you the right to go around accusing people, people you do not know in the least, of terrible crimes.”

  He stepped closer to her, only inches from her body, intent on intimidating the woman. Yet the moment her scent swirled around him, he forgot his train of thought. Heat seemed to jump from her form to his— anger, frustration, attraction— damn but he wasn’t sure. He could not…would not allow a dalliance to interfere with his goal. Time was running out.

  “Know this, Miss James. If you are hiding something, I will find out.”

  As the sun burst through the sky, sending brilliant rays of light upon the path, rays that burned his face, he pulled himself onto his mount and nudged his horse down the lane.