“What did you say to her?” Gwinnie demanded as she pulled her brother to his feet. The hem of her gown wicked up the water, but she didn’t seem to notice.
“I told her I wrote the novel,” he said as he dripped water on the muddy shore as they climbed the bank to the gravel road. He ran one hand and then the other down his sleeves to encourage the soaked cloth to let go of the wet. He looked after Lady Darkford, hurrying down the path, her distraught child in her arms. “I gather that was a mistake,” he said on a deep, blown out breath.
Gwinnie shook her head.
The excitement gone, voices rose around them, all eyes on the water dripping off him.
Lakehurst ignored the surrounding people. His attention remained on Lady Darkford. His brows drew together when he saw a man rise from a bench not far away and turn to follow Lady Darkford. He’d seen him sit down when he and Lady Darkford did. He’d noted him because he wore his hat pulled low over his eyes, and he wore a greatcoat, though the day was warm. Too odd, he’d thought then. Now that he knew she suspected her husband was murdered, he wondered if the man was following her.Was she in danger?
“Gwinnie,” he said, not looking at her, “see the man behind Lady Darkford?”
“The one in the coat?”
“Yes.”
“I think he is following her. We need to follow them.”
She squinted in the direction he pointed. “Ah, yes!—Not us, though,” she said, straightening, “even if we weren’t wet, we’d be too conspicuous—Rose!” she called out.
“Yes, miss?” her maid said, turning from watching Lady Darkford, as all around them had been.
“Quick, look there!” she said, pointing. “A man is following Lady Darkford. Follow them to determine what occurs.”
“And report back to us immediately afterward,” Lakehurst added.
“Yes, miss, my lord!” Rose said excitedly. “And start screaming if he tries anything,” Rose added with a grin, dipping a quick curtsy before hurrying after the man and Lady Darkford.
“Screaming?” Lakehurst asked his sister as her maid scurried down the road, dodging horses, carriages, and pedestrians as she tried to keep the man in sight.
“It is what we tell the women at the charity house to do if anyone bothers them. It draws attention and most of the men out to take something or do something they shouldn’t don’t want attention.” She gathered the rope from the ground and pulled the boat to the shore. She picked it up and shook it to shed water, dumped it back in its canvas bag, then tucked it under one arm.
Lakehurst nodded. He took Gwinnie’s other arm and started walking with her toward the park entrance, ignoring the curious glances and whispered asides from those around them.
“But what made you suspicious?” she asked as she walked beside him.
“Lady Darkford looked at me with such horror when I told her I wrote the book. All the color drained from her face and I thought she might cast up accounts. She couldn’t get away from me fast enough.”
“Hmmm… And she did make that comment about you being into demons and cults.”
“But I’m not,” he protested.
“No, you are not into them, per se, but you use them in your novels as plot devices to scare your readers.”
Lakehurst acknowledged that was true, then, “Do we know how her husband, the Marquess, died? She said it was like my book, but I find that hard to believe.”
“Why?” Gwinnie asked.
“Drugs and a Satanic ritual? I was attempting to make up something horrifying.”
“And you did. But, if what Lady Darkford said is true, and you weren’t original…”
He scowled. “Didn’t Ellinbourne tell us once—before we met her—that her husband died eighteen months ago?”
“Yes.”
“About the same time I was in Scotland visiting our mother’s relations,” he mused. “I don’t think I ever heard how he died.”
“Mr. Martin could probably find out,” Gwinnie suggested.
