Horror assailed her. It roiled up through her, closing her throat, threatening to strangle her. She scrambled backwards crablike, landing on her buttocks some five feet away. Her chest heaved, her breathing harsh as she stared with morbid fascination at the groom’s body.
North was gone, his footsteps receding down another hallway. The marquess rolled off the body and extended a hand to help Leona to her feet. “Miss Leonard?”
She flinched away from him, shuddering.
“Miss Leonard!” he repeated, louder now, trying to pierce her shell of horror. Dazed, she turned to look up at him. “Let me help you to your feet.”
Vaguely she nodded and held out her hand. He pulled her up gently, then turned her away from the sight of the man on the floor.
“Leona!”
It was Deveraux’s voice, closer now.
“Nigel!” she cried out but barely heard her own voice on the thread of sound that came out. She pulled away from Keirsmyth and stumbled toward the door.
“Deveraux! Up here!” shouted Keirsmyth, his deep rasping voice cutting through the night.
A clattering of footsteps on the stairs told them he’d heard and was coming. When he burst onto the landing, Leona wasalready running toward him, throwing herself on his chest, clinging to the fine material of his jacket.
“Take me out of here!” she pleaded as tears ran down her cheeks.
His arms automatically went around her, holding her tightly against him. He looked into the room to see the body on the floor and Keirsmyth standing above it. “Ludlow? He was behind this?”
“If you mean the gentleman on the floor, no. He was dead when we arrived and, I gather, the reason for Miss Leonard’s ear-splitting screams.”
“It was North!” sobbed Leona. “It was North! He followed me up the hill and into the keep!”
"Not quite, dear lady,” contradicted Keirsmyth. “But why don’t we descend out of this hellish room before we talk?”
Deveraux glanced over at the groom's body, then nodded and turned to lead Leona down the dark flight of stairs. Leona did not notice how dark the stairway was this time, for she would not lift her face from where it was buried in Deveraux’s shoulder. Outside a crowd of grooms, footmen and gentlemen guests gathered.
Deveraux glared at his people over Leona’s head. “Ludlow’s above, dead. But his murderer is at large. It is the same man you failed to find the night of the fire because you did not believe he existed. He does exist. Some of you know what he looks like. He’s the man who claimed to be a Bow Street Runner.”
An excited murmur rose among the men.
“I say, Deveraux, what is this all about?” asked one of the guests, eyeing Leona and Keirsmyth curiously.
“Revenge,” Deveraux answered shortly and turned to lead Leona back to the house.
CHAPTER 12
To say that the events of the evening placed a slight damper on the festivities would be a monumental understatement. No one wanted to dance. There was too much to discuss and speculate upon. At first, the small orchestra valiantly played, but the rising murmur of voices drowned out the musicians' music. When the butler signaled them to stop playing, no one noticed.
Speculation spread among the gathered guests and the servants due to the absence of the principal players from the assemblage. That group gathered in the library; the door closed firmly against the curious. It didn’t help assuage the ready tongues to have the dead groom’s body brought down from the keep and laid in the small chapel at the back of the house. Interestingly though, no guest called for their carriage. It had been a dull winter. This was the most interesting turn-up since the recent announcement of Napoleon’s escape from Elba! But since society had faith in the Iron Duke’s abilities to defeat the little Corsican, even this—as yet—produced little more than a casual comment and agreement that the former tyrant of Europe would be dealt with swiftly.
Leona, at the insistence of the Dowager Countess, lay on a sofa in the library, a cool lavender-water-doused handkerchief clutched to her brow. Her head throbbed from her tears and her fear. She wanted to close her eyes and rest, but every time she did, she saw the image of the dead groom in her mind. She listened only peripherally to the conversations going on around her. From the evidence up at the keep, someone—most likely North—had been living there. It also appeared Ludlow had not been dead long, which—owing to his absence from the estate for the past several days—raised the interesting question of his possible involvement with the Norths. Gerby, the head groom, remembered that it was Ludlow who searched the keep after the fire and reported no one there. Ludlow also encouraged a group to go to the tavern in the village the night they met the supposed Bow Street Runner. Deveraux dismissed those incidents as inconclusive evidence of the man’s collaboration with North. So many suppositions had been made to throw suspicion elsewhere that he was loath to accept new ones automatically. Besides, Ludlow had long been a trusted and valued employee at Castle Marin. Then, too, if no trace of North could be found in the keep with the staff concentrating on that locality, how could they expect Ludlow, one man searching alone, to have found North?
The question no one seemed to be asking was why North was there. What did he hope to accomplish? And who within the household gave him food? It was apparent someone did, for an old basket from the house was found up in the keep with a napkin and some crumbs still in it. Unfortunately, no one seemed to recall how long the basket had been missing and under what circumstances. After all, as one of the cooks said, “Twere just an ol’ kitchen basket.”
Leona wondered if North was planning mischief among the guests but changed his mind when he saw her going up to thekeep. Keirsmyth cleared his throat and regretfully informed her that that wasn’t precisely what happened. “What do you mean?”
Keirsmyth paused his mouth twitching once. “Deveraux asked me to keep an eye on you tonight and see that you didn’t get into trouble.”
Leona turned to glare frostily at Deveraux.
“It was me creeping up the stairs so ineptly behind you. I’m getting too old for this kind of nonsense,” the marquess drawled.
Deveraux laughed. “You just weren’t expecting trouble.”
