Grey had listened to all the groveling he could tolerate in an entire lifetime. His so-called heir practically wept objections to Percival’s self-aggrandizing tales of collusion. To hear Stew tell it, Percy had been the one wishing to be rid of a critic who stood in the way of artistic greatness. Who knew an art history scholar was so powerful?
Giving up on the whining, Hunt had sent Stupid Stew out of the Great Hall and left Percy to tell his side of the story. Hunt had promised the hack he wouldn’t seek hanging if Percy told the truth.
Who the devil knew what truth was at this point? According to Percy, Stupid Stew had hired him—multiple times—to find people to kill Grey. Given what Grey had just learned of Stew’s empty pockets, that seemed unlikely. Although given the level of incompetence involved, Stew got what he’d paid for. Or maybe the coward had pockets to let because Percy bled him dry. Who knew?
Grey’s rage only needed the one truth, his own. Percy may have been the one to shove him into the river, but Stew had attempted to finish him off. Exhausted, he would almost certainly have drowned if Stew had succeeded in kicking him into the water.
But no thanks to his heir, Grey was still alive, so it wasn’t murder. Possible assault was the most he could hope for—and judges turned blind eyes to the habits of aristocrats.
Given what Stew had said about Grey courting Eleanor though. . . She wasn’t safe while his heir roamed free. Stew was having fantasies as mad as any lunatic in Bedlam if he thought Grey intended to marry anyone. . .
Because of Stew and his murderous wishes? There was a miserable thought he’d rather not examine.
“If we have my cousin convicted of attempted murder and transported, can the law remove him as my heir?” Grey asked Sutter in disgust during a break in the proceedings.
“Not my area of expertise, but I can find out.” The lawyer jotted a note. “You could always marry and beget a son. I highly recommend the wedded state.”
“Not if Stew means to kill me so no begetting happens. Marriage simply gives the wretch years to find new and exciting ways to hasten my demise, or attack my wife and child. Not a fair solution.” But if Stew really was the hand behind all those incidents?—
Grey could almost see his way out of the curse that had held him imprisoned for so long. An infant had no more control over his mother’s death than a boy had over measles or his father’s drunkenness. People died.
It had been all the other incidents on top of those that had him believing his life was cursed. But if they could be blamed on Stewart and Percival’s ineptitude. . .
Grey was simply having difficulty grasping such gross maliciousness, but it wasn’t as if either of the louts were very bright, just pockets-to-let and desperate.
Stupid Stew the Wastrel had borrowed against his entire trust and parts that weren’t even his. If the law couldn’t hang him, Grey might strangle the scoundrel himself.
They’d taken a break from the trial for everyone to relieve and refresh themselves. Hearing shouts from the portico door, those heading for the buffet swung about and drifted, en masse, down the hall toward the excitement.
Grey hesitated over following the crowd—until he recognized the screamer—Peg.
The lady’s maid should be with Eleanor.
With no hesitation, he shoved past old ladies and men twice his size. Seeing the little maid in tears, catching the words “gallery” and “Leonard,” Grey didn’t stop to listen. He burst past Peg and the footman and anyone else blocking the door to race down the drive.
All his fault, always his fault. He could explain the curse six ways from Sunday. That didn’t make it go away. If anyone had hurt Ellie—he’d hang himself. Let the estate go to rack and ruin. The world wasn’t worth living in if it could harm a perceptive, intelligent, beautiful soul like hers.
He could hear others pounding after him, but Grey’s only reaction was to reach the gallery now. He burst through the open door, terrified of what he might find.
The place was empty. No one stood about, weeping or screaming. Ellie wasn’t lying dead or injured. . .
Arnaud shoved past him to light a lantern. “The maid just might be the hysterical sort. Women wander. Thea said she left her here alone. There’s no reason Miss Leonard should have remained. We’ll have men scour the market, pub, and chapel.”
Grey knew better. “Did Ellie say she’d watch the gallery?”
Arnaud growled agreement as he began searching behind counters and tables.
“If she said she’d stay, she wouldn’t go to the pub. She does exactly what she says she will do.” Although she had not mentioned visiting the gallery. Grey held up the lantern, looking for any sign of her earlier presence. Had she worn hair ribbons? He hadn’t seen her leave. . .
“Thea said she left Miss Leonard examining paintings. When she returned, the maid was here, raising a fuss. There wasn’t time to go far. Want to check the privy? Thea had it fancied up.” Arnaud started in that direction.
The lantern light caught on a dark wet spot on the floorboards before Grey was halfway across the room. Everything that was him sank through the rough planks with the sight. “Blood.”
And odd wheel marks that might be a trail? Oil stains leaving a smear?
In abject terror, Grey left Arnaud yelling for aid, while he traced the almost invisible trail until it vanished into the filth of the floor at the back, near a door to what was most likely storage.
“Does the place have a cellar?” Grey called to the artist, while he searched the shoemaker’s corner and scoured the floors for any evidence of Ellie’s presence.
