“Where is he from?”
“I’m not sure. Devon or some such place. Why does that matter?”
Bridget shook her head. “I don’t know. It’s an inkling I have. In truth, I don’t know what to think. Any one of them could have pushed her.”
“Or none of them,” Nate said. “If you ask me, it is quite plausiblethat she slipped and fell down the stairs. She was foolish to go creeping around in the dark without a lantern or a candle. But I suppose that is a good thing, too, because she may well have set the house on fire.”
“Take Adelia and Lydia Eamont, for instance,” Bridget continued, disregarding Nate’s comment. Her intuition told her something wasn’t quite right, and she couldn’t ignore it. “Their father wasn’t exactly discreet in his carrying on with his mistress, and they likely resented or even hated Madam Bouffant. And what of Lord Eamont himself? I doubt Madam Bouffant was the faithful sort.” Bridget’s mind whirled with theories.
“Wait a minute!” Nate said firmly, catching both Bridget and Bijou by surprise. The dog lifted his head and Bridget straightened, looking to Nate for an explanation. “You must be careful. You cannot go about making accusations—not to these people. They have power. The magistrate has already ruled this death was an accident. You’d need a confession from someone to make him change his mind. And that isn’t very likely to happen.”
“If she were a lady instead of a mistress, the magistrate would not have dismissed her death that easily—and I suspect neither would anyone else,” Bridget said accusingly.
Nate blew out his breath. “You’re right. But all I’m saying is that we do not know what happened, so we cannot go around making wild accusations.”
“Then what do you suggest we do?” A heaviness settled in Bridget’s chest. She’d been unable to punish those who’d mistreated her papa, but she would not allow another injustice to go unpunished on her watch. Bridget pressed Bijou closer. Something deep within her soul plagued her. She thought about that morning and the thunder that had woken her. The way she’d heard a scream, but dismissed it, calling it the shriek of the Banshee wind, and gone back to bed.But what if it hadn’t been the wind after all…
“What is it?” Nate interrupted her reverie. “Why are you frowningso?”
“Two screams,” Bridget said, more to herself than Nate. “The first one came in the middle of the night—I thought it was the wind—the storm was such a cacophony of howls and shrieks, I couldn’t tell. But now, I believe I was mistaken.”
“What do you mean?” Nate asked.
“Later, I awoke to a second scream. That’s when I ran out to investigate and saw poor Madam Bouffant at the bottom of the stairs.” Bridget blinked, remembering Madam Bouffant’s deathly pale face, slack jaw, and glassy eyes staring into the abyss. “She was definitely already dead. I don’t know why I didn’t realize it before, but I think she’d been lying there for some time. I can’t be sure because I didn’t touch her, but she looked stiff, and her blood was dark. It didn’t look fresh, like the blood that comes out from a cut on one’s finger.”
“Yes, I noticed that too,” Nate said.
“Which means that the first scream I heard was hers and the second one came from someone else.”
Nate raised his eyebrows. “So, you think it possible someone else discovered the body, screamed, and then ran away? One of the servants, perhaps?”
“I do.” Bridget put a hand on her beating heart. “If only I’d reacted faster and not dismissed the first scream then I could have—”
“What? Saved her? Stopped the killer singlehandedly?”
“I don’t know.” Bridget massaged her temples. “Maybe she didn’t die instantly. Mayhap, I could have gotten her some help. Oh, how awful. I feel terrible.”
“You mustn’t. There’s likely nothing you could have done. She would not have survived such a nasty fall.”
Bridget stood and placed Bijou in his bed. The terrier raised his sleepy head, half opening his eyes as if to object before settling back to sleep on the soft pillow inside his woven basket. She knelt to stroke the pup on the bridge of his nose. “At the very least, I could have offeredher comfort during her final moments. She must have felt so afraid.”
“You heard the doctor, it’s likely she died instantly. Besides, you’re doing your part now by trying to learn the truth, and if someone is guilty of pushing her, we will bring her justice.”
“Do you mean that?” Bridget stood and turned to look at Nate, searching for confirmation in his deep-blue eyes.
Nate nodded. “We can do some investigating ourselves—subtly, of course. We’ll start by questioning the servants. And I suppose I can try to root some information from the guests if only to ease your mind. Still, it’s a dangerous path to take. We’d best hope that our questions work to prove everyone’s innocence, or I may be forced to close Villa De Lacey’s doors.”
Chapter Fourteen
True to Windermere’schangeable weather, the sky had cleared by midmorning, and the day showed no signs of the earlier storm. The guests were thrilled and continued to behave as if nothing unusual had taken place—as if a woman hadn’t been lying dead on the cold, marble floor mere hours before. They’d eaten heartily and then dispersed happily. Some went for a stroll by the lake, while others went riding on the hillsides or took their carriages to one of the nearby villages. That gave Bridget and Nate the perfect opportunity to interview Abigail and Sarah, whom Nate had summoned to the study.
Bridget glanced around the room. It was still very much her papa’s study. His smooth marble globe, goose-feathered quill, and brass inkwell remained in place, as did the paperweight she’d gifted him from her trip to York with Aunt Marianne—a bronze bust of a little terrier resembling Bijou. She hadn’t had the heart to pack up her papa’s study, and thankfully, Nate hadn’t asked her to. He had taken to working in a downstairs room that had a small writing desk, but it wasn’t set up for taking private meetings.
Nate invited the two housemaids to sit on one of the buttoned-leather chairs that Bridget knew so well. As a little girl, she used to curl up on one of those chairs while her papa worked, often falling asleep as she waited for him.
Nate gestured that Bridget should sit in her father’s high-backed leather armchair behind the desk. She hesitated.Did he want her to conduct this interview?She slid into the chair, pleased that Nate wasletting her take the lead in their “investigation,” but she wasn’t ready for the emotions that overwhelmed her as sat on her father’s seat, ready to conduct business the way he used to do. She caressed the smooth leather on the arm of the chair, the way she used to do as a little girl when her papa would pull her onto his lap. Delighted to be allowed behind his desk, she would touch everything within her reach, particularly the white-and-brown-spotted feathered quill that tickled her fingers as she ran her hand over it repeatedly. Then Papa would suddenly lean back, pulling her with him, and she’d squeal at the sudden dip in her stomach, which would make Papa roar with laughter. Bridget’s eyes stung. She wanted to sink into the leather fabric and allow the chair to embrace her as if it were the embodiment of her dead father.
Nate stood behind Bridget and coughed, pulling her back to the present.
