“Nate,” Bridget said. Nate blinked. He was still standing in the doorway of the library, and she was walking toward him. “Did something happen? Where were you? You missed dinner. I can ask Cook to…”
“Bennett is bringing a plate to my room. But I wanted to let you know that I was home.”
“Is that…blood?” She pointed to his beige waistcoat.
He glanced down and saw that there was indeed a large blood stain on his waistcoat. “It’s not mine,” he said. “It’s Collins’s blood.”
“Mr. Collins’s blood?” She gaped at him. “Why on earth would his blood be on your waistcoat?”
Nate was about to explain when he caught a glimpse of Rupert and Charlie sitting at a writing desk in the corner of the library. Each held a quill pen, and papers littered the desk. They were both staring at him, presumably having overhead Bridget’s exclamation. Nate felt as though a private moment had been invaded. Why was Rupert everywhere all of a sudden? And how had he not noticed the poets before? He stiffened, and Bridget must have sensed why because she turned and looked at them. The two quickly returned to their work.
“It’s nothing,” Nate said. “You’re not to worry. No one else is dead.” Then he turned stiffly and walked out of the room.
A little later, when he’d sunk into his steaming tub and was soakinghis aching muscles, Nate felt some of the day’s tension ease out of him. Still, he could not quite put his mind at rest.
He tried to work out what was troubling him the most. Was it the unsolved murder? Groby’s impending trial and inevitable guilty verdict? The prospect of his horrendous gibbeting?
Or was it Rupert, who’d been enjoying long days with his son, stealing that time from Nate? And then there were his growing feelings for Bridget. Did she feel the same toward him? How could she? She’d only just come out of official mourning for her papa, and her heart was still broken over that loss. He’d be a cad to try and take advantage of her vulnerability. Moreover, she depended on him for her security, safety, and livelihood. It wouldn’t be fair for him to put her in a position of having to reject him. If he acted on his feelings, everything they’d built together could be ruined.
Chapter Seventeen
Bridget rose early,as she did every morning, and slipped out of bed carefully so as not to disturb Bijou, who was stretched out on her bed snoring softly. She walked to her washbasin and emptied the pitcher of warm water left for her by Harriet, the lady’s maid she shared with Aunt Marianne. Then she used a clean washcloth and the rose-scented soap bar she’d purchased on her recent trip to York to wash her face, neck, chest, and arms thoroughly. After cleaning her teeth with tooth powder, she went to sit at her dresser, where she picked up her brush and ran it through her hair.
Minutes later, her chamber door opened, and Harriet stepped inside with her morning tea. “Good morning, miss. Sorry for my lateness, but Cook is in a bit of a fuss. She were out early at the fishmongers, getting what she needs for the fish soup that’ll be making up part of tonight’s meal, and she said everyone at the fishmonger’s were talking about Mr. Collins.” She set the tea down next to Bridget and then took the hairbrush from her.
“What about Mr. Collins?”
“He was beaten, miss. Yesterday. Within an inch of his life, they say.”
Bridget’s heart began to race. The blood she’d seen on Nate’s shirt.It belongs to Collins, he’d said.
“Whoever did it, left him for dead.” Harriet started to brush Bridget’s blond locks. “Mrs. Groby came home to find him lying in a bed of his own blood. Can you imagine? An’ now Cook says there will likelybe no more meat coming from Groby’s slaughterhouse. An’ she’ll have to find a new butcher, which she says, we should’ve done in the first place when Groby were arrested. There’s something evil afoot in that…”
Blood rushed to Bridget’s ears, and she stopped listening as Harriet rambled on. Had Nate lost his temper and hurt Collins? And what would Alice Groby think? That she’d invited her to spend the day at Villa De Lacey while Nate went to her farm and attacked Collins? Impossible! Nate would never hurt anyone. She was certain of that. But why hadn’t he told her what had happened to Collins last night? Why had he hesitated? She chewed the inside of her lip, unable to rid herself of the unsettling feeling in her stomach. Hadn’t the last year taught her that everyone had dark secrets—even those closest to her?
Bridget had no appetite for breakfast that morning. Instead, she sat in the breakfast room beside Aunt Marianne and sipped tea while Bijou ate a breakfast of scrambled eggs under the table. It was still too early for the guests, who preferred to eat between nine and ten o’clock.
“I do wish you wouldn’t feed Bijou under the table,” Aunt Marianne said. “What if one of the guests were to come in?”
“They won’t. It’s far too early even for the colonel. You know as much, or you wouldn’t be here.” After last summer, Aunt Marianne had taken to eating separately when some of the guests took to insulting her and treating her like one of the staff. They’d done the same to Bridget, and it had injured her pride at first, but she no longer cared. The murders last summer had put things in perspective.
“I take it you heard about Mr. Collins,” Aunt Marianne said.
Bridget nodded. “I shall have to go and see how Mrs. Groby is faring today.”
“No, you shall not!” Aunt Marianne said sharply. “I forbid it.”
“Aunt Marianne. She was here yesterday, and I owe it to her to…”
“Listen, Bridget. I have no idea what is going on in our once peaceful home, but Westmorland is changing. Ever since Wordsworthwrote that guidebook to the lakes, murder and mayhem have been raining down upon us. I have already lost my brother, and you are my last remaining relative. Should something happen to you, I don’t know what I shall do.”
“Oh, Aunt.” Bridget reached for her aunt’s hand.
“Promise me you won’t go to Braithwaite unaccompanied,” Aunt Marianne said. “I don’t want you going to that woman’s house. Not now—not until we find out who is responsible for all this violence and that horrible murder. I just cannot believe it is Mr. Groby. He has always been such a lovely man. Your father had great respect for him. The real killer is still walking among us, Bridget.”
“I think so too, Aunt.”
“It’s a terrible thing that has happened to Mr. Groby, but it’s not your job to save him. You couldn’t save your papa and now you—”
