“Lord Northcliffe,” Jenny came forward to take his hand. “I should like you to meet my neighbors, Miss Fury and her brother, Mr. Ambrose Fury.”
Fury’s somber dark eyes regarded him. Grant remembered seeing the baron’s son and his sister at a London ball only a short time ago. Miss Fury had fainted.
“A dreadful business, my lord. My sister and I called to offer our support.”
Miss Fury’s brother must have brought her home immediately. She was still very pale. An attractive woman in her mid-twenties, she rose on a rustle of dark skirts and curtseyed. “Nice to have met you, my lord. We shall take our leave, Jenny. But please do come to dinner, if you feel up to company. I know I can speak for my brother.”
“Indeed, we should be delighted.” Fury ushered his sister from the room.
“Mr. Fury’s estate lies on our western boundary,” Jenny later explained as she poured Grant’s coffee.
“How fortunate to have good neighbors.”
“Yes, she and her brother have been our good friends for some years. Catherine was affianced to an army captain many years ago, but he was killed before they could marry. It broke her heart, and she is most concerned for me.”
He hated to see Jenny’s face so wan against the grim black of her widow’s weeds, her eyes red-rimmed. The urgency to bring the killer to justice increased to fever pitch. “Do you know if Nathaniel had any enemies?” he asked, forcing his voice to remain steady. “Have there been any threats on his life?”
Her eyes widened. “Not that he mentioned. He tended to shelter me from any unpleasantness.” She smiled faintly, her eyes sad. “Treated me like a china Dresden shepherdess. I’m stronger than that.” She dropped her gaze to her teacup. “I’ll have to be even stronger now.”
“You have good friends,” Grant said, realizing how ineffectual that sounded.
“Do you think someone planned to kill him?” Her eyes widened. “There are plenty who hate for all kinds of reasons, but nothing comes to mind.” She sighed. “You know that my husband was a good man. He was liked by his tenants.”
Grant reached over and patted her hand where she sat on the oyster satin sofa. “His killer will be found, I promise you.”
She took a deep, shuddering breath. “Thank you. It won’t bring him back but will provide some measure of comfort in the future, perhaps.”
“I’d be honored to escort you to the church, on the day of the funeral.”
“How kind. A neighbor and very good friend of Nathaniel’s, Sir Ewan, is driving up from London to escort me.”
“I’m glad.” Grant stood and pressed a kiss to her damp cheek. “Who is the Justice of the Peace in the village?”
“Squire Bloom.”
After an unhelpful discussion with the squire, Grant rode back to Thornhill arriving well after dark.
His father awaited him. “I called for a hot meal when I heard you arrive,” he said with a worried frown. “You should not ride alone after dark, it’s dangerous.”
Grant collapsed into a chair glad of the fire burning in the large stone fireplace. “I’m grateful, Father. I could do with a bite to eat.”
“It’s good of you to concern yourself with this sad business. Did you learn anything of note?”
“Nothing much, I’m afraid.” Grant had decided not to tell him about the rifle ball he’d found. He wanted to keep his Grandfather out of this too. They had no notion of Grant’s work and he wished to keep it that way.
Several days later, his grandfather’s coach took Grant and his father through the narrow York streets to the church. Mourners paid their respects to Jenny and filed into the ancient cathedral.
Sir Ewan hurried over to greet them, which caused the duke to frown at his presumption. “Such a dreadful business, to lose a dear friend,” he said in a somber voice, watching as the duke continued on to greet Jenny. “And poor Lady Haighton and those children left alone and defenseless. But I am at hand with any help she may need.”
“Do you have any idea who might be behind his murder?” Grant asked.
Sir Ewan shook his fair head. “None. As far as I know, Haighton hadn’t an enemy in the world. It seems clear that he uncovered a nefarious act to rip up the rail line and was killed. A case of him being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Unless you’ve heard something else?”
“No. I’m still struggling to believe he’s dead.” Grant wondered how much Sir Ewan had heard. He wondered if he’d questioned the magistrate, Clegg, himself.
Grant wasn’t about to speculate further and certainly not with Nat’s neighbor.
As soon as he could slip away, Grant called to see the York magistrate. Clegg had no answers and appeared completely out of his depth, suggesting the French or Luddites, and even aiming wild accusations at utopian socialism.
