“If you spoil him, he will give you no peace,” Gramma said with a chuckle.
What an amazing person my great-grandmother is, Prue thought, smiling at her. Could she ever be as strong and independent as Gramma? She sank back onto the sofa. It appeared that she would have to be.
As Jack had promised, the man engaged to watch over them arrived before it grew dark, a polite, fair-haired man with stony, blue eyes. At the sight of him, Prue’s shoulders eased from the awful tension that had gripped her since Jack had gone. Mr. Warren assured her he would patrol the house during the night, then he took up a position on the footman’s chair in the entry hall.
“After this is over, I must stop relying on J…Lord Hereford,” Prue said at the dinner table, pushing aside the Rhenish cream she’d barely touched.
Gramma’s eyes warmed. “Mm? Perhaps.”
“‘Perhaps’? I thought you would agree with me, Gramma.”
“It won’t hurt to rely on Lord Hereford for a while longer. At least until this affair is at an end.”
Gramma surprised her, but then it had always been difficult toknow what her great-grandmother would do next.
Gramma reached over the table and patted Prue’s hand. “Don’t forget your brave escape from the convent. That took gumption, my girl. Reminds me of my girlhood. Once, when Papa hired a young Irish groom, and we rode out…”
A faraway look came into her eyes. Then she tut-tutted. “Might be best to leave that story for another day. Better that we think about how to keep ourselves safe until we hear from Lord Hereford.”
Prue fought not to smile. “Yes, Gramma.”
*
When Jack visitedBow Street Magistrates Court, he learned that Will Darby had been charged with another murder and was to be sent to Newgate after his trial. Jack intended to visit Darby again, in the hope that the shock of his impending death might loosen his tongue. But first he wished to call at Mr. Bartholomew Everton’s residence to see if he had returned from his journey.
He was told that Everton was now at home. He was shown into a small, neat parlor by a maid in an apron and mobcap, to be greeted by Mrs. Everton, a plump, cheerful soul who kept up a flow of inconsequential chatter until her husband made an appearance. Then, with the promise of tea, she hurried from the room.
Jack took the lumpy sofa offered him and viewed the middle-aged gentleman before him.
Mr. Everton, a solid fellow, identified himself as a retired Bow Street Runner. He favored a pipe and spent several minutes knocking it against the grate. He pushed tobacco down into the bowl, lit it, and proceeded to puff out a cloud of tobacco smoke, while Jack curbed his impatience.
“The Earl of Sedgewick, my lord? A sad case, indeed. I wrote to him with a request to see him but never heard back. I wrote one moreletter, telling of my suspicions about Mr. George Stanton, after what has come to light in my investigation for a Mr. Ridgeway in Chilham, Kent.” He shook his head. “It was then that I heard of the earl’s death.”
Jack sat forward. A prickle of awareness climbed his spine. As if something of great importance was about to be revealed.
They were interrupted by the maid with the tea tray, followed by Everton’s wife. And then it was necessary to wait for Mrs. Everton to pour them cups of tea and offer him cake. Once the ritual was performed and she withdrew, Jack ignored the teacup beside him on the small side table and clamped his teeth as Everton stirred sugar into his tea.
“Ridgeway is a neighbor of mine, Mr. Everton. My estate, Glenhaven Park, is a few miles from Chilham.”
“Well, isn’t it a small world? Glenhaven Park, you say? Yes, indeed. One of the fine, stately mansions in the area, with an excellent park.” Everton took a sip of tea.
Any reference to the house of his birth carried sad memories for Jack, and since his father had died, he’d left his excellent staff to run the house and lands. “Why did Mr. Ridgeway hire you, Mr. Everton?”
“Bones were uncovered on his grounds when digging began for a summer house. He wished for me to find out who they might be. The church constable could offer no help because it had been such a long time ago. They had been buried there before the Ridgeways had bought the property. I agreed to take the case on and have been questioning some of the staff since that time. The few who are still with us.”
“And have you discovered anything of interest?” Jack’s voice was surprisingly calm despite the turmoil building inside him.
Mr. Everton selected a biscuit from the elaborate array on the cake plate and bit into it, chewing thoughtfully. “I did. I found Mrs. Bunton, who was for some years the housekeeper for the Stanton family and lived there at the time.”
“I knew the Stantons lived near us once in Chilham,” Jack said. “But they left while I was still in swaddling clothes. What was Mrs. Bunton able to tell you?”
“An extraordinary tale, my lord, which prompted me to contact Lord Sedgewick. But as he had died, my interest died with him.”
Jack gripped the sofa arm. “I would like to hear it.”
“According to Mrs. Bunton, Mr. George Stanton’s wife bore him a son, Roland. But the baby was, in truth, his mistress’s child, born out of wedlock. After his own father, Roland would have been deemed the heir presumptive to the Sedgewick earldom, should the earl fail to have a son. Stanton hushed the circumstances of Roland’s birth up, and then his wife died soon afterward—due to complications after the birth—which is highly suspicious, is it not? Stanton then married his mistress, and she took the role of Roland’s mother.”
“This is based purely on Mrs. Bunton’s account?”
