Murder at the Brightwell: A Mystery Page 2

  “Yes. It was.”

  One dark brow moved upward, ever so slightly. “Well. Did you ask him to stay for lunch?”

  “He didn’t care to.”

  He tapped his riding crop against his leg. “Perhaps he hadn’t expected me to be here.”

  “Yes, well, you do flit about, darling.”

  We looked at one another for a moment. If Milo was waiting for more, he was going to be disappointed. I had no desire to satisfy his curiosity. Let him wonder what I was up to for once.

  “Going riding?” I asked breezily, moving past him and into the shadowed entryway.

  His voice followed me into the dimness. “Care to join me?”

  The invitation stopped me, and I was instantly irritated with myself. I turned. The light behind him in the doorway turned him to shadow, but I could tell he was watching me.

  I wanted to go, but I knew that it really mattered very little to Milo if I did or not.

  He waited.

  “All right,” I said at last, weakening. “I’ll just run up and change.”

  “I’ll wait for you at the stables.”

  I went up to my room, preoccupied by the morning’s strange turn of events. Fancy Gil Trent coming to see me, after all this time. There had been something a bit mysterious in his manner. I wondered if things were as straightforward as he had made them seem. Could there really be something so very wrong with Rupert Howe? I tried again to remember the young man but could recall only a fleeting impression of suave attractiveness. I hoped that Gil was merely playing the role of overprotective brother, but I knew that he was not inclined to exaggeration, nor would he have judged Rupert Howe harshly without good reason.

  Good reason or not, I reflected, our intervention was likely a lost cause. I was not under any illusions that I would somehow be able to deter Emmeline from her course if she had truly determined to wed the man, but I supposed it wouldn’t hurt to try.

  However, if I was honest, I had to admit that I was partly compelled to accept Gil’s proposal for motives that were not entirely altruistic. The truth was that I was finding it more and more difficult to ignore that I was terribly unhappy. Perhaps I had not admitted it completely, even to myself, until today.

  It was as if Milo’s homecoming, Gil’s arrival, or some combination of the two had ignited in me the sudden realization that my lifestyle had become dissatisfying. Though I stayed as busy as possible, there was only so much for which involvement in local charities could compensate. London had felt stifling these past few months, but I was still too young to have settled seamlessly into quiet country life. In short, I was unsure what I wanted. Perhaps aiding Gil would help alleviate my recent malaise and allow me the satisfaction of usefulness, however temporary it might be.

  There was, of course, my reputation to be considered. I had agreed to accompany Gil with little thought to any possible consequences, social or otherwise. Now that I had time to reflect, I was perfectly aware of how it would look for me to accompany him to the seaside, no matter how many of our mutual acquaintances would be there. If I wasn’t careful, scandal could quite conceivably ensue. Yet I found suddenly that I didn’t really care. It was no one’s business but my own what I chose to do.

  I had changed into my riding costume, ivory-colored trousers and a dark blue jacket, and I stopped before the full-length mirror, noticing the way that the trousers and well-cut jacket outlined my figure, how the color of the jacket seemed to breathe a bit of blue into my gray eyes. Milo had, in fact, bought these clothes for me. His taste was impeccable, if expensive, and the costume’s overall suitability to my shape and coloring were indicative of his affinity for detail when it came to the fairer sex.

  I wondered what Milo would think of my little holiday, but I pushed the thought away. He did as he pleased. There was no reason why I should not do the same.

  My mental reservations systematically overruled, I went downstairs to meet my husband for our morning ride.

  I arrived at the stables as he was leading out his horse, Xerxes, a huge black Arabian with a notorious temper. Only Milo could ride him, and the horse seemed excited at the prospect of a jaunt with his master, stamping his feet and snorting as he walked into the sunshine.

  I watched my husband as he spoke to the horse, patting its sleek neck, the glossy black mane the same color as Milo’s own coal-dark hair. There was a smile on Milo’s face, and it remained there when he saw me approaching. He was happy to be home again, if only so that he was near the stables. If Milo genuinely loved anything, he loved his horses.

  Geoffrey, the groom, led my horse Paloma out of the stable behind them. She was a smooth chestnut with white forelegs and face, and she was as sweet as Xerxes was temperamental.

  I patted her soft nose as I approached. “Hello, old girl. Ready for a ride?”

  Milo turned to me. “Shall we?”

  We mounted up and set off at a brisk trot.

  I felt some of the tension of the morning slip away as we rode in comfortable silence. The weather was warm, with a soft breeze, and the sun beamed down, unhindered, save for the presence of the occasional fluffy white cloud. Really, the scene was almost idyllic.

  Milo looked at me suddenly and flashed me a grin that I felt in my stomach. “I’ll race you to the rise.”

  I didn’t hesitate.

  “Let’s go, Paloma.” A slight nudge with my heels was all it took, and she was off, racing across the open field as though she had heard the opening shot at Epsom Downs.

  Xerxes took no prodding, and we flew, side by side. It had been a long time since we had done this. The rise lay across this field, as the flat land gave way to a set of low wooded hills. By crossing the field and riding upward along a path that angled to the north and then westward like a horseshoe on its side, you came to an outcropping that looked out across the estate. Milo and I had shared many an evening on that rise in the very early days of our marriage. It had been at least a year since I had set foot there.

  The race was a close one. Xerxes had brute strength, but Paloma was lithe and sure-footed. Xerxes outpaced us across the field, but the path upward allowed Paloma to overtake the lead, and by the time we reached the rise, I was a length or two ahead.

  I reined in Paloma as I reached the giant oak, our finish line, just as Xerxes charged up behind us.

  “I’ve won!” I cried. The exhilaration of it all hit me, and I laughed. Milo laughed, too, a sound both strange and familiar, like hearing a melody you once loved but had forgotten existed.

  “You’ve won,” he conceded. “You and that blasted docile horse of yours.”

  He dismounted in one fluid motion, tossing Xerxes’s lead across the low-hanging branch of a tree. He moved to my side and reached up to help me dismount.

  His hands remained for a moment on my waist as my feet hit the ground, and we looked at one another. There was a momentary flicker of heat lingering between us, and the uncanny sensation that things were as they once were and that we still loved one another.

  But, then, I was not sure that Milo had ever loved me at all.

  I stepped past him, securing Paloma’s lead, and then began to walk up the slight incline to the tip of the rise. Below me, Thornecrest, the imposing country house and manicured grounds that had been Milo’s father’s sanctuary, spread out before us. It was a large, grand property, and Milo kept it up beautifully. The neglect he demonstrated as a husband did not carry over to his estate.

  Milo walked up to stand beside me, not quite close enough to touch. Standing here, looking out across the land with my husband at my side, brought back memories of times here that I would rather have forgotten. No, that was a lie. I didn’t want to forget. But it hurt to remember.

  I was not sure what had brought on this fit of melancholy, but I suspected it had something to do with Gil’s visit. Though I had tried to suppress such thoughts, I had remembered Gil more than once over the past few years and wondered what might have been.

  “A lovely day
for riding,” I said. It was true, but the words sounded flat, and it seemed they hung heavily in the air.

  If Milo noticed the strange aloofness that had arisen between us, he gave no sign of it. “Yes, though the paths up the rise are a bit overgrown. I’ll speak to Nelson about it.”

  I said nothing. For some reason, I could not seem to conjure my usual equanimity where Milo was concerned. We were usually so easy with one another; even the distance that had grown between us had developed into an artificial joviality. However, I felt there was something different about this moment, as though it was building to some climax of which I was unsure.

  I was uneasy, but my disquiet, the way my heartbeat increased in peculiar anticipation, appeared to be lost on Milo. He was never uneasy. He was always so calm, so very sure of himself, and because of this Gil’s visit had had no impact.

  “The Riviera was beautiful,” he continued with characteristic nonchalance, plucking a leaf off a nearby tree and examining it disinterestedly before tossing it away. “Though not as warm as I like. I thought perhaps we might go back in August, when it’s warmed up some.”

  “No.” I said it so suddenly, so forcibly, it took me a moment to realize that I had spoken. And then I knew what else I would say.

  Milo turned. “No? You don’t want to visit Monte Carlo?”

  “No. Because, you see, I’m taking a trip.”

  “One of your little excursions with Laurel?” He smiled. “Well, I dare say you’ll be back by August.”

  “You don’t understand, Milo,” I said. I took a breath, smoothed my features, made my voice calm and sure. “I’m going away, and I’m not sure when I shall be back.”

  * * *

  WE DID NOT dine together that evening.

  Milo had been surprised, I think, by my proclamation on the rise, but he had not protested, had not even really questioned me. I had said what I had to say, that I was going away for a time, and then I had mounted Paloma and ridden back to the house alone. He didn’t follow me, and I didn’t know what time he had come back.

  I spent most of the day laying out my things for the trip and drawing up a list of details for Grimes to tend to in my absence. Though it gave me something to occupy my time, the list was really unnecessary. Grimes was a treasure. Without my requesting it, he brought a tray to my room, and, mostly to please him, I ate a little and drank a good deal of strong tea.

  I would be traveling without the assistance of a lady’s maid. Eloise, who had been with me for three years, had recently and somewhat unexpectedly left my service to be married. I had not yet had the opportunity to interview for someone to fill her position, and now it appeared I would be unable to do so until my return. Grimes had suggested one of the housemaids might assist me at least in my packing, but I said I would do it for myself. It was no matter, really. Packing allowed me time to gather my thoughts. As for traveling unaccompanied, I thought it was just as well. Eloise, sweet as she was, had never been terribly discreet.

  It was nearly dark when the knock sounded. I knew instantly that it was Milo. Grimes’s knock was softer, much more deferential. Milo’s confidence came through in his rap at my door, as though it was a mere formality and the door would open with or without my consent.

  “Come in.” My back was to him, and I continued to pack as he entered and shut the door behind him.

  The irony of our being here together in my room was not lost on me. We had not shared a bedroom for several months. He had come back from one of his trips quite late one night and slept in the adjoining room to keep from waking me. Late coming home the following night as well, he had slept there again. Neither of us said anything about the arrangement, and he had stayed there. We had become adept at not addressing the steadily growing distance between us.

  “Packing, I see,” he said, when I didn’t acknowledge him.

  “Yes.” I folded a yellow dress and set it in the suitcase on my bed.

  “You didn’t say where you’re going.”

  “Does it matter?”

  He was beside me now, leaning against one of the bedposts, observing my preparations in a disinterested sort of way.

  “How long will you be gone?” His tone was indicative of total indifference. I was not even sure why he had bothered to come and inquire.

  I straightened and turned to look at him. He was closer than I had expected. His eyes were so very blue, even in the poor light of my room. “So much concern, so suddenly,” I said airily. “I’m quite grown-up, you know. You needn’t worry about me.”

  “Are you sure one suitcase will be enough?”

  “I’ll send for my things if I need them.”

  He sat on my bed, beside the suitcase, absurdly handsome as he looked up at me. “Look here, Amory. What is this about? Why all the secrecy?” His tone was light, and I wondered briefly if it would even matter to him if I should leave for good.

  “You needn’t overdramatize things,” I said, deliberately evading his question. “You travel about as you please. Why shouldn’t I?”

  “No reason, I suppose. Although I hadn’t expected you to leave as soon as I arrived home. The house will be rather empty without you.”

  I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. It was typical of Milo to behave as though I were the one who had little interest in our marriage. It was also typical of him to do what he was doing now: inserting himself into my life with the full force of his charm when it was convenient for him and inconvenient for me.

  “I didn’t know you were arriving home,” I said.

  “Yes, I know.” His eyes came up to mine. “And I don’t think you knew you were leaving either.”

  “Meaning what?”

  He picked up a black silk nightgown from my open suitcase, absently rubbing the fabric between his fingers. “This has something to do with Trent, doesn’t it? With his visit today.”

  “You haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Has he been coming here often?”

  “Not very,” I answered, only a little ashamed of my purposefully vague answer.

  He favored me with a smirk that somehow managed to be becoming. “Whatever you may think of me, my dear, I am not a fool.” Languid amusement played at the corners of his mouth. “So Gilmore Trent rode down here on his steed and swept you off your feet, victorious at last. He took rather a long time about it.”

  “Don’t be an idiot, Milo,” I said, snatching the nightgown from where his fist had closed around it.

  He let out a short laugh. “For pity’s sake, Amory. You can’t seriously mean to run off with him.”

  I shut the suitcase, pressing the clasps into place with a unified click, and looked at Milo. “I am not running off with anyone. I am taking a trip.”

  He rose from the bed, his features a mask of wry indifference. “Leave me if you must, darling. But don’t go crawling back to Trent, of all people. Surely you must have some pride.”

  My eyes met his. “I have been married to you for five years, Milo. How much pride can I possibly have left?”

  3

  I HAD OUR driver drop me at the station early the next morning. I’d had a wire from Gil saying that he would take the morning train from London and meet me when I changed trains at the next stop so we could ride down to the coast together.

  I hadn’t expected Milo to see me off, but I was a bit disappointed that I saw nothing of him before I left. Then again, I hadn’t anticipated a fond farewell. My comment about the state in which our ravaged marriage had left my pride had been rude, if true.

  Of course, he had taken it in stride. He had laughed and said in that terribly cool and indifferent way of his, “Very well, darling. Do as you wish.” And then he had risen and left the room, and that had been that.

  I stopped on my way to the station to bid farewell to my cousin Laurel and to explain to her the reason behind my sudden departure. Laurel and I had grown up together and were the closest of friends. She was the single person in whom I felt I
could freely confide.

  “A trip to the seaside with Gil Trent?” she asked, brows raised as we sat in her parlor. “I didn’t think you had it in you, Amory.”

  “I may just surprise us all,” I answered. “Perhaps I have a reckless streak none of us has foreseen.”

  We were joking, of course, but her final assessment of the situation was accurate. “Helping an old friend or not, this certainly can’t improve things between you and Milo.”

  “I sometimes wonder if anything will,” I said.

  The thought troubled me as I reached the station, but I did not allow myself time for further reflection as the train moved over the landscape. First and foremost, I was to help my friend. Gil was depending on me. My marriage woes had lasted this long; they could wait a bit longer.

  I switched to the southbound train at the Tonbridge station, and a few moments later Gil found me in my compartment and dropped onto the seat beside me as the train set back into motion.

  “Hello,” he said. He smiled then, brightly. “I’m glad you’ve come, Amory.”

  “I told you I would come, Gil.”

  He removed his hat and tossed it on the empty seat facing us, brushing his fingers through his hair. “Yes, I knew you had every intention of coming.” He spoke ruefully. “But one must never underestimate the persuasive powers of Milo Ames.”

  “Let’s not talk about Milo, shall we?”

  “I have no desire to talk about your husband,” he said. “But I don’t want you to be hurt. Was he angry with you?”

  “No,” I answered with a sigh. “Milo doesn’t get angry. I don’t think it much matters to him that I’ve gone.”

  Gil was silent for a moment. “Have you left him?” he asked at last.

  “I hadn’t realized how inclined to melodrama men are,” I said. “No, I haven’t really left him. Not completely, I suppose. I told him I was taking a trip.”

  “Did you tell him you were going with me?”

  I picked up the magazine I had been reading and flipped it open to a random page, ready to be done with this conversation. “Milo’s very clever, really. He just pretends to be glib because others find it charming. Naturally, he made the connection between your visit and my going away.”