Family Plot Read online

  Harold shook his head. “Truth to tell, I don’t know what I might like to do with myself.” He cast a sheepish glance at the numerous valises containing his wardrobe. “You may say I care too much for clothes, but I don’t know what else to care about. One thing is for sure: I can never go back to Oxford.”

  He winced at the memory, and his hand went to his discolored eye, confirming Lady Fieldhurst’s suspicions.

  “Perhaps this trip to Inverbrook will allow you to find some new direction,” her ladyship suggested.

  “Inverbrook!” he echoed bitterly. “I only wish I could go to India, or Abyssinia, or perdition, so long as no one there had ever heard of the Bertram family! Better yet, I wish I might change my name and start over again.”

  Privately, Lady Fieldhurst suspected perdition would be well acquainted with the Bertram family, or at least a few of its more shameless members. Still, having felt much the same way as Harold at various times over the past six months, she could find nothing else to dispute in this sentiment. In fact, she pondered it for a long moment in silence, then regarded Harold with a calculating gleam in her eye. “Yes, let’s!”

  “Let’s what?” asked Harold, all at sea.

  “Let’s not go to Inverbrook after all. Let us stay at an inn instead, one quite a long distance away, where we will be utterly unknown. I can send word to your father’s housekeeper and tell her our plans have changed, so she will not sound the alarm when we do not arrive as expected.”

  “What a capital idea!” Harold exclaimed, smiling for the first time since he had arrived in London. “And may we register at the inn under an assumed name? For there may well be neighborhood gentry, you know, who have sons at Oxford and will be familiar with the name of Bertram.”

  “Oh, of course,” Julia agreed, entering into the spirit of the thing. “I dare not use my maiden name either, for fear someone may remember Miss Julia Runyon and her brilliant marriage to the late Lord Fieldhurst.”

  “What name shall we use, then? It must be one quite unknown in Society circles, or else we may find ourselves in the devil of a coil.”

  It was perhaps inevitable that her imagination should alight on the name of the very one who had unwittingly precipitated her exile to Scotland in the first place.

  “Pickett,” she said, giving an approving nod at the sound of it. “I shall be Mrs. Pickett.”

  Two more days of travel saw them cross the border into Scotland, and in another two days they arrived at their destination. This was not, as previously planned, Lord Fieldhurst’s estate at Inverbrook, but a modest yet respectable inn located on the western coast. An ancient structure of grey stone, its severe façade was softened by a tangle of roses growing near the front door, a few hardy specimens of which still bloomed, protected as they were from the frigid winds blowing off the Irish Sea.

  “Guid e’enin’!” cried the host, a cheerful man with a well-fed belly and a thick red beard. “Whit can I be helpin’ ye with?”

  “I should like two rooms, if you please,” Julia said. “One for myself, and one for my nephews.” She and her husband’s young cousins had agreed they should alter the relationship slightly as a further way of confounding any suspicions.

  “Aye, two rooms, and a fine view of the sea ye’ll have, Mrs.—?”

  “Pickett,” she said. “Mrs. Julia Pickett.” Her conscience would not allow her to claim Mr. Pickett’s first name along with his last, although she knew he was called John. She could only hope the innkeeper would notice her black travelling costume, deduce that her husband was deceased (which had the advantage of being true), and refrain from asking any questions that he might assume to be painful to her.

  He bellowed for a lad apparently a mile away to come and help with the bags—Cousin George’s generosity had not stretched to providing for servants to attend them, a circumstance that in view of their altered plans appeared to Julia to be a very good thing—and led the way upstairs. The bedrooms were small but neat and clean and, just as the innkeeper promised, the windows offered a lovely view of a small garden that gave way to a beach of sand and shingle, beyond which the sea sparkled in the afternoon sun.

  “Can we go down to the water, Cous—Aunt Julia?” begged the boys, drawn to the view like flies to honey. “Can we? Please?”

  Julia wanted nothing more than to lie down upon her bed, but she was not proof against the boys’ pleas. “Very well, for a short while before dinner. Only give me a moment to change my shoes.”

  The three boys ran for the door amid cheers, all but falling over themselves in their eagerness to oblige her in this request. It remained only for her to locate the valise containing a pair of sturdy half-boots, and soon she joined her “nephews” in the taproom below, where the innkeeper had furnished his young guests with mugs of tart apple cider.

  “I wouldna go beyond the headland at this late hour, an I were you,” cautioned this worthy, upon learning of their intentions. “Night falls quickly this late i’ the year. Ye’ll nae want to be benighted.”

  “Thank you, we shall bear it in mind,” Lady Fieldhurst promised to a chorus of groans. “Never mind, boys, we shall have plenty of time tomorrow.”

  She herded her charges from the taproom, out the rear door, and thence down the garden and onto the beach. As the innkeeper had said, a cliff rose sharply to the south, blocking off the view of the water. They walked in this direction, little Edward making ever more adventuresome forays in the direction of the water’s edge, with the predictable result that by the time they turned their steps back toward the inn, he was soaked to the skin and his teeth chattered with the cold.

  After pausing at the desk to request hot water and towels for Edward’s benefit, the party dispersed to their own rooms to change for dinner. This proved to be a plain but hearty meal served in the taproom. As Julia took stock of her fellow patrons, she noticed with some discomfort that they were almost exclusively male—and that most of them were eyeing her with expressions of marked admiration. For the first time, the perils of being a woman travelling without male companionship—without adult male companionship, at any rate—were forcibly brought home to her. In between cutting Edward’s meat and correcting Robert’s table manners, she dared not let her eyes stray from her own plate, lest any of the men in the taproom mistake eye contact for encouragement. As soon as she could reasonably do so, she laid aside her napkin and rose, signaling to the boys to follow her example. Before going upstairs to her room, however, she stopped to exchange a word with the innkeeper.

  “Aye, dinna fash yerself,” he said reassuringly, stroking his red beard. “The boys like to stop by for a drop after the day’s fishing, and of course they’re pleased to take their mutton with such a bonny lass as yersel, but they’ll nae do ye any harm.”

  “Nevertheless, I should be grateful for a private parlor where my nephews and I might take our meals without attracting undue notice.”

  “Aye, I can let ye hae the breakfast parlor starting tomorrow, but it’ll cost ye extra.”

  After such an uncomfortable meal as she had just spent, she would gladly have paid any price. She readily agreed to the innkeeper’s terms, then herded her nephews upstairs and off to bed. After retiring to her own room and checking the lock on the door (despite the innkeeper’s assurances, she had no great faith in his “boys”), she collapsed into bed exhausted. She hoped to sleep until noon at the least.

  In this hope she was doomed to disappointment. She was awakened at six o’clock the next morning by a pounding upon her door. Snatching up her dressing gown, she thrust her arms through the sleeves, tied the belt about her waist, and opened the door. There stood Edward, fully dressed and hopping from one foot to another in his eagerness.

  “You said we might go back to the beach this morning,” he reminded her. “May we go now?”

  “What of your brothers?” she asked, raising her hand to cover a yawn. “Are they already awake?”

  “Oh, yes. Robert is ready to go, too. Harold is s
till tying his cravat.” His scornful tone suggested that this morning ritual was likely to be a protracted exercise. “May Robert and I go now? We won’t go beyond the headland until you are there,” he promised magnanimously.

  “No, indeed! You may wait for me in the breakfast parlor, and we shall all go down together.” Seeing his face fall, she added, “You may bespeak breakfast for the four of us, though. That should help speed things along.”

  With this Edward had to be content. After a filling repast of eggs, bacon, and fried bread, the four set out for the beach. Once there, Edward ran ahead, rounding the headland almost before his companions had reached the water’s edge. Robert soon moved ahead (albeit at a slower pace than his younger brother), stopping from time to time to examine some seashell or bit of driftwood washed up on the shore.

  “It’s smashing, isn’t it?” Harold observed to his aunt, his gaze fixed on the far horizon. “One can’t help wondering what sort of adventures might await just out of sight.”

  “Have you never seen the sea before, then?” asked Lady Fieldhurst.

  “No, never. Have you?”

  “Once.” A shadow crossed Julia’s face. “My husband and I once spent the summer in Brighton.”

  It was there that she discovered the late Lord Fieldhurst’s affinity for opera dancers, but this revelation could hardly be divulged to her husband’s young cousin. There were certain aspects of her marriage that must be kept to herself. She owed the Bertram family that much, at least.

  “Did you get to go out on a boat?” Harold asked eagerly. “I should think that would be ripping good fun, going so far out to sea that one couldn’t see land.”

  “No, I fear we were confirmed landlubbers. You would have thought us very dull sticks.” Before she could think of some elaboration upon her Brighton trip that would be suitable for Harold’s ears, Edward reappeared around the curve of the headland, waving his arms wildly.

  “It’s Ned,” observed Harold, waving back at his brother. “What does he want?”

  “He seems to be saying something.” Julia shaded her eyes with her hand. “I can’t hear him over the crash of the waves.”

  Harold cupped his hands around his mouth. “We can’t hear you!” he bellowed.

  It was very likely that Edward could not hear Harold either, but apparently his message was understood. Edward took off across the beach at a sprint, coming at last to a stop before them. His breath came in gasps, his hands braced on his knees.

  “There’s a woman washed up on the beach,” he said when he could speak. “I think she’s dead.”

  CHAPTER 3

  IN WHICH A MYSTERIOUS FEMALE

  IS INTRODUCED

  * * *

  Over the previous six months, Lady Fieldhurst had had too many encounters with death to react to it now with hysterics, or fainting fits, or any of the other responses deemed suitable for a gently bred female. Instead, she hitched her straight black skirts up to her knees and set off down the beach at a run. Harold and Robert were quick to follow her example and, having the advantages of being both young and male, soon outstripped her. By the time she rounded the point, they had already caught up to Edward, and the three boys were assembled around what appeared from a distance to be a large pile of wet rags washed up by the tide.

  The woman was not dead, although Edward could be forgiven for believing her to be so. She lay on her belly a scant six feet from the water’s edge, so that the incoming waves licked at the hem of her gown. Her long hair, dark and crusted with sand, fanned across the shingle. One arm was flung upward, the hand facing palm up and the fingers curled as if in mute appeal.

  “Drowned Ophelia,” murmured Harold.

  He dropped to his knees before the body. Julia followed suit, wincing as the water-worn pebbles cut into her skin.

  “Is she breathing?” Robert asked, leaning toward her so that he cast a shadow over her.

  “We must find out,” Lady Fieldhurst said. “Robert, Edward, step back. Harold, can you turn her over? Gently, now.”

  Harold rolled the woman onto her side. She offered no resistance, but flopped limply onto her back. He reached out a tentative hand and brushed back the strands of hair now splayed across her face.

  “She’s beautiful,” he breathed.

  “She’s alive!” Robert exclaimed, pointing. “Look, she’s breathing. Wait until Father hears about this!”

  “I found her!” Edward objected. “I get to tell!”

  “You thought she was dead,” retorted Robert.

  “Hush, boys!” Julia chided. “The important thing now is to find help for this poor creature.” She glanced up and down the beach, but it was deserted at this early hour. Her gaze took in the distance from the spot where they stood to the point that concealed the inn some distance beyond. Nearer at hand, a path ran roughly parallel to the beach up to the top of the cliff, where the grey slate roof of a house could just be glimpsed above the treetops. Although the path was fairly steep, it was undoubtedly shorter than the trek back around the headland to the hotel.

  “Harold,” she addressed that young man, who was still gazing at the unconscious woman in rapt wonder, “can you go up there and fetch someone?”

  “I found her,” Edward insisted. “I should go!”

  “You and Robert must stay here with me and, er, stand guard,” Julia said vaguely. She had no idea precisely what they were guarding against, but this seemed to suit Edward, who set his jaw, thrust out his chest, and took up his station near the insensible woman’s head.

  Harold took one last look at the woman, then turned and hurried toward the path. It seemed to Julia that he was gone an unaccountably long time, although in reality it could not have been more than fifteen minutes before he reappeared at the top of the cliff and started down the path, followed by two gentlemen and a pair of footmen. Julia could form no opinion as to which of the gentlemen was the master of the house, for they both appeared to be somewhere between thirty and forty years of age, and both were dressed in the top-boots and tweeds of the country squire. There, however, the resemblance ended. One was tall and willowy with fair hair worn in a fashionable crop, while the other was of medium height and stockier build, with thick black brows and dark hair worn rather longer than fashion dictated.

  “Here she is,” Harold told them, gesturing toward the woman, who had not stirred in his absence.

  The two gentlemen leaned in for a closer look, then the fair one exclaimed, “Good God! It’s Elspeth!”

  “You know this woman?” Julia asked.

  The man nodded. “Our cousin.”

  Upon closer inspection, Julia could see the family likeness in the storm-grey eyes and hawk-like nose possessed by both men.

  The dark gentleman scowled, his heavy brows drawing together in a straight line over his nose. “Impossible! Elspeth drowned almost fifteen years ago.”

  “But her body was never recovered,” the other reminded him.

  “I tell you, Elspeth is dead. You cannot mean to foist this female upon Uncle Angus. The shock would kill him!”

  “And he would kill us if we neglected to inform him of his daughter’s homecoming. In any case, we can hardly leave this poor woman lying here while we debate the matter.” He turned toward the two footmen lingering discreetly in the background. “Take her up to the house, and for God’s sake, keep her out of my uncle’s sight until we have had time to prepare him! Take her inside by way of the kitchen. Mrs. Brodie will know what to do for her.”

  The scowling man put out his foot and nudged the woman with the toe of his boot. “And if you should accidentally drop her on the way up, it would be so much the better.”

  The fair gentleman cast his cousin a speaking look, then turned to address Lady Fieldhurst. “You must forgive our lack of manners. As you may have surmised, this has caught us off our guard. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Gavin Kirk-bride, and this is my cousin, Duncan Kirkbride.”

  Lady Fieldhurst sketched a curtsy. “Mrs. Pic
kett, and my nephews Harold, Robert, and Edward.”

  “Will you not accompany us to the house?” Gavin Kirkbride asked, gesturing in the direction of the cliff path. “I should like to hear how you came upon Elspeth, and this spot, although picturesque, is hardly conducive to conversation.”

  Julia glanced uncertainly at his cousin for confirmation.

  “Yes, I should very much like to hear the way of it,” Duncan Kirkbride growled.

  Although his words were courteous enough, his tone suggested he suspected them of perpetrating some hoax. Julia could hardly decline the invitation since the gentlemen, if they were indeed related to the woman, were entitled to an explanation. Still, she resolved not to turn her back on this one. Given half a chance, he would no doubt take pleasure in tossing them all over the cliff.

  She took Mr. Gavin Kirkbride’s proffered arm and allowed him to lead her up the uneven beach to the base of the cliff path. The footmen and their burden had long since disappeared up the path, and there was no one else in sight. No witnesses, Lady Fieldhurst thought, then chided herself for her morbid flights of fancy. She had been too well-acquainted with violence over the past six months; she was now seeing murderers behind every bush.

  By the time the path leveled off at the top of the cliff, she was out of breath and grateful to see the house looming ahead. It was a rather stark-looking residence, made of the same local grey stone as the inn. Its slate-tiled roof bristled with chimneys, and a raven perched on one of these called down a mocking greeting as they approached.