Mitchel had breakfasted earlier and gone out about the estate, as he often did; breakfast was long finished, the trays cleared away, and they were discussing the best location for the portrait when he returned.
They all looked up when he strode in, alerted by the heavy deliberation in his stride.
Deathly pale, he halted at the end of the table. He looked at them all-Gerrard, Jacqueline and Barnaby-then his gaze settled on her father. “My lord, I have a confession to make.”
The comment started hares in all their minds-confused hares; none of them saw Mitchel as the murderer. They exchanged glances, wondering.
“Ah…” Her father waved to a chair. “Why don’t you sit down, my boy, and explain?”
Jaw set, Mitchel drew out a chair and dropped into it. Leaning on the table, he fixed her father with an unfaltering gaze. “I’ve betrayed you, and failed in my duty.”
What followed was not a confession to murder; it was a disturbing tale nonetheless.
“I believed”-Mitchel’s jaw clenched-“or rather was led to believe that my feelings for Eleanor Fritham were returned. More, I was encouraged by Jordan to think that I could win Eleanor’s hand-I see now that they were both deceiving me, leading me on.” Mitchel’s gaze darkened; he met her father’s eyes steadily. “They wanted information from me, and I gave it.”
From his tone, that appeared to be the extent of Mitchel’s crime.
“What information?” Gerrard asked.
“Details of Lord Tregonning’s estate and business dealings.” Mitchel spread his hands. “I didn’t see all that much harm in it at the time.” He glanced at Jacqueline. “I arrived here after your mother died. I believed everything Jordan told me about her death-that you were disturbed and needed to be kept at home, and that Jordan would eventually marry you and gain control of your fortune and Hellebore Hall-”
“What?” Jacqueline’s stunned exclamation was drowned out by more violent expostulations from her father and Gerrard. She waved them to silence; dumbfounded, she stared at Mitchel. “Jordan intended marrying me?”
Mitchel frowned. “That’s what he said. Whether it was true-”
The doorbell pealed. Not once, but continuously.
“What the devil…?” Lord Tregonning glared, then the pealing ceased.
Treadle hurried past the open parlor door on his way to the front hall. A second later, a cacophony of voices spilled into the hall, too many voices to distinguish. Gerrard and Barnaby pushed back their chairs. They stood; Mitchel rose, too. They all looked out to the corridor.
Abruptly, Treadle appeared in the doorway, looking harassed and rather desperate. “My lord, they won’t-”
He got no further; Mrs. Elcott thrust him aside and swept in. A veritable wave of neighbors poured after her, Lord and Lady Fritham, Matthew Brisenden, Lady Trewarren, Mrs. Myles, Mr. and Mrs. Hancock, and Sir Vincent Perry among them. Of the crowd, only Lady Tannahay and the Entwhistles, who looked frankly taken aback, had been invited.
Lady Trewarren headed for Lord Tregonning. “Marcus, we’ve just heard the sad, sad news! It’s thoroughly dreadful! We didn’t know what to think, but of course we’re here to support you and Jacqueline through this latest ordeal.”
Lord Tregonning had reached the end of his patience. “What ordeal?”
Lady Trewarren halted; she blinked at him. “Why, the ordeal of Millicent’s death, of course. You can’t possibly not call that an ordeal, surely. Why-”
The chatter rose again, threatening to drown out all else.
“Millicent isn’t dead!”
Lord Tregonning’s roar led to immediate silence.
Gerrard seized the reins. “From whom did you hear that Millicent had died?”
Mrs. Elcott stared at him as if she wasn’t sure he was sane. “But she isn’t dead-or is she?”
Gerrard hung on to his temper. “No, she isn’t, but it’s important we learn who told you she was.”
Lady Trewarren exchanged a glance with Mrs. Elcott, then looked at Gerrard. “Why, I heard it from my staff, of course.”
Others nodded.
“It’s all over St. Just,” Matthew volunteered. “My father had it from the innkeeper-Papa will be along shortly.”
Lord Tregonning looked at Lady Tannahay. “Had you heard anything?”
Mystified, Lady Tannahay shook her head. Beside her, the Entwhistles did, too.
“But we’re from further afield, Marcus,” Lady Entwhistle pointed out. “This sounds like a rumor that’s only just begun.”
Lord Tregonning looked at Treadle.
So did Gerrard. “Any chance any of the staff spoke to anyone-or more likely, that someone visited here, and got the wrong idea?”
“No, sir, m’lord.” Treadle drew himself up. “Mrs. Carpenter and I will take an oath on it-none of the staff have left the house nor talked to anyone at all, and no one has visited here. Not until”-with his head he indicated the crowd in the room-“just now.”
Gerrard looked at Mitchel.
Equally puzzled, Mitchel shook his head. “I haven’t spoken to anyone about Millicent.”
Gerrard turned to Lord Tregonning. “The only person who would have thought Millicent was dead…”
Lord Tregonning nodded. “Indeed.” He looked at the others. “We need to identify who started this rumor.”
Matthew had been following the exchanges closely. “On my way out, I spoke to our gardener. He heard of it last night in the tavern-he said the head gardener from Tresdale Manor told him.”
“My maid had it from her young man.” Lady Trewarren glanced at Lady Fritham. “He’s your junior stableman, Maria.”
Lady Fritham looked confused. “My maid told me, too-I gathered all the staff knew.”
“I had it from my maid Betsy this morning.” The portentous note in Mrs. Elcott’s voice had everyone turning to her. She nodded, acknowledging their attention. “Betsy lives with her parents and comes in every day. She heard the news from her sister, who’s parlormaid at the manor-she, the sister, told Betsy that Cromwell, the butler at the manor, had overheard Master Jordan telling Miss Eleanor that Miss Tregonning was dead, and there was no more to be done.”
All eyes swung back to Lady Fritham. She blinked, puzzled. “But Jordan didn’t say anything to me. Hector?” She looked at Lord Fritham; nonplussed, he shook his head. Confused, Lady Fritham turned to Lord Tregonning. “Well, I’m sure I don’t know what’s going on.”
“Damn!” Barnaby had stood quietly by, absorbing information; he suddenly leaned forward and spoke to Lord Tregonning. “My lord, I meant to ask earlier-has any man applied to you for Jacqueline’s hand?”
Lord Tregonning frowned, started to shake his head, then stopped. His expression blanked, then he shifted and glanced at Jacqueline. “I’m sorry, my dear-I suppose I should have mentioned it, but indeed, it was such a…well, insulting offer, couched as it was. As a sacrifice, in fact-as he had no wish to marry any other young lady, he was willing to assist our family by marrying you and ensuring you stayed here, safely out of sight, kept close at home for the rest of your life.”
“When was this?” Barnaby asked.
“About five months ago.” Lord Tregonning’s lip curled. “Even though at that time I wasn’t sure…it was still a dashed stomach-curdling offer. I dismissed it, of course-told him I appreciated the thought, but it wouldn’t be honorable to accept such a sacrifice on his part.”
“He who?” Barnaby pressed.
Lord Tregonning blinked at him. “Why, Jordan, of course. Who else?”
“Who else, indeed,” Barnaby muttered. Aloud, he asked, “And no other man applied for Jacqueline’s hand?”
Lord Tregonning shook his head.
“Marcus?” Lady Trewarren had lifted her head; she was glancing up and around. “I hate to mention it, but I smell smoke.”