Sebastian waited patiently. It was a moment before she continued. “Afterward, there was all sorts of wild talk, of course. Sir Nigel disappearing like that. Especially when it became known that her ladyship was with child.”
Sebastian studied the woman’s half-averted profile. “When was Sir Peter born?”
“Late February. He came early. He was expected in April.”
Late February would have been seven months after Sir Nigel disappeared, Sebastian thought. And just over seven months after the Baronet had returned from America. No wonder Lady Prescott had been vague about the dates of her husband’s return.
A scratching sound drew Sebastian’s attention to a ratty brown hen pecking and clawing at the shiny surface of his Hessians. He shifted his feet, but the hen persisted. Careful, he thought, or you’ll end up in a stew pot, my fine feathered friend.
“I keep the hens for their eggs,” she said, as if he had spoken the thought aloud. “Not for the pot.”
She laughed when he looked up at her, startled. “I eat no flesh of my fellow beings. It’s why the creatures of the forest know they need have no fear in approaching me.”
Sebastian glanced over to where he’d seen the doe, but the deer was gone. He said, “You still haven’t told me the reason Sir Nigel quarreled with Lady Prescott that night.”
“Nor will I.” Tossing the last of the grain, she turned back toward the cottage. The loyal family retainer, loyal to the end.
Sebastian followed her. “Three men are dead.”
“And you think it’s because of that quarrel?”
“I don’t know.”
For the first time, she looked vaguely troubled. Seating herself on her stool again, she reached for the churn. “I haven’t seen Lady Rosamond in some time,” she said in an apparent non sequitur. “It was Sir Peter gave me this cottage.”
“Lady Rosamond being Lady Prescott?”
The old nurse worked her churn. “She’ll always be Lady Rosamond to me, just like she was when she was a little girl.” She paused. “Now, Sir Peter, he comes to visit me regularly. Why, he was here just last week.”
Sebastian watched her work her butter. He said, “You haven’t actually told me anything. You know that, don’t you?”
She stopped churning long enough to look up at him. “Oh, but I have.” Lifting her head, she called to her granddaughter, “Missy, fetch his lordship’s horse. He’ll be wanting to make it to Prescott Grange before the rain starts.”
The first raindrops began to fall just as Sebastian clattered into the centuries-old courtyard. It hadn’t been his intention to call again at Prescott Grange. But too many questions about Sir Nigel’s last, fatal night remained unanswered.
He found Lady Prescott even paler and more wan than he remembered her, her soft blue eyes huge with what looked very much like fear. She received him in the Grange’s ancient hall, a graceful medieval chamber with tapestry-draped stone walls and a massive fireplace and a decorated wooden ceiling supported by stone corbels carved into fanciful shapes.
“We’ve heard the dreadful news about Reverend Earnshaw,” she said, gripping his hand tightly for a moment before turning away to order tea. “I do hope you’re here to tell us there’s been some progress in identifying this killer?”
“I’m afraid not.” Adjusting the tails of his riding coat, Sebastian settled on a hard, stiff-backed settee covered in a faded tapestry worked in the style of the previous century. “But I had an interesting encounter this morning with your old nurse.”
The widow sank into a low chair beside a work basket and a stand supporting an embroidery frame. “Bessie Dunlop?” she asked, drawing the frame to her.
“I understand she has something of a reputation as a witch.”
Lady Prescott took up her needle. “Old women living alone in the wood often give rise to such speculation.”
“She does seem uncannily prescient.”
Lady Prescott bent her head to focus her attention on her stitches. “Bessie is unusually observant, and a good student of human nature. That is enough to make her a witch in the eyes of the villagers.”
“She’s fortunate not to have lived in a less enlightened century.”
“As are we all.”
Sebastian studied the widow’s hollow cheeks and downswept lashes. “She is very loyal to you.”
Lady Prescott looked up, her eyes twinkling with unexpected amusement. “In other words, she wouldn’t tell you what you wanted to know.”
Sebastian gave a soft laugh. “No, she wouldn’t.”
The widow tipped her head to one side. “And precisely what is it you wished her to tell you?”
Sebastian met her gaze squarely. “I understand you and Sir Nigel quarreled the night he disappeared.”
“I wouldn’t doubt it.” She bent over her embroidery again, her equanimity unruffled. “My husband had a violent temper. He quarreled with everyone, about anything and everything. It would have been unusual had we not disagreed that night.”
Sebastian watched the woman’s half-averted, faintly flushed face. He could hardly say to her, Did your husband come home from America to discover you pregnant with another man’s child? Was that the topic of that fatal night’s confrontation? Even if it were true, she would never admit it.
He said, “I understand you rode after him that night.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Jeb Cooper told you that, did he?”
“Is it true?”
“I had Jeb saddle my mare, yes. Nigel was—” she paused as if choosing her words with care “—a very difficult man. I fell into the habit of going for a ride when I was . . . upset.”
“Even at night?”
She touched her left eyelid with her fingertips. Then, as if becoming aware of what she was doing, she curled her hand into a fist and rested it on her lap. “At such times, one has little care for one’s own safety.”
It was a remark that told Sebastian volumes about her marriage. He said, “So you didn’t follow Sir Nigel to London?”
“The last thing I wanted at that moment was to see him again.”
“Do you recall the nature of your disagreement?”
She shook her head. “Sir Nigel had a vicious temper. He could fly into a rage over the simplest of things, from a badly swept chimney to a dinner of fish or veal when he was fancying lamb. One never knew what would set him off.”
Sebastian said, “I’m told Sir Nigel returned from America with a set of papers. Letters written to the Confederation Congress by someone either at Whitehall or in close association with the King. Do you know anything about that?”
She jabbed her needle into her embroidery so violently that she pricked her finger. “Do you mean to say he had evidence of some treason?”
“So it would seem, yes.”
She brought her pricked finger to her lips and sucked on it. It was a childlike gesture, and had the effect of suddenly making her look both younger and more vulnerable. She said, “I know Sir Nigel came home from America preoccupied and surly—unusually so, even for him. But if he had evidence of high treason within the government, this is the first I’ve heard of it. I’m afraid he never discussed his affairs with me. He never even explained completely the purpose of his mission to America.”
“They left for America—when? Late January? Early February?”
Her forehead puckered with thought. “Oh, no, it was sometime in December. I don’t remember the exact date, but I know it was before Christmas.”
Sebastian stared at her. He knew a peculiar tingling sensation, as if every nerve in his body were suddenly, painfully heightened. He could hear the laughter of a housemaid in a distant room, smell the bitter tinge of stale ashes on the hearth. He felt his breath fill his lungs, and had to force himself to exhale.