Secrets in the Regency Ballroom. Joanna Fulford
visit in the guise of David Gifford. He told me about his mission here—as a magistrate it was my job to lend him whatever assistance I could. I was glad to do it, too. The Luddite crew have stopped at nothing in the pursuit of their evil ends.’ Weatherby paused. ‘Your brother paid a heavy price for trying to stop them.’
‘Yes, he did, but I intend to bring his killers to justice.’
‘You can count on my full support.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Someone found out what he was doing and silenced him. The killing had all the hallmarks of an execution.’
‘You saw his body?’
‘Yes.’ Weatherby’s hand clenched on the arm of his chair. ‘As soon as I heard the name David Gifford I knew who it was. Later I visited the scene of the crime—a deserted barn on the edge of the moor. My guess is he was somehow lured to the spot and then killed.’
‘Have you any idea whom he might have met that evening?’
‘No, but he must have thought it important to be there.’
‘Was he following a lead, perhaps?’
‘Who knows? At any rate he must have been getting close if someone felt the need to silence him.’
‘Who else knew about his mission here?’
‘Only Sir James Wraxall. He’s also a magistrate and he owns several mills.’
‘So he would also have an interest in helping to catch the wreckers.’
‘Absolutely. He was most keen to help. It was he who provided Greville’s cover by hiring him as a wagon driver at the Gartside mill.’
‘Did he know David Gifford’s real identity?’
‘No, only that his task was to find and destroy the Luddite group.’
‘I see.’ Marcus drank the rest of his wine and set down the glass. ‘Well, this has been a most helpful conversation, sir.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know yet. First I need to find out who my brother’s associates were, and who he was due to meet the night he died.’
‘I’ll make some discreet inquiries. If I find out anything at all, I’ll send word.’
‘I’d appreciate it.’
‘In the meantime I trust you’re settling back to life in England.’
‘Yes, though I little thought I’d ever return.’ Marcus smiled. ‘It has been good to see Netherclough again. And it’s not just my home now—my niece lives there, too.’
‘Ah, yes, Greville’s child. I have not seen her since she was a baby.’
‘Lucy is six now.’
‘Good Lord! Is she really? At all events, it’s too young to be cast adrift in the world. Lucky for her she has you, my boy.’
‘I’ll try to live up to expectation.’
‘I’m sure you will.’ The older man eyed him keenly. ‘Meanwhile, you need to think about the future. As Viscount Destermere it is incumbent on you to marry and get heirs to carry on the family name. Find a good woman, my boy. I did and I’ve never regretted it.’
Marcus grinned. ‘I’ll keep it in mind.’
Having taken his leave, he returned to town to collect Claire and Lucy. Both looked to be in good spirits so he assumed the shopping expedition had been a success. On enquiry he was proved right.
‘It was most satisfactory, sir,’ replied Claire. ‘I hope your business was concluded equally well.’
‘Indeed it was, Miss Davenport.’
His expression was enigmatic and not for the first time she found herself wondering at the thoughts behind those cool grey eyes. However, he seemed disinclined to talk after that and, as Lucy was busy with her doll, Claire occupied herself agreeably by admiring the view from the window. Thus the rest of the return journey passed in companionable silence.
In the days following, Claire’s time was spent in the schoolroom or in the grounds where she and Lucy walked when the weather was fine. The estate was beautiful, for some of the trees were changing colour and the rolling green acres of park and woodland were tinted with gold and russet hues. Sometimes they walked along the banks of the river and looked for a kingfisher or watched the brown trout finning against the current. At others they walked in the woods and collected handfuls of burnished conkers from the horse chestnut trees, and listened to the songs of the wild birds.
When it rained and they were compelled to remain indoors, Claire used the long gallery for exercise, thinking up games to play. It was during one of these that Lucy’s gaze came to rest on one of the portraits.
‘Papa,’ she said then.
Claire came to stand beside her. ‘Your papa?’
‘Yes. Aunt Margaret said he’s with the angels now, like Mama.’
‘I’m sure she’s right.’
‘She said he wasn’t coming back.’
‘Do you miss him, Lucy?’
‘I suppose so. Only I never saw him much. He was always very busy, you see.’
Claire did see, all too well. She put her arm round the child’s shoulders and drew her closer.
‘You have your Uncle Marcus, though, and you have me.’
Lucy nodded. ‘I like Uncle Marcus. He makes me laugh.’ She paused. ‘I like you too, much better than Great-Aunt Margaret. She was old and cross.’
‘Was she?’
‘Yes. I was glad when Uncle Marcus came for me.’
Although the words were said matter-of-factly, Claire felt her heart go out to the little girl who had never known what it meant to be part of a loving family.
‘Are you happy here, Lucy?’
The child looked up at her with solemn eyes that were somehow much older than their six years. Then she nodded. Claire breathed a sigh of relief. It was often hard to know whether children were happy, but at last Lucy seemed to be adjusting to her new environment and to the people in it. She pointed toward the next picture. It was of two young men in sporting costume. Both carried guns under their arms and were accompanied by several dogs. A brace of pheasant lay at their feet.
‘See, there’s your papa with Uncle Marcus.’
‘How old were they?’
‘About seventeen, I’d say.’
‘That’s quite old, isn’t it?’
Claire supposed it was when you were six. She smiled. ‘Yes, quite old.’
Pleased to have the thought confirmed, Lucy turned back to the portraits.
‘Who is that lady there?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘That is your mother,’ said a voice behind them.
They turned in surprise to see Marcus there. Neither of them had heard him approach. Claire wondered how long he had been there and how much of the conversation he might have overheard. He came to join them in front of the painting.
‘She’s very pretty,’ said Lucy.
‘Yes, she is,’ he replied. ‘You look like her.’
‘Do I?’
‘I think so.’
Lucy surveyed the portrait with wistful eyes. ‘I wish she was here.’
‘If