The Heiress of Linn Hagh (The Detective Lavender Mysteries Book 1) Read online

  The maid trailed silently behind them. Magdalena sent her to alert the tavern staff that they awaited their supper, and Lavender asked the girl to bring back a bottle of the tavern’s best Madeira.

  As the door closed, he allowed his eyes to feast once more on the flawless beauty of the woman who had saved his life. The deep golden skin of her arms and throat reflected back the hues of the blazing wood of the fire. She was in the prime of her life, probably about thirty years old, with a body and features unblemished by disease or childbearing. She had abandoned the sombre mantilla she had worn at supper yesterday. Now her hair was held in place by a tortoiseshell peineta. Her damson velvet gown was heavily embroidered and decorated with seed pearls; it flowed out luxuriously from her small waist over her plentiful hips.

  ‘Señora, buenas noches,’ he greeted her. ‘I trust you’ve not suffered any lasting effects from our ordeal earlier today?’

  ‘I confess I’m still a little shaken, Detective,’ she replied in English, ‘and sadly missing one pair of stockings.’

  He remembered her faded and slightly frayed day clothes and wondered how straitened her circumstances were.

  ‘A small price to pay for such a satisfactory outcome, I hope?’

  One of her black eyebrows arched.

  ‘I assume you’re not a married man, Detective? Or if you are, then Mistress Lavender has failed to inform you of the high cost of silk stockings these days.’

  He smiled.

  ‘I’m not married. The kind of life I lead—the job I hold—means that it’s virtually impossible to meet and court a good woman. I’m whisked away to all corners of the country at a moment’s notice and am frequently out of London for unreasonably long periods of time. The gals tend to forget who I am by the time I come back.’

  She laughed, led him to two stiff-backed chairs at the mahogany table that dominated the cramped, low-beamed dining room, and gestured for him to sit. She wore only two rings on her elegant hands, he noticed: a small garnet-encrusted gold ring—and her wedding band.

  ‘I must congratulate you on your English, Señora. You speak it better than most natives.’

  ‘Likewise, I must congratulate you on your Spanish. I had no idea until tonight you were fluent in my language. If I had known this before, I might have been more guarded in my conversation with my maid while we were travelling.’

  ‘No. You ladies were right: Constable Woods does snore loudly.’

  She laughed again, and he felt them both relax. The parlour was shabbily furnished with a couple of indifferent oil paintings in grimy frames on the white plaster walls. But the drapes were drawn across the leaded casement windows, and the cheerful blaze and crackle of the fire in the grate, along with the golden gleam from beeswax candles, lent the room a charming intimacy.

  ‘How long have you lived in England, Señora? I would guess several years.’

  ‘Then you would be wrong for once, Detective. We only arrived this spring. I had an English governess for a while as a young girl. My father, God rest his soul, was a firm believer in the education of his daughters, and fortunately, I was the kind of child who paid attention to her studies.’ Her grammar and pronunciation really were excellent. Only her accent gave away her origins.

  ‘Your esteemed father also taught you to shoot, I suppose?’

  She smiled, ignored the question and turned the conversation back to him.

  ‘But what about you? How do you speak my language so well, sir?’

  ‘I’m self-taught—but I’ve been several times to Spain in a professional capacity. Hopefully, these experiences took the edge off my appalling accent.’

  ‘Indeed—your accent is good. You would pass for a native.’

  There was a short pause. She put her head to one side and eyed him curiously. The movement caused her embroidered, black satin gown to fall away slightly at her breast, allowing him a tantalising glimpse of her ample cleavage. He just hoped there was not another layer of stays to remove beneath that girdle.

  ‘These trips to Spain—in your work for the British Home Department—they’re top secret, of course?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And should you ever forget yourself—and reveal the details to me—then you would have to kill me?’

  ‘Of course.’

  As she laughed, he noticed how the coils of shining black hair piled on her head were still wet from her bath. They gleamed in the firelight.

  ‘You’re very secretive, Detective, and you’re very good at lying. There was no one more surprised than me when you announced you were officers with the Bow Street Magistrates Court. I had completely believed your story that you and Constable Woods were grain merchants.’

  ‘Oh, I think our light-fingered travelling companion from Newark may have been more startled.’

  A shadow crossed over her face at the memory. ‘I hate to think of him—touching me—while I was asleep. What will happen to him? Will he hang?’

  ‘He is a sly cove. Unfortunately, I think he will deny any knowledge of the highway robbery—or the villains who tried to rob us. Unless the magistrate can find any evidence to connect him to the highwaymen, he may not be charged with any crime. After all, he didn’t actually steal any money from you.’

  ‘Yes, of course, you saved me from robbery . . . Stephen.’

  The use of his first name encouraged him. Their eyes met across the table and held. An hour ago, in his bath, Stephen had finally remembered how he knew her name and had worked out who she was. He had vowed to himself to keep his distance—but he cursed silently as he realised that he was struggling to remain objective. He could not remember the last time he had enjoyed the company of such an attractive, intelligent woman. Her self-assurance was unusual for a woman who was a Catholic and an immigrant, but it only served to make her more desirable in his eyes.

  The door opened and the supper arrived along with the Madeira and the maid. He poured them both a generous measure of the wine, then glanced over at the maid who had seated herself, self-consciously, with her plate of food in a corner of the room.

  Magdalena intercepted his frown and smiled.

  ‘You didn’t really expect a woman in my position to dine with you alone, did you, Stephen? My reputation is about all I have left in this world, and in the absence of a duenna, my maid has to suffice.’ Her voice was gentle, almost pleading with him to understand.

  ‘Naturally, I’m disappointed, Magdalena—I wouldn’t be a man if I wasn’t. However, this can only add to my already considerable respect for you. You’re without a doubt the most fascinating and resourceful woman I’ve ever met, and I feel privileged to be able to get to know you better. After all, it’s not every day I meet a woman who secretes a pistol in her petticoats.’

  She smiled at the compliment, ignored his last remark and changed the subject as she picked up her cutlery.

  ‘Perhaps as we eat our lamb cutlets, you can tell me more about your forthcoming business in Northumberland. Or is that a state secret, too?’

  ‘No, not at all—it’s a very worrying case.’ He told her the few details he held about the mysterious disappearance of Helen Carnaby and became more and more animated as he talked; his work, his cases—the mysteries he solved—these were his passion.

  ‘The poor girl,’ Magdalena said. The soft candlelight emphasised the concern etched across her face, the sadness in the deep pools of her dark eyes. ‘Do you suppose she has come to some harm?’

  ‘I hope not—well not bodily harm anyway. I just hope that it’s a simple case of a silly young girl eloping with the man she loves.’

  He enjoyed discussing the case with her. He imagined what it might be like to come home every night to supper with a beautiful, sympathetic woman with whom he could intelligently analyse his cases.

  ‘Her reputation will be in ruins, of course—unless the fellah actual
ly marries her.’ He wiped a drop of gravy from his chin with his napkin.

  ‘I see you’re quite a pragmatic man, Stephen.’ Her violet-black eyes now smouldered with amusement. Was she laughing at him?

  ‘Absolutely. I’m not a romantic fool who believes a girl can vanish like a puff of smoke from a locked bedchamber. There has to be—will be—a logical explanation.’

  ‘Ah, so you don’t believe in supernatural spirits that can whisk away young women from their beds?’

  ‘No, Magdalena, I don’t.’

  ‘Then your clients are very lucky. I’ve no doubt you’ll solve the mystery very quickly.’

  He felt very relaxed.

  ‘Perhaps you’ll write to me at my cousin’s in Gainsborough and let me know how the case is resolved? I would be most interested. I’ll write down the address.’

  She beckoned to her maid and instructed her to pass paper, ink and a quill from a nearby writing desk.

  ‘Certainly. In fact, I may be able to call on you on my way back to London and tell you the outcome in person. If that is permitted, of course—and your cousin will not object.’

  Magdalena gave an unladylike snort of derision. The Madeira was helping them both to shed their inhibitions.

  ‘My cousin is extremely elderly, deaf and forgetful,’ she said. ‘I don’t think she will even notice your presence in her rambling house.’ Her maid brought over another candle as Magdalena wrote down the address of her cousin. He watched her elegant fingers deftly wield the quill.

  When she passed the parchment to him, their hands touched briefly, and he felt a spasm of excitement ripple through them both.

  Damn that bloody maid. He leant back in his chair and regarded her closely.

  ‘Won’t that be boring for you? Living with a deaf old woman out in the countryside?’

  ‘Yes, but unfortunately, I don’t have any choice at the moment—except to accept her invitation.’

  He slid the address into the pocket of his waistcoat and waited for her to explain her last statement. She didn’t.

  ‘Magdalena, I need to thank you for saving my life. What you did was both brave and selfless. I’m now forever in your debt.’

  ‘It was—how do you say it? Instinctive? I could see you didn’t have time to reload your pistol. Besides which, you saved all of our lives today—and our money.’ She flashed him a brilliant smile across the table, but then it faded and she looked worried. ‘Of course, I may now burn in hell forever because I killed a man . . .’

  ‘You’ll not go to hell for defending yourself—or for saving my scrawny neck by shooting a toby man,’ he reassured her firmly.

  She looked relieved and smiled again. ‘I shall discuss this with my confessor.’

  ‘I’m confident he will agree.’

  They paused. He could see that she appreciated his assurance. It was time to ask the questions that burned at the back of his mind.

  ‘I need to know why you carry a loaded pistol about your person.’

  ‘Is it a crime in England for a woman alone to protect herself ? You’ve a dangerous country, Stephen.’ Her smile faltered slightly.

  ‘But you’re not a woman alone, are you, Magdalena?’ he said slowly, conscious that he was about to shatter the charming image she had woven about herself. ‘You’ve a husband and protector. I believe his name is Don Antonio Garcia de Aviles.’

  She slammed down her cutlery onto the table. Shock and disappointment flashed across her face. Their flirtation was over.

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘No. But I’ve heard of him. I had also heard that his wife, Magdalena Morales del Castillo, had escaped to England. I rarely forget a name, but I didn’t make the connection between the two of you until about an hour ago. I believe de Aviles works undercover in your native country, for General Sir Arthur Wellesley. I understand your husband has been an invaluable source of information in our fight against the French oppressors.’

  ‘You’re very well informed about his work.’ Her voice had turned to ice. She rose suddenly and strode across the rug towards the fireplace. He remained still and calm, but he knew he had destroyed her trust in him.

  ‘So you think him a husband and protector? You think I’m not alone?’ Her grammar began to slip. Her accent thickened.

  ‘I don’t know what to think. Why don’t you tell me?’

  She remained silent, glaring down into the flames. The contours of her curvaceous back were rigid in anger.

  ‘Was he cruel to you, Magdalena?’

  ‘Cruel?’ Her voice rose sharply. ‘No. Not by the way of los ingleses, perhaps. But yes—I think he is cruel. What man would leave his wife and child to the French pigs? Los cerdos franceses!’

  Child. He wasn’t expecting that. Where was her child? He rose and joined her by the fire. He wanted to reach out and hold her but decided against it. She was angry and distressed. He had made a mistake mentioning her husband.

  ‘When I escape here, he abandons us and sends me no money—and no words—for nearly three months!’

  ‘Magdalena, what happened?’

  She shook her head. She seemed close to tears and struggled to calm herself. He could have kicked himself for launching into an inquisition but the man in him was battling with jealousy; he needed to know the truth about her absent husband.

  ‘No. Not now. Tonight I enjoy myself. Tonight I forget, dress up and dine with a man. Tonight I wanted to feel like a woman again.’

  He paused, unsure what to do next. If that damned maid had not been in the room, he would have taken her in his arms, comforted her and made her feel like a woman. Yet too many unanswered questions still hung in the air between them, and she had made it plain she didn’t want to talk about her husband or her life in Spain anymore.

  To press her further would be churlish—the act of a detective—not the act of a friend and admirer.

  ‘Listen to me, Magdalena. I can see I’ve distressed you.’

  She began to protest, but he silenced her.

  ‘I’m going to leave you now, but I want you to remember that I offer you my friendship. You saved my life today, and I owe you a great debt. I sincerely hope you’ll always regard me as a friend and a protector while you’re alone in England. I am forever at your service, madam.’

  With that, he bowed low over her hand and withdrew towards the door. She stared affectionately—and not a little ruefully, he thought—as he backed away. For a moment, he thought she would call him back—but she didn’t.

  When he opened the door, he turned and spoke quietly over his shoulder: ‘I meant what I said about you being the most fascinating and resourceful woman I’ve ever met.’

  The maid’s eyes widened in surprise. Magdalena flushed.

  ‘I also think you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, Magdalena. Goodnight.’

  He heard her gasp as he closed the door.

  You are a bleeding idiot, he told himself as he stomped back up the stairs to his bedchamber and sank wearily into his bed. You could have had her. All you had to do was insist that the maid was sent away and she would have been yours. Lonely, abandoned and desperate, she would have succumbed quickly to his advances. What was all that talk of wanting to be like a woman again? Wasn’t that an invitation? Images of Magdalena’s naked body, moaning and writhing in his arms, filled his head. He turned over angrily, the frustration burning in his stirring manhood.

  Yet, deep down he knew he had done the right thing. Magdalena was no tavern wench, and the spectre of her absent and unexplained husband and child made things complicated. He was well aware that most of tonight’s banter had only skirted around the edge of the truth. She had been a gracious and charming companion, indulging in a little flirtation with a stranger with whom she travelled. Earlier today, he had felt a kindred spirit with her when she had played her part in foilin
g the highway robbery, yet still he felt he barely knew her.

  Something bothered him. His instincts, which were rarely wrong, told him there was something unnatural about a lady who was so self-possessed and calm after she had just killed a man. Even her talk of burning in hell had been light-hearted for someone raised in Catholicism. Many women might have pulled the trigger of that pistol out of fear, panic and desperation, but most of them would have collapsed in hysterics afterwards, when they realised the enormity of what they had done. Magdalena had barely raised an eyebrow.

  There was only one chilling explanation for her cool reaction: Doña Magdalena Morales had killed before.

  Chapter Five

  Four weeks earlier . . .

  Get doon from that ruddy window seat and give us a hand with this food!’

  ‘But I want to see the snow!’

  ‘Ye’ll see plenty of ruddy snow in the winter,’ the cook snapped. ‘Snow in October! Who’d a thought it?’

  Anna sighed and took one last miserable look through the patch she had cleared in the condensation of the windowpane. Outside, the twilight sky was like gun metal behind the skeletal trees of the woods. Snow had been falling steadily since lunchtime. The foliage and outhouses were muted into a two-tone scene of soft white and dove-grey. In the distance, the horizon and sky merged into one.

  The snowflakes’ merry waltz contrasted sharply with Anna’s mood; on her side of the glass, things were far from happy. For a start, Mistress Norris was in a foul temper, and Anna had also realised that a heavy snowfall might make it difficult for her to go and see her mother during her afternoon off. This meant another week trapped at Linn Hagh with the furious cook behind her and the feuding family upstairs. Mistress Norris said the snow would not settle for long in October; she hoped so.