The Gatehouse

  A deaf aristocrat fights to protect all he loves from a killer he cannot hear…

  Moments before the wedding, Christopher Sterry finds the groom, his twin brother, murdered. One would expect Christopher to become the next Earl of Longford. No one would be surprised if he married his twin’s almost-bride, Helen Grove. She is, after all, his closest friend and confidante.

  Except Christopher is deaf in an inflexible world that believes a deaf mute is no better than a barbaric half-wit, unfit to be an earl and quite capable of murdering his brother.

  Helen waits at the altar while her groom lies murdered in the folly. But there is no time to mourn. Christopher is in danger and so, it appears, is she. Born to marry the earl of Longford, whoever that may be, Helen ignores her own risks and crosses into the line of fire to protect the man who holds her heart.

  Lady Eleanor solves crimes more thoroughly than any male magistrate. So when Christopher, her godson, is condemned without evidence, she sets out to prove both his innocence and his competence as earl. If she fails, Christopher will die… or be returned to an asylum worse than hell.

  DEDICATION

  To research assistants extraordinaire

  Liliana Zolt & Casey Rudolph

  and

  To everyone who the world would try to limit,

  when you know, there is no such thing.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1 ~ DEATH

  CHAPTER 2 ~ PROMISED TO AN EARL

  CHAPTER 3 ~ VISITORS

  CHAPTER 4 ~ LETTERS

  CHAPTER 5 ~ CASTING DOUBT

  CHAPTER 6 ~ TOO GUILTY

  CHAPTER 7 ~ MISDIRECTION

  CHAPTER 8 ~ PROVING INNOCENCE

  CHAPTER 9 ~ KIDNAP

  CHAPTER 10 ~ ESCAPE

  CHAPTER 11 ~ LOVE IS IN THE AIR

  CHAPTER 12 ~ TRESPASS

  CHAPTER 13 ~ DANGER GROWS

  CHAPTER 14 ~ SUSPECTS ALL AROUND

  CHAPTER 15 ~ A CORPSE’S TALE

  CHAPTER 16 ~ TOO MANY LONGFORDS

  CHAPTER 17 ~ SPEAKING OF DEATH

  CHAPTER 18 ~ PROGENY

  CHAPTER 19 ~ A CORPSE IN THE RAIN

  CHAPTER 20 ~ A WALK IN THE DARK

  CHAPTER 21 ~ MISDIRECTED

  CHAPTER 22 ~ ALL SORTED?

  CHAPTER 23 ~ WICKED STEP-MOTHER

  CHAPTER 24 ~ DOUBLE TROUBLE

  CHAPTER 25 ~ A NEW INVESTIGATION

  CHAPTER 26 ~ A WEDDING

  CHAPTER 1 ~ DEATH

  Late Summer ~ 1816

  He couldn’t breathe, fought to tamp fury. Anger, controlled and tamed since youth, had turned into a red, billowing rage, transforming him into the madman the world had always expected him to be.

  Christopher trembled as he looked down at his twin, Thomas Anderson Sterry, the eighth Earl of Longford, lying lifeless in a pool of blood on the silk Aubusson carpet. They were in the folly. Apt name for the long narrow temple, with Doric columns more fitting for a Grecian hilltop than the tailored gardens of the staunch, stone Athwart Manor.

  An Englishman’s folly, meant for summer luncheons and quiet little concerts. Bright, open to the sultry breeze.

  Never intended to be a venue for death.

  This couldn’t be possible.

  The breakfast location had been a last-minute, wild idea, to bask in the miraculous weather, a warm and sunny moment inside a cold and dull, summer. As if the heavens wished to bless the couple. Everyone so full of joy as they hurried to change the venue. The carpet and damask-covered table carted from the dining room, immaculately set with gold cutlery, crystal champagne flutes and fine bone china. All in place for a sumptuous alfresco breakfast, full of gay laughter and thinly-veiled teasing.

  Thomas’s wedding breakfast.

  Christopher had prepared a surprise. Practiced for hours, ready to embarrass himself with a mangled attempt to speak, in honor of his brother, his twin, who should be standing at the altar in the chapel, being married in front of their family and friends.

  Except he hadn’t made it to the altar, was murdered instead. Christopher swallowed the chaos, fought the howling beast within.

  Others would be coming soon to see what caused the delay. They could be here now.

  He spun around to a stream of people rushing toward the folly. Had he screamed, cried out? His throat was raw with suppressed emotion, so overwhelming something could have escaped. It did when he slept, nightmare-prompted wails that drew servants from all quarters of the manor. Keening, Thomas had called it, like a trapped and wounded beast. He felt trapped now, stunned and primitive as that beast, standing over his brother’s body.

  No question what his youngest brother, Edmund, thought, charging toward him, lunging up the marble steps. Whatever he saw in Christopher’s eyes stopped him, one step shy of the folly floor. He braced his hands against a column, as if to thrust it out of the way. Livid, accusing eyes on Christopher, blaming him.

  As everyone would do, because he was deaf, didn’t speak, couldn’t explain in a manner acceptable to them.

  As if he would ever harm Thomas.

  Grabbing one of their late mother’s prized Chippendale chairs, Christopher thrust it at the throng, protecting when it was too late to do so. He needed time to find reason, focus, settle the frenzied fury rising inside. Until then, he instinctively refused anyone, even Edmund, access to Thomas.

  Alarm, fear, so many words written in their faces—he didn’t need to hear to know what they were thinking. Edmund, the worst of them, tears running down his cheeks, spittle spewing from his lips, as he yelled at Christopher.

  Someone tried to pull Edmund back, but he shrugged them off, dared to take the last step up, heading straight for Christopher and Thomas.

  Helen, Thomas’s intended bride, pushed through the gathering crowd, clung to the column Edmund had just abandoned. Her eyes wide, complexion so stark it matched the icy blue of her wedding dress.

  They should get her away from this. A woman should not be subjected to the sight of her husband-to-be lying in a pool of blood on a dining room carpet.

  It should have been a beautiful day, a glorious day.

  Edmund neared, too close. Christopher threatened with his only weapon, a chair meant to seat guests for the wedding breakfast. He thrashed down, hard, hitting his brother’s wrist with the ball and claw foot. Edmund backed away, cradling his arm. Helen reached out, crying, pleading with the youngest Sterry, but he ignored her.

  An upset in the gathering drew Edmund’s eyes. People making way as a tall, regal figure moved past them with enough presence even the men stepped away. Edmund turned mulish as he watched Lady Eleanor approach. His gaze shifting from her to Christopher and back as she stopped briefly to speak with Helen before stepping into the circle of conflict.

  Determined to keep Thomas safe, from what he didn’t know, Christopher held his ground, chair still raised, but he started to ease.

  Lady Eleanor knew about murder, had attended any number of them with her magistrate father and his successor, her late husband. She’d proven her mettle, tracing guilt for more than three decades, possibly four, as she’d been at her father’s side since a child. Just last spring, she’d solved a horrendous crime for her nephew, the Duke of Summerton, and his new wife.

  Christopher watched the back and forth between his brother and Lady Eleanor. She never tiptoed around him the way those outside the neighborhood of Athwart did, as if deafness made him less than human. Unlike Edmund, who’d been born after meningitis stole Christopher’s hearing, Eleanor had known Christopher as a normal child. They corresponded. She knew him. She would not make scurrilous assumptions about what she saw.

  He watched her lips, too frantic to focus and find meaning. He judged her words on her stance, on the way Edmund shook h
is head, vehement in his objection. Eleanor, his godmother, his mother’s closest confidant, would not let him take blame without reason.

  Nostrils flared, Edmund glared at Christopher, but stepped back, once, twice, cautious. With a flick of her wrist, Eleanor shooed him farther away before turning to her godson. She focused on him, not the chair with its artfully bowed legs. He started to lower it as she approached, but something moved on his other side.

  Christopher whipped around, sent the chair careening toward a footman who dared climb the stairs on the far side of the table. Just as quickly, he grabbed another one of the Chippendales, primed, ready to damage any who dared get near his brother.

  Lady Eleanor reached his side, touched his arm. He’d allow that—he trusted her, but none of the others, who looked poised to spring at him if he hurt her. Fools.

  With one hand on his arm, she motioned for everyone else to leave, to go.

  Face crimson, veins like ropes rising along his neck, Edmund’s mouth opened wide, hateful. Christopher didn’t dare take his eyes from him, not even to see what his godmother was doing. Whatever it was, Edmund’s mouth closed, lips pressed tight, and he shook his head. Once again, someone tugged at the youngest Sterry’s shoulder. This time he retreated, but not before his eyes darted to the very thing that had pulled Thomas into the folly.

  On the bride’s plate, at the head of the table, sat a box and a card. He knew exactly what was in that box, what had been written on the note. A broach that had been passed down the line of Longford countesses. The note said, “A piece of history in honor of our tomorrows.”

  He knew, for he’d written it. Prompted the gifting.

  Under the guise of setting a chair to rights, Christopher gathered up both gift and card, slipping them into a hidden pocket of his coat.

  The onlookers all stepped back, gathering in small clusters, but not far. A mass of confusion, easily seen. Helen last, a cluck of women urging her away. Of all of them, only she met his eyes, straight on, showing her sorrow, both for herself and for him.

  He could have wept.

  This was to be a joyful day. She was to become one of them. A Sterry. A part of his family forever.

  It had all gone so wrong.

  ***

  Though misguided, perhaps, in his methods, Christopher had the right of it, keeping everyone away from Longford. Not an easy task. Shock prompted the guests to push toward the folly floors so they could see if it was really the earl, a man who’d loved life, lived it by the full measure. She could scarce believe it herself, and she’d seen enough of death to know Old Mr. Grim reaped young and old, rich and poor, wedding day or not.

  She would mourn this young man, his charm, his wit, but first she needed to help the living.

  Eleanor looked over at Christopher, her godson, next in line to be the Earl of Longford. Unless she failed to prove his innocence. Edmund wasn’t the only one to misunderstand Christopher’s attempt to keep everyone at bay. Their ignorance would not help his defense.

  He was not a murderer, but he knew better than to allow access to a murder victim. She’d complained often enough about the havoc gossip mongers could create at crime scenes, making it impossible to differentiate between clues left behind by the assailant and damage done by some nosy pest.

  Things would have been far more difficult if the whole wedding party had trampled about the place. Very difficult to find answers around a disturbed corpse.

  Christopher’s guttural growl warned her that Edmund was trying to get near again.

  “Really, Edmund,” she snapped, without bothering to look, “you should be calming everyone, not infighting."

  Poor Christopher. The shock of finding his brother, like this, followed by a barrage of people, all speaking at once, accusing, blaming. It would be impossible for him to focus, read lips.

  She shook her head and offered him a weary smile of encouragement. He vibrated with tension. Ruthlessly shoved a jumble of curls off his forehead. His valet must have cut his hair for the occasion, for though the stubborn dark locks immediately sprang back, they were not long enough to hide the wildness in his eyes.

  Those dark, glittering eyes would just add fuel to Edmund’s fire. He’d see his elder brother’s rage—but not the tears in his eyes.

  Edmund had always treated Christopher like some tainted family secret a barbaric half-wit incapable of reason.

  Christopher deserved better, especially with all he’d done for the Earls of Longford. Not that Edmund would know any of that, keeping his distance from the ancestral home. And now,casting blame so hard and fast he left no room for doubt. Eleanor would have to fight to prove him wrong.

  Christopher’s clothes had no blood on them. But the murderer wouldn’t necessarily be bloody. The pool of red flowed after Thomas’s fall—from, she suspected, a severe blow to the head. The candelabra, lying a few feet away, most likely the weapon. The stab wounds in his back had likely come later.

  Which meant it had not been premeditated. One doesn’t plan to kill with a vessel for holding candles. One grabs and uses, in a moment of passion…

  This wouldn’t help Christopher. Unless he had witnessed the murder.

  She looked up, only to find him leaning over her, face intent. The restless, reckless seed of a boy he’d been had grown into an inquisitive, thoughtful man, and a rather tall one at that.

  “Did you see?” she asked slowly, noting his eyes on her lips. Still, she gestured, pointing to Thomas before pointing to Christopher, shielding her eyes as if looking, seeing.

  He gave a sharp jerk of his head, stiff with repressed emotion. She sighed. That would have been too easy. Besides, she had already suspected the answer. Christopher would not be here, if he’d seen. He’d be chasing the killer, and if he had caught him, well, there would be two deaths to investigate.

  Christopher would not be worried about pleas for control, not in that situation.

  She crouched down, careful not to stain the silk of her dress and shoes.

  “He did it,” Edmund shouted. “Didn’t he?”

  Christopher had crouched beside her, oblivious to his brother’s accusations. She didn’t bother to turn when she called out, “Absolutely not. You can put that thought to rest.”

  “Lady Eleanor.” It was Helen, Miss Grove, the intended bride. “Do you need assistance?”

  Grateful for the offer—and for Miss Grove’s guileless tone—Eleanor looked at her. Edmund and Miss Grove’s entourage were trying to urge the young woman away.

  “You shouldn’t be here, Helen.” The girl’s ethereal step-mother plucked at her sleeve, as if it could draw her away. They were of an age, and barely knew each other. “It’s not right.”

  Near tears, a Grove cousin tugged at her, shooting fearful glances at Christopher. “Please, come away from there.”

  Jaw set, eyes on Eleanor, Helen resisted them all. She would have been good for poor Thomas. A steadying force. Thomas could have used some steadying.

  Lady Eleanor stood. “Leave her be,” she told everyone, “she’s been through enough.”

  The other ladies stilled. Perhaps they’d expected her support in shooing the intended bride away, but Helen had seen enough of death in the past few years. She knew the practical demands of it.

  “Yes, please, Miss Grove. If you could send for my abigail, Jenny. She will know what is needed. And ask Higgins, the butler, to send the carriage for Sir Michael.”

  “I’ve already done that,” Edmund said. “Sir Michael is the magistrate, after all.” Bereft, helplessly, he asked, “How, how did this happen? Why?” He made to turn away, but swung back. “Really, Lady Eleanor, you should wait for Sir Michael.”

  Eleanor held his gaze.

  “My apologies.” His scowl gave way to chagrin. He managed a bow.

  Of all men, he should know better. His mother had been Eleanor’s dearest friend from the cradle. Her penchant for solving crimes, was well known within the Sterry household.

  Most young
girls fell in love with horses or muscular farm hands. She had become infatuated with a microscope and all things biological. She’d assisted first her magistrate father and then her husband, who had been far too old for her. She rather thought he’d chosen her—and she him—because of her special skills. Like her father, her husband had been a magistrate in need of an assistant.

  “Sir Michael will want my information when he arrives. In the meantime, could you please take these people away?”

  “I daren’t risk you with him!” He pointed at Christopher, who had finally settled down in a chair, head bowed, gaze on Thomas—until Edmund moved. No mistaking the implication in Edmund’s jabbing finger, the narrowed eyes, pinched anger.

  The two stared at each other—Edmund bristling, Christopher stoic.

  Edmund charged.

  “Good lord!” Eleanor shouted. “Don’t be so childish!”

  Too late. Fed on impetuous fury, Edmund attacked his brother without thought. Christopher’s chair careened as he shot up, braced for the blow, stunning his attacker when he moved sideways at the last moment, catching Edmund with a neat blow to the gut.

  Edmund collapsed, gasping.

  “Fool.” Christopher stunned everyone, voice too loud, words enunciated as though he spoke an awkward, foreign language, but they had been spoken nonetheless. Not mute at all.

  He stalked away, out into the gardens, his shoulders heaving. Crying, she knew, for she’d seen the sheen of tears in his eyes earlier—and, indeed, she caught a glimpse of a tear on his cheek when he took a quick look over his shoulder, assuring himself Edmund hadn’t followed.

  Of course he’d cry for Thomas, but she didn’t doubt he was also crying for a brother who did not trust him. Who could and did believe he was capable of murder.

  She would have to solve this one quickly, before what was left of this family shattered.

  CHAPTER 2 ~ PROMISED TO AN EARL

  “My daughter was promised an earl in exchange for those lands. No earl, no lands.”