Midnight in Austenland
Page 43
“You’re trembling,” said Eddie, putting his coat around her shoulders.
“Colder than I thought,” she said, even though it was exactly as cold as an English pond in midsummer should be. But she was definitely trembling. There was a BMW sitting on the bottom of the pond. And that’s a heavy, expensive piece of scenery to dump underwater. And there was no logical reason Colonel Andrews would have put it there as part of his little Gothic mystery. And that meant someone else had for other reasons. And the only reason she could think of was—
“Let me take you inside,” said Eddie.
“Body,” she said.
“What?”
“I … yes, inside. Please.”
The only reason to dump a car in a pond was to hide it, since the owner wouldn’t be driving it home. Because the owner was dead. And stashed in the trunk. Surely the guards at the gate, under Mrs. Wattlesbrook’s orders, wouldn’t allow any car through to disrupt the Regency ambience—any car besides the master’s, that is. His would have been the only car on the premises that night, the only one to leave those tracks in the mud. Mr. Wattlesbrook was in the trunk of his car at the bottom of the pond, and the murderer was likely someone at Pembrook Park. Someone who’d been on-site to kill him, leave his body in the secret room, dump it out the window after the game of Bloody Murder, get it to the car, and drive the car into the pond to conceal the dirty deed.
She was barely aware that she was wearing Eddie’s black jacket. His arm went around her as they walked back. Neville was dusting the dinner gong in the front hall. He looked over Charlotte in her chemise drippiness.
“Mrs. Cordial fell off her horse and into the watering trough,” Eddie said. “It can happen, you know.”
“Quite, sir,” said Neville. He eyeballed Charlotte’s dry dress hanging over Eddie’s arm, perhaps wondering why Charlotte had undressed before falling into a trough.
Eddie winked at him and walked Charlotte to her room.
“Do you require any further assistance?” Eddie asked.
“Thanks, I’m just going to get out of these clothes and bathe off the pond scum.”
“Are you going to ring for your maid?”
“No. I’d rather not have to explain why I’m soaked.”
“I could help with the laces,” he said.
She laughed and wagged her finger. Sly dog, such a womanizer, even though I’m his sister—ew, is that creepy?
But his expression was serious.
“Well …” she said, considering his offer. A corset was hard enough to take off without help, maybe impossible when wet.
He entered the room and shut the door behind him, the click like an alarm bell.
Charlotte backed away, her fingers and toes tingling with adrenaline. Why had he shut the door? He knew. About Mr. Wattlesbrook. And the car in the pond. And the only way he would know was if—
“Shy, dear sister? I promise not to look.” He kept coming forward.
“Why did I want to swim in that pond today?” she demanded of him.
“Because you are half mad?” he said with a smile, innocent dimples showing.
“You know why, Eddie, don’t you?” She backed into the window, and her fingers searched for the latch. If she screamed, would someone hear?
He raised an eyebrow. “I cannot fathom the complexities of your thoughts. I gave up understanding women long ago. Charlotte, you are the only woman I dare comprehend, and right now even you have left me leagues behind.”
“I have?”
“Speaking of behind, turn yours toward me so I can undo you. I don’t like how you are shivering.”
She was shivering, her arms around her chest, her chemise clinging to her skin like a frog’s tongue to dinner. But was he here to kill her? She’d shown her hand. Colonel Andrews had said that Eddie hit Mr. Wattlesbrook in the face. That showed an inclination for violence toward the man. Did they have some history? If Eddie had killed him and dumped his car, Eddie now knew that she knew, and that she knew that he knew that she knew too. There was a lot of knowing going on. But then why not just kill her at the pond and bury her there as well?
“No … I’ll … I’ll do it. You can go.”
Eddie made a noise of exasperation and closed the space between them. Should she call for help? Why was she hesitating? Scream already!
He grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her around. She squeezed her eyes shut and inhaled sharply, but the scream lodged frozen and useless in her chest. His cold fingers lifted her wet hair from her neck and placed it over her shoulder. She clenched her jaw, anticipating his hands circling her neck, tightening, trapping her breath in with the unscreamed scream till everything turned dark as midnight.
Except his hands left her neck. She felt light tugging on her back, and in moments her corset was loose on her chest, held up by her arms alone. His hands dropped away. She opened her eyes.
“That was fast,” she said, still not turning around. She spoke softly, her heart beating so hard it shook the breath out of her. “You must have practice.”
“One of the many duties of a gentleman. Now I will leave you to your mysterious womanliness.”
And he left.
He hadn’t killed her. Just a few moments before she’d been sure he was going to kill her. And she’d submitted her corset lacings to him without a plan of escape or attack. Because he was Eddie. And she was nice. Wow, that’s an eye-opener.
Since she was still alive and breathing, she took a bath. There wasn’t a lock on her bathroom door either.
She submerged her head under the warm water and saw again the car, sunken like a child’s toy in a goldfish bowl. If Mr. Wattlesbrook, inebriated on fine sherry, drove the wrong way in the dark till he found water gushing in the car windows, he would either drown in the car or flee. He certainly wouldn’t remove the keys and lock the doors.
She dressed for dinner sans corset—since she only had the one and it was sopping—and hoped no one would notice. Would a drowned BMW be enough evidence to merit calling the police? Perhaps, but she still had no idea who’d done it, and that was the whole point of a whodunit, after all. Besides, she felt compelled to figure this out, exactly in the way she hadn’t figured out James. She needed a direction to point her finger, but rifling through everyone’s personal belongings to look for a bloodstained dagger might not be exactly Regency appropriate.
“Colder than I thought,” she said, even though it was exactly as cold as an English pond in midsummer should be. But she was definitely trembling. There was a BMW sitting on the bottom of the pond. And that’s a heavy, expensive piece of scenery to dump underwater. And there was no logical reason Colonel Andrews would have put it there as part of his little Gothic mystery. And that meant someone else had for other reasons. And the only reason she could think of was—
“Let me take you inside,” said Eddie.
“Body,” she said.
“What?”
“I … yes, inside. Please.”
The only reason to dump a car in a pond was to hide it, since the owner wouldn’t be driving it home. Because the owner was dead. And stashed in the trunk. Surely the guards at the gate, under Mrs. Wattlesbrook’s orders, wouldn’t allow any car through to disrupt the Regency ambience—any car besides the master’s, that is. His would have been the only car on the premises that night, the only one to leave those tracks in the mud. Mr. Wattlesbrook was in the trunk of his car at the bottom of the pond, and the murderer was likely someone at Pembrook Park. Someone who’d been on-site to kill him, leave his body in the secret room, dump it out the window after the game of Bloody Murder, get it to the car, and drive the car into the pond to conceal the dirty deed.
She was barely aware that she was wearing Eddie’s black jacket. His arm went around her as they walked back. Neville was dusting the dinner gong in the front hall. He looked over Charlotte in her chemise drippiness.
“Mrs. Cordial fell off her horse and into the watering trough,” Eddie said. “It can happen, you know.”
“Quite, sir,” said Neville. He eyeballed Charlotte’s dry dress hanging over Eddie’s arm, perhaps wondering why Charlotte had undressed before falling into a trough.
Eddie winked at him and walked Charlotte to her room.
“Do you require any further assistance?” Eddie asked.
“Thanks, I’m just going to get out of these clothes and bathe off the pond scum.”
“Are you going to ring for your maid?”
“No. I’d rather not have to explain why I’m soaked.”
“I could help with the laces,” he said.
She laughed and wagged her finger. Sly dog, such a womanizer, even though I’m his sister—ew, is that creepy?
But his expression was serious.
“Well …” she said, considering his offer. A corset was hard enough to take off without help, maybe impossible when wet.
He entered the room and shut the door behind him, the click like an alarm bell.
Charlotte backed away, her fingers and toes tingling with adrenaline. Why had he shut the door? He knew. About Mr. Wattlesbrook. And the car in the pond. And the only way he would know was if—
“Shy, dear sister? I promise not to look.” He kept coming forward.
“Why did I want to swim in that pond today?” she demanded of him.
“Because you are half mad?” he said with a smile, innocent dimples showing.
“You know why, Eddie, don’t you?” She backed into the window, and her fingers searched for the latch. If she screamed, would someone hear?
He raised an eyebrow. “I cannot fathom the complexities of your thoughts. I gave up understanding women long ago. Charlotte, you are the only woman I dare comprehend, and right now even you have left me leagues behind.”
“I have?”
“Speaking of behind, turn yours toward me so I can undo you. I don’t like how you are shivering.”
She was shivering, her arms around her chest, her chemise clinging to her skin like a frog’s tongue to dinner. But was he here to kill her? She’d shown her hand. Colonel Andrews had said that Eddie hit Mr. Wattlesbrook in the face. That showed an inclination for violence toward the man. Did they have some history? If Eddie had killed him and dumped his car, Eddie now knew that she knew, and that she knew that he knew that she knew too. There was a lot of knowing going on. But then why not just kill her at the pond and bury her there as well?
“No … I’ll … I’ll do it. You can go.”
Eddie made a noise of exasperation and closed the space between them. Should she call for help? Why was she hesitating? Scream already!
He grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her around. She squeezed her eyes shut and inhaled sharply, but the scream lodged frozen and useless in her chest. His cold fingers lifted her wet hair from her neck and placed it over her shoulder. She clenched her jaw, anticipating his hands circling her neck, tightening, trapping her breath in with the unscreamed scream till everything turned dark as midnight.
Except his hands left her neck. She felt light tugging on her back, and in moments her corset was loose on her chest, held up by her arms alone. His hands dropped away. She opened her eyes.
“That was fast,” she said, still not turning around. She spoke softly, her heart beating so hard it shook the breath out of her. “You must have practice.”
“One of the many duties of a gentleman. Now I will leave you to your mysterious womanliness.”
And he left.
He hadn’t killed her. Just a few moments before she’d been sure he was going to kill her. And she’d submitted her corset lacings to him without a plan of escape or attack. Because he was Eddie. And she was nice. Wow, that’s an eye-opener.
Since she was still alive and breathing, she took a bath. There wasn’t a lock on her bathroom door either.
She submerged her head under the warm water and saw again the car, sunken like a child’s toy in a goldfish bowl. If Mr. Wattlesbrook, inebriated on fine sherry, drove the wrong way in the dark till he found water gushing in the car windows, he would either drown in the car or flee. He certainly wouldn’t remove the keys and lock the doors.
She dressed for dinner sans corset—since she only had the one and it was sopping—and hoped no one would notice. Would a drowned BMW be enough evidence to merit calling the police? Perhaps, but she still had no idea who’d done it, and that was the whole point of a whodunit, after all. Besides, she felt compelled to figure this out, exactly in the way she hadn’t figured out James. She needed a direction to point her finger, but rifling through everyone’s personal belongings to look for a bloodstained dagger might not be exactly Regency appropriate.
