Page 2 of A Treacherous Treasure

“That is very kind of you, ma’am. You’re so good to us, better than we deserve.”

Rebecca only smiled and took her leave.

She and Agatha had only managed to walk thirty feet from Mrs. Carter’s door when she saw one of the grooms hurrying down the lane toward her.

“Is something the matter?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, swallowing, as if trying to catch his breath. “I was sent to find you and bring you home.” He never looked her in the eye and shifted his feet.

“What is it? Who sent for me?”

“Ma’am, I . . . I cannot say.” He ran a hand down his face, not once but twice.

Rebecca prided herself on being patient with her servants, but she felt heat rise into her forehead. “I insist you tell me why I’m being sent for.”

Even Agatha looked stunned at the man being less than forthcoming.

“Ma’am, it’s Mr. Heywood. He . . . well, ma’am, he’s been found . . .”

Her stomach sank as a terrible dread washed over her. “Found? What do you mean?”

“He was found in the woods. He’s been shot dead.”

~ ~ ~

Rebecca watched them bring Arthur’s lifeless body into the drawing room and placed him on the table, the one where Arthur entertained other gentlemen, sitting around the table drinking and smoking and playing cards. Now his head and torso just fit, his legs dangling off the edge at the knees.

“Mrs. Heywood, ma’am?” Adler, the butler, was standing next to her.

“Yes?”

“Shall we send for the constable and the coroner?”

He didn’t want to send for a physician? But if Arthur was dead, there was no need for a physician. Her mind seemed sluggish, slow to comprehend what was happening.

“Yes, please send for the constable and coroner. Thank you.” It took a great deal of effort just to speak the words. Her body felt numb, except for her aching head, as her thoughts whirled and tumbled, one on top of the other.

Her father’s words echoed through her mind: “Some enraged husband will shoot him dead before he’s forty years old.”

Her father was right, it seemed.

She was a widow.

Deep inside, in her innermost being, the numbness dissipated as pity and empathy invaded her spirit, pity and empathy for the horror Arthur must have felt just before he was shot, once in the middle of his forehead.

Such things didn’t happen in England, not to wealthy gentlemen.

Could it have been a duel? But the seconds—the duelers’ friends who volunteered to be witnesses and to make sure no one broke the rules of the duel—should have been there to care for him and send for a physician, or someone. Could they have run away when Arthur was shot through the head? That would not have been proper at all, especially so close to Arthur’s home. As seconds, they should have stayed, should have carried the body home.

The servants stared down at Arthur’s marred face, at the hole in his forehead. Surprisingly little blood was seen, but Rebecca did not go near. She was even glad for the menservants blocking her view.

Arthur’s mother entered the room, still in her dressing gown. When she saw him lying there, she started screaming, “My beautiful boy!” She screamed incoherently, covering her mouth. She moaned, then leaned over him, touching his face. Finally, she fell on him, draping her upper body over his chest.

Rebecca fled from the room.

She covered her ears as she hurried to get away from Arthur’s mother’s moans and exclamations of grief.

Perhaps if the woman had grieved her son’s adulterous behavior enough to confront him about it, rather than continuing to dote on him in the midst of his immature, immoral behavior . . . But Rebecca was cruel to think such things at a time like this.