Page 37 of A Lyon’s Lesson

The doctor straightened, putting the scalpel aside and wiping his hands on a cloth. “In the absence of evidence to the contrary, yes, my lord.” He raised his eyes on the last words and looked at Rick steadily. A prickle passed over Rick’s skin, and his heart skipped a beat.

Rick nodded. “Very well. I will pay for his burial. Please see that a service is held for him at St. Mary’s.”

Kearns inclined his head. “That’s generous, my lord. I’ll inform Mr. Staveley, the vicar. Will you and Lady Kenrick be wishing to attend the service?”

“Yes,” said Rick, wishing nothing of the sort. With the exception of his recent wedding, it had been years since he’d entered a church. It seemed that with marriage came the imperative to adopt habits he’d sworn off in his teens, when he had grown old enough to refuse to be dragged to church by his mother.

He shook off the reflections, took his leave of the doctor and Baines, and headed back through the house to the horses. Mounted and heading back down the main street, Reynolds said, “Do you want me to make some discreet inquiries, my lord?”

Rick looked over at the other man and nodded slowly. “You smell a rat?”

“A whole mischief of them, my lord.”

Returned to the house, the first thing Rick did was go to the office and begin a search of the records for deeds of the land. It took him and hour of sorting through piles of papers, but he finally found three deeds of purchase over three years showing that Baines had indeed bought his rented lands from the estate in the years following the end of the war with Napoleon, when both rents and land prices dropped dramatically. Which qualified him as landed gentry and therefore eligible to be a magistrate. There was nothing sinister in that, but the steady look the doctor had given him still made his skin prickle. Reynolds had obviously thought the same thing. There was more to Sparrow’s death than met the eye.

Over luncheon, he told Cecey about Sparrow’s death and the upcoming service, but before he could express his suspicions about the death, she distracted him by mentioning that they had promised to invite their neighbors for dinner.

“Not Bidenden!” he said quickly.

“No, of course not. But Viscount Eaton and his family are in residence now, and Mrs. Fitzdowning is returned from her visit to her sister. You will recall how eager the Captain and the Misses Greathorne were to visit us, and it would be nice to entertain the Littlejohns. You liked them, didn’t you?”

“Oh yes, Littlejohn is a splendid fellow. Very well—when are you planning this for?”

“The end of the week. I will send the invitations out this afternoon.”

He nodded reaching for his glass of wine.

Chapter 20

Rick entered his bedchamber to change for the dinner party to find Reynolds had not only prepared a bath but had his evening suit laid out ready.

“You are a prince of valets, Reynolds. Do I pay you enough?”

“You do, my lord.” The other man smiled one of his devastatingly handsome smiles.

Rick shook his head as he removed his jacket and handed it off to Reynolds, who took it and, feeling the weight in one pocket, put his hand in and pulled out a pair of stakes to which some dirt still clung, and a length of string attached to one of the stakes.

He looked at Rick. “My lord?”

Rick, who was in the act of removing his neck cloth, said casually, “I found them in the garden out the back. I was coming back from talking to the gardeners, and I almost went arse over tip down the stairs into the sunken garden.” He nodded at the stakes and string. “That was the reason. Took me a bit to find what had tripped me, but one of the stakes had come out when my leg hit it or I could have hurt myself falling down the steps. As it was, I just stumbled and was able to right myself.”

“Why would someone—?”

“I thought it might have been children playing a game. Unless the gardeners were staking out something to mark the area—that is the other explanation I thought of. I was going to ask Jameson about it tomorrow.”

Reynolds put the stakes aside and knelt to remove Rick’s boots. “It seems odd, my lord. I have been listening for talk about Sparrow’s death in the village. You would think it would be a topic of avid conversation.”

“Yes, what have you heard?”

Reynolds straightened, putting the boots aside carefully. “That’s just it, my lord. There has been very little talk. If someone raises the topic, it will generally be dropped quickly. I managed to find a fellow who was willing to talk after I’d plied him with a few beers. It seems that Sparrow had been saying some negative things about the tenants’ treatment under Mr. Monk and Mr. Falconbridge. In the last meeting—”

“Last meeting?” queried Rick, stepping into the bath and sinking down with a soft groan of pleasure as the hot water seeped into his bones and muscles.

“When we first arrived, it seems Mr. Baines held a meeting with the tenants to reassure them that there would be no changes to the status quo. It seems Sparrow took exception when Baines suggested that the cost of the additional repairs you were calling for would be covered by an increase in rents.”

Rick dropped the soap and frowned. “I certainly didn’t give Baines that impression, nor did I give him authority to say such things on my behalf.”

“No, I supposed not, my lord. Baines seemed to be at pains to suggest that you wouldn’t be here long and that once a new steward was installed, things would go on as they had before.”