Page 2 of The Curse of Ill-Gotten Gains
He was on the second-last stair when a scream ripped through the sleepy somnolence of the summer morning. A scream for help.
Richard halted.
The scream had come from outside. A second scream followed, its tone even more urgent.
Swallowing a curse, Richard leapt to the hall tiles and sprinted for the open doorway. Passing the hall table, he tossed his letters toward the silver salver resting on the polished surface and continued headlong for the front porch.
He raced past the open library door and heard the men in the library rousing.
He cleared the doorway and leapt down the porch steps, then skidded to a halt on the gravel forecourt and looked around.
Lawns, trees…where?
The next call was fainter. “Help! The orchard!”
While strolling the previous evening, he’d noticed the stone-walled orchard in one corner of the grounds. He ran toward the entrance archway, which stood at the nearest corner.
As he closed the distance, through the archway, he saw Rosalind Hemmings standing halfway along the first row of trees, her hands to her white face as she stared at something in the grass at her feet.
Unexpected emotion clutched at his chest.
He cleared the archway and slowed. His gaze tracked to what Rosalind was staring at, then, as horror-struck as she, he couldn’t look away.
He halted beside her and stared at their host stretched out, face down, in the grass, with the back of his skull cracked open.
No more able than Rosalind to draw his gaze from the grisly sight, Richard reached out one arm and gently drew her to him, exerting just enough pressure to turn her into his shoulder so she was no longer looking at the murdered man.
She didn’t sag against him, yet neither did she resist his direction. The scent of her glossy brown hair reached him and, together with the warmth of her slender form, at some deep level, reassured him.
“Dear God.” The horrified whisper fell from his lips, and he took a step back, drawing Rosalind with him.
Montague—Monty—Underhill lay sprawled a few feet from the trunk of an old apple tree. He lay with his face in the longish grass, his head closer to the trunk, his skull caved in to the extent there was no need to check for signs of life. A pool of blood had gathered beneath and to one side of the body.
Richard felt Rosalind draw in a huge breath, then she raised her head from his shoulder. Her voice choked, she managed, “I was out walking…and there he was.”
Richard squeezed her arm, then carefully released her. He could hear others rushing their way. He stepped to the side of the body, crouched, and for form’s sake, set two fingers to Monty’s throat, but as anyone could have predicted, there was no pulse to find.
Watching him through wide lavender-blue eyes, Rosalind gulped. “I already checked. He’s dead.”
Richard glanced at her, then rose. He looked over his shoulder at the approaching men, then moved back to Rosalind. Her gaze had returned to the body. Focusing on her face, he asked, “Are you all right?”
“Hardly.” She swallowed, then raised her head and met his eyes. “But I’m definitely better than he is.”
The crisp reply assured him that she wasn’t about to dissolve into hysterics.
He nodded, then turned to the others striding, rather uncertainly, into the orchard.
He waved to halt them. “Better you keep your distance.”
“Oh, I say!”
“Good Lord!”
A chorus of shocked exclamations filled the air as more of those arriving—most of the gentlemen, as far as Richard could see—caught sight of the body.
Richard raised his head and looked over the orchard wall and saw that the ladies were gathering in an agitated cluster on the lawn, but none, thank heaven, was showing any signs of venturing closer. Among the group, he saw Mrs. Hemmings, Rosalind’s mother, both his aunts, and Lady Pamela Underhill, Monty’s wife.
“Great heavens!” Lord Wincombe, one of the older gentlemen, spluttered. “We have to do something, but what? What should we do?”
