Free Lord Ashford's Wager by Marjorie Farrell Page A

thank God, and a guinea from Ashford, who had been in a happy and generous mood when he left. That would keep him for a while. Right now, he had to get out of the house and lose himself somewhere in London.
     

Chapter 11
     
    When Lady Fairhaven’s maid knocked on her door the next morning and got no response, she quietly stepped into the room, intending to draw the curtains back. Her mistress was not usually a late or heavy sleeper, but on those rare occasions when she slept in, she appreciated being awakened by the admission of sunlight. The abigail was very surprised to see that the bed had never been slept in.
    She had no idea where her mistress might be, although for one minute Lord Ashford’s face came to mind. But that was ridiculous. Lady Fairhaven would never have gone to his rooms alone, much less spent the night. When she got downstairs, she found the butler questioning the other servants about Jim. “He should have been on duty in the breakfast room an hour ago,” said Mr. Dawson, with great annoyance.
    “Well, I haven’t seen him this morning,” the housekeeper replied.
    “Mr. Dawson.”
    “Yes, Mary?” said Dawson impatiently.
    “Lady Fairhaven is not in her room—nor has she been there, from the looks of things.”
    The butler frowned. “Not in her room? She was with Lord Ashford in the library when I retired last night. Indeed, she sent me up to bed herself. Perhaps she fell asleep on the sofa?”
    “Mr. Dawson!”
    “Well, we all know what is going on there, Mary. He might have stayed, urn, very late. Although, I must say, when I walked in, the evening did not seem to be heading that way. I’ll go down and see.”
    Dawson knocked softly on the library door and then opened it. At first, he could not take in what he saw. Lady Fairhaven lay there indeed, but not peacefully on the sofa. And how could a woman have spent the night on the floor in that odd position? he thought, his mind refusing to take in the reality of his mistress’s dead body.
    He leaned down and felt for her pulse. None. Gently running his hand down her face, he closed her eyes and tried to smooth back her hair. After adjusting her gown so it covered her legs, he straightened up and stood there in shock, looking around the room and registering the overturned table and the open drawers of the desk. He was finally drawn to the portrait of his late master, almost expecting Lord Fairhaven’s eyes to turn accusingly on him. But they looked straight ahead, and Dawson would have sworn on his mother’s life that his master’s face had subtly changed. There was a look of tenderness in the eyes that seemed to be saying, “There is no need for sadness, for she has come home to me.”
    The butler shook his head to clear it of such foolish fancies, and closing the door behind him, went to face the other servants.
    “No one is to go into the library until a constable has been here.”
    “A constable!” exclaimed the housekeeper.
    “Yes, Mrs. Pitt. It seems…” Dawson cleared his throat. “It seems that Lady Fairhaven has been murdered.”
    * * * *
    While they were awaiting the arrival of the constable, Dawson questioned the rest of the servants. No, they had heard nothing, all having been in bed for hours on the third floor. William, who shared a room with Jim, said he had gone to sleep immediately and only upon getting up had he noticed that the other bed was empty.
    The butler went up with him to inspect the room. “Is anything of his missing, William?”
    “No, Mr. Dawson. It doesn’t look like it to me,” said William after a quick glance around the room.
    When the constable arrived, he repeated many of the same questions and then closeted himself with the butler.
    “Tell me everything you remember about last evening, Mr. Dawson.”
    “Lady Fairhaven returned home at about two a.m. She was accompanied by Lord Ashford.”
    “What do you know about Lord Ashford? Is he an old friend?”
    “Not so much an old friend as a