“Yes…” Horace bit his lip as the lie slipped out. He would have told it gladly, but he was afraid that Ashton would carry the tale back to the sheriff, and it would start a whole avalanche of investigations. He dusted off his sleeve, striving to appear as nonchalant as his adversary, but for some reason he always missed reaching that goal when the other was around. “Actually, Marelda wanted to come to Biloxi…to see the ocean…or something.”
Ashton reflected on the man’s answer, remembering when he had told Marelda about Leirin owning property here. Knowing the woman as well as he did, he could not believe that it was only chance and coincidence that had brought the couple here. Marelda could be a woman of positive action sometimes, and he was most curious as to what had compelled her to come. Ashton watched the other closely as he asked, “Did you perhaps know the young woman who was murdered?”
Horace sniffed pompously. “Have you now taken on duties as sheriff, Ashton, that you think you can question me?”
“Not at all.” Ashton observed the stilted anger of the squat man. “Sheriff Coty showed me the girl’s body, and at the time I remarked that she looked familiar, but I couldn’t place just where I had seen her before. Then when I saw you here today, it began to come back to me.” He caught the nervous tick at the corner of the man’s eyelids and watched the stubby hands mop at the heavily sweating brow. “Am I wrong in thinking that Mary worked for your sister for a while?”
The eyelids lowered over those dark, liquid pools as Horace silently cursed himself for coming. That had been so long ago, he had thought no one would remember. Reining in his panic, he put on a show of bravado and glared up at the other. “What if she did? You’re not going to lay this murder on me.”
“Horace, I believe you protest too much. The thought never entered my mind. The girl was raped, if you haven’t heard, and I just couldn’t imagine you doing such a thing.”
Horace found cause to take offense at his statement. “Are you suggesting that I’m not a man?” His voice increased in volume: “I’ll have you know…”
Realizing he had gained the attention of the other mourners, Horace slowly closed his mouth. As the recipient of their stares, he stretched his short neck out of his collar, raised up on his toes, and then settled back to a flat-footed stance, just like a little rooster ready to crow…or burst, which might have better described his present disposition. If he bragged about his prowess, which might have been viewed as questionable by other men, he would have invited the sheriff’s suspicion. The other alternative of letting Ashton Wingate believe him incapable was just as bad. He could not tell them that Corissa had let Mary go for the girl’s own good after he had dragged her down to the woodshed. He vividly remembered the resulting squabble he had gotten into with his sister about treating the servants and slaves in a more worthy manner. After all, there were other planters who used their slaves for their own convenience, he had argued, and he felt he had a right to be like other men. To be considered a man was the thing he most desired. There was no need to prove his manhood with the very young, and until Marelda had deigned to bestow some attention upon him, it had always been the innocent child-girls he had gone after. And Mary had been very young once…and very inexperienced.
Ashton smiled blandly. “I’m sorry if I disturbed you, Horace.”
“You just don’t know how much you have disturbed me.” The short man flapped his arms as he worked himself up into an outraged fervor. “Of late, ’twould seem that I am being continually harassed either by you or by some of your friends. For instance, Harvey Dobbs came out to my place and asked me if I knew anything about the burning of your warehouse.”
Ashton’s expression did not change. “I’ve been wanting to question you about that myself, but lately I just haven’t had time to give the matter as much attention as it deserves.”
“Yes, I can see what’s kept you busy,” Horace sneered as he tossed his indefinable chin toward Lenore. “Not that I care, but you’re going to get yourself killed sniffing after another man’s wife. Or are you still trying to convince everyone that she’s your long-lost Lierin?” Horace felt the surging thrill of success as he saw the sarcastic gibe hit its mark. He could hardly believe he had found a weakness in the other’s steel-plated hide.
The muscles tensed in Ashton’s jaw as he stared down at the little man. He was tempted to take him up and shake him just to hear him squeal like a frightened piglet. It was all he could do to control the urge and to give the man nothing more than a curt reply: “We’ll see what the end brings, Horace, both for you…and me.”
Ashton set his back to the man and joined the rest of the mourners as they began making their departures. Malcolm remained near the graveside with the sheriff, no doubt attempting to persuade the lawman to take some positive action against him. A wry smile touched Ashton’s lips. The man would do more good explaining his own whereabouts during that time, since Lierin had chosen to tell the sheriff of her visit to the steamer. The watchman had helped him aboard when he returned to the steamer, and no other boat was sighted leaving the vessel after that.
Hickory glanced down from his lofty driver’s seat as Ashton paused beside the carriage. As instructed, the black had brought the smaller landau with a two-horse team to Biloxi and had led his master’s favorite stallion on a tether behind the procession. He had found lodging at the town’s livery stable, where he could attend them while he waited for the next move in this game. Mr. Wingate had casually compared his maneuvers to a game of chess, the object being to capture the queen, and should the occasion arise and the lady be willing, Hickory would serve as knight and whisk her to safety while Ashton stayed behind to challenge the adversary. On this day Hickory had been summoned to the shoreline by a signal from the steamer and, meeting his master, had conveyed him to the cemetery.
“De missus looks kinda peaked, massa,” the black observed.
“I was thinking the same thing myself,” Ashton mused aloud as he observed her careful progress to the Somerton carriage. Her father assisted her, and as they paused, she reached out a hand to steady herself against her father’s arm.
“Yo reckon dat Mr. Sinclair treatin’ her all right, massa?”
“He’d better be if he values his life,” Ashton muttered.
Lenore slowly raised her gaze to her father. “I’d better rest a moment,” she whispered as she tried to subdue the waves of nausea that threatened to overwhelm her. The hot, sultry day had become almost unbearable for her, and she felt stifled by the muggy heat. “I’m not feeling well at all.”
Robert patted her hand in a rare display of affection while the red, watery eyes hinted of a compassion she had not thought him capable of. “I’ll fetch Meghan, dear. Perhaps she can help you.”
As he hurried away, Lenore leaned her swimming head against the outside wall of the carriage and closed her eyes, wishing desperately that she were already home. She dabbed at her cheek with a lace handkerchief, but, small and dry, it did little to ease her plight.
“May I be of assistance?”
The thickly lashed eyelids opened wide as the familiar voice filled her brain. Ashton was there beside her, hardly more than a heartbeat away and, as always, ready to be gentle. The dark, chiseled face showed caring concern, and the eyes were soft and tender as they touched her.
“Are you ill?”
The deep pools of emerald moved beyond him to the man who was striding toward them. “Please go,” she pleaded in an anxious whisper. “Malcolm is coming.”
Ashton ignored the approaching man and the gawking bystanders as he opened the carriage door. Bracing it with a shoulder, he lifted her in his arms and swept her inside.