The butler clamped his mouth shut, but his expression was unrepentant.
‘He is right,’ Dell addressed Lorene. ‘I should stay. It will simplify matters when the coroner arrives.’ He stepped over to his coachman. ‘Jones, return to Summerfield House and leave word of what happened. Lady Tinmore will need her sisters here in the morning. Make sure they know that. And I expect the coroner will want to speak to you and Samuel, so you both bring Lady Tinmore’s sisters in the carriage.’ Samuel, the other coachman, held the horses, but nodded his agreement.
Jones gestured for Dell to step away from the others. Dell walked him back to the carriage.
The coachman frowned. ‘I did not actually see what happened, my lord. I saw the man fall, though.’
Dell could not think about that now. ‘Very well, Jones. When the time comes just tell the coroner precisely what you did see.’
‘As you say, m’lord.’ He climbed back on to the carriage.
Lorene twisted around to face the footmen. ‘Why do you stand there? Carry Lord Tinmore to his bedchamber and lay him on his bed.’
The butler, still thin-lipped, nodded to the footmen who scrambled down the steps to pick up Tinmore’s lifeless form.
Dell helped Lorene stand.
He walked with her behind the body. As they entered the house, another servant, almost as ancient as Lord Tinmore—his valet, perhaps—stood on the landing and screeched at the sight of his master. ‘My lord! My lord!’
Lorene ran to the man and held him back as the footmen passed him with Lord Tinmore’s body. ‘Wicky, his lordship had a terrible fall. It has killed him.’
The valet burst into loud sobs and Lorene’s chin trembled, but she made him look at her. ‘Calm yourself, Wicky. Your lordship needs you. One last time. Make him presentable.’
The old man nodded and followed the footmen up the stairs.
Other servants emerged, looking alarmed. Lorene turned back to the butler. ‘Tell them, Dixon. Make certain all the servants are informed. And kept calm.’
Another old man dressed in nightclothes and a robe came from the floors above. ‘Ma’am?’ he said to Lorene.
She put a hand on his arm. ‘He is gone, Mr Filkins. He fell on the steps outside.’
The man’s face twisted, but he quickly composed himself. ‘May I be of service to you?’
She stared blankly for a moment, then said, ‘Ask Dixon if he might need you. And, if you would be so kind, find Mrs Boon and have some tea brought to us in the yellow sitting room.’
‘I will do so, post-haste,’ the man said.
She turned to Dell. ‘Come. We can sit in here.’
He followed her to a comfortable sitting room on the first floor, its walls decorated with a cheerful yellow wallpaper with birds and flowers abounding. The bright setting could not be in greater contrast to Dell’s feelings inside. Lord Tinmore was dead and, though he’d done nothing to cause the man’s fall, it never would have happened if he had not entered the house.
‘Please sit, Dell.’
He placed his hat on a nearby table and removed his gloves and topcoat. She lowered herself on to a sofa upholstered in gold brocade. He sat near in a matching chair.
‘That was Mr Filkins, Lord Tinmore’s secretary,’ she explained. ‘It was kind of him to do as I asked. He is not a servant.’
No, a secretary would be one of those unfortunate souls who fell somewhere between servant and family. Like governesses and tutors.
Lorene averted her gaze. ‘He is the only one who likes me a little.’
Her words broke through his own worries. ‘The only one?’
She gave a wan smile. ‘The servants are very attached to Lord Tinmore—’ She caught herself. ‘Were attached to him. He was not warm to them, of course, but he paid them well and most have been with him longer than you and I have been alive. They considered me...an outsider, I suppose.’
He’d heard members of the ton describe her as a fortune hunter. Unfair when her marriage was more properly a selfless act. Besides, she’d paid a high price. Her husband neglected and belittled her by turns. And the servants resented her?
What a lonely situation to be in.
She wrung her hands. ‘I—I am not certain what I should be doing. I feel I should be doing something.’
‘If you need to leave, do not hesitate. You do not need to stay with me,’ he assured her. ‘This room is comfortable enough.’
‘No.’ She pressed her fingers against her temples. ‘I should have ordered a bedchamber made ready for you. I had not thought of it.’
‘No need. I do not want you burdened with me.’ He paused. ‘Especially because what—what—happened was because of me.’
Her face turned paler. ‘No. Because of me. Because I defied him.’
His anger at Tinmore flared once more. ‘He refused you a visit with your sisters on Christmas Day. That was very poorly done of him.’
‘Still...’ Her voice trailed off.
What would happen to her now? Had Tinmore provided for her? Or did Tinmore neglect to do so, the way he neglected her in other ways?
Tinmore’s accusations would not help. No doubt she’d become the victim of more gossip because of the way Tinmore died. God knew she did not deserve that. Would anyone truly believe he and Lorene were lovers? Or, worse, that he’d caused Tinmore’s death?
They would not be entirely wrong. He’d certainly been the catalyst for it.
She rose from the sofa and began to pace. Dell stood, as well.
‘I wonder...should I have stayed with him?’ Her voice rose, but fell again. ‘I do not know what is expected of me.’
‘What do you wish to do?’ he asked. ‘If you wish to be with him, do not let my presence stop you.’
She glanced at him with pained eyes, but looked away and paced to the marble mantelpiece, intricately carved with leaves and flowers.
It was agony to see her so distressed. He ought to comfort her somehow, ease her pain, but how could he do so?
When he’d caused it.
‘I am sorry this happened, Lorene,’ he murmured. ‘I cannot tell you how sorry I am.’
She glanced at him again with those eyes so filled with torment. ‘Sorry? You are sorry?’
He stepped closer to her and wanted to reach out to her, but did not dare.
Death arrived when least expected.
Tinmore’s death had been quick, but death had not been as kind to Dell’s family. His father, mother, brother and sister, as well as several servants, perished in a fire in their London town house in April of 1815. Think of the terror and pain of such a death.
He shook himself. If he thought of that, he would descend into depression and this time not come out. ‘I never anticipated this would happen,’ he forced himself to say.
She leaned her forehead against the white marble. ‘Nor did I,’ she whispered. ‘I never dreamed he would think—’
That they were lovers? Who could think such a thing? He had been nothing but polite to her.
With a cry of pain she flung herself on to the sofa again and buried her head in her hands.
He sat next to her, his arm around her. ‘I know what it is to grieve,’ he said. ‘Cry all you wish.’
She