A pair of the Dalmays’ burliest footmen flanked the entrance and bolstered the number of men Mr. Paxton would have to fight his way through to six. Laura and I stood in the doorway and refused to be shooed away by either Keswick or Gage—or the sanctimonious butler glaring disapprovingly at our backs. Miss Remmington had long ago retreated upstairs, but I suspected she found a window to peer through in order to observe the scene below. Had I been in her shoes, I wouldn’t have been able to resist, no matter how guilty I felt for causing the confrontation.
We could see the dust kicked up by their horses’ hooves long before we actually caught a glimpse of them. It was like watching a thundercloud approach from the distance, growing louder and fiercer as it neared. The analogy was not inapt, as the sky today was far less friendly than it had been over the past week. The misty banks of clouds we were so familiar with in Scotland had overtaken the sun, preventing its warm rays from breaking through. I suspected rain would move in before nightfall, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the wind followed, blowing some of the bright autumn leaves that had been clinging so stubbornly to their branches to the ground.
I doubted Mr. Paxton had anticipated receiving such a reception, but the time we’d had to watch his approach down the long, straight drive, he’d also had to prepare for our unfriendly greeting. He might have been a prideful buffoon, but he was no idiot. He knew we weren’t all standing out there to welcome him.
And his response to this was antagonism. Not the smartest course of action when faced with six men, two of whom by this point were towers of fury. He drew his horse to a stop at the last possible moment before he would have crashed into Michael and Gage, making me flinch, though they didn’t seem to react at all, except their postures became stiffer and angrier.
Mr. Paxton glared down at them like they were insects. “I’m no’ here to argue wi’ ye, Dalmay. I’m here for your brother. Where is he?”
“Not going with you.”
Mr. Paxton’s eyes narrowed. “Dinna make me arrest ye, too. The man’s committed murder. He needs to be locked up.”
“And how do you know that?” Gage asked. “Just this morning you declared Miss Wallace’s death an accidental drowning.”
Mr. Paxton’s face reddened. “I’ll no’ be talkin’ to you, Mr. Gage. You’ve been interferin’ wi’ my investigation, and by all rights I should have ye taken up for it.” He stabbed his finger toward Gage. “You should’ve been the one to tell me aboot William Dalmay’s affliction and no’ Miss Remmington. She’s the only one wi’ a lick o’ sense.”
“That’s Lord Dalmay, to you,” Michael corrected him in a hard voice.
“He’s no’ really a lord,” Mr. Paxton protested.
“Yes, he is,” he enunciated carefully. “And has been since our father died.”
“What, are ye daft, man? He spent time in a madhouse.”
“That changes nothing. They cannot strip a man of his title simply because he’s declared insane, which my brother is not.”
The constable huffed and opened his mouth to argue, but Michael cut him off.
“He’s not. He never received a proper hearing before the Court of Chancery regarding his mental state. He has never been proved to be anything but sane.”
“Then how’d he end up in the madhouse?” He sneered.
Michael’s shoulders were taut, his hands clenched into fists by his sides. “He was confined to that asylum against his will. He’s the victim here, not the perpetrator. And I’ll thank you to remember that.”
Mr. Paxton’s horse shifted, but he paid it no heed, merely tightened his grip on the reins. “Regardless o’ how you say he got there, the fact remains that Will . . .” Michael glared at him and Mr. Paxton puckered his lips in distaste, but corrected himself. “Lord Dalmay spent time in a lunatic asylum. He canna be in his right mind. And Miss Remmington believes he killed her friend.”
“She’s overwrought.” Gage spoke up again. “She misspoke.”
“Ye can force her to take back her words, but I heard the ring o’ truth in her statement, and ye won’t convince me to believe otherwise.”
I couldn’t see his face, but I could tell from the tone of his voice that Gage was losing his patience. “What you heard was a woman grieving and desperate to avenge her friend’s death, and she picked the closest and easiest target. You can’t arrest a man on such flimsy evidence.”
The shade of Mr. Paxton’s skin now rivaled the deep red of his hair and mustache. “I can. And I will. Now step aside.”
“You have no authority here.”
“I do. And I’ll arrest all o’ ye if ye stand in my way a moment longer.”
“You can try.” I tensed as Gage stalked closer to Mr. Paxton, worried the constable or his horse might lash out at him. But Gage seemed not to share this fear, and he reached out to grab hold of the horse’s bridle. “But as I said, you have no authority here. Lord Dalmay is a baron, and as such, a member of the peerage, which gives him the privilege of being exempt from civil arrest.”
I stifled a gasp and shared a glance with Laura, who seemed not to have forgotten this fact, to judge from the smile of enjoyment that curled her lips at seeing the constable’s reaction.