Winter Garden by Adele Ashworth

Madeleine’s opinion. Even now she slouched in her chair from too much wine, conversing with Thomas somewhat clumsily, ignoring Madeleine as well as her food, while her fingertips toyed nervously with her small, crystal glass of ruby-red medicine she waited impatiently to take at the end of her meal. She was certainly a habitual user, and the routine of mixing it with alcohol would one day likely be fatal. It was only a matter of time before her death from either taking too much at once, or the giving out of a lifeless body that could accumulate no more excess.
    Thomas must have known it, too, known far more than he’d intimated during their first conversation the day of her arrival in Winter Garden. That’s why he flattered Lady Claire, as he put it. The woman was indeed lonely, drowning in drink and laudanum. And Lady Claire detested her, Madeleine assumed, because she was French perhaps, but probably more likely because she had stolen, to some degree, the only attention the woman received from an attentive man.
    The two of them were speaking now of the Childress library across the hall from the grand music room they’d already discussed, of its large and unusual assortment of books collected by her husband’s family for more than three generations. Thomas nodded where appropriate and listened courteously as Lady Claire carried on about something entirely insignificant. Madeleine imagined he smiled at the woman with sparkling soft eyes but she herself couldn’t see them to know.
    Madeleine leaned back so a servant could remove her empty plate, while another dutifully placed dessert in front of her—bubbling baked apple cobbler topped with whipped, sweet cream. If she learned nothing at all today, at least she would depart well fed.
    â€œThey’re part of such a magnificent collection, Thomas, that the good Baron Rothebury has been buying them from me from time to time these last few months,” Lady Claire announced proudly, lifting her spoon and stirring the cream on her cobbler. “I thought you’d find that interesting since you are a scholar. Perhaps you’d like to see them, too.”
    At the mention of the baron, Madeleine concentrated on the discourse once more, lifting her spoon and dipping it into her cobbler, saying nothing for a moment because she wanted to see where Thomas would take it.
    â€œBaron Rothebury is buying your books?” he asked casually to clarify.
    Lady Claire smiled enough to reveal yellowed teeth. “It’s a hobby of his.”
    â€œIs it?” He appeared quite interested. “What do you suppose he wants with old books?”
    The lady’s eyelids sagged as she tipped forward and placed a small, gaunt hand on his coat sleeve. “These aren’t just old books, Thomas. Some of them are worth quite a penny. And he’s a collector himself, you know.” Her forehead creased. “No, that’s not right. Actually, I think he’s more of a dealer.”
    Now Madeleine found herself intrigued. The peculiarity of such a preoccupation by a certain suspect was more than could be ignored.
    â€œA book dealer,” Thomas repeated. “How fascinating.I’ve only met the man once, though, so I really don’t know him.”
    He leaned back in his chair, and Madeleine had to wonder if Thomas was trying to pull away from the lady’s obviously tight grip. Of all the things she could read in him, she knew he was certainly not attracted to this woman.
    Lady Claire’s groomed brows lifted in forced surprise. “Goodness, I thought everybody knew the baron.” She gave a nervous laugh and dropped her spoon from her left hand loudly on her china plate. “But perhaps you haven’t lived in Winter Garden long enough. I shall have to invite you both to tea someday.”
    â€œI’ll look forward to it,” Thomas said, turning to his cobbler.
    It would never happen. Madeleine knew that, and so did