A Deadly Affection (28 page)

“Ah! Here comes an admirer,” Lucille said, smiling at someone over my shoulder.

“Do you mind if I borrow Genevieve for this dance?” asked Bartie, appearing at my elbow.

“Of course not.” Lucille turned her glittering smile on me. “I enjoyed our little chat, Miss Summerford. I'm sure we'll be speaking again soon.”

I went with Bartie willingly, eager to distance myself from Lucille. At the dance floor's edge, however, I balked.

“Come on,” Bartie protested. “We've got to make a stand for the younger generation. Your parents are putting us all to shame.”

“I don't feel much like dancing.”

“Then I'll do all the work,” he said, tugging me forward, “and you just come along for the ride.”

I followed reluctantly, and we started to dance. To my relief, the maxixe ended almost as soon as we had begun and was followed by a simpler two-step that allowed me to entertain my thoughts without landing too frequently on Bartie's toes. The more I reviewed my conversation with Lucille, the more concerned I became. If Lucille was already responsible for one murder, as I was now convinced was the case, there was no reason to think she wouldn't murder again to keep her secret safe. Which meant that every day she remained at large, I was in danger.

I could go to Detective Maloney and tell him everything I'd learned. But my euphoria over securing potential evidence had diminished since my chat with Lucille. Too much hinged on Hagan's prints being identified on the murder weapon. If I told Maloney who Olivia really was and then Hagan's prints weren't found on the sword, my revelation could be the nail in Eliza's coffin.

The music ended, and Bartie, having exhausted the two-dance-per-partner limit, handed me over to Timothy Drummond, who'd been waiting in the wings. Timothy was just the partner I needed at the moment, so happy with the sound of his own voice that he failed to notice my complete lack of attention. If I could just put off going to the police until I met with Dr. Huntington, I thought as we bounced through an awkward Turkey Trot, I might have something more than fingerprints to rely on. Not just a clean bill of health for Eliza—which I was still fervently hoping for—but information connecting the Fiskes to Hauptfuhrer's death as well. It was possible that Dr. Hauptfuhrer had had further contact with Dr. Huntington and told him he was planning to convey his concerns about Olivia's health to the Fiskes before her betrothal to the Earl could take place. That, combined with the
L. F.
notation in Hauptfuhrer's appointment book, might be enough to convince the authorities that Lucille had a motive for murder, with or without the supporting evidence of Hagan's fingerprints.

Then again, it might not. My brain kept churning as I humped through the Camel Walk with Edgar Bruce and staggered through the Grizzly Bear with Addie Graham, balancing the risks against the benefits of disclosure. Unfortunately, there were too many unknowns to make a purely rational decision, and I was beginning to feel like nothing so much as a cooked goose when the orchestra finally took a break. I would go to the police after my meeting with Dr. Huntington, I decided at last, threading my way alone off the dance floor.

I heard my mother call my name and turned to see her cutting toward me through the crowd, pulling my father behind her. They drew up flushed and smiling before me.

“You were amazing out there,” I said.

To my surprise, my mother leaned forward and gave me a hug. “It was fun,” she said breathlessly. “But it's worn us out.” She smiled up at my father. “We're going to go home.”

“I'll come too,” I told her. Though it was still early by ball standards, it had already been a very long night for me as well. I didn't see what more I could accomplish by staying, and the idea of stripping off my torture chamber of a dress and consigning my feverish brain to sleep was very appealing. “I'll just say good night to Emily and meet you downstairs.”

Before I could go, Bartie returned carrying two foaming glasses of champagne punch. “I thought you might need this,” he said, holding one out to me. “I'd hate to have you pass out from lack of nourishment.”

“Thanks, but we were just leaving.”

“What? You can't leave yet! What if they announce the engagement after you go? You'd never forgive yourself.”

“There's no need for you to leave, Genna,” my mother said, “just because we are.”

“That's right,” said Bartie. “Besides, you know how I hate to drink alone.”

I caught the look that passed between my parents and stifled a groan. “Why don't you share a glass with Claire Kimball over there?” I asked him.

He frowned, eying the cluster of men vying for Miss Kimball's attention. “I suspect she's fairly bloated already.”

“Now look, Genna,” my father broke in, “just because we're old and boring doesn't mean you have to cut your evening short. You stay here and enjoy yourself, and we'll send Maurice back for you later. Come along, Ev.”

Belatedly, it occurred to me that they might prefer to be alone. And so I stayed and made the rounds with Bartie, watching the dancers and sipping punch and pretending to care what was happening around me, while inwardly, my mind continued to churn. After what seemed an eternity we finally went in to breakfast, where I kept my mouth full of chipped beef and slivered eggs and nodded at appropriate intervals. At last, the party broke up and I headed downstairs, too tired and bleary-eyed to argue when Bartie insisted on accompanying me.

We stood on the red carpet as a footman went to find my driver, I in my short velvet paletot and Bartie shivering stoically in his tailcoat. Clusters of coachmen and chauffeurs were huddled along the sidewalk, the red tips of their cigarettes glowing in the dark. More snow had fallen during the evening, and a soft white carpet lay over the street, glistening like spun sugar in the yellow lamplight. I shut my eyes and drew a deep breath of crystalline air.

Almost immediately, I opened them again, feeling warm lips close over mine. “What are you doing?” I asked, pulling back.

“Kissing you good night,” Bartie said. “Do you mind?”

I didn't answer right away. I understood that he was making me an offer, which deserved more than a moment's consideration. I liked Bartie—he was funny, kind, not bad looking, and he didn't try to tell me what to do. Despite my earlier assertion to the contrary, we had always gotten along. I should feel flattered, perhaps even grateful, for his offer; after all, there wasn't a long line of suitors queued up behind him. Although I didn't feel ready for marriage, I didn't want to end up old and alone either, with only a houseful of cats for company. And yet…I couldn't help wishing for something more. “I just—I just don't think—”

“That we're right for each other?” he said with a smile, making it easy for me.

I shook my head. “I'm sorry.”

“Well, I can't say you didn't warn me. But I thought it was worth another try.”

I reached for his hand. “Please don't hate me.”

“I couldn't. You know that.”

“Promise?”

He crossed his heart. “And hope to die.”

Maurice was accelerating fitfully down the avenue in the motorcar, trying to pass a caravan of snow-filled sanitation carts on their way to the river. “You'd better go in before you catch pneumonia,” I said, squeezing Bartie's hand.

With a solemn bow, he turned on his heel and strode, stiff-shouldered, through the door. The picture of a dejected suitor, I thought, smiling just a little at the display. It wasn't that I thought him insincere, but Bartie was a creature of mercurial emotions, and I doubted his disappointment would outlast the night. I myself felt a brief pang of loss—but it was followed by a much greater sense of relief. I couldn't marry someone just to have a body across from me at the breakfast table, even if it did mean consigning myself to the company of felines. I drew another deep breath, let it go, and started down the carpeted steps toward the sidewalk.

I was on the last step when, from the corner of my eye, I noticed a man break away from a group of coachmen and move toward me. He wasn't dressed in bright livery like the others, but wore a dark coat that made him hard to make out in the murky light. It was clear from his deliberate stride, however, that he was coming straight for me. I tightened my grip on my evening bag.

Moving into the light from the doorway, he drew to a stop in front of me. “Just your type,” he said, jerking his head toward the spot where Bartie had been a moment before.

“Simon! What are you doing here?”

He shrugged, thrusting his hands into his pockets. “I was in the neighborhood, so I thought I'd drop by to see what you'd learned.” His dark hair was disheveled, and he smelled unmistakably of beer.

“‘In the neighborhood'? It must be five o'clock in the morning!”

“I was at a wake,” he said by way of explanation.

“You were drinking at a funeral?”

“I didn't say a funeral,” he carefully corrected. “I said a wake. It's a celebration of a man's life. And Jimmy Fitzpatrick's life, God bless him, was worth celebrating.” He looked up the steps toward the Fiskes' door. “Unlike the sorry spectacle that passes for a life in some parts.”

The motorcar heaved to a stop at the curb, and Maurice jumped out, clasping his cap securely to his graying head. “Is everything all right, miss?” he wheezed.

“Yes, Maurice, it's all right. I've just run into an old acquaintance.” Simon would have to watch himself now, I thought; he might get away with being rude and insulting to me, but Maurice wouldn't think twice about putting him in his place.

Simon turned toward the car. “Maurice? Is that you?”

The old man squinted at him uncertainly.

“I never thought you'd give up the whip,” Simon said with a smile. “How's that elbow you broke when you fell off Semper Fidelis? Still ache when it snows?”

“Simon?” Maurice straightened, breaking into a grin. “Simon Shaw! Well, aren't you a sight for sore eyes!” He stepped forward and grasped his hand. “Grown up some since I seen you last, haven't you?”

“I need some fresh air,” I said irritably. “Maurice, I'm going to walk for a way with Mr. Shaw. You can follow us in the motorcar.”

Maurice tipped his cap to me, nodded and smiled again at Simon, and climbed back into the vehicle.

I started up the snow-covered sidewalk.

“What's the matter?” Simon asked, falling in beside me. “Afraid I'm going to molest you?”

I didn't like the way he was slurring his words. I was used to him being unpleasant, but this was different. I could feel his agitation circling me like a restless swarm of bees. “I can't very well walk unchaperoned at this hour, now can I?”

“Not with the likes of me, you mean.”

“Not with anyone, as you well know. Are you drunk?”

A discarded cigar lay smoldering in the snow ahead of us. Simon swung back his leg, took careful aim, and launched it at a nearby fire hydrant. “I suppose it would be all right for you to walk alone with Billy Long Legs back there.”

“You mean Bartie? Don't be ridiculous. Bartie would know better than to even try.”

He snorted. “Then he's as gutless as the rest of them.”

“The rest of whom?” I asked, losing patience.

“All of 'em,” he said, sweeping his arm vaguely through the air. “All covered in satin and jewels, but not a beating heart among 'em. You should have seen their servants chasing the lads from the steps; they'd rather throw the food away than give the boys a piece from the scrap heap.”

“I'm not going to argue with you,” I said, trying to walk in a trail of footprints that someone had left in the snow. I'd forgotten to change out of my slippers, and frozen granules were already sifting down around my heels and melting through my stockings. “Just remember that I didn't go there tonight to enjoy myself. I went to find out where Charles Fiske was on the morning of the murder.”

“So where was he?”

“I don't know. But it doesn't matter.”

“Why not?”

“Because he's not the one who did it.” I related everything I had observed during the course of the evening, happy to share my suspicions—and my fears—after the nerve-stretching intensity of the last several hours. It wasn't only relief I felt, however, as we continued up the snow-blanketed sidewalk. I was acutely aware of the inches of space between Simon and me, widening or narrowing as I struggled to maintain my footing, closing to nothing as my silk-sheathed hip brushed against his thick wool coat. It was the briefest of contact, but my entire awareness was drawn to it. I couldn't help wondering if he was aware of it too.

“So are you going to tell the police about this Hagan character?” he asked when I was done.

“Not just yet.”

“Why not?”

Maurice rolled through the intersection behind us with an awful grinding of gears. “Because if I let the cat out of the bag about the adoption before I have irrefutable evidence implicating Lucille, Eliza will be in an even worse position than before. And she's not the only one. Once I go to the police, it will become public knowledge that Olivia is illegitimate. She's going to have enough to deal with if it turns out she has chorea, coming to terms with her illness. I don't want to mark her as a bastard as well. Not unless it's absolutely necessary.”

“Why should the girl care what other people think? She may be a bastard, but she's a rich one.”

I frowned at him. “Do you really think that makes a difference?”

“Of course it does. Money always makes a difference.”

“It can't protect her from being treated badly by people who feel they're morally superior. And the worst of it is, it wouldn't even be because of anything she's done. She'd be paying for her parents' sins.”