Fencing for Ladies (The Archer Family Regency Romances #5) (16 page)

It was clear that he wished to give Archer time to reconsider his position concerning Underwood and whatever he knew of him. Perhaps the inquiry agent thought that when Archer’s initial anger cooled, he would realize that implicating Underwood might remove some of the suspicion from Lady Olivia.

If that were his reasoning, it showed how little he knew of Archer’s character.

“I have no objection.” Alexander nodded at Archer.

Belcher’s brow furrowed with irritation as he stood and followed Archer to the door. “This is ridiculous.”

Alexander waited for the library door to close behind the two men before he fixed his gaze on the inquiry agent. “Well, Mr. Greenfield, what did Grantham have to say in this fascinating journal of his?”

“He had a great deal to say about all four of you.” Greenfield chuckled. “Quite the quartet of adventurers in your day, it seems.”

Alexander shrugged. “And eventually, we all grew up.” He considered Belcher and added with a grin, “Though some of us matured more quickly than others.”

“So it seems.” Greenfield paused to examine his fingernails again.

Perhaps he hoped the silence would encourage Alexander to speak, but he simply relaxed and sat back in his chair and waited, his calm gaze resting on the inquiry agent.

Greenfield sighed. “Prying is so disagreeable.” He took a deep breath and shook his head before looking at Alexander. “Nonetheless, I must ask about some entries Mr. Grantham wrote in his journal concerning yourself. And your wife.”

“I thought that might be your concern. No need to spare my feelings. It all happened a very long time ago.” Alexander smiled, despite the bleak, cold feeling settling within him. It had indeed been a number of years, but some pain never seemed to diminish.

“She…died?”

“What a delicate way of asking if I murdered her.” Alexander stared again at the clean, straight edge of Archer’s massive desk. The line reminded him of the sharp edges of the stairs that night. The lamplight had caught them, turning them into bright yellow lines before the bottommost steps descended down into the darkness of the ground floor. “No. I did not.”

The inquiry agent nodded. “An accident. She fell.”

“Yes. We were arguing on the first floor landing. She backed up to grab the small statue sitting on the newel-post” — a grim smile fluttered over his face—”to throw at me. She liked to throw things — figurines mostly, because they shattered so satisfactorily — when she failed to win an argument any other way. She missed her footing and fell.” He stared at the floor, remembering the sickening, dull thuds as she tumbled down the staircase.

“And she was pregnant at the time?”

Alexander felt an itching sensation on the side of his face from Greenfield’s stare. He glanced up and shrugged. “Yes, so her physician said. Four or five months.”

“You did not know at the time?”

“She had not seen fit to tell me before…it happened.” Four or five months. A cold hollow remained inside him at the loss of the baby, whether it was his or not. A tiny little boy — a son he was unlikely to have, now. The specter of that painful question remained: was the boy his child or not? It might have been his if it was closer to five months than four. But four.…

She had refused to share his bed the last few months of their increasingly acrimonious marriage. And she was not a woman to forgo her pleasures. She had welcomed someone with her lovely pale arms wide open, brilliant black eyes, and hungry, crimson mouth, but he didn’t know whom.

He’d preferred not to know. Marriage had been a mistake — and blaming another man for his misjudgment was futile, especially when he had no intention of repeating his errors.

“Grantham seemed inclined to speculate,” Greenfield said, before adding hastily, “A few initials only — no names.”

“Initials.” Alexander grunted. The gnawing, bitter anger, guilt, and frustration at his past failures with his erratic, tempestuous wife made him bite back the question forming on his lips.

Who, who, who?
The question repeated like the mournful, low call of an owl.
When did her love for me turn to hate? Who stole her smiles and lithe body?
His foot, still propped up on his left knee, jiggled.
Better off not to know, n
ot to speculate.

It could have been anyone, even a servant. A footboy or groom.
Anyone
.

Knowing the initials would only drive him to discover whose name would match the letters.

“Grantham never mentioned it to you?” Greenfield asked, pursuing the answers doggedly.

Alexander laughed harshly, his foot jerking faster. He gripped his ankle and stopped the movement. “No, he did not. He did not try to blackmail me with any knowledge he may have had concerning her, if that is your concern.”

Then it struck him. If Grantham wrote about Isabella’s affair, then at least she had not seduced him. Greenfield’s questions would have taken a dramatically different turn if that had been the case, and Grantham had noted it in his journal.

The tight bands of tension around Alexander’s chest eased. Grantham had not betrayed their friendship — he’d never had an affair with his wife. One of the few men who had not.

The thought made Grantham’s death seem even sadder. Unnecessary and tragic.

He’d been such a gentle man, unobtrusive and always the last to join in any activity, particularly those promising any physical danger. Although no one would ever call him a coward, he did not court risk, either. And knowing him, it was difficult to conceive of Grantham indulging in blackmail, unless he was sure he was safe in doing so. Or if he desperately needed the money.

“Greenfield, are you sure about your supposition that Grantham was blackmailing someone?”

“It is difficult to be sure of anything, my lord. However, there were some letters.…” A self-deprecating smile curved Greenfield’s mouth. “And there were those deposits.…”

“When did they start?”

“About six months ago. At least, that is when he began investing.” Greenfield stared at his hands clasped in his lap. “His accounts were in arrears before that — had been for the last year.”

Six
months
.

What had happened six months ago that had brought Grantham’s financial matters to a head? If he’d had a lack of funds for a year or more, he could certainly have continued a while longer. However, there was nothing that Alexander could recall.

“How much money was involved?” he asked.

“Each deposit was one hundred pounds, and there were ten deposits. One per week for ten weeks,” Greenfield replied.

“And then they stopped?” Alexander frowned. One thousand pounds. A nice round sum, but hardly a fortune.

But a nice, tidy sum that you might be able to squeeze out of someone.

“There was a gap of three weeks, and then another series of deposits. Same amounts, at the same interval. The deposits continued until a month before Grantham died,” Greenfield said.

“It does not appear to be the result of successful wagering.” Alexander rubbed the back of his neck. “The amounts and times would have been more varied.”

“Unless he were the kind of man who saved his winnings until he had one hundred pounds before depositing. Bookkeeping would be easier,” Greenfield suggested, studying Alexander to see his reaction.

“Grantham was not that methodical.” Alexander placed his right foot on the floor. “Are there any other questions?”

Greenfield stood politely as Alexander got to his feet. “No, my lord. I appreciate your patience.”

“Archer or Belcher?” he asked as he strode to the door.

“Mr. Belcher, I believe,” Greenfield replied. He smiled. “Fortunate I ran into the two of you, was it not?”

“Yes,” Alexander agreed in a dry voice. “Fortunate. Precisely the term I would have employed for our meeting.”

The fencing lesson went surprisingly well, and Olivia felt invigorated as she locked the foils and masks in her office. The exercise had almost made her forget the recent tragedies, although the occasional hesitant question, high giggle, and nervous, darting glances from the young ladies who’d decided to attend confirmed that they were there mostly for the sheer thrill of seeing the building where two corpses had been recently found. And of course, the excitement of learning fencing from a lady who might be a murderer.

However, Olivia thought that they also seemed to experience some of the thrill she’d always felt when crossing swords with an opponent. The excitement flaring in their eyes wasn’t only because of the recent, sad events.

Olivia was grateful to Cynthia, though, for her snorts of impatience whenever one of the ladies showed too much interest in the more gothic qualities of the unfortunate deaths. Those inelegant sounds, and Cynthia’s exuberant use of her foil, kept everyone focused on the lessons. Olivia could only hope this was not the first and last time the Misses Peterson and Miss Wilson would attend.

When Olivia returned home, she was surprised to find Edward occupying her sitting room. A bottle of sherry and two glasses sat on the small table at his elbow, and Lord Milbourn lounged in the chair opposite him, his long legs stretched out toward the fire burning merrily in the fireplace.

“Edward, Lord Milbourn,” she greeted them, wondering why they were occupying the Ivory Drawing Room instead of the library, which was Edward’s normal retreat. As she caught Lord Milbourn’s dark gaze, she grew warm, conscious of her flushed, damp cheeks from her recent exercise. She raised a hand to her hair, sure that it was in wild disarray.

Why hadn’t she gone to her room to tidy herself, first?

“You look very well, Lady Olivia,” Edward commented.

“I just returned from the academy. Class went exceedingly well today. To what do I owe this honor? I rarely have you gentlemen visit me in my sitting room,” she said.

Edward leapt to his feet and dragged another chair over to sit next to him, across from Lord Milbourn.

A half smile twisted Lord Milbourn’s mouth as he drew his legs back to give her room to walk past him and sit. “We were routed from the library by Mr. Greenfield,” Lord Milbourn said. His black eyes glinted with amusement. “He is conducting inquiries.”

Olivia looked from Lord Milbourn’s sardonic face to her brother.

Edward shook his head. Worried lines furrowed his brow and his mouth formed a tight line.

What does he have to worry about?

“
He cannot possibly suspect
you
, Edward,” Olivia blurted out.

“I suspect he might be more interested in me.” Lord Milbourn’s mouth twisted into a cynical smile. “After all, Archer did not murder his wife.”

Murder his wife
?

Olivia straightened and clasped her hands together in a tight knot. Her gaze was drawn to Milbourn’s dark eyes. A flicker of pain tore through the depths and bitterness thinned his mouth. Looking deeper, she glimpsed the hopelessness he hid so well behind a cold indifference and a sardonic sense of humor that served better than any shield to keep others at a distance. She partially lifted one hand to touch him before she stopped herself. A gesture of pity would only make him angry.

“Well, my brother has never been married,” she said. “So he has not had a wife to murder.”

Edward, in the middle of swallowing a mouthful of sherry, sputtered and choked.

Lord Milbourn chuckled.

“And perhaps you would do better to be less melodramatic, Lord Milbourn,” she said bracingly. “You were apparently never convicted of any such crime, so I am sure Mr. Greenfield will not make any ridiculous assumptions.”

“No. I was not convicted. Not by the law, at any rate,” Lord Milbourn said, his intense gaze fixed on her face.

“You refine too much upon the past,” she said, clasping her hands together.

“Unfortunately, the past can be a very persistent ghost,” Lord Milbourn said.

She stared into his eyes. “Only if you let it haunt you.” She shifted and smoothed her skirt over her lap with restless hands. “I, for one, don’t place too much importance on it.” She smiled. “Except to ensure I don’t repeat mistakes, of course.”

“Precisely my concern,” Lord Milbourn stared at the fire, his face an unreadable slab of granite. “I see we are in accord,
mi niña bonita
.”

Edward cleared his throat. “Unfortunately, Mr. Greenfield appears determined to sift through all our pasts since he found Grantham’s journal. I cannot blame him — it is his duty — but it is awkward, nonetheless.” The V between his brows deepened. “I fear the reason for Grantham’s death may very well have its seeds in the past. I did not wish to credit all that Mr. Und — a friend — recently confided to me, but perhaps he was not merely upset and imagining things as I supposed.” He studied Lord Milbourn’s harsh profile. “You knew Grantham far longer and better than I. Is there anyone you suspect? Any reason?”

Gazing at her brother, Lady Olivia realized that he was reconsidering his conversation with Mr. Underwood and her statement that he had been near the academy around the time of the murder. Edward had nearly slipped and named him, and his words seemed to imply that Mr. Grantham had been blackmailing Mr. Underwood. Although she had suspected something of the sort, having her suppositions even partially confirmed saddened her. She didn’t want to think that such things could happen among her acquaintances. Mr. Grantham had been so kind, so nice to them. The revelation about his character made her uneasy about trusting anyone.

Worse, she realized that if Mr. Grantham had been blackmailing Mr. Underwood, he could have had other victims, as well. No one was perfect, and they had all done silly things that might embarrass them. So any of Grantham’s victims could easily have murdered him.

Lord Milbourn barked a short laugh. “Grantham was a mild man and quiet. However, all men have the occasional argument. His death may have resulted from the heat of the moment. An ill-judged action. Or it could have been more deliberate, if you take the death of the charwoman into account. If the two are related. If so, you may be correct, Archer. There may be something in his journal that could point the way.” He rubbed the center of his forehead before pushing his fingers through his thick, black hair. “I would like to see that journal.”

“Then why not ask Mr. Greenfield?” Olivia stood. “I am tired of speculating without facts. Let us find out what he knows.”

Her boldness surprised even her. Perhaps her recent, close association with Miss Denholm was having an unexpected influence on her. Unfortunately, she could not determine if others perceived it as salubrious, or as an unforgivable lapse of good breeding.

Edward appeared positively appalled by her suggestion. He exchanged glances with Lord Milbourn, who merely smiled and shrugged.

“I do not think—” Edward stumbled to his feet.

“Indeed.” Lord Milbourn stood languidly. “Why not?” He gestured toward the door. “Shall we see if he has finished annoying Belcher?”

“He may take it amiss,” Edward said, following him. “And I would not blame him.”

Olivia trailed after the two men. “What if he does?”

She brushed past Lord Milbourn as he held the door for her, feeling flushed and self-conscious. She caught the warm scent of bay, leather, and the tingling aroma of something she’d always associated just with him. Something masculine and heady that made her want to lean closer to him, close her eyes, and breathe deeply.

The back of her neck tickled as Lord Milbourn followed her to the staircase. She could feel him behind her, his warmth seemed to bathe her back, even though she knew it was mostly her imagination.

“Do you want me to ask Mr. Greenfield?” she asked over her shoulder as they descended to the ground floor. “He already believes I am guilty, so my request cannot make my situation any worse.”

“There are always ways to make matters worse,” Edward answered grimly. “I will ask on behalf of all of us.”

Lord Milbourn cleared his throat, and Olivia caught a glimpse of a frown as she glanced at him over her shoulder. Apparently, he would have preferred to be the one to put forth the request, but at this juncture, they didn’t need any additional volunteers to throw themselves on their swords, and it would have been rude to argue with his host.

And even Olivia could see the advantages of allowing Edward to handle matters. He was not involved and had been out walking with Hildie when the murder occurred. Dozens of people must have seen them strolling sedately through the park.

As she stepped off the last stair, she turned to study Lord Milbourn’s face.

He appeared thoughtful, and he held his broad shoulders stiffly as he joined her. She had the distinct impression that he was not pleased to allow Edward to take charge. She smothered a smile as warm amusement swept through her. Lord Milbourn was not a man to let others take the charge. He was the sort of man who would lead from the front, and the devil take the hindmost. The type who ended up standing with a bemused expression on his face as a general pinned a medal to his chest for heroics.

He would not see his actions as courageous, just as something that had to be done. The thought made her long to step closer to him and slip her hand within his warm fingers.

After edging around them, Edward took the lead. They walked down the wide hallway to the library. Just as they reached the double doors, they opened, and Belcher strode out.

“I don’t know what more I can tell you,” Belcher said over his shoulder. He didn’t see the three of them immediately and turned back to face Greenfield, who had apparently stayed behind. “However, if you will let me have the journal for a few days, I will see if I can help you with those cryptic initials.” He held out a hand.

Edward and Lord Milbourn exchanged glances over Olivia’s head. She grimaced.

Before they could say anything, she stepped forward and brushed around Belcher. “Perhaps my brother and I could be of service to you, Mr. Greenfield.” She reached back and pulled Edward forward. “As you are aware, Edward was escorting my sister, Lady Hildegard, to the park, and he has studied the law.” She halted, aware that she was starting to babble. “Not that that matters. However, my point is that Edward was just saying to me that he would be willing to examine Mr. Grantham’s journal and relate to you any information he can discern from the contents.”

Greenfield stood in front of the large, mahogany desk and stared down at its shiny surface, a gentle smile on his face. He ran his fingertips over the smooth wood for several inches, apparently lost in thought.

“Mr. Greenfield?” Olivia repeated.

“I beg your pardon, my lady,” Greenfield’s head came up. He looked at her, a pleasant expression on his face. “You were saying?”

“The journal.” She flicked her hand in his direction. “Lord Milbourn indicated that Mr. Grantham had used some abbreviations in his diary that puzzled you. My brother, Mr. Edward Archer, has offered to study the journal and provide you with any insights he gains.”

The smile on Greenfield’s face grew sadder, and the corners of his mouth drooped, giving him the slightly worried, long face of a bloodhound that fears he has lost the trail and might disappoint his master. All he needed was a long tail to wag slowly back and forth in an it’s-bad-but-not-entirely-hopeless gesture.

“I appreciate the offer, Mr. Archer.” He nodded to Edward, who stood just behind her on the right. “And Mr. Belcher’s, as well. However, I think it best that I continue to puzzle over it myself for now.” He caught her gaze and smiled, his blue eyes bright and penetrating. “Don’t you, Lady Olivia?”

No, I don’t think that at all! I think you ought to give it to me so we can discover what Mr. Grantham wrote about us all.

She returned his smile and nodded. “Of course. No doubt you know your business.”

“I appreciate your confidence.” Mr. Greenfield bowed. “Now, if you will excuse me, I will leave you in peace.”

For now
.

She knew he would not leave them alone for long. Like the bloodhound he resembled, he would continue to sniff around, searching for the right trail. And she didn’t feel particularly peaceful about it, although there was little she could do.

If she were Cynthia, she might grab Mr. Greenfield by his dark gray lapels, give him a good shake, and then wrest the journal from his pocket. But she was not quite that bold. Yet. Given sufficient time and provocation, however, Olivia thought she might surpass even the indomitable Cynthia Denholm.

“I will walk with you for a bit,” Belcher said as they trailed back through the hallway to the front door. He accepted his top hat from Latimore and doffed it at a rakish angle on his blond curls, grinning with good humor. “If you don’t mind, Greenfield?”

“Not at all,” Greenfield replied as he followed Mr. Belcher to the front door.

Olivia studied the narrow back of the inquiry agent. His coat hung awkwardly, sagging on the left side, suggesting he carried Grantham’s journal with him. Her gaze fixed on that lumpy bulge. A flicker of anger burned her at the agent’s careless reply. What gave him the right to tease out all their secrets and disappointments? Didn’t he ever lose his temper? Do something he regretted later?