Fencing for Ladies (The Archer Family Regency Romances #5) (18 page)

She looked at his coat. It no longer sagged to the left.

The journal was gone. A cloud of butterflies fluttered inside her chest. She felt lightheaded and then queasy as her pulse quickened. Her fingers tingled with cold.

Someone had stolen Grantham’s journal!

Much to his chagrin, Grantham’s journal continued to torment and elude Alexander. Greenfield proved so obstinate in his refusal to let anyone even glimpse it that Alexander was beginning to think he didn’t have Grantham’s diary after all.

The thought raised interesting possibilities.

He spent Sunday considering the case, and the following Monday, he attended the coroner’s inquest into the death of Mrs. Adams. When Edward Archer walked in alone and sat next to him, Alexander was relieved. Lady Olivia had obviously decided not to attend and had provided a brief statement, which Idleman read aloud to the jurymen.

“Lord Milbourn, we have read your statement. Is there anything you wish to add?” Idleman frowned grimly at him as if he could force him to remain silent through sheer force of will.

“Yes.” He walked over to the pitiful body, already ensconced in a simple wooden box in the corner of the room.

The cold February air had not kept all signs of decay at bay, and the corpse’s round cheeks appeared bloated and multi-hued. The putrid smell overlaid even the cleaner smell of the casket’s fresh wood and was so dreadful that they’d left one of the small windows nearby open, despite the blustery winds that swept through it.

Mr. Idleman and his jurors ranged themselves around him, although none of them seemed inclined to stand too close to the simple box.

“Well, my lord?” Idleman prompted him. He clasped his thin hands behind his back and fixed his gaze firmly on Alexander.

“You will recall that I requested various articles of Mrs. Adams’s clothing to be present.” Alexander gestured to his left.

A battered, black bonnet, shawl, and short pelisse were draped over the top of a square table shoved against the wall. Alexander picked up the bonnet and tilted it so that the gentlemen ringing him could see the brownish-red stains covering the interior.

“You see where the blood has pooled and dried?” he asked. “It is on the right side of her bonnet.” He placed the bonnet on the table and went to the wooden box. “If you examine the face of the deceased, you will also notice a livid area on the right side, running over the chin, cheek, and temple. This is blood that has pooled under the skin immediately after death.”

“Are you a physician, my lord?” one of the more elegantly dressed jurors asked. He stared at Alexander with an arrogant air that suggested he didn’t consider Alexander’s observations to be worthy of their consideration.

“No. I have seen death before, however.” He glanced around the circle of men. “Many of us have. There can be no question that the fluids in the body will naturally settle at the lowest point.”

“Well, what of it?” the elegant man asked, shifting his feet impatiently and gazing around as if unwilling to look at the pitiful body of the dead woman.

“You have heard Constable Cooke’s report. There was no sign of Mrs. Adams when he first searched the house on Wednesday, the thirteenth of February. And when we discovered the body, it was lying on its left side, not the right, and she had been dead for at least a day. This means the body was hidden somewhere and then moved to the kitchen.”

“Very well. I believe we can accept your assessment,” Idleman stated curtly. “Have you any additional points you wish to make?”

“I would also encourage you to examine the wound on her left temple. There is a pattern” — he pulled the drawing he’d made out of his pocket and handed it to the man standing on his right—”still visible, imprinted in the flesh. I suggest you find the weapon that made that wound, if you wish to uncover her killer.”

The men dutifully filed past the corpse, taking turns to bend over and examine her bloated face. The processes of decomposition had done much to destroy the delicate pattern, and several men shook their heads doubtfully. But enough saw the purplish-brown traces to grow thoughtful.

“I would only add,” Alexander said as he studied the coroner, “that her key to the premises where she was found is also missing. It would appear that she might have met her end
because
of that key. Whether the murderer intended to kill her with that blow or only wanted to render her unconscious long enough to take the key, the end result was the same. That is all.” He nodded sharply to the coroner and walked back to his seat.

The rest of the inquest passed rather prosaically.

The elegantly dressed man, Mr. Carter, brought up the apparent connection between the deaths of Mr. Grantham and Mrs. Adams. “There can be no doubt that the two poor souls were both foully murdered by the same despicable individual.” He looked at each of his fellow jurors in turn, before fixing his gaze on the coroner. “It is inconceivable that there should be two such desperate persons in London.”

The coroner nodded once in agreement, before catching himself and frowning at Carter. “Speculation, sir. Our purpose is only to determine the manner of death. The proper authorities will investigate the matter to identify the individual, or
individuals
, responsible for this outrage.”

A few minutes later, Idleman announced a verdict of unlawful killing by person or persons unknown and terminated the inquest. The decision was no surprise to anyone, though several jurymen, including Carter, clustered together near the doorway. Alexander heard them whisper Lady Olivia’s name as he passed them on his way through the door.

At least he had time, now. No one had been named, or taken into custody, at either inquest as he feared might happen. Idleman seemed curiously reluctant in that regard, though Alexander could well understand it if Idleman thought the evidence pointed to Lady Olivia. The coroner would not want to risk an accusation against an earl’s sister. He wisely left it up to Constable Cooke and Mr. Greenfield to uncover sufficient evidence to hand the entire affair over to the House of Lords; let them deal with Lady Olivia.

With luck, it would never reach that august body.

§

Considering how best to prove her innocence, Lady Olivia went about her duties Monday morning absentmindedly. Her inattentiveness led to incorrectly addressed correspondence, and a strange menu with multiple desserts, but no meat course. Her errors were gently brought to her notice, and by mid-morning, she felt that a cup of tea was not only deserved, but required.

Mary dutifully brought her a tray, including a few Bath buns wrapped in a napkin. The fresh bread smelled heavenly of yeast and were still steaming when Olivia unwrapped them and slathered on some rich, creamy butter.

“Mary,” Olivia called as the maid approached the door on her way out. “Ask Latimore to join me. I wish to speak with him.”

“Yes, Lady Olivia.” Mary bobbed a curtsey and scurried through the door.

A few minutes later, Olivia heard Latimore’s firm tread clattering over the marble floor in the hall. “Did you wish to see me, Lady Olivia?” Latimore asked. He remained standing in the doorway, one white-gloved hand on the doorknob.

“Come in, Latimore,” Olivia said. She shifted in her chair, feeling like a child about to chastise her father. It felt wrong and unseemly.

Latimore moved to stand in front of her, his hands clasped in front of him, and a calm, patient look on his face.

“About that button,” she said hesitantly, unsure how to ask him why he hadn’t warned her, why he’d left her to suffer such a terrible surprise at the inquest. She didn’t want to sound like a whimpering little child, even if she felt like one.

He nodded majestically. “I thought it might be a matter of concern to you, Lady Olivia. We did not mean to upset you. However, Mr. Peregrine thought it best not to worry you.”

“Not to worry me! I would have appreciated a warning, at least.”

“Yes, Lady Olivia. Perhaps it is best if I explain the circumstances.”

“I should think you would.”

“Mr. Greenfield insisted on examining your wardrobe—”

Sucking in a sharp breath, Olivia stiffened. “My wardrobe? Why was I not informed?”

Latimore bowed deferentially, his gaze fixed on the far wall. “I beg your pardon, Lady Olivia. You were at the academy at the time. Mr. Peregrine granted his permission.”

“Peregrine?” She frowned, feeling betrayed, before she waved for him to continue.

“Miss Farmer was cleaning your pelisse at the time. She attempted to stop him from taking the garment from her. Unfortunately, she had discovered the button while handling your clothing, and it fell from her hand. She had no choice but to allow him to take the item.”

“No choice?” Olivia asked bitterly.

“No, Lady Olivia. Mr. Greenfield picked it up before she could regain possession of it. She went immediately to the housekeeper, Mrs. Keene, as was appropriate, and Mrs. Keene brought the matter to me. Miss Farmer was fearful that she would be dismissed, and Mrs. Keene was in favor of that course of action. Mr. Peregrine overheard our discussion and decided otherwise since he had given Mr. Greenfield permission to search in the first place.”

“I see my dear brother has a great deal to answer for,” Olivia murmured.

“Mr. Peregrine then told Miss Farmer to remain silent if she wished to remain in service here. He felt it would be best not to worry you, unnecessarily.”

She eyed him coldly. “Indeed.”

“Mr. Peregrine insisted.” He raised a gloved hand and covered his mouth as he coughed twice. “Pardon me, Lady Olivia. I hope you do not take this amiss, however, I must say that honesty is preferred in these circumstances. Hiding information or clues from the authorities can only do harm. I agreed with your brother. I felt that your honest and obviously shocked reaction at the inquest would stand you in good stead. The entire staff supports you, Lady Olivia, and believes in your innocence, if I may say so. I am sure Mr. Greenfield will do his best to discover the miscreant, but he can only do so if he is in possession of all the facts.”

Somehow, Latimore had reversed their positions. Once more he gently assumed the role of a parent, and for some reason, she wanted to cry. At least he thought she was innocent; they all did.

But that didn’t change the fact that they had plotted behind her back and hid crucial things from her. That was the one action she couldn’t quite forgive. She hated being left out, or having others decide what she should or should not know, as if they were superior to her and she were a fragile child needing protection from the truth. Frustration churned inside her. How dare they assume they knew what was best for her?

“You should have told me, nonetheless,” she said. “It concerned me directly, and I also appreciate honesty.” She bit off her words before she descended to the level of a petulant infant and exclaimed,
it isn’t fair! You left me out!

The expression on Latimore’s face softened, and he allowed himself a small smile. “I am sorry, Lady Olivia. In our judgment, we were taking the best course—”

“I should have been consulted.”

“I see.” He straightened. His face turned to stone. “Shall I inform Miss Farmer?”

“Inform Farmer?” Olivia stared at him. “Inform her of what?”

“That we have been dismissed,” Latimore said. His brown eyes, encircled by dark purple pouches, appeared sad, and his mouth drooped. His short white hair barely covered his pink scalp and fluffed up like the freshly dried down on a newly hatched chick. The vertical lines running from the sides of his long nose to frame his mouth deepened as he studied her, and his jowls sagged even lower, pulling the corners of his mouth down.

He looked defeated.

She was suddenly aware of how old he was. He’d been with them for as long as she could remember. He’d always seemed to be the same, middle-aged man: never changing and eternal.

Though her feet shifted, she didn’t stand and hug him the way she wanted to. He would have been appalled if she’d even attempted such an action, so she simply said, “No — no, that is not what I meant at all. I simply meant that I should have been informed, and I expect to be included in any discussions concerning me in the future.”

He blinked several times and raised a fist to his mouth as he cleared his throat. “Thank you, Lady Olivia.” He bowed. He coughed again and fumbled around in his pocket, before finally pulling out a piece of paper that he handed to her. “I had meant to give this to you earlier. It is the list of visitors we received the week of the tragedy. Mr. Edward also has a copy, as does Mr. Greenfield.”

“I don’t suppose there are any names that would surprise me.” Olivia glanced over the sheet. Latimore’s neat handwriting listed the names of their guests in two long columns.

“No, Lady Olivia. I did not record any unusual visitors in the log book.”

“No strangers?”

“No.”

The paper rustled between her nervous fingers.
One of these — one of our friends or acquaintances — tucked that button into my cuff to shift the blame to me. Someone I know might be a murderer.
A chill ran down the back of her neck, and she shivered. She found it difficult to even read the list, not wanting to imagine any of the friends listed therein as a killer, willing to betray and implicate her.

Someone is willing to see me hang.

Then the irony of her thoughts struck her. A slow, self-deprecating smile stretched her mouth. She’d just chastised Latimore for not informing her of the button, and here he was, trying to give her a list of names, one of which might be responsible for Mr. Grantham’s death, and she didn’t want to read it.

In the distance, Lady Olivia heard the deep thrum of the front door knocker. She glanced at Latimore.

“Is there anything else, Lady Olivia?” he asked politely, as if he had all the time in the world.

And he did, she reflected. Whoever was waiting at the front door would have to wait until he opened it.

“No. That is all.” She dismissed him and then spread the list out on her lap to read it.

A quick glance through the names only disheartened her more. The majority of callers were ladies of her acquaintance and their mothers.
Miss Madison, Lady Emerson and daughter, Mr. Henry Franks, Miss Swainson, Mr. Thomas Willow,
and so on. On the back were
Mr. Underwood, Mr. Grantham, Lord Milbourn, Mr. Belcher,
and several more men who were friends of her brothers. They almost seemed to be an afterthought, as if the meticulous butler were merely trying to be thorough. The list seemed endless, and each name seemed even less likely to commit murder than the preceding one.

She went through it several times before throwing it in frustration onto the small, oval table next to her.

Olivia was about to return to her room to exchange her pale rose morning gown for a walking dress when Latimore reappeared in the doorway.

“Miss Denholm, Lady Olivia,” he announced with a bow.

As usual, Cynthia failed to wait like a proper young lady in the hallway and followed closely after Latimore. He’d barely finished speaking when she edged past his shoulder and said, “Good morning, Lady Olivia.”

“Surely we do not have another lesson scheduled for today,” Olivia said, glancing at the window to reassure herself that it was too early in the day for a lesson, even if she had forgotten it. “I had thought we were going to wait until Wednesday afternoon for the next one.”

“Yes, yes.” Cynthia strode into the room and waved at Latimore. “Go on, back to your post, my good man. We have no need of you.”

Latimore stared at Olivia.

She sighed. “You may go, Latimore.”

“Very good, Lady Olivia.” He bowed and closed the door behind him.

“Would you care to sit down, Miss Denholm?” Olivia asked politely, gesturing to the gold and ivory brocade cushioned chair opposite her.

“Yes, well, a cup of tea would be welcome.” Cynthia flung herself into the chair and eyed Olivia expectantly. Her fingers tapped the armrests.

While Olivia rang for more tea, Cynthia slapped the armrests, leaned forward, and helped herself to the last Bath bun, happily using Olivia’s plate and knife. As she took a huge bite, Olivia reflected that her friend’s governess must have despaired of ever teaching the energetic girl any sort of good manners. She’d never let politeness stand in the way of positive action.

But in a way, Olivia found her refreshing, and she was always warmhearted. She always knew where she stood with Cynthia Denholm and didn’t have to worry about making a mistake or inadvertently insulting her. Cynthia would undoubtedly let her know of any misstep and then promptly forgive her.

The maid arrived a few minutes later, and Olivia ordered an assortment of cakes, as well as tea.

Cynthia was already peering hungrily at the empty plates. As Olivia watched, Cynthia licked her index finger and picked up several remaining crumbs nestling within the napkin folded around the buns.

“The tea will be here shortly,” Olivia said as she sat, arranging her pink muslin skirts around her. “It is good to see you.”

“Yes, yes. Delightful. Lovely day. You are looking well, as am I, so on and so forth.” Cynthia brushed away her words impatiently. She pulled a rather large reticule onto her lap. The bag had elaborate embroidery in bright red silk and a matching crimson fringe dangling from the bottom. She gripped the strings holding the reticule shut and pulled it open. “Found this — thought you might want it.” She pulled out a book and thrust the object out toward Olivia.

The brown leather cover looked worn, and a mysterious darker stain had spread over the bottom half. She eyed it with distaste and kept her hands clasped together firmly in her lap.

“What is it?” Olivia asked. Unease prickled the skin between her shoulder blades.

Cynthia shook the book and then tossed it into Olivia’s lap, just as Mary walked through the door with the tea tray. Reluctant to touch the thing, Olivia pushed it to the side, letting it slip between her hip and the arm of her chair. She busied herself with serving the tea and tried to forget it was there, but cold dampness seemed to seep through her gown where the book touched her.

After a shrug, Cynthia piled her plate with several slices of pound cake and a few of the delicate frosted tea cakes, for which Mrs. Peale, their cook, was justly famous.

Soon enough, however, Cynthia was slurping her third cup of tea and she spied the ragged corner of the leather book. “Go ahead, Lady Olivia. That is Grantham’s journal, you know.”

“What?” Olivia dropped her plate. It slipped off her lap and tumbled to the floor with a thump before she could catch it. Fortunately, the delicate, gold-rimmed china did not shatter since it fell but a short distance onto a thick carpet. Equally lucky, only a few crumbs remained on the plate. She rapidly brushed them back onto the plate and placed it onto the tea tray with shaking hands.

“Mr. Grantham’s journal,” Cynthia repeated, picking up the last small cake and taking a large bite out of it.

Olivia sat back and picked up the leather-bound book. The stain on the cover still felt unpleasantly cold — almost wet. “How did you obtain it?”

“It was lying in the gutter where that child was killed.” Cynthia shrugged. “Terrible thing to happen.” Her eyes glinted with a martial light. “That child should not have been in the street at all. Schooling, a full stomach, and bed — that’s what he needed.”