I Adored a Lord (17 page)

Lord Whitebarrow grunted. “Do you see, Olympia? He doesn't trust the man's intelligence any more than the duchess does.”

The duchess cast him an approving glance.

“If I valued the opinion of rebels and republicans,” Lady Whitebarrow said, “I am certain I should be impressed.”

That corner of the room went absolutely quiet.

Lady Margaret burst forth with a chuckle. “Dear me, how diverting fashionable ­people are. Sir Henry, we must take note. I've never heard such a thing, but I suppose when you are titled as well as rich you can say anything you wish. Rebels and republicans! How positively diverting. Ann dear, do attend to Lady Whitebarrow. She is jesting marvelously well tonight.”

Ann stared at her clasped hands.

“If I were a man,” the duchess said to Lady Whitebarrow, “I'd call ye out.”

“Then 'tis a verra good thing yer no a man, Mither.” Iona looked with desperation to Arielle. “Mademoiselle, would ye play for us?”

Arielle played. The prince beckoned the duchess to the overflowing trunks of costumes to dress her for the part of Lady Capulet. Monsieur Sepic returned, said nothing of the writing samples, and immediately fell into fawning over the nobles. A full day in advance of the play, everyone proved themselves marvelous actors, enacting the pretense that he was not investigating them for murder; their modest flatteries encouraged his spirits until he fairly glowed. When Lord Whitebarrow himself filled the mayor's brandy glass a second time, the Frenchman nearly swooned.

Everyone donned bits of costumes: Lady Margaret her peacock wig, the duchess a cloak of royal purple, Cecilia Anders a ruffled cravat, Petti a striped tunic. Even Lord Prunesly set a plumed, broad-­brimmed hat atop his sparse pate and pronounced that the Musketeers had been the finest fighting mechanism since the Greek phalanx.

“I have chosen my Juliet,” Prince Sebastiao exclaimed, and moved to the center of the room.

“ 'Tis high time,” Iona whispered to Ravenna. In a gown of gossamer white that fit her figure to perfection, she bedazzled. Ravenna could barely look away and wondered that any of the gentlemen could. Lord Vitor had reappeared in the drawing room before dinner, also gorgeously attired in dark coat and snowy cravat, and now sat with them, a glass of brandy suspended from his fingertips. But he seemed to take no special note of the Scotswoman's beauty. Perhaps in company with ladies like Iona as a matter of course, he was simply inured. But the fact of it was that whenever Ravenna looked at him he was already looking at her.
She thought
. The mask of sapphire blue silk that he had accepted from the prince covered only the upper half of his face, leaving visible his mouth at which she had stared in the stable—­now nearly healed of the damage she'd done to it—­and the hard, smooth line of his jaw.

She was again having trouble not staring.

He's only got eyes for ye
.

Earlier, Ann had dressed her hair with modestly successful results, and together they had disconnected two flounces from the least overdone of Ann's extra gowns. Ravenna had left her bedchamber with the heat of nervous anticipation in her cheeks and an ill stomach, only to stand at the drawing room door and curse the foolish waste of time she might have instead spent in the stables before dinner. Among glorious flowers of femininity like Iona, Arielle, Penelope, and Grace—­even pretty Juliana and handsome Cecilia—­she was a dark little acorn dressed in a borrowed gown. Even the elaborate gold chains Iona pulled from the costume box and draped over her shoulders like a queen's mantle could not make a sow's ear into a silk purse.

“Do tell us which lady you have chosen, your highness,” Lady Whitebarrow urged the prince. “We are all eager to know who will stand on the stage beside you.”

Prince Sebastiao inclined his head. “There will be no stage per se, my lady. In the great hall we will perform at the top of the steps. The audience shall sit below.”

“Why, 'tis the verra opposite o' the theater, yer highness,” the duchess said.

“I like to be the tallest person in the place,” the prince said with a winning grin. “Don't I, Courtenay?”

“Indeed.” The mask hid his eyes.

“Who is Juliet, your highness?” Lady Margaret said. “You mustn't make us wait another moment.”

The mothers, it seemed, all thought the prince's choice for Juliet would be his choice for a bride. Ravenna did not have a good grasp of the play's storyline, but she seemed to recall the lovers dying horrible deaths at the end, which didn't bode well for his Juliet.

“My Juliet . . .” the prince drawled, folding his hands behind his back and strolling toward Lady Penelope. Then, abruptly, he turned away and moved toward pretty Juliana. “My Juliet . . .” Again he changed direction, toward Ravenna.

She chanced a glance at Lord Vitor. His jaw looked remarkably tight.

“My Juliet . . .” Prince Sebastiao grinned down at her, then pivoted away. Lord Vitor's sober regard followed him, then it came to Ravenna. It cut swiftly away. But perhaps the candlelight glinting off his mask made her imagine the displeasure there.

The prince halted before Ann and bowed. “Miss Feathers . . .”

Her “Your highness?” was barely audible.

He extended his hand, palm upward. “Would you consent to becoming my Juliet?”

A silence as penetrating as ice filled the air.

“For the play tomorrow,” the prince added, and waggled his black brows.

“I should like that excessively, your highness,” Ann squeaked. Lady Penelope stood and crossed to her father. Lord Case turned the page of music and Arielle's fingers danced upon the keys.

Lord Vitor lifted the glass of brandy to his lips. “My lady,” he said to Iona. “Would you care to join a little game Miss Caulfield and I are playing?”

Iona's gaze darted to Ravenna, then back to him. “Whit game be that, my laird?”

He gestured to Ravenna.

“It's called Find the Murderer,” she said.

Iona's eyes sparkled. “I think I should like it verra much.”

They spent the remainder of the evening cataloguing clues and motives. While Iona insisted that her maid was above suspicion, she was willing to consider the two footmen, the cook, the scullery maid, Ann Feathers, Cecilia Anders, and Juliana Abraccia. She did not believe Arielle Dijon capable of a violent act. She favored Martin Anders as the killer.

“He's got that tragical, poetical air aboot him,” she said with a smile in Mr. Anders's direction. Recalling what she'd said earlier about the potency of young men, Ravenna didn't chance a glance at him.

“My dear Ann has the perfect gown for the part, your highness,” Lady Margaret exclaimed nearby. “She will be the most fetching Juliet ever upon stage.” She was gloating and Ann didn't even seem disturbed by it. A quiet glow animated her cheeks.

Lady Whitebarrow sat beside her at the tea table, white-­lipped.

Ravenna told Iona about the blood on the turret door handle and the stained candlestick, the path to the mountain's peak and Cecilia's interest in Sir Henry's horses, as well as Mr. Walsh's ring and the cut on Martin Anders's face. She did not mention the scabbard and rope fibers or their aborted search for the dagger because, despite years spent traipsing about the countryside upon her own governance, she'd had only one experience touching a man in the dark—­voluntarily—­and she was not yet prepared to discuss the circumstances of it while he was sitting right beside her.

That he remained silent about the dagger as well was a curiosity.

“Well then, it seems Mr. Anders is for the gallows,” Iona said cheerfully.

“How can you say such a thing so blithely?”

“Dinna take me wrong, lass. I'd feel for him if I thought he'd dislike any part o' it. But I imagine he'd consider it a grand drama.”

The duchess called her daughter away and Iona went reluctantly, with a whispered request to be included in any further detective work. “ 'Tis the most fun I've had all week,” she said gaily, then winked at Ravenna and glided away.

Ravenna looked at Lord Vitor. “Why did you invite her to help us?”

He set down his brandy glass and folded his hands. “I thought it would please you.”

“Really?”

“No.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Really?”

“No. I do wish to please you. But I am also immeasurably vain, and I recognized that it would add to my consequence in the estimation of the other gentlemen if I enjoyed the conversation of two ladies at once. I needed an excuse that would keep you both here.”

“I don't believe you.”

“No?”

“You might have kept company with Lady Penelope and Miss Abraccia, or any two other ladies in the room.”

“Might I have?” He seemed struck with the notion. “Hm. I should consider that the next time.”

“You should tell me the truth.”

“The truth is that it was high time we collected our intelligence, and I required a third party present because I cannot seem to be alone with you for more than two minutes without saying things I mustn't.”

“Things having to do with pitchforks?”

He waved a negligent hand. “And whatnot.”

She was warm and somewhat confused, but he seemed at ease. He was, she understood, practiced at ease. That ease was a privilege of his station, a station he jested about but which defined him.

“But what would you say to me that you mustn't if you were alone in my company now?”

“Aha. You seek to trip me up. But I am wise to conniving ways, madam. Recall, I have lived at a royal court.”

“Did you miss England very much during that time?”

“If I had known you before I departed, I would have missed England excessively.”

Her heart performed an uncomfortable stumble.

“Ah,” he said. “There you have done it. And much more swiftly than I anticipated. More the fool, I.” He glanced about the room. “Who should I call over now to save me from another verbal misstep? Martin Anders, so we can tease him about guillotines? Or perhaps Lady Margaret? She has not yet shared with you her daughter's success. That might provide a useful brake upon my ungovernable tongue.”

Ravenna laughed. “Ann is a kind and gentle person. I shouldn't like to draw her into your sins in any way, even peripherally, and especially not tonight. It is a grand success to win the favor of a prince, even for an evening.”

For a moment he did not speak. “She is an unexceptionable lady,” he said, but he was looking at her carefully, it seemed.

“You do not believe Martin Anders killed Mr. Walsh,” she said.

“How do you reckon that?”

“You would not make light of it if you believed him guilty of murder.”

After a pause, he shook his head.

“I don't either,” she said. “I haven't since the night he came to my bedchamber door.”

“Is this a particular habit of yours, Miss Caulfield?”

“What?”

“Bestowing your admiration upon men who press unwanted attentions upon you. If it is, I should advise you to alter that practice at once. Not all men are as honorable as I or as clumsy as Anders.”

“It is not a habit. I have only done it once.”

His lips hinted at a smile.

“Mr. Anders, of course,” she said.

He looked toward the door. “Monsieur Brazil!”

“
Oui
, my lord?”

“Bring me Romeo's poison now so that I might mix it into my nightcap.”

“
Oui
, my lord.”

Ravenna laughed. Lord Vitor offered her a one-­sided grin and she tried not to notice that he was even handsomer than usual when he smiled.

Monsieur Sepic appeared before them. “
Bonsoir
, monseigneur. Mademoiselle.” He affected a charming bow to each of them. His cheeks were rosy with wine and general infatuation. He pointed a single finger upward and ticked it back and forth. “Tsk-­tsk, monseigneur
et
mademoiselle,” he said with a delighted frown. “I have heard of your
petit enquête
and I do not approve of it. You must cease these detections that you are doing without my approval and leave the murdering to the police.”

Ravenna pinned her lips together.

“
Me comprenez-­vous?
Do you understand?”

“Perhaps better than yourself, sir,” Lord Vitor said with a lazy smile.

“Monsieur Sepic, I am certain the other guests are eager to know your assessment of the handwriting samples,” she said. “What did you discover?”

He shook his head with little twitches. “
Rien
. I found no duplicates. But I suspected this. A murderer would seek to disguise his hand,
non
?”

“I suppose,” Ravenna said, wishing she could pluck the page from his pocket and study it herself. “But have you all of the evidence? Perhaps you have missed something else.”

“
Non
. Impossible.”

Frustration bubbled in her. “Perhaps we have collected evidence that you do not have yet. If so, we will gladly share it with you.”

“What is this—­this evidence?” He scoffed. “You can know nothing that I and my deputy have not already uncovered.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

She glanced at Lord Vitor. He was not smiling, but the crease in his cheek was pronounced.

“What about the ring?” she said.

The mayor's eyes went blank. “The ring?”

“Mr. Walsh's ring. Did you examine it?”

“The ring? Ah, the ring.” He nodded. “I examined it thoroughly, mademoiselle.”

“Then you must have noted the wound on one of the guests' eyes that corresponds perfectly to the ridge on Mr. Walsh's ring?” She twisted her lips. “But, upon consideration, I don't believe that wound has anything to do with the murder. It is merely a coincidence. Wouldn't you agree?”