“As well as could be expected. I will tell you about it, if you like.”
“That is very kind of you but—” She broke off and simply shook her head. Almost, they might have mouthed inanities, skirting a greater issue that neither wanted to face.
“Do you go out? Allow me to escort you.”
“You only just came in—and after so long a drive.”
“My blacks are in need of exercise. In fact, I have already sent for them. I had meant to take them to the Park but if you have an errand that will do as well. Better, in fact.”
“Better?” Lord, she felt as if she flirted, and with Ingram of all men. She might be a silly schoolroom miss with nerves all a-dance at his nearness.
“Certainly. They need more experience of town traffic.” He took her elbow and guided her to the door. There he sent the second footman running to cancel the landau ordered by Phyllida.
“How is Allbury?” she asked when the servant was out of hearing range.
“He has held up remarkably well. I think he was glad, though, not to have an audience at the Castle.”
Something in his tone made her search his expression. “Why?”
“He is not one to lightly display his emotions.”
His tone gave little away. Yet what emotions did he mean, she wondered. Allbury had not loved his wife. His infatuation had quickly passed with her entrapment of him. So what
had
the marquis felt as he consigned her body to the dark stillness of the family vault? Regret—or relief?
She shivered as they stepped out into the late afternoon sun.
Lord Ingram didn’t appear to notice. His attention focused on the curricle, pulled by his high-stepping blacks, which rounded the corner. They tossed their heads, fretting at their bits, as the groom reined them in before the steps.
Ingram moved to their heads, greeting them with a fond word, then turned to assist Phyllida onto the seat. He climbed in at her side and as they started forward the groom swung up behind. For several minutes Ingram concentrated on bringing the lively pair under control.
“You are silent,” he said at last when the pair turned with only a minimum of protest onto Curzon Street.
“I didn’t want to distract you.”
He shot her a searching look then seemed to accept her explanation at face value. A slow smile lit his eyes. “An admirable trait—in a passenger.”
The sincerity in his voice set an unfamiliar thrill dancing along her flesh. After their initial sparring he apparently had decided he liked her after all. What was even more disconcerting was how very much she liked him. She forced her lifting heart back into its customary humdrum position. A gentleman of Ingram’s position might flirt but he would have no serious intentions toward a dowerless female of insignificant family—especially one so nearly related to Louisa.
“Tell me about the Peninsula,” she asked abruptly.
“I have no desire to bore you.” He eased the high-bred pair around a cart.
“You would be diverting my mind.” From more than one topic, but she saw no need to say that. “Were you in Portugal?”
He reined in as a rider’s mount shied in front of them, then threw her a mischievous glance. “I should warn you, I was a member of the expeditionary force that landed at Mondego Bay.”
“Then you must have any number of stories. Pray begin.”
He shook his head but did as she asked. By the time they turned onto Half Moon Street he was well into a lively tale of the outbound voyage, just over a year before.
As he slowed the team before Woking House, a gentleman dressed in the extreme of dandified fashion emerged from the door and ran lightly down the steps. Mr. Quincy Enderby, Phyllida realized. Much of her pleasure faded.
Mr. Enderby stopped at sight of them, settled his high-crowned beaver more firmly over his curling hair and strode up to them. He nodded a greeting to Lord Ingram and turned his frowning gaze on Phyllida.
“What is this nonsense about moving Louisa’s ball to Woking House?” he demanded.
Her worries, which had faded so pleasantly before Lord Ingram’s entertaining conversation, tumbled back about her. Raising her emotional defenses once more as if they were armor, she forced herself to smile. “It is quite true. It’s impossible to hold it at Allbury House, you must know.”
“No, I don’t. Why is it?”
She blinked. “It is a house of mourning.”
Mr. Enderby waved that aside. “Surely this is a special case. Louisa worked so hard. It should remain in her home where she wanted it, where she planned every detail with such loving care. Everything will be spoiled if you change the venue.”
“No it won’t,” Phyllida declared with unaccustomed bluntness. “The decorations were all Lady Woking’s idea in the first place.”
He regarded her with a pained expression, as if she had turned traitor. “It won’t be the same,” he said coldly.
She barely prevented herself from agreeing with wholehearted thankfulness. Instead she shook her head, permitting just a hint of sadness to enter her expression. “For Louisa’s sake we all intend to work very hard to make it a success at Woking House. She would have wanted it that way,” she added in a blatant lie.
He frowned at her then gave her a curt nod. “If Maria and I can help, let us know.” With another nod for Ingram he set off down the street, his silver-handled cane swinging at his side.
Ingram watched his departure with narrowed eyes. “Why is he so anxious to have the ball at Allbury House? Does he hope to be able to wander about the place?”
“You mean search it,” Phyllida said. “For Louisa’s diary, I suppose.”
“Or the locket?”
“Or both?” she suggested.
“Someone
wants that diary rather badly.”
His brow darkened. “Keep your door locked at night.”
Before she could respond he swung down from the seat then held out his hand. She accepted his help and found his clasp strong, secure—comforting in some inexplicable way. For a disconcerting moment, she relished the sensation.
Ingram left the blacks to be walked by the groom and they mounted the steps. The butler admitted them at once, leading the way to the ballroom, where his mistress sat with her portable writing desk, making hasty notes on refreshments and decor. She laid these aside and rose gracefully to her feet, her silk shawl trailing off her shoulders, as her visitors were announced.
“My dear Miss Dearne. And Lord Ingram. What a pleasant surprise. You see me hard at work.” She gestured to where three footmen polished the crystal drops from the great chandelier, which had been lowered to barely four feet above the floor in the middle of the vast chamber.
Lady Woking, Phyllida noted, was in her element. “I have come to see what assistance you need from Allbury House.”
A slow, contented smile just touched their hostess’s lips. “None whatsoever at the moment, my dear. I am still planning. But on the day of the ball, of course?” She let the question dangle.
“Of course,” Phyllida promised. “We will be delighted to assist with the last-minute work.”
“And the fans. We must have them at the ball. Do you think Miss Yarborough could do preliminary sketches on a number of them? The details could then be filled in while our patrons dance.”
“I’ll ask her,” Phyllida said noncommittally.
“There will be so many things to do!” Lady Woking declared. “The muslin—did I tell you I’m turning the ballroom into a giant pavilion? The fabric will need to be hung of course, then the fans displayed everywhere. It will be quite a sight, I promise you.”
Phyllida agreed and took her leave amid more promises to provide much of the last-minute labor, arranging fans against their muslin backdrop. On the whole, she decided, Lady Woking did not appear to be missing Louisa in the least. If anything, nothing pleased her more than to have lost one whom she must have regarded as a social rival. And to think they had once been pupil and teacher.
“She seems to be enjoying herself immensely.” Ingram echoed her thoughts as the door closed behind them.
Phyllida glanced up into his dynamic countenance. All planes and angles, she’d thought it when they first met. Now she also saw the lines of character, the marks of suffering and laughter. Her heart swelled, filling her breast, making it difficult for her to breathe.
“Unfortunately,” he said, his gaze meeting hers, “that is not a motive for murder.”
“For—” She blinked. He spoke not of the inexplicable fascination she felt for him but of Lady Woking. “No, it is not. The reason she was killed must lie in her diary.”
“Which we cannot find.”
The groom, who had been walking the blacks the length of the street, brought them to a halt. Ingram assisted Phyllida into the seat before taking the ribbons from the little man.
“Only one of,” he paused, counting, “nine people could have killed her. For the sake of argument I believe we can rule out ourselves and Allbury, which leaves six.”
Phyllida cast an uncertain glance over her shoulder at the groom and lowered her voice.
“Can
we rule out Allbury?”
“Of course.” Lord Ingram’s voice brooked no argument. “Murder is not in his nature.”
“The Runner thinks it might be, if he feared his heir was not his own.” Heat crept into her cheeks but she needed to see his reaction despite the impropriety of the topic.
His gloved hands clenched and the near horse tossed its head in protest. “Then the Runner is wrong,” he said, his teeth gritted.
Such loyalty. Phyllida could only hope it was correctly placed.
It must be.
“What of the others?” she asked quickly.
Ingram frowned, setting deep creases in his brow. “Lady Woking seems innocent enough. I know nothing of her from her days at the seminary though. Her husband I have met no more than once.”
“I cannot see how he would be involved,” Phyllida agreed. “What of the Enderbys?”
“That dandy?” His tone scorned the man but his features grew more thoughtful. “There is that locket with his hair and his wanting the ball to be held at Allbury House. He might have needed to silence Louisa if he indeed—” He broke off, casting an apologetic glance at Phyllida.
“If he were the father of her baby,” she said, forcing her voice to remain steady. “It is best, I fear, for us to speak plainly.”
“I would not have you discomfited.”
She shook her head. “There is nothing ‘proper’ about murder. If we do not face the facts squarely I do not see how we can ever hope to learn the truth.”
“We will. For Allbury’s sake—and yours.”
She lowered her gaze, touched by his including her under the mantle of his protection. “We have not yet discussed Maria Enderby.”
“Jealousy?” Ingram mused. “Or do you think something lies in their past?”
“I wish I knew. Constance Yarborough might, though she has not spoken of anything.”
“She is another possibility,” Ingram pointed out.
“I don’t believe any secrets lie in her past, though she has been searching in Louisa’s room. No, if she—stabbed—her, I am certain it was in hatred not in fear.”
Ingram shot her a quick glance. “Has your life been that difficult in Allbury’s house?”
“Oh no. Only-only at times, and especially so for Miss Yarborough. Louisa did not make it easy for her, constantly reminding her she was an object of charity.”
“And you?” he asked gently.
“I thought we were not considering me a suspect for the moment.”
“That’s not what I meant.” He fell silent for a long minute, glaring at a point somewhere between his horses’ ears. “Would the dowager gain anything by the death of her son’s wife?”
“Control of her household. They made no secret of their dislike for one another. I know she wanted Allbury to make a more suitable alliance. Perhaps she suspected Louisa of-of playing him false.” In short all the reasons for suspecting the marquis himself, though she did not speak that thought aloud. Ingram would deny the possibility utterly.
He made no answer until he had turned the pair once more onto Berkeley Square. As he drew up before the house he looked down at her, his expression sober. “I can see no reason for the dowager to search for the diary in secret.”
“Unless she sought it for proof of Louisa’s infidelity,” Phyllida began. “No, you are quite right. There would be no need for secrecy then.”
“Unless she hoped to indulge in a little blackmail, which hardly seems likely. Mr. Enderby is not flush in the pocket.”
Phyllida actually smiled at the implausible prospect. “No. Where does that leave us?”
“Back where we started, I fear. Literally.” He swung down to the cobbled street then assisted her from the vehicle. “We have returned.”
No, they hadn’t, at least not to where the two of them had started. She looked up into his deep-green eyes and warmth flooded through her. They had come a long way, she and Ingram. Yet logic warned her their road led to a fork, where each would take a separate path.
She turned away and ran up the stairs.
Chapter Eleven
Fenton opened the door and bowed Phyllida inside. In a moment Lord Ingram joined her. The butler took his hat and gloves and laid them on the pier table in the entry hall.
“Mr. Frake has called, miss. Again.”
“Of course he did.” Ingram cast a humorous glance at Phyllida.
She didn’t meet it. “Does he wish to speak with me?” she asked.
“I couldn’t say, miss. He is in the Red Salon at present.”
Phyllida thanked him then they mounted the first flight of stairs. They found the Runner glancing through his Occurrence Book, a frown of concentration on his face.
He looked up at their entrance and quickly stood, turning to Ingram. “Can you spare me a few minutes, m’lord? Just like to hear a little about your journey into the country. There’s no need for you to be a-staying, miss,” he added, dismissing Phyllida.
For once she felt no desire to remain and learn what might be revealed. She only wanted to escape Ingram’s mesmerizing company. She sought refuge in her bedchamber but even there thoughts of him intruded, tantalizing, intriguing—having nothing to do with the reality that was hers. She had to do something to get him out of her mind.
She needed to involve herself in the charity.
With a sense of relief she turned her thoughts to it as she had so often in the past few months. She had Lady Woking’s message to deliver to Constance Yarborough then the fans to collect. She put off her bonnet and went in search of the girl.
She found her at her work table in the Ladies’ Sitting Room, fans, paints, inks, brushes and quills spread out before her. Phyllida paused outside the open door.
Constance’s attention was not focused on her work. Allbury perched on the edge of a chair at her side, his expression rapt. His countenance held more animation than it had shown in days. Constance gazed into his eyes as if oblivious to the rest of the world. A becoming flush just touched her cheeks.
“He was a wonderful pony,” the marquis declared, obviously continuing a story. “He could go on for hours and never got the least bit cross, no matter how I kicked him. I only hope I can find such a one for my—that is, when—” He broke off in confusion.
Constance hesitated then laid her hand over his. “You will, my lord. You will find another one just as wonderful.”
Phyllida withdrew, unnoticed but not untroubled. Was this attraction between the two newly sprung into life or had it existed for some time? If Constance loved Allbury— No, she would not have murdered Louisa on the hope that once free the marquis might turn to her. Unless she was already sure of his affections. Or might they have planned Louisa’s death together? This attraction, coupled with the doubtful paternity of Louisa’s baby, might well have provided the motive.
Phyllida closed her eyes and turned away. She sincerely hoped it hadn’t.
The fans were all in that room. They would have to wait. She had no desire to disturb the couple within. She made her thoughtful way back to her own room, where she changed for dinner. She should tell Mr. Frake—though he probably knew already. He was far too perceptive not to have noticed. If he were still in the salon though, she would mention the matter. That decision made her feel the most dreadful tattlemonger.
She went down two flights of stairs then stopped short. The footman’s voice rose from the entry hall below, announcing the arrival of m’lady’s carriage. Phyllida peered over the railing then descended to the next landing for a better view. She hadn’t heard wrong. The dowager marchioness stood in the hall, gowned in an elaborate toilette of black silk and lace with three dyed ostrich plumes tickling her cheek. The footman draped a black velvet evening cloak over her shoulders.
The woman looked up, her expression one of supreme satisfaction, and her gaze fell on Phyllida. Her lips parted in a patently false smile. “I will be dining from home this evening.”
With difficulty, Phyllida kept her expression impassive. If the dowager hoped to goad her into an argument, she would be disappointed.
The woman waved the servant away and fingered the ebony fan she held until he was out of earshot. “Perhaps we might have a few couples over at the end of the week,” she told Phyllida. “Just to celebrate.”
“Celebrate!” Phyllida held on to her slipping control with difficulty.
“Certainly, my dear. Now, do not pretend
you
are grieving. Your sister’s death has been a godsend to us all.”
Phyllida gritted her teeth. “Indeed.”
“My son never wished to marry her. But we are free of her now, all of us, and she can no longer ruin his life. And don’t play the innocent with me, miss,” she went on before Phyllida could protest. “You knew perfectly well about her infidelities and scheming ways. I shouldn’t be at all surprised to learn you assisted her in arranging her assignations.”
“I—” Phyllida broke off, speechless at this aspersion.
“I am well aware of your own machinations.” The dowager waggled the fan in Phyllida’s direction. “You would have married Allbury yourself if you could have. I can only thank heaven he is not one to be taken in twice by a pair of sly minxes.” With a sniff, the dowager swept out the door to her waiting carriage.
Feeling properly annihilated, Phyllida started back up the stairs. She’d best locate the morning paper to see if any families had placed advertisements for governesses. Her hours in this house were clearly numbered.
She entered the salon with dragging steps only to find Lord Ingram there, alone. He too had found time to change into evening dress. He stood at the small table, which held a selection of decanters and glasses, pouring himself a Madeira.
“Mr. Frake has finished with you?” she asked.
“He has. I don’t believe I told him what he wanted to hear though.”
“You mean that Allbury celebrated the whole way back to London?” She shook her head. “That has been left to the dowager to do, I fear.”
“Is that what has disturbed you?”
Phyllida cast him a rueful glance. “Is it that obvious?”
“To me.”
That left her to wonder why to him in particular. The insinuation, that he was coming to understand her, played havoc with her emotions.
“What is the matter?” he pursued.
Everything,
she wanted to say, but instead concentrated on her current fears. “Two things, I suppose. The dowager is talking about giving a party already.”
“Allbury will never permit it.”
His certainty made her feel better. “No, you are quite right. Thank you.”
“And what is the second matter?”
Her stomach clenched but she forced herself to speak the words. “This is one sly minx who needs to find a position and a new place to live—and in the very near future, I fear.”
“Sly minx?” His mobile brows snapped down. “Who dared to call you that?”
“The dowager. She believes the Dearne sisters were out to capture a matrimonial prize. When I failed to bring Allbury up to scratch, you must understand, I brought in my sister to lay her traps.”
He slammed his glass onto the tray. “She actually accused you of that?”
“Yes. You did yourself once, if you’ll remember.”
“I had not the honor of knowing you then.” He poured a full measure of the heavy wine and handed it to her. “Here. You could use this.”
“Thank you.” His championing of her made her feel immeasurably better—no, she mustn’t confuse his proffered friendship for any stronger feelings. That only led to heartache.
He swirled the dark liquid in the cut-crystal glass then looked up, directly at her. “Do you mean to depart at once?”
She walked to the hearth and stared into the empty grate. “I have nowhere to go yet. I came in here to find the paper, to read the advertisements.” She looked about and found the folded sheets lying on a table near a comfortable sofa. She picked them up and tucked them under her arm.
“What will you do?”
“I shall find a position as a governess.”
His brow snapped down. “Surely you cannot want such a life.”
“On the contrary.” She managed a shaky half-laugh. “After this past week, I assure you, I shall find it of all things the most delightful. The sooner I leave this house the happier I shall be.”
“Do you really mean that?” he demanded, his tone harsh.
She turned to face him, her brow creasing. “Allbury is very kind of course but—”
“Confound Allbury!” He ran a hand through his thick hair. “I cannot see you as a governess.”
“Well I hope no one else has that problem, for a governess I must and shall be. At least there is one good thing about this investigation,” she added, somewhat ruefully. “It keeps me here for a little longer. That should give me time to select a choice position.”
“It keeps you here a little longer,” he repeated. He smiled suddenly and an unexpected warmth lit his eyes as his gaze rested on her.
A rush of sensation washed over her, leaving her weak. It wasn’t wise. She knew the dangers of dreaming but when his gaze rested on her like this, reason and logic became difficult. She simply stared back, noting little things about him that had escaped her notice before. How strong was his chin, how full his mouth. Every feature reflected his strength of character. And that unruly wave of dark hair that hung over his left eye…
Only a fool could cherish the hopes that sprang to life within her yet her longing welled, aching and bitter in her knowledge it would never be fulfilled. Noblemen did no more than dally with penniless females who lacked illustrious connections. Allbury had proved that to her but she was no Louisa to entrap a man into an unequal union. Nor would her pride permit her to accept a
carte blanche
—even
if one were offered.
The door opened and Phyllida dragged her gaze from Ingram’s face as Allbury strolled in. The marquis smiled on them.
“There you are.” His glance fell on their wine and he nodded. “Good idea.” He crossed to the decanters and poured himself some of the heady liquid then carried it to one of the comfortable chairs drawn up before the empty hearth.
Phyllida withdrew to her chair and wished she had some embroidery with which to occupy herself. Now was hardly the time to study the paper; while Ingram filled her thoughts, she could not think logically about her future. She would search through the pages for a position after dinner, when perhaps she would have regained a measure of sense.
She went directly to her chamber after the meal, pleading the headache for excuse. There she spent the evening perusing the columns in the
Morning Post
with the determination of the desperate. Every day she remained in this house Lord Ingram’s unconscious spell bound her more deeply. For the sake of her vulnerable heart she had to escape it, and as soon as possible.
She found little encouragement though. The only listing that sounded at all promising was an advertisement for a superior establishment just off Bond Street that specialized in employment opportunities for genteel ladies in distressed circumstances.
Conscious of the image she must present, she dressed with care the following morning, donning her most austere gown then attacking with hairpins the unruly curls clustering about her face. With this accomplished to her satisfaction, she tied on her bonnet and set forth.
The result of this visit, though, was not what she had hoped. They were very sorry, a prim little woman in her late fifties informed her, but without experience or references a young and somewhat attractive lady could not possibly be placed in any gentlewoman’s household. Phyllida took her haughty leave, more irritated by that “somewhat attractive” than by the lack of tangible results.
She returned to the house feeling as if her only door to escape had been slammed in her face. If she couldn’t remove herself from Ingram’s vicinity then her only hope would be to bury herself so deeply in the charitable project that he would not be able to distract her.
She never had delivered Lady Woking’s message to Constance the day before. That provided an excellent place to begin.
She found Constance once more in the sitting room, gazing off into space, an expression of dreamy detachment on her face that Phyllida understood all too well. She closed the door and Constance started. Hurriedly the girl grabbed up the quill from the ink well then, after a moment’s pretended concentration, she turned about.
“I was just going to start the next fans,” the girl explained. “It is a pity they are all for single portraits. I am in the mood to sketch a battle scene.”
“Is there not even one for a cavalry officer?” Phyllida perched on the padded arm of the chair.
“No.” She sighed and regarded the stack of orders with scant enthusiasm. “Perhaps I will do a battle anyway, just in case someone wants one soon.”
“An excellent idea.” Phyllida recognized her opening. “I saw Lady Woking yesterday and she thought it might be prudent for you to do preliminary sketches on a number of fans then attend the ball. As patrons place their orders you will be expected to fill in the details.”
“To—” Constance stared at Phyllida. “To actually paint them there, with everyone watching me? Oh no, how could I? I would be so terribly nervous, I would make the most dreadful mistakes.”