Phyllida caught her hand. “You will carry on just as you must.”
The marquis twisted the stem of his glass between his fingers. “I am only sorry I cannot be there.”
“I can,” Ingram said suddenly. “Miss Yarborough, will you permit me to escort you?”
She blinked startled eyes at him. “You? But—”
The marquis beamed. “Capital, old fellow. Just the thing. You’ll take care of her.”
“I certainly shall. I will even assist you with the fans, if you wish, Miss Yarborough.”
“Excellent.” The marquis cheered immensely.
“At least I will not be alone there.” Constance shivered. “I keep thinking. First it was Louisa now the dowager. Who will be next?”
“No one.” Phyllida cast Ingram a beseeching glance.
Allbury caught the hand Constance extended toward him. “I’ll not let anything harm you, I promise. Either of you,” he added quickly, including Phyllida.
“I should imagine we’re quite safe,” Phyllida agreed.
Ingram handed the girl a glass of ratafia. “Mr. Frake believes the dowager knew something of Louisa’s death. Had she told Mr. Frake rather than keeping it to herself she would still be alive.”
“There, you see, Con—Miss Yarborough?” Allbury straightened, as if shaking off his distress. “Everything will be fine. We’ll all go along much more com—” He broke off then recovered. “Much more comfortably once this matter is settled. Which cannot be long now.”
They’d all get along much more comfortably without the overbearing dowager, was that what he had started to say? Phyllida drew back a pace and wished she could banish these suspicions. The marquis could now have the ordering of his own life. He could even, should he wish it, put duty aside for once and marry where he chose.
“There should be no scandal for the charity, at least,” Ingram said. “Frake says he has sworn his people to silence, at least until tomorrow. Nor does he intend to tell the papers where the dowager died.”
Fenton, his composure in shambles, arrived to announce the meal. They adjourned to the dining room but none of them had much appetite for the food placed before them, which was perhaps just as well. The cook, a temperamental soul at the best of times, Fenton explained, had retired to his bed with the migraine upon hearing the news of his mistress’s untimely demise. The pastry chef also had deserted his post, announcing his immediate return to the Enderbys’ establishment and taking himself off at once to pack his bags.
This left the preparations in the hands of the underlings, who had squabbled amongst themselves for rank and precedence. The result was a scorched salmon in a lumpy sauce, underdone capons, a blackened collop of veal and a watery snow crème. Phyllida toyed with the food presented to her and found herself unable to take more than a few mouthfuls.
As soon as the meal drew to a close Ingram and Constance went to change into more suitable garments for a ball. Phyllida sat with the marquis in the drawing room, neither speaking, until the other two rejoined them. Moments later the footman announced the arrival of the carriage. Allbury assisted Constance Yarborough into her wrap, told her to be brave and saw the couple to the door.
The door closed behind them and Allbury stared at it for a long moment then turned back to Phyllida. “I’ll be in my bookroom,” he said, and left.
Phyllida made no complaint. The marquis bore all the appearance of a man desperately in need of an evening alone with a brandy bottle. She retired to her own room and locked the door.
She prepared for bed and climbed between sheets but soon found she couldn’t sleep.
Why
hadn’t Louisa’s diary provided the clue they needed? Suspicions and doubts jostled in her mind, along with Ingram’s stern-faced image. If only she could be with him right now. When he was at her side her fears faded into insignificance, where they belonged.
She drifted off to sleep at last, only to awake abruptly. The dim glow from her bedside lamp illuminated the clock she had placed near—only five minutes lacked before three o’clock. Noises drifted up from below, voices, footsteps on the stairs. Ingram and Constance had returned from the ball.
She donned her wrapper and hurried along the hall then down the stairs to the salon where candles burned and the men’s deep tones drifted forth.
Mr. Frake stood near the empty hearth and nodded a greeting as she entered. Constance sat slumped in a chair, her face lowered in her hands. The marquis leaned against a table, a hazy but affable smile on his face. A trifle castaway, Phyllida reflected, but did he drink to forget his mother’s murder—or his role in it?
She glanced at Ingram, who poured wine for them all. Deep lines of strain showed on his features, mute testimony to the difficult evening.
“How did it go?” she asked.
“We made a considerable sum of money for the soldiers.” Constance’s voice sounded hollow.
“She painted a great many fans,” Ingram added. “She was quite an attraction, with people gathering about her to watch.”
Allbury beamed on her. “You must be exhausted. Why don’t you go upstairs?”
“And be alone?” Constance shuddered. “I-I don’t know if I dare. What if there is someone just waiting at the landing…” She let her sentence trail off.
Was this an act? Or was the girl genuinely afraid? Phyllida screamed internally, desperate to know which one of them was guilty.
Allbury pushed away from his perch and managed a creditable bow. “I’ll see you safely to your room before going to my own. Why do you not have your maid stay with you?” He took her arm and led her from the salon.
Phyllida stifled a yawn and turned to Mr. Frake. “Did you learn anything?”
He shook his head. “No, miss, nothing as will be of any use.” He drained his glass and replaced it on the table. “Thanking you kindly, m’lord.”
“What do you do now?” Ingram asked.
Mr. Frake considered for a moment. “Go to bed,” he said at last. “There’s something here as I’m overlooking but I just can’t put a finger on it, like. Mayhap it’ll come to me after some sleep.”
Ingram nodded. “I’ll see you out. I think we’ll all be better for a few hours’ rest. Miss Dearne, you should not have gotten up.”
She followed them to the door. “Did no one behave in a suspicious manner at all? Not Lord or Lady Woking? Or Maria or Mr. Enderby?”
Or Constance or Ingram?
But she kept that last to herself.
Mr. Frake sighed heavily. “None of them seemed overly distressed over the dowager’s death. All wound up in the ball, they was, and getting people to order more fans.”
“We’ve overlooked something,” Ingram repeated. “Perhaps—” He broke off.
The next moment Phyllida heard the running steps on the stairs. Mr. Frake stepped into the hall and Phyllida followed as Constance Yarborough, still in her ball gown but with her long, loose hair flying, descended the last flight.
“I’ve found it!” the girl cried.
Mr. Frake stepped forward, effectively stopping her headlong rush. “Now then, miss, just what is this about?”
Instinctively, Constance turned to Phyllida. “It was there, all along, and I had no idea.”
“What?” Phyllida demanded.
“The money. It hasn’t been stolen at all.” She held up a netted reticule that bulged suggestively.
“And whose is this, miss?” Mr. Frake took it from her, pulled it open and drew out a thick roll of flimsies.
“It’s Louisa’s. I—” She broke off as the Runner’s suddenly narrowed gaze transferred to her face.
“The young marchioness’s, was it? And where, or maybe I should be asking
when,
did you find it?”
Soft color flooded her cheeks. “I didn’t steal it. I never would have taken something that doesn’t belong to me. I
didn’t
steal it,” she repeated. “I only—” Her expression pleading, she looked to Phyllida.
“It’s all right. No one thinks you took the money. Just tell us where you found the purse.”
“In the cupboard in her room, the-the day after she died. I never dreamed she might have put something inside for I had never seen her use it. And so very much money. I-I only wanted to recover the reticule.” She turned defiant eyes on the Runner. “I netted it, you see, as a present for Louisa last Christmas, and I worked very hard on it. I just wanted it back as a-a memento.” She dabbed at her brimming eyes.
“How could you not have noticed the weight?” Mr. Frake asked.
Constance sniffed. “There were so many people about that day. I just grabbed it and took it to my room, where I shoved it under a shawl. I haven’t looked at it since, until tonight, when I moved it aside to put away my wrap and realized there was something in it. When I opened it the money just fell out.” She turned to Phyllida. “I realized in a flash what it must be and what must have happened.”
“And that is, miss?” the Runner pursued.
“Why, that Louisa took that missing five hundred pounds herself. She must have put it in
the reticule for safe keeping.”
Mr. Frake quirked an eyebrow at Phyllida. “Do you think that’s likely, Miss Dearne?”
“Oh Lord,” Phyllida sighed. “It’s exactly the sort of thing Louisa would do. She has—had—become shockingly expensive and she would not have considered this ‘stealing’. We made her the figurehead of our charity so naturally she would consider any funds raised for it as belonging to her.”
The Runner nodded and weighed the purse in his hand. “I’ll just keep this for the moment, miss.”
Miss Yarborough glanced at him uncertainly then at Phyllida and Lord Ingram, who remained on the threshold of the salon. “Might I have it back when you are finished with it? The reticule, I mean, not the money.”
“Of course,” Phyllida said quickly. “Do not trouble yourself over it.”
Constance opened her mouth to speak then apparently changed her mind. She nodded and turned toward the stairs and started up once more.
Phyllida returned to the salon, where she sank onto her chair with a deep sigh.
“Aren’t you glad to have that mystery solved?” Ingram, smiling, took the seat opposite.
“Of course I am. And to have the money returned for the wounded soldiers. But this means it can’t have been the motive for the murder.” And she’d been counting on it.
“If you believe Miss Yarborough’s story of finding the money.” Mr. Frake lightly tossed the reticule back and forth between his hands.
“I do. If she had simply kept it we never would have known what became of it. She had no need to tell us.”
“Unless she took fright and hoped we’d think she’d been up to no more mischief than a little pilfering?”
Phyllida swallowed. “You mean you think she murdered Louisa—and the dowager—and is trying to divert us with—with this?”
Mr. Frake puffed out his cheeks. “It’s possible, miss, very possible indeed.”
She lowered her head into her hands. “If only we
knew.”
“Someone wanted to settle everything all neat and tidy,” the Runner mused. His gaze strayed to Ingram and his eyes narrowed. “An orderly mind.” He rubbed his chin then nodded to himself. “Well maybe things will all come clearer-like after a good night’s sleep. You look all done in, miss, which is hardly surprising.”
An orderly mind.
Phyllida swallowed, barely hearing the last of this. The Runner suspected Ingram…
“Why don’t you go on upstairs then, miss. Mr. Fenton has been waiting in the lower hall to see me out, I’ll wager. Good night, miss, m’lord.” Mr. Frake left the room.
Phyllida drew an unsteady breath then slowly raised her gaze to Lord Ingram’s frowning face. The Runner suspected him… The thought kept repeating in her mind. And why couldn’t she be certain of him herself? She knew every plane, every angle of his countenance. Only the fleeting expressions that did not quite reveal his inner thoughts remained mysterious to her.
He couldn’t be a killer. No matter what she feared when they were apart, here, in his presence, she could not believe it.
“So very solemn.” He held out his hand to her.
A fluttering of nerves danced through her stomach. She placed her fingers in his and he drew her to her feet. A gleam flickered in the depths of his green eyes, mesmerizing, casting a spell from which she had no desire to escape. Her fears receded…
With difficulty, she dragged her gaze from his face. Lord, he made every other gentleman pale into insignificance. His strength of character, his sense of honor, his determination, his loyalty… In short, she loved him for all the reasons that might have led him to murder her sister—and then the dowager.
She turned away, torn apart, aching as if she had gouged out a piece of her heart—and her mind—with one of those horrid fan blades. Somehow she found her candle without really seeing it. Tears filled her eyes and she averted her face from him. She longed to demand the truth, to make him deny the accusations that raged within her.
Light sprang to life in her hands. Ingram must have lit her candle. She managed a word of thanks.
“Phyllida.” He caught her hand, holding it in his firm clasp. “What is it?”
She shook her head, unable to voice the chaos that welled within her.
“I’m not letting you go until you tell me.” With his free hand he raised her chin so that she gazed into his face. “I want no pretenses between us. Why do you look at me like that, with uncertainty?”