Phyllida nodded. “Do as you think best. I’m sure I can leave it in your hands, Fenton. She’ll never remember exactly what she said.”
He permitted himself a prim smile. “You may rely on me completely, miss. Thank you, miss.” He bowed himself out the door.
He was back only minutes later. Phyllida clenched her teeth and turned to hear the latest domestic crisis.
“Captain Lord Ingram, miss.”
Fenton stood aside as the tall, broad-shouldered gentleman strode into the room. The neat military precision of his dress enhanced the suggestion of command in his every movement. Phyllida stared at the striking figure, caught up in the aura of determination that emanated from him.
A frown clouded the depths of his penetrating green eyes as they rested on her. She rose, almost as if he commanded her from her chair, and took a step forward. She held out her hand to him but he barely touched her fingers before releasing them. The unsettling realization of his disapproval startled her, puzzling in its unexpectedness.
“I have come to see how you go on this morning.” His deep voice held a vibrant ring.
She tried to ignore the effect it had on her and instead concentrated on his manner. Nothing in his bearing indicated pleasure in his occupation. She should be offended—yet she found herself intrigued. She wanted to get to the bottom of his dislike, then see his manner toward her alter, becoming friendly, or something more… Lord, the man cast a powerful spell over her.
She looked away. “I am glad you have come. It gives me the opportunity to thank you for your kindness of last night.”
“There was little I could do under the circumstances. Nor was it exactly kindness.”
“I found it so.” Could he not even accept her gratitude without bristling? What, in heaven’s name, caused this aversion—or was it distrust—of her?
He strolled to the empty hearth then turned to face her. “You showed signs of awakening, which the others did not. I desired to learn what had occurred as quickly as possible.”
Heaven forbid she should mistake his attentions for friendliness. Amusement vied with her irritation and she inclined her head. “I am sorry if I proved a waste of your time.”
His dark brows snapped down and he glared at her for a long moment. Abruptly, he strode to the window. “I fear my manner finds no favor with you. You must forgive me. I have been a soldier most of my life. I have had little time to waste on social pleasantries or frivolity.”
“This is hardly a frivolous occasion,” she pointed out. It was a tragic one—at least for her. To her dismay, tears stung her eyes and she turned away. She would not break down, not in the presence of this man who already disapproved of her. She bit her lip and furiously ordered into retreat the tears that stung her eyes. In a flagrant act of rebellion, they slipped down her cheeks.
“Miss Dearne.” His voice held an altered note.
She shook her head at his alarm. “Pay me no heed. I doubt you care for females who behave like watering pots.”
“In the normal course of things, I do not,” he agreed with feeling. “But under these circumstances it is understandable.”
A shaky laugh escaped her. “But not forgivable? I suppose my behavior of last night is what has given you a distaste of me.”
“It is no such thing,” he denied, his manner tense.
“Oh.” Her disappointment sounded in her voice. That had seemed such a likely reason for his aversion to her company.
His frown deepened. “I could hardly have reason to dislike you, Miss Dearne.”
“That is what I thought,” she agreed promptly.
“If I have offended you—”
“Indeed, I had thought it the other way around.”
He stiffened. “I do not—” He stopped abruptly as the door opened.
The marquis entered, talking as he came, his normally neat auburn hair rumpled as if he had been running his hands through it. “Phyllida, I cannot find—” He broke off. “Ingram!” He strode forward, relief patent in every line of his drawn countenance.
The scowl evaporated from the captain’s face to be replaced by honest concern. A pang of longing shot through Phyllida, for such a friendship, with such a friend…
Lord Ingram clasped the marquis’s hand. “How do you go on, Allbury?”
“Better for seeing you, my dear fellow.”
Ingram’s searching gaze rested on his old friend’s face. “Is there anything I can do?”
Allbury’s lips twitched into a wry smile though his eyes remained bleak. “Come have a glass of wine with me. Tell me what you’ve been about. It’s been three years, hasn’t it?” Almost desperately, he fastened on this new topic like a dog with a meaty bone. “Have you been fighting on the Continent all that time? I thought you’d sell out, sooner or later, after your brother died. Terrible thing, that. No one expects to meet one’s end with a fall on the hunting field.”
He took Lord Ingram’s arm and led him from the salon. “What a thing to do, to just walk in on us like that last night. Thought you’d have written before now.” His next sentence faded as the door closed behind the two gentlemen.
Phyllida sank onto her chair, feeling buffeted by her exchange with Lord Ingram. Why did he dislike her? Or did he hold all females in abhorrence? A shrewd intuition told her that was not the case—despite his forthright manners. For some obscure reason, Captain Lord Ingram’s antipathy had been directed at her, personally. And she intended to find out why.
Chapter Three
Phyllida returned to the writing desk, drew forth a fresh card then stared unseeing at it for a very long while. No, she could make no sense of Lord Ingram’s antagonism. Nor of her own determination to alter it. A lingering wistfulness clung to her, refusing to release its hold.
She should just be grateful, she scolded herself, that someone had called who could divert the marquis’s thoughts from the loss of his wife. She would like very much to be diverted herself.
That reminded her, she ought to check on Constance Yarborough. If the dowager ran the staff ragged with unnecessary errands, then Jane would be needed in her role as upper parlor maid, leaving Constance alone.
She found the girl lying in her darkened room, staring blindly at the curtained window. Phyllida hesitated just over the threshold. “Constance? Are you feeling worse?”
The girl turned her large, tear-filled pansy eyes to stare at Phyllida. “What’s to become of us?”
Phyllida went to her and sat on the edge of the bed, taking her hand in a sustaining clasp. “You need not worry about that now. It can wait until you are better.”
“Can it?” The girl sniffed then had recourse to the rumpled handkerchief she clutched. “I didn’t give it any thought before, I was too overcome by… But now it is all I can think about. Louisa didn’t offer us much but at least it was a place to live. The dowager will turn us out without so much as a roof over our heads.”
“No, Constance, I am sure—”
“You
know
she will. How can we stop her? Oh, why didn’t I think of this before—” She broke off abruptly with a soft cry of alarm and buried her face in her hands.
Phyllida’s stomach clenched. Before what? Before she killed her benefactress?
She forced down her rising horror. The fear had been in the back of her mind—it must have been for that terrible thought to raise its ugly head—but the reality of it simply hadn’t dawned on her until now.
One of the people in that box last night had actually murdered Louisa.
Someone she knew.
She shook her head, unable to accept it, unable to believe such a thing. Yet the rational part of her mind knew it to be all too true. She closed her eyes, trying to steady herself. She couldn’t leap to wild conjecture. She had to be calm, not fly into a pelter, or she would never be able to think straight.
With a concerted effort she modulated her voice into calm tones. “Think before what, Constance?”
The girl hesitated. “Before I behaved in so abrupt a manner to the dowager,” she said at last. “But what could I do? Louisa had just ordered me to do the exact opposite of what she requested! You know what the dowager is like, Phyllida. I shall be cast out at once, with nowhere to go.”
Phyllida caught her agitated hand. “I am certain it won’t come to that.”
Had
that been all the girl meant? She sincerely hoped so.
“It will! And you, also. She will announce there is no further need for our services and that will be the end of it, for you know there is never any swaying her. Then what will become of me?” Tears hovered in her large eyes then slipped down her pale cheeks. “What am I to do, Phyllida?”
Phyllida managed a fairly good imitation of a smile. “It’s too early to worry. I’m sure Allbury will permit us to remain until—until we can make other arrangements.”
Constance Yarborough struggled up in the bed and Phyllida arranged pillows behind her. “What other arrangements? It’s all very well for
you.
You are her sister. He’s bound to make some provision for you. I was only her friend, her
unpaid
companion.”
“He is a kindly man.” Phyllida caught the note of resentment and couldn’t blame the girl for it. Louisa had taken every opportunity to make her erstwhile school friend aware—and resentful—of the charity bestowed upon her. “If worse comes to worst, you can always return to Madame Griswald’s seminary.”
The pansy-like eyes widened in horror. “After Papa ran off without paying her for my last term? Oh no, she’d never take me in.”
“I meant, as an instructress.”
Constance blinked. “My only ability is sketching, but I doubt I could ever teach it.”
With that Phyllida nodded silent agreement. It had been a ridiculous suggestion on her part. What other possibilities did that leave? After a moment she tried, “A companion to some elderly lady?”
Constance stared at her, her expression arrested. “Why not? I feel quite certain I could do that. Oh, why have I not made myself more useful to the dowager? I shall have to try harder. I know how much she likes one to run little errands for her.”
Well why not indeed? Phyllida reflected. Constance was certainly meek enough to suit the dowager. Why shouldn’t she remain at Allbury House in exactly the position she currently occupied? Phyllida couldn’t blame her for grasping at the only security she knew.
With a vague word of comfort, Phyllida left Miss Yarborough to rest. With luck, everything would work out for the girl. She closed the door softly and started down the hall. Constance would probably prefer being a companion to the formidable dowager. At least with her one always knew where one stood. To be honest—though it made her feel dreadfully guilty to admit it—Louisa could be cloyingly sweet to one’s face while secretly working to one’s detriment. Yes, Constance might well be lucky to exchange patronesses.
She froze on the second step, her hand clutching the balustrade. Had that idea occurred to Constance Yarborough also? Had she borne all she could from Louisa—then murdered her? Was that why Constance had been the last to awaken from the drug? Because she had not consumed it until well after the others had succumbed to its effects?
This was ridiculous! She gave her head a firm shake then smoothed the disarrayed blonde curls from her face. She had every right to be distressed this morning—but not to indulge in wild flights of fantasy in which she envisioned innocent young girls as murderesses.
There were so many things to which she
ought
to attend this morning. She would leave the solving of Louisa’s murder to that Runner. She should sort through Louisa’s room—no, she couldn’t bring herself to go through her sister’s things yet. That could wait until after the funeral.
She descended the stairs slowly, loath to return to the cards of condolence which continued to arrive and pile up on the desk. What she wanted, she decided, was to go for a brisk ride through the Park. Even a drive would be welcome. That, though, would put her beyond the pale, no matter how much she needed to escape the emptiness that filled her.
She compromised by staring out the salon window at the garden across the street. Children, under the guardianship of governesses and nursery maids, ran and played, free from worries and sorrow, just like she and Louisa and Tom… No, this wasn’t helping. Her eyes brimmed and she dashed the unwanted tears away.
A firm knock sounded and her unsettled emotions fluttered in alarm. She didn’t want to be seen like this, not with her composure in shambles. The door opened and with a frantic effort to master her countenance she turned to face this newest interruption.
It was not Fenton who stood on the threshold but Captain Lord Ingram, his green eyes piercing, his stride sure and firm.
As if he advanced on the enemy,
the thought drifted through her mind. Heat—the first warmth she had experienced since the night before—flooded her cheeks. She rose from the window seat, unwilling to be at any disadvantage in his presence.
He advanced into the room and came to a halt before her. “Do I interrupt?” he asked.
She straightened her slender shoulders and challenge lit her eyes. “What may I do for you?”
His cool gaze settled on her, calculating, as if he summed her up and found the total lacking in some way. “I only wish to speak with you for a moment.”
“Do you?” A note of skepticism colored her tone. She hesitated then gestured toward the sofa. She herself took a chair near the hearth.
Lord Ingram didn’t sit but took several pacing steps as if considering how to begin. At last he stopped near the hearth, his hands clasped behind his back. “Have you lived in this house long?” he asked.
She frowned. “Has not Allbury told you?”
“My purpose was to divert his thoughts, not force him to dwell on unpleasant matters.”
“Like me?” she asked before she could stop herself.
The furrow in his brow deepened. “Are you? An unpleasant matter to him?”
“You appear to believe so,” she pointed out.
“You mistake.” He crossed to the window then turned back to her. “You didn’t answer my question.”
She shrugged. “I have lived here for about eight months, since shortly after my sister’s marriage.”
“And you are well-acquainted with her friends?”
She bristled. She didn’t like this feeling, as if she were back in the schoolroom being subjected to a catechism. Nor did she like the tone of his question. Her chin rose. “I fail to see what interest you could possibly have in the matter.”
“A very great one. Bear with me on this.”
He didn’t ask, he ordered. He deserved to be snubbed but for some obscure reason she was going to let him get away with it! It made no sense, yet she found herself answering. “I barely know her friends. I do not go about in society that much.”
The crease in his brow seemed bent on becoming permanent. “I would have thought it your sister’s purpose to obtain a husband for you.”
Her temper—or pride?—flared. “If that is what you think, it is no wonder you hold me in low regard. But it is not the desire of every lady to ensnare a gentleman.” She bestowed a falsely sweet smile on him. “My sole purpose is not to coerce a man into marriage but into giving money to my—
Louisa’s
cause.”
“Was she involved in others? Besides these fans?” he pursued.
She eyed him with growing dislike. “Not at present.”
“Was she—”
“Lord Ingram, are you perchance assisting that Bow Street Runner?”
Surprise flashed across his rugged features. “Not precisely.”
“Then why are you subjecting me to this inquisition?”
He frowned. “I was not aware I was doing any such thing.”
Then you must be somewhat dense
. With an effort, she kept that reflection to herself. “What, precisely, is your interest in me and my sister?”
He paced back to the hearth then turned to face her. “It is not exactly in either of you but in her death. Allbury is my friend. I intend to discover the identity of the person who killed his wife—and the reason for it—before he suffers any more. There has been scandal enough in his life.”
Phyllida bit her lip. About that, he was right. There had been so many unpleasant whispers four years ago, when Allbury’s young sister eloped then died in a carriage accident only miles from the Scottish border. Even Phyllida, living in the depths of the country, had heard rumors, spawned by the marquis’s well-known and unrelenting sense of duty. He had bullied the girl into a hateful marriage, some said. Others hinted he had pursued the couple, causing the accident to prevent the
misalliance.
People had vicious tongues. The marquis, though driven by duty, would never hurt anyone.
But what would people say about the murder of his wife? Memories were long. The stories of his sister would be repeated, embellished in the retelling, forcing Allbury to relive the earlier tragedy. But how to prevent it?
She rose abruptly. “I doubt someone killed my sister only to hurt Allbury.”
“No, but until this matter is resolved he will be the subject of the vilest gossip.”
Phyllida looked up into Ingram’s determined face and felt the oddest tug, as if she encountered a kindred spirit. He wouldn’t give up—any more than would she. They would protect Allbury, even if it meant forming an uneasy—and very temporary—alliance. The idea appealed to her, a little too strongly.
“Have you gone through her papers yet?” he asked.
“No. I can’t do it. It would be too much like prying. Especially her diary. She always guarded it with such care, never letting anyone see it.”
“You’ve never read it?” he asked quickly.
She looked up, surprised by the intensity of the question. “No. I don’t believe anyone has. Why?” Then it hit her. “You think it might provide a clue to her murder!”
“It might.” He gazed down at her, his expression thoughtful, a frown lurking in his eyes. “That is only a possibility though. Chances are it will contain nothing to the purpose. Do you know of anyone who might have wanted her dead?”
She drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “She…sometimes said or did things without thinking. Most people do, you know.”
“No, neither of us would know anything about that, would we?”
She looked up, startled by the unexpected hint of humor in his voice. A glint lit those eyes that now reassessed her, and this time seemed to find a few surprises.
Lord, he could be dangerous, she realized. If he weren’t so antagonistic most of the time, she just might come to enjoy his company. And that possibility intrigued her very much indeed.
He turned away and resumed his pacing. “Was your sister friendly with anyone?” he asked after a moment. “More than her husband might have liked, perhaps?”