That hit her like a splash of icy water in the face, extinguishing the warmth that had begun to creep through her. Her chin rose once more. “If we are to embark upon so improper a subject, let us not slip into innuendo and misunderstanding. You are asking if she
was
engaged in an
affaire,
are you not?” she demanded.
He inclined his head.
She glared at him. “That is a dreadful thing to suggest. She was in the family way, you must know. Did not Allbury tell you? She would hardly play her husband false with her firstborn.”
His gaze narrowed. “Would she not?” he asked, as blunt as she.
Phyllida clenched her teeth as heat again rose in her cheeks. Knowing Louisa, there was a definite possibility. She was not about to admit that though, not to this man whose stare bored through her, an opponent once more when briefly—so very briefly—she had hoped for a truce, perhaps even an ally. “You might ask Allbury,” she said, her tone frigid.
“I had hoped not to have to.”
“That’s right, you wish to protect him from unpleasant subjects, such as sisters-in-law.”
“That is not what I said,” he snapped.
“No, and if your sole concern is to discover who murdered Louisa—” A chill shot through her and she spoke the question that sprang to her mind. “Since the blade that killed her was part of my fan, I suppose you think
I
did it?”
Something—acknowledgment?—flickered across his face and her heart swelled with anger. “How dare you—” she began, but a knock on the door interrupted her. She broke off, seething.
Fenton entered. “Mr. Frake, miss,” he intoned in a voice heavy with disapproval.
“Thank you, Fenton.” Even through her anger a touch of amusement rose within her at the butler’s expression of outraged indignation. Poor man, he had disapproved so strongly of the need to summon Bow Street over the Allbury diamonds. Murder in the house was much worse. Not at all, his rigid stance implied, the sort of thing to which he was accustomed.
But then who, besides Runners, ever became accustomed to murder?
Mr. Frake, leaning heavily on his cane, strode into the salon. He stopped abruptly, his thoughtful gaze resting on Lord Ingram.
“What excellent timing, Mr. Frake,” Phyllida greeted him with an edge to her voice. “I thought we would not be long without your company this day. Will you be seated? Or have you merely come to arrest me for my sister’s murder? Lord Ingram, I should tell you, is of the mind you should do so at once.”
“I most certainly am not,” Lord Ingram snapped.
Mr. Frake studied her for a long moment and she flushed once more. She looked down, ashamed of her outburst.
A lopsided smile touched the Runner’s generous mouth. “It’s a bit early in this investigation for anyone to go hurling accusations about, miss. Why don’t we just be seated all comfortable-like and maybe we can find a few answers.”
Somewhat to her surprise, Phyllida sat. After a moment Lord Ingram did as well. Mr. Frake nodded and the corners of his eyes crinkled in amiable approval. He settled on the edge of a straight-backed Hepplewhite chair, laid his cane on his lap and drew out his Occurrence Book.
“Now, miss. Such an unpleasant business this must be for you.” His face took on a solemn expression, contriving to convey sympathy combined with gentle inquisitiveness.
Phyllida found herself wanting to confide in him and was appalled by her susceptibility. It was those wide-set blue eyes, she decided after a moment. They were deceptively innocent.
“Perhaps, miss, we could begin with your position in this household?” He leafed through the pages, found his place then waited, pencil poised.
Of course she was the most likely choice for murderess. Her temper flashed again. “Much the same as Miss Yarborough’s,” she said. “We both served as unpaid companions.”
“Younger than you, your sister was, miss?”
“That’s right. She was nineteen. I am two-and-twenty.” She couldn’t keep the defiance from her voice. “An ape-leader, one might say.”
“And did she?” Mr. Frake regarded her from beneath bushy brows. Disconcerting intelligence gleamed from those smiling eyes. “Say it, I mean?”
Phyllida gained the distinct impression it would be useless to lie to the man. Somehow he’d know. “Yes,” she answered simply,
He scribbled a quick note. “Do you find life altogether congenial in this household?”
She swallowed. “Not altogether but neither is it unpleasant. I have a worthwhile project with which to occupy my time and as I have never had social ambitions, I find myself quite content.”
Mr. Frake added another comment to his book then turned to Lord Ingram. “You are a captain, sir? Are you in the country for any length of time?”
“Permanently now. I returned to England with the intention of selling out—at the request of my family.”
Mr. Frake merely nodded. “Your elder brother died two years ago, I believe. Why didn’t you return then?”
Phyllida settled back in her chair, prepared to enjoy this. If anyone could put Lord Ingram in his place, she was willing to back this Runner. Nor would she mind learning a little bit more about the intriguing captain.
An ironic twinkle entered Lord Ingram’s eyes. “Blame Bonaparte. It was hardly a convenient moment in the war. We had suffered heavy losses at Corunna, if you remember. We were left with a pack of Johnny Raws and Wellesley needed every experienced officer he could get.”
Mr. Frake nodded and Phyllida gained the distinct feeling he had expected that answer.
“And what is the purpose of your visit here this morning, m’lord?”
Ingram fingered the quizzing glass that hung about his neck. “Much the same as yours. To learn who murdered the marchioness.”
Mr. Frake made a quick note in his book then looked back at Lord Ingram. An intriguing gentleman, that, he thought, and rather interesting that he should return to England only days before the wife of his old friend should be murdered. And now he wanted to help find the killer. Very interesting.
He directed an appraising eye over Miss Dearne, who set a neat pleat in the rumpled fabric of her skirt. Strain showed on her fine-boned features, which was natural. The bleak expression in her eyes could be grief—or merely worry. There was an intelligence in the lines of that face which gave him pause. She was clever enough, he decided, to have rid herself of a younger sister who might well have made her life intolerable.
Both of these two were going to bear watching. He closed his Occurrence Book with a snap and replaced it in his capacious coat pocket. “If you will show me your sister’s room, miss?”
Miss Dearne blinked. “Have you no other questions?”
Smiling, he shook his head. “Not at present, miss. I’d just like a look-see, if you don’t mind.”
“Ah.” Miss Dearne nodded wisely. “To discover if I left any incriminating evidence lying about?”
“To see if we can’t gain some idea as to why someone would want to go and murder her. Unless you know, perhaps?”
The young lady glared at him. “Certainly not.”
“Everyone loved her, did they?”
Her jaw tightened. “
I
did. Oh, I know she could be dreadfully difficult but she was my
sister.”
Her gaze remained on Frake. “You were acquainted with her. You were the one who recovered the diamonds when that maid—” She broke off, her expression arrested. “Could Louisa have been killed in revenge for something that happened over that?”
“It’s a possibility, miss—providing one of those people who went to your box during the interval was in some way involved. If any of them was, it’s more than I ever discovered.”
“Oh.” Miss Dearne drew a handkerchief from the reticule that dangled at her wrist then clutched it in distressed fingers. “Why did she summon you to the box last night?”
“Do you have any ideas on that, miss?”
Her hands clenched then she looked up to meet his gaze. “I thought at the time she did it to annoy the dowager.”
“And now?”
Miss Dearne smoothed out the muslin square. “I don’t know. It just seems such a coincidence, does it not? She didn’t by any chance
arrange
to meet you there, did she?”
“No, miss. But I’ve seen her at the opera before.
And
she’s seen me. I go regular-like. This was just the first time she called me up.”
“Then she might have expected to see you if-if for some reason she wished to consult with you?”
“She might have,” he conceded. “Had she given you any reason to think that was the case?”
“No. That is…she seemed somewhat preoccupied of late, though I thought her pleased rather than worried. One rarely consults with a Bow Street Runner unless one has a problem.”
“Being a Runner doesn’t exactly attract friends.” He drew the Occurrence Book once more from his pocket and jotted a question mark on the page headed
Visit to Opera Box.
“So her ladyship might or might not have called me up for a purpose. Why don’t we have a look-see at her rooms? That might provide a few answers.”
He stood and Miss Dearne led the way from the salon. Lord Ingram fell into step behind them. Interesting, that. It might prove instructive to let the gentleman accompany them—to the next floor, at least. In his experience the aristocracy shied away from anything hinting of scandal. Yet here was his lordship, trying to involve himself. Definitely interesting.
They proceeded up another flight of stairs to a corridor decorated with bamboo-patterned wallpaper and gilded white wainscoting. Chinese vases and figurines graced red lacquered tables carved with dragon-head pedestals and an Oriental carpet ran the length of the hall. A miniature Brighton Pavilion, her ladyship had called it when he’d been here last. Well there was no accounting for taste.
The first door toward the front of the house would be the young marchioness’s, as he remembered. The next served a dressing room and the third led to the marquis’ suite. On the other side of the hall stood the dowager’s chambers and two spare bedrooms. That would be all on this floor.
Miss Dearne reached for the handle then stopped. The door stood slightly ajar. Mr. Frake held a finger to his lips and gestured her back then listened intently for a moment. From within the sounds of drawers being dragged open and papers shuffled reached him. He nodded grimly, put his shoulder to the wooden panel and pushed it wide.
Chapter Four
Miss Constance Yarborough spun about and several papers dropped from her trembling fingers. The blood drained from her face, leaving her complexion unnaturally pale against the unruly fluff of mousy brown hair that escaped her chignon. Her pansy-like eyes opened wide.
“Constance?” Phyllida followed the Runner into the room. “What—”
Mr. Frake gestured her to silence and she bit back the question that had sprung to her lips.
Constance managed a shaky laugh. “Heavens but you startled me.” Her gaze wavered under Phyllida’s rampant curiosity and she turned instead to the two men.
Phyllida obliged. “You met Captain Lord Ingram last night, during the interlude,” she reminded her. “And this,” she added, watching for the girl’s reaction, “is Mr. Frake, from Bow Street.”
Constance clutched the last page she held. “Of course. You also came to the box. Bow Street, did you say?”
“Now, Miss…Yarborough, isn’t it?” Mr. Frake stepped forward and drew out his Occurrence Book. “Perhaps you’d care to tell me what you’re a-doing in her late ladyship’s chamber this morning?”
“I—” She threw a frightened look at Phyllida then turned back to the Runner. “I couldn’t lie abed with nothing to do. I kept thinking about poor Louisa—” She broke off and her slender shoulders trembled with her shudder. “I had to find something to keep myself busy.”
“In here?”
The girl’s color heightened. “Our charity project, you know. Now, at such a time, it is a relief to have something so worthwhile demanding my attention. Have you seen them, Phyllida?”
“Seen what?”
“The orders for the fans. I’ve already sketched the ones I have but I know Louisa had obtained more. Five, she said, at the Wokings’ dinner party. Do you not remember how pleased she was?”
“Yes.” Phyllida’s voice sounded colorless, even to herself. “Very pleased.”
Constance bit her lip. “They must be sketched then painted. I have looked everywhere though, and cannot find a trace of them.” She bent down and collected the sheets that lay on the Aubusson carpet.
“I have them,” Phyllida said. She glanced at Mr. Frake but could learn nothing from his expressionless face. Did he believe Miss Yarborough? Phyllida wasn’t certain whether she did herself.
“You
have them?” Constance straightened then smoothed the warm brown of her muslin skirts. “I am so glad. It would be quite dreadful if we were to lose them. People would think we didn’t really care and that would never do at all.” She cast a nervous glance at the Runner then looked back to Phyllida. “Where are they?”
“In my room.”
“Then let us get them at once. I feel so wickedly
idle
without so much as my sketch pad in my hands. I cannot even begin, though, when I don’t know who has placed an order or if they want a battle scene instead of a portrait. I do hope there will be at least one cavalry officer. I so love to sketch horses.”
The girl was babbling, Phyllida realized. But out of natural distress or a guilty conscience?
“Phyllida?” Constance set the papers down.
“Can
we get them?”
Phyllida looked toward the Runner. “Is it all right, Mr. Frake? Or do you wish to ask her any questions?”
“A little later, I think, if that will be convenient.”
“Yes, of course,” Constance said. “Whenever you wish. I-I will be in the Blue Drawing Room. For the light, you know. It gets full morning sun.”
“Lord Ingram?” Phyllida raised a challenging eyebrow. “Do you leave, or are you waiting for Allbury?”
The man regarded her from beneath lowered lids. “I had thought to lend our good Runner some assistance. He faces a formidable task.”
The Runner rocked back on his heels, a speculative glint in his blue eyes. “Well now, m’lord. That’s a mighty handsome offer. It will be a lot of work. But I think, under the circumstances, I’d best do it myself. And alone.” He held Ingram’s gaze for a long moment.
Only the slightest touch of annoyance flickered across Ingram’s face. “I hold myself at your disposal.” He turned to Phyllida and awarded her a short bow. “I will take my leave of you then.”
Good. She had no need of disturbingly handsome men whose sole interest in her was her connection to a murder. She rang for Louisa’s abigail to assist Mr. Frake in his search of the bedchamber, and as soon as the stern-faced woman arrived Phyllida ushered the other two out of the room. Ingram she delivered into Fenton’s capable hands and Constance she escorted up the next flight of stairs.
The girl stared at the carpeted steps as they mounted them. “I am so glad you have the papers, Phyllida. I don’t know what I would have done with nothing to occupy my mind.”
“Did you not seek to be of service to the dowager?”
Constance shot her a suspicious glance but Phyllida’s expression remained bland. “There was nothing she required of me.”
They reached the hall above and traversed the corridor to the back of the house where their bedchambers stood across from each other. They entered Phyllida’s and quickly found the orders lying on top of the writing desk. Miss Yarborough swept them up, expressed her thanks and scuttled across the hall to collect her pens, paints and the fans.
Phyllida sighed in the silence that followed the closing of her door. It was tempting to stay here and hide but she felt too restless to remain idle. Nor was she ready yet to watch a stranger turning over her sister’s belongings.
Instead she made her way to the Ladies’ Sitting Room. The pile of cards and notes of condolence had grown and with a heavy sigh she resumed her unpleasant chore of answering them.
Less than twenty minutes later the butler’s familiar rap on the door preceded the soft creak of its opening. Fenton paused on the threshold, his morose gaze resting on her.
“Lady Woking, miss.” He stood aside to permit the visitor to enter.
“My dear Miss Dearne.” Harriet, Lady Woking, one hand extended, sailed regally into the room, trailing a blue cashmere shawl behind her. A fluff of graying brown curls protruded from her turban, framing the round face dominated by a pair of wide-set brown eyes. Her ostrich feathers waggled dangerously near Phyllida’s eyes as the woman clasped her hands.
Phyllida led the way to the sofa, gesturing for her guest to sit. “It is very kind of you to call.”
“How could I not? This is so very dreadful.” Lady Woking sighed as she settled gracefully onto the cushions then gathered the trailing shawl so it enveloped her feet in an almost liquid pool. She sought her handkerchief and dabbed at the moisture that brimmed in her eyes. “I came as soon as I could to offer my assistance. You must be quite overwhelmed.”
Phyllida glanced at the cards scattered across the writing desk. “It is very kind of you, of course, but I fear I must answer these myself. Unless the dowager—”
Her sister’s former deportment mistress waved that aside with a grand gesture. “Not
those,
my dear. Though to be sure, they must demand a great deal of your time. Which is all the more reason for me to take over the charity ball.”
“The—” Phyllida stared at her, aghast. The ball, in only a week’s time, on which they had counted to raise so much money for the hospital… It had completely slipped her mind.
Lady Woking grasped Phyllida’s numb hand and patted it. “There, my dear, don’t worry. One could hardly expect you to carry on with such a project, not now with dear Louisa…” She let her voice trail off delicately. “But we must and shall carry on,” she rallied. “All will be arranged. You will see. You needn’t worry about a thing.”
“It will have to be canceled,” Phyllida said. She rose and took several agitated steps toward the hearth then turned back to Lady Woking. “We can’t possibly hold it now, not in a house of mourning. And we have already sold so many tickets.”
“Louisa would want it to take place,” Lady Woking said firmly.
Phyllida opened her mouth to deny such an erroneous statement then closed it again. It was not, she realized, in the least erroneous. She might have loved her sister but she had not been blind to her faults. Louisa, she knew well, would have preferred to create utter chaos of the event as long as it meant she would be the center of attention. Though not this way.
“It must be postponed—” she began.
“Nonsense, my dear. As you pointed out, we have already sold tickets. We will merely move the venue.”
“Move—”
“To Woking House. There, is that not the most perfect solution? I have been in on all the plans, you must know,” she added with an edge to her voice.
“You made them, you mean,” Phyllida responded automatically. At least those for the decorations and entertainments. Louisa had never been slow in urging her acquaintances to offer suggestions, which she then usurped as her own.
Lady Woking waved that aside as if it mattered not the least to her. “It is the perfect solution, you must see.”
“Yes,” Phyllida agreed slowly, “it is.”
“There, you must not let the matter distress you a moment longer. I’ll just pay a little visit to dear Rosalinde in her chamber and settle everything with her right now. No need for you to be troubled about it in the least.”
With a tired smile, Phyllida acquiesced. She didn’t want to cancel the ball, not when there was a chance of making more money for the cause. There were so many wounded soldiers in London and nowhere for them to turn for help for themselves or their families. So many like Tom…
Phyllida escorted Lady Woking to the dowager’s chamber and had the satisfaction of seeing the two quickly submerged in plans. The dowager, she guessed shrewdly, must be delighted with this scheme. She had never been keen on the whole charity project in the first place, only concerned about the image she presented to society. This would allow her to display herself as suffering yet noble—and with little trouble to herself.
She left them to it and escaped. The thought of the cards awaiting her proved too much to bear though. She needed to get away so she descended to the entry hall, where a liveried footman sprang to attention and opened the front door for her.
A half-hour in the garden in the center of Berkeley Square did much to restore her slipping composure. By the time she returned, Lady Woking had taken her departure. Phyllida made her way to the breakfast parlor, where a light nuncheon had been laid out, to fortify herself for the remainder of the day. It didn’t seem possible it was only noon.
She selected a plate of fruits and cheeses to take with her back to the Ladies’ Sitting Room. As she reached the door to this apartment Withers, the dowager’s dresser, waylaid her.
“Her ladyship wishes to see you…miss.” The dresser sniffed, emphasizing the pause between the command and the grudgingly given respect.
Phyllida, long inured to slights in this household, merely nodded. After depositing her plate on the already crowded writing desk, she followed the woman to her mistress’s bedchamber.
The drapes were flung wide and sunlight and warmth now flooded the room. The dowager Lady Allbury remained in the great bed on the raised dais, though she had donned a frothy muslin dressing gown enhanced by copious amounts of lace. In her hand she clutched a crumpled but noticeably dry handkerchief. Withers remained in the doorway, as if standing guard.
The dowager looked Phyllida over with coolly assessing eyes. “You are not wearing black,” she declared at last.
“No, my lady. I do not have any mourning clothes. Only this gray.”
The dowager frowned, adding wrinkles to her heavy brow. “You must have something more suitable for the funeral. Allbury will expect it. He will consider it his duty to see that all proper observances are made.” For once his mother sounded displeased with so commendable a trait in her son.
“I fear there isn’t time for me to make something up.”
“I suppose you must visit a modiste then.” The dowager eyed her with disfavor. “Withers will attend you. I can safely leave the matter in her hands.”
Phyllida glanced at the expressionless dresser and repressed a shiver. She should be grateful there had been no mention of Cranbourne Alley and off-the-peg gowns. Lady Allbury had standards, thank heavens, even where an unpopular ex-relation-in-law was concerned. One must, after all, if one was the Dowager Marchioness of Allbury, maintain appearances.
As she left the room, it dawned on her this meant she would continue to have a roof over her head—at least until after the funeral. That must be another of the dowager’s reluctant concessions to her son’s sense of duty.
Apparently Miss Yarborough’s subdued browns had not met with the dowager’s approval either. Twenty minutes later the two ladies set forth with their glowering chaperone in the ancient landau reserved for transporting the servants.
The shop at which they stopped in Jermyn Street was by no means in the first stare of elegance but anything it offered, Phyllida felt quite certain, would be an improvement over her own homemade efforts. Half-finished gowns lined the walls, needing only to be fitted to a potential buyer. With the aid of a shop assistant Phyllida looked through these and quickly selected two, one of bombazine and one of muslin, that would suit her well enough. The alterations could be made quickly, the proprietress assured her, and the gowns delivered the following morning.