Claudia shrank even further back against the sofa, wondering whether he meant to ravish her in her own library. Her servants were all in bed, unlikely to hear her if she screamed. It was only when she felt his thumbs press on either side of her throat, first gently, then harder, that she began to realize that her life, not just her body, was in danger. But surely she thought, as she felt the pressure increase, so that the only sound she was aware of was the roaring of her own pulse in her ears, surely Mark would not really kill her…
Tony
…she thought.
Justin
… But neither could help her now. The roar became louder, and then there was only silence.
Mark looked at her limp body and then at his hands. He had never considered himself a violent man; in fact, for years he had been the epitome of self-control, but a cold rage had come over him when he had overheard Claudia’s little speech to Justin. In some strange way, he felt perfectly justified in his action: the inheritance should have been his, was his, and he had no intention of losing it now. Ashford had been the last person seen with Claudia and he would have to make Tony Varden look like the murderer.
He got up and went to his cousin’s desk and pulled every drawer open and scattered some of the contents on the floor. Then he rumpled the small Turkey carpet in front of the sofa and upended a delicately carved table his cousin had brought back from India.
Claudia lay as though she were asleep. “Too peaceful, my dear,” he murmured. “No, I think you will be found on the floor, your gown torn a little, your hair pulled down.” And he suited actions to words, finally lifting her body and dropping it on the rug, where it lay, arms and legs angled awkwardly.
“Ashford enters, asks for more money. You refuse it and tell him you won’t see him again. He kills you quietly and skillfully, as a well-trained soldier might kill a
guerrillero.”
Mark’s back was to the door and he was too involved to realize that it had opened. Jim, who had let Tony out and Mark in, had been standing sleepily in the front hall wondering when he could go to bed. Dawson had told him to see the mistress up to her room, but at this rate, she would be up all night and so would he. She was a kind woman, Lady Fairhaven, and he was sure if he looked in on her and asked if she needed anything, she would send him off to bed.
But Lady Fairhaven would never need anything again. Of that he was sure. And there was his real employer, opening drawers, disarranging rugs, and muttering something about Lord Ashford. Jim was not brilliant, but anyone could see what Fairhaven was up to. Lady Fairhaven had been alone when Ashford left, of that Jim was certain, for Tony had even asked him to look in on her. He would never have done that, were he her killer. No, Lord Fairhaven had killed her, and he, Jim, was a witness. Not only a witness but a spy, placed in the household by Fairhaven himself. And oh, God, if Fairhaven saw him now, he might not hesitate to kill again.
He pulled the door slowly and gently closed and tiptoed down the hall. His things? Forget them. Money? He had Fairhaven’s vail, thank God, and a guinea from Ashford, who had been in a happy and generous mood when he left. That would keep him for a while. Right now, he had to get out of the house and lose himself somewhere in London.
When Lady Fairhaven’s maid knocked on her door the next morning and got no response, she quietly stepped into the room, intending to draw the curtains back. Her mistress was not usually a late or heavy sleeper, but on those rare occasions when she slept in, she appreciated being awakened by the admission of sunlight. The abigail was very surprised to see that the bed had never been slept in.
She had no idea where her mistress might be, although for one minute Lord Ashford’s face came to mind. But that was ridiculous. Lady Fairhaven would never have gone to his rooms alone, much less spent the night. When she got downstairs, she found the butler questioning the other servants about Jim. “He should have been on duty in the breakfast room an hour ago,” said Mr. Dawson, with great annoyance.
“Well, I haven’t seen him this morning,” the housekeeper replied.
“Mr. Dawson.”
“Yes, Mary?” said Dawson impatiently.
“Lady Fairhaven is not in her room—nor has she been there, from the looks of things.”
The butler frowned. “Not in her room? She was with Lord Ashford in the library when I retired last night. Indeed, she sent me up to bed herself. Perhaps she fell asleep on the sofa?”
“Mr. Dawson!”
“Well, we all know what is going on there, Mary. He might have stayed, urn, very late. Although, I must say, when I walked in, the evening did not seem to be heading that way. I’ll go down and see.”
Dawson knocked softly on the library door and then opened it. At first, he could not take in what he saw. Lady Fairhaven lay there indeed, but not peacefully on the sofa. And how could a woman have spent the night on the floor in that odd position? he thought, his mind refusing to take in the reality of his mistress’s dead body.
He leaned down and felt for her pulse. None. Gently running his hand down her face, he closed her eyes and tried to smooth back her hair. After adjusting her gown so it covered her legs, he straightened up and stood there in shock, looking around the room and registering the overturned table and the open drawers of the desk. He was finally drawn to the portrait of his late master, almost expecting Lord Fairhaven’s eyes to turn accusingly on him. But they looked straight ahead, and Dawson would have sworn on his mother’s life that his master’s face had subtly changed. There was a look of tenderness in the eyes that seemed to be saying, “There is no need for sadness, for she has come home to me.”
The butler shook his head to clear it of such foolish fancies, and closing the door behind him, went to face the other servants.
“No one is to go into the library until a constable has been here.”
“A constable!” exclaimed the housekeeper.
“Yes, Mrs. Pitt. It seems…” Dawson cleared his throat. “It seems that Lady Fairhaven has been murdered.”
* * * *
While they were awaiting the arrival of the constable, Dawson questioned the rest of the servants. No, they had heard nothing, all having been in bed for hours on the third floor. William, who shared a room with Jim, said he had gone to sleep immediately and only upon getting up had he noticed that the other bed was empty.
The butler went up with him to inspect the room. “Is anything of his missing, William?”
“No, Mr. Dawson. It doesn’t look like it to me,” said William after a quick glance around the room.
When the constable arrived, he repeated many of the same questions and then closeted himself with the butler.
“Tell me everything you remember about last evening, Mr. Dawson.”
“Lady Fairhaven returned home at about two a.m. She was accompanied by Lord Ashford.”
“What do you know about Lord Ashford? Is he an old friend?”
“Not so much an old friend as a young…admirer,” replied Dawson.
The constable lifted his eyebrows inquiringly and the butler continued.
“Lady Fairhaven had been seeing a lot of this young man and we all assumed that she might eventually marry him. Or at least, that is what it looked like until last night.”
“What do you mean?”
“When they arrived, they went directly to the library and not the drawing room, where it is more comfortable, as though they had business in mind and not pleasure. And when I came in with a tray of brandy, they seemed to be arguing.”
“About what?”
“Lady Fairhaven was refusing to lend the earl any more money.”
“So she has lent him money in the past?”
“Well, the word is that Ashford is badly dipped. Owes the blacklegs and his tailor and chandler, among others.”
“Did Lord Ashford seem angry?”
“More embarrassed, I would say. He turned away from me immediately.”
“And your mistress?”
“My lady was a lovely woman. I have never heard her speak so sharply to anyone. But she was sharp last night.”
“Is that all you know? That she wouldn’t give him the money he needed? Did she refuse to see him again?”
“I don’t know. I suppose she could have, but I didn’t hear it. She sent me up to bed directly after I served the brandy.”
“So there was no one else here besides Lord Ashford?”
“No, no, Jim was in the hall.”
“Jim? I haven’t met Jim.”
“No, well, Jim is the new under-footman and I asked him to stay up and see Lord Ashford out and Lady Fairhaven up to her room. But he was gone this morning. Disappeared without even taking any of his things with him.”
“There were no signs of foul play anywhere else?”
“What?”
“Blood or signs of struggle?”
“No, no. You don’t think someone killed Jim too?”
“It is a possibility to consider. But from what I see, no. It may be he had a very good reason to leave.”
Dawson looked puzzled.
“Either he killed Lady Fairhaven, or he saw who did.”
By noon, most of society was buzzing about the death of Lady Fairhaven. Some had heard that Lord Ashford had been the last to see her alive and gave knowing looks to one another. Others heard that a new footman had disappeared. And bets were being laid at Brooks as to who was the more likely suspect. The odds were clearly in favor of Tony Varden.
Tony himself had heard nothing yet. He had been tempted to go straight to St. James Street and pay off his debts, but then thought better of it. He wasn’t sure he could trust himself, so he just went home. His valet was already in bed, and Tony undressed himself and fell asleep immediately, free for the first time in weeks of nagging worries and guilt and shame. He would
not
gamble again and he would make Claudia the loving husband she deserved. The fact that he wasn’t in love with her didn’t seem to matter to her, and he had hope that his own feelings would deepen over time.
He slept late and was awakened by his valet shaking his shoulder and saying in a worried voice: “Wake up, my lord, there is a Runner here to see you.”
As he climbed up from the depths of sleep, he had an odd fantasy of a young man, looking like a figure from the Greek games, waiting to meet him. Then it penetrated. “Oh, God, it must be the tailor. He’s laid charges and they are going to take me off to the Marshalsea. Well, thank God, I can pay them.
Tony threw on his dressing gown, and fumbling through his clothes, pulled out the money Claudia had given him.
The Runner was standing by the door inspecting a Stubbs print on the wall. He was an unprepossessing figure of a man, thought Tony. Not at all what you would expect a thief-taker to look like.
“You are come from Grants, I presume?” Tony asked with his most charming smile.
The Runner turned and looked blankly at him.
“Or McLean? Well, no matter,” said Tony. “You can tell whoever it is to send someone over. I can pay every penny I owe.” He waved a fistful of notes in the air.
“Lord Ashford?” inquired the Runner.
“Yes,” said Tony impatiently. Lord, but the man’s face was nondescript and expressionless.
“I am Gideon Naylor. You are under a misapprehension about the reason for my visit.”
“I am?”
“Yes. I am not here to arrest you for debt.”
“Well, thank God for that,” Tony replied with a smile. “How can I help you, then?”
“You seem to have a sheaf of notes there. May I ask how you came by them?”
Tony frowned. “What is this? Has there been a robbery in the neighborhood? Have you come to arrest me for theft?” he added sarcastically.
“There appears to have been a theft, my lord. But it is on a far more serious matter that I have come. I am investigating the murder of Lady Claudia Fairhaven.”
Tony looked blankly at Naylor. “Claudia? Why, Claudia can’t be dead. I only saw her last night. Well, actually, early this morning. This is some sort of bad joke, isn’t it?” continued Tony, his voice shaking with shock and anger.
“I am afraid it is no joke, my lord. Lady Fairhaven was found dead on the library floor this morning by her butler. And according to Mr. Dawson, you were the last person to have seen or spoken with her.”
Tony sat down suddenly on one of the chairs around his table. “No,” he whispered. He raised his eyes to Naylor pleadingly. “Tell me it is not true.”
Naylor just stared back, his face expressionless.
“How…how was she killed?”
“The coroner has not come to any conclusions yet, my lord.”
“Please God it was quick,” murmured Tony.
“The drawers in her late husband’s desk were pulled out, my lord, and appear to have been rifled. May I ask where you got that money?”
“What? You mean you think it was an attempted robbery?”
“Not
attempted,
Lord Ashford. Where did the money come from?”
The man was persistent, Tony had to give him that. Maybe he just wore suspects down, rather than threatening them.
“I won some of it the night before last and the rest Claudia—Lady Fairhaven—gave me last night.”
The Runner pulled out a small notebook and pencil. “Where did you win, my lord, and how much?”
Tony hesitated, and then said, “I can’t tell you.”
“Oh, come, my lord, this is a murder investigation. I can easily find out what hells you frequent, but if you tell me, it will go quicker.”
“Seventy-five St. James Street. You can ask one of the blacklegs. Boniface. He’ll vouch for me.”
“And who will vouch for the rest of the money?”
“Why, Claudia, of course,” Tony answered without thinking, and then, realizing that Claudia would never speak for him or anyone else again, he buried his face in his hands and wept.
Naylor just waited quietly until Tony’s shoulders were still.
“Lady Fairhaven’s butler is willing to testify that he heard her very angrily refuse to give you another penny.”
Tony raised his face, outraged. “Why, that is not true,” he started to protest angrily, and then stopped. He took a deep breath, and running his hand over his face, continued. “Dawson probably did hear Lady Fairhaven say that. I remember when he came in with the brandy we were in the middle of a disagreement. But he left before our conversation concluded.”