Scott nodded and scribbled some words in his tablet. “Then that leaves us with the dons.”
“Don’t be absurd.” With fresh dismay, Simon ran both hands through his hair. “Those men are my closest friends and colleagues. There are a score of others here. The killer could be any one of them.”
“Even me.” Ivy gave an ironic laugh, a sound she repeated when Simon and the other two men shot her glances of incredulity. When they continued to stare, she became downright defensive. “It isn’t impossible. I had as much opportunity as anyone else here.”
“Ivy, don’t be ridiculous,” Barensforth said. “Besides, someone of your build lacks the necessary strength.” Moving behind her chair, Barensforth placed his hands on her shoulders like a sentry at the ready. “For the most part, Lord Harrow, we’ve ruled out everyone but your colleagues. No, hear me out,” he added when Simon opened his mouth to protest. “It only makes sense that the man attempting to frame you is someone you know, with whom you interact on a regular basis. Someone who envies you or your abilities, or who has reason to resent you.”
Simon’s objections died unspoken. Each member of the Galileo Club could potentially fit the description of a covetous rival. Despite Colin’s outward efforts toward reconciliation, he might still harbor bitter resentment over the events of last winter. Likewise, Errol—however frail he appeared—might blame Simon for his daughter’s untimely death. And Ben, who hailed from poverty and deprivation, could very well begrudge Simon his wealth and social position.
But enough to commit murder and frame him for the crimes?
Ben, Errol, even Colin, who had borne the brunt of Simon’s anger these many months . . .
He drew himself up and squared his shoulders. “Your theory is off the mark, way off. None of the men you have implicated can be guilty. There is no way on earth.”
“If that is the case,” Barensforth said almost brightly, “then once again we are back to you, Lord Harrow.”
Ivy shrugged out of her brother-in-law’s protective hold and pressed to her feet. “Oh, no, we are not. I have a plan.”
At Ivy’s declaration, Simon groaned and Aidan swore out loud. She ignored them and went to stand in front of Inspector Scott.
“I know how to catch the killer,” she said, “because as you said, I am logically his next victim.”
A clamor of protests drowned out her attempt to explain. For once, Aidan and Simon seemed to be in agreement.
“Whatever you’re planning, Ivy, forget it,” Simon concluded for both of them.
Aidan thrust a hand to his hip and nodded. “Leave this to us, Ivy.”
Inspector Scott studied her with a pensive twist to his lips. “What have you got in mind?”
“Do not encourage her.”
“Aidan, please.” She dared not glance at Simon for fear of losing her courage. Palpable anger emanated off him, leaving her no doubt that he would never agree to her plan, that he would fight her on it every inch of the way. In truth, the risk she intended to incur terrified her. But what choice did she have? Peer or no, if convicted of the murders, he would hang, and only she had the power to save him.
“We can trap the killer,” she said evenly, “by dangling the bait under his nose.”
“Ivy, no.” Simon was before her in an instant. He captured her hand in his own and swung her around to face him. His gaze darted briefly over her head to bounce fleetingly off the two men watching them. Then she was wrapped tight in his arms, the pressure of his lips warm in her hair. “Thank you, my darling, but no. You mustn’t even think of it. Put it out of your mind this instant. I will not let you, and there’s an end to it.”
Refusing to be daunted, she slid her hands up between them and pushed away until she could peer into his face. “I don’t see that you have a choice. Besides, this is between me and Inspector Scott.”
Panic flashed behind Simon’s eyes. He gripped her shoulders and set her at arm’s length. “Damn it, Ivy, this is not like solving a devilish mathematical equation or recalibrating my generator. This is deadly business, and I will not allow you to risk your life for mine.”
“Nor will I,” Aidan said as he watched hawklike from across the room.
“Besides, there isn’t to be a next victim.” Simon did his best to keep a scowl in place, but behind his severity she perceived a frantic tenderness. “Whoever went to all the trouble of framing me isn’t about to shift suspicion away by committing another murder.”
“I believe I’d like to hear the lady out.” Inspector Scott set his pencil and tablet aside and went to perch at the edge of the bed.
“Thank you, sir.” She paused for a steadying breath and stepped out of Simon’s hold. “The murderer will likely strike again if we announce that Lord Harrow has escaped. We could claim he overpowered you and your constable and is now on the loose.”
She felt Simon’s steely gaze upon her. What she had neglected to mention to the inspector was that her plan would also afford Simon the opportunity to escape his confinement in earnest and use his knowledge of the house to assist in catching the killer. She knew her trust in him would not be misplaced, but she felt rather less certain that her scheme might backfire and cause Simon to appear more guilty than ever.
“We might also suggest he had an unidentified accomplice,” she hurried on before she lost her nerve, “and that no one may leave until both are apprehended. In the meantime, I’ll arrange to be somewhere apparently alone, perhaps the ballroom, where you and your men could be concealed close by, ready to spring when the murderer makes his move against me.”
“Scott, surely you aren’t going to allow this,” Aidan all but shouted.
The inspector’s eyebrows arced above the rims of his spectacles. “Of course not,” he replied.
“What?” Ivy pushed words past the outrage that rose to clog her throat. “It is a perfectly sound plan. Certainly no one has suggested a better one.”
“No one is questioning your ingenuity,” Simon said with a note of condescension that sent spots of frustration dancing before her eyes. “But I am telling you unequivocally that you shall not serve as bait to catch a murderer.”
She rounded on the inspector. “Surely you must see that I am right.”
Mr. Scott thumped the toe of his boot against the carpet. “Were you a man, I would agree wholeheartedly. However, matters being what they are, taking your side would pit me against two peers of the realm, and I, for one, wish to emerge from this affair with my job and my hide intact.”
He stifled Ivy’s protest with a firm shake of his head. “I’m sorry, miss, but I believe I have just the right man for the task. There’s a young clerk at my office who aspires to become a constable. He’s rather a slip of a lad, with a mop of hair much like yours. This may be his chance to prove his worth.”
“You are not to budge from this room. Understood?”
Ivy mustered her most compliant demeanor and assured Aidan that until he returned for her, she would not stir from a little second-floor parlor that was usually reserved for the wives of Sir Alistair’s guests. That would not happen, however, until the murderer had been apprehended, or their plan to catch him proved futile. She hotly resented being excluded from the former, while praying the latter would not be the case.
An hour ago, Simon had affected his “escape,” throwing not only the guests but also Inspector Scott and the constables into an uproar. Earlier, Inspector Scott had summarily refused Simon’s request to be allowed to assist in apprehending the murderer. Instead, he was to be locked in a room much like the one Ivy occupied now, where no one would inadvertently stumble upon him.
As Ivy had suspected, Simon had broken free of his guard in earnest and disappeared into the house. The constables were still searching for him and still scratching their heads. Meanwhile, the scientists, assistants, and Royal Society representatives had demanded to be allowed to vacate Windgate Priory. Their complaints had nearly won over Inspector Scott, who now entertained doubts concerning Simon’s innocence. Aidan, too, wondered if they’d been deceived, not only by Simon, but by Ivy as well, though he stopped short of accusing her of being Simon’s accomplice.
In a way, she
had
acted as Simon’s accomplice, for she had known her plan would allow him the opportunity to escape into Windgate Priory’s attics. Simon de Burgh was not the sort of man to sit idly by while trusting his fate to others. Whatever happened next, she had no doubt that he would play a significant role in the unfolding events.
Somehow, she had managed to calm Mr. Scott and persuade him to proceed with the original plan. Her replacement, a clerk named Mr. Peters, would shortly make his way down to the empty ballroom and pretend to begin the job of dismantling Simon’s generator.
Hovering in the doorway, Aidan narrowed his eyes at her and issued another warning conveyed from the end of a threatening forefinger. He added a verbal admonition as well. “My better sense tells me I should lock you in.”
She settled into the camelback sofa and reached for the science periodical she had brought with her. “I am not about to do anything that might jeopardize our strategy.”
“You are certain you do not know where Lord Harrow is hiding?
She lowered the journal, crossed two fingers, and met his gaze. “I swear I do not.”
“All right, then.” Maddeningly, he lingered on. “I am trusting you.”
“And your faith in me is not misplaced.” She’d kept her fingers crossed, but she felt wretched for lying. When Aidan left the room and shut the door, she released a breath of relief.
After counting to ten, she sprang up from the sofa. When this was all over, she vowed, she would confess all and apologize to her brother-in-law. For now, however, she went to the door and pressed her ear to the wood, and was rewarded by the far-off thuds of his footsteps fading down the main staircase. Her heart leaping against her breast, she cracked the door open.
An empty corridor beckoned. Drawing a breath and holding it, she closed the door behind her and scampered in the opposite direction Aidan had gone. Passing several paneled doors, she hurried on until the hall runner abruptly ended and she found herself surrounded by bare white walls.
She had reached the service hallway. A few more frenzied paces and she turned a corner, arriving at a back staircase. Going down would lead her to the ground floor and the basement kitchens below that. Ivy grabbed the banister and headed up, to the attic rooms on the third floor.
To where she hoped to find Simon.
At the upper landing, she paused to gain her bearings. Along a corridor to her right stretched a runner whose dull russet weave bore the flattened trail of countless tramping feet. She went to the nearest oaken door, listened a moment, and tried the knob. The door opened upon a small room containing two narrow bedsteads, a dresser, and a washstand.
Servants’ quarters, she concluded, and crossed back to the much darker hallway that sprawled away to the left of the landing. She hadn’t thought to bring a candle—it was nearly midday, after all. But she soon found herself wandering a maze of narrow, musty hallways, with only the light that filtered dimly beneath the closed doors to guide her way. With each step, dust motes swirled around her feet. She took pains to tread carefully over floorboards that creaked at the slightest provocation.
Every few yards, she stopped to listen. She dared not call Simon’s name, nor could she expect him to give his location away by making any telltale sounds. An even more sobering possibility sprang to mind: that he was no longer in the attic, but had already made his way down to the ballroom using one of numerous hidden passages he had whispered to her about earlier. She came to a halt as the absurdity of her actions made her ashamed. What had she been thinking, disobeying Aidan and taking the risk of being followed? She might have put their entire plan in jeopardy.
But the answer careened through her, stealing her breath. Had Simon been successfully framed for the murders, he would have been transported to the Cambridge jail, and eventually shipped off to London, where he would have stood trial and . . .
Numbing horror rushed through her like a storm tide. Pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes, she tried in vain to quell the appalling images she had managed to evade until now. Simon before a judge and jury . . . declared guilty . . . condemned . . . led to the gallows . . .
No!
None of that would happen. Deep down Inspector Scott still believed in Simon’s innocence, or he would not be attempting to trap the true killer. Still, she trembled and hugged herself, and wished she were hugging Simon, holding on to him for dear life.
His dear, precious life.
She had come, simply, to be with him, to share these hopeful, dreadful moments together before their plan was set into action. If their theory—
her
theory—proved false, and no crazed killer stole into the ballroom intending to dispatch young Mr. Peters, what would prevent suspicion from ricocheting back onto Simon?
She took a step . . . and froze.
In the stillness she heard nothing, only the caress of the wind beneath the eaves of the roof. She started to move—and it came again. Not the wind, but a human sigh. Ivy pricked her ears and heard the whimper that followed.
The sound drew her deeper into the attic; she turned another corner, and a moan stopped her short. The sound had slid from beneath a door, but as she regarded the dark row stretching before her, she couldn’t decide which. She pressed her ear to the closest one, then moved on to the next.A murmured lament sent her diagonally across the corridor.
The echo of a creak behind her drew her up sharp. In the stillness, a footstep resounded like a gunshot. Panic sent her blindly retreating through the darkness, until a splintered floorboard caught the toe of her boot and she lurched headlong into a pair of arms.
Feeling the cry rising to Ivy’s lips, Simon pressed a hand to her mouth before she roused the devil himself to action. “Shh! It’s only me!”