The Sherbrooke Series Novels 1-5 (167 page)

A
LEXANDRA CLEARED HER throat. “Actually, Spenser, what Douglas would like to say is that he and I would both like to accompany you to see Reverend Mathers. We would very much like to insert ourselves into your adventure.”

Douglas raised a dark brow at his wife. “Of course he knows that’s what I said. Yes, we would rather come with you, Heatherington, than go to Richmond. Lady Blakeny may cast me her sloe-eyed looks another time.”

“Lady Blakeny is tall,” Alexandra said. “Not as tall as Helen, but still tall, curse her.”

Douglas beamed at his wife, assisted her into the carriage, stepped back for Lord Beecham, then swung himself inside.

Lord Beecham looked out the carriage window to see Reverend Older still standing there in the walkway just outside of White’s, staring after them. He did not like the look on the man’s face.

“Perhaps you should find another scholar,” Alexandra said as she arranged her skirts around her.

“He is the best,” Lord Beecham said. “The very best. He and my mentor at Oxford, Sir Giles Gilliam, were excellent friends. I can remember sitting quietly on a stool in a corner of Sir Giles’s rooms, listening to them argue over some ancient text. It was fascinating.” He could remember not wanting to leave even to relieve himself.

“I don’t like seeing this different side to you, Heatherington, one that smacks of intellect and admiration of something that isn’t warm and soft and ever so delightful.”

“He’s referring to the ladies, Spenser.”

“I know, Alexandra.”

“I prefer you to be simply a rakehell with no redeeming qualities. I detest having to alter my opinions, particularly when I am convinced they are perfectly right.”

“I know,” Lord Beecham said. “But Douglas, those other parts of me—they have been dormant for a very long time. They are just now coming back into being. No reason to fret yourself about my changing on you just yet.”

Douglas cleared his throat. “I have decided to help you, Heatherington here. I will even help you remove Reverend Mathers to Grillons’ Hotel. Yes, you need me, Heatherington. Others might horn in, like Crowley, and the good Lord knows you are gullible. I want to make sure that no one takes advantage of Helen either. Yes, I will make certain that you don’t get your knees cut out from under you by any charlatans and, of course, will ensure that you understand exactly what is being said and exactly how to respond. I have known Reverend Mathers since I was a boy. He won’t mind that I am with you. I will even counsel him how not to talk in his sleep.”

Lord Beecham said, “I appreciate that, Douglas, I surely do. I am also certain Helen won’t mind having two more partners. Now, have either of you heard that Reverend Older is having particular difficulties, at present, paying his gambling debts?”

“That conniving old bookend?” Douglas was once again closing his wife’s cloak over her bosom, frowning as he added, “You fear he will continue trying to insinuate his way into this business?”

“Yes, I know he will.”

“He was at Ascot a while back and lost some five hundred pounds on a horse from the Rothermere stud that went lame nearly at the finish line. The Hawksberrys were very upset about it—not about Reverend Older, of course—but about the horse.

“He knows a lot of people, does Reverend Older. We will continue to pay attention to him. I will have one of my footmen follow him about and see if he meets with fellows like Crowley. What do you say?”

“I think that’s an excellent idea. Let one of my boys change every other day with yours, Douglas. That way, it won’t always be the same face Reverend Older would see.”

Alexandra said, “I think you should have men following Lord Crowley as well. He seems the more dangerous of the two.”

“She’s right,” Lord Beecham said. “I have only one bully boy footman. I shall simply hire another.”

“I will as well,” Douglas said.

Alexandra said, “I have heard that Reverend Older has this knack of sniffing out money.”

“He sniffs everything,” Lord Beecham said. “A very cunning man, is Reverend Older. I believe he is quite the best orator I’ve ever heard. I have always liked him. I hope he isn’t a scoundrel.”

“You gentlemen should see him flirt. He is really quite accomplished at it. I fear to tell you this, but once he did ogle me, just a bit.”

Lord Beecham said, “The last time I saw him, he told me he was going to marry, retire, and manage the lady’s stud in Wessex. He told me he wants to breed horses.”

“That old lecher. No, not about buying a stud, Heatherington, but about looking at my wife’s bosom.”

“Whom does he wish to marry, Spenser?”

“Lady Chomley.”

“A lovely woman,” said Alexandra, then she frowned.

“What? What is it?”

Alex said, “I have heard it said that Lilac enjoys the more titillating sorts of lovemaking.”

Her husband gave her a ferocious frown. “What the hell does ‘titillating’ mean? Something that you and I don’t do on a regular basis? Are you keeping some new and perverse sort of pleasure from me, Alexandra?”

She went red to her earlobes. She pressed her palms to her cheeks. She took an extra moment to clear her throat. “I don’t wish to pursue it at this time, Douglas. Now, Spenser, let me tell you about the twins.”

After five minutes of hearing about the most brilliant, most beautiful twosome of children in all of England, Lord Beecham said, “If I were some other man, perhaps I should not mind having twins. One to sit on each knee. One to hold with each hand.”

Both Sherbrookes stared at him.

“If they yelled their heads off,” Douglas said, “what would you do if you were this other man?”

“What do you do, Douglas?”

“I take them riding.”

Lord Beecham frowned as he looked out the carriage window. He didn’t know why he had said that. It didn’t matter. It was not relevant to him or his life, at least for another ten years or so. Forty-five would be a good age to bring his heir into the world.

The British Museum was vast in size and very dim inside. Every footstep on the stone floors replayed itself a dozen times all around, each new echo more menacing than the last. It was also damp. There was no need for Douglas to tell his wife to keep her cloak shut, she was fisting it tightly beneath her chin.

“It is better in the back rooms,” Lord Beecham said. “There are fires and many branches of candles. It’s downright cozy in the room where I usually meet Reverend Mathers.”

“A few more windows might make this place less dreary,” Alexandra said. “Perhaps some warm draperies.”

“Only very serious gentlemen come here,” Douglas said, nodding to the porter. “They need only their intellectual fervor and they’re content. Show the stoics a warm drapery and they would doubtless shudder.”

It took them five more minutes to walk through the large rooms, all of them empty as gourds. They paused every couple of steps to look at some artifact on display, but mainly, it was so dreary and chill, they just kept walking. There were perhaps a dozen men dotted throughout the rooms, speaking in small groups or hunched over manuscripts.

Lord Beecham veered off to a small room off the main sweep of the museum. The door was shut. Lord Beecham lightly knocked, then opened it. He was suddenly haloed in warmth. He saw the brisk fire burning in the fireplace, casting shadows throughout the room.

“Reverend Mathers?”

There was no answer.

They all stepped into the room. There was a long table running along the entire side of the room, several branches of candles set at intervals along the table. There were dozens of books, in haphazard stacks, some piled neatly by a clerk’s hand, others sitting alone, one very ancient tome still settling in its dust, its pages parted as if fingers had just roved through them to find a certain section.

“Oh, dear,” Alexandra said and stepped back against her husband.

Reverend Mathers was seated at the far end of the bench, in the shadows. He was hunched forward over a blood-red, very large vellum-bound book. But he wasn’t studying or reading or writing with the sharpened quill held loosely in his right hand.

He looked to be sleeping, but they knew he wasn’t.

He was dead, a thin stiletto stuck out of the middle of his back.

 

“Lord Hobbs will be here any moment,” Lord Beecham said quietly to Alexandra and Douglas. “He became a magistrate on Bow Street not long ago. He is a good man, intelligent enough to know when he doesn’t have the experience to deal well with something, and he doesn’t give up. Do you remember the theft of Lady Melton’s ruby necklace some six months ago? Lord Hobbs came himself, spoke with everyone present, then assigned one of his runners to ferret out the facts of the case.”

“Were the rubies recovered?” Alexandra asked as she took another drink of very strong India tea. She was sitting in on a pale-green brocade sofa, her husband next to her. Lord Beecham was watching a tall, very thin man, dressed all in a soft pearl gray, being ushered into the drawing room by his acting butler, Claude, who was looking particularly tight about the mouth. “A murder,” Lord Beecham had heard him whisper to himself earlier. “What will become of all of us with the master involved in a murder?”

Lord Beecham stepped forward as he said to Alexandra, “Oh, yes. The Bow Street Runners, for the most part, are canny and know all the villains and criminals who roam the London alleys. Lord Hobbs is one of the gentlemen who keeps them assigned to cases.”

“Lord Hobbs.”

There were pleasantries, always at least twoscore polite words before one eased into things, Lord Beecham thought, as he mouthed his own feelings about King George III going mad for the last time and his eldest son, yet another George who was a fat, very unpopular buffoon, being appointed Regent.

There was no chance to continue on to Reverend Mathers’s murder, for there was Claude, clearing his throat at the drawing room door.

“My lord.”

“Yes, Claude?”

“Goodness, Claude, just stand aside. This is very important. Move!”

And there was Helen, dressed in a sky-blue pelisse, a matching bonnet atop her blond hair. She was flushed, impatient, waving her white hand at Spenser’s acting butler.

He couldn’t believe it when she came dashing through the door, his beautiful big girl, his Valkyrie, his own angel who was surely an Amazon. She was actually here. He had not realized how very much he had missed her.

He stood there and nearly bowed in on himself with bone-deep pleasure.

Something had happened to bring her here, but he didn’t want her to spill it in front of Lord Hobbs.

“Welcome, Miss Mayberry,” he said.

H
ELEN IMMEDIATELY SAW him, and no other, and went right to him, her hands outstretched. “Spenser, oh, dear, I had to come myself. Oh, you will not believe this, I—” She broke off at the sight of the tall, austere gentleman dressed all in gray. She looked him up and down, blinked, and said, “That is a charming affectation.”

Lord Hobbs, known among the Bow Street Runners as a man with ice in his veins, froze, sputtered, then laughed. “Why, thank you, ma’am.”

“Miss Mayberry,” Lord Beecham said easily, “I would like you to meet Lord Hobbs, a magistrate from Bow Street. He is here because something very bad has happened.”

“A pleasure, Miss Mayberry,” Lord Hobbs said, and smiled at the incredible creature staring him right in the eye. He bowed, kissed her hand.

Lord Hobbs was not the least bit on the short side, Lord Beecham thought, and wasn’t certain whether he should be worried or not.

“Yes, my lord. Why are you here? You are a magistrate from Bow Street? What has happened to bring you here, of all places? Spenser, are you all right?”

“Yes, Helen, I am fine.”

“Yes, Miss Mayberry, I am indeed from Bow Street.”

“Douglas? Alexandra? What are you doing here? What is happening?”

Douglas rose, patted Helen’s arm even as Alexandra said from behind him, “We are all here to assist you, Helen. The four of us together can overcome anything. Stop fretting.”

Douglas said in that low, soothing voice of his that always settled down the twins, “Helen, calm yourself.”

“All right, I am now calm. Spit out everything.”

Lord Beecham managed to sort everyone out, get them seated, and order tea from Claude, who was still standing stiff as a statue in the drawing room doorway, the way old Crit had taught him.

“Now,” he said pleasantly, drawing everyone’s attention, “I will go through what happened. Sir, feel free to interrupt if you have questions. You as well, Miss Mayberry. Now the earl and countess and I were to meet Reverend Mathers at the British Museum. When we came into the room we saw him slumped over the worktable, a stiletto sticking out of his back, right between his shoulder blades. He was still warm, though that might not mean that he had just been murdered. It was very warm in the room and the door was closed, keeping all the heat within.”