A Suspicious Affair (15 page)

The earl shouted to his back: “Turn and face me, sirrah, and tell me what honor there is in robbing and shooting innocent people!”

“I never meant to shoot Ashcroft, I swear. He threw his whip at me and my horse reared. The gun went off by accident. As for taking up the bridle lay—debtors’ prison was a certainty, Tyburn tree was a gamble. I’m a gambler.” Windham shrugged. “I thought the family name could stand my death better than my disgrace. And this was the only way I could pay Denning back, or his widow, as it turned out.”

“Then I take it you never received Her Grace’s note?”

Windham sneered. “Desperate criminals on the hideout seldom get regular mail delivery, my lord.”

“Too bad, fool. She cancelled all of Arvid’s debts. He cheated.”

The highwayman threw the towel to the ground and stomped on it. “Blast! Then you mean I’m going to hang for nothing?”

“Why, no. You are going to hang for highway robbery, assaulting a peer of the realm, and possibly murdering Denning.”

“You can’t lay that on my dish, and I can prove it. I was on Hounslow Heath at the time, robbing two carriages. You want evidence?” He stepped toward the cupboard, with all the pistols following his move. He tipped the box onto the table and pawed through the contents. “Here’s Lord Lithgow’s snuffbox; this is Mr. Harriman-Browne’s fob.”

Dimm chewed on his pencil. “He’s right. I remember thinking I was happy to get the Denning case ’stead of the robberies that same day. Still, we got us a confessed criminal.”

“What we’ve got,” Lord Kimbrough told the Runner, “is the nephew of one of the most highly placed men in government.”

He whispered a name in Dimm’s ear that had the older man sighing, “His nibs ain’t going to be happy about this ’un a’tall.”

Lord Kimbrough turned to Windham. “You say all of the booty is here? All the money you stole?”

“Of course, every shilling. A few more pigeons and I’d have enough to pay back my debt. I don’t care that Denning cheated. I do not welsh on my debts to widows and orphans.”

“Jackanapes,” the earl muttered, feeling very old, very tired. He pulled Dimm out of the tiny house for a conference.

When they returned, Dimm collected the loot to be restored to its owners. Then he set off for London to collect the reward, if he could explain matters to his superior. Lord Kimbrough went home to pack. Then he traveled to Bristol that very morning with Foster and the younger Dimm, along with His Majesty’s latest conscript for the Army.

Once he saw the official papers signed, the nodcock’s uncle notified, and the ship’s anchor raised, Carlinn took a room at an inn and slept for two days. He woke refreshed and reinstilled with a sense of mission. Bath was not far out of his way home. He’d stop and pay his respects to Miss Edelia Sherville. But somewhere between Bristol and Bath, the earl found just what he was looking for. And he couldn’t very well call on Miss Sherville with a three-legged Border collie under his arm.

Chapter Fifteen

Max was in love. The little terrier followed the collie bitch around and did not let her out of his sight. One wave of Sal’s tail sent the fluffball flying, so at least Max learned to mind his manners. For her part, Sal seemed to understand instantly what she was supposed to do. Carlinn did not even have to wrap the baby in lambskin, as the shepherd had advised, thank goodness, for he wasn’t eager to sell that plan to the duchess.

The shepherd was sad to part with Sal, for he’d raised her from a pup, and her mother, too. But she’d been caught in a poacher’s trap, and a three-legged dog was just no good out on the dales with the sheep. The herder hated to put a good dog down, but he was a working man who just couldn’t keep a big, hungry animal as a pet. He already had a one-armed brother-in-law.

The deal pleased the sheepman, who went home that much richer, and Kimbrough, who’d convinced himself that making the duchess more comfortable in Berkshire was the right and proper thing for him to do. Somehow his guardianship of the infant overflowed its paper boundaries to include the mother’s peace of mind. Carlinn refused to consider how that had come about.

Marisol wasn’t sure she was comfortable with the collie at all. Sal was the best-mannered dog the duchess had ever seen, but that was not saying much, considering she was used to Arvid’s barely civilized foxhounds or social lapdogs like Max. But Sal was devoted to Nolly. If he cried and no one came soon enough, the dog threw her head back and howled. If anyone entered the room, her hackles rose until Rebecca the nursemaid or Marisol told her “Friend.” She knew who was allowed to bring things into the room, and who was allowed to carry the baby away. On her brief excursions away from the baby, to the kitchens or outside, she was restless and whiny, until she could lope with her peculiar gait back to Nolly’s room, check the crib, and take up her position in front of the fire.

Marisol couldn’t have asked for a better bodyguard for her son, especially with Dimm’s son Gabriel to watch over the dog with a pistol at his side, just in case Sal forgot.

The highwayman was captured, Boynton had journeyed to a house party in Kent, and Sal recognized Aunt Tess as a friend. Marisol had nothing to worry about, except her brother, of course, and minor household matters. So unperturbed was the duchess, in fact, that the earl was able to convince her to go on a short outing, especially when he informed her in that blunt way of his that she looked like death on a dish, from lack of healthy outdoor color. They drove in his curricle to visit that flooded parcel of land, so Kimbrough might explain what the engineers had advised. She left Nolly for a whole hour. Even more astonishing, she spent that hour in the earl’s company without once coming to cuffs with him.

So she thanked Lord Kimbrough and started getting out and about a little on her own. She didn’t accept social invitations, both for Nolly’s sake and as a sop to the dowager’s mourning. But she did return a few of the local ladies’ afternoon calls, she and Aunt Tess. Mostly the duchess enjoyed her brief visits to the child-filled vicarage, where she and Mrs. Hambley discussed the need for a larger school in the district, so girls as well as boys might learn their letters and possibly some skills to better their lives. With the work to be done for such a project, Marisol found that she needed a wet nurse after all. The dowager didn’t gloat too much. And Marisol didn’t wait too long before telling Sal the dowager was a friend.

Settling in to local life and motherhood, Marisol started thinking of gardens come spring. It was almost here now. The Kimberly ladies called once after the christening, and the London Season was all Bettina wanted to talk about. Marisol wouldn’t miss it a bit.

Her letters to Foster were full of Nolly’s latest accomplishments, of course, and the doings of the little village of Pennington, and her callers, especially Lady Bettina’s wide-eyed fascination with everything to do with London.
“I wish you were here to chat with the girl,”
she wrote,
“since I cannot satisfy her curiosity with any pleasure on my part. London holds no fond memories. Certainly I was never as eager as Lady Bettina for my presentation. Her own brother says he dislikes everything about Town and doesn’t want to think about it until he has to face her debut, next year.”

Marisol realized her letters would bore Foster; he hardly knew the Berkshire neighbors, and she didn’t even have any London gossip to impart. By the time she got to the newspapers they were weeks out of date.

That’s why she was so happy to greet Mr. Dimm when he called after a visit to the vicarage.

“Come to see how my boy Gabriel is doing with the dog and the babe, and if you’ve heard from that brother of yourn,” he told her over a hearty tea, after admiring the baby’s growth.

“Your house must seem empty now, with so many of the younger people finding employment here in Berkshire.”

“Wouldn’t say it was ’zactly lonely, not with my sister still keeping house and the occasional in-law dropping by. Then there’s that boy we aren’t sure who he goes to.” He stacked a cucumber sandwich atop a watercress sandwich and put the whole in his mouth. “But it’s getting so I can hear myself think nowadays, and that’s no bad thing.”

Curiosity made her ask if he had done any more thinking about Arvid’s murder, and if people were still talking about her in London.

“I can’t tell you ’bout the Quality, by Jupiter, but in my circles, they’re talking a mite too much for my comfort. His nibs ain’t happy that we’ve still got an open book on the case.”

“Then there’s nothing new?”

“Well, there is and there ain’t. Jack Windham’s alibi holds; so does Lord Armbruster’s.”

“Oh, you found Armbruster’s ladybird?”

“Not ’zactly. I finally found who Lord Armbruster visits at that there love nest, but it ain’t going to make a difference in the case.”

“His, ah, bit of muslin vouched for him, then?”

“His bit o’ muslin wears it for a cravat.”

Marisol had to think about that for a minute. She quickly glanced in Aunt Tess’s direction to make sure that her innocent aunt was still busy with her knitting. “Oh.”

“Worse. Not only wasn’t Armbruster not meeting a high-flyer, he was meeting the under secretary of the Exchequer. I figure that’s why I was sent on vacation, like. Warned off. Hanging offense, don’t you know.”

Marisol didn’t care about Lord Armbruster’s hanging if it wasn’t to be for Arvid’s murder. “Perhaps that was why Lady Armbruster was so concerned when she found herself breeding.”

“Right, Armbruster must of knowed he couldn’t be the father. Might’ve been happy to have an heir, might’ve been furious. He swears he didn’t know. My thinking is she hadn’t told him yet, waiting on what Denning said that day. Still, Armbruster didn’t kill her or the duke, so we’re nowhere, ’cept I’m out of a job if I go near Armbruster again.”

Marisol was disappointed, but not terribly so. She never thought quiet Lord Armbruster could have shot anyone. Then again, she never thought quiet Lord Armbruster could have…

“Oh, by the by,” Dimm was saying, “do you have the address of the mother of that ladies’ maid of yourn in London? The servants at Portman Square don’t have it. I want to ask her a question or two again. Be surprised what people remembers when they have more time to think.”

Marisol shook her head. “No, but the employment agency must. Or else they’ll give you her new employer’s address. She’ll have a position by now, since I wrote her a good reference. Check there, or with Purvis, I suppose. Arvid’s valet might know, though he must have a new direction by now, too.”

“Not yet. The others say he’s talking of emigrating to the colonies. Tired of waiting on swells, they say, but it might just be sour grapes that he ain’t found a job.”

“I wonder if Lord Kimbrough would consider taking Purvis on. Heaven knows the man looks like he dresses in the dark half the time.”

“Been seeing much of his lordship?” Dimm asked casually as he made a selection from the pastry platter. “I called there, but he was out and about.”

“No, we don’t see much of him these days,” Marisol said, angry to hear the petulance in her voice. “That is, I understand the earl is very busy. He is getting things ready so the county can survive his absence for a few weeks when he goes to Bath.”

“Bath, eh? Taking the waters, is he?”

“Taking a wife, if gossip is correct. I am surprised you hadn’t heard.” Dimm choked on his third macaroon.

*

Marisol never put much stock in the servants’ grapevine, not even the almost infallible Dimm network, but she’d heard this rumor from the earl’s own sister.

“He says he’s going to see if there’s a suitable house to let,” Bettina grumbled. “As if I want to go to fusty old Bath. And Carlinn hates it there, too. He had to go once to recover from a wound, and I remember him complaining how there was no company except invalids and old ladies.”

“Then why is your brother going, especially when he seems so busy having to oversee Nolly’s property in addition to his own?” Marisol felt guilty at all the extra work pushed onto the earl’s shoulders, broad though they might be. “He isn’t feeling downpin enough to seek a cure or anything, is he? Those broken ribs from the curricle accident have healed, haven’t they?”

Bettina laughed. “Carlinn? He’s healthy as an ox. You must know he thrives on hard work. No, I’m afraid this latest start of his is my fault. Not exactly my fault, perhaps, but on my account. Carlinn told Cousin Winifred that he wished I had a female relation among the ton to take me in hand before I blotted my copybook.”

“I’m sure that’s not what he meant. He must have been wishing for someone who knew all the hostesses and all the rules, to take you around. That does make things easier.”

“Yes, but then he said it was time he started thinking about setting up his nursery.”

All of Marisol’s recent warmer feelings for Kimbrough slipped away, leaving a knot of icy disdain behind. She forgot about the dog, and how the earl had helped Foster, and how conscientious he was about the Denning holdings. Kimbrough was going to seek a proper wife, was he? Someone who could produce both Bettina’s successful Season and the necessary heirs. He’d most likely line up the eligible females and select the one with the best breeding, the widest hips, and the largest dowry. No, Kimbrough didn’t need a wealthy wife, no more than Arvid had. The earl would want a more mature lady so she could chaperone Bettina, but otherwise it was the same. Another poor female would enter another cold, loveless relationship, where her lord and master made sure he got good return for his investment, then went his own way. Perhaps she’d shoot him.

“And then,” Bettina was going on, “he asked Cousin Winifred about her goddaughter who lives in Bath. Edelia Sherville; do you know her?”

Marisol smiled. Edelia Sherville wouldn’t have to shoot Kimbrough; she’d bore him to death. Yes, the duchess knew Miss Sherville; they had shared a Season. And yes, she was everything proper and correct. She was attractive, accomplished, well connected, and even well dowered, Marisol believed. She was also the most self-consequential person Marisol knew, after Kimbrough himself. What a perfect couple, two perfect jackasses! Truly it would be a match made in heaven; unfortunately they’d be living next door.

Marisol reproved herself for uncharitable thoughts. She didn’t know why the thought of Lord Kimbrough’s wedding should be distressing; surely the man was entitled to a happy marriage. And if Miss Sherville was his choice, well, Edelia was no green girl being sold on the Marriage Mart. She’d only accept Kimbrough if she wanted an oversized, fusty churl, or if she thought she could reform him. Marisol wished her good luck. She also wished, for Bettina’s sake, that the earl had asked his cousin about her goddaughter merely out of curiosity or family feeling.

*

Carlinn had asked Cousin Winifred about Miss Sherville because he wanted to make sure she hadn’t fallen into any bumblebroths or betrothals while he dithered in Berkshire.

“I’m sure I would have heard if she accepted any of her beaux, Carlinn, but what do you mean, has Edelia gotten into any hobbles? She’s a lady, Cousin, not a hoyden. Edelia Sherville does
not
fall into scrapes.”

Cousin Winifred’s emphasis gave him pause, but not enough to change his plans. That was what he wanted: a wife above reproach. He packed, he left instructions with his staff, he held one last conference with the Denning bailiff, he paid his farewells to the duchess.

Marisol was in the morning room when he called, the baby kicking his legs in the air on the sofa next to her, the dog Sal at her feet. Carlinn paused in the doorway to admire the picture they made, the warmth shared between mother and child, the love that made Lady Marisol almost beautiful. Until the butler announced him. Then that mask of hauteur fell over her face. The chin rose, the nose went in the air, the duchess was back. He could almost see the strawberry leaves and ermine. Blister it, the woman changed moods as often as his sister changed her outfits. Today, he could tell, the duchess was as prickly as homespun drawers.

Marisol’s greeting was cool, her wishes of Godspeed tepid, and her regards to his family perfunctory. Carlinn got up to leave after ten minutes, refusing tea because of the press of packing. The duchess wrapped the baby in his several blankets and picked him up to walk Kimbrough out. Before they reached the door, however, a huge commotion erupted in the hall beyond, with thuds, clunks, crashes, shrieks, and curses. The earl made to go see.

“No, my lord, please stay here. This is obviously a domestic crisis, and your presence will only embarrass the staff at such an awkward moment. I’ll go. Here, you hold Nolly.”

And she handed over the baby. Just like that. “But, ma’am, I’ve never—”

“Then it’s time you learned,” she said from the doorway.

Carlinn looked down at the pile of blankets in his arms—the child weighed almost nothing—and said, “I cannot believe you’d trust me with him.”

“I don’t. I trust Sal. Stay, girl. And do not worry, my lord, you’ll do fine. Just hold his head up.” And she was gone.