Late for the Wedding (12 page)

“Oh, for pity’s sake.” She splashed sherry into the glass she had used earlier. “They
are
honorable.”

“I fail to see how you can say that if he has not asked you to marry him.”

“I cannot believe that you are presuming to lecture me on the subject of proper decorum and behavior.”

“It distresses me greatly to say this, but I fear we must consider the possibility that Mr. March may be deliberately taking advantage of you.”

That was too much.

“Advantage? Of me?” Lavinia swallowed the sherry and set the glass down hard. “Does it occur to you that I may be the one taking advantage of Mr. March?”

Emeline’s lips parted in shock. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Consider the matter from my point of view.” Lavinia headed for the door. “As things stand now, I have everything a woman in my situation could possibly want. I enjoy a close connection with a gentleman, but I do not need to make any of the sacrifices that are so often required of a married woman. I retain all of my rights, both legal and financial. I can come and go as I please. I operate my own business. I answer to no man. Frankly, Emeline, there is a lot to be said for this sort of arrangement.”

Shock bloomed in Emeline’s eyes.

Lavinia did not wait for her to recover. She went out into the hall and swiftly climbed the stairs.

It was only when she was alone in the sanctuary of her bedchamber that she acknowledged to herself that she had lied through her teeth to Emeline.

Not that all of the things she had just said to her niece were not true and accurate as far as they went. There were indeed a great many excellent reasons why she was better off unwed.

But none of them was the real reason why she feared marriage to Tobias.

Chapter 11

“Evidently country life does not agree with you, March.” Lord Crackenburne’s bristling gray brows bunched above the rims of his spectacles. “Let me see if I have got it all straight. In the course of the single night you spent under Beaumont’s roof, a mysterious death occurred, you found evidence that a new Memento-Mori Man is at work, and a lady from your past managed to involve you in an awkward situation in front of your good friend Mrs. Lake.”

“Nor is that the end of the list of lively particulars.” Lord Vale’s eyes glittered with sardonic amusement. “Let us not forget that this memorable visit to the country culminated in you and Mrs. Lake being summarily tossed out of the castle before breakfast.”

Tobias stretched out his left leg, which still ached from the long carriage ride the previous day, and sank deeper into his chair. It was one o’clock in the afternoon and the club’s coffee room was only sparsely populated. He and Crackenburne and Vale had the place almost entirely to themselves. Hardly surprising, he reflected. It was a fine day, and the majority of those members who had remained in Town for the summer had found some interesting occupations to pursue outside in the warmth of the sun. The gentlemen would not drift back into their clubs until this evening, when whist and claret and gossip called them indoors once more.

At this time of year, the demands of the social world were considerably diminished. The Season, with its rigorous schedule of balls, soirees, and parties, had ended for all intents and purposes. Many of the most fashionable hostesses had already retreated to their estates for the summer.

Not all of the high flyers fled London in the summer. For a variety of reasons—including the long, uncomfortable journeys, the lack of a suitable residence, or a dread of the sheer boredom of country life—a goodly number of those who moved in the better circles chose to remain in Town.

A few, such as Crackenburne, did not even leave their clubs.

Following the death of his lady several years earlier, the Earl had virtually taken up residence here in the coffee room. Crackenburne was such a familiar fixture that the other members were inclined to overlook him as though he were a comfortable old sofa or a worn carpet. They gossiped freely in his presence, as though he were deaf. The result was that Crackenburne absorbed rumors and news the way a sponge took up water. He knew some of the deepest secrets of the ton.

“I cannot take all of the credit for being chucked out of Beaumont Castle,” Tobias said. “Mrs. Lake played the leading role in that little melodrama. Had she not taken it upon herself to insist to Beaumont that a murder had occurred under his roof—or, to be more precise,
upon
his roof—we might not have been asked to leave so unceremoniously.”

Crackenburne was amused. “One can scarcely blame Beaumont for not wanting to acknowledge the manner of Fullerton’s demise. That sort of gossip would no doubt discourage some of the less adventurous members of Society from accepting future invitations to his wife’s parties. Lady Beaumont would have been furious if her reputation as a hostess had been ruined by talk of murder.”

“True.” Tobias sank deeper into his chair. “And it is not as though we had any proof to offer.”

“But there is no doubt in your mind?” Vale asked.

Tobias was not surprised by the cold interest in the other man’s eyes. Vale had listened to the recitation of events at the Beaumont house party with the degree of interest he usually reserved for his collection of antiquities.

Nearing fifty, Vale was tall and elegantly slender, with the long fingers of an artist. His receding hairline set off a strong profile and a high forehead that would not have looked amiss on one of the Roman busts in his collection.

Tobias was not yet certain what to make of Vale’s newfound interest in the investigation business. His lordship was a scholar and an expert on Roman artifacts. He spent a great deal of time excavating various ancient sites around England. But he was also something of a mystery. The fact that he was intrigued with the notion of consulting for the firm of Lake & March made Tobias a little uneasy.

On the other hand, there was no doubt that Vale’s rank and wealth, combined with his very close and presumably intimate connection to Lavinia’s new friend Mrs. Dove, had proved useful on the last case. There was every possibility that he could be helpful on this new investigation as well.

Tobias reminded himself that he needed all the assistance he could get.

He steepled his fingers and examined the carved marble of the mantel in the vain hope that it might offer up a clue. “I am quite certain that Fullerton’s fall from the roof was no accident. Mrs. Lake found the cap that the killer wore to conceal his features. But the memento-mori ring I discovered on the night table was all the proof I really needed.”

“Now you wish to know who might have benefited from Fullerton’s death,” Crackenburne said with a meditative air.

“It appears that this new killer seeks to emulate his predecessor,” Tobias said. “One of the few things of which we can be certain about Zachary Elland is that he considered himself a professional. He not only took pride in the strategy he devised to carry out his kills, he always sought to turn a profit. He was a man of business, right down to his journal of accounts.”

“Therefore,” Vale concluded, looking more intrigued than ever, “it is very likely that this new murderer had a client who paid him for Fullerton’s death.”

“Indeed. If I can identify his client, I may be able to discover who was hired to commit the murder.” At the moment that was all that concerned him. He had a client of his own, and he was determined to protect Aspasia.

“A logical approach.” Crackenburne turned pensive. “There is one possibility, but I’m inclined to dismiss it out of hand.”

Tobias waited.

“Fullerton was married years ago,” Crackenburne continued. “But there was no offspring. After his wife died, he seemed content with his mistresses and his horses. It was assumed that his fortune and title would eventually go to his nephew. But at the end of the Season this year, he astonished everyone in the ton by announcing his engagement to the Panfield chit.”

Vale made a small sound of disgust. “Fullerton was sixty if he was a day. The Panfield girl is barely out of the schoolroom. No more than seventeen, I’ll wager.”

“I am told that she is very pretty and quite charming in that naive, innocent sort of way that some men who should know better find alluring,” Crackenburne said. “For his part, Fullerton had a fortune and a title to offer. All in all, an excellent match from the point of view of any self-respecting parent who desires to elevate the family’s social status.”

Tobias pondered that news. “Obviously the Panfields had every reason to want Fullerton to live at least until his wedding night. So I am left with the nephew as a possible suspect. That suits me. It has been my experience that money is always an excellent motive.”

“It may not be in this instance,” Crackenburne warned. “The nephew is already quite well off in his own right. Furthermore, he is engaged to marry the Dorlingate heiress.”

“She’ll bring a fortune to the marriage,” Vale observed. “You’re right, sir, it would appear that the nephew has no great pressing financial concerns.”

Tobias scowled. “What of the title?”

“The nephew is already in line for an earldom from his father,” Crackenburne said dryly.

“Huh.” Fullerton had been a mere baron, Tobias thought. Not a title worth killing for when one was set to become an earl.

“In addition,” Crackenburne said, “I have heard that the nephew is a generous, easygoing sort who is devoted to his estates. He does not appear to be the type who would hire a killer to get rid of his uncle.”

“Is there anyone else who might have had a reason to get rid of Fullerton?” Tobias pressed. “A disgruntled financial partner? Someone with a personal grudge?”

“Not that I know of,” Crackenburne said.

Vale shook his head. “No one comes to mind.”

“Doesn’t mean we’re not overlooking someone.” Tobias glanced at Crackenburne. “Would you mind very much digging a little deeper in that direction?”

“Not at all.”

“Can either of you think of any other recent deaths that seem somewhat suspicious or quite unexpected?” Tobias asked.

Crackenburne and Vale meditated on that for a while.

Eventually Crackenburne shifted a little in his chair. “The only other recent death in Society that struck me as unexpected was that of Lady Rowland last month,” he said. “Died in her sleep. The family has put out the word that her heart failed her. But the gossip is that when her maid found her, she also discovered a half-empty bottle of the tonic Lady Rowland used for sleep.”

“A suicide?” Vale asked.

“That is the rumor,” Crackenburne said. “But I knew Lady Rowland for years. In my opinion, she was not the type to take her own life.”

“She was very wealthy,” Vale pointed out. “What is more, she used her money to control everyone else in the family. In my experience, people generally resent that sort of high-handed manipulation.”

“Just what I needed,” Tobias muttered. “An entire family of suspects.”

“Better than no suspects at all,” Vale said.

Lavinia walked through the little park and came to a halt beneath the leafy canopy of a tree. She was dismayed to see the gleaming carriage drawn up in front of Number 14 Hazelton Square. Joan Dove was apparently entertaining visitors this afternoon.

She should have sent word to her friend announcing her intention to call upon her today. But the warm sunshine had beckoned and it had seemed the perfect opportunity for a pleasant stroll to the elegant street of fine town houses where Joan lived. The odds had been very much against encountering another visitor at Number 14. Although Joan had emerged from her widowhood and was getting out more these days, she was a private woman who did not maintain a large circle of close friends and acquaintances.

Well, there was no help for it, Lavinia thought. The only thing she could do was leave her card with the bull of a butler who guarded the front door and come back some other time.

She opened her reticule and groped inside with one gloved hand, searching for her little packet of cards.

At that moment the door of Number 14 opened. Lavinia glanced up and saw Joan’s daughter, Maryanne, emerge and start down the steps. The young woman was as lovely and elegant as her mother. Her wedding to the Colchester heir at the end of the Season had been a lavish affair. The alliance was an excellent one, both socially and financially. But Joan had confided to Lavinia that she was particularly pleased because Maryanne and young Lord Colchester were very much in love.

Maryanne appeared to be in a hurry today. She walked swiftly toward the waiting carriage. Lavinia caught a glimpse of her tense, unhappy features when a liveried footman leaped to open the door for her. She was no sooner settled inside the vehicle than the order was given to set off.

The carriage rolled past Lavinia. Through the uncovered window she saw Maryanne dab at her eyes with her handkerchief. The young woman was crying.

A little chill of disquiet went through Lavinia. Whatever had passed between Maryanne and Joan, it had not been pleasant. Perhaps she ought to delay her visit until tomorrow.

She deliberated a moment longer and then started across the street. This investigation was too important to be set aside, however briefly, unless there was no alternative.

She went up the steps of the colonnaded town house and banged the knocker. The door opened immediately.

“Mrs. Lake.” The massive butler inclined his head in somber recognition. “I shall inform Mrs. Dove that you are here.”

“Thank you.”

Relieved not to have been barred from entrance on the grounds that Joan was not receiving visitors, she whisked into the black-and-white-marble-tiled hall and removed her bonnet. A glimpse of her reflection in the large, gilded mirrors revealed that the fichu she had tucked into the snug bodice of her violet gown was askew. Madam Francesca, her tyrannical dressmaker, would have been outraged.

She had just finished making the adjustments to her attire when the butler returned.

“Mrs. Dove will see you in the drawing room.”

She followed him into the yellow, green, and gilt chamber. The thick velvet drapes were tied back with yellow cord to frame the pleasant vista of the park. Light streamed through the panes of glass, illuminating the thick, patterned carpet. Huge vases full of summer flowers brightened the corners.

Joan Dove stood at one of the tall windows, gazing pensively out into the street. It struck Lavinia that she made an excellent match for her new lover, Lord Vale. Joan was in her early forties, but she possessed the sort of striking profile and graceful height that would allow her to carry her beauty with her for many years.

It never ceased to amaze Lavinia that she had become friends with this woman. On the face of it, they had very little in common. Joan had come to her first as a client. At the time of her husband’s death a little more than a year ago, she had inherited not only his fortune but, quite possibly, his position as the head of a mysterious underworld organization known as the Blue Chamber.

At the height of its power under Fielding Dove’s guidance, the tentacles of the Blue Chamber had stretched throughout England and beyond, onto the Continent. According to Tobias, who, in his capacity as a spy, had had every reason to know, the Chamber had operated a variety of businesses. Some of those enterprises had been legitimate. Others had been decidedly less so. The links between the two had often been murky.

The Blue Chamber was believed to have disintegrated in the wake of Dove’s death. Those few who were privy to the truth about his illicit activities assumed he had concealed his role as the lord of a criminal empire from his beloved wife and daughter. It was understood, after all, that gentlemen, even those engaged in legitimate investments, seldom troubled their ladies with the details of their business ventures.

Dove had been not only a gentleman by birth, he had also been extremely secretive. There was no reason to think that he had taken Joan into his confidence.