Murder Most Malicious (24 page)

“By the nature of the crime, my lady.” Eva came to her feet and reached out to stroke Amelia's lovely golden hair. A few loose strands suggested she had been fidgety this evening—for good reason, Phoebe silently admitted. “Why don't I help you both take down your hair,” Eva said, “and Phoebe can tell us if she discovered anything unusual in Lord Owen's room.” Yet as soon as those words left her lips, she gazed in silent appeal at Phoebe.

Phoebe gave a slight nod. She had no intention of revealing to Amelia what she had found in Lord Owen's room. Her youngest sister might indeed be growing up, but Phoebe saw no reason to endanger her life. The less she knew, the better. They moved to the dressing table, and Phoebe scooted to one side of the tufted satin bench so Amelia could sit beside her.

“What I found,” she said as Eva released her simple coiffeur, “was a decided lack of possessions. Lord Owen travels exceedingly light.”

“What does that say about him?” Amelia's question had a statement-like quality, as if she already knew the answer. “A man who travels light can make the quickest getaway.”

Phoebe couldn't contain a chirp of laughter, subdued in the next instant at Amelia's hurt expression. Amelia's chin came up in a show of defiance, and then she, too, chuckled. Simultaneously, they said, “Penny dreadfuls.” Behind them, Eva joined in their laughter and released one of the ribbons that held Amelia's hair.

“Yes, I suppose you're right,” Amelia conceded. “But I don't believe Henry is anywhere to be found in this house. There has been no blood found anywhere, and it's certain the poor man bled when that awful thing was done to him. In my opinion, he left the premises, by will or by force, and was put upon somewhere else. The question is where.”

“Unfortunately, that's a question we might never be able to answer.” Eva ran her fingertips down the length of Amelia's wavy hair. “My lady, why don't you wait for me in your room while I help your sister into bed.”

“All right. I'll go say good night to Julia, too.” Amelia kissed Phoebe on the cheek and ran out.

Eva immediately turned to Phoebe. “So you discovered a bayonet in Lord Owen's room. One could argue that any number of former soldiers have such an item in their possession. Did you find anything else that could establish a link between him and Lord Allerton?”

Phoebe covered her momentary hesitation with a cough and hoped Eva wouldn't see through the ploy. “No, only the bayonet.”

“What about your great-grandfather's Roman dagger?” She helped Phoebe off with her dress and underthings and slipped her nightgown over her head.

“The bayonet could just as easily have been used against Henry.” Phoebe used her forearm to sweep her hair out from the neckline of the flannel gown.

“Then why would someone steal the dagger?”

Phoebe tossed up her hands. “I don't know. A diversion?” She couldn't say why she hid the truth of those photographs from Eva. She trusted Eva, she truly did, but it still seemed a betrayal of her sister to tell anyone. She sat back down at the dressing table. She needed time to think, to decide what was best to do. How she wished those pictures didn't exist....

She could have destroyed them. Perhaps she should have. But if Owen was responsible for Henry, the photographs might be the only substantial evidence to prove it, especially if the negatives where carefully hidden away somewhere. Not for the first time, she agonized over whether leaving the images behind had been the right decision. Would Lord Owen have noticed them missing? He most likely would, and from there he would recognize Amelia's attempt to distract him and conclude it could have been none other than Phoebe snooping through his room.

“I discovered something tonight, too, my lady.”

Phoebe snapped out of her reverie. “You did? Go on, please.”

“I found Lord Theodore in Julia's room when I went in to help her to bed.”

“I
knew
there was something between them.” Her heart sank. In the course of a mere six months Julia had gone from Henry to Lord Bellington and now Theo? Oh, yes, and possibly Lord Owen. The back of her neck prickled. Julia seemed to be at the center of this entire matter.

“She denied any romantic goings-on.”

“And you believed her?”

“Well, when I entered her room she was sitting on the chaise and Lord Theodore was standing by the fireplace. The scene they presented seemed an entirely innocent one. Even so, I couldn't help overstepping my bounds by cautioning her against entertaining gentlemen in her room, or trusting the wrong people.”

Phoebe stood up and went to sit on the bed. “To which she said what?”

“That she and Lord Theodore shared a kind of bond, being the two people closest to Lord Allerton right before he died.”

“ ‘Close' she called it?” Phoebe threw back her head and let go a laugh. That was the very last word she'd have used to describe Julia's relationship with Henry right before he died. Toxic was more like it. And bitter. Not to mention angry.

Eva showed no sign of joining in Phoebe's wry mirth. “She also told me Lord Theodore was with her for several hours Christmas night—merely talking. She was upset after breaking it off with Lord Allerton, and Lord Theodore lent a sympathetic ear.”

“He did, did he?” Phoebe started to chew her lip, then stopped when the raw spot she'd created earlier rebelled with a stab of pain. “This does change things, though. I was so certain Lord Owen must be guilty. . . .”

“I still don't understand why, my lady.”

“Because . . .” She trailed off, realizing the photographs had persuaded her most of all. Could Lord Owen have taken them from Henry's room, not because they linked him to any crime, but because he wished to protect Julia? An uneasy sensation balled in the pit of her stomach at the notion of Lord Owen sweeping in to play the gallant for Julia.

Growing up, she and everyone else had simply accepted that others would be drawn to her beautiful, vivacious older sister. Julia had been that sort of golden, engaging child, accomplished early on in singing and dancing and playing the piano, as well as being skilled in the art of conversation. Even in the schoolroom, she would talk circles around their governess to forestall any subject she didn't wish to study that day. Poor Miss Dawson often hadn't even realized she'd been duped. But Julia always earned high marks, both at home and at finishing school. She reaped praise Phoebe had sometimes deserved as well, but didn't always receive because Phoebe hadn't made a point of making sure everyone knew of her accomplishments. Still, she couldn't rightly blame Julia for that, could she?

Julia hadn't been unkind in those days. In fact, whenever she had gleaned some favor or privilege due to her charms, she had almost always shared her good fortune with Phoebe. She herself hadn't wanted the kind of attention Julia enjoyed. It simply wasn't in her nature to crave the notice of others. She much preferred her books and horses and tramping around the estate with Grampapa. Even later, when young men began tripping over one another for a chance to woo the Earl of Wroxly's stunning eldest granddaughter, Phoebe hadn't minded so much. Until, of course, that last glorious spring before the war began, when she met Oliver Prestwich at the Sandown Races. Phoebe had been fifteen, Julia eighteen and newly out in society. Even now Phoebe didn't know if Julia had intended what happened, or if it had merely been a matter of course.

Papa had assured Phoebe her turn would come, but instead the war came four months later. The men all shipped off to France, and Oliver with them. Phoebe meanwhile became caught up in the home efforts to support the soldiers fighting far away, and she had forgotten about her disappointment. There had been no time to worry about such trifles.

Then Papa died, along with Oliver and so many others, and everything changed. Julia had changed. Where once she had been charming, she became calculating, and the generosity she had shown Phoebe became scarcer and scarcer until Julia seemed to hold every advantage she had ever enjoyed as a kind of bulwark around herself. If Julia did include Phoebe, perhaps because Grams insisted, there had typically been an accompanying charitable sentiment. Phoebe hadn't wished to acknowledge it, had wished to continue believing in the genuineness of her sister's generosity, but now she wasn't so sure. Perhaps even when they were younger Julia's largess had merely been a way to ensure Phoebe's loyalty, to prevent Phoebe from running to Mama and Papa with tales of Julia's discreet misdeeds.

Perhaps. The difference between now and then was she had learned, by necessity, to get on with her life without Julia's favors. Julia shut her out, shut out everyone, really, except where she believed she might benefit. As perhaps she sought to benefit now from Lord Owen—
use
him—and Phoebe guessed he would let her without ever realizing the truth, or perhaps he wouldn't mind because Julia was beautiful and for so many men that would be enough.

Phoebe minded, very much, but felt helpless to do anything about it.

“My lady? Won't you share your thoughts?”

“Sorry, Eva, I was just thinking . . .” She shook her memories and her envious thoughts away. “As I said, I caught Owen Seabright in Lord Allerton's room and tonight I discovered that bayonet. But now with this news of Julia and Theodore's budding friendship . . . it seems we've gone round in yet another circle.”

A scream, muffled by the door, sent Phoebe to her feet. A shout followed, and by the time Phoebe reached the corridor, Grams, Fox, Julia, and Amelia were already hurrying to the gallery. Phoebe ran after them, with Eva close behind. The screams persisted, coming from the guest wing.

“It's mine! Give it back, you insolent thing!”

C
HAPTER
16

I
n a flurry of nightgowns and wrappers, Phoebe and the others scurried into the guest wing. Lady Allerton's door opened and she, too, came running out to the corridor. The shouts continued, two female voices raised in a furious debate.

“Give it to me!”

“No, my lady, I shan't. Now move away from the door, I beg you!”

“Not till you do as I say!”

Phoebe recognized at least one of those voices—Lady Cecily, though she had never heard such a tone from the woman before.

“Sounds like they're about to come to blows,” Fox announced gleefully. Theo's door opened and in shirtsleeves he peered out.

“What on earth?” Grams muttered and went to Lady Allerton's side. “Lucille, is that your aunt we're hearing?”

Lady Allerton gave a start. “Oh, Maude, I think it must be. And her maid. They woke me from a sound sleep.”

“Has someone been hurt? Ladies? Fox? What is this all about?”

Phoebe turned to see Grampapa and Lord Owen striding toward them from the gallery. Owen stopped to speak with Theo. Grampapa placed a hand on Phoebe's shoulder as he went by. Though Theo remained on his threshold, Lord Owen continued until he reached the others and then hovered, as if unsure whether to remain on hand or go to his own room and mind his business. He glanced back once at Theo, who hadn't moved. Remaining on hand seemed to win out after another shout erupted, words Phoebe would not have repeated. Fox chuckled under his breath. Lady Allerton winced, clutched her wrapper tight beneath her chin, and ran in slippered feet to her aunt's door.

“Lucille, please allow me.” Grampapa went to the door in question and rapped his knuckles loudly. “Cecily, dear?” He raised his baritone to be heard over the clamor within. “Are you quite all right, Cecily? I'm going to open the door now.”

Inside the room, all fell immediately silent. And then a voice that was not Lady Cecily's called out, “Someone help, please!”

Grampapa opened the door, and the dropping of both his and Lady Allerton's jaws sent Phoebe and the others hurrying to see what the matter was all about. Inside, the same voice that had cried out for help now exclaimed, “Lady Cecily, no!”

“There now, Cecily, it's all right.” With a hand extended, Grampapa stepped into the fray. From the doorway Phoebe saw Lady Cecily and her red-haired lady's maid facing each other only inches apart, their hands raised above their heads. Lady Cecily's hands were empty, but one could easily see that she was reaching for an object the maid held just beyond her reach.

Phoebe gasped and pointed. “Grams, your pugio!” What did this mean? Had Lady Cecily stolen the dagger from the case in the billiard room?

Lady Cecily jumped as she attempted to dislodge the pugio from her maid's grip. Waving her hands in the air, Lady Allerton rushed in. “Aunt, what are you doing? Stop it at once. At once, I tell you!”

The maid stood on tiptoe and teetered when Lady Cecily jumped again. Thank goodness the dagger could do no harm buried inside its sheath. His face alight with excitement, Fox squeezed past Phoebe and into the room. He pressed himself against the wall, no doubt to make himself as inconspicuous as possible and avoid being sent away. Amelia, Julia, Eva, and Lord Owen lingered in the corridor, their riveted faces holding expressions of bafflement and shock in varying degrees. Phoebe's gaze rested a moment on Lord Owen. Of them all, he seemed the least surprised. She wondered why.

Grampapa motioned for silence. The maid took the opportunity to lower the pugio behind her back and step away from Lady Cecily.

“There, there now, Cecily,” Grampapa said in a placating tone. “All is well.”

Was it, Phoebe wondered? They had just found in a confused, elderly woman's possession the weapon possibly responsible for Henry's demise. Could Lady Cecily have . . . to her own great nephew?

“Aunt Cecily, whatever are you doing with a keepsake left to our dear Maude by her father?”

Now that the commotion had died down, Phoebe noticed in Lady Allerton's question a resignation that suggested such bizarre behavior was nothing new for Aunt Cecily.

The elderly woman dropped her arms to her sides and angled a sheepish glance at the audience she only now seemed to notice. As tame as a kitten, she batted her eyelashes. “It is mine. I found it,” she said in a girlish whine.

“Oh, Aunt. You didn't find it at all.” With a deep sigh Lady Allerton cupped Lady Cecily's shoulder and said, as though attempting to persuade a child to tell the truth, “You took it, didn't you?”

“I'd have given it back. . . .”

Lady Allerton turned to address the others. “She's developed this odd fascination with knives and swords. Last year it was screws.”

At this Fox snickered. Grams silenced him with a look, and said, “Screws? As in furniture and gadgets?”

“Indeed, Maude. She stole a screwdriver from our man-of-all-work and went about the house unscrewing table legs, door hinges, and even lamps before we caught her at it. I cannot understand these obsessions of hers, but so far they've all been temporary and for the most part quite harmless.”

Grampapa looked astonished, and not a little concerned.
“For the most part?”

“She doesn't mean to cause difficulties, Archibald. She can't help herself.” Lady Allerton's chins jiggled as she aimed a scowl at the maid, still holding the pugio, but out of sight in the folds of her dress. “You should have been watching her more closely, you lazy thing. You know how indisposed I've been. First my Henry, and now this. . . .” She raised a forearm to her brow. “A body can only endure so much!”

“Now, Lucille, don't faint! Not again.” Grams took hold of Lady Allerton's wrist with one hand and with the other lightly tapped her cheeks.

Discreetly the maid slipped the dagger into Grampapa's waiting hand. “I found it under her pillow, my lord.” Phoebe noted the woman offered no apologies or explanations addressing the charge of laziness Lady Allerton had leveled at her.

Grampapa seemed in no mind to berate her. “Good job. Thank you.” He dropped the sheathed blade into the pocket of his cutaway coat. It weighed the garment down, causing it to hang crookedly on his frame. “I think it might be a good idea if you went below while we continue to calm your mistress. Please make her some tea, and you might have some yourself as well. I'll have someone send for you when it's safe to return.” He scanned the faces hovering in the doorway. “Eva, please go with her.”

The maid curtsied and turned into the corridor. Eva followed her.

“But, Aunt . . .” Lady Allerton seemed recovered from her near faint. “Why do you persist in taking things you know quite well don't belong to you? That is stealing, and stealing is wrong.”

“No, no, I merely
borrowed
it, dear. I wished to see it up close.” Lady Cecily smiled now, the last traces of her agitation gone. “I'd have returned it in the morning. Or sometime soon.”

Grams spoke gently. “But, Cecily, how did you open a locked case?”

Lady Cecily shrugged and raised a hand to her curly coiffeur. “A hairpin, of course.”

“But if you had simply asked me, I would have shown it to you myself.”

“Would you have?” Lady Cecily sounded genuinely surprised. “You're such a dear, Maude. You always were.”

While Grams took this in, Grampapa said to the others, “Everything is under control now and no harm done. You may all return to your rooms. Fox, that especially goes for you.”

“Oh . . .”

“Get along, young sir.” But then he called Phoebe to him and handed her the pugio. “My dear, take this with you. I'll come for it in a little while.”

The dagger was cold and heavy against her palm. “I'll guard it with my life, Grampapa.”

He kissed her forehead and she left the room. The others had already dispersed and Theo had apparently retreated into his bedroom. Perhaps he had come to view scenes such as this as a matter of course.

Phoebe could hear Julia's and Amelia's light chatter from the corridor on the far side of the gallery. She sped her steps to catch up to them, but as she entered the gallery a male voice called her name softly.

She couldn't see him, but she recognized Lord Owen's voice immediately. A shiver traveled up her back and tingled in her cheeks, and this time not due to her capricious fascination with him. What could he want, calling to her from the shadows? “Where are you? Show yourself, please.”

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you.” He appeared in the billiard room doorway, outlined by the darkness behind him. Why hadn't he switched on a light?

“You didn't frighten me. I simply couldn't see you.”

“As I couldn't see you earlier tonight, yet I knew you were there.”

Her spine went rigid. She attempted to swallow and couldn't. She knew better than to stand there engaging in conversation with this man, yet something kept her rooted to the spot. “What do you want?”

“To speak with you.”

“It's late, and we've had rather too much excitement for one night. I'd prefer to talk about whatever it is in the morning.” She moved to go, but he stepped out and grasped her wrist. Not a tight hold. In fact, she barely felt his skin against her own, yet when she tried to pull away she found it impossible to either slip free or open the circle of his fingers. Her heart thrashed against her ribs as a frisson of fear rushed through her. “Lord Owen, if you please.”

Without a word he drew her into the billiard room, again with that strange insistence that needed no force of strength. The only light came from the dimmed sconces in the gallery and the reflections off the snow outside. Yet his presence surrounded her, made it difficult to breathe. She felt trapped even after he released her wrist. “What were you doing in my room earlier?”

Instinct told her cry out or hurry away. Yet surely he wouldn't dare overpower her, here in her own home with Grandpapa but several rooms away. She held her ground. “How did you know?”

He smiled and inhaled deeply. “Your fragrance . . . violets, is it? Julia prefers rosewater and Amelia uses a citrusy scent, as many young girls do. And you didn't shut the armoire doors properly after you ducked inside.” He crossed his arms before him. “What were you searching for, if I may be so bold as to ask?”

“What were
you
looking for in Henry's room the other night?” The moment the question left her lips she regretted it. She had just admitted to creeping about the house in the middle of the night. What else would Lord Owen surmise but that she, too, had intended to search Henry's room?

He smiled again. At least, she saw the glint of his teeth and hoped that signified a smile and not a snarl. Her fingertips trembled at her sides and she fisted her hands to still them. “You suspect me of . . . what, my lady? Killing Henry Leighton? I can't fathom any other reason for you to go skulking through a man's private possessions.”

“Those photographs are not your private possessions,” she blurted, then wanted to bite her tongue.

“So you found those. I thought so. See here.” He gently grasped her beneath the elbow and drew her farther into the room; once again, she let him, or had no choice, or . . . She didn't know which, but she waited in silence while he paused, perhaps to listen for any approaching individuals. She realized then that he hadn't shut the door to the gallery, and in this she took a measure of comfort. Surely if he intended to harm her he would have sealed them inside.

He leaned down to bring his face closer to hers. “Let's stop all pretense. You need to believe two things. One, those pictures were brought here by Henry to persuade your sister—”

“I know all about that. Why did you take them?”

“On the contrary, Lady Phoebe, you do not know all about that, nor do you need to know why I confiscated them, at least not at present. But you do need to believe my having them will in no way bring harm to Julia.”

The way he carelessly tossed out Julia's name stirred a whisper of jealousy—again. Phoebe narrowed her eyes, not that that brought him into any sharper focus. Her vision had adjusted to the dark, but Lord Owen remained a vague series of outlines, like a wall before her. “Why should I believe you?”

“That brings me to my second point. You need to believe me when I say this is more dangerous than you apparently realize, though why you'd have trouble understanding the malicious nature of the individual with whom we are dealing is beyond me. Leave it alone, and tell your maid to leave it alone as well.”

“Of course I realize this is dangerous. But I am not about to let an innocent man hang for a crime he didn't commit.”

“You can't know that for certain, can you?” His voice had become a rough, impatient hiss. She heard him swallow; then he said more evenly, “Just as you cannot know for certain whether I or even Lady Cecily, for that matter, is innocent. She had a perfectly good murder weapon at her disposal, didn't she?”

“Lady Cecily, indeed. That confused old woman, a killer?”

“I give you that she isn't in her right mind, but that doesn't rule out the possibility that she snapped, or that someone else didn't put her up to stealing the dagger. The point is you cannot know what someone is capable of. When the dagger went missing, we all assumed it could have been the weapon used on Henry, if it wasn't the cleaver.”

“All right, then, tell me this.” She raised her chin to him and hoped he could make out the defiant gesture. “What is your involvement with Henry and Julia? Is she aware you have those photographs, and do you intend to give them to her?”