My Lord Murderer (2 page)

“Now, that’s better,” Drew interjected, grinning.

“—But I draw the line at being instructed in the nature of the reward,” she said with a saucy toss of her hair.

“Oh? Are you
not
going to kiss me, then?” Drew asked in a tone of deep disappointment.

“Certainly not,” said the lady, laughing.

“Then I shall immediately restore you to the side of the charming Sir Lambert,” Drew countered promptly.

“What an unhandsome thing to say,” said the lady, laughter lingering in her eyes and at the corners of her mouth. “I see you have an unpleasantly calculating character.”

“I’m afraid I have,” Drew said unabashed. “If I can’t have a kiss, what
will
you give me as my reward?”

The lady looked up at him with her mischievous glance. Drew felt an unfamiliar constriction in his chest and almost missed a step. The lady in his arms was something quite out of the ordinary. What a lovely ball this was after all.

“I’ll give you my name. Is that enough of a reward for you, sir?” she asked.

“Your name? Nonsense, that won’t do at all. I can get
that
from my sister.”

“Your sister?” she asked, puzzled.

“Yes, my sweet innocent. My sister is our hostess, Hester Selby.”

The lady stared up at him, her smile fading. “Hetty is your sister? Then you … you must be—!” She stopped dancing, thrust his arms from her and stood still, her cheeks white, her eyes shocked. “Good God! You’re not … you couldn’t be
Drew Jamison
?”

The dancers around them were staring at them. The dance floor was rapidly becoming a sea of murmurs and confusion. Drew tried to take her in his arms again. “Of course I’m Drew Jamison,” he said with a puzzled smile. But the lady had turned into a frozen fury. Her arm swung up, and she struck his face with a resounding whack. “Murderer!” she hissed. “You vile, cowardly murderer!”

Drew stood speechless, his lips white, a wave of icy tension gripping his chest. “Oh, my
God
! You’re not …
Lady Rowle?
”

She bowed, a deep, cold mockery of a bow. “May I present Gwendolyn Rowle, the widow of the man you so cold-bloodedly killed,” she said icily. Then she stood erect and looked at him with loathing. “I ask only one thing of you, my lord Murderer. Only one thing. Never,
never
come near me again!”

And she turned quickly and ran from the floor, leaving Drew alone at the center of the crowd of dancers who were staring at him in embarrassed silence.

Chapter Two

I
T WAS AN UNUSUALLY
agitated Wystan Farr who hammered impatiently on Lord Jamison’s door the next morning. Wys was a sensible, temperate, calm young gentleman who, like Aristotle, believed in moderation in all things. From his not-quite-reddish hair, cut in a conservative, not-too-short mode, past his shirt collars whose points were not quite high enough to mark him a Dandy, to his shiny top-boots which did not sport the extravagantly-flagrant bows on the cuffs favored by the fops of London but merely a couple of insignificant tassels, he was every inch a gentleman of modest taste and style. Only his extreme loyalty to his friend Drew could shake him out of his customarily tranquil demeanor. The repercussions of the events of last night had upset his equilibrium. Already spreading among the
ton
of London were a rash of malignant rumors about his closest friend, and his loyalty to that association overrode his natural inclination to reticent behavior.

The violence of his knocking did not cause the door to open with more than usual dispatch. The staid and imperturbable Mallow opened it with no trace of having hurried. “His Lordship is in the breakfast room, Mr. Farr,” Mallow said as Wys ran unceremoniously by him and up the stairs. Wys halted abruptly in the doorway of the breakfast room, amazed and annoyed to see his friend seated contentedly at the table looking very much at his ease in a green silk, frogged robe, calmly tapping the top from a soft-boiled egg. “Confound it, Drew, how can you sit there slopping up eggs,” asked Wys in an aggrieved voice, “when all of London is gossiping about you?”

Drew lifted his amused grey eyes from his plate, looked at his friend and waved him toward an empty chair. “I do not ‘slop’ my eggs,” he answered, returning his attention to his food. “Here, have some of this coffee. I have it roasted in a very special way, and I find it an excellent morning beverage. It seems to liven the spirits when drunk early in the day.”

“No, thanks, can’t abide the filthy stuff,” Wys said, helping himself to a muffin, a slice of ham, some butter and the pot of marmalade instead. “Well, old boy, you really made a mull of it last night. You’ve got everyone saying you’re a murderer.”

“Rubbish! London is not Timbucktoo. We have law and order here. Everyone knows that Rowle’s death was thoroughly investigated.”

“But they don’t know the circumstances. The scene last night stirred up the whole mystery again.”

“What mystery? Everyone who was present at the duel knows exactly what happened.”

Wys frowned at his friend impatiently. “That means only five of us—
five
! That’s
all
! Pollard, who stood up for Rowle; I, who stood up for you; yourself; the doctor; and Selby, who was told after you were hurt.”

“And the officials and the magistrates. Don’t forget them.”

“I don’t. But you know perfectly well that they don’t signify. As for the four of us, you made us all swear not to spread the story. And you can be sure Pollard won’t say anything. He’ll be quite content to let people think the worst of you. So it remains a mystery to everyone else who counts.”

“Let it remain so. I’m not a bit interested in feeding the appetite of the curious for malicious gossip.” And he tried to close the discussion by pressing on his friend another muffin.

“Aren’t you at all interested in protecting yourself from being called a murderer?” Wys asked in disgust.

“Not particularly.”

Wys shook his head. “You’re mad! You won’t be able to show your face at any social gathering. The women will ostracize you. You won’t be invited anywhere—!”

“Don’t agitate yourself, Wys. It doesn’t suit you. Besides, I have a few good friends who won’t desert me. As for the rest—” He shrugged.

“And how about your sister?” came a voice from the doorway. “Are you going to shrug
her
off too?”

Drew looked up to see his brother-in-law standing in the doorway, his portly frame filling its entire width. Selby stood leaning on his cane, his usually cheerful, chubby face darkened by a scowl. “Ah, Selby!” Drew greeted him. “Good morning. I suppose I should have been expecting you.”

Lord Selby, realizing that his scowl and his dramatic stance in the doorway were being wasted on Drew, sighed and waddled into the room. He dropped into a chair with a groan of exhaustion. “Might have guessed that getting up early and racing over here would do no good. If Wys hasn’t made you see sense, I don’t suppose I shall either. Good morning, Wystan, old chap.”

Wys looked at Selby with sympathy. “Had a bad night with your wife, I expect,” he said, nodding understandingly.

“Hetty’s in a state, I can tell you. Didn’t sleep a wink. Not a wink. Kept
at
me and
at
me to tell her the whole business. I tell you, Drew, I don’t think I can hold out much longer.”

Wys turned to Drew, a pleading look in his eye. “Can’t you even let your
sister
in on the details?”

“A good question,” agreed Selby. “Drew’s an obstinate fool in this matter.”

Drew looked at his brother-in-law contemptuously. “If I told Hetty, the story would be all over town in less than two hours.”

“Think shame on yourself, Drew Jamison,” said the mild Wys. “That’s an insulting thing to say about your own sister. Next thing you know, you’ll have
Selby
here calling you out!”

“Not likely, Wys, old boy,” Selby put in ruefully. “Drew’s absolutely right there. Hetty loves a good gossip, no matter who’s involved, but if her precious brother is the
hero
of the story, there’d be no holding her back.” And Selby sighed and reached for a plate.

An angry female snort from the doorway stayed his hand. He looked up to see his wife glaring at him in barely-restrained fury. “I’ve always heard,” she said icily, “that men are worse gossips than women, and now at last I have the proof. Talking about me in that way! For shame! Wystan is the only one of you with a grain of sense.”

Wystan and Drew got to their feet, but Selby merely put his head in his hands and groaned. “I might have known she’d come,” he muttered. “I should have stayed in bed. I knew I should have stayed in bed.”

Drew smiled at his sister, who stood barely five feet tall from the bottom of her high-heeled boots to the top of the high-crowned bonnet covering her curly auburn hair—every inch quivering with fury.

“Mallow must be in need of retraining,” Drew said to no one in particular. “Everyone has simply materialized at my breakfast-room door like a series of unwanted poltergeists. I must speak to the fellow—and severely, too.”

“Don’t think to put me off with that hum,” Hetty told her brother with asperity. “I told Mallow I would see myself up, as you well know.”

“Nevertheless, he should not have permitted it. I cannot have my guests eavesdropping at my back, you know.”

“Eavesdropping! Of all the insulting—! One would think I was skulking behind the furniture instead of standing here in the doorway in plain sight!”

“But there is so little of you, my dear,” Drew said, smiling at her disarmingly, “that we quite overlooked your presence. But come in, Hetty, come in and have some breakfast with us. No earthly use your standing there sulking, you know. I’m aware that you’re determined to have your say, so we all may as well be comfortable while you say it.” He went to her, took her hand, and led her to the chair Wystan held for her. “I think there’s enough coffee left to offer you a cup. Pass me a cup and saucer from the sideboard, Wys, like a good fellow.”

Hetty allowed herself to take a seat at the table, but she accepted not a morsel of food and permitted herself no softening of the angry expression of her face. “All this attention and gallantry will do nothing to deter me from my purpose,” she announced firmly. “I intend to get to the bottom of this, and I will not budge until I do.”

“Wasting your time, my pet,” her husband muttered, settling himself comfortably at the table and loading his plate with a sufficient quantity of foodstuffs to sustain him through the lengthy ordeal he knew would follow. “Your brother is as stubborn as you are. Neither Wystan nor I has been able to move him an inch.”

“He may be able to withstand the two of you, but he has
me
to deal with now,” Hetty replied firmly, and she fixed a challenging eye on her brother.

“You have me all a-tremble,” Drew said with a grin, and he returned his attention to his long-neglected egg.

“I don’t see why you can’t tell me what happened, especially since you are the
hero
of the affair,” Hetty began.

“Hero?” Drew asked in distaste.

“I heard Selby say so,” she persisted.

“I thought you said you didn’t eavesdrop,” Selby put in defensively.

“To eavesdrop is to overhear on purpose. I overheard quite by accident,” his wife retorted. “Now, Drew, I want to know how you can be a hero and a murderer at the same time.”

“A murderer!” Wystan said with a shudder. “You cannot believe that, surely.”

“Of course I don’t believe it. But all of London does, and I won’t have it!” Hetty said passionately.

“Hang all of London!” Drew said impatiently. “As long as you all are convinced of my innocence, I don’t care a fig for the rest of London. Can’t we drop this fruitless subject? I’m finding this whole discussion a frightful bore.”

“No, we can
not
! I’m not going to permit people to malign my own brother. If you are innocent, why can’t we spread the true story and scotch these dreadful rumors?”

“Because,” Selby explained patiently, “Drew feels that certain innocent parties will be hurt by the full disclosure.”

Hetty looked shrewdly at the three men. “If it’s Gwen Rowle for whom you’re concerned, you needn’t be.”

Drew’s eyebrows went up perceptibly, and his look sharpened. “Oh?” he asked carefully. “Why not?”

“Well,” said Hetty, leaning forward confidentially, “she and I were well on the way to being intimates before her husband was killed. The fact that my brother killed him has dampened our friendship somewhat, but not completely. She places no blame on
me
, you know.”

“I should hope
not
!” her husband said, scandalized at the idea.

“But I gather from little things she let slip that she and Lord Rowle were not getting on well. She gave me the strongest feeling that she was not happy—that she felt she’d made a horrible mistake in marrying him.”

Wystan shook his head. “But her grief at his death! Why, it was the talk of London! And when I called on her to express my condolences, she was quite inconsolable. I found it almost … well, one hesitates to condemn a bereft widow, but I would say it was
excessive
.”

“That’s the very word I would have expected you to use,” Selby said, with a knowing wink at Drew. But Drew’s eyes were fixed on Hetty with a look of guarded speculation.

“You say she was not happy with him?” he asked intently. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I am, despite her ‘excessive’ grief.”

“Do you mean you think her grief was
feigned
? That she was only play-acting?” Wystan asked incredulously.

“No, of course not. I think it was a kind of … oh, dear, how can I explain what I feel? … a kind of…” and she floundered for a word.

“Expiation?” Drew offered, watching his sister’s face with interest.

Hetty looked up at him gratefully. “Yes! Yes, that’s the very word! As if she were trying to make up, by her grief, for the …
unwifely
feelings she had for him while he was alive.”

There was a pause in the conversation while they all tried to imagine the strange marriage which had come to such a tragic end. Finally, Wystan broke the silence. “Do you think that this information relieves Drew of the necessity of protecting Gwen Rowle from the full knowledge of the details of her husband’s death?”