Night Storm (13 page)

The baron’s forehead disappeared into his hairline. “Then who are you?”

“Someone who needs to ask you a few questions about Lady Winthrop.”

“What sort of questions?”

“Did your wife have any enemies?”

“What? You can’t be serious. Everyone loved Susan.”

“Everyone but one individual, sir.”

Winthrop’s eyes narrowed to venomous slits. “Who are you to be asking such questions?”

“I’ve been hired to look into the matter.”

“By whom?”

“I prefer not to divulge my client’s identity.”

“How is it you’re qualified to make such inquiries if you’re not from Bow Street?”

“It is my business to locate missing objects. In this case, a murderer.”

“Locate missing objects?” The lines on Winthrop’s forehead deepened. “Are you a thief-taker?”

“Yes, my lord.”

The baron burst out laughing. “Someone who makes a living off finding stolen baubles has been sent to search for my wife’s murderer?” He dabbed his eyes with a handkerchief. “Please, Mr. Adair, do not waste my time.”

Heat burned up Adair’s neck like a fuse sputtering to full life. He knew he shouldn’t let this pompous ass get to him, but he could no more stop the slow rise of his anger than he could halt the beating of his heart. His fingers rolled into a fist. “I would think you would accept every attempt to bring the killer to justice.”

The amusement slid off Winthrop’s face. “I would like nothing more than to see the bastard pay for what he has done.”

“Then you should have no qualms about me conducting a separate inquiry.”

“As a matter of fact, I do.” Winthrop leaned forward in his chair, clasping his hands together. “When last I spoke to Riordan, he was set on involving Bow Street. I would rather not have an amateur traipsing around and bungling up their investigation.”

Adair would have loved to tell this pretentious lord that Riordan had hired him as a safeguard against Bow Street’s incompetent Runner. Somehow he refrained. “What is it you think I’ll bungle?”

“How should I know?” Winthrop blustered. He rose to jerk on the bellpull. “Your five minutes are up, Mr. Adair.”

The door opened, and the elderly butler appeared. “Yes, my lord?”

“Granston, show our guest out.”

“Sir.” Granston waved a shaky, frail hand toward the corridor.

Adair turned to go, then hesitated. “Tell me, Lord Winthrop. Where is your black?”

“Black?”

“You are in mourning. Where is your black armband, hatchment, and mourning wreath?”

Scarlet spots appeared on the baron’s cheeks, and he pulled at his cravat as if it were suddenly too tight. “I haven’t had the opportunity to attend to such detail yet. My wife only just passed away. Good day, Mr. Adair.”

“My lord.” Adair forced himself to match the butler’s excruciatingly slow pace, even though he itched to be quit of this place. They passed the morning room, then the drawing room. Both were empty. Indeed, the whole house seemed deserted but for Winthrop and his elderly butler. “Where is everyone?”

“Same place they always are, I imagine.”

Adair eyed the butler, repeating the man’s words in his head. He could detect no malice or deceit in his tone. Simply bored acceptance of the situation.

“Where has Lord Winthrop placed his wife’s body?”

Granston’s step hitched. “In an upstairs bedchamber, awaiting the coroner.”

“Why not in one of the home’s public rooms?”

The butler said nothing.

“I was told Lady Winthrop’s assailant cut her face. Could it be his lordship is attempting to protect her family and friends from seeing her in such a state?”

“I suppose that might be part of the reason.”

“And the other part?”

Granston stopped. He angled his head enough for Adair to see his profile, but not enough to look him in the eye. “His lordship didn’t want her ladyship ‘fouling the place.’” Bitterness laced his next words. “So my mistress is in one of the guest bedchambers—a good distance away from the baron and baroness’s suite of rooms. “

The circumstances were far from typical. Most families adhered to a strict set of rituals when it came to caring for their deceased loved ones. Adair found himself unsurprised by his lordship’s unusual treatment of his wife’s corpse. Given the dirt-free condition of Winthrop’s home, the man had an obsessive penchant for cleanliness. Having a decaying body close at hand might be more than the strange man could tolerate.

“You cared a great deal for your mistress.”

“Of course. She was a kind and generous person.”

“Can you think of anyone who would wish to do her harm?”

Granston hesitated, glancing back down the corridor, toward Winthrop’s study.

“I am known as a man of my word, Granston. Anything you say to me will not reach Lord Winthrop’s ear.”

The butler sent him a disgusted look. “I’m too old to care about pleasing his lordship. Once her ladyship is seen to, I’ll be off.”

“Why the hesitation, then?”

Granston made a dismissive gesture. “I was thinking.” He paused with his hand on the entryway door’s latch. “No one comes to mind.”

Adair lowered his voice. “Not even her husband?”

A snort-laugh burst from Granston, producing a spray of spittle. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and swiped his nose and mouth. “Too messy for his lordship.”

But not too messy for a hired professional.
Adair filed the thought away.

“Is there someone else I might speak to? Perhaps a friend, one her ladyship would have felt comfortable confiding in.”

“I wouldn’t know, sir. Lady Winthrop has—had many friends.”

“What about her lady’s maid? Would she be privy to such information?”

“It’s possible. Though I’m not sure how forthcoming Alice would be now.”

“What do you mean?”

“His lordship sacked the poor girl. Told her once the funeral was over, and she had Lady Winthrop’s personal belongings stowed away in the attic, she could leave.”

“Are there no other ladies in the house?”

“No.” Sadness rippled over his heavily lined features. “Her ladyship lost two babes in the womb early on in the marriage. They never tried again.”

On one hand, Winthrop’s decision to let her ladyship’s maid go made sense. With no other females in the house, he had no further use of a lady’s maid. On the other, the baron could have given the girl some time to find a new position. He could have shown a bit more compassion, rather than add to her burden.

“How do you know they never tried to have another child?”

Granston gave him a pointed look, and Adair understood. Servants knew all the intimate details of their employers’ personal lives. They changed their bedclothes, helped them bathe, and tended to be present yet invisible during delicate conversations.

“Of course. I see,” Adair said.

An elegant flower vase sitting empty in the center of a console table caught his eye. It didn’t overflow with expensive examples of the owner’s wealth, as it would in most other homes in this part of town. Another reminder of Winthrop’s dwindling finances and another reason to release the lady’s maid. Soon, the house would be so empty that Winthrop’s own thoughts would echo off the stark walls.

Adair produced a card. “Would you ask her to think on it and contact me?”

“Can’t promise you anything.” Granston slid the card into his coat pocket.

“Do you know when the coroner is scheduled to arrive?”

“Not for another day or two. Mr. Blackburne is away attending a family emergency.”

“It’s been a pleasure, Granston. I wish you well in your retirement.”

“Who said anything about retirement?”

“Didn’t you say you were leaving?”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean I’m taking off my gloves.”

Smiling, Adair handed the old tar another card. “I could use a man of your talents.” Had Adair not been watching, he would have missed the slight widening of the butler’s eyes and the tremble of his clean-shaven chin.

“I don’t come cheap, sir.”

“Glad to hear it, because I’m not interested in cheap. I’m interested in quality.”

The perpetual hunch in the old man’s shoulders rolled straight, sharpened into their former glory. “Lady Bentondorf.”

“Pardon?”

“If her ladyship confided in anyone, it would be Lady Bentondorf. She spends a great deal of time at the British Museum.”

“My thanks, Granston.”

“I don’t need your thanks. Just need you to find the bastard who hurt my mistress.”

“Consider it done.” Adair settled his hat on his head and strode away, Granston’s reply ringing in his ears like a death knell.

Chapter Six

Charlotte rolled her shoulders and stretched her neck from side to side. For the last hour, she’d been reducing her new bolt of linen down to various lengths and sizes, then rolling them into neat balls for storage. The process wasn’t hard. Except for the physical strain on her neck and shoulders, it was just mind-numbing work. Exactly what she needed after the exciting start to her day.

The small bell above the shop door tinkled, heralding the arrival of a customer. Charlotte blew out a frustrated breath. Why hadn’t she flipped the sign on the door and locked up? She loved her shop and her customers. Well, most of them, at any rate. But there were times when she simply wished to be left alone.

With effort, she loosened the muscles around her eyes and mouth to produce a warm, welcoming smile. She held back the heavy curtain separating the two rooms and entered the shop area. Her friendly expression froze, her heart stopped, her blood sang.

“Hello, Charley.”

Of their own volition, her eyes settled on the parts of Cameron’s body she knew to be wounded. Not that she could see anything, with him fully clothed, but she looked, all the same. Then her assessing gaze returned to his face, and she wondered again what had brought on such a vivid transformation.

Soft, smooth lines had formed into bold, forbidding angles. Where once his lean sleekness made her feel comfortable and joyous, now his larger, taut frame awakened spine-tingling wariness. The longing that seized her at inconvenient moments was different from before. It cut deeper, wreaked more havoc.

She had watched other boys evolve into men, though none had matured quite so pleasingly.

“Charlotte,” she reminded him. “What are you doing here, Cameron?”

“I’ve become feverish.”

Her heart stuttered. “For how long?”

“A few hours.”

Relief coursed through her. “You might have the beginnings of an infection. Have you informed your physician yet?”

“No.”

“Then I suggest you do so.” Her gaze flicked to the gloom filling the streets. It would be pitch-black in less than an hour. “Now, before it gets too late.”

“My doctor is indisposed at the moment.”

“Indisposed?”

“Away.”

He prowled around the shop, taking in everything, missing nothing. Something about his manner disturbed her. He was neither serious nor playful, nor was he being flirtatious. If she had to put a name to his odd behavior, she would say that he was stalking her. A ridiculous notion, though she couldn’t easily discount the idea.

Carefully, she studied his face, taking in his cheeks, neck, forehead, and eyes. No flushed skin, no damp hairline, no glassy eyes. No fever.

“Find another physician, Cameron.” She kept her tone neutral while grappling with the fact that he was here under false pretenses. “Fevers are nothing to trifle with.”

“How fortunate that I’m in the presence of the best apothecary-surgeon in London.”

She released a controlled breath before opening one of three dozen small drawers lining the back of the counter. Each drawer held small amounts of various herbs and compounds she used on a regular basis. Moving a little farther down, she slid open another drawer and retrieved a sheet of white demy paper cut in a five-inch square and folded into a pouch. Collecting her measuring instrument, she scooped a spoonful of chamomile from the first drawer and emptied it into the pouch. She did this twice more before folding the pouch closed.

All the while she worked, she never lost track of Cameron’s location. The closer he ventured in her direction, the more she concentrated on the task at hand. Sweat trickled between her breasts, and her pulse pounded a deafening symphony.

He paused opposite her, and she pushed the packet his way.

“What’s this?”

“Something to hold the fever at bay until you can see a physician. Place a half thimble of this in a cup of tea when you get home. Repeat every six hours. If the fever persists, you need to seek medical attention immediately.”

He fingered one corner of the pouch. “Don’t you want to check my wounds?”

No.
Heat flushed through her body, warming and chilling her in equal parts. “Cameron, I can’t do this.”

Her declaration appeared to be the key to unlocking his odd behavior, for he unfurled. She couldn’t think of a better way to describe the way his spine straightened and his stance widened. His chin angled down slightly and he stared at her with intent, predatory eyes. With his mask now gone, she found this side of him even more unsettling than the last.

“If my wounds bear no interest for you, perhaps you might like to share with me what you know of Lady Winthrop’s murder.”

Charlotte’s body spasmed as if struck by an arrow. “Lady Winthrop?”

“Do not pretend ignorance, Charley. I know you were there, and I know you weren’t alone.”

Where had he come by his information? And why did he care?

“What of it?” she asked. “You make it sound like I’m trying to hide something.”

“Possibly because you haven’t addressed my comment.”

“Did you stop to think that I might be wondering why you’re speaking of the murder at all?”

The predatory cast to his features vanished, followed swiftly by perplexity and chagrin.

She pushed harder. “Why are you?”

His jaw settled into uncompromising lines.

“Why?”

He stared at her. The moment lengthened, stretched, grew excruciatingly uncomfortable. Charlotte bolstered her return gaze with every morsel of fortitude she possessed. The desire to back away, to concede defeat, was powerful, almost compelling. But she stood her ground, despite the quiver building deep in her chest.