The Perfect Princess (37 page)

“Tell me again,” he said, “exactly what the landlord told you when you asked him about the night Lucy Rider was murdered.”

Caspar looked up with a scowl. “Do you mind? I’m trying to think out my next move. Besides, I’ve already told you all I learned.”

“Caspar, it’s only a game. I can’t believe you even bothered to pack it.”

“It’s a traveling set. It went with me all through the Spanish Campaign, and I saw no reason to leave it behind this time around.”

Richard couldn’t argue with that. Soldiers were often supersitious about such things. He wasn’t exactly superstitious, but tucked into his boot was the hunting knife his father had given him on his fifteenth birthday. And there was the chess piece he’d kept and given to Rosamund on her birthday. He’d carried them with him all through the Spanish Campaign, too.

Caspar gave a sly smile and moved his queen’s rook to support his knight for the attack on Richard’s king. “Your move,” he said. He was within three moves of winning the game.

“Not until you tell me what I want to know.”

Caspar let out a breath, glowered at Richard, and folded his arms across his chest. Since Richard dared not show his face in the inn where Lucy Rider was murdered, Caspar had been given the job of questioning the landlord, which he had done that morning. There was nothing suspicious in this because the inn had been practically mobbed by curiosity-seekers since the trial, and the landlord seemed to relish his role as a celebrity.

“Poor Lucy,” he’d said, then his face brightened. “But I can’t complain about business. Now, what would you like to know, sir?” And he’d pocketed the sovereign Caspar had set on the table.

The sequence of events was exactly as the landlord had related at the trial, but Caspar had a question for him that had never been asked. “Who was first on the scene after the shot went off?”

“Mr. Frank Smith and his son,” Caspar told Richard for the umpteenth time. “Or at least, they were among the first. The landlord ordered the boy out, thinking it scandalous that one of his tender years should witness such a gory crime.”

“Was there blood on the boy’s garments?”

“According to the landlord, it was hard not to get blood on you in that room, and the boy was right by the bed. Yes, there was blood on him, but the landlord thought nothing of it. He ordered the boy out and his father led him away.”

“They were guests?”

“You know they were. I already told you. The father was a regular guest. This was the first time his son had accompanied him. But since the murder, they’ve never set foot in the inn and they left no forwarding address. We’ll never trace them.”

“Probably not, but I wish I’d known this before. It makes sense, don’t you see? How did the man and the boy who were with me in the room manage to slip away
unseen? Why did no one notice them leaving the hotel? Because they didn’t slip away; they didn’t leave the hotel. They were amongst the first on the scene. Then, when the landlord ordered them out, they simply walked back to their own room.”

“Mmm,” said Caspar. “It’s possible, I suppose. But weren’t they taking a chance? What if you hadn’t lost consciousness?”

“There is that.” Richard grinned. “It’s just a theory at this stage of the game. But I think those two like taking chances.”

“And you think the same thing happened after the attack on Miss Dryden, that whoever fired that shot simply walked back into the conservatory?”

“I’ll reserve judgment on that until after I question Miss Dryden tomorrow.”

He glanced at the chessboard, idly picked up his queen’s knight and moved it to queen’s knight six. “What about—”

Caspar cut him off. “I can’t believe I missed that. This is a bloodbath! Where did you learn to play chess?”

Richard smiled. It wasn’t often he felt superior to his glamorous brother-in-law. “Checkmate in two moves, I believe.” He replaced Caspar’s rook with his own knight and set the rook beside the pawns and knights he’d already captured. “In Spain. My teacher was our code breaker, you know, cryptographer. Nobody could beat him. Ordinary chess was too slow for him, so he changed the squares on the board to make it a faster game. Now, that game was worth playing. You see—”

He broke off when he heard a knock at the door.

“That will be Harper,” said Caspar.

Richard answered the door with his pistol in his hand. It was Harper who entered, but not a Harper who was easily recognized. He was dressed in crimson livery, complete with immaculate white wig and white gloves. For their part, Richard and Caspar were dressed as
professional men, well turned out, but not in the height of fashion.

“Were there any messages?” asked Richard.

“One.”

Harper handed over the note he’d collected from Caspar’s club in St. James. This was their way of keeping up with what was going on at Twickenham House, and if there were developments they should know about.

Richard broke the seal and quickly scanned it.

Caspar said laconically, “The last time someone opened and read my mail, I was a schoolboy at Eton.”

“What?” Richard was absorbed in the note.

“My letter. I believe it has my name on it.”

“A mere formality,” replied Richard. “It’s from Justin. He’s in town, putting up at the Clarendon.” He looked at Caspar. “And Rosamund is with him.”

Caspar took the letter from him and read it. “She’s come up to town to get her house ready for occupation.”

“What house?” asked Richard, frowning.

“Didn’t you know? She leased a house in Bloomsbury. That was before she became a married woman. It’s very nice.”

Richard nodded slowly. “Yes, I remember. The groom of the chambers said something to me, but it had slipped my mind.”

“She won’t come to any harm refurbishing the house. It will give her something to do, and Justin will look after her.”

Richard made an effort to relax. “I suppose. All the same, I’d feel happier if she were in Twickenham. I don’t want her to . . .”

“To . . . what?”

“Get in the way, put herself in danger, I don’t know.” Richard smiled grimly. “I think I should pay a visit to my recalcitrant wife and find out what she’s really up to.”

Caspar laughed, but Richard was far from easy in his mind. This wasn’t a child’s game they were playing. In
another hour, when it was dark, he was going to pay that long overdue call on Major Digby. Things were beginning to move and he wanted Rosamund well out of the way if and when the dam burst.

When Harper moaned, his companions quickly got up. “What is it?” asked Caspar urgently.

Harper held out his left hand. His white glove was spotted with the Madeira he’d been pouring from the decanter into a glass. Harper liked his Madeira almost as much as he liked his beer.

“Is that all?” asked Richard, and he began to laugh.

“I don’t have another pair,” replied Harper with a pained expression. “Oh, you may well laugh, but Mr. Templar and me, we caught a killer because he didn’t know how important white gloves is to a manservant. I’ll have to wash them stains out or everyone will know I’m an imposter.”

He was still at it when Richard and Caspar left to go to Digby’s lodgings. Richard insisted that he and only he would show his face to Digby. He was grateful for Caspar’s help, as he had no hesitation in admitting to his brother-in-law, but there was no sense in having the authorities out for Caspar’s blood, too. He could be transported to the colonies for aiding and abetting a felon, if not worse.

After this little speech, Caspar clapped his hand on Richard’s shoulder and squeezed. “Who says you’re not charming?” he said, and laughed when Richard glared at him.

When their hackney drew level with Digby’s lodgings, they saw a number of men milling around outside. “Bow Street runners,” said Richard. “I recognize one of them. Officer Rankin.” Then to the driver, “Drive on and pull up at the corner.”

Caspar, who had nothing to lose if he was recognized by the runners, walked back to the house to find out
what was going on. He returned in a few minutes and climbed into the hackney before saying anything.

“It’s Digby and Whorsley,” he said. He sounded shaken. “They’ve both been murdered. Whorsley was shot in the head, and Digby’s throat was cut. There’s more. The body of a young boy, an adolescent, was found in the garden. His throat was cut, too. They don’t know who he is.”

A shaft of pure energy shot through Richard’s brain. Questions and impressions followed each other in quick succession.

“What do we do now?” asked Caspar.

“We get Rosamund.”

“I don’t know how many times I have to say it,” declared Rosamund. “I am not going home to Twickenham, and that’s final.”

There were five of them crowded around the little table, eating a late supper in Richard’s rooms in the Black Friar, Rosamund and Justin having now been added to the group. Richard and Rosamund had eyes only for each other. Everyone else was concentrating on the food on the table.

“I hate brussels sprouts,” said Justin, just for something to say to break the awkward silence that had fallen.

“Try the salad,” suggested his brother. “It’s very good.”

“Salad with beef stew?” Justin made a face. “They don’t go together.”

“Then have a slice of bread,” Harper interjected rudely.

Justin accepted the proffered bread, dipped it in his stew, then happily chewed on it.

Harper was amazed. That’s how he usually ate his bread, but in this exalted company, he’d been trying to mind his manners. He gave a huge grin, reached for a
slice of bread, tore off a piece, and followed Justin’s example.

Richard said, “Digby and Whorsley were both murdered tonight. I think the person who murdered them is the one who set me up. And the boy, well, I think he may be the murderer’s accomplice. Maybe they quarreled, or maybe the boy outlived his usefulness. But you see the kind of person we’re dealing with?”

“I understand,” said Rosamund quietly. “But I have no connection to any of them. There’s no danger to me.”

She was surprised at how calm she sounded, considering that her nerves were shot to pieces. She’d had the fright of her life when Richard and Caspar had entered her bedchamber at the Clarendon, like two stealthy panthers on the prowl. She’d thought they were intruders and would have screamed if Richard had not pounced on her and put a hand over her mouth. Her second fright came when Richard told her about Digby, Whorsley, and the boy. She wasn’t frightened for herself but for Richard, frightened and sick at heart. She had known there was evil in the world, but it had never come this close to her before. She’d known Digby and Whorsley.

If she went home to Twickenham, she would never have a moment’s peace, wondering about Richard and what he was up to. She hadn’t asked to be brought to the Black Friar, but here she was and here she was determined to stay.

“You can’t stay here,” said Richard. “I’m a danger to anyone who associates with me. And I don’t want you in London. I can’t be distracted, and I
will be
distracted if I have to worry about you.”

“You think Twickenham is safe?” She picked up her fork, looked at the food on her plate, and put her fork down again. “Have you forgotten what happened to Prudence?”

Caspar sighed. “This is all very interesting,” he said,
“but some of us would like to eat our dinner. May I suggest you take your quarrel somewhere else?”

Richard got up, snagged Rosamund’s wrist, and half dragged her out of the room.

Justin shook his head. Barely above a whisper, he said, “If they’re like this at the start of their marriage, what will they be like in a year or two?”

Harper said, “They’ll be cooing like turtledoves in no time at all.”

Justin looked skeptical. “How would you know, Harper, a crusty old bachelor like yourself?”

“I don’t know what gave you that idea,” said Harper indignantly. “I’ve had three wives in my time, all without benefit of clergy, mind, and I know the signs. Does anyone want that last slice of bread?”

He dragged her to a small chamber with a narrow bed, a dresser, a chair, and little else. The curtains were not drawn and the only light came from lanterns in the courtyard. The fire was not lit.