Wait Until Midnight (4 page)

She did not respond to that.

He stopped, one hand on the doorknob, and looked at her. "Well, Mrs. Fordyce? Can I depend upon you to keep our discussion confidential?"

She braced herself. "That depends, sir."

He was cynically amused. "Of course. You no doubt wish to be compensated for your silence. Name your price, Mrs. Fordyce."

Another flash of anger crackled through her. "You can-not buy my silence, Mr. Grove. I do not want your money. What concerns me is the safety and security of my aunts and myself. If any one of us is placed in danger of arrest be-cause of your actions, I shall not hesitate to give the police your name and tell them every detail of this discussion."

"I doubt very much that the police will give you any trouble. As you suggested, they will likely conclude that Mrs. Delmont was murdered by a burglar and that will be the end of it"

"How can you be sure of that?"

"Because that is the simplest answer, and the officers of the law are known to prefer that sort of explanation."

"What if they find the list of sitters and proceed to make them all suspects, as you did, sir?"

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. "They won't find the list."

She stared at the paper. "You took it?"

"I am quite certain that none of the names on this list would be of any practical use to the police."

"I see." She did not know what to say.

"Speaking of names," he said rather casually. "I should tell you that it would not do you any good to give mine to the police."

"Why?" she asked coldly. "Because a gentleman of your obvious wealth and position does not need to worry overmuch about answering questions from the police?"

"No one is above the law. But that is not the reason why f advised you not to give them my name." His mouth curved in a cryptic smile. "The problem is that Mr. Grove does not exist. I invented him for this interview. When I walk out your front door today, he will vanish just like one of those ghostly manifestations that are so popular at séances"

She sat down quite suddenly, head whirling. "Good heavens. You gave me a false name?"

"Yes. Will you be so good as to indulge me with an answer to one last question?"

She blinked, still struggling to collect herself and her scattered thoughts. "What is it?"

He held up the paper that he had taken from her desk.

"Why the devil were you making all these notes?"

"Oh, those." Glumly she surveyed the page he held. "I am an author, sir. My novels are serialized in the
Flying Intelligencer."
She paused. "Perhaps you read that paper?"

"No, I do not. As I recall, it is one of those extremely irritating newspapers that thrives on sensation."

"Well—"

"The sort of paper that resorts to printing news of illicit scandals and lurid crimes in order to attract readers." She sighed. "I expect you prefer the
Times."

"Yes"

"No surprise there, I suppose," she muttered. "Tell me, don't you find it rather dull reading?"

"I find it accurate and reliable reading, Mrs. Fordyce. Just the sort of newspaper reading that I prefer."

"Of course it is. As I was saying, the
Flying Intelligencer
prints my novels. I am required by the terms of my contract to supply my publisher, Mr. Spraggett, with a new chapter every week. I have been having some trouble with one of the characters, Edmund Drake. He is very important to the story but I have been having difficulty getting him down properly on paper. There has been something rather vague about him, I'm afraid. He requires sharpening up"

He looked reluctantly fascinated and, perhaps, be-mused. "You took notes about my appearance and attire so that you could apply them to the hero of your story?"

"Heavens, no," she assured him with an airy wave of her hand. "Whatever gave you that idea? Edmund Drake is not the hero of my tale. He is the villain of the piece." THREE

For some wholly irrational reason, it annoyed him that she had cast him in the role of the villain.

Adam Hardesty brooded on the disastrous encounter that he had just concluded with the very unexpected, very intriguing Mrs. Caroline Fordyce while he made his way home to the mansion in
Laxton Square
. He was well aware that the lady's opinion of him should have been at the bottom of his long list of problems, especially given the rapidly rising tide of disasters that he was attempting to hold at bay.

Nevertheless, knowing that Caroline Fordyce considered him an excellent model for a villain rankled. His intuit ion told him that it was not his
fierce features
alone that had given her such a low opinion of him. He had the distinct impression that Mrs. Fordyce did not hold men from his world in high esteem.

She, on the other hand, had commanded his immediate and cautious respect. One look into her intelligent, curious, exceedingly lovely hazel eyes had told him that he was dealing with a potentially formidable adversary. He had warned himself to take great care in his dealings with the lady.

Unfortunately, respect was not the only reaction Caroline Fordyce had elicited in him. She had aroused all of his senses at first sight. Exhausted as he had been after the long night of fruitless inquiries, he had nevertheless responded to her in a very physical, extremely disturbing way.

Damn. He did not need this sort of complication. What the devil was the matter with him? Even as a youth he had rarely allowed himself to be controlled by his passions. He had learned long ago that self-discipline was the key to survival and success both on the streets and in the equally perilous world of Society. He had established a set of rules for himself and he lived by them. They governed his intimate liaisons just as they did everything else in his life.

His rules had served him well. He had no intention of abandoning them now.

Nevertheless, he could not stop thinking about that first glimpse of Caroline Fordyce and wondering at the compelling sensations that had gripped him. The image of her sitting at her dainty little desk, illuminated by the bright glow of the morning sunlight, seemed to have become fixed in his brain.

She had worn a simple, unadorned housedress of a warm, coppery color. The gown had been designed for ladies to wear in the home and therefore lacked the ruffled petticoats and elaborately tied-back skirts of more formal feminine attire. The lines of the prim, snug-fitting bodice had emphasized the feminine curves of her high breasts and slender waist.

Caroline's glossy golden-brown hair had been drawn up and back into a neat coil that accented the graceful line of the nape of her neck and the quiet pride with which she carried herself. He calculated her age to be somewhere in he mid-twenties.

Her voice had touched him with the impact of an inviting caress. From another woman it would have seemed deliberately provocative, but he sensed that the effect was not premeditated in this case. He was quite certain that Caroline's manner of speaking was an innate part of who she was. It hinted at deep passions.

What had become of the late Mr. Fordyce? he wondered. Dead of old age? Carried off by a fever? An accident? Whatever the case, he was relieved that the widow did not feel compelled to follow what, in his opinion, was the extremely unfortunate style for elaborate mourning that had been set by the queen after the loss of her beloved Albert. Sometimes it seemed to him that half the ladies in
England were attired in crepe and weeping veils. It never ceased to amaze him that the fair sex had managed to elevate the somber attire and accessories indicative of deep sorrow to the very pinnacle of fashion.

Regardless, he had not noticed so much as a single item of jet or black enameled jewelry on Caroline's person. Perhaps the mysterious Mrs. Fordyce did not deeply regret the loss of Mr. Fordyce. Perhaps she was, in fact, in the market for a new attachment of an intimate nature.

This is no time to be drawn into those deep waters,
he thought. There was far too much at stake here. He could not take the risk of allowing himself to be distracted by the lady, no matter how attractive or intriguing.

He crossed a street, pausing briefly to allow a crowded omnibus to lumber past, the horses straining to pull the heavy vehicle. The driver of a quick-moving hansom cab spotted him and offered his services. Adam waved him off. He could make better time on foot.

When he reached the pavement on the far side, he turned down a narrow stone walk and cut through a small, neglected park. His old life on the streets had left him with a knowledge of the city's maze of hidden lanes and uncharted alleys that few coachmen could equal.

When he emerged from the brick walk he saw a news-boy hawking the latest edition of the
Flying Intelligencer.

Some idiotic impulse made him stop in front of the scruffy-looking vendor.

"I'll have a copy, if you please." He took a coin out of his pocket.

"Aye, sir." The lad grinned and reached into his sack to remove a paper. "You're in luck. I've got one left. Expect you're eager to read the next episode of Mrs. Fordyce's story, like all the rest of my customers."

"I will admit I am somewhat curious about it."

"You'll be pleased enough with this installment of
The Mysterious Gentleman,
sir," the boy assured him. "It be-gins with a very startling incident and ends with a fine cliff-hanger."

"Indeed?" Adam glanced at the front page of the cheap paper and saw that
The Mysterious Gentleman
by Mrs. C. J. Fordyce occupied three full columns. "What of the character of Edmund Drake? Does he come to a bad end?"

"Not yet, sir. Much too soon for that. Drake's still acting very mysterious, though, and it's obvious he's up to no good." The newsboy's eyes gleamed with anticipation. "He's hatching a nasty plot against the heroine, Miss Lydia Hope"

"I see. Well, that is what villains do, is it not? Hatch nasty plots against innocent ladies?"

"Aye, and that's a fact, but there's no need to worry," the boy said cheerfully. "Edmund Drake will meet a right dreadful fate. All of Mrs. Fordyce's villains come to terrible ends in the final episodes."

Adam folded the paper and tucked it under his arm. "Something to look forward to, no doubt."

A short time later he went up the steps of the big house in
Laxton Square
. Morton, bald head gleaming in the morning sun, had the door open before Adam could retrieve his key.

"Welcome home, sir," Morton said.

If he had not been so weary, Adam thought, he would have been amused by Morton's studied lack of curiosity. It was, after all, half past ten. He had left the house shortly before nine last night to go to his club and had not returned until this moment. One would assume that the butler must have a few questions. But Morton was far too well schooled or, more likely, too well inured to the eccentric ways of the household to remark upon the hour.

"Mr. Grendon has just sat down to a late breakfast, sir." Morton took Adam's coat and hat. "Perhaps you would care to join him?"

"An excellent notion, Morton. I believe I will do that."

He needed food as much as he needed sleep, Adam thought. And sooner or later, he would have to face
Wilson and convey the bad news. Might as well get the business behind him.

When he walked into the paneled and polished breakfast room a short time later, Wilson Grendon looked up from the depths of his morning paper. He studied Adam for a few brief seconds and then removed his gold-rimmed spectacles and set them aside.

"You had no luck, I take it?" he asked without preamble.

"The medium was dead when I found her. Murdered."

^"
Damnation."
Wilson's thick gray brows bunched over his formidable nose. "Delmont is dead? Are you certain?"

"Hard to be mistaken about that sort of thing." Adam tossed the folded newspaper onto the table and crossed to the sideboard to survey the array of dishes. "There was no sign of the diary, so I am forced to conclude that the killer stole it. I spent half the night and most of the morning making inquiries into the affair."

Wilson absorbed that information with a troubled expression. "The murder is certainly a strange twist"

"Not necessarily. The average villain would likely see a great potential for extortion in this matter." Adam picked up a silver serving fork and helped himself to a large heap of scrambled eggs and smoked salmon. "The prospect of money can make any number of people con-template murder."

Wilson turned thoughtful. "Are you certain that the medium was murdered for the diary?"

"No" Adam carried his plate back to the table and sat down. "But it would appear to be the most logical explanation, given the timing and circumstances."

"Well, then, if you are right, whoever now possesses the diary will no doubt soon be in touch."

"I prefer not to sit and wait for the killer to send a message inviting me to pay blackmail." Adam dug into his eggs. "I intend to find him first."

Wilson drank some coffee and lowered the cup. "Did you learn anything useful in the course of your inquiries last night and this morning?"

"No. The only halfway promising suspect proved to be an exceedingly difficult and unpredictable female who thinks t hat 1 am an ideal model for a villain in a sensation novel." "How odd."
Wilson's pale gray eyes lit with interest. "Tell me about her."

Trust
Wilson to seize upon the one aspect of the business that he least wished to discuss, Adam thought. He buttered some toast while he considered his response.

"There isn't much to tell," he said. "I am convinced that the lady in question is not involved in this affair."

Wilson leaned back in his chair. "This is not the first time that you and I have had occasion to discuss murder and potentially dangerous documents at breakfast."

"What we have done in the past along those lines were matters of business," Adam said shortly.