Ivory and Steel (13 page)

He took his leave of her, mentally reviewing his other suspects. A few gaps remained in Lord Ingram’s past but the histories of the others seemed obvious enough. That left only current motives through which he must sift, until he discovered one sufficiently deadly to have led to that carefully planned murder.

He worked his lower lip while he strode through the busy streets, leaning on his cane. Love, that was usually the key. Folks were forever hitting each other over the head or lurking behind bushes with swords or pistols because of blighted passion. Young Mr. Enderby most likely carried on an affair with Lady Allbury. His wife, plain little soul that she was, could have been furious. Or Lord Allbury might have suspected his heir could be making his entrance through a side door.

He heaved a sigh. The death of this here Marchioness of Allbury hadn’t greatly distressed anyone as far as he could see. A rather unpleasant young lady, he feared. Yet there were any number of unpleasant ladies—and gentlemen, for that matter—who still went about their business, making life miserable for others, still very much alive. Why wasn’t Lady Allbury?

His steps took him to Berkeley Square, where he stood for several minutes gazing at the impressive mansion. Black crepe still decorated the door knocker and the iron railing about the area steps. A display of mourning, even if not heartfelt, was
de rigueur.
He shook his head, mounted to the porch and knocked.

Fenton escorted him to a salon where he found not only Miss Dearne but Lord Ingram as well. That gentleman stood by the mantel, dressed for his journey into the country with the marquis. He was gazing at Miss Dearne, his expression unreadable. The young lady sat by the window, an embroidery hoop clasped in her hand. Both looked up as the butler announced his name.

“Frake,” Ingram declared in satisfaction. “What have you learned?”

“From the letters, you mean, m’lord? Precious little, I’m afraid.”

“Little—” Ingram’s brow snapped down.

Miss Dearne regarded the Runner with sympathy in her gray eyes. “I suppose you sat up all night trying to find a clue? I told you they seemed unimportant. If there had been anything obvious I would have told you about it at once.
And
given the things into your keeping.”

“I know, miss, and I looked through the lot of them trying to find anything that might mean
something
.” He seated himself on the wingback chair Miss Dearne offered. “I don’t see no reason why someone should have been all desperate-like to get ahold of them.”

“Unless whoever it was thought her diary was there also?” Lord Ingram strode the length of the salon then turned back. “If the person only overheard
part
of what Miss Dearne told you?”

“That must be it, m’lord.” Mr. Frake shook his head. “Though for the young lady’s sake I’d have preferred that person heard all—or nothing.” He glanced at her where she sat clutching her embroidery, her brow creased with worry. “Now there, miss, I doubt no one’s going to go trying that again. But just to make sure, I’d feel a mite better if I knew you was locking your door at night. And removing the key.”

“I will.” She drew a strand of vivid red silk from her workbag then held it, not threading it onto her needle.

Lord Ingram returned to the empty hearth. “Have you made
any
progress?” he demanded.

Here was a gentleman whose temper was frayed, no doubt about it. Interesting. Mr. Frake rested his elbows on the arms of his chair, tented his fingertips and regarded the gentleman over their peaked tops. “Well now, I have and I haven’t, as you might say.”

“I’m not likely to say anything of the sort. Which is it?”

Miss Dearne smiled suddenly. “I am certain Mr. Frake knows how to conduct an investigation, my lord.”

“Aye, that’s true, miss. Been at it a good few years now.”

“I hope
this
time it won’t take so long,” Ingram snapped. “Unless you have a desire to see Miss Dearne murdered?”

Benjamin Frake cocked an indulgent eye at him. “Gets on the nerves, it does, being in the midst of a scandal.”

“Is it? A scandal, I mean?” Miss Dearne threw him a worried look. “Poor Allbury. How dreadful this all is!”

“It will remain so until it’s solved, you know,” Mr. Frake added in a spirit of pure helpfulness.

“Then let us get it over with quickly.
Have
you learned anything?”

He contemplated the tips of his fingers as he waggled them slowly back and forth. “I’ve ruled out one possible motive,” he said at last.

“Which is that?” She leaned forward, eager. “I do so hate suspecting everyone who came to the box that night.”

“Lady Woking’s first husband,” he said, watching carefully for her reaction.

“Her—” Miss Dearne sat back, obviously startled. “I had no idea. What happened to him?”

“In the army, he was.”

Ingram shook his head. “Poor devil. Died in battle?”

Mr. Frake nodded. “Can’t blame her for not wanting to rake up painful memories. So that led us nowhere.”

Nor had he gotten the reaction he looked for from these two on that bit of news. Regretfully, he filed it in the back of his mind and turned to more likely prospects.

“You said you arrived in London only the night before the opera, m’lord?”

Ingram’s fingers ran his quizzing glass up and down the riband which suspended it about his neck. “That’s right. I spent a se’nnight in Canterbury after selling out. That’s where my estate is.”

“And where did you sell out?”

“Here. In London.” His fingers tightened on the lens. “I stayed less than a day. I was rather eager to see my home once more.”

“Yet you stayed only a week,” Mr. Frake marveled.

Ingram shook his head, his green eyes glinting. “I found it necessary to see my man of affairs. You may send a man to Canterbury to interview my bailiff if you doubt my word. It was he who asked me to come to London to consult with my brother’s solicitor. I will be happy to provide names and directions.”

“Thank you kindly, m’lord.” Frake smiled at him. “Just another little problem that needn’t worry me no longer. Now—”

A discreet rap on the door interrupted him. Fenton strode in, his expression distraught, though this eased somewhat as he saw Miss Dearne.

“Miss, if you could help for a moment?”

“Of course.” She rose to her feet in one fluid, graceful movement, concern in her eyes. “Has something occurred?”

“Yes, miss. That is, it
is
occurring.” The aging butler clasped his hands together in agitation. “There is an altercation taking place in the kitchens.”

“Should not Lady Allbury—”

“Her ladyship is from home, miss. And his lordship is on the verge of departing on his sad errand. If you will come?”

Mr. Frake’s eyebrows rose. The kitchens fell under the jurisdiction of the butler, he knew. He found it hard to believe Fenton would admit something occurred within his domain that he could not control.

“I will take my leave of you, Miss Dearne.” Ingram took her hand then raised her fingers fleetingly to his lips. “We should return on the morrow.”

Her fingers tightened on his. “Lay a flower on her casket for me.”

She turned quickly and hurried from the room in the wake of the harried butler. Mr. Frake followed, his curiosity rampant.

Frake’s vision of a domestic crisis vanished as soon as they descended to the basement. Maria Enderby stood in the middle of the great kitchen, the vivid pink of her flounced gown reflecting in her heightened complexion. Tears slipped down her cheeks as she confronted an embarrassed pastry chef.

Miss Dearne took in the situation with one comprehensive look and descended the last of the stairs. “What is going on here?” she demanded in carrying tones. “Maria, are you not well?”

Maria Enderby spun about. “Oh Phyllida. He is
my
chef,” she declared, a quiver in her voice.

Miss Dearne looked from the young lady to the middle-aged man. “I was under the impression he had been hired by my sister.”

“He was. That-that is the problem.” Maria Enderby sniffed. “She
stole
him from me.”

Miss Dearne turned to the chef, inviting explanation.

The man removed his hat and creased it between his agitated fingers. “Not stole, miss. Her late ladyship hired me.”

“Only last week,” Maria Enderby agreed.

“Did you work for Mrs. Enderby before?” Miss Dearne asked. At his assent, she pursued, “Why did you leave her employ?”

He studied his maltreated hat. “Her ladyship offered me a great deal of money, miss. And this way I could work in the same household with my nephew—the second footman, miss. Keep an eye on the lad, like.”

“Your second footman,” Mrs. Enderby informed her, “was also in my employ before your sister decided he did his job very well. Quincy didn’t mind
him
leaving, though. He said we could hire another. And I did. But he is furious over Chef leaving us. He-he blames
me.”
More
tears formed in her eyes and hovered on her lashes.

Mr. Frake looked up from the notes he was scribbling hastily in his Occurrence Book. “The late Lady Allbury was in the habit of stealing servants from you, was she?” he asked.

Maria Enderby blinked her eyes clear and cast a resentful glance at the chef. “She allowed me to train them just the way Quincy liked then she hired them away from me. I thought Chef would come back to me now that Louisa is no longer mistress here.”

Miss Dearne looked at the man. “Is that what you wish?”

“Well now.” The chef’s embarrassment grew. “Thanking you kindly for the offer, Mrs. Enderby, but what with Lady Allbury’s offer to me and all, I think maybe I’ll be staying here.”

“But Mr. Enderby—” The girl’s face showed real fear. “He will be so very angry. He was so certain you would come back to us…” Her voice trailed off.

Kill a person just to recover a chef? Mr. Frake dismissed the idea as nonsense. Yet if Mr. Enderby had another grudge against Lady Allbury, this little matter might just have given him the nudge to do away with her. Some gentlemen cared a great deal for their stomachs, they did. A chef who could please the master of a household commanded a mighty impressive salary.

“Come, Maria.” Miss Dearne took the girl’s arm and led her toward the steps. “Tea, please, in the sitting room,” she called over her shoulder.

Instantly a maid went to put water on to boil. Another pulled out a tray then began slicing a poppy seed cake that stood on a long wooden table. He wouldn’t mind a piece of that himself, Mr. Frake reflected as he followed the ladies back to the main portion of the house. He hadn’t had much sleep last night.

Miss Dearne installed her distraught visitor in a comfortable chair then drew another up at her side. Mr. Frake joined them.

“Did her late ladyship pull that same trick on anyone else?” he asked.

Maria Enderby looked down at her clasped hands. “I-I shouldn’t have said that,” she murmured.

“Well now, if it’s true there’s no reason why you shouldn’t.”

“She
did
take anything she wanted,” Mrs. Enderby admitted. “Even when we were in school together. She always took first choice, even if it belonged to someone else.”

“Didn’t no one never say her nay?” Mr. Frake asked.

Mrs. Enderby shook her head, setting her profusion of curls bobbing. “You couldn’t. It-it sounds so ridiculous to say it but it’s true. Whatever she wanted, she got. Even—” She broke off as she cast an apologetic glance at Miss Dearne. “Even her sister’s fiancé.”

Chapter Ten

“Her—” Mr. Frake broke off and his accusing, speculative gaze came to rest on Phyllida.

She flushed. “It was no such thing.”

“But Louisa bragged to me about it!” Maria Enderby’s pale eyes widened. “How she’d stolen such a matrimonial prize from you. She said you were furious but she could wrap Allbury about her finger.”

“And what might your version of this be, miss?” Mr. Frake offered his most encouraging smile.

Phyllida sighed. “I make no doubt that is exactly what she did say. She liked to dramatize.” She gazed down at her hands a moment then continued, “The marquis
did
show me a certain amount of distinguishing attention before he met Louisa but it never came to anything. There was never any question of a betrothal between us. We would not have suited.”

“You-you didn’t
mind
when he offered for her? Your
younger
sister?” Maria Enderby demanded.

“Quite shocking of me, is it not?” Phyllida shook her head and smiled at Maria’s uncomprehending expression. “You see, I’m just not mercenary. I like Allbury well enough—who doesn’t? But I have never loved him.”

“You would have passed up such a brilliant alliance—such a position, such a fortune, so much pin money? And you even
like
him?”

In spite of herself, Phyllida laughed. “How could I have accepted, even if he had offered? He looked much higher for a bride, I promise you. He, every bit as much as his mother, knew what was due to his name and rank.”

“Yet he married your sister,” Mr. Frake pointed out.

Her amusement evaporated. “I know. She—it is true, she tricked him, then appealed to his sense of duty and honor to save her reputation. Had his mother been in London at the time I doubt she would have gotten away with it. But Louisa herself sent the announcement of their betrothal before the dowager returned from the country.”

“So that is how she did it.” Maria’s eyes gleamed. “I should have guessed.”

Mr. Frake rose. “If you’ll excuse me, miss? I’d like a word with the housekeeper before I go.”

“Certainly.” Phyllida saw him to the door then turned back to Maria Enderby. The girl clutched a useless handkerchief made entirely of lace, though her eyes now were dry. Phyllida returned to her side. “Are you feeling more the thing?”

The girl looked up then came to her feet. “Yes, indeed I am. I must apologize for that-that dreadful—” She broke off, gesturing toward the floor as if to indicate the scene in the kitchens below.

“Don’t let it trouble you.” She accompanied the girl from the room and down the stairs.

In the hall, Maria paused then turned back to her. “I
am
sorry about Louisa. For your sake. It must be quite dreadfully hard on you.”

“Just promise to sell as many fans as possible at the charity ball and I shall do very well.”

Having seen her outside and into her waiting carriage, Phyllida headed once more for the sitting room. With Ingram—and Allbury—gone, silence fell heavily over the house, almost as if the halls echoed with the emptiness. She would be glad when they returned.

As she approached the landing the dowager’s strident tones reached her. Her ladyship was once more at home, it seemed. Phyllida started up the next flight only to be brought to a halt by a stentorian hail from that lady.

“Miss Dearne!” The dowager sailed up the steps like a battleship catching the wind. “I wish to speak with you.”

Phyllida’s heart sank. The day after the funeral. Somehow she had hoped not to be thrown out so soon. At least not until the murder investigation had been completed. The dowager must hope to strike quickly, while her son was away. Phyllida faced her unwilling hostess and braced herself.

The dowager Lady Allbury reached her, only slightly winded. “About that charity ball,” she began.

Phyllida blinked. “Yes?” she managed.

“You will help prepare for it. You and Miss Yarborough. We all will, of course. We must help Lady Woking turn this into a truly memorable event. I am only sorry we will be unable to attend.”

And for such a paltry reason as being in mourning for a daughter-in-law she had heartily despised. Cynicism rose through the relief that flooded Phyllida. In all likelihood the dowager was
glad
Louisa was dead. The woman didn’t want to be in mourning but in celebration.

In celebration… Phyllida stared at the woman then looked hastily away. No, that idea was preposterous. She probably considered the murder a fortuitous circumstance. She wouldn’t have killed anyone herself. Would she?

With an effort, she returned her thoughts to the ball. “I will call upon Lady Woking this afternoon to see if there is anything she wishes me to do. If you—”

“Mother!” The marquis cut across Phyllida’s words. He stormed up the stairs, his brow thunderous, the tail of his driving coat fluttering behind. He clasped his gloves in his hand.

Phyllida blinked. She’d thought he had left. That meant Lord Ingram must still be here as well. To her surprise, her spirits lifted.

“A word with you.” Allbury glared at his formidable parent, who stood a step above him.

Phyllida shivered at the ice in his tone.

The dowager regarded him through hooded eyes. “In my sitting room, Tristram.” She directed a dismissive nod at Phyllida and turned down the hall. Her son stalked in her wake.

Phyllida stared after them in disbelief. Allbury so very angry—and with his mother. Normally he considered it his filial obligation to show her all respect. What could have so enraged him?

Did he—
could
he—suspect his mother of murdering his wife? Phyllida hesitated only a moment then hurried down the hall to where the marquis had slammed the sitting room door behind them. The keyhole remained obligingly available and their raised voices, though muffled, penetrated the heavy oak paneling.

“No!” she heard the marquis declare. “Can you not even wait until she has been decently interred at the Castle? We will have nothing to do with the ball. I will have no disrespect shown to my wife.”

“How would we be doing that?” To Phyllida’s surprise the dowager sounded conciliatory, trying to soothe rather than riding roughshod over him in her usual manner. “We will not attend the event. The cause, though, was one dear to her heart. Do you think she would wish us to desert it, leave it in the hands of that Woking woman?”

A hand fell on Phyllida’s shoulder and she jumped then spun about to stare into the amused but curious face of Mr. Frake. A shaky sigh escaped her.

“Hearing anything of interest, miss?” the Runner murmured.

“I’ll not have it!” the marquis shouted then his voice dropped and his next words were lost.

“They are arguing about helping Lady Woking with the charity ball,” Phyllida whispered.

“And the dowager refuses?”

Phyllida shook her head. “It is the other way around, which is what makes it so interesting.”

The purring tones of the dowager’s voice sounded and Phyllida leaned closer to catch the last words.

“Interested in this cause, is she?” Mr. Frake whispered to her.

“No. She has never before shown the least concern in the returning wounded soldiers. Nor has she ever wasted time trying to placate anyone. Why does she do so now?”

“Because she knows she’s in the wrong?”

“I doubt that is something she would ever admit, even to herself,” Phyllida responded.

“Did you kill her?” the marquis’s muffled voice shouted.

“Do you mean you did not? I thought—” The rest of the dowager’s response became an unintelligible mumble.

Mr. Frake took possession of the keyhole. Phyllida inched forward again but nothing more could she hear. After several frustrating minutes the Runner pulled away from the door and waved her back. Phyllida lifted the hem of her gown and ran for the stairs, the Runner close on her heels. He barely had launched into the middle of a lively story when the door to the sitting room swung wide and the dowager, her features set in stern lines, emerged. The marquis, glowering, followed.

As soon as they were out of earshot Mr. Frake left off his tale. “Do you think the marquis’s anger was real, miss? Or do you think we’ve just been treated to a show?”

Phyllida frowned. “You believe I was supposed to catch them hurling accusations at each other? It was all an elaborate attempt to convince me neither of them murdered Louisa?”

“It’s a possibility, miss.”

Phyllida considered then shook her head. “No. I can’t believe it of him.”

“Or of her, miss?”

“Allbury wouldn’t have
helped
her.”

Mr. Frake pursed his lips. “Not even to ensure no undeserving heir might be born?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Yet to her horror, she realized a doubt lingered in her mind. If Allbury questioned the paternity of Louisa’s baby…his heir, and to such a title and position as the Marquis of Allbury held. She turned away from the Runner, shaken.

Lost in a tangle of emotions, she made her way to her sister’s chamber. It was barely one o’clock and the afternoon loomed ahead, long and depressing. It was time to begin the unpleasant task of going through everything, giving away the things that would no longer be needed, packing away the few treasures that would be kept. Her papers must be organized, forgotten bills found and turned over for payment. The last traces of the Dearne sisters, she reflected ruefully, must be removed from the house.

The door, which had been locked earlier that morning, stood slightly ajar. A thrill of nerves danced along Phyllida’s flesh and she grasped the handle, easing the heavy panel open an inch so that she could peek inside.

Constance Yarborough stood at the bureau, opening drawers and rummaging rapidly through them. The hinges squeaked as Phyllida pushed against them and Constance looked up in alarm. A handful of stockings fell from her hands.

“Phyllida!” She scooped up the flimsy bits of silk and stuffed them back where they belonged. “How you startled me.”

Phyllida came into the room, closing the door behind her. It didn’t quite catch, she noted. “Were you looking for something?” she asked.

“Only a ring. Louisa promised to keep it safe for me. I haven’t a jewelry box, you know.” She glanced at the disordered drawers behind her. “I wanted to find it before the dowager comes across it and claims it is an heirloom that belongs to her.”

Phyllida’s lips twitched in spite of herself. That was exactly the sort of thing the dowager would do. If Constance told the truth. If not, for what did she look? Some clue, unnoticed by the others, to Louisa’s murder? Or her diary, which still eluded them?

Phyllida glanced searchingly at the girl but could detect no tangible signs of guilt, only nervousness. With a mental shrug, she opened the door once more. “Under the circumstances, perhaps it would be best if I search for it. What is it like?”

“An engraved gold band. With a pearl.” Miss Yarborough hesitated then took the hint and left the chamber with only one backward glance.

Phyllida rang for her sister’s erstwhile abigail. As soon as that woman arrived they set to work on the first cabinet then continued around the room until the light faded. Their labors progressed slowly, for every item was examined with care for needed repairs.

Somewhat to her surprise Phyllida felt not the slightest temptation to keep any of Louisa’s beautiful things. She bestowed a shawl of Norwich silk on the abigail, much to that woman’s pleasure, then together they selected suitable gifts for the other female members of the staff. That left three piles of gowns, chemises and other undergarments. She would give them to the hospital, providing the marquis—which meant his mother—gave approval.

The following morning Phyllida was forced to devote her time to answering more notes and cards from those who had missed the funeral. This she finished shortly after luncheon, at which time she returned to her sister’s chamber where she began the task of sorting through bonnets, reticules and gloves.

Not until late afternoon did she remember her promise to the dowager to call upon Lady Woking. She had better do it, and before that formidable woman demanded to know the outcome of the visit. Leaving Louisa’s abigail to put the last of the things away, she sent a message to the stable to bring the ancient landau around. After all, she went on the dowager’s business; she had a right to request transportation. Hoping the dowager would agree, she ran to her room to don a shawl and bonnet.

The sounds of arrival reached her as she came back down the stairs. She paused on the lower landing and watched as the second footman pushed through the door bearing a valise in each hand. The marquis’s deep tones issued from the front salon. The gentlemen had returned.

The door opened and through it she glimpsed Allbury and his mother. Lord Ingram emerged, only to stop as he saw her on the stairs.

His frown faded. “Miss Dearne.” He came to the foot and waited for her to finish her descent. He took her hand as she reached him and held it a moment longer than politeness dictated. An odd expression glinted in his eyes as he studied her face. “You look well,” he said at last.

Startled by the unexpected warmth in his tone, she met his direct gaze. Heat washed through her and several seconds passed before she took another breath. “You are back,” she said unnecessarily. “Did it go well?”