Ottilia laughed. “I do not so choose. However, a little enquiry may elicit something.”
He was looking at her with a frown in his eyes.
She raised her brows. “What is it?”
“How was it you thought of this hiding place?”
She smiled. “I didn’t. I came in here to fetch a key.” Recalling her mission, she clicked an impatient tongue. “If I had not forgotten all about it again!”
“What key?”
Ottilia made a face. “I am afraid you will not like to hear it, but there is no point in keeping it from you.”
She gave him an unvarnished account of her conversation with Venner, and secretly rejoiced to see how his disgust increased with every word. It was not uncommon for gentlemen to condone the sort of intrigue in which the marchioness had indulged. Whether his disgust was due to an offence of his moral sensibilities, or whether it was merely because Emily had been related to him by marriage, Ottilia had no means of knowing. But she was cheered nevertheless.
“I came in here because I remembered I had found a key in that drawer,” she finished.
She moved to the bedside table as she spoke and drew open the top drawer. To her relief, it had not yet come under notice in the attempt to dispose of the marchioness’s effects.
As she rummaged within for the key she had seen, she suddenly recalled the scrap of paper she had removed from this very drawer. Her hand stilled.
“Q230. Q for Quaife.”
“What are you talking about?”
She found, to her consternation, Lord Francis just behind her, and she half turned, conscious of a spurt of speed in the rhythm of her pulses.
“I found a note among others in here. But this was the only one that looked to be significant. Just the letter Q, and the numbers two, three, oh. I think now it must have been an assignation.”
His eyes widened. “Quaife at two and thirty? In the early morning, one supposes.”
Ottilia nodded. “It seems likely.”
“And the key?”
Turning again, Ottilia hunted about the drawer with a hand that was not quite steady. Her fingers closed on the coldness of metal. She brought them out, a large key clutched within them.
Lord Francis took it from her and examined it. “It looks vaguely familiar, but I don’t know what door this might fit.”
“Then we must try them all until we find the right one.”
She would have moved to begin, but Lord Francis stayed her, one hand resting lightly on her arm.
“You can’t wander all over the house dressed like that.”
Acutely aware of his touch, Ottilia’s brain froze and she could not answer.
“Besides, there is no saying this fits into a door to the outside. It does not look heavy enough to me.”
Ottilia swallowed on a dry throat. “Nevertheless, we must try. We know Emily used a door secretly, for Venner told me so.”
He removed his hand, shifting past the bed and out into the room. “It will keep. You would be better employed at this moment in helping with my own search.”
Ottilia was breathing more easily, but this last arrested her attention. “What search is that, sir?”
He looked at her, a glint in his eye that Ottilia strongly suspected to be ironic. “You have not asked my purpose in being up at this hour, and so improperly dressed.”
Ottilia laughed. “I rather had my attention elsewhere.”
“I was searching Randal’s room for something to tell us why he went away.”
Interest burgeoned in Ottilia. “Did you find anything?”
He shook his head. “I had only begun when I heard you. I should be glad of your help.” An eyebrow quirked. “Assuming you dare to continue to risk being compromised?”
Ottilia hoped the heat did not show in her face. “Oh, I hardly think a widow of my years need be troubled by such fears,” she said lightly. “Besides, our purpose is sufficient, should anyone call our activities into question.”
He said no more, but merely nodded and crossed to the door. Slipping the key into the pocket of her dressing robe, Ottilia began to follow, and then her eye fell on the bed. She checked.
“One moment, sir. I forgot to retie the drape on my side.” She went up to the headboard again as she spoke and leaned to pull the velvet drape back. It eluded her grasp and Lord Francis came back and knelt on the mattress, reaching over to flick it towards her. A fold of his dressing gown fell away, and Ottilia was treated to a glimpse of bare leg. Flustered, she lost her grip upon the tie and it slipped to the floor behind the night table.
“Drat!”
Dipping down to her haunches, she felt about behind, her pulse out of kilter and a resurgence of burning in her cheeks.
“Here, allow me.”
Ottilia looked up to find Lord Francis directly above her on the bed, his untied lush hair falling about his face. Unable to move for an instant, she stared up at him, conscious of fluttering in her stomach. He grinned down at her and her mouth went dry.
“Are you going to get up? I don’t wish to tread on you.”
She threw herself to her feet with more haste than elegance and moved quickly aside as Lord Francis dropped lightly off the bed and swept a long arm out of sight by the night table.
Ottilia’s hands were shaking, and she thrust them into the folds of her dressing robe. A grunt of triumph came from his lordship and he pulled his arm back. The band was in his fingers and he drew it forth.
“But what is this?”
She hardly heard him, her startled gaze taking in the silky white article that had become attached to the fringes on the end of the tie. Lord Francis detached it and held it up. Ottilia gasped as the crumpled garment fell to its length.
“Her stocking!”
All embarrassment forgotten, she stepped forward and took it from his grasp, letting it slide through her fingers. Her mind alive with conjecture, she regarded first the stocking and then the back wall.
“Is the other there?”
Lord Francis, who had been watching her with his brows drawn together, looked first under the bed, and then rose quickly and looked over the headboard.
“Not that I can see.”
Ottilia went quickly around the bed to the other side and squinted down at the floor behind. There was nothing there. He was watching her across the divide of the bed.
“What are you thinking?”
“That there was a man there. Or perhaps not, and the stocking fell behind the bed during the activities within it. It might have been thrown aside, perhaps. It might even be an old one, lost months ago.”
“You are saying it proves nothing.”
She gazed at him, troubled by a nagging doubt. “Mary Huntshaw and I searched high and low for any sign of the stockings. And here we have one. I would give much to know what happened to the other.”
Lord Francis drew in a sharp breath and let it go. “There is nothing to be gained by conjecture at present. Let us hope we may be as lucky in my brother’s chamber.”
Ottilia had forgotten that other task. She bundled up the stocking and tucked it into the pocket of her dressing robe, preparing to follow Lord Francis, who was already moving to leave the chamber. She paused outside to lock the door behind her, but Lord Francis was already moving through the open doorway opposite. Ottilia checked on the threshold, taking in the marquis’s room.
It was a mirror of the other in shape, but a little larger, the four-poster with its plush dark curtains placed in a similar position. But here were none of the feminine curlicues that graced the marchioness’s chamber. The whole was strictly masculine, its contents solid and austere.
Lord Francis had gone directly to a chest where the second drawer was already open, and had evidently resumed his interrupted scrutiny of the articles within.
“What are we looking for?” asked Ottilia, moving into the room and looking round for a place to begin.
Lord Francis turned where he stood. “Do you not wish to
know why my mother wanted to talk to me last night?”
Startled, Ottilia gazed at him. “It is none of my concern.”
“Oh, I think you will be interested.”
“Indeed?”
“Since you provoked her thoughts with a remark you made last night.” He left the chest and moved a little towards her. “She is severely exercised by the puzzle of what Randal is doing in France.”
Ottilia’s mind leapt to the conclusion she had made at dinner and so foolishly blurted aloud. Wary, she eyed Lord Francis.
“Had she any suggestions?” He hesitated, looking away and back again. Ottilia gave a light laugh. “Come, sir, you cannot be shy of mentioning it to me when you know my propensity for frankness. Let us not beat about the bush. Does Sybilla suspect your brother may have a mistress over there?”
He gave a sigh, as if of relief. “I have long suspected it. There have been too many visits, and the concern he exhibited over the welfare of the unfortunates over the Channel has made me believe the woman in question may be an aristocrat, and likely married.”
“And so he fears for her safety.”
“My mother has taken the notion into her head from something Emily’s woman said.”
Ottilia nodded. “About your brother threatening an end to Emily’s tenure as his wife.”
“Yes, and you may imagine how black it will make him look.”
“Indeed.” Ottilia looked briefly about the room. “Letters, then? Perhaps a love token of some sort?”
He grinned. “There now, I knew you would be useful to me.”
But the most thorough search through every drawer and cupboard failed to turn up anything that could point to the existence of a mistress. Lord Francis groaned with frustration.
“I shall have to go through his desk in the library, something I was hoping to avoid.”
“I imagine it is more likely to yield results.” Ottilia closed the last drawer in the dressing table she had been checking. “What a pity there is nothing here.”
“I can’t imagine the library will yield any incriminating piece of evidence, either,” said Lord Francis irritably. “I could have sworn Randal’s affections were engaged, so assiduous has he been in trying to benefit these dispossessed French.”
Arrested, Ottilia stared at him. “Where have our wits gone begging?”
“I beg your pardon?”
She waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, I don’t mean to denigrate you, sir, but I have certainly shown myself remarkably foolish.”
He was frowning. “How so?”
“Picture to yourself, my lord. You are passionately in love. Where do you secrete your keepsake?”
Lord Francis gave an eloquent lift of his shoulders. “I have not the remotest conjecture. I have never cherished a keepsake.”
Ottilia threw him a darting look of mischief as she moved to the bed. Leaning over it, she pulled aside the coverlet and slipped her hand beneath the pillow, sweeping from one side to the other.
“You surely don’t think—”
She cut him off with an exclamation of triumph and brought her hand out again. A small oval frame was revealed. She looked at it briefly and held it up, showing Lord Francis the miniature depicted there.
“A handsome creature, I think you will agree.”
He came to take it from her, amazement writ large across his countenance. “Dear Lord, woman, you really are a genius!”
She gave a mock curtsy. “I thank you, my lord.”
“This alters things indeed,” he uttered, still staring at the lovely face shown in the tiny portrait with its cascade of fair locks. “What in the world do we do now?”
“We must find this lover of Emily’s,” answered Ottilia briskly, retrieving the miniature and tucking it back where she had found it, “and with speed. I cannot think the justices at Bow Street will be slow to seize upon the implications of this as the perfect motive for murder.”
Chapter 12
Francis was never more glad to have his friend George’s support as he entered the portals of Brooks’s. The very first pair of gentlemen he encountered in the hallway broke off their conversation to stare at him. Feeling intensely conspicuous, Francis busied himself with handing his greatcoat, hat, and cane to the porter, throwing Tretower a look designed to convey everything he felt.
“Sheer bad manners,” said George in a voice loud enough to be heard. And in a lowered tone as the two other men shuffled swiftly about, displaying their backs, “A pair of gaping fools, Fan. Don’t mind them.”
“I am minded to let Mrs. Draycott go hang, if that is a sample of what I may expect,” Francis rejoined savagely, smoothing sleeves ruffled by the exercise of removing his greatcoat.
George laughed. “Run the gauntlet, dear boy. You will rapidly become accustomed.”
“I’ve a good mind to cut and run.”
George took hold of his elbow in a companionable way. “No, you don’t. I am pledged to keep you up to scratch, you know.”
“Yes, I heard the dratted woman ask you before we left the house.”
“That ‘dratted woman’ is merely serving your purposes, Fan, as well you know.”
Francis blew out a frustrated breath. “Do you suppose I would be here if I didn’t know that?”
“Come, my friend. Recollect that your funereal garb will afford some degree of protection.”
True enough, Francis reflected. He had donned the severest black for this excursion, his sister having reminded him, before returning to the care of her prostrate niece, that he ought to be in mourning attire if he meant to appear in public. He straightened his shoulders and gestured towards the door that led into the Club rooms.
“So be it. Lead me to the scaffold.”
But his emotions upon entering the saloon centred less, to his surprise, on the embarrassment of his position than the oddity of being obliged to regard his erstwhile friends and acquaintances with suspicion. A number of gentlemen were present with whom he would, but a few days ago, have enjoyed a convivial evening. Today he looked from group to group, variously engaged in desultory or eager conversation, or merely reading the latest newssheet or sporting magazine, and saw only candidates for the role of Emily’s paramour. It was distinctly unsettling.
He had not failed to notice the sudden hush that fell upon each couple or group as they caught sight of him, and it was only George’s firm hand at his elbow that enabled him to retain a pose of nonchalance and appear unaware.
Only half-conscious of where he moved, he allowed Tretower to steer him to a position to one side of the large saloon. He watched his friend signal a waiter.
“Ale, Fan? Or would you prefer wine?”
“I will have coffee,” Francis said, firmly squashing a desire to demand brandy. He needed his wits about him. He looked about for a convenient chair.
“Don’t sit,” advised George, low-voiced. “It will discourage people from approaching you.”
“I don’t want them approaching me,” said Francis acidly.
George’s brows rose. “Come, Fan, is this the man of spirit renowned throughout the regiment for the iron in his backbone?”
“At this moment, my backbone feels filleted. I had rather face fifty cannon than the avid curiosity of my peers.”
His friend’s smile was sympathetic. “I don’t altogether blame you, dear boy, but needs must as I understand it. Now, what was it? Beware the effusive, ignore the gossips?”
“I can’t recall.” Francis’s eyes wandered as he spoke and caught upon a thickset man standing apart across the room. “Lord, there’s Quaife!”
“Where?”
Francis allowed his gaze to lead his friend where to look, and quickly turned away as he saw the quarry’s eyes were on him.
“He’s coming over,” George warned. “We’re off.”
Francis felt a rise of panic and struggled to suppress it. At all costs he must not exhibit any hint of suspicion or an iota of his allotted task. All too soon, the Baron
Quaife had reached them. His manner was brusque to the point of rudeness.
“Fanshawe! In good time, sir. Rumour is rife about the town. Is it true?”
Considerably taken aback, Francis did not answer immediately. This was hardly the approach he had anticipated. Useless to pretend to misunderstand.
“If you mean, is it true that Lady Polbrook is dead, I am desolated to be obliged to affirm it.”
“Yes, yes, but the other. Slain? And brutally so, if the word flying around town is to be believed. Tell me it is not so!”
A vibrancy of dismay rang so true that Francis answered without thought.
“I cannot.”
Quaife looked as if he had been struck in the face. “Then it is so? Thunder and turf! But I saw her, spoke with her, only the night before. How is it possible?”
“An impossible question, sir,” cut in George, loyally sparing Francis the necessity of answering. “You may believe the shock to the family is as severe as your own.”
Quaife stared at him, a species of blankness in his eyes. Then his gaze returned to Francis. “Your brother is out of town, I gather?”
“Temporarily,” Francis said. And if the fellow thought he would elaborate, he was destined to be disappointed.
Quaife lifted a hand and ran it over his face in a gesture redolent of confusion. “I still cannot believe it.”
George took the comment. “No, sir, nor can all those intimately involved.”
This seemed to penetrate. Quaife gave an odd frown, glanced from George to Francis, and then looked as if he was suddenly enlightened. He bowed from the neck.
“My condolences, Fanshawe.”
With which he turned on his heel and headed directly for the door. Francis watched him until he had left the saloon.
“He is either a very good actor or he is not our man,” suggested George quietly.
Francis shook his head. “I think it was genuine.”
There was no time for more. It seemed the baron’s approach had broken the ice. One after another, Francis received words of regret from his acquaintances. It gave him the oddest feeling of alienation to be watching each with unanswered questions in his mind. It was apparent Mrs. Draycott knew what she was talking about. The majority moved in and spoke their piece briefly and to the point. Francis found himself mentally reviewing their Christian names.
The Gilded Shroud Page 19