by Amanda Quick
“Tier after tier of the most intricately fashioned curls piled high in the front?” She held her hands above her forehead in a little pyramid shape to demonstrate. “The chignon in back, braided and coiled with more curls across the top? I vow, Lady Oakes looked very impressive.”
“Uh, certainly.” He had no recollection at all of Lady Oakes’s headdress this evening, but he nodded once at Pierce. “Striking.”
“Thank you, sir.” Pierce made a deep bow and assumed a demeanor of artistic modesty. “It came out rather well, I thought. The row of curls at the top of the chignon and the loop around the coil are my own inventions. I consider it my signature.”
“Mmm.”
Lavinia smiled. “I was delayed returning to my bedchamber because Mr. March and I felt the need to make a few inquiries into Lord Fullerton’s accident.”
“I see.” Pierce regarded Tobias with a brief, considering look. “Yes, I recall that you did mention that you and your associate occasionally engaged in a rather odd hobby. Something to do with taking commissions for private inquiries, I believe. But, really, you should not have subjected yourself to such a shocking scene, madam. That sort of thing can give a delicate lady such as yourself nightmares.”
The hairdresser’s concern for Lavinia was irritating. It occurred to Tobias that Pierce was one of those men whom young ladies such as Emeline and her friend Priscilla described as so terribly romantic looking.
He was no expert on such matters, he conceded silently, but he was fairly certain that the seemingly negligent arrangement of the curls that tumbled so artlessly over Pierce’s forehead was no random act of nature. Several of Anthony’s acquaintances currently affected a very similar style. Anthony had explained that he had avoided it primarily because it required the use of a dangerously hot curling iron and extended periods of time in front of a mirror.
Pierce appeared to have been interrupted in the act of getting ready for bed. He wore a frilled white shirt and a pair of stylishly pleated trousers. A dashing black ribbon was knotted carelessly around his neck in the tradition set by Byron and the romantic poets. It did little to veil the expanse of bare skin that was exposed in the opening provided by the unfastened shirt.
“What sort of inquiries did you and Mr. March make?” Miss Gilway asked without taking her eyes off Tobias.
“We tried to ascertain that there had been no foul play,” Lavinia said.
“Foul play.” Miss Richards shared a look of delighted horror with her friend. “Never say it was murder?”
“Heavens.” The second woman fanned herself with her hand. “How perfectly dreadful. Who would have thought it?”
“Murder.” Pierce stared at Lavinia. “Are you quite serious, Mrs. Lake?”
It dawned on Tobias that he had seen that same fascinated expression on Anthony’s face. It was the reflection of a young man’s enthusiasm for all matters macabre.
“According to Lord Beaumont and the local doctor, it could not possibly have been a case of murder,” Lavinia said neutrally.
“Oh.” Pierce’s excitement evaporated.
The two companions appeared equally disappointed.
“Thank goodness,” Miss Gilway said politely.
“Such a relief,” Miss Richards added in a dutiful tone. “One would hate to think that there was a murderer running about Beaumont Castle.”
They both returned to gazing fixedly at Tobias.
“Indeed,” Lavinia said. “There is no great cause for concern. I’m sure you will all be quite safe in your beds tonight. Don’t you agree, Tobias?”
“Yes.” He took her arm. “Allow me to see you to your door. The hour grows late, and we must leave early in the morning.”
“You are going back to London tomorrow?” Miss Gilway asked quickly. “Why so soon?”
“Personal business,” Lavinia said coolly. She smiled at the three. “I will say my farewells now, as you will all no doubt be asleep when I depart.”
“I wish you a very pleasant journey, madam.” Pierce made another graceful little bow. “And remember what I said earlier this evening when you went downstairs to the ball. I would be delighted to take you on as a client. I feel I could do wonders with your hair.”
“Thank you, Mr. Pierce, I will bear that in mind.” She hooked her hand under Tobias’s arm and then hesitated. “By the by, speaking of the business of hairdressing, I have a question for you, sir.”
“I am at your service, madam,” Pierce said gallantly. “Would this question by any chance be in regard to the events of this evening?”
“Just a minor point,” she assured him. “In your career you are required to have a great expertise with wigs and false hair and the like, are you not?”
“Every fashionable young lady simply must possess a false chignon or two at the very least,” he said in a voice that rang with absolute conviction. “After a certain age it is imperative that a woman invest in a variety of full wigs. There is simply no alternative available if she wishes to remain in style.”
“You watched the guests go downstairs to the costume ball tonight. Did you by any chance spot any ladies wearing blond wigs?”
“Blond?” Pierce gave a shudder. “Good God, no, madam, I did not. Indeed, I should have been positively horrified if I had seen such a sight.”
Tobias scowled. “Why the devil would you have been shocked? You just said no fashionable woman should be without a couple of wigs.”
“Yes, but not blond ones.” Pierce raised his eyes to the heavens, evidently seeking to be delivered from such stupid inquiries. “Really, sir, it is obvious that you know nothing of style. Allow me to inform you that when it comes to wigs, switches, puffs, and the like, blond hair is very nearly as unfashionable as red.”
There was a short, heavy silence. Everyone looked at Lavinia. Her very red hair gleamed in the light of the wall sconce.
It occurred to Tobias that the hairdresser had just insulted her. He fixed Pierce with a hard look.
“I happen to think that Mrs. Lake’s hair suits her perfectly,” he said quietly.
Although he had not raised his voice, Miss Richards and Miss Gilway both flinched. Each took a step back. They were still staring at him, but not with the same peculiar interest they had been displaying. Now they looked as though he had turned into a ravening beast before their eyes.
“Tobias,” Lavinia hissed in a low voice, “stop this at once.”
He was in no mood to stop. He was annoyed. It had been a long, extremely difficult evening.
Pierce seemed oblivious to the fact that he was in some danger. His attention was concentrated on Lavinia.
“Madam, you really must allow me to pay you a visit after we all return to London,” he urged with what appeared to be genuine concern. “There is so much I could do with you. I vow, you would look splendid in a dark brown wig. Such a dramatic contrast with your green eyes.”
Lavinia frowned and raised a hand to touch her hair. “Do you really think so?”
“There is no doubt about it.” Pierce folded one arm across his chest, propped his elbow on it, and stroked his chin in a thoughtful manner. He contemplated Lavinia in the manner of a sculptor studying a half-completed statue. “I can envision the results, and they would be astounding, I assure you. I believe I would use some puffs and a bit of frizzing to add height, of course. You lack the stature required for true elegance.”
“Bloody hell,” Tobias growled. “Mrs. Lake is just the right size, as far as I am concerned.”
Pierce spared him only a fleeting look that somehow managed to sum up every aspect of his appearance and dismiss him out of hand.
The Cut Direct, Tobias thought, grimly amused. From a hairdresser, no less.
“Indeed, sir,” Pierce murmured, “you are hardly an authority on fashion, so you are in no position to judge Mrs. Lake’s potential.”
Tobias contemplated the pleasure of ripping Pierce’s head off his shoulders, but he reluctantly abandoned the prospect when he
felt Lavinia’s fingers clench very tightly around his elbow. She was right, he thought. It would be a messy project, and the hour grew late.
“You are so kind to give me your professional opinion, Mr. Pierce.” Lavinia smiled her brightest, most polished smile. “I shall consider your offer.”
“Allow me to give you my card.” Pierce whipped one out of the pocket of his trousers and presented it to her with a flourish. “Please feel free to send word to that address when you are ready to move to a higher plane of elegance and style. I shall be delighted to fit you into my schedule.”
“Thank you.” Lavinia took the card and inclined her head in farewell to Miss Richards and Miss Gilway. “Good night. I trust you will all have a safe journey home.”
There was a small chorus of farewells. Pierce retreated to his bedchamber. Miss Gilway and Miss Richards retired to the room they shared.
Tobias and Lavinia continued down the hall.
“Why are you glowering so, sir?” Lavinia opened the door of her bedchamber, stepped into the room, and turned to face him. “I vow, you put me in mind of an oncoming storm.”
Tobias glanced back along the now vacant hall, thinking about the conversation that had just transpired. “Your question to Pierce concerning a blond wig was very astute. It raised some interesting possibilities.”
“Thank you.” She did not trouble to hide her pleasure in the small compliment. “Of course, if blond wigs are so very unfashionable, it stands to reason that the killer would not have purchased one that would stand out in the memory of possible witnesses. Therefore, perhaps it is safe to assume that the murderer is, indeed, a woman who possesses very vivid blond hair.”
“On the contrary, I think we can conclude precisely the opposite.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Consider it closely, Lavinia. The killer’s yellow hair seems to have been his most striking feature. That and the very large cap are the two things that made the strongest impression upon you when you saw the maid in the hall, correct?”
“Yes, but—” She broke off, eyes widening in comprehension. “I understand. You believe the murderer intended those two features to be the most memorable in the event that he was seen by a witness?”
He nodded. “The Memento-Mori Man’s stock-in-trade was a gift for misdirection. If this new killer has patterned himself on such a master, he will favor the same strategy. Therefore, I think we can assume that the blond hair was false. And I am also certain that the female attire was meant to conceal a man.”
She hesitated. “I do not feel that we can assume the murderer is a man. But I do agree that there is a strong likelihood the blond hair was a wig.”
“It is a starting point, at least.” He wrapped one hand around the door frame and considered. “If blond wigs are so unfashionable, they will be uncommon in the shops. There cannot be that many wig-makers in London. We should be able to discover which ones sold yellow false hair in recent months.”
“Do not be so sure of that. It is true that any wig-maker who took a commission for a wig in such an unfashionable shade would no doubt remember his client well. But I fear that we cannot depend upon locating the shop. The wig may have been commissioned somewhere other than London. A great many fashionable ladies and gentlemen obtain their wigs in Paris. There is also the possibility that the false hair was stolen from a theater or taken from an actor’s trunk. A search for the particular wig-maker who created the killer’s false hair could well prove to be a complete waste of time.”
“Nevertheless, the blond wig is a clue, and at the moment it is one of the few in our possession.”
She did not quarrel with that conclusion, but her brows knitted in thought. “Tobias, is it merely the fact that the killer may have worn false hair that makes you believe we are dealing with a man? Because I really do not think we should depend too heavily upon that. We might overlook valuable evidence if we ignore the possibility that it was a woman I saw with Fullerton tonight.”
He gripped the door frame tightly. “There is more to it than the business with the wig.”
“Is it so difficult for you to imagine a woman as a professional murderess?”
“Not entirely. It is the matter of the memento-mori ring that convinces me we are hunting a man,” he said quietly. “The signature is far too deliberately reminiscent of Zachary Elland’s work.”
“What of it? A woman might wish to emulate him.”
He shook his head, uncertain how to shore up with logic what he intuitively felt had to be true. “It seems more likely that a man would seek to compare himself to another man.”
“Ah, yes,” she said with a wise air. “I have noticed that men are inclined to be intensely competitive. They do love their horse races and boxing matches and wagers, do they not?”
He raised a brow at that. “Pray do not try to tell me that women lack the competitive instinct. I have seen the gentle warfare that is conducted in the ballrooms of the polite world during the Season. It is no secret that a matchmaking mama is capable of a degree of plotting and strategy that would incite awe and admiration in Wellington himself.”
To his surprise she did not smile. Instead, she inclined her head in somber acknowledgment of that observation.
“The business of marriage warrants extreme attention and sober planning. After all, a woman’s entire future as well as the future of whatever children she may bear is at stake.”
“Huh. I suppose I had not thought of it in quite such dramatic terms.”
“In my experience, men rarely do contemplate marriage in such dramatic terms.”
He frowned, aware from her tone that he might have missed something, but before he could demand further explanations, Lavinia raised a hand to pat a tiny yawn.
“I really do not think that I can give this case the serious contemplation it requires tonight,” she said. “I suggest we save this discussion for the morrow. It is a long drive back to town. We will have a great deal of time to talk.”
“Do not remind me.” He gazed thoughtfully down the long hall.
“Good night, Tobias.”
“One question before I leave.”
“Yes?”
“Is it the fashion among hairdressers to wear their shirts half unfastened in front of respectable ladies?”
Lavinia chuckled. “Hairdressers are artists, sir. They are entitled to set their own fashion.”
“Huh.”
She stepped back and started to ease the door closed. Her eyes gleamed with amusement in the shadows. “You need not concern yourself with the delicate sensibilities of either Miss Richards or Miss Gilway. Although the vision of Mr. Pierce in dishabille was no doubt one of the most stimulating sights they have seen in years, I must point out that you yourself gave them a great deal to admire as well.”
He realized she was gazing pointedly at his chest.
“What the devil?”
He glanced down and was startled to see that his shirt was unfastened several inches. It had no doubt come undone in the course of the few minutes he and Lavinia spent together before Fullerton so dramatically interrupted their tryst. He now comprehended all too well the curious, veiled looks Miss Richards and Miss Gilway had cast in his direction.
“Hell’s teeth,” he muttered.
“I do believe that together, you and Mr. Pierce have provided Miss Richards and Miss Gilway with enough inspiration for conversation and speculation to last them for months,” Lavinia said.
She chuckled and closed the door very gently in his face.
He released his grip on the door frame and walked back toward the staircase, brooding on the disaster that the country-house party had become. It had all seemed like such a brilliant notion back at the start, he reflected. But just about everything that could go wrong had gone wrong. Even his left leg, which had been behaving rather well for the past month thanks to the warm, sunny weather, ached a little now. Too much running up and down staircases this evening, no doubt.
H
e had not even managed the one event he’d planned for with such optimism and enthusiasm: an uninterrupted night in a comfortable bed with Lavinia.
In point of fact, he could not even retire to his own bed yet. There was something else he had to do first.
He made his way downstairs and found that all was once again quiet on this floor. The guests had returned to their bedchambers and the house was settling once more for what remained of the night.
A pair of wall sconces lit the path to Aspasia’s door. In front of her room he stopped, hesitating for a second or two. Then he rapped softly.
She opened the door at once, as though she had been waiting for him. Her green satin wrapper swirled around her ankles. Ill-concealed anxiety shadowed her eyes. Tension tightened her full mouth.
“Well?” she whispered.
He looked at her, a part of him realizing that she was probably the most beautiful woman he had ever met, and he was suddenly very tired. He also understood that this was a weariness that was too deep to be cured by a few hours of sleep. It would haunt him until this brush with the past was finished.
Absently, he rubbed the back of his neck. “Your conclusions are correct. Someone has, indeed, reinvented himself as the Memento-Mori Man. Whoever he is, he was here tonight.”
She clutched the edges of her satin robe at her throat. “Fullerton?”
“Yes. I found a ring in the bedchamber.”
She squeezed her eyes shut briefly. When she opened them, he could see the fear that even she, with all her worldly skills and experience, could not hide.
“He staged this murder deliberately for your benefit, didn’t he?” she asked. “He knew that you would be here tonight. He wanted to make certain that you understood he was back.”
Irritation sparked through him. “Do not say that. Elland is not back from the dead.”
“Of course. I know that.” She sighed. “I should not have spoken so carelessly. Forgive me. I have been possessed by chills and the most dreadful nervous sensations since my housekeeper brought me that little box with the ring in it this morning. I fear the combination has left me somewhat muddleheaded.”