Parsons chuckled, his grey eyes looking youthful and mischievous. “I do enjoy your wry sense of humour, Your Grace. I believe we’ll find that dear lady in this direction.”
Parsons opened the library’s main door to the corridor. As they exited, they ran headlong into their hostess, Lady Margaret Simpson, the Countess Cartringham, who took the duke by the arm.
“There you are Charles! Whatever are you and Parsons up to? I noticed you in a tête-à-tête with some poorly dressed man earlier. A policeman by the look of him.”
“I’m a policeman, if you’ll recall, Lady Cartringham. Do I have that look?”
She giggled coquettishly. “No, of course not! You are a bespoke vision, my dear, with the finest fashion sense of any man I know. But it’s a dreadful worry, you see, having police business conducted on one’s own doorstep. Was it about that awful fire? Everyone’s talking about it,” she said, cooling her face with a black silk fan. “I’ve heard hundreds of people have died!”
“Not nearly so many, but hundreds are injured, and the fire’s out, praise God. Sadly, I may need to leave early to survey the damage,” Sinclair answered.
“My dear friend, when do you ever have time for yourself?”
“It grows rarer by the day, but even a minute in my wife’s company is enough to cheer me. Talking of police matters, I want you to know we’re doing everything possible to find your brother-in-law’s murderer, Lady Cartringham.”
“Margaret,” she reminded him.
“Ah, yes, Margaret,” he repeated, offering her a dimpled smile. “This is certainly a fine turnout. Are these Parliament wakes always so well attended?”
“Oh yes, but our numbers seem to have doubled since leaving the church,” she replied, touching his forearm. “That’s often how these occasions go. Once word leaks out, all manner of intruders burst through the doors! As poor David’s murder remains unsolved, the lure to such brash individuals is all the more tantalising, I shouldn’t wonder. Honestly, I don’t know most of the people in the corridors.”
Parsons snatched a square of spiced raisin cake from a footman’s tray. “I fear some of those unfamiliar faces are reporters, Lady Cartringham. Shall I encourage them to find other homes to visit?”
“Oh, now that is kind of you, Reggie, but it’s best to let them lurk about,” the countess answered. “Reporters are a necessary evil to Parliament. No press means no public opinion, and no public opinion impacts elections. Such a sudden lack of interest would grind most MPs into dust, I fear. Oh, it is awfully crowded!” she added, the fan blowing loose tendrils of her chestnut hair. “I cannot imagine my sister hosting this turnout in her small house, can you? And her poor, poor husband! Why ever would someone wish to kill him, Charles? And in such an embarrassing manner!”
The clerk interrupted before Sinclair could offer a reply. “Do forgive me, dear friends, but I see Lord Bosworth just leaving the music room. I really must have a word.” Parsons bowed and then expertly cajoled his way upstream through the noisy crowd.
“He’s an odd sort of fellow, isn’t he?” Sinclair observed.
“Yes, but Reggie’s the sort of fellow one needs to make sense of government riddles, Charles. Congratulations on your new title, by the way. Duke of Haimsbury suits you very well, I think. And may I say that you and Elizabeth make a splendid looking couple? You really do.”
“That’s kind of you to say, Margaret. I’ve been trying to find my wife for half an hour. Have you seen her, by any chance?”
“She was talking with Lord Aubrey and my niece in the conservatory earlier. Or at least, I believe Cordelia’s with them. Poor little thing! She’s like a lost lamb these days. Delia simply adored her father, Charles, and he positively doted on her. This has all been very difficult for her, especially after that dreadful business in Whitechapel.”
“Has she told you much about that?” the detective asked.
“Nothing specific, but it’s clear she endured something quite awful. I’ve tried to draw her out, but she simply won’t discuss it. I fear the experience has changed her into a shadow of her former self. Have you investigated it?”
“I was, but her mother insisted I discontinue. The dowager baroness claims she’s protecting Cordelia from public scrutiny, but I have my doubts. It’s quite frustrating, for it goes against all my instincts; both as a policeman and a gentleman.”
Lady Cartringham showed marked surprise. “My sister told you to stop? Why?”
“She mentioned a need for privacy.”
“But, Charles, if this man did assault Cordelia, then he broke the law. Isn’t it up to you to decide whether or not to investigate? It’s not up to Connie, surely.”
“I’m afraid there was little evidence that cannot be otherwise explained. Delia admitted going with this man willingly, and the witnesses at the boxing match claim she appeared happy in his company.”
“She was hardly that! You call him ‘this man’, but we both know his identity, Charles. Delia’s named him. Sir Albert Wendaway.”
“So she’s said, but Wendaway is nowhere to be found. And even if we did arrest him, we’d require Delia’s testimony at the trial. Her mother refuses to allow that, and if we cannot rely on Cordelia as a witness, then we cannot obtain a conviction,” he told her as a footman squeezed past, balancing a tray of empty glasses. “It seems I’m in everyone’s way, Margaret. The conservatory is where?”
“Back of the house. To the right, then through the big doors,” she said, pointing towards an east-west corridor. A second footman walked past, and the countess called his name. “Andrew, would you show the duke to the conservatory, please? I’d take you, Charles, but I have to keep watch for my sister. She disappeared half and hour ago with a pair of backbenchers from Cumbria. I’m worried about her, if you must know, for she isn’t grieving properly. I know people think her somewhat callous, but she is my only sibling. Blood matters, you know. If you see her, would you send her to me?”
“Of course,” he answered, following the footman down the corridor.
As with other mansions on the square, the Cartringham’s London home sprawled upwards rather than to the sides. Ignoring the frontage limitations, the large conservatory jutted out towards the back gardens and was filled with fragrant orange and lemon trees, interspersed with graceful spathiphyllum, known commonly as the ‘peace lily’, placed oddly next to sansevieria, often called the ‘snake plant’. In each corner, marble busts representing the four winds watched from fluted pillars. Through the conservatory’s three glass walls, guests could enjoy beds of flowering viburnum, bordered in evergreen boxwood. In the middle of these subservient flowerbeds, reigned the Cartringham’s folly: a domed limestone building with a marble-pillared portico, dressed with wrought iron tables and matching chairs. It looked a bit like a small Greek mausoleum, softened over time by the incursion of climbing trumpet vines, soft green lichen, and thorny wild roses.
Just past the music room, Charles overheard a familiar voice coming from a narrow hallway near the smoking parlour. It was Cordelia Wychwright, clearly upset, being scolded by a tall man with light hair and a pencil-thin moustache. His harsh tone caused the duke to divert his path and interrupt.
“Cordelia, is everything all right?” Sinclair asked.
The man with the moustache turned towards the perceived intruder, his face lengthening in frank outrage. “Just who the hell are you?” he asked Charles pointedly. “Is this another of your fancy men, Delia?”
The young baron hadn’t met Sinclair at the church, for Henry and Charles arrived late and were forced to sit towards the back. Thoroughly embarrassed by the scene, poor Cordelia had no chance to explain or even reply, for her cold-hearted brother scarcely took a breath before he continued the litany of charges against her.
“Do you hear me?” he bellowed at his pale sister. “Your brazen behaviour brings shame upon our home and a curse
upon our family name. Father may have tolerated your wild wantonness, Cordelia Jane, but I will not.”
“Please, William, you’re embarrassing me,” she pleaded, wishing she could drink the entire bottle of Gehlen’s elixir and disappear forever into a deep, dreamless sleep.
“I’m embarrassing you?” the baron shrieked. “You can stand there, in your deplorable state, and suggest that to me?”
“Will, please!” she whispered. “I can’t bear this.”
Charles took her arm. “Come, Delia, let’s go.”
“Get your money-grubbing paws off my sister, or else explain yourself to the police!” the baron dared to shout. “You should be in prison from all I hear.”
“I suggest keeping your voice down, Lord Wychwright,” Charles warned him.
“I suppose you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Let you keep your dirty little secrets and ungentlemanly behaviour quiet? You’re the one’s gotten her into this mess in this first place. If it turns out she’s in trouble, then it’s your fault!”
“Will, please, stop! You’re making an awful mistake,” the girl pleaded, weeping.
“Am I? The only mistake I’m making is tolerating this bounder for even a moment. Why do you defend him, Delia? He’s made you little better than a whore, and I wish you weren’t my sister,” he seethed. “In fact, it’s probably because of your wanton behaviour that Father is dead!”
“That is enough!” Charles shouted, placing himself twixt Cordelia and her brother. “Wychwright, you will apologise to this woman immediately, or else you can explain it to me outside.”
“How dare you, sir!” the army captain spat back angrily, his eyes boring into Sinclair’s as he stepped closer. “After what you did to my sister, Wendaway, it’s a wonder you dare show your face amongst decent men. Outside works very well with me, sir. Very well indeed. Name the place and time!”
“William, you’ve no idea whom you’re addressing!” cried Delia.
“Don’t I? Sir Albert Wendaway, of course. The parasitic paramour that’s taken advantage of your womanly generosity. That much is clear by the way he defends you!”
“I am not Wendaway, Lord Wychwright, and I suggest you lower your voice before I lower it for you,” Sinclair ordered, now nose to nose with the lower-ranking peer. “I defend this woman, because she has need of it. And Cordelia is now and always has been a lady. Always. Your harsh accusations speak more of your nature than hers.”
“I’ll show you harshness,” the baron whispered, his eyes narrowing into cruel slits. Despite being three inches shorter than Sinclair, William Wychwright clearly thought himself the bigger man.
Charles’s right hand clenched, itching to connect with the man’s face, but he counted to three before replying in a calm whisper. “I suggest you compose yourself, Baron, before you make too great a meal on that enormous foot inside your elitist mouth.”
“How dare you speak to me in such a way!” Wychwright shouted. “Do you have any idea who I am? Of what I’m capable? I’d be pleased to teach you the same lesson many a raw recruit learns on his first day in Egypt, sir! I say again: name the time and place, and I shall make good on that promise!”
Charles smiled, and it was that cold, confident smile that finally sent a chill down the baron’s spine. “That would be a deadly mistake, Baron. You’ve no idea of what I am capable. If you wish to test your assumptions, then I’d be pleased to offer a lesson of my own. Right now.”
“Oh, I see you’ve met,” came a sensible voice to the back of the tense confrontation. “Charles, Elizabeth is asking for you.”
Cordelia Wychwright had paled to the colour of writing paper and looked as though she might collapse. “Paul, please, take me into the garden.”
Delia’s brother had fallen completely mute. The revelation that the influential Scottish earl had called this presumed bounder ‘Charles’ had set the army captain to thinking.
“I say, Aubrey, is this fellow a friend of yours? If so, I may have gotten the wrong end of the stick.”
“I’d assumed you two met at the church, William,” the earl answered with disarming friendliness. “Allow me to introduce you to Commissioner Charles Sinclair, 1st Duke of Haimsbury. Charles is my first cousin and recently married Elizabeth.”
“Duke? Oh. Well, I mean...” Wychwright blustered, doing his best to appear unfazed. “I pray you’ll forgive the presumption, Haimsbury. I’ve clearly misunderstood completely. You see, I’d been speaking with my sister about this Wendaway person, a rakish fellow who’s dogged her steps of late. He’s a man who needs a good thrashing, actually, and I mistakenly assumed you were he, when you came to her defence. Do forgive the blunder.”
“Considering that you’re grieving, Lord Wychwright, I’ll let it pass, this time,” Charles answered, making it clear that the man’s left-handed apology was understood for what it really was: weak and insincere. “Delia, why don’t you come with us? You and Beth can enjoy one another’s company whilst the earl and I discuss a business matter. Paul, is that all right with you?”
“Yes, certainly,” Stuart answered. “I’m sure Delia could use some time off her feet. You’re looking pale again,” he whispered to her. “Beth’s in the conservatory, Charles. Delia can show you the way. I’ll catch up momentarily, and we’ll have that talk.”
The duke left with Lady Cordelia on his arm, but Aubrey remained. Paul waited until he and the insolent army captain were alone before speaking again. Standing toe to toe with the foolish baron, the Scotsman’s cool blue eyes took on a focused expression intense enough to cut the strongest steel.
“Hear me well, Captain. If you ever mistreat your sister again, I will drag your worthless carcass from whatever bed or brothel it’s in and when I’ve finished with it, leave the lifeless remains where no one will ever find it; food for crows. Test me, if you dare, for it would be your last act upon this earth.”
Aubrey allowed a beat to pass before he turned to leave. The baron offered no reply, but once the earl had gone, he smashed his fist into the nearest wall, scraping off skin and leaving bloody marks on the silk paper. As if summoned by magic, a muscular man with long dark hair and ice-blue eyes appeared behind him in the quiet corridor. The stranger used a scarlet handkerchief to wipe the warm blood from the enraged baron’s hand.
“Aubrey can be such a bully,” the newcomer whispered seductively as he tended to the wound.
Suspicious, embarrassed, and growing evermore angry, Wychwright pushed against the tall stranger. “Who the devil are you?”
The handsome man smiled, unruffled by the rebuff. “The right kind of devil, Captain. Only the right kind. Now, let me clean up that blood.”
Chapter Nineteen
Charles Sinclair and Cordelia Wychwright arrived in the conservatory and found it alive with many dozens of boisterous individuals who’d apparently come there for ‘a quiet conversation’. The duchess sat on the far side of the enormous glassed garden, close to a cheerful fireplace, dealing with two very talkative businessmen.
“Forgive me, Cordelia, but do you know either of those men with my wife?” he asked the ingénue.
“They don’t look familiar,” she said, her face pale, eyes listless. She’d taken three doses of laudanum by now and felt rather sleepy. “Am I supposed to call you Duke or Your Grace? I’m a bit confused for some reason, and I can’t seem to think.”
“Call me Charles,” he said sweetly. “Come now, let’s find you a seat. You look ready to fall down.”
He located the last two empty chairs and set them against a relatively quiet spot near a side door. “Wait here and I’ll fetch you a glass of punch,” he said, touching her hands compassionately. In response, Cordelia grasped his fingers, clutching at them as though drowning.
“Please, don’t leave me alone!” she begged the duke. “I’m afraid to be alone.”
Sitting once more, he p
laced his hands round hers, noting their coolness. “That’s a natural reaction, Delia. You’re grieving, and the manner of your father’s death would unsettle anyone. You’ve been through a great deal in the past fortnight.”
She began to cry. “Mother says I must forget about it, but I can’t, Charles. I can’t! I keep reliving it. William is right. I’m ruined. What am I to do?” Weeping without restraint, she let her head drop against his shoulder.
“Delia, will you tell me what Wendaway did to you that night? I want to arrest him, but I need evidence. Allow me to help you, please.”
“I can’t. Don’t ask me! Mother says we must leave him alone, even though he... He...!” The weeping became heavy sobs, and her entire body shook.
Sinclair wondered how to name such a terrible act. Gehlen had sent Charles the full report of the physical findings of Cordelia’s case, and the thigh bruising and vaginal tears were consistent with sexual assault, possibly attempted rape, but her intact hymen indicated the attempt had failed.
“Delia, dear, what happened isn’t your fault. You are an innocent. Did Wendaway try to force you?”
This caused a raging torrent of tears, and she found it impossible to speak, but managed to nod. For Charles, that was enough.
“I’ll take care of it,” he promised. “Sir Albert will face justice. None of this is your fault. None.”
“But I was foolish enough to go with him,” she whispered.
“And Albert was responsible for you, Delia. It was his duty to protect you. Instead, he took advantage of your innocence. He is to blame. Not you.”
She looked up, her eyes swollen and red. “What if someone else is to blame?”
“What do you mean?”
“Perhaps, someone who coerced him.”
“Coerced?”
“Yes, prompted him to do that to me. Paid him, I mean. The same person who may even be behind Father’s murder,” she continued, trembling all over. “Oh, it’s the worst sort of nightmare! Surely, she didn’t. She couldn’t!”
Realms of Fire Page 19