Fall From Lace

by Emily Claire

  The dimple at the corner of his mouth deepened. She wished he were just a shade uglier.

  She stood and brushed out her skirts. A stray lock of mousy hair tumbled over her eyes, and she brushed it aside with an irritated sigh. If only she had gone to Isabella’s room for a hairpin like she’d intended, she’d have the dual advantage of tidy hair and a degree of self-respect.

  “Must you leave so soon?”

  “I’ve been caught,” she said, holding out her hands. “What impetus have I to stay?”

  “You might share the details of your investigation,” he said, sitting up straighter. “I’m as invested in this mystery as you, particularly with the question of my guilt on the table, and it’s damned inconvenient to be laid up in bed most hours of the day and unable to carry out many inquiries myself.”

  “Have you carried out inquiries?”

  “Only a few, and very half-heartedly,” he said. “I’ve begun to suspect the butler wasn’t as fond of the curate as everyone else. You might look into him.”

  A log in the fire popped. Lydia started.

  “Do you expect to be missed?” he asked.

  “Soon,” she said. “I only ran upstairs to fix my hair.”

  He gestured to her to come closer. She raised an eyebrow.

  “I don’t intend to seduce you, if that’s what you’re thinking, but I can fix your hair for you, if you like. I have two sisters,” he added, at her skeptical look. “As well as a girl cousin who spent summers at our estate and had devilish thick hair always falling out of its ribbons.”

  “It’s not your skill I doubt,” she said, though this was only a partial truth. “I primarily question the decency of approaching a man’s bed.”

  “That’s the benefit we must take from my predicament,” he said. “Charming as you are, I haven’t the strength to accost you even should I wish to. Allow me to fix your hair while we talk, and you can go back downstairs in good time with no one any the wiser.”

  Cautiously, Lydia approached Mr. Pemberton as he shifted himself toward the edge of the mattress, his legs blessedly still covered with the crimson blanket. She perched on the very edge of the coverlet, angled toward him, her back and shoulders tense.

  “I haven’t enough pins,” she said.

  He reached toward her. He was more clothed than she had first imagined, but that did little to soothe the sudden bubbling sensation in her stomach. His fingertips brushed ever so gently against her forehead as he guided the loose strand up and away from her face.

  Lydia swallowed, which did nothing to dislodge the lump in her throat.

  “I won’t need many,” he said. “Careful application of tools can compensate for their lack of abundance.”

  He turned her more directly away from him with the lightest touch to her shoulders. His fingers pressed along her scalp, searching for pins. Lydia held her breath and stared across the room at the glass on the dressing table, not daring to fidget, glad that the glass was angled so that she could not see her own reflection. He dislodged one of the pins holding her hair in place, then another, and then he expertly twisted the loose strands together and fastened them.

  “As I was saying, I think the butler is hiding something,” he said, his tone as conversational as if they were in a parlor and not huddled together in the dangerous privacy of his bedchamber. “His expression when he speaks of the curate is singular.”

  “I’ve already spoken several times with Mr. Cooper on the subject,” she said. “He didn’t like the curate at all, and he bloodied Mr. Stewart’s nose not long before he was murdered.”

  Mr. Pemberton’s fingers stilled against her hair.

  She had surprised him. Good.

  “The butler gave Stewart a bloody nose?”

  “So he claims. If we’re to trust his account, the curate was stealing funds from the girls’ asylum he claimed to be so invested in.”

  Mr. Pemberton barked out a laugh, a soft but brutal sound that raised gooseflesh on the back of Lydia’s neck—or was the feeling of his fingertips twisting another strand of her hair?

  “I can’t say it surprises me,” Mr. Pemberton said.

  She waited for him to explain, and the long moment filled up with the sensation of her hair being tugged and arranged around the knot at the crown of her head. It was impossible to verify what he was doing, but his hands moved with surprising confidence.

  “As I might perhaps be on my deathbed, I may as well admit to you the truth of my own conversations with the curate,” he said at last. “You know I was recently accused of arguing with him.”

  “He called you to account for your gambling,” Lydia said.

  What was she doing, alone in the bedroom of not only a single young man but a known gambler? This murder had relieved her of her wits.

  “I lied,” he said.

  She twisted to face him. “Why?”

  “Our real discussion ran quite to the contrary.” He gently turned her head back to its original position and resumed his work. “I had intended to keep it to myself so as not to mar the gentleman’s spotless reputation. It seemed poor sport to speak ill of a man not here to defend himself.”

  “Mr. Cooper had no such reservations, and you shouldn’t, either,” Lydia said. Diana had soiled any good opinion she might have once had of the man. Now she felt starved for information on his true character.

  “The truth of the matter is that he owed me money,” Mr. Pemberton said.

  “I thought you scarcely knew him.”

  “We met in Brighton last summer,” he said. “I wouldn’t go so far as to call us friends, but we traveled in some of the same circles and found ourselves at the same gaming tables more than once. He was remarkably fond of cards for a newly ordained clergyman. At one point, he asked to borrow a not inconsiderable sum, and I obliged. He soon thereafter left town, neglecting to pay his debts. When I discovered him installed in Lanceton, I naturally approached him regarding our unfinished business.”

  Lydia’s stomach churned. A scoundrel and a thief twice over, and now with a gambling habit on top of it. How had she been so foolish? Had Mr. Stewart’s handsome face and kindness to her family blinded her so completely that she had missed every sign of his weak nature?

  “So you argued,” she said.

  “At some length. He insisted he would repay me but that he didn’t have the funds at that time. I pressed him, and he claimed he had given all his worldly goods to the establishment of the girls’ asylum. In truth, I suspect I wasn’t the only one he owed, and that other debts were more pressing.”

  “Gambling debts, you mean.”

  “Given his recklessness, yes,” he said, a degree of contempt coloring his words.

  “Do you think he might have been in debt to Sir Charles?”

  Mr. Pemberton was pensive for a moment. His fingers left her hair.

  “I’m finished,” he said. “No, Sir Charles doesn’t gamble and prefers to spend his money on wine and sometimes art. If Stewart owed anyone of our mutual acquaintance, I daresay Mr. Buxton is the most likely. He plays at cards now and again, although he’s far more responsible with his funds than the curate.”

  Lydia turned around to face Mr. Pemberton. She ought to retreat back to the chair, or perhaps away from the room entirely, but she didn’t leave her delicate perch at the edge of his bed.

  He had told her he thought her intelligent and capable of investigating the curate’s murder, but it hadn’t occurred to her until this moment that he had meant it. Mr. Pemberton didn’t seem like the kind of man who would view her with respect, as an intellectual equal, so perhaps she hadn’t recognized his consideration when he had first given it.

  It wouldn’t have been her first misjudgment of character, that was for certain.

  “I regret how well I regarded him,” Lydia admitted quietly. “Such accounts as I’ve heard of the gentleman these past few days make me distrust my own senses.”

  Mr. Pemberton frowned. “Stealing from the charity was
wrong, I acknowledge, but better men than he have made foolish choices when faced with financial hardship. Not every man can retain his self-control at a card table. It doesn’t reflect on his character as a whole.”

  Lydia shook her head a little and searched Mr. Pemberton’s pale face. It was pensive, his teasing and wit from before consumed by the seriousness of their conversation.

  Did she dare trust him?

  Did she dare not?

  “It’s neither the theft nor the gambling that troubles me most,” she said. “I daren’t say much, but Diana confided to me that his treatment of her was abominable.”

  His eyebrows shot upwards. She had surprised him again.

  “You mustn’t say anything about it,” she urged him. “Diana wouldn’t like it known.”

  “Of course,” he said quickly. “Have you…” He pressed his lips together, weighing his words. “Have you considered whether Miss Diana might have taken matters into her own hands? A knitting needle is an odd tool for a murder, and she’s known to be skilled at her needlework. As are you, Miss Shrewsbury,” he added archly.

  She should have known he couldn’t be serious for long. She gave him a scathing look. “Diana can’t have done it,” she said. “She wouldn’t have had the strength, physically or mentally. Mr. Buxton, on the other hand, may have more motive than I first suspected. If Mr. Stewart owed him money—”

  “Leave Buxton to me,” Mr. Pemberton said. “He and I have gotten tolerably well acquainted these past weeks. He may confide things to me with a little prompting.”

  She nodded. “What of Lady Huntington? Do you think she could have committed the crime? Mr. Cooper suspects her. She would have good reason to harm him if she knew of the embezzlement and equally good reason to silence him if she had gotten involved.”

  “You think she might have stolen money?” His eyes widened.

  “I don’t know,” Lydia said quickly, twisting her hands in her lap. “I don’t dare discount anything.”

  “Not even me as the murderer?” he asked, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

  She couldn’t stop herself from smiling. “Not even you,” she said. “I still think you’re the most likely of them all.”

  He laughed. Somehow, her cheek delighted him, and she couldn’t make heads or tails of it. Lydia’s cheek had never charmed anybody before. Indeed, she had never given anyone cheek before, except for maybe Freddie, who, as a doting older brother, was inclined to be pleased with everything she did.

  “If she’s not involved, Lady Huntington would have more cause than anyone to be angry with him,” Mr. Pemberton said, the light in his eyes fading. “If she is the killer, we’d better figure it out soon. She returns home on Monday.”

  Lydia sat up straighter. “That’s two days away!”

  “Which gives us two days to study her behavior.” He reached out and grasped her hand, then looked down, as if surprised he’d done it.

  Lydia, equally surprised, didn’t pull away.

  “Be careful, Miss Shrewsbury,” he said. “I find your safety is becoming increasingly important to me.”

  Heat flooded her face. She pulled her hand abruptly from his and stood.

  “I intend to search Lady Huntington’s chambers next,” she said. “If I turn up murdered tomorrow, you can rest assured she’s the guilty party.”

  He opened his mouth, then, all at once, realized she was joking. A warm smile crossed his face, and she returned it with one of her own.

  On the heels of the smile, a realization struck her. A week ago, she could scarcely tolerate a meal with strangers and hadn’t held—or even caught—Mr. Stewart’s attention despite him living at the vicarage and seeing her every day. Now, the interesting, influential, and wealthy Mr. Pemberton had decided to befriend her.

  It didn’t make sense, but then, had anything of late?

  “You may wish to examine your hair in the mirror,” Mr. Pemberton said, nodding toward the dressing table. “It’s been some time, and I’m out of practice.”

  She crossed the room and surveyed her reflection. Her hair looked lovely, tamed into a mass of loops far prettier than anything she’d ever managed herself.

  She resolved not to tell him as much. His self-regard didn’t need the help.

  “It’s acceptable,” she said. “Particularly for being a gentleman’s handiwork.”

  His answering grin seemed far too pleased by even this lukewarm praise, and she felt immediately glad she hadn’t given him more. She curtsied, a formal gesture entirely at odds with the strange intimacy of the moment before, and escaped the room.

  Footsteps sounded at the foot of the stairs. Hastily, she flitted down the corridor and managed to be walking away from Isabella’s room before Lady Huntington’s maid reached the top of the stairs.

  21

  “I need not tell you the strain this entire affair has put upon my nerves,” Lady Wycliffe said. “I can scarcely walk past the sitting room without a shudder running clear through me, and I cannot bear the color yellow.”

  Isabella sighed and caught Lydia’s eye from across the sofa where they both sat, their hands in their laps. Isabella had positively wilted from the boredom of listening to her mother ramble, like a plant long deprived of water or sunlight. Across the room, Caroline patted her lap, inviting one of Isabella’s small dogs to sit, and Diana and Justina quietly played a card game by the fire. They all seemed determined to avoid encouraging Lady Wycliffe, who had been opining for a quarter of an hour on the dreadfulness of the various murders and poisonings the house had seen. While Lydia didn’t exactly disagree with the lady, she was privately starting to think Lady Wycliffe was enjoying her role as a starring actress at the center of this melodrama.

  Lady Huntington took care to murmur and nod at all the right places, but the tightness of her eyebrows suggested to Lydia that she was as ready as the rest of them for a change in conversation.

  “I’ve felt nothing but comfortable in spite of all the trouble,” Caroline said at the first break in Lady Wycliffe’s soliloquy. “Your home still offers the greatest hospitality, Lady Wycliffe.”

  “That’s kind of you to say, dear,” Lady Wycliffe said. “Indeed, after such trouble as we have seen, it’s gracious of you to be here at all. Such danger you ladies take upon yourselves!”

  “You do seem like the best of friends, all of you,” Lady Huntington said, eagerly steering the conversation away from a return to Lady Wycliffe’s woes. “One gets the impression you’ve known one another all your lives. Though I do not believe that to be the case, for I have little recollection of any of you as children. How did you all meet, Isabella?”

  Isabella revived. “Most of us have been acquainted since girlhood, Aunt, but it’s no wonder you don’t recall. It’s only in the past few years that we’ve become such dear companions.”

  “It’s entirely Isabella’s doing,” Caroline said, with a fond nod toward that young woman. “She gathered us together a few years back and started our little sewing circle. I believe we’ve scarcely gone a week without seeing one another since.”

  Isabella gave a wicked smile. “It had become clear to me that we all needed allies in the war of society as four spinsters. Or, rather, three spinsters and one widow. As much as we unmarried ladies need a shield from the ‘oh, poor dears’ and ‘you’re not getting any youngers,’ I daresay our Mrs. Audley requires just as much protection.”

  “Perhaps more,” Justina said, setting down a few of her cards. “The sympathy heaped upon widows often reflects more generosity of spirit than of judgment.”

  Lady Wycliffe cleared her throat. “A spirit of sisterhood is well worth encouraging, but I don’t see why you need to make such a fuss over your unmarried state, Isabella, dear.”

  “Why should I not?” Isabella asked. “Everybody else seems to take great interest.”

  “I’m certain people only wish you the happiness of the married state,” Lady Huntington said. “There are few joys quite so complete as t
he domestic tranquility of being with one’s husband and children.”

  Lydia bit her lip, deciding not to point out that Lady Huntington had willingly just spent a fortnight away from her own home and hearth.

  “I cannot say I would reject domestic happiness if it offered itself,” Caroline said with a smile. “And yet wishing for a thing does not make it so.”

  “I must express astonishment that no man has ever submitted himself for your consideration,” Lady Huntington said. “You’re such a pretty thing. Though I suppose not every man would be willing to take a Mulatto as a wife. Perhaps you would find better fortunes back home in Jamaica?”

  Lydia winced, but Caroline only smiled, her expression a mask of composure.

  “England is the only home I have ever known, Lady Huntington,” she said. “Besides, I don’t need every man to be willing to marry me, just one. If he’s the right husband for me, he’ll be glad to have me regardless of the differences in our family backgrounds.”

  “Well said,” Lydia said, startling herself. “Diana, I find myself longing for some music. Would you play for us?”

  Diana looked up from her card game with a smile. “Of course, if you wish it. What would you like to hear?”

  “That charming piece by Mr. Haydn you’ve been learning, if you please,” Lydia said. “After that, whatever you like.”

  Diana floated across the room and settled herself at the pianoforte. The lilting but vaguely hymn-like notes of the sonata filled the room. Lydia caught Isabella’s eye, then glanced toward Lady Huntington, and Isabella stood.

  “Poor Justina is all alone at her cards now,” Isabella said. “Caroline, Mama, will you make up a whist table with me?”

  “I couldn’t possibly,” Lady Wycliffe said, waving a hand. “If anyone ought to play, it’s my sister. We all know how fond I am of whist, but a good hostess puts her guests’ interests first, remember that.”

  Lady Huntington smiled. “You’re too considerate, Lavinia. I couldn’t possibly play right now. I was just about to pick up my knitting. I expect Susan to be confined any day now, and I vowed to make a whole host of bonnets for my newest grandchild before the birth.” She leaned over and rummaged through the bag near her feet.