The wind shifted, pulling strands of red silken hair across her cheek. He could not help but brush them back, his touch lingering on her skin, but something about the breeze gave him pause. He stopped and inhaled. His throat closed tight as the sticky sweet stench of offal flowed over him like sludge. Miranda winced as his hand convulsively clenched on her upper arm.
Clouds scuttled over the moon and then away. Just beyond his bride he saw it, the distorted line of a man sprawled upon the ground, unmoving as dry leaves rustled over him. Miranda read Archer too well and turned to the sight as if called. A scream welled up in her and died as she saw what he did—polished opera slippers tilting drunkenly on the path, thin legs encased in fine trousers, a black stain spread like an oil slick over a white waistcoat, and the throat of Lord Marcus Cheltenham laid open to the night. Archer pulled Miranda hard against his chest, tucking her head into his shoulder as he closed his eyes. But nothing would erase the sight of his friend’s bone-white face, blood pouring from his mouth, and the golden shine of a West Moon Club coin resting gently over one eye.
Chapter Eleven
The bookstore was, as the sign said, closed for lunch. Miranda knocked anyway, rapping her knuckles rather hard upon the scarred green door. Eventually, Archer had needed to go out and visit his man of business. Miranda had acted, absconding with the coach and fleeing as soon as Archer was out of sight. Not a very courageous course, but necessary. Her fingers tightened around the coin in her pocket. She had to understand this. And she feared asking Archer.
Poppy answered on the third knock, her quizzical eyes going from Miranda to the waiting town coach on the road behind. “Well, you’ve managed to arrive at lunch,” Poppy said. A fiery red brow slanted. “I don’t suppose you’d like to partake of the common man’s food?”
“Oh, do shut up, Poppy.” Miranda bit back a smile. “Or I’ll have to bring up your secret yearning for blue satin knickers.”
A brilliant pink flush clashed with Poppy’s copper hair. “You and Daisy with your stolen bottle of port. I was sick for a week.” Her stern expression broke, and she gave Miranda a rare smile. “Come in then, Jezebel.”
“Hello to you, too.” Miranda kissed her proffered cheek.
They did not go up to Poppy’s flat but into the bookstore, which was really her true home. Eight years older than Miranda, Poppy had married young, when Father was flush with funds and inclined to generosity. Thus she had received a nice dowry upon marriage to her poor but quick-minded love, Winston Lane. The first thing the newlyweds had done was purchase the bookshop. When Winston turned to police work, Poppy took over the running of the shop, and it soon became her consuming passion.
They moved farther into the cool, dark place, past rows of crowded mahogany shelves. The smell of book mold mingled with the pleasant scent of beeswax and orange oil. A long, glass-topped mahogany counter sat at the far end of the store, near enough to the windows to get a modicum of light. On top of it sat a small lunch upon brown paper.
“Sit,” Poppy ordered, pointing to a stool. She went round the counter and pulled out two white cups adorned with blue flowers. Matching saucers and plates followed. While she set about slicing the brown bread, Miranda lifted her cup to inspect it. Royal Copenhagen. Mother’s china. Or what was left. Vaguely, she remembered Poppy stealing out of the house with a large box of undetermined items one summer day, not long after Father had begun selling off the housewares. It warmed Miranda’s heart to see the set.
“I’ve a few more of them,” Poppy said while putting slices of brawn and boiled eggs onto a plate. Her brown eyes glanced up. “You may have a set if you wish. I hadn’t thought to get you a wedding present.”
“No.” Miranda set her cup down so that Poppy could fill it with tea. “I’m glad you have them.”
A pang of nostalgia tightened her breast as she sat hunched over the counter sipping plain tea from Mother’s old china cup. Miranda had missed Poppy, more than she’d let herself acknowledge. Missed Daisy too, come to that.
As if summoned, the front bell jangled. Their heads snapped up in unison just as Daisy’s familiar voice rang out. “You forgot to lock your door, pet!”
“More’s the pity,” Poppy murmured as Daisy strolled in looking resplendent in pink satin and crimson bows.
“Miranda, Panda! That cannot be you!” Daisy’s sky-blue eyes lifted at the corners as she glided across the room to embrace Miranda.
Her soft cheeks brushed Miranda’s, the familiar scent of rosemary blended with jasmine enveloping Miranda like a hug. Daisy stepped back and lifted Miranda’s arms to inspect Miranda’s sleek new day dress of Prussian blue taffeta. “Surely this is not the plain Jane I knew, nor the be-ruffled peony Father packed off nearly two weeks ago.”
“Oh stop,” Miranda said with a laugh and broke free of her grip.
“Come for lunch?” Poppy asked. Her brows slanted ominously.
Daisy gave her a quick kiss on the cheek before glancing at the offering upon the counter. “Er, no.” Her little nose wrinkled. “Minding my figure, pet.” She swept back her undulating train and lowered herself onto a stool with a little plop. “You know what they say. While a man appreciates a feast, too much bounty and he might lose his appetite.” Her hand smoothed over the ample swell of her breast. “I’d prefer a man to be hungry when he eats.”
Poppy groaned, but Miranda laughed. “I’ve missed that foul tongue of yours,” she said.
Daisy stuck her tongue out, and Poppy cracked a small smile. “Why are you here, dearest? Not that I don’t enjoy your company”—her mouth twitched—“only I profess the timing rather coincidental.”
Daisy pulled off her silk gloves. “You found me out. I am spying on you.” She rolled her eyes. “I was driving by and saw Miranda’s coach. Lovely conveyance, by the way, pet. I am insanely jealous. So I ordered the driver to stop. Besides, it keeps me from returning to Craggy, now doesn’t it.”
Daisy’s husband, Mr. Cyril Craigmore, besides being three times Daisy’s age, was a bore and had the face of a cragged mountainside—hence “Craggy.” That Daisy had found the man revolting meant little to Father when Craigmore had come calling. As Father was newly ruined, Craigmore’s wealth held a particular place of import; his seat in the House of Commons had not hurt either. It was only when Craigmore flat-out refused to pass even a farthing in Father’s direction that his opinion of Craigmore turned.
“Now then,” Daisy said and brushed an errant curl from her brow, “what of your lord and husband? How do you find being married to ‘the Bloody Baron, the Dread Lord Archer’? Hasn’t murdered you in your sleep, I’ll give him that.”
Daisy’s humor subsided as she caught Miranda’s eye. “Oh, pet, I was only having you on.” She leaned forward, touching Miranda’s knee. “Well, of course, he isn’t a killer. I knew that right off.”
Poppy did not look as certain but held her tongue.
Miranda pushed away her cup. “And how can you be so sure?” Her voice had gone thick. How close she was to crying.
Daisy cocked her head as she studied Miranda. “Because you didn’t go running off into the night, or reduce him to a smoldering pile of ash.” The small curl at her brow proved persistent. It fell back against Daisy’s cheek, and she batted it away again. “One thing you are not is meek, my angel.”
Miranda uttered an unladylike snort. “For all you knew, he might have slaughtered me in my bed that first night, and my poor body was currently drifting down the Thames.”
Daisy’s answering laugh was the tinkling of bells. “But either way, we’d know what he was about, now wouldn’t we?”
Miranda had to laugh. “You’re a beast.”
“If you need assurance, you could always show him just how capable you are of defending yourself,” Daisy offered without quite looking at her.
“No!” Miranda’s shout bounced over the quiet store. She took a deep breath. “He will never know about that. Nor will I use it upon him.” She might have considere
d it before, but not now.
“No, of course not,” murmured Daisy. “I should not have asked.”
Heat washed over Miranda, centering on her damp palms. Her sisters pointedly studied their teacups as Miranda fought the swell of panic rising within her. All of their lives had changed because of Miranda’s oddity, and not for the better. She tucked her hands against her skirts as if hiding away a lethal weapon. She had only just learned to keep the fire under control. It would not get out again. It could not. I cannot hurt Archer that way.
She realized she had spoken aloud when Poppy looked at her thoughtfully. “Then he is kind to you?”
Miranda forced her hands open, thought of cool things, calm things. “I have no complaints in that regard.”
Daisy leaned in. “Enough dreary thoughts of death and violence.” Her blue eyes went catlike. “Let us get to the heart of the matter. Have you any complaints in regards to the bedroom?”
Poppy snorted in disgust as Miranda licked her lips and wished for more tea.
Daisy grinned saucily. “To be sure, the mask is rather… unsettling, but I must say, the body is”—her light voice dipped to a low purr—“stirring. All broad shouldered and trim of waist.” Her voluptuous curves wriggled a bit on the seat. “And tall enough to overpower a lady with ease.”
“Daisy,” Poppy warned sharply.
Daisy went on with a Cheshire cat grin. “Admit it. Lord Archer cuts quite a delicious figure. I’d overlook the mask to ride such a body. How very wicked to bed a masked man.”
“Oh good God, Daisy Margaret!”
Daisy ignored Poppy. “Well, then? Am I wrong?”
Miranda smoothed a pleat on her flounce. M. Falle was really quite good with pleating. Perhaps she’d ask for a bit more on the next dress.
“Miranda…” Daisy’s stare would not relent.
“Leave her alone. Not everyone is interested in intercourse.”
“Even you don’t believe that, pet.”
Poppy flushed and she glanced at Miranda. The clatter of coach traffic on Oxford Street drifted in from outside as Miranda perspired under the harsh glare of their expectant looks.
“Our arrangement is not of that sort,” Miranda finally admitted.
Daisy’s mouth hung open prettily. “Not of that sort?” she parroted. “Forgive me, dear sister, but when a man who is as rich as sin and a baron marries a girl without position or fortune, the only sort of arrangement he could possibly desire is for a nightly tup with his beautiful young wife.”
Poppy, for once, looked as if she agreed with Daisy.
“I read to him,” Miranda lied in desperation, her cheeks hotter than oven-fresh bread.
Daisy snorted. “Read to him. The very idea. Has he not come to your bed?” she asked as though making a joke.
“No,” Miranda snapped rather loudly. She hadn’t expected the truth to be so humiliating. “He deposits me at my bedroom door every night and then goes off on his own. Perhaps he takes his needs elsewhere. I really couldn’t say.”
“That, my dear,” Daisy said, “is a ton marriage. Be thankful for it.”
No, that was loneliness, Miranda thought despondently.
They were silent for a moment, and then Poppy turned to her lunch. As if waiting for that signal, Daisy and Miranda did the same, Daisy delicately sipping tea and Miranda trying to force down a sandwich her stomach no longer wanted.
“Is Winston coming home for lunch?” Miranda asked to fill the awkward silence.
“Not today.” Poppy took a large bite of her sandwich and chewed industriously. “The whole department is focused on…” A flush touched her white cheeks. The promotion to C.I.D. had been a crowning achievement for Winston and a source of pride for Poppy. No doubt, Winston leading a high-profile investigation was another triumph.
Miranda set her sandwich down. “Is that why you did not want me here? Did you think the neighbors might see the dreaded Lord Archer’s coach outside and inform Winston?”
Poppy’s red brows drew together to form a straight line. “If you think I fear my husband then you don’t know me at all.” Her eyes pinned Miranda to the spot, a rather motherly trick that Miranda had loathed throughout childhood.
Miranda looked away. “I am sorry, Pop. I don’t know why… I’m just so… Archer is… he cannot be the murderer. But he is involved.” She pulled the coin from her pocket and held it out. “I need your help.”
Unfortunately, revelations did not spring forth as Miranda had hoped. West Moon Club was not on any official club register listed. It did not surface in old newspaper articles, history of London books, or any of the other literature that Poppy pulled down from her shelves. Nor was there a West Club, or a Club Moon, for that matter. Checking for old stories or accounts of the two victims did not help. The men in question had lived staid lives as far as society knew. Near the end of the day, all they had to show for their efforts were mountains of books and papers teetering precariously over the entire surface of Poppy’s counter.
“Well, I am done in,” Daisy finally exclaimed with a fleeting scowl.
Poppy sat back, her rail-thin shoulders bunched and determined beneath her cotton blouse. “I’ll have to give this some more thought.” She stared in a glazed manner at the books before her.
“I do believe an outside investigation is called for,” Miranda said.
Poppy’s eyes cut back to Miranda like a scythe. “Absolutely not.”
“I’m perfectly capable…”
“You are,” Poppy interjected, “Lady Archer, society’s newest curiosity. You would be instantly recognized.”
“I can disguise myself!”
Poppy looked pointedly at Miranda’s face before raising one red brow. “Try again.”
Miranda could only come up with a baleful glare.
Of which Poppy was immune. “If you are recognized, you would heap scandal and suspicion upon Lord Archer’s already overburdened shoulders.”
“That is true, pet.” Daisy nodded. “It will only add oil to the fire.”
Miranda’s back teeth met with a click. She would not risk Archer’s name to further scandal, no. But she had more confidence in her ability to disguise herself than Poppy and Daisy did.
Poppy smiled and briskly patted her knee. “There. Now that we have that settled, it is time for you to leave. It is nearly supper—or tea time for you lot, I suppose.”
They glanced at the windows. The light outside had faded to dark gray, and the lamplighter had come out, his long pole bouncing on his shoulder as he made his way from streetlamp to streetlamp. He stopped by the window, and a muted halo of light illuminated the panes.
“Blast,” Miranda muttered, tidying her pile of papers into a neater stack. “I’ve got to go before Archer begins to wonder.”
Poppy’s lips twitched. “Worries over you, now does he?”
She continued to sort the pile. “I don’t know if he worries…”
“He ought to. You’re incorrigible.”
“Or course she is,” Daisy said as she smoothed her skirts. “I taught her everything I know.”
“Hopefully not everything. Leave the papers, dears. I’ll sort them out later.”
Poppy duly kissed their cheeks as they parted by the door. “Stay safe.”
Something burned inside of Miranda, irritation, dread. She didn’t know anymore. “He cannot be a murderer.”
“You said that before,” Poppy murmured. “Is it what you believe, or what you hope?”
Chapter Twelve
Having confined all aspects of espionage to skulking behind closed doors or hiding in small spaces, Miranda was uncertain how easy it would be to track Archer as he set out for town the next day. As it turned out, it was quite simple.
A man of uncommon height and breadth of shoulders wearing a black carnival mask while riding astride a gray gelding was not a sight one overlooked. John Coachman—who participated because he had no choice in the matter but wore an exceedingly sullen expression w
hen Miranda told him of her plan—needed only to follow the trail of stunned onlookers like the proverbial breadcrumbs in the forest. Soon they were only four coach lengths behind him. Impatient, she craned her neck, putting her head as far out the window as she dared. Archer’s head remained high and forward, his seat light and trained. He cut through the traffic, seeming oblivious of the commotion he caused. Miranda’s chest tightened, watching him so. He had too keen an eye not to see the rudely gawking halfwits who hadn’t the decency to let him pass in peace.
Unfortunately London traffic got the better of them on Piccadilly, and the crush of omnibuses, carts, and carriages soon swallowed him whole.
“Blast.” She punched the seat and sat back in a huff as the coach creaked to a halt.
From the window came a plaintive bleat as a flock of sheep waddled by, leaving behind the acrid stench of urine and lanolin. She muttered again, expecting a cow to poke its wet nose through the window at any moment.
John Coachman’s blond head peeked in as he opened the box. “S’all right, milady. He’s gone to the British Museum, I’m sure of it.”
Miranda perked up. “How can you be sure?”
His brown eyes crinkled. “He’s been going there every Wednesday since as long as he’s been here in London.”
“Every…” She ground her teeth to keep from shouting. “Then why didn’t you simply tell me that when I endeavored to follow Lord Archer?”
The earnestness of his expression was genuine. “But my lady, you only asked me to follow Lord Archer, not tell you his habits.” The traffic around them moved, and John’s head snapped up. “Here we go, then,” he said quickly and then closed the box. The coach gave a lurch and went off at a nice clip.
Her ire died down as they pulled up before the British Museum. She bade John to wait and entered the cool quiet of the stately neoclassical front building. A guide took her mantle and informed her that extraordinary exhibits were currently being held in galleries one and two. Having never been inside, Miranda hadn’t realized the sheer size of the place. She despaired of finding Archer. Unfortunately, her quiet word of inquiry to the stout guide yielded nothing more than a raised shaggy, white brow.
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