Wouldn't It Be Deadly

by D. E. Ireland

  A new bowler from Eton stepped up, cheeks reddened from the sun, and delivered a spectacular ball. The ball bounced once and knocked down a wicket before the batsman could make any contact. Loud cheers rose above the crowd. Higgins let out a cheer of his own. The boy accepted his teammates’ congratulatory cuffs on the shoulder with a wide grin. As he watched the strapping young Etonian, Higgins swelled with pride. Good man, good play. His mother would be proud.

  “They’re all growing up so fast,” he murmured.

  Higgins continued to watch the match for at least fifteen minutes, aware that Lady Helen had noted his arrival. She slowly made her way along the sidelines, heading toward the trees that divided the playing fields. He followed ten minutes later. Careful to remain discreet, he ducked under the low-hanging branches. Higgins circled the area to allow her to catch up with him. When they met up, they didn’t exchange a word but only walked together in silence.

  Several Eton boys passed by, complaining about their various beaks and chiding each for having to sign the Tardy Book this past month.

  “I say, let’s go watch the wet bobs on Sunday,” the shortest one said. “We’ve nothing else to do.”

  “They can row to kingdom come for all I care.”

  “Beg pardon, sir. Didn’t see you walkin’ there,” the tallest student said as he dodged Lady Helen.

  “Have a care where you step, young man,” Higgins said. “And it’s walking, not walkinn. Practice correct diction and the world will be at your beck and call.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As the boys hurried off, Lady Helen smiled at him. She looked radiant in a rose dress set off by a wide lace collar and pearls. “Must you always play professor, Henry?”

  “I’m hardly playing at it. I am a professor.”

  She laughed, which made her hat’s ridiculous swan wings bob. “I think you’re still irritated Oxford didn’t create a chair for you.”

  “By George, the last thing I want to waste my time on is reading dryasdust papers written by students who have trouble diagramming a compound sentence.”

  “I suppose you’re even less interested in acting as Master of Literature here. Would it really be so bad to join the college faculty? You’ve always said your finest memories took place at Eton.”

  “Only in the cricket fields, not the classroom.” Higgins shook his head. “I would never fit in as a professor at Eton. The students would hang me from Lupton’s Tower in the space of a week. I’m too demanding when it comes to teaching phonetics. Only paying pupils are willing to tolerate such draconian treatment from a martinet like me.”

  “Martinet? You’ve a heart of gold.”

  “I believe you’ve forgotten all the tears you shed over our own elocution lessons.”

  Actually, he doubted either of them would forget that they met soon after she arrived in England as the fiancée of the Duke of Waterbury. Helen was yet another lively American millionairess about to marry an English lord. But unlike the Astor and Vanderbilt heiresses, this pretty American had an appalling Bostonian accent.

  The Duke hired Higgins to eradicate Helen’s dreadful flatness of vowels and the lack of the ‘r’ consonant. The entire ducal family—along with Higgins—cringed whenever she opened her mouth. Although the Marsh family boasted an impressive fortune, their ancestry paled beside those of the Boston Brahmins. The one thing lacking was an English title, which Helen’s mother insisted on securing for her oldest daughter. Only that troubling accent stood in the way of perfection.

  Helen initially agreed with the plan to lose her Boston speech, at least until she met the arrogant young Professor Higgins. They battled for weeks over his teaching methods, but at last he succeeded. In fact, he’d been quite proud of the result—and her. He was also reluctant to see her married.

  She winced. “Don’t remind me about those lessons. But you ought to give yourself more credit, Henry. My husband was so pleased at the result, he paid double your fee.”

  Higgins stiffened at the mention of her husband. “And how is Lord Edward?”

  “Very well, thank you. He’s meeting with the Chancellor of the Exchequer this afternoon. Otherwise he would have been here to watch William play.”

  “Really?” Higgins couldn’t disguise his skepticism. “I don’t believe I have ever seen the Duke at one of these matches.”

  Lady Helen’s smile faded. “I feared that you would not be here, either. With everything going on, I don’t know how you managed to find the time to attend.”

  “I wanted to be here. You know that.”

  She turned to face him. Even in the bright sunlight, Helen looked almost as young and fresh as the girl of twenty-one he’d taught when she first arrived in England. Only a few fine lines around her hazel green eyes hinted that she was now close to forty. “I’m worried about Scotland Yard’s handling of the Hungarian’s murder.”

  “Let’s not talk about that. I came here for cricket, not crime. I haven’t given a single lesson since that scoundrel was found dead. It’s a messy, unpleasant matter. You ought not concern yourself with it.”

  “Of course I must concern myself about it. I’ve been alarmed since I first heard about the murder. I told you it was madness to expose that man in the press. You’ve drawn attention to yourself, Henry.”

  “I don’t want to discuss it.”

  Helen slammed the tip of her silk parasol into the gravel walk. “Well, I do.”

  He’d forgotten how stubborn and unconventional she could be. At this moment, she reminded him of Eliza. Higgins chalked it up to her being a brash American. It was ironic that he had trained two young women to be duchesses, even if Helen was the only one to marry an actual duke. It was even stranger that both ladies had become far too important to him. How had a reasonable man such as himself become so infernally concerned with the welfare of two exasperating females? Sometimes he feared he was a bigger romantic fool than the poetic Major Redstone. But at least he took care to conceal this absurd side to his otherwise sterling character.

  “Right then. What is it you want to discuss?”

  “Don’t take that tone with me. I am hearing ominous things about this police investigation. In my own circle of friends, it’s been a constant topic of conversation, especially because the murdered man was engaged to Lady Gresham.”

  That caught his interest. “What are your friends saying?”

  “Everyone believes Verena was a fool to accept the marriage proposal of that preening bore. His premature death was seen as a blessing, except for the garish fact that it was a murder. But I don’t know if Verena’s reputation can recover from the revelations in the newspapers. The consensus is that she’d best take herself off to the Continent for a year or two until this scandal is forgotten.” She sighed. “As for Verena, she’s complaining to anyone who will listen that she was shamefully deceived by this Nepommuck. Was she?”

  “Helen, she’s a woman of seventy. Verena ought to have hired a detective to investigate him, rather than agreeing to marry the cad so soon after they met. I’m not sorry for exposing Nepommuck. He was a fraud.”

  “But why do most of Verena’s circle believe you were the one who stabbed him?”

  If Lady Helen had heard such gossip from her aristocratic friends, it didn’t bode well. “Because the dreary lords and ladies in her set have as little imagination as the police. I had nothing to do with the murder.”

  “Good grief, have you forgotten I am the one person who knows for a fact that you did not murder him? Why do you think I’m so worried?”

  “There’s no need.” His feigned cheerfulness didn’t seem to reassure Lady Helen. Higgins held out his arm. With a resigned sigh she tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow.

  Just that slight touch was enough to set his blood afire. If only … But it was too late to dwell on the past. Helen Louise Marsh was the fifteenth Duchess of Waterbury now, and he was Henry Higgins, London’s most celebrated professor of phonetics—and a confirmed bachelor. But
only Higgins and Lady Helen knew why he was so averse to marriage. The only woman he had ever wished to marry was another man’s wife. Even in their impulsive youth, both knew that divorce was out of the question for the Duchess. And once her son was born, any foolish dreams of one day being together were dashed.

  Higgins believed duty and responsibility trumped passion. Without it, life would be chaos. At least the Duke of Waterbury was not a malicious fellow. Higgins didn’t think he could tolerate the idea of Helen being tied to a drunken lout or a mean-spirited tyrant. However, the Duke was a cold man, far more interested in politics and gardening than his lovely American wife. Had he been at all attentive to Helen, Higgins doubted they would ever have begun their romance.

  To their credit, they behaved honorably during the months of elocution lessons as Helen prepared for her aristocratic wedding. And while their affection for each other was obvious from the beginning, they never acted upon it. But Higgins never forgot the charming American heiress. How could he? During the first two years of her marriage, she was a society darling. Photographs of the pretty young Duchess of Waterbury appeared almost daily in the papers during the Season. All that was needed for a happy ending was the birth of an heir and a spare. Yet she was still childless when Higgins bumped into her at the Cambridge wedding of a mutual friend.

  It didn’t take long to learn that Helen was trapped in a loveless marriage. The Duke came to her bed but twice a year, and only in the hope of producing a son. Despite the vivacious face she presented to the world, Lady Helen was lonely and unhappy. Indeed, she was almost as lonely and unhappy as he was. Soon after, Higgins and she became lovers and the most reckless—and unexpected—chapter of his life began.

  Two older men turned onto the path. Lady Helen took her hand from Higgins’s arm. She opened her parasol as they approached.

  “Your Grace,” one of them said with a bow of his head.

  She gave a playful twirl to the parasol resting on her shoulder and nodded in return. “Good morning, Sir Charles. I hear you have a horse running at Ascot. Should I tell my husband to place a wager?”

  “Not unless he wishes to lose his money, Your Grace,” he said, laughing. “Prince Palatine is sure to win again this year.”

  After the men moved out of earshot, she turned to Higgins once more. “Don’t worry about those two. Sir Charles has such poor eyesight, I doubt he even knew I had a walking companion. If I weren’t wearing this hat, he would have passed by without a word.”

  “And the other fellow?”

  She shrugged. “Some obscure German count who couldn’t identify King George, let alone the author of the Universal Alphabet.”

  “Speaking of Ascot, will you and the Duke be there this year?”

  She gave him a stern look. “We were speaking of the murder investigation of Emil Nepommuck, not Ascot. Were you questioned by Scotland Yard?”

  “Yes. Several times.” He avoided her penetrating gaze by focusing on what he could glimpse of the distant cricket match.

  “No doubt your customary arrogance was on display during the questioning, which did you even greater harm.”

  Higgins couldn’t help smiling. She knew him only too well. “I told them I’d been walking through London the day of Nepommuck’s murder. I always do, you know, writing in my notebook. I often find someone with a new dialect in the oddest parts of the city.”

  “Speak plainly. Did the detectives believe your story or not?”

  “I’m afraid it’s not much of an alibi. Or so they tell me.”

  Lady Helen twirled her parasol for moment, clearly trying to control her agitation. “I have heard that your arrest is imminent. Verena is calling in every favor she has, especially from the Commissioner. And everyone knows Wilfred Dunningsworth has the backbone of a jellyfish. Henry, I see no way around it. They are going to arrest you.”

  He turned away from her obvious concern. “I’m afraid that is all too possible. Unless I find the real killer.”

  “Nonsense. It is not your purview to hunt down murderers. What sort of buffoon passes as a police detective in London? A sheriff in the Wild West did a better job of tracking down killers. Anyone who believes England is a civilized country has never spent more than three months here.”

  Higgins chuckled. “Seventeen years as an English duchess, and you’re still as American as Thanksgiving dinner.”

  “I merely added a title to my name, I didn’t give up my birthright.” She halted. “And I will not let you give up your freedom. As soon as this match ends, I shall go to London and speak with Scotland Yard.”

  “Out of the question.”

  Her expression grew more stubborn. At moments like this, Higgins thought she could be Eliza’s older sister. In truth, given the span of years between them, she could be Eliza’s mother. That gave him even greater pause.

  “You are not going on trial for a murder you did not commit, Henry. They could send you to the gallows.”

  “You have no say in the matter, I’m afraid.”

  “Do not presume to tell me what I have a say in. I am involved in this matter.” She paused before adding in a lower voice, “Intimately involved.”

  “If you go to the police, you risk everything: your reputation, the Duke’s good will, your family’s honor—”

  “I would not be the first duchess to take such a risk, as well you know.”

  “Yes, and some of them came to bad ends.”

  Helen frowned. “For pity’s sake, I’m not Madame Bovary. Why are you being so obstinate? Louisa, Duchess of Manchester, had a thirty-year affair with the Duke of Devonshire.”

  “And they were noted for their discretion. Their relationship did not become public fodder during a murder investigation.” Higgins held up his hand. “I don’t require a list of titled names who had illicit unions. I refuse to allow you to sacrifice yourself.”

  “Stubborn man.” She glared at him. “I will not see you arrested when I can end this matter with one conversation with the police. After all, I am your alibi for that day. And we have at least one other witness who could prove it.”

  Higgins shook his head. On the day of Nepommuck’s murder, he paid an early morning call on his mother. But directly afterward, he left for a quaint village in Surrey where he spent the rest of the morning and afternoon with Helen. Since the beginning of their romance, he and Helen always met at a remote cottage owned by his cousin, who also loaned him the motorcar. Leonard was discreet and dependable; the man also worked in the offices of a Cabinet minister. If anyone learned Leonard provided the secret love nest of Henry Higgins and the Duke of Waterbury’s wife, it could spell the end of his career.

  “Do you really wish to drag my cousin into a police investigation? He’s been a decent fellow to us for many years.”

  Tears filled her eyes as she shook her head. Higgins decided not to tell her that Eliza’s stepmother caught a glimpse of him in Surrey. It would make her only more upset.

  They walked in silence for a few minutes. It was not a pleasant scenario either way. If Higgins stuck to his original alibi, the police would likely arrest him soon. But if Lady Helen explained that she and the Professor had been secretly meeting for fifteen years, her marriage would be in jeopardy—along with something much more important.

  Higgins knew she meant well. But he wouldn’t risk everything. Not even for her. “Remember the Cardinal Rule,” he said finally.

  “Hang the rules.”

  “It’s one rule, not many. And crucial.”

  She waved a hand. “Rubbish.”

  “You wouldn’t say that if you’d experienced what I’ve gone through the past week. Scandal is a heavy weight to carry.”

  “Then let me help you.”

  “No.”

  Her sweet mouth thinned. “I don’t care if anyone finds out. Not anymore. And why should they guess at the rest? There’s no real resemblance.”

  “I forbid you to interfere, Helen. No one must learn the truth.”

 
As far as he was concerned, their conversation was at an end. With a firm hand at her elbow, Higgins led Helen back toward the playing field before she could defy him again. He feared they had been gone too long. People may have taken notice of them speaking together for longer than a five-minute period in public. That would be unwise.

  Lady Helen’s shoulders drooped as she stumbled on the gravel path.

  “Don’t sulk,” he said, several yards before they neared the crowd’s edge. “You know I’m right.”

  “I’m trying to save your life.”

  “And I’m trying to save your marriage.”

  “If we divorced, I doubt the Duke would even realize I was gone. What would I really lose if I left him?”

  “It’s not what you or I would lose.”

  They looked at each other. “I know,” she murmured.

  He stepped away from her. They couldn’t afford any hint of impropriety. Not after all these years of taking the utmost care to avoid it.

  Higgins followed Lady Helen’s gaze out over the brilliant green swath where the schoolboys continued the cricket match. The batsman hit the ball far over the fielder’s head and ran back and forth, exchanging places with his partner.

  Both he and Helen gave a jubilant yell, proud as always of fourteen-year-old Lord William Fairfield, Marquess of Woburn, Baron of Tarlington—and the only son of Lady Helen and Henry Higgins.

  As the boy scored another run, Higgins felt his heart swell with paternal love. When William was born, Henry bitterly regretted not being able to claim him as his own. But he realized that as the only heir of the Duke of Waterbury, Will enjoyed a life of privilege and opportunity that would be denied him otherwise. And the boy loved the Duke, who was the only father he had ever known. Higgins and Helen had taken enormous pains these past fifteen years to hide their relationship and protect William as best they could. That must continue, no matter what.

  Higgins would be damned before he let this sordid mess with Nepommuck interfere with his son’s life. Nothing could be allowed to call into question the legitimacy of the next Duke of Waterbury. Even if it meant Higgins must sacrifice his own freedom.