The Devil in Beauty: A Lord Trevelin Mystery (The Lord Trevelin Mysteries Book 1)

by Ashworth, Heidi

  She peeked up at me out of the corner of her eye and bit her lip, as if forcing back a smile of her own.

  We had reached the grand staircase and I tightened my hand over hers to ensure her safety. The journey down these stairs was far different than that of the night prior, and I reveled in the light that revealed the truth to one and all: Miss Woodmansey was with me. Rey could have his moment with his arms around her in the dark of the Manwaring staircase; I had this very public moment. I had never felt happier.

  Time passed far more quickly than a journey through crowds and a long wait in the damp, dark night for a carriage should have. At some point the Cannings had joined us and we spoke of this and that, but I could not say specifically what. I was conscious only of her tiny hand on my arm and mine atop it. When the moment came to assist her into the carriage and her hand finally slipped from my arm, the cold rushed in to banish any lingering warmth she had left behind.

  I stood as if in a daze, watching her small face in the window of the coach as it pulled away and then for longer after. It took an arm on my shoulder from Canning to bring me out of my thoughts.

  “She is a lovely young woman,” he said.

  “Indeed, she is; remarkable as well.”

  “Joan and I should like to know her better. Perhaps she would like to have dinner with us next week.”

  “Oh, yes, that would be lovely,” Joan said over her shoulder just before she disappeared into the blackness of her own coach.

  Canning and I followed, and settled ourselves against the velvet squabs. Watching the two of them together did not cause the pain it had at dinner. Rather, it was a pleasure to imagine how, one day, perhaps Miss Woodmansey and I might carry on just as they had.

  When the carriage pulled up in front of Canning House, I wished to keep my thoughts to myself. I did not look forward to any awkward questions from Canning or his renewed insistence that it was time to return to Silvester House. “I believe I shall go for a walk,” I informed them. “Thank you for the lovely evening.”

  “Of course,” Joan said. She exchanged a look of repressed excitement with her husband, who merely shook his head. I knew that they each hoped the evening signaled the beginning of something quite wonderful nearly as much as did I. With an ambiguous smile, I took my leave and started down the walkway towards Manwaring House. To go the other way would mean to pass by Gilbert House, a circumstance I could not abide at the moment. The day had been a grim one, and I had no wish to disturb the beauty of its end.

  A cold wind threatened to blow the hat from my head, and I turned up the collar of my many-caped greatcoat against the chill. Manwaring House was so deep in shadow as I passed I nearly missed it. I paused to admire the flickering of the light on the white and black checkered porch as the wind blew the clouds across the moon. The pleasant scent of wood smoke filled the air, and dry leaves from the plane trees skittered at my feet. Suddenly, a gust of wind dragged them all into a funnel of air and chased them down the walkway as if they could not wait to depart Manwaring House. It was then that I heard the scream.

  Chapter Eleven

  The sound chilled me to the bone, but I had myself half-convinced it was my imagination. Then I heard it again; it was fainter this time. I strained my ears, but I did not hear another. Moments passed with nothing to be heard but the scratching of the dry leaves along the pavement. When the rain began to patter against those still clinging to their branches, I retraced my steps and took refuge in Canning House.

  When I rose the next morning, I thought the screams I had heard nothing but a dream. I remained long abed, took my breakfast of rolls and hot chocolate on a tray, and turned my face towards the weak rays of the sun that made their way across my counterpane. I was uncomfortably aware that I enjoyed a life full of simple pleasures made luxurious in contrast to what Willy endured. Fully aware that I must visit him again and offer him my most profound apologies, I still could not bring myself to stir from my bed.

  Time and again I attempted to banish Willy from my mind in favor of a daydream of the life I planned to lead with Miss Woodmansey. Visits to the opera were only the beginning. There were picnics in the park, jaunts to Piccadilly Circus where I would buy her ribbons for her hair, fireworks of various kinds at Vauxhall Gardens, all chemical to be sure, and a grand wedding at St. George’s in Hanover Square to which to look forward. We would look a sight standing in front of God and the altar, the top of her high-poke bonnet failing to brush as far as my shoulder, but the notion pleased me in the extreme.

  Nevertheless, try as I might, Willy would not go. A new beast gnawed at my belly: Guilt. Not only need I apologize to my friend, but I needed to acquire that shirt. I felt no sense of urgency; the shirt was sure to lie where I had put it for eternity. However, the acquisition of the garment was only a portion of what must be done. I needed to discover the constable who took Willy away and make him swear that Willy’s shirt had been clean when he was found on the drive of Gilbert House with that knife.

  In the meantime, I realized that I must inspect the area steps of Manwaring House. Whatever it was I had heard the night prior, it had originated from there; of this I was suddenly certain. The notion had the power to compel me from bed and ring for the valet. My ribs were still bruised; more than that, to dress on my own seemed an affront to Willy. If a man as noble as he required assistance to dress, then a man full of foibles such as I certainly must. It mollified the guilt which I suspected had been keeping company with the loneliness all along. It only took better knowing the tragic details of Willy’s life these past few years to fully rouse it.

  When the valet had left, I stared at my reflection in the mirror. I raised one brow so that it was parallel to the angle of the scar in the corner of my mouth. Nothing had changed; I still looked full of disdain, arrogance, and bitterness. I relaxed my brow, and smiled so that the uninjured side of my mouth curved to the same height as the other. This was a face I did not much recognize; I had not been in the habit of laughing at myself in the looking glass. I owned that I looked far younger, innocent, and ingenuous, but it was not the proper demeanor of a marquis. I turned from the mirror, determined to put my scornful self to work in saving Willy.

  I strode first across the square to call on Señyor Rey. I was led to the study on the ground floor, so like that of Canning’s, and waited for my Catalanian friend to join me. However, when he walked into the room I could not look him in the eye.

  “Señyor Rey!” I bellowed to the painting over the mantel. “I have come to invite you to accompany me on a quest to inspect the grounds of Manwaring House.”

  “But of course! I have just finished with Lady Vawdrey.”

  I supposed he referred to her lesson in the Catalan language. However, I could not find it within myself to mourn if Rey were in fact a lecher who preyed on those of Lady Vawdrey’s stamp. Any man worth his salt would make it his duty to ensure that such a man did not walk off with a prize such as Miss Woodmansey. This thought gave me the courage to look into his eyes. What I saw was no villain, but my friend whom I had betrayed as surely as if I had run off with his intended.

  I sighed. “Señyor Rey, there is something I must tell you.”

  “What is it, my lord?” he asked, his face glowing with affection.

  “I invited Miss Woodmansey to attend the theater last night.”

  He became very still. I do not think he so much as breathed for half a minute.

  “Did she accept this invitation?” he asked, his voice toneless.

  “She did. We did not go alone. We were in company with the Cannings. It was all very proper.”

  “I see.” He spun on his heel, went to the bookcase, and made a show of searching for a book.

  “We saw All’s Well That Ends Well, a portion of which takes place in Catalan.” I could think of nothing else to report about the evening that might please him.

  “The French portion of Catalan, yes,” he said shortly, his back still turned to me.

  “I
hadn’t realized there was a difference.”

  He turned again to face me, a book in his hand. “Only the language,” he said with a flourish of his hand. “And the culture. And the territory.” He shrugged and made what I could only call a moue.

  This was a Rey I had not before met. As I did not much care for him, I cast about for a means to prompt the return of the old, familiar Rey. “After I returned home from the opera house, I took a walk.”

  “What does this mean to me?” he asked haughtily.

  “I paused in front of Manwaring House. It was dark. And I believe that I heard a scream.”

  These were the words I needed. Rey’s expression transformed from arrogant to one of alarm. “A scream? We must investigate immediately!”

  “I thoroughly agree. This is why I have come. I suggest you don a coat; the air is nippy this morning.”

  Rey rang for a servant who arranged for his coat to be brought, along with his hat and cane, one so short as to be absurd. I refrained from saying so, however; I had already caused the man too much pain. Once we had fortified ourselves against the weather, we quit the house. I looked up to see that a bank of clouds obscured a weak sun. It was noon, but it looked as if it would be full dark within the half hour. I pushed my hat down tighter on my head. Rey and I walked along the square, the air between us uneasy, the sun coming and going with the vagaries of the wind. I questioned my wisdom in inviting him along after my revelation, but I had no wish to become alienated from him. For a man with so few friends, he was a gift not lightly refused. I decided it would be best to carry on as if nothing had happened in regard to Miss Woodmansey, but it was Rey who first broke the silence.

  “It is strange what you have said about the scream, for something has been troubling me. The Manwarings’ butler is an old man, this is certain. However, he is not dement. If he says he has heard screams in the house, what must I do but believe him?”

  “I rather agree.” I looked up at the sky through the branches of the plane trees that lined the pavement. The leaves quivered at the touch of my gaze, or perhaps it was the wind announcing the coming of winter. “After we have had a look around the house, we shall again question Short.”

  “Perfecte! We shall make him tell us all he knows.”

  I was tempted to admire Rey’s benevolence for Willy, but another motive for his enthusiasm occurred to me. Perhaps he believed that the sooner we found Johnny’s killer, the sooner Miss Woodmansey would no longer seek out my company. I kept company with my thoughts (they were the most loyal of friends) until we reached the black and white tiled porch of the Manwaring townhouse. Turning at the area railing I began to clatter down the steps, and was instantly plunged into darkness. Startled, I turned to see the watery sun that shone just beyond Rey’s head entirely swallowed up in another bank of black clouds. The steps were now mostly obscured, and the wind whipped up such that I was forced to hold onto my hat.

  With far more grace Rey took steps to join me, and we felt our way, fingers to the wall, much as we had the night we had attended the gambling hell. Once I reached the bottom, I found I could go no farther. Rey fetched up against me and muttered a muffled “oof!”

  “I beg pardon, Señyor Rey, but the toe of my shoe is caught on something. It is too dark for me to make out what.”

  He bent down and rose again too soon for me to have developed any confidence in his observations. “Your foot is caught in a cord of leather. It is,” he choked, “wrapped around the neck of a girl.”

  My mind could make no sense of his words. “You are mistaken. Why would a girl sleep here? It is far too cold.”

  “My lord, this girl, she does not sleep. Ella esta morta,” he murmured. “She is…dead.”

  I snatched back my entangled foot with such force that my shoulder slammed into the wall. “Dead? But how? Has she fallen?” Horrified, my heart began to pound into my chest and squeezed the air from my lungs. We stood, transfixed, unsure of what to do, until the wind blew the clouds from the sun and I could see what it was that Rey had seen already. ‘Twas Sally. Throckmorton’s Sally; a ribbon of red about her neck. Her mouth had been cut in both corners and the blood oozed out black as burnt custard. Against my will my knees bent until I crouched at her side, my shoulder wedged against the wall for support.

  I stood before the pier glass in my cousin’s rooms and studied the swath of bandages that obscured nearly half of my features. It was the first reflection of myself I had seen since the duel. The visible portion of my face looked as usual, save for the stubble that no one could be troubled to remove. Gingerly, I picked at the bindings that held the cloth tight against the corner of my mouth, and pulled. Blood, like blackened cake, clung to the bandage. I cleaned what was left of the dried blood to reveal a mass of swollen, red flesh. Through the center marched a curved line of hideous black crosses made of thread.

  I steeled myself against the giddiness that threatened to collapse me atop the poor girl. “The cuts in the corners of her mouth; do you suppose it to be some kind of warning?” I realized that her death was no accident, and my stomach dropped.

  “I do not know, my lord. A warning from whom?”

  “The killer, of course. Perhaps this is a message to cease hunting for him.”

  Rey shook his head. “No se. But why does she wear a leather cord as well as a ribbon?”

  I looked more closely. “The cord holds a key. There is no ribbon—it’s the mark from where her killer used the cord to finish her off. The cuts in her mouth must have been made sooner. That blood has already blackened. However, it’s the garroting that killed her and not so long since.”

  Rey’s eyes widened. “Do you suppose it was the screams of this poor creature that you heard last night?”

  My stomach clenched at the thought. “What of the other screams? The ones to which Short referred? Had someone been torturing her for weeks? Months?” If so, I had failed the poor girl. My mouth went dry.

  Rey turned his gaze up to the edifice that towered above us. “By someone in this house.”

  Swiftly, I removed my hat to catch what fell when I retched, but Rey took hold of it, dragged it to his chin, and voided the contents of his stomach before I had the opportunity. I did not wait for permission to do the same, and was grateful that it was a well-made, commodious example of its kind. I wiped my mouth with my handkerchief and looked around. There was no one. “We must alert the constable.”

  Rey took the hat from me. “Go. I cannot leave her,” he said, his voice echoing against the walls of the small area.

  For a moment, I considered banging on the front door and leaving the matter entirely up to Short. Then I thought better of it. “Rap on the kitchen door and ask for the boot boy. Do not tell anyone why.” I reclaimed my once-beautiful beaver hat and went up the steps to empty it of its steaming contents. I heard Rey do as I asked and soon the boot boy emerged. I could see little of what he did at the bottom of those murky stairs, but I could hear his reaction well enough.

  “Sally! Wot you doin’ here?” he asked urgently. “You gonna be let go if you don’ get back to work!”

  There was a profound silence. “Sally?” he asked in a high, thin voice. “Wot’s wrong w’you? Why won’ you gi’ up?” These poignant words were followed by a loud cry.

  “Go fetch the constable,” I called down to him.

  He lost no time in darting up the steps. He flew past me, his white face streaked with tears and bootblack.

  Once I was satisfied that he had gone in the right direction, I inspected my beaver hat. “Señyor Rey,” I said as I pitched my beaver into the bushes. “Thank you for being here.”

  “It is nothing, my lord,” he called up from his place at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Ha! It is far more than that!” I knew I could put it off no longer; I went down the steps and crouched again over the bloodied body. “We must get that key before the constable arrives.”

  “But why, my lord?”

  “There have been two
deaths in the same square in a week. It cannot be a coincidence. Central to the first is the matter of a missing key.”

  “I see,” Rey breathed. “Yes, but the cord must remain to demonstrate how it was that this poor girl died.”

  “I agree.” Carefully I slipped the bloodied cord around her neck until the knot surfaced. I knew that Rey would have a difficult time in working it loose, so I had no alternative but to do it myself. Once I had the key I handed it to Rey, who took it with his handkerchief. I re-knotted the cord and slipped it back the way I had found it. I then rose to my feet, my fingers covered in blood.

  Without waiting to be asked, Rey pocketed the key and handed me the handkerchief with which to clean off the blood as best I could.

  “You are a good man, Señyor Rey.” I gave him a curt nod, thrust my hands deep into my coat pockets, and returned to the top of the steps to await the constable. It began at once to rain.

  “Many pardons for the ill usage of your hat, my lord,” Señyor Rey called.

  I stood, miserable, without words, the rain pelting my hatless head. The constable arrived in a timely fashion, or so I supposed. Having had no need to alert a constable in the past, I truly couldn’t say. I do know that by the time he arrived I was chilled to the bone, and my neck ached where the rain had streamed down my hair and slipped beneath my greatcoat to wet the collar of my jacket.

  The constable, whose youthful appearance denoted he was not likely to be any more experienced than I, glared at me as he approached. My hatless state most likely threw him off; ‘twould be difficult to find an improperly-shod man in Mayfair. The closer he drew to my waterfall-tied neck cloth, Weston jacket, and waistcoat adorned with genuine silver buttons, the less surly was his expression.

  He jabbed a thumb at the boot boy. “This one here claims to have seen a dead body.” He sounded apologetic, as if he thought perhaps the boy was having a lark.