by D. M. Quincy
He tensed when he reached the tobacco shop’s double-fronted bow window. He wondered if Olivia was still within. He’d returned from Jamaica a few weeks before to find that her husband, his former landlord, had met his demise during Atlas’s absence. Now widowed, Olivia was his landlady, and he’d overstepped badly with her the previous evening. Now, he might not be able to rectify the error, but he could certainly apologize for it.
A wooden statue of an American Indian carrying a large smoking pipe greeted him as he entered the shop. Olivia stood at the long oak counter serving a patron. She wore a somber navy dress, and her fair hair, which the night before had spilled about her shoulders in generous waves, was now fashioned into a severe knot at the nape of her neck.
She turned and reached for one of the snuff-filled jars lining the shelves behind her—the movement highlighting the generous curves of her petite frame—and scooped a portion out for the man. Atlas waited patiently, pretending to examine the high-quality pipes and hand-blended tobaccos on display until the gentleman departed and they were more or less alone.
“Mr. Catesby.” She smiled brightly, her manner betraying no sign of discomfort.
“Mrs. Disher,” he said, feeling awkward. “I trust you are well.”
“I think I know why you are here,” she said pertly.
She certainly was direct. He swallowed. “Do you?”
She reached under the counter and produced a small brown packet. “The tobacco for your nargileh has arrived.”
“Oh. I see.” He exhaled. “My thanks.” The tobacco was for the hookah pipe habit he’d acquired during his travels to Constantinople, one of his favorites of all the exotic places he’d visited.
Months ago, his friend Charlton had remarked that the tobacconist’s wife regarded Atlas with an especially appreciative eye. Upon his return from the islands, Atlas had learned not only of Mr. Disher’s untimely death but also that Charlton had been correct about Mrs. Disher’s interest in him.
“One of these days, I’d like to try that strange pipe of yours”—she handed him the packet—“to see why you favor it so. Perhaps it will prove to be an excellent addition to the smoking room.” He glanced back at the wood-and-glass-paneled screen that separated the front of the shop from the smoke-hazed back room, where he spotted three patrons indulging their tobacco passions.
“You would be most welcome to do so.” He cleared his throat, knowing he must disavow her of the notion that he expected their intimate relationship to continue. Remorse snaked through his guts. Now that Lilliana was back in his sphere, no matter how remotely, his dalliance with this woman felt like a betrayal.
“As to that,” he began, lowering his voice, “I wish to beg your pardon in regards to last evening.”
Merriment danced in her eyes. “I assure you, Mr. Catesby, you have naught to be sorry about in that area.”
His cheeks heated. “I just wish to assure you that nothing of that nature will be repeated in the future.”
“Be at your ease, Mr. Catesby. I don’t have any expectations,” she said easily. “I’ve just become a widow. The last thing I desire is to wed again and have another husband to answer to.”
He relaxed, her lack of artifice reminding him of what had tempted him the previous evening when she’d stopped by to collect the rent. They’d gotten to chatting, and he’d invited her in for a glass of wine. He’d dismissed Jamie early, intending to focus on his latest puzzle, the most challenging one he’d attempted to date. But she’d accepted his offer, and the conversation had flowed easily from there, the evening growing late. One thing had led to another in the late stillness of the night when they’d relaxed and the usual proprieties no longer seemed to apply.
“Why, Mrs. Disher,” he managed to tease, “I do believe you’ve used me abominably.”
She leaned over the counter. “You didn’t seem to mind overmuch last night.”
He couldn’t help but return her smile. He liked Mrs. Disher very much. She was uncomplicated, whereas he was usually drawn to more complex characters, to the unknown intricacies of everyday life that made people who they were and drove their actions. Studying these hints, putting together the clues, fascinated him. With Olivia Disher, there was none of that. In her, he found the lack of guile to be a refreshing change.
She was most undeserving of any uncharitable thoughts. She was a sunny presence who added warmth to his morose countenance. He preferred not to dwell on the cause of the peevishness that had dogged him during his entire trip to Jamaica.
Even long swims on sun-blessed beaches had done little to improve his distemper. The bleakness had persisted upon his return to London, and Olivia, with her natural warmth and good cheer, had been a temporary salve for his soul. “Well, thank you, I did enjoy last evening.”
The bell above the door rang as it opened. Mrs. Disher turned her attention to the newcomer, effectively dismissing Atlas.
“Duty calls,” she said cheerily and slipped away.
Relieved—although his conscience did not allow for him to feel completely exonerated where his dishonorable behavior with Olivia was concerned—Atlas left her and trudged up the narrow stairwell to his apartments above the shop.
The dark raised-panel door opened as soon as Atlas stepped onto the stone landing outside his rooms. Young Jamie, who had yet to see his twentieth year, greeted him.
“Good afternoon, sir.” The boy’s chest was puffed, his shoulders pulled back; he’d taken his recent valeting lessons very seriously. “The Earl of Charlton has come to call.”
“Has he?” Handing off his hat and the package of tobacco from downstairs, Atlas crossed into the colorful sitting room. The apartments had come fully furnished with crimson carpets, bright-orange wallpaper, and stuffed chintz furniture. He found the earl comfortably ensconced in one of those stuffed chairs. His puce tailcoat shone bright against the furniture’s sky-blue paisley upholstery as he puffed on Atlas’s water pipe, the fragrant smoke floating through the air.
“Hello, Charlton.”
The earl smiled as he held up the mouthpiece attached to the hookah’s hose. “I hope you don’t mind. I prevailed upon your valet to prepare the nargileh for us. Only I started without you.”
Atlas shrugged out of his coat. “This is a surprise.”
The earl regarded him with an arrogant lift of his eyebrow. “It shouldn’t be so. We have an appointment to take dinner at my club.”
“Damnation.” Atlas rubbed a palm against his forehead. “I’d forgotten.”
“Have you made other arrangements for this evening?” Mischief sparked in the earl’s very blue eyes. “With the lovely Mrs. Disher, perhaps?”
Atlas stiffened. “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re speaking of.”
“I’m speaking of a voluptuous little handful who is very attainable now that she is a widow.”
“You should mind your tongue when speaking of a respectable lady.”
Amusement laced the earl’s words. “Did you mind your tongue when you took her to bed?”
Atlas shot him a look. “Don’t be absurd.”
Charlton took a long drag off the hookah pipe and held the hose out for Atlas to take a turn. “I happened to be here when your lovely landlady came looking for the wrap she’d left here.”
Atlas settled into the chair opposite his friend and reached for the proffered pipe hose. “Which means nothing. She came to collect the rents last evening, that is all.”
“Ah. You two lovebirds really should get your Banbury tales straight.” Charlton smirked. “She said she forgot it this morning. You say she came last evening. An intelligent man would draw inevitable conclusions when a bachelor entertains a widow in his rooms from the evening all the way through to the morning hours.”
“Even if that were so, a true gentleman wouldn’t speak of it.”
Charlton rolled his eyes. “You can be dreadfully boring.”
“I was referring to you,” Atlas said pointedly before taking a lengt
hy draw from the nargileh. Settling back in his chair, Atlas allowed himself to enjoy the full effect of the mellow tobacco taste.
“In any case, I approve of the liaison.” Charlton exhaled a breath of silvery smoke into the air. “You cannot live like a monk forever.”
Having no desire to continue this line of conversation, Atlas changed the subject. “You’ll be interested to learn that the reason I forgot about our plans is because I’ve somehow managed to become involved in another murder investigation.”
“A masterful diversionary tactic,” the earl said languidly. But Atlas registered the interest that flared in his eyes. No one enjoyed a good on-dit more than his friend. “Do not tell me you’ve been accused of murdering someone again. The first time was tiresome enough.”
“No, I’ve been asked to look into the death of a factory clerk.” Atlas took another puff off the nargileh. “The coroner found his death to be accidental even though the man had a belly full of arsenic.”
“Why would anyone willingly ingest that much arsenic?”
“There are medicinal reasons, apparently. A fellow clerk at the factory says the man used it to enhance his . . . erm . . . virility.”
“Truly?” This time Charlton didn’t bother to hide his interest. “I don’t suppose you’d care to be more specific.”
Atlas huffed a short laugh. “The dead man’s name was Gordon Davis. Mr. Davis seemed to believe taking arsenic would enable him to be of immediate service when a particularly lustful lady came to call.”
“Had trouble in that area, did he?”
“Not exactly.” Atlas passed the hose back. “It seems his particular lady was very demanding and required multiple performances in each session.”
Charlton whistled low. “Doesn’t sound like much of a lady to me.”
“I cannot say whether she is or not. I’ve yet to identify her. So far, she’s something of a mystery.”
They sat in companionable silence for a moment, taking turns with the hookah, until Charlton broke the silence. “You mentioned that someone had asked you to look into the libidinous clerk’s death.” When Atlas said nothing, his friend prodded further. “Who made this request of you?”
“The Duke of Somerville summoned me yesterday.”
Charlton sat forward. “Somerville?” The earl and the duke were particular friends who traveled in the same high circles that Atlas did not. “I don’t mean to be crass, but why would the duke care about a factory clerk?”
“The victim was the brother of Lilliana . . . Lady Roslyn’s . . . maid. The duke’s sister asked for my assistance.”
“Ah.” Charlton dropped back in his chair as comprehension dawned. “Rescuing the damsel in distress yet again, I see.”
“Hardly.” Atlas bit back a sharp retort at Charlton’s assertion that he made of habit of coming to the aid of females in need.
He was hardly anyone’s knight in shining armor. He hadn’t even been able to save his own sister from her murderous husband. A wave of sorrow crashed over him, and he forced himself to breathe through the pain. Even after all these years, the reality of Phoebe’s death hit him at unexpected times, like a runaway carriage, leaving him unable to gird himself against it.
“Lady Roslyn has just begun to go about in society again,” Charlton was saying.
“I’m pleased to hear it.” Atlas made an effort to focus on the conversation at hand. “That bastard husband of hers did not deserve to be mourned.”
“Truer words were never said. As you can imagine, she does not want for suitors.”
“Is that so?” Inhaling the nargileh’s smooth dulcet flavor, Atlas affected a disinterest he did not feel. “I suppose it’s to be expected that she’ll wed again. Is there a particular gentleman who has won her favor?”
“Roxbury spends a great deal of time in her company.”
“Roxbury?” The unfamiliar name tasted like acid on his tongue.
“The Marquess of Roxbury. He’s agreeable enough. She could do worse.” Charlton eyed him with concern. “I do hope you’ll have a care where Lady Roslyn is concerned.”
Atlas did not miss the way his friend used the lady’s formal name, the one she used in society. Charlton had been with Atlas when they’d first encountered the duke’s sister, only they hadn’t known then who she was. She’d been using her middle name, Lilliana, and that was how Atlas still thought of her. “There is nothing between us.”
“There might have been had the circumstances been different.”
“But they’re not. In any case, I shall take care.” His sense of self-preservation kicked in. He might be back in Lilliana’s sphere, but that’s as far as it went.
His temporary infatuation with her was over.
* * *
“I do believe it’s possible that Gordon Davis was murdered.”
The absolute confidence in Atlas’s statement seemed to take Lilliana by surprise. “You’ve come to this conclusion in less than a day? Dare I ask if you’ve discovered the murderer as well?”
He suppressed a smile. “Not as of yet.”
“Please.” She swept a hand out, inviting him to take a seat. She’d received him in her sitting room, a sunny chamber she’d apparently refurbished to her own tastes after reuniting with her brother. It felt strange to be in her company after all this time. When they’d parted almost a year ago—around the same time she and the boys had come to live with the duke—she’d invited him to call on her, but he had not. There could be no future for a duke’s sister and a man of modest means who was just barely a gentleman.
“What makes you so certain Mr. Davis was killed?” she asked as she settled upon her soft peach sofa.
He took the chair to her right, his brawny form filling the cream silk bergère. “The arsenic found in his body was white, the kind one could easily mistake for sugar or flour.” He paused, his cheeks warming, before continuing. “The arsenic he took for his . . . erm . . . ailment . . . was sooty, as was the arsenic used at the factory where he worked.”
“Ailment?” She tilted her head. “What ailment did he have?”
“There are conflicting reports. According to the coroner’s report, it was asthma.”
“Could it have killed him?”
He cleared his throat. “I thought I could speak with your maid. Perhaps she can tell us more about her late brother’s health.”
She rang for the footman and instructed him to locate Tacy and bring her to the sitting room. While they waited for her maid, Lilliana inquired about his travels.
“I was in Jamaica.” He proceeded to describe the island, telling her about the local culture, mountainous forests, and pristine beaches. “The climate is beautiful there,” he said in conclusion. “I was able to swim every day.”
“That explains the color in your face,” she remarked. When they’d first met, he’d been quite pale, a result of recuperating indoors for several months following his injury. “Very un-English of you.”
“My brother the baron would agree with you. He often despairs of my heathenish tendencies.”
“Will you go abroad again soon?”
“In a couple of months, I hope. I may go to India.”
She uttered a sound of surprise. “That is very far away.”
“Indeed. The journey can take upward of six months.”
They were distracted by the arrival of the footman bearing the tea tray. The lady’s maid appeared shortly thereafter.
“Tacy,” Lilliana said to the woman, “this is Mr. Catesby. As you know, he has agreed to look into your brother’s death.”
“I’m grateful, sir,” Tacy said to Atlas. “I truly am.” She was a short round woman of about forty with ruddy cheeks and smiling eyes.
“I am sorry for your loss,” he began gently. “May I ask you some questions?”
Tacy stood awkwardly before them, twisting a fistful of her starched apron between the hands clasped in front of her. “If you think it’ll help my Gordy, I’m happy to answer anyth
ing you’d like to know.”
Lilliana scooted forward to pour the tea. “Please sit, Tacy.”
“Oh, I couldn’t, my lady.” She shook her head. “It wouldn’t be proper.”
Atlas leaned forward. “Did your brother have any illnesses or chronic conditions?”
“No, sir. He was healthy, he was.”
Lilliana replaced the teapot on the silver tray. “What about lung illnesses, such as asthma?”
Tacy’s eyebrows hooded over her eyes. “No, my lady. Nothing like that. My Gordy was as fit as they come.”
Lilliana shot a look at Atlas, her surprise evident. He was not surprised, given what Buller, the clerk, had shared with him about the true reason for Gordon Davis’s arsenic use.
“Were you close to your brother?” he asked.
“Oh, yes, I practically raised him after our ma died.” Her eyes watered. “He was seven years younger than me. I never expected him to go first.”
“I understand your loss.” He spoke softly. “I lost my sister many years ago.”
A sense of shared grief passed between them, even though Tacy was a servant and he a gentleman. In that moment, their common loss bonded them in a way that had nothing to do with class or wealth.
Tacy sniffled and lowered her gaze. “Yes, sir. Then you know it’s a terrible thing.”
Atlas nodded. “The very worst.” He paused a beat before continuing. “What did your brother tell you about the young woman he hoped to marry?”
Her eyes rounded. “You heard about that?”
He nodded. “What do you know about her?”
“Very little.” She spread her hands, palms up. “Except that he expected to wed her.”
“Isn’t that unusual,” Lilliana interjected, “for your brother not to tell you more about his intended?”
“He said she was from a fine family and that their acquaintance had to be kept a secret until her father would agree to the match.”