by D. M. Quincy
She regarded him expectantly as if waiting for him to explain himself. She might be more contained than her exuberant younger sister, but Elizabeth Archer was no shrinking violet.
He saw no reason not to share his reason for visiting Mr. Archer. “I’ve come to speak with your father about one of his former employees, Gordon Davis.”
Instead of the polite, perhaps blank stare he expected at the mention of Davis’s name, some sort of comprehension lit the young woman’s gaze before she guarded it. “I see. His death certainly was tragic. He was so young.”
Her reaction—or rather, her obvious desire to hide it—piqued his interest. “Were you acquainted with Mr. Davis?”
Maintaining her perfectly erect posture, Elizabeth scooted forward in her chair and reached for the caddy to prepare the tea. “I had occasion to meet him when I visited the factory with my father.”
He wondered if she’d come under Davis’s spell in the same manner a number of other young ladies had. “And what did you think of him?”
She lifted one shoulder slightly before dropping it. “He was agreeable, I suppose. He also visited here with my brother, Trevor.”
“Your brother and Gordon Davis were friends?”
“Mr. Davis came to the house just that once.” She added the tea leaves to the silver pot and poured steaming water over them. “My father did not approve of the association.”
Atlas wasn’t surprised. By all appearances, the Archers were an upstanding well-to-do family. Elizabeth certainly exhibited the distinctive polish that wealthy young ladies acquired at expensive finishing schools. Davis, a lowly clerk, would hardly have been an appropriate association for the family’s heir.
“Elizabeth?” A man in fine tailored clothing—who was far too young to be Noel Archer—stood in the aperture.
“Mr. Montgomery, do come in.” She made the introductions while she poured the tea. “Mr. Catesby, this is my betrothed.”
The man, who appeared to be in the vicinity of thirty years old, gave a bow. “Gregory Montgomery.”
“Well met,” Atlas replied.
“Mr. Catesby’s father was Silas Catesby, the great poet,” Elizabeth told the new arrival, her voice rich with admiration. Montgomery’s eyes narrowed at her tone. His assessing gaze went from Atlas to his betrothed and back again.
“Sugar, Mr. Catesby?” Elizabeth asked.
“No, thank you.”
“Are you a friend of the family, Mr. Catesby?” Montgomery inquired. An aggressive energy rolled off the man. He was apparently possessive when it came to his future wife.
Atlas stood to take his tea from Elizabeth. “No, I have just now had the pleasure of meeting the Misses Archer.”
“Harriet and I were walking home when we encountered Mr. Catesby.” Elizabeth poured a cup of tea for her betrothed. “He is here to visit father.”
Her explanation seemed to mollify Montgomery, who turned to give the lady his full attention when she handed him his libation. “You are in excellent looks today, my dear.”
She accepted the compliment with a graceful smile. As Atlas sipped the hot drink, he noted that Miss Archer did not prepare one for herself.
“Mr. Catesby?” Noel Archer, a balding man in spectacles, finally made his appearance.
Atlas put the tea aside and rose to greet his host. “I appreciate your agreeing to see me on such short notice.”
“Certainly.” Archer eyed him with obvious curiosity. “Have we met before, sir?”
“No, I wish to speak with you about one of your former employees, Gordon Davis.”
Archer’s expression didn’t alter. He turned to his daughter and her betrothed. “I’m certain you young people have something far more interesting with which to occupy your time.”
Montgomery put his tea aside, seeming eager to take the opportunity to steal time alone with his betrothed. “Will you come for a ride?” he asked her.
“I cannot,” she said politely. “It is my afternoon to visit the Society.”
“The Society?” her betrothed repeated.
“Yes, I believe I mentioned it to you previously. I volunteer one day a week at the General Annuity Society for Tradespersons Formerly Better Off.”
Noel Archer chimed in. “It is for merchants who have fallen on hard times. A worthwhile and respectable charity for young ladies to visit.”
Atlas understood Archer’s meaning. Many charities served society’s less respectable denizens, including prostitutes and former prisoners. Tradespeople who’d run out of funds were several steps above the true dregs of society.
“I myself donate to them,” Archer added. “They do fine work.”
Atlas found the man’s interest in helping his fellow merchants to be commendable. “That is generous of you.”
“I have done well for myself. There is no denying that,” Archer said. “It is a small thing I do now to help those who have not been as fortunate.”
Montgomery looked at Elizabeth. “May I see you there then?”
“Yes, yes,” Archer said to his daughter. “Do allow Gregory to escort you to the Society.”
She smiled. “Most certainly.” The two made their good-byes before quitting the room.
Once they were alone, Archer turned to Atlas. “You are here about Davis? I hear he came to a sad end.” Archer took the seat his daughter had vacated and reached to pour himself some refreshment. “He was an arsenic eater, you know.”
“I have heard that.”
“I’m afraid there isn’t much else I can tell you about the young man. I am rarely at the factory.”
Atlas reached for his tea. “I am curious to know why you reinstated Davis after he was caught stealing arsenic from the factory. I understand he was let go, but then you intervened.”
“Did Mertin Gunther tell you that?”
“No, your partner refused to speak with me at all.”
Archer quirked a smile. “Somehow that does not surprise me.”
“Why did you keep Davis on? Was it because he was a friend of your son’s?”
Archer balked. “The man was no friend to my Trevor. In truth, he was a bad influence.”
“How so?”
“He took Trevor to some gaming hell in the less savory part of town, and they played deep, too deep. By the end of the evening, my son owed my clerk close to one hundred pounds.”
Atlas let out a low whistle. “That’s quite a sum.”
“Yes, it is. I told Davis he could keep his job as a way of satisfying my son’s debt to him.”
“He accepted that?” One hundred pounds was far more than a clerk earned in a single year.
“In truth, he had little choice but to accept.” Archer’s expression hardened. “I am not a man to cross. Davis came to understand that.” He looked meaningfully around the opulent room. “One does not acquire all this by allowing scoundrels to cheat him.”
“Did it gall you to retain Davis after he’d put your son in a precarious situation?”
Archer’s manner turned cool. “What is your interest in Gordon Davis?”
“His sister believes he was murdered.”
“Does she?” He sipped his tea, not appearing the least bit surprised. “Her brother was a slippery one. He likely had no shortage of enemies. That still does not explain why you’ve associated yourself with this business.”
“Davis’s sister is lady’s maid to Lady Roslyn, the Duke of Somerville’s sister.”
“Somerville.” The other man’s brows lifted, and he studied Atlas with renewed interest, no doubt wondering how someone like Atlas had come to be associated with someone of Somerville’s wealth and rank. “Lady Roslyn, you say? Is she the one that went missing?”
“No, she was never missing.” Atlas forced a mild tone. “She was living quietly in the country with her family.” That wasn’t quite accurate, but he intended go to his grave without revealing to anyone the full truth of how he’d become acquainted with Lilliana.
“So the Duke o
f Somerville wants to know how and why my clerk died.”
“It would greatly relieve his sister’s mind.”
“I can tell you I would not kill over a bit of arsenic.” He set his teacup down. “I am not a man who needs to resort to murder in order to get what I want.”
Atlas suspected that was true. “What of your son?”
Archer stiffened. “What of him?”
“How friendly was he with Davis?”
“I forbade my son to have any further contact with the man. Davis was beneath Trevor in every way . . . breeding, education, and social class. As far as I know, the two did not see each other after their unfortunate gaming adventure.”
Atlas wondered if the son had obeyed his father. Putting his tea aside, he got to his feet and thanked the man for his time. Archer remained seated, still finishing his libation when Atlas exited the room. As he walked through the front hall, a young voice chirped behind him.
“Are you leaving so soon, Mr. Catesby?”
He turned and bowed to Harriet Archer. “I am. Thank you for making me feel so welcome.” He noted that the wooden slingshot still dangled from her left hand.
“That’s a handsome sling,” he remarked.
She smiled proudly. “I am quite good at it,” she boasted. “I only need one rotation for a proper slinging motion, and I never miss my target.”
“That’s very commendable,” he said, amused. Most young ladies of quality did not sling stones at targets; they generally took up archery.
As he bade Harriet farewell, Atlas’s thoughts drifted back to Gordon Davis’s death and the mysterious Lady L. A sudden thought of what might drive a proud man like Noel Archer to murder came to him.
“Miss Harriet, does Elizabeth go by the name Liz or Lizzie with those in her inner circle?”
Harriet made a face. “No, she doesn’t. She hates both of those names.”
Chapter Six
“There you go, sir.” Jamie stepped back from Atlas to admire his handiwork. “Your cravat is perfect.”
Atlas twisted at the waist for a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror behind him. “Is it?” The neckcloth appeared bulky and overwrought to him, almost ridiculous in fact. But he didn’t have the heart to voice his concerns. Especially not after all of the effort the boy had put into painstakingly folding and knotting the white linen in a series of complicated maneuvers. “Are you certain this is the . . . erm . . . current fashion?”
“Oh, yes.” Jamie nodded decisively. “Even Mr. Finch would agree that your cravat is perfectly wrought.”
Atlas cast another dubious look at his reflection. “Who is Mr. Finch?”
“The Earl of Charlton’s valet.” Jamie scrutinized Atlas’s evening attire—all black except for the shock of bright white at the neck, a new ensemble made especially for the Duke of Somerville’s annual ball. Atlas would have had nothing appropriate to wear otherwise. “I’d wager my annual salary that Mr. Finch could not find a single flaw in your presentation this evening.”
“Would you?” Atlas murmured doubtfully. Charlton certainly favored flamboyant tailcoats and shiny buttons, but Atlas couldn’t ever recall his friend’s valet outfitting the earl with such a fussy cravat.
“Yes, sir. Mr. Finch says a skilled valet who excels in knots is a great commodity to the Quality.”
“I see.” Atlas’s brows lifted. “Commodity, hmm?” In addition to possibly perfecting the art of knotting a neckcloth, the boy certainly seemed to be improving his vocabulary.
“That means something of use or of value,” Jamie said proudly, obviously pleased with himself and his newfound knowledge.
“Yes, thank you. I do know the meaning of the word ‘commodity.’”
Jamie disappeared into the dressing room and returned with a brush in hand. “Do not move. I am looking for lint.”
“I begin to fear that Charlton has helped create a monster.”
Jamie had been a green country boy when Atlas had hired him as a particular favor to Lilliana the year before. After discovering a stack of Atlas’s scorched neck ties—Jamie had been as new to ironing as he was to valeting—the earl had whisked Jamie away to his Curzon Street mansion to be trained by Charlton’s own inimitable staff.
Jamie batted a few pieces of lint away. “A gentleman’s valet must always assure that his master is well turned out.”
Atlas decided to divert the boy’s attention to more important matters. “Jamie, beginning tomorrow, I’d like you to visit a number of apothecaries.”
“Certainly, sir.” The boy circled Atlas, his face a frown of concentration, his brush at the ready. “What do you need me to purchase for you?”
“It’s nothing I need. I want you to look in their poison books.”
He raised his gaze to meet Atlas’s. “Their poison books, sir?”
“Yes, every apothecary must keep a register of all the poison they sell and to whom they sell it.”
Jamie’s eyes widened. “Do you think you’ll find this Davis fellow’s killer in those poison books?”
“It’s a place to start.” He rattled off a list of neighborhoods he wanted Jamie to check, including all the apothecaries in the vicinity of Davis’s home and work as well as those in close proximity to Viscount Merton’s residence. It was a stretch to presume that a peer would purchase his own poison, but Lavinia Fenton might, especially if she were the mysterious Lady L. “Oh, and Jamie?”
“Yes, sir?”
“I want you to go out to Clapham and check the poison registries there as well.” Trevor Archer had fallen into debt thanks to Gordon Davis, and his father had disdained the man for luring his son into the evils of gaming. Both father and son had reason to hate Davis. It was time to discover whether any of the people on Atlas’s short list had purchased arsenic.
“Certainly, sir.”
“Thank you.” Atlas moved away, leaving Jamie holding the clothes brush midair. “I should be going.”
Jamie followed, handing Atlas his gloves. “I’ll summon the hackney.”
“No need.” Pulling the gloves on one at a time, Atlas headed to the front hall. “I’ll walk.”
Jamie handed Atlas his black silk hat. “Walk?”
He could not have looked more horrified if Atlas had said he planned to go out and murder a small child.
Atlas placed his hat on his head just as he reached the door. “Yes, Somerville House is barely ten minutes away on foot.”
Jamie quickly sidled past him and threw open the door before Atlas could. “It is my place to see to the door for you.”
Atlas clenched his jaw. “Thank you.” He secretly wished the boy would get out of the way. Atlas wasn’t accustomed to being fussed over. He’d never employed a valet before agreeing to take Jamie on.
“Walking just isn’t done, sir,” Jamie huffed. “The Quality must always arrive by carriage. You will be a laughingstock.”
“I shall have to risk it.” Atlas maneuvered around his valet, stepped through the door, and shut it behind him, half fearing Jamie might try to follow him down the stairs.
It did not take long for Atlas to feel vindicated in his decision to walk to the duke’s ball. A traffic jam came into view as soon as he turned onto Bruton Street from New Bond Street. The coaches were lined up for blocks, no doubt carrying bejeweled and resplendently attired guests to the Duke of Somerville’s fete. The ball was the most sought-after invitation of the Season, according to Charlton, who knew about such things.
As soon as Atlas reached Somerville House, easily making better time than the guests whose carriages cluttered the wide expanse of Piccadilly, it became apparent the duke had spared no expense for the evening. As enormous as the ducal abode was—it covered almost an entire Mayfair block—candlelight burned in every visible window, making Somerville House appear as bright against the night sky as fireworks at Vauxhall.
Atlas joined the throng of guests entering the mammoth dwelling and stood patiently in the reception line for his turn to be
greeted by Somerville and Lilliana. In the crush of people, he could snatch only partial glimpses of his host and hostess up ahead.
Beyond them lay spacious rooms filled with dozens of elaborate floral displays, their fragrance sweetening the warm air. Light from what seemed like a thousand candles and gilded sconces reflected off the pale walls, illuminating the rooms in golden splendor. Atlas had never seen anything like it.
“Welcome, Catesby,” Somerville greeted Atlas when he approached. The duke’s eyes dipped to the elaborate contraption twisted around Atlas’s neck. Atlas felt woefully overdone in comparison to the duke’s understated sartorial perfection. Somerville’s deep-blue evening tailcoat with gilt buttons was flawlessly tailored to his slender form. His snowy waistcoat, breeches, and stockings added to his impeccable appearance. Somerville relied on his particular friend, a tailor named Kirby Nash, to turn him out in the highest style.
“Your grace.” He bowed. “Thank you for including me.”
“My sister would not have it any other way,” the duke responded before smoothly handing Atlas off to Lilliana as he turned to greet the next guest. Considering the length of the queue, Atlas suspected the man might be formally welcoming his guests for at least the next hour or so.
“Atlas.” Lilliana placed both of her gloved hands in his. “How nice of you to come.”
“Lady Roslyn. I wouldn’t dream of missing it.”
“Naturally.” Amusement flashed in her amber-hued eyes because they both knew he was suffering through the evening solely for the opportunity to interrogate Merton.
“You look more lovely than ever.” A gallant comment but also a sincere one. She was incandescent in a cream silk evening gown embroidered with beads that shimmered when the light caught them.
“And you are as dashing as ever.” Her gaze dipped to his neckcloth.
He grimaced. “You are to blame for it.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
He gestured at his cravat with an upward sweep of his hand. “Jamie is responsible for this frothy mess.”
“Ah.” She smothered a laugh. The green country boy had been a servant in Lilliana’s house during her ill-fated marriage. “That explains much.”