by D. M. Quincy
Atlas wondered how Mrs. Norman would react had she known a duke’s daughter had already visited her establishment. On their last visit, Lilliana had declined to use her title.
She showed him into her private sitting room, a cozy space not unlike the ones kept by housekeepers in grand homes. “I hope you haven’t come to look through poor Mr. Davis’s room again. It has long since been rented out to another boarder.”
“No, it’s nothing like that.” He took a seat on her sofa, trying not to take up all of the space on the petite piece of furniture, which made him feel like an awkward giant. “I was hoping you could tell me a little more about the state of Mr. Davis’s health in his final days.”
“He was very excitable in his last days. I believed his distracted state had to do with the young lady he had hoped to wed.”
Atlas wondered if Davis’s deteriorating mental health meant his syphilis had worsened. Dr. Young had mentioned depression and mood swings as possible signs that the disease had taken a greater hold on its victim. “The medical examiner found that Mr. Davis had a very large quantity of arsenic in his stomach—enough, in fact, to kill several men.”
“Oh, dear.” Mrs. Norman pressed her lace kerchief against her lips. “How very awful. Someone obviously gave it to him. And I think we both know who it was.”
“Do we?”
“It was that young lady of his! I just know it,” she insisted. “He told me she was poisoning him.”
“But we also know that Mr. Davis took arsenic regularly.”
“So you say, but after his death, when I cleaned out his room, I did not see any arsenic, nor any empty containers where he might have kept the poison.”
Atlas’s brow furrowed as he thought back to when he and Lilliana had gone through Davis’s things. There’d been no sign of arsenic then either. “I assumed that you or the doctor who had attended Mr. Davis in the end had thrown out the arsenic after Mr. Davis’s death.”
“No indeed.” She shook her head emphatically. “That’s just it. I found no arsenic in his room, none at all. I am telling you that Mr. Davis did not accidentally take too much arsenic. It’s that young woman he’d hope to wed who did this awful thing to him.”
Atlas pondered her words. Where was Davis’s arsenic? If none had been found in his room, either he’d stashed his supply elsewhere or he likely had not ingested a huge amount of the poison on his own. “Are Mr. and Mrs. Perry at home?” he inquired.
“Mr. Perry is at work. I saw Mrs. Perry arrive after running her errands a short while ago.”
“Thank you for your time, Mrs. Norman.” He rose. “Now I should like to have a word with Mrs. Perry, if I may.”
Mrs. Perry was indeed at home in the shabby but tidy rooms she shared with her husband. She greeted Atlas amiably and invited him to share the tea she’d just prepared.
“Have you made progress in learning who killed Mr. Davis?” she asked once they’d settled at the worn circular table.
“Some.” He sipped his tea. It was somewhat weak—tea was precious to those with limited means—but he enjoyed the libation’s fragrant heat. “However, many unanswered questions still remain.”
“Oh?” Curious eyes watched him from over the rim of Mrs. Perry’s cup.
“Were you aware that Mr. Davis took arsenic?”
“Goodness. Whatever for?”
He wasn’t about to share the true reason. “He believed it helped maintain good health.”
She pursed her mouth. “I never saw him take any arsenic. And on the rare occasion I stopped by his room to drop off the post or to share a baked treat, I never saw any sign of arsenic.”
Atlas wondered why Davis would keep his arsenic-eating habit a secret from Mrs. Perry. He certainly hadn’t been shy about disclosing his arsenic usage to other acquaintances. “How did he appear to you in those last weeks of his life?”
“He wasn’t himself. I believe I mentioned that to you when we last met.”
But they’d been interrupted by her husband before Mrs. Perry had been able to explain what she meant. “Perhaps you could elaborate on that now.”
“He seemed troubled, almost feverish at times. He was too good for her, much too good.”
He did not need to ask to whom she referred. “You believe the young lady he wished to wed was the cause of all his troubles.”
“I do. Mr. Davis was the picture of vigor and health when I first met him. He was such a charmer and so very handsome. But after he took up with his young lady, things changed. He seemed very pleased at first because he was convinced his life was about to change for the better. But after a few months, she seemed to lose interest in him.”
“Did Mr. Davis tell you that?”
“He mentioned briefly once that he detected a cooling in her ardor. It was an agony to him. I’m convinced that is what caused Mr. Davis’s decline.”
Either that or the ravages of syphilis. “Did he ever mention that name of the young lady?”
She shook her head. “No, he only said that she was gently raised.”
“Someone sent this young lady a note suggesting Mr. Davis was engaged in a . . . friendship . . . with a fellow boarder. Was there a young lady here that Mr. Davis showed interest in?”
“No, none that I saw. It was probably just gossip.”
“That’s certainly possible,” he allowed.
“Or they could have believed Mr. Perry’s ridiculous claims about Mr. Davis having designs on me.” The rosy pink in her cheeks deepened. “It was nonsense, of course. I am several years older than Mr. Davis and rather plain.”
Atlas took in the woman’s features, which were faded except for the rather pointed nose that dominated her thin face. She seemed an unlikely candidate for a sexual indiscretion, yet she made Atlas think of Elizabeth Archer.
Had Davis had a certain pattern when it came to women? While Lady Brandon, the woman he had professed to love, was an undeniable beauty, Elizabeth Archer was anything but. If Davis had taken up with his neighbor’s homely wife, it would not have been the first time he had seduced a woman of unremarkable looks. The reason for the game he’d been running on Elizabeth was obvious, but what could an older married woman with neither money nor status have had to offer?
* * *
Atlas returned home to an unexpected visitor.
“The Marquess of Roxbury’s been waiting for you,” Jamie whispered in an awed voice the moment Atlas stepped into the front hall. “I served him coffee and biscuits.”
“Well done.” He handed his coat and hat to the boy and proceeded into his sitting room, where he found Roxbury standing at the tall window next to the game table with his hands clasped behind his back.
“Ah, Catesby, there you are.” Roxbury turned as Atlas entered the room. “I do hope I am not intruding by calling without prior notice.”
“Not at all.” It came as no surprise the mannerly marquess might abandon strict etiquette in his dealings with the lowly fourth son of a baron. “I hope Jamie has adequately seen to your comfort while you awaited my return.”
“He has indeed.” Roxbury gestured toward the full cup of coffee and biscuits Jamie had put out. As the marquess drew nearer, the biscuit tray seemed to capture his attention. “Lady Roslyn often serves those for tea. Somerville’s pastry chef is known to make the best dessert biscuits in the metropolis.”
“I am rather partial to them.” Atlas wondered just how often Roxbury was having tea with Lilliana these days. “Lady Roslyn was kind enough to send the biscuits home with me. She’s taken pity on a bachelor whose meals are less than regular.”
The two sat, Atlas in his usual spot and the marquess in the plush chair that Charlton favored.
Roxbury studied Atlas for a moment. “I am told you are an honorable man.”
“I endeavor to be.”
“You certainly behaved gallantly with Lady Roslyn during her most dire hour.”
Atlas nibbled on his biscuit and said nothing.
Roxbury conti
nued. “People have taken notice of the attentions you pay to her.”
“We are friends.” That wasn’t entirely accurate, but it was also no one’s business aside from his and Lilliana’s.
Roxbury cast a glance around the room, which was, of course, far more rudimentary than the accommodations to which the marquess was accustomed. “Do you find yourself in a position to offer for Lady Roslyn?”
“If and when I do,” Atlas said stiffly, “you can be assured that the lady—and not you—will be the first to hear of it.”
“I am prepared to take the honorable course where Lady Roslyn is concerned.” Resting his elbows on the chair’s armrests, Roxbury settled back and steepled his fingers just below his chin. “I hold Roslyn in great esteem, and before you returned from your journeys abroad, I felt quite certain she was prepared to accept my suit.”
“Oh?” He had not realized Lilliana had come so close to wedding Roxbury. “Then you’ve discussed marriage with her?”
“Most certainly. At length. And she promised to consider my proposal.”
Icy disappointment encased Atlas’s spine. “I was not aware your courtship had progressed that far.”
“Indeed it has. I’ve engaged in preliminary talks with Somerville regarding the marriage settlements.”
Atlas set his half-eaten biscuit down. The bite remaining in his mouth tasted like pebbles and sand when he considered that Lilliana was already practically promised to Roxbury and had neglected to inform Atlas of that fact. This revelation certainly explained why the duke had invoked Roxbury’s name after learning that Atlas had dined with Lilliana.
Atlas studied the marquess, regarding him in a new light. The man had a right to be territorial, considering he was all but betrothed to Lilliana. If anything, Roxbury had shown great restraint. Certainly far more than Atlas would have in his place. “You didn’t mention your claim on Lady Roslyn when we last spoke on this topic.”
“Without a formal betrothal announcement, my discussing the matter with you would have been both premature and indiscreet.”
“What has changed?”
“The matter has come to a head.” Roxbury crossed one knee over the other, a relaxed yet superior posture that suggested he was completely at ease in the home territory of his presumed rival. “Roslyn has put me off of late, and I suspect it is because you have confused her.”
Not half so confused as Atlas felt at the moment. “How so?”
“Only a fool would fail to see there is a bond of some sort between the two of you. Perhaps it is an inevitable result of the manner in which you met. She clearly feels grateful to you.”
Atlas’s patience was beginning to run out. “What is it you want from me, Roxbury?”
“I’d like for you to release Roslyn so that she will feel free to accept my offer of marriage.”
“Release her?” he said irritably. “She can do as she pleases. I have no hold on Lilliana.”
Roxbury’s brows lifted at Atlas’s slip, his informal use of Lilliana’s Christian name. “I think we both know that is not true. I also believe you will do right by Roslyn.” He rose. “I won’t keep you any longer. I’ll see myself out.”
Atlas sat for a moment after he heard the door close and listened to Roxbury’s light steps going down the stairs. If the marquess was to be believed, Atlas’s ill-timed arrival in London had cast Lilliana’s future, and her complete return to respectability, into doubt.
Becoming Roxbury’s marchioness could assure Lilliana’s future in a way that even Somerville—or Atlas, for that matter—never could. No fortress would be greater for Lilliana than wedding a peer and attaining a rank of her own. She and the children would be shielded should the ruinous revelations of what had occurred in Buckinghamshire ever become public.
Remorse snaked through Atlas’s gut. By indulging in a flirtation with her, he had selfishly put Lilliana and the boys at risk. He must put her first, however distasteful the task.
There was one decisive way for Atlas to quit the field and clear Lilliana’s path to wedding Roxbury. He rose and jotted down a note to his friend, Edward Hughes, inquiring whether passage was still available aboard the East India Company ship due to leave London in a few weeks. He’d just finished sealing the note when Jamie appeared to remove the refreshments he’d laid out for Roxbury.
“When you are done with that,” Atlas said to him, “please have this note delivered to the East India Company.”
“Very good, sir.” Jamie paused. “The East India Company? Will you be traveling again so soon?”
“Yes.” He set the sealed note down on the game table. “I believe I will be.”
Jamie nodded and stooped to clear away the coffee and biscuits. “His lordship didn’t touch the refreshments. Do you suppose the marquess found them unworthy?”
“Hmm?” Prodded from his musings, it took Atlas a moment to answer. “No, I’m certain he found everything most acceptable.”
Jamie peered into the cup. “He didn’t have any of this either. It would be a shame to let fresh coffee go to waste.”
“Help yourself.” Atlas pushed heavily to his feet. “I’m going to change.”
“I’ll assist you,” Jamie said promptly.
“No need.” Atlas spoke over his shoulder as he entered his bedchamber. “Drink your coffee, and then see to having that note delivered.”
He shrugged out of his tailcoat and tossed it on the bed. Tugging at his cravat, he wandered into his dressing room and froze. Pivoting, he returned to the bedchamber and surveyed his surroundings. Everything was as it should be yet also not quite in its proper place. His shaving implements and tooth powder were not arranged in their usual way. The cover pane on the bed was neat, except for a couple of ripples near the footboard. To an outsider’s eye, everything would appear neatly arranged. But he wasn’t an outsider. This was his home, and something was amiss.
He crossed back into the sitting room and appraised the space with a more critical eye. His almost-completed Hogarth puzzle was as he’d last left it. Nothing else was disturbed. Walking back to the bedchamber, he went to the small desk and pulled open a drawer, then another. Ah.
Comprehension dawned. Someone had gone through his things, and although an effort had been made to leave everything as the intruder had found it, the disturbance was apparent to someone like Atlas, who paid attention to the details. “Jamie!”
The boy appeared immediately, coffee still in hand. “Sir?”
“Have you been here all day?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you certain? Did you perchance run some laundry over to Charlton’s or undertake some other such task that took you from home?”
“No, sir. I’ve been here all day.”
Atlas’s attention slipped to the half-empty coffee in the boy’s hand. “But you left to get coffee.”
“Oh, yes, I did.” He flushed. “I should have remembered that. I do beg your pardon.”
“Never mind about that. Whose idea was it for you to go out and fetch coffee? Was it yours or Roxbury’s?”
“I asked if he’d like something.” Jamie considered the question for a moment. “And the marquess said he wanted fresh coffee from a particular shop on Bond Street.”
“You didn’t fetch the coffee from Mr. Waters as you usually do?” Jamie always bought Atlas coffee from Waters because it was close by—next to the tobacconist—and Atlas preferred his coffee hot.
“No, sir. His lordship specifically instructed me to go to Hookham’s. He said he can only abide coffee from there.”
Hookham’s was several shops away, almost at the opposite end of Bond Street from Atlas’s apartments. It would have taken Jamie much longer—fifteen minutes at least—to go there, fetch Roxbury’s coffee, and return. Enough time for Roxbury, who’d found a way to conveniently be left alone, to search the premises. But for what?
Jamie frowned. “It’s a bit odd, don’t you think, sir, for a man to ask for coffee from a specific shop and t
hen not touch the drink at all after you’ve gone to the trouble and expense of acquiring it?”
“It is odd,” Atlas agreed. “Unless it wasn’t the coffee Roxbury was after.”
“Sir?” Jamie asked, obviously puzzled.
“Never mind.” He wandered back into his dressing room. “Go and finish your coffee.”
What had the marquess hoped to find? Did he think Atlas might have proof of Roxbury’s daughter’s scandalous trip to Holywell Street? Or possible evidence that Roxbury had killed Gordon Davis?
Of course, it was entirely possible that something as mundane as jealousy had motived the marquess. Maybe Roxbury hoped to unearth scandalous information about Atlas that might prove to Lilliana that Atlas wasn’t worthy of her esteem.
Atlas had an impulse to call upon Lilliana and work out this latest piece of the puzzle with her. She had a keen brain and was far better acquainted with the way Roxbury’s mind worked than Atlas was. Discussing the marquess with Lilliana, as well as going over the details of his visit to the boardinghouse, would help him sort out all the facts.
He turned and strode back into the bedchamber, ready to call for his coat and hat, but stopped dead. Visiting Lilliana at Somerville House, enjoying her company, was not a habit he should fall into. He stifled a curse. Blast Roxbury and his smug self-assuredness that Atlas would do the right thing by Lilliana.
Bloody hell. Fury burning in his chest, he stomped into his dressing room, stripped off his clothes, and reached for his banyan.
* * *
On Tuesday afternoon, Atlas waited across the street from the General Annuity Society where Elizabeth Archer volunteered each week. He wondered if she would come on her usual day or whether her distress over poisoning her family would keep her from her customary activities.
He paced while keeping watch, his thoughts drifting back to Roxbury’s visit, as they often had over the past few days. Atlas had not seen Lilliana since. He’d sent her a brief note detailing his boardinghouse visit but had not called in person.
If Roxbury had had nothing to do Davis’s death, then Atlas’s path was clear. It was obvious to him that Roxbury cared for Lilliana and could offer her and the children the protection and comforts they deserved. Atlas, with his limited income and constant travel, would make a poor husband and stepfather. Across the street, the front door to the Society opened, diverting Atlas from his thoughts.