by D. M. Quincy
He’d ridden from the boardinghouse to Mayfair with Lilliana in the duke’s opulent coach. Once they’d reached Somerville House, Lilliana had ordered the duke’s swiftest mount saddled immediately for Atlas’s use. Maria Perry might have had a running start on him, but she was no doubt making her way to Clapham in a hired rig. No contraption would move as briskly as Somerville’s exceptional animal.
He reached Clapham about thirty minutes later and prayed Maria Perry hadn’t gotten to Elizabeth first. He had no idea how long he’d been unconscious or how much of a head start Mrs. Perry had on him. Fortunately, a groom appeared as soon as Atlas dismounted. It was the first fine day they’d enjoyed in a long time, and several people were strolling outdoors and along the common, enjoying the warming weather.
He dashed up to the Archers’ front door and pounded hard on it. A startled servant opened the door. Atlas did not wait to be invited in.
“Where is Miss Elizabeth Archer?”
“Sir!” the man who’d answered the door—the butler, perhaps—exclaimed, clearly affronted. “This is a respectable home. You cannot barge in here.”
Atlas rounded on him. “Where is Elizabeth, dammit!” he roared.
Fear shimmered in the butler’s eyes. Atlas was a large man, and he knew what an intimidating picture he could present. “I . . . I . . . ,” the man stammered.
“She’s in the parlor with a guest,” an amused young feminine voice said from behind him. He turned to see Harriet Archer emerging from somewhere in the back of the house with her slingshot firmly in hand. She looked more slender than he remembered, but otherwise her unfortunate encounter with arsenic did not appear to have left a lasting mark. “Good day, Mr. Catesby.”
He pointed at her. “Do not come into the parlor,” he ordered. “It’s not safe.”
Without waiting for her response, he spun away toward the parlor. He entered the large sunny room at a fast clip to find Elizabeth and Maria Perry seated on the sofa. Elizabeth brought her teacup to her mouth.
“Don’t drink that.” He dashed over and hit it out of her hands. It hurtled out of Elizabeth’s hands, the tea spraying over the expensive carpet.
“Mr. Catesby!” Elizabeth said with surprise. But he wasn’t looking at her. He was focused on the gun Maria Perry had pulled out of her basket.
“How much of it did you drink?” he asked Elizabeth urgently.
“None at all, thanks to you,” she said.
“Don’t come any closer,” Mrs. Perry warned him. Carefully rising from the sofa, the woman kept the weapon trained on Elizabeth.
Elizabeth turned away from Atlas at the sound of Maria’s command. A sound of distress erupted from her throat when she spotted the weapon. She shrank back on the sofa. “What are you doing?”
Atlas held out a calming hand. “Do as she says, Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth stared at him with fear in her eyes. “She said you sent her. That’s why I received her.”
Atlas shook his head. “I did not send her.”
Mrs. Perry backed up, putting more distance between herself and Atlas. “You needn’t have made such a dramatic entrance. I did not poison the tea. Why use arsenic when a pistol is so much more to the point?”
He looked the woman in the eye. “You don’t want to kill Miss Archer.”
Elizabeth uttered an unintelligible exclamation of shock and surprise. “Kill me?”
Mrs. Perry ignored her. “I assure you that I do.” Scorn twisted her narrow face. “She deserves to die like Gordon did. He took his life because she broke his heart.” She’d backed up all the way to the massive open window.
Trembling, Elizabeth shot a panicked look at Atlas.
He focused on Mrs. Perry. “You are mistaken,” he said to her.
“I told you he killed himself.” Mrs. Perry’s voice became louder as her agitation level seemed to rise. “I purchased the arsenic because Gordon asked me to, and I gave it to him for his personal use. I knew he took it occasionally, but I didn’t think he would take it all at once and kill himself. I would never have hurt him. I loved Gordon, but he only had eyes for her.”
“I do believe you.” Atlas spoke in a soothing voice, hoping to calm Mrs. Perry. “I know Gordon killed himself.”
“What?” Elizabeth said, horrified. “He poisoned himself because of me? No, it cannot be.”
“It is.” Hate filled Mrs. Perry’s voice as she gestured menacingly at Elizabeth with the gun. “You as good as killed him. Now it is only fair for you to die as well.”
Atlas inched closer. “Mr. Davis did kill himself, but not because of Miss Archer. He did not love Miss Archer. He loved a lady in Mayfair who he had known for many years, but she is wed to another.”
Mrs. Perry eyed him suspiciously. “You’re lying.”
“I am not,” he assured her. “Mr. Davis wanted to wed Miss Archer to better his place in society, but he did not kill himself because of a broken heart.”
“Why else would he do it?” Maria Perry demanded. “I don’t believe you.”
“Mr. Davis killed himself because he had syphilis.”
A shocked sound escaped Elizabeth’s throat. “No!”
Atlas nodded, his focus on the woman holding the weapon. “I spoke with his doctor and the medical examiner; both agree the man suffered from the pox.”
“No, it cannot be.” Maria Perry shook her head back and forth in short, quick motions. “He was so beautiful.”
“So I have heard,” Atlas said. “You can imagine how difficult it would have been for a man like Mr. Davis, who depended upon his good looks, to know he would soon have a visage that repulsed people rather than attracted them.”
Mrs. Perry seemed to waver. “But I thought he cared for Miss Archer. I thought she was responsible.” She spoke softly, almost to herself. “How can it be?”
“As you can see now, there is no reason to harm Miss Archer.” Atlas took a step toward the woman.
“She jilted him,” Mrs. Perry said angrily.
“He was neither faithful nor devoted to Miss Archer. I’m certain even you would agree it was not a good match.”
“I no longer know what to think.” She slumped onto a stool before the open window. “I was so certain . . .” Her voice trailed off.
Something sailed through the window—a rock—and struck Mrs. Perry in the head. Stunned, she reflexively looked out the window. Atlas took advantage of the distraction to launch himself at her, wrapping his large hands firmly around her weapon.
“No, stop,” Mrs. Perry cried as she struggled with him, but he easily disarmed her, breaking her hold on the weapon and backing away from her.
“What do we have here?” Ambrose Endicott stood on the threshold of the parlor with two men flanking him. “Lady Roslyn came to Bow Street and informed me there might be trouble at the Archer abode.”
Thank goodness for Lilliana’s quick thinking. Atlas regarded the runner with relief. “That is Mrs. Maria Perry.” He pointed to the woman, who had collapsed back onto the stool and seemed to be paying no mind to what was happening around her. “She drugged me and attempted to shoot Miss Archer here.”
“Is that so?” Endicott’s bushy brows lifted as he eyed Mrs. Perry with interest. “May I assume she also killed Mr. Davis?”
“No,” Atlas informed him. “I believe Mr. Davis killed himself.”
Endicott gestured to the two men. “We’ll take Mrs. Perry down to Bow Street.” He turned to Atlas as the men took hold of Mrs. Perry and began escorting her from the room. “You will need to give a statement.”
Atlas nodded. “I will follow shortly.”
Endicott readied to leave.
“Which of your men threw the rock to distract Mrs. Perry?” Atlas asked. “That was quite clever.”
“Rock?” Endicott looked puzzled.
“It was me.” Harriet Archer’s smiling face popped up in the window. “As you know, I am very good with a sling. I couldn’t hear what that old bedlamite was saying, but I c
ould see her gun. She made for an excellent target in the open window.”
“She did indeed.” Atlas cracked a smile, the tension of the last few minutes beginning to break away.
Harriet looked beyond him to her sister. “Are you all right, Elizabeth?”
With his focus on Mrs. Perry and the gun, Atlas had almost forgotten about Elizabeth. He turned to look at her. She sat buckled forward on the sofa, hugging her midriff.
“Miss Archer.” Alarmed, he went and knelt before her, the movement sending a sharp pain through his head. “Are you hurt?”
She looked up at him with despair in her hollowed eyes. “I have noticed certain . . . signs . . . on my person,” she whispered entreatingly, as if willing Atlas to deny the horror she might have ahead of her. “Are you certain Gordon had the pox?”
Sympathy filled him. “Yes.” There was nothing else he could say. “I am so sorry.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Several days later, he went to see Lilliana.
Roxbury’s carriage was pulling away when Atlas arrived at Somerville House. Heaviness settled in his chest. Perhaps Lilliana’s betrothal was finally official.
She received him in Somerville House’s expansive gardens. As he crossed over the wide stone verandah and trotted down the steps leading to the lush manicured lawn, he easily spotted Lilliana—her dark hair and snowy day dress resplendent against the verdant backdrop.
She sat at a table set with crystal and fine china, the remnants of tea and refreshment as elegantly laid out as at any supper party Atlas had ever attended. The crystal caught the sun, adding glimmer to the picturesque tableau.
“Enjoying the fine afternoon, I see,” he said as he drew near. It was warm and gently sunny, the most pleasant day so far after a particularly brisk spring.
She looked up from the book in her lap as he approached. “It is a lovely day. I thought to enjoy it.” She studied his face. “I trust your health is improved.”
“Much, thank you.” He had been abed with a headache and some dizziness for the last few days, the lingering effects of Maria Perry’s bashing him in the head with what turned out to be a cutting board. Aside from an interview at Bow Street immediately after Mrs. Perry’s arrest, Atlas had taken to his bed, seeing few people save Jamie and Charlton, who’d returned with glowing stories of his time in Bath.
“I visited Miss Archer,” Lilliana informed him. “I have made arrangements for her to see Somerville’s physician.”
“She faces a terrible ordeal.” He pulled out the iron chair opposite her and settled into the cushioned seat. A half-full cup of tea and a floral china plate with a partially eaten slice of cake sat on the table before him. Roxbury’s, no doubt.
“Elizabeth believes it is what she deserves for attempting to poison Mr. Davis.”
“I highly doubt Miss Archer gave him more arsenic than he regularly took on his own.” A fresh sense of distaste for Davis rifled through him. “But I believe Davis wanted people to believe Miss Archer responsible for his death.”
“Truly?” Her luminous gaze regarded him over the rim of her porcelain teacup. “That would explain why he encouraged her to purchase arsenic.”
“You’ll recall he insisted that she buy the poison herself and not allow the servants to do it.”
Comprehension lit her patrician face. “He wanted her name written down in the poison book.” Illuminated by the sun, her eyes were an intriguing coppery shade. “Proof for all to see that she’d purchased the poison.”
“Imagine his surprise when she decided to put it in his drink.”
“So he meant to frame her, and then she actually attempted to commit the crime he meant for her to be accused of?”
He shrugged. “I don’t suppose we’ll ever know for certain exactly what went on in Davis’s mind, but that’s how it appears to me. He was threatening to ruin Elizabeth, and thanks to Davis, she had the arsenic in hand while at her most desperate.”
A footman appeared with a fresh table setting and whisked Roxbury’s used teacup and plate away. “It also explains why Davis only began keeping a journal in the last few weeks of his life,” Atlas continued. “It was a way for him to implicate her from beyond the grave. For all we know, he wrote all of those passages in the journal in one sitting.”
Lilliana leaned forward to pour the tea. “But why? Because she’d tried to poison him, or because she jilted him?”
“Perhaps both. He’d already been jilted once by Lady Brandon. Elizabeth’s rejection could have sent him over the edge. And once Davis realized he was ill, maybe he decided to take his final revenge on her.”
“What a terrible man.” She shuddered. “To take advantage of a young girl and then attempt to punish her in such a gruesome manner.”
He thought of the grim future that Elizabeth Archer faced. “Davis might not have succeeded in having her blamed for his murder, but he has managed to ruin her life all the same.”
“Yes,” Lilliana said, all sympathy. “The poor girl.”
“And then there’s the question of why Davis had Mrs. Perry purchase the arsenic he ultimately used to kill himself.”
“I should think it is obvious.”
“How so?”
She reached for her tea. “If he meant to frame Miss Archer, it would not do for his name to appear in any poison books.”
“Quite right.” He immediately saw her point. “If his name had appeared in the poison book, Bow Street would have assumed he used the arsenic he’d purchased to kill himself.” He drank his tea. “I imagine you’ve told Tacy what we discovered.”
“Yes. Not all of it, of course. There is no need for her to know what an absolute scoundrel her brother was. She is aware that he took his own life because he was ill. It’s been very difficult for her, but she is relieved to finally know the truth of how her brother died.” She set her tea down. “Do you still plan on setting sail for India soon?”
“Yes, the East India Company has a ship leaving in a fortnight.”
Her tone cooled. “And you have secured passage.”
“I have.” He paused, then added, “I saw Roxbury leaving when I arrived.”
“Yes, he came for tea. I never truly imagined he had anything to do with Mr. Davis’s death. He is the best of men, you know.”
He swallowed down the acid that rose in his throat at her praise of the marquess. “Is a happy announcement soon to follow?”
“That is unlikely. I rejected Roxbury’s proposal today.”
“What?” His head shot up. “But why?”
She lifted one delicate shoulder in an elegant shrug. “I do not wish to wed him.”
“I thought the two of you had an understanding. Roxbury indicated he’d even spoken with Somerville about the marriage settlements.”
“Yes, the two of them did seem rather eager to see me wed. As did you,” she added archly.
He did not miss the rebuke in her tone. “But Roxbury would have given you everything.”
“Not quite. I do not love him.”
A frisson of delight shot through him at the confirmation that Roxbury had not engaged Lilliana’s affections. “I did not think love was required in ton marriages.”
“I doubt I will ever wed again. If I do, it will have to be for a very compelling reason.” She gestured around them at the immaculate structured lawn and enormous neoclassical pile towering over it. “As you see, my brother provides very nicely for us; wealth and rank are not incentive enough for me to suffer another husband.”
“You said yourself that Roxbury is the best of men,” he protested, worried for her future. “He could have protected you and the boys.”
She exhaled, long and slow. He was obviously trying her patience. “When will you realize that not all women need saving? I certainly no longer need to be rescued.”
“I realize that.”
“Do you?” The words dripped with disdain. “You really are an incredibly arrogant man. I don’t know how I didn’t see it before
now.”
He stiffened, taken aback by her reproach when all he had ever done was try to do what was best for her. “I only want your happiness.” He had sacrificed for her future, and she tossed that aside now as if it were nothing.
“Do you?” she said in a voice rich with scorn. “By happiness, I presume you mean what you believe should make me happy, not what would actually bring me joy and contentment.”
What the devil was she talking about? “No,” he said tightly. “That is most certainly not what I mean.”
“Yet you and Roxbury decided between yourselves what would make me happy.” Her nostrils flared. “And neither of you saw fit to consult me.”
His brow furrowed. “I don’t know what Roxbury told you but—”
“He informed me that the two of you conferred and reached the conclusion that he and I should wed. That is why I came to see you the afternoon you confronted Mrs. Perry. To tell you what I thought of your machinations.” She gave him a pointed look. “How considerate of you both to spare me the trouble of determining my own future.”
“That’s not what either of us intended,” he began. “You are the daughter of a duke. We both know I am beneath your touch. A woman as fine as you should wed a marquess.”
“Very pretty words.” She did not appear impressed. “Did it ever occur to you that perhaps I should decide what is best for me?”
“Of course you should.”
“And yet you could not give me the courtesy of allowing me to do so.”
“You are twisting everything,” he said, his temper rising. “Surely you comprehend that I only want what is best for you . . . and for the children.”
“I have already endured one husband who saw fit to dictate everything in my life.”
She was comparing him to her late husband? “Godfrey Warwick and I could not be more different.”
“I certainly thought so once, yet you thought to command my future just as he did in the past.” She rose to her feet, regarding him regally over the bridge of her nose. “You must have a great deal of packing to do for your journey. So if we are finished here . . .”