Murder in Mayfair

by D. M. Quincy

  “Alas, both live in Scotland. One is a countess, and the sister lives with her and is said to be contentedly on the shelf.” Warwick straightened some ribbons on an oak shelf. “But the duchess’s influence endures, and many in the ton continue to frequent my humble establishment.”

  “Do you think they would so readily give you their custom if it became known that you sold your wife and are cruelly keeping her from her children?”

  Warwick’s busy fingers stilled, and he turned to face Atlas. “You think to threaten me with exposure?”

  “I think the ladies of the ton will be aghast at your treatment of your wife. No one can cut a person as cruelly and catastrophically as the fearsome matrons of Mayfair.”

  Warwick moved to bolts of white muslin and began to organize them in exacting rows. “You’ve overplayed your hand, Catesby.”

  “Have I?” he asked mildly.

  “Ask Lilliana. She fears exposure far more than I. Do you really want to subject her to public shame and degradation?”

  “You have already done that.” He spoke through clenched teeth. “Most thoroughly, I might add.”

  Warwick laughed. “You don’t understand at all.”

  Uneasiness slithered through his gut. The man was too smug, too confident of his position in regards to his wife. “Perhaps you’d care to enlighten me.”

  Warwick met his gaze, but Atlas, who watched him carefully, detected uneasiness behind the confident manner. “She’s hiding from someone or something. It’s why she married me—me, an older man and likely of inferior social status, from the looks of her—and buried herself in the country during the entire course of our marriage.”

  “What do you know of her family?”

  “Nothing at all, which is how she wanted it.” He shrugged. “And what did I care? As a long-standing bachelor of six-and-thirty when we married, I was just happy to have a young girl of obvious quality in my bed.”

  Disgust trickled through Atlas’s veins, even though it was not unusual for men of advanced age to wed much younger girls; at forty-two, Lord Berwick, one of Prince George’s cronies, had married a girl of fifteen, although she was rumored to be a courtesan. But the image of Warwick, a man old enough to be his wife’s father, grunting over the innocent sixteen-year-old girl as he bedded her, made Atlas want to call the bugger out then and there.

  “You took advantage of an innocent young girl with no family, and now you have cast her aside,” he said.

  “You will soon learn Lilliana is not what she appears.”

  “Your behavior has been deplorable, sir. I should meet you at dawn and put an end to Mrs. Warwick’s suffering.”

  Warwick laughed again, a grating, self-satisfied sound. “Fortunately for me, I am no gentleman and, as such, do not engage in duels.”

  “Mrs. Warwick has no family to lend her financial support. According to my barrister, you could be required to pay for her support.”

  Warwick’s mouth curled with skepticism. “You purchased her. Lilliana’s support is now your responsibility.”

  “The law might not see it that way. However, Mrs. Warwick is willing to forgo any financial assistance in exchange for being able to visit her children at regular intervals.”

  “As far as my children are concerned, their mother is dead, and I will do everything in my power to ensure that she never sets eyes on them again.” Malice gleamed in his black eyes, and Atlas wondered what had passed between this man and his wife to put it there. “Nor do I expect to be held responsible for providing any type of support for Lilliana. I am not a fool, Mr. Catesby. If I were you, I would take care to remember that.”

  “Only a fool would act as you have acted.” Atlas placed his beaver hat on his head as he turned to leave. “Rest assured, you will be made to pay for what you have done.”

  Warwick made a disparaging sound that Atlas heard just before he pulled the shop door shut behind him.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Much later that day, Atlas arrived at his sister’s house to find Thea engrossed in The Times.

  “You were correct about Prudence Pratt,” she informed him.

  “Prudence Pratt?”

  “Surely you recall the case of Miss Pratt and the murder of her half brother,” she admonished. “The toddler who was the product of her father’s marriage to the family’s former governess after the death of his first wife.”

  “Of course I remember. The little boy vanished from the family home one evening only to be found in the garden the following morning with his throat cut.” The case had fascinated him. As with puzzles, the intricacies of human behavior and motivation, life’s conundrums in all forms, sparked his intellectual curiosity and drove his desire to decipher them. “Has there been a new development?”

  “Miss Pratt, the sister, has been arrested in the death of her brother.”

  “It’s little wonder. It’s as clear as a bell that the girl did it.” Once he’d read the details of the murder, Atlas had immediately deduced that the boy’s jealous older sister was the culprit, a conclusion he’d reached even before the magistrates directed Prudence’s arrest. “The missing nightdress is proof enough of that.”

  Thea regarded him over the top of the newspaper. “She maintains the cleaning lady stole it.”

  “Miss Pratt could hardly say otherwise. However, the cleaning lady has never before been accused of taking anything.” He walked around to read the paper over her shoulder. “The sister obviously bloodied her nightdress when she cut her brother’s throat and then burned it to destroy the evidence.”

  Thea shivered and folded the paper away. “I don’t see how a sister could be quite so ruthless.”

  “A half-sister,” he reminded her. “And the child was a male heir borne of a woman who was not Miss Pratt’s mother.”

  “You do have a cold-blooded way of viewing the murder of an innocent child.”

  “Hardly. It’s a terrible thing. However, once you sort through all the facts and view them with an objective eye, it’s as clear—”

  “—as a bell,” she finished for him. “Yes, yes, so you often say. Except I own that many things only seem self-evident to you and not to the rest of us.” She rose and went to her blackboard, which was covered with math equations scrawled in white chalk.

  “Where is Mrs. Warwick?”

  “She left for Buckinghamshire very early this morning.”

  “She went to Slough?” he asked incredulously. “Is she trying to see the children?”

  Dressed in her usual black muslin, Thea stood with her back to him, one hand perched on her hip, the other cupping her chin as she stared at the blackboard scribblings. “She received a message late yesterday that her sister in marriage had succumbed to her malady. I believe Lilliana’s gone to pay her respects to the husband.”

  John Warwick’s wife was dead? Atlas recalled hearing mention of her illness, but he hadn’t realized how dire the situation was. “How did Mrs. Warwick get there?” Alarm rustled through him. Godfrey Warwick might also have gone to Slough to be with his grieving brother. “Why didn’t someone inform me?”

  “And why, pray tell, should you be informed of Lilliana’s whereabouts?” Thea pivoted to face him, and he saw that her dark gown was marked by smudged chalk. “Perhaps you’re taking this idea of purchasing her to heart.”

  “Don’t be absurd,” he retorted. “If her husband is present when Mrs. Warwick arrives, he could reclaim her, and under the law, there’s nothing any of us could do to help her.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that.” Concern caused two little wrinkles to appear between her eyebrows. “I sent her in my carriage with my coachman and a footman. She should be perfectly fine.” She turned back to study her equations. “No doubt that jackanapes husband of hers is tied to his little shop on Wigmore Street here in Town. He doesn’t seem the type to risk losing a shilling in order to comfort the grieving.”

  He walked over to stand beside the board, which gave him the opportunity to study hi
s sister’s face as well as the smudge of white chalk on her chin. He noted her stiff posture and the way she avoided looking him in the eye. “Why do I get the sense that you are not telling me everything?”

  Keeping her focus on her equations, she scribbled something on the board, the chalk making quick tapping sounds. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I think you know exactly what I mean. You said you believe Mrs. Warwick went to Slough to pay her respects to John Warwick. Does that mean she might have gone to see the children?”

  She kept her eyes on the board. “Lilliana is a grown woman. She can do as she pleases.”

  He exhaled a long breath through his mouth. His sister could be frustratingly obstinate when she chose to be. He tried another approach. “Have you had an opportunity to learn more about Mrs. Warwick?”

  She gave him a sideways glance. “What exactly do you wish to know?”

  “I met with Warwick this morning. Fear of exposure to his aristocratic clientele did not seem to rile him in the slightest. He claims his wife has something to hide and that she would be far more distressed than he if her situation were made public.”

  “A deep, dark secret?” Charlton’s voice sounded from the threshold of Thea’s breakfast-room-turned-office. “How intriguing.”

  Thea glanced over her shoulder. “What are you doing here?” she asked, her words damp.

  “I’ve come to learn why two plus two does not equal four.” Clad in a fitted royal-blue jacket festooned with gold buttons and matching military-style braiding, Charlton headed straight for the most comfortable chair in the room. “And to bask, of course, in the dazzling brightness of your countenance.”

  “The only thing that is dazzlingly bright in here is your jacket,” Thea said. “Goodness, I practically need a parasol to protect me from its brilliance.”

  Charlton frowned and looked down at his attire just as Mrs. Warwick entered the room.

  “I do hope I’m not interrupting.” She looked very well. Her manner was perhaps more subdued than usual, but her eyes sparkled, and for the first time in their short acquaintance, there was a healthy glow of color in her cheeks.

  Thea set her chalk down. “Not at all. You’re just in time for some tea out in the garden. We’re taking advantage of a rare sunny day.”

  Atlas guessed at what had put that unexpected light in Mrs. Warwick’s eye. “You went to see the children?” Wary of overstepping, he resisted the urge to warn her against placing herself in such a vulnerable situation. “I trust they are well.”

  She nodded. “Yes. Very. And they are well looked after by Mrs. Greene, the housekeeper, and Jamie, one of the houseboys.”

  Alarm stirred in his gut at the thought of Mrs. Warwick visiting her former home. “It could prove very dangerous were Warwick to catch you at the rectory with the boys.”

  “It is a risk I had to take. They are my children. I cannot be apart from them.”

  Thea dusted chalk from her hands. “Did you also call on your brother in marriage?”

  A solemn expression came over Mrs. Warwick’s face, and the reason for her muted demeanor became apparent. “Yes, John is in a terrible way. Verity’s death was most unexpected.”

  “My deepest sympathies.” This from Charlton, who’d come to his feet when Mrs. Warwick entered the room. “What ailed her, if I may ask?”

  “She had a fever and severe stomach pains.” Mrs. Warwick still seemed slightly dazed by the sudden, tragic turn of events. “The doctor said it was scarlet fever.”

  Thea said, “How very sad.”

  Mrs. Warwick nodded. “I find it difficult to believe that gentle Verity is gone so suddenly.”

  “You say her husband is not coping well?” Thea asked.

  “No, he is not,” Mrs. Warwick answered. “He is grieving, of course, but John is also very angry. It is so unlike his usual gentle and amiable countenance.”

  “What of their children?” Thea asked. “Can they not provide their father with some comfort?”

  “John and Verity were not blessed with children,” Mrs. Warwick said sadly. “Verity anguished over not being able to provide John with the heir he deserved, but he never recriminated her for it. And now he is truly alone.”

  Fletcher came in to announce that tea and refreshment had been laid out in the garden. The four of them filed out back and settled into the worn brick terrace’s iron furniture. Three brick steps led up to a narrow, slightly overgrown garden, where shrubs and flowering plants crowded each other, seeming to compete for attention.

  Thea’s elderly butler shuffled behind them, overseeing the footmen who brought in the tea and frozen treats.

  “Lemon ices?” Mrs. Warwick dipped a spoon into her frozen dessert. Ice treats were a luxury to have at one’s home. “Where did they come from?”

  Thea spoke around a small spoonful of the icy treat. “My icehouse.”

  Mrs. Warwick’s delicate brows rose. “You have an icehouse here on the property?”

  “Yes, my husband had it put in once he learned how much I adore lemon ice.”

  “Where is Mr. Palmer?” Charlton asked. “Why is he never in residence?”

  “My husband spends most of his time at our property in Yorkshire. I prefer Town life, and he enjoys the country.”

  “Oh.” The surprise on Mrs. Warwick’s face was apparent. “I assumed . . . because you wear black—”

  “That I’m in mourning?” Thea’s eyes twinkled. “Not at all. I wear black to hide the ink stains from my work. You’ve no idea how many gowns have been sacrificed in the name of geometry.”

  Charlton sipped his tea, his pinky finger daintily extended. “Is your husband not afraid to leave his beautiful wife unattended for so long a period?” The earl had a flirtatious nature, and Thea’s obvious lack of receptiveness did nothing to curb that inclination. “I certainly would be.”

  “Mr. Palmer and I understand each other perfectly,” she said. “We don’t see a need to be in each other’s pockets.”

  “More fool he,” Charlton replied under his breath.

  “As I was saying,” Thea continued, “we stock the icehouse with ice from the Thames when the river freezes so I can indulge myself all summer long, no matter how hot it gets. That icehouse is the only reason Atlas agreed to stay with me while he recuperated.”

  “Recuperated?” Mrs. Warwick looked at Atlas. “Have you been ill, Mr. Catesby?”

  Atlas pressed his lips together. He loathed discussing his injury and the limitations it placed upon him. He was not accustomed to being a man of inaction.

  But Charlton had no qualms about sharing his friend’s private business. “Atlas was involved in a carriage accident several months ago. He jumped from the hackney as it tipped over and broke his foot in the process.”

  Mrs. Warwick’s gaze darted to his injured foot and back again. She must have detected his limp, even though he went to great pains to hide it. “I am improved,” he reassured her.

  “Unfortunately, he still has pain.” Thea sipped her tea. “Icing the injury helps alleviate his suffering. But as soon as he could walk again, he found his own apartments.”

  “I prefer to be on my own,” he said tightly. He also preferred to end all conversation about his private affairs.

  Mrs. Warwick set her spoon down, leaving most of her lemon ice untouched. “Did you not have a permanent residence in London?”

  He shook his head. “I take temporary lodgings whenever I am in Town.”

  “Atlas is a restless soul,” Charlton put in. “He travels extensively, spending months at a time abroad. He doesn’t see the need to keep a household.”

  Thea scraped the last of her ice from the bowl. “His incapacitation has kept him in England far longer than he cares to be.”

  “Why are we speaking of me as though I am not present?” Atlas ground the words out.

  “Don’t be such a stick-in-the-mud, Atlas.” Thea reached for her tea. “Mrs. Warwick is clearly interested to know more about
us. She is staying here, after all.”

  He scowled. “Yes, but we seem to only be talking about me.”

  Mrs. Warwick gave him a considering look. “Will you be leaving again soon, Mr. Catesby?”

  He dipped a spoon into his ice, which had begun to melt. “I expect so.”

  “I shall miss him when he goes.” Thea sipped her tea. “But he sends wonderful letters. Atlas is a keen observer of the world around him and fills his correspondence with marvelous details of his travels. He gets his gift with words from our late father.”

  Mrs. Warwick stared at Thea. It seemed as though something clicked in her mind. “Silas Catesby was your father?”

  Thea’s pride was apparent. “Yes, indeed.”

  Atlas was surprised Mrs. Warwick hadn’t made the connection before now. His father had been one of England’s greatest modern writers and poets. Silas Catesby was so widely admired that he’d been awarded a baronage some twenty years earlier.

  Mrs. Warwick looked from Thea to Atlas. “How was it growing up with Silas Catesby as your father?”

  “Ever-changing.” Thea smiled. “He’d lock himself away for days at a time when he was working. But then he’d emerge, and we’d go on family picnics and other outings until inspiration struck Papa again and he’d vanish back into his study.” Mrs. Warwick asked several more questions about their father—inquiries both siblings had grown accustomed to answering over the years.

  The conversation gradually moved on to other topics as they drank their tea in the gentle sunshine. When they were done, Atlas and Charlton rose and bade farewell to the ladies before taking their leave.

  They’d walked a short distance and were crossing the damp street when Charlton glanced back in the direction of Thea’s house. “I say, isn’t that Mrs. Warwick’s unpleasant husband?”

  Atlas swung around in time to see the stocky man with a headful of gray hair lift the knocker on his sister’s front door. “What the devil?” He began walking quickly back in the direction they’d just come.

  “What are you about?” Charlton called after him. “Do you intend to pummel the man in the street?”