Murder in Mayfair

by D. M. Quincy

  “Only if I have to,” he said over his shoulder as he broke into a jog.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Knowing it would take Thea’s decrepit butler several minutes to answer the door, Atlas cut through the back alley that separated the mews from the houses, taking the direct route to the small iron gate that led to Thea’s back garden.

  As he approached, Godfrey Warwick’s voice rang out. Atlas paused by the hedgerow, which gave him a view of the happenings on the patio without revealing himself. He was conscious of overstepping—Thea would never let him hear the end of it—but he was also discomfited by the thought of leaving Mrs. Warwick and Thea alone with the loathsome man.

  “I do appreciate your looking after my wife, Mrs. Palmer,” the scapegrace was saying.

  “Someone has to,” Thea retorted. She did not ask him to sit. Women of quality did not extend such invitations to tradesmen, but Atlas suspected his sister withheld the invitation to demonstrate her contempt for the man, not for his class.

  “Yes, you are quite right.” Warwick had the grace to appear chagrinned. “I have behaved most precipitously in regards to my wife, but I intend to rectify the situation.”

  “How so?” Mrs. Warwick asked.

  “I’ve come to take you to the boys.”

  Mrs. Warwick sat up taller. “You’ll allow me to be with them?”

  “You are their mother. It is only right.”

  “I’m grateful.” Relief washed over the refined lines of her face. “I’m certain we can work out an arrangement that allows me to be with the boys while you are at the haberdashery.”

  The man frowned. “I’m afraid you mistake my intentions. I’ve come to take you back as my wife, Lilliana, with all that entails.”

  Mrs. Warwick went very still. “You wish for things to be as they were.”

  “You are my wife, after all.”

  An indelicate snort sounded from Thea. “You seemed to forget that when you sold her. My brother holds a bill of sale that is proof of your dastardly conduct.”

  “Nonetheless, in the eyes of the law, Lilliana remains my wife,” he said tightly. “As her husband, I have complete dominion over her.”

  “You took me to the center of town and sold me.” Mrs. Warwick’s voice shook with angry emotion. “I could have been terribly abused if I’d fallen into the care of someone other than Mr. Catesby. You have betrayed me in the worst way.”

  “I will admit my temper got the best of me. Come home, and all will be well.”

  “And what will you do when you become angry with me again?”

  “I trust you’ve learned your lesson and will hold your tongue in the future when you think to oppose me.”

  “No.” Mrs. Warwick’s spine stiffened. “I will not put my fate in your hands again. You have debased me for the last time.”

  His eyes went wide, his surprise evident. “I beg your pardon?”

  “And well you should.” Her voice rang out loud and clear. “What you have done is unpardonable.”

  Flushed with anger, he placed his palms facedown on the table and leaned into her. “If you do not come with me now, you are choosing to abandon your children.”

  “I cannot . . . will not . . . go back to living with you as your wife,” Mrs. Warwick said.

  “You do comprehend that your access to the children will be at my good pleasure.” He edged closer. She turned her head, avoiding his gaze. “A court could command that you restore my marital rights to me. A wife has her duties.”

  “I always endeavored to be a dutiful wife.” She raised her gaze to meet his. “However, any sense of obligation I once felt as your wife was severed the moment you whored me out to the highest bidder.”

  Warwick appeared to be struck dumb, as though uncertain how to deal with this uncharacteristic show of defiance. “Under the law, you do not exist apart from me,” he snarled.

  Thea cut in. “You may leave us now, sirrah,” she said bitingly. “And do not presume to return until, or unless, you are summoned.”

  Flushed, he glared at his wife. “Everything you do, every action you take, is at my sufferance. Do not push me, Lilliana.”

  He bowed stiffly before making his exit. When he’d gone, Thea reached over and patted Mrs. Warwick’s hand. “Bravo,” she said softly. “Are you well, my dear?”

  “I am,” Mrs. Warwick declared. “As a matter of fact, I tire of acting the victim. It is time my husband learned that I, too, won’t be pushed.”

  Seeing that the women had the matter well in hand, Atlas quietly stepped away from the gate and went back toward the alley, setting off for home.

  * * *

  The following day, Atlas walked home to Bond Street after an invigorating hour-long swim in the Marquess of Granleigh’s indoor plunge pool, his first swim in months.

  During his travels to warmer climates, Atlas, a strong and enthusiastic swimmer, took a dip almost daily. Unfortunately, London weather was rarely as accommodating as the Mediterranean. Luckily, Charlton was well acquainted with Granleigh, an elderly marquess whose ill health kept him in the country, and had recently secured permission for Atlas to use the plunge pool during the old man’s absence. The basin was somewhat small, but at least Atlas had been able to practice a few strokes. Swimming was the only truly vigorous exercise his foot allowed for these days.

  The day was overcast, but that didn’t stop people from crowding the fashionable shopping area, the pristine stone walkways keeping them above the muddy streets as they strolled past engravers, gentlemen’s hairdressers, wine merchants, and confectioners. Stepping around a group of chattering young women, he wondered again why he hadn’t taken a lease on a quieter street.

  He went by a man repairing the signage above a clockmaker’s shop where the letter C had fallen off the building. He smiled because it made him think of Phoebe. Reading imperfect signage had been a game between them when he’d been very young. He would have asked his sister to read the clockmaker’s sign for him, and they both would have giggled when she pronounced it “lockmaker.” It was strange how a silly childhood game between siblings was now a treasured remembrance. Would it have receded into the forgotten reaches of his brain, he wondered, had Phoebe lived long enough to create more memories?

  Ignoring the twitch of emotion in his chest, he turned to walk down Piccadilly and was surprised to find Thea and Mrs. Warwick coming out of Hatchards bookshop, followed by Thea’s footman, Miller, who was weighted down by several packages.

  “Good day.” He removed his beaver hat. “I hadn’t thought to run into you ladies here.”

  Thea’s eyes danced merrily. “Mrs. Warwick wanted to do some shopping.”

  “I see.” He eyed the footman’s many packages. “Have you seen fit to purchase every book at Hatchards?”

  “Oh, no,” Thea said. “We have visited a dizzying number of shops and purchased everything you might imagine—hats, slippers, reticules, shawls, gloves, the finest kid leather gloves you can imagine—in every color.”

  “In every color?” He wondered where Mrs. Warwick had obtained the funds for such extravagance.

  “Oh, yes! Miller has already loaded many packages into my carriage,” Thea said gleefully. “These are just the latest purchases.”

  He eyed his sister. Thea shopped when necessary, but she was not one to visit Bond Street for entertainment or to take such pleasure from it. “I’ve never known you to find shopping so . . . rewarding.”

  She grinned. “I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed a visit to Bond Street as much as I have today.”

  What sounded like a human roar of anger came from behind Atlas. He turned to find a red-faced Godfrey Warwick charging down the street, his furious gaze centered on his wife. “How dare you, you stupid wench,” he growled. “Do you think to outsmart me with these antics of yours?”

  Atlas stepped into Warwick’s path, preventing him from coming too close to his wife.

  “Hello, Godfrey. I’ve been enjoying a bit of shopping.” His
wife’s voice was polite, but the devilish gleam in her eye sparked a strange sensation deep in Atlas’s gut.

  “Who do you think you are?” The angry words spewed from Warwick’s mouth as he gestured to the bags in Miller’s arms. “You have charged all this to me? You have spent dozens of pounds.”

  “Hundreds, I daresay,” she said lightly. “Gowns can be most expensive, and I ordered an entire new wardrobe—morning dresses, afternoon dresses, even a couple of ball gowns.”

  His eyes bulged. “Ball gowns?”

  “Once the merchants realized I was the goodly wife of their colleague merchant, the esteemed owner of the Warwick & Sons haberdashery, they kindly extended me a very generous line of credit.”

  Atlas eyed his sister, who was brimming with barely contained amusement. He suspected that Thea’s reputation had also helped Mrs. Warwick obtain credit.

  Warwick shook a fist at his wife, but Atlas’s stalwart form kept him from getting close enough to the lady to do her any physical harm. “I will cancel all the orders at the modiste.”

  “Unfortunately, you cannot,” she said, not seeming sorry in the least. “I had to pay a premium, you see, to buy the ready-made gowns, some of which had been made for other customers. But we convinced the modistes to sell them to us right away. At considerable expense, of course.”

  “If you think I will pay these bills, you are mistaken, madam.” His voice trembled with anger, and the deep-red shade of his face suggested a man close to having an apoplexy. Shoppers on the sidewalk slowed, staring openly at the commotion Warwick was causing.

  “Oh, but you must,” Mrs. Warwick said. “Since I do not exist as a separate person from you, according to the laws of England, it is as if you yourself ordered these things, and as such, you are responsible for any and all debts I’ve incurred today.”

  Color leached from Warwick’s face as her words sank in. “You will not get away with this,” he said in a low, deadly tone.

  “I do believe that I already have. According to the law, I cannot act on my own. It will be assumed that you ordered me to buy these things.” She held herself erect and unflinching in the face of his anger, which prompted Atlas’s deep admiration. She was quite a woman.

  Disbelief stamped Warwick’s face as he advanced on his wife. “You witch!”

  Atlas stepped closer. “This is neither the time nor the place to discuss this matter,” he murmured in the man’s ear. “You are causing a spectacle that your patrons would not appreciate should word of this unfortunate encounter reach them.”

  Warwick’s angry glare met Atlas’s calm gaze. “This is all your doing. It must be.”

  “I assure you this is the first I have heard of Mrs. Warwick’s shopping spree. Although I cannot say I disapprove of her methods.”

  Warwick craned his neck to peer around Atlas’s burly frame until his wife came into sight. “You will pay dearly for this.”

  Atlas placed a warning hand on the man’s shoulder. “I will call upon you soon to see if we can settle this matter.” Miller also moved a little closer, positioning himself to intervene if needed.

  For a moment, it seemed Warwick might come to physical blows with Atlas, but apparently realizing that he was badly outmatched, the man appeared to regain control of himself. “See that you do. You need to control your property, Catesby.” He spun on his heel and marched stridently away.

  “Well,” said Thea with a huff of laughter. “I don’t know when I’ve enjoyed myself so much.”

  Atlas looked at Mrs. Warwick, who exhibited no outward indication that the encounter with her husband had upset her, although the color on her cheeks was high. “Are you well?”

  “Supremely well.” Then she released a shuddering breath, and all the strength seemed to flow out of her, and he understood how difficult it had been for her to defy her husband. She gave him a measured look. “I gather you disapprove of my methods.”

  “Not at all,” he responded honestly. “I am all admiration. That was a tactical move worthy of Wellington himself.”

  Thea clapped her hands together with delight. “I agree. Well done, Lilliana. How clever you are to have thought of this.”

  A small smile curved her lips. Her mouth intrigued Atlas. It was slightly lopsided, so that when she smiled, it was more of a haughty smirk. “Although the laws of marriage and divorce were written by men to be to their advantage, they neglected to take into account that women can be far more cunning.”

  Atlas laughed out loud. “Well said. I shall endeavor to remember never to cross you, Mrs. Warwick.”

  And yet, at the same time, it occurred to him that battling wits with such a woman might prove very amusing indeed.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Charlton took a draw on the water pipe, the sound of bubbles percolating through the air. Exhaling, he eyed the decoration in Atlas’s bachelor apartments. “The person who chose these colors was either partially blind or had dreadful taste.”

  Atlas relaxed back into his overstuffed chair and lifted his troublesome foot onto the stool in front of him. The riot of color surrounding them was indeed startling. The carpets were crimson, the wallpaper a bright orange, the chairs and sofa covered in sky-blue paisley chintz. “These apartments were already furnished when I rented them. I don’t really notice the decor anymore.”

  “How can you not?” Disdain tinged Charlton’s languorous tone. “It’s positively headache inducing.”

  Atlas took the shared hose from his friend and inhaled, enjoying the effects of the mellow tobacco taste. He’d long had an aversion to snuff and cheroots, but to his surprise, he rather enjoyed an occasional session with the nargileh, a habit he’d picked up in Constantinople. Charlton had also taken to the hookah pipe. “And yet you manage to visit often enough.”

  “One suffers as one must in the name of friendship.”

  Atlas smiled, still somewhat bemused by the unlikely bond that had formed between them after meeting at Cambridge. Not only did the Catesbys not move in the same rarified circles as earls, but after Phoebe’s death, Atlas had developed an aversion to the peerage. Charlton, who’d always been surrounded by obsequious hangers-on desperate for a future earl’s favor, had been intrigued by Atlas’s ambivalence. For the first time in his privileged life, he’d had to earn someone’s friendship and had vigorously applied himself to doing so. As such, before Atlas knew it, the two men had become fast friends.

  Charlton surveyed the chamber. “Although the decoration leaves much to be desired, I do approve of the location. A Bond Street address is quite the thing for young bachelors about Town.”

  “Your approval relieves my mind.” He hadn’t taken the apartment because of its fashionable address. It was the first place he’d seen once his foot had healed enough for him to manage a flight of stairs. One could only take so much of Thea’s hospitality. His sister tended to be overbearing at times.

  He was comfortable enough here. His rooms consisted of a hall with a fireplace, a sitting room with twenty-foot ceilings, double doors that led into the bedchamber, and a dressing room with a hip bath. His servants, if he employed any, would have access to kitchens in the attic, but at the moment, he only had a cleaning lady who came weekly. “Not that it matters,” he added. “I shan’t be here for much longer.”

  Charlton held out his empty glass. “Determined to head off for foreign lands again?”

  Atlas grabbed the decanter off the marble table beside him and learned forward to freshen the earl’s drink. “As soon as I am able.” He exhaled disgustedly while gesturing toward his hobbled foot. “That miserable appendage has kept me in London far longer than I’d anticipated.”

  “You really must get a valet to assist you while you are in Town,” Charlton said. “Who will dress you for Thea’s party this evening?”

  “I shall endeavor to accomplish the task on my own.”

  “I don’t know how you do it. I myself have never managed without making a hash of things.”

  Atlas drew o
n the hookah again, settling his head back against his chair to exhale high up toward the ceiling, enjoying the sweet, fragrant scent that filled the air. “You’re in possession of an obscenely wealthy earldom. I am not. Circumstances required that I learn to do things for myself.” The modest Berkshire property he’d inherited from his father provided an adequate income, if he lived simply. He would never possess anything near the earl’s massive fortune.

  “Oh, I almost forgot. I met someone the other day who knew you at Harrow,” Charlton said. “His name is Robert Bentley. He’s the third son of the Marquess of Langford.”

  “Bentley?” He thought back to his school days and searched his memory for the name. “I don’t recall him.”

  “He remembers you very well. Says you were something of a legend there. A daredevil who would accept any challenge. Bentley says all the boys there thought you had a death wish. Pity I was at Eton.”

  Atlas leaned forward, using tongs to tap ash from the glowing coals fueling the hookah. “You did not miss much.” He preferred not to reflect back upon his days at the exclusive boarding school. It had been a dark period in his life, a time when he’d often flouted death, daring the reaper to come for him as he had for Phoebe.

  Charlton sipped from his glass. “Should I regret that you had calmed somewhat by the time you reached Cambridge?”

  “Definitely not,” Atlas muttered, eager to change the subject. The near drowning of a fellow student he’d challenged to race across a wide stretch of the rain-swollen River Brent had thoroughly curtailed his most reckless tendencies. Atlas might have been perfectly willing to gamble with his own life, but he could not bear to have another person’s death gnawing at his conscience. One was quite enough.

  He did not care to continue this line of conversation. It recalled memories he preferred to forget. “I’m beginning to remember Robert Bentley.” Irritation edged his words. “He always did talk too much.”

  “I found him most entertaining.”

  “I’ve no doubt.” Atlas shifted, grimacing as pain pulsed in his foot. “You enjoy gossip more than any woman I’ve ever met.”