Murder in Mayfair

by D. M. Quincy

  Dark amusement deepened the lines in Warwick’s face. “Quite the gallant, aren’t you? Have you not yet learned that the termagant isn’t worth it?”

  He forced himself not to react to Warwick’s insult. “If that’s how you feel, one can’t help but wonder why you would want her back.” The man sitting alone at the table next to them shifted in their direction. Their conversation seemed to interest him, although his overt attention remained focused on the plate of food before him.

  “That is none of your concern.” Warwick leaned forward, elbows on the table. “It seems to me that you would also face great censure if your role in purchasing my wife were to become public.”

  Atlas drank from his coffee. “I assure you that I have little interest in society gossip.”

  “But the same cannot be said of your brother the baron, can it? I understand he is very interested in observing the proprieties.”

  “My brother’s opinion is his own and will have no bearing whatsoever on this negotiation.”

  “What you fail to understand is that there will be no agreement,” Warwick said smugly. “I want her back, and I shall have her.”

  Atlas’s fingers tightened around his mug. “If Mrs. Warwick does not wish to return to you, I will not force it upon her.” The interloper at the next table stopped eating, and although he avoided looking in their direction, Atlas could almost see the man’s ears twitching.

  “Then I shall sue you for criminal conversation,” Warwick said. “I will drag your good name through the mud.”

  “You bastard.” Fury churned hot and sharp in Atlas’s gut. The whoreson intended to sue him for adultery, shaming both him and Mrs. Warwick. If the damaging allegations were heard in open court, they would trigger the scandal of the season. As a gentleman, Atlas would survive the social disgrace, but Mrs. Warwick would be irretrievably ruined. “I never touched her.”

  “Surely you don’t expect anyone to believe that? You’ve trespassed on my private property, my wife’s body, and I intend to see you punished in a court of law.”

  Atlas stood abruptly, upending his chair, which clattered to the dark slate floor behind him. “You go too far.”

  “I would suggest you encourage Lilliana to return home before I pursue legal recourse.”

  “Do you think to threaten me?” Atlas clenched his fists by his side to keep from ramming one of them down Warwick’s throat. “Don’t push me.”

  “You’re playing with an empty hand, Catesby. I hold all the cards.” Satisfaction sparked in the man’s malevolent gaze. “The only recourse left for you is to deliver my wife back to me posthaste.”

  “I’ll see you dead before I allow Mrs. Warwick returned to you without her consent.” He swung around and kicked the toppled chair out of his way, striding out of the coffeehouse before he lost what little remained of his temper and used his bare hands to tear the foul bastard apart, limb by limb.

  * * *

  By the time Atlas returned to Thea’s house, the party was already under way. Sounds of conversation, soft laughter, and clinking glasses drifted out into the main hall.

  “I’m going to take a moment to myself in the upstairs sitting room before I join the others,” he told the butler when he handed off his hat.

  Fletcher slowly bowed. “Very good, sir.”

  Atlas trotted upstairs, hoping to settle the outrage simmering in his blood before he joined Thea and her guests. He also did not care for Mrs. Warwick to see him in his current agitated state. When he reached the sitting room, he found it occupied.

  Mrs. Warwick sat on the sofa in a white dressing gown with her legs tucked beneath her. Her hair was pulled loosely back, cascading spirals of midnight glinting in the candlelit room. She looked . . . beautiful.

  “I gather I am not alone in wanting some time alone,” he said.

  Her smile was weary. “It’s been a trying day.”

  His throat felt tight. “I’m sorry about what you went through this afternoon.”

  She looked into the fire. “It’s hopeless.”

  He joined her on the sofa. Sitting at the opposite side, he rested his arm over the sofa back, taking care not to touch her. “What is?”

  “He doesn’t care about the children’s well-being. He’ll keep them from me just to spite me. And I dare not subject them to another scene like the one they endured today.”

  “Perhaps in time . . .”

  “How much time?” she asked softly. “A year? Two?” Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “The housekeeper and footman who looked after the children are gone because of me.”

  “No,” he said ardently. “Not due to your actions. Warwick is the reason they are gone.”

  “Mrs. Greene and Jamie were kind to me and the boys. As a result, they find themselves without a situation, and my children are utterly abandoned.”

  “Do you know their direction? Your housekeeper and the footman? Perhaps Charlton and Thea could help them find a situation.”

  Some of the worry lines in her face softened. “It would relieve my mind greatly if that could happen.”

  “Then consider it done.”

  They were quiet for a moment. There was a strange sort of affinity between them, one that was not entirely comfortable, resulting from that terrible afternoon at the inn yard in Buckinghamshire. It was a bond her scoundrel of a husband had inadvertently sowed when he’d sold her to the highest bidder.

  “I understand you went to see Godfrey,” she said.

  He avoided her gaze. “Who told you that?”

  “Did it go so badly, then, that you cannot even look me in the eye?”

  He cleared his throat, wanting to shield her from the full extent of her husband’s ugliness. “He is a scoundrel of the lowest sort.”

  “What happened?” When he hesitated, she said, “Nothing could be worse than having my children taken from me. Whatever it is, I can survive it.”

  “It is nothing worth repeating.”

  “I deserve to know what is coming.”

  She did. But he hated to be the one to tell her that Warwick was out to destroy her. “He’s threatened to sue me for criminal conversation.”

  She sucked in a breath, and all the color drained from her already-pale face. “But it’s a lie.”

  “He is not interested in the truth. He knows the accusation alone will cause a terrible scandal.”

  She shook her head, her distress obvious. “He will ruin your good name when all you have done is behave in the most gentlemanly manner.”

  His eyes widened. “You worry for my good name? I can easily withstand anything he casts in my direction. But for you, as a female—”

  She touched his hand where it rested on the back of the sofa. “Your concern is for me?” Her touch was light, like a butterfly. Or an angel. And it sent a pleasant ripple through him.

  “You would not even be allowed to testify in your defense,” he said heatedly. “You would be utterly ruined.”

  “You are a very decent man, Atlas Catesby.” She met his gaze and held it; her eyes, rich and luminous, were the color of leaves in the fall. “I did not know there could be men like you in the world.”

  “I am sorry for what you have endured.” He presumed to take her pale, fine-boned hand into his. When she allowed it, something sweet, yet also painful, stirred in his chest. He feathered his thumb over skin that was warm and as soft as a rose petal. “You do not deserve such base treatment.”

  They held each other’s gaze. It was silent except for the rain that had begun to fall outside, a gentle patter sounding against the window. Her eyes glittered against the smooth porcelain of her complexion. A strange, fierce sensation kindled deep in his belly.

  A throat cleared. “Excuse me, sir.” Atlas tore his attention away from Mrs. Warwick to the young man standing on the threshold dressed in servant’s clothing. Atlas didn’t recognize him, but then Thea often hired extra help for her parties. “Mrs. Palmer asked if you will be joining the others for dinner,
sir.”

  He pulled his hand away from Mrs. Warwick’s, regretting the loss of her touch. “I gather you are not joining them,” he said to her.

  “No.” She came to her feet, and he rose as well. “I’m not up to socializing this evening.”

  “If I were to go down to dinner, there would be an uneven number, since you are not there.” He was greatly relieved to have a reason not to join the festivities. “Send my regrets to Mrs. Palmer,” he instructed the young man.

  After the servant left, he escorted Mrs. Warwick down the corridor to her bedchamber. “I hope you will be able to get some much-needed rest.”

  “I will try.” She paused after opening her door. “Thank you for all you’ve done on my behalf. Most men would not have behaved in such a chivalrous manner.”

  “It has been my privilege,” he said before bidding her good evening. A fierce desire to protect her swept through him. “On my honor, I will do whatever is in my power to help you be with your children again.”

  * * *

  When he arrived at home, Atlas sat to work on the Gainsborough puzzle, an activity that usually helped to clear his head and settle his mind. That evening, though, the puzzle did not have the desired effect, for his thoughts remained unsettled. After about an hour, he gave up and retired to his bedchamber, where he spent a restless night, the rumble of thunderstorms adding to his sleeplessness.

  He rose early the following morning and had just completed his toilette for the day when he noticed a message had been slipped under his door. It was from Godfrey Warwick.

  For a certain sum, this situation can be rectified.

  Please attend me at the shop at your earliest convenience.

  GW

  He threw the note down with a colorful curse, wondering what game Warwick was playing at now. The man obviously enjoyed keeping Mrs. Warwick dancing on a string; perhaps he fancied doing the same with Atlas.

  It was late morning by the time he entered the haberdashery, fueled by curiosity and a desire to assist Mrs. Warwick. The shop was in the same tidy state—with gleaming surfaces and neat, well-stocked shelves—as when he’d last visited. He approached the curly headed clerk standing alone behind the mahogany counter, whom he recognized from his previous visits. “I’m here to see Mr. Warwick.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible.” The clerk pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose with his pointer finger. “Mr. Warwick has not come down yet this morning.”

  Irritation flickered. “Does he normally stay abed this late?”

  “No, Mr. Warwick is usually down before I even arrive.”

  Atlas didn’t know what Warwick was up to, but he was in no mood to be toyed with. He hadn’t slept well, and a headache threatened. He peered behind the clerk to the door leading to the private back area of the store. “I have an appointment with Mr. Warwick.” He stepped closer, knowing his size and high-handed manner would intimidate the boy. “Pray go and tell him I am here.”

  The boy blinked and stepped back. “Mr. Warwick does not like to be trespassed upon in his private quarters.”

  “And I don’t care to be kept waiting. Go and summon your master at once.”

  The clerk wavered while Atlas stared hard at him, and then he gave a nervous cough. “Very well. I shall go and inquire as to whether Mr. Warwick is available.”

  While the clerk was gone, Atlas speculated about Warwick’s motivation for summoning him. It was likely another game, although it was possible Warwick wasn’t as well breeched as he appeared. Perhaps the shopkeeper was truly in need of chink.

  His musings were punctured by an ear-piercing scream from somewhere above him that seemed to shudder through the stucco walls. The animalistic howl was pitched so high that, at first, Atlas thought it belonged to a woman. His blood turned cold, and he bolted toward the narrow steps leading to the upper floors. When he reached the bottom step, the clerk appeared on the landing and staggered down the stairs with horror etched on his face, his skin an ashy gray.

  “What is it?” Atlas reached out to steady the fellow.

  “Mr. . . . Warwick.” The clerk gagged and covered his mouth. Wrenching violently away, he stumbled past Atlas and across the shop floor, throwing open the door just in time to cast his accounts all over the stone walkway.

  Atlas ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time until he reached the top. The mahogany door to what he assumed were Warwick’s apartments was wide open, leading to a well-ordered sitting room with comfortable stuffed brown furniture, a desk, a wooden table, and two spindle-backed chairs. The only item that looked amiss was a heavy pewter candleholder lying on the rug. He moved toward the double doors that led to the bedchamber.

  A sickly sweet odor reached him. There, on the crumpled bed, lay Warwick, clad only in trousers. He was on his back with his arms flung out wide, his head hanging over the side of the bed. His face had turned a sickening shade of dark purple, while the skin on his exposed upper body, chest, and arms coated with silvery fur was bluish gray and waxy looking. His stomach appeared distended, unnaturally swollen. Eyes that had gleamed with malice only a few short hours before were now open and unseeing, staring blankly at a world he was no longer a part of.

  Atlas spun away from the gruesome sight, his breakfast threatening to reappear when his own belly lurched. He put a fortifying hand on the wall and leaned into it, forcing himself to breathe evenly while his mind processed what he’d just seen. There was no doubt about it.

  Godfrey Warwick was dead.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “How long have you known the deceased?”

  Atlas rubbed the back of his neck. “A short time. Approximately three weeks.” He sat atop the haberdashery counter, answering questions put to him by the corpulent Bow Street runner who’d arrived shortly after the clerk had discovered Warwick’s corpse.

  “How did you come to make his acquaintance?”

  “We met by chance at an inn when I was passing through Slough in Buckinghamshire. He has a country box there.”

  The runner was a rumpled-looking man of about forty who’d introduced himself as Ambrose Endicott. “He had a country box, you mean to say. You are aware Mr. Warwick is deceased.”

  “I’m aware. It was hard to miss.”

  Endicott studied him with eyes that looked like black currants among the fleshy folds of his face. “So you only met three weeks ago.”

  “Yes, I didn’t know him well.”

  “But you were well acquainted enough with the man to threaten him?”

  The hair rose on the back of his neck. “Where did you hear that?”

  “What difference does it make?” The runner consulted his notes. “Ah yes, here it is. You threatened to meet Mr. Warwick at dawn to put an end to Mrs. Warwick’s ‘suffering,’ as you put it.”

  Atlas recalled saying as much to Warwick during his previous visit to the haberdashery. “The clerk obviously has keen hearing.”

  Endicott nodded agreeably. “Young Mr. Stillwell’s information has been most helpful. Most helpful. Do you deny threatening to challenge the victim to a duel?”

  “I do not deny it. However, I never issued the challenge, and I fail to see how that’s relevant, since we are not currently standing on the lawn at Hyde Park.”

  “A most valid point. Most valid.” The runner scratched his head and consulted his notes again. “You were also heard to say that Mr. Warwick would pay for what he had done.”

  Atlas exhaled through his nostrils. “Am I being accused of something?” All signs suggested to him that Warwick had been killed and that the pewter candlestick on the floor was the likely murder weapon. But he hadn’t noted any overt signs of injury to the man’s skull. “Was he hit in the head?”

  “Possibly.” Endicott chewed on the back of his pencil. “Could be a natural death. But it also could be poison. We’ll have to wait and see. The medical examiner’s report will help determine if we are dealing with murder.”

  “These questions about my
relationship with the man could very well be pointless.” But Atlas did not think they were. He would do just about anything to get his hands on the medical examiner’s report once the postmortem had been completed.

  “Perhaps, perhaps not, but it is best to be thorough.” Endicott spoke in an amiable manner. “I am interested to know why you hated the man and what precisely any of this has to do with his wife.”

  “It has nothing at all to do with Mrs. Warwick.” Atlas struggled to hold onto his temper. The last thing he wanted to do was to sully Mrs. Warwick’s name any further by making her husband’s outrageous behavior more publicly known than it already was.

  “Let’s come back to that, shall we?” Endicott pulled out a bolt of fabric. “Fine muslin. My missus would appreciate this, but it’s rather too fine for a runner’s modest wages.”

  Impatient, Atlas came down off the counter. “If that is all.” He wanted to tell Mrs. Warwick about her husband before someone else did.

  Endicott looked up from the fabric. “Just one more thing. What were you doing here today?”

  “I had an appointment with Mr. Warwick.” He straightened his jacket. “He sent a note requesting that I visit him here at the shop today.”

  “Is that so?” He came over. “May I see the note?”

  Atlas pulled the missive from his pocket and dropped it into Endicott’s open palm. The runner read the words quietly to himself and then again aloud. “For a certain sum, this situation can be rectified.” He tilted a look at Atlas. “To what situation does he refer?”

  “I have no idea,” he lied. “Warwick enjoyed toying with people. Now if that’s all—”

  “One more question. Do you know where I can find Mrs. Warwick?”

  There was no reason to obfuscate. “She is a houseguest of my sister, Mrs. Thea Palmer, who lives in Bloomsbury.”

  “A houseguest? Mr. and Mrs. Warwick were staying with your sister?”

  “No, Mrs. Warwick is the sole houseguest.”

  “And where was Mr. Warwick staying?”

  “I was not the man’s keeper.” Atlas ground out. “Although I understand he stayed most evenings in his rooms here above the shop.”