by D. M. Quincy
“I want to race you,” Peter said. He’d lost much of his polite wariness and was brimming with a little boy’s energy and enthusiasm.
“Oh?” Atlas asked, amused. “Do you think you can best me now?” He was perspiring from his exertions, his cravat was askew, and his hair was surely a mess. Surprisingly, he was enjoying himself. Spending time with Mrs. Warwick’s boys rekindled the fond memories he had of playing with his numerous siblings as a boy. “You think you’ve learned enough to beat me?”
Peter raced off, rolling his hoop with speed and precision. “There’s one way to find out!” he called back over his shoulder as he dashed away.
“Cheater!” he shouted after the boy. He turned to young Robin. “Come on then. We must catch your brother and really show him how it’s done.”
They went running off, with Atlas rolling the hoop and Robin chasing after him, laughing and calling out to his brother. “We’re going to catch you, Peter!”
Atlas was so focused on rolling the hoop that he didn’t see Mrs. Warwick cross his path until it was almost too late. He barely avoided colliding with her before coming to an abrupt halt as the hoop rolled off without him.
“Am I interrupting?” she asked, obvious amusement twinkling in her eyes.
“Mrs. Warwick.” Embarrassed at being caught behaving like a child, Atlas ran a hand over his unruly hair in a hapless attempt to tidy it.
“Yes, Mama,” Robin cried out in frustration. “You are interrupting our race, and now Peter is the winner because we didn’t have a chance to finish . . .” His voice trailed off as his eyes watered and his chin wobbled.
“Don’t cry, my love.” She knelt to take the boy into her arms. “You can have another race.”
But the boy wasn’t interested in being comforted. He wriggled out of his mother’s embrace and grabbed the stick from Atlas before rolling his hoop wobblingly off in the direction of his brother, who’d reached the end of the grassy square and turned back in their direction. “That wasn’t fair,” Robin called out to him. “Mama says we have to start over and do it again.”
Mrs. Warwick stood and turned her attention back to Atlas. “You roll that hoop quite expertly. You’re a man of many talents.”
He tried to tug his cravat back into some semblance of order. He was sweating like a stevedore and no doubt reeked more than a Seven Dials cutpurse, while she personified the epitome of cool, serene loveliness. Her flawless pale skin was luminous against the black of her mourning gown, its square décolletage emphasizing the long, graceful column of her neck.
Masking the chagrin brought on by his disheveled appearance, he said lightly, “I confess bowling hoops is one of the activities at which I excel. I am also quite the expert at bilbocatch,” he added, referring to a ball-and-cup game at which he was unbeatable.
She favored him with that crooked—yet somehow still imperious—smile of hers. “What a braggart you are. I wouldn’t have guessed it.”
He laughed at the setdown. “Touché.”
“It is good of you to play with the children,” she said on a more serious note. “Their father never did, so they are quite unused to masculine attention.”
He abandoned his futile attempts to put his hair and clothing to rights. “It was my pleasure,” he said with all sincerity. “I cannot remember the last time I enjoyed myself quite so much.” Though his left foot was beginning to protest, and he suspected he’d suffer the aftereffects of the day’s exertions.
Peter came running up, trailed closely by his younger brother. “Mama,” he cried. “Don’t say we have to go home.”
An expression of profound maternal love and admiration settled on her face as she looked at her child. “Yes, darling. I’m afraid we must return to Mrs. Palmer’s. Your new tutor has come to meet you.”
Peter crossed his arms over his narrow chest. “It’s not fair,” he pouted. “Mr. Catesby was going to show me how to jump back and forth through a rolling hoop.”
“I’m sure Mr. Catesby is a very busy man and has matters of importance to attend to today.” She spoke in a firm voice while exchanging a look with Atlas. It took him a moment to realize he was supposed to reply in the affirmative.
“You’ll need a much bigger hoop for that trick,” he told the boy. “We shall have to get you one. In the meantime, I’ll escort you all back to Mrs. Palmer’s.”
They walked down High Holborn and turned right onto Bury Street, which led to Great Russell. Along the way, the boys chattered excitedly, regaling their mother with stories about the tricks Atlas had taught them so far. It was the first time he’d seen Mrs. Warwick in the company of her children. Their presence softened her precise edges, and she was as relaxed as he’d ever seen her when she interacted with them.
At first, he was embarrassed to have his folly with the hoops recounted for the boys’ elegant mother, until he registered the way her eyes shone when she looked at him, gratitude glimmering in those dark depths.
“I must admit young Peter gave me quite a run.” Atlas handed his hat to Miller when they arrived at Thea’s house.
“Mama got in the way,” Robin said for at least the fifth time. Atlas was beginning to learn children certainly could be repetitive.
That put Peter’s back up. “I can beat you any day. You’re just a baby.”
“Sir—” Miller said to Atlas.
“Peter, apologize to your brother for being rude.” Mrs. Warwick’s sharp words cut the footman off.
Peter stared at the ground. “I beg your pardon,” he said with sullen reluctance to his younger sibling.
“Sir,” Miller tried again.
“Mama is good at bowling hoops,” Peter said, brightening. “She could even race Mr. Catesby.”
Atlas looked at her. “Is that so?”
“I am quite accomplished,” she said haughtily, good humor sparkling in her bronze-colored eyes. “I do believe I could best you.”
He regarded her appreciatively. “Ahoy! That sounds like a challenge.”
She laughed. “Perhaps it is. But I must choose the hoops to make certain they are the same.” It was the first time he’d seen her completely stripped of her usual reserve. He’d never seen her as unencumbered as she seemed at the moment, as though a great weight had been lifted from her.
“I will not go easy on you just because you are a lady,” he warned.
“La.” She gave a careless wave of her hand, and he glimpsed for a moment the carefree young girl she must have been before her marriage. He stared at her in open admiration. It was as though she’d been wrapped in a tight cocoon when he’d first met her, and now the layers were slowly being peeled away to reveal her true self. Discovering the woman beneath could prove intriguing. “You’ve no idea what I’m capable of.”
“Just what are you capable of, Mrs. Warwick?” said a familiar male voice from behind them.
The smile drained from Atlas’s face when he caught sight of the portly man just off the front hallway.
“Mr. Endicott.” All mirth left the lady’s face as well. “This is a surprise.”
“As I was saying, sir,” Miller put in. “You have a visitor. Mrs. Palmer is out, but Mr. Endicott here said he would like to wait for you.”
“So I see.” Atlas shed his jacket and handed the garment to the footman. “What brings you here, Endicott? You seem to be making a habit of lying in wait for me.” He wanted to plant the man a facer for destroying the convivial atmosphere.
Endicott glanced at the footman. “Perhaps we could talk somewhere a bit more private?”
Mrs. Warwick excused herself to take the boys to meet their tutor, saying she would join the men shortly, while Atlas led the runner to Thea’s little-used blue parlor.
Endicott wandered over to examine a landscape painting above the hearth. “I’m pleased we have a moment alone before Mrs. Warwick joins us, because what I have to say is of a delicate nature.”
Atlas kept his expression neutral. “Can I offer you a whiskey?”
“No
, thank you.” Endicott turned from the painting. “I’ll come straight to the point. I visited the Red Rooster, the pub in Covent Garden where you met Warwick on the night he was killed. The people there remembered Warwick. And you.”
Atlas poured himself a whiskey. “I see.”
“One of the regulars even managed to overhear your conversation.”
Atlas’s scalp tingled as he turned to face the runner. “Did you learn anything of interest?”
“Only that Warwick was going to publicly charge you with adultery.” His keen gaze was trained on Atlas. “Criminal conversation, I believe he said.”
Atlas sipped from his whiskey and struggled to maintain a placid demeanor. “The accusation is untrue as well as unfounded.”
“Still, being publicly charged with adultery in a court of law could have severely damaged your reputation.”
A mirthless huff of laughter escaped him. “Do you truly believe concern over my own standing in society is why I’ve neglected to mention this sordid business to you before now?”
“It seems as good a reason as any.”
“I am a gentleman, the brother of a baron and son of the beloved national poet Silas Catesby—”
“You don’t say?” Avid interest shone in Endicott’s eyes. “I didn’t realize you were connected to that Catesby. Your father’s work is a favorite of the missus . . . particularly, what is it called? ‘Golden Time’ or ‘Golden Day,’ or something to that effect?”
“‘One Golden Hour.’” It was one of his father’s most popular poems.
“That’s it!” Endicott slapped his fleshy thigh and pointed at Atlas. “That’s it. That’s the one.”
“As I was saying, given my connections, I could survive a scandal. However, crim-con allegations would be far more damaging to Mrs. Warwick.”
Endicott stared at him for a moment. “And you are fond of Mrs. Warwick.”
“As I’ve told you before, I do not know her very well, but I have felt a sense of responsibility to her since she came into my care.”
“Would you say the two are you are . . . close?”
“Not particularly, no.”
Endicott withdrew his notebook from his coat pocket and thumbed through it. “Let’s see.” He studied the page. “You deny that you and Mrs. Warwick are close.”
He registered the underlying note of skepticism in the runner’s voice. “As I have already made clear.”
“I wonder if you can explain why a witness spotted the two of you together holding hands in an abovestairs sitting room in this very house on the evening of the murder.”
Atlas froze and then quickly recovered himself. “I was merely consoling her.” Atlas remembered trying to comfort Mrs. Warwick after his foul conversation with Warwick at the Red Rooster. He could still recall the smooth warmth of her hand from that too-brief touch. “She was upset about a matter regarding her children.”
“Ah yes, the children.” Endicott thumbed through his notes again.
Mrs. Warwick chose that moment to join them. “Have there been any developments in your investigation?” she asked, crossing over to take a seat.
“Not quite yet, I’m afraid,” The runner regarded her thoughtfully with piscine eyes. “However, I am making progress.”
“Oh?” Mrs. Warwick regarded him expectantly. “I’m pleased to hear it. Won’t you sit?”
“Don’t mind if I do.” Endicott lumbered over and wedged his corpulent form into the largest available seat. “I learned something very interesting from Mr. Jobbins while I was in Slough.”
Atlas was not familiar with the name. “Mr. Jobbins?”
“Mr. Warwick’s butler.” He regarded Mrs. Warwick. “Surely you are acquainted with him.”
“Not really,” she said carefully. “He came into my husband’s employ just a few weeks before I ceased living there.”
“But you had contact with Jobbins the day before your husband was found deceased, if I am not mistaken.”
Atlas’s grip tightened on his glass as Mrs. Warwick grew noticeably paler.
“Yes,” she said.
“As Jobbins tells it, there was quite an ugly scene because you defied your husband’s edict that you have nothing to do with the children.”
“They are the flesh of my flesh,” she said flatly. “I would never agree to stop seeing my children.”
“Very understandable. Very.” He spoke in agreeable tones. “But your late husband was determined that you should never see the children, isn’t that right? Jobbins said the boys were instructed never to talk of you and to think of their mother as dead to them.”
“I’m afraid I was not privy to what Godfrey told the children after I left our home in Slough.” She spoke calmly, her posture impeccable as she sat with her hands clasped in her lap.
“And you left the home, as you put it, against your wishes?”
“Yes, I preferred to remain with my children.”
“But Mr. Warwick—forgive my mention of a most unpleasant topic—sold you against your will to Mr. Catesby.”
“Yes.”
“So he sold you to a stranger and kept you from his children.”
“Yes.”
“And now that he is dead, the children are in your care.”
“Yes. Their uncle, Godfrey’s brother, is their guardian, and he has consented to my keeping the children with me.”
“That’s very convenient. You’ve had a happy ending then.”
She gave him an icy look. “The father of my sons is dead. They are now orphans. Society does not look kindly upon fatherless children. No one could be pleased with such a terrible tragedy.”
“That’s very gracious of you, very gracious, considering how your late husband treated you.” He scratched his scalp. “I imagine most women in your situation would be relieved.”
Atlas’s neck heated. “Now see here, Endicott, just what are you accusing Mrs. Warwick of?”
“Nothing at all. It’s far too early in the investigation for that.” He turned to Mrs. Warwick. “I should like to hear of your movements on the evening of your husband’s death. Just to be thorough, you understand.”
“Of course.” She absentmindedly smoothed the skirts of her gown. “I was here all evening.”
“But you did not attend Mrs. Palmer’s gathering.”
“No, I had a headache and retired early to my bedchamber until the following morning.”
“Can someone attest to your remaining at home that evening? Did you see a maid? Perhaps you sent for some tea or a light supper.”
“No, I was overwrought and exhausted. I fell asleep almost immediately.”
“I see. I can imagine how upsetting it must have been to have that terrible scene with your children.” Endicott scribbled in his notebook as he talked. “And then to learn that Mr. Warwick planned to sue Mr. Catesby for criminal conversation.”
“Yes,” she said. “Naturally, it was upsetting. It was also a lie.”
“And you shared your concerns with Mr. Catesby.”
“Yes, he is the person who told me Godfrey had threatened to sue him.”
“I imagine Mr. Catesby was very angry on your behalf.”
Atlas’s chest burned. The fat little bastard seemed determined to establish that Atlas had been angry enough to kill Godfrey Warwick. He swallowed the last of his whiskey, determined to turn Endicott’s suspicions in another direction. “If you were not so focused on the more salacious aspects of this case, you’d see there were many people who would have liked to see Warwick dead.”
The runner stopped scribbling and focused his attention on Atlas. “Like who, for instance?”
“I understand there is a certain tradesman on Pall Mall who had reason to fear Warwick.”
Awareness flickered across the runner’s face. The man was no fool. He comprehended full well the true reason behind Atlas’s sudden desire to be helpful. “And who might that be?”
“I do not have a name,” Atlas lied. “There was also
a well-dressed man, possibly a peer, who argued with Warwick a few days before the killing. They had a physical altercation at the haberdashery.”
“Is that so? I don’t suppose you know the peer’s name either.”
“I do not.” This time there was no need to lie. He wished he knew the well-dressed gentleman’s identity, but that detail still eluded him. “The clerk, Stillwell, saw the confrontation. Perhaps if you learn that gentleman’s identity, you will come closer to finding the killer.”
They both knew it would be next to impossible for a mere runner to make inquiries in the rarified world of the ton. The very idea of someone of Endicott’s station interrogating a duke or an earl was laughable. But it was not so for Atlas.
There was some currency in being the scion of the great Silas Catesby as well as the brother of a baron. And he intended to harness all the leverage at his disposal to keep himself and Mrs. Warwick out of harm’s way.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“Good Lord.” Atlas stared at the hole in his cravat. “Not again.”
Jamie’s boyish face, already reddened by the heat of the iron, flushed even more. “I can’t make sense of it, sir. I made certain the iron wasn’t as hot this time.”
It was the fourth neck scarf his hapless valet had scorched beyond repair, rendering them all impossible to wear. At this pace, trying to maintain even the most basic gentleman’s wardrobe could soon bankrupt him. “How much beeswax did you use?”
Jamie blinked, his face blank. “Beeswax?”
Atlas exhaled loudly through his nostrils. “Yes, beeswax. Surely you are aware beeswax is needed to keep the hot iron from scorching the starched cloth.”
The manner in which Jamie’s mouth gaped open suggested beeswax was as alien to him as Russian caviar. “Perhaps you should wait until you purchase some beeswax before continuing on.”
“Very good, sir,” Jamie said with a smile, recovering his usual youthful cheeriness. Ah, to be young again. At two-and-thirty, Atlas was hardly ancient, but at times his damnable left foot made him feel one hundred years old.
He watched the boy move to his bed, carrying a basket of laundered clothing. “Jamie, how long were you with the Warwicks in Slough?”