by D. M. Quincy
“About six years, sir, since I was thirteen. My mam is Mr. Warwick’s—the elder’s—housekeeper. My brother works there too.”
“Your mother works for Mr. John Warwick?”
“Yes, sir. Since before my brother and I were born. My brother is older than me, so he got to work with Mr. John while I was stuck with that blighter . . .” He flushed. “Begging your pardon, sir. It ain’t proper to speak ill of the dead.”
“It appears many shared your opinion of Godfrey Warwick. Did he have any enemies that you knew of?” Having lived in the household for many years, Jamie might be able to provide some insight.
Jamie paused, his expression grim. “There weren’t many who got on with him. He was friendly with the local magistrate until they fell out.”
“Are you speaking of Mr. Bole?”
Jamie pulled a pair of Atlas’s drawers from the basket. “Yes, Mr. Bole.”
Interesting. The magistrate had given no hint of any conflict between himself and the murder victim. “What did they argue about?”
“I can’t say.” He folded the drawers before adding them to a neat stack of clothing on Atlas’s bed. “But maybe the housekeeper, Mrs. Greene, could tell you. She always seemed to know everything about what went on in that old rectory.”
He recalled that the housekeeper had also been let go without reference after Godfrey had learned she’d allowed Mrs. Warwick to see the children. “Do you know what became of her after she was dismissed?”
“Mrs. Greene?” When Atlas nodded, the boy said, “She’s working at the haberdashery now, didn’t you know?”
He hadn’t known. Atlas left the boy with the pile of laundry to walk down to the haberdashery. Wigmore Street was about a ten-minute walk from New Bond Street, and he welcomed the opportunity to stretch his legs.
He entered the shop to find a middle-aged woman standing behind the counter, sorting through a kaleidoscopic assortment of buttons.
She looked up when the bell above the door rang. “Good day, may I be of service?” Mrs. Greene was a trim, no-nonsense woman with a tight, turned-down mouth that betrayed no evidence that she smiled or laughed easily.
When he introduced himself, approval glittered in her flinty eyes. “You’ve done right by Mrs. Warwick, by all accounts. She deserved no less after what Mr. Warwick put her through.”
“I have only done what any gentleman would do.”
“As you say.” She returned her attention to a grouping of pearl buttons and tossed them into one of two wicker baskets lined up on the counter.
“I am trying to determine who killed Mr. Warwick.”
She paused and then, without looking up, continued her sorting. “It wasn’t Mrs. Warwick, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“I do not accuse her.”
“Although no one could have blamed her, given what he put her through.”
“You refer to the way he sold her.”
“Even before that.” She isolated a group of cut-steel buttons with tiny steel studs that glittered when the light caught them. “He always tried to bring her low. Said she put on airs like she was a duchess.”
He wondered how much Mrs. Greene knew about Mrs. Warwick’s mysterious past. “Do you know if she is indeed highborn?”
“I don’t know anything about her family, if that’s what you’re asking.” She scooped the steel buttons into a second basket. “I know she had a king’s ransom in jewels that served as her dowry when they wed.”
“Mrs. Warwick had fine jewels prior to wedding?”
She nodded. “Diamonds, rubies, and pearls. I saw them once before Mr. Warwick sold them.”
“How did she come by them?”
“I’m sure I cannot say.” Her mouth twisted with distaste. “But it is obvious Mrs. Warwick was gently raised and had no notion how to deal with a husband who treated her harshly.”
A storm brewed in his gut to think of the mistreatment Mrs. Warwick had received at Warwick’s hands. The jewels momentarily forgotten, he asked, “Did Warwick raise a hand to her?”
“Not that I saw, but he humiliated her. I think because he knew she was too fine a lady for him. Miss Verity had a narrow escape, if you ask me.”
“Miss Verity?” He repeated with some confusion. “Do you refer to the late Mrs. John Warwick?”
“The very same. She and Mr. Godfrey wanted to marry, but he was a second son with no prospects or expectations. Her parents forced a marriage to Mr. John, the elder son, because he would inherit the family property.”
Atlas blinked. “Verity married John against her will?”
Mrs. Greene nodded. “It was a fortunate thing for her that her parents forced the matter, if you ask my opinion. Master John is all that is good and kind. A more honorable and decent man you would not find.”
He remained silent for a moment, mulling over the unexpected new information. “Did Verity and Godfrey continue to carry a torch for each other even after she became John’s wife?”
She shook her head. “That fire seemed to extinguish as quickly as it had caught fire.”
“How so?”
“They were young, and the heart is fickle at such an age.” She came around the counter, carrying both baskets. “Mr. Godfrey came here to Town to make his fortune and stayed away for many years while he built this business.”
“I have heard that Mr. John Warwick and his late wife were most devoted to each other.”
“And so they were.” She arranged the baskets of buttons on the shelves. “I do believe Miss Verity came to realize she’d wed the better brother.”
“How did the two couples get along?”
She turned to face him. “Miss Lilliana and the boys spent quite a bit of time with Miss Verity and Master John while Mr. Godfrey was away tending to the haberdashery.”
“And how did he and Miss Verity interact with each other on the occasions when they were all together?”
“From what I could see, with the usual courtesy and nothing more. Miss Verity loved Master John and was completely devoted to him. She anguished at not being able to give him children.”
“Godfrey must have resented his brother a great deal. John not only inherited the family assets but also took the wife Godfrey had wanted for himself.”
She crossed over to the opposite side of the shop to straighten rows of ribbons in every color. “I would say he was always bitter and envious of his brother, especially after Miss Verity became so devoted to Master John.”
He wasn’t certain the onetime romantic triangle between the brothers had any bearing on Godfrey’s death, but he tucked the information away to mull it over at a later time. For now, he wanted to learn more about the more current conflicts the murdered man had been embroiled in.
“Turning to another matter, I understand that Godfrey Warwick feuded with his friend, the magistrate, Mr. Bole, in the weeks before his death.”
“’Tis so.”
“I don’t suppose you have any idea what caused the rift.”
“Not specifically. However, Mr. Bole did come to the house, and he was ranting about how Mr. Warwick was trying to ruin him.”
His interest piqued. “Ruin him, you say?”
“Yes, but I heard nothing more of it.”
“Thank you for your time.” He replaced his hat on his head as he turned to go. “I suppose I should ask Mr. Bole about it for myself. It is not too late to ride out to Slough.”
“You won’t find him at home.”
He paused. “Why not?”
She stepped back behind the counter. “Mr. Bole always takes his family away this time of year. He won’t be back for at least a fortnight.”
Atlas suppressed a groan at the inconvenient delay in the investigation created by Bole’s absence. He thanked Mrs. Greene and saw himself out.
He returned home from the haberdashery to find a smartly dressed footman standing on the landing outside his door. From the bottom of the stairs, he saw a fine-looking young man, tall and
broad shouldered, with powdered hair, wearing gold-and-black livery. The fancy coat alone probably cost more than Atlas’s own frock coat. The footman was likely employed at one of the metropolis’s best houses. Handsome footmen were showpieces wealthy nobles enjoyed putting on display for visitors, not unlike the fine pieces of art that adorned their mansions.
“Are you Mr. Catesby, sir?” he inquired.
“I am.” He came up the stairs. “Who would like to know?”
The footman didn’t immediately respond. When Atlas reached the landing, he handed him a sealed note. “I am to await a reply.”
Atlas did not recognize the seal, but he noted the paper was of the highest quality. He tore it open and scanned the fluid, confident writing. Cost was of no apparent concern to the sender, since he had used an entire sheet of paper for the short note.
He was shocked to discover it was a summons from the Duke of Somerville, asking him to call at his earliest convenience, preferably this very afternoon. Confused, Atlas turned the paper over and studied his name before flipping it back over and rereading the message.
What could Somerville possibly want with him? He knew the man was a particular friend of Charlton’s, but he himself had never met him. And except for his unlikely friendship with the earl, Atlas did not move in the same circles as someone like Somerville. His curiosity got the better of him. Of course he would go and see what the duke wanted.
He looked up at the footman. “Please tell His Grace that I will attend him this afternoon as he requests.”
* * *
Atlas had never been to Versailles, but he thought it might be something like Somerville House, a neoclassical monster of a mansion that took up an entire Mayfair block bordering Hyde Park. He’d visited some great houses in the past but nothing as grand as the opulent ducal residence.
Everything seemed oversized here, including a mammoth marble statue that dominated the sizeable entry hall. The porcelains, silver, and paintings cluttering the walls and surfaces had to be worth a small fortune in and of themselves.
The butler who led him to the duke’s drawing room identified himself as Hastings. The name struck Atlas as vaguely familiar, and by the time they reached their destination, which involved traversing down several corridors and making a few assorted turns, he realized why: Hastings was the same family name Mrs. Warwick had given the runner when he’d asked about her family origins.
It seemed farfetched, but he ventured to see if there was any connection. “I have some acquaintances named Hastings who hail from Bewerley in Yorkshire,” he said.
“Indeed, sir?” Some of that butler-like reserve slipped. “My family does hail from Bewerley.” It was on the cusp of Atlas’s tongue to inquire as to whether he might have a niece or cousin named Lilliana, when the duke entered, and shock rippled through him.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
He stared at the slender nobleman, who was not a complete stranger.
Atlas had laid eyes on the elegantly sculpted face weeks ago in the park, when the young man had stared at Mrs. Warwick as if he’d seen a ghost. The realization roused his protective instincts. Why had Somerville summoned him here, and what did he want with Mrs. Warwick?
“Mr. Catesby, I presume?”
He bowed. “Your Grace.”
The duke waved an imperious hand in Hastings’s general direction. “That will be all.” Young as he was, the duke had an easy air of command and the confident bearing of one used to being obeyed.
As the butler quietly glided out of the room, His Grace faced Atlas. He was young, perhaps in his midtwenties, with coffee eyes, strong cheekbones, and a soft jaw.
Atlas vaguely recalled that Somerville had been just a boy when his parents had died in a carriage accident and he’d come into the title. His father had been a leading force in parliament and the duchess widely admired for her wit and sartorial flair. Together they’d ruled the ton until their sudden, unexpected deaths had shaken society. Tales of the tragic couple and their three orphaned children had filled the rags for months.
“Can I offer you something to drink?” There was a twist of insolence to the natural set of the duke’s mouth. “I have a fine French brandy.”
With England and France at war, the spirits were most likely smuggled, but Atlas had always enjoyed a good brandy. “Yes, thank you.”
The duke splashed the amber liquid into two crystal glasses and handed one to Atlas. He gestured for Atlas to take a chair opposite his. As Somerville drank, he kept his gaze on Atlas.
Atlas gently swirled the brandy in his glass before raising the crystal to his lips. He drank, savoring the liquid in his mouth as well as the rich, supersmooth finish when he swallowed. It was by far the best brandy he’d ever tasted. Young as he was, Somerville clearly had an appreciation of life’s finer things.
“Good, isn’t it?” Somerville said, as if he’d read Atlas’s thoughts.
“Excellent.” He placed his glass on the table beside him. “However, I doubt you summoned me here solely to sample your world-class brandy.”
“You are very direct.”
“We hardly travel in the same circles, Your Grace. I can only assume you’ve asked me here for a reason.”
“Very well.” He took a leisurely sip of brandy, his gold signet ring catching the light as he did so. “Let me come directly to the point by telling you Mr. Nash was here the evening the haberdasher was killed.”
This was not the direction Atlas had expected the conversation to take. “Are you saying that you are the client Nash was with on September the second of this year?”
“Yes. I do not care to go to the shop, so Nash comes to me.”
It made perfect sense that Nash would pay house calls to a personage as esteemed as the duke and that he himself would attend to Somerville rather than sending one of his assistants. A duke’s custom would be of high value to any tailor. “What time did Mr. Nash leave here that evening?”
“He did not.”
“I’m afraid I do not follow.”
“It was storming, and Nash is apparently given to megrims, which are worsened by the weather.” Somerville crossed one knee over the other. “He was most incapacitated. I had Hastings put him in one of the guest chambers.”
Atlas drank from his brandy. “At what time did he retire for the evening, if I might ask?”
“It was very late. Perhaps midnight. I had parliamentary business to attend to first that evening. Nash was required to wait before I could see him to be fitted.”
“And when did you see Mr. Nash next? The following morning?”
“I did not see him again for many days. The following morning, I had important matters to see to.” Matters that were no doubt more important than concerning himself with a tradesman, but in truth, Atlas was surprised Somerville had given Nash a chamber at all. “The staff attended to him in the morning, and my carriage returned him to Pall Mall, as it always does when he comes for fittings.”
“I see.”
“You may ask Hastings about it, if you wish. I have already instructed him to answer any questions you might have.”
“Thank you. That is very helpful.”
The duke studied him. “I trust this puts the matter to rest.”
Atlas placed his empty glass on the table beside him. “Once Nash retired for the night, he was alone and has no alibi.”
“Ridiculous.” Temper flashed in the young duke’s eyes. “This is a large home with many servants, including footmen who stand at attention throughout the night.”
“Are you saying it would have been impossible for Nash to leave in the night without being seen?”
“It would be highly unlikely.” He reached for a small porcelain bell at his side and rang it. The butler appeared instantly. His Grace came to his feet, ending their meeting. “As a gentleman, I ask you to leave this matter alone and cause Mr. Nash no further distress.”
“With all due respect, Your Grace, I must follow the truth wherever it leads me.”<
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“I see.” The duke’s face darkened. He was, no doubt, unused to having his commands challenged. “Hastings will see you out.”
Atlas stood and bowed. “Good day, Your Grace.”
As Atlas followed Hastings from the room, he couldn’t help wondering if he’d just incurred the wrath of one of the most powerful young men in the country. Walking down a long corridor lined with paintings that were undoubtedly priceless, they passed a well-dressed man of middle age with a shock of gray hair. Atlas recognized him as the person who’d ridden in the carriage with Somerville that day in Hyde Park.
The man paused, regarding Atlas with an imperious stare. “And who is this, Hastings?”
“A guest of His Grace’s, Mr. Eggleston. He was just leaving.” The butler’s answer was polite and deferential, yet Atlas noted the reply did not provide the man with much information. The displeasure that crossed Eggleston’s face suggested he’d noted the elusive nature of the answer as well, but he merely turned to continue on his way.
“Hastings,” Atlas asked when they reached the entry hall and a footman stepped forward with his hat, “are footmen stationed at Somerville House throughout the night?”
“Yes, sir. Except for in the family wing. His Grace prefers his privacy.”
“I see.” A tradesman such as Nash would have never been given a chamber in the family quarters. “So if someone elsewhere in the house left in the middle of the night, he would be observed by one of these night watchmen?”
“Indeed, sir. Once the household is abed, it would be difficult to leave Somerville House without being detected.”
“And you saw the tailor, Mr. Nash, leave the following morning after he’d fitted the duke the previous evening.”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Nash took a light breakfast before His Grace’s coach returned him to his shop on Pall Mall.”
Atlas thanked him and, placing his hat on his head, left Somerville House just as a light rain began to fall on Mayfair.
* * *
“You are acquainted with Somerville,” Atlas said later to Charlton, when the earl dropped by his apartments before going to dinner at his club. “What do you know of his character?”