by D. M. Quincy
The bolt on the icehouse door could not have been thrown by accident. The only way to get locked inside was if someone bolted the door from the outside. He came back into the house to find that Endicott had already arrived and was interviewing Fletcher and Miller.
“Mr. Catesby.” The runner looked up from his notebook. “I hear it was a near thing for Mrs. Warwick this evening.”
“I’ll say.” Lilliana drifted down the stairs in a white dressing gown that enhanced the pallor of her fine skin. “Someone tried to kill me.”
“Why are you out of bed?” Atlas strode to the foot of the stairs, watching as she descended with the breezy fabric of her dressing gown floating behind her. “You should be resting.”
Before today, he had never seen her hair down. It was black as coal, highlighting her flawless porcelain skin, and glistened like the night sea. “As if I could sleep. The doctor says I am fine, albeit very fortunate to have escaped any lastin effects from being locked in the icehouse.” She reached the landing and turned to the runner. “What do you make of it, Mr. Endicott?”
“Before I draw any conclusions, I should very much like to hear your version of events, yours and Mr. Catesby’s.”
“Why don’t we do it over a drink?” Atlas led the way to the parlor. “I could certainly use one.”
While Atlas poured the brandy, Lilliana told the runner how she came to be locked in the icehouse. “He left me there on purpose,” she said in conclusion.
Endicott looked up from his note-taking. “Can you be absolutely certain?”
Her expression firmed. “Yes. He even bade me to go farther inside the icehouse, away from the door.” She hugged herself against the memory. “When I turned to tell him Peter wasn’t there, he slammed the door and slid the bolt into place.”
Endicott scribbled in his notebook. “Fletcher tells me William is one of the newer footmen, only been here a few months. His room in the attic servants’ quarters has been completely cleaned out. He’s taken his things and vanished.”
Atlas’s pulse thundered in his head. “You have to bloody well find him.”
“And so we will.” Endicott looked up, speaking in his usual affable manner. “My men are out looking for him as we speak. In time, we’ll run him to ground.”
“First Godfrey and now me.” Lilliana’s fine-boned hands fisted and unfisted the skirt of her dressing gown. “Who would want to do away with us both?”
Atlas pressed a glass of brandy into her hands. “Who benefits if both you and Godfrey are out of the picture?”
She closed her eyes and sipped from her brandy before opening them again. “I do not know. Everything passes to the children.”
Endicott chewed on the end of his pencil, his expression thoughtful. “We cannot automatically assume this attempt on Mrs. Warwick’s life is related to her husband’s murder.”
She regarded him with surprise. “Surely you do not think it was a coincidence.”
“It seems unlikely,” he allowed. “However, if we make assumptions without concrete proof, we risk missing clues that would lead us to the true culprit.”
“Lilliana?” Thea stood on the threshold, her face wrought with concern. “Fletcher says you were locked in the icehouse. Are you well?”
Lilliana nodded. “Yes, supremely so, especially when one considers what could have happened.”
Atlas exhaled. “I got to her in time after William locked her in the icehouse.”
Thea’s face froze. “William, my new footman? Surely he didn’t leave her there deliberately.”
“Most deliberately, I’m afraid,” Lilliana said.
Thea blinked. “But why?”
Atlas shifted, restless. “That’s what we’d all like to know.”
“He was most likely hired by someone else.” Endicott turned to a blank page in his notebook. “What can you tell us about your former employee?”
Thea regarded him with a blank expression on her face. “Who?”
“This William fellow,” the runner said. “I think we can safely assume he has no intention of returning.”
Thea’s face blanked. “I know nothing about him. He’s only been here a few months. And Fletcher and the housekeeper handle all the hiring.” It was no surprise to Atlas that Thea, as engrossed as she was in her math studies, knew little about the newer servants.
“No matter.” Endicott closed his notebook. “We are looking into it and should turn him up soon. I’ll see myself out. In the meantime, I will have one of my men stand guard outside as a precaution.”
Atlas stifled a curse. He needed to find whoever was trying to harm Lilliana. And he couldn’t shake the sense that, in order to do so, he would need to find Godfrey Warwick’s killer.
He’d almost reached home after leaving Lilliana and Thea when he realized he’d missed the appointment he’d set days ago with Kirby Nash.
He wanted to get a better sense of the tailor, and having a few tailcoats made by the man would afford him that opportunity. He got to the shop on Pall Mall just as one of Nash’s clerks was closing up for the evening, but the shop attendant recognized him.
“Everyone else has gone home, but Mr. Nash is still inside,” the clerk told him as he unlocked the door to let Atlas in. “He said he wasn’t leaving just yet, that he’d wait a little while longer for you.”
Atlas thought it odd that Nash would remain behind, waiting for him, while sending everyone else at the shop home. He stepped inside, and the clerk locked the door behind him and went on his way. The shop floor was dark, with only a few lanterns burning. “Mr. Nash?”
Silence met his inquiry. Perhaps the tailor was waiting for him in the back room. Atlas had already seen his books and maps, which meant Nash had nothing to hide on that account. But an awareness that all was not as it should be prickled his neck. He purposely lightened his footfalls, muting his approach. If someone was lying in wait for him, Atlas would be the one to take the assailant by surprise and not the other way around.
The door to Nash’s private back room was ajar, and a guttural groan sounded from within. As he drew nearer, Atlas caught sight of the man locked in a passionate embrace. His amour’s face and most of her body were obscured as Nash pressed her smaller form up against the bookshelves with his. The tailor’s paramour ran her gloved hands hungrily over the man’s body, down his back, and over his buttocks to the place where their hips ground together.
Nash groaned. “I have to have you now.”
Just as Atlas was about to quietly retreat and leave them to their privacy, Nash turned his head, and the flushed, amorous face of the Duke of Somerville came into view.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Somerville ran a tender hand through Nash’s dark hair with its unusual streak of gray. “I’ve missed you.”
Shock rendered Atlas momentarily immobile. It was one second, maybe two, but it was long enough for Somerville to sense his presence. The duke’s soft, passion-hazed gaze landed on him and settled there, uncomprehending for a moment, before realization, then alarm, sharpened in his soft-brown eyes.
Atlas’s heart hammered. It was folly to leave. His presence had been noted, and there was certainly no unseeing what he’d just witnessed. It was too late to pretend he hadn’t. From his place just outside the door, he turned, giving them his back and a modicum of privacy to put themselves to rights.
It was a minute or two before the duke summoned him. “You may as well join us, Catesby.” His voice was calm, almost relaxed.
Atlas pivoted and walked inside. The lovers were far apart now—Nash at the opposite end of the room pouring drinks, the duke settled in a comfortable leather seat near the hearth, giving no indication of distress, even though they all knew buggery was punishable by death.
The duke tracked his movements with a keen gaze. “Please sit.”
Still numb from the shock, Atlas lowered himself on the green leather sofa. He knew such men existed, of course, but to witness their intimate interaction was something el
se entirely. “Forgive the interruption,” he managed to say. “Nash’s man unlocked the door and directed me back. He was under the impression Nash was alone.”
The duke rested his elbows on the armrests and steepled his fingers under his chin. “I entered through the back. He would not have known I was here.”
Nash came over to hand the duke a splash of brandy. Somerville’s hard gaze softened as he accepted the glass, his fingers brushing Nash’s for a brief moment. “My thanks.”
The expression of tenderness on the duke’s face astonished Atlas. He had always assumed buggery to be motivated purely by lust, by physical impulses, but he detected something more intimate in the interactions between these two men.
“Brandy?” Nash’s face was a mask of inscrutability as he extended the glass to Atlas, but the slight tremble in his hand betrayed his nerves.
“Thank you.” Accepting the drink, he took a long swallow to settle his own nerves. His mind reeled from what he’d just discovered. The idea that the duke could be a molly seemed incomprehensible. Atlas barely noticed when Nash slid into a spot at the opposite end of the sofa.
The duke sipped his brandy. “Naturally, you will be well compensated to disregard what you have seen this evening.”
Atlas held his gaze. “That will not be necessary.”
Nash moved restlessly. The duke leaned back in his chair, crossing one ankle over his knee, his posture utterly relaxed. “Very well. What will your silence require?”
“What I have seen this evening is no one’s business, least of all mine.” Indeed, he’d prefer to wipe the past five minutes from his memory—if only that were possible.
Somerville studied him. “I fear I don’t exactly take your meaning.”
“This goes no further.” Atlas glanced at Nash, then immediately looked away. “I swear on my honor that I will not breathe a word of it to anyone.”
Somerville and Nash exchanged a look before the duke spoke again. “That is all you have to say on the matter?”
He inclined his head. “I cannot conceive of what else there is to say, except to add that I deeply regret the intrusion.” Beside him, Nash released a harsh breath.
Somerville sipped his brandy. “Charlton speaks highly of you. He says you are a man of your word.”
“I am.”
“Then I shall consider the matter closed.”
Atlas looked into Nash’s ashen face. “This is the secret that Warwick discovered, isn’t it? The reason he was extorting money from you.”
Somerville answered for him. “Yes, he found us here, much in same way you did this evening.”
Nash was agitated. “I locked the door this time. No one should have been able to enter.”
“Your man recognized me. He let me pass because he thought you were expecting me.” But even as he said the words, Atlas realized Nash had used the pretense of waiting for him as an excuse to remain behind at the shop for a secret assignation with the duke.
“Yes, I had expected you earlier,” Nash said tightly. “But the shop is closed. I had locked up for the night.”
“It is all right, Kirby.” The duke’s words were gentle. “Do not reproach yourself.” He looked at Atlas. “Now that there is no longer any reason to dissemble, you understand that Mr. Nash has an alibi for the evening of Warwick’s murder.”
“He was with you.”
“Yes, in my bedchamber, all night. I assure you I would have known if Kirby had left.” Intimacy wrapped around the way the duke’s lips framed his lover’s name.
“You intended to pay to keep Warwick quiet.”
“Yes, but in the end, it didn’t come to that. He died before the first payment was delivered.”
“You must have worried that he couldn’t be trusted to keep his mouth shut.”
“Not at all.” The duke took a leisurely sip of his brandy. “Men like Warwick are motivated by greed. As long as I kept the funds coming, I knew the haberdasher would rather cut out his tongue than risk losing the income I was prepared to provide.”
“I see.” Atlas rose to his feet, eager to escape the uneasy tension hovering in the air. “Thank you for the brandy. I’ll see myself out.”
He hastened through the dark shop and stepped outside, pulling the door shut behind him. Fog blanketed the ground, but he barely noticed as he turned automatically toward Bond Street.
The duke and Kirby Nash. The very idea astounded. He forced the more salacious aspects of this evening’s revelations from his thoughts. Once he did, the list of possible suspects in Warwick’s murder reshuffled in his mind for the second time that day. The duke might think he’d saved his lover by giving him an alibi, but Somerville had also revealed something far more damning; both he and Nash had a compelling reason to want Warwick dead. The murdered man had discovered their deepest secret, one that could send them both to the gallows.
He could not think of a more powerful motive for murder.
* * *
He was surprised to hear whistling coming from his bedchamber when he reached home. The clean scents of beeswax and lemon greeted him the moment he entered his apartments, and he noted that the gleaming floors had been freshly polished since that morning. He found Jamie in his bedchamber putting away immaculately laundered cravats and snowy linen shirts, all of which had been expertly pressed.
“Don’t tell me you’ve perfected the art of laundry after just three days away,” he said to the boy.
“No, sir, these were cleaned and pressed by his lordship’s staff.” Jamie walked into the dressing room to put away a pile of cravats, calling out to Atlas in a muffled voice. “I’m to arrange them for you before returning to Curzon Street to continue my training.”
Atlas surveyed his bedchamber, taking note of the shiny surfaces and crisp, clean bed linens. “I see Charlton is determined to see to my comforts while you are away.”
Jamie reappeared. “Yes, sir, and Mrs. Garroway, the earl’s cook, sent supper. It’s still warm, and there’s some sweet rolls that will keep until morning for breakfast.”
Hunger yawned in his stomach, reminding him he had not eaten since that morning. He wandered out to the sitting room and sat at the small table, pulling away the linen cloth covering the food tray Jamie had set out.
The aroma of pigeon pie and rich, succulent lamb filled his nostrils. Atlas was beginning to see he’d be well looked after during Jamie’s training. The boy appeared with a bottle of wine and poured as Atlas tucked into the generous cut of lamb.
“There’s plenty,” he said between bites. “You are welcome to share the meal with me.”
“Thank you, sir, but no thank you.” Jamie’s posture—straight-spined with shoulders back—had never seemed so perfect.
“Why not?” He eyed the boy. “Surely you are hungry. You are always ready to eat.”
“It wouldn’t be proper, sir. My role is to see to my gentleman’s every need, to make certain he wants for nothing.” Jamie’s scrawny chest puffed up with pride. “No proper valet would take a meal with his master.”
“I see,” Atlas said with some amusement. “And are valets meant to attend table at meals as well?”
Jamie inclined his chin. “Yes, sir. If there is no footman, it is my place to serve at table.” Atlas bottomed out his wine, which Jamie promptly refilled. “My role is to see to it that your day goes smoothly from the moment you awaken until you retire in the evening.”
Atlas took another healthy swallow of wine. Weariness tugged at him. “I certainly would have welcomed a more tranquil day than the one I experienced today.”
Jamie eyed him sympathetically. “Is it trouble with the investigation then?” Atlas briefly recounted the attempt on Lilliana’s life. Jamie’s eyes widened. “Why would anyone want to kill Mrs. Warwick? Has it anything to do with Mr. Warwick’s murder?”
“I’m not certain what to think.” The terrible image of Lilliana lying cold and motionless replayed in his mind. “The way Warwick was killed suggests it was more a c
rime of passion than a well-thought-out murder, while the attempt on Mrs. Warwick’s life appears to have been planned well in advance.”
Jamie nodded. “I don’t know why anyone would want to do away with Mrs. Warwick, but I am not surprised about her husband. He was a nasty one, was Mr. Warwick. He could rile up an angel. Why, he even drove poor Miss Verity to tears, and she being so gentle and delicate-like.”
“Verity?” Atlas’s forkful of pigeon pie paused in midair. “Are you speaking of John Warwick’s wife?”
“The very same, and she was overset after their meeting.”
“What?” Atlas put his fork down. “When did this meeting take place?”
“Maybe one month before he died.”
“Was Miss Lilliana present?”
“No, Miss Verity came when Miss Lilliana was out with the boys.”
“Do you have any notion of what was discussed?”
Jamie shook his head. “They walked too far into the garden to be overheard.”
Interesting, that. Perhaps the youthful love affair between the two had not ended after all. John Warwick did not seem the murderous type, but what if he’d discovered his wife was having an affair? And Verity was dead too. John could have done away with both of them in a jealous rage. “Did Godfrey and Verity often meet in private?”
“No, never, not that any of the servants saw.”
“So this visit was unusual.”
“Yes, we all remarked upon it. Nothing improper took place, because they stayed in plain sight where we could all see them. But the staff did think it was strange that they would go for a walk together.”
“How do you know he upset her?”
“We couldn’t hear much, but at the end of their conversation, Mr. Godfrey raised his voice and laughed. He said he would finally beat Master John where it mattered most because his child would inherit everything after John died.”
“Meaning Godfrey’s son, Peter, because John and his wife had no children?”
He nodded. “Everyone knows Peter is Master John’s heir. Miss Verity rushed away, and when she passed me, I saw she was crying.” Jamie shook his head. “It was wrong of Mr. Warwick to remind Miss Verity of her childless state. Everyone knew how much she wanted children.”