“Ensure Emma doesn’t steal my notes,” Katherine ordered, breathless. Before Lyle caused an incident that might reflect poorly on her and cause Papa to retract his wager for her dowry, she bolted down two flights of stairs and into the blue parlor.
The moment she entered the room, she found Lyle’s long-limbed form squeezed into a spindly chintz-upholstered chair better suited to a lady’s frame. He held a delicate teacup between two fingers as if it would attack him. His carrot-colored hair stuck out in all directions, and splotches of pink obscured the freckles on his cheeks.
Katherine pinned a smile in place, though inwardly she quavered. “How nice to see you, Mrs. Pickering. Please forgive the delay.”
“No need,” Lyle said, his voice weak as he stood from the chair. He still handled the teacup as if it would shatter with any greater force. “We entertained ourselves with a scintillating conversation about”—he glanced at Mrs. Pickering and swallowed visibly, his Adam’s apple bobbing—“ladies’ undergarments.”
Good grief! How had he managed that?
“Harriet’s begged me to convince you to let her straighten your cravat. She’s up on the third floor.”
Bald relief crossed his face. He set the teacup on the table, bending nearly in half to do so. Not many men stretched as tall as Lyle, nor managed to look so gangly in the process. With his lack of coordination and absentminded air, he half reminded her of a marionette, not that she would ever insult him to his face.
As he tripped over his tongue excusing himself, Katherine held out the sheaf of papers she’d collected. “Would you mind looking after these for me? I shan’t be long.”
“Of course.” He bolted from the room, pulling at the cravat he wore only for society meetings.
Katherine lowered herself into his seat. The moment her rump kissed the chair, Mrs. Pickering’s manner turned from ennui to accusation.
“If you thought sending him in as entertainment would dissuade me from staying, you are wrong.”
What else did he talk about before settling on undergarments? Knowing Lyle, the topics were inexhaustible. He was one of the most brilliant minds she knew. Unfortunately, a flair for inventions and investigations did not lend itself to easy manners.
Katherine didn’t have time for an argument. She clasped her hands in her lap. “I’m afraid I’m not taking on matchmaking clients at this time. Thank you for your inquiry, but I must insist that you find someone else.”
A look of panic crossed Mrs. Pickering’s face. As Katherine started to rise, the older woman—nearing fifty, by Katherine’s estimate—laid her hand over Katherine’s on her lap, thereby pinning her in place.
“Please, hear out my offer. I beg of you.”
Katherine tried to harden her heart against the note of desperation in the woman’s demeanor. She wasn’t the only matchmaking mama to despair of making an advantageous marriage for her daughter. Although Katherine tried to disentangle herself, the woman’s grip was like iron.
“Madam, please—”
“We’ll pay. Whatever fee you name.”
The woman’s fingernails dug into Katherine’s skin. With a wince, she glanced down just as Mrs. Pickering retracted her hand. Her fingernails were not buffed. The edges were a bit tattered, as if she did manual labor.
Impossible… or was it? Her fingernails weren’t the only sign of wear. Her threadbare dress hung loose, as if she’d lost weight. It was darned in places along the sleeve, a testament to how often she wore it. Her slippers were scuffed, some of the embroidery coming loose or fraying. She wore no jewelry save for the modest wedding ring she twisted on her left hand—no earrings, no necklace. And judging by the slackness in the reticule hanging from her wrist, she didn’t carry much about her person.
These signs, coupled with the pronounced worry lines around her eyes and nose, indicated that Mrs. Pickering was a step away from poverty. Her polite façade covered more desperation than that for her daughter.
Katherine’s resolve to send her away floundered.
After pressing her lips together, her nostrils flaring, Mrs. Pickering said, “You found such wonderful matches for your sisters. Love matches, even.”
Katherine’s motives had been selfish. If her stepmother, Susanna, had a wedding to plan, she wouldn’t have time to turn her matrimonial eye to Katherine. Also, she would have more time alone with her father to learn the nuances of their chosen profession.
“Please, you’re my last hope,” Mrs. Pickering begged. “This is Annie’s only Season. If she isn’t wed soon…”
Katherine didn’t want to hear about Mrs. Pickering’s financial difficulties. If she hadn’t thrown her daughter a Season, her funds likely would have lasted years. With the fashions and entertainments, a London Season cost a small fortune. Once she was financially independent, such frivolity would be the first thing she cut from her budget. And now the Season had been cut short.
“The Season is over, madam. Everyone and their dogs have retreated to their country estates. I don’t know what you’d have me do.”
Hope broke through Mrs. Pickering’s expression like the sun through clouds. “The Earl of Northbrook is throwing a house party as planned. Rumor has it his mother is bent upon marrying him off so he can beget the estate an heir this year. Annie could be that wife, if only you’ll agree to help.”
When she reached forward to clasp Katherine’s hands again, Katherine moved them out of reach. “I wish you the best of luck, but the answer remains—”
Wait. A house party? She frowned. Papa had obtained a thorough guest list from the last two house parties, and both lists had contained the names of fatalities.
“Was Lord Northbrook one of those who attended the Duke of Somerset’s house party?” That had been the first murder.
Mrs. Pickering nodded. “He was. Such a shame about that poor girl. And he was at the second calamity as well. I feared that would be the end of our plan to extend the Season into the country.” She pressed her lips together, her eyes clouding over. “If not for our situation, I’d never let Annie attend another house party this summer. But…”
Katherine’s trepidation faded in the swell of jubilance that overcame her. Papa had claimed that he would be unable to solve the Pink-Ribbon Murders because the Season had been cut short. No more parties meant no more opportunities to observe suspects and, of course, no more opportunities for the killer to strike again.
Although she didn’t wish for more deaths, surely gathering together the guests once more would give her an opportunity to solve the murders herself! She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning, an uncouth reaction given the gravity of the circumstances.
“There’s one problem,” she said, hoping that Mrs. Pickering would have a solution. “After Lord Somerset’s party, I tried to get an invitation to the next, but I was declined, seeing as the tour was already underway. How do you propose I gain entry to Lord Northbrook’s party?”
Mrs. Pickering’s face lit up. The worry etched into her wrinkles faded away as optimism spilled from her pores. “If that is your only concern, give it no thought at all. I’ll pretend to be sick, and you can take my place as Annie’s chaperone.”
Perhaps there was some merit to this matchmaking job after all. It was a small price to pay if it would help her earn her dowry.
Katherine held out her hand. “Very well, Mrs. Pickering. I accept.”
Chapter Two
Of all the streets in London, Katherine wondered why Pall Mall Street had to be one of the first to be fixed with gas-lit street lamps.
She swore under her breath, trying to skirt the brighter-than-average light so she could cling to Lyle’s shadow. Considering that he stood no more than a hand taller than her and was much thinner, his form didn’t help to camouflage hers.
Not for the first time, she wished for her sisters’ slight heights. Even in a gray dress that blended with the twilight shadows, Katherine was far too recognizable. An earl’s daughter shouldn’t be se
en alone with a man late at night. Although Katherine didn’t care a whit for the ton’s gossip about her, she didn’t want her notoriety to reflect poorly on her sisters.
Lyle glanced over at her quirky movements as she tried to keep to his shadow and laughed. “You’re far more conspicuous while trying not to be noticed than you would be if you’d only walk next to me like usual.”
“Why in tarnation would the founders think it’s a splendid idea to host secret-society meetings on such a busy street?”
“Gas lights didn’t exist when the society was founded. Besides, if you’d been a bit quicker, we might have been able to reach the meeting before the lamps were lit for the night.”
He was right. If Emma and Mrs. Pickering hadn’t delayed her, they might have arrived half an hour earlier.
Lyle lengthened his stride to step over a puddle. When he offered his hand, she handed him the sheaf of papers, lifted her skirt above her ankles, and hopped over the obstacle by her own merit. Her friend returned the pages without comment.
As they resumed their quick gait, he asked, “Why did Mrs. Pickering seek you out?”
“How do you know she didn’t come knocking on my door to speak of lady’s undergarments?”
Lyle turned as red as a plum and tried to hide his face beneath the fringe of his hair. “I merely had a question to further my research. Perhaps it was a bit inappropriate.”
Katherine took pity on him and added, “She has a matchmaking job for me.”
“Ah. So you had to turn her away.”
“Quite the contrary. I accepted.”
Lyle looked incredulous. “Accepted? But you’re no matchmaker.”
Katherine reared up. “I did admirably with my sisters. But I don’t mean to facilitate the match if I can help it. If I’m known for anything, I do not want it to be for matchmaking.”
“Then why pretend?”
She hugged the papers to her chest. “The Pink-Ribbon Murders, of course.”
Lyle nodded. “Ah. I see.”
“I’ve only nine days to solve a case for Papa, and accepting the matchmaking proposal is my only way in.”
Lyle motioned for her to precede him up the stairs, and she hurried to the door. A footman posted inside opened it for her and offered to take her shawl. She declined.
Once she and Lyle were out of earshot and strolling the length of the narrow, dimly lit corridor that led toward the back stairs, he continued the conversation. “Why is that your only way to investigate?”
“I’m having trouble obtaining invites to these infernal parties. The matchmaking excuse may be the only chance to get most of the people that were at both parties in the same place.”
Lyle mulled that over. “Yes, with precious little evidence, it would be beneficial to observe the suspects. Maybe the killer will give himself away somehow.”
Precious little evidence? Everything Katherine knew about the murders had come from her father, but maybe Lyle knew something more. “What do you know of the Pink-Ribbon Murders?”
To her disappointment, he answered, “I don’t know much, I’m afraid. A pair of Sir John’s men were invited to Somerset’s estate after the guests had departed. I wasn’t one of them. From what I hear, there was little to glean by then. No suspects, no witnesses, and the body had been moved and washed. All I know is that the crime occurred in the garden, where the victim was strangled using a pink ribbon off her own dress.”
“The killer used her own ribbon, you say?” Katherine frowned. “Miss Rosehill, the second victim, was also strangled with a pink ribbon, but she was wearing yellow. It wasn’t hers.”
“How do you know?”
“Papa drove up to the second estate. Our family has ties to Miss Rosehill, though I’ve only met her once.” Katherine’s heart squeezed at the image of the cheerful young blonde. “Papa investigated out of courtesy, but he wasn’t able to find anything more. Like you said, the body had been moved, and the crime scene was contaminated from people coming and going. He conducted a cursory interview, but by the time he arrived, the guests were already departing. He didn’t learn enough to narrow the list of suspects.”
“So the killer brought the ribbon. That may show premeditation.” Lyle pursed his lips and turned to her. “He may kill again. Promise me you’ll be careful.”
“I promise.”
“I’ll ask my friend who went up to Somerset’s estate for more details. If you need me, send for me.”
Katherine raised an eyebrow. “I have to solve this murder on my own in order to meet my father’s criteria, remember?”
He dropped his hand. “Perhaps, but I doubt he means for you to get hurt in the process. Would you like to use any of my inventions?”
Lyle had created so many inventions to aid in forensic investigations that she couldn’t think of which might benefit her most. Many of them required more trunk space than she would have. “Thank you, yes. But anything I bring will have to fit in my trunk, and please, no prototypes. I don’t want to risk breaking your only device.”
He smiled. “I’m not worried. I can always make another.”
Perhaps, but his prototypes don’t always perform as planned. She didn’t want to destroy evidence or roast her fingers.
“Are you available tomorrow to show me what you’ve made and how it works?” Katherine would insist upon a demonstration, just in case.
“If you call before noon. I’m nearly finished with the formula for a dye that will help adhere to the residue left when someone touches fabric. You know, I’ve been examining my findings, and if you look closely enough, there are subtle intricacies in the imprint left by a finger.”
Katherine cut him off, as they were running late enough that they might miss tonight’s meeting entirely. “Perhaps you can show me tomorrow?”
“Oh, yes, of course. Shall we?” He gestured to the staircase.
They ascended to the second floor, where most of the members gathered. The upstairs rooms had sparse furniture, cleared to ensure there would be enough space for everyone. Because members from all walks of life were encouraged to attend, the number often grew unruly. Judging by the resounding chatter and the way the members, mostly male, were clumped into groups and carrying on their own conversations, she and Lyle had missed the official bulletin of today’s meeting.
“I need to find Colonel Grant and pass along these notes.”
He nodded and remained at her elbow while she circulated throughout the room. Although she stopped to greet the members she and her father knew—most of the people in the room—Lyle remained her stiff, mute shadow. By the time she delivered the pages and discussed her thoughts with the colonel, Lyle didn’t appear to be paying any attention to the others in room at all.
At least, to no one in the room, save for one. His attention was rapt on one corner of the room, where Lady Philomena Graylocke, the Duchess of Tenwick, sat with an ebony-haired toddler on her lap as she spoke with unconcealed enthusiasm about her inventions of late. She’d gathered more than a few admirers to take part in the discussion. Due to the limited seats near her, most stood around her on either side.
Katherine elbowed Lyle in the ribs before he started drooling.
He sighed. “She’s beautiful.”
“Miss Graylocke? I think she’s a little young for you.”
Lyle glared at Katherine. “Not the child. Her mother.”
Katherine fought a smirk. Phil was the sort of woman to light up a room, as much with her intelligence and wit as her beauty. A decade older than Katherine, the duchess hadn’t yet started to show signs of worry or age despite her rambunctious children. Her brown hair was untouched with gray, and only the hint of laugh lines around the impish curve of her mouth belied that she was older than Katherine.
Unfortunately for Lyle, Phil’s happily married state put her firmly beyond his reach. That didn’t keep him from swooning over her every time they crossed paths.
“Why don’t you go talk to her?”
“Because the duke will rip me limb from limb?”
Katherine laughed. “I didn’t say flirt with her.” My, that would be a sight! Katherine had seen pigeons flirt with more success. “Speak to her. Ask after her inventions.”
The color fled his cheeks as he shook his head. “I couldn’t. She’s a duchess, and what am I? A lowly Bow Street Runner.”
Katherine tapped him on the arm. “Don’t say that. You’re one of Sir John’s men, and that’s a position to be proud of. You keep the streets of London safe.”
“Not safe enough, given all the crime that has cropped up since the end of the war.”
“You do your part. More than that, in fact. If not for your inventions, how many crimes would go unsolved?”
His cheeks turned a bit pink, though it was difficult to tell in the light of the hearth fire whether that was due to flattery or embarrassment. “My inventions are useful, I suppose,” he mumbled.
“More than useful, they’re brilliant. You and Phil have that in common.” Katherine latched onto his arm as if he were a gentleman and she were a conventional lady. “Come, tell Phil about that new dye you’ve been concocting.”
The sound Lyle made was more reminiscent of her dog than a human, but he didn’t fight her as she led the way to the corner of the room. Katherine dropped his arm as they neared, the better to approach the duchess as equals.
“Phil, so nice to see you tonight,” Katherine said, her voice warm. Now that she was near, she realized that Phil might be precisely the person she should question about investigative methods before she departed for Lord Northbrook’s house party.
Phil had once confessed to her that she had worked to catch a French spy and turn the tide of the war. A terribly thrilling tale! Katherine could use greater insight on the matter of the Pink-Ribbon Murders.
The duchess smiled. “And you, Katherine. Did your father come with you?”
“No, I’m here with my friend Lyle Murphy tonight. Mr. Murphy, this is Lady Philomena Graylocke, as I’m sure you know.”
An Invitation To Murder Page 2