Night Storm (Bones & Gemstones Book 1)

by Tracey Devlyn

  “Yes. Mrs. Fielding and Miss Scott were also present. The apothecary seemed overly interested in her ladyship’s murder.”

  Adair rolled his fingers into a fist. “And you’re only now mentioning the fact that Felix Scott wasn’t alone?”

  “The detail slipped my mind. Besides, I considered the apothecary more of a nuisance than a suspect.”

  “Nuisance?”

  “She wanted me to contact the coroner straightaway. When I refused, she threatened to call for the man herself.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “I wanted Bow Street to have an opportunity to investigate the scene first. At the time, I had no idea they would send a cub.”

  Adair turned to leave, then paused. “Why did you discount Mrs. Fielding as a suspect so quickly?”

  “Not to be indelicate, but Lady Winthrop died a rather savage death.”

  True, though Adair thought the manager too quick to rule out suspects based on gender alone.

  Riordan continued, “I would be interested in learning why she lied by saying she’d found the body first.”

  “How do you know she didn’t?”

  “When Felix Scott came to find me, he was somewhat distraught and babbled out how they came across her ladyship’s corpse.”

  “Could be nothing more than her motherly instincts taking over.”

  “For a boy who is not hers?”

  “Women are nurturers by nature.”

  “Not all, I assure you.” Something dark passed over the manager’s features, and then it was gone as quickly as it came. “Keep me posted on your progress. Good day, Mr. Adair.”

  Before Adair could respond, the door closed. Marian unfolded his arms and strode away without a word.

  Adair released his fist and a rush of blood tingled through his fingers. Settling his hat atop his head, he followed Riordan’s bodyguard down the long corridor, wondering briefly why the manager felt the need to isolate himself to such a degree.

  His thoughts shifted to Charley. He had exercised every bit of his restraint not to pelt Riordan with a hundred questions. What had she been doing at the theater? Did she know Lady Winthrop? Did she catch a glimpse of the murderer? Why did she feel the need to protect the boy from Riordan?

  The sound of his uneven gait broke through his reverie. Fire burned up his thigh with each step and sweat dampened his skin. A grim smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. After examining the murder scene, he had two more stops to make before he could rest his leg. Despite the chilly reception he would no doubt receive, it was time to pay Charley another visit.

  # # #

  Adair was not looking forward to his next meeting. He’d found no leading evidence in the theater’s passageway, which meant he didn’t have a good feel for the reason behind the baroness’s murder. So he would be meeting with the victim’s husband and would have to mentally prepare himself for any reaction. Lord Winthrop could be sick with grief, drowning in guilt, lost and confused, or consumed by a jealous rage.

  Rage, guilt, confusion—he understood how to react to those emotions. But grief was like someone speaking to him in a foreign language. He had no idea of how to respond. Any words of reassurance that came to mind seemed inadequate and inane.

  His carriage rolled to a stop outside Winthrop’s modest town house on the outskirts of Mayfair. As he stood on the doorstep he looked around and noted that, in this area, the homes were much more spacious than those in his own neighborhood, but far less stately than those in nearby Mayfair. Before he could grasp the brass doorknocker, a stooped, well-groomed butler appeared.

  “State your business, sir,” the butler said, squinting at him with cloudy blue eyes.

  “Cameron Adair to see Lord Winthrop.”

  “Your business?”

  “I’ve come to speak with him about his wife.”

  “His lordship’s not receiving visitors.” The butler started to close the door, and Adair shoved his boot forward. “Remove your foot young man, or I’ll take your toes off.”

  “I’m sorry for Lord Winthrop’s loss, but I’ve been hired to look into the matter of his wife’s death.”

  For a moment, the butler wavered between snapping Adair’s toes from his foot and going to speak with the master of the house. He suspected the old retainer hadn’t seen much action over the last couple decades and was yearning to show his mettle.

  Winthrop’s butler shuffled back to let Adair inside. “Wait here, sir.” With slow, measured steps, Winthrop’s butler disappeared down the corridor.

  After doffing his hat, Adair’s nose twitched at the acrid scent permeating the entryway. He searched for the source, taking in the elegant furnishings and expensive landscapes dotting the walls. To the casual observer, everything looked as it should for a minor peer of the realm. But Adair’s scrutiny slit open the surface and peeled back the glamour, layer by layer. Beneath the obvious trappings of money and privilege lurked the subtle signs of financial distress. Cracked marble tiles, a torn seat cushion, and a looking glass in need of polish. Not to mention an elderly butler working long past the age others would have retired from service.

  What he found didn’t surprise him. The nobility lived far beyond their means, indulging their senses to the point of ruin. If any of them had grown up in the bowels of poverty, they would not be so careless with their blunt. No one he knew would ever take a gnawing, empty stomach over a warm, full one.

  The echo of slow-moving feet drew his attention.

  “This way, sir.”

  Adair followed the butler. The farther they trudged down the corridor, the stronger the odor became.

  Pausing outside a large door, the butler rapped his bony knuckles on the wood panel twice and entered. “Mr. Adair to see you, my lord.”

  “Come in, come in,” a nasal voice commanded.

  As Adair stepped inside Winthrop’s study, the butler smirked at him before creaking away.

  The odor was unbearable in here. Sharp, cloying, nostril-burning.

  Adair swiped his finger beneath his nose to relieve the stinging sensation. Winthrop’s study stood at attention like a seasoned soldier. Every book, carpet, and piece of furniture was precisely positioned. Not a stray sheet of paper or personal memento existed.

  Adair blinked hard twice. The damned fumes from whatever cleaning solution the maid had used were now blistering his eyeballs.

  “Well, don’t just stand there gawking,” Lord Winthrop said. “Come sit. I have only five minutes to spare.”

  Now he understood the man’s need to speak through his nose—so he could breathe through his mouth. Adair made a slight adjustment to his own breathing pattern and the relief was immediate.

  “Thank you for seeing me, my lord.” Ignoring his discomfort, Adair strode across the chamber to stand near Winthrop’s equally uncluttered desk. “I am sorry for your loss.”

  Baron Winthrop nodded, though his expression remained unchanged. “You’re from Bow Street, I take it. I told Riordan the fiend was long gone, that a formal investigation would be a waste of time and money.”

  If, God forbid, Adair lost his wife in such a violent way, no fiend could hide well enough to escape his vengeance. “No, I’m not a Runner.”

  The baron’s forehead disappeared into his hairline. “Then who are you?”

  “Someone who needs to ask you a few questions about Lady Winthrop.”

  “What sort of questions?”

  “Did your wife have any enemies?”

  “What? You can’t be serious. Everyone loved Susan.”

  “Everyone but one individual, sir.”

  Winthrop’s eyes narrowed to venomous slits. “Who are you to be asking such questions?”

  “I’ve been hired to look into the matter.”

  “By whom?”

  “I prefer not to divulge my client’s identity.”

  “How is it you’re qualified to make such inquiries if you’re not from Bow Street?”

  “It is my business to lo
cate missing objects. In this case, a murderer.”

  “Locate missing objects?” The lines on Winthrop’s forehead deepened. “Are you a thief-taker?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  The baron burst out laughing. “Someone who makes a living off finding stolen baubles has been sent to search for my wife’s murderer?” He dabbed his eyes with a handkerchief. “Please, Mr. Adair, do not waste my time.”

  Heat burned up Adair’s neck like a fuse sputtering to full life. He knew he shouldn’t let this pompous ass get to him, but he could no more stop the slow rise of his anger than he could halt the beating of his heart. His fingers rolled into a fist. “I would think you would accept every attempt to bring the killer to justice.”

  The amusement slid off Winthrop’s face. “I would like nothing more than to see the bastard pay for what he has done.”

  “Then you should have no qualms about me conducting a separate inquiry.”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.” Winthrop leaned forward in his chair, clasping his hands together. “When last I spoke to Riordan, he was set on involving Bow Street. I would rather not have an amateur traipsing around and bungling up their investigation.”

  Adair would have loved to tell this pretentious lord that Riordan had hired him as a safeguard against Bow Street’s incompetent Runner. Somehow he refrained. “What is it you think I’ll bungle?”

  “How should I know?” Winthrop blustered. He rose to jerk on the bellpull. “Your five minutes are up, Mr. Adair.”

  The door opened, and the elderly butler appeared. “Yes, my lord?”

  “Granston, show our guest out.”

  “Sir.” Granston waved a shaky, frail hand toward the corridor.

  Adair turned to go, then hesitated. “Tell me, Lord Winthrop. Where is your black?”

  “Black?”

  “You are in mourning. Where is your black armband, hatchment, and mourning wreath?”

  Scarlet spots appeared on the baron’s cheeks, and he pulled at his cravat as if it were suddenly too tight. “I haven’t had the opportunity to attend to such detail yet. My wife only just passed away. Good day, Mr. Adair.”

  “My lord.” Adair forced himself to match the butler’s excruciatingly slow pace, even though he itched to be quit of this place. They passed the morning room, then the drawing room. Both were empty. Indeed, the whole house seemed deserted but for Winthrop and his elderly butler. “Where is everyone?”

  “Same place they always are, I imagine.”

  Adair eyed the butler, repeating the man’s words in his head. He could detect no malice or deceit in his tone. Simply bored acceptance of the situation.

  “Where has Lord Winthrop placed his wife’s body?”

  Granston’s step hitched. “In an upstairs bedchamber, awaiting the coroner.”

  “Why not in one of the home’s public rooms?”

  The butler said nothing.

  “I was told Lady Winthrop’s assailant cut her face. Could it be his lordship is attempting to protect her family and friends from seeing her in such a state?”

  “I suppose that might be part of the reason.”

  “And the other part?”

  Granston stopped. He angled his head enough for Adair to see his profile, but not enough to look him in the eye. “His lordship didn’t want her ladyship ‘fouling the place.’” Bitterness laced his next words. “So my mistress is in one of the guest bedchambers—a good distance away from the baron and baroness’s suite of rooms. “

  The circumstances were far from typical. Most families adhered to a strict set of rituals when it came to caring for their deceased loved ones. Adair found himself unsurprised by his lordship’s unusual treatment of his wife’s corpse. Given the dirt-free condition of Winthrop’s home, the man had an obsessive penchant for cleanliness. Having a decaying body close at hand might be more than the strange man could tolerate.

  “You cared a great deal for your mistress.”

  “Of course. She was a kind and generous person.”

  “Can you think of anyone who would wish to do her harm?”

  Granston hesitated, glancing back down the corridor, toward Winthrop’s study.

  “I am known as a man of my word, Granston. Anything you say to me will not reach Lord Winthrop’s ear.”

  The butler sent him a disgusted look. “I’m too old to care about pleasing his lordship. Once her ladyship is seen to, I’ll be off.”

  “Why the hesitation, then?”

  Granston made a dismissive gesture. “I was thinking.” He paused with his hand on the entryway door’s latch. “No one comes to mind.”

  Adair lowered his voice. “Not even her husband?”

  A snort-laugh burst from Granston, producing a spray of spittle. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and swiped his nose and mouth. “Too messy for his lordship.”

  But not too messy for a hired professional. Adair filed the thought away.

  “Is there someone else I might speak to? Perhaps a friend, one her ladyship would have felt comfortable confiding in.”

  “I wouldn’t know, sir. Lady Winthrop has—had many friends.”

  “What about her lady’s maid? Would she be privy to such information?”

  “It’s possible. Though I’m not sure how forthcoming Alice would be now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “His lordship sacked the poor girl. Told her once the funeral was over, and she had Lady Winthrop’s personal belongings stowed away in the attic, she could leave.”

  “Are there no other ladies in the house?”

  “No.” Sadness rippled over his heavily lined features. “Her ladyship lost two babes in the womb early on in the marriage. They never tried again.”

  On one hand, Winthrop’s decision to let her ladyship’s maid go made sense. With no other females in the house, he had no further use of a lady’s maid. On the other, the baron could have given the girl some time to find a new position. He could have shown a bit more compassion, rather than add to her burden.

  “How do you know they never tried to have another child?”

  Granston gave him a pointed look, and Adair understood. Servants knew all the intimate details of their employers’ personal lives. They changed their bedclothes, helped them bathe, and tended to be present yet invisible during delicate conversations.

  “Of course. I see,” Adair said.

  An elegant flower vase sitting empty in the center of a console table caught his eye. It didn’t overflow with expensive examples of the owner’s wealth, as it would in most other homes in this part of town. Another reminder of Winthrop’s dwindling finances and another reason to release the lady’s maid. Soon, the house would be so empty that Winthrop’s own thoughts would echo off the stark walls.

  Adair produced a card. “Would you ask her to think on it and contact me?”

  “Can’t promise you anything.” Granston slid the card into his coat pocket.

  “Do you know when the coroner is scheduled to arrive?”

  “Not for another day or two. Mr. Blackburne is away attending a family emergency.”

  “It’s been a pleasure, Granston. I wish you well in your retirement.”

  “Who said anything about retirement?”

  “Didn’t you say you were leaving?”

  “Yes, but that doesn’t mean I’m taking off my gloves.”

  Smiling, Adair handed the old tar another card. “I could use a man of your talents.” Had Adair not been watching, he would have missed the slight widening of the butler’s eyes and the tremble of his clean-shaven chin.

  “I don’t come cheap, sir.”

  “Glad to hear it, because I’m not interested in cheap. I’m interested in quality.”

  The perpetual hunch in the old man’s shoulders rolled straight, sharpened into their former glory. “Lady Bentondorf.”

  “Pardon?”

  “If her ladyship confided in anyone, it would be Lady Bentondorf. She spends a great deal of time
at the British Museum.”

  “My thanks, Granston.”

  “I don’t need your thanks. Just need you to find the bastard who hurt my mistress.”

  “Consider it done.” Adair settled his hat on his head and strode away, Granston’s reply ringing in his ears like a death knell.

  Chapter Six

  Charlotte rolled her shoulders and stretched her neck from side to side. For the last hour, she’d been reducing her new bolt of linen down to various lengths and sizes, then rolling them into neat balls for storage. The process wasn’t hard. Except for the physical strain on her neck and shoulders, it was just mind-numbing work. Exactly what she needed after the exciting start to her day.

  The small bell above the shop door tinkled, heralding the arrival of a customer. Charlotte blew out a frustrated breath. Why hadn’t she flipped the sign on the door and locked up? She loved her shop and her customers. Well, most of them, at any rate. But there were times when she simply wished to be left alone.

  With effort, she loosened the muscles around her eyes and mouth to produce a warm, welcoming smile. She held back the heavy curtain separating the two rooms and entered the shop area. Her friendly expression froze, her heart stopped, her blood sang.

  “Hello, Charley.”

  Of their own volition, her eyes settled on the parts of Cameron’s body she knew to be wounded. Not that she could see anything, with him fully clothed, but she looked, all the same. Then her assessing gaze returned to his face, and she wondered again what had brought on such a vivid transformation.

  Soft, smooth lines had formed into bold, forbidding angles. Where once his lean sleekness made her feel comfortable and joyous, now his larger, taut frame awakened spine-tingling wariness. The longing that seized her at inconvenient moments was different from before. It cut deeper, wreaked more havoc.

  She had watched other boys evolve into men, though none had matured quite so pleasingly.

  “Charlotte,” she reminded him. “What are you doing here, Cameron?”

  “I’ve become feverish.”

  Her heart stuttered. “For how long?”

  “A few hours.”

  Relief coursed through her. “You might have the beginnings of an infection. Have you informed your physician yet?”