Ivory and Steel

by Janice Bennett

  Phyllida left her to it. She had best concentrate on collecting her own things—and those Louisa had brought from their parents’ home—if they were not to be disposed of along with everything Louisa had purchased since her marriage to Allbury. The dowager seemed intent on erasing every trace of Louisa’s presence in the house. Sooner or later—probably sooner—that would include Phyllida.

  She shivered. There had been a certain viciousness about the way the woman pulled down Louisa’s ornaments and shoved them out of sight. No, the dowager marchioness did not mourn her son’s bride.

  Phyllida made her way back to the sitting room and sank into a chair before the empty hearth. The dowager had hated Louisa and valued the family name. Maria Enderby—whose mind might be filled with as much frivolous nonsense as her gowns, for all Phyllida knew—could have been desperate to silence her friend. Lord Ingram—would he kill to keep Louisa from talking? But about what? Constance Yarborough—unpaid companion, former friend, now blatant object of charity—just how much had she come to resent it?

  And what of the others who had visited the box that night? Maria’s dandy husband, who might have been engaged in an affaire with Louisa? Or the quiet Lord Woking, or even Lady Woking, the former deportment mistress with her regal manner and trailing shawls? What reasons might they possess for wanting Louisa dead? Nor could she forget Allbury himself, the husband who contained his grief so well.

  Each one of them had the opportunity to kill Louisa. But there had to have been a reason. And not just any reason, it had to be of vital importance. To one person, at least.

  She closed her eyes and leaned back against the cushions. This wasn’t getting her anywhere. She should leave the terrifying questions that haunted her in the capable hands of that Runner and instead concentrate her energies on the smaller problems she could control. In another week, if she were lucky enough to find employment, she would be an insignificant governess in some household probably miles from London. But she would no longer be in a position to aid the charity that meant more to her than anything else. That being the case, she shouldn’t let a single moment of the time she had left go to waste. With a new sense of determination, she made her way to Constance Yarborough’s chamber but the girl was not within. The fans, though, lay across her worktable, the ink dry, the watercolors—at a glance— only slightly damp. They could be delivered on the morrow.

  Several others were ready to be wrapped in silver paper and tied with ribands and little cards indicating the names of the purchasers. That was one of her jobs. She gathered them up and carried them back to the sitting room.

  She laid them on the table then opened the top drawer of the bureau where she kept her supplies. Only a single sheet of the paper lay within, badly crumpled and not in the least suitable. She’d forgotten she’d used the last. These fans would have to wait until she could get to a shop. Unless… She rummaged under a pile of note cards and ribands, only to have her questing fingers encounter the cool carved ivory and folded chicken skin of other fans already within.

  More fans? In her drawer? Had she forgotten to deliver some? In dismay, she pulled one out. No, it wasn’t painted, she noted in relief. In fact, it was broken.

  She drew out a second, then a third. From all three, thin steel blades protruded from shattered ivory shafts. A sickening wrench of her stomach left her skin clammy and cold. She closed her eyes but couldn’t blot out the sight of a similar fan, the blade covered in blood, clasped in the Runner’s hand as he stood over Louisa…

  She forced herself to look at these. No blood, thank heavens for that. She ran a tentative finger along one of the blades. One side was dull and smooth. The other felt ragged, as if someone had taken a file to it and begun to sharpen it in a manner unnecessary for a fan.

  A sharp knock on the door broke across her rising nausea. She looked up as it opened and Fenton, with Mr. Benjamin Frake on his heels, entered. Phyllida’s heart plummeted, discovering new depths as Fenton left her alone with the Runner.

  “Sorry to disturb you, miss.” Mr. Frake smiled at her. “I’d just like to have a look-see at the rest of the project materials, if you don’t mind. I see—” He broke off.

  Phyllida looked down, following the direction of his riveted gaze. In her numb hands she held the broken fan with the protruding steel blade, which had been half-sharpened into a deadly knife.

  Chapter Seven

  Mr. Frake strode forward to stand directly before her, his expression unreadable. “Now, what have we here, miss?” He took the fan from her limp grasp.

  “They—” Phyllida faltered and gestured toward the other two, which she must have dropped back into the drawer. “I just found them.”

  Mr. Frake nodded, not really paying attention. He ran an experienced finger along the sharpened edge then examined the other side. Fine lines creased his brow and he shook his head.

  “Now,” he muttered, “were these broke all accidental and innocent-like? Dropped, maybe, before they was painted?” He looked up at her, directly into her eyes.

  She had the distinct feeling he’d know if she lied. Fortunately she didn’t need to. “I never saw them before. I found them here, in the bureau, just now.”

  He remained silent a moment, their gazes locked, then he nodded slowly. “No idea how they might have got theirselves in there?”

  “None.” She shook her head, perhaps a little too eagerly. She could only hope that meant he believed her. “Do you think they were broken by accident or—”

  “You mean an innocent accident.” He considered a moment. “Mayhap the first one was, which was how our murderer—or murderess—learned of the hidden blade. The others—” He shook his head. “It might not have been easy to free it for sharpening without breaking the ivory beyond repair.”

  Constance handled the fans before painting them… Phyllida swallowed, her throat uncomfortably dry. “Why do you think they were put in my drawer?”

  “Is it, miss? Your particular drawer? Now that’s interesting, like.” He ran a hand over his smooth chin and a slow smile lit his bright blue eyes. “Well, miss, there might be any number of reasons they’re there.”

  “Including the possibility I put them there myself and you caught me trying to get rid of them?”

  His smile increased. “As you say, miss. Do you have any idea how the blade in your fan came to be all sharpened and ready to use at the opera?”

  Her heart stopped, then started with a jolt that should have been audible. “No,” she managed after a moment.

  “In your possession all the time, is it?”

  “No,” she repeated, only this time with considerable relief. “Maria Enderby had it—and several of the others—only last week. Hers isn’t finished yet, you see, and she wanted samples to show at a dinner party she held. She had them for several days.”

  Mr. Frake jotted a quick note in his Occurrence Book. “Did anyone else handle them, miss?”

  Phyllida considered. “It’s possible. I’m sorry, I know that doesn’t help.”

  “Well now, I’ll just ask Mrs. Enderby, shall I? No way you should know what goes on in someone else’s household.” He tucked away his notebook and gave her an affable nod. “I’ll be taking my leave now. Good evening, miss.”

  “Good—evening.” She glanced at the mantel clock in relief. The day—the long and terrible day—was almost over. There had been moments when she’d thought it would last forever. The gong should sound soon to dress for dinner—but that meant she would shortly find herself facing Lord Ingram again.

  She saw the Runner to the front door then mounted the steps slowly to her own chamber. Less than twenty-four hours ago Louisa had been laughing about which of her new gowns to wear to the opera. And now…

  For one craven moment Phyllida wished she could hide in her room, avoid everyone, request a tray brought up to her. The thought of the dowager’s probable response to such a scheme almost brought a smile to her lips. No, she would go down and watch while that woman tu
rned Phyllida’s personal tragedy into a family travesty.

  She slipped out of one gray gown and into another. Tomorrow, by the grace of the seamstresses, she would have something more suitable. She went down to the salon where the family gathered before the meal and drew up short just over the threshold.

  Captain Lord Ingram turned from his contemplation of the mantel ornaments. Flickering flames from the hearth set reddish highlights in his dark hair and silhouetted the strong lines of his nose and jaw. A claret-colored coat sat smoothly across his shoulders, black satin knee breeches clothed his muscular legs and neat black pumps replaced his Hessian boots. On the middle finger of his left hand gleamed an emerald, barely a deeper shade of green than his eyes.

  Phyllida crossed to the side table and poured a glass of negus then took a revivifying sip. At this moment she needed something. No man had the right to be that disturbing, and without so much as speaking a word! She glanced over her shoulder at him and found his gaze rested on her, his brow furrowed, his expression brooding. Her heart sank.

  “Are you still struck by my resemblance to Louisa?” She turned to face him fully, a challenge glinting in her eyes. “It is only in a certain light, you know. If you could see us together you would be surprised at how different we—are.”

  “Perhaps so,” he agreed and suddenly he sounded amused. “You have far more character in your face.”

  “Stubbornness, do you mean?” Her chin lifted a fraction.

  His green eyes gleamed, easing the tenseness from his countenance. “I wouldn’t have put it that way.”

  “A gentleman couldn’t, could he?” She took another sip of the sweet liquid. “Nor should a gentleman judge me by her actions.”

  He muttered something under his breath and strode to the side table where the decanters stood. He sloshed some Madeira into a glass and swallowed half the contents in a single gulp. “You’re not like her,” he snapped.

  “At last we have that settled,” she said, though mostly to herself. She eyed the rigid back he turned toward her and wondered once more what had passed between him and her sister. Had Louisa hurt him? Or merely damaged his pride? The latter, she guessed shrewdly. He was not a man to languish for love but an affront to his dignity he would not easily forgive.

  She sipped her negus and squared her shoulders. “What is it you hope to accomplish here?”

  “I told you. To protect Allbury from further scandal if it is at all possible.”

  She walked to the hearth and gazed down into the flames. “Who do you think killed her?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She looked up at him, studying the flickering shadows that played about the angles of his face, in profile to her. “Am I still your likeliest choice?”

  He shook his head. “You never were.”

  She looked up and surprised an odd expression on his face. It vanished the next moment and he regarded her once more with that coolly assessing gaze which left her with the distinct impression he understood more than she would like. With an effort, she shook off that unsettled feeling.

  “Whom, then, do you suspect?”

  “After what I have been hearing this day, I rather like the look of that young school friend of hers, Maria Enderby.”

  “Maria? Why?”

  “Because of her husband.”

  Phyllida stared at the liquid in her glass. “It isn’t common gossip, is it? Linking Louisa with Mr. Quincy Enderby?”

  His voice hardened. “I am very much afraid it is.”

  It sent a chill through Phyllida. “I am surprised they are not saying Allbury killed her to protect his honor. Or are they?”

  “Not in my hearing,” he said in a voice of steel.

  She didn’t doubt that. No one would dare breathe scandal or insinuations about the marquis in Captain Lord Ingram’s vicinity. What a wonderful thing to have so staunch a friend.

  Allbury entered and joined Ingram by the decanters. Phyllida slipped away to the corner of the room where she usually sat. Minutes later the dowager marchioness swept in with Constance hurrying in her wake, carrying her fan, a handkerchief and a Norwich silk shawl which she settled about the dowager’s shoulders as that lady seated herself in a chair.

  Dinner could only be a subdued affair and Phyllida found herself longing for it to end. Lord Ingram’s presence opposite her at table disrupted her thinking and more than once she caught herself staring at him. Each time she quickly refocused on the contents of her plate, though by the time the dowager finally rose Phyllida had no clear idea what she had eaten.

  When she begged to be excused from joining the others in the drawing room the dowager made no objection. Phyllida sought the sanctuary of her chamber and prepared for bed. The morning would bring new trials to face. She might as well try to get what rest she could.

  Much to her surprise, she slept deeply and awoke early, feeling much more herself. The knowledge of Louisa’s loss remained vivid but she found she could think of her sister without that dull, aching void. Yes, today would be better.

  Unless Lord Ingram awaited her at the breakfast table.

  That, at least, was spared her. Mrs. Battersea, whom she encountered in the corridor outside the dowager’s chamber, assured her the gentlemen had taken their meal a half-hour before and were even now closeted in the library, indulging in a game of chess. Half relieved and—much to her dismay—half disappointed, Phyllida entered the sunny apartment and poured a cup of tea.

  Constance, a trifle bleary-eyed, joined her as she finished her last bite of roll. The girl settled at the table and carefully sliced her toast into thin fingers, which she proceeded to dip into her tea. “I have finished sketching the new fans,” she said. “I can start the watercolors this morning.”

  Phyllida nodded. “I’ll send an order for the new paints. Is there anything else?”

  Assured there was not, she made her way to the Ladies’ Sitting Room where she wrote out the order then dispatched it by way of a footman. Constance should have her supplies within the hour. That matter settled, she turned her attention to the mountainous pile of cards awaiting her response.

  Not until early afternoon was she interrupted, and by then she would have welcomed any excuse to lay aside her depressing task. Fenton knocked then opened the door.

  “Lady Woking, miss.” He stepped aside to permit the visitor to enter then closed the door behind her.

  The formidable matron swept inside, draped in her customary trailing shawls. She paused just over the threshold and her startled gaze traveled around the newly redecorated apartment. Her gaze settled on a Chinese vase and an uncertain smile just touched her lips as she turned to Phyllida.

  “My dear Miss Dearne. Such an unpleasant task. I won’t keep you long, I promise. I have only come to tell you how well the tickets for the ball are selling. I have been absolutely inundated with requests since yesterday morning. So very gratifying—and such a tribute to your dear sister, I am sure. I thought you would like to know.”

  “Yes, indeed, thank you. I-I’m very glad.” So the scandal of the murder had helped their cause. “Will you not be seated?”

  “No, my dear, I won’t take any more of your time. I’ll just collect the fans and be on my way.”

  “The fans?” Phyllida raised a harassed eyebrow. “Which ones?”

  “The finished ones, of course.” Lady Woking’s fingers strayed to the drooping strands of pearls about her neck. “You know I have no turn for painting, not like Miss Yarborough. I only want to inspect them before they are delivered to their purchasers.” Her gaze flitted once more around the altered room.

  Phyllida took pity on her obvious curiosity. “The dowager is redecorating. I believe it helps her through her—her grief, to alter things.”

  Lady Woking’s brown eyes widened in comprehension and she inclined her head in that regal style so uniquely hers. “Of course, she must be anxious to remove anything that reminds her so vividly of your sister.”

  “Just so.�
�� Phyllida’s lips twitched at this masterly stating of affairs. She twisted the quill between restless fingers. “As for the fans, I assure you all is under control. I myself have always managed the project and can continue—for the moment, at least—with no trouble.”

  Lady Woking tucked a stray graying tendril beneath her turban. “Have you studied them with care? Compared them with their orders to make certain the details are accurate?” She sighed. “I well remember how thorough poor dear Louisa was over her final inspections.”

  Phyllida’s smile slipped awry. “Actually, Louisa always left that to me. I assure you, I mean to carry on with the greatest care.”

  “I am so glad to hear that. I particularly want to make certain dear Maria Enderby’s fan has come out just as she would wish. Such a child as she is, I fear I am still in the habit of looking out for her.”

  It was a pity the former deportment mistress could not control her erstwhile pupil’s taste in fashion. The thought barely formed in her mind when the door flung wide and Miss Constance Yarborough hurried into the room.

  “Phyllida—” the girl began then broke off. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize someone had called.”

  “I have come about the fans.” Lady Woking bestowed a forgiving smile on her.

  Another former pupil, Phyllida remembered. Constance Yarborough, Maria Enderby, Louisa, all at the seminary for several years together, all under the tutelage of Harriet Jennings, now Lady Woking.

  Lady Woking gestured for Constance to join them. “I suppose you’ve been hard at work painting more fans?”

  “Yes, I have,” came the unusually curt reply.

  Lady Woking looked from one to the other of them and her smile widened. “I have the most delightful suggestion. Why do you not turn everything over to me?”

  “Everything?” Miss Yarborough blinked in surprise. “There is so much—surely you cannot mean everything.”

  “I should think not,” Phyllida agreed.