“You mean that Allbury celebrated the whole way back to London?” She shook her head. “That has been left to the dowager to do, I fear.”
“Is that what has disturbed you?”
Phyllida cast him a rueful glance. “Is it that obvious?”
“To me.”
That left her to wonder why to him in particular. The insinuation, that he was coming to understand her, played havoc with her emotions.
“What is the matter?” he pursued.
Everything, she wanted to say, but instead concentrated on her current fears. “Two things, I suppose. The dowager is talking about giving a party already.”
“Allbury will never permit it.”
His certainty made her feel better. “No, you are quite right. Thank you.”
“And what is the second matter?”
Her stomach clenched but she forced herself to speak the words. “This is one sly minx who needs to find a position and a new place to live—and in the very near future, I fear.”
“Sly minx?” His mobile brows snapped down. “Who dared to call you that?”
“The dowager. She believes the Dearne sisters were out to capture a matrimonial prize. When I failed to bring Allbury up to scratch, you must understand, I brought in my sister to lay her traps.”
He slammed his glass onto the tray. “She actually accused you of that?”
“Yes. You did yourself once, if you’ll remember.”
“I had not the honor of knowing you then.” He poured a full measure of the heavy wine and handed it to her. “Here. You could use this.”
“Thank you.” His championing of her made her feel immeasurably better—no, she mustn’t confuse his proffered friendship for any stronger feelings. That only led to heartache.
He swirled the dark liquid in the cut-crystal glass then looked up, directly at her. “Do you mean to depart at once?”
She walked to the hearth and stared into the empty grate. “I have nowhere to go yet. I came in here to find the paper, to read the advertisements.” She looked about and found the folded sheets lying on a table near a comfortable sofa. She picked them up and tucked them under her arm.
“What will you do?”
“I shall find a position as a governess.”
His brow snapped down. “Surely you cannot want such a life.”
“On the contrary.” She managed a shaky half-laugh. “After this past week, I assure you, I shall find it of all things the most delightful. The sooner I leave this house the happier I shall be.”
“Do you really mean that?” he demanded, his tone harsh.
She turned to face him, her brow creasing. “Allbury is very kind of course but—”
“Confound Allbury!” He ran a hand through his thick hair. “I cannot see you as a governess.”
“Well I hope no one else has that problem, for a governess I must and shall be. At least there is one good thing about this investigation,” she added, somewhat ruefully. “It keeps me here for a little longer. That should give me time to select a choice position.”
“It keeps you here a little longer,” he repeated. He smiled suddenly and an unexpected warmth lit his eyes as his gaze rested on her.
A rush of sensation washed over her, leaving her weak. It wasn’t wise. She knew the dangers of dreaming but when his gaze rested on her like this, reason and logic became difficult. She simply stared back, noting little things about him that had escaped her notice before. How strong was his chin, how full his mouth. Every feature reflected his strength of character. And that unruly wave of dark hair that hung over his left eye…
Only a fool could cherish the hopes that sprang to life within her yet her longing welled, aching and bitter in her knowledge it would never be fulfilled. Noblemen did no more than dally with penniless females who lacked illustrious connections. Allbury had proved that to her but she was no Louisa to entrap a man into an unequal union. Nor would her pride permit her to accept a carte blanche—even if one were offered.
The door opened and Phyllida dragged her gaze from Ingram’s face as Allbury strolled in. The marquis smiled on them.
“There you are.” His glance fell on their wine and he nodded. “Good idea.” He crossed to the decanters and poured himself some of the heady liquid then carried it to one of the comfortable chairs drawn up before the empty hearth.
Phyllida withdrew to her chair and wished she had some embroidery with which to occupy herself. Now was hardly the time to study the paper; while Ingram filled her thoughts, she could not think logically about her future. She would search through the pages for a position after dinner, when perhaps she would have regained a measure of sense.
She went directly to her chamber after the meal, pleading the headache for excuse. There she spent the evening perusing the columns in the Morning Post with the determination of the desperate. Every day she remained in this house Lord Ingram’s unconscious spell bound her more deeply. For the sake of her vulnerable heart she had to escape it, and as soon as possible.
She found little encouragement though. The only listing that sounded at all promising was an advertisement for a superior establishment just off Bond Street that specialized in employment opportunities for genteel ladies in distressed circumstances.
Conscious of the image she must present, she dressed with care the following morning, donning her most austere gown then attacking with hairpins the unruly curls clustering about her face. With this accomplished to her satisfaction, she tied on her bonnet and set forth.
The result of this visit, though, was not what she had hoped. They were very sorry, a prim little woman in her late fifties informed her, but without experience or references a young and somewhat attractive lady could not possibly be placed in any gentlewoman’s household. Phyllida took her haughty leave, more irritated by that “somewhat attractive” than by the lack of tangible results.
She returned to the house feeling as if her only door to escape had been slammed in her face. If she couldn’t remove herself from Ingram’s vicinity then her only hope would be to bury herself so deeply in the charitable project that he would not be able to distract her.
She never had delivered Lady Woking’s message to Constance the day before. That provided an excellent place to begin.
She found Constance once more in the sitting room, gazing off into space, an expression of dreamy detachment on her face that Phyllida understood all too well. She closed the door and Constance started. Hurriedly the girl grabbed up the quill from the ink well then, after a moment’s pretended concentration, she turned about.
“I was just going to start the next fans,” the girl explained. “It is a pity they are all for single portraits. I am in the mood to sketch a battle scene.”
“Is there not even one for a cavalry officer?” Phyllida perched on the padded arm of the chair.
“No.” She sighed and regarded the stack of orders with scant enthusiasm. “Perhaps I will do a battle anyway, just in case someone wants one soon.”
“An excellent idea.” Phyllida recognized her opening. “I saw Lady Woking yesterday and she thought it might be prudent for you to do preliminary sketches on a number of fans then attend the ball. As patrons place their orders you will be expected to fill in the details.”
“To—” Constance stared at Phyllida. “To actually paint them there, with everyone watching me? Oh no, how could I? I would be so terribly nervous, I would make the most dreadful mistakes.”
“You will manage very well, have no fear.”
Frowning, Constance twisted her pen between her fingers. At last she said, “I don’t suppose I have any choice in the matter, do I?”
“I am sure you do. But it wouldn’t be so very terrible, would it? You can do most of the work in advance you know, then merely add names and whatever else is required in ink and only a few details with the paints. That should satisfy everyone. And you know how delighted people will be.”
“Do you really think so?” The girl brightened. “It might be fun, a
t that.”
With Constance’s aid, Phyllida gathered everything for the project they would not be needing for the next few days. With a determination that demanded her full concentration she set to work with the newly delivered silver paper. Distributing the fans at the ball, she admitted, would be an excellent idea. Not only would potential patrons see the finished products but it might encourage some who would not otherwise attend the ball to pay the hefty ticket fee in order to pick up their orders.
Less than an hour later she placed the last of the neatly wrapped fans into the box and adjusted the carefully penned tag that hung from its handle. The footman carried them down to the waiting landau and Phyllida set forth for Woking House.
Lady Woking, resplendent in trailing lavender silk, met her at the door of the salon with a cry of delight. “You brought them. Over here, Henry.” She gestured for the footman to place his burden. “Has dear Miss Yarborough started the sketches?”
“She has. It should keep her quite busy over the next few days.”
“Oh pray, do not go, Miss Dearne. Will you not have a cup of tea? I won’t take no for an answer. Henry, will you ask Erskine to bring it? Along with some cakes?”
Phyllida took the seat into which her hostess pressed her, wondering at this show of hospitality. She’d been treated as the poor relation she was on previous visits. Her suspicions rose like the hackles on a dog.
Lady Woking settled into the chair opposite. “There, my dear, what a sad trial this has been for you. How dreadful it must be, with everyone at Allbury House only too glad your poor sister is dead. It must be a terrible strain on you.”
“I do not believe anyone is glad Louisa is dead,” Phyllida said, cautiously if untruthfully. Lady Woking would receive no food for gossip from her.
That lady reached across and gave her hand a comforting pat, her expression all commiseration. “So very brave of you. But you need not keep up the pretenses before me, you know.”
She broke off as the butler entered bearing a tray on which rested a steaming pot, two delicate china cups and a plate filled with cakes and biscuits. He set this on a table near his mistress. Lady Woking poured, added sugar and handed a cup to Phyllida.
“My dear,” Lady Woking resumed as the butler closed the door behind himself. “I was never more shocked, I assure you!”
Phyllida nodded, though without encouragement. She would find out about what—and all too soon if she knew Lady Woking.
“Such a dreadful lack of taste, for Lady Allbury to be calling upon that wheyfaced Lady Elspeth Osborne. And to actually have dined with her family last night!”
“With Lady—” Recollecting herself, Phyllida broke off. So that was where the dowager had gone.
Her dismay must have shown clearly in her face for Lady Woking’s prim smile formed as she nodded. “Tongues are wagging all over London that she has chosen Lady Elspeth for her son’s next bride. And only days after the murder of his first.”
“They will wag even over the merest trifles,” Phyllida tried, though she feared her hostess would not be sidetracked. Lady Elspeth, as most of the ton must have known, had been the dowager’s choice for her daughter-in-law all along. She had pushed for that union even before the marquis had met Phyllida. It had been a severe blow to the dowager when her son had married Louisa.
A chill crept over Phyllida that a long swallow of hot tea failed to dispel. Just how much had the dowager wished this match between the marquis and Lady Elspeth? Enough, perhaps, to remove the primary obstacle—namely Louisa—who stood in the way? No, that would not be enough. Unless she took into consideration the heir that might not be Allbury’s own.
That thought haunted her throughout the ride home. When Fenton greeted her with the information that Mr. Frake awaited her return in the Red Salon she actually greeted the intelligence with relief and hurried up the stairs to see him.
The Runner wasn’t alone. Lord Ingram stood by the hearth, a deep frown creasing his brow. He looked up as she entered and his entire countenance lightened.
Phyllida faltered. It wasn’t fair he should affect her so. She didn’t stand a chance against him. Forcing her senses back under control, she advanced another step into the room.
“Miss Dearne.” His gaze rested on her and his expression warmed. “The very person we need.”
She swallowed. “What may I do for you?”
“Well now, miss.” The Runner regarded her with a kindly smile. “We was hoping you might be able to suggest some motive for your sister’s murder I haven’t thought up yet.”
She shook her head. “The only thing I can add is—” She stopped abruptly, feeling as if she told tales.
“Yes, miss?”
She stared at her hands. “I found Miss Yarborough searching Louisa’s room a second time. She said she looked for a ring.”
“And?” he prodded as she hesitated.
“There is a-a growing friendship between Miss Yarborough and Allbury,” she finished, feeling miserable.
“I had noticed, miss, but you was quite right to mention it to me. Now then, why wasn’t you educated at the same seminary as your sister?”
Studiously, she avoided Ingram’s gaze. “My parents are not wealthy. Louisa’s godmother paid her fees then sponsored her come-out in London.”
“But you had been brought out before then, miss?”
Phyllida nodded. “By an aunt. Louisa visited me, even though she thought our address to be in a most shockingly undesirable quarter of town. And yes, Louisa met Allbury on a visit to me.”
Mr. Frake pursed his lips. “Then you didn’t really see much of her from the time she started at that seminary until she married and you came to live here?”
“No, I’m afraid not. Can Miss Yarborough or Mrs. Enderby not tell you more? They were her closest friends during that time.”
He shook his head. “Neither one can think of nothing that might have led up to this tragic occurrence. Lady Woking remembers her as somewhat of a right regular handful. As your lordship can attest?” He ended on a questioning note.
“That I can.” A rueful smile just touched Ingram’s lips.
Phyllida stared at him in surprise. Had he forgiven Louisa at last for wounding his pride? He had carried that anger for three long years. His attitude had certainly undergone a change in just the short week since they had met.
“And you, miss?” the Runner pursued.
She dragged her gaze from Ingram and warm color seeped into her face. “She looked eighteen on her thirteenth birthday,” she admitted. “She delighted in flirting with the officers she met.”
Mr. Frake nodded. “A rare handful,” he repeated. “Well then, that’s about all for now.”
As he rose Fenton opened the door. “Mrs. Enderby, miss,” he announced and stepped back to let that young lady enter.
She swept in, robed in sprigged muslin boasting numerous bows and ruffles, talking as she came. “Phyllida, it is the most delightful—” She broke off, seeing the others. “Lord Ingram, Mr. Frake. How very pleasant.” Her voice lacked conviction.
Ingram bowed but the Runner rocked back on his heels. “Mrs. Enderby,” he said with a note of satisfaction. “I called on you a little while ago but you was from home.”
The young lady took an involuntary step backward. “About what did you wish to see me?”
“I visited your bank manager today. It seems Mr. Enderby has been drawing some fairly great sums of late.”
Maria’s jaw clenched and she raised her chin in defiance. “Is that so unusual for a gentleman?”
“Not in the least. Especially one who buys expensive presents for a chère amie.”
Maria paled and Mr. Frake’s smile became a touch more menacing. “According to two of your maids and one of your footmen you and your husband have been having violent quarrels recently concerning his—shall we say attachment—to the late Lady Allbury. One of the maids swears she heard you say you would kill her.”
Chapter Twelve
A silence so complete as to be almost audible filled the salon and Phyllida tensed. Ingram paused, his snuff box in his hand, and stared intently at Maria Enderby. The blood drained from that young lady’s face, leaving only a spot of burning color in each cheek.
“What a-a dreadful, wicked girl, to say such a thing.” With an effort Maria pulled herself together. “You did not actually believe her, did you? Such a farrago of nonsense? It was Agnes, was it not? You cannot rely on anything that creature says. I should have turned her off without a character months ago.”
“It wasn’t Agnes.” Mr. Frake rocked back on his heels. “Nor did I find the young person’s story in the least ridiculous.”
Maria Enderby straightened her shoulders in her best impersonation of her ex-deportment mistress. “Do you actually believe I would commit murder over one of my husband’s insignificant infidelities?” She managed a shaky laugh. “Louisa was not the first, I assure you. Nor do I have any reason to believe she will be the last.”
So vulnerable… Phyllida’s heart went out to the girl, only to clench as she encountered an unexpected glint of steel in Maria’s eyes. Was her nervous defiance an act calculated to impress the Runner?
“Oh no. Not over an infidelity.” Mr. Frake drew the briarwood pipe from his pocket and twisted the gnarled bowl between his fingers. “But keeping so much of your money from slipping through his fingers might be another matter.”
“Money!” Maria faltered then shook her head. “No, that is not an issue between us. We have quite enough to indulge his little whims. I know why he married me, there has never been any pretense of love. I-I imagine when I am more at ease about town I will indulge a few whims of my own.”
Phyllida stared at her, unable to believe her so indifferent to her husband’s roving eye. Nor could she believe Maria’s fortune to be that great, or the girl’s scheming mamma would have found a more prominent gentleman than a mere Mr. Enderby to entrap in her golden net. Maria told less than the truth, of that Phyllida felt certain. She looked at the Runner but his expression remained bland, betraying nothing.
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