Ivory and Steel

by Janice Bennett

  Phyllida shivered. The memory of that dark figure looming over her bed then stabbing that blade into her mattress filled her mind, leaving her cold.

  “You think the dowager found the diary, realized who Louisa’s murderer must be then confronted him?” she asked.

  “No, miss. Whoever killed her ladyship didn’t strike out in fear. It was planned, it was.” He rocked back on his heels, his expression thoughtful. “Even if our fine villain just happened to have the drug at hand, and give it to her at once, she would have had time to tell any number of people before it took effect and she went to lie down.”

  “Then why was she killed? This doesn’t make any sense.”

  “I’d say as her ladyship didn’t know what she had. Mayhap she read it without realizing the significance. She must have only mentioned finding it.” He shook his head. “If she’d known, she wouldn’t never have put herself in such danger, I wager.”

  Phyllida drew a shaky breath. “Louisa would have,” she said. “Not that she’d have seen it as putting herself in danger, of course. It never would have occurred to her someone might kill her. But the dowager—no, you must be right. She’d have gone straight to you if she were certain of anything.”

  Or would she have? Phyllida fell silent. Had the dowager told Allbury not to worry, that she had the diary safe? Or had she mentioned to someone else it was now in her possession and she intended to read it? The possibilities were enough to make her headache unbearable.

  They returned to Berkeley Square in the hackney. Fenton admitted them to the house then returned to his duties. Phyllida stared after him.

  “The servants don’t know yet,” she said as they started up the stairs.

  Mr. Frake shook his head. “His lordship will tell them.”

  The late afternoon sun streamed through the windows in the dowager’s sitting room as they entered. Mr. Frake strode to the marquetry desk that stood on the far wall and quickly looked through the contents. Phyllida walked about the room, uncertain.

  “Nothing in this,” the Runner announced after a minute. “The bedchamber, I think.” He strode into the next room, cast a cursory eye about then pulled open the top drawer of a bureau.

  Phyllida applied herself to the bedside table. Her methodical search turned up no diary, no papers, only a prayer book.

  Behind her, Mr. Frake turned to a wardrobe. He ran his hand along the inside of each box, along the edges of every shelf. If the dowager had hidden the diary there they would find it.

  Phyllida checked the bedstead then stood upon the mattress to reach the canopy. Mr. Frake started on the second clothes cupboard.

  “Well, well,” the Runner declared a moment later. “Here it is.”

  Phyllida almost fell off the bed. “Louisa’s diary?”

  He held up the thick volume for her to see. She took it and flipped through the pages. “Yes, that’s her writing. So the dowager did find it.”

  “I think maybe I’ll just have a look at this.” He took it back from her and settled in a chair near the bed. From his pocket he drew a pair of spectacles and perched them on the bridge of his nose. “This is very recent,” he remarked. “It’s dated only last month.”

  “There must be other volumes then.”

  Phyllida went to the cupboard and a minute later unearthed five more books. Mr. Frake, now engrossed in his volume, chuckled, then turned the page without enlightening her. She glanced at him then selected another tome and opened it at random. She read an entry and found herself hard pressed not to either laugh or gasp at her sister’s scandalous observations on life and members of the ton.

  Minutes passed in silence then an involuntary giggle escaped her. “Anyone she wrote about might well want to murder her—and with good cause.”

  “That well may be so, miss.” Mr. Frake turned another page and shook his head. “I don’t suppose she threatened to have these published?”

  “I imagine she had other uses for them.” Phyllida closed the volume and stared at the blank cover. “She never would have resorted to open blackmail—but she would have let people know, in a subtle way, that she knew their dreadful secrets and would be only too happy to help them out of their difficulties.”

  Mr. Frake puffed out his cheeks. “Apparently she at last approached the wrong person. We’d best keep reading these until we find something bad enough about one of our suspects.”

  Phyllida flipped through the pages. Notes, written in a variety of hands, peeked out from various places, as did several letters and a couple of pressed flowers. She glanced at them then laid the volume aside and selected the earliest of the journals to study, which dated to Louisa’s first term as a parlor boarder at the seminary.

  “Here is all the evidence we could desire,” she declared at last, “but it provides motives for too many people! Here she has written about Maria Whitcomb—that’s Mrs. Enderby—bribing a maid to let her in after meeting a gentleman in the shrubbery.”

  She fell silent, turning more pages. “Oh dear, one of the mistresses—Miss Jennings, in fact, Lady Woking—entertained a gentleman in her room. And here she actually says—” She broke off as warmth flooded her cheeks. She could hardly tell a man what she had just read.

  Mr. Frake peered over her shoulder and snorted. “Scandalous goings-on for an elite seminary. A fifteen-year-old schoolroom chit has no business getting herself in the family way, and by a groom. She’s not one of our suspects,” he added, his tone regretful.

  Phyllida read on, aghast at the gossip and illicit activities in which the young ladies had indulged. Scandalous doings, as the Runner had said. But not sufficient to warrant murder to keep them from being known. She finished her volume and turned to another.

  Mr. Frake did the same. After an hour he rose and lit candles then resumed his labors. Another hour slipped past before they finished the six books. At last the Runner laid his current volume aside. “You didn’t find nothing neither?”

  Phyllida scanned the final entry then shook her head. “It doesn’t make sense. Why was Louisa killed?” She spread her hands, a journal in each. “There isn’t sufficient reason in these!”

  “Mayhap someone didn’t know that.” He pulled off his spectacles and rubbed his tired eyes. “I’d best take these with me and read them again. Mayhap we just missed something.” He crossed to the wardrobe and picked up a handful of papers from the next shelf. “I thought you said as her ladyship had no interest in this charity of yours.”

  “She didn’t. Why?”

  “These. Notes, mostly, on the fans. Do you know who wrote them?”

  Phyllida peered over his shoulder. “I did. And these are Miss Yarborough’s sketches. Except this one.” She took a drawing from him.

  Mr. Frake replaced his spectacles. “Simple head and shoulders, in three-quarter view, could be almost anyone. Features aren’t filled in. Sergeant Samuel Simpson of the Seventh Foot,” he added, deciphering Louisa’s none-too-tidy copperplate across the bottom of the sketch. “Well I doubt very much Lady Woking would have been pleased to receive this memorial of her late first husband.”

  “No,” Phyllida agreed, then frowned. “She might not want Lord Woking to hear of him but she isn’t likely to have committed murder to prevent it, is she? It is just like Louisa, though, to have done something so unkind as to have used this as a sample. It must have made poor Lady Woking terribly uncomfortable.”

  He nodded, his brow furrowed. “Well I’d best be getting back to Woking House, miss. The ball will be starting in just over an hour.”

  “Will it?” Phyllida checked the mantel clock, surprised to discover it lacked but ten minutes until eight o’clock. The gong hadn’t sounded to change for dinner—but that shouldn’t surprise her. Allbury must have returned home long ago and told the staff of the latest tragedy, casting the household into chaos.

  Mr. Frake gathered together the volumes. “I’ll tell everyone as is concerned how we found your sister’s diary, miss—and as how it hasn’t provide
d no motive for anyone. Whoever our murderer is, he has nothing to fear from this. No one need search for it anymore.”

  “Thank you.” She followed him into the hall.

  “There, now, miss. Everyone will be all tied up with this here ball—which I’ll be attending. Don’t you worry none tonight.” With that he took his leave.

  Phyllida made her way up to her room, lost in unpleasant thought. She had been so certain the diary must provide the key. Then Allbury—and Ingram—would be proved innocent. Now they loomed in her mind, as dark and menacing as her worst nightmares.

  Not Ingram. She stared blindly into the mirror as she jabbed pins into her hair, neither seeing nor caring where they went. She would not believe it. She could not be so wrong about a person.

  She changed into her bombazine gown. The dowager had ordered her to buy it for mourning—and now Phyllida wore it for her as well as Louisa. She turned from the room and ran down the hall. At the staircase she paused to compose herself then descended with more propriety.

  Lord Ingram emerged from his chamber as she reached the next floor and strode toward her. “Miss Dearne,” he called.

  A thrill danced through her. No, he could have nothing to do with this dreadful bumble broth. She met his gaze and her knees nearly buckled. “How is Allbury?” she asked when she mastered her voice.

  “He is taking this very hard.”

  Phyllida nodded but didn’t trust herself to say more. Together they entered the salon. Ingram crossed to the decanters and poured ratafia for Phyllida and Madeira for himself. The door opened behind them and Phyllida tensed then turned.

  Allbury entered, his tall, thin frame slumped, his features drawn and haggard. He almost fell into a chair and accepted with gratitude the glass Ingram pressed into his hand.

  “I can’t believe it,” the marquis breathed. He drained the Madeira and handed the small crystal goblet back to his friend for a refill. This too he drained, and the color crept back into his face.

  Constance Yarborough joined them but stopped on the threshold, her hand that rested on the jamb trembling. Her pansy-like eyes filled with tears. “It is too dreadful,” she cried as one slipped down her pale cheek. “Lady Woking positively insists I return for the ball. How can I face it?”

  Phyllida caught her hand. “You will carry on just as you must.”

  The marquis twisted the stem of his glass between his fingers. “I am only sorry I cannot be there.”

  “I can,” Ingram said suddenly. “Miss Yarborough, will you permit me to escort you?”

  She blinked startled eyes at him. “You? But—”

  The marquis beamed. “Capital, old fellow. Just the thing. You’ll take care of her.”

  “I certainly shall. I will even assist you with the fans, if you wish, Miss Yarborough.”

  “Excellent.” The marquis cheered immensely.

  “At least I will not be alone there.” Constance shivered. “I keep thinking. First it was Louisa now the dowager. Who will be next?”

  “No one.” Phyllida cast Ingram a beseeching glance.

  Allbury caught the hand Constance extended toward him. “I’ll not let anything harm you, I promise. Either of you,” he added quickly, including Phyllida.

  “I should imagine we’re quite safe,” Phyllida agreed.

  Ingram handed the girl a glass of ratafia. “Mr. Frake believes the dowager knew something of Louisa’s death. Had she told Mr. Frake rather than keeping it to herself she would still be alive.”

  “There, you see, Con—Miss Yarborough?” Allbury straightened, as if shaking off his distress. “Everything will be fine. We’ll all go along much more com—” He broke off then recovered. “Much more comfortably once this matter is settled. Which cannot be long now.”

  They’d all get along much more comfortably without the overbearing dowager, was that what he had started to say? Phyllida drew back a pace and wished she could banish these suspicions. The marquis could now have the ordering of his own life. He could even, should he wish it, put duty aside for once and marry where he chose.

  “There should be no scandal for the charity, at least,” Ingram said. “Frake says he has sworn his people to silence, at least until tomorrow. Nor does he intend to tell the papers where the dowager died.”

  Fenton, his composure in shambles, arrived to announce the meal. They adjourned to the dining room but none of them had much appetite for the food placed before them, which was perhaps just as well. The cook, a temperamental soul at the best of times, Fenton explained, had retired to his bed with the migraine upon hearing the news of his mistress’s untimely demise. The pastry chef also had deserted his post, announcing his immediate return to the Enderbys’ establishment and taking himself off at once to pack his bags.

  This left the preparations in the hands of the underlings, who had squabbled amongst themselves for rank and precedence. The result was a scorched salmon in a lumpy sauce, underdone capons, a blackened collop of veal and a watery snow crème. Phyllida toyed with the food presented to her and found herself unable to take more than a few mouthfuls.

  As soon as the meal drew to a close Ingram and Constance went to change into more suitable garments for a ball. Phyllida sat with the marquis in the drawing room, neither speaking, until the other two rejoined them. Moments later the footman announced the arrival of the carriage. Allbury assisted Constance Yarborough into her wrap, told her to be brave and saw the couple to the door.

  The door closed behind them and Allbury stared at it for a long moment then turned back to Phyllida. “I’ll be in my bookroom,” he said, and left.

  Phyllida made no complaint. The marquis bore all the appearance of a man desperately in need of an evening alone with a brandy bottle. She retired to her own room and locked the door.

  She prepared for bed and climbed between sheets but soon found she couldn’t sleep. Why hadn’t Louisa’s diary provided the clue they needed? Suspicions and doubts jostled in her mind, along with Ingram’s stern-faced image. If only she could be with him right now. When he was at her side her fears faded into insignificance, where they belonged.

  She drifted off to sleep at last, only to awake abruptly. The dim glow from her bedside lamp illuminated the clock she had placed near—only five minutes lacked before three o’clock. Noises drifted up from below, voices, footsteps on the stairs. Ingram and Constance had returned from the ball.

  She donned her wrapper and hurried along the hall then down the stairs to the salon where candles burned and the men’s deep tones drifted forth.

  Mr. Frake stood near the empty hearth and nodded a greeting as she entered. Constance sat slumped in a chair, her face lowered in her hands. The marquis leaned against a table, a hazy but affable smile on his face. A trifle castaway, Phyllida reflected, but did he drink to forget his mother’s murder—or his role in it?

  She glanced at Ingram, who poured wine for them all. Deep lines of strain showed on his features, mute testimony to the difficult evening.

  “How did it go?” she asked.

  “We made a considerable sum of money for the soldiers.” Constance’s voice sounded hollow.

  “She painted a great many fans,” Ingram added. “She was quite an attraction, with people gathering about her to watch.”

  Allbury beamed on her. “You must be exhausted. Why don’t you go upstairs?”

  “And be alone?” Constance shuddered. “I-I don’t know if I dare. What if there is someone just waiting at the landing…” She let her sentence trail off.

  Was this an act? Or was the girl genuinely afraid? Phyllida screamed internally, desperate to know which one of them was guilty.

  Allbury pushed away from his perch and managed a creditable bow. “I’ll see you safely to your room before going to my own. Why do you not have your maid stay with you?” He took her arm and led her from the salon.

  Phyllida stifled a yawn and turned to Mr. Frake. “Did you learn anything?”

  He shook his head. “No, miss, noth
ing as will be of any use.” He drained his glass and replaced it on the table. “Thanking you kindly, m’lord.”

  “What do you do now?” Ingram asked.

  Mr. Frake considered for a moment. “Go to bed,” he said at last. “There’s something here as I’m overlooking but I just can’t put a finger on it, like. Mayhap it’ll come to me after some sleep.”

  Ingram nodded. “I’ll see you out. I think we’ll all be better for a few hours’ rest. Miss Dearne, you should not have gotten up.”

  She followed them to the door. “Did no one behave in a suspicious manner at all? Not Lord or Lady Woking? Or Maria or Mr. Enderby?” Or Constance or Ingram? But she kept that last to herself.

  Mr. Frake sighed heavily. “None of them seemed overly distressed over the dowager’s death. All wound up in the ball, they was, and getting people to order more fans.”

  “We’ve overlooked something,” Ingram repeated. “Perhaps—” He broke off.

  The next moment Phyllida heard the running steps on the stairs. Mr. Frake stepped into the hall and Phyllida followed as Constance Yarborough, still in her ball gown but with her long, loose hair flying, descended the last flight.

  “I’ve found it!” the girl cried.

  Mr. Frake stepped forward, effectively stopping her headlong rush. “Now then, miss, just what is this about?”

  Instinctively, Constance turned to Phyllida. “It was there, all along, and I had no idea.”

  “What?” Phyllida demanded.

  “The money. It hasn’t been stolen at all.” She held up a netted reticule that bulged suggestively.

  “And whose is this, miss?” Mr. Frake took it from her, pulled it open and drew out a thick roll of flimsies.

  “It’s Louisa’s. I—” She broke off as the Runner’s suddenly narrowed gaze transferred to her face.

  “The young marchioness’s, was it? And where, or maybe I should be asking when, did you find it?”

  Soft color flooded her cheeks. “I didn’t steal it. I never would have taken something that doesn’t belong to me. I didn’t steal it,” she repeated. “I only—” Her expression pleading, she looked to Phyllida.