by D. M. Quincy
“I am for my bed.” He rose heavily from his chair. “Do not disturb me unless the building is on fire.”
“Begging your pardon, sir, but you have a visitor.”
Atlas yawned. “Who is it?”
“He calls himself Samuel Brown.”
“I am not acquainted with anyone of that name.” He trudged toward the bedchamber, eager to bury himself under the warm blankets and pass the remainder of the day in slumberous oblivion. “Send him away.”
“But—” Jamie’s face reddened. “He is a man of God, sir! How am I to send him away?”
Atlas paused. “What is a clergyman doing here?”
“He said it is something to do with a murder.”
Atlas instantly became more awake. “I suppose sleep shall have to wait.” Mindful of his state of dishabille, he continued on to his bedchamber. “Show him in while I endeavor to make myself presentable. Then dash out and get us some coffee and something to eat.”
After a quick splash of water to his face and a comb through his dark, wavy hair, Atlas donned a burgundy silk banyan and pushed his feet into worn black leather house slippers. He returned to the sitting room to find a tall, handsome young man in his twenties clad in the dark attire of a clergyman standing by the window.
“Mr. Brown,” he greeted his visitor, “I am Atlas Catesby.”
“I know who you are.” Dark circles ringed the young man’s eyes, and Atlas sensed his agitation. “I am hoping you will help me discover who killed my betrothed.”
Atlas fell silent, momentarily confused. He’d naturally assumed the clergyman had sought him out in connection with the previous evening’s murder. “I am sorry for your loss, Mr. Brown, but I am not certain how I can be of any help.”
“I am given to understand that you found the murder weapon.” Mr. Brown’s words were full of urgent feeling. “Now I implore you to assist me in bringing the blackguard who killed my Wendela to justice.”
Atlas thought he’d misheard. The man standing before him was easily a full decade younger than the dead woman he had seen on the piazza.
“You were betrothed to Mrs. Pike?”
“Yes, she was going to leave her sinful past behind to become my wife.” The clergyman’s voice broke, and he fell silent, pressing his lips together, taking a moment to compose himself. Finally, he said, “She was dearer to me than my own life.”
“Please.” Atlas gestured for Brown to take a seat and then did the same. “Mrs. Pike was … er … a bit older than you.”
“Age was not something a man considered once he had enjoyed the pleasure of Mrs. Pikes’s company. She was a shining light with a sweet and cheerful countenance.” He drew a snowy kerchief from his pocket and dabbed his eyes. “Lord Vessey killed her. I am certain of it. He could not bear to lose her.”
Altas’s hands clenched on the armrests at the mention of Vessey. “Are you suggesting the marquess was aware that Mrs. Pike intended to leave him?”
“Mrs. Pike had promised to inform his lordship that she had transferred her affections to me and that we were intent on marrying. She had grown tired of his faithlessness.”
“Meaning?”
“His lordship lives a sinner’s life. Wendela feared he would afflict her with disease because of his continual pursuit of carnal pleasures outside their arrangement.”
“I see.” Atlas could readily see Vessey as a faithless man. But he did not know what to make of the young man before him, a clergyman who seemed on the verge of hysteria, or of his unlikely love story. “How long were you acquainted with Mrs. Pike?”
“For almost two years.”
It was difficult to fathom this clergyman consorting with the queen of London’s demimonde, a woman who also happened to be far older than he. “And you engaged in a liaison during all of that time?”
“Certainly not!” Brown flushed. “Despite her unfortunate circumstances, Mrs. Pike was a woman of virtue. Lord Vessey corrupted her when she was scarcely more than a girl. Fortunately, she came to see the error of her ways.”
“You are suggesting that Mrs. Pike intended to leave Vessey to become a clergyman’s wife?” Atlas had no idea what kind of living a minister made, but it was safe to assume he wouldn’t be able to keep a woman like Wendela Pike in the same comfort as a marquess. “Had she informed Vessey of her decision?”
“That is just it. I cannot say.” He wrung the white kerchief between his hands. “She had promised that she would. I have been presented a living on the East Anglian coast and intended to depart for there as soon as Wendela and I were wed.”
“May I ask how you came to be acquainted with Mrs. Pike?”
“We met at Stonebrook, the marquess’s country estate in Huntingdonshire.”
Atlas was familiar with Stonebrook. It was where Phoebe had fallen down the stairs and broken her neck. He’d never been able to erase the sight of his sister’s mangled body lying at the bottom of Vessey’s massive white marble staircase.
“I quitted the army on Mrs. Pike’s advice,” Brown continued, “and am now wedded to the church.”
“You were a soldier,” Atlas said with some surprise.
“Indeed. My uncle purchased a commission for me in the Sixty-eighth regiment.”
The front door squeaked open and then shut. Jamie appeared with two coffees and a tray of meat pies.
Brown waved Jamie’s offering away. “My thanks, but I have been unable to eat or drink since I heard the terrible news. I may as well have perished alongside my love.”
Atlas gratefully accepted the coffee. Inhaling the scent of the freshly brewed libation, he took a long, fortifying draught. Jamie withdrew with the coffee Brown had declined, which he would undoubtedly enjoy with a meat pie the boy would have kept aside for himself.
“Well?” The clergyman regarded Atlas expectantly. “Will you look into the matter?
“Bow Street is investigating.” From personal experience, Atlas knew Endicott to be a thorough and competent investigator.
“Not if Lord Vessey killed her,” Brown spoke bitterly. “A peer of the realm shall never be made to pay for the murder of his mistress.”
The truth of Brown’s words caused the coffee to turn acrid on Atlas’s tongue. Vessey had already gotten away with killing Phoebe, a marchioness. Society would certainly never hold him to account for the death of an unrespectable woman like Wendela Pike.
“Very well,” Atlas said. “I shall make some inquiries.”
* * *
Having reluctantly relinquished any immediate hopes of Morphean bliss, Atlas decided to call upon Lilliana as he’d promised he would the previous evening.
Leaving his apartments, he trotted down the stairs and onto Bond Street. Last night’s deluge had eased into a dreary drizzle, leaving carriages to trudge through mud-slogged streets. As Atlas stepped onto the stone pavement that protected pedestrians from the boggy road, he spotted his friend, the Earl of Charlton, alighting from a familiar shiny carriage in front of the tobacco shop below Atlas’s apartments. The earl’s vibrant emerald tailcoat provided a flash of color on an otherwise gray day.
“Atlas,” Charlton called out in greeting as he stepped onto the pavement. A tall, well-built footman hoisted an umbrella high above the nobleman’s precisely ruffled golden hair to shelter him from the rain. “I hear you had quite a bit of excitement after Somerville and I took our leave last evening.”
“Unfortunately.” Atlas followed Charlton into the shop. “It is a grim affair.”
Charlton’s focus went to the petite proprietor behind the long, wooden counter that ran almost the full length of the narrow shop. Jars filled with varieties of hand-blended tobaccos lined the shelves behind her. “Good day, Mrs. Disher.”
Olivia Disher’s eyes twinkled. “My lord.” The young widow had taken control of her husband’s shop after his unexpected death the previous year and was now engaged in a liaison with Charlton. “Will you be having the nargileh this afternoon?”
“No
, not the hookah today.” He removed his hat. “I believe I shall try that new blend you have been raving about.”
She appeared pleased. “Very good, my lord.”
Charlton continued on toward the wood-and-glass-fronted smoking room at the rear of the shop. Since commencing his affair with Mrs. Disher, the earl had made a very public show of frequenting her establishment. The exposure seemed to have achieved its purpose. Atlas noticed that patrons now roamed the shop floor at all hours. A half-dozen men currently indulged their habit in the smoking room and seemed to be surreptitiously watching them.
“Are they awaiting your arrival?” Atlas asked.
“To be sure. I have made it known that I can be found in Mrs. Disher’s smoking room on Wednesdays.”
“And I suppose those who aspire to be fashionable present themselves at those times.”
“Naturally.” Charlton spoke as if adulation was his due, given his gilded good looks, wealth, and noble title.
Atlas shook his head with a smile. “Naturally.” He marveled that he and his closest friend could be so dissimilar. Theirs was an unlikely friendship that had begun at university, where Charlton had sought Atlas out precisely because he was one of the few students who’d neglected to fawn over the young heir to a wealthy earldom.
Charlton paused outside the smoking room while the gentlemen within made a show of pretending not to watch him. “About this nasty business at Covent Garden—did you see the cur who killed Mrs. Pike?”
Atlas shook his head. “No, but I heard the shots. By the time I reached her, there was nothing that could be done. She died where she fell.”
“Ghastly.”
“Were you acquainted with Mrs. Pike?”
Charlton paused before replying. “I did … have the pleasure,” he said with some awkwardness.
Atlas studied his friend. Surely Charlton and Mrs. Pike hadn’t engaged in a dalliance. “You and she were not—”
“Certainly not,” Charlton interjected before Atlas could complete the sentence. “As I understand it, Mrs. Pike was not free with her favors.”
“I have heard the same could not be said of Vessey.”
Charlton dipped his chin. “The marquess is known to enjoy the company of various women.”
One of the smokers inside the glassed room ran out of patience and opened the door, bringing the smell of burning tobacco with him. “Good afternoon, my lord.”
“Ah, Seaton,” the earl drawled. “Have you come to partake in Mrs. Disher’s fine blended tobaccos?”
“Indeed, my lord. Will you not join us?”
“I should de delighted.” Charlton turned to Atlas with what seemed like relief in his vibrant blue eyes. “Duty calls,” he murmured, stepping into the hazy chamber and firmly pushing the door shut behind him.
CHAPTER 3
“I cannot believe the victim is Wendela Pike,” Lilliana said to Atlas.
“You are familiar with the name?”
“Of course. I expect most of London is.”
“Apparently I am the sole person in the entire country who had no idea who Mrs. Pike was.”
“She was quite notorious.” Lilliana scooted to the edge of the stuffed peach sofa to pour the tea. She wore a becoming white muslin morning dress with lace at the high neckline and dangling from the cuffs.
She’d received him in her private upstairs sitting room, a sunny chamber she’d refurbished to her own tastes once she’d reunited with her brother after a decade apart.
“What do you know about Mrs. Pike?” he asked.
“Gentlemen are said to have found her most appealing. You will have heard that she was the Marquess of Vessey’s special friend.” She spoke cautiously, supremely aware that the subject of his former brother-in-law was a sensitive one for Atlas.
“Yes, Endicott, the Bow Street runner, informed me as much. He was at the inquest.” Tea in hand, he took a seat opposite her.
Atlas belatedly realized he’d settled in a new chair, one large enough to comfortably accommodate his brawny form. The last time he’d visited, he’d worried the spindly legs of a dainty cream silk bergère would collapse under his weight. He noticed now that the bergère had been set aside in a corner.
“And then Vessey himself came in to view the body,” he said.
“The marquess went to the tavern?” Interest lit her beautiful autumn-hued eyes. It dawned on him how deeply he had missed Lilliana in the months they’d been apart. “Did you speak with him there?”
“No, I doubt that he took any notice of my presence. His focus was solely on Mrs. Pike.” He crossed one knee over the other. “Vessey seemed truly distraught when he laid eyes on what was left of her. But he is not the only admirer left devastated by Mrs. Pike’s demise.”
Lilliana paused in the act of bringing the teacup to her lips. “How do you mean?”
Atlas relayed the events of that morning, telling her about his morning visitor’s claims that Mrs. Pike had intended to leave her protector. “And so,” he said in conclusion, “the question is whether Mrs. Pike told Vessey she intended to leave him and whether that revelation drove him to violence. I imagine it would have been an intolerable shock for Vessey to be jilted for an impecunious clergyman.”
“I think all of society would have been stunned,” Lilliana remarked. “I have heard they lived together practically as man and wife. She presided as mistress of Stonebrook whenever his heir was not in residence.”
“How do you know so much about Vessey?”
An appealing blush deepened against her creamy skin. “Naturally, once I realized your connection to him, I made some inquiries. Out of curiosity, you understand.”
“He killed my sister. I would not be surprised if he did the same to his mistress.”
“But why have her murdered in Covent Garden of all places? Why in such a public arena, where it was bound to draw attention?”
“I do not know.” He pondered that. Lilliana had a valid point. The last thing a peer such as Vessey would care to do is purposefully draw attention to himself in such a sordid manner.
Lilliana sipped her tea. “The man who carried Mrs. Pike to the tavern after she was injured—did he see anything?”
“Very little. He spoke at the inquest.” Atlas helped himself to a bread-and-butter sandwich. “The man is a banker by the name of Walter Drummond. He claims to have had only a passing acquaintance with Mrs. Pike. He encountered her just moments before the shooting and offered to escort her to her carriage.”
“Where was Mrs. Pike’s escort for the evening?”
“I have no idea. Mr. Drummond said he exchanged the briefest of pleasantries with Mrs. Pike after spotting her outside the theater. When she first fell to the ground, he assumed Mrs. Pike had fainted and knelt to assist her. It was only then that he realized she was mortally wounded.”
Lilliana shuddered. “How terrible.” She paused and he could see her thinking. “Who then was Mrs. Pike’s escort or companion? No woman attends the theater alone.”
“I had not thought to wonder about her escort for the evening. I suppose that is as good a place as any to begin my inquiry.” He reached for a biscuit. Atlas was a great admirer of the Somerville cook’s culinary skills. The food was always sublime. “Did your boys enjoy the country?”
“Very much. Somerville acquired an Arabian for each of them.” Lilliana had two young sons, Peter and Robin. “They were loath to return to Town until he allowed them to bring their mounts with them.” She shook her head, but Atlas could see that she was pleased. “Somerville spoils them terribly.”
He marveled at the thought of Peter and Robin piercing the duke’s glacial exterior. “I should like to see them ride one day.”
“They would enjoy that.” She paused. “And your brother? How does he fare?”
“Apollo is much improved. The doctor anticipates a full recovery.” His brother’s riding accident was the reason Atlas had not been in Lilliana’s company since the summer. He’d been forced to qu
it Town rather suddenly in order to attend to Apollo at the family home in Berkshire. “You received my note, I trust, explaining why I departed for Langston Park without properly taking my leave of you?”
She nodded. “Yes, of course. Your brother had need of you. I understood completely.”
He’d been with Lilliana in the garden of Somerville’s palatial townhouse when he’d received news of Apollo’s accident. A disagreement between the two of them had just concluded in a most delightfully unexpected way when they’d been interrupted.
“Did you pass the entire summer in Berkshire?” she inquired.
“No, I remained there about six weeks, until I was assured of Apollo’s recovery.” And then he’d hastened back to Town only to discover, to his regret, that Lilliana had already left for the country with her children and the duke.
“You must have been most disappointed to miss your voyage to India.” She shifted to pour him more tea, and he admired the grace of her actions. “You had already booked your passage.”
Easing forward to take the tea, Atlas looked into her eyes. “Apollo’s accident is not the reason I decided not to go abroad.”
“Oh?”
“I stayed because we left matters between us unsettled.”
“Yes.” She leaned ever so slightly toward him. An air of expectation swirled between them. “We certainly did.”
“And I should like to speak honestly about what occurred.”
She regarded him expectantly. “Yes?”
They were interrupted by a discreet tap on the door, followed by the appearance of the butler.
Hastings clasped his hands behind his back. “I beg your pardon, my lady, but His Grace requests that Mr. Catesby attend him in the library.”
Lilliana did not hide her surprise. “Whatever for?”
“His Grace mentioned something about being in possession of information that might be of interest to Mr. Catesby.”
Atlas wondered what Somerville might know. “Perhaps I should go in now,” he said to Lilliana.