by D. M. Quincy
“Indeed.” She glided to her feet. “I shall accompany you.”
“Lead on, my lady.”
The duke was awaiting their arrival. Atlas had visited Somerville’s library once before, but that previous experience did not keep him from once again being struck by its grandiosity. Soft blues and vivid golds swathed the massive two-story chamber. Books seemed to line the walls as far as Atlas could see, the soaring book stacks almost reaching the ornate gilded plasterwork on the ceiling.
“Ah, Catesby, there you are.” The duke’s precise tones echoed off the high walls of the cavernous room. Impeccably attired as always, the young duke’s slender form was ensconced in one of the chamber’s two facing deep velvet sofas, where the afternoon light slanted across Somerville’s coffee-colored eyes, strong cheekbones, and soft jaw.
“Your Grace,” Atlas bowed. “I confess that you have piqued my interest.”
“And mine.” Lilliana perched on the armrest of the sofa, opposite her brother. “So I decided to come along to hear what you have to say.”
Somerville did not appear surprised to see her. “Naturally, I would expect no less of you, Roslyn.” At times, it still took Atlas aback to hear anyone refer to Lilliana as Roslyn, even though that was her given name. When Atlas had first met the duke’s sister, she’d gone by Lilliana, her middle name, and was known simply as Mrs. Warwick, a tradesman’s widow.
Somerville gestured for Atlas to take a seat on the sofa. Although he exhibited the confidence and self-possession of someone twice his age, the duke was a young man, somewhere in his mid-twenties. He’d taken up his responsibilities early, before his twentieth birthday, just a few short years after his and Lilliana’s parents had perished in a carriage accident, orphaning the young heir and his two sisters. “I understand you found the weapon used in last evening’s unfortunate incident in Covent Garden. “
“Yes, that is true.” Atlas wondered why the duke had summoned him. Somerville wasn’t the sort to take a prurient interest in the gruesome murder of a fallen woman.
“Will you be investigating the matter?”
“As it turns out, yes, I shall be. A young clergyman who claims he was Mrs. Pike’s betrothed has asked me to look into her death.”
The duke wore a look of pure astonishment. “Mrs. Pike was betrothed to another?”
“I have no way of knowing if the man speaks the truth, but that is what he claims.”
“I certainly have not heard that. What is this clergyman’s name?”
“Samuel Brown.”
The duke’s forehead puckered. “I would find such a connection very difficult to believe. Mrs. Pike appeared to be completely devoted to Vessey.”
“You were acquainted with her?”
“I met Mrs. Pike when I attended Vessey’s famous oratorios.”
“Vessey hosts oratorios?”
“Yes, twice a year. They are quite elaborate, with an orchestra, a choir and soloists, costumes—all of it.”
Hosting such musical entertainments seemed entirely too civilized for the brute who’d wed Atlas’s sister more than twenty years ago.
“The marquess holds one at Christmastime and another in the summer,” Somerville continued. “Some of the finest professional performers in the country are often invited to perform at Stonebrook.”
“And Mrs. Pike was present?” It surprised Atlas that Vessey’s mistress would have kept company with Vessey’s noble guests, particularly someone as exalted and as bound by propriety as the duke.
“Not only was she present, she was arguably the shining light of the proceedings.” Somerville draped a pale manicured hand over the high armrest. “She played the harpsichord and possessed a beautiful singing voice.”
Atlas rarely mixed with society’s highest-born denizens, but it struck him as deuced odd that an unrespectable woman like Mrs. Pike would mingle freely among the marquess’s guests. “And gentlewomen were in attendance?”
“Yes, some, although I did not see Mrs. Pike converse with any of them.”
Lilliana puffed a surprised breath. “I thought men hid their mistresses away in some sort of love nest. I have certainly never met a disreputable woman at a social event.”
Somerville fixed a chilly dark gaze on his sister. “This conversation should not be held in the presence of a gently born lady, which is why,” he said pointedly, “you were not asked to join us.”
Lilliana looked skyward. “Pray do not be ridiculous.” Atlas watched the interaction between Lilliana and her brother with some amusement. Lilliana was probably the only person in London who was completely uncowed by the considerable force of Somerville’s glacial displeasure. “In the ten years we were apart, my dear brother, I was wed and most certainly exposed to the more unsavory aspects of life.”
Somerville looked pained. “There is no need for us to revisit that unfortunate time, nor to continue your miseducation.”
Lilliana did not budge. “If you have information that will help Mr. Catesby learn who murdered Mrs. Pike, pray do not let my delicate ears prohibit you from sharing it.”
“Very well.” The duke gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head that prompted Atlas to suppress a smile. Somerville was clearly unused to being disobeyed or challenged. He ably presided over an immense and lucrative duchy and had entry to all of London’s finest abodes, even those of the royal princes, yet His Grace seemed to be at a loss as to how to manage his own sister.
Somerville addressed Atlas. “Mrs. Pike resided with Vessey for more than two decades.”
“I see.” Atlas felt lightheaded. Twenty years. That meant Vessey had taken up with Wendela Pike immediately after Phoebe died. “It was a serious affair then.”
“Precisely. Mrs. Pike presided over Vessey’s table and managed his household.”
Atlas suppressed a curse. The whoreson had wasted no time moving his mistress into his sister’s place at Stonebrook. He had not expected Vessey to mourn Phoebe, but this blatant disrespect for her memory stirred his emotions—and added more fuel to his simmering hatred for the man.
Atlas clasped his hands behind his back to keep from clenching them into fists. “Mrs. Pike was a demi-rep, then.” The realization that Vessey might be capable of tender feeling but had spared none of that affection for Phoebe roused his temper. “Are there children?”
“Yes. Two, I believe. Both quite young, under the age of twelve as I understand it.”
“A demi-rep?” Lilliana interjected. “What is that?”
Atlas clamped his mouth shut. He certainly was not going to be the one to enlighten her, particularly not in the presence of her brother.
Somerville sighed his resignation. “A demi-rep,” he explained with obvious reluctance, “is a woman of dubious moral character. A woman who is more than a man’s casual mistress but also, obviously, far less than a respectable wife.”
Atlas’s mind reeled from the realization that Nicholas, Phoebe’s son with Vessey, had half sisters. “Are the girls Vessey fathered with Mrs. Pike being raised alongside his heir?”
“As I understand it, Vessey keeps all of that away from Beaumont,” the duke replied. “He preferred for his prized heir not to be tainted by any association with Mrs. Pike and her children.”
Beaumont. Atlas had forgotten that Nicholas held the courtesy title of Viscount Beaumont. An infant at the time of his mother’s death, Nicholas was now a young man of one-and-twenty, but Atlas knew almost nothing about the boy. Vessey had cut off all contact between Nicholas and the Catesbys after Phoebe’s funeral.
The whoreson had deprived Atlas’s family of both Phoebe and her son. When Atlas had finally met the young man by chance last spring, the encounter had been extraordinarily awkward.
“Is this why you summoned me?” Atlas asked the duke, still unsure as to the purpose of this meeting. “To discuss the murder?”
“I found Mrs. Pike to be quite charming and extraordinarily talented. I liked her very much.”
Lilliana stared
at her brother. “Surely you and Mrs. Pike were not—” Her voice trailed off.
Somerville flushed. “Certainly not,” he said cuttingly. “I merely found her to be quite amiable, and I should like to see her killer brought to justice.”
Atlas had no doubt that Somerville had never been intimately acquainted with Mrs. Pike. He was in a position to know that the duke had a secret working-class lover, a person who happened to be of similar birth to the late Mrs. Pike. But that was not the reason society would find the liaison shocking—scandalous even—were it ever to be made public.
Atlas addressed the duke. “I gather you and Vessey are very well acquainted.”
“Not especially. I have attended a handful of his oratorios over the years. And since her return home, Lilliana has insisted we decline all invitations from Stonebrook.”
Atlas’s surprised gaze flew to Lilliana, but she was studying her brother. “Was Mrs. Pike friendly with other gentlemen?”
Somerville grimaced. “You might very well be comfortable discussing life’s more unsavory topics, but I do not care to entertain these conversations in your presence.”
Lilliana made a sound of frustration, the chill between the siblings so glacial Atlas suppressed the urge to shiver. It was like two ice statues confronting each other.
Atlas turned to the duke. “Is there anything else you can tell me about Mrs. Pike that might be helpful to the investigation?”
“As I said, I was not well acquainted with Mrs. Pike. However, you might care to ask Charlton.”
“Charlton?” Atlas blinked. “Why would I ask him?”
“He attends the marquess’s oratorios,” the duke answered, “and is a frequent guest at Stonebrook.”
CHAPTER 4
Atlas paused outside the imposing building on Charing Cross that housed Drummond’s Bank.
He’d decided to commence his inquiry with Walter Drummond, the man who’d encountered Wendela Pike outside the theater and shared her final moments.
Eager to take advantage of a brief lull in the rain, Atlas had walked to his destination by way of Pall Mall. He relished the opportunity to at last stretch his legs, which the soggy weather had denied him for far too long. The exertion always helped to clear his mind. He’d forced aside the lingering shock and deep sense of betrayal after discovering that Charlton, his dearest friend, had consorted with his greatest enemy. He would deal with Charlton later.
A few discreet inquiries had revealed that Drummond, a descendant of the bank’s founder, was a prosperous banker with a number of diverse holdings. He was a man of wealth but only limited social standing given his status as a merchant.
Atlas wondered whether Drummond might have been the victim’s escort for the evening. And if so, might the banker hesitate to admit that he’d accompanied Mrs. Pike to the theater for fear of incurring the wrath of Vessey, a powerful peer?
Atlas entered the bank lobby and made his way past soaring white columns to speak with one of the clerks at work behind the dark paneled counter. Drummond agreed to see Atlas immediately.
“Do come in.” He ushered Atlas into a sleek office furnished with polished woods. “Benton,” Drummond called out into the lobby after Atlas entered the office, “bring us some tea.”
The banker invited Atlas to take a seat. “It was a dreadful, dreadful business. I thought she had swooned.”
“You did not hear the shot?”
The banker sat opposite Atlas. “It was terribly noisy, with the storm and crush of people, the clatter of the carriages. I suppose I thought it was thunder at first. Until I realized Mrs. Pike had been shot. I understand you found the murder weapon.”
“A fruit vendor did. I recovered it from her.”
Drummond regarded him with great interest. “The Marquess of Vessey is said to be inconsolable.”
As ever, the mention of his former brother-in-law sliced through Atlas like a bitter winter gale. “Did you speak with Mrs. Pike at all before the unfortunate incident?”
“Just as I said at the inquest, we exchanged niceties. I was not very well acquainted with the woman. How is Vessey faring?”
The question threw Atlas off. “I have no idea.”
“But the two of you are family, are you not?” Drummond pressed. “After all, your nephew is Vessey’s heir.”
The reason Drummond had instantly agreed to see him dawned on Atlas. The banker was eager to engage in gossip regarding Mrs. Pike’s death.
“My sister passed more than twenty years ago,” Atlas said. “My family’s connection to Vessey ended at that time.”
“But surely you see your nephew?”
Atlas attempted not to show his irritation. “So you were not Mrs. Pike’s escort?”
“No, decidedly not. I do not believe she had an escort. She said the marquess was meant to accompany her but that he had gone to his club instead. I myself met a friend, and we sat in the gallery. As you can imagine, a woman like Mrs. Pike would hardly sit in the gallery. Surely she was accustomed to the comforts of Vessey’s box.”
They quieted momentarily when the clerk came in with the tea, which Atlas found to be surprisingly good, strong and aromatic.
“Did you see Mrs. Pike in the marquess’s box during the performance?” he asked when they were alone again. Atlas himself had not. But then again, he had no idea which box belonged to Vessey.
“I did not.” Drummond bit into a biscuit. “The marquess’s box remained unoccupied for the entire evening.”
“You are familiar with the location of Vessey’s box?”
“I make a point of being aware of such things. I am a man of business. People such as the marquess are, of course, my patrons. I myself am not an admirer of the theater, you understand. However my patrons, as well as future customers whom I wish to cultivate, often are.”
Atlas glanced around the high-ceilinged chamber and wondered whether Vessey’s considerable fortune was deposited in this bank. Drummond would not divulge his customer list, which most banks kept confidential. But a financial association with Vessey would be incentive enough for Drummond to hide any illicit relationship he might have enjoyed with Mrs. Pike.
Atlas leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Anything you tell me about your acquaintance with Mrs. Pike shall be held in complete confidence.”
Drummond burst out laughing so suddenly that tea spurted out of his mouth. “I do beg your pardon.” He wiped his mouth with a kerchief produced from his pocket. “If you are suggesting that I had a liaison with Mrs. Pike—”
“I am not suggesting anything,” Atlas said. “It just strikes me as rather odd that any woman would attend the theater alone.”
“Yes, I thought so too.”
“Perhaps you could walk me through the evening, beginning with when you first encountered Mrs. Pike at the theater.”
“Certainly.” He settled back in the chair with his tea in hand, as though preparing for a long and friendly chat. “I did not see Mrs. Pike until after the performance. I noticed she was outside alone, unescorted, and so I went to her. We chatted briefly while she waited for her carriage. We could see that her driver was caught in traffic, so I left her and went to see if I could help direct her coach to where she stood waiting.”
“And then the shot rang out.”
“I suppose, although I really did not realize it was a gunshot. I supposed it was thunder. But then the commotion started just as her coach finally arrived. I had turned back to go and escort her to the carriage. People began crowding around the area where I had left Mrs. Pike.”
“When did you realize she had been injured?”
“Not until I fought my way through the crowd and finally reached her. My first thought was to pick the poor woman up and see if I could get her to a doctor. I realize now that it was a futile endeavor, but at the time, in my shock, I thought perhaps there might be some way to save her.”
“Did you see her assailant?”
“No. As I told you, by the time I turned arou
nd, all I saw was the crowd surrounding Mrs. Pike. At that time, I didn’t even realize she’d been shot, so it would not have occurred to me to look for her killer.”
Atlas drank more tea. If the banker hadn’t been Mrs. Pike’s escort, then where had Mrs. Pike sat during the show? “No one seems to have seen her in the theater during the performance.”
“She told me she watched from the wings.”
“From the wings?”
“Backstage.” Drummond set his tea down and reached for another biscuit. “When I encountered her outside the theater, I mentioned to Mrs. Pike that I had not seen her in the marquess’s box, and she replied that she had watched the performance from backstage.”
“Was she acquainted with the performers?”
“I have no idea.”
Perhaps Mrs. Pike had befriended the Covent Garden performers who had performed at Vessey’s famed oratorios. As he pondered the possibilities, Atlas bit into a biscuit. It was dry and stale, a disappointment, especially in comparison to the incomparable biscuits he’d recently consumed at Somerville House.
“May I ask what your interest is in Mrs. Pike?” Drummond inquired.
“I have been asked to look into her death.”
“Ah, I see.” Curiosity lingered in the banker’s eyes, and Atlas feared he’d whetted the man’s natural interest in the affairs of others. “The marquess no doubt has turned to you because you were once family.”
“Not exactly.” Atlas came to his feet, even though he would have liked to finish his tea. But he had no inclination to feed the banker’s desire for idle talk. “I shan’t take up any more of your time. You have been most helpful.”
He could feel Drummond’s disappointed gaze following him as he departed.
* * *
“Atlas, there you are.” Thea Palmer looked up as her brother entered the crowded dining room of her home on Great Russell Street. “I thought you’d forgotten.”
“As if you would allow that.” He greeted the assembled guests around the long table. “My apologies for being late.”
Consumed with the investigation, Atlas had almost forgotten that evening’s engagement but dared not confess the failing to his exacting sibling.