by D. M. Quincy
“It has been far too long.” She took her time appraising him, her jewel gaze wandering from his face down his body and back up again to meet his eyes. “How many years is it since we last met?”
Atlas felt his face heat. Juliet had always been bold. “About eight and I see you haven’t changed much during that time.”
Her slim fingers toyed with the sapphire necklace dangling low into her décolletage. “Being shy is for ladies.” She favored him with a naughty smile that, in times past, had had the power to do things to his body. “And we both know I am no lady.”
He barked a laugh. Conversation between them had always been playful as well as frank. There was a time when neither of them had been shy about what they wanted. Few men could resist Juliet. She was a beautiful woman and at one point he’d been completely infatuated with her. But even back then his wanderlust had been stronger than his considerable desire for Juliet or any other woman.
“I am readying for my performance this evening,” she said. “But perhaps we could meet for a late dinner.”
He knew she offered more than a meal. “Unfortunately, this is not a social call between two old friends.”
“Simon tells me you are investigating Wendy Pike’s death.” Her eyes sparkled. “Do tell. Am I a suspect?” She lifted her arms in supplication. “You are most welcome to search me.”
“I do not think that shall be necessary.”
“A pity.” She turned back to face the mirror and reached for a tube on her cluttered dressing table. “What would you like to know?”
“What did you think of Mrs. Pike?”
“She was amiable enough. Very pleasant to talk to. There was a certain freshness to her countenance.”
“You liked her?”
“Certainly. I considered her a friend. I think most people who were acquainted with Wendy thought very highly of her.”
“I understand Vessey engaged you to give Mrs. Pike voice lessons.”
“He did.” She peered into the mirror as she applied a black paste to her eyebrows. “And we became very friendly.”
“Did Mrs. Pike have talent?”
She caught his gaze in the mirror. “Come now, Atlas. I know you have spoken to Simon, a man who thought Wendy had the most magnificent voice he has ever heard.”
“Did you know he intended to engage her services?”
“Yes, and it mattered little to me, if you must know.” She applied a little sooty paste to her eyelashes. “A woman like me does not rise from nothing to become the toast of London without being resilient as well as resourceful.”
He watched her darken her eyelashes. “Most women in your position would see Mrs. Pike as a threat.”
“I am not ‘most women.’”
“And well I know it.” They exchanged a warm glance in the mirror’s reflection.
“Wendy knew very little of the world. Vessey took her to his bed when she was but fifteen. She never learned to how to survive alone, as I was forced to do.” She used her finger to mix a small amount of pomade with a touch of bright red powder. “I have never relied on any man, and that includes Simon Cooke. As you can imagine, I have had repeated offers from both Drury Lane and Haymarket to perform on their stages. I would not have starved had Wendy taken to the stage here. “
“You said the two of you were friends.” Atlas leaned against the doorjamb and crossed his arms. “Did Mrs. Pike ever mention a man named Samuel Brown to you?”
“She did.” She gave a derisive laugh. “He was a clergyman who was infatuated with her.”
“Did Mrs. Pike return his affections?”
“She was fond of him. It was flattering to have a young man fawning over her. She said they had many agreeable conversations, and she appreciated that he showed an interest in her children.”
“Was she fond enough of Mr. Brown to perhaps run away with him?”
“Even if she had loved her clergyman, which I am quite convinced she did not, I can assure you with complete confidence that Wendy would never leave Vessey for a poor man.”
“Did you speak with Mrs. Pike on the evening of her death?”
“No.” She brushed color onto her cheeks with a brush. “I had a performance.”
“She watched from the back of the stage.”
“Did she? I never saw her, but it is not as though I was looking for her.”
“Can you think of anyone who would have hated Mrs. Pike enough to kill her?”
“No.” She rubbed some color onto her lips. “As I said, everybody found Wendy to be most agreeable.”
“Do you know if she has any family beyond her children with Vessey?”
“She mentioned a sister in Southwark. Wendy was very fond of her and often visited.”
“Do you recall her name?”
Juliet paused in the application of her lip color to consider the question. “No, but she makes hats. I remember because I complimented one of Wendy’s bonnets once, and she said her sister had trimmed it. She’s a milliner. Or maybe she’s married to a hatmaker. I honestly do not recall.” She rose and discarded her robe, baring a wide expanse of smooth female skin on her arms and shoulders. “I must dress. You are welcome to stay and watch.”
“My thanks, but I shall leave you to it.”
“Truly?” She gave him a quizzical look. “Is there a Mrs. Catesby?”
“There is not.”
“Not a wife, then. But some woman has captured your heart?”
“I am as unattached as ever.” He placed his hat on his head. “Good afternoon.”
“So you say.” Juliet’s knowing laughter followed him as he left her.
Making his way home, umbrella perched above his head while trying to avoid the worst of the mud, Atlas began to feel a certain empathy for the late Mrs. Pike, who’d been coveted by men—both powerful and not—for different reasons and all for their own purposes.
He wondered if she’d truly been prepared to strike out on her own and whether that decision to at last follow her own passions and desires—as was her right as an unmarried woman who by law belonged to no man—had led to her violent end.
* * *
Atlas paused outside Number 10 New Bond Street, the address of Grierson’s gun shop, located just a few doors down from Atlas’s own accommodations on the same street.
The murder weapon had likely been purchased from this shop, according to Ambrose Endicott, who had informed Atlas that Charles Grierson, the proprietor, had been less than forthcoming with the runners, pointedly refusing to identify the buyer.
The reticence of Grierson, who proudly boasted of his status as gunmaker to the royal family, did not surprise Atlas. Grierson’s clients included the highest lords of the land. Revealing who had purchased the weapon was tantamount to pointing a damning finger at one of his noble patrons, a stance that would not endear a merchant to the very people he depended upon for his livelihood.
Atlas entered the shop and strolled along red-velvet-lined dark cabinetry that showcased the gunmaker’s handiwork. Pistols and rifles were also laid out on mahogany tables.
“Good afternoon, sir.” An older man, clad in black except for a snowy cravat, approached Atlas. “How may I be of service?”
“My name is Atlas Catesby. I should like to speak with Mr. Grierson.”
“I am Charles Grierson.” The man tipped his head in a respectful manner. “Are you perchance any relation to the late Baron Catesby, the great author and poet?”
“I am.” The question was a familiar one that Atlas had been answering practically his entire life. “He was my father.”
The gunmaker’s gray eyes lit up. “It is an honor. I am a great admirer of your late father’s work.”
“That is very kind.” Atlas was accustomed to hearing strangers praise his father. Silas Catesby was among England’s great modern writers and poets, so widely admired that he’d been awarded a baronage some twenty years earlier. The unexpected elevation had suddenly catapulted the Catesby family onto the
fringes of high-society London.
“How may I assist you this afternoon, Mr. Catesby?” Grierson swept a hand out, signaling that the contents of the shop were at Atlas’s disposal. “Perhaps I can interest you in one of our finest pistols.”
“As a matter of fact, I should like to know about a pistol that you have already sold.”
“Which weapon is that? Do you wish to purchase a similar one?”
“Not exactly. I am inquiring about a specific piece, a flintlock pistol, carved walnut stock.” Atlas searched his memory, trying to recall details about the gun he’d recovered from the Covent Garden fruit seller. “It is inlaid with silver, and its barrel is particularly distinctive because it is also sheathed in silver.”
The gunmaker’s expression grew more wary, as if an open window welcoming a pleasant spring breeze had suddenly slammed shut. “What is your interest in such a weapon?”
Atlas opted to speak plainly. “One like it was used to murder the Marquess of Vessey’s … chère amie.” He used the most polite term he could think of. Leave it to nobles to attach an elegant phrase to the basest of transactions: money for sex provided by impoverished women and girls with few alternatives. “The pistol came from this shop. Your name is engraved on the barrel.”
“I have sold a number of pistols such as the one to which you refer.”
“I do not suppose you could provide me with a list of the people who purchased one.”
“Decidedly not. As I told Bow Street, my client list is private.”
Atlas suppressed his impatience. “I appreciate your discretion, but a woman died, and I am attempting to bring her killer to justice.”
Grierson remained intractable. “I am not without sympathy. What happened to Mrs. Pike is a terrible tragedy, but nothing can be done to help her now.”
“Her killer should be punished for his crime.”
“I cannot risk my entire business concern for a dead woman.” Grierson held his hands out, palms upward. “Giving you that list would anger all of my customers. A man lives and dies by his reputation.”
The bell above the door rang, and two young bucks entered.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Grierson greeted them. “I shall be with you momentarily.”
He turned back to Atlas, speaking quietly. “I cannot and shall not risk my business concern for a woman who is already beyond saving. You must appreciate my position in this matter.”
Seeing that pursuing the matter any further at the moment was futile, Atlas bade the gunmaker farewell and departed, leaving the man to attend to his customers.
CHAPTER 6
Atlas’s young manservant greeted him in the front hall upon his arrival home.
So eager was Jamie to assist his master that the youth practically tugged one of Atlas’s arms out of its socket while helping to relieve him of his damp great coat.
A year into his service as Atlas’s valet, the whelp remained as anxious to please as ever. He knelt the instant Atlas lowered himself onto the carved bench in the front hall to shed his muddy boots. Atlas soaked up the welcome warmth from the fire as Jamie tugged them off.
“Perhaps I should not have walked,” Atlas said apologetically when he registered the young valet’s dismay at the sorry state of his boots. “But I could not bear the thought of being confined indoors for yet another day without taking at least some exercise.”
“Yes, sir.” Jamie’s tone lacked all enthusiasm. “I shall clean them right away.” Atlas could very well polish his own boots. He remained unaccustomed to being looked after, but he’d felt obliged to engage the boy last year as a favor to Lilliana.
“Good man. And after that, run out and get us some supper. Whatever you like.”
Jamie’s eyes brightened. “Very good, sir.” Nothing cheered the boy quite so much as the prospect of filling his belly. “Oh, and Lord Charlton is here, sir.”
Atlas smothered a groan. He was in no mood to see Charlton, but there was no avoiding the earl now. Leaving Jamie to attend to his muddy boots, Atlas stepped into his slippers and ventured into the sitting room. He found Charlton in his usual perch, the most comfortable seat in the room, staring at a wooden object in the palm of his hand.
“What the devil is this?” he asked when he spotted Atlas.
“Good evening to you too.” Atlas dropped into his seat opposite the earl. “It is a burr puzzle.”
“You say that as if I am supposed to comprehend what in Hades a burr is.”
“Interlocking pieces of notched wood that you take apart and see if you can put back together.”
“Why in God’s name would anyone of sane mind want to do that?’
“For amusement.” Atlas was partial to all puzzles, physical or otherwise. Even as a boy, he’d felt driven to understand what made a clock tick or why dough rose. And he enjoyed puzzling out what made people behave the way they did. Putting everything into order in his mind, reasoning it all out, calmed him immensely. “People, myself included, do it for the challenge.”
“For the headache, you mean to say.” Charlton set the puzzle on the table between him and Atlas. “I am beginning to suspect your overly serious nature is due to the frustration that comes with trying to work out these infernal puzzles.”
Atlas reached for the three-dimensional cross. “Quite the contrary, they relax me.”
“How anything specifically designed to confuse and confound can be appealing to anyone is beyond my understanding.”
Atlas took the puzzle apart, setting each of the six individual burrs on the table. “I presume there’s a reason for your visit.”
Charlton sighed. “You are the only person of my acquaintance who makes a habit of forgetting whenever we have a dinner engagement.”
“It had slipped my mind.” Atlas hooked two of the pieces together to his satisfaction. “And I have just sent Jamie to bring me some supper.”
“It is fortunate the boy has appetite enough to eat both of your portions.” Charlton would be in a position to know. The earl took Jamie into his employ whenever Atlas was away on one of his extended journeys. “We are engaged to go to the Voyager’s Club this evening.”
Atlas added a third piece to the contraption in his hand. “I have been traipsing out in the rain all afternoon. I have no desire to brave the elements any further this evening.”
“It is called a carriage. Fortunately for the both of us, I have one. Who in their correct mind walks in this weather?”
“A bedlamite like me, I suppose.” He slid the fourth knobbed wooden piece into place. The fifth and sixth quickly followed, and he held up the completed three-dimensional cross for his friend’s inspection.
Charlton barely glanced at it. “Now that you’ve finished playing with your toy, perhaps you would care to dress for dinner, before I starve. I shall wait.”
“Do not bother. As I said, I have no interest in accompanying you this evening.”
Charlton’s normally smooth forehead wrinkled. “I say, is all well with you?”
He held his friend’s gaze. “Whatever could be wrong?”
Charlton blinked. “Supper on the morrow then?” he asked lightly.
Atlas rested his head against the cushioned chair, suddenly feeling extraordinarily fatigued. “If agreeing is the only way I can persuade you to go away, I suppose I have no choice but to accept your invitation.”
“Excellent.” Charlton came to his feet with alacrity. “I shall see you on the morrow.”
* * *
The following evening, Atlas and Charlton were dining at the Voyager’s Club when the Marquess of Vessey entered the eating room, accompanied by his son, Nicholas, Viscount Beaumont.
The new arrivals were seated just a few tables away, by a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, which afforded Atlas an excellent view of both men. Vessey’s haggard appearance stunned him; his cheeks were hollowed and the reddened eyes devoid of their customary sharpness. Every one of the marquess’s movements seemed weighted down by an unseen
burden.
Nicholas leaned toward his father as he spoke, his warm hazel eyes lit with obvious concern, but Vessey seemed only marginally aware of his son. It was impossible for Atlas to reconcile this hunched old man with the soulless monster who’d inhabited his memory for his entire adult life.
“It is a surprise to see Vessey out and about,” Charlton remarked as he sliced a neat piece of roasted beef in his porcelain plate. “I have heard that he has not left his bedchamber since Mrs. Pike’s tragic demise.”
Atlas did not bother to hide his rancor. “I suppose you are privy to such private information given your intimate acquaintance with the man.”
Charlton’s hands stilled. “I attended his oratorios and that is all,” he said evenly. “We are not now, nor have we ever been, friends.”
Atlas’s focus shifted back to Vessey and Nicholas. “Your definition of friendship obviously differs from mine.” He watched Nicholas rise, murmur something to his father, and leave the eating room.
“He is alone,” Charlton observed. “Now is your chance.”
“My chance for what?”
“Vessey is obviously a suspect in his paramour’s death. Surely you wish to speak with him.”
“I would much prefer to kill him,” Atlas mumbled, setting down his wine, “but I suppose I shall have to settle for having a word with the bastard.”
He rose, his heart beating hard, his muscles tight. Atlas hated Vessey intensely, but somewhere deep within him, a boy’s fear of the man who’d murdered his sister also lingered. It was a distress born out of Atlas’s conviction that Vessey had briefly considered shoving Atlas down the stairs along with Phoebe.
He would never forget the paralyzing terror that had engulfed him as he stood at the top of the wide marble staircase at Stonebrook, staring down at his sister’s mangled body. For as long as he lived, he would always remember the sensation of his sister’s murderer looming behind him.
Later, he’d wondered if he’d exaggerated it all in his memory; perhaps he’d only imagined Vessey hovering impossibly, threateningly close before finally stepping away.