by D. M. Quincy
Atlas could not resist taking the bait. “And what is that reason?”
“It is simple cowardice. You are afraid to make a claim on her.”
Atlas went out and slammed the door hard behind him.
* * *
“You actually went up to one of Tom’s bedchambers with a strumpet?” Charlton couldn’t stop laughing. “What were you thinking?”
Atlas puffed on his hookah. “There was no other way to proceed.”
“It does seem like a rather shabby plan on your part.” The two men had assumed their usual positions in Atlas’s sitting room.
He handed the nargileh hose to Charlton, who took a moment to wipe the mouthpiece with his kerchief before taking a draw on the water pipe. “You are the one who sent me there under the misassumption that the woman’s direction would be written down in the book.”
“It used to be so.” Charlton chuckled. “But it has been a while since I have visited a bagnio.”
“What else would you have had me do?” Atlas asked. “I could not ask Tom to provide Edith Hayes’s direction. The man makes his living by bringing girls to customers, not by sending patrons away to the women.”
“What I would give to see that.” Charlton’s brilliant blue eyes twinkled. “Vicar Atlas Catesby in a bordello.”
“The bagnio incident is the least of my concerns at this point.” Atlas exhaled twin columns of smoke through his nostrils, enjoying the accompanying sense of peace and calm that gently flowed through him. “Everyone I have spoken with suggests Mrs. Pike had absolutely no romantic interest in the clergyman. And yet her sister says Mrs. Pike was in love and ready to run away.”
“Perhaps she kept her feelings for the clergyman a secret to protect him from Vessey.”
“I suppose that is possible. And then there is Francis Pike, Vessey’s eldest by-blow.”
“The boy who won the lottery?”
Atlas returned the hose to Charlton. “Pike won the lottery?”
“Yes, it was quite the talk of the town when it occurred.”
“When was that?”
“Not long ago. Perhaps three months past. Vessey is known to be tight with his purse, and Pike lived in very modest lodgings before he came into his lottery money.”
“That explains how he can afford to live at the Albany.”
“Indeed. And he now frequents only the finest establishments and tradesmen. I understand he even uses the same tailor as Somerville.”
“Kirby Nash on Pall Mall.”
Charlton pointed at Atlas with the mouthpiece end of the hookah pipe. “Yes, that’s the one.”
“I wonder how much the lottery prize was.”
“They say it was twenty-thousand pounds.”
Atlas whistled low. “That is quite a sum.”
“Francis Pike might not be the heir, but he is using his small fortune to give himself some consequence.”
“And possibly to make a name for himself about town, which is clearly very important to the boy, after being kept hidden by his father for most of his life.”
“Well, yes, he is well aware of propriety. Vessey is said to be very fond of young Pike. He saw to it that the boy was educated at the finest schools.”
“Just not the same ones as Nicholas, apparently. According to Pike, Nicholas is unaware of his elder brother’s existence. But with Nicholas down from university now, it is only a matter of time before the half brothers meet.”
“That is quite a secret for Vessey to keep.”
Atlas exhaled long and slow. “It makes one wonder what other secrets Vessey is keeping.”
“Whatever they are, Francis might kill to keep them secret.”
“Are you suggesting the boy is violent?”
“Not exactly. However, I am saying he is not a man to be trifled with, especially when it comes to his adored parents. He challenged some young blood, a relation of Merton’s, to a duel after the man insulted Mrs. Pike.”
Atlas leaned forward. “When did that occur?”
Charlton thought about it. “Perhaps a year past.”
“What was the insult that made Pike call out this relation of Merton’s?”
“He made some reference to Mrs. Pike being a whore.”
“The man clearly deserved to be called out. Do you know his name?”
“Harry Dean, I believe it is.” Charlton yawned. Atlas could relate. Indulging in the nargileh could sometimes prove entirely too relaxing. “As I said, he is some relation, distant relation, to Viscount Merton. Son of his cousin or something of that manner.”
“Did a duel take place?”
“It certainly did.” Charlton gave a lazy stretch, reaching his hands high above his head as if straining to touch the ceiling. “I attended.”
Atlas blinked. Given his friend’s blithe manner, he couldn’t be certain he’d heard correctly. “You did?”
“Yes, I had enjoyed a late evening at the gaming hell. It was near dawn when I set out for home. But everyone was talking about a duel that was to take place shortly between Vessey’s son and a distant cousin of Merton’s.”
“And you decided to go? For what purpose? Entertainment?” Atlas was appalled at the notion his friend would attend a duel solely for its entertainment value, to witness foolish men, often young ones, putting their lives at risk.
Charlton held up a well-manicured hand, palm facing Atlas. “Please spare me the usual tirade about the uselessness of the nobility. The reason I attended is because I thought they might be referring to young Nicholas. I presumed you would call me out yourself if I allowed anything to happen to your nephew, so I went along with some friends.”
“I see.” He paused to consider that. “What would you have done if it had been Nicholas?”
“I had not thought that far in advance. Imagine my relief when I found out it was Vessey’s by-blow and not his heir.”
“What happened with the duel?”
“Pike got off the first shot and was very gentlemanly about it. He made certain the bullet barely grazed Dean’s arm.”
“And Dean, did he return the shot?”
Charlton shook his head as his eyes drifted closed. “Francis Pike is no fool. He made certain to injure Dean’s shooting arm.”
Charlton’s soft snores soon filled the room. Atlas inhaled deeply as he drew on the hookah and thought about Francis Pike. Again, he had to admire the young man for defending his mother’s honor.
Charlton’s eyes popped open. “I just recalled something.” He was instantly awake and alert again. “I do not know how I could have forgotten it. At the time, I just assumed Dean’s words to be the toothless ranting of a boy whose dignity had been injured.”
“What did he say?”
“Dean was furious. I suspect he was foxed as well, which did nothing to temper his anger. People around him were laughing and teasing him for allowing himself to be defeated by a bastard.”
“I imagine he did not react well to that.”
“No, indeed. Dean said matters between them were not settled. He vowed to make Pike pay for humiliating him.”
Atlas studied his friend’s patrician face. “You think it is possible Harry Dean killed Mrs. Pike?”
“Who knows?” Charlton’s eyes fluttered shut again. “The boy is not normally known to be hot tempered, but—” He finished the sentence with a shrug.
Atlas mulled over the possibilities. “And what better way to make Pike pay than by killing his mother in a spectacularly public manner? The scandal would be especially damaging to a young man who wants nothing more than to be respectable in the eyes of society.”
Charlton’s eyes remained shut. “The publicity surrounding Mrs. Pike’s death, and the papers reminding all and sundry that she was the Marquess of Vessey’s mistress, would have only added to the pain of losing his mother.”
Atlas was silent for a moment. “Charlton.”
“Hmm?”
“Thank you.”
“Whatever for?”
&n
bsp; “For looking out for Nicholas.”
Charlton’s only response was heavy rhythmic breathing followed by soft snores.
CHAPTER 13
Atlas sent a note around to Viscount Merton the following morning, inquiring as to where his young relation Harry Dean, Pike’s hot-tempered dueling partner, could be found.
Atlas felt fairly confident the viscount would respond favorably to his inquiry. Not because the two men were friends—they were not—but because Atlas had shown the utmost discretion several months prior, after discovering Merton’s reckless young daughter engaging in scandalous conduct. Public disclosure of the girl’s unseemly behavior could have devastated her marital prospects. Naturally, her father the viscount remained appreciative of Atlas’s continued circumspection.
As expected, Merton did prove to be forthcoming. He provided Atlas with Dean’s address. However, when Atlas called there, Dean’s servant directed Atlas to the Three Swans Inn on Albemarle Street. As it turned out, Dean was an avid reader, and his love of books took him to Albemarle Street most Mondays for a meeting of his book society.
When Atlas arrived at the Three Swans, a barmaid pointed Dean out. A nondescript young man with sandy brown hair and ordinary features, Dean sat at a table with about a dozen other men of all ages. Several books were strewn across the table as the reading society members engaged in animated conversation.
Atlas took a table nearby and ordered some claret. Observing his quarry, it occurred to Atlas that a man of such unremarkable looks could easily disappear into a crowd, especially the crush that spilled into Convent Garden following a performance. Dean might well be able to walk up to a woman, shoot her, and blend right back into the masses. Any witness might be hard pressed to describe him beyond sharing the man’s height or the color of his hair. Harry Dean’s was not a face you’d remember.
After an hour or so, the book society meeting finally came to an end. Suppressing a yawn, Atlas downed the last of his claret, set the earthenware tankard down on the scarred table in front of him, and made his way toward Dean.
“Mr. Dean,” he called out as he approached.
Still seated, Dean was gathering his books. “Yes, that is correct. And you are …?”
“Atlas Catesby.”
“Catesby?” He studied Atlas for a moment. “Would you by chance be any relation to Silas Catesby?”
Atlas dipped his chin. “He was my father.”
“Truly?” Excitement lit the other man’s eyes. “He was a remarkable talent.”
“Yes, he was.” Atlas saw no reason to feign modesty where his father was concerned. Few in England would expect him to.
“Our Book Society recently read one of his earlier titles, Another Land.” Dean’s plain face glowed. “It was transformative, truly.”
“He was proud of that work.”
“Are you interested in joining our society? Is that why you are here? You would be most welcome. Please do have a seat.”
Atlas slipped into the chair opposite Dean. “That is very kind, but no. The truth is that I am here on a rather unpleasant business.”
“Oh?” he inquired politely. “And what is that?”
“I am looking into the death of Wendela Pike.”
Dean looked on expectantly, as if waiting for Atlas to say more. But Atlas remained quiet. He’d learned that people often felt compelled to fill the silence, and what they said, or how they said it, could prove illuminating.
“I see,” Dean finally replied. “But what has that to do with me?”
“I understand that you participated in a duel with her son, Francis Pike.”
Dean blanched. “I am not proud of what occurred in Hampstead Heath. Nor of the events leading up to it.”
Atlas wondered whether being bested by Francis Pike had anything to do with Dean’s deep regret. “Would you mind telling me what happened?”
“I would rather not.” Dean seemed to visibly shrink back in his chair, like a sensitive plant closing in on itself when touched by humans. “I prefer to forget that evening, and the most regrettable morning that followed.”
“There were people who witnessed the duel who recall that you made certain threats against Francis Pike.”
Dean’s face blanked. “What sort of threats?”
“You said that matters between the two of you were not settled. You vowed to make him pay for humiliating you.”
Dean’s head drooped. “I cannot say I fully recall the events you describe.”
“Do you deny making those threats?”
“No, to be frank, I simply do not remember that day very well. My friend Jasper Balfour had invited me to come out with him and his friends.”
“Are you well acquainted with Mr. Balfour?”
“Yes, we were at university together. But I was not at all acquainted with Mr. Pike before that evening. I did not realize his connection to Mrs. Pike until it was too late.”
“Until after you had insulted her.”
“Precisely. I had consumed entirely too much brandy and whiskey when someone raised the subject of Vessey and his oratorios. I believe I remarked that Vessey’s whore was a talented singer.”
Atlas studied the man sitting opposite him. “Are you suggesting that although you recall insulting Mrs. Pike, you have no recollection of threatening her son a few hours later?”
Dean nodded. “I was out of sorts because of the impending duel, as nervous as a virgin bride on her wedding night. I am an average shot at best. My interest is in books and poems, not pistols. I vaguely remember someone giving me something to calm my nerves. Whatever it was, I obviously did not react well to it.”
“What did you take?”
“I honestly have no idea.”
“Who gave it to you?”
“I do not remember that either. I was panicked about the duel, and people all around me were taking bets that that evening would be my last on this earth. I was not at all in my right mind. Consequently, when someone offered something to calm my nerves, I very happily took it.”
“Could you have taken this substance and killed Mrs. Pike without remembering?”
Dean drew a sharp breath. “I do not make a habit of ingesting strange substances. I have not ingested any dubious substances since that evening. I do not even know what it was!” He reached for a book and gripped it with both hands. “Nor do I kill innocent women exiting the theater. In any case, if you speak to Pike, you will see that we have made amends.”
Atlas’s eyes widened. “I had not heard that.”
“Nonetheless, it is true,” Dean said stiffly.
“How did you settle matters between you?”
“I apologized for my offensive remark. I would never have uttered such a thing had I known Pike’s identity and what his relation to Mrs. Pike was.” He stacked the books one atop the other. “And furthermore, it was ungentlemanly, and I should not have spoken in such a manner even if Pike had not been there to defend his mother’s name.”
“Am I to gather that you and Pike are friends now?”
“I would not go so far as that.” Dean came to his feet and picked up the pile of books. “Now, if you will excuse me, I am in dire need of fresh air.”
As Atlas watched Dean weave his way around the tables and patrons toward the exit, he realized something he’d missed due to Dean’s having been seated the entire evening.
Mrs. Pike’s assassin had been described as being almost as tall as Atlas. And though Atlas had not stood next to Dean, he was fairly certain that the young man making his exit, with books clutched to his chest, would barely reach his shoulder.
* * *
Atlas sat at his game table by the window with his latest puzzle.
He’d started working on it just after breakfast and was now astonished to see the mid-afternoon sun casting a long, narrow triangle of light across the faded, threadbare carpet. He had not realized how long he’d been focused on the puzzle.
He pushed a piece into place. It was bright,
crimson and gold, part of a woman’s gown. Cocooned from the outside world, Atlas savored these moments of absolute concentration. He’d completed the frame relatively quickly. The edges were brown, straight, and not particularly complicated, unlike the rest of the puzzle.
As with all of his puzzles, Atlas had commissioned this artistic recreation of a Danse Macabre. The usual available puzzles were far too rudimentary for his taste. Making his own puzzle required commissioning an artist to produce an original piece of art or, as in this instance, to recreate a famous painting. He then took the art to a mapmaker on Regent Street, who pasted it to a piece of wood to be cut into small irregular segments. This habit of customizing his own puzzles made for an expensive hobby, especially for a man such as Atlas, who was far from wealthy.
He reached for another piece of the crimson gown, considered it for a moment, and then set it aside, unable for the moment to determine where it belonged. Atlas enjoyed the chaos of beginning with hundreds of disparate pieces and then painstakingly arranging them into perfect order. Alone, a single puzzle piece was insignificant and of no use. Yet every single piece was vital to the bigger picture. A puzzle was wholly incomplete if it was missing even one small segment. Everything had its place for the greater purpose. Atlas appreciated the symmetry in that.
“What are you working on now?” It took a moment for Lilliana’s voice to cut through his reverie, and a bit longer still for him to register her presence.
“Lady Lilliana.”
“Atlas,” she said, acknowledging him with a haughty nod that he now found endearing. “I hope you do not mind. I told Jamie I would announce myself.”
“Mind?” He stood, straightening his cravat. “On the contrary, I am delighted to see you.”
She crossed over, her attention on his game table while his admiring gaze remained solely on the lady. She wore deep purple velvet, the slim silhouette of her gown flattering the gentle curves of her lithe figure.
“I see you have begun working on a new puzzle,” she remarked. “What is it this time?”
Delicate notes of jasmine and cloves, Lilliana’s scent, flushed the air. “It is a recreation of a Danse Macabre.”