by D. M. Quincy
Her vibrant gaze went from the game table to Atlas’s face. “The Dance of Death?”
“It is a sort of art—” he began to explain.
“I am familiar with what it is,” she said, cutting him off, her chin held high. “It is an old artistic genre devoted to death. Rather morbid, don’t you think?”
“Not especially. It speaks to the universality of death no matter what one’s station—king, nobleman, or Seven Dials beggar. It makes no difference how far apart the division of the classes drives us in this life, because, in the end, we are the same. Death unites us all.”
She stared down at the puzzle sections Atlas had grouped according to color. “How long will something like this take you to complete?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“How much time I have to work on it. Completing a puzzle can take a fortnight or two for the simpler ones.”
“And for complicated ones such as this?” She gestured toward the game table.
“Anywhere from six weeks to a couple of months. This one might take longer because I do not know which Danse Macabre the artist chose to paint.”
“You have no idea what the original picture looked like before this puzzle was cut up?” she asked, incredulous.
“No, I wanted it to be a surprise. It is more of challenge that way. Which is why it could take more than two months to finish.”
“That seems like a great deal of time to spend in company with death.”
He smiled, acknowledging her point. “Maybe I should look into something a bit more cheery next time.”
She strolled away from him, stopping momentarily to look down at the burr puzzle on the marble table between the two stuffed chairs. “I have come to inform you that you will want to escort me to Countess Lieven’s party on Tuesday next.”
Atlas noted the emphasis she placed on the hostess’s name. “I suppose I am meant to know who this Countess Lieven is.”
“Really, Atlas.” Lilliana sighed. “I know you take a perverse sort of pride in knowing nothing about London society, but Dorothea Lieven is a woman of whom even you should take notice.”
He wanted to tell her that she was the only woman he took notice of these days, but instead asked, “And why is that?”
“Because not only is she the wife of the Russian ambassador, but Countess Lieven is a woman to be reckoned with in her own right. She is a prominent social hostess and has the ear of many powerful men in England and across Europe. She is even one of the patronesses at Almack’s, the only foreigner ever to have been so honored.”
He suppressed a groan. “Pray do not tell me we are attending a ball at Almack’s.” Atlas knew very little about the exclusive, invitation-only assembly rooms on King Street other than that they were frequented by London’s highest born and known for their weekly balls—tedious affairs where the marriage-minded hunted for suitable matches.
“No, indeed. The duke and I, and now you, have been invited to the Lieven’s country home in Richmond.”
“I see.” He had no doubt that Somerville and Lilliana were the reason for his inclusion in what was undoubtedly an exclusive affair. “And while we are there, I suppose we will inquire about her countryman Aleksey Witte, who recently departed for the motherland.”
“Precisely.” She reached for the burr puzzle and turned it over in her gloved hands, examining how the wooden pieces fit together. “And then we shall see if his acquaintance with the late Mrs. Pike has anything to do with her murder.”
“Her sister says that Mrs. Pike did intend to leave Vessey for another man, and Brown professes to be that man.”
She looked up. “Do you believe, then, that the clergyman was telling the truth?”
“Mrs. Booth, the sister, did not know the name of Mrs. Pike’s betrothed, but what is the likelihood she would have betrothed herself to two different men? And Roxbury describes Wendy Pike as a faithful woman. He believes she’d been with no other man apart from Vessey.”
“You spoke with Roxbury? How did that go?”
“Well enough. We managed to refrain from coming to blows.”
A slight smile dangled at the corner of her lips. “I see. So what do you make of it all?”
“I am not certain what to think. Everyone I have spoken to appears convinced Samuel Brown’s ardor made Mrs. Pike uncomfortable and that she had taken to avoiding the man whenever possible.” He watched Lilliana pull the burr puzzle apart. “However, it is entirely possible that she behaved in that manner so that Vessey would not suspect her of having any attachment to Brown.”
“There is another possibility.” She perched on the edge of a stuffed chair, spine straight, her attention on the notched pieces of wood as she worked at putting them back together in one connected whole.
He settled in the seat opposite her. “Such as?”
“That Mrs. Pike really did have a dislike of Mr. Brown.”
“That would make the clergyman completely delusional.”
“Is that so difficult to imagine?”
Atlas considered her question. “No,” he said finally. “I suppose it is possible that Brown lives in a world of his mind’s own making.”
“He could be the sort of man who is unwilling to accept rejection.” She worked on the two remaining puzzle pieces, her tapered fingers moving with self-assuredness. “Perhaps he was Mrs. Pike’s harasser rather than her lover. Maybe the man she intended to leave Vessey for is someone else entirely.”
He had an inkling of where she was going with this line of thinking. “Such as?”
She looked up from her task with a knowing gleam in her eye. “Aleksey Witte.”
They both spoke the Russian’s name in unison. Both smiled at that and momentarily locked eyes.
“Please do continue.” He sat back in his chair, resting both hands on the armrests, enjoying puzzling out the case with someone with as keen a mind as Lilliana’s. “Surely there is more to your theory.”
“Are you certain you wish to hear it?” she responded tartly. “It involves your opera singer.”
“Juliet is not my anything. She is a friend, nothing more. Now please enlighten me as to what you are thinking.”
“What if Mrs. Pike intended to run away with Mr. Witte?”
It was an interesting thought. “If that were the case, why would she not have gone with him when he departed England?”
“Maybe something here delayed her. She did have children.” Lilliana slipped the last piece of wood into place, completing the burr puzzle.
“Bravo.” Atlas was thoroughly impressed. “Few people can complete a burr puzzle so easily.”
“Truly?” She seemed surprised to hear that. Setting the puzzle aside, she continued. “It is possible that your friend Mrs. Jennings wanted Mr. Witte for herself. We already know she and Mrs. Pike came to blows over the man. And if Mrs. Pike had truly decided to take to the stage—”
“Then she would have been stealing not only Juliet’s starring role at Covent Garden, but also the man that Juliet had set her sights on.” Atlas finished the thought for her. “An interesting theory.”
One of her brows lifted to form a pointed upside-down V. “But Romeo does not believe his Juliet is capable of killing a romantic rival?”
He laughed. “Mrs. Jennings in not my Juliet. You have confused your stories. In your scenario, Aleksey Witte is Mrs. Jenning’s Romeo.”
She sniffed, but he could see she was pleased with his disavowal. He paused before continuing. “We have never discussed the intimacy that occurred between us in Somerville’s garden last summer.”
Her gaze sharpened on him. “We are constantly being interrupted by the most dramatic happenings. Your brother’s accident, then Mrs. Pike’s murder.”
“As I was saying, Mrs. Jennings is not my Juliet.”
“Are you suggesting there is a Juliet to your Romeo?”
He rose and towered over her chair, placing his hands on both armrests, somewhat caging her i
n. “What do you think?”
She sat erect in the chair, not giving an inch, her gaze holding his. “Perhaps you should enlighten me.”
He came closer, close enough to inhale her appealing scent and to glimpse the sparkles of copper in her dark eyes. “Perhaps I should.”
She lifted her lips to meet his, as bold as you please, which appealed to him very much. He gratefully accepted the offering, taking care to keep his kiss gentle and unhurried; suspecting that these sorts of intimacies did not come easily to Lilliana after the loathsome way her late husband had treated her.
To his delight, she showed no hesitation. Her mouth was warm and sweet and welcoming. Eager even. He lost himself in the sublime sensations of kissing her, until he remembered that his valet must be about somewhere nearby.
“Jamie,” he murmured after regretfully ending the contact.
“Was leaving when I arrived.” Her breath was humid, her cheeks flushed. “He said something about retrieving your clean clothing from Charlton’s.”
“Is that so?” The earl’s staff tended to Atlas’s laundry, which Jamie delivered and retrieved. Atlas brushed his lips against hers again. “So we find ourselves quite alone.”
“Yes,” she said against his mouth, “but Somerville’s coachman awaits below to return me to the boys. They will have completed their lessons by now.”
He straightened immediately and stepped back, watching as she came to her feet. Looking down, she smoothed any creases in the skirt of her gown.
“I hope I have not offended,” he said.
“Of course not.” Despite her words, Lilliana seemed flustered and avoided meeting his gaze.
His alarm rose. Had he overstepped? Perhaps even misinterpreted Lilliana’s interest in him? “It was not my intention to cause you discomfort.”
“And you have not.” She appeared to have regained complete command of herself.
“You are certain?”
She met his worried gaze with a reassuring smile. “Absolutely.”
He returned her smile. “Then I suppose I shall see you on Tuesday.”
“Tuesday? Ah yes, Countess Lieven’s rout.”
“I shall look forward to it.”
She smiled softly. “As will I.”
Beyond them, in the front hall, the door opened, and Jamie’s voice reached them. “If you could wait for a moment, my lord, I will see if Mr. Catesby is at home to callers.”
“Who is it?” Atlas asked when Jamie appeared in the sitting room.
“A young man who says it’s rather urgent.” The valet presented a white calling card to Atlas.
“Did he give a name?” Atlas felt the blood rush from his face as he stared at the cream-colored card with bold black lettering.
“Yes, sir,” Jamie replied. “He says he is Lord Nicholas Lennox.”
“Vessey’s son?” Lilliana asked.
Atlas looked up from the card. “And my nephew.” He turned to Jamie. “Send him in.”
CHAPTER 14
Atlas tried not to stare at the young man who joined them.
He had interacted with his dead sister’s son just twice in the past twenty years; both meetings had been fairly recent and decidedly brief. On the first occasion, Atlas had not even recognized his own nephew.
Nicholas bowed immediately, his posture impeccable. “Good afternoon.”
“Nicholas,” Atlas greeted him. “This is Lady Roslyn.”
Only the flush in the young man’s cheeks betrayed any discomfort. “I do beg your pardon for this regrettable intrusion.”
“Not at all,” Atlas said.
Lilliana spoke kindly to the boy. “I believe you are styled Viscount Beaumont, is that not correct? Heir to the Marquess of Vessey.”
“Yes, my lady, at your service.” Although Phoebe’s son wore the finest tailored clothing, there was no sign of flamboyance in his sartorial choices. His golden-brown hair was neatly combed. “Are you acquainted with my father?”
“Only by reputation,” she said mildly.
They lapsed into a momentary silence. Atlas’s heart felt too large for his chest. This appealing young man with warm hazel eyes was his last link to his sister, the last vestiges of Phoebe that remained on this earth.
Perhaps sensing the charge in the air, Jamie had not retreated as usual. He hovered on the threshold of the sitting room rather than withdrawing as he should.
Atlas’s throat felt constricted. “It is good to see you, Nicholas.”
Propriety dictated that he should address the boy by his courtesy title, but to Hades with that. Nicholas was his own blood. Atlas would be damned if he’d allow pretty manners to put any more distance between himself and Phoebe’s child than Vessey already had.
Nicholas stared at his hands. “This is somewhat difficult.”
“You are among friends,” Atlas said in a gentle and encouraging manner.
Nicholas darted a look at Lilliana. “It is just that …”
Registering the boy’s obvious discomfort, Lilliana assumed control of the situation. “Perhaps Beaumont would care to take a seat,” she said briskly. “Jamie will fetch some refreshment, and then Beaumont here can enlighten Mr. Catesby as to the reason for his visit.”
She reached for her reticule. “And I must take my leave. Good day, gentlemen.” On her way out, she paused by Atlas’s valet, who had not stirred. “The tea, Jamie?”
“Yes, my lady.” He reluctantly dragged his eyes from Atlas and Nicholas and turned to follow her.
Nicholas did not meet his uncle’s eye as he took the seat Atlas indicated. The boy was clearly uncomfortable, and yet he’d sought Atlas out. The thought cheered Atlas even as it roused his curiosity.
Nicholas stared at the floor. “I barely know where to begin.”
Atlas sat opposite the boy, shifting in his chair to face him more fully. “At the beginning, perhaps? And do take your time.”
“My father’s … companion … was killed recently at Covent Garden.”
“Yes, I have heard.”
The boy looked Atlas fully in the face for the first time. “I understand that you were present, that you witnessed the crime.”
“I reached Mrs. Pike directly after she was mortally injured. I did not see the shooting.”
Nicholas took a breath. “I am aware of whispers, reprehensible gossip really, that my father is responsible.”
“Such talk is to be expected,” Atlas said carefully. “It is not surprising that the murder of a nobleman’s mistress would inspire gossip.”
“Do you believe he did it?”
The directness of Nicholas’s question took Atlas by surprise. “I cannot see how what I think has any bearing on the matter.”
“But it does.” The boy’s gentle and agreeable manner was so like his mother’s that it made Atlas’s chest ache. “I am given to understand that you are investigating Mrs. Pike’s murder.”
“Yes, I am. But it is an informal inquiry.”
“I comprehend that you do not care for my father, but I implore you to find Mrs. Pike’s true killer in order to clear my father’s name.” Nicholas licked his lips. “I know it is a great deal to ask, especially as you and I are barely acquainted.”
“Has your father told you why that is?” Atlas struggled to contain his bitterness. “Did Vessey ever mention the reason you do not know your mother’s family?”
“He said relations between the two families became most uncomfortable after my mother’s unfortunate death and that he judged it prudent to shield me from that unpleasantness.”
“I see.” Atlas had to admire Vessey’s approach. The marquess hadn’t told his son any untruths. He’d simply withheld the most pertinent reason for the divide—that the Catesbys believed Vessey murdered the boy’s mother by pushing her down the stairs, causing her neck to break.
“I must be honest with you, Nicholas,” Atlas finally said. “If my investigation shows that the Marquess of Vessey is responsible for Mrs. Pike’s death, I shall
not and cannot hide the truth.”
“I would never ask that of you,” Nicholas stammered. “All I request is that you do not accuse my father based upon your dislike of him. I have already lost my mother. Please do not deprive me of my father as well.”
Watching the boy, it became clear to Atlas that if he had a hand in condemning Vessey to the gallows, he would lose Phoebe’s son all over again.
He exhaled heavily. “I give you my word that I will follow all possibilities. I have not and shall not make any assumptions.”
That seemed to satisfy Nicholas. “I have heard that you are a man of honor.”
The sound of the front door opening reached them. Jamie had returned with the tea.
“Are there any others?” Nicholas asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You said you are following all possibilities.” Nicholas edged forward in his seat. “Are there others? Have you identified any potential suspects?”
Jamie came in and set the tea on the table between them. The valet straightened and handed a note to Atlas. “It is from Ambrose Endicott at Bow Street. The messenger said it was rather urgent.”
“Bow Street?” Nicholas asked as Atlas read the missive. “Is it about the murder?”
“Yes.” Atlas raised his gaze to meet Nicholas’s. “It appears that a very strong potential suspect has just revealed himself.”
* * *
Atlas set out for Bow Street directly after receiving the note from Ambrose Endicott. Although the rain held off for the moment, a ghostly gray mist hung over the streets, obscuring buildings that seemed to suddenly rear into view as he passed them.
He spotted the runner emerging from the fog at the corner of Hart and Bow Streets, near the Covent Garden theater and just down the way from the Bow Street offices.
“This is a surprise,” he said to Endicott.
“My office is just down the street,” the runner returned. “I gather you are coming to see me about the clergyman.”
“Your note said he shot someone. Have you arrested Mr. Brown in connection with Mrs. Pike’s murder?”
“No, this is not about Mrs. Pike’s murder. You will have to walk with me.” He turned to continue walking down Hart Street. “I am running late for a meeting near Leicester Square.”