Murder at the Opera

by D. M. Quincy

  “Atlas!” This time, the earl’s tone was sharp in its defense of Thea. “You go too far.”

  Thea flushed, her usual equanimity no longer in evidence. “Do you think you are the only one who suffered a tremendous loss?” She tossed her buttered roll onto her plate. “I lost my sister. My only sister. Nothing and no one can replace that. You still have one sister. I do not. As the lone female in a sea of brothers, do you imagine that I have not felt rather lonely in this family?”

  “Thea,” Charlton said, laying a gentle hand on her forearm, “please do not upset yourself.”

  Thea shrugged his touch away. “I am particularly alone, as you have so kindly pointed out, because my husband can rarely be bothered to come and visit me.”

  Shocked, Atlas slumped back in his chair. Thea had never given any indication of dissatisfaction with the state of affairs in her marriage, with a husband who’d elected to remain in the country for most of their wedded life. “Why do you not go to him in the country?”

  She shook her head, her fury and frustration apparent. “Do you not think I would if that were possible?”

  Surprise lit Charlton’s face. “You would?”

  “Why is it not possible?” Atlas asked her gently, genuinely curious. “I had no idea that you have felt neglected by Palmer all of this time.”

  His conciliatory manner seemed to further agitate Thea. She shot to her feet. “Perhaps you have not noticed anyone else’s troubles because you are too busy wallowing in your own.” Both men stood as soon as Thea did, but she had little use for either of them. “You two can see yourselves out.”

  Without sparing either of them another moment of her attention, she stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

  Atlas stared after Thea, stunned not only by this rare outburst from his sister but also by her surprising distress over her husband’s continued absence.

  “You owe your sister an apology,” Charlton said tightly.

  “I do. And she will have one. Once she is in a more agreeable state of mind.” Thea rarely showed anger, but when she did, it was like a hurricane passing through. A wise person took shelter until it was safe to emerge to clean up the mess. “What was that all about?”

  Charlton’s nostrils flared. “I have no idea.” He was as furious as Atlas had ever seen him. “All I know is that Palmer is an idiot who deserves to be strung up for the way he has neglected your sister.”

  CHAPTER 18

  “She is extraordinary,” Lilliana said as she and Atlas listened to Dorothea Lieven expertly play the pianoforte for her guests, the instrument’s crisp, colorful notes swirling through the room.

  Atlas concurred. “The countess is certainly a gifted musician.”

  “She is far more than that.” Lilliana was radiant in a simple cream silk gown with a square-cut bodice and magnificent double strand of pearls that fell almost to her waist. “She is a woman to be reckoned with in her own right.”

  “You admire her,” Atlas noted with some surprise.

  “Most certainly.”

  Atlas shifted to study the object of Lilliana’s high regard. He was curious to know what sort of person drew the appreciation of someone as discerning as Lilliana.

  Dorothea Lieven was tall and slim, with impeccable posture. Although no one would mistake her for a beauty, the distinguished countess’s lively manner and magnetic presence drew all eyes.

  Her husband, Count Christopher Lieven, stood by the piano, watching the performance. At least a decade older than his wife, the Russian ambassador to the Court of St. James possessed a trim athletic form, deep blue eyes, and a dimpled chin. He was not unhandsome, but his extraordinarily charismatic countess completely eclipsed him.

  Atlas had traveled to the ambassador’s party with Lilliana and the Duke of Somerville. Although the ambassador maintained a lavish primary residence in town, the Lievens also rented this elegant Richmond home, where marble floors met richly carved wainscoting, and costly paintings ornamented the silk-covered walls.

  “The countess is a woman who lives life on her own terms,” Lilliana explained. Atlas detected a touch of envy in her voice. “She does not hide her ambition.”

  “What more does she aspire to?” he inquired. “Did you not say that she is already a leader of fashion as well as a celebrated hostess?”

  “The countess cultivates relationships with powerful men. Although her husband is the ambassador, she is a political force in her own right.”

  “To what end?”

  Lilliana’s gloved fingers toyed with the pearls around her neck. “It is said she has the tsar’s ear and that he appreciates her intellect … as well as the information she provides about England and the people who rule it.”

  The music came to an end, and Countess Lieven rose from the pianoforte. She engaged a small group of her guests in animated conversation. Large, dark eyes sparkled with such vitality that one hardly noticed the lady’s pointed nose and large ears. “She and her husband appear to be quite the team,” Atlas said.

  Lilliana lifted an elegant shoulder. “It would hardly matter if they were not. It is clear the countess does as she pleases.”

  “Unlike English women?” He wondered whether Lilliana thought of her own marriage, when she had chafed under the complete control of the bastard she’d wed as a desperate girl of just sixteen. “Do Russian husbands not have complete authority over their wives just as men in England do?”

  “They do, of course, except that in Russia women control their own property.”

  “Ah, yes. I can see how that would make a difference.” In England, a woman lost everything when she wed. All of her riches became the property of her husband.

  “Countess Lieven has the power to dispose of her own wealth,” Lilliana said. “And with money comes power and ownership of one’s future.”

  They both grew quiet as the subject of their conversation approached.

  Dorothea Lieven smiled once she reached them, and Atlas greeted her with a courtly bow. “And how do you like our Russian vodka, Mr. Catesby?”

  “It is excellent,” he answered truthfully, finishing the last of his glass as if to emphasize his point.

  The countess raised a hand, signaling for a footman to appear with more vodka. “We must drink together,” she said jovially as they all accepted a glass of the amber liquid. “In Russia, we believe vodka adds to our bonhomie. In my language, this is called dusha–dushe.”

  Atlas contemplated the phrase. He had a love of both words and languages. His mind searched for an appropriate translation. “Soul to soul?” he said to her.

  Surprised delight lit her gaze. “You speak Russian?”

  “Only a bit. And I must confess that most of it relates to vodka.”

  She threw her head back with a smile. “And how did you learn the language of vodka?”

  “I traveled once with a Russian gentleman. It was a long voyage, and over those few months he was kind enough to teach me a bit of your beautiful language while also sharing his supply of excellent vodka.”

  The countess tapped her throat with two gloved fingers.

  Atlas laughed and bowed again. “How could I refuse?” He clinked his glass against Countess Lieven’s, and then Lilliana’s, before he and the countess both poured a considerable amount of vodka down their throats.

  Lilliana sipped hers more delicately, her questioning gaze traveling between the countess and Atlas.

  “Do forgive us, Lady Roslyn,” Countess Lieven said with a friendly smile. “In Russia, when one taps their throat, it is an invitation of friendship forged in the drinking of vodka together. It is always pleasant when one is reminded of home.”

  “Do you miss Russia?” Lilliana asked. “I understand St. Petersburg is very beautiful. I should like to see it one day.”

  Atlas’s brows shot up. He had not known Lilliana harbored a desire to see other parts of the world.

  “Oh, heavens no, I do not miss Russia.” The countess addressed them
as if they were long-time friends that she had taken into her confidence. Atlas understood the lady’s appeal. Countess Lieven most definitely had a way of making a person feel special.

  “I am enjoying the best time of my life here in England,” the countess said. “Do not mistake me. I love my country and am completed devoted to Russia, and St. Petersburg is indeed lovely, but I do not miss the harsh weather, the snow and the cold.”

  “I also dislike winter.” Lilliana sipped more of her vodka. “I suppose I should make certain to visit during the Russian summer.”

  “You must come as my guest when you do visit,” the countess said warmly, “and I shall introduce you to everyone at court.”

  “That is very kind of you.” Lilliana paused. “Is it a very long journey? I wonder whether Aleksey Witte has already reached St. Petersburg.”

  “Are you acquainted with Aleksey?” the countess asked.

  “Not exactly. However, a friend was recently speaking about Mr. Witte and his return to his mother country. She said his absence from the capital will be sorely felt in England.”

  “Aleksey is most agreeable. He was invited almost everywhere when he was here.”

  “Is he traveling with his wife and children?”

  “Aleksey has no wife. The gentleman enjoys his freedom. He did say he would miss a certain opera singer that he had been keeping company with.”

  Atlas exchanged a look with Lilliana. The countess appeared to be confirming Juliet’s claims.

  The Duke of Somerville chose that moment to join them. “Am I intruding?” He was attired in superfine navy. Somerville made a habit of dressing in the most understated manner yet always managed to be the most elegant man at any gathering.

  “Not at all,” said the countess. “We were just speaking of Aleksey Witte.”

  “Lilliana,” Somerville said to his sister, “the Lievens have sons about the same age as Robin and Peter. I have just met them. Fine young men.”

  “You have sons?” Countess Lieven said to Lilliana.

  “Yes, indeed.” Lilliana’s eyes shone as she spoke of her children. “Peter has just turned nine, and Robin is almost seven.”

  “I can see you are a devoted mother,” the countess said. “I also adore my children. Would you like to come and meet them? They are in the nursery.”

  After Lilliana went off with the countess to meet the Lieven children, the duke turned to Atlas.

  “You mentioned Witte,” Somerville said. “Is he part of your investigation?”

  “He is.”

  “Surely you do not think Witte had anything to do with Mrs. Pike’s death?”

  “No, nothing of that sort,” Atlas assured him. “However, I do wonder whether he could have been at the center of a love triangle involving Mrs. Pike and another woman.”

  “No, he could not,” the duke said firmly. “I advise you not to waste your time and effort looking in that direction.”

  Surprised, Atlas stared at Somerville. “Were you well acquainted with Mr. Witte?”

  “No, I hardly knew the man. However,” he said meaningfully, “I am in a position to know about these matters, as you are aware.”

  Atlas’s forehead wrinkled. “What matters?”

  “Whether a man such as Witte could be seriously involved with Mrs. Pike … or any woman for that matter, if you take my meaning.”

  Comprehension struck Atlas like a gale force wind. The duke’s subtle reference to his own private predilections caused Atlas’s cheeks to burn as if with fever. “And you are certain?”

  “Absolutely. Without a doubt,” the duke said with a firm nod. “Aleksey Witte was not the sort of man to pursue a liaison with a member of the fair sex.”

  “But what about the opera singer? He was known to have had a liaison with Juliet Jennings.”

  “What of the artist that I keep in Kensington?” Somerville gave him a look. “Everyone presumes her to be my mistress.” Marian Smith was an artist Somerville admired. When he’d become her patron, many in society had made erroneous assumptions about their relationship.

  “I see.” The duke’s disclosure about Witte led to another revelation. Atlas’s old friend Juliet Jennings was a liar.

  It remained to be seen whether she was also a killer.

  * * *

  The following evening, Atlas burst into Juliet’s dressing room without bothering to knock.

  She turned from her dressing table. “Atlas, this is a surprise.”

  “Is it?” He dispensed with any greeting. “Did you truly think I would not discover the truth about Aleksey Witte?”

  She shifted back to face the mirror, but her reflection carefully watched him. “What truth is that?”

  “That neither you nor Mrs. Pike had an affair with the man.”

  “You could not be more mistaken.” She powdered her face. “Ask anyone. Aleksey and I were hardly discreet.”

  “Oh, you were entirely discreet. The liaison never happened. I would wager that it was a clever masquerade to keep people from guessing the truth about your Russian.”

  “What truth is that?”

  “That Aleksey preferred men.”

  She froze, set down the cosmetic, and slowly turned to face him. “That is ridiculous. I can assure you that Alek was very virile. If you would like to hear the details—”

  “Spare your lies for someone who will believe them,” he interrupted. “If Alek was virile, it certainly was not with you.”

  Her delicate eyebrows lifted. “I am shocked to hear you speak of such matters. The Atlas I kept company with just a few years ago certainly never would have.”

  “I am not as young, nor as innocent, as I once was.”

  “I can see that your travels have certainly made you more worldly.” She leaned forward on her stool. “Even so, Alek’s preferences are not the sort of thing a man like you would learn of firsthand. Someone enlightened you. Who was it?”

  He flushed. “Certainly not you. Do you admit there was no affair between you and the Russian?”

  She shrugged. “Alek paid me handsomely to pretend there was. Being in his company was no hardship. He was engaging and took me to interesting parties.”

  “If the disagreement you had with Wendela Pike was not about a man, then what was the cause of it?”

  She remained silent, and he could see her calculating what to say next.

  “The truth this time,” he demanded. At her continued silence, he prodded her again. “Juliet? One could take your silence as an admission of guilt.”

  “I did not kill Wendy.”

  “Then tell me what you were fighting about. You have already confessed that it was not over a man.”

  “It was over a man. Just not Alek.”

  “Then who?”

  She shook her head. “It is not my place to say.”

  He took in her posture. Juliet was tense. Stress seemed to roll off her in waves. She seemed almost afraid. But of what? “Why would you hide his name?”

  “Because his identity is of no consequence. I was foolish to fight with Wendy. She had already won this man’s heart. I just had not realized it at that point.”

  “Yet, you lied and gave me Aleksey Witte’s name, even though this man—whoever he is—was devoted to Wendy. Why do you protect him still?”

  “Because Wendy is dead, and I am not. And neither is he.” Her blue gaze met his. “There is always hope.”

  “Did you kill Wendy so that you could have this man all to yourself?”

  “If I did, do you think I would admit it?” When he did not answer, she continued. “I did not kill Wendy, nor did I hire a cutthroat to do it in my stead.”

  Atlas’s first instinct was to believe her. The Juliet he knew was not a murderess. But he had been wrong before.

  He went still and quiet, filtering through everything he had learned up until that moment. Remembered emotions, words, or gestures that had seemed out of place at the time he had witnessed them all began to fall into some semblance
of order. It was rather like one of his puzzles coming together. His mind shuffled through the fragments, moving them around until they formed a comprehensible picture. Not the entire picture, but enough to know what Juliet was hiding.

  “You need not say anything further,” he assured her. “I know who the man is.”

  * * *

  “Why did you lie about your relationship with Wendela Pike?” Atlas demanded of the man who, he now knew, had been conducting a liaison with Wendy at the time of her death.

  Simon Cooke blanched. “I beg your pardon?”

  “It all makes sense now. The reason no one saw Wendy backstage the evening she died is because she was with you.”

  “That is absurd.”

  “No, the idea that she would have even contemplated going off with the clergyman is what could be considered farcical. But you are another matter entirely.”

  Cooke lifted his chin. “An interesting theory, but it is far from the truth.”

  “The first time we met, directly after Mrs. Pike was killed, you claimed to be ill. You blamed a cold for your red, runny eyes. But that was not it at all. You were in mourning for the woman you loved.”

  Cooke scoffed. “That is quite a leap you are taking.”

  “And the second time we met, after you had been shot, you referred to somebody named Esther coming to save you.”

  “As if that is proof of anything. I was foxed.”

  “It proves that a certain familiarity existed between you and Wendela Pike, as few people were aware that her true given name was Esther Gillray. And even fewer people of her acquaintance referred to her as such. Your liaison also explains why she turned down a more lucrative offer to perform at Drury Lane.”

  Cooke adjusted his cuffs while avoiding Atlas’s gaze. “I am sure Mrs. Pike had her reasons for making that decision, just as I am certain it had absolutely nothing to do with me.”

  “Mrs. Pike was in love. She told her sister as much, and she was very excited about her future with this man.” Atlas was convinced he had uncovered the truth. “But Wendy was not in love with the clergyman. It was you that she loved. She accepted an offer to perform here so she could be with you, her lover.”