by D. M. Quincy
“Why? What has happened?”
“Is it not obvious? Because of my recklessness and lack of discretion, a young man is dead and Charlton took a bullet.”
“My goodness.” She placed a hand flat against her chest. “I see you are taking the weight of the world onto your shoulders again.”
“Not at all,” he responded with a wry smile. “I am merely straining under the weight of my own foolish mistakes.”
“It seems to me that the person who should be held accountable for Jasper’s death is the man who killed him, not the man who is trying to bring the killer to justice.”
“I put Jasper in danger by my actions.”
“You had no way of knowing that would be the case,” she said. “Whoever killed Jasper Balfour and wounded Charlton is responsible.”
“In the most literal sense, perhaps,” he concurred, “but if I had not made my desire to speak with Jasper known in such a theatrical manner before an audience, he might still be alive.”
“Or if you had spoken to Jasper privately, he might have told a friend about the conversation, and that friend could have been the killer, or that friend could have known the killer and confided in the killer.”
“I can barely follow those associations, but it is kind of you to absolve me.”
“But you must promise to absolve yourself, or else I shall not tell you why I have come.”
For the first time in many hours, Atlas felt the urge to smile. “If you do not tell me why you diverted your coachman, I shall be up all night contemplating the possibilities.”
“Then I suppose you will just have to be more gentle in your judgment of yourself.”
“Where are my manners?” He’d kept her standing in the front hall far longer than was courteous. “Please do come in.”
She allowed him to escort her into the sitting room. Her attention went to the nargileh. “Oh, is that your water pipe?”
His face warmed. “I will put it out.” A gentleman did not smoke in the presence of a lady.
“No, please don’t.” She put a light hand on his forearm to stop him. “I should like to try it. Thea says it is an interesting way of smoking.”
“Do you smoke?”
Mischief lit her eyes. “I have tried cheroots before. Verity and I decided to sample them once when our husbands were away.” She did not often mention her late sister-in-law, by all accounts a kind and decent woman, who’d met an agonizing end. “I did not care for cheroots, but Thea seems to have enjoyed sampling your water pipe. Will you think less of me if I try it as well?”
“Not at all.” He resisted the urge to tell her that he could never think less of her. “I would not want to be the first to corrupt you, but it seems your late sister-in-law already saw fit to do that.”
Once they were both seated, he handed her the hose. “Just put it between your lips and breathe in.”
She brought the tip of the hose to her mouth and inhaled, gingerly at first and then with more confidence. He stole the moment to admire her in all her splendor; she rivaled a royal consort in her finery.
“How unexpected,” she said. “I thought it would be far more bitter.”
“The tobacco is washed repeatedly and put into the pipe bowl while it is still damp.”
She examined the water pipe. “What effect does that have?”
“I believe that results in a more mild taste,” he explained. “Also, the Arabs use a tobacco called mu’assel, which means ‘honey.’”
She drew on the hookah again, more slowly this time, as if trying to identify the source of the flavor. “This contains honey?”
“I have no idea.” He grinned. “I never thought to ask.”
She handed him the hose. “I do not mean to deprive you of your water pipe.”
“Nonsense, the hookah is meant to be shared.” He gently pushed it back on her. “In Constantinople, it is common for people to sit together and pass the nargileh around when they call upon one another.”
She took another puff. “Would you care to know why I have come?”
The truth was that he didn’t much care; he was just happy to be in her company. It wasn’t entirely respectable for Lilliana to be here alone with him, but she was a widow, and widows were accorded certain liberties. “I am eager to hear what is on your mind.”
She passed the hookah to him. “In terms of suspects, instead of trying to focus on Lord Balfour’s guest list, it seems you could narrow the list of potential culprits by uncovering the people to whom Jasper owed money.”
“That could certainly prove useful.” He inhaled, mindful of the cocoon of intimacy encasing them as they sat alone in his sitting room, sharing a nargileh. “Shortly before he died, Jasper did say the killer wanted him to shoot Mrs. Pike in order to erase a debt.”
“Precisely.” She shook her head when he tried to pass the hookah back, so he inhaled again himself. “And one would assume the list of people Jasper was in debt to is shorter than the guest list for Lord Balfour’s salon.”
“Yes, that is certainly true. I do know that Jasper was in debt to Francis Pike.”
“Mrs. Pike’s son?”
“Yes, I overheard them, Jasper and Pike, speaking of it at a tavern on the evening that I met both men.”
“Is Francis Pike a suspect?”
“Everyone is, but the victim’s son would not be at the top of my list, at least not at the moment.” He turned his head as he exhaled, blowing the diaphanous column of silvery smoke away from Lilliana. “Young Pike seems to have cared a great deal for his mother and is very protective of her reputation.”
“Francis Pike might know to whom else Jasper was indebted.”
“True,” he agreed. “I shall have to speak with him.”
“What is your opinion of Mrs. Pike’s son? Is he an agreeable young man?”
“I find him to be so, although I am not at all well acquainted with him. Francis seems to hold both of his parents in the highest regard. He once called out a young man who insulted Mrs. Pike.”
Lilliana’s head went back slightly. “Truly? And what was the outcome?”
“He shot the offender in the arm but, ever the gentleman, ensured that the bullet just skimmed the offender’s arm and caused no lasting damage. And then Pike accepted the offender’s apology, and the two men seem to tolerate each other’s company quite well now.”
Her gaze caught on the amulet that hung from a gold chain around Atlas’s neck. “Oh, is that talisman meant to bring you good fortune?”
“A hamsa—yes.” Atlas pressed a couple of fingers against the gold piece, which was warm from being against his skin. “Carthaginians believe it protects against the evil eye.”
She leaned forward, studying the amulet. “It is a very interesting design.”
He drew the chain off and placed it in the palm of her open hand so she could examine the talisman more closely. She ran a light finger over the hand-shaped pendant with a blue jade eye at the center of its palm. Although he rarely removed the hamsa, few people had glimpsed the charm because it was hidden from view under his shirt, where it rested against his skin.
“It seems to have kept you from harm thus far.” Lilliana smiled as she handed the amulet back to him. “It is a beautiful piece.”
“It has certainly brought me good fortune.” His gaze held hers as he took it from her. “Such as the pleasure of your company.”
Her cheeks colored and she dropped her gaze. If he did not know Lilliana, he’d assume her to be shy. But there was something else to her reaction. The air between them suddenly became less warm and somewhat uncomfortable.
She came to her feet. “Unfortunately, the pleasure of my company has been promised elsewhere this evening. I must go.”
He rose along with her. “My loss. But I do thank you for calling. You have given me some interesting possibilities to consider.”
“Thank you for corrupting me,” she said as he followed her into the entry hall.
“I beg
your pardon?”
“By allowing me to sample your hookah,” she said lightly as she went out.
He watched her descend the stairs and then removed to the window to make certain she reached her carriage in safety. He’d have preferred to escort her himself, but the sight of them exiting his apartments together would provoke the gossips.
Besides, he wasn’t entirely certain Lilliana desired his escort. Her recent mood vacillations confounded him. He didn’t know what to make of her occasional reticence, her outright discomfort, really, in his presence, particularly on the rare occasions when they found themselves alone together.
What added to Atlas’s confusion was that the lady could easily avoid his company if she so chose. Yet Lilliana had come to him this evening completely of her own accord. At one time, not so long ago, he’d been fairly confident that the duke’s sister welcomed his attentions, but perhaps he was mistaken. Lilliana might simply be interested in a friendly flirtation and nothing more.
Whatever the reason, she had recently begun to withhold a part of herself from him, and it stung. He felt the loss keenly in the deepest part of him.
CHAPTER 23
Atlas awoke the following morning with a start.
He rubbed his eyes and winced. It felt as though tiny pebbles were lodged beneath his eyelids. His dreams had been particularly jarring. He’d been in hiding after committing a terrible crime; he couldn’t recall the specifics surrounding the act or the victim, but the paralyzing anxiety ballooning in his chest suggested he’d done something particularly ghastly. It had not been a restful night.
He shifted onto his back and rested his forearm against his closed eyes, trying to dull the throbbing behind them. Beyond his bedchamber door, he could hear Jamie moving around. Outside his window, rain blasted against the pane.
He contemplated the day ahead. He was scheduled to attend the opera with Lilliana and Somerville that evening. After last night, he wondered if Lilliana regretted inviting him to join them in the ducal box.
“Good morning, sir.” Jamie popped his head through the door, which was slightly ajar. “Viscount Beaumont has arrived.”
Atlas lifted his forearm to peer at his young valet. “Nicholas is here? Why?”
“His lordship says he has brought you something.” Jamie came in with a pitcher and poured fresh water into the blue-and-white-patterned ceramic bowl on the washstand.
“Tell him I will join him shortly.” Atlas heaved himself into a sitting position and swung his feet over the side of the bed, the faded carpet soft beneath his feet. “And go and get us something to eat, will you?”
“I have already brought in the coffee.” A knowing smile curved Jamie’s lips. “And the duke’s cook sent over another basket this morning.”
He straightened up. “God bless Mrs. Pitt.” And Lilliana. Was this a peace offering of sorts after last evening’s awkward parting?
Jamie’s face scrunched up. “Who is Mrs. Pitt?”
“Somerville’s cook.”
Jamie’s raised brows added to his smug expression. “I doubt it was Mrs. Pitt’s idea to send over a basket.”
Atlas’s cheeks warmed. “Wipe that smirk off your face,” he snapped at the boy. “A proper valet refrains from remarking upon his employer’s private matters.”
Atlas’s harsh tone did not have the desired effect on the boy, who departed the chamber with a cheeky smile still firmly in place. “Yes, sir.”
Atlas stalked over to the washstand to splash water on his face. He cleaned his teeth and dressed quickly before stepping out to join Nicholas in his sitting room.
The young man was smartly attired in a striped brown tailcoat. He stood with a package tucked under his arm, staring down at the half-finished puzzle. Atlas paused momentarily, soaking in the sight of Phoebe’s son.
Nicholas looked up when he sensed Atlas’s presence. “I do beg your pardon for calling unannounced.”
“Nonsense—we are family. You will soon learn that certain members of this family think nothing of appearing unexpectedly without being invited.”
“There were six of you.” Nicholas’s smile was wistful. “As a boy, I wondered what it would be like to grow up with siblings.”
“It has its merits, I suppose, but one must also pay a severe price at times for having a large family.” Atlas’s attention shifted to where Jamie had set breakfast out on the low table before the sofa. His stomach growled. “Come, let us eat.”
“Oh no, I do not wish to intrude upon your morning meal. I have come to give you something.” He presented the flat, wrapped packet to Atlas.
Surprised, Atlas accepted the offering. “What is it?” He pulled at the string and unwrapped the brown paper, revealing a framed sketch.
Anticipation shone in Nicholas’s eyes. “I discovered it among my mother’s things.”
Atlas stared at the image, a sweet pain burrowing deep into his chest. Etched in charcoal with self-assured strokes, the drawing captured an animated boy with intensely gray eyes and a resolute mouth curved into an almost-smile. He radiated a sense of ready confidence. “I have never seen this.”
“My mother drew it.” Enthusiasm filled Nicholas’s voice. “I found her sketchbooks. That is you, is it not?”
“Yes.” It was, but it wasn’t. This was Atlas before Vessey killed Phoebe. Eager and expectant, so full of anticipation for the future. So innocent. The boy in the portrait was who Atlas had been before his boyhood became engulfed in sorrow and anguish, fury and helplessness.
Then there was the lingering guilt. Atlas had never been able to shake the belief that he should have saved Phoebe. If only he had been brave enough.
In a sense, Atlas had lost his family then as well. After Phoebe’s death, they became a painful reminder of what could never be replaced, of a fissure within him that could never be mended. His family was now a reminder that something deep inside Atlas had broken and was beyond repair.
“Do you not care for it?” Nicholas’s voice became more hesitant, concerned. “I thought you might like to have the sketch, but if not, I can take it back.”
Atlas’s throat hurt. He forced a small cough to clear it. “I would very much like to have it.” He looked up at Phoebe’s son and smiled. “Thank you. I shall treasure this.”
“Excellent.” A relieved smile broke out across Nicholas’s face.
“Where did you find this?” The boy in the sketch appeared to be ten or eleven years old. Phoebe must have drawn this likeness of him shortly before her death.
“After you informed me that my mother was fond of sketching, I asked our butler what had become of my mother’s things. As it happens, her possessions were packed and stored away.”
“Everything?”
He nodded. “Her clothing, her personal effects. I have spent days going through it all. And then I found the sketches. When I saw that one”—he indicated the frame in Atlas’s hands—“I recognized you immediately.”
Atlas looked down at the portrait. “You did?” He felt a million miles away from the boy in the picture. It was as if that boy had died with Phoebe, only to be reborn into a darker, restless, far less ideal version of the youth in Phoebe’s sketch.
“Absolutely. The eyes, the shape of your mouth, that slight smile, the confidence. It is all the same. I decided to take the sketch to a frame shop, and here it is.”
“That was very thoughtful of you.” He set the frame down on the game table chair. “And you must let me thank you by agreeing to have breakfast with me.”
Nicholas’s gaze went to the food laid out on the table before the sofa. “It does look quite appetizing.”
Soon the two men were seated on the sofa, enjoying the considerable talents of Somerville’s cook, washed down with an excellent brew Jamie had procured from a nearby coffee house.
“These are beyond compare,” Nicholas said, finishing off his third bath bun.
“Agreed.” Atlas reached for another queen’s cake. Sweet and buttery, the conf
ections were masterfully flavored with just the right amount of orange blossom water and chewy currants.
“You must tell me where your man purchased them.” Nicholas washed the bun down with a draught of coffee. “I have a mind to purchase some for myself for later.”
“While you are here, I hope you can assist me in the investigation,” Atlas said. “I suppose you have heard about Jasper Balfour’s killing.”
Nicholas’s hazel eyes opened wide. “Was it murder? I heard that he passed, but neither his family nor the papers have elaborated on how he died.”
“I believe so, although I have not heard what the coroner has to say as to the cause of death.”
“How do you think I can be of assistance?”
“As you are aware, Jasper was deep in debt, to the point where he’d felt threatened enough to carry a pistol for protection.”
Nicholas dipped his chin. “Yes.”
“Do you know to whom he owed money?”
“Jasper always seemed to be in debt to someone. Of late, I do seem to recall he owed a great sum of money to Harry Dean.”
“Dean?” Atlas shuffled through what he knew about the young man from the book club. It remained both possible and plausible that, despite outward appearances, Dean continued to hold a grudge against Francis Pike for publicly humiliating him during their duel. But was it enough of a grievance for Dean to push Jasper into killing Francis Pike’s mother? “What is Dean like in your estimation? What is his character?”
“He is agreeable enough until you get drink into him. Getting foxed seems to bring out the worst in the man.” They talked more about Jasper’s death and Harry Dean, and continued to eat until they were stuffed. After about an hour, Nicholas made ready to depart.
“I consumed entirely too many bath buns,” he proclaimed. “But these are so delicious that I could not stop myself.”
“I have the same problem,” Atlas said as the two men stepped into the front hall and Jamie rushed to bring Nicholas’s coat. “If I keep eating this way, I will weigh twenty stone before long.”
Nicholas allowed Jamie to help him on with his coat. “Where did you say they came from? I think I will pick some up for later, on my way home.”