by Amy Corwin
“You should have told me, nonetheless,” she said. “It concerned me directly, and I also appreciate honesty.” She bit off her words before she descended to the level of a petulant infant and exclaimed, it isn’t fair! You left me out!
The expression on Latimore’s face softened, and he allowed himself a small smile. “I am sorry, Lady Olivia. In our judgment, we were taking the best course—”
“I should have been consulted.”
“I see.” He straightened. His face turned to stone. “Shall I inform Miss Farmer?”
“Inform Farmer?” Olivia stared at him. “Inform her of what?”
“That we have been dismissed,” Latimore said. His brown eyes, encircled by dark purple pouches, appeared sad, and his mouth drooped. His short white hair barely covered his pink scalp and fluffed up like the freshly dried down on a newly hatched chick. The vertical lines running from the sides of his long nose to frame his mouth deepened as he studied her, and his jowls sagged even lower, pulling the corners of his mouth down.
He looked defeated.
She was suddenly aware of how old he was. He’d been with them for as long as she could remember. He’d always seemed to be the same, middle-aged man: never changing and eternal.
Though her feet shifted, she didn’t stand and hug him the way she wanted to. He would have been appalled if she’d even attempted such an action, so she simply said, “No — no, that is not what I meant at all. I simply meant that I should have been informed, and I expect to be included in any discussions concerning me in the future.”
He blinked several times and raised a fist to his mouth as he cleared his throat. “Thank you, Lady Olivia.” He bowed. He coughed again and fumbled around in his pocket, before finally pulling out a piece of paper that he handed to her. “I had meant to give this to you earlier. It is the list of visitors we received the week of the tragedy. Mr. Edward also has a copy, as does Mr. Greenfield.”
“I don’t suppose there are any names that would surprise me.” Olivia glanced over the sheet. Latimore’s neat handwriting listed the names of their guests in two long columns.
“No, Lady Olivia. I did not record any unusual visitors in the log book.”
“No strangers?”
“No.”
The paper rustled between her nervous fingers. One of these — one of our friends or acquaintances — tucked that button into my cuff to shift the blame to me. Someone I know might be a murderer. A chill ran down the back of her neck, and she shivered. She found it difficult to even read the list, not wanting to imagine any of the friends listed therein as a killer, willing to betray and implicate her.
Someone is willing to see me hang.
Then the irony of her thoughts struck her. A slow, self-deprecating smile stretched her mouth. She’d just chastised Latimore for not informing her of the button, and here he was, trying to give her a list of names, one of which might be responsible for Mr. Grantham’s death, and she didn’t want to read it.
In the distance, Lady Olivia heard the deep thrum of the front door knocker. She glanced at Latimore.
“Is there anything else, Lady Olivia?” he asked politely, as if he had all the time in the world.
And he did, she reflected. Whoever was waiting at the front door would have to wait until he opened it.
“No. That is all.” She dismissed him and then spread the list out on her lap to read it.
A quick glance through the names only disheartened her more. The majority of callers were ladies of her acquaintance and their mothers. Miss Madison, Lady Emerson and daughter, Mr. Henry Franks, Miss Swainson, Mr. Thomas Willow, and so on. On the back were Mr. Underwood, Mr. Grantham, Lord Milbourn, Mr. Belcher, and several more men who were friends of her brothers. They almost seemed to be an afterthought, as if the meticulous butler were merely trying to be thorough. The list seemed endless, and each name seemed even less likely to commit murder than the preceding one.
She went through it several times before throwing it in frustration onto the small, oval table next to her.
Olivia was about to return to her room to exchange her pale rose morning gown for a walking dress when Latimore reappeared in the doorway.
“Miss Denholm, Lady Olivia,” he announced with a bow.
As usual, Cynthia failed to wait like a proper young lady in the hallway and followed closely after Latimore. He’d barely finished speaking when she edged past his shoulder and said, “Good morning, Lady Olivia.”
“Surely we do not have another lesson scheduled for today,” Olivia said, glancing at the window to reassure herself that it was too early in the day for a lesson, even if she had forgotten it. “I had thought we were going to wait until Wednesday afternoon for the next one.”
“Yes, yes.” Cynthia strode into the room and waved at Latimore. “Go on, back to your post, my good man. We have no need of you.”
Latimore stared at Olivia.
She sighed. “You may go, Latimore.”
“Very good, Lady Olivia.” He bowed and closed the door behind him.
“Would you care to sit down, Miss Denholm?” Olivia asked politely, gesturing to the gold and ivory brocade cushioned chair opposite her.
“Yes, well, a cup of tea would be welcome.” Cynthia flung herself into the chair and eyed Olivia expectantly. Her fingers tapped the armrests.
While Olivia rang for more tea, Cynthia slapped the armrests, leaned forward, and helped herself to the last Bath bun, happily using Olivia’s plate and knife. As she took a huge bite, Olivia reflected that her friend’s governess must have despaired of ever teaching the energetic girl any sort of good manners. She’d never let politeness stand in the way of positive action.
But in a way, Olivia found her refreshing, and she was always warmhearted. She always knew where she stood with Cynthia Denholm and didn’t have to worry about making a mistake or inadvertently insulting her. Cynthia would undoubtedly let her know of any misstep and then promptly forgive her.
The maid arrived a few minutes later, and Olivia ordered an assortment of cakes, as well as tea.
Cynthia was already peering hungrily at the empty plates. As Olivia watched, Cynthia licked her index finger and picked up several remaining crumbs nestling within the napkin folded around the buns.
“The tea will be here shortly,” Olivia said as she sat, arranging her pink muslin skirts around her. “It is good to see you.”
“Yes, yes. Delightful. Lovely day. You are looking well, as am I, so on and so forth.” Cynthia brushed away her words impatiently. She pulled a rather large reticule onto her lap. The bag had elaborate embroidery in bright red silk and a matching crimson fringe dangling from the bottom. She gripped the strings holding the reticule shut and pulled it open. “Found this — thought you might want it.” She pulled out a book and thrust the object out toward Olivia.
The brown leather cover looked worn, and a mysterious darker stain had spread over the bottom half. She eyed it with distaste and kept her hands clasped together firmly in her lap.
“What is it?” Olivia asked. Unease prickled the skin between her shoulder blades.
Cynthia shook the book and then tossed it into Olivia’s lap, just as Mary walked through the door with the tea tray. Reluctant to touch the thing, Olivia pushed it to the side, letting it slip between her hip and the arm of her chair. She busied herself with serving the tea and tried to forget it was there, but cold dampness seemed to seep through her gown where the book touched her.
After a shrug, Cynthia piled her plate with several slices of pound cake and a few of the delicate frosted tea cakes, for which Mrs. Peale, their cook, was justly famous.
Soon enough, however, Cynthia was slurping her third cup of tea and she spied the ragged corner of the leather book. “Go ahead, Lady Olivia. That is Grantham’s journal, you know.”
“What?” Olivia dropped her plate. It slipped off her lap and tumbled to the floor with a thump before she could catch it. Fortunately, the delicate, gold-rimmed china
did not shatter since it fell but a short distance onto a thick carpet. Equally lucky, only a few crumbs remained on the plate. She rapidly brushed them back onto the plate and placed it onto the tea tray with shaking hands.
“Mr. Grantham’s journal,” Cynthia repeated, picking up the last small cake and taking a large bite out of it.
Olivia sat back and picked up the leather-bound book. The stain on the cover still felt unpleasantly cold — almost wet. “How did you obtain it?”
“It was lying in the gutter where that child was killed.” Cynthia shrugged. “Terrible thing to happen.” Her eyes glinted with a martial light. “That child should not have been in the street at all. Schooling, a full stomach, and bed — that’s what he needed.”
“Yes,” Olivia agreed hastily, before Cynthia could launch into a more strident lecture about the evils of poverty and her determination to create an orphanage for the unfortunates in London.
It was a laudable goal, and Olivia had promised to help and had even given Cynthia her entire allowance on several occasions to fund the school, but she’d heard the speech so many times that her head rang with it. She wanted Cynthia to succeed, but in one small matter, the two ladies differed greatly. Olivia preferred simply to do something without a great deal of discussion and planning, while Cynthia seemed to discuss, bully, and consult endlessly, forever running around in vigorous, excited circles without accomplishing much of note.
Of course, if Olivia had done the same with her academy, her brother might have rented the townhouse to someone else, and her procrastination might have saved Mr. Grantham’s life.
She glanced at Cynthia and noted that her gaze was growing unfocused. Her plump, red mouth was opening and shutting in preparation to launch into her favorite lecture.
Hastily, Olivia cut her off by saying, “Why did you not return it to Mr. Greenfield?” She held up the book by the dry corner.
“Didn’t know what it was until I got home and opened it.” Cynthia shrugged and looked wistfully at the empty plates on the table. Once more, she licked the tip of her index finger meditatively, but then appeared to think better of picking up the remaining crumbs because she finally clasped her hands together in her lap. A droopy, disappointed expression remained on her face, however.
“You read it?” Olivia asked.
“Naturally.”
“Then why bring it to me? Why not return it to Mr. Greenfield? You must know it may contain information important to his investigation,” Olivia said, watching her friend curiously.
Although she had previously wanted the journal, she now found herself reluctant to touch it, much less read it. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know what Mr. Grantham had written about all of them, especially Mr. Underwood. The book seemed dangerous and tainted with more than melted snow.
Cynthia’s gaze focused on Olivia’s face, her blue eyes filled with sympathy. She sighed lustily and shook her head. “Thought you should read it. You wear your heart upon your sleeve, Lady Olivia. Always did. Too soft.” She shook her head again, her red curls bouncing around her round face.
“I was not in love with Mr. Grantham!” Olivia exclaimed. “Why would you think such a thing?”
“Grantham?” Cynthia laughed and waved one hand back and forth in front of her face. “Not Grantham, no. That fencing chap — calls himself Lord Milbourn now.”
“He does not call himself Lord Milbourn. He is Lord Milbourn,” Olivia said frostily as she straightened.
Cynthia gestured at the book. “Read that, Lady Olivia. It mentions others of your acquaintance. Sad, really.” Her hefty shoulders lifted up and down as she sighed. “Shouldn’t like to see that information made public. Bad. Very bad.”
“Why don’t you just tell me what it is you believe you’ve discovered if you think it is that important?” Olivia’s heart battered against the walls of her chest. She wanted desperately to read the journal, and yet she was afraid of the contents. What had he said about her brothers, or about Lord Milbourn? She didn’t want to know their boyhood misdeeds, didn’t want to go through that dismay such knowledge would bring, even if she could forget later.
She wanted to believe the best about them, and about herself. Whatever mistakes Mr. Grantham had recorded were better left in the dark.
“No need to kill the messenger and all that.” Cynthia grimaced, the pinched corners of her eyes betraying her discomfort. For once, she seemed reluctant to blurt out whatever she was thinking. “Thought you should know. Not a nice surprise. Your Mr. Grantham—”
“He is not my Mr. Grantham,” Olivia interjected. Her fingertips ran over the top of the journal. The leather felt old and flaky, already starting to decay where it was not still damp. “You must have — he wrote something about Mr. Underwood, did he not?”
“Underwood?” Cynthia frowned at her. “There was a letter. Concerned his wife.”
“He was here the day it happened. He was distraught,” Olivia whispered, staring down at the book.
“As well he might be if he knew what Grantham had. At least he is above suspicion, or that alone would have condemned him.”
“Above suspicion?” Olivia asked, her gaze searching Cynthia’s face hopefully.
Cynthia nodded. The red curls framing her face shook loose, and she brushed one long strand out of her eye and tucked it behind her right ear. “Thought you knew — his wife had a baby. He only left briefly to fetch a physician—”
“I saw him on the street,” Olivia interrupted.
“Yes, but he was not gone long enough to do ought else but find a physician. So he was there that day and the next — still there for aught I know. They lost two babes before, but this one is alive. So far. A boy.”
Edward had known. That was why he had not mentioned his conversation with Mr. Underwood to Mr. Greenfield.
But Mr. Underwood hadn’t been home the entire time. Olivia’s gaze searched Cynthia’s face. “Mr. Underwood did leave his house. I saw him, spoke to him. He was walking past the academy.”
Cynthia nodded, clearly unimpressed by the revelation. “Went to fetch the doctor. He was only gone a short time — barely long enough to find a physician and return home.”
That explained the panic in his eyes and strain on his pale face. Mr. Underwood had been in a desperate hurry to fetch medical assistance for his wife.
While part of her was relieved and pleased to hear about the new arrival in Mr. Underwood’s house, she also felt a great, gray emptiness seeping into her. If Mr. Underwood was not guilty, then.… Her grip on the journal tightened. She couldn’t imagine who else might have wanted to see Mr. Grantham dead. That lack placed her even more firmly at the top of Greenfield’s list.
Perhaps the journal might still hold some other name, another answer. She studied Cynthia’s expectant face before asking, “Did the journal mention someone else? Someone who might have done such a terrible thing to Mr. Grantham?”
“Yes. Grantham had an affair with Isabella Bron — bragged about it in that journal.” Cynthia flicked her hand in the general direction of the diary again.
“Isabella Bron? Who is Isabella Bron?”
“Apparently, she was Lord Milbourn’s wife — before he inherited his title. Sensuous and quite insatiable by all accounts. Spanish, you know. Passionate. According to Grantham, that is.” Cynthia shrugged. “Never knew her, myself.”
Lord Milbourn’s wife had an affair with Mr. Grantham?
Olivia felt numb, her mind empty of all thoughts except Cynthia’s stark statement. The words circled round and round, making it difficult to concentrate.
“Wh-what?” she stuttered. She couldn’t think. Why couldn’t she think?
“I suppose that’s why he killed him.”
Olivia stared at Cynthia. “Killed him?”
“Why Lord Milbourn killed Grantham,” Cynthia repeated patiently. She stared at the empty plates again, licked the tip of one finger, and picked up a few globs of icing and some crumbs. She cleaned off two plates befor
e she said, “Thought you should know. Knew you wouldn’t believe me, so I brought you the journal.” A look of sympathetic concern wrinkled her forehead. “Stay away from him, is my advice. Dangerous.”
“I don’t—” Olivia stuttered to a halt.
“That will be best. And as for the journal, it’ll look better if you return it to Greenfield.” She grinned. “Might make him trust you a bit more and look to the real culprit, Lord Milbourn.”
“I don’t know what to say,” Olivia said at last. Lord Milbourn? He couldn’t possibly be guilty. She could hardly breathe, and her heart felt as if a giant hand were squeezing it until her entire chest ached.
No, he couldn’t have killed Mr. Grantham, he just couldn’t. She refused to believe Cynthia’s conclusion. If Lord Milbourn had done such a thing, he would have admitted it. He was an honorable man. He would have accepted blame before allowing even the slightest suspicion falling upon her.
She remembered his hand clasping hers at the inquest and his words, “Steady, mi niña bonita.” He couldn’t have shown her such sympathy if he were to blame.
And if he had wanted to kill Grantham, he would have challenged him to a duel — there were foils in the room. He wouldn’t have hit him over the head with a marble cherub. It made no sense.
Unless he’d lashed out in hot anger after discovering Mr. Grantham had cuckolded him. But why now? Why would Mr. Grantham admit such a thing to him after so many years?
No. The sharp denial steadied her. That supposition didn’t explain Mrs. Adams’s death, and Olivia refused to believe there were two murderers. The deaths had to be connected, and they had to have been planned. Coldly planned.
Lord Milbourn could be cold. Distant. And he knows how to develop a strategy. Find the weaknesses in an opponent. That’s why he was a fencing master.
Doubts nagged her, biting and itching like a swarm of fleas infesting the nape of her neck. Her pulse thundered in her ears. For a second time, a sure sense of wrongness steadied her. It could not be him — it didn’t feel like him. She refused to accept the theory.