Murder Most Malicious

by Alyssa Maxwell

  Eva’s heartbeat, startled to a gallop by her misunderstanding of Julia’s disclosure a moment ago, gradually resumed its normal pace. So this was the reason Theodore Leighton hadn’t appeared to have slept in his bed that night, and why he wore the same clothes as the previous evening when Vernon saw him the next morning.

  A turn of phrase Julia had used struck her as odd. “Your families believed. Did you not believe it, my lady?”

  “No, not really.” Julia shook her head and shrugged one slender shoulder. “For a short time I considered the notion. But only a very short time.”

  Eva found the last of the pins and now all of Julia’s lustrous blond hair cascaded down her back. Eva reached for the silver-backed brush on the dressing table. She started at the side part in Julia’s hair and stroked evenly down to the ends in a meticulous, steady rhythm.

  “You’ve changed your mind many a time over suitors, my lady.”

  “That’s an impertinent observation,” Julia quipped, but a light hint of laughter let Eva know she hadn’t taken offense. Julia confirmed this with her next words. “I’ve yet to find a man who satisfies all of my preconceived notions of what a husband should be.”

  “And what is that, my lady?”

  “Full of questions tonight, aren’t you? All right, I’ll play along. But do keep brushing, please.” Julia tilted her head back and with closed eyes shook her hair out until it fanned over her shoulders and danced nearly to her waist. “A man, in my opinion, should above all else be rich.”

  “Wasn’t Lord Allerton rich, my lady?”

  Julia sent her a playful look through the mirror. “I’m not finished yet. He should be rich, British through and through and preferably a Peer, splendidly tall, broad in the shoulders, and wear impeccably tailored clothing at all times. And I do mean all. Even his smoking jacket should fit him like a second skin.”

  “No foreigners, then, my lady? No Italians or Frenchmen or Spaniards?”

  “No, I shan’t have a foreigner. I want an Englishmen and a highly educated one at that. Eton, and then Oxford or Cambridge. Nothing less will do.

  “Well, Lord Allerton was certainly all that, my lady.”

  Julia suddenly pulled forward, out of reach of Eva’s brushing. She propped her elbows on the tabletop and dropped her chin in her hands. With a sigh she regarded herself in the mirror. Her eyes clouded, became darker than the darkest sapphire. “The man I marry must be worthy of my respect.”

  When she explained no further, Eva asked, “And how may a man earn your respect, my lady?”

  She remained silent a long moment before replying. “I don’t know, Eva. That’s the problem. I only know, at least I hope, I’ll feel it when it happens. So far, it simply hasn’t.” She glanced over her shoulder at Eva. “Am I being foolish?”

  Eva reached around Julia to set the brush down. “No, my lady. I think you’re wise to wait for the right gentleman.”

  “Even if it takes years?”

  “Better that than spending the rest of your life unhappily married.”

  “Grams wouldn’t agree. She wants all of us girls married off as soon as possible. She sees it as the best way to keep Fox’s inheritance intact.”

  “Perhaps, my lady, but it hasn’t escaped my notice that your grandparents seem well-suited and happily married. I don’t believe it’s too much to want the same for yourself.” With a hand on her shoulder, Eva gently turned Julia back to face the mirror, separated her hair into three sections, and began plaiting its length. Julia watched her through the mirror, a speculative light dancing in her eyes. “There now, my lady,” Eva said as she secured the bottom of Julia’s braid with a velvet ribbon that matched the blue of her nightgown. “Will there be anything else?”

  “Thank you, Eva, you may go. And do find out what’s got my sister’s knickers in such a twist.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  Julia rolled her eyes. “You’ll see.”

  A few minutes later, Eva knocked at Phoebe’s door. It sprang open as if the girl had been standing on the other side waiting for her. She seized Eva’s wrist.

  “Come in. Oh, Eva, such goings-on!”

  Phoebe swung the door closed again. Eva took a moment to study her appearance, noting Phoebe’s high color and the sore spot on her lower lip that suggested she had been biting it like she used to do during thunderstorms. “What is it, my lady? Your sister told me you . . .” She thought better of repeating Julia’s exact words. “That you seemed agitated this evening.”

  “I’m assuming you mean Julia. Believe me, she doesn’t know the half of it. Eva, I believe I know who our killer is.”

  Phoebe didn’t mean to lose her composure, but hot, stinging tears filled her eyes.

  “My lady, what is it?” Eva’s arm went around her and she felt herself led to the little settee near the fireplace. Shudders racked her in an outpouring she had been holding in check all through dinner, dessert, and the eternal moments she’d had to spend with the others before she could politely excuse herself for bed. How draining it had all been. Now she could no longer contain the strain and fear that had held her in a chokehold in Lord Owen’s bedroom—inside his armoire, with those damning pictures of Julia and Lord Bellington, and the weapon that very probably had . . .

  She shut her eyes, exhaled, and tried not to think of Henry’s final moments.

  “I don’t understand, Eva. He seems so steady and honorable and . . . he’s a war hero.”

  “Who?” Eva grasped her shoulders and held her at arm’s length. “Who are you talking about, my lady?”

  “Lord Owen, of course. Lord Owen murdered Henry—Lord Allerton. I’m all but completely certain of it.”

  Eva’s grip tightened on Phoebe’s shoulders. “First, where is Amelia? Is she all right?”

  Phoebe nodded. “She walked Grams up to her room. We haven’t been able to speak of what happened yet, but I know she suffered a terrible fright.” She sniffed and blinked away her last few tears.

  Eva patted her cheek before reaching into a pocket in her skirt and taking out one of the handkerchiefs Phoebe and Amelia had embroidered for her for Christmas. “It’s clean,” she said. “I never use them, they’re too precious. But I always carry one with me.” She showed Phoebe one of her kindly smiles.

  Phoebe reached to grasp the fabric, but a horrible notion prompted her to let it slip from her fingers and flutter to the floor.

  Eva bent to retrieve it. “My lady?”

  “It was in the box, Eva. In your Christmas box, with . . .”

  “Yes, that’s true.” Eva frowned. “But you and Amelia wrapped them so well, they aren’t tainted, my lady. I could never think of them as anything but the perfect gift they are. So here, dry your tears and tell me what happened.”

  As Phoebe’s tale unfolded, she found she couldn’t look Eva in the eye, for all her maid had helped devise the plan to search Lord Owen’s bedroom. She had assured both Eva and Amelia of the foolproof nature of that plan, never expecting Lord Owen to deviate from the scenario she’d envisioned.

  “This must end, my lady. It’s too dangerous.”

  “Yes, I knew you would say that and perhaps you’re right. We can debate it later. Right now, Eva, tell me what you think. Does that bayonet signify that Lord Owen is guilty?”

  A knock forestalled Eva’s answer. The door burst open upon Amelia, still in her evening clothes. She shut the door quickly and hurried across the room to them. “Phoebe, it was so awful. I tried to prevent him—”

  “I know, Amelia.” Standing, Phoebe embraced her sister. Though they’d traded numerous urgent looks across the dining table, they hadn’t found a moment until now to speak of their near debacle. “I heard you try to persuade him to go downstairs. He wouldn’t be deterred.”

  “Well, what happened when he came in?” Amelia demanded. “Where did you hide?”

  Phoebe shuddered at the memory. “In the armoire. It’s quite all right, Amellie, he didn’t catch me. Do you know why he
returned to his room? Was he holding anything when he came out?”

  “Nothing I could see, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t put something in his pocket. He’s still downstairs with Grampapa. Perhaps it had to do with whatever they’re discussing. Oh!” She gasped. “Do you think it’s all right for Grampapa to be alone with him? Perhaps I should return. . . .”

  Phoebe shook her head. “No, Grampapa will be safe, I’m quite sure of it. Don’t you agree, Eva?”

  Eva didn’t hesitate in nodding. “Lady Amelia, whoever attacked Lord Allerton did so out of rage. It’s unlikely such a beastly act will be repeated anytime soon.”

  “A crime of passion,” Amelia said, “as they say in the penny dreadfuls. But how can you know that?”

  “By the nature of the crime, my lady.” Eva came to her feet and reached out to stroke Amelia’s lovely golden hair. A few loose strands suggested she had been fidgety this evening—for good reason, Phoebe silently admitted. “Why don’t I help you both take down your hair,” Eva said, “and Phoebe can tell us if she discovered anything unusual in Lord Owen’s room.” Yet as soon as those words left her lips, she gazed in silent appeal at Phoebe.

  Phoebe gave a slight nod. She had no intention of revealing to Amelia what she had found in Lord Owen’s room. Her youngest sister might indeed be growing up, but Phoebe saw no reason to endanger her life. The less she knew, the better. They moved to the dressing table, and Phoebe scooted to one side of the tufted satin bench so Amelia could sit beside her.

  “What I found,” she said as Eva released her simple coiffeur, “was a decided lack of possessions. Lord Owen travels exceedingly light.”

  “What does that say about him?” Amelia’s question had a statement-like quality, as if she already knew the answer. “A man who travels light can make the quickest getaway.”

  Phoebe couldn’t contain a chirp of laughter, subdued in the next instant at Amelia’s hurt expression. Amelia’s chin came up in a show of defiance, and then she, too, chuckled. Simultaneously, they said, “Penny dreadfuls.” Behind them, Eva joined in their laughter and released one of the ribbons that held Amelia’s hair.

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right,” Amelia conceded. “But I don’t believe Henry is anywhere to be found in this house. There has been no blood found anywhere, and it’s certain the poor man bled when that awful thing was done to him. In my opinion, he left the premises, by will or by force, and was put upon somewhere else. The question is where.”

  “Unfortunately, that’s a question we might never be able to answer.” Eva ran her fingertips down the length of Amelia’s wavy hair. “My lady, why don’t you wait for me in your room while I help your sister into bed.”

  “All right. I’ll go say good night to Julia, too.” Amelia kissed Phoebe on the cheek and ran out.

  Eva immediately turned to Phoebe. “So you discovered a bayonet in Lord Owen’s room. One could argue that any number of former soldiers have such an item in their possession. Did you find anything else that could establish a link between him and Lord Allerton?”

  Phoebe covered her momentary hesitation with a cough and hoped Eva wouldn’t see through the ploy. “No, only the bayonet.”

  “What about your great-grandfather’s Roman dagger?” She helped Phoebe off with her dress and underthings and slipped her nightgown over her head.

  “The bayonet could just as easily have been used against Henry.” Phoebe used her forearm to sweep her hair out from the neckline of the flannel gown.

  “Then why would someone steal the dagger?”

  Phoebe tossed up her hands. “I don’t know. A diversion?” She couldn’t say why she hid the truth of those photographs from Eva. She trusted Eva, she truly did, but it still seemed a betrayal of her sister to tell anyone. She sat back down at the dressing table. She needed time to think, to decide what was best to do. How she wished those pictures didn’t exist....

  She could have destroyed them. Perhaps she should have. But if Owen was responsible for Henry, the photographs might be the only substantial evidence to prove it, especially if the negatives where carefully hidden away somewhere. Not for the first time, she agonized over whether leaving the images behind had been the right decision. Would Lord Owen have noticed them missing? He most likely would, and from there he would recognize Amelia’s attempt to distract him and conclude it could have been none other than Phoebe snooping through his room.

  “I discovered something tonight, too, my lady.”

  Phoebe snapped out of her reverie. “You did? Go on, please.”

  “I found Lord Theodore in Julia’s room when I went in to help her to bed.”

  “I knew there was something between them.” Her heart sank. In the course of a mere six months Julia had gone from Henry to Lord Bellington and now Theo? Oh, yes, and possibly Lord Owen. The back of her neck prickled. Julia seemed to be at the center of this entire matter.

  “She denied any romantic goings-on.”

  “And you believed her?”

  “Well, when I entered her room she was sitting on the chaise and Lord Theodore was standing by the fireplace. The scene they presented seemed an entirely innocent one. Even so, I couldn’t help overstepping my bounds by cautioning her against entertaining gentlemen in her room, or trusting the wrong people.”

  Phoebe stood up and went to sit on the bed. “To which she said what?”

  “That she and Lord Theodore shared a kind of bond, being the two people closest to Lord Allerton right before he died.”

  “ ‘Close’ she called it?” Phoebe threw back her head and let go a laugh. That was the very last word she’d have used to describe Julia’s relationship with Henry right before he died. Toxic was more like it. And bitter. Not to mention angry.

  Eva showed no sign of joining in Phoebe’s wry mirth. “She also told me Lord Theodore was with her for several hours Christmas night—merely talking. She was upset after breaking it off with Lord Allerton, and Lord Theodore lent a sympathetic ear.”

  “He did, did he?” Phoebe started to chew her lip, then stopped when the raw spot she’d created earlier rebelled with a stab of pain. “This does change things, though. I was so certain Lord Owen must be guilty. . . .”

  “I still don’t understand why, my lady.”

  “Because . . .” She trailed off, realizing the photographs had persuaded her most of all. Could Lord Owen have taken them from Henry’s room, not because they linked him to any crime, but because he wished to protect Julia? An uneasy sensation balled in the pit of her stomach at the notion of Lord Owen sweeping in to play the gallant for Julia.

  Always Julia.

  Growing up, she and everyone else had simply accepted that others would be drawn to her beautiful, vivacious older sister. Julia had been that sort of golden, engaging child, accomplished early on in singing and dancing and playing the piano, as well as being skilled in the art of conversation. Even in the schoolroom, she would talk circles around their governess to forestall any subject she didn’t wish to study that day. Poor Miss Dawson often hadn’t even realized she’d been duped. But Julia always earned high marks, both at home and at finishing school. She reaped praise Phoebe had sometimes deserved as well, but didn’t always receive because Phoebe hadn’t made a point of making sure everyone knew of her accomplishments. Still, she couldn’t rightly blame Julia for that, could she?

  Julia hadn’t been unkind in those days. In fact, whenever she had gleaned some favor or privilege due to her charms, she had almost always shared her good fortune with Phoebe. She herself hadn’t wanted the kind of attention Julia enjoyed. It simply wasn’t in her nature to crave the notice of others. She much preferred her books and horses and tramping around the estate with Grampapa. Even later, when young men began tripping over one another for a chance to woo the Earl of Wroxly’s stunning eldest granddaughter, Phoebe hadn’t minded so much. Until, of course, that last glorious spring before the war began, when she met Oliver Prestwich at the Sandown Races. Phoebe had been fifteen, Ju
lia eighteen and newly out in society. Even now Phoebe didn’t know if Julia had intended what happened, or if it had merely been a matter of course.

  Papa had assured Phoebe her turn would come, but instead the war came four months later. The men all shipped off to France, and Oliver with them. Phoebe meanwhile became caught up in the home efforts to support the soldiers fighting far away, and she had forgotten about her disappointment. There had been no time to worry about such trifles.

  Then Papa died, along with Oliver and so many others, and everything changed. Julia had changed. Where once she had been charming, she became calculating, and the generosity she had shown Phoebe became scarcer and scarcer until Julia seemed to hold every advantage she had ever enjoyed as a kind of bulwark around herself. If Julia did include Phoebe, perhaps because Grams insisted, there had typically been an accompanying charitable sentiment. Phoebe hadn’t wished to acknowledge it, had wished to continue believing in the genuineness of her sister’s generosity, but now she wasn’t so sure. Perhaps even when they were younger Julia’s largess had merely been a way to ensure Phoebe’s loyalty, to prevent Phoebe from running to Mama and Papa with tales of Julia’s discreet misdeeds.

  Perhaps. The difference between now and then was she had learned, by necessity, to get on with her life without Julia’s favors. Julia shut her out, shut out everyone, really, except where she believed she might benefit. As perhaps she sought to benefit now from Lord Owen—use him—and Phoebe guessed he would let her without ever realizing the truth, or perhaps he wouldn’t mind because Julia was beautiful and for so many men that would be enough.

  Phoebe minded, very much, but felt helpless to do anything about it.

  “My lady? Won’t you share your thoughts?”

  “Sorry, Eva, I was just thinking . . .” She shook her memories and her envious thoughts away. “As I said, I caught Owen Seabright in Lord Allerton’s room and tonight I discovered that bayonet. But now with this news of Julia and Theodore’s budding friendship . . . it seems we’ve gone round in yet another circle.”