An Act of Villainy

by Ashley Weaver

  “Yes, I understand,” I said. “Milo and I are only too happy to help.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Would you like to come into the sitting room? I believe everyone is here.”

  I led him into the room, and the group’s conversation faltered slightly at our entrance. It seemed everyone was unsure of how to react, and there was a moment of awkward near-silence as Gerard Holloway stood frozen at my side, perspiration beginning to gleam on his forehead.

  I looked at Milo, and he took the situation quickly in hand. “Come sit down and have a drink, Holloway,” he said easily, stepping forward to hand Holloway a drink he had already prepared him. “The evening is young. There is time for discussing business later.”

  Led by Milo’s example, the others began to converse again and I breathed a sigh of relief. Winnelda brought in a tray of coffee, which most everyone eschewed in favor of stronger drinks, and the room settled into a low hum of conversation.

  Now that everyone had been plied with alcohol, it seemed like a good time to begin asking questions. I moved toward Balthazar Lebeau first.

  I was not, as a general rule, in favor of using what one might term “feminine wiles.” Aside from the insulting assumption that women had no better tactics at their disposal than to simper and blink their lashes, I was not comfortable feigning what might be construed as romantic interest in men who were not my husband. I had not mastered Milo’s ease with casual flirtation.

  Nevertheless, I could tell that Balthazar Lebeau would be susceptible to flattery and the attentions of a younger woman. He had made his interest in me clear, and I could not help but feel that it could be used to my advantage.

  One does what one must.

  And so I went to where he was standing, drink in hand, examining the portrait of me that hung on the wall. It had been done by a rather famous artist, and Milo had insisted on hanging it in the sitting room, though I thought it a bit gauche to have myself on display.

  “It’s a very good likeness,” he said when I reached his side. “By Gareth Winters, I see.”

  “Yes, he painted it for me earlier this year.”

  “It’s lovely. Of course, a painting could not quite match your beauty in the flesh.”

  “You’re too kind,” I said, nodding at the nearly empty glass in his hand. “May I get you another drink?”

  “Thank you, no,” he said, surprising me. I had not thought Balthazar Lebeau would be the kind of gentleman to refuse a drink. “I see you’re not drinking, Mrs. Ames.”

  “Oh, no,” I said. “I think a hostess should always keep a clear head.”

  His eyes sparkled with amusement. “I should think a clear head is the last thing a person might want, especially given recent events.”

  “It has been a rather shocking few days,” I admitted, glad he had introduced the topic. “I almost can’t believe Flora Bell is dead.”

  “Yes, a dreadful tragedy,” he replied. “She was a fine actress. Her death is a great loss.” There was an artificiality to his tone, as though he were speaking lines. I had the sensation that Balthazar Lebeau lived his life as though it were a role he was playing. Or was that merely the impression he wished to give? I couldn’t help but feel that there was some other emotion he was hiding beneath the airy affectation.

  “Who do you think might have done it?” I asked. I had hoped to throw him off guard with the question, but it appeared to have had the opposite effect. His eyes flashed sharply for a moment, and he paused before he answered.

  “I don’t know,” he said at last. “Who do you think might have done it?”

  “Oh, I haven’t the faintest idea,” I replied, hoping that I seemed like nothing more than a society lady eager to gossip. “It’s just so dreadful. I can’t imagine who would be capable of such a thing.”

  “Ah, yes. It’s an intriguing question. Which of us is ‘a goodly apple rotten at the heart.’”

  “Do you think it’s one of us?” I asked.

  “I don’t suppose a stranger would have any reason to kill Miss Bell,” he said, swirling the dregs of the drink in his glass. “In fact, I should say only someone who knew Miss Bell intimately would be inclined to kill her in such a manner.”

  I wasn’t sure what he was hinting at, but I had the distinct impression he was toying with me. I would have to try harder.

  I leaned closer, my voice lowered. “You … you don’t suppose that Mr. Holloway might have done it?”

  He smiled. “My dear, I’m afraid I cannot tell you what evil might lurk in anyone’s heart, even the Honorable Mr. Holloway’s.”

  “Oh, surely there’s nothing evil about Mr. Holloway,” I said with an incredulous little laugh. I was being coy now, hoping to encourage him to make some sort of revealing statement.

  If he knew anything about Gerard Holloway, however, it appeared he was disinclined to tell me. “He seems, by all appearances, to be a very upstanding gentleman. Of course, appearances can be deceiving.”

  I suddenly had the distinct impression that Mr. Lebeau was hiding an adamant dislike for Mr. Holloway.

  “In what way?”

  He shrugged. “I merely point out that someone has committed a murder and is hiding a blacker heart than their appearance might suggest.”

  “What about Mr. Landon?” I asked with a conspiratorial smile, as though we were now playing some sort of enjoyable game. “I heard he was also fond of Miss Bell.”

  He looked at me speculatively, but did not ask where I heard such a thing. “Kit Landon is fond of a great many women, Mrs. Ames.”

  “I suppose a handsome and successful actor might consider that part and parcel of his life,” I said lightly.

  If Mr. Lebeau noticed that this light jab might also be aimed at himself, he didn’t show it. His eyes were on Mr. Landon, who sat talking to one of the supporting actors. “Kit Landon is the sort of man who gets one role and feels as though he is entitled to fame, as though those of us who have spent years of blood, sweat, and tears should be cast aside to make room for a generation of talentless usurpers. He doesn’t have what it takes to last in this business.”

  I remembered what he had said to me at the gala, the words about lesser artists coming and going and true talent standing immortal. It seemed now that they had been directed more at Christopher Landon than at Flora Bell. He clearly resented the younger actor’s rising success.

  “If he did have feelings for Flora Bell, I don’t suppose he liked it that she took up with Mr. Holloway.”

  “I suppose not,” he replied. “The best way to hurt a man is to win over the woman he loves.”

  This line of inquiry was leading nowhere, so I decided to change course.

  “What about Miss Bell’s brother? Did you know him well?”

  His gaze came back to me.

  “I didn’t know her brother at all,” he replied.

  “Oh. I was under the impression that he came to the theatre frequently.”

  “If he did, our paths never crossed. Miss Bell and I did not spend much time together offstage.”

  There was something different in his manner now, something more guarded. I wondered if he realized that there was more than mere curiosity behind my questions. Perhaps I needed to do a better job of posing my queries in the guise of simple inquisitiveness.

  “I suppose you think I’m a dreadful gossip,” I said with a smile. “It’s just that it’s all so terrible. I suppose one can’t help but speculate about it. I hope I’m not boring you.”

  “Not at all. I find you very amusing, Mrs. Ames.” I had the feeling this statement was disingenuous, but I pretended not to notice.

  “Now you’re flattering me, Mr. Lebeau,” I teased.

  “Who shall we talk about next?” The question came with a rakish smile.

  “Miss Dearborn, perhaps?” I said, my eyes turning to where she and Milo sat comfortably ensconced on the sofa. Despite Milo’s protests, he seemed to be having a perfectly good time entertaining her.
/>   Mr. Lebeau’s gaze followed mine, the slightest hint of a contemptuous smile turning up the corner of his mouth.

  “Do you suppose she might have wanted the role badly enough to eliminate her rival?” I asked, hoping to spur him on.

  “You would be surprised what some women would do to achieve their aims,” he said.

  “Men, too, have been known to go to great lengths to get what they want,” I couldn’t resist retorting.

  His gaze came back to me, and he smiled. “Touché, Mrs. Ames. Perhaps there is a bit of the mercenary in all of us.”

  “But you think Miss Dearborn more mercenary than most.”

  “My dear, I don’t care to offend your ears with what I truly think. Suffice it to say, she is not the sort of woman with whom I would care to associate.”

  I wondered. Mr. Lebeau did have, after all, a reputation for being rather undiscriminating in his tastes. From what I had heard, he had moved through relationships with various women at a dizzying rate in his younger days. It was possible age had mellowed his vices, but somehow I didn’t think so.

  “I see.”

  “I don’t mean to be indelicate,” he said, though I was sure he cared very little whether he was or not. “But she’s the sort of woman who gives of herself freely … but only if there’s something to be given in return. She’ll do anything to work her way up in the world. She tried very hard to turn Holloway’s head, but I’m afraid she was no match for the charms of Miss Flora Bell.”

  I looked up at him. “Miss Dearborn tried to seduce Mr. Holloway?”

  “Yes, attempted seduction is precisely what it was. Surprised him one evening in his office at the theatre, divested of all attire, shall we say.”

  “Oh … I see,” I said again, a bit scandalized by this revelation. It was certainly a shocking way to behave, if she had done it. But I knew perfectly well how quickly rumors spread, and just because the story existed didn’t mean it was true.

  “How do you know this happened?” I asked.

  “Everyone knew about it,” he replied. “It became something of a joke among us.”

  “What about Miss Bell?” I asked. “Did she know?”

  “I suppose she did,” he replied, “though I don’t recall her ever saying anything about it. Holloway had made her very secure in her charms.” There was something less than complimentary in his tone, and I wondered if it was directed at Mr. Holloway or Flora Bell.

  “Where did Mrs. Holloway fit into all of this?” I asked. “Did you ever see her at the theatre? Did Mr. Holloway ever talk about her?”

  “This is the most charming interrogation in which I have ever taken part,” he said with a smile.

  I returned his smile, doing my best to look abashed. “If I am honest, I have a bit of a personal investment in the matter. Georgina Holloway is a very dear friend of mine, and I have found this whole situation to be very distressing.”

  “You needn’t fret, my dear,” he said. “I suppose it will end well enough for your friend now. She’ll get her husband back, after all. Their family will be mended, and that’s a happy ending, isn’t it?”

  “I’m not entirely certain of that,” I said. “Mr. Holloway has made rather a mess of things.”

  “He doesn’t seem to have appreciated her the way he ought to have.” He glanced over to where Milo was still engaged in conversation with Miss Dearborn. “Few men, in fact, appreciate their wives to the extent they deserve.”

  I followed his gaze and didn’t have to feign annoyance. I had told Milo to try to get information from her, not to try to get her in his lap before the evening was out.

  Mr. Lebeau smiled. “Husbands are a rotten lot, on the whole. That’s why it’s sometimes best to forget one has one for a while.”

  So that was his tactic, was it? I could not fault his methods, for they were sound. I was sure they had been successful with a number of neglected society wives.

  “I think Georgina would have a hard time forgetting Mr. Holloway,” I said, purposefully misconstruing his words.

  “As to that, I couldn’t say,” he said. “We never saw much of Mrs. Holloway at the theatre. We knew, of course, that she was involved in the charity gala. The entire thing was all her idea, I believe. I suppose she didn’t realize that this would happen with Holloway and Flora, but ‘the course of true love never did run smooth’ and all that. One never knows when Cupid’s arrow may hit.”

  “No, I suppose not,” I replied. “Though I can’t help but feel one might be less inclined to be shot if one keeps oneself out of the line of fire.”

  He laughed heartily. “You’re right, of course. Holloway ought to have known better than to take up with a child like that.”

  “How did you feel about Flora Bell?” I asked suddenly. I didn’t know if he would be offended at the question, but we seemed to have developed something of a camaraderie, and I didn’t think it would do any harm to try to understand. To my surprise, some unnamed emotion, almost like sadness, flashed momentarily in his blue eyes before he blinked it away. He drained the rest of his drink.

  I thought for a moment that he wasn’t going to answer or that he would make some offhanded remark, and then he surprised me with a straightforward reply. “She had talent, a rare gift.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “She was remarkable.”

  “Oh, I grew annoyed with her a time or two when she didn’t want to take my advice. But that’s because I am just a bitter old man.”

  “Oh, come, Mr. Lebeau,” I said lightly. “You are neither old nor bitter.”

  His eyes met mine, an unreadable expression in them. “Few of us are really what we seem, Mrs. Ames. We all have our little secrets.” His mouth tipped up at the corner. “Of course, that doesn’t mean that we would kill for them.”

  “No,” I said slowly. “I suppose not.”

  “Alas, it seems my glass is empty. You’ll excuse me while I refill it?”

  “Of course.”

  As he walked away, I could not shake the feeling that I had just been treated to a Balthazar Lebeau command performance.

  14

  AS I LOOKED toward Mr. Landon, my next target, I noticed Mr. Holloway draining his glass. He had been close to being drunk when he arrived, and I thought we had better get to the meeting portion of the night before he was too inebriated. I glanced toward Milo, hoping to make eye contact with him and steer him toward Mr. Holloway, but he appeared to be too deeply entrenched in his own role to have noticed.

  He and Miss Dearborn still sat on the sofa, Milo with his arm draped casually along the back of it, a drink in his other hand. Miss Dearborn sat close beside him in her revealing dress of gold lamé, her body angled toward him to give him the best view of her décolletage. They appeared to be engaged in a very friendly conversation.

  Milo said something, and she laughed, throwing her head back to reveal her long, white neck. I stepped a bit closer, though I didn’t want to interrupt anything. I was very curious to hear what they had to say to each other and decided to pass behind the sofa on my way to speak to Mr. Landon.

  “Have you ever thought of a career on the stage, Mr. Ames?” she asked, her eyes moving over him in that assessing way women had of attempting to determine what his level of interest in them might be.

  “I’m afraid not,” he said.

  “A pity. You’d make quite an impact, I think.” She smiled, revealing very white teeth. “The theatre could use more handsome leading men.”

  “You’re too kind,” Milo replied. “But I’m afraid I haven’t the discipline for that sort of thing.”

  She was leaning closer, her hand resting on the sofa between them. The barest shift would have that hand on his leg. I waited.

  “Oh, it’s not as disciplined as one might think. In fact, I like to think we’re rather free and open-minded. Of course, there are other skills required.” This was said in a husky, suggestive tone that begged for him to ask for details. As men are wont to do, Milo took the bait.

&
nbsp; “What skills might those be?” he asked.

  “First of all, one need be a very good liar,” she said, looking up at him through her lashes. “I don’t imagine you are skilled at anything so wicked.”

  “On the contrary,” I couldn’t resist interjecting as I passed the sofa, “Milo excels at a great many wicked things.”

  He looked up at me over his shoulder with a smile and she subtly shifted away ever so slightly. Enough to lessen the suggestion of impropriety but not enough to signal full retreat.

  She needn’t have worried. I had no intention of separating her from Milo, at least not at present. Instead, I moved to where Mr. Holloway was moving somewhat unsteadily toward the sidebar, effectively cutting him off from another drink.

  “Are you ready to speak to everyone now?” I asked softly.

  “Perhaps in a moment,” he said. “I think … Perhaps if I have one more drink.”

  “Certainly,” I said, taking the glass from his hand. “Why don’t you go and sit, and I’ll bring you something.”

  He nodded, moving back to the seat he had vacated. His eyes had taken on a glassy look, and I was becoming concerned about his condition. I knew he was mourning, but the hangover he would have tomorrow would certainly not make him feel any better.

  On the whole, he seemed to be taking this harder than I might have thought. I had assumed—hoped, rather—that his relationship with Miss Bell had been mostly of a physical nature. It appeared, however, that his feelings had run deeper than that.

  Or, I wondered, could there be some other reason behind his decline, something like guilt? Was it possible he had killed Flora Bell during the heat of the moment and was now regretting it?

  I moved to the sidebar, preparing to concoct a cocktail with very little alcohol content. As luck would have it, Christopher Landon had come up to refill his glass.