Dinner Most Deadly

by Sheri Cobb South

  “But I shouldn’t have—”

  She took a deep breath. “Mr. Pickett, there is something I must tell you. Lady Dunnington left the dinner table that night because her husband had called and insisted upon seeing her. They quarreled quite audibly, and apparently Emily fears he may be—involved—in Sir Reginald’s death.”

  Pickett pondered this confession for a long moment, less surprised by the revelation than by the fact that she had made it at all, given her determination to remain silent on the subject. “And what do you think, my lady?” he asked at last. “Do you believe Lord Dunnington capable of murder?”

  Her brow puckered as she considered the question. “I truly don’t know. I am not well acquainted with Lord Dunnington. I fear they were estranged long before I met Emily, so I have only her stated opinions of him with which to form an impression. And those opinions, I might add, are usually far from complimentary. Indeed, I wonder that she should be so—but you will not arrest him, will you?”

  “I will certainly question him, but I will make no arrest, of Lord Dunnington or anyone else, without substantial evidence to back it up—and so you may tell her ladyship. But—forgive me, my lady, but why do you tell me this now, when you steadfastly refused to do so when I asked you before?”

  She made a helpless little gesture with her hands. “Because—after what happened—the meeting with Mr. Crumpton—I am reminded that there is no one in the world more worthy of my trust than you, Mr. Pickett.”

  “Thank you, my lady. I am—honored—by your faith in me. And yet there is one instance in which I failed to keep my word to you, and for which I must beg your pardon.”

  “Is there?” she asked, puzzled. “I fear I don’t remember—”

  “When I kissed you in Scotland, I promised you it would not happen again,” he reminded her. “I can hardly fault you for being less than honest with me, when it appears I lied to you.”

  “Pray do not refine too much upon it, Mr. Pickett. Being kissed by you is not so dreadful a burden, I assure you.”

  And giving him an uncertain little smile, she turned and knocked on Lady Dunnington’s front door.

  “I saw Mr. Pickett leaving as I approached your door,” Lady Fieldhurst told Emily Dunnington some few minutes later, when they had settled themselves in the drawing room and rung for tea.

  “Your Mr. Pickett was here?” asked Lady Dunnington, taken aback by this revelation. “Just now?”

  “He isn’t ‘my’ Mr. Pickett,” Julia said, not for the first time. “Yes, just now. Coming up the servants’ stair, in fact.”

  “If he wished to question the servants, he might have asked me first,” grumbled the countess. “What if Dulcie were to blurt out the truth about Dunnington?”

  “Emily, I have a confession to make,” said Lady Fieldhurst, twisting the drawstrings of her reticule around her fingers. “I blurted out the truth about Dunnington, just now.”

  “Julia!” cried Lady Dunnington, stricken. “How could you?”

  “He must find out sooner or later,” Lady Fieldhurst pointed out. “Surely it will look much better if it appears we have nothing to hide.”

  “Nonsense! There was no reason why he should ever have had to know about it at all—had you not told him!” she added, an odd mixture of fear and defiance in her voice.

  “But Emily, there were half a dozen witnesses! You cannot expect them all to keep silent, especially if they are under investigation themselves. The temptation to divert suspicion would surely be too great to resist.”

  “Witnesses?” The countess seized upon the word. “But no one saw Dunnington except for myself and Dulcie!”

  “Not saw, perhaps, but I can assure you everyone at the table heard.” Seeing Emily’s horrified countenance, she explained, “You were only in the next room, you know, and neither of you was making any effort to keep your voice down.”

  “Then—then you all heard what he said? About how he would ‘put a stop to it,’ no matter what it might take?”

  “Yes, but those words could mean a great many things other than murder. Or they could mean absolutely nothing. I can assure you Mr. Pickett will be well familiar with masculine bluster; after all, I have met his magistrate! Depend upon it, he will not leap to any conclusions where Lord Dunnington is concerned.”

  Lady Dunnington twisted her wedding ring around on her finger. “I wish I could share your confidence in him. Or in Dunnington, for that matter. You may speak of masculine bluster, but Dunnington is not one to make idle threats.”

  “Do you think he killed Sir Reginald?”

  “I—I don’t know! I only fear I may have provoked him too far this time. I knew how he felt about Sir Reginald. In fact, that was my whole reason for pursuing the man—to make Dunnington jealous.”

  “He has never seemed to be troubled by jealousy where any of your other lovers were concerned,” observed Lady Fieldhurst.

  “I know,” Lady Dunnington said mournfully. “I was at the end of my rope! I didn’t know what else to do but find a man so thoroughly unsavory that Dunnington would have to take notice! And now Sir Reginald is dead, and if Dunnington ends up hanging for murder, I shall—I shall kill him!”

  Lady Fieldhurst would have pointed out the illogic of this declaration, but another, far more important idea drove it from her mind. “Emily,” she demanded with dawning comprehension, “do you love Lord Dunnington?”

  The countess’s mouth worked, and she cast her gaze wildly about the room. “I—I—”

  Lady Dunnington was spared the necessity of making a reply by the arrival of Dulcie with the tea cart. Even after cups were poured and distributed and a plate of cakes offered, the girl remained standing awkwardly at her mistress’s shoulder.

  “Yes, Dulcie?” asked Lady Dunnington. “What is it?”

  “Begging your pardon, your ladyship, but—but I wonder if I might make a request.”

  “Well, go ahead then, make it.”

  “The actress Mrs. Church is to make her final appearance in Drury Lane on Wednesday, and my young man has asked me to accompany him to the theatre that night. I know it’s not my usual day, ma’am, but I wonder if I might swap days with Polly, just this once.”

  “Your young man?” echoed Lady Dunnington archly. “Why, Dulcie, I didn’t know you were walking out with someone. You’ve scarcely been in my employ for six months. Am I to lose you so soon?”

  “It’s much too early to be thinking of that, your ladyship,” Dulcie protested, but her coy blushes told their own tale.

  “Nonsense! It is never too early for females to be thinking of marriage,” the countess observed. “Very well, if Polly has no objections to swapping days with you, I suppose it’s all the same to me. Only do not stay out too late—and no unpleasant surprises two or three months hence, if you please!”

  Dulcie did not pretend to misunderstand her. “Why, no ma’am!” she exclaimed, shocked at the very suggestion. “Thank you, ma’am.” She bobbed a curtsy and betook herself from the room.

  “Well!” exclaimed Lady Dunnington once the two ladies were alone. “It’s nice to know that someone’s romantic intrigues are proceeding apace. Perhaps our problems would be more easily solved, Julia my dear, if we were members of a lesser class.”

  “Perhaps they would,” Lady Fieldhurst murmured.

  A faint shadow of disquiet crossed her mind. Mr. Pickett had just been here, downstairs in the servants’ quarters, in fact, and he knew Mrs. Church well from their ill-fated adventure in Scotland . . . Nonsense, she told herself, pushing away the thought. There were doubtless many people eager to see Mrs. Church’s final performance, and Dulcie was pretty enough that she might have any number of young men eager to court her. Mr. Pickett would never do such a thing—not now, not when he knew how much depended upon his remaining chaste until the annulment was granted.

  And yet the troubling idea, once admitted, would not be so easily dismissed.

  CHAPTER 15

  In Which John Pick
ett Renews an Old Acquaintance, with Unsettling Results

  Pickett had intended to return to Bow Street, but in the light of Lady Fieldhurst’s revelation, he instead called on Lord Dunnington at his town house in Park Lane. Pickett’s luck was clearly in on this particular day, for in addition to his successes with the female of the species, he caught Lord Dunnington just before he left the house.

  “John Pickett of Bow Street,” he informed the butler, while looking over this individual’s shoulder at a well-dressed man of late middle age engaged in donning gloves and high-crowned beaver hat.

  Upon hearing the caller’s words, the earl sighed, removed his hat, and began stripping off his gloves. “I had wondered when I might expect the honor of a visit from Bow Street,” remarked Lord Dunnington, his voice dry. “Never mind, Figgins, I can always look in at my club later. I suppose you’d best come in, Mr.—Pickett, was it?—and let us get it over with.”

  In spite of this unpromising beginning, Lord Dunnington ushered Pickett into a sitting room decorated according to masculine tastes with dark wood paneling and button-backed leather armchairs. The earl, a man as sober in appearance as his countess was flamboyant, sat down in one of these and gestured for Pickett to take the one beside it.

  “In truth, Mr. Pickett, I had expected to see you long before now,” confessed Lord Dunnington. “I need not ask, of course, how you came by the information that I was present, however briefly, on the night of Sir Reginald’s demise. I daresay she delighted in offering up my head on a platter, as it were.”

  “I believe you do her ladyship a disservice, my lord,” Pickett protested. “I assure you, she took no pleasure in providing the information. In fact, she told me just today, and only because she felt she owed it to me for personal reasons unrelated to the case.”

  “I see.” Lord Dunnington frowned. “I should have thought you were a little young for her.”

  Pickett stiffened. “I fail to see what my age has to do with it, sir.”

  “You are probably right. You are male, after all, and as far as her ladyship is concerned, that would appear to be enough.”

  Pickett shot to his feet. “I take offense, my lord! I have the greatest admiration and respect for Lady Fieldhurst, and I will not sit and listen to you or anyone else malign her in such a fashion!”

  “Lady Fieldhurst?” echoed Lord Dunnington incredulously. “Who the devil said anything about Lady Fieldhurst? Oh, sit down, man! Am I to understand that it was not my wife who told you of my visit to Audley Street?”

  Deflated, Pickett sat. “No, my lord, it was Lady Fieldhurst who did so, and that, as I said, only because she felt herself to be indebted to me for reasons that have no bearing on the case. In fact, your wife has been lying like a cheap rug in an effort to keep me from finding out about your presence that night.”

  “Has she, now?” Lord Dunnington drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, an arrested expression on his face. “Has she, indeed?”

  “Of course, you realize I must ask why you called in Audley Street that night.”

  “Oh, of course,” his lordship said. “I called in Audley Street that night for the only reason I ever call in Audley Street: to quarrel with my countess.”

  Pickett blinked at such plain speaking. “And the reason for the quarrel?”

  “My good fellow, I rarely need a reason. My wife usually finds the mere fact of my presence to be sufficient provocation for an exchange of, shall we say, pleasantries. On this particular occasion, however, I had reason enough and to spare. My wife, as you may already be aware, had the fixed intention of entering into an intimate liaison with Sir Reginald Montague. I came to Audley Street to inform her I would not tolerate it; I believe my exact words may have been ‘I will put a stop to this, whatever it takes.’ ” He grimaced. “Believe me, I am fully aware of how damning those words are, in the light of what followed.”

  “Then what exactly did you mean by them, if you had no intention of killing Sir Reginald?”

  “In truth, Mr. Pickett, I hardly know myself. I daresay I meant to cut off her funds or some such thing. But even that would have been an empty threat. After all, one hardly wishes to force one’s wife to beg for her bread, or to drive her into the arms—and consequently the bed—of a benefactor.”

  “But I believe this was not—forgive me!—the first time your wife had taken a lover, and you apparently saw no need to intervene before. Please correct me if I am wrong.”

  “No, no, you are quite right.”

  “Begging your pardon, my lord, but how can you have been so accepting of the situation for so long?”

  “It is the way of our world, young man, and she understands it as well as I. Had our children been girls, of course, it would have been a different matter altogether, but once a lady has given her husband an heir—or perhaps two, in case of illness or a tragic accident—she is usually allowed to follow the inclinations of her own affections.”

  Pickett, astounded by this casual attitude toward adultery, thought of Lady Fieldhurst and wondered if, had she been capable of bearing her husband children, she would have ended by drifting from one man’s bed to another. The thought made him feel more than a little ill, and he was conscious of an entirely selfish relief that she had remained childless.

  “And yet you chose to intervene when Sir Reginald was the lover in question,” Pickett noted. “Why him, and not the others?”

  Lord Dunnington’s eyebrows rose. “My good fellow, if you have done any investigating at all into Sir Reginald’s character, I wonder you should have to ask! I am aware that the ladies found him attractive, but then, they had no knowledge of the depravities that were frequent topics of conversation—and occasionally cause for duels—at the gentlemen’s clubs. No, nothing good could have come of such a liaison, but a great deal of harm might have done, and much of it redounded to my wife’s discredit. Can you wonder that I wished to prevent her from becoming intimate with such a man?”

  Pickett blinked as the significance of these words began to dawn. “Am I to understand, then, that you—that you care for her ladyship?”

  “Care for her? Mr. Pickett, I shall love her until I die—which I quite realize may be sooner than anticipated, given my presence in Audley Street on the night Sir Reginald was murdered.”

  Pickett hardly heard the last part of this speech, so flabbergasted was he by the first. “You say you love her, and yet you stand by without a word while she bounces from bed to bed like a—”

  “I should choose my next word with care if I were you, Mr. Pickett.” Lord Dunnington did not raise his voice, but the atmosphere in the room grew decidedly wintry in spite of the fire burning in the grate.

  “But—but—damn it, man, she’s your wife! Aren’t you going to—to fight for her?” Pickett knew he was overstepping his bounds rather badly, but something about Lord Dunnington’s situation touched a nerve.

  The earl regarded him with mild curiosity. “And how would you suggest I do so, Mr. Pickett? By putting a bullet through her lover, perhaps?”

  The wind having been taken from his sails, Pickett flushed. “I beg your pardon, my lord. I—I should not have spoken in such a way.”

  “Apology accepted,” said the earl, inclining his head. “As I said, it is the way of our world. I would not expect you to understand.”

  It was the best argument Pickett could think of for going through with the annulment, however humiliating the process. Were he and Lady Fieldhurst to remain married on such terms, it would shatter him into a million pieces the first time she took a lover.

  “After this quarrel, then,” Pickett said, dragging his attention back to the matter at hand, “what did you do?”

  “I did not know, of course, that someone else was about to solve the problem for me. I stormed out of the house—I fear I can offer no witnesses to my departure, as I did not wait for my wife to summon a servant to show me out—and then I took myself off to my club to drink myself into a stupor. The porter at White
’s should be able to confirm my arrival there.”

  Pickett made a note of it. “I shall have to follow up on it, of course, but I am inclined to believe you.” He stared down at his notes for a long moment, then spoke very deliberately. “I am going to ask you a question that you will not like, but I hope you will give me an honest answer. Do you believe it possible that Lady Dunnington shot Sir Reginald herself?”

  Lord Dunnington bristled. “Emily, shoot a man in cold blood? Balderdash! If she were capable of such a thing, I should have been dead years ago. Besides, why the devil should she?”

  “I’m afraid you’re asking the wrong person, my lord. I don’t pretend to understand women,” Pickett said with a shrug, and rose to take his leave.

  On Wednesday evening, Pickett donned his best coat of black wool and set out for Lady Dunnington’s house on Audley Street. He had just received his wages for the week, and he treated himself to the unaccustomed luxury of hiring a hackney to convey him to Mayfair and thence, with Dulcie, back to the Theatre Royal at Drury Lane. It was not Dulcie, however, but another lady who filled his thoughts as the bustling Covent Garden district gave way to the manicured residential streets of Mayfair. Being kissed by you, Mr. Pickett, is not so dreadful a burden. . . . He could not suppress the rather foolish smile that stole across his face at the memory of Lady Fieldhurst’s words. Still, kissing was one thing; marriage was quite another, and he would do well to remember it.

  The hackney lurched to a stop before Lady Dunnington’s house. Pickett requested the driver to wait, then descended the servants’ stair to the entrance below street level and knocked on the door. It opened a moment later to reveal Dulcie, not in the apron and mobcap in which he was accustomed to seeing her, but in a high-waisted print dress and with a blue satin ribbon threaded through her pale blonde curls. She had obviously taken pains with her appearance, and he was glad he had worn his best coat.

  “Are we to ride in a carriage, then?” she asked when they reached the top of the stairs and she saw the waiting vehicle. “Such extravagance, John!”