“Aye. Seamus O’Malley.”
“You’re unmarried?” He glanced at her with those beady eyes again.
“Aye. I’m in domestic service.”
“To whom?”
Oh, heaven help me. Would they call Lord Whitby in? But then, the major was a relation of the baroness. They would be calling on them with the news at any rate. She sucked in a breath. “Lord Whitby and his daughter, the Baroness of Berkeley.”
Cole added that to his notes. “The Baroness of … wait.” Here he paused and looked up at her with, if it were possible, even less warmth. “Baroness Beauty?”
“So she’s been dubbed.” She leaned forward. “Please, sir. Will they take my uncle to the hospital, do you think? Which one?”
“Liller.” The detective flagged another fellow walking by in identical dress. “Ring up Lord Whitby. At … ?” He lifted a brow at Deirdre.
Her stomach knotted. She stuttered out Lady Ramsey’s direction.
Once the second chap bustled off, Cole shot question after question at her. Did she know Major Rushworth? Had she met him before? When was the first time? How well did she know him? What did she think of him? How long since she had seen her uncle? Did she honestly expect him to believe that his lordship had granted her two afternoons off to visit an ill relative?
“He is a kind and fair employer, sir, who understands the importance of family. Yes, he let me off again after I was turned away yesterday! If you don’t believe me—”
“Then ask me yourself.”
Deirdre spun on her hard wooden chair, never so grateful to see his lordship. And the baroness had come, too, and now came to her chair and rested her hands on Deirdre’s shoulders. A show of support. A touch of comfort.
Tears stung the backs of her eyes.
The detective rose, but slowly. “Lord Whitby, I presume?”
His lordship didn’t stretch out a hand to shake. Rather, he folded his arms over his chest and narrowed his eyes. “I would like to know why you’re interrogating my employee for visiting her uncle. Unless familial concern has been made illegal in my absence from Town, and no one thought to inform me of it.”
Cole’s lips pulled up in a hint of smile that dared to look mocking. “Your employee was at the scene of a murder, my lord. First at the scene, which more often than not denotes some involvement beyond happenstance.”
The baroness’s hands went lax on her shoulders. “Murder?”
The detective’s eyes flicked to Lady Berkeley and swept her up and down. Judging, though Deirdre couldn’t tell what verdict he came to. “Major Henry Rushworth was slain in his hotel room this afternoon.”
“No!”
“It can’t be.” Lord Whitby stepped closer to them. He kept his gaze on the policeman. “We just saw him this morning.”
“Did you now.” The detective sank back into his chair, that cynical little smile back in place. “Then have a seat, my lord. I have a few questions for you as well.”
Her father had lied to Scotland Yard—and Brook fully approved. He’d told them everything … except the small detail of the Fire Eyes. She stepped out into the sunshine and nearly stumbled back inside when a man with a pencil and pad sprang forward, another with a camera close behind.
Lovely.
She tucked a hand into her father’s arm and let emotion wash over her face. A ballerina on a stage. A princess before an angry mob.
A baroness sitting across from a detective who quite obviously had a bone to pick with the gentry. He had all but salivated at the prospect of linking her and her father to a murder. Never mind that Papa had gone to the House of Lords again today directly after Major Rushworth left them—saying he needed time to think where no real concerns would distract him. Never mind that Brook had been surrounded from ten o’clock onward by no fewer than a dozen young ladies and gentlemen. Those facts wouldn’t have, Detective Cole had all but said, stopped them from hiring someone.
The reporter licked his pencil. “My lady! What are you doing at Scotland Yard? Is it true someone tried to attack you this morning after you were out riding?”
They had finally heard about that, had they? If months late … and a bit confused. She forced a sad, small smile to her lips when she would have preferred to storm by.
Where the press was, there was safety.
Please, Lord, help me. Help me not to crumble. Keep us safe. “No, I was not the victim of the crime today. My cousin, whom I met for the first time this morning, was murdered in his hotel room a few hours ago.” She blinked several times and touched a fingertip to the corner of her eye, though no tears had gathered. They may have, had the anger not been so strong.
Another person dead. And for what? Diamonds?
Papa slipped his arm around her. Deirdre remained hidden behind them.
The reporter scratched furiously at his pad. “Your cousin?”
“My mother’s cousin. Major Henry Rushworth.” She looked over her shoulder at Scotland Yard and heaved a sigh she hoped was worthy of the stage. “I dare not say more. I don’t want to hinder the detective’s investigation. Justice must be done.”
She had her doubts that it would be.
The camera flashed. Brook leaned into her father’s side before it could flash again. A unified front, sorrow in the slope of their shoulders. Were it a dance, she would have pointed her toe, arched her back, brought her arms into a low circle to complete the picture.
“Were you brought in for … for questioning?” The reporter’s eyes were wide.
Brook breathed a little laugh and tucked a stray curl under her hat. “No, no. We came in on our own the moment they called us. We must do anything we can to aid in the capture of my cousin’s killer. We wanted to make sure the police had all the information we did, scant as it is.”
Not that they had even known about the murder when they were told to come collect Deirdre … but her maid didn’t need the attention of the press.
“Rushworth.” The reporter tapped that line in his notes and looked up at her with raised brows. “He must be related to Lord Rushworth and Lady Catherine.”
“Their uncle.” She turned her face up toward her father. “We should pay them a visit, Papa. They will surely be even more distressed than we are.”
“We will, my dear.” His eyes applauded her. Then he nodded at the reporter. “If you’ll excuse us.”
They didn’t await an answer, just continued down the stairs with a measured step. Deirdre, Brook noted when she looked up, had slipped around them while they were distracting the reporters and waited at the car. She looked awful. Her face was pale, her eyes haunted, and she clasped her hands so tightly her knuckles were white.
“I have to see my uncle,” was her greeting when they joined her.
Brook reached for her hands. “Of course you do.”
“We’ll take you.” Papa opened the door and ushered them both inside, shielding them from the camera until the door had shut.
Brook settled beside Deirdre and kept ahold of her hands, which were cold and trembling. “We can go in with you too, if you want company. I wouldn’t want to be alone so soon after seeing what you did.”
Deirdre’s chin shook too. “Thank you. I would appreciate that.” She sniffed and lowered her head. “I wish Hiram were here.”
Brook squeezed her hands. She had seen them together a few times, knew they were close. “I’m sure he would want to be too.”
Papa cranked the engine to life and slid into the driver’s seat. Within the minute, they were pulling onto the busy streets, headed for a part of the city she had yet to see.
No one seemed inclined to talk, so Brook let her gaze drift to the window. Let the truth drift into her heart. She wanted Justin. With no front, no walls between them. She wanted to be able to rush into his arms, to kiss his cheeks, to cry on his shoulder if the tears chose to come. To tell him what the major had said that morning, what the Fire Eyes were … how everyone connected with them seemed to end up dead before
their time.
She wanted to forget the anger, forget the questions, and just be Brook and Justin again.
Her fingers found the faux pearls and twisted them together. The irony of the long habit hit her anew, and she let her fingers fall. She needed the things gone—but Papa was right. They had to tread carefully. Too many people had already died, and if the Rushworths were responsible, they had to bring them to justice, not give them what they wanted.
For her mother. For the major.
Eventually her father pulled up in front of a large, dreary-looking building stained with soot and time. Brook reined in her thoughts and gave Deirdre’s hand an encouraging squeeze. They all exited in silence, traversed the walk without a word, and only spoke once inside to learn which ward Seamus O’Malley had been taken to.
The hospital was utilitarian, the starkness unrelieved by color. Their shoes clicked loud against the tile floors. Brook and her father flanked Deirdre, and the maid darted a look her way.
“I’m so sorry for bringing this upon you.”
“It isn’t your doing.” Brook’s voice came out a whisper in the white corridor.
Deirdre shook her head. “It’s because of me you were called down there. Because of me the reporters saw you leaving.”
Papa sent encouragement from his gaze without the need to smile. “Circumstances that were outside your control. The only thing you did, O’Malley, was try to care for your uncle. There is no blame to be found in that.”
“The detective—”
“Will keep an open, unbiased mind about it all or will find himself out of favor with his superiors.” Her father’s face went hard. “I have never much cared for those who use their influence amiss—but there is no guilt for this in my house, and if Cole tries to find any, I will use whatever force I must to see justice done. And if my influence alone doesn’t suffice, we’ve two dukes in our corner.”
“At least one of whom would be eager for an excuse to let loose his temper.” Brook’s lips tugged up. Justin, with his Duke of Stafford glower, would be furious indeed when he learned how Cole had interrogated her. Even with all between them, she knew that.
Papa nodded toward the door they’d been instructed to take. Inside were a row of cots filled with blanket-covered figures. A few sat up with book or newspaper in hand, others seemed to be sleeping.
Brook touched a hand to Deirdre’s back to indicate she should lead the way.
Deirdre peered at each figure they passed, until finally she sucked in a breath and came to a halt. “Uncle.”
The man on the bed was pale as the moon with deep circles under his eyes, his skin wrinkled and cracked. His eyes fluttered open, though they stared up without recognition. “Who … ?”
His voice sounded faint, scratched. Deirdre reached for a cup of water and lifted his head to help him sip. “It’s Deirdre, Uncle Seamus. I’m here in London with Lord Whitby and heard you were here as well.”
“DeeDee.” His eyes focused upon Deirdre’s face. “All grown.”
“Aye. ’Tis been too long.” She settled a hand on his forehead. “You’re hot as blazes. How do you feel?”
His eyes went cloudy again, and his face screwed up. “The major. Is he … ?”
Brook reached for her father’s hand. Deirdre swallowed audibly. “Dead.”
Seamus turned his face away. “I was too weak to help. All I … all I could do was lie there. Pretend to be dead myself.”
“You’re ill. Better to pretend to death than meet it in fact.” Deirdre dashed at her eyes and sniffed. “Have the police been to talk to you?”
The man shook his head. “I heard … when they were taking me … something about being too far gone to have seen anything.” He turned his face back to Deirdre, then beyond her. Recognition sparked when he spotted Papa. “But I did, milord. I saw him.”
Papa eased forward. “Saw who, O’Malley?”
“Don’t know. Young fellow. Spry—climbed … out window. Wore a hat. Long coat. Couldn’t … couldn’t see face, but …”
“Easy, uncle.” Deirdre trailed her fingers over his face. “Don’t tax yourself, now.”
He reached up, though it looked like it took all his strength, and caught Deirdre’s hand. “He took … papers. Solicitor.”
Brook’s breath tangled in her throat, and she looked up at her father. The major had said he was having papers drawn up—and who but Lord Rushworth and Lady Catherine would have a reason to take them? Who else would stand to inherit anything that was his in light of his death?
The flare of Papa’s nostrils said he was thinking the same. “You heard his voice, then. Was he educated? Had he any accent?”
“I … Educated. He was educated.” Seamus closed his eyes for a long moment, then dragged in a deep breath. “Major seemed … to struggle to place him.”
Brook’s brows pulled down. He wouldn’t have struggled to place Rush—he looked just like his father’s portraits. But any number of other people could have been vaguely familiar, she supposed.
Her father nodded and gave the man a tight smile. “That’s very helpful, O’Malley. We’ll find his solicitor and get a copy of whatever was stolen. Justice will be done. You rest now.” He patted Deirdre’s shoulder. “Stay with him as long as you like. But if darkness falls before you leave, don’t try to take the tube—hire a hack. Here’s enough for the fare.”
Deirdre opened her mouth, obviously set on refusing the money Papa held out, but Brook shook her head. “Take it, O’Malley.” There’d been tragedy enough for one day. They didn’t need the too-lovely maid finding more in the tube tunnels.
She obeyed, slowly, and sank down onto the edge of her uncle’s cot. “I don’t deserve your kindness, my lord.”
“Nonsense.” He turned, ushering Brook along with him. “Family is the most important thing, always. You focus on yours right now. We’ll give him some peace so he can rest.”
Brook cast one last look over her shoulder at the shriveled man, the broken, beautiful girl. Both with a pall of death over them.
The whole world, it seemed, had one to match.
Twenty-Five
The weight pressed upon Deirdre’s shoulders until she thought she wouldn’t be able to trudge her way down the hospital corridor. Last night when she finally left her uncle’s side, it had been bad enough. Today, with the sun shining bright through the windows and catching on the baroness’s hair, it was worse.
Perhaps, had her ladyship merely granted her more time off, it wouldn’t have weighed so heavily. But she had driven her. Cheerfully so, even though Lady Ramsey had apparently insisted Lady Berkeley go out to a dinner party with them last night, and it had left her exhausted today.
Perhaps, had her uncle been as bad as yesterday, she could have shoved guilt aside and focused solely on him. But he was, praise God, much improved—and had looked at her with Da’s eyes, with wise eyes, as if knowing exactly how she had treated this family that would do so much for her.
She darted a glance at the young woman beside her. There were ladies aplenty in the hospital, most of them part of some aid group or another, out to do their good deeds for nameless faces. They came in flocks, in wide-brimmed hats overflowing with lace and silk flowers, in their best morning suits and dresses.
Lady Berkeley had come in her simplest, her hat modest—her worth coming through all the louder.
A nurse passed them, and Deirdre drew in a breath and tried to smile. “Did you have a nice time last night, my lady? Was His Grace there? Or Lord Worthing, perhaps?”
Her ladyship sighed. “The duke was, surprisingly. And his cousin with Miss Rosten, which meant that my cousin spent the night flirting outrageously with some poor chap who’s likely half blind with love now.”
Deirdre smiled. “It is hard to feel sorry for her when she goes about revenge with so much energy.”
Her ladyship chuckled. “It is, at that.”
“And His Grace? Did you speak with him?” Though her ladyship hadn’
t said a word about it, she’d watched the disappointment grow each day he hadn’t come. She knew that whatever they had argued about this time, the baroness regretted it.
Now all emotion drained from her countenance, the mask left in its place perfect but empty. “I did. Long enough to request he come by this morning at nine. Which, of course, he didn’t.”
They opened the massive front door and stepped out into a fine mist caught halfway between fog and rain. Deirdre stopped her ladyship with a hand on her arm. “My lady … life can be so short. You mustn’t let misunderstandings get in the way of happiness. You charged through the city at night last year to keep things right between you—why do you now wait around for him to come to you?”
“Because I …” She looked away, but not before Deirdre saw the pain in her eyes. “Because everything has changed.”
A month ago—a week ago, a day ago—she wouldn’t have dared to loop her arm through the lady’s. Today, she couldn’t imagine doing otherwise. “He’s in love with you, my lady. And you with him.”
Lady Berkeley sighed. “What if it isn’t enough?”
And Deirdre knew, as she gazed on this hurting girl, that she could have been any hurting girl—baroness or not. She knew that if Mum realized how she’d come by the money she sent, she’d toss it into the pond. Knew that she couldn’t keep serving these good people knowing how she’d betrayed them. Knew she had to throw herself on their mercy and let come what may.
“My lady.” A step away from the car, she drew them both to a halt. But she couldn’t look into the familiar eyes or the inquisitive face. She drew in a breath that wasn’t deep enough and locked her gaze on the embroidery at her ladyship’s shoulder. “I need to confess. You’ve been so good, you and your father, especially about my uncle. But … but I really don’t deserve it. I’ve done something terrible.”
The shoulder sagged. “Pratt. All my post.”
Of course she’d suspected, once His Grace got home and they talked. Deirdre’s arm slipped from her ladyship’s, down to her side. “I was only a housemaid when it began, and the money he gave me … they needed it, my mum and family. And it seemed harmless at first—he wanted to know which suitor Lady Regan favored, before you came home. Who was to be named Whitby’s heir.”
The Lost Heiress Page 29