Silence in the Library

by Katharine Schellman

  He stepped forward at that, smiling. His eyes were fixed on hers, and if she had judged by the expression in them, she would have believed herself the only person in the world. “You do like me, Lily,” he said, his voice dropping until it was almost a murmur.

  He was much too close, but Lily didn’t back up. Instead, she raised her chin, refusing to drop her own gaze. “And there we are. I say I do not like you, and you act as though you are about to seduce me.”

  Frank chuckled, the sound so low and warm that it practically curled around Lily like a kitten. He took a step closer. “Why do you always assume it’s an act?”

  “Because you have been playing at it since we were children.” She didn’t like the breathless note in her voice. She knew she was right, that he was just pretending. But when his mouth was so close to hers, it was almost impossible not to believe it.

  He shook his head, still smiling. “Not children,” he murmured. “I remember when it started. You had just turned twelve. You had grown half a foot since I last saw you, and suddenly you could nearly look me in the eyes every time you told me I was wrong about something. I stole those apples to impress you.”

  “A gesture doomed to failure, considering that eating apples makes my cheeks swell up and get splotchy.”

  His smile did not falter. “A grave error on my part.”

  “So why not bring Lady Wyatt apples? Metaphorically speaking.”

  “I am inches away from kissing you, Lily, and you still want to talk about Lady Wyatt?”

  “You are inches away from kissing me, Frank, because you want to change the subject.” In spite of herself, Lily’s heart was racing. No one had come so close to kissing her in years. She put a firm hand on his chest, keeping him from closing any more distance between them. “Why not charm her?”

  They stared at each other for several heartbeats. “I did,” he said at last. Under her palm, Lily could feel his heart racing, but whatever agitation he was feeling, he kept it off his face. “I tried to. Of course I wanted her to like me. She married my father, did she not? And he meant the world to me. But she is even more hard-hearted than you.”

  He took another step toward her as he spoke, his chest pressing against her hand and his lids lowering slightly as his gaze dropped to her mouth. He was close enough that she could feel his breath on her cheek. It didn’t smell as strongly of rum as his clothes; Lily wondered for a moment if he had been drunk enough to spill the bottle on himself.

  But she didn’t think about it long. The intensity in his expression made her almost fearful. Which was absurd. She knew Frank, knew there was nothing to be scared of. But all of a sudden, she found herself remembering that Jack was supposed to find out whether Frank was telling the truth about where he had been when his father died.

  And Jack still had not been able to.

  She took a step back, keeping her hand raised between them. “Stop it, Frank.”

  “Why?” he murmured. He followed her, still watching her with that same unnerving intensity. And, underneath it, there was an edge of fear that he was clearly doing his best to hide. “Why do you always insist that it’s an act?”

  “Because it is,” Lily said, shaking her head. “You are drunk, and you are grieving, and I am not the person—”

  “Lily.” He reached for her.

  She took another step back and changed tactics. “Do you think she could have killed him?”

  The question was like a cold bucket of water upended over both of them. The heat went out of Frank’s expression, and he took a step back, stumbling a little, a reminder that he had shown up on her doorstep with what had to be half a bottle of rum inside him. Lily, feeling suddenly off-balance, put a hand out to steady herself and discovered he had somehow backed her nearly into a corner.

  “How on earth could you ask something like that?” he said, staring at her. “I said she did not like me. I never said she was a murderer.”

  “What about your cousin, then? He says he reconciled with your father, but perhaps—”

  “You might as well ask if I was the one who killed him.”

  His voice was heavy with scorn and slightly shrill. When Lily did not answer, the silence hung between them like lead weights.

  Frank’s eyes grew wide. “You think I might have.”

  Lily gazed up at him in silence, then slowly shook her head. “No.”

  “You do.” Frank swayed a little.

  “No.” Lily caught his arm, intending only to steady him. “I know you and he were—”

  Frank pulled her abruptly toward him and kissed her.

  Lily froze for only a moment, stunned into stillness. Then she yanked away and slapped him.

  They fell apart, staring at each other, both of them breathing heavily. At last, Frank raised a hand to his cheek. “Ow,” he said, sounding surprised.

  “You are drunk,” Lily said quietly, her voice shaking. “On rum and grief both. We shall forget this ever happened, and you will go home. Now.”

  He shook his head, swaying again, but this time Lily did not reach out to steady him. “I’ll not leave with you thinking me a murderer.”

  She sighed. “Go home, Frank.”

  “But—”

  “I thought I heard voices.” Mr. Pierce’s voice broke through the tension in the room, making them both jump a little in surprise. Lily was instantly glad Frank had already stepped away from her. God alone knew what her father would have made of stumbling upon that tableau.

  Then she wondered how long he had been standing in the doorway and felt heat rising to her face. Behind her father, Lily thought she saw Carstairs leaving the front hall. He had fetched her father, she realized, mortified. What had he overheard to make him do that?

  “Frank?” Mr. Pierce frowned as he stepped into the room. His heavy dressing gown was cinched tightly around him, but he looked too alert to have just come from sleep. “What are you doing here? At this hour?”

  “I was looking for you, sir,” Frank said quickly. He smiled, then swayed again, and this time the motion was exaggerated enough that Lily was sure he was faking it. Apparently he was as uncomfortable with the notion of her father having seen what just happened as she was. “It seemed like a good idea, but apparently I am not quite sober, and …”

  “Oh, Frank.” Mr. Pierce shook his head. “Shall I help you home?”

  “No, thank you, sir. I will see myself out.” He bowed abruptly, fumbling for the hat and gloves he had left on the table. “Good night, both of you.”

  He didn’t meet Lily’s eyes as he fled the room.

  There was a long silence as they both watched him leave, and then Mr. Pierce turned slowly toward her. “What was that?”

  Lily lifted her chin. “As he said, he had too much to drink and lost track of the time. No doubt he did not realize it was far too late to be calling.”

  Mr. Pierce sighed. “Poor boy. What a terrible time in his life.”

  “Indeed.” Lily stared at the doorway where Frank had disappeared, then shook herself. “If you will excuse me, Father, it is late.”

  She had to brush past him to leave them room, and she could feel his eyes on her the whole time. But she did not turn to meet them.

  She didn’t notice that her hands were shaking until she saw them on the banister as she climbed the stairs.

  Lily knew what grief was like, knew it could convince a person to consider many things that would never otherwise cross their minds. And when it was combined with the loose inhibitions found inside a bottle of spirits, it was no wonder that Frank’s behavior had been so surprising.

  But he hadn’t only been drunk. And he hadn’t only been grieving. He had been too close to hide his feelings from her completely.

  Frank Wyatt was afraid.

  Lily closed the door to her room behind her, then leaned back against it, staring unseeing at the dim light of the fire that burned low in her hearth. Was it fear of discovery?

  She still couldn’t believe he would raise
a hand against his father, not deliberately. Accidents could happen, certainly, but he hadn’t even been there that night. Though as for Ellen … Lily shivered, then crossed to her bed, snatching up the shawl Anna had laid out for her and pulling it tight around her.

  He’d had the opportunity to poison Ellen. But if he hadn’t been the one to kill his father, he would have had no reason to harm the maid.

  If it wasn’t fear of discovery that lurked behind his pretenses, what else could it have been?

  It was desperation that had driven him to kiss her, she was sure. Desperation and panic when he thought she might believe him a murderer. Was it fear of suspicion, of rumors following him for the rest of his life, whispers behind his back that he could never lay to rest?

  Lily stared at the fire. Or was it something far worse?

  Two people in his home had died. Did Frank have reason to fear he would be next?

  * * *

  Simon had worried that they might have to trail Percy Wyatt for hours, lurking around whatever entertainment he chose to pursue for the night. That was another reason he had asked for the captain’s help. As a gentleman, Hartley could gain entry into most of the clubs and gaming halls that Percy might patronize, whereas Simon knew he would likely be turned away at the door, at least during business hours.

  But instead of heading toward the entertainments of Covent Garden or the clubs of St. James, Percy made his way farther east, toward a quiet neighborhood favored by solicitors, prosperous tradesmen, and other politely professional families just past Russell Square.

  Simon and the captain exchanged a puzzled glance as they followed. This wasn’t the sort of place where young men went at night. The buildings’ genteel facades didn’t hide private gaming dens, and families that had to work for their living were less likely to hold parties late into the night as plenty of the residents of Mayfair did. But if Percy was planning to go farther into the city, he wouldn’t have come so far on foot.

  Simon was the first to realize that Percy was stopping and put out a hand to warn Hartley. The two of them waited in the shadows, watching their quarry as he stopped at the end of a block of pretty houses. He seemed to be waiting for something, or perhaps checking that no one was coming. The street was so quiet that Simon held his breath.

  A moment later, Percy moved cautiously forward, disappearing around the side of the house at the end of the street. Simon motioned for the captain to stay where he was and followed after, keeping far enough back that he could see what was happening but still duck out of sight if Percy should turn around.

  When he peeked around the side of the house, he found Percy carefully opening the sort of garden gate that should have been locked. Either he had managed to lift the latch from the outside or someone had left it open for him. The hinges were well cared for, and they moved silently as he swung the gate just far enough ajar that he could slip inside.

  Simon was debating whether or not to follow when an odd rustling drew his attention. Before he could puzzle through what it might be, he was dumbfounded by the sight of Percy Wyatt scaling the trellis on the back wall of the house with the ease of long practice. When he was halfway up, a light flared briefly in the window above him and the pane swung open. A moment later, he disappeared inside.

  CHAPTER 20

  Mrs. Gregory Smythe was in a flutter of delight and nerves at the prospect of such impressive guests wanting to call on her daughter. She had come to greet them in the drawing room, clutching their cards as if they were a lifeline, her eagerness only briefly checked when she realized that the older of her two female guests was not, as she had assumed, Lady Carroway.

  Lily was surprised by the reaction; Ofelia’s marriage the previous month had been in half the papers in London, and most of them had not failed to mention, with varying degrees of emphasis, her young age and foreign background. But not everyone was well acquainted with the affairs and gossip of Mayfair society.

  Mrs. Smythe, however, showed no lack of willingness to expand that acquaintance, and she covered her momentary confusion with a fawning obsequiousness. Lily caught Ofelia’s eye briefly. Though the younger woman’s mouth was set in a polite smile, there was a hint of bitter humor in her expression. But she played her part with aplomb, and Lily was once again impressed with her friend’s easy manner and quick ability to adapt to whatever circumstances she found herself in.

  “We were so charmed by your daughter when we met her the other day in the park.” Ofelia, as she and Lily had planned, omitted both the day, the park, and the nature of their meeting, since it had not actually taken place. But Mrs. Smythe, as they had hoped, was so flattered by the attention that it never occurred to her to interrupt and demand more information. “We could not wait to resume our discussion. I hope you will not think us impertinent for calling without a proper introduction to you, but we were confident you would understand that no offense was intended.”

  “Oh no, no no, no offense indeed!” Mrs. Smythe protested quickly. “So charming indeed, Lady Carroway, Mrs. Adler, so charmed indeed to meet you. And of course …” She trailed off, glancing toward their companion, who bowed but said nothing.

  “Our dear friend, Mr. Page,” Lily said, inclining her head as she made the introduction, her voice a touch more reserved than Ofelia’s.

  Unlike her friend, she didn’t have a title to command instant attention and respect. But she had been informed on more than one occasion that her cool manner could put any number of social climbers in their place, and she deployed it to full effect to keep Mrs. Smythe from asking further about Mr. Page.

  His card had not been sent up with theirs, because the only cards he had were for business. But that didn’t seem to matter to Mrs. Smythe, and she instantly let him know how pleased she was to make his acquaintance.

  “My dear Louisa will be down any moment, and I know she will be delighted with your visit.” Mrs. Smythe leaned forward. “I am sure I display a mother’s partiality to say so, but I am not surprised that you were so pleased with her. Mr. Smythe and I attended most carefully to Louisa’s education. She has none of those forward manners that so many girls display these days. Why”—she tittered a little bit—“I think she could scarcely number ten men among her acquaintance before her marriage, and most of them were friends of her father’s.”

  “How delightfully sheltered an existence,” Ofelia murmured after an uncomfortable pause.

  A quick word with neighbors in the park had told them what to expect when they called: the house belonged to Mr. Preston, a barrister who had recently married. The young bride had come with her mother in tow as part of the marriage settlement, and Mr. Preston now lived with both the new Mrs. Preston and the widowed Mrs. Smythe.

  Lily hadn’t been certain, before they knocked and presented their cards, whether their quarry was the wife or the mother-in-law. But she and Ofelia didn’t even need to look at each other to agree that Mrs. Smythe wasn’t the sort of woman who would encourage a much younger lover to climb a trellis in the middle of the night. The daughter, then, was the one they needed.

  Louisa Preston, when she entered the room, turned out to be an unremarkably pretty girl of perhaps twenty years, dressed in the height of fashion, with a shrewd expression and more polish to her manners than her mother’s behavior had led Lily to expect. Even without Mr. Page’s report on Mrs. Preston’s likely midnight visitor, Lily would have had the impression of a girl who wasn’t nearly as sheltered and innocent as her mother believed.

  She was deferential enough to her mother but sized up her guests with frank confusion when Mrs. Smythe’s back was turned. But either she was too polite to tell them to their faces that she didn’t remember them or she couldn’t find a break in Mrs. Smythe’s eager conversation to point out the error.

  Nearly ten minutes of the fifteen that were acceptable for a morning visit had passed before Ofelia, with a quickly hidden look of resignation, found an excuse to get Mrs. Smythe out of the room. Upon hearing that they had re
cently had a portrait of Mr. Preston painted and hung in the upstairs hall, Ofelia exclaimed with interest that she had been thinking of commissioning just such a thing for Sir Edward as a wedding present.

  “Would it be a terrible imposition, Mrs. Smythe, for me to ask to see it? One does so worry about the style and talent of such things. But you and your daughter seem to have such elegant taste, I am sure I would love to see how Mr. Preston’s portrait turned out.”

  The silence that fell on the room when they had departed was almost a shock, and it took Lily a moment to gather her thoughts. Mr. Page was no help; out of his element, he had done as Lily suggested when they were making plans and retreated behind the newspaper left on the table. It was Lily’s job to broach the topic they wanted to discuss with Mrs. Preston. But while she was still trying to decide how to begin, the girl beat her to it.

  “I would be more flattered by your visit, Mrs. Adler, if we had actually met before. But I have been searching my memory these ten minutes, and I have come to the conclusion that we have never seen each other before today.” There was an edge to her smile. “I do hope you plan to explain, because I cannot account for it.”

  Lily exchanged a glance with Mr. Page, who cleared his throat as he set down his paper. But he still gestured for her to begin. She decided to get right to the point, thinking that Louisa Preston was the sort of person to appreciate bluntness.

  “Your conclusion is correct,” Lily said, keeping her voice low but not whispering, since Mrs. Smythe had closed the door when she left. “We have not met before. Mr. Page is an officer of Bow Street investigating the death of Sir Charles Wyatt.”

  Louisa did not freeze, but a wary stillness came over her, and she darted a quick look at Mr. Page before turning her polite smile back to Lily. “I am not acquainted with that particular family.”

  “Perhaps not with the family,” Mr. Page rumbled, leaning forward and fixing her with a stern eye. “But with one of its members. I believe Mr. Percy Wyatt visits you from time to time, rather late at night, if I am not mistaken?”