Alyssa Everett (9 page)

“So, Ben,” my father concluded, “I suppose I’ll just have to trust that you know what you’re doing.”

I blinked in astonishment. Had I just heard correctly? He wasn’t going to insist I quit the investigation? “But I thought... I was sure...” At his questioning look, I let the fumbled sentence die. “I mean, thank you, Father.”

I could have sworn he smiled, though only for an instant. “But I agree there’s no need to worry your mother. When I go inside, I expect you to wait in the carriage until I’ve had sufficient time to ensure she’s otherwise occupied. You’re then to go directly up to your room and have your valet look at that head of yours, and you’re not to come downstairs until you’re sure you can pass your mother’s scrutiny without sending her into a swoon. Understood?”

“Understood.”

“Good.” He gathered up his ebony walking stick as a liveried footman opened the carriage door. Preparing to exit, he paused to look me in the eye. “And the next time someone takes a notion to shoot at you, for pity’s sake, boy, have the presence of mind to duck.”

Chapter Eight

Barbara

It was an unusually dull dinner. Our dinners were always dull, of course, but since a man had been murdered in our house only twenty-four hours before, I’d been fool enough to suppose someone would have the respect to mention it.

Instead, Papa peered across the dinner table at Helen. Tonight she looked particularly angelic in a gown of celestial blue, with matching ribbons threaded through her golden hair. To see her, one would never guess she was at the center of a blackmail scheme and had been the indirect cause of a man’s murder. “So, did Cliburne call this afternoon?”

She gave him a wan smile. “Not yet, Papa, but Teddy is escorting Mama and me to the theater this evening.”

“We thought that was public enough to show everyone we have nothing to hide, but commonplace enough to avoid fueling gossip,” Mama said quickly.

Papa considered. “Not a bad idea.”

As usual, Mama had been holding her breath, awaiting my father’s verdict. When Papa wasn’t happy, he saw to it that no one else was happy, either. Now she relaxed, trading relieved looks with Helen.

“You’re quieter than usual tonight, Barbara.” My father speared his veal terrine with his fork. “You’ve hardly said a word since we sat down to dinner.”

Papa was right. I’d been staring at my plate, lost in thought. In fact, I’d hardly said a word all day, at least not since Ben had disappeared over the garden gate. It was odd—while I’d been at Ben’s side, I’d remained tolerably calm, but he’d no sooner taken his leave than a nervous reaction set in, and I’d begun to tremble all over.

I must have hidden it badly too, for after returning from the garden I’d drifted past the footman posted at the front door. Frye had immediately rushed to my side. “My lady! What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Despite my attempt to sound nonchalant, there was a betraying quaver in my voice.

“Are you sure, my lady? I thought I heard a shot—”

“I’m sure. Everything’s fine.”

Then I’d made myself start walking before I could begin to babble excuses, anxious blather about meaningless noises and Manton’s shooting gallery and rackety neighbors. Frye had stared after me as I climbed the stairs, my knees like jelly under me. Once in the safety of my room, I’d sunk down on my bed, quaking from head to toe.

Of course, I could hardly tell my father I’d been shaken by a murder attempt on the strapping young Adonis I’d smuggled up to my bedroom that afternoon. “I’m simply a little tired, Papa. I barely slept last night, thinking about what happened to the Woodfords’ footman.”

“And thinking of Lord Beningbrough?” Helen asked on a teasing note.

Conveniently ignoring for the moment that Ben
had
been on my mind, I told myself it was just the kind of shallow, empty-headed comment Helen was forever making. Had she forgotten altogether that a man had been murdered under our roof? But I’d promised myself to be more patient with her, so I answered evenly, “I was thinking of everything that’s happened lately.”

“What an ill-mannered lout that Beningbrough fellow is,” Papa said. “But then, I’d expect no different from Ormesby’s son. In fact, it’s a wonder he didn’t turn out even worse than he did. Eleanor, your mother was friendly with Ormesby, wasn’t she?”

“I believe so.” Mama’s shoulders slumped. Papa never had a good word to say about Grandmama Merton. They’d been opposites in every way—character, temperament, background—and rivals for Mama’s time and attention as well. Anything that called Grandmama to mind met with Papa’s instant condemnation. Since everyone said I took after my grandmother, unfortunately that included me.

Sure enough, Papa’s face assumed a look of glowering disapproval. “I thought so, and it only goes to show that Ormesby has the morals of a back-alley bawd. Did you know he had the gall to ask for my support on the Divorce Bills Evidence Act? The day I shake that degenerate’s hand will be the day—”

“Not in front of the girls, William, please,” Mama begged.

Papa glanced at Helen and me as if he’d forgotten we were there. “Oh, yes. Sorry, girls.”

I could have told him not to worry, for we already knew the duke was a sodomite. But I held my tongue, since I feared any further mention of the Duke of Ormesby would only encourage one of Papa’s angry tirades, either the one about how Grandmama Merton had consorted with nothing but foreigners and whores or the one about how the Whigs were sending the country to hell in a handbasket.

“Barbara likes Beningbrough,” Helen said out of the blue. “I can tell from the way she was looking at him yesterday.”

I sat up, ramrod-straight. “If I was looking at him strangely, it’s only because of the outlandish things he was saying.”

“Quite right, Barbara.” Papa gave me that rarest of rarities, a genuine look of approval. “You may have more of vinegar than honey about you, but at least we don’t have to worry about your ending up with every ill-mannered young buck that darkens our door.”

“Thank you, Papa,” I said dryly.

He chuckled to himself. “Really, can you imagine Barbara and Beningbrough making a match of it?” He looked to Mama and let out a guffaw. “They’d be at each other’s throats—a regular Punch and Judy show!”

“I’d rather not imagine it.” Mama’s face assumed the browbeaten expression she wore whenever her opinion differed in any particular from Papa’s. “The only thing worse than worrying that Barbara will end up an old maid is worrying that she’ll end up with an unfeeling creature like Beningbrough. I’m convinced he put Cliburne up to coming here yesterday with that horrid rumor about Helen, and before we knew it, we had a dead body on our hands.”

“It’s not Beningbrough’s fault the footman was killed,” I said. “He’s really not that bad.”

“I think he’s terribly handsome,” Helen chimed in, and for once, I was grateful to have a sister who was shallow.

“Now, now, there’s no point worrying Barbara is going to end up with Beningbrough,” Papa assured my mother. “For one thing, I wouldn’t sanction such a match, what with his father being...the way he is, and for another—”

“You can’t forbid me to marry, Papa. I’m over twenty-one.”

“—and for another,” my father continued, glaring at me, “a Corinthian like Beningbrough would have to be mad to take an interest in an impudent chit like Barbara when he could have any number of respectful, obedient girls.”

I looked down at my asparagus. How very flattering.

Only the end of the meal brought a close to the lowering comments about the impossibility of my attracting a man. When Papa lit up his pipe and Mama and Helen headed upstairs to prepare for their evening at the theater, I trooped alone to the drawing room, where I discovered a maid still laying the fire.

She glanced up with an apologetic smile. “Oh, excuse me, my lady. I’ll be done in a trice.”

“Take your time.” I settled myself on the sofa and reached for my sewing basket.

The maid finished and started with a bob for the door. At the last moment she turned back. “I near forgot, my lady. I found something I thought might be important after that dreadful murder last night—”

I looked up with a stab of alarm. Ben’s blood now spattered the garden. Had she seen it? What if she’d put two and two together and realized the bloodstains were related to the shot Frye had heard? How on earth would I explain myself? I’d had Ben alone in my bedroom!

But she simply reached into the pocket of her apron and pulled out a little brown notebook, no bigger than her palm. “This was under the chest in the hall, my lady, the one with the curved front. I thought it might belong to one of the gentlemen who was here last night, like that magistrate’s man or the one from Bow Street.”

I nearly sagged with relief to discover her concern had nothing to do with Ben. “Thank you...Webber, is it?” I took the notebook. “I’ll see it’s returned to its rightful owner.”

She gave another bob. “Very good, my lady.”

As she let herself out, I opened the little leather-covered book. My heart skipped.
Sam Garvey
was inscribed in black ink on the front leaf.

The notebook had belonged to the murder victim.

I thumbed rapidly through the pages. A fleeting hope that Sam’s writing would match the lettering in the blackmail notes quickly withered to nothing, for the dead man’s hand was much straighter and more cramped.

But as I studied the entries, my excitement grew. Apparently Sam had been keeping a record of his accounts. Over the past month, three separate entries read
Payment from M
, with the amount £
24 15s
recorded beside the words. It was a huge sum for a humble footman, and together, the payments had to total at least twice his yearly wage.

I turned to the final entry before the pages went blank:
Meet with M.
8:15.

Eight-fifteen—approximately the same time Helen left the dining room the night before. Could she be the mysterious M? Perhaps the payments were merely the hush money she’d asked Sam to deliver for her.

But the blackmail notes had asked for fifty pounds, slightly more than twice the sum Sam had recorded, and Sam had clearly kept the payments of £24 15s for himself. The amounts had been figured into a running total along with the quarterly payment of his salary. Besides, Helen’s name didn’t start with an
M.
Strictly speaking, she wasn’t even a
Miss.

I stared down at the little notebook, racking my brain in an attempt to puzzle out who Sam’s mysterious M might be. I could rule out Cliburne. Neither his title nor his Christian name began with the right initial. In fact, I could think of only one
M
involved in Helen’s troubles—John Mainsforth.

Could the entries in the notebook refer to him? If so, why would John Mainsforth have paid a footman like Sam such a large amount?

Unless, of course, he and Sam Garvey had been working together to blackmail Helen.

Ben

My father rarely dined at home. More often than not he spent the evening out—“at his club” was the way my mother and I referred to it, never mind that I’d stopped at his club more than once with friends and he hadn’t been there.

But he was staying in tonight, dining with us. When I came downstairs he was talking with my mother, looking every bit the model husband and father. The two of them were laughing together over a shared memory, apparently some scrape I’d landed in when I was a small boy. My father glanced my way, and I knew he was checking to see whether I’d managed to make myself presentable.

I expected to pass muster. I’d given my valet a free hand with my appearance, and though I’d hated every minute of his fussing over me, at least my hair hid the gash in my forehead without looking too outré. In an effort to distract my mother, I’d even submitted to wearing real evening clothes and having my cravat tied in one of those finicking styles that flattered men like my cousin John but never failed to make me feel that I stuck out like a sore thumb.

My mother caught sight of me. Her eyes lit up, as they always did when she realized I’d be staying home for dinner. “Ben! Oh, isn’t this a wonderful surprise—both my handsome men, dining in with me tonight.”

“Is anyone joining us?” Typically, dining with my mother meant sharing a table with one of her particular gentleman friends. My mother was still an attractive woman, and even if my father had lost interest, other men were not so remiss.

She had the grace to blush. “My old friend Major Whiting was planning to come, but as soon as I learned your father would be joining me, I sent the major a message straightaway, canceling our appointment. It’s so much more agreeable dining
en famille
, don’t you think?”

“Vastly more agreeable,” I agreed in a tone fairly dripping with irony.

My father threw me an admonishing look, but fortunately my mother hadn’t noticed the sarcasm. “And don’t you look fine tonight.” She stepped back to drink in my appearance. “Doesn’t he, Richard? It’s such a welcome change when he takes a few minutes to smarten up. I’m always telling him that, that he’s far too handsome to go about looking as if he slept in a barn.”

“He looks very fine indeed,” my father agreed.

She beamed at me. “But when did you come in, Ben, dear? I thought you were still at Daventry House. In fact, I was beginning to worry about you.”

“I gave Ben a ride home,” my father said smoothly before I could answer. “You must have missed his return while I was telling you about that letter I had from Greybridge.”

To hear his reply, one would never suspect we were hiding something. At least this time the dishonesty was entirely for my mother’s sake. She wouldn’t sleep for a week if she knew I’d been shot. Sometimes, as Barbara had astutely pointed out that afternoon, secrecy had as much to do with caring as with cowardice.

Surprised at the notion, I glanced across at my father. I’d never before stopped to wonder whether he might have an unselfish motive for any of his dissembling and half-truths. Might there even be something honorable in his maintaining the pretense we were a normal, happy family?

I frowned. How could there be, when he was the whole reason we
weren’t
normal or happy?

Before I could puzzle over the question any further, my mother gave my arm an affectionate pat. “I can’t tell you how delighted I am to hear that you and your father spent the afternoon together. Sometimes it seems you barely see each other these days. When you were a boy, the two of you were practically inseparable.”

“We weren’t as close as all that.”

“But of course you were. You even used to sit under your father’s desk and play with your tin soldiers while he worked. Didn’t he, Richard?”

My father broke into a faint, nostalgic smile. “His tin soldiers and Golliard.”

“Golliard...” My mother gave a trill of laughter. “I’d nearly forgotten about him. Do you remember, Ben? He was the imaginary friend who lived in a tree outside your window.”

I wished she wouldn’t dredge up these embarrassing tales from my boyhood. “I never had an imaginary friend.”

“But of course you did. It was back when you were six or so. You even insisted we set a place for him at the table when the family dined together.”