How to Romance a Rake (35 page)

Greenshaw was seated behind the desk.

“Ah, my lord,” he said, not looking up from the ledger he was scanning. “I’m glad you were able to come. It’s a foul business this, make no mistake on’t. Lord Turlington was a rough customer, but he died a painful death.”

“I thought you wished me to see the body, Greenshaw.” Alec pushed down his impatience with the investigator’s casual manner. He might have been asleep in his own bed with Juliet if the Bow Street runner hadn’t called for him.

“Yes, I do,” Greenshaw said, finally looking up, and rising. “It will make more sense once you’ve seen him.”

With that cryptic remark, Greenshaw stepped away from the desk and walked over to the shelf-lined wall. Reaching up to a red volume that stuck out just slightly from the shelf, he pressed the spine, and to Alec’s surprise, the shelves swung out to reveal an open passageway.

“Follow me, my lord,” Greenshaw said, not bothering to see if Alec followed him or not.

Shaking his head at the oddity of the man, Alec stepped through the doorway into a damp, stone-lined passage and walked toward the light. He emerged into a large room that had obviously served as an art studio for Turlington, and was greeted by the stench of death. Suppressing a shudder, he avoided looking into the corner that obviously held Turlington’s body, and instead glanced around the room. Though it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimness, he realized that the paintings that lined the walls were unlike any he had ever seen.

All of the paintings were excellently rendered. Clearly the artist—he supposed Turlington—was someone of considerable talent. The colors, the detail, the composition: all of it was as good as anything Alec had ever seen. But it was the subject matter of the art that chilled him. Each canvas depicted women in scenarios similar to those he’d already seen in the work of
Il Maestro.
Only these were more graphic, more disturbing.

The first to catch his eye was a portrait of Ophelia, her body naked and oddly vulnerable in death, her eyes open but lifeless as they gazed from the painting. There was something about the model that he recognized, as if he’d seen her somewhere before, in another context. One after the other, he scanned the artwork lining the walls: Desdemona dead by Othello’s hand; Sappho, her broken body on the rocks; Cleopatra, dead from the bite of the asp. And each of the models was a different woman. There were six paintings in total, with a space near the end of the row which was clearly marked for another.

“What the devil is this?” he demanded of the runner, though he was very nearly sure what the answer would be.

“This,” said Greenshaw dramatically, “is Lord Turlington’s private studio. No one but his lordship’s valet even knew of its existence, and he wouldn’t have told me if he hadn’t been afraid for his own neck. Especially given what happened to his master here tonight.”

“So Turlington is
Il Maestro
?”

At that, the runner sighed. “It seems likely, my lord. Though I’m no judge of art or the like. We’ll have to get someone from the Royal Academy in to say for sure. But at least three of these women in these pictures are dead. And I wouldn’t be surprised if your wife’s Mrs. Turner turns up the same way.”

“How do you know they’re the same women?” Alec demanded, turning from the eerie gaze of the woman guised as Cleopatra.

“I brought in one of the lads who fished one of them out of the Thames and he recognized the others,” the big man said wearily. “The thing is that we might never know who the others are. If Turlington’s main way to get rid of the bodies was to chuck them in the Thames then like as not the river did the work well enough on their faces even their own kin won’t know ’em again.”

Alec’s heart sank. Juliet might never know what had happened to her friend. Still, there might be some clue here in Turlington’s house that would lead them to Mrs. Turner.

As if he heard Alec’s thoughts, Greenshaw gestured to the far corner of the chamber. “I suppose you’ll want to see Turlington now.”

When they reached the scene where Turlington had met his fate, Alec saw at once what Greenshaw had meant by the artist’s manner of death being unpleasant. His head and upper torso visible over the rim of a hip bath, Turlington’s face was contorted into a frozen expression of agony, his hands clasped round his own throat, as if he’d throttled himself. Alec had never made it a practice of studying the various ways in which someone might dispatch themselves, but there had been a housemaid at their country house—probably, in retrospect, one of his father’s cast-off lovers—who had killed herself by taking rat poison, and she too had fallen into the sort of rictus Turlington exhibited.

“Did he die by his own hand?” he asked Greenshaw, noting the crystal decanter on the floor beside the tub, and the empty tumbler which had rolled away, spilling some of its contents onto the floor. But even as he spoke he knew it was unlikely. “It’s hard to imagine a man choosing to die such an obviously painful death.”

“Aye, it does seem an odd choice,” the investigator agreed. “Especially when you take into account the note we found with him.”

Alec turned to look at the man. “What note?”

Going to the mantelpiece, Greenshaw took down a marker, the sort that was used to display the title and artists of a particular work of art. In fact, it was much like the markers in Turlington’s horrible gallery downstairs.

Alec took it from the runner’s proffered hand.

A FALLEN MAN, FOUND DROWNED
the placard read. But it was the artist’s name that caught his attention. And the handwriting, which he knew so well from the letters he and Juliet had seen on their wedding journey, sent a chill down his spine.

LA MAESTRA.

Which in Italian translated to “the schoolmistress.”

“This is Anna Turner’s handwriting,” Alec said.

“Aye,” Greenshaw said. “I thought it might be. I’m afraid I’ve got no good news for you on that front.”

“She staged her own disappearance then?” Alec had been suspecting something of the like for some time now. But he hadn’t connected the dots between Anna Turner and Lord Turlington. His gut tightened as he thought what the news would do to Juliet.

“It looks likely, my lord.” Greenshaw’s homely face took on a hangdog expression.

“But what is her connection to Turlington?” Alec demanded. “Is he the father of her child?”

“I can’t be sure. But what I do know is that Lord Turlington and Mrs. Turner have known each other for some time. Going back to her youth in some village in Kent.”

“Little Wittington?”

“Aye, that’s the one.” Greenshaw nodded. “Seems Lord Turlington spent the summers with his uncle, a country squire by the name of Ramsey. And Mrs. Turner’s father was the local vicar.”

Alec remembered the tale that Signor Boccardo had told him and Juliet. “So Turlington and Mrs. Turner met again in London? And began a romance?”

“I think it more likely that Lord Turlington was holding a past indiscretion over the lady’s head.”

“Yes,” Alec confirmed. “He would have known about her fall from grace at his cousin’s hands.”

“Whatever it was, she was afraid enough of it getting out that she was willing to do anything to stop him from revealing it,” Greenshaw said.

“So Turlington is Alice’s father?” Alec asked.

“I think it likely,” the other man said. “Of course, we have no way of knowing what hand she had in these paintings. Did she help him lure these women to his studio? Did she help him do away with them? Who knows. There’s no way of knowing for sure until we find Mrs. Turner and ask her.”

And that, Alec knew, had just become more important than ever.

“I would suggest, my lord, that you not tell your lady about this just yet,” Greenshaw said, his brow furrowed with worry. “For her own protection.”

Thinking of how devastated Juliet would be to learn of her friend’s perfidy, Alec silently agreed. He would put off the moment when she learned of Mrs. Turner’s crimes for as long as he could. She deserved that much peace, at least.

*   *   *

When Alec had returned the night before, Juliet had been fast asleep, despite her attempts to stay awake. Then, to her frustration, he had risen earlier than usual, leaving her with a kiss and a promise to recount his meeting with Greenshaw as soon as he returned that evening.

She wanted to know whether there had been anything about Turlington’s death that pointed toward Anna’s whereabouts, but if there had been she knew Alec would have told her.

What had begun as a relationship based upon his desire to protect her from her mother and marriage to Turlington had developed into a marriage the likes of which she’d never dreamed of having. He was everything she could have wished for, if she had ever dared to dream of such a thing as a happy marriage. Not only was he a thoughtful and passionate lover, he had proved to her again and again that her infirmity was for him simply another facet of her, not something to be ashamed of. And with his help, she was coming to feel the same way. Oh, she still had her days of frustration at her inability to simply walk on her own, but no longer did she see herself as the flawed creature who had been bullied into living a lie by her mother.

Her one regret was that she could not share her happiness with Anna. Knowing just the sort of difficulties her friend had endured when she’d been seduced and discarded by Alice’s father, she wanted to prove to her friend that not all men were callous blackguards. She even hoped that one day Anna would be able to settle down with Mr. MacEwan. That she could love him as Juliet loved Alec.

The truth of her feelings for him had only dawned, ironically, when he was nowhere to be found, she thought as she buttered her toast at the solitary breakfast table. Her sisters-in-law had already eaten and departed for a visit to Hatchard’s, leaving Juliet alone with her tea and her thoughts.

Idly she sorted through the stack of invitations that had arrived that morning, no doubt as a result of her success last evening at the theatre. She made a mental note to send a thank-you note to Admiral Frye that afternoon.

Though she would much prefer to stay home tonight, she had set aside the three gatherings she thought Alec and his sisters might prefer when Hamilton entered the breakfast room with yet another missive.

“My lady, this just arrived,” he said, offering the letter to her on the customary salver.

Taking up the note, Juliet bit back a cry of relief as she recognized the handwriting.

“Thank you, Hamilton,” she said, “that will be all.”

When the butler had gone, Juliet hastily opened the note but was disappointed to see only a few lines.

The Sydenhams’ masked ball. Tonight. The portrait gallery. Eight o’clock. Tell no one. Please.

Your dear friend, Anna Turner

*   *   *

“Will I do?” Juliet asked her cousins as she performed a small twirl so that they could see her costume in all its glory.

“You are magnificent,” Cecily breathed, her own gown marking her as an Amazon warrior princess. “Though I must say I’m a trifle jealous that you are attired as the most famous Egyptian of them all. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it.”

“You’ve wished to be an Amazon princess since we were in the nursery, so do not try to cozen us,” Maddie said with a dismissive wave of her hand. She herself wore the wide panniers and tall powdered wig of a lady of the previous century.

Though Anna’s note had warned her to tell no one about the proposed meeting at the Sydenhams’ ball, Juliet had seen nothing wrong with requesting her cousins to accompany her to the entertainment. She could hardly go unaccompanied, and inviting them along had not necessitated her telling them her reason for wishing to attend the party upon such short notice.

She had hoped to bring Alec, but he’d sent a note that afternoon informing her that he’d be dining with Winterson and Monteith at his club, so she had decided to make the evening a Ducklings’ night out. Always ready for an entertainment that involved costumes, Cecily and Maddie had accepted her invitation with alacrity.

“Do you think anyone will guess that the asp curled round my staff is really a walking stick?” Juliet asked, nervously adjusting her wig. “I don’t want anyone to guess it’s me.”

“No, it’s perfect,” Maddie assured her, “after all, you can hardly be Cleopatra after the asp has bitten her. That would be gruesome.”

Juliet agreed, especially in light of the ghastly
Il Maestro
paintings they’d been forced to view in the search for Anna. Hopefully tonight’s meeting would put an end to that search. And now that Turlington, who must surely have been
Il Maestro
, was dead, perhaps there would be no more of those horrid paintings either.

“We had best depart.” Juliet pulled on her gloves. “The Sydenhams’ ball is always a crush, so I have no doubt we’ll spend more time than I would like simply waiting in the carriage to get to the door.”

As it happened Juliet’s prediction that the carriage line would be a long one proved correct. It was nearly eight when she made her way through the costumed throngs dancing and chattering in the Sydenhams’ lushly decorated ballroom. Pushing past a satyr who seemed intent upon luring her into a secluded alcove, and a Roman centurion who claimed to know her from their previous acquaintance in an earlier century, she was nearly out of breath when she finally slipped into the gallery Anna had indicated.

Though the party was crowded, no amorous couples had yet sought out the wide room that ran the full length of the house for assignations yet, much to Juliet’s relief. She had no idea just what sort of trauma Anna had endured during her disappearance, and her friend would doubtless prefer privacy to relate her story.

A little disappointed not to find her friend already there, she stepped farther into the gallery and made a desultory review of the Sydenham ancestors lining the walls as she waited. She was examining a compatriot of Henry VIII when a Grecian lady, complete with laurel threaded through her dark hair, entered. The mask she held to her face obscured her identity, but Juliet knew in a glance that it was Anna.