Liz Carlyle - [Lorimer Family & Clan Cameron 02] (26 page)

MacLeod sighed and beckoned the man into the room. The footman’s choice of salons was telling; the yellow room was reserved for visitors who were less than quality but more than servants. He lifted the card from the salver and peered at it, then flicked a glance at Zoë. “Didna he state his business, man?” asked MacLeod, bristling.

The footman shook his head. “No, sir. But we ’eard some ter’ble rumors belowstairs this morning.” MacLeod looked uneasily down at Zoë’s chestnut curls and saw that the child was humming softly and nibbling on her cake. “Mayhap ’tis about that,” concluded the footman.

“Perhaps,” agreed MacLeod with a blunt nod, “but idle jabber it is, to be sure. Show young miss back up tae Trudy. And fetch Gerald Wilson at once.”

Zoë initiated a long wail of disappointment, then, apparently catching the look on MacLeod’s somber face, ceased abruptly.

“Hie off wi’ye now,” he said affectionately, standing up and lifting her out of her chair. “ ’Tis wearing late, lass, and time tea was o’er.”

Gerald Wilson had bolted up the stairs to answer MacLeod’s rather extraordinary command. It was not every day that the second footman came hurrying into the study with a message ordering him to report directly to the butler, but given MacLeod’s standing in the Armstrong household, Wilson proffered no argument.

“A Bow Street runner?” he echoed, still gasping for breath. “I say, MacLeod! I cannot think that—what I mean to say is—do you think we ought? I mean, what if his lordship doesn’t appreciate our intrusion?”

MacLeod looked at Rannoch’s man of affairs and pulled a scowling face. “Gude Lord, man. Just take yerself aboon and see what he knows—and tell him naught! ’Tis no aften a runner comes calling, and he’ll no be leaving ’til someone sees tae him, ye may be sure.”

Wilson slumped in his chair and nodded. Dejectedly, he studied the calling card. What now, he wondered? His duties on behalf of the marquis of Rannoch had seemed far less sordid of late, but a murder! That must be what brought the runners down upon Strath House. Wilson felt his palms begin to sweat. For days, the servants had been whispering about the death of Lord Cranham, but that spurious rascal still clung tenaciously to life. The news of a death, when at last it had come, was instead a shock.

“And you are sure that Miss Fontaine is dead?” Wilson asked, dropping the card back onto the tray.

“Aye,” answered the old butler grimly. “Nigh the dockyards the poor lass was. Strangled—’tis what the tweeny heard. Kemble’s off tae see what he may learn, but a runner, och! And here sae quick . . . ” MacLeod shook his silver head, and the weariness suddenly showed. “I dinna quite know what tae do.”

“I’ll get rid of him,” answered Wilson abruptly, with a confidence he did not feel.

He left the butler’s sitting room and moved swiftly back downstairs to the formal rooms of Strath House. He entered the yellow salon to see a fair-haired man standing by the window that overlooked the rear gardens. Mr. Albert Jones, still holding his hat in his hands, turned to face him. Jones was a stocky, broad-shouldered man with a flattened nose—evidence, no doubt, of a hard life. His face, however, was otherwise pleasant, and he looked almost as hesitant as Wilson felt.

After brief introductions, Wilson invited him to take a seat, explaining that his master was traveling in the country and that the date of his return was unknown. In carefully measured tones, the runner confirmed that he was pursuing routine inquiries regarding the death of Antoinette Fontaine, a well-known actress. Miss Fontaine, or Miss Tanner, as she was legally known, had been found four days earlier in an abandoned shed near the dockyards.

When the details were complete, Wilson inhaled a long, deep breath and adjusted his pince-nez a little higher on his nose. “Mr. Jones,” he began calmly, “I can assure you, sir, that we were all greatly disturbed by this vicious murder, but I cannot see how I may be of help.”

The caller cleared his throat. “Mr. Wilson, we know that your employer had a past relationship with Miss Fontaine. Could you tell us if he remained on—er—good terms with her?”

Wilson looked at him archly. “Yes, so far as I know. I cannot think why he would not have done, but that is a question you must ask of his lordship.”

A smile played at Mr. Jones’s mouth, but his eyes were impenetrable. “As it happens, that was my intent, but it seems he is often in the country of late.” When Wilson made no reply, he continued in a blunter tone of voice. “Your employer no longer supported Miss Fontaine, I believe?”

Wilson crooked one brow stiffly. “I could not say, sir.”

Jones sighed. “I understand. Though I suspect you handle most of his funds and know perfectly well that he had not done so for some time.” Wilson merely looked at him for a long, expectant moment, and Jones was compelled to continue. “Yet Miss Fontaine continued to live affluently. Indeed, her financial circumstances seemed much improved.”

“I would not know, sir. We are all, however, exceedingly sorry that she is dead.”

“Yes, indeed. As is her family.”

“Family?”

“Yes, her father died in the spring, and the mother just closed their tavern in Essex. There’s a sister in Mayfair, a quiet woman in service as a housekeeper, I collect.”

Wilson could not help but smile. “Nothing like her sister, I daresay?”

The runner shook his head ruefully. “No, nothing like, I’m afraid.” He reached deep inside his coat pocket and pulled forth a bundle of black velvet. Gently, he laid it across his knee and unrolled the fabric to reveal an ornate gold necklace set with flaming rubies. Wilson felt sick as the runner spoke. “Sir, I must ask, have you seen this before?”

Wilson swallowed hard again and felt the blood drain from his face. Fleetingly, he considered lying, but this particular bit of jewelry was far too easily identified. And this—well, damn it, this was
murder
. Not even for Rannoch, as much as he was beginning to like the man, would he lie. He drew a deep breath. “Yes, I believe that belonged to Miss Fontaine.”

The runner looked at him with polite curiosity. “You knew her well, I take it?”

Wilson licked his lips uncertainly. “Ah, no. I had not the pleasure.”

“Yet you recognize her jewelry?”

Wilson nodded stiffly. “That particular piece was a Christmas gift from his lordship. I, er, picked it up from the jeweler’s myself. Of course, I might be mistaken.”

“Are you mistaken?” Jones’s voice was crisp.

“No,” said Wilson weakly. “No, I fancy not.” He paused for a moment, very much aware that the runner’s eyes were watching his every twitch. “As it happens, the necklace was part of a set. There should have been . . . that is to say, did you find a matching bracelet?”

“No.” The runner shook his head slowly. “No, there was no bracelet.”

Wilson looked at him hopefully. “I daresay it was stolen. The thief—the murderer—he must have taken it.”

“I don’t believe that was the case, Mr. Wilson. Robbery was not a motive. After all, the killer left this necklace behind.”

Wilson’s hope for an easy answer began to fade, but he grasped at a straw. “Perhaps he—he missed it. Perhaps it was late at night and very dark. He may have been overheard and forced to flee before . . . ”

Wilson’s words trailed away as Albert Jones gently shook his head. “No, Mr. Wilson. The killer definitely did not overlook this necklace. Quite to the contrary, he wrapped it very deliberately around her throat, then choked her to death with it.”

A wave of nausea came out of nowhere, making the room swim unsteadily before Wilson’s eyes. His face was suffused with heat, and the air seemed suddenly close.
Strangled
. With the very necklace he had bought. And the marquis had given her. It was too horrible. What was worse still, he, Gerald Wilson, had just helped to incriminate his employer, the all-powerful and unforgiving Lord Rannoch.

“I—I am sorry,” he stammered uncertainly, “but you have made an erroneous assumption, Mr. Jones. The marquis of Rannoch would never harm anyone.”

The runner looked bemused. “I daresay you are leaping to conclusions I have not yet drawn, Mr. Wilson. Nevertheless, your employer’s reputation, I regret to say, does precede him.” Wilson began to protest vehemently, but Jones held up his palm. “Say no more, sir. Bow Street is hardly stupid enough to accuse a peer of murder without ironclad evidence. But his lordship is sometimes known to be, shall we say, vindictive.”

Wilson shook his head firmly. “No, I could not agree. He isn’t like that. Not now. I cannot say what he may have been like in his youth, but he is a good and generous employer. And fair. Yes, more than fair.” That, Wilson decided, was essentially true. He had been good, generous, and fair. Lately.

Jones made no response as Wilson wrestled with his conscience. Instead, he reached into his coat pocket again and withdrew a folded card of heavy vellum which had once been sealed with black wax. “Mr. Wilson, do you by chance recognize this paper or this seal?”

Wilson took the card and examined it. Though the wax had been slit, there was no mistaking the Armstrong crest. He returned it to Jones, noticing as he did so that his hand was shaking. The sick feeling grew stronger. “Yes, that is his lordship’s seal. I cannot be certain of the writing paper.”

Jones flicked the vellum open with one deft motion of his fingers and held it before Wilson’s eyes. “And would you say, sir, that this is your employer’s handwriting?”

Wilson scanned the note and swallowed. Rannoch’s bold, heavy-handed scrawl was unique, especially when his lordship was in a temper, as he no doubt had been when he penned the eight little words that now danced before Wilson’s eyes:

Make no mistake, Antoinette, this is the end
.

Wilson dropped his gaze from the note and stared at his feet, stalling for time, trying to think of something that might mitigate the damage.

“Well?”

“It would appear to be his penmanship, yes.”

“Thank you, Mr. Wilson.” The runner rose from his chair. With a troubled mind, Wilson stood up and followed him through the door.

“Please tell his lordship that I may need to speak wit him personally,” added Jones as they started down the stairs. “And tell him something else, if you would?”

“Certainly,” agreed Wilson, turning to glance at him.

“Tell him that his friend Lord Cranham has made a miraculous recovery. It seems the devil does indeed look after his own.”

They had arrived at the front door, which Wilson held open as the runner took his leave. “Certainly, Mr. Jones,” he replied, now having regained a little of his aplomb. “But if you don’t mind my giving you a word of advice?”

“No, not at all,” answered the runner, looking rather intrigued. “We can always use a little help in Bow Street.”

Wilson forced down his nausea and dredged up what little haughtiness he possessed. “Try barking up Lord Cranham’s tree, sir, and see what comes crawling down. You might be surprised to find that there are others with a motive for murder. He and Miss Fontaine had been keeping company of late, I believe.”

Albert Jones merely nodded, shoved his hat down hard on his head, and stepped out onto the marble steps. He turned back to face Wilson. “I can assure you, sir,” he answered with perfect calm, “that the fact had not been lost on me. Of course, there is a question about the timing, Lord Cranham having been somewhat indisposed. Unfortunately for me, the uncertainty about precisely when the murder occurred makes almost anyone suspect.”

Wilson nodded stiffly. “Thank you, at least, for keeping an open mind.”

“You are quite welcome,” replied the runner. Then he turned and went down the sweeping marble steps at a fast clip.

Elliot prepared for dinner in great haste. He was anxious to speak with Evangeline again, to reassure himself that all was well, though they had parted company less than two hours earlier. The memory of her kiss still burned on his lips. Something, he realized, had to give. Something had to be resolved, or he would soon go mad with fear. Or worry. Or unslaked lust. At this point, Elliot hardly knew which volatile emotion was most apt to drive him over the edge first. But for the moment, simply seeing Evie might suffice, and so he dressed with great care in another simple but serviceable coat and trousers, which Kemble had reluctantly provided, then tied his own cravat in an ordinary style. There was nothing, he later realized, to portend the discomfort his manner of dress would shortly bring.

Dashing down the steps and past the drawing room, he caught sight of Evangeline standing by the pianoforte. She was formally dressed in a stunning new gown of sapphire silk shot with gold, cut fashionably low. It looked as though Winnie Weyden had been conspiring with the dressmaker on Evie’s behalf. Elliot moved toward the wide double doors and was taken aback to see that she was not alone.

“Ah, Mr. Roberts!” she cried out, sounding far more strident than usual. “Do come in. There is someone here I should like you to meet.”

Struggling to remember that only hours earlier she had felt warm and pliant in his arms, Elliot watched in the tense silence as Evangeline moved toward him with constrained, prim motions. He stepped fully into Chatham’s drawing room to take in the elegant, almost foppish gentleman, dressed in Continental fashion, who stood by the cold hearth, one expensively shod foot set high on the brass fender. Elliot knew instinctively that the man was not English. Tall, lithe, and exceedingly handsome, the foreigner put Elliot very much in mind of Linden, though even the dandified viscount had never dressed so well. Uncomfortably aware of his own plain attire, Elliot could not but despise the newcomer on sight.