Meet Me at Midnight (25 page)

“I have an idea,” Marley said, grinning. “They’ve just opened a new monkey cage at the zoo. Come with me to see it, and I’ll purchase you a lemon ice.”

“Oh, I couldn’t,” she stammered, her cheeks warm. She’d wanted a chance encounter, not an entire afternoon spent with the man her husband most suspected.

“Nonsense,” he drawled, taking her arm. “I’ve heard that one of the monkeys bears a striking resemblance to Prinny.” When she hesitated, he smiled more broadly and twitched at her skirt. “Come on, Vixen. You’re not married to a bishop. It’ll be fun.”

She wasn’t married to a bishop, by any means, but Sinclair barely trusted her as it was. If she offended Marley or turned him down, though, she’d likely never be able to manage a private conversation with him again. “All right.” She allowed him to lead her to his carriage. “But I can’t stay long.”

If he hadn’t driven up in the open phaeton, she wouldn’t have gone anywhere with him. She’d done it before, of course, ridden off with Marley to meet up with their friends at Vauxhall or some ball or other. In fact, her escapades with the viscount had been the reason her parents had kept her housebound until the Franton ball. But today, as they clattered down the street, she kept seeing the dark patch of carpet in the office. Victoria had never been an idiot about taking chances, and hopefully she wasn’t being one now.

“I’ve heard that Lady Franton now begins every conversation with, ‘Well, you know, the catastrophe happened in my very garden,’” he drawled.

“So it’s ‘the catastrophe,’ is it?” she said, unsurprised. Her own perspective had altered over the past few weeks.

“For the entire male population of Mayfair, it’s a catastrophe,” he replied, glancing away from the busy street to look at her. “For me, it is.”

Victoria forced a smile. “We both know my reckless
ways couldn’t have continued much longer. My parents would have bustled me off to a nunnery.”

“If you’d lasted until you reached your inheritance, you could have carried on however you wanted for the rest of your life.”

“But it would have gotten dull, don’t you think?”

Marley shrugged. “We always had fun.”

For her, most of the mindless meandering had ceased to be fun a long time ago. He didn’t need to know that, though. It certainly wouldn’t do any good—and the friendlier they were, the more likely he was to talk to her. “Yes, we did.”

He chuckled. “Do you remember when Lord Edward and I stole those fireworks from the stash at Vauxhall?”

“Yes. You two nearly burned down the Tower Bridge trying to set the silly things off.”

Without warning, Marley leaned across and kissed her. Victoria jumped, clutching her hands together to fight the urge to push him away. “Marley!” She sent up a quick prayer that no one had been looking in their direction. “I’m married!”

“That doesn’t have to change anything,” he said in a low, urgent voice quite unlike his usual drawling tone. “Your damned husband’s probably doing the same thing somewhere else right now. I heard Sophie L’Anjou was his mistress in Paris. How odd that she would come to London so soon after he arrived. Do you really think that’s a coincidence?”

The coincidence hadn’t even occurred to her until he mentioned it. But she didn’t believe it for a moment. Sin would never do such a thing. “Oh, my, do you think so?” she asked anyway. This must be another of the compromises of conscience her husband
had mentioned. Compromising her new feelings about Sinclair, though, was even more difficult than luring her friends in for interrogation.

“I wouldn’t put it past him. You have to look out for your own interests, Vix. You used to like it when I kissed you, and that was only a few weeks ago. It doesn’t have to change.”

It had already changed. She didn’t want anyone but Sinclair to kiss her or to hold her. He was the one who made her pulse fly. More importantly, he was the only man who seemed to like the person she liked to be.

“I don’t know,” she hedged. “Perhaps it might make a difference if you could tell me why you dislike Althorpe so much.”

Marley gave a bitter laugh. “You mean besides the fact that he stole you away?”

“You didn’t like him that night at the Frantons’, and that was before any of this…mess happened.”

He frowned. “It’s not something you’d be interested in.”

Victoria’s heart lurched. The Vixen he knew wouldn’t be overly suspicious, and neither would she be afraid of Marley, so before she could think better of it, she whacked him on the arm. “Of course I’m interested. I’m living in the same house with him, and you’re my dearest friend. I value your opinion.”

Flattering Marley had always been easy, though in the past she’d thought of it as humoring him to avoid any sticky conflicts and arguments. Now, though, she recognized it for what it was—her way of persuading him to do exactly what she wanted with as little fuss as possible.

And it worked as well as it always did. “I wish you’d valued my opinion enough not to go off dancing
with him in the first place,” he said, edging closer to her on the narrow seat.

“I’ll listen to you the next time,” she promised.

“You mean there’ll be a next time, Vix?”

“That depends on how good your reasons for my avoiding Althorpe are.” She was amazed her voice even remained steady, much less that it sounded amused and natural.

“I don’t trust him,” Marley said flatly. “His brother cuts him off, yet he manages to live well enough in France that he doesn’t bother returning home when he inherits a sizeable fortune—not for two years.”

“He was cut off?”

The viscount nodded. “Everyone knows. Althorpe—the former Althorpe—wanted to purchase him a commission in the army. Sin wouldn’t have anything to do with it. I think he knew he could make his fortune elsewhere, and with much less worry over getting his head blown off.”

Sinclair probably had heard the popular view of why he’d left England; he might even have encouraged the tale. Indignant anger rose in Victoria’s throat, though, and she forced it back down. Her husband didn’t want anyone to know why he’d been in Europe during the war.

“If he made his fortune in France,” she said slowly, her frown real, “he isn’t the only one to do so.”

Marley shook his head. “No. But he was the only one with a brother so vehemently opposed to trade with France that he threw a case of damned fine French champagne on the floor of the House of Lords.”

Victoria gaped at him; she couldn’t help herself. “You think Sinclair killed Thomas?”

“I wouldn’t put it past him. Thomas could barely bring himself to speak of his brother.”

She knew the reason for that, thank goodness. “I didn’t know you were so well acquainted with Lord Althorpe. You never said.”

They reached the zoo, and Marley guided the phaeton into the long stand of vehicles on one side of the roadway. He tied off the ribbons and jumped to the ground, then came around the back of the carriage to hand her down.

“We were friends, until he became so rabid about everyone divesting themselves of French property that he wouldn’t even sit at the same table with any of us any longer. I have to admit, I miss his fine brandy more than I miss him.”

He hadn’t done it
. Abruptly, she was certain of it. Ever self-absorbed, Marley hadn’t cared for Thomas’s politics, but he had tolerated them because he liked Lord Althorpe’s brandy stock. His comment could be an incredibly clever ploy, but the whole thing would entail Marley accomplishing something very intricate and difficult and not taking credit for it.

“I think I may be ill,” she said unsteadily, clutching her middle and putting a wan expression on her face. “Sinclair Grafton a murderer? Why didn’t you tell me this before I danced with him?”

Fanning at her with his free hand, Marley led her through the gated entrance. “Actually,” he murmured, “I’ve been thinking about this. As long as Lord Sin is carrying on with his opera singer, there’s no reason we can’t continue having our own fun.”

“Could we?” she gasped, beginning to feel like a stage actress. How had she ever considered Marley a friend?

“Why not? And even better, until you come into your fortune, we could…convince Althorpe that it would be worth, say, five thousand quid a year for us to keep our suspicions about him to ourselves.”

She wanted to laugh at him for his complete and utter idiocy. “Yes, but I’m living under the same roof as he is. What if he decided to silence me as well?”

“He wouldn’t dare,” Marley said easily as they strolled past the bird cages. “Everyone would know that he did it, and then they’d know he did the other murder, too.”

“Which wouldn’t be much of a comfort to me,” she said dryly.

He looked at her quizzically, and she realized she wasn’t helping things by making fun of him. To cover her error, she became absorbed in studying the large enclosure of bright-colored South American parrots.

“I need you, Vixen,” he said quietly.

Almost as much as he needed her money
. She looked up at him. “Give me time to think about all of this,” she said and smiled. “It’s quite a lot for me to absorb in one afternoon.”

“Of course it is,” he soothed. “But you must trust me. You know I’m better for you than Sin Grafton ever could be.”

If she were a betting woman, she would have wagered a million pounds that he was dead wrong about that.

A
stin Hovarth reined in his bay gelding and watched from behind the shelter of a bulky mail coach as Sin Grafton returned to his own horse and trotted off in the direction of the horse auctions. The earl’s smile deepened. The gentleman he was following seemed to be following him.

He debated whether to catch up to Sin and hand over the new bit of evidence he’d uncovered about Lord Marley, but he quickly discarded the idea. The clue wasn’t much; a torn bit of a letter used to mark a page in a book. Better that he be reserved and cautious about relinquishing it, perhaps over a glass of port tonight. After all, he was helping to amass evidence that might very well get a man hanged.

This entire exercise was a damned nuisance. As far as Augusta and Kit were concerned, Thomas was dead, and that was the end of it. If he’d realized finding the killer would be so necessary, he would have arranged for one to be discovered at the time of the murder. Digging backward for a murderer two years after the fact was time-consuming and very tricky. Af
ter all, if he’d had perfect clues, the killer would already have been brought to justice.

After another few moments to be certain Sin didn’t reappear, Astin turned his bay toward Bolton Street. Since the new Marquis of Althorpe insisted on dredging up the past, he was going to have to take steps to be certain that a few specific parts of it remained buried. Damn Thomas Grafton anyway, for not revealing what his scapegrace brother had been doing in Europe. They had been friends; he might have mentioned that blasted Sin was working for the bloody War Office. A spy, of all things.

Of course, if he’d known that back then, killing Thomas might have been avoidable. With Sin dead, the former Lord Althorpe would have lost both his urgent need to halt the war and his damned impractical patriotism.

Lady Jane Netherby wasn’t likely to voice any suspicions, if the pretty, overaged doll even had any. Still, with Sinclair sniffing about, he needed to be sure. As for Sin’s lovely little trollop of a wife, she’d best learn to keep her mouth shut. If the Vixen didn’t, he would have to unearth a bit of evidence concerning her so-called friendship with Thomas, or with Marley. That would certainly distract Sin—at least long enough for Astin to finish encouraging Lord Marley’s guilt. He smiled again. Wouldn’t Marley be surprised.

In keeping with her supposedly clandestine relationship with Marley, Victoria asked him to stop his phaeton at the corner of Bruton Street and Berkeley Place and let her off there. He’d tried to kiss her again—twice—but she’d managed to deflect his lips, if not his attentions.

As she walked the half block to Grafton House, she considered ways she could tell Sinclair what she’d discovered without making him angry at her methods. Telling him that she’d spent half the afternoon with Marley was out of the question, especially if she followed that news with a statement about the viscount’s innocence.

She hated the prevarications and half-truths that had come to be part of this investigation. Even more troubling than telling lies was the knowledge that Sinclair was more skilled at dancing around the truth than she ever could be.

Milo opened the front door just as she reached it. “Good afternoon, my lady.”

“Good afternoon. Has Lord Althorpe returned?”

The butler took her shawl and bonnet. “Not yet, my lady. Shall I set out some tea for you?”

Victoria had been gone for nearly four hours. As far as she knew, Sinclair’s only task for the day had been to invite his three mysterious friends to their dinner party. A small worry tugged at her insides. If anyone was capable of taking care of himself, it was Sinclair Grafton, but she still didn’t like the idea of not knowing where he was. If the murderer wasn’t Marley, Kingsfeld was the best suspect. And Sin would hardly be on his guard around his supposed friend; they might even be together right now.

With a shudder Victoria snatched back her bonnet from Milo’s surprised fingers. “No tea today,” she said briskly, retying the ribbons beneath her chin. “I have another errand to run. Please fetch Roman for me.”

The butler’s sallow expression darkened. “I have not seen that person all day, Lady Althorpe. I could not venture to guess where he might be.”

“They didn’t go anywhere together?”

“Not that I’m aware. Is something amiss?”

“Hm? No.”

She knew Sinclair’s friends were lodging somewhere on Weigh House Street. If she couldn’t get Sin to listen to her, perhaps she could convince them.

“Lady Althorpe?”

“Milo, did anyone ever deliver any letters to a Lady Stanton?”

He flushed. “My lady, I have no idea of Lord Althorpe’s private…correspondence. I—”

“Never mind that. Who delivered Sinclair’s letters to her?”

“Ah, that would be Hilson, my lady. He’s a good lad, if a bit—”

“I would like to speak to him,” she interrupted. “At once.” She tried to rein in her growing nervousness. With both Sinclair and Roman gone, she was the only one in the household with any idea that something might be wrong.

The butler inclined his head and hurried off toward the kitchen. “At once, my lady.”

A few moments later young Hilson appeared, shuffling and nervous. “My lady?” he stammered, tugging at his neckcloth.

She smiled, attempting to look her most nonthreatening. “Hilson, do you know the address of Lady Stanton?”

“I…”

Milo nudged him in the back.

“Yes, my lady.”

“Good. Please take me there.”

The boy blanched. “Now? I mean, now, my lady?”

At some point she would have to tell Sinclair how
concerned the servants were over her delicate sensibilities—or, rather, over his dalliances. If she hadn’t known the identity of Lady Stanton, she would have been quite annoyed. As it was, nervousness pushed against her sense of humor until she was ready to start shaking people.

“Yes, now. You don’t drive, I suppose? Milo, hire us a hack.”

“A
hack
, Lady Althorpe?”

Victoria closed her eyes and counted to three. “If you please, Milo.”

The butler straightened his lanky form. “Of course, my lady. I will see to it immediately.”

“Thank you.”

Victoria and Hilson waited on the front steps for what felt like an hour but must have been no more than five minutes. Finally, with Milo practically hanging on to the poor horse by its ear and dragging it along, a dilapidated hack turned up the shallow drive.

“Are you certain, my lady?” he pleaded. “I can have Orser rig out Lord Althorpe’s coach in ten minutes.”

“I’m certain. Hilson, sit with the driver and direct him,” Victoria instructed, clambering unaided into the small, smelly coach.

Milo appeared at the door. “Lady Althorpe, what do you wish me to tell the marquis if he should return?”

“Tell him I have gone to visit Lady Stanton, and I shall return soon.”

He stepped back as the coach clattered into the street. “Very good, my lady.”

She hoped the butler had a chance to get her into trouble.

At Miss Grenville’s Academy, she’d learned that a proper lady was always patient, calm, and collected.
As Victoria fidgeted in the hack, looking out one window and then the other, she decided those lessons couldn’t possibly apply to new brides whose husbands were former spies looking for murderers. If anything had happened to Sinclair…

It made her ill just to think about it. Of course he was all right. He’d survived for five years in an enemy country. This was nothing compared with that. Just because the killer was probably one of his brother’s closest friends, it didn’t mean he was in any more danger than he had been a week ago—or so she hoped with all her heart.

Just as she was about to lean outside and ask Hilson if he’d become lost, the coach rattled to a stop. Victoria was already on her feet as the door opened.

“We’re here, my lady,” Hilson said, helping her to the ground.

She handed him some change from her reticule and hurried in the direction of the small house he indicated. “Send the hack away and wait for me here.”

“But—”

Without waiting to hear whatever Hilson’s protest might be, Victoria swung the heavy knocker against the door. At least she’d learned something from Sinclair: strange carriages caused suspicion, especially when they stopped in front of a supposed lady’s residence.

The door opened, and she released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. At least someone was home. “I need to see…” she began, then trailed off. “You’re Wally.”

The portly, balding man blinked. “I used to be,” he muttered, glancing past her at the street and Hilson. “Now I’m just a dead man.”

“May I come in?”

“You might as well,” he replied and stepped aside.

“Is Sinclair here?”

He closed the door. “I don’t know anything.”

Footsteps emerged from a room to her left. “Well, this is interesting.”

She recognized the soft Scottish accent from the foggy night in Hyde Park. “Mr. Harding,” she said, turning to face the tall, sandy-haired Scotsman. “I’m looking for Sinclair.”

Folding his arms, he leaned against the door frame. “He isn’t here. How come you to know where t’find us, Lady Althorpe?”

“I brought along Hilson—the footman who delivers Sinclair’s messages to Lady Stanton.”

“Ah. Anyone else? Your maid, or one of your pretty little friends?”

“Crispin,” Wally muttered.

She remembered that Mr. Harding hadn’t seemed to like her very much at their first official meeting. “No, just me. Despite popular rumor, I’m not a complete idiot. Now, do you have any idea where Sinclair might be, or do I need to go looking for him myself?”

“Seems to me, where Sin’s gone is his own affair.”

If she were a man, she would have begun punching people by now. Obviously, though, these two men could withstand any pummeling she could possibly deliver. Therefore, she needed another way of gaining their assistance. And she’d been dealing with men who thought they were tough and heartless for a long time.

“Yes, you’re right, of course.” Victoria sighed. “It’s just that I don’t know where else to go. You are Sinclair’s dearest friends, and I can’t imagine that he would…vanish without at least telling you.”

Crispin squinted one eye. “How long has he been gone?” he muttered with obvious reluctance.

“Hours. He said he was coming to see you. Did he…did he at least get this far?”

“Crispin’s been here all afternoon,” Wally supplied, “plotting times and alibis. You didn’t see him, did you, Crispin?”

The big Scot’s frown deepened. “Nae. Wallace, have cook brew up some tea for Lady Althorpe.”

“Right.” Wally hurried off into the depths of the house.

“Thank you. I just didn’t know what else to do.”

“Mm-hm. Follow me if you please, my lady.” Pushing back upright, Crispin vanished back into the room from which he’d emerged.

He didn’t sound very convinced, but all she needed to do was to get him to listen for two minutes. Squaring her shoulders, Victoria followed him—and stopped again in the doorway.

Though the huge table in the middle of the floor showed this to be the dining room, the house’s inhabitants clearly took their meals elsewhere. Scattered papers covered one end of the oak surface, while the rest of the table held a ramshackle collection of small wooden boxes and chess pieces, all with little flags decorating them. Intrigued, she stepped closer to view the flag attached to a black pawn. “Lord Keeling, 8-8:08
P.M
.,” she read aloud. Victoria looked up at the Scot. “This is Mayfair, isn’t it?”

“Aye.”

She leaned in closer. “And the box in the middle would be Grafton House.” Slowly she circled the table. “I’ve never seen anything like this. You’ve been
placing people in locations they were seen on the night of Thomas’s murder.”

He nodded, his gaze following her. “Sin was right about you.”

“In what way?”

“He said you were bright as a diamond in sunlight.”

Victoria blushed. “Oh. Ah, why go to all this trouble to map out the streets?”

“It’s easier than doing it on a piece of paper. If we get new information, we just move the citizens around.”

“Might I ask you a question, Mr. Harding?”

“Isn’t that why you’re here?” he returned, not moving from his post by the wall.

“Partially. Where…where have you placed Lord Marley?”

“I haven’t.”

She scowled. “What do you mean?”

“I mean we placed him at White’s until just after eight that evenin’. We don’t know where he went after that. No one we’ve talked to seems t’have seen him until he left home in his coach, headed for parts unknown, just before dawn the next morning.”

“And what about Lord Kingsfeld?”

Crispin shifted a little. “Kingsfeld?”

A flash of anger went through Victoria. Obviously Sinclair hadn’t seen fit to inform his fellows about her suspicions concerning Astin Hovarth. “Oh, yes, that’s right—he was a friend,” she bit out. “We mustn’t suspect anyone known to be Thomas’s friend three years before the murder.”

“I detect a small bit of sarcasm,” Crispin said dryly. Surprisingly, he looked more intrigued than annoyed. “Sin doesn’t agree with you.”

“No, he doesn’t. And I don’t want to see him hurt because he refuses to listen to me.” Her voice broke, and she tried to cover it by clearing her throat. “He won’t even look in that direction.”

“Sin’s not usually wrong. If he was, we would all have been dead a long time ago.”

“I know that. But how can he be so stub—”

“The pleasant thing about having partners,” the Scot interrupted, “is that even when you’re lookin’ in one direction, somebody else is watching your back.”

She had to take that to mean he would look into Kingsfeld himself. A relieved tear ran down her cheek. She was becoming such a watering pot these days. “Thank you, Mr. Harding.”

“Aye. Now you’d best go home. I don’t relish the thought o’ having to explain to Sin what you’re doing here.”

“Neither do I.” Even so, she hesitated. “Mr. Harding?”

“Aye?”

She strode forward and stuck out her hand. “I do think we want the same thing.”

Slowly he reached out and gripped her fingers. “I hope so. For all our sakes.”