Mistress (41 page)

“And he is the son of the Elizabeth Eaton who is buried in that monument?”

“Yes.” Barclay looked up. “He appears to have dropped his last name when he entered Society two years ago. That was why it took me so long to discover his connection. Indeed, if you had not suggested that I look
into the ownership of the museum, I would never have gotten to the bottom of the thing.”

A knock on the library door got Marcus’s attention. He glanced toward it with an impatient frown. “Enter.”

Lovelace opened the door. Iphiginia, dressed in a white morning gown and a flower-trimmed chip straw bonnet, bobbed up and down behind him.

“Mrs. Bright to see you, sir,” Lovelace said, just as though Iphiginia were not waving madly to get Marcus’s attention.

Marcus grinned. “Send her in, Lovelace.”

Lovelace stepped aside. Iphiginia rushed past him into the library. She was carrying a massive leather-bound volume.

“Marcus, you will never believe what has happened. I think I know the identity of the blackmailer. I found a bit of black wax on this book that I lent to—”

“Herbert Hoyt?” Marcus asked politely.

“Good Lord.” Iphiginia came to a halt and gazed at him in astonishment. “How did you guess?”

“I never guess, my dear. I form scientific hypotheses.”

It was quite dark in the narrow alley. There was barely enough moonlight to see the rear window of Number Two Thurley Street. Marcus hefted the length of iron in his hand and fitted it cautiously between the window and the sill.

“Be careful,” Iphiginia whispered. She glanced back down the length of the alley to be certain they were still alone.

“I am being careful.”

“Marcus, are you annoyed?”

“Oddly enough, I had not planned to spend my wedding night breaking into Hoyt’s lodgings.” Marcus pried the window open with a judicious jerk of the iron bar. The frame gave with gratifying ease. “I had envisioned more interesting entertainment.”

“Hurry.” Iphiginia pushed back the hood of her cloak. The unlit brass lantern she carried gleamed in the moonlight. “I am certain that we shall find the black sealing wax and the phoenix seal somewhere in his rooms.”

“This is a complete waste of time.” Marcus swung one leg over the sill. “We already know that he’s the blackmailer.”

“But we need proof. The wax and seal will give us solid evidence.”

Marcus swung his other leg over the sill and dropped into the shadowed room. “We are not doing this to obtain evidence. We are doing it solely because you want to prove to me that your hypothesis was as sound as mine.”

“It is sound. I know that I would eventually have found the blackmailer on my own.” Iphiginia caught up the hem of her cloak and her skirts in one hand and put a stocking-clad leg over the edge of the sill.

Marcus wistfully contemplated the graceful limb and thought about how it would look tangled in the white sheets of his massive bed.

Later, he promised himself. Iphiginia was his, that was the important thing. He could relax. She had belonged to him since they had exchanged vows earlier that day in front of a preacher.

She was his wife.

Satisfaction surged deep inside as he caught her by the waist and lifted her through the window. Offhand he could not think of any other female who would have demanded to spend her wedding night rummaging through a blackmailer’s desk, but Iphiginia was nothing if not an Original.

Marcus had concluded that he could afford to indulge her now that he was certain of possessing her.

In truth, he had not been particularly keen on the scheme to search Hoyt’s lodgings, but Marcus had convinced himself that the plan was not unduly risky. Hoyt, after all, was a creature of Society. He was out until dawn
every night. His servant, Marcus had learned, had formed the habit of spending the evenings at a tavern.

“Close the curtains,” Iphiginia ordered softly as she lit the lantern.

Marcus obligingly drew the curtains. He turned to survey the room by the light of Iphiginia’s lantern. It was a comfortable chamber, quite suited to a single gentleman of modest means. There was a desk in one corner and a row of bookcases along one wall. A wingback chair stood before the cold hearth. The table next to it held a half-empty bottle of brandy and a glass.

“Hoyt does not appear to have invested his ill-gotten gains in his living quarters,” Marcus observed.

“No, but he orders his coats from Weston and he recently purchased his own carriage. You know what that costs.” Iphiginia explored the desk quickly. “And there is that building he purchased from the original Dr. Hardstaff. That must have cost a great deal.”

“And that monument he built in Reeding Cemetery.” Marcus opened a drawer in a bureau and saw a stack of freshly laundered and starched cravats.

“It is difficult to credit that a man who is nasty enough to commit murder and blackmail would be the sort to build such a striking memorial to his mother.” Iphiginia sucked in her breath. “Ah-hah.”

“What does
ah-hah
mean?”

“It means that the desk is unlocked.” Iphiginia began rummaging around in the top drawer.

Marcus moved across the room. “I hate to mention the obvious, but if the desk is not locked, it is no doubt because there is nothing of any great import inside.”

“Nonsense. One cannot conclude that. It simply means that Herbert does not consider the wax and seal dangerous.”

“Then he is not quite as intelligent as I had assumed.” Marcus frowned as Iphiginia opened the wax jack. “Well?”

“Red wax,” she said, disappointed. “But perhaps
there is another wax jack about somewhere. And the seal must be here, too.”

But after twenty minutes of diligent searching, neither black wax nor the phoenix seal came to light.

“I do not understand it.” Iphiginia stood in the center of the room and tapped her toe in evident frustration. “They must be here.”

“Not necessarily.” Marcus was impatient to be gone. It was all very well to indulge one’s bride, he thought, but enough was enough. “He may keep them on his person or in a safe that we have not discovered. There are any number of places where one could conceal items as small as a wax jack and seal.”

“I know where he would keep such items.” Iphiginia’s eyes widened with excitement. “Dr. Hardstaff’s Museum of the Goddesses of Manly Vigor.”

Marcus groaned. “I really don’t believe that there is much point searching the museum. What if one of Dr. Hardstaff’s patients is receiving a treatment?”

“It is certainly worth a try.” Iphiginia turned down the lantern and started toward the window. “Don’t dawdle, Marcus. We do not have all night, you know.”

“Thank God.” Marcus glanced quickly around the shadowed room, making certain that they had not left any obvious sign of intrusion. “I would very much like to spend some portion of this night in bed.”

Iphiginia scooped up her cloak and skirts and put one leg over the windowsill. “Must you grumble? We have the rest of our lives to spend in bed.”

Marcus cheered at the notion. The rest of his life with Iphiginia….

The alley behind Number Nineteen Lamb Lane was as shadowed and empty that night as it had been the other evening. The stairs that led up to the back door squeaked and sighed beneath Marcus’s weight. He climbed them ahead of Iphiginia, treading warily.

For some reason he felt now a sense of unease that he had not been aware of earlier in the alley behind the Thurley Street lodgings.

Marcus reached the landing and tried the door. It opened easily, just as it had the other night. The fine hairs on the back of his neck stirred.

“Marcus?” Iphiginia paused on the step and looked up. “Is something wrong?”

“Stay here. I’ll go in first.” Marcus removed his coat and slung it over his shoulder. The night air came straight through the fine lawn of his shirt, but he paid no attention. He had a sudden wish to feel less encumbered. “Let me have the lantern.”

“But Marcus.”

“Wait here, Iphiginia. I mean it.”

To his infinite relief, she obeyed. Marcus lit the lantern and moved into the darkened hall.

The corridor was eerily silent. Apparently none of the Goddesses of Manly Vigor was giving a performance this evening. Marcus went down the hall to the chamber that contained the bed and the stage.

He opened the door cautiously.

The interior lay in deep shadow. The light from the lantern revealed the torn transparency curtain in front of the stage. It had not been repaired since Sands had ripped it from the ceiling hooks.

“Do you see anything?” Iphiginia asked softly from the doorway.

Marcus spun around. “Damn it, Iphiginia, I told you to wait outside.”

The scrape of a boot on the wooden floor of the hall sent a cold chill through him.

“Iphiginia,
move.”
Marcus put the lantern down and launched himself toward the door.

He was too late.

A man’s arm came out of the shadows from behind Iphiginia and caught her by the throat. Iphiginia gave a soft shriek that was cut off almost immediately.

“Not another step, Masters.” Herbert held Iphiginia in front of him as a shield as he moved into the chamber. The lantern light glinted on the barrel of the pistol in his hand. “Or I will shoot you.”

“Let her go, Hoyt.” Marcus came to a halt. He took a reluctant step back and stopped next to the lantern. “This has all gone far enough. It must end tonight.”

“I agree.” Herbert smiled bitterly. “But as I have written most of the other scenes of this play, I will write the ending. I fancy something melodramatic that will make an interesting tidbit for the
ton
. What do you think about having the notorious Lady Masters kill her husband when she discovers him at Dr. Hardstaff’s Museum on their wedding night?”

W
HAT HAPPENS TO
I
PHIGINIA IN YOUR LITTLE PLAY
?” M
AR
cus asked.

“I regret that my good friend the former Mrs. Bright —or should I say
Miss
Bright, of Deepford in Devon— will suffer an unfortunate accident on the rear stairs. She will break her neck as she flees the scene of her crime of passion.”

“You will never get away with this,” Iphiginia vowed. She was clearly frightened, but still self-possessed. “You’ll hang, Mr. Hoyt. If not for this, then surely for the murder of Mrs. Wycherley.”

“You reasoned that out, did you?” Herbert smiled his jovial, ingratiating smile, but his eyes were as hard as glass. “Very clever, madam. I always did admire your intellect. So much so that I tried to keep you out of this, but you would not be warned off.”

“It was you who locked me in the sepulchral monument in Reeding Cemetery, was it not?” Iphiginia demanded.

“I thought a good scare might persuade you to mind your own business, but I was wrong.”

Marcus kept his coat hooked over his shoulder. “Why did you kill Mrs. Wycherley?”

“Ah, yes, Constance Wycherley,” Herbert said in a musing tone. “She was the one who began it all. Her little blackmail business operated quite innocuously for years. In exchange for a plump fee, she convinced any number of the governesses and companions she placed in certain households to give her interesting items of information concerning their employers.”

“And then she blackmailed those people?” Iphiginia asked.

“Yes. It was a rather brilliant scheme, but I saw at once that Mrs. Wycherley lacked the vision to make it fulfill its true potential. She kept her demands very modest and stuck to blackmailing only the lesser members of the
ton
. She was afraid to pursue the more powerful names on her list.”

“For fear that they would discover her identity and take action to stop her?” Marcus asked.

“Precisely. She didn’t care to take chances, you see. Very conservative type. But I insisted that we broaden the scope of the business. She was quite nervous about it.” Herbert shrugged.

“How did you convince her to take you on as an accomplice?” Iphiginia asked.

“I merely threatened to expose her. Actually, we worked together rather well for a while, although she became increasingly anxious. Unfortunately, after Iphiginia’s man of affairs called to make inquiries about a certain Miss Todd, she panicked and demanded we halt the scheme entirely. I was forced to kill her before she ruined everything.”

“And then you ransacked the place in order to make it appear that she had been murdered by one of her victims?” Iphiginia asked.

“Or a thief. I was not particularly worried about what conclusion was drawn. After all, no one could connect her death to me.”

“How did you learn of her blackmail scheme?” Iphiginia asked.

“My mother was a governess. She sold information to Mrs. Wycherley for years and in exchange the Wycherley Agency kept her employed in some of the best homes.” Herbert’s mouth twisted bitterly. “Until my mother was seduced by one of her employers, that is. A fine gentleman of the
ton
got her pregnant. She was turned off immediately, of course.”

“And Mrs. Wycherley refused to place her in any more posts after that,” Iphiginia whispered.

“How did you know?” Herbert’s voice, which had been almost jovial until that moment, suddenly rose in fury. His arm tightened around her throat. “Bloody hell, how did you know that?”

“It was merely a hypothesis,” Iphiginia whispered.

Marcus tensed. “You’re hurting her, Hoyt.”

“Don’t move.” Herbert kept the gun pointed at Marcus. “You are correct, Iphiginia. Mrs. Wycherley wanted nothing to do with a governess who’d been so stupid as to get herself pregnant by one of her employers. My mother was forced to fend for herself.”

“You were the babe she carried, were you not?” Iphiginia asked with surprising gentleness.

“Yes. I was her bastard son. The son of a viscount, but a bastard, nonetheless. Mother had some money, thanks to the fees Mrs. Wycherley had paid her for information over the years. And she was clever. She set herself up as a widow in a small village in the north. No one ever learned the truth.”

“How did you learn it?” Marcus asked.

“Two years ago on her deathbed, my mother told me the entire tale. I came to London to find Constance Wycherley.”