Once Again a Bride (15 page)

An elbow poked his ribs. “Ethan, you great lug.” He looked down to find Susan standing beside him. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing’s wrong with me.”

“Come on. You’re never like this.”

“Like what?”

“Mooning about instead of working. Not hearing the bell.”

“Did it ring?” He was horrified at the idea.

“James went.” Susan peered up at him. Her eyes narrowed with delighted speculation. “Are you in love?”

Ethan almost moaned. With all the complications suddenly plaguing his life, the last thing he needed was people sticking their noses into his affairs. He’d had a lifetime of that. “Me? ’Course not! Don’t be daft.”

Susan continued to eye him as if he were a horse she might buy.

“Got a letter from my dad,” Ethan added. It wasn’t a lie; he had had a letter two days ago, full of the usual unnecessary admonitions about doing his job well.

“Oh.” Susan knew all about Ethan’s troubles with his father. “Is there anything…?”

“It’s all right.” Ethan hated deceiving a childhood friend. “Nothing new.” Except a swarm of difficulties that somehow only he could resolve.

With a sympathetic pat on his arm, Susan left him, and Ethan tried to put his mind to polishing, despite its being about as useless a task as he could imagine. He liked solid results to show for his efforts, not something that would just have to be done all over again in a week or so.

***

Charlotte’s household fell into a pleasant routine. The more she saw of them, the more she liked her staff. Particularly Mrs. Trask, who somehow limited Callie’s depredations to one lamb chop and a scrap of sausage. On her first visit, Lizzy was amazed. “So you secretly expected her to demolish my house?” teased Charlotte.

“Of course not!” Callie overflowed Lizzy’s lap like a fur rug. Her purr was audible. “I knew she would love it here—and you.” The warm look that came with this pronouncement made Charlotte’s throat tighten. “I wish I could live here, too!”

“You wouldn’t want to leave your sister and bro…”

“They leave me, all the time!” Lizzy pouted. “You wouldn’t do that if I came to stay with you.”

A world of complications buzzed in Charlotte’s brain. “Well, I would have to, because of… ah… household duties and… um… errands.”

“You don’t want me?” Lizzy’s blue eyes threatened tears.

Even putting aside all the other objections, she would be mad with boredom in a day in this small house, Charlotte thought. This was a recipe for disaster. She tried a reason that she was certain Lizzy would never have considered. “Sadly, I can’t really afford visitors.”

As expected, the girl looked blank.

“My household budget is so very limited, Lizzy. I’m sorry.”

“You have no money?”

“You will come to see me—and Callie—very often.”

Lizzy’s thoughtful frown was unsettling. She made no more mention of moving households, but as she headed home, Charlotte was all too aware of the need for a plan to forestall whatever schemes were brewing in that pretty little head.

At two, Sir Alexander arrived with an expert from the British Museum. Charlotte wondered if he’d told the man—Gerald Mortensen—that Henry’s collection went to the museum if the will was violated in any particular. No, she decided.

Mortensen was a thin, laconic ferret of a man. “The keys?” he said as they stood before the display cases in the front parlor.

“Oh.” Charlotte hadn’t thought of this. She thought as little as possible about the whole wretched collection. “Henry always kept them with him. He had a special ring of keys with just those on it. Separate from the house keys. They… they must have been stolen along with his purse.” She looked at Sir Alexander.

“Wycliffe was given his effects. There was no mention of keys.” He turned to Mortensen. “Can’t you make some judgment just by looking?”

“I must handle objects to authenticate them,” was the adamant reply.

“Ah.” Sir Alexander gazed at the rows of cases. “I don’t like to break the locks.”

“One of my colleagues at the museum could very likely open them,” said Mortensen.

“Pick the locks, you mean?” Charlotte asked, intrigued.

The man drew himself up in outrage. “His specialty is the history of locking mechanisms. He has of necessity learned to open various types of locks, as specimens don’t always come with their keys. However, here…” He gestured at the room. “These are standard cases, such as we use ourselves. It is astonishing how often the keys are lost.”

Never to display cases that he was in charge of, Charlotte concluded from the distaste in his tone.

“He has a master key that works in most units. Shall I write a note summoning him?” Mortensen added.

“If you would. My coachman can take it.”

This was accordingly done. Mortensen then left them. He wandered through the rooms on the first floor, examining objects not in cases. He made no response when Charlotte asked if he would like tea or any other refreshment. “He is very focused on his work,” she commented when he had gone out of earshot.

“Indeed, I can verify that he has no other topics of conversation whatsoever. The carriage ride from the museum was a trifle… silent.”

Fortunately, his colleague arrived within half an hour and had no difficulty in opening the display cases. His skeleton key made by the manufacturer would also allow them to be relocked. She would not be able to get at the objects, Charlotte realized, but then she had no wish to.

“Any locks in the collection?” the newcomer asked Mortensen as he handed it over. Told there were not, he departed without further conversation. “This will take time,” said Mortensen, clearly wishing them elsewhere.

“And so we are dismissed,” Sir Alexander said to Charlotte. He looked amused.

“Definitively. Would
you
like tea or… I think there is some Madeira.”

“Tea,” he replied.

Charlotte gave the order, and they went up to the drawing room. She was glad for the opportunity to show him how much better it looked than at his last visit. He made no comment, however, as they sat. “Lizzy said Anne is still enjoying her dancing class?”

“She seems to be. Although not as much as Lizzy enjoys teasing her about it.”

“And what is Lizzy doing now that Anne is often out?”

Sir Alexander shook his head. “Plotting devilment, I imagine.” He hesitated, then added, “You’ve become well acquainted with my sisters. You’ve seen how Lizzy is. Do you think I should send her away to school? Against her wishes?”

It was just the opening Charlotte had hoped for. The subject of Lizzy had been much on her mind. “I don’t think separating her from her family is right just now.”

“Just now?”

“I think she’s afraid.”

“Afraid? Of what?” He straightened as if priming to go to her defense.

“Of Anne moving off into the wider world and leaving her alone.”

“Ah.” He frowned.

“If she had more to do…”

“She would at school. As well as other young women to befriend.”

“But she doesn’t want to go.”

“Vehemently. Lizzy believes she already knows all she needs to.” He shook his head. “Frances taught the girls when they were very young. Then we hired governesses, but neither my father nor I ever succeeded in finding one who really fitted the post. They were dutiful, no more. And lately, there have been none who would stay in the face of Lizzy’s… antics.”

“Anne has been her only real companion?”

He frowned as if he hadn’t really thought about this. “There are very few young people among our neighbors in the country.”

“Well, I have an idea.” She’d been cudgeling her brain for ideas, afraid that Lizzy was hatching schemes to improve her fortunes.

“I would be grateful for any suggestion.”

“You might do for Lizzy what you are doing for Anne. I suspect your Aunt Earnton would know how to go about it. Find some girls Lizzy’s age whom your aunt approves—let her do it, in fact—and arrange for Lizzy to meet them and get to know them. Make some new friends. Then she will not feel such a need for Anne’s company.”

Sir Alexander stared at her. “That’s brilliant. Why didn’t I think of it? I shall talk to my aunt at once. Thank you!”

His look warmed Charlotte to the depths. If Tess had not come in just then with the tea tray… But she did, and Charlotte busied herself with pouring and passing a cup. The sound of something heavy being shifted downstairs brought her back to earth—murder, robbery, accusations. “Do you really think this valuation will be helpful, that we can actually find any answers?”

“We are intelligent, logical people, with resources…”

“But as you said before, what do we know of investigating crimes? I certainly know nothing.” The suspicion could hang over her forever, she thought despairingly.

“It cannot be too different from examining tenants’ grievances and judging among them. And we have the advantage of
knowing
you had nothing to do with it and being highly motivated to find the truth.” He met her eyes.

In his steady gaze, Charlotte saw determination, and trustworthiness, and… more? The thud of her pulse nearly deafened her. What was it about this man, more than any other she’d ever met, that captured all her attention, filled her senses? She’d known what was missing from her dreadful marriage; she’d acknowledged the lack with a distant regret, and then relief. But in Sir Alexander’s presence, she felt her physical isolation as an acute ache. She needed to reach out, to rekindle that blaze of connection.

The silence was growing too long, too charged. She groped for words. “I… ah… Lady Isabella very kindly asked me to attend a rout party with her tomorrow.” Perhaps he would come, as he had before.

“Did she?” His voice had gone dry.

“She was telling me about her mother.” Why had she said that? Sir Alexander looked understandably startled. “I’m not sure how it came up… I… we were talking of her childhood.” How could she escape this topic? He’d gone thoughtful. Was he offended?

“I’m sure I did not come off well in any story of hers about our family.”

Horrified, Charlotte hurried to dispel the idea that she had been gossiping about him. “We didn’t talk of…”

“She would say the same of me. Perhaps with reason. But… it seemed to me, once I was of an age to notice, that Aunt Bella rather fanned the flames between my grandparents. They communicated almost solely through her, you know, and the way she… bore tales back and forth escalated rather than eased disputes, I thought.” He shrugged. “So I would take anything she says with… a grain of salt at least.”

“You lived with your grandparents?” Charlotte remembered he had said something like that.

“Only when I was very young. Later, we visited only at the Christmas holidays. My father could never bring himself to refuse the invitation.”

“Then you can’t really know, can you?” How could he conceive what it was like to be a young woman trapped in a household where she was continually terrorized and belittled? Charlotte suppressed a shiver.

He conceded the point with a stiff nod. Charlotte sipped her lukewarm tea. Once again, the silence stretched. They had wandered into a conversation much deeper than social chitchat, and Charlotte wasn’t sure how to find her way out. Sir Alexander started to speak, and she leaned forward. He said nothing. She lifted her cup again. He set his down with a chink.

“Perhaps we should…”

“I wonder if…?”

They spoke at the same moment, then each paused politely—not to say desperately. Simultaneously, they each added, “Please.” Charlotte had never been more grateful for the sound of footsteps on the stairs.

“I have completed my examination, provisionally.” Gerald Mortensen had a small notebook in hand. “I fear it is not good news.”

“Please sit down,” said Charlotte. “Will you have a cup of tea?”

Mortensen waved this aside. “No, thank you.” He didn’t sit either. “My preliminary assessment, which I do not believe will change appreciably upon further consideration, is that this collection is chiefly forgeries. Or, to be more charitable, modern reproductions. Some are quite good copies. But worth very little, of course. There are one or two pieces that the museum might be interested in acquiring.” He raised an eyebrow.

“My husband’s will does not allow any sales,” said Charlotte, tight-lipped.

“Ah.” Mortensen tore one sheet from the notebook and closed it.

“So, if my uncle paid large amounts for these items…?” began Sir Alexander.

“He was duped. Sadly, there are many unscrupulous ‘dealers’ only too ready to cheat those who do not seek expert advice.” Mortensen sniffed.

“This wouldn’t make a good, small museum, then?” Charlotte said. “His collection, I mean?”

He looked at her; a charitable person might have called the gaze pitying. “If the British Museum received a lot such as this, almost all of it would be discarded.” He handed the notebook page to Sir Alexander. “These are the authentic items. I have used the numbers from the displays to identify them.”

“Thank you.”

“I must be going,” said Mortensen. With a small bow, and no further courtesies, he left the room.

“All that money thrown away.” It burst from Charlotte as she struggled to take it in. From Hanks’ comments, she’d expected to hear that some of Henry’s purchases were unwise. But this was too much. He had taken nearly her entire inheritance and reduced it to rubbish.

“In dealings with criminals, basically. We should talk to his man of business. What was his name—Seaton? I allowed him to disappear without…”

“Hasn’t Hanks already talked to everyone? What can we learn that he has not?”

“He was a danger to them. They would say as little as possible in his presence. I might pose as a collector, a source of money.”

“We already know that they cheat. You think one will confess to murder?” Charlotte couldn’t curb her impatience. What was the use? The money was gone, and shockingly, in this moment, she didn’t much care who had killed Henry. She could have cheerfully strangled him herself.

“I don’t know that Hanks saw Seaton. I will inquire. Also, he had asked to go through my uncle’s room. I put him off but perhaps now…”