The Pleasure Trap (12 page)

Keble came straight to the point. “Lady Sayers thinks you’re here because she sent for you, but that’s not the case, is it? Her servant told me that you were not at your hotel when he tried to give you her message.”

“I went out riding with my groom,” Ash replied easily. “I do that sometimes when I can’t sleep. The porter at my hotel will tell you when I left and so will the man at the livery where I stable my horses.” He paused, then said quizzically, “Do you suspect
me,
Constable?”

“It’s Captain Denison, isn’t it, of the Guards? My son served with you in Spain. Gerry Keble? If you had wanted to murder Mrs. Rivers, you wouldn’t have botched it, and there would have been no scream.”

Ash had a fleeting impression of a daredevil, fair-haired young man who served in a special unit he had commanded for a time. “Lieutenant Gerry Keble,” he said, nodding. “He was a good soldier.” As he remembered, Keble had lost his life at Waterloo.

“Thank you,” said Keble. “He thought very highly of you.” He gave a low chuckle. “It was Captain Denison this and Captain Denison that, till his mother and I were ready to tear our hair out.”

Ash didn’t know how to reply to this, so he said nothing.

Keble went on. “I want the names of all your guests at Vauxhall Gardens tonight. Of course, I may not need them if Mrs. Rivers comes round and can tell us who attacked her.”

Ash nodded. “There’s quite a list. As I remember, there were about thirty people in all, but I’ll get the names to you as soon as I check with my grandmother.”

“Thirty? Good God, I hope I don’t have to interview them all.” After a moment’s thought, Keble said, “These ladies are like sitting ducks. It doesn’t matter which way you look at it—if someone is stalking them, they are easy targets.”

“You think someone is stalking them?”

Shrewd blue eyes gazed into his. “There are some bad people in this world, Lord Denison. Maybe this scoundrel has a grudge against Angelo or maybe against females who have become more successful than he, or maybe he has a grudge against Mrs. Rivers. It’s early days yet to draw conclusions.”

“Then you’ll be happy to hear,” said Ash, “that I’m moving in here until you’ve caught this scoundrel or our writers-in-residence have departed for their own homes.”

Keble’s brows rose. “That’s a very handsome gesture, sir.”

“Not as handsome as it sounds. I’m getting tired of hotel life.”

That was the easy answer, but there was more to Ash’s decision than that. Lydia had hinted that she was Angelo, and tonight Lydia had a close call with death. If ever he was to discover Angelo’s identity, this was the place to be.

Preoccupied, Keble shoved his hat on his head. “The night is just beginning for me. I’m wanted at Vauxhall. Seems some poor blighter was set on by footpads and they bashed in his head.”

“Wait,” called Ash as the constable opened the door. “Mind if I come with you? I’d like to make sure that he’s not one of my grandmother’s guests.”

“I’d be glad of the company.”

The murdered man was in an arbor similar to the one Ash and Eve had taken shelter in when the gardens were bustling with visitors. Now the place was deserted, except for officers of the law and groundsmen who were left to tidy up.

An officer held his lantern up while Keble turned the man over. “Is he one of your grandmother’s guests?” the constable asked.

Ash had seen enough bodies with terrible wounds in the war not to flinch as he gazed into those sightless eyes. “No,” he said, “he’s not one of my grandmother’s guests.”

“Know him, do you, sir?” asked the officer.

“Yes,” said Ash. “Leastways, I recognize the face, or what’s left of it.” He looked at Keble. “This man was the leader of the hecklers at the symposium.”

Chapter Ten

On the second day after the attack on her, Lydia came out of her deep sleep and seemed to be well on the way to a full recovery. Everyone, of course, wanted to rush to her bedside to see her and speak to her, but Dr. Braine wouldn’t allow it. Lydia was still very weak, he said, and what she needed was a restful atmosphere until she had regained her strength. The ladies continued to sit with her in shifts to ensure that someone was always there if Lydia needed anything. Ash’s presence was accepted without comment. Lady Sayers had asked him to stay on until things were more settled, and she had no idea that she was falling in with his wishes.

Ash was beginning to have a healthy respect for this awkward young doctor with the gruff manner, who put the interests of his patient first. Even the constable was kept waiting and allowed only five minutes to ask his questions.

When he came downstairs, Constable Keble looked thoughtful. “At this point,” he said, “all she remembers is that when she returned to her box after watching the dancing in the rotunda, she found a note tucked into her glove. She’d taken them off, you see, during supper. The note was signed
Angelo
and invited her to meet him for a little tête-à-tête after everyone had gone to bed.”

“God in heaven!” Ash rubbed the back of his neck. “Has the woman no sense? What was she thinking?”

“I gather she thought it was romantic.”

There was a long, disbelieving silence, at least on Ash’s part.

Keble nodded. “Appearances to the contrary, our Mrs. Rivers has led a sheltered life. Leastways, that’s my opinion. She cannot conceive that any fine gentleman she met at Vauxhall could turn out to be a villain. Well, now she knows, and all she wants is to go home to her sister in Warwick.”

“Did she recognize her attacker?”

“No. It was too dark.”

“So what happened to the note?”

“She can’t remember what she did with it. I’m betting that it will turn up. She’d want to keep it as a memento. Let’s go outside, where we can speak more freely.”

On the front steps, Keble said, “You told no one about the murdered man we found in Vauxhall?”

“No. I did exactly what you asked me to do. There are groundsmen patrolling the gardens day and night. Why? What have you found out?”

“Nothing much. The victim’s name was Robert Thompson, and he leaves behind a wife and two small children. His wife had no idea that he was going to Vauxhall.” The constable shook his head. “It happens all the time. A respectable man likes to slip his leash and mix with low company once in a while.”

“Was he respectable?”

“He owned and managed the Three Crowns on Gloucester Road. It’s a respectable inn.”

Ash thought for a moment. “Do you think Thompson’s death is connected to the attack on Mrs. Rivers?”

“At this point, I’d say he was robbed and murdered by footpads. Vauxhall is a favorite haunt, you know, for thieves and beggars. Never a week goes by but someone is attacked. Thompson was unlucky. Someone hit him too hard.”

“From his injuries, I’d say they panicked.”

“Or he fought back.”

Ash wasn’t ready to accept the obvious answer. The fact that Thompson had been present at the symposium and was murdered the same night that Lydia Rivers was attacked raised more questions than answers in his mind.

He looked at Keble and wondered whether the constable knew more than he was telling. “So where do we go from here?” he asked.

The constable smiled at Ash’s words. “You take care of the ladies and I’ll take care of the investigation, and if something turns up, I’ll let you know about it.” He descended the stairs, turned, and said as an afterthought, “I wouldn’t mention this conversation to Lady Sayers or any of her guests. When or if Thompson’s name comes up, I’d like to be the one to question them.”

He left Ash to think over his words, and what Ash was thinking was that he’d like to dig a little deeper into Thompson’s background before he dismissed him from the investigation. He didn’t want to step on Keble’s toes, but Jason Ford could act for him. Jason was discreet, well-liked, and ambitious. And Jason did not have money to spare. The commission would not go amiss.

Ash had seen very little of Eve since he’d come to stay at the Manor, but he didn’t think she was avoiding him. Lydia’s care had taken up all her time, and not only hers but that of all the ladies. When they weren’t taking turns in the sickroom, they were snatching a few hours’ sleep for themselves. After his chat with Keble, however, he was impatient to talk to her. Lydia might have told Eve more than she was willing to tell the constable, and Eve had been first on the scene when Lydia was attacked. It was possible that Eve had seen or heard something that she hadn’t passed on, not realizing its significance.

His chance came when he was in the breakfast room, looking out the window as he ate a solitary luncheon. Eve came into his line of vision and he threw down his napkin and got up. A closer view revealed that she was taking Dexter for a walk. Drinking back his coffee in two gulps, he set the cup down and went after her.

Eve did the walking. Dexter, as usual, took off like a rocket, chasing flocks of crows or running in circles. But he always came to heel on command, and, as he went after her, Ash idly indulged in a pleasant reverie of Eve tamed to his hand as Dexter was tamed to hers.

A curious sensation came over him. He’d had this dream before, only it was far more lurid. He probed his mind, trying to recall the dream. The details were sketchy, but he remembered that Eve was everything he’d sensed she kept tightly submerged below the surface and that he was the one who had forced her to let go and come up for air. The Eve of his dreams was playful, sensuous, and sweetly giving. And like any red-blooded male, he’d wanted to take things to their logical conclusion.

Had he frightened her? Was it she who had screamed in his dream? Had his conscience, even in his dreams, permitted him to go so far and no further?

At least he did not have to apologize for his impetuous ardor. More to the point, he was not obliged to offer her marriage. No harm done. It was only a dream.

A self-mocking smile briefly twisted his lips. Eve Dearing was a capable, courageous, determined young woman who would no more think of marrying him than she would a wandering vagrant. The few minutes they’d spent in the arbor at Vauxhall convinced him that he could bring her to passion, but that wouldn’t influence Eve when she came to choose a husband. She’d want a man with character and ambitions.

That is, if she ever came to choose a husband. She’d set the bar very high, too high for him to vault over, and he wasn’t in the mood to try. She might make some man sublimely happy, but he doubted it. If they should quarrel, her poor husband might find himself facing her at twenty paces on the dueling field with a pistol in his hand.

A duel at twenty paces? Why had that thought cropped up again? And why was he smiling?

Dexter suddenly charged out of a clump of bushes toward him, came to an abrupt halt, and sat at attention, looking expectantly up at Ash.

“Good boy,” said Ash, and fished in his coat pocket for the crust of bread he’d put there especially for Dexter. He was in the habit of taking Dexter with him when he made his rounds, and Dexter had come to expect his reward for fetching sticks and scaring off crows.

Eve had turned back and was coming toward him. “Ash Denison!” she called out between laughter and exasperation. “Don’t you know when you’re being exploited? That dog gets more treats than is good for him. Everybody is doing it. And Dexter knows just how to look to keep up the supply.”

Dexter, by this time, had bolted, ostensibly to chase a butterfly, leaving Ash to face the music alone.

She was out of breath when she reached him, but that was not what killed his smile. Her skin was like parchment and there were dark smudges under her eyes. He’d seen her tired, but now she looked ill.

“What the devil does Dr. Braine think you are?” he demanded. “A workhorse? You look all in. There are others who could nurse Lydia as well as you.”

She was surprised at his harsh tone, then peeved because he’d caught her when she was looking her worst. She’d hardly slept a wink in the last two nights for reliving that moment when her mind locked on the thoughts of Lydia’s attacker, and when she did fall asleep, her dreams were all of that heartrending moment when she’d found her mother on the quarry floor. To add to her misery, she was worried about Nell. She hadn’t seen or sensed Nell’s presence since the night Lydia was attacked.

Little wonder that she looked like a tired old workhorse. It was exactly how she felt.

“Don’t blame Dr. Braine,” she said quietly. “He’s doing more than any of us. He’s so patient, so gentle, and never thinks of himself. He’s an inspiration to us all, so naturally we want to do our part.”

Ash was thinking that if she went on in this vein much longer, he could take a thorough dislike to the inestimable doctor. He lifted a hand to her face. “So pale, Eve.” He took his hand away before she pushed it away. “How is Lydia?”

“She’s slipping in and out of sleep, but the doctor says that’s only to be expected. She wants to go home to Warwick, but that’s out of the question at the moment.”

“Home to the sister?”

“I know. She’s a bully, but after what happened, maybe a bully is what she needs.”

She had turned her face up to the sun to catch its rays, and Ash had another flash of recall. Eve on a grassy bank without a stitch on, holding her face up to the sun’s rays. It seemed more like a memory than a dream, and he had to clench his hands to keep from reaching for her.

“Eve,” he said, “I want to talk to you about Angelo. Do you think you’re up to it, or would you prefer to enjoy your walk by yourself? We can always talk later.”

“Shall we walk while we talk?” she said. “I’ve been cooped up in the house too long, and I need the exercise.”

Lady Sayers’s acres were not laid out in any particular style. She knew what she liked and her own gardeners followed her directions. On the whole, she’d kept the Manor’s setting rural. There was no man-made lake, but there were vast orchards of apple and plum trees, and pastures that were let to local farmers for their horses and cattle, and once in a while something that seemed out of place—a Greek folly in a thicket of trees, a bandstand in the middle of a pasture.

“I’ve been told,” said Ash, “that the bandstand is used by musicians at the May Fair. That’s when all the locals from miles around come out to party and dance till their feet give out.”

Eve laughed. “What about the Greek folly?”

“She had that built after she visited Greece, but now that the trees have swallowed it up, I think she has forgotten its existence.”

They stopped at a fence that enclosed a small pasture where three donkeys were quietly grazing. When the donkeys became aware of their visitors, they brayed and glared with baleful eyes.

“Donkeys?” said Ash. “Where did they come from?”

“They’re Anna’s donkeys. They were due to go to market…well…I’ll spare you the gory details, but when she heard about it, she raised a fuss, bought the beasts, and persuaded Lady Sayers to take them in until she can transport them to Cornwall.”

Dexter whined and gazed longingly at the donkeys, as though he wanted to make friends with them. “He thinks they are big dogs,” Eve explained, “but Anna would have a fit if I let him get too close to them. She doesn’t like dogs.”

“I’m surprised she isn’t bedding down with the donkeys.”

“Oh, she may, if she can’t find someone to look after them.” She squinted up at him. “Do you think she’s peculiar?”

Sensing a trap, he replied easily, “Anyone who doesn’t like dogs must be peculiar.”

She gazed at him straight-faced, then her lips wobbled into a reluctant smile.

“About Angelo,” Ash finally said. “What do you think is going on?”

Her eyes were trained on the donkeys when she answered him. “Well, we know now that Lydia isn’t Angelo. She thought she was going out to meet him.” She shook her head. “Why did he attack her?”

“Because she repelled his advances? Because he wanted to punish her for stealing his thunder? That seems a bit extreme. No sane man would behave like that.”

She waited for him to go on, and when he remained silent, she finally prompted, “What do you make of it all?”

He replied slowly, thoughtfully, “I don’t think it was Angelo who attacked Lydia. Either she has lied about the note in her glove or she doesn’t want us to know who she was going out to meet that night.” He turned his head and looked directly into her eyes. “I think Lydia was attacked because someone thinks
she
is Angelo. Didn’t Fleming say that she was playing a dangerous game when she claimed to write those stories? I know a number of people who would gladly wring Angelo’s neck. Poor Lydia just got in the way.”

Eve was shaking her head. “That seems a bit extreme, too, doesn’t it? Stories don’t provoke readers to do murder. They’re only stories.”

He gave her a small, dry smile. “I take it you haven’t read the stories.”

“No. Only Lydia has.”

He plucked a blade of grass and began to chew it. “You were first on the scene,” he said. “Did you see something, hear something that you haven’t told us about?”