'Til Death Do Us Part (12 page)

“Calista?” he said. He stared at her and then at Trent. “Where
have you been? I've been worried to death. My God, what has happened to you?”

“Mr. Hastings,” Calista said. “Allow me to introduce you to my brother, Andrew.”

One look at Andrew's appalled expression told Trent that the evening's excitement was not yet finished.

Andrew lowered his head and charged down the front steps.

“Bastard,” he snarled. “How dare you outrage my sister? I'll kill you for this.”

H
ORRIFIED
,
C
ALISTA
JU
MPED
down to the ground and stepped in front of Trent. “Andrew, stop. You don't know what you're doing.”

She had never seen Andrew in such a state, she realized. Once again she was forced to acknowledge that he was no longer her little brother who needed her comfort and protection. He was a full-grown man with a man's strong body and strong, fierce emotions. In his present mood he was not only shockingly dangerous, he was also in danger.

Andrew's youth might be an asset to him but Trent had experience on his side and, as he had demonstrated earlier that evening, a great deal of strength and expertise in using his walking stick as a weapon.

She was not at all certain how to deal with the situation. She only knew that she could not let the two men come to blows.

Andrew was forced to scramble to a halt to avoid colliding with her. He stared past her at Trent.

“Get out of the way, Calista,” he ordered. “Hastings has done something terrible to you and he will pay for it.”

“You don't know what you are saying. Mr. Hastings saved my life tonight.”

“My God, Calista. What is that stain on your gown?”

“It is the blood of the man who tried to murder Mr. Hastings and me this evening,” she said, striving to cut through the violent atmosphere with a calm, brisk tone.

“What?” Andrew was dumbfounded. “I don't understand.”

Trent stirred behind her.

“I think it would be best if we continued this conversation inside,” he said. “I'm sure you will both agree that it would not do to awaken your neighbors around the square.”

Andrew glared at him but Calista could see that the reference to potential scandal was forcing him to come to his senses, at least temporarily. Without a word he stormed back into the house.

Calista handed the journal to Trent, hoisted her skirts, and hurried after her brother.

“Andrew, please listen to me.”

Trent followed her into the front hall and closed the door.

“Why don't you go upstairs and refresh yourself, Calista?” he said. It was an order, not a suggestion. “I'll handle this.”

Calista started to argue. But at that moment she caught sight of herself in the mirror over the console. Her hair had come free of the pins and now hung in wild, tangled locks. When she glanced down at her gown she saw the crimson stains on the hem of her skirt and petticoats. She realized she had walked through the killer's blood on her way out of J. P. Fulton's. No wonder Andrew was shocked and enraged.

Before she could think of anything to say Mrs. Sykes appeared.

“What's going on here?” she said. She stared, wide-eyed, at Calista. “Dear heaven. What on earth happened to you?” She turned an alarmed gaze on Trent. “Mr. Hastings, surely—”

“I'm all right,” Calista said quickly. “Mr. Hastings and I were
attacked tonight. Mr. Hastings saved me. If not for him, I would very likely be in a coffin by now, and I mean that quite literally. Now, if you will excuse me, I'm going to change into another gown. I would appreciate your assistance.”

“Yes, of course.” Mrs. Sykes recovered from her shock and took charge like the professional she was. “We must get you out of those clothes.”

Calista cast one last look at Andrew. His face was set in grim, stubborn lines. He did not take his eyes off Trent.

Mr. Sykes materialized. He took in the situation in a single glance.

“Allow me to show you into the library,” he said to Andrew and Trent. “From the looks of things, you could both do with a brandy.”

Neither man argued. But, then, one rarely argued with a professional butler, Calista thought.

“We must leave the gentlemen to Mr. Sykes,” Mrs. Sykes advised from the landing. “When it comes to this sort of thing, men understand each other in ways that women cannot begin to comprehend.”

“So I am discovering,” Calista said.

She collected her skirts and hurried up the stairs. Just as she entered her bedroom she heard the door of the library close very firmly.

“Y
OU
HAVE
EVERY
right to be concerned about your sister's condition tonight,” Trent said. He swallowed some brandy and watched Andrew pace the carpet. “But she told you the truth. I give you my word that I did not hurt her. We were attacked by a man with a knife.”

Andrew narrowed his eyes. “The blood.”

“As Calista told you, that is the assailant's blood on her gown. I managed to fend him off with an iron stand of the sort that is used to display funeral wreaths.”

Andrew came to a halt in the middle of the room. “How in blazes did you happen to come by a wreath stand? And where did this attack take place?”

“The location was the premises of J. P. Fulton's Coffins and Mourning Goods.”

Andrew looked suspicious at that news but he resumed his pacing.

“What were you doing there?” he demanded.

“You have not been paying close attention to your sister's problems lately, have you?”

“If you're talking about those nasty memento mori gifts she has been receiving, you're wrong. I have been paying attention. I didn't say anything to Calista, but I have been looking into the backgrounds of some of the men she rejected. I suspect that whoever is sending the funeral objects is a man she rejected as a client.”

“That is very insightful. Why didn't you tell her that is what you were doing?”

“Because I thought it would only make her more anxious.” Andrew's jaw twitched. “And because I am not getting anywhere with my investigation, damn it. I have not been able to identify a likely suspect.”

“That is not your fault. Calista got a good look at the man who attacked us tonight. She assured me she did not recognize him.”

Andrew halted again. “He's not one of the men she rejected?”

“No, nor is he a client.” Trent sipped some brandy and lowered the glass, thinking about the possibilities. “It doesn't mean there isn't some connection to your sister's business, however.”

“She has had dozens of clients since she opened her agency. How on earth are we to find a link to the person sending these death gifts if she did not recognize the bastard tonight?”

“When one hits a wall in a maze, one must look for another way out.”

“That sounds like something Clive Stone would say,” Andrew muttered. “It is rather annoying in real life.”

“So I have been told.”

Andrew glowered. “By whom?”

“My sister, among others.”

“Yes, well, the point is, this is not one of your stories, sir.”

“I am well aware of that. But in this particular instance, we may have another way out of the maze.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Mrs. Fulton's journal of transactions.” Trent put down his glass, got to his feet, and picked up the leather-bound volume. “As Clive Stone is fond of saying, money leaves a very bright trail.”

M
R
.
S
Y
KES
WAS
waiting at the door of the library when Calista came back downstairs clad in a clean gown, her hair tucked up in a neat knot.

“I can report that the situation is under control,” he said. “Common sense and brandy have prevailed.”

She gave him a grateful smile. “Thanks to you, Mr. Sykes.”

“A short time ago, Mr. Hastings wrote out a note that I have dispatched to an acquaintance of his at the Yard. It is in regard to a case of murder on the premises of J. P. Fulton's Coffins and Mourning Goods. I will confess that this business of the memento mori gifts has become extremely worrisome, miss. From the sound of things, you and Mr. Hastings had a very close call tonight.”

“I'm afraid that we can no longer hope that those dreadful gifts are the work of a nasty prankster. A woman was murdered tonight, and had it not been for Mr. Hastings's quick reactions I'm afraid there would have been another death. Perhaps two.”

Sykes glanced at the closed door of the library. “May I say that I
am very relieved to know that Mr. Hastings is now involved in this affair.”

Calista raised her brows. “You are?”

“Yes, indeed. Who would know more about how to track down a murderous villain?”

“Some would say that Mr. Hastings is a writer, not a real detective.”

“We don't appear to have a real one at hand, do we?”

“No, Mr. Sykes. We do not. Mr. Hastings is all that is available.” She paused. “And I will say that he was quite convincing tonight.”

“So I understand, miss. He spoke very highly of your own actions this evening. I believe he employed the words
clever
and
heroic
when he described the scene to your brother.”

“Did he?” She was absurdly pleased by that information.

“Indeed.” Sykes opened the door a crack and peered through the opening. “I think it is safe for you to enter now.”

“Thank you.”

She swept past him into the library—only to stop short at the sight of Andrew and Trent. They were standing close together at her desk, their attention fixed on a page in Mrs. Fulton's journal of accounts.

Andrew looked up, his eyes alight with discovery and fresh anger.

“Nestor Kettering,” he said.

Shock jolted through Calista with such force she could scarcely catch her breath. She managed to make her way to the nearest chair where she more or less collapsed.

“I don't understand.” She forced herself to think. Finally a glimmer of common sense returned. “Believe me, I am not fond of Nestor Kettering, but he is most certainly not the man who attacked us tonight.”

“I know that.” Trent watched her closely, his eyes tightening at the corners. “But according to this journal, Mrs. Fulton recently sold a coffin bell inscribed with the initials
C
and
L
to a Mr. N. Kettering of Number Five Lark Street,” he said. “A few days before that he
bought a locket ring of jet and crystal inscribed with the same initials.”

“And before that he ordered a tear-catcher,” Andrew added. “There's got to be a connection. That bastard is the one who is attempting to frighten you.”

She absorbed that information and then shook her head. “It makes no sense. Why would he do that? In the end he married a beautiful heiress. He got everything he wanted.”

“But not you,” Andrew said. “He didn't get you, Calista.”

“He didn't want me, Andrew. When he discovered that I was not the heiress he had believed me to be, he disappeared.”

Andrew said nothing but his frustrated fury was once again a palpable force in the atmosphere.

Trent continued to watch Calista. “I think it's time that someone told me more about Nestor Kettering. Was he a client at one time?”

“No.” Calista summoned her composure. “Nestor was never a client. Last year I met him in a bookshop. He appeared to be interested in the same authors as me—you, for example, sir—and we struck up a conversation. He was handsome, charming, well-mannered, and well-dressed. And he appeared to be intelligent and thoughtful. In short, he was too good to be true.”

“You fell in love with him?” Trent asked. He seemed to be bracing himself for her answer.

“For a time I thought he might be the man I had always hoped to find,” she said. “A man who would be a friend, a companion, and, yes, perhaps a man I could love.”

“You told him about your business, didn't you?” Trent said.

“Yes,” she said. “The subject of money eventually arose. I told him the truth about my finances and that I make my living by engaging in the introductions business. I believed I could trust him. He was . . . quite shocked. It took me a while to realize exactly why.”

Andrew grunted. “Kettering saw the house, the fashionable clothes, and the salons and he assumed she had inherited a fortune. He charmed her, claimed he was madly in love with her, and asked her to marry him.”

Trent looked at Calista. “Did you agree?”

“I told him I would consider his proposal,” Calista said. “Kettering was not the first man to make the mistake of concluding that I was well situated financially. Usually I do not attempt to correct the misunderstanding. Instead I use it as a reason for declining an offer of marriage.”

Trent nodded in understanding. “You pretend to be yet another wealthy heiress who does not wish to lose control of her finances.”

“Precisely. But for some reason I found myself wanting to test Nestor. I wanted to know how deeply he cared about me. So I told him the truth about my inheritance. When he discovered that the only well-furnished rooms in this house are those on the ground floor and that my income derives entirely from trade, he was horrified. And angry. He said I had deceived him.”

“The bastard took off to search elsewhere for a wealthy wife,” Andrew concluded. “And he found one.”

“Since then I have seen Nestor on only two occasions,” Calista said. She looked at Trent. “The first was yesterday, just before you arrived for your appointment. The second time was this afternoon outside a bookshop.”

“Damnation.” Andrew spun around to glare at her. “You never told me that Kettering had come here to see you.”

“I knew you would be upset. I'm sorry.”

“Bloody hell, Calista. I've got every right to be upset. I'm your brother. You should have told me.”

“No good would have come of it,” she said. “I apologize, Andrew. I did what I thought was best.”

He groaned. “When will you stop trying to protect me?”

She did not respond to that. She had no answer for him.

“I'll find the bastard,” Andrew vowed. “I'll put a stop to this harassment.”

“Andrew, please, don't say things like that,” Calista said.

“I won't allow him to frighten you,” Andrew said.

Trent leaned back against the edge of the desk and crossed his arms. “I would remind both of you that we are very likely dealing with a murderer who is definitely not Nestor Kettering. Let us take this step-by-step.”

Andrew eyed him. “What do you mean?”

“We must consider the facts that we know for certain,” Trent said. “Kettering has suddenly reappeared in Calista's life after about a year of silence. He seems quite intent on seducing her even though she has made it clear she wants nothing to do with him.”

“Absolutely clear,” Calista said.

“We also know that although Kettering was the one who purchased the memento mori items and the coffin bell, he was not the person who attacked us tonight. In addition, I think we can safely assume that it was the man with the knife who murdered Mrs. Fulton, not Kettering.”

“Where does that leave us?” Andrew asked.

“I don't know,” Trent said. “But those things are facts and right now we are short on that particular commodity. We must acquire a few more. When we have enough we will be able to finish the story.”

Calista looked at the folders on her desk. “I don't have a file on Nestor Kettering. There was never any need for one. Why would he want to frighten me? He was an out-and-out fortune hunter. He never loved me.”

“That does not mean that he is not obsessed with you,” Trent said. “Some people cannot tolerate any form of rejection. He is evidently a man who is accustomed to being able to charm women, but he failed with you.”

Calista shook her head. “Even if that is true, why would he wait a year to approach me again?”

“I don't know,” Trent said. “We need more information.”

“I knew something like this would happen sooner or later.” Andrew stormed across the room and turned his head to glare at Calista. “Didn't I warn you that rumors about your agency would start to leak out and that they might attract the wrong people?”

“Yes,” she said. “You have mentioned that risk on a number of occasions. But given my employment options, I do not think your comments are useful.”

“Enough,” Trent said. “There is no point arguing about this. We must stick to the matter at hand. What we have is a killer who is not in your files, Calista, but who likely has some connection, however remote, to Nestor Kettering. It cannot be a coincidence that he is back in your life.”

Andrew stopped halfway across the room. “That gets us precisely nowhere.”

“We also have a fairly accurate description of the killer who, judging by appearance and attire, can move comfortably in respectable society,” Calista pointed out.

Andrew swept out a hand. “It could be any one of thousands of men in London.”

“Except for two more interesting facts,” Trent said. “The first is that he doesn't mind using a knife to commit murder. That is not an especially common hobby among members of the upper classes.”

Curiosity flashed in Andrew's eyes. “What, exactly, do you mean, sir?”

“Think about it,” Trent said. “Slicing a woman's throat is a very messy way to kill a person. The average well-dressed gentleman is inclined to prefer a tidier approach—a blow to the head, perhaps, or a gun or poison.”

Andrew nodded thoughtfully. “A method that would not risk ruining his good clothes.”

“But this well-dressed murderer does not seem to mind the blood,” Trent said. “Furthermore he seems to know how to kill without getting a lot of the stuff on himself. That is another skill.”

“What are you implying?” Calista asked, more uneasy than ever.

“It occurs to me that the man we are hunting might actually revel in killing,” Trent said. “That speaks to the depths of his obsession.”

“Dear heaven.” Calista sat very still. “You believe that he might have done this sort of thing before, don't you?”

“I think it is a very likely possibility. He did not strike me as an apprentice learning his trade. He is a skilled master of his craft.”

Calista gripped the arms of her chair. “What sort of madman are we dealing with? And why has he fixed his attention on me?”

“We do have one more bit of information about the man we encountered tonight that might prove useful,” Trent said.

Calista and Andrew both looked at him.

“What?” Calista asked.

“I managed to do some damage to his skull with that floral display stand,” Trent said. “There was a fair amount of blood. As Calista pointed out earlier, it is likely he will require the services of a doctor.”

“How does that help us?” Andrew demanded.

“I'm not sure yet but we shall see.” Trent looked at Calista. “Is there anything else you can think of that might help us get to the bottom of this affair?”

“No, I don't think so,” she said. “None of this makes any sense.”

“It will, eventually,” Trent said. He looked at Andrew. “Calista tells me that you conduct research into the backgrounds of those who wish to become her clients. You verify marital status, finances, and so forth.”

Andrew shrugged. “It's not hard to determine whether or not they
are married. Spotting the out-and-out fortune hunters is a bit trickier, of course, because they can be quite clever. They are, after all, hiding the truth from everyone in Society, not just Calista. They are practiced liars.”

Trent raised his brows. “You obviously have a talent for that sort of work.”

Andrew tried to appear blasé but he flushed a faint red. Calista knew the compliment pleased him. It occurred to her that he never looked that happy when she thanked him for his investigative work. Evidently Trent's remark, coming as it did from an older male, made more of an impact.

“Let's return to the subject of Nestor Kettering,” Trent said. “We know more about him than we do about anyone else who is involved in this thing. We have a name, an address, and the fact that he purchased the memento mori items. That is a great deal of information. We shall focus on him for now.”