by Amanda Quick
Inspired, he rushed off toward his office to ponder the details of the plan that was already taking shape in his mind.
No doubt about it, Elsworth was an enormous asset, even if he was decidedly unnerving.
EIGHT
“It was all a great misunderstanding,” Caroline said, looking both annoyed and resigned. “My so-called demonstration of psychical powers was meant to be nothing more than an amusing entertainment for Mrs. Hughes and her guests.”
“An entertainment?”
“My aunts play cards with Mrs. Hughes and her friends several times a week. They asked me to stage the performance as a surprise. Emma and Milly were aware that in the course of my recent research, I had learned some of the tricks used by those who profess to possess psychical powers. They thought the ladies would enjoy a demonstration of how the practitioners achieve their effects.”
“Mrs. Hughes, I gather, took your parlor tricks seriously?”
“I’m afraid so,” she said. “It transpired that she has friends who are active in the Society for Psychical Investigations. One of them, in turn, spoke with a correspondent for the Flying Intelligencer.” She widened her hands, palms up. “One thing led to another and the next thing I knew there was an item in the paper. It was all rather awkward, to say the least.”
“Typical sensation journalism. Very few facts embedded amid a vast amount of melodramatic fiction.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I will admit that at times the press does not always report events with the accuracy one would like.” She broke off, glancing around with an air of abrupt concern. “Where are we going? I must return to Corley Lane. I have several more pages to complete today.”
“I will see you home in my carriage, Mrs. Fordyce.”
“Oh.” She hesitated, looking taken aback, as though the notion of allowing him to escort her back to Corley Lane had disconcerted her.
Across the way, his coachman, Ned, saw them approaching. He jumped down from the box to open the door of the vehicle.
Caroline appeared to come to a decision. When they reached the far side of the street, she halted near the carriage.
“Thank you, Mr. Hardesty, but I took a hackney cab to Wintersett House today. I intend to return home in the same manner.”
Her unwillingness to get into his carriage annoyed him more than he wanted to admit. He cast about for a lure he could use to entice her into the vehicle.
“Very well, Mrs. Fordyce, you must do as you please,” he said, politely regretful. “I had hoped to take the opportunity to discuss our observations of Irene Toller’s performance today while they are still fresh in our minds, but if you insist on returning home on foot—”
She looked startled. “You wanted to compare notes?”
“Yes. It had occurred to me that together we might come up with some conclusions that could well elude either of us independently.”
Excitement sparkled in her eyes. “I see. I hadn’t considered that possibility.”
“However, if you do not wish to accompany me, I certainly understand. I realize that our association did not get off to a promising start. My fault entirely.”
“Hmm.” She glanced at the waiting carriage with an uneasy expression.
She could not have made it more plain that she did not trust him. He wondered if she would be equally reluctant to join Julian Elsworth in a carriage.
He tried another approach.
“Surely it is not gossip you fear, Mrs. Fordyce,” he said dryly. “You are, after all, a respectable widow, not an unwed young lady who must avoid being seen getting into a carriage with a gentleman who is not her intended.”
To his surprise the small taunt had a rather startling reaction. Caroline’s hand tightened almost violently around the handle of the parasol.
“I am well aware of the dictates of propriety,” she said coldly.
“Of course. Then may I ask where the problem lies?”
“It lies with the fact that I do not know precisely who you are, sir.”
“I told you, my name is Hardesty. Adam Hardesty.”
“Why should I believe that is your real name any more than Grove was?”
He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small white piece of pasteboard neatly imprinted with his name. “My card, Mrs. Fordyce.”
She examined the card, unimpressed. “Calling cards can be forged.”
She handed the card back to him as though it were a piece of trash. For the first time in a long while he felt his temper heat.
“I do not mean to give offense, madam,” he said evenly, “but this coyness is a bit overdone, if you don’t mind my saying so. You are, after all, an author of sensation novels.”
“What of it?”
“Everyone knows what that means.”
“Indeed? And just what does it imply about me personally, Mr. Hardesty?”
It occurred to him that he had painted himself into a very small corner. This sort of thing rarely happened to him in his dealings with women.
“It means that you write stories that rely upon a great deal of, well, sensation,” he said, belatedly cautious.
“What is wrong with that?”
He gave the street a quick survey, making certain that there was no one near enough to overhear the deteriorating conversation. The last thing he wanted was a public scene.
“It is a fact that sensation novelists are noted for writing plots that involve what can only be termed extremely worldly subjects,” he said in low tones.
“How would you know that, sir? You have made it clear that you don’t read that sort of thing.”
“True. But I did happen to peruse the most recent chapter of The Mysterious Gentleman. In that single episode there were unmistakable references to adultery, illicit love affairs, both a runaway marriage and a runaway carriage, and a murder. Clearly your plots rely on one sensation after another.”
She gave him a steely smile. “I am impressed with your newfound knowledge of the genre, sir. But perhaps you should read a few more chapters before you make judgments about the author.”
“There is no need to finish the story. It is obvious that Edmund Drake is going to meet a very unpleasant end. My uncle and my sister assure me that you are noted for bringing your villains to dreadful ends.”
Caroline’s expression underwent a sea change. “Your sister and your uncle read my work?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“I see.” She was delighted by that news. “It is always a great pleasure to learn that someone enjoys my stories.”
“Yes, well, as I was saying—”
“I quite understand now why you are so concerned about the respectability of my novels.” She smiled warmly. “Naturally you do not wish your sister to be exposed to inappropriate subjects. Rest assured that although my themes and plots are often mature in nature, my characters are suitably rewarded or punished depending upon the morality of their actions.”
“That does not bode well for Edmund Drake.”
“There is no need to be concerned about him. He is the villain, after all. Bear in mind that my heroes always save the day and marry the heroine.”
He planted one hand against the side of the carriage and leaned over her just far enough to cast her into his shadow. “Tell me, Mrs. Fordyce, have you ever gotten your heroes and villains mixed up?”
“Never, sir. The difference between a hero and a villain has always been perfectly obvious to me.”
He could see that there was not so much as a sliver of doubt in her mind on that score. Drake was doomed.
“How fortunate for you, madam,” he said.
Understanding lit her eyes. “Oh, dear. You are taking this personally because I told you that I intended to use you as a model for the character of Edmund Drake.” She gave him a contrite smile. “My apologies. I did not mean to insult you or injure your feelings, sir.”
What in blazes was he doing standing here arguing about her villains and her heroes?
“Do not concern yourself with my feelings, madam. I assure you, they have endured far worse abuse.” He straightened and took his hand off the side of the vehicle. “You can make amends by allowing me to see you safely home.”
“Well—”
“If you still have doubts about my identity, Ned here can vouch for me.”
Ned had been standing patiently beside the open carriage door, trying very hard to look as if he was not listening to the unusual conversation. He started violently at the sound of his name.
“Sir?”
“Please assure Mrs. Fordyce that my name is Adam Hardesty and that I am considered, by and large, to be a respectable gentleman who is not in the habit of kidnapping ladies and carrying them off in my carriage for immoral purposes.”
Ned’s jaw dropped in visible shock. He swallowed quickly and pulled himself together with an obvious effort.
“I can vouch for Mr. Hardesty here, ma’am,” he said with touching sincerity. “Driven for him for years. Ye’ve nothing to fear from him and that’s a fact.”
Caroline smiled. “I have your word on that, Ned?”
“Aye, ma’am. And may I say, Mrs. Fordyce, that I find your new novel even more thrilling than the last one. The business with the fire and the rescue of little Miss Ann from the flames was very exciting. So was the bit with the murder.”
Caroline glowed. “Why, thank you, Ned.”
“It was a stroke of genius to keep Edmund Drake lurking about in the shadows, so to speak, until this new chapter. Very mysterious, he is.”
Caroline blushed happily and walked to the steps that Ned had set down in front of the carriage door. “You are very kind to say so.”
Ned grinned and handed her up into the vehicle. “I can’t wait to see what happens to that rotten-hearted bloke.”
Caroline laughed lightly. “I am working out his fate this very week, Ned.”
Adam watched her bend elegantly at the waist to enter the carriage. The ridiculous green and gold velvet bow twitched enticingly and then vanished into the shadows.
Perhaps he ought to start taking lessons from Ned, he thought, climbing in behind Caroline. His coachman had had no difficulty whatsoever persuading her to get into the carriage. Hero material, no doubt.
NINE
She had done it, Caroline thought, rather dazed by her own boldness. She had taken advantage of her status as a widow to climb into the carriage, and now she was sitting here sharing the vehicle’s intimate confines with the most fascinating man she had ever met in her life.
It was unfortunate that the topic of conversation was to be murder.
She gave Adam an inquiring look, trying to act blasé, as though she was accustomed to riding through the streets of London with a gentleman.
“The rumors were correct, it seems,” Adam said. He lounged in the corner, one leg outstretched, an arm braced on the window frame. “There was certainly no love lost between Irene Toller and Elizabeth Delmont.”
“No, indeed.” Caroline forced herself to concentrate on what she had observed at the demonstration. “Mrs. Toller made no secret of the fact that she feels justice was done.”
Adam raised a brow. “I doubt if there was any justice involved, but regardless of the motive, Mrs. Delmont’s skull was not crushed by manifestations from the Other Side. I cannot imagine that any self-respecting spirit would use something as mundane as a fireplace poker to commit murder.”
Caroline shuddered. “I agree. That sort of violence is all too human, is it not?”
He meditated on the busy street scene. “Toller obviously possesses strong feelings about her dead rival. She may know something of the murder.”
“It did occur to me that Mrs. Toller may have killed Mrs. Delmont. Professional rivalry is no doubt a very powerful motivation.”
“I do not deny that.” His eyes tightened faintly at the corners. “But the thing that interests me the most at the moment was what was not reported in the press.”
“Did you see the papers this morning? They covered the crime in great detail. They all mentioned the overturned furniture and the watch that was stopped at midnight.”
“Those were the least of the bizarre elements I found at the scene,” he said quietly.
“I beg your pardon?”
“When I found Elizabeth Delmont, she was lying faceup on the carpet of her séance room. Someone, presumably the killer, had placed a wedding veil over her face. It was soaked with her blood.”
She stared at him, shocked. “Good heavens.”
“In addition, a black enameled mourning brooch had been left on the bodice of Delmont’s gown. On the reverse side of the brooch there was a twist of blond hair and a small photograph of a young, fair-haired woman dressed as a bride.”
“You say the brooch was placed on Mrs. Delmont’s person? Not pinned to her gown?”
He shook his head. “It appeared to have been positioned very carefully on the body, just as the veil was.”
Caroline folded her arms, hugging herself against the strange chill that his words had sent through her. “Bizarre is, indeed, the right word. The veil and the mourning brooch imply a very personal sort of murder. It certainly does not sound like the work of a housebreaker or a burglar.”
“Nor does it sound like the actions of someone who killed Delmont simply to acquire the diary,” he admitted, obviously reluctant to abandon that notion. “I cannot envision a potential blackmailer taking the trouble to create such a dramatic scene.”
“Unless he wished to throw the police off the trail by making the murder appear to be the work of someone who had a personal reason for killing Elizabeth Delmont,” she suggested.
He gave her a long, cool, assessing look. “That, Mrs. Fordyce, is a very interesting possibility. Distraction is the oldest trick in the world. Someone might well have stolen the diary and then deliberately left a variety of clues pointing in another direction. But if that is the case, why was there no mention of them in the papers?”
“Your problem would seem to be even more complicated than it appeared at the start. What do you intend to do next?”
“I would very much like to learn more about Irene Toller. Her intense dislike of Delmont makes her an excellent suspect, to my way of thinking. But I doubt that she will respond helpfully to direct questions, especially if she has something to hide.”
“You believe that she would lie to you?”
“I am more concerned that she will pack her bags and disappear if she thinks that she has been found out,” he said. “I do not want to scare her off until I know for certain whether or not she is involved in this affair.”
“What will you do?”
“If she is the one who killed Elizabeth Delmont and stole the diary, it is likely that she has the journal hidden somewhere in her house,” he mused. “I believe my next step is to conduct a search of the premises.”
She unfolded her arms very quickly. “You intend to break into her house? Good heavens, you cannot take such a risk, sir. If she has already killed once, she will not hesitate to do so again.”
He appeared bemused by her protest. Then a strangely quizzical expression darkened his eyes. “Are you worried about my safety, Mrs. Fordyce?”
“I am merely trying to inject some common sense into your plan.”
“A pity. For a moment, I dared to entertain the hope that you were concerned for my well-being.”
“I do not appreciate being teased, Mr. Hardesty. Now, then, if you are determined upon this venture, would it not make more sense to at least learn something about the plan of the house before you break into it? Having some prior knowledge of that sort would enable you to conduct a more efficient search.”
He gave her a speculative look. “What do you suggest?”
“You could schedule a séance,” she said, thinking quickly. “Mrs. Toller made it obvious today that she was attempting to use her public demonstrations to promote her private business.”
“What an imaginative
notion.” His brows rose. “Brilliant, in fact. Entering the house for the purpose of a séance would not only give me an opportunity to look around, it might provide me with other information about Toller as well. Do you know, something tells me that having a sensation novelist for a consultant in this affair is going to prove extremely useful.”
His slow smile was as sensual and thrillingly intimate as it was unexpected. It transformed his appearance, giving her a brief glimpse of the complex man beneath the enigmatic façade that he presented to the world.
It also flustered her. She struggled to regain her composure.
“I must accompany you, of course,” she said, trying to ignore the fluttery sensations in her stomach.
His smile faded as quickly as it had appeared. The remote, cryptic expression returned.
“I do not think that will be necessary.”
“I disagree, sir,” she said as forcefully as she could manage. “My presence will help allay any suspicions Mrs. Toller might have.”
“What suspicions could she possibly entertain? Mrs. Toller and I have never met. Even if she does possess the diary and even if she is aware that a gentleman named Adam Hardesty is a potential target for blackmail, how could she recognize me as her intended victim?”
“She might have seen you at the demonstration today.”
He moved one hand in an uninterested motion. “If she did, she will only know me as Mr. Grove, just as Reed and Elsworth do. Irene Toller is in the business of giving séances. I will be just another client as far as she is concerned.”
Obviously she would have to come up with another argument to convince him that he must include her in his plan. She had no intention of allowing him to pursue his inquiries without her. Tread cautiously, she warned herself. Adam Hardesty would not appreciate any attempts to manipulate him. But manipulate him, she must.
She cleared her throat. “No offense, sir, but there is, shall we say, a certain aspect about you that might well make Mrs. Toller—” She paused, searching for a diplomatic word to finish the sentence. None came to mind. “Uneasy.”
