Yes, Mary was far more likely to provide an explanation for their rift. I’d have to pay her a visit tomorrow. “Just give me a few days, Charles. I’ll let you know how I get on.”
* * *
The garden party lasted only a few hours more. Storm clouds rumbled overhead as I took my leave of Fiona, forcing the stalwart Brit to endure my hugs since I likely wouldn’t see her until spring. Unless, of course, I gave in to Lily’s longing for a winter wedding. Fiona would certainly attend that event. I doubted I’d be able to hold Lily and Leo off much longer. The way they were saying farewell, one would think they too wouldn’t see one another until spring. In fact, their parting would only be for perhaps a day.
Once they completed their farewells, the four of us—Lily, Lottie, Aunt Hetty, and I—climbed into George Hazelton’s carriage. Mr. Hazelton was my neighbor, Fiona’s older brother, and a wonderful friend who acted as escort to our little group when he was free and loaned us his carriage when he wasn’t. Though I had funds sufficient to maintain my household, they didn’t stretch to keeping a carriage and horses. Lily had traveled to England with Aunt Hetty as her chaperone. Hetty was my father’s sister and shared his genius for making money, but I didn’t know how long she’d be staying with me and I feared growing accustomed to living within her means.
The two young ladies took the rear-facing seats, allowing Hetty and I to face forward. She climbed in first, pulling out the newspaper she’d tucked into the seat earlier. I tutted as I seated myself beside her. “Hetty, you’ll strain your eyes reading in this light.”
She dismissed my concerns with a few mumbled words and folded the broadsheet to a manageable size. “Don’t concern yourself with my vision, dear. It’s fine.”
I frowned at the paper hiding her face. “Can’t you put that down? I have a dilemma and hoped to get your opinion.”
“We have opinions.” Lily gestured to Lottie and herself.
“Of course, but I’d like Aunt Hetty’s, too.” I gave her a nudge with my elbow.
“Go on, I’m listening,” she said.
“I just spoke to Cousin Charles.” I sighed. “He tells me he no longer wishes to pursue a connection with Mary Archer.” I glanced up at my relations, hoping for some sympathy.
“And you thought they were such a good match,” Lily said. “Did he say why?”
“No, just that things did not work out between them, and he’d be amenable to another introduction if I knew of someone suitable.”
“He’s the nice cousin, isn’t he? And Hazelton’s friend?” Aunt Hetty tucked a wayward strand of dark hair up into her hat. She was nearly fifty, and though her face was just beginning to show the years, her hair was still jet black. She wrinkled her nose. “The rather dim-witted one?”
“He is Mr. Hazelton’s friend, but he’s not dim-witted. At least I think that’s rather harsh. He’s such a good-hearted man, and pleasant company. Just confusing at times. Or maybe confused.”
“He’s very handsome,” Lily offered.
“And he is his brother’s heir,” I said, “so one day he’ll be Viscount Evingdon.”
“So, he’s good-hearted, handsome, and will possess a title. I don’t suppose there’s a chance he’s wealthy in the bargain?” Hetty glanced from behind her paper, arching a dark brow.
“That part of the family is quite well off.”
“Then why did he need your help in finding a match? I’d assume such a man would have women making offers of marriage to him on a daily basis.” She stared at me with a confusion I fully understood. She was new to London society, quite different from New York, but even she knew a great catch when she heard of one.
“Actually, he does find it difficult to keep the ladies at bay, but he’s hoping to find someone who is attracted to him, rather than his title and fortune.”
“And his handsome face,” Lily added. “Don’t forget that.”
I glanced across at my sister. Only eighteen years old and replete with blond-haired, blue-eyed, china doll loveliness. Indeed, she was the very image of my mother, while I was a combination of both parents—dark brown hair with blue eyes and fair skin. And like my aunt Hetty, I fairly towered over my petite sister. At twenty-seven, I was nearly a decade older as well. It came as a surprise that she would see beauty in a man almost twenty years her senior.
“I suggest you never let Leo find out you have an attraction for older men,” I said, smiling as she blushed.
“I have eyes, Frances, but while I can see the man is handsome, it doesn’t necessarily follow that I’m attracted to him. You know I’m completely devoted to Leo.”
Indeed, I did know. This was just another of Lily’s reminders that I was delaying their wedding, and for no good reason as far as she was concerned. In fact, later this week we’d be dining with Leo’s family and I expected pressure to concede a few months in favor of an earlier wedding date. And ready or not, it was likely Lily would be a married woman before the new year. I dearly hoped she was ready.
She leaned forward and touched my wrist, bringing me out of my reverie. “What about Lottie as a match for Mr. Evingdon?”
I glanced over at Lottie in time to see the girl blush furiously. I should have seen this coming. Lily had invited her to visit during the next social season and allow me to introduce her to London society. Lottie’s mother favored the idea, but not the timing. She’d dropped her only daughter on our doorstep three weeks ago, like a twenty-one-year-old foundling, and took herself off to Paris to have a new wardrobe designed.
Or so she claimed.
Since her forwarding address was in care of the Comte De Beaulieu, I found her cover story rather weak. The Comte was the notorious libertine British husbands considered all Frenchmen to be. And penniless in the bargain. If he had designs on anything, it was likely Mrs. Deaver’s pin money. Considering the large bank draft she provided to cover her daughter’s expenses, and my own of course, I suspected her pin money to be substantial, and Mr. Deaver was unlikely to miss it or his wife. If the gossip from my mother’s letters was true, Mrs. Deaver so scandalized the matrons of New York, none of them would let their sons near Lottie.
Considering Mrs. Deaver’s reputation across the pond, it was perhaps for the best that she moved on before she could establish one here. But while I appreciated the extra funds, I was left with the problem of what to do with Lottie. The unfortunate young lady sought an aristocratic husband during a time when the aristocrats were all tucked away at their country homes preparing to shoot red grouse as soon as the Glorious Twelfth arrived.
There were few social events this late in the summer, which meant we had her company all to ourselves for the weeks she’d been here. She was a pretty girl of medium height, slender, as fashion decreed, with an oval face framed by an abundance of russet hair. I found her to be endlessly interested in everything. As I told Sir Hugo, she was easy to entertain. She was also determined to be helpful. I learned very quickly, accepting her assistance could be dangerous.
If I allowed her to arrange the flowers, she’d only break the vase and spill the water. I’d once asked her to fetch a book from a shop just a few blocks away. She’d neglected to take a maid and, lost in thought, she wandered so far out of the neighborhood, three of us had to go out in search of her. A search that took several hours from my day and, I suspect, a few years off my life as I imagined her abducted and sold into slavery. How would I ever have explained that to her family?
She seemed always to have a spot on her dress, ink on her fingers, and a trail of destruction in her wake, but it was clear she always had the best of intentions. In fact, she was very endearing and I liked her a great deal, if only I could keep her from touching anything.
But as a match for Charles? I wasn’t quite sure who would make a good match for Lottie, but I’d never have picked him. For one, his home had far too many priceless antiques to be broken. For another, though I protested Aunt Hetty’s saying it, he was a bit of a dunderhead. Lottie needed someone t
o help her navigate the twists and turns of society. That would not be Charles.
There was one objection I could make. “It would probably be wise to find out from Mr. Evingdon why he didn’t form an attachment to Mrs. Archer before I introduce him to anyone else.”
“Why did you consider her a good match for Mr. Evingdon?” Lily asked.
Hmm, a good question. “In part because she’s a widow and her late husband’s family is rather prominent in society. They did a great deal of entertaining and Mary was quite the darling of the fashionable set. When Cousin Charles inherits, he will have to take his place in that world, take his seat in the House of Lords, and Mary would be a good helpmeet in that area.”
“Well, that’s very practical, I suppose.” Lily sounded as if she were talking about stale bread—it could be eaten, but she’d have none of it. I chuckled as she wrinkled her nose.
“That is only part of it, of course. They had many shared interests, and Mr. Evingdon told me he was seeking a woman of some maturity and intelligence. Mary fit the bill on both fronts. She is almost thirty and is very intelligent. Her wit is rapier sharp, but she is a very kind and caring person. I feel badly that she and Charles could not make a go of it. She doesn’t go out in society much these days, and I fear she may have fallen on hard times since her husband’s death. She’s managed to keep the home they lived in on the edge of Mayfair so perhaps she receives an allowance from her late husband’s family. Her only family is a sister who lives near Oxford. So, Mary is quite alone.”
Lily frowned. “Well, now I wish things had worked out between them.”
“I can always try again, I suppose. In two months I’ll be out of mourning and able to move about in society more. Perhaps I can find another likely match for her. From what Mr. Evingdon tells me, a match between them is impossible.”
“What did you say her name was?”
I glanced up to see Hetty watching me over the turned-down corner of her newspaper.
“Mary Archer. Why?”
Hetty twisted her lips into a grimace. “It appears Mr. Evingdon is correct in this matter. Whatever divided them, he’ll have no opportunity to reconcile with Mrs. Archer.”
Confused, I stared at my aunt. “What are you saying?”
“I’m sorry to give you this news, Frances, but I just read about her in the paper. It appears she’s been murdered.”
Chapter 2
Murdered? I snatched the newspaper from Hetty’s hands and spread it on my lap. “Show me where you read this.”
Hetty leaned forward and ran her finger down one of the columns of newsprint, landing on Mary’s name. It was one paragraph. “ ‘Found dead in her home,’ ” I read. The sentence was followed by Mary’s name, age, and family connections. “ ‘No details given by the police, but foul play is suspected.’ ”
“If the reporter has no details, why does he suspect foul play?” Lily asked.
“I think what he means is, the police implied they suspect foul play.” I crumpled the paper and stared up at my companions. “Why would anyone murder Mary?”
Lottie leaned forward in her seat and squeezed my arm. “I’m so sorry, Lady Harleigh. Was Mrs. Archer a close friend?”
Now that’s the strange thing. I’d known Mary for several years and wouldn’t say I knew her well. Yet I already felt her loss and regretted we hadn’t been closer. I patted Lottie’s gloved hand with my own. “More acquaintances, I suppose, but I liked and respected her.”
I didn’t notice we’d already arrived at Chester Street and drawn up in front of my house until the driver opened the carriage door. I climbed out first and waited on the pavement while he assisted the others, turning to gaze at my house. The pride of ownership still gave me a thrill. Though it was the smallest in the block of terrace houses, it was all mine.
Mary must have felt much the same about her home, as she never returned to her family after her husband’s death. The thought of some criminal breaking in and murdering her made gooseflesh rise on my arms. But she lived completely alone, I reminded myself, while I had family and servants with me.
The driver turned the carriage around the corner to the mews and the four of us proceeded into the house where Mrs. Thompson, my housekeeper, waited in the foyer. Her stiff spine and crisp black dress, buttoned up to the neck, gave her the appearance of a guard.
“Inspector Delaney is here to see you, my lady,” she said, shaking her salt-and-pepper head.
I took a step back. “Delaney? Whatever for?”
“He wouldn’t say, ma’am, but he was insistent about waiting for you. He’s been in the drawing room at least a quarter of an hour now.” Her hand was unsteady when she took my hat and bag.
“I’m sure it’s nothing you need trouble yourself about, Mrs. Thompson.”
The housekeeper pursed her lips but stopped short of revealing her doubts. Of course, she didn’t believe me. Delaney had never stopped by for nothing before. In fact, I hadn’t seen him for months, since the occasion of a particularly gruesome murder in my garden. His calling on me now set butterflies off in my stomach.
Hetty laid a hand on my arm. “Perhaps he’s here about Mrs. Archer.”
“I can’t imagine why he would come to me on that account.” I took a step toward the drawing room and stopped as all three of my companions crowded behind me. “Inspector Delaney asked to see me and I’m quite capable of speaking to him on my own.” I turned to Mrs. Thompson. “Please have Jenny bring in tea.”
Hetty appeared ready to argue but backed down as I raised my brows. “Fine. We’ll wait for you in the library.”
I opened the door to the drawing room and stepped inside, no more eager to speak to the inspector than Mrs. Thompson had been. Like Hetty, I wondered if his visit had anything to do with Mary’s murder.
He was seated in one of the wingback chairs by the window and stood as I walked toward him, extending my hand in greeting. Heavens, if I wasn’t struck with an odd wave of affection for the man. To say he’d been kind to me in our past encounters would be a great breach of the truth. He’d been gruff and domineering, but he’d also provided me with a sense of almost parental security, though he was only perhaps a dozen years older than myself.
I noted he wore a new, shapeless suit, this one in a dark shade of gray. Delaney was a tall man, so the lack of cut made him appear rather lanky. His complexion was a warmer hue than I remembered, as if he’d just had a holiday in the sun, and his brown-gray hair and eyebrows, as usual, had a life all their own.
He returned my welcome with a warm smile, hinting that he recalled me with some affection as well.
“Inspector Delaney,” I said, leading him to a conversational grouping of sofa and chairs around the tea table. “May I offer you some refreshment?”
“A cup of tea would be most welcome, my lady.” He waited for me to choose a seat before folding himself into the chair next to mine.
“Excellent. It should be here momentarily. In the meantime, tell me, how have you been faring? Has the newest Delaney made his appearance yet?”
A smile broke across his face like a sunrise, crinkling the eyes beneath those bushy brows. “She arrived about a month ago,” he said. “After two boys, my wife was hoping for a girl this time and I’ve never seen her happier.”
It appeared to me his wife was not the only one. “My congratulations, Inspector. My own daughter has brought me nothing but joy. I hope the same is true for you.”
A knock at the door warned of Jenny, my housemaid, entering with our tea. I had bribed Jenny away from my brother-in-law’s household when I moved to Belgravia. A buxom, sweet-natured, country girl with more intellect and curiosity than I’d first given her credit for. After placing the tray on the table, she reached for the pot, as if to serve us. I could tell she was hoping to pick up a bit of gossip.
“Thank you, Jenny,” I said firmly. “I’ll take care of this.”
With a bob of her head, she slipped out of the room and I poured Delaney
a cup, waiting for him to tell me why he’d called.
It didn’t take long. “Are you acquainted with Mrs. Mary Archer, ma’am?” Delaney asked, leaning forward to place his cup on the table.
My teacup rattled on its saucer and a tiny amount of the dark liquid slipped over the side. I quickly placed it on the table. “So, you are here about Mary. Yes, I am acquainted with her, and I must confess, we read of her death just a few moments ago. Is it true she was murdered?”
“I’m sorry to say she was, ma’am.” Delaney flashed me a warning look. I wasn’t sure I wanted any of the details of her murder, but he made it clear there’d be no point in asking for them. I waited, assuming he’d get to the point, eventually.
“How well did you know her?”
“We were friends,” I said, surprised by the intensity of his gaze. “In a social way. We attended the same events, met occasionally at mutual friends’ homes for a salon or afternoon tea.”
“Forgive me, Lady Harleigh, but you were visibly shaken when I mentioned her name. Are you certain you didn’t have more than a nodding acquaintance?”
“Heavens, Inspector, of course I was shaken. I suppose because I’d just heard of her death and had not really absorbed it yet. The murder of a friend, whether close or not, comes as a shock to me. Indeed, we had more than a nodding acquaintance. Over the course of several years, I’ve come to think of her quite highly, but I’d still not say we were close friends.”
He leaned forward in his seat, sliding to the edge of the chair. “So, if you needed someone to confide in, share your troubles with, you would not have turned to Mrs. Archer?”
I blinked. “No, we were certainly not that close.”
Delaney reached into his pocket and removed a small notebook, which he seemed to carry at all times. From the notebook he removed a folded sheet of paper. Reaching across the table he handed it to me. “Any idea how she might have come by this information?”
Curious, I took the sheet, noting the elegant writing as I first scanned the contents, then gave it a second, more thorough reading. I dropped my hand to my lap, the paper still tucked in my fingers, while my other hand drifted up to my mouth, seemingly of its own volition, likely for the purpose of containing the foul curses trembling on my tongue.
A Lady's Guide to Gossip and Murder Page 2
