“No. It wasn’t a burking. We’re certain of that.” Gage scowled. “The culprit only wanted it to appear like it was, to conceal his real motive. And he might have succeeded, or at least raised doubts, if the act wasn’t so poorly executed.” He explained the crime and the manner in which we’d found the body. “But most telling of all . . .” our eyes met again “. . . was the sticking plaster partially covering the face. The murderer was obviously emulating the images he’d seen in the broadsheets, without success. It was the blow to the head that killed Feckenham, not suffocation.”
Melbourne and Lord Gage both appeared deeply displeased by this information.
“Then the rumor is certain to circulate through the papers.” Melbourne stifled a curse.
“Not for long,” Gage replied in a leading tone of voice that made both men sit up and take notice. “We disposed of the sticking plaster before fetching assistance, so no one outside of this room, save the killer, knows of it.”
Lord Gage looked upon us with reluctant approval, but the home secretary had no trouble voicing his approbation.
“Good man! Your father said you were quick on your feet.”
“I also relayed a few strategic bits of information to Mr. Day with the Observer this afternoon. By Monday all of Mayfair will believe that Feckenham was the victim of a thief with a knife.”
“By Jove! Well, that is good to hear.” He sat forward, smacking his leg. “And now I am assured I can leave this matter safely in your hands. Any suspects?”
“Nothing conclusive yet. But the family is not being entirely forthcoming.”
A rap on the door, followed by the entry of Lord Gage’s butler, stopped Gage from saying anything more.
“Excuse me, my lord.” The butler bowed. “But this was just delivered for Lord Melbourne.”
Melbourne nodded, taking the letter from the proffered silver salver. “Understandable given Feckenham’s reputation,” he replied as he broke open the seal, swiveling in his chair to better catch the light of the fire. “You’ll likely find he ruined the wrong man at the tables.”
We sat quietly as he perused the missive. While we’d been chatting, the afternoon light had all but faded to night. The butler moved about the room, turning up several lamps to combat the gloom of the day, and then departed. Meanwhile, I couldn’t help but notice the growing concern deepening the brackets at the corners of Melbourne’s mouth.
When the door had closed behind the butler, Melbourne lowered the note. “Bishop’s and Williams’s wives have been arrested. Little surprise there. Given the small size of the home, the police are convinced they must have known about the killing. But apparently they were found at the Fortune of War pub with a petition they intended to use to apply for support from the various surgeons Bishop was known to supply.”
Gage glowered in affront, but Lord Gage only shook his head. “Why am I not surprised such people would resort to blackmail?”
“It’s a common practice. One most of the surgeons and anatomists do not scruple at,” I retorted before I could bite my tongue. My father-in-law’s derisive response had made my temper bristle, for I could not help but feel some empathy for these ladies. The police accused them of, at the very least, willingly concealing their husbands’ actions, but the truth was they’d probably been bullied and beaten, and threatened with much worse if they did not obey their husband’s orders. I knew all too well what that was like.
I lowered my chin, shrinking into myself in the face of Lord Gage’s and Melbourne’s stares. However, Gage’s hand stole into mine where it lay clenched in my lap, calming my inner turmoil. “After all, it’s not the surgeons who face prison if their suppliers are arrested in the process of procuring what they need for their work,” I continued more sedately. “So in order to keep them loyal and content, most medical men are happy to exert their influence to try to get the charges dropped, or provide funds for bail, attorney’s fees, jail comforts, or support for the resurrectionist’s family if they are not. Though, in such circumstances, the resurrectionists in question are usually accused of illegally disinterring a corpse, not murder,” I acknowledged.
“And you know this because . . . ?” Lord Gage bit out. The vein throbbing in his temple indicated that he thought I’d lied to him about my knowledge of bodysnatchers.
“I stumbled across one such letter when it had been slipped under the door of our home for Sir Anthony.” I hadn’t expected an explanation when I later gave it to him, but my confusion must have been evident and his mood jovial enough that he’d condescended to give me one.
Melbourne considered this information and then nodded. “That makes sense. I’ve been told these resurrectionists can be vindictive fellows when their demands aren’t met. Leaving body parts or even entire disfigured corpses strewn about an enemy’s home.” He wrinkled his nose. “It’s a nasty business.”
None of us responded to this. There was no need to.
He pushed to his feet. “Well, I must be off. Keep me apprised of these goings-on in Mayfair through your father,” he instructed Gage before dipping a shallow bow to me.
Lord Gage escorted him to the door of the drawing room, murmuring to him in a low voice. My husband took the opportunity to lower his head closer to mine. “Are you well?”
“Yes,” I replied, comforted by his concern. I traced the pattern of the brocade cushion between us with my eyes. “It’s funny the things that come back to you. I hadn’t thought of that letter in years.” Or Sir Anthony’s peculiarly merry reaction to it. I never could predict what sort of temper he would be in. When I’d thought he would be furious, he instead responded with laughter, and when I thought him calm and complacent, he would suddenly erupt in violence. It was all part of the terror of living with him, and why I’d tried to avoid him. As naturally as possible. If my evasion of his person became too obvious, he would take savage delight in it, which was always a dangerous state to find him in.
I glanced up to find Gage studying me, his jaw taut, as if he’d read my thoughts. Stuffing the memories back down inside me, I forced a smile, trying to reassure him. But that only seemed to trouble him more.
“How do you propose to proceed with this Feckenham investigation?” Lord Gage inquired as he lifted the tails of his coat and settled back into his chair. “Anything I can assist with?”
Gage sat straighter again, releasing my hand. “We need to speak with the younger son, but he’s been sent to their country estate to inform his sisters of their elder brother’s death.”
Lord Gage’s eyebrows arched at this, and Gage’s lip curled in sardonic agreement.
“We’ve been assured he’ll return in a few days. Beyond that, we need to speak with a few of Feckenham’s friends, find out which gaming hells he was known to haunt, and which characters might have wished him to the devil.”
His brow lowered. “The earl didn’t know?”
“He said not,” Gage replied, though his tone conveyed his doubt.
“Why would he deny knowing such a thing?” I ruminated, having stewed over this same question myself. “Surely he must realize we’ll discover the answer from other quarters.”
“Perhaps it’s out of some delayed fatherly devotion. Maybe he feared he’d been too harshly critical of his son.”
I blinked in surprise as Lord Gage spoke these words, his eyes trained on the ceiling in thought. Could this insight have come from his own personal reflections, or was he merely speculating? Whatever the truth, I could tell from the wide-eyed uncertainty in my husband’s eyes that he’d been just as taken aback.
“Maybe . . .” I conceded, studying the two men. “Except in the next breath he informed us of how his son had trifled with multiple young ladies.”
Lord Gage did not seem surprised by this. “I’d heard whispers of something to that effect, but only about Paddington’s niece. Miss Holt was her name, I believe. Though
now she’s Lady Wilmot.”
We’d been informed of Miss Holt’s engagement to the notorious scoundrel Lord Wilmot a year before, though there had been no mention of Miss Holt having been compromised. And by a different gentleman. But I supposed the matter hadn’t been generally known.
Lord Gage sneered. “I suppose it comes as no surprise, given Lord Feckenham was known to run with Lord Wilmot’s set. The two likely cooked up the matter together. Otherwise Paddington, as Miss Holt’s guardian, would never have agreed to a match with Wilmot, the fortune-hunting bounder.”
This mention of Lord Wilmot’s set did not come as welcome news, for I knew of someone else who had once been counted among them, and I did not relish asking him for information about the men he once called friends. It was certain to cause us both a great deal of embarrassment.
Wrapped up in my own concerns, I failed to notice the tension caused by another part of this pronouncement until Gage spoke. “I don’t suppose you’re still on easy enough terms with Lord Paddington to ask him about the matter?”
His father cast him a withering glare. “And all but accuse the man, or one of his relatives, of having something to do with Feckenham’s murder? Paddington is no idiot. He’ll grasp rather quickly why I would dare to broach such a delicate subject with him.” He shook his head. “No. You’re on your own there. And I strongly advise against questioning him unless you have some solid evidence for doing so. Your rejection of his daughter, no matter how pretty a tale they wove about the matter, is rather a sore subject with him.”
“I never rejected Lady Felicity,” Gage snapped, nearly leaping to his feet in his fury. “A few dances and a handful of drives in the park does not an offer make. Especially when she was doing the same with any number of other eligible gentlemen. You and Paddington were the ones who decided upon the attachment.”
“Which was as good as done when you suddenly balked and rode off to Scotland.”
Where he’d met me.
The black look Lord Gage flicked at me clearly communicated this. I had foiled his plans. Gage’s feelings didn’t matter, nor did his insistence that he’d had no intention of marrying Lady Felicity whether he’d fallen in love with me or not.
The corner of Gage’s jaw leaped as he choked back the words that had already been spoken too many times to no avail. “None of this is of the moment,” he finally managed to say. “I shall heed your council and avoid questioning Paddington unless necessary. Heaven knows I don’t want to speak to the pompous prig either.”
Ire flashed in Lord Gage’s eyes, and it appeared he was about to rise to the defense of his old friend. But then he slumped deeper into his chair, as if growing as weary of this tedious argument as we were. He actually unbent so much as to tip his head, propping it up with his fingers. “What of your valet? Has he had any luck with these Italians who claimed they recognized the murdered boy?”
I glanced at Gage in curiosity.
He sighed. “Not yet. But you know I will send word as soon as I have anything to report.”
I was still pondering this matter when we returned to our carriage a short time later, the rain drumming sharply against the roof. “I didn’t know you’d tasked Anderley to look further into discovering the Italian Boy’s identity beyond the inquest.”
“Yes. He’s familiar with the area of London where they live,” he muttered, digging his fingers into his temples.
I pushed his hand away and arched upward so I could clasp his forehead between my hands, rubbing my fingers in circles to relieve his discomfort.
He sank his head back against the plush morocco leather squabs with a tiny groan. “Thank you.” His hands lifted to loosely clasp my waist to steady me as the carriage jostled over something in the road. “I suppose I shall have to seek out Lord Wilmot to find out more about Feckenham’s reprehensible habits.” He grimaced, either from the pain of his headache or the task before him. “Though I am loath to do so.”
“I’ve been told Lord Wilmot is a scoundrel.”
“Yes. But there are scoundrels, and then there are Scoundrels.”
I slowed my ministrations, and he cracked open his eyes to see my confusion.
“Let me put it this way. Our dubious friend, the Marquess of Marsdale, has proved himself to be a rascal and a rake and would no doubt seek to seduce you if he had you alone . . .”
I scoffed. “He might try.”
His lips creased into a smile. “But I do not quail at your being in his company. For I’ve learned that while his comments are often quite outrageous, and his manner irreverent, he is not without scruple or honor. Nor would he force himself on you or allow you to come to harm.” His face darkened. “However, Lord Wilmot, as far as I can tell, hasn’t the least amount of integrity or principle. He does what he wishes, and be damned to everyone else.”
I was astonished to hear him speak in such a harsh manner. Gage was not one to bandy such words lightly. “Then why hasn’t he been blackballed by most of the ton?”
“Because he’s a sly one. Knows who to cozen and manipulate when necessary. And his marriage to Paddington’s ward has gotten him back into some people’s good graces.”
I contemplated this for a moment before hesitantly offering a solution. “Perhaps we don’t need to go to him for information. I know someone else who might be able to give it to us.”
Gage slanted a gaze up at me again. “Who?”
“My brother.”
His pale blue eyes opened wide. “By gad! I’d forgotten St. Mawr fell in with their lot for a short time. Though it’s been over a year since I’ve heard his name in connection with them.” He scrutinized me. “How did you know about that? Did Philip tell you?”
“No, my brother told me himself. He was rather ashamed of it.” My chest pinched as I recalled that painful conversation. “I gather he punched someone in Almack’s for insulting me after my scandal and caused some other trouble, which got him shunned from much of polite society for a time. He was angry and resentful, and fell in with the wrong lot. But fortunately he came to his senses before he lost more than he could mend.” A sudden thought struck me, and my ministrations faltered. “Goodness! I wonder if Trevor lost money to Feckenham.”
“I should say it’s likely, but I imagine he paid him his debt long ago.”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
Still, I wasn’t certain I liked my brother having any such connection to the odious man. Not with this investigation hanging over us.
I shook myself, resuming the kneading motion of my fingers. “In any case, he probably knows things about Feckenham that others don’t.”
“It’s worth asking him.” He gritted his teeth. “Especially if it means avoiding Wilmot.”
“Stop that.” I brushed a hand over his jaw, trying to smooth the tension away. “You’re only making it worse.”
“It’s this blasted weather.” The corners of his eyes crinkled at my skeptical look. “And my father.”
“Well, stop thinking about him, or anyone else for that matter. We’re going to enjoy a nice quiet evening at home, not discussing suspects, or murder, or resurrectionists.” I feathered my fingers through his hair behind his ears, enjoying the warmth that leaped into his eyes. “I’ve had quite enough of that for one day.”
“Is that an order?” he teased.
“Most certainly. And should your legendary charm suddenly desert you . . .” I leaned closer “. . . I’m sure I can divert you to some suitable topics.”
His hands tightened where they gripped my waist, pulling me even closer as his eyes trailed over my features, leaving little licks of heat. “Oh, I already find you most diverting.”
“Do you?”
“Yes. But as far as suitable topics, I’m afraid I shall have to object.” A roguish glint entered his eyes. “I would much rather discuss unsuitable ones.”
I smi
led coyly. “Like the shape of the mole on Lady Perkins’s face?”
He threw his head back and laughed. “No, you minx. Like the delightful shade of pink you flush when I . . .”
“Sebastian,” I chided breathlessly.
This time when he laughed, he did so against my mouth, before applying himself to make me do just that.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Good morning,” I remarked cheerfully as I entered the breakfast parlor the next day to find Gage already enjoying his meal. He made to rise, but I pushed him back down, brushing a kiss to his cheek as I rounded the table to my seat.
“Lovely weather today,” I remarked to Jeffers as he pushed in my chair for me. Sunshine streamed through the windows, drying the rain-kissed garden and sodden walkways strewn with damp leaves and burning away the chill of the night.
“Yes, my lady. Mrs. Alcott believes it shall last through the weekend.”
“Does she? Then it undoubtedly will.” Our cook seemed to be a fount of weather predictions, and most of them proved to be true. “Perhaps a stroll or a ride in the park would be just the thing before we attend to other matters,” I suggested to Gage as Jeffers went to fetch my normal morning repast.
He nodded, taking a sip of his coffee. “Best to enjoy the weather while we can. There won’t be many more days like it until spring.”
The newspaper at his elbow caught my eye. “Is that the Observer?”
“Yes. Would you like to see it?”
“Please. Did Mr. Day include your request for information?”
“He did. I asked that anyone who saw or heard anything suspicious in the vicinity of Upper Brook Street on Thursday night apply to Jeffers here.” Gage glanced at our butler as he set my eggs, toast, jam, and a cup of warm chocolate before me. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all, sir. I presume you wish me to separate the wheat from the chaff, so to speak?”
“Precisely. Thank you, Jeffers.”
An Artless Demise Page 12
