by Amy Corwin
If anyone could assist Marcus to solve the mystery of his brother’s death, it was Gaunt.
“Would you have a seat, my lord?” Gaunt waved again to the padded chair in front of his desk as he moved back to his own chair. The austere room, fitted with a massive mahogany desk and heavily carved chair, reinforced Gaunt’s dark air of Spanish nobility, even though Marcus knew him to be just as English as he was.
“Thank you,” Marcus sat, allowing Gaunt the same privilege.
Gaunt took his chair and folded his hands together on the leather blotter in front of him. The wide, well-polished surface of the desk was bare of papers, although there was a crystal inkwell and a brass stand holding several quills on the right side of the blotter. Gaunt remained politely silent, clearly waiting for Marcus to initiate the conversation. He had, after all, requested the meeting.
“What progress have you made?” Marcus asked.
Gaunt nodded, appreciating the direct question. “You have received our last report, I understand.”
“Yes. You indicated that Lord Melville adequately accounted for his time.” Marcus studied Gaunt’s face, searching for any sign of doubt. “Were you satisfied with his responses?”
“Yes, I am afraid so. He was attending a supper party. A great many witnesses indicated that he did not leave at any point during the evening. It is unlikely that he had anything to do with your brother’s death.” Gaunt met Marcus’s gaze squarely. “Is there anyone else who may have wished to harm your brother?”
“I am sure there were dozens.” Marcus rubbed the back of his neck.
His older brother, Richard, had been nothing if not entirely forthright in expressing his opinions. There was never any doubt about what Richard thought on any given subject. Anyone who had a different view was simply told that he was a veritable sapskull and would be well advised to keep his opinions to himself.
A few of the more sensitive souls went so far as to describe him as arrogant, a quality not unheard of in earls. He often seemed more determined to collect enemies than friends, thought Marcus ruefully. However, he had always found his older brother to be a staunch friend and willing to pull him out of some of his more difficult scrapes without carrying tales of his misdeeds back to their stern and thoroughly unsympathetic father.
The hole in his chest yawned wider for a minute. He missed Richard more than he would ever admit. But if everyone who loathed Richard tried to murder him, he would have been living in a state of siege since adolescence. There was no shortage of possible names, only an inadequate knowledge of motives.
Gaunt cleared his throat and studied the quills on his desk. “Your sister-in-law—”
“What about her?”
“I beg your pardon, but Lord Melville mentioned—”
“Gossip. There are always rumors when a woman was as beautiful and vivacious as Eleanor. I warned you that you might hear such things.” Marcus shifted in his chair with impatience, uncrossing and crossing his legs. When would the rumors finally die?
Eleanor’s glittering smile and brilliant blue eyes flashed through his mind. She adored life—every day flamed with her restless energy and determination to wring as much amusement as possible from each shining moment. Nothing seemed to worry her, nothing dulled her vivacity. When she heard any tidbit of gossip circulating about her, she invariably threw back her head and laughed at the foolishness of it. So many people worrying about her concerns instead of their own was an endless source of delight to her.
She was flirtatious—nothing more. She had even flirted with and teased Marcus, though his cool, sarcastic responses appeared to puzzle her. Regrettably, they had also seemed to spur her on to even greater efforts, much to his own discomfort.
Hard to imagine her strangled—gone—and those shining blue eyes glazed over by death, her brilliant red hair dull and limp.
Miss Stainton’s vivid blue gaze rose to mind. Some might say her blue eyes were calmer and less filled with life than Eleanor’s. He couldn’t agree. There was something in her gaze that never failed to draw him—a sense of kindred souls—that he’d never felt with Eleanor or any other woman.
“Someone might have misunderstood her motives,” Gaunt commented. “Might have taken her too seriously.”
Marcus shrugged. “Of course, that is possible. But in that case, why shoot my brother?” He shook his head. “No. I remain convinced that my brother was the main target. The servants sent for me as soon as they returned from their half-day off. Based upon what I observed, my brother was killed first. There can be no doubt of that, not if you’d seen their positions. He was shot through the heart before he could defend himself.” His teeth clenched at the thought of the cowardly action. “He didn’t even have time to raise his hand in defense—he had no other wounds or bruises. Just that one shot.” He swallowed down his anger. “Eleanor’s body was in the hallway, facing the front door. She’d obviously tried to flee. She was caught—strangled—before she could escape. And Cynthia…” His jaws ached as his throat tightened. He stared, unseeing, at the straight edge of Gaunt’s desk. “She vanished. No one knows if she is alive or dead.” He lifted his head to study Gaunt. “I must know what happened to her. Your report—you indicated that you found a witness to what might have happened—that she was killed, as well.” His breathing sounded harsh and ragged as he struggled to force the image of his niece’s broken body out of his mind. “If your witness is correct, then I must assume my niece heard the noises and came downstairs, only to be taken away by the man who’d murdered my brother and sister-in-law.” Marcus shook his head, his expression stiff with bitter fury.
If only he’d been there—if there had been two of them, he and Richard might have managed to disarm the man before he’d killed Richard. The small family might still be alive.
So many regrets, so much anger over the senseless deaths of his only close family.
“I understand your reasoning—”
“But you don’t agree?” Marcus flung back.
Gaunt held up a hand, a faint smile lightening his intelligent face. “I do agree with your reasoning regarding the order of events. I simply am not sure concerning the identity of the intended victim.”
Marcus shrugged, glancing beyond Gaunt’s shoulder to the window behind him. Daylight was fading into another soft summer night. He frowned, his fingers rubbing the smooth wooden surfaces of the chair’s arms. The weather was growing warm, but it was still cool at night. It might be foolish to hope, but something in him was sure that his niece hadn’t perished. And if Cynthia truly were still out there, she might be huddled in an alley somewhere, terrified. There would be no warm fire for her, no hot dinner or cup of hot chocolate before bed.
He rubbed his neck again, suddenly tired. “There were so many friends, so many acquaintances who might have become irritated with either my brother or his wife. Some argument might have occurred—who can say?”
“Yet you mentioned Lord Melville. He stood out. What about their other friends? Did anyone else visit Arundell House on a frequent basis? Someone perhaps trying to curry favors with the earl, but unable to gain whatever it was they desired?”
A long line of both men and women visited Arundell House. All sorts of people had reason to pursue an acquaintance with the earl. It was the thing to do, particularly during the Season. Unfortunately, the tragedy had occurred at the start of the current Season, when the earl had visitors aplenty.
Many of the ladies and their debutante daughters were relentless in pursuit of an acquaintanceship with an earl and the social status that would provide. And there were dozens of men visiting during that period, as well. Many men wished to speak to the earl on business or for political reasons, to gain his support for one issue or another.
His frown deepened. “There were several men that I remember in particular. Lord Melville, as I mentioned. Mr. Eburne, Greenwood, Collins… There are probably dozens I cannot even recollect.” When he looked again at Gaunt, a small, black leather notebook
lay on the desk in front of him.
Gaunt was busy jotting down the names in it. “You mentioned Eburne before,” Gaunt commented, flipping the pages back toward the beginning of his notebook.
“I am sure I did,” Marcus drawled, his mouth twisting wryly. “Darling, romantic lad that he was—he was frequently spouting the most nauseating stuff to Eleanor—Lady Arundell. I cannot understand why she allowed it.”
Gaunt chuckled. “Ladies often have quite a different view of poetry.”
“You’d have to have a fairly liberal view of what constitutes poetry to call it that.” The more he considered it, the more he wondered about the rotund fellow who always seemed to be underfoot the last month before the small family was killed.
In particular, one appalling incident leapt to mind. Marcus studied Gaunt for a moment, debating whether it was worth mentioning.
“Have you remembered something, my lord?” Gaunt asked, his sharp eyes noting Marcus’s hesitation.
“Nothing germane to the case.” His brows wrinkled.
“Is it about this Eburne fellow?”
“Yes—just something I remembered.” He chuckled. “I thought at the time that it was terribly revealing of the sort of man he was—is, I presume.”
“Oh?” Gaunt toyed with the pencil he’d been using to write in his notebook. “If you do not mind, I would like to hear it. Anything that reveals a man’s character may prove useful, even if it had nothing directly to do with the events that night.”
Marcus sighed and then nodded. “As I said, it was nothing, really. I happened to stop in to see my brother. He suggested we join Lady Arundell for tea, not realizing that she had guests. Eburne was there, down on one knee in front of her, one fat hand waving in the air, fairly gushing with the most sickening tripe I’ve ever had the misfortune to hear.” He chuckled again, remembering the appalled look on his brother’s face when he walked in and heard, Oh, fairest of women, shining brighter than the moon, the stars, and the sun combined; thy radiance brightens the darkest corners of a miserable life… “Well. You can guess how my brother reacted. He told the dolt to stand on his feet like the man he ought to be, get his own wife, and cease annoying his.” He rubbed his neck again. Richard hadn’t minced words. “Initially, I expected Eburne to fall into a dead faint at my brother’s feet. Instead, he got to his feet as suggested. The look on his face…” Marcus shrugged. “Let us say that I had not previously realized how volatile the poetic gentleman could be, or how violent his temper.”
Gaunt’s brows rose. “Did he threaten your brother?”
“He did more than that. Without warning, he punched Arundell right on his noble jaw. Never saw it coming. Went down like a sack of bricks.” Marcus still couldn’t quite believe what he’d witnessed. “I suggested that Eburne leave before Arundell regained consciousness. He complied.”
“When did this occur?”
“About a week before my brother died,” Marcus replied tersely.
“Interesting,” Gaunt said, scribbling in his book.
Now that Marcus had remembered the incident, he could see plump Eburne sneaking into Arundell House on his tiny feet and shooting Richard with just as much warning as he’d given when he’d hit him.
Precisely none.
He pushed the thought away, neatly shutting the door on his anger. Gaunt would have to make inquiries into Eburne’s whereabouts that night. For now, Marcus had more immediate concerns.
“You indicated you may have picked up some trace of my niece near the London Bridge area,” Marcus said, changing the subject.
Glancing down at his clasped hands, Gaunt’s dark brows pinched together in thought. “We are pursuing a few lines of inquiry. I spoke to a shopkeeper in the area. He thought he might have seen such a child, though he was not sure of the urchin’s sex or age. In fact, he thought it might have been a boy and rather younger than your niece’s seven years of age. He described the child as closer to five or six.”
“And the other line?”
“I apologize, my lord,” Gaunt studied him, his black eyes as inscrutable as pieces of jet. “But there was that rumor of a man throwing a child from the bridge under construction—what will be the new London Bridge.”
The anger Marcus had repressed flamed to searing life. He gripped the arms of his chair briefly until the initial heat turned to ice in his chest. Taking a deep breath, he was able to reply coolly, “And what have you heard about that incident?”
A self-deprecating smile twisted Gaunt’s mouth. “A tall, dark man was seen—but then, we both may be described that way, my lord. My own appearance seemed to cause the, um, lady I questioned to wonder if I might have been the culprit, myself, and searching for anyone who might have witnessed my misdeed.” He chuckled. “Offering her a few shillings for the information only seemed to deepen her conviction that I was the murderer she’d seen, until I suggested that she go along with me to the local constable to make a report.”
While Marcus could well imagine the scene and might have been amused at Gaunt’s efforts to maintain his own innocence under such circumstances, the information only pointed to a worse fate for his little niece. It was horrendous enough to imagine her terrified and alone, trying to survive on the streets of London, without the fear that she’d been thrown into the Thames to drown.
Frustration gnawed at him. He’d spent a full month searching for her. He’d finally taken the advice of his lawyer and enlisted the aid of Mr. Gaunt. Progress was slow, however, and irritation at their continued inability to locate her kept Marcus up at night, pacing in his bedchamber.
Surely, if she’d been thrown into the Thames, her pitiful remains would have been discovered by now? Some evidence would exist, somewhere. A shoe, a scrap of clothing, something. He’d certainly offered a large enough reward for any information or evidence of Cynthia Chenneour’s existence. Scores of people had reported seeing her, or had brought bits of clothing or shoes to him, hoping for a reward. But none of the detritus had ought to do with his little niece.
The strong-willed child had always been so particular in her dress. She insisted on wearing a specific shade of blue or yellow, or if she had her way, a combination of the two colors. None of the pitiful fragments brought to him were the right colors, or could ever have belonged to the child.
He considered Gaunt’s words. “What precisely did this witness say she had seen? How did she describe the child?”
“That is what gives me pause, my lord,” Gaunt replied. “She says the child must have already been dead. The man she saw carried it slung over his shoulder and wrapped in a small rug or blanket.”
“So she never saw the child. In fact, it could have been anything rolled in a blanket.”
“She says she thought she saw two small feet sticking out of the bottom.” Gaunt’s sharp eyes studied him.
“Feet?”
“I am sorry, my lord, but that is what she reported.”
“What about shoes? Did she notice if there were any shoes on these feet she says she saw?”
“She indicated there were small, leather shoes on the child. Dark shoes. And she could see white stockings covering the ankles.” Gaunt tipped his head to the right as he examined him.
“Dark? She couldn’t tell the color of the shoes?” Marcus asked abruptly, his hands once again tightening on the wooden arms of the chair.
“I asked, but she wasn’t sure—it was nearing six in the evening. The white stockings were clear in the twilight, but the shoes just looked like leather. She felt they might be brown.”
Marcus sat back and let out a long breath. “And what day was this?”
“The evening of March the fifth. She was fairly certain of the date, my lord.” Again, Gaunt’s head tilted to the right, his brows rising. “You have asked or commented several times about the color of shoes or other articles of clothing. Is there a special significance to the color? Something that could identify the child?”
Marcus’s mouth twitched with a
smile. “Now I must apologize to you. Yes, there are certain colors that my niece always wore. However, I would prefer to keep that information private.” He raised a hand, forestalling Gaunt’s next question. “It is not that I do not trust you—I do—implicitly. It is simply that by keeping such details private, it will be simpler to confirm anything you or someone else discovers.”
“I see.” Gaunt nodded once, but the wrinkle between his brows showed that he was not entirely pleased.
“She was sure about the date?”
“Yes.” Gaunt chuckled. “Seems she got in a row later that evening with another lady. The Watch gave them both accommodations for the night, so she has a particularly good memory of that day. Or night.”
“What did this dark man of hers look like? How did she describe him?”
“Dark hair, dark clothing, tall, slender—a gentleman, she said. In fact, since she thought I was the one she’d seen, and she was scrutinizing me the entire time she was talking, I got the distinct impression that she was pretty much describing me.” Cynical amusement glinted in his black eyes, and his mouth twisted wryly.
Marcus grinned. “At least she didn’t describe me, then.” Although they were similar superficially, Marcus’s shoulders were broader, though Gaunt was a few inches taller, and Marcus’s hair was still black without any touches of gray. Similar, yes, but Marcus guessed he was half Gaunt’s age. He was also not quite as somber as the man sitting on the other side of the massive desk, despite his fears for the safety of his niece.
Alive or dead? Which was it? The story about the little girl dumped into the Thames persisted, although Marcus felt in his gut that whatever tragedy had befallen that poor child, it had nothing to do with Cynthia.
He sighed and rubbed the polished curved ends of the armrests with his restless hands. “Whoever—or whatever—was thrown off new London Bridge, I do not believe it was my niece. Tell me about this other rumor, the one of a child seen in the vicinity of the bridge.”
