“Send Jarvis to fetch him, dear,” she said gently. “And you come upstairs. It's time we retired. I, for myself, am almost fainting.”
“Of course,” Bronson nodded wearily. He yawned. “I'll send for Jarvis. You go upstairs. I'll be there directly.” He drew her to him as she passed and kissed her lightly on the head. “I'll see you in a moment.”
“Yes, dear,” Evelyn smiled. She walked slowly up the steps to the bedchamber and rang for Iva. As she disrobed and slid under the sheets, she felt herself already sinking into weary, exhausted sleep.
Bronson arrived a few moments later and she heard him undress and slip in under the covers beside her.
She rolled toward him and let him hold her against his chest.
“Goodnight,” she murmured sleepily. She kissed his shoulder and then turned so that she slept against him in his arms.
“Goodnight,” he agreed, kissing her neck.
Together they fell almost immediately to sleep.
As she drifted, half in and half out of consciousness, Evelyn could not help worrying.
She had not told Bronson the one piece of information that made her think that Lucian's murderers and these men were irrevocably one and the same: Just as she slept, Emilia had confided in Evelyn that she had recognized one of their voices.
CHAPTER SEVEN
A SUSPICIOUS CHARACTER
A SUSPICIOUS CHARACTER
The light filtered through onto Emilia's eyelids. She stirred, seeing the change even with her eyes shut. She woke from gray shadowy dreams, where two men rode on horses through the mist. One was Lucian. The other wore a mask.
She stretched, feeling cool sheets beneath her body. She was covered with a warm blanket and her head rested on soft down.
“Where am I?”
She said it aloud. She was confused and frightened. All of yesterday was a blur – the questions, the carriage ride, her entry into London. She opened one eye and then risked sitting up.
Her head hurt. She looked around the room slowly, blinking, trying to deduce where she was. The walls were papered with creamy silk and there was a fire burning low in the grate. Someone had drawn the curtains and she could see a pale gray sky, the color of mist-light. She looked up at the ceiling, with its molding of leaves and tiny flowers. She remembered. I am at Cousin Evelyn's home in London.
With memory came terror. She recalled the journey here – the shouts, the noise, the threat. Who were those men? Why had they accosted me? Why had one of them helped? Will they find me here?
None of it made sense. None of her questions had any easy answers either. All Emilia knew was that she wished to forget all about it. That she could just peaceably let the memory slip of all that had ever happened to her. However, she could not.
She stretched her back, feeling how tired she still was. How was she supposed to face this, solve it, when she was so desperately tired? She slid to the edge of the bed, noting that she was wearing a long lacy nightgown that was not hers, and tried to stand.
“Oh...” she swayed and caught the bedside table for assistance. She slid her feet into the silk slippers that someone had left out for her and shuffled to the dressing table.
She stared at her face in the mirror. Her skin was gray from worry and lack of sleep, and her eyes were huge. Her cheeks had sunk a little from the two days without food, and her hair was loose and tumbling about her shoulders in tousled gold. She sighed, feeling fresh determination fill her. Tired or no, she would have to do something about this.
“I cannot very well go down to breakfast like this.”
She stood and carefully picked her way to the bell-rope, astonished at how stiff and sore she was. She felt like she had been gone a hundred years, not just two days. It must have been the strain and terror that left her so exhausted. She pulled the bell-rope as well as she could.
She waited for someone to reply. After a minute, she heard a knock at the door.
“Yes, milady?”
“Uh...hello. I would like some assistance to get dressed, please. And could you tell me when the lord and lady will have breakfast?”
“Yes, milady. Of course!” She looked flustered, as if she was shocked Emilia had to ask. “I am Janet, madam. I'm your maid for while you're here. Now, let me help you dress. The lady said they would breakfast around nine of the clock. I'm to show you to the breakfast room as soon as you wish to go.”
Janet, a small, glossily dark-haired girl slightly younger than Emilia herself, bustled around making the bed, drawing the curtains and fussing about the place. Emilia watched, surprised but grinning. The girl had certainly made her day brighter already. She turned from the fireplace, where she was vigorously poking the fire, an exclamation on her lips.
“Oh, yes, milady! I almost forgot. The master had your things brought up from the inn. Here they all are. Now, which of these gowns would milady care to wear today?”
Emilia covered her mouth with her hand. Her things! Bronson had sent them over? So Jackson had reached the inn without mishap! Oh, thank Goodness!
She almost wanted to cry, seeing her familiar things in her own trunk as the maid opened them and busily started to take dresses out. It made such a difference to have them with her – an anchor of familiarity in a world where everything was uncertainty and shadow.
“Thank you, Janet,” she said, her voice slightly choked. “I shall wear the cream muslin, I think.”
“Very good, milady,” the woman said, grunting as she bent over to dig it out of the vast white-painted wooden trunk. “Here we are. Now sit yourself on the bed and let me see if I can find your undergarments...”
At ten minutes past nine, Emilia drifted into the breakfast room. She felt much better, dressed in her own gown with her hair arranged neatly on her head and fresh rose perfume scenting her hair.
In the breakfast room, Cousin Evelyn was sitting at the table. Emilia stared. She had not seen her for over a year, but she still looked as she had before, long silver-white hair loose about her shoulders, elfin face calm. Or it was calm, until she looked up and saw her in the doorway.
“Emilia!” she stood at once, rushing around the table to embrace her cousin.
“Evelyn.” Emilia held her close and breathed in the lavender fragrance her cousin always wore. She held the younger woman close and, unaccountably, wanted to cry.
“Come, dear,” Evelyn was saying, standing back. She, too, was crying, tears rolling down porcelain pale cheeks. She waved Emilia to a seat and sat down across from her. “Bronson is in town meeting with his accountant. So we shall have time to break our fast together. Do you care for kedgeree?” she asked.
Emilia swallowed as her stomach gave a lurch. “I will try a little,” she said cautiously. “And have you some tea?”
“Of course!” Evelyn smiled and lifted the china teapot herself to pour tea for her cousin.
Emilia leaned back, the delicate china cup between her hands. She breathed in tea and lavender and felt calmer than she had in months. The breakfast room was also walled with silk, this time in figured cream, and a fire burned in the grate behind Evelyn. There were ceramic figurines on the mantel and the chairs were spindly and graceful, elaborately carved. It was a beautiful setting.
“Thank you for inviting me here,” Emilia began hesitantly. She set her tea aside and cautiously lifted a spoon of kedgeree to her lips. It tasted heavenly. She chewed slowly, hoping she would not feel too ill after breaking her long fast.
“Of course, my dear!” Evelyn said firmly. “I would love to have your company. There are some things one can only say to another woman, and between you and I, I welcome sisterly company sometimes.” She rolled her eyes and Emilia laughed.
“I am pleased for that,” she agreed. “Every lady needs a sister. With two younger brothers, I dearly felt the need.”
They both laughed. Emilia did have a little sister, Constance. Emilia felt closer to Evelyn, who was a quiet, thoughtful person. Constance was bubbly and effusive, more lik
e their mother, Alicia.
Emilia found that the breakfast was quickly reviving her sense of calm. She felt stronger and better able to think about the events of the past few days.
“I...” Emilia began hesitantly. Both ladies looked at each other, blue eyes staring into paler blue. Evelyn smiled.
“What is it, dear? If you wanted to ask about your servant, he is well. Bronson sent him back to the inn with enough coin to pay for a night's stay there. He should be on the way back to Wilding today, with the news that you are safely arrived.”
“Oh. Good. Thank you,” Emilia said, looking into the orange-brown tea in her teacup. “You and Bronson have been so kind.”
“Nonsense,” Evelyn said firmly. She flashed an impish smile. “It's selfish of me – I craved some company! Now, then, you finish that breakfast and don't worry about anything.”
Emilia smiled gratefully and chewed some more kedgeree. Made with rice, boiled eggs and some sort of spices, it was quite delicious. She could not rest as her cousin suggested, however, with wakefulness came questions, and she could no longer turn them away.
“Evelyn...?”
“Yes?”
“Did you think anymore on what...on the matter we discussed last night?”
“I did,” Evelyn said slowly. “I myself recall no debts your husband had. We could, mayhap, ask your solicitor? He would surely be the best one to ask.”
“Yes,” Emilia agreed, and then licked lips that were suddenly dry. “Golding – that is, our solicitor, he...is no longer with us.”
“You mean..?” Evelyn stared.
“He is still alive,” Emilia demurred. “But after settling the affairs of our estate, he traveled to the Indies. Said he wanted to leave town. He had enough of the legal trade.” She gave a wry smile. “Not that I blame him. But it would have been useful to have him with us now.”
“I agree,” Evelyn said cautiously. “You don't think he was...fleeing town?”
Emilia stared at her. “I had not considered it, cousin,” she said slowly. “But now you raise it, I suppose he may have done so.”
The two ladies stared at each other. Every word they said seemed to lead them into murkier waters. Whatever was happening here, it was no simple matter. What was it though?
“Evelyn,” Emilia said quietly, “I'm afraid. They threatened my family!”
Evelyn reached out and covered Emilia's tapered hand with her paler one. “My dear, I know. This is a grave matter.”
Emilia swallowed. “What can we do?”
“I propose we find out everything we can about who these people are. Mayhap there is no debt, and they are simply preying on widows? Or mayhap there was some debt...” she trailed off. “If Lucian had owed an acquaintance cash, would your solicitor know?”
“Not if it was a private matter,” Emilia said quietly. “I can imagine Lucian lending money to a friend, though even that would have been odd for his frugal nature.”
Lucian had been abstemious, cautious, and careful. He put a great deal of thought into everything and never made hasty choices. If he had loaned money to a friend it would have had to be a very trusted friend indeed. Like Graham Everett.
A thought occurred to her then.
“Oh...Evelyn...” she covered her mouth with her hands, afraid she was going to be sick.
“What, dear?” Evelyn had stood hastily. “Should I fetch Doctor Harlowe?”
“No, no...” Emilia waved a hand. “Sit. Please. I need your help.”
“Anything, dear. Anything I can do.”
“What do you know about the Everett family?”
“Nothing,” Evelyn admitted. “Why?”
“Their coat of arms is blue.”
Emilia felt as if she really would be sick. She stood, walking to the long, paned window. She looked out onto the gray streets, where carriages and men in top-hats wove around each other, people accomplishing their morning business. This was one of the newest and most lovely parts of the city, and seeing the square with its ornate wrought-iron railings and tall green trees should have made her feel happy. Nothing, it seemed, would cut through this slow terror she felt.
Evelyn was at the sideboard, and she seemed to be rummaging through a drawer. “My dear?”
“Yes?” Emilia turned toward her tiredly.
“Could you sit down? I have something I want to show you.”
Emilia nodded. She went to join her cousin at the table. Her cousin produced a copy of Burke's Peerage and a list of words.
“Now,” she asked carefully. “Is your friend Everett on this list?”
Emilia stared. There were six names, and one of them was the Earl of Randall. Graham was the earl.
“Yes,” she said slowly. “Why?”
“These are all the coats of arms with blue badges.”
“That's right,” Emilia agreed. “I know. It's blue, with an acanthus pattern and a bezel held by a stag and, I think, a lion rampant...”
“Like this?”
Emilia nodded at the picture, recognizing it instantly. “That is it.”
They stared at each other. The coat of arms on the carriage door. It belonged to the closest friend of Lucian Sumpter and the only man who knew anything at all of his death. Graham Everett.
CHAPTER EIGHT
GATHERING INFORMATION
GATHERING INFORMATION
Evelyn leaned back in the carriage, sinking wearily into the velvet seats. She was traveling alone. She looked out at the windows at the rainy London streets as they flashed past, lamps burning in the tea-houses and torches in the sconces on inn walls. She could almost smell the rain on the spring streets and hear the bustle and laughter drifting on the air out of the cake shops and coffee houses, salons, theaters and halls.
Evelyn had come to love London. However, she felt too restless to sink into its happy ease, to join in the bustle and the rounds of balls and soirees. At least not now.
“This matter of debts needs to be settled. And soon,” she mused.
She had left Emilia with Bronson, who had escorted her to the park. She herself had pleaded a headache, with the intention of making a perilous trip.
She was going to visit Graham Everett.
Everything suggests that this man is a murderer, Evelyn thought. The idea ought to have made her afraid, but strangely it did not. She had faced murderers before, while vulnerable and not sure whom to confide in. Now, she had Bronson. She had Emilia. She also had a safe place – Chelsea Park.
If anything happens to me, Jarvis will take word to the house. Bronson will come and find me. I am safe.
She told herself that as they rattled over cobblestones, heading ever further across town.
The address she had found, after some inquiries with Jarvis and Wallace – the two between them had collections of calling cards for half the peerage in London – sent her into the oldest area.
Here, the houses were gray stone and substantial, built well over a hundred years ago and built to last. She felt herself becoming uneasy as they entered the gloomy street between the mansions.
“I oughtn't to have gone alone.”
Evelyn realized it too late. She looked out to see the carriage was heading more cautiously through the streets – Jarvis evidently meant to stop somewhere close. He drew up outside an imposing stone manor, with vast carvings on the gray sandstone of the walls.
“Everett Heights, madam,” he called respectfully.
“Thank you.”
Evelyn swallowed hard as he helped her down from the coach and walked her to the door. As was the fashion in the years when this house was built, the mansion was built directly on the street, with the garden high-walled behind it. She felt her mouth go dry as she knocked.
Some moments passed. An elderly man with a stern face answered the door, looking out at her with a frown.
“Yes?”
Evelyn blinked. She reached firmly into her purse, gathering her courage. “Lady Brokeridge. Here is my card. I wish to speak to y
our master, Lord Everett?”
The old man cleared his throat. “The master isn't in, my lady. Shall I tell him you called?” He was still holding her card and looking at her inquiringly.
Evelyn considered leaving – something about the place made her feel afraid. It was as if a voice inside her whispered “Run. Now, while you can."
She looked up at the carved figure above the door, a sigil of the house. Like Emilia had described it. She cleared her throat.
“No. I would prefer to come inside a while. My driver will be back to collect me shortly and I wish to shelter from the rain a while. I trust that your master is hospitable?”
The old man went red. “Of course, milady. My apologies, ma'am. Please come inside out of the rain.”
He stood aside and drew the vast, dark wood door back. Evelyn felt her heart thump as she entered. She looked up at the ceiling, soaring vaults of dark wood. The place had what she imagined to be a medieval feel about it, though she knew it probably dated back to the Restoration only. Dank, gloomy and foreboding, she would not be surprised to see knights and dragons in the courtyard of the place.
Hearing her slippers echo in the drafty entrance hall, she followed the older man to a side room, where he opened the door and stood aside for her. It appeared to be a parlor, though the fire did not burn in the grate and the furnishings were, like the house, the relics of a previous time.
She settled herself on a velvet-covered chair and looked out of the window with its elaborate curtains in dark satin, bunched and gathered as in a style a hundred years ago.
I do not feel safe here, Evelyn thought. She shivered, drawing her shawl closer around her shoulders. She wished she had worn her thicker velvet gown.
The butler – she assumed he was the butler – offered her tea and then bowed and withdrew. Evelyn stood when he had gone and looked through the window onto the paved garden beyond. Tall conifers soared there and the space was bounded with a wall, a fountain and a bower where creepers grew over stone archways dominating it.
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