by Heather Boyd
The pair strode from the supper room side by side, a wide path clearing before them as they made their way toward the staircase.
A little despondent now, Anna sat again and finished her cold tea in silence. Some nights she felt so very insignificant when compared to others on the marriage mart. She had a dowry but it was a modest sum. Her family was distantly related to the Earl of Windermere, which meant she could count on being invited to the most important ton events.
But her dance card was empty more often than not.
That was entirely her fault. Blushing at every introduction tended to be off-putting for many gentlemen.
A little bell rang, signaling the end of supper and the commencement of the next round of dancing. Although she had not been asked to dance another set tonight, she would watch and console herself with enjoying the music.
“I must do better,” she told herself in a whisper, darting a glance around her at all the unattached gentlemen passing her by without a second glance.
Although her chances were slim of impressing anyone tonight, she squared her shoulders and followed her father to collect the pieces of her costume.
Chapter 3
“The worst is over.” Gilbert slipped a glass of port into Lord Carmichael’s hand, studying his friend’s pale face with concern. His wounds were healing slowly, the cut on his lip no longer bled and the bruises on his body were fading. But the wounds on his heart would take a great deal longer.
It had been a dreadful evening for Carmichael, a man who should have been mourning the loss of a loved one instead of flirting all night long with the young ladies attending Almack’s Assembly Rooms.
Gilbert had ruthlessly forced him back into society to catch a killer because he had no choice. The Berry household servants save one had been cleared of suspicion. Bow Street wanted a swift capture of Miss Berry’s killer, and the best way to gather evidence discreetly was to speak to every guest who had attended the Berry ball.
Gilbert had worked with Bow Street many times before, and had hunted villains as a vicar, too, earning the respect and gratitude of Bow Street in the process. When Gilbert had taken over his father’s title at Christmas after his sudden passing, he’d expected to leave his former life as an investigator behind him. His quarry then had been mostly local riffraff and outcasts.
Carmichael shook his dark head and settled with a groan onto the leather settee in Gilbert’s cluttered upstairs parlor. He had kept this house in London for years, an infrequent resident. Gilbert had rarely needed to visit London but a few times a year.
Carmichael’s pale blue eyes were glassy, bright with unshed tears when he eventually looked at Gilbert. “How can you say the worst is over? Angela is dead, and you forced me to pretend I didn’t care one whit about her whereabouts whenever her name came up in conversation tonight.”
Gilbert exchanged a glance with Davis, who leaned against the doorway, seemingly ready to soak up every word they said, as was his right. However, he didn’t need to see Carmichael break down in tears again. “If you could leave us now.”
“I’ll see if there is any news about the footman,” the man suggested before sauntering out.
“I like him better than Meriwether,” Carmichael murmured.
“Meriwether is no longer involved in this investigation,” Gilbert promised.
Meriwether was in deep water with Bow Street for his behavior toward Carmichael, a peer and engaged man, and had been assigned a new case and a levelheaded partner to work with. The London investigator was too impatient to be fair, and no longer taken seriously by those who mattered. He would accuse first and acquit later, but by then, irreparable damage would be done to reputations.
Meriwether was a bull in a china shop, he’d love nothing more than to tell society he was tracking a killer just to bask in their gratitude.
Carmichael scrubbed at his eyes as weariness crept up on him.
“I understand it is difficult to hide the truth from so many acquaintances, but to succeed, we must act as if nothing is wrong,” Gilbert promised, resigned to the necessity of playing everyone false a little while longer.
“Everything is wrong.” Carmichael downed the drink and then stood abruptly. “I could have spoken to Angela’s killer tonight and still never known it.”
“It is possible,” Gilbert conceded as Carmichael paced the room. “And yet it is entirely plausible her death had nothing to do with you or anyone connected to you in the ton. My men are searching the city for Lady Berry’s missing footman, and we will question him once he is in my custody. Have no doubt we will get to the truth.”
“I cannot credit that her death was an act of violence by a mere servant. It makes no sense. She was generous and kind to all. But she died coming to meet with me, and now we’ve learned that two other young women known to me died during the last season under equally suspicious circumstances.”
“If you continue to bandy about this new theory of yours, you could find yourself a suspect all over again. Davis is a fair man but others might not be. I am trying to help you so listen to me very carefully. You are not to blame for Angela’s death, or the death of any other lady. You dance with many women. Talk with them. Not all of them are dead.”
“I kissed all the dead ones!” Carmichael cried.
Gilbert sighed, crossed the room to Carmichael and, after slinging an arm around his shoulder, led him back to the chair he’d vacated. Carmichael had once had a reputation for stealing kisses from debutantes new to Town, but Gilbert had trouble believing he could ever be the provocation for such a violent killing spree, if one existed. Carmichael needed to calm himself before he was overheard by someone not quite so levelheaded.
“I know these deaths, hers particularly, are difficult for you to not feel some misplaced guilt over, but you must set aside your suspicious nature and concentrate on facts. We will find Miss Berry’s killer together, and we will not rest on our laurels until we have a conviction. I need your assistance. I don’t have the right connections yet to make headway on my own. I need to interrogate people without anyone realizing I’m doing so. I need you at my side.”
“Is that how you caught Jane Peabody’s killer in the end? Pestering good people all day and all night?”
As always, Gilbert’s stomach clenched with hate when he thought back to the first murderer he’d chased and captured—a woman who had stalked another young lady in his parish and lured her from the protection of her family to kill her. Gilbert had known both girls reasonably well from their attendance at services. The disappearance had shocked his parishioners, the discovery of Jane Peabody’s broken body on a windswept hillside above the village had enraged them—turning friend against friend. Gilbert had gone door to door, striving to restore peace, and discovered quite by accident that he had a knack for uncovering hidden truths. The girl had been murdered by a jealous rival.
“I was more discreet than that.”
Bringing Jane Peabody’s killer to justice had been only briefly satisfying.
He had seen the signs of envy the other girl had felt toward her victim, but like everyone else, had brushed them aside as unimportant initially. Gilbert knew exactly how powerless Carmichael was feeling right now. He’d blamed himself, too.
“Someone knows or deep down suspects the culprit isn’t quite right. They always do on some level. We just have to ask the right questions of the right people.”
“I wonder if you missed your true calling. You shouldn’t have spent so many years delivering sermons when there are monsters on the loose to catch here in London.”
Gilbert shrugged. If he’d stayed in London, he might have become a degenerate rake—chasing women and gambling for high stakes every night like his father. He was grateful his sire had been a terrible man, gambling and whoring for most of Gilbert’s life. Vice and corruption had been his natural elements. His poor example had set Gilbert on a better path and turned him on to a profession and life he was proud of. “I chose my profession we
ll. The solving of crimes was borne out of a desire to help others. An extension of my life in the church.”
Carmichael squinted at him. “Surely the army was a more appealing career for an earl’s only son than the church.”
“We’ve gone over this a dozen times.” Gilbert poured Carmichael another drink and handed it to him. “It might have been if I wasn’t an only son. Father forbade me from serving my country.”
“I couldn’t picture you a vicar until the moment I heard you sermonize about the evils of idle occupation and vice last year.”
Gilbert had come to like his life as a country vicar very much, save for the call to investigate some tragedy or other. His had been a quiet life of introspection and polite gatherings otherwise, quite in contrast to his new life in Kent, where all sorts of temptations awaited him. Father had nearly kept a harem of women lying idle about the estate. It had taken all of the first month to pack up their belongings and get them to leave.
“I wrote that one with you specifically in mind,” Gilbert teased with a laugh.
“That was the old me,” Carmichael promised morosely.
“That is you from top to bottom even now,” Gilbert promised. “Falling in love with Angela Berry didn’t change you that much as far as I can tell. I need you to behave as you always would have before her death. No one must know you are heartbroken over this loss.”
Carmichael downed his drink. “Beasley knows something is wrong. I could see it in his eyes tonight when we spoke.”
Gilbert sat forward, keen to know more about the Beasleys. Anyone connected to Angela Berry was a suspect until proven otherwise. “Will he say anything to his daughter?”
“No, but Anna and Angela were close. They’d been whispering to each other for weeks about me.”
Quietly spoken Anna Beasley hardly seemed the type of girl to be friends with an outgoing lady like Angela Berry was reputed to be, or to gossip. “How do you know Miss Beasley was speaking of you to Angela?”
“Angela berated me for teasing Anna not long ago. She said I should grow up and stop being mean to her. A ‘monster,’ and that’s what Anna always said I was to her when we were young.”
He pictured the girl he’d been introduced to earlier that night. Anna Beasley appeared very shy on first glance. As he recalled the way she’d kept peeking at him, dark, gentle eyes drawing him closer, he found himself smiling for no good reason. “Why on earth would you be mean to Miss Beasley?”
“Habit.” Carmichael pulled a face. “We were children when we first met. Our parents were plotting a marriage between us. I protested quite strongly against the idea. I also made sure Anna would look elsewhere for a potential husband when she came out. Thankfully she took every remark to heart and doesn’t trust me even now.”
Gilbert shook his head. “You’d never do for her anyway.”
Carmichael finally laughed. “Spoken like a man who couldn’t stop stealing glances at her all night. If I didn’t know you were looking for a killer, I’d say you’ve been struck down by instant lust.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Gilbert scowled, despite knowing he had not been able to stop looking at the young woman even before their introduction. “I am committed to finding Miss Berry’s killer.”
Given the late hour they were introduced, Miss Beasley would not have had room on her dance card for him anyway, so he had not risked a rebuff by asking her to dance. “I was merely interested in her costume and trying to work out how she managed to seem so graceful with a bow strapped to her back. Mine was a damn nuisance to wear all night. Why the devil did you choose it for me?”
“Seemed appropriate, given we’re on the hunt together.” Carmichael peered at him closely. “Are you sure that’s the extent of your interest in her? I warn you, her costume was entirely accurate. She’s definitely hunting a husband this season. Her father cannot stop mentioning it.”
“Understood.” Gilbert rubbed his brow. He was not used to the hours kept by Londoners and his bed was calling to him all of a sudden. “I am here to catch a killer, not find a wife.”
A small smile ghosted over Carmichael’s lips. “Anna’s not a bad sort, for all that she blushes all the time.”
“I noticed that.”
“Everyone notices that first, and it drives countless fellows away, I fear.” Carmichael frowned again. “It would be a believable excuse for you though—you searching for a bride and singling Anna out for attention. She has a lot of friends in common with Angela and those other murdered girls.”
“I’d not use her, or anyone, like that,” he warned.
Carmichael looked down at his hands. “Angela and I made a pact last year—to pretend an interest in each other to quiet her mother for this season.”
“I know you feel guilty that you waited so long to ask for her hand,” Gilbert said gently.
“I should have asked after our first kiss.” Carmichael squinted up at him. “It wouldn’t have to be a successful courtship between you and Anna. Just enough to convince others that you’re assessing the field. Anna’s quite the shy mouse, but she’d go along with the deception for a good cause. If you let me explain to her father what we’re doing, I’m sure he’d help us, too.”
Gilbert laughed. “Wouldn’t it be better if you were the one to court Miss Beasley, since her father already wishes for a match between you?”
“And put her in danger?” Carmichael grimaced. “No. Besides, no one would believe she’d have me. Not with our history. It has to be you.”
Gilbert held fast to his principles. A false courtship would be cruel to Anna Beasley…even more so if she knew the direction his mind had traveled as he’d looked upon her last night. If she had some fellow in mind for her husband, a false courtship might harm her chances of receiving a proper proposal. “No. I won’t do it to her.”
“Come on, man. You’re an unknown, and who knows how long the excuse of being in London on ‘a business matter’ will remain convincing? Besides, if you’re believed to be courting Anna, it will be easier to keep an eye on her, and other young women too, without accidentally getting yourself leg shackled in truth.”
Carmichael had a point—only if his wild theory held some truth. If Carmichael’s suspicions were in any way real, only a few ladies could be in danger, those with a romantic interest in Carmichael himself. Anna Beasley might certainly be at risk by association, but only if guilt wasn’t making Carmichael assume connections that were not there.
Still, he would not entirely dismiss the motive Carmichael ascribed to the killer. He’d investigate first and dismiss it later.
“Think about it,” Carmichael pressed. “She’s not entirely without reason, and we will have to tell her what happened to Angela Berry soon.”
Gilbert shook his head. “Absolutely out of the question. Not yet. You say she was close to Angela. Have you considered she might be acquainted with the killer too?”
Carmichael paled.
“Keeping her in the dark is better protection,” Gilbert promised. “We can question her discreetly and that will be the end of her involvement in the case.”
“Then before I forget, I should give you this.” Carmichael produced a letter. “You need a reason to be at Friday night’s ball. Lady Williamson is breathless with anticipation for your attendance in her ballroom. She remembers your father fondly and cannot wait to become reacquainted with his handsome son. Her words not mine. Make sure you ask her to dance as payment for including you at short notice.”
“Thank you, I think.” Gilbert looked up just as Davis appeared at the door. The Runner nodded and disappeared again. Their quarry had been captured. Gilbert got to his feet. Duty called.
Carmichael stood too, raking his hand through his hair. “I want this over.”
Gilbert clasped Carmichael’s shoulder. “You should get some rest. Do you want to stay again?”
Carmichael wasn’t sleeping in his own bed anymore. The only way he seemed able to rest was to drink to excess in his
study or sleep here in Gilbert’s home. Gilbert preferred the latter and didn’t mind the company.
Carmichael nodded. “Home seems so very empty of late.”
Carmichael lived alone but for his servants. So did Gilbert, for that matter. He was better off staying the night.
“The guest room is prepared and waiting for you as usual,” he promised. “I’ll send my man to fetch you clean clothing again for tomorrow.”
“Thank you, my friend. I don’t really know what I’d do without your support.”
“Think nothing of it. I’m happy to help,” he promised. “Be off with you, and call for breakfast when you wake.”
Carmichael pulled a face suddenly. “She fancies you.”
“Who?”
“Anna, of course.” Carmichael grin turned sly. “That blush of hers is always a dead giveaway for how she feels.”
“Go to bed, Carmichael. Your tiredness is making you delusional.”
Carmichael laughed softly. “I know what I saw written all over your faces,” he promised. “The sooner you admit it, the better for me.”
Gilbert didn’t believe in love at first sight. But instant attraction he knew to be very real. He shrugged the desire for companionship away. There would be time to consider Anna Beasley later.
As soon as Carmichael could no longer be heard on the stairs, Gilbert slipped downstairs to the wine cellar.
Davis was waiting, a pair of hulking men at his back. “Bold as brass, this one. Waltzed right up to the Berry’s kitchen door with a spring in his step,” he said.
“Confident,” he murmured. Or innocent. Only asking the right questions would tell. “Good.”
Davis turned to give the order and his men moved aside.
Gilbert stepped into the wine cellar, Davis on his heels. “Mr. Toombs.”
The pale-haired footman stopped pacing and turned blazing eyes on him. “What right do you have to hold me here?”
