by Tracy Grant
Miss Singleton regarded him frankly. "It's always a bit of an adjustment. Though it's been so long for me, it's hard to remember, truth to tell. She was better than some at meeting gentlemen in the drawing room. You could tell she'd been trained to it. Talking and pouring coffee and brandy and the like. She knew just how to do her hair and the right amount of rouge and scent to use. As to what happened after she went upstairs with a man and closed the door—she didn't talk about it much. Less than some of the girls. But she wasn't new to it, if that's what you're wondering. She'd been with a man before, and I'd guess more than one. She knew how to take precautions before I explained it to her."
"Did she ever see the man she was afraid of, that you know?" Malcolm asked. "Or think she saw him?"
Daisy shook her head. "Miranda didn't seem nervous in the Barque of Frailty, though when we were out together I'd see her glance about sometimes. Especially at first. And she was cautious about leaving the house with gentlemen."
"I understand she went out with Lord Beverston fairly often," Malcolm said.
"Yes." Miss Singleton fingered the end of her sash. "I remember the first time they met in the drawing room. His gaze went right to her. Almost as if—" She drew a breath.
"Yes?" Malcolm asked in a quiet voice.
"Almost as if he knew her," Miss Singleton said. "That probably sounds mad—"
"Not necessarily, if Miss Spencer had the sort of background you've surmised," Harry said. "Did Miss Spencer give any sign of knowing him?"
"Not precisely," Miss Singleton said. "But going out, away from the house, with him didn't seem to worry her the way going out with other men did. We all go out with gentlemen sometimes. To Vauxhall or a masquerade or a private party. Sometimes for a week at someone's hunting box. Most of the girls like it—a bit of a change. But Miranda didn't, as I said. Except with Beverston."
"Do you know where Miss Spencer went with Beverston?" Harry asked.
Miss Singleton shook her head. "She always dressed carefully, but then, any of us would, going out for the evening. She seemed—excited, almost. As though she was anticipating a treat instead of it being a chore. But she never talked about those evenings. She didn't share details much, as I said, but come to think of it, she would sometimes stop by my room when she'd come back from going out with another gentleman, mention the champagne they'd had, or the music that had been played, or how fine the carriage was. She never said anything about her evenings with Beverston. She never even stopped to chat."
"Did you ever get the sense she'd known any of the other men she met here, before she came to the Barque of Frailty?" Malcolm asked.
"No. Though I can't swear to it that she didn't." Miss Singleton frowned. Her face was still red and blotched with tears, but it now had the concentration of one turning her grief to a focus on learning what had happened to her friend.
"Tell us about Gerald Lumley," Malcolm said. "Mrs. Hartley said he was Mrs. Spencer's brother."
"Yes, that's what Miranda said."
"But you didn't believe her?"
"Mr. Lumley dressed nicely and arrived in a hackney and brought Miranda chocolates and hair ribbons and sometimes a bottle of wine. If he could do all that, and he cared for her as he seemed to, why couldn't she have gone to him instead of going to work at the Barque of Frailty?"
"A good point," Harry said. "But perhaps her family had cast her off and Mr. Lumley was dependent on them."
"Perhaps." Miss Singleton frowned. "They didn't look much alike. But they were comfortable together, like two people who've known each other a long time. I never got the sense he was a lover she was passing off as a brother, the way some of the girls do."
"Did you spend time with them together?" Malcolm asked.
"Not much, beyond an exchange of pleasantries sometimes when he arrived or left. Miranda usually kept their meetings quiet. But the last time he was here—a week ago Thursday." She drew a breath, as though shocked at how much had changed in that time. "I came downstairs to fetch my shawl and I saw Miranda saying goodbye to him. She stood on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. Not at all what one would do with a lover. But it wasn't that that stuck in my memory. I heard her say, 'It's all right. I'm sorry it happened, but I won't say more. I promise.'"
Malcolm exchanged a quick look with Harry. "Do you know what she was referring to?"
Miss Singleton took her head. "I thought it must be some family business. That is, until—Do you think it had something to do with why she was killed?"
"You don't think Lord Carfax killed her?" Malcolm asked.
"You wouldn't be here asking questions if you thought he had," Miss Singleton pointed out.
"That doesn't mean you have to agree with us," Malcolm said.
Miss Singleton frowned. "It was odd that night. What I can remember of it. It was such a shock. Mostly I remember Miranda. The way she looked lying on the bed. But I caught a glimpse of Lord Carfax. He just stood there looking at her with this utter horror on his face. Like he was seeing into hell, though he wasn't a man who had believed he could. It wasn't the face of a killer. At least, not what I'd imagine the face of a killer would be."
"You're very astute, Miss Singleton," Malcolm said.
"I've had a lot of time to think about what happened to Miranda. And I want to learn the truth."
"Did you see her go into her room with Lord Carfax that night?" Malcolm asked.
Miss Singleton shook her head. "I was in the drawing room talking to Lord Beresford. I didn't even see her leave with Carfax. If only—" Tears welled up in her eyes.
Malcolm reached out and put a hand over her own. "One always questions what one could have done differently after a tragedy. But it's impossible to know, and folly to blame yourself. I'm sure Mrs. Spencer wouldn't want you to."
Miss Singleton met his gaze, her own wide and at once somehow the gaze of a very young girl and a woman who has seen too much of the world for her years. She inclined her head. "Thank you."
Malcolm settled back in his chair but kept his gaze on her own. "Do you remember anything else from that night?"
Miss Singleton tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Matthew Trenor was here. I don't remember him in the drawing room earlier in the evening, but he was there when we were all milling about upstairs, after the screams." She hugged her arms across her chest.
Malcolm frowned. Matthew Trenor was an aide to Lord Castlereagh, the foreign secretary. "Did Miss Spencer know him?"
"She'd been with him a few times. After one time, she had marks on her wrists. I told her she should complain to Mrs. Hartley—she'll bar a man from the house if he's too difficult—but Miranda just said she could take care of herself."
"Did he look upset the night she was killed?" Malcolm asked.
"He looked—" Miss Singleton frowned. "Numb. But then he started to cry. I never liked him much, but I actually felt sorry for him. I gave him a blanket. He was shivering."
"Is there a back way to get upstairs?" Harry asked.
"Yes. There are the servants' stairs, but there's also a small staircase that runs from just down the passage from this room up to the first floor. The girls use it sometimes to smuggle up young men who aren't clients."
"And the first floor passage," Malcolm said. "I assume it's empty much of the time?"
Miss Singleton nodded. "Though one couldn't count on it. The girls and the gentlemen are coming in and out of the rooms. But especially later at night it's quieter." Her fingers bit into her arms. "It was late when Miranda was killed."
"One more question," Malcolm said. "Do you know how to find Gerald Lumley?"
"No. That is, I don't have anything like an address. But he's sure to come wanting news of her. Unless he's heard she'd been killed already, but he may not have, living in the country."
Malcolm nodded. "You've been very helpful."
Her gaze fastened on his face again. "Do you think it will help you learn what happened to Miranda?"
"I hope it will."
Malcolm paused in the Barque of Frailty's portico and drew a breath. "Compared to similar houses, it's hardly the worst. But still—To see those women with no other recourse to stay off the streets—"
"Quite." Harry drew on his gloves.
"Rachel worked in a house like that. As the Barque of Frailty seems to be, Le Paon d'Or wasn't bad for a house of that sort. The women were comfortable and had some ability to say no. Still—It didn't occur to me to get her out, even to offer to get her out, until after Waterloo when she wanted to marry Rivaux."
"You needed her. You wouldn't have been much use in intelligence if you rescued every one of your agents and informants."
"And I was focused on being an agent."
"You were a good one. You got Rachel out eventually. We got Sue Kettering out last summer. The women at the Barque of Frailty have much more control over their lives than she did."
"That doesn't—"
"I know." Harry drew on his second glove. "Though at least they can say no to any particular man. One could argue whether it's much better to choose a husband simply to keep a roof over one's head and have no ability to avoid his bed."
Malcolm studied his friend's profile. He knew, happy as Harry and Cordy were, that Harry still worried that he'd proposed to Cordelia at a time when she was desperate for escape. "A lot of husbands wouldn't take advantage of that."
"No. But legally it depends on the husband, as Cordy or Mélanie would point out. Mrs. Hartley has more control over her life than a wife. One could even argue Miss Singleton does."
"In the end, Miranda Spencer didn't have any control at all."
"No." Harry turned to Malcolm. "On the face of it, it sounds as though she was a girl who ran off with a lover and was cast off by her family. In its own way as common a story as her tale of being a war widow. Too common, perhaps, as Mrs. Hartley said, though sometimes the likeliest explanation is the correct one."
"The jade pendant is interesting," Malcolm said. "If the killer took it, it could indicate he—or she—is connected to Mrs. Spencer's past."
Harry nodded. "It could also have broken when she fell or when the killer smothered her. Perhaps even got tangled up in his—or her—clothes."
"And then the killer stuffed it in a pocket to get it out of the way? Possible. It's also barely possible that someone else at the Barque of Frailty took the pendant after she was killed but before Miss Singleton saw her." Malcolm hesitated. "I took Tatiana's locket after she was killed." He would never forget those moments kneeling beside his murdered half-sister. Though he'd been dazed with grief, his instinct had been to protect the secrets of her birth.
"That would mean someone else at the Barque of Frailty that night knew who she really was," Harry said.
"So it would. Whoever she was, she seems to have been someone known to Beverston. Which could make her anything from the daughter of a tenant to the daughter—or wife—of a colleague. A fellow League member, perhaps."
"Which could explain Carfax's interest. Though it makes it less likely she was spying for him."
"Unless she was someone known to Carfax from the past. He had Sylvie St. Ives spying for him from when she was a teenager."
They started down the steps. "If Miranda Spencer was spying for Carfax on the League, any of them would have a motive to kill her," Harry said.
"So they would." Malcolm started down Jermyn Street, a decorous bustle of crested carriages, ladies in plumed bonnets, silk-hatted gentlemen, maids and manservants with parcels. "What did you make of Mrs. Hartley?" he asked as Harry fell into step beside him.
"I can see what attracted Archie. And I'm not talking about her appearance, though she's a beautiful woman. But she's plainly brilliant. And formidable. And she seems to have cared for Miranda Spencer. Which counts in her favor."
"Quite. She helped us more than I expected."
"Yes. And yet—" Harry frowned at a perfumer's sign across the street. "Archie did give her the money to set up the brothel."
"Yes, he admitted as much. And?"
"Archie was a French spy."
Malcolm stopped walking and looked at his friend. "Harry, are you suggesting your uncle set up a French spy ring in a brothel?"
Harry continued to frown at the gilt-painted sign. "I'm not saying I think it likely. But I do think it's a possibility to consider."
"All right." Malcolm continued to watch his friend. "Keeping feelings out of it—which I admit it's hard for me to do where Archie's concerned—Archie told us about his connection to the Barque of Frailty."
"Which he already knew we were investigating. I hope he credits us with enough investigative skills to have realized we'd trace it back to him eventually."
"Harry—"
"Damn it, Malcolm, tell me you don't wonder things about O'Roarke sometimes."
Malcolm hunched his shoulders and turned his own gaze into the distance. "Sometimes. Mostly I tell myself I have to trust him or life would be unbearable."
Valentin’s gaze held a flash of warning when he opened the door to Malcolm in Berkeley Square. Malcolm was alone, as Harry had gone home to pack for their visit to Lord Beverston the next day. "Lady Isobel Lydgate called, sir. She’s waiting in the library."
Carfax’s daughter. The wife of his friend Oliver, whom he now knew had been an agent for Carfax himself. Malcolm nodded, gave Valentin his hat, and went into the library.
Isobel was standing before the fireplace but spun round at the opening of the door. "Malcolm." She was pale, her face tight and drawn inwards. Present circumstances could account for that, but Malcolm suspected it went back further. She came forwards but didn’t hold her hands out as she once would have done unthinkingly. "I came to London to see Father and heard you were back. You’ve heard?"
Malcolm nodded.
"Can you help him?" The words seemed to tumble from her lips before she could properly frame them, probably before she had intended to speak them.
Malcolm took her arm and drew her to a chair, but she jerked away. "Don’t. I don’t need to be coddled." She drew a harsh breath, as though pulling herself together by sheer willpower. "I know Father had something to do with why you and Suzanne left Britain. I’ve asked Oliver but he says he doesn't know, and I think he’s telling the truth. I asked David and he said we had to trust that you knew what was right for your family. I’m quite sure David knows the truth. I even asked Father, and he told me he hadn’t the least idea. I’m quite sure he was lying. Now David’s left as well, and I’m quite sure there’s a connection." She put out a hand. "No, I’m not asking you to explain. What I’m saying is I understand you probably don’t feel very charitable towards Father right now. Nor do I, after I learned he had Oliver spying on all of you. But—Malcolm, I can’t believe he did this."
"Nor can I," Malcolm said. "That is, I have grave doubts. Not because I think Carfax isn’t capable of murder. Because the facts don’t add up."
Isobel drew another rough breath. "I know he’s done unforgivable things. I know he’s abominably hard on David. But, you must remember him when we were growing up. He was always busy, but he made more time than many fathers."
Countless other moments shot through Malcolm's mind. Carfax signing papers that would effectively end someone’s life. Carfax telling Malcolm it was Malcolm’s duty to uncover information, and—thankfully for Britain—Carfax’s to decide what to do with it. Carfax trading papers with Julien St. Juste in Hyde Park. Carfax admitting Malcolm and Mélanie and their children were collateral damage in his efforts to manipulate his son. "I remember a lot of things."
"He loved you. Like one of his children."
"He was good to me. I think we both always knew I wasn’t one of his children. Seeing what he put David through, I was
always grateful for that."
"I think you were the son he’d have liked to have."
"I’d have driven him far madder than David."
Isobel spun away. The dark blue of her pelisse pulled taut across her shoulders. "He’s never been an easy man for any of us. But I never thought he’d come between so many of us in so many ways."
"Bel." Malcolm took a step towards her and put a hand on her shoulders, heedless of the risk of her flinching. "Whatever’s between your father and me, I’m still your friend."
She flinched but didn’t pull away. "I’ve been so angry at Oliver, but at Father too. But I couldn’t turn away from Father and Mama with everything they’ve been through. And now it’s Father who needs me."
Malcolm turned her to him and hugged her for a moment. "That doesn’t stop you from needing your friends. Or your friends from helping you."
Isobel went still for a moment, like a creature carved from ice. Then she clung to him, the way she would have when she was the girl he’d first met. "I’m glad you’re back, Malcolm," she murmured, her face buried in his cravat.
He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I’m only back temporarily, Bel. But I’ll do my best to learn who killed Miranda Spencer."
Isobel lifted her head and gave a slow nod.
Malcolm released her and drew her over to the sofa. This time she sat beside him. "Did you ever hear Carfax mention Mrs. Spencer?"
"Malcolm, you can’t think Father would have mentioned a trollop to his daughter?"
Malcolm’s fingers curved inwards. He’d like to think he’d always have flinched at Bel’s wording. But there was no denying her words cut more now that he knew the truth of Mélanie’s past. "Probably not. But one of the things I always appreciated about Carfax was his plain speaking. Another was that he didn’t try to wrap his daughters in cotton wool. Particularly you."
"He never mentioned her."
"Was he investigating anything lately?"
Isobel frowned. Her face was still drawn, but her gaze was more thoughtful than when she’d first stepped into the room. "He’s always held things close, and since Louisa’s death he seemed to do so even more. But lately—He got a message at Carfax Court over Christmas. He always gets messages when we’re in the country. But this one—I was in the study with him when the footman brought it in. He slit it open immediately. The look in his eyes—" She paused for a moment, as though searching for the right word. "He looked afraid." Disbelief sounded in her voice even as she said it. "I think that may be the first time I’ve ever seen Father afraid."
