“Yes, yes,” Charlotte cut her off, feeling annoyed that so many women felt compelled to throw themselves at Nathaniel. “It is difficult, isn’t it? Did you happen to notice Lady Anne following the duke out to the garden before it happened?”
“Why yes, we followed him together.”
“You were together?”
“We went outside together,” she corrected Charlotte.
“Then what happened?” Charlotte leaned forward, twisting her reticule between her hands. She knew Miss Mooreland had seen something and was determined to ferret it out.
“Oh, we lost track of His Grace. Lady Anne said it might be easier if she took the path through the yews while I searched near the terrace.” Miss Mooreland smiled. “And I was the fortunate one, for His Grace returned to the terrace, did he not? I observed him speaking with you.”
“Yes, I vaguely recall—how long did you look for him before you saw him on the terrace?”
“Oh, I really don’t know.”
“Just a few minutes?” Charlotte asked. She wanted to shake Miss Mooreland and demand she tell her everything she knew instead of dragging it out interminably.
Miss Mooreland stared at the tangle of ribbons in her hands and answered slowly, “They were just starting a country dance when we went outside. When I saw him walk up to the terrace, a waltz was playing. I remember because I love waltzing and wished I had found His Grace earlier so we could waltz.”
So no one knew where Nathaniel was for at least fifteen minutes.
“Fifteen minutes is a long time,” Charlotte said slowly.
Blushing, Miss Mooreland nodded. “I really don’t want to spread rumors.”
Clutching her skirts to keep from leaping up and strangling her hostess, Charlotte did her best to appear unconcerned. Past experiences with both male and female gossips told her the fastest way to get information was to act bored. “I completely understand. You have so much more restraint than I’ve ever had.” She smoothed her skirts as if preparing to leave. “Well, I—”
“I heard them arguing!” Miss Mooreland said in a breathless voice.
Charlotte’s heart stopped. “You heard Lady Anne and His Grace argue?”
“No—not His Grace, Sir Henry!”
“You heard Sir Henry arguing with Lady Anne? What were they arguing about?”
“Sir Henry loved her—I believe he hoped to offer for her. But Lady Anne preferred His Grace. Who would not?”
“Who, indeed?”
Once started, Miss Mooreland seemed unable to restrain herself. She leaned forward, her brown eyes bright as she described what she had heard. “It was very distressing, and I did not want to listen. Sir Henry was exceedingly angry and said she had danced with His Grace twice and gone in to supper with him. I am afraid I didn’t stay to hear the rest—I just could not.”
“I can certainly appreciate your sentiment. Would you mind repeating what you have told me to an inquiry agent?”
“No. I am sorry, but my parents would never approve.”
“You could write it down, perhaps. A letter signed by you would do just as well.” At least she hoped it would. “Oh, I could not,” Miss Mooreland insisted, her eyes troubled.
“You must! Do you want to see the Duke of Peckham suffer from these horrible rumors? You must know they are false. You say you love him, and yet you will not even write a simple note that could help him immeasurably.”
Miss Mooreland blushed and then frowned, eyes downcast. Heaving a long sigh, she got up and went over to a small desk in the corner near the window. She pulled out a heavy sheet of creamy paper. “I cannot let him suffer, but you must promise no one will know I have said anything. I have been so distraught over Lady Anne—it is such a relief to speak with you about it. However, you must realize if my parents knew I was out in the garden with her, they would never allow me to attend another function without the strictest supervision. I would be ruined!” Her voice broke. “Oh, I miss my Lady Anne so much—you cannot conceive of how hard this has been!”
“I am truly sorry, Miss Mooreland. I can understand your sense of loss, truly I can,” Charlotte replied, coming to stand near the small desk. “I shall deliver this, myself, to Bow Street. I promise to make them understand they are not to come here or question you further.”
“Thank you, and I am so sorry. I hope you don’t think this indicates I simply did not care about Lady Anne or His Grace—it could not be further from the truth!”
Charlotte patted her on the shoulder. “I do understand.”
When Miss Mooreland finished her brief note and sanded it dry, Charlotte picked it up carefully. She read it through before tucking it into her reticule. Then she bent over and gave Miss Mooreland a hug, deeply aware of the pain of losing a friend.
As she finally straightened, she thought of Nathaniel and her pulse leapt.
Would he be pleased she had managed to collect such vital information? The strength of her desire to earn his gratitude unsettled her.
“Must you leave so soon?” Miss Mooreland asked, daubing at her eyes.
Charlotte stared at her, surprised by a rush of friendship and pleasure. Miss Mooreland was the woman who stood by her at Lady Diana’s ball and spoke to her when almost everyone else ignored her.
Pressing her hand, Charlotte said, “I promise I will return, but I must deliver this to Bow Street. I am sure we both agree His Grace is completely innocent of any wrongdoing—”
“No one would dare to accuse him!”
“Perhaps. However, we also don’t want the beast who killed Lady Anne to remain free. He might kill another woman.”
Miss Mooreland’s soft, brown eyes shimmered. “I do so miss her. I am sure you are right. But you will return, will not you?”
“Oh, yes,” Charlotte smiled, a second rush of affection making her lips tremble. “I will come whenever you wish. I hope you will do us the honor of visiting the Archer residence, too.”
“I shall be happy to do so, I have always admired Lady Victoria. She is a wonderful woman.”
“Yes, she is.”
After a few minutes, Charlotte finally left the Mooreland’s house. Nathaniel’s carriage was outside, however Nathaniel and Lady Victoria were not within.
The letter in Charlotte’s reticule begged for delivery to Bow Street. So Charlotte ordered the coachman to take her there instead of returning home.
It took some convincing to get him to drive her to that destination since he had clear orders from the duke to take Charlotte back to the Archers.
When they finally arrived, Charlotte studied the rough-looking men going to and fro and wondered if this was such a brilliant idea after all.
When the coachman opened the door, she said, “Would you be so good as to request the individual responsible for investigating Lady Anne’s murder to come outside?”
“Yes, Miss,” the coachman replied in a tired voice.
She waited impatiently, too aware that the carriage was emblazoned with the duke’s coat of arms. It made the equipage wretchedly conspicuous. After what seemed like several hours, but was surely only a few minutes, the coachman returned with another gentleman.
Trying not to be intolerant of the common man, Charlotte nonetheless felt uncomfortable as the man came to stand at the door of the carriage. He looked scruffy and a little…rough.
“Here he is, Miss,” the coachman said before adding, “Mr. Clark of Bow Street.”
“Miss Haywood?” the inquiry agent asked. He reached inside his dingy brown jacket and pulled out a small black leather-bound book. A long streak of some brown liquid stained his waistcoat. “You wished to speak to me? Pursuant to the case involving the young lady known as Lady Anne?”
She studied him. Was he mocking her for interfering in his investigation? His brown eyes seemed curious but guileless. Clutching her reticule, the crisp paper within rustled.
She leaned toward the door. “I must ask that this interview remain private. I have just come from a you
ng lady’s residence and have information I believe to be critical—”
“Hearsay—”
“No. I have a note written by the lady and signed, however we cannot involve her. Her reputation will be damaged if her name is bandied about in the course of this investigation. I would rather you use my name than hers, if required.”
“Very noble, however this is a murder inquiry. A man’s life may be at stake—”
“And a woman’s life has already been sacrificed. It is quite unnecessary to sacrifice another’s good name.”
He sighed and started to slip his notebook back into his pocket. “I cannot promise her name will never be known.”
“Then substitute mine.”
“That would be illegal and improper, Miss. If you have evidence from this lady, then hand it over to me. Otherwise, I suggest you return home and allow me to continue my inquiries.”
Temper flaring, Charlotte compressed her lips to avoid saying anything regrettable. She pulled the letter out and handed it to him. “I promised her she would not be required to come here,” Charlotte said, her voice cutting as she glanced over his shoulder at the establishment behind him. “Or be questioned. Everything she saw and heard is in this note. She did not witness the murder, however she was the last person with Lady Anne before that terrible man killed her. She heard him arguing with her, even though she did not see him. She knew his voice.”
“Indeed,” Mr. Clark mumbled as he opened the letter and started reading it. His eyes flicked down to the bottom, examining the signature. “Miss Mooreland accompanied Lady Anne to the garden and heard this argument?”
“Yes, precisely. That is her signed note—”
“Her statement, in fact,” Mr. Clark interrupted. “This is very interesting.”
“Yes, it is.”
“I shall certainly explore the events outlined herein.”
“Thank you,” Charlotte said before signaling to the coachman to close the door. Charlotte watched through the window as they drove away. Mr. Clark remained standing on the sidewalk, perusing the letter clasped in his plump, grubby hands.
Had she done the right thing? Would Miss Mooreland regret trusting her enough to pen that note—her “statement” as Mr. Clark called it?
When they neared the Archer townhouse, Charlotte felt uneasy enough to decide not discuss the note with Nathaniel. If it did not result in uncovering the murderer, it would serve no purpose. And it occurred to Charlotte that some might believe Nathaniel had somehow connived to get the statement to prove his innocence.
No matter what happened, it would be more effective if the duke knew nothing about Miss Mooreland and the note.
Chapter Fifteen
You may ask a man questions with an honest intention to elicit the truth. — Constable’s Pocket Guide
That afternoon, Nathaniel and Archer went to White’s for a quiet dinner. They were interrupted by the dead girl’s father, the Earl of Telford. The earl’s haggard face grew dark with anger when Nathaniel had nothing new to report.
“You are guilty,” the earl said.
“No. No, I am not. I will find the man responsible. I will not stop until I do.”
The earl studied his face before turning away. He left hurriedly, his shoulders stooped and head bowed protectively against additional blows. He barely stopped to acknowledge bows and murmured expressions of sympathy from friends.
Nathaniel watched him leave before turning back to Archer. “I’ve got to find that bastard. I am not going to be responsible for killing Telford in a duel, and he’s bound to press the matter if I don’t come up with something soon. I would delope but….” He didn’t want to die.
“What makes you think you’d win?”
Nathaniel eyed his uncle in exasperation. It wasn’t false pride, and they both knew it. Archer raised a glass to him and shook his head.
“And what were you thinking to suggest I propose to that chit of yours?” Nathaniel groused to Archer, changing the subject.
“She didn’t say yes?”
“No.” Nathaniel had to work to keep his voice low. He glanced up with a tight smile as the waiter bent to refill their wine glasses. The rich cabernet wasn’t strong enough to wash away the humiliation he felt over that disaster.
After that kiss, any other woman would have leapt on him and insisted he marry her for compromising her honor with such a low action. The worst of it was, he had enjoyed it, and he wanted to do it again.
“Well, you must have bungled it badly if she refused. What did you say to her?”
“Nothing! That is, I tried to explain the situation. She refused. She wouldn’t even listen to me.”
After I made the mistake of mauling her about in the garden. She must have thought me the worst of rakes. Or insane. Probably both. And he still had not managed to get the list from her.
There had to be a clue somewhere….
Archer laughed, cutting a generous mouthful of rare roast beef. After pushing around a new potato on his plate, Nathaniel laid his fork down. He scowled at his uncle.
“Nevvy, you are obviously not as skilled with the ladies as I assumed.” Archer waved his knife under Nathaniel’s nose. “Now, don’t be ashamed. Not everyone can be charming, more’s the pity. I was depending upon you, however so, we will just have to think of another scheme.”
“No, we shall not! I’ve no intention of humiliating Miss Haywood—or myself—any further! In fact, I am seriously considering quitting London for the rest of the Season. I am making no headway with this investigation, and I cannot get within a yard of another man to question him before some female leaps out at me.”
“You cannot give up. Bow Street has already developed the wrong impression entirely,” Archer argued. “We must convince them they would be in error to believe that tripe in the newspapers.” His face stilled with concern. “And I don’t like this notion she has of helping you with the investigation.”
“Do you think I want her to help?”
“She is recklessly placing herself in danger.” His voice dropped lower, “And that is not all. My lady wife found another letter from one of those Egyptians. Not good. If we are not careful, the bird will fly south and find her feathers plucked. This scheme of hers is not the thing. Not at all the thing.”
“She wants to go. Why not just let her?” The idea annoyed Nathaniel, but he’d be damned if he’d admit it. Why couldn’t she find something to dig up in London? Why did she have to go to Egypt to play with moldy bones for God’s sake?
And why did she have to put herself at risk by helping him clear his name? She seemed determined to walk straight into a pit of vipers.
“And be shorn of her inheritance by a lot of charlatans? Or worse? Have you considered the slave trade?” Archer asked.
“I have,” he replied shortly.
“Then you must agree. She will have to be detained here until she sees sense, or is too old for slavers. And she must be kept out of the investigation.”
Archer’s words angered Nathaniel so much he downed his wine in one gulp. Didn’t he have enough responsibilities already without worrying about his uncle’s ward? “What would you have me do? Chain her up in the cellars at Peckham House until she’s sixty?”
He had expected Archer to laugh, but instead, Archer’s thin face looked more worried and thoughtful than usual. “I am afraid—seriously afraid—for her safety.”
A sense of urgency, fueled by anger and fear, held Nathaniel silent for a moment. “She must stop. Send her to the country.”
“She would simply run away or return to London.
She is not without resources, you know. Just give me a minute….” Archer snapped his fingers, narrowly missing the end of Nathaniel’s nose. “I have got a better solution. We’ll kidnap her. It is the only solution and it will solve all our problems.”
“We will do what? Have you gone entirely mad?”
Archer eyed him with exasperation. “Calm yourself. What I am suggesting is entir
ely reasonable.”
“Under what circumstances could kidnapping be considered reasonable?”
“Just consider for a moment. She is kidnapped and held in a perfectly safe place for as long as necessary to keep her out of danger. You will have time to investigate properly, and when the matter is resolved, you rescue her. She is grateful. You are her hero. She agrees to a temporary engagement as a reward for your amazing feat of detection, and we keep her distracted with that. She will stay happy and safe in England until we can arrange for a suitable escort.” Archer leaned forward, his eyes glowing with energy. “Then, voilá, she breaks the engagement and travels to Egypt as she desires. And you can then do whatever it is you dukes do, from that point forward. It is perfect.” He sat back, a satisfied smile on his face. “Well? Don’t you see? It is a brilliant scheme.”
“I see you are seriously deranged. There is nothing that will convince me to kidnap your ward.”
“Indeed?” Archer’s smile became craftier. It sent cold chills down Nathaniel’s spine. “Not even to keep her out of the hands of white slavers? Or to keep her from being murdered like Lady Anne?”
“It is ludicrous!” Nathaniel threw his linen napkin onto the table. The waiters were quick to notice and commenced clearing away the platters. Another brought new glasses, this time containing port. Nathaniel gulped his down and set it back on the table with a snap that nearly shattered the thick glass. It was quickly refilled, but he barely noticed although his hand raised the glass to his lips again.
“Almack’s refused her entry.”
Nathaniel stood abruptly and set the glass down again. “What?”
“Sit down!” Archer hissed. “Do you wish to add to the sordid rumors even now circulating through all the drawing rooms in London? Thanks to your atrocious behavior and this inexplicable attraction gardens seem to hold for you, you are in danger of being quite dissolute.”
Nathaniel sat reluctantly. Anger gnawed at him. He drained the glass of port, barely noticing when it was refilled.
How dare they refuse to let her into Almack’s? She was a damn sight better than any of the other simpering sapskulls of his acquaintance. It was nothing short of an outrage.
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