She was no servant, no child, no coward. She had agreed to help her brother find out the truth about what was happening here, and by God, she would.
But what could she say that would make Quinn understand that?
If he was like most men, there were some things he couldn’t abide. If she had to resort to such tactics, she would, because he was forcing her to. “I am a grown woman, not a child. Nor am I your wife or your sister, so you have no authority to order me to go. And if you try, I’ll make a fuss the likes of which you have never seen.”
His brow furrowed and she guessed he was trying to imagine what that sort of fuss might be. “What, you’ll cry?”
“Believe me, I’ll do much more than that,” she replied. “I’ll kick and scream and have to be carried out bodily. How would you explain that to the servants? And even if you manage to do that, I’ll simply go to Catriona.”
There was a soft knock on the bedroom door, followed by a maid’s breathless voice. “My lady, we’ve brought your bath.”
There was nothing to be done except open the door and since Quinn was standing there like some kind of irate warrior, Esme marched to the door to admit a panting maid carrying a hip bath. Behind her came three more maids bearing tall, metal pitchers of hot water and Mrs. Llewellan-Jones with an armload of fresh linen.
“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Quinn muttered as he went to the dressing room door. “We’ll discuss your shopping trip later.”
No, they would not, Esme silently replied. As far as she was concerned, the matter was settled and the only way he could make her leave was to bind and gag her.
A short time later, after washing and changing his clothes, and accompanied by a policeman and a high constable, Quinn stood in the back garden surveying the damage from the fire.
The back wall of the house was black from smoke above the smoldering ruins of several crates. Soaking wet ashes covered the ground and nearby flowerbed, and the closest tree’s branches had been singed. Near the wall were the remains of a broken lantern and the area around it still reeked of whale oil. A closer inspection had revealed that several panes of glass in the lower windows had cracked from the heat and would have to be replaced.
Still, it could have been worse. Much worse.
As for Esme, he was still determined that she return to London; unfortunately, she was obviously equally determined to stay. Even more unfortunately, she was right in that he had no authority over her to force her to return. There was only one man in the world who held that sway over her, and Jamie…
The answer came to him like a spark from the smoldering ruins of the crates.
He would write to Jamie and tell him that he should summon Esme home. When her brother learned of the fire, surely he would agree that Esme had to leave.
As relieved by that decision as he’d been to discover that Esme hadn’t been hurt, Quinn turned his attention to his companions—the sandy-haired policeman in an ill-fitting uniform who prodded the sodden debris with the toe of his boot while scratching his head under his hat, and the constable, who was a butcher when not engaged in his official duties.
The constable, Mr. Russell, was dressed in clothes befitting a prosperous merchant, which he was. In face and figure and manner, however, he reminded Quinn of nothing so much as a rooster. His jowls even wiggled like a wattle.
“Nobody’s confessed to dropping the lantern, eh?” Mr. Russell said when he realized Quinn was looking at him.
“Not yet,” Quinn said. “I’ll speak with them now.”
Quinn escorted them to the library, telling one of the footmen to summon the butler along the way.
When they reached the mahogany-panelled room lined with books that Augustus had probably never read, Saunders, the policeman, took his place near the door and shifted as if ill at ease. Mr. Russell, however, settled into the chair Quinn offered as if he planned to linger until dinner was served.
Quinn was not filled with hope that either of these men would be able to find out who was responsible for the fire, or indeed, anything much about it at all. Still, proper protocol had to be observed.
“Any reason anyone would want to set your house on fire, my lord?” the constable asked.
“None that I’m aware of,” Quinn replied.
“I’d like to conduct the interviews, if you don’t mind,” he continued, not only because he didn’t have any faith in the detecting abilities of the public officials, but also because he would be able to avoid any possible problems regarding his own activities. “Of course, you’ll be free to ask any questions yourself, as well.”
“As you like, my lord,” the constable amiably agreed.
Saunders was apparently too overwhelmed by the magnificence around him to do anything except nod.
A weary-looking, but neatly attired and freshly shaven McSweeney arrived. He paid no heed at all to the constable or policeman and spoke only to Quinn. “You wished to see me, my lord?”
“Yes. Naturally we have some questions about what happened last night—or rather, early this morning,” Quinn said as he stood behind a large walnut desk with his hands clasped behind him, as his father had so often stood when questioning or berating his youngest son. “Do you have any idea who might have been in the garden with a lantern?”
“No one should have been there at that hour, my lord, with a lantern or without it,” the butler flatly replied.
“You saw nothing unusual before you retired?”
“No, sir. I went to my room at my regular time and left the hall boy in the foyer awaiting your return. The next thing I heard was Mrs. Llewellan-Jones calling for help.”
“What time was this?”
“I don’t know exactly, my lord. I didn’t stop to look at my pocket watch. It was near dawn, although it was still dark.”
“Do you know why Mrs. Llewellan-Jones was up at that hour?”
“It’s her custom to rise early, my lord. She doesn’t trust the maids to be up and about their chores unless she’s awake to ensure it. She’s a very conscientious woman.”
“I’m sure she is,” Quinn replied.
Nevertheless, no one in the house except Esme was above suspicion, not even McSweeney.
Even so, he found it difficult to believe McSweeney could be a criminal. The butler had always been kind to him and taken the time to talk to him when he found him alone with a book, or simply looking out the window wondering what the rest of the world was like.
Yet McSweeney hadn’t recognized him, so who could say what else had changed with the passage of time? He had, so perhaps McSweeney had, as well, although he hated to think so.
“All the servants have excellent references, my lord. Mr. McHeath and I went through them personally,” McSweeney continued.
McHeath.
With the solicitor in charge of hiring their servants, it would have been easy for him to get an associate or accomplice into their household, to spy or cause trouble.
“Thank you, McSweeney. I think that will be all, unless the constable or policeman have any questions?”
“You seem to have thought of everything, my lord,” the constable replied, while Saunders simply nodded.
“I think you deserve a nap, McSweeney,” Quinn said, “but first send in Mrs. Llewellan-Jones.”
The butler bowed and left the room just as Esme entered it.
She was obviously fresh from the bath. Tendrils of still-damp hair clustered at her neck and around her pretty face. Her gown was like something a water nymph would wear, of flowing green and blue silk, cut square about the neck, with short puffed sleeves exposing her arms. Draped around her was a cashmere shawl that looked as soft as her skin.
The constable leapt to his feet and stuck out both chin and chest. Quinn half expected him to start crowing.
Esme blushed like an innocent maid caught en déshabillé. “Oh, am I interrupting, Ducky?”
When did that soubriquet start to sound attractive?
“Mr. Russell, allow m
e to present my wife,” he said, tamping down the wish that she could be. “My lady, this is Mr. Russell, one of the high constables of Edinburgh, and that young man is a policeman.”
His mouth agape, the young man bobbed his head. “S-Saunders, my lady.”
Quinn couldn’t blame the fellow for being stunned into incoherence by Esme’s presence. He was finding it difficult to concentrate with her in the room, too.
“How do you do, Mr. Russell, Mr. Saunders,” Esme replied with a smile. “I do hope we can find out what happened. I was never so frightened in my life!”
Of course she’d been afraid when she’d seen the fire. And where had he been? Off on some wild-goose chase and trying to avoid her. Once again remorse and regret, his familiar companions, gnawed at him.
“We’ll catch the culprits, my lady, never you fear!” Mr. Russell manfully vowed.
His mouth still gaping, Saunders nodded eagerly.
“I’m sure you will,” Esme replied as she ran a swift gaze over Quinn. Of approval? Of desire? Of simple acknowledgment of his existence? He wished he knew.
“I’m sorry, but I didn’t see or hear anything until Mrs. Llewellan-Jones shouted ‘fire’,” Esme said, sitting on one of the chairs beside the desk.
“And you, my lord?” Mr. Russell said. “You didn’t see or hear anything unusual, either?”
“I was not at home.”
Saunders looked dismayed, as well he might, while the butcher blushed as if he’d stepped in something he shouldn’t.
“I was at my club, as several other members will attest.”
Mr. Russell flushed and looked about to choke. “I never meant to suggest—”
“I take no offence,” Quinn said as Mrs. Llewellan-Jones, as neatly and plainly dressed as always, appeared on the threshold. In spite of her neat appearance, there was no disguising the puffiness around her eyes and the strain evident at the corners of her thin lips.
Like McSweeney, she ignored the other two men and addressed Quinn. “You wish to speak to me, my lord?”
“Yes, please sit down.”
Chapter Fourteen
As the housekeeper did as Quinn asked, Esme forced herself to concentrate on the purpose of this interview. She mustn’t be distracted by the incredibly handsome Quinn, with his still-damp hair and freshly shaven face, even if he had been so obviously upset by the fire and so relieved that she was unharmed.
And who had kissed her in front of the servants with such fervent passion, although she couldn’t be sure if that was because of his feelings for her, or because he felt it necessary for the roles they were still playing.
She must concentrate on what the housekeeper had to say—and she should have been present at the questioning of Mr. McSweeney, too, despite having to act the dim-witted wife.
“This is Mr. Russell, a high constable, and Mr. Saunders of the Edinburgh police,” Quinn began.
Mrs. Llewellan-Jones nodded an acknowledgment of the other men.
“I’m going to ask you some questions about the events of last night,” Quinn said. “Then I’m going to give you the same order I gave Mr. McSweeney—take a nap.”
The housekeeper responded with a hint of a smile. “Thank you, my lord.”
“I understand it was you who raised the alarm.”
“I did, my lord.”
“Before dawn.”
The housekeeper’s cheeks turned slightly pink as she answered. “Yes, my lord, shortly before. It’s my custom to rise early, to ensure that the maids are about their chores in good time.”
“So I understand. How did you discover the fire?”
“I smelled smoke, my lord. I was coming into the kitchen and immediately smelled the smoke. I ran outside, saw the flames and called for help.”
“I see. Thank you, Mrs. Llewellan-Jones.”
The housekeeper nodded, rose and started for the door.
Was that all he was going to ask? And weren’t the constable or policeman going to question her? Esme could think of at least one more pertinent fact to ascertain. “You were already dressed when you saw the fire?”
Mrs. Llewellan-Jones slowly turned back. “I was.”
Esme smiled, in part to maintain her role and in part to avert any suspicions she might be raising in Mrs. Llewellan-Jones, who struck Esme as the type of woman who could thwart any efforts to get honest answers, if she so chose. “You must be a very early riser indeed! I had no idea.”
“I’ve always been an early riser, my lady,” Mrs. Llewellan-Jones replied evenly. She looked from Esme to the others. “Is there anything else?”
“Well, I was just wondering,” Esme said, determined to ask her questions while doing her best to maintain her role, “where you were when the men were actually putting out the fire. I don’t remember seeing you.”
“Since you had everything under control, my lady,” Mrs. Llewellan-Jones calmly replied, “I saw no need to stay in the garden. I went inside to make sure the cook was preparing breakfast.”
Esme could tell that however serenely Mrs. Llewellan-Jones answered, she hadn’t liked that question.
That was interesting.
“And was Mr. McSweeney assisting you in the kitchen?” she asked with apparent wide-eyed innocence.
“Mr. McSweeney had gone to fetch the police, my lady, as I’m sure Mr. Saunders can attest. I thought he would have told you that.”
“I didn’t speak to him myself this morning,” Esme replied. She looked at the young policeman.
“Y-yes, that’s right, my lady,” he stammered. “The butler f-fetched me.”
Mrs. Llewellan-Jones regarded Esme with a frown. “Surely you don’t suspect Mr. McSweeney?”
“Certainly not!” Quinn declared. “I don’t suspect anyone in this household. We merely want to know what happened this morning. Since the house could have burned to the ground if you hadn’t been awake to call out an alarm, you have my deepest gratitude, Mrs. Llewellan-Jones. You can be sure my gratitude will find another expression in your wages this month.”
The housekeeper’s eyes flared with surprise before she gave another little half smile and nodded. “Thank you, my lord. If there’s nothing else?”
She glanced at Esme, who decided she’d asked enough.
“I’m satisfied,” Quinn said. He turned to the constable and policeman. “Unless you gentlemen…?”
“No, I think everything important has been asked and answered,” Mr. Russell said.
Saunders nodded.
After Mrs. Llewellan-Jones had departed, Saunders started sidling toward the door. “I—I think…if you’ll excuse me, my lord, m-my lady, Mr. Russell…”
“I’m glad to see you’re eager to get to work!” Quinn cried. “I have every faith that the perpetrators of this crime will be speedily captured and I assure you that you, too, will receive a suitable expression of my gratitude on that happy day.”
Mr. Russell rose and posed in an attitude unfortunately reminiscent of Napoleon Bonaparte. “Have no fear, my lord. The Edinburgh constabulary is up to the mark! Come along, Saunders.”
With that, the butcher strutted out of the room, followed by the humble policeman who did, after all, have the capacity for speech.
After they had gone, Quinn stood behind the desk like an admiral on the quarterdeck, and Esme mentally girded her loins for another confrontation. He could make any argument he liked; she wasn’t going to leave Edinburgh unless he physically forced her.
But instead of launching into another demand that she follow his orders and depart, he sighed, sat heavily and said, “I can’t say I’m filled with confidence that those two will be able to find out what happened.”
Was he going to pretend that other conversation hadn’t happened? Did he simply assume she was going to go because he thought it best? “That’s another reason I should stay.”
Instead of looking annoyed, he shrugged his shoulders and spoke with a tone of unexpected acquiescence. “Since I agree that it’s pointless fo
r me to attempt to force you to leave, I’m not going to say anything more about it.”
He wasn’t? He’d finally realized she wasn’t going to give in just because he was a man and he thought it best? “Good,” she said, not disguising her relief.
“You say all the servants were accounted for?”
This was more like it—a discussion in a moderate, business-like tone, not one fraught with underlying currents of emotion. That was what she preferred, or so she told herself as she sat on the nearest chair and answered. “Yes, at least once the fire was out. Until then, it was unfortunately chaotic. Do you think it was one of our servants?”
“Perhaps, but I’m sure it wasn’t McSweeney. I’ve known him since I was a boy and I can’t see any reason he’d want to harm us, or Augustus, either. If he felt any animosity toward us, he would have refused to return.”
“What about the housekeeper?” Esme suggested, recalling Mrs. Llewellyn-Jones’s demeanor when she’d answered her questions. “I have a strong feeling she isn’t being completely forthcoming.”
“You think she’s hiding something?”
“I do.”
Quinn frowned as if considering her statement, then he said, “My experience tells me she’s being truthful.”
“Mine says otherwise. Men are always too ready and willing to believe women are too stupid or ignorant or virtuous or loving to be capable of wrongdoing. I would that it were so, but women, especially desperate ones, are unfortunately every bit as willing and capable as men of doing whatever they think will help them, or that will remove a difficulty, whether real or perceived. Women can also be as greedy or malicious as men. So I say again, I think Mrs. Llewellan-Jones was not being completely forthcoming.”
Quinn rose and started to pace, his hands behind his back. “Let’s assume you’re correct,” he began.
“I am,” she insisted, certain she was. She had seen too many woman pass through her brother’s offices, had known too many girls at school, to doubt her instincts now.
Highland Rogue, London Miss Page 15
