Murder in Mayfair

by D. M. Quincy

  She blinked and straightened. “Is it raining?”

  “This is London,” Charlton said. “When isn’t it raining?”

  “I fell asleep.” She peered out the window at the muddy streets and the people rushing by, huddled under their umbrellas. “How could I have fallen asleep?”

  “You were no doubt exhausted after the ordeal of the past twenty-four hours,” Atlas said. “Did you sleep at all last night?”

  She shook her head, weariness etched in the aristocratic lines of her face. “He’ll keep them from me. He knows it’s the greatest punishment he could inflict upon me.”

  Atlas did not ask to whom she referred. “I know of a well-regarded barrister. I thought we might go and see him on the morrow.”

  “The law will not help me. It was designed by men to be to their advantage.”

  He could not disagree with her assessment. “Nonetheless, I thought you might like to learn exactly what your options are.”

  Neither of them bothered to mention divorce, which was prohibitively expensive and next to impossible, particularly for someone like her who had neither influence nor funds at her disposal. “As I mentioned previously,” he continued, “I thought I would take you to my sister Thea’s home. I think you’ll find her very congenial company.”

  She studied his face, and Atlas wondered what she saw. Unlike Charlton, he was not a particularly handsome man. The angles of his face were too sharply defined, and his nose a tad too strong, to be considered appealing.

  “Why are you troubling yourself on my account?” she asked.

  “It is the decent thing to do. How old are your children?”

  “Peter is seven, and Robin is almost five.” She inhaled a shaky breath, and he saw the toll the unfortunate events of the last twenty-four hours had taken on her.

  “Are you certain there is no family—a cousin, a family friend—upon whom you wish to call?”

  “No,” she said quietly. “I have no one.” And then quieter still, “At least no one who will still have me.”

  Atlas’s sister lived on Great Russell Street in Bloomsbury, near the British Museum, in a Restoration-style house with arched sashed windows. Like most of the neighborhood, the mellow brick mansion must have been very grand once, but the passage of time had reduced it to a state of elegant shabbiness.

  They went up the one step leading to the glossy black front door and stood beneath the flat canopy resting on two columns that framed the front entrance. Mrs. Warwick was looking up, studying the picturesque fanlight topping the doorcase, when the door creaked open. Fletcher, Thea’s ancient butler, greeted them and, after having Atlas repeat Mrs. Warwick’s name twice, shuffled across the worn parquet floors, showing them to a door near the back of the house.

  “Madam,” the butler said, announcing her visitors. “Lord Charlton, Mr. Atlas Catesby, and . . . erm . . . a guest.” It did not surprise Atlas in the least that the old servant had already forgotten Mrs. Warwick’s name. Thea had attempted to pension Fletcher off more than once, but the man wouldn’t hear of it.

  They found his sister hard at work at a round breakfast table littered with books and papers, her hair its usual unruly mass of dark curls. She held up a staying hand while she scribbled a sequence of numeric figures on a sheet of paper. The butler retreated while Atlas and Charlton stood by quietly, quite used to this sort of greeting, until Thea punctuated her last numeral with great flourish and threw the pencil down.

  She looked up, her face brightening. “Atlas, what an unexpected surprise.” Her interested gaze swept over them and landed on Mrs. Warwick. “And you’ve brought a guest. How lovely.”

  “I hope we aren’t interrupting,” Atlas said.

  “Not at all.” She came to her feet and shook out the skirts of her black muslin gown. “I could use a reprieve from work. I’m translating a volume of classical mechanics.”

  “To what purpose?” Charlton asked.

  “In the interests of learning, of course.” Thea closed one of the notebooks on the cluttered table. “If one can translate the geometric study of classical mechanics to one based solely on calculus, imagine the broader range of problems that could present themselves.”

  Atlas leaned toward Mrs. Warwick. “Thea is a mathematician,” he murmured. “Do not be alarmed if you cannot understand a word she says. I never can.”

  Thea turned to her brother with a nod toward the lady beside him. “Won’t you introduce us?”

  Atlas dipped his chin. “Mrs. Thea Palmer, allow me to introduce Mrs. Lilliana Warwick.”

  “How delightful of you to visit.” Thea’s smile was genuine and unaffected. “I do hope you’ll call me Thea, Mrs. Warwick. Mrs. Palmer sounds like my husband’s mother.”

  “Gladly,” Mrs. Warwick said. “If you will consent to call me Lilliana.”

  “I should be pleased to. Now that that’s settled, let us adjourn to the upstairs sitting room, where we’ll be ever so much more comfortable.” They followed her into the front hall and up a marble staircase until they came to an unfussy but comfortable-looking room decorated in pale silks.

  “Now,” Thea said in a no-nonsense manner after they’d settled in and tea had been served, “why don’t you tell me why you are here?”

  “Dear Thea is never one to mince words,” said Charlton with an indulgent smile, his azure gaze lingering on their hostess.

  Atlas stretched his long legs out in front of him, which was a relief after the cramped carriage ride. “Mrs. Warwick finds herself in need of accommodation.”

  “Then of course she must stay here,” Thea answered promptly.

  Mrs. Warwick gazed down at the teacup she held in her lap. “I wouldn’t want to be an inconvenience to you.”

  “Nonsense.” Thea’s words were crisp. “I shall be glad of the company.”

  “Thea does occasionally pull herself away from her sums only to find herself mostly alone in this great mausoleum,” Charlton said from where he’d comfortably settled his elegant form in a plush silk chair.

  “Besides,” their hostess continued as if Charlton had not spoken, “I suspect you have quite an interesting tale to tell as to how my brother came to bring you here.”

  Atlas tensed. “Thea, Mrs. Warwick has been through an ordeal that she likely prefers not to discuss.”

  “No, it’s quite all right.” Mrs. Warwick took a deep breath. “Mrs. Palmer . . . Thea . . . has every right to know the truth of it.”

  Her hostess regarded her with sincere interest. “And precisely what is this truth?”

  Mrs. Warwick kept her voice even. “That if you give me shelter, you will be harboring a woman of the lowest reputation.”

  “Goodness.” Thea’s chocolate-colored eyes widened. “How intriguing.”

  Atlas shifted, his face heating. “There is no need—”

  “Yes there is,” Mrs. Warwick interrupted him. “If I am to stay with your sister, she deserves to know I will bring dishonor to her house. That is the truth, and I cannot take advantage of her kindness by remaining here under false pretenses. I am sorry if I have shocked you, Mrs. Palmer, by speaking plainly.”

  “No need to worry about that.” Charlton sipped his tea. “Very little shocks our Thea. Unless she were to somehow puzzle out that two plus two does not equal four.”

  “Actually, two plus two does not always equal four,” Thea bristled, her impatience with the earl plain for all to see. “The answer depends on the measurement scale you use.”

  Charlton’s golden brows rose, but Thea had already dismissed him and turned her full attention back to Mrs. Warwick. “You do not strike me as a dishonorable woman.”

  “Nor is she,” Atlas said.

  “Mr. Catesby is very gallant, but our acquaintance has been a short one,” Mrs. Warwick said. “He does not know me.”

  “Atlas is always gallant.” Thea sipped her tea. “He is also an excellent judge of character.”

  “He was especially chivalrous in this instance.” Mrs.
Warwick carefully placed her tea on the teak side table at her elbow before forcing the words out. “He purchased me from my husband to prevent my being violated by another buyer.”

  Thea gasped. “Your husband sold you?”

  “Now see here, Thea.” Atlas leaned forward, his words forceful. “Surely Mrs. Warwick has endured enough humiliation without being called upon to recount the dreadful episode.”

  “Of course.” Thea held Mrs. Warwick’s gaze. “Although she has nothing to feel ashamed of. The sole personage who has acted dishonorably is the cad of a husband who pledged to protect her and instead exposed her to serious harm and abasement.”

  Something akin to gratitude flashed in Mrs. Warwick’s eyes. “I am fortunate Mr. Catesby came to my rescue, but I do not wish to impose any further on either of you.”

  “Nonsense. You are very welcome to stay here. In fact, I must insist upon it.” Thea spoke with a finality that suggested she considered the subject closed. Scooting forward, she reached for the teapot. “Now, can I offer anyone more tea?”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  An uneasy tension emanated from Mrs. Warwick as she stared out the window of Thea’s outdated coach. The appointment with Mr. Barrow, the solicitor, had not gone well. The laws of England viewed Mrs. Warwick as her husband’s chattel. She had no rights at all to the children.

  “There must be a way in which to forge an agreement with Mr. Warwick,” Atlas said, wincing when the carriage hit a bump. His sister’s conveyance was reasonably well sprung, considering its advanced age, but even the slightest upset jarred his aching left foot. The trip to Bath had done little to ease his discomfort.

  “Any such agreement would be null and void.” She turned from the window to look at him, the sun’s rays casting shadows across her face. She looked very well in a muslin day gown that, while not in the first stare of fashion, was elegantly worn and appeared to be well made. “You heard what Mr. Barrow said. Legally, I do not even exist as a person independent of my husband. The moment we married, we became one person, and that person is my husband. It would be as if Godfrey had signed a contract with himself.”

  Atlas could not help but admire her self-possession. She’d remained poised and unruffled throughout the meeting, even managing a bit of grim humor after learning that if she amassed significant debt or committed murder, her husband would be held responsible because, in the eyes of the law, she did not exist apart from him.

  Perhaps I should do away with Mr. Warwick, she’d said dryly. Since we are legally one person, I imagine the law would view that as suicide.

  “Are you certain your family cannot come to your assistance?” Atlas asked.

  “Yes, quite certain.” She betrayed no emotion except for the way she fisted the lap of her skirts in clenched hands—hands that he observed were smooth, delicate, and finely made. They were the unblemished hands of a lady, evidence that Warwick had not forced her to do manual labor in his household. “I have no family to speak of. Except for my boys.”

  “Barrow did say the courts can compel Mr. Warwick to support you if you have no other means of subsistence.”

  “What about my children? They will be missing me. We’ve never been parted before, not even for one evening.”

  “Perhaps there is another way.” Atlas leaned forward, his mind working. “Mr. Warwick is a man who appears to be very much attached to his purse. Perhaps in lieu of providing financial support, he would agree to an arrangement which allows you to visit the children.”

  Mrs. Warwick’s intelligent eyes narrowed. She appeared to ponder his suggestion. “It is possible. Godfrey might well prefer to be parted from his children for a few hours rather than from a few shillings on a regular basis.”

  “I’ll have a note delivered to Buckinghamshire immediately,” he said, heartened by the possibility of having found a resolution to her problem. “We shall see if I can negotiate a reasonable visitation schedule for you to see the children.”

  “No, not Buckinghamshire. Today is Monday. He’ll be at the shop.”

  “What shop?”

  “He maintains a haberdashery on Wigmore near Bond Street.”

  A shopkeeper? Atlas had taken Warwick for a minor country squire, not a merchant. “But I thought you lived in the country.”

  “The children and I do live in Slough, in the county of Buckinghamshire, but Godfrey keeps chambers above the shop and comes out to the country house from Saturday to Monday.”

  “That’s an unusual vocation for a country squire.”

  “But a necessary one because Godfrey’s older brother, John, inherited the family’s country house,” she said. “Godfrey had to make his own way. He acquired the house a few years before we married with earnings from the haberdashery.”

  A new image of Warwick began to take shape in Atlas’s head. Prosperous merchants often imitated their social betters by purchasing country boxes to improve their sense of consequence and position in society. A different approach to negotiating with the blackguard began to take shape in his mind.

  “No need to send a note then. I’ll go and see Warwick myself.”

  * * *

  The haberdashery was situated just a street away from the bachelor’s quarters Atlas kept above a tobacconist’s shop on Bond Street, so he walked over the next morning to pay Warwick a visit.

  The tidy shop sat on a busy commercial street frequented by some of London’s wealthiest denizens. A glazed black door dissected two handsome bowed windows above which a gilded sign in dignified type trumpeted the name “Warwick & Sons.”

  Inside, the man in question stood behind a mahogany counter with brass-accented drawers that dominated the orderly space. An orange-haired clerk in spectacles cut muslin for two well-dressed lady customers while Warwick looked on with a critical eye.

  Fabric, thread, tape, bindings, ribbons, buttons, and other trimmings were displayed on oak shelving units and behind the counter, on the shelves of a fitted wall unit that also contained a series of small drawers. The space rivaled some of the best shops on Bond Street, and Atlas could well imagine the enterprise being profitable enough for Warwick to afford a country box.

  He stood quietly just inside the door until Warwick caught his eye. His face impassive, Warwick left the ladies in the care of his clerk and came over.

  “Mr. Catesby,” he said, “to what do I owe this visit? I understood any business between us to be concluded.”

  “You understood wrong.” Atlas drew off his hat, walked past Warwick to one of the shelves, and picked up a brass button, examining it. “Our business is far from over.”

  Warwick followed him. “I’m afraid I don’t take your meaning.”

  “There is something rather significant you neglected to share about Mrs. Warwick.”

  Warwick leaned forward and lowered his voice. “If you think to get your money back because you’ve now experienced firsthand what a cold, unbiddable bitch my wife is, I fear it is too late for that. You have a bill of sale, and the transaction is complete.”

  Atlas’s neck burned. “I should quash you beneath my heel like the insect you are, to speak of your own wife in such a manner.”

  “Such devotion to my dear Lilliana.” Warwick gave him a thoughtful look. “Could it be you’ve managed to find fire where I’ve only found ice? If so, you have my felicitations. I found lying in my wife’s bed to be as warm and welcoming as swimming in the Thames in January.”

  Atlas clenched his fists. It required all his self-control to keep from wrapping his hands around Warwick’s thick neck and squeezing that salacious smirk off his face. “You neglected to mention that Mrs. Warwick has two young sons who are in need of their mother.”

  “They need their father, and that is who they have.” Beneath a facile surface, the man seethed with anger. “They are my children and only mine in the eyes of the law.”

  Atlas tamped down his temper. “All children need a mother’s love and care. I’ve come to arrange an equitable agreement that allow
s Mrs. Warwick to see the children on a regular basis.”

  Dark amusement twisted Warwick’s blunt features. “She certainly must have thawed a great deal to bring you under her influence so easily. But I fear I cannot accommodate you.”

  Atlas did not miss Warwick’s indecent insinuation. He was just about to plant his fist in Warwick’s smug face when the two customers at the counter concluded their business and turned to leave, packages in hand. Warwick hastened to open the front door for them. “Lady Clarissa, Lady Jane, thank you. I do hope to see you again soon.” Just outside the door, a liveried footman waited to take the women’s packages.

  Closing the door behind them, Warwick turned back to Atlas. “If that is all—”

  “It isn’t.” Atlas tossed the button back into the bin on the shelf, where it landed with a ping.

  With a look from Warwick, the clerk vanished into the back area of the shop, leaving them to their privacy. “Pray state your business,” the man said. “I do have an enterprise to run.”

  “So I have noticed. You seem to enjoy the custom of some of Mayfair’s finest families.”

  “Indeed.” Warwick drew himself up. “I owe a debt of gratitude to the late Duchess of Somerville—God rest her soul—for it was she who first drew society’s attention to my haberdashery. She and her young daughters often frequented my establishment. Their end—her and his grace—was such a tragedy.”

  The late Duchess of Somerville, famed for her sartorial style, had been one of the beau monde’s leading lights. Atlas’s family never moved in such exalted circles, but gossip about the duchess’s gowns and social activities had often graced the society pages during his youth, until both Somerville and his duchess had died in a carriage accident several years back. Warwick no doubt regretted the loss of a customer more than anything else. “And do her daughters also favor you?”