Murder in Mayfair

by D. M. Quincy

  “He’s a good sort, especially considering he hasn’t had the easiest time of it. He came into the title when he was twelve and has been advised by his guardian, the late duke’s cousin, since then. Cyril Eggleston is his name. He’s a rather boorish and overbearing man.”

  That explained the identity of the man who’d inquired into the duke’s business after encountering Atlas in the corridor. “And what sort of man is the duke?”

  “I begin to see why you asked me to stop by.” Charlton stepped past Jamie, who was dusting, and settled into his favorite stuffed seat in Atlas’s sitting room. “Do not tell me the duke is somehow related to your investigation.”

  “He is.” Atlas went on to share what he’d learned during his visit to Somerville House, that the duke provided his tailor with an alibi and about how Mrs. Warwick shared the same family name and hailed from the same village as Hastings, the duke’s butler.

  “And you’ll recall Godfrey Warwick insisted his wife was running from something,” he said in conclusion after laying out the particulars, “and Warwick’s housekeeper says Mrs. Warwick came into the marriage bearing jewels fit for a princess.”

  “From that, you deduce what exactly? That before she became Mrs. Warwick, the lady was the butler’s daughter who made off with the family jewels?” As he spoke, Charlton’s gaze slid to Jamie and then back again.

  “I must consider every viable possibility,” Atlas said, “although I have difficultly envisioning Mrs. Warwick in the role of a servant.”

  “I agree. She possesses a bit too much hauteur to have come from such modest circumstances.” Charlton stared at the rag in Jamie’s hands as the boy walked from the sitting room, leaving them alone. “I say, is that a cravat the boy was cleaning with?”

  “Sadly, yes.” Atlas sighed. “A number of my cravats have recently had an unhappy meeting with the iron.”

  Charlton shook his head. “You really must acquire some competent servants.”

  Atlas couldn’t disagree. “What about Somerville?” he asked, returning to the matter at hand. “Is he an honorable man?”

  “He has always acted in a manner that is above reproach. I have become better acquainted with him in the last few years since he’s come up from university.” Charlton smoothed a wrinkle out of his waistcoat. “All in all, he appears to be an earnest young man intent on fulfilling his duties and being a credit to his late father.”

  “Not an easy role to fill,” Atlas observed.

  “Indeed not. His father was much admired, both as a statesman and for the competent manner in which he ran the duchy.”

  Atlas saw the door slamming shut on the possibility of Nash as a suspect. “I do not suppose Somerville would be inclined to provide his tailor with a false alibi.”

  Charlton dipped his chin. “If the duke says Nash was at Somerville House when your haberdasher was killed, I can see no reason to doubt him.”

  “I’m inclined to agree. Still, I would like to learn more about Nash.”

  “What do you intend to do? He did not seem amenable to answering more of your questions.”

  “I suppose I shall have to become a patron. He will hardly turn my custom away.”

  “At the very least, your endeavor will result in an exquisitely tailored coat.” Charlton rose. “Are you engaged this evening?”

  “No.” Atlas pushed to his feet to see his friend out. “I shall be here at home, ruminating about the dearth of suspects in Warwick’s death.”

  “Why don’t you join me for dinner at the club? We can ruminate together and see if we cannot unearth a few more potential murderers.”

  Atlas readily accepted. Dinner and conversation about the case sounded very appealing. On their way out, Charlton paused by the game table to ponder the half-completed puzzle. “I see the Gainsborough is coming along nicely.”

  “I’ve still a bit of work to do on it.”

  Charlton studied the piles of loose pieces Atlas had grouped together by color—shades of green, blue, brown, and gray. “Why are you sorting these out?”

  “Grouping like colors makes it easier to put the entire puzzle together.”

  Charlton shook his head. “I don’t know where you find the patience.”

  “I find it relaxing to work on before I retire in the evening.”

  “Relaxing?” He drew out the word. “Good Lord, if I had to put this thing together, I’d go to bed with a megrim and proceed to have nightmares.” They crossed over to the entryway where Jamie tended to the fire.

  Charlton paused. “Can you spare your man for a few days?”

  “Jamie, you mean?” Atlas asked, surprised.

  “Yes.”

  “Me, your lordship?” The boy did not even bother to pretend he wasn’t listening, as a well-trained servant should. He straightened from his crouched position before the hearth, his eyes owllike in his boyish face.

  “Certainly,” Atlas said. At least his cravats would be safe during Jamie’s absence. “But whatever for?” He happened to know Charlton retained some of the best-trained servants in Mayfair.

  Charlton addressed Jamie. “Present yourself tomorrow morning at the servants’ entrance of my house on Curzon Street.”

  Atlas didn’t think it was possible, but Jamie’s eyes rounded even more. “Yes, my lord.”

  “You will be trained in all the arts of a valet de chambre.”

  Alarm flickered in Jamie’s eyes. “A what?”

  Atlas took pity on the boy. “He’s going to see that you are trained in all the duties of a proper manservant.”

  Jamie brightened. “Yes, your lordship. Thank you.” The boy was astute enough to realize receiving training in an earl’s household could only enhance his marketability.

  “And the first place your training will begin,” said Charlton as he walked out the door, “is in the scullery.”

  The boy’s face blanked.

  “The laundry,” Atlas explained as he followed his friend out.

  * * *

  It did not escape Atlas’s notice that Charlton chose Boodle’s, a purely social gentlemen’s club on St. James Street, rather than Brooks’s or White’s, whose members had well-defined political affiliations. He suspected this was not because Charlton had no interest in matters of state but rather because he preferred subtlety when it came to politics.

  The exclusive gentlemen’s club was dressed in dark colors with plush Axminster carpets, fine upholsteries, and gleaming marble fireplaces. To Atlas’s surprise, they encountered the Duke of Somerville in the eating room, sipping wine and dressed to perfection in unfussy designs exquisitely cut to his slender form. It was not difficult to see why the duke favored Nash’s tailoring. It suited him.

  The duke was not alone. He was joined by Cyril Eggleston, his former guardian.

  Charlton paused as they passed the duke’s table. “Well met, Somerville, Eggleston.”

  Some of Somerville’s hauteur eased as he greeted the earl in a friendly manner. “Hello, Charlton.” His attention moved to Atlas. “Catesby. This is a surprise. I have not seen you at Boodle’s before.”

  He made a bow. “The earl was kind enough to invite me. I am not a member.”

  “I presume the dukedom is keeping you busy,” Charlton said.

  “It is a great responsibility for one so young,” Eggleston interjected.

  At the duke’s cool look, Eggleston blushed and reached for his wine, keeping his gaze averted from the duke’s.

  The duke turned his attention to Charlton. “As I’m sure the earldom likewise keeps you engaged.”

  “Actually, we have had a spot of trouble recently,” Charlton said easily. “The countess fears a servant has absconded with some of her jewels.”

  Atlas stared at his friend. This was the first he’d heard of Charlton’s mother being burgled.

  Eggleston frowned. “It is an outrage. Servants should be grateful to have a position. Those who resort to thievery deserve to be hanged in the public square.”


  Somerville reached for his wineglass. “I do hope you’ve caught the culprit.”

  “We believe we know who is responsible, but the thief seems to have taken the jewels and vanished.”

  “That is most unfortunate.” The duke sipped his wine. “Please give the countess my sympathies.”

  “I suppose such unfortunate incidences occur more than we’d like to think,” Charlton said. “What about you, Somerville? I trust the family jewels are intact?”

  “Most assuredly. Thank you. We are fortunate to have never suffered that kind of loss.”

  The waiter arrived with the duke’s food, prompting Atlas and Charlton to excuse themselves and leave the duke and his guardian to enjoy their meal.

  “Eggleston is always inserting himself where he shouldn’t,” Charlton remarked as they walked to their table.

  “How do you mean?”

  “He seems loath to relinquish the role of guardian, even though Somerville is now grown and has taken control of the dukedom.”

  “I imagine running a dukedom is a heady thing for a distant cousin.” They reached their table. “And that it would be difficult to relinquish the influence that comes with it.”

  “True.” Charlton pulled out his chair. “Eggleston is keen to retain the role of Somerville’s intimate advisor.”

  “And does the duke wish for him to continue in that role?”

  “Eggleston was Somerville’s guardian for many years, since the duke was twelve, and he appears to have overseen the dukedom with an able hand. Somerville feels he owes the man his gratitude.”

  “But in truth wishes he could toss his former guardian out on his pompous, overbearing arse?”

  Charlton grinned as they took their seats. “So it would seem.”

  “By the way,” Atlas said, changing the subject, “when was your mother relieved of her jewels? You never mentioned the loss.”

  Charlton’s eyes sparkled. “Because it didn’t happen.”

  “Just as I suspected.” He grimaced. “You have very adequately disproved my theory.”

  “Quite.” He paused as the waiter appeared and poured their drinks. The servers at Boodle’s clearly knew what vintage the earl preferred, since he had not ordered the wine. Once the waiter moved away, Charlton continued. “If Mrs. Warwick is the Somerville butler’s daughter, we now know she did not make off with the family jewels.”

  Atlas released a long breath. “The discovery presents more questions than it answers.”

  “How so?”

  “Who is Lilliana Warwick really? And does her background have anything to do with her husband’s murder? Can it really be just a coincidence that she shares a surname with the Duke of Somerville’s butler?”

  Charlton shrugged. “There could be a distant connection, I suppose. Perhaps Mrs. Warwick’s father is a distant relation to the butler, from a branch of the family that has some means. It could explain why she appears to have been gently born and was in possession of fine jewels when she married Warwick.”

  “Perhaps.” He glanced over to where Somerville and his guardian were eating. The memory of the duke staring after Mrs. Warwick that day in the park came back to him. “Tell me about the duke and his reputation with women.”

  Charlton gave him a quizzical look. “Are we no longer speaking of the murder investigation?”

  He ignored the question because he did not care to answer it honestly. “I cannot help but wonder what it must be like for one so young to be in possession of an ancient title and one of the greatest fortunes in all of England. He must be surrounded by willing women.”

  “I have heard he keeps a mistress in Kensington. She is said to be a beautiful artist, but he is discreet and does not flaunt her. He maintains only that he is her patron and supports her artistic ambitions.”

  “He has not talked of wedding and begetting an heir?”

  “Just recently, he has spoken of taking a wife in a year or so.”

  The waiter appeared, and while Charlton quizzed their server about the evening’s food choices, new possibilities began to form in Atlas’s mind. Possibilities he wasn’t prepared to share with anyone, not even his friend.

  It was obvious to him that Somerville had recognized Mrs. Warwick that day in the park and that there was some connection between the two of them. There was no mistaking the happiness that had shone on the duke’s face when he’d laid eyes on her.

  What if Somerville had once been smitten with the butler’s daughter? What if he’d given her jewels as a token of his esteem for her? Or perhaps the gems were in recompense when he’d eventually cast her aside. There is no question that he would have had to break with her; a duke could never wed a butler’s daughter, even if he truly cared for her.

  Their parting would not have necessarily been a bitter one. If Godfrey was to be believed, his wife had kept a letter from her lover among her prized personal possessions. Perhaps the warm feelings lingered. Somerville thought to take a wife in a year or so. Around the same time Mrs. Warwick would be out of mourning.

  A strange sensation clenched in his gut. His thoughts concerning Mrs. Warwick were becoming more muddled. He did not know if his suspicions regarding Somerville were rooted in rational thought or outlandish near impossibilities brought on by burgeoning jealousy and protectiveness. What he did know was that he could no longer trust himself to be objective where Lilliana Warwick was concerned.

  And that could prove dangerous for them both.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “Damn and blast!” Atlas slammed the paper down on his sister’s breakfast table. “This is the last thing Mrs. Warwick needs. Has she seen it?”

  “No.” Thea sipped her coffee. “Lilliana has not come down yet. She prefers to take the morning meal with the children in the nursery.”

  “The story does not mention her by name,” Charlton said mildly. “There is that at least.”

  “That is very little consolation,” Atlas said coldly.

  The blind item in the morning paper referred to a murdered tradesman who might have gotten what he deserved after selling his wife to a gallant gentleman of quality. It was Thea who’d first taken note of the story and immediately summoned Atlas. He’d received her message after returning home from a morning hack through Hyde Park with Charlton, who’d promptly invited himself along.

  “At least it doesn’t come out and outright accuse her of doing away with her husband,” Charlton added. “And you come off well. Gallant and a gentleman. High praise, indeed. The maidens of Mayfair will soon be swooning over you.”

  Atlas paced the room. “It will not be long before she is identified and a terrible scandal is attached to her name. I hardly know how to help her in that event. I had hoped to keep Warwick’s degradation of her quiet. Once it becomes known, there will be quite a stain attached to her name.”

  “You could marry her.” Thea scooped up a spoonful of kidney pie. “That would help mitigate the scandal.”

  Atlas halted in his tracks. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I should think it would be no hardship,” Thea said matter-of-factly, “considering the way you ogle her when you think no one is looking.”

  Atlas bristled. “I most certainly do not ogle Mrs. Warwick, or anyone else for that matter.”

  “But she is a tradesman’s wife—” Charlton began.

  “Was,” Atlas corrected before he could stop himself.

  “And as such,” Charlton continued, “is far beneath you.”

  Thea glared at the earl. “What a boorishly high-handed thing to say.” She dropped her spoon onto her plate with a clatter. “Unlike you, my brother does not care for the judgment of society.”

  Charlton shrugged, obviously unapologetic. “I am merely stating the facts.”

  “Thea is right.” Atlas slipped into a seat at the breakfast table. “I’m hardly one to follow society’s dictates. I do not put such store in the family bloodlines. We were decidedly middle class up until twenty years ago when our father w
as awarded the barony.”

  “What nonsense.” Charlton precisely sliced a neat piece of his beefsteak. “Your bloodlines are more rarified than mine. I cannot claim to be a descendant of King Edward III, as the Catesbys can.” He looked straight at Thea. “So you see, my dear lady, you have a noble and royal ancestry that surpasses mine and is equal to any of the ton.”

  “I do not set store in such things,” Atlas said.

  Thea leaned forward, eagerness stamping her face. “Then you will consider it?”

  Charlton shot her an amused look. “Is this your way of keeping your brother on terra firma? It would be difficult for a man to sail away with a ball and chain attached to his ankle.”

  Thea scowled at the earl, who simply raised his brows and held her gaze.

  Atlas absentmindedly straightened the silverware at the place that had been hastily set for him by Thea’s staff. “Marriage would be an extreme solution to Mrs. Warwick’s dilemma.”

  “It might ground you,” she said. “You have been adrift for far too long.”

  “Adrift?” He didn’t hide his surprise. “I enjoy traveling and experiencing new cultures. That hardly means I am somehow unmoored.”

  “Doesn’t it?” Sadness touched her eyes. “It seems to me that you’ve been unable to find your bearings since Phoebe died.”

  “What rot.” An uncomfortable pressure bore down on his chest. “Just because I don’t choose to live my life as you would like, that doesn’t mean I require fixing.”

  “Good morning.” Mrs. Warwick glided into the room. Atlas felt his face heat as he and the others returned her salutations and then fell silent.

  “Pray do not let me interrupt your conversation.” Mrs. Warwick poured herself a cup of coffee.

  After a beat, Charlton spoke. “We are discussing the small supper party I am hosting on Tuesday next. I hope you will come too, Mrs. Warwick.”

  “I don’t think so.” She seemed unsure of how to respond. “I am in mourning.”

  “It will be a very small private affair,” Charlton said.

  “Do say you’ll come,” Thea urged. “Do not leave me alone with Atlas and Charlton. It will be good for you to get out. You’ve been cooping yourself up at home for too long.”