Murder in Mayfair

by D. M. Quincy

  “Mr. Catesby, isn’t it?” Rivers said, clearly remembering their meeting to discuss the cause of Warwick’s death.

  “Yes,” Atlas replied. “Good afternoon.” They exchanged the usual niceties, and then Atlas fell silent, uncertain of how to broach the sensitive subject that had brought him to Smithfield. At his core, he took Lilliana at her word, but he was no longer objective where she was concerned and didn’t want his lack of impartiality to hinder the investigation.

  Rivers seemed to sense his discomfort. “I’m heading toward the hospital if you care to walk with me.”

  Atlas fell in beside him, trying not to limp even though his injured foot protested with every step. “I have a medical question of a very delicate nature,” he began.

  “I assure you that anything we discuss will be held in the strictest confidence.”

  “It is about . . . the female anatomy.”

  “Go on.”

  His cheeks warmed. “Is it possible for a maiden not to . . . erm . . . bleed on her wedding night?”

  If the question shocked Rivers, he showed no sign of it. “Indeed it is. Some females are born without the membrane that ruptures when a woman’s body is breached on her wedding night. The bleeding from the torn membrane is what is seen as proof of a female’s maidenhead.”

  “And in other cases?”

  “I suspect many maidens break this membrane or partially tear it long before their husbands bed them.”

  “How does that happen?”

  “In a variety of ways. Physical activity, such as riding a horse, is often thought to be the cause of such ruptures.”

  Lilliana was an able and enthusiastic equestrian, as were most gently raised young ladies. Atlas wondered how many innocent young women of quality had come pure to the marriage bed only to be censured when their husbands found no tangible evidence of their chastity.

  Rivers came to a stop, and Atlas realized they’d reached the King Henry VIII gate at St. Bart’s. Above the arched entrance, the dour face of the king who’d done away with several of his wives stared down at them. He thanked Rivers and prepared to bid him farewell.

  “One more thing, Doctor, if I may,” he began hesitantly. “It’s about my foot.”

  Rivers nodded. “I couldn’t help but notice it seems to be troubling you.”

  “Yes.” He’d begun to fear the affliction was permanent. “I broke it several months ago, but it still pains me.”

  “That is understandable. There are more than two dozen bones in the foot and even more joints.”

  “I gather you are telling me that all adds up to a plethora of opportunity for pain,” Atlas said grimly. “I worry the broken bones in my foot did not heal properly.”

  “Did you see a bonesetter?”

  “I was treated by a qualified surgeon, Dr. Armitrage.”

  “I am acquainted with him. Armitrage is an able surgeon.” Rivers nodded his approval. “Did he fashion a splint along the anterior surface?”

  “Yes, and I kept it elevated for weeks.” His damned recuperation had seemed interminable, and his foot still wasn’t properly healed. “Can I expect it to return to normal?”

  “Allow it time to heal, and ice the injury when you can, especially after you exert yourself. That will help alleviate the discomfort.”

  After the two men parted ways, Atlas hailed a hackney on Giltspur Street to take him back to Mayfair. He intended to stop by Thea’s on the way home to get some ice for his foot. Settling back into the cramped cab, he thought of Lilliana’s assertion that there had been no other man. He’d just learned that medical science could explain why she hadn’t bled on her wedding night. The possibility of Lilliana having a lover who had killed Warwick now seemed more remote than ever.

  The new developments meant he could eliminate Somerville as a suspect; the duke had no apparent motive for wanting Warwick dead. The identity of the man with the ruby ring remained a mystery, but for the moment, there was nothing connecting him to Lilliana.

  There was still the matter of the supposed love letter Godfrey had found among Lilliana’s things, but at least no other man had been in her bed. That piece of knowledge heartened him, although the painful throbbing in his foot was the very devil.

  * * *

  When Atlas arrived at Thea’s, he found the place practically deserted. Fletcher, who remained on duty, informed him that Thea was out and that most of the servants had the afternoon off to attend the wedding celebration of a former housemaid.

  Presuming Lilliana was with the children and not wishing to intrude, Atlas headed out to the icehouse, intending to be on his way once he’d gotten some ice for his foot. However, as soon as he stepped onto the brick patio, something smacked him in the head.

  “So sorry, sir.” Miller, Thea’s footman, bounded over and caught the ball in midair as it bounced off Atlas.

  Peter, followed by his younger brother, scampered down the narrow brick stairs leading from the cramped garden and came to a screeching halt when he spotted their visitor. “Mr. Catesby, come play catch with us,” Peter pleaded, his face damp and red from exertion.

  Atlas didn’t think his aching foot was up to the task. “I’m afraid I cannot, boys. My old injury is bothering me, and I’ve come for some ice to put on it.”

  “You’re going to the icehouse?” Peter’s eyes lit up. “May I come with you?”

  Recalling Lilliana’s concerns, he decided it best not to abet the boy’s infatuation with the icehouse. “Perhaps another time.”

  “Please, please, please,” Peter implored, the words like rapid-fire bullets.

  Robin wrinkled his nose. “It’s cold and dark in there.”

  Atlas looked around for help but saw no sign of either Lilliana or Clara. “Are you on duty with the children?” he asked Miller.

  “Just until Mrs. Warwick returns, sir.” Miller bopped the ball between his two hands. “Clara went to the wedding, so I told her I’d look after the boys.”

  “Where is Mrs. Warwick?”

  “Cannot say, sir. She was supposed to go up to the nursery to relieve Clara, but when she was delayed, I offered to step in.”

  “Do you know what kept Mrs. Warwick?”

  “No, sir. She must have stepped out. It’s only been about twenty minutes or so. I expect she’ll be back shortly.”

  Seeing no way to put Peter off, Atlas consented to the boy accompanying him to the icehouse while Robin went inside with Miller to see if Cook could offer them a cool drink.

  The icehouse was a small, rudimentary, but solid-looking structure. Made of stone, it had a short, wide-bolted door at its front. Greenery grew on its roof and around its sides. Atlas unbolted the door and pushed it open. A rush of cool air greeted him. Peering into the darkness, Atlas wished he’d remembered to bring a candle, but Peter wasn’t put off by the uninviting conditions. He eagerly stepped inside.

  “Careful,” Atlas warned. “Stay with me.” It wasn’t as if the boy could get lost inside the place. Thea’s icehouse was very small, but Atlas wasn’t taking any chances with the boy’s safety.

  They took a few steps farther inside, Atlas squinting as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. He rubbed his arms. It was freezing. He wanted to obtain his ice and get back outside to the relative warmth as soon as possible.

  Dim light from the open door barely illuminated the large chunks of ice stacked up against the walls. His foot touched something. He peered down at the shadowy, indistinguishable shape on the floor before them.

  “What is that?” He addressed the question more to himself than to the boy.

  Peter knelt down for a closer look and reached out to touch the still form. “I think it’s Mama.”

  * * *

  “Fetch a doctor.” Atlas spoke sharply to Miller as he placed Lilliana’s limp form on her bed. “And be quick about it.”

  “Very good, sir.” The footman paused at the door. “Shall I send word alerting Mrs. Palmer as to what has occurred?”

  “No. The
re’s no use interrupting her afternoon. Perhaps after the doctor arrives and we know what we are dealing with. But do stay with the children. Peter is still in the garden. Make certain both boys are safe.”

  Fletcher appeared in the doorway, concern lining his forehead. Despite his advanced age, Thea’s butler always seemed aware of everything that occurred under her roof. “How may I be of service?”

  Atlas stared at Lilliana. His gut clenched at the blue tint of her fair skin. He needed to get the wet clothes off her; they encased her like a sheet of ice. “She needs her lady’s maid. Send for her at once.”

  “I believe Mrs. Warwick uses Cleo, Mrs. Palmer’s maid, but Cleo has the afternoon off. She left after dressing Mrs. Palmer.”

  “The devil!” His head spun. He somehow needed to get Lilliana warmed up. “Send any one of the female servants up immediately.”

  Fletcher cleared his throat. “There is no one, sir. Aside from myself and Miller, most of the servants have the afternoon off.”

  He cursed. “Then we shall have to wait for the doctor.”

  Fletcher withdrew, closing the door behind him.

  Atlas swallowed down his rising panic at the sight of Lilliana on the bed—lifeless, her face deathly white, her lips a frightening shade of blue. When they’d found her motionless in a fetal position, her body icy to the touch, he felt as though someone had twisted a knife in his gut. Although, not wishing to alarm Peter, he’d reassured the boy that she was merely resting before whisking her back to the house. God help him if he had come too late. A tap on the door was followed by the reappearance of Fletcher. “The doctor is delayed. He is attending to the Duchess of Trentham and will come as soon as he can.”

  “What the devil are we to do in the meantime?”

  “The doctor says to warm Mrs. Warwick up as much as possible.”

  “Have you checked on the boys?” If someone had tried to hurt Lilliana, they could very well have gone after the children too. He’d tasked Peter with bolting the icehouse door closed. He’d wanted to distract the boy from his mother’s condition.

  “Yes, they are well. And Miller has instructions to stay with them in the nursery.” Fletcher bowed out, leaving Atlas feeling helpless.

  If no one else was here to warm Lilliana, the task fell to him. Determined to do so as quickly as possible, he turned her gently over so he could access the tiny buttons running down the length of her gown. He made quick work of them and shifted her chilled body so that he could remove the thin gown, shuddering at the thought of Lilliana alone in the dark in the frosty icehouse with nothing to shield her from the cold but this flimsy muslin gown.

  He unlaced her stays and pulled them off, leaving her in her shift and stockings. He reached under her shift and ran his hands up her stockings until he felt cold, velvety skin and untied her garters. He relieved her of her stockings, one after the other, averting his gaze to afford her what little privacy he could, leaving her only in her shift. He pulled the cover-pane over her inert form and found two more blankets in the wardrobe to place on top of that. Still, every part of her body remained icy cold.

  Desperation riled through him. There was nothing to be done for it. Shrugging out of his own jacket, he stripped down until he wore only his smallclothes and the hand-shaped amulet on a chain around his neck that he rarely took off. He slipped into bed beside her, determined to use his own body warmth to bring her circulation back.

  Ignoring his own discomfort as her glacial skin touched his, he wrapped his arms around her and encased her in his body heat. He was on his side and turned her to face him so that they had full body contact, their legs interlocked. Gritting his teeth against the frigid iciness of her body, he ran his hands over her skin to help warm her and pressed his cheek against hers, saying a silent prayer as he did so.

  He did not know how long it was—it seemed an eternity—before her body finally seemed to absorb some of his warmth. He rubbed his hands over her arms and shoulders, desperate for some sign of wakefulness. Seeing Lilliana this way, still and expressionless, wrenched his insides.

  Hope thudded in his chest when she began to stir. She nestled against him, and her eyes finally fluttered open.

  “Lilliana? Can you hear me?”

  Eyes the color of autumn leaves blinked a few times before focusing on his face just inches from hers.

  “Darling, can you speak?” The endearment seemed to slip out of his mouth of its own volition. “It’s Atlas.”

  “What . . . happened?” she asked in a gravelly voice.

  “You were locked in the icehouse.” He feathered a hand across the cool porcelain skin of her cheek, relieved to find it merely cold instead of frigid. “Do you remember?”

  “Yes, I think so.” Her face clouded. “It was so cold.”

  “Can you recall how you ended up there?”

  “The servant said Peter was playing in the icehouse again, and I went to get him.”

  He stiffened. “Which servant?”

  “William, I think his name is.” She licked her dry lips. “I was surprised to see him. He does not usually venture abovestairs.”

  Dread crawled up his spine. “Did he accompany you to the icehouse?”

  She nodded. “And then he locked me in.” When she shivered at the memory, he drew her closer to the warmth of his body. “It was awful. There was no escape. I anguished about what would happen to the boys if I were to—”

  “Shhh.” He pressed a light kiss to her forehead. “You are safe now.” Inside him, fury churned. William had deliberately tried to hurt Lilliana. She’d been left to freeze to death inside the icehouse.

  Her eyes fluttered as she looked past him, as if she’d just become aware of their surroundings. “Where are we?”

  “In your bedchamber.”

  Her gaze dropped to his bare chest. Confusion clouded her eyes when she looked down at her own body and realized she wore nothing but her shift. Some color tinged the pallor of her face. Relief flooded him at the sign her circulation was returning to normal.

  “What . . . ?” She stammered. “I don’t understand why . . .” Her questions trailed off.

  “We are awaiting the doctor,” he explained. “You were so cold, your lips were blue. I feared for your life, so I used my body heat to encourage your body temperature to return to safe levels.” As he spoke, now that his fear for her had eased, he suddenly became physically aware of her as a woman. One who appealed to him. Very much.

  The most masculine part of him became sensitive to the subtle curves of her willowy body snuggled against his, soft breasts pressed against his bare chest, their limbs still intertwined in an intimate fashion.

  His body reacted, hardening in a quick swell. Cursing inwardly at his own baseness, he broke away from her softness and bounded up from the bed with the alacrity of a man escaping a raging fire.

  She watched him with growing alertness, her attention wandering over his bare body. Satisfaction rippled through him when he detected a glimmer of interested appreciation in her inspection. Her gaze dropped to his smallclothes, to where his obvious arousal strained against the cotton fabric.

  His face burning, he jerked on his breeches to cover himself. “I do beg your pardon.”

  Alarm crossed her face. “Where are the boys?” She sat up. “What if that man went after them next?”

  “They are well.” He reached for his shirt. “They are safe with Miller.”

  She clutched the bed linens to her chest. “How can you be certain?”

  “I had Fletcher check on them.” He pulled his white linen shirt over his head. “Miller is with the boys in the nursery and has strict instructions not to let them out of his sight.”

  She watched him don his waistcoat. “I was on my way to the nursery to be with them before that man told me Peter was in danger.”

  “We are going to find this William person and get to the bottom of this.”

  “You found me before it was too late.” A small smile tilted her lips. “C
oming to my rescue once again.”

  He shrugged into his jacket, determined to look decent before the doctor arrived. “I’m thankful I arrived in time.”

  “As am I.” She ran a hand through her hair, pushing a dark tendril away from her face. “Why did you come? Has there been a new development in the investigation?”

  “No, nothing like that.” He hesitated, not caring to discuss his lingering injury with anyone. “I came to avail myself of Thea’s ice.”

  “For your foot?”

  “Yes. Ice helps relieve the discomfort.” He never thought he’d be grateful for his injury, but without it and his need of ice to ease his pain, Lilliana might have died.

  He paused before continuing. “I also want to apologize for my impertinent question about issues of great privacy to you. And to assure you I do not doubt your word.”

  “Thank you,” she said quietly.

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “And I apologize again for any offense I caused in relation to—” he gestured toward the bed.

  She smiled. “You saved my life. I should thank you, not censure you.”

  “Nonsense.” He bristled. “I did what anyone else in my place would do.”

  “And I did not take offense to—” She gestured in the general direction of his person.

  He grimaced. “It’s unseemly.”

  “It’s human, and I am not innocent to the physical impulses of men,” she said, her voice gentle. “Besides, you only offered proof of what you yourself have already said.”

  Confusion crossed his face. “And what is that?”

  A knowing gleam entered her beautiful eyes. “That you are not indifferent to my, as you termed it, charms.”

  They were interrupted by a knock on the door and the arrival of the doctor. Atlas stepped out while the doctor examined Lilliana and learned from Fletcher that William was nowhere to be found. After asking the butler to send for Endicott at Bow Street, he went out back to examine the garden and path leading to the icehouse.