Nodding, Lyle tucked the ribbon next to his valise. “Of course. But… ” He hesitated. “I thought you didn’t want my help. You said it would jeopardize this wager you have with your father.”
“It will.” She swallowed and steeled her spine. “However, a young woman’s life is in danger. That is more important than the release of my dowry. If Miss Young wakes, she might be able to identify her attacker—and if so, she is undoubtedly still in danger. We must apprehend the criminal before they strike again.”
Lyle nodded, his expression grave. “Then let’s not waste another moment. Someone must have seen something that will help us.”
Chapter Sixteen
Hours after speaking to every person in the manor individually, Katherine discovered that no one had seen a single thing. No one had noticed Miss Young ensconce herself with anyone in particular. No one had so much as noticed her leave the parlor.
As interviews went, they were akin to disaster.
Miss Young still had not awoken. After examining her, the physician had not been able to surmise why that might be, since she seemed in fit health, aside from the bruise around her neck.
She breathed normally, and his only suggestion was to leech the trauma of the event from her. Thankfully, Mrs. Young had declined for her daughter to be bled, calling it a ridiculous practice, as if the fright of the attack had somehow poisoned Miss Young’s blood. After providing a poultice made of cooked and ground worms to aid in the healing of her bruise, the physician was sent away. Mrs. Young hoped—as did Katherine—that rest would lead to a full recovery.
In the meantime, Lyle spoke with the servants to glean what he could. As an earl’s daughter, Katherine wasn’t quite as approachable to the servant class, nor was Lyle as efficient among high society.
Therefore, Katherine was left to interview, one after another after another, the poor sops who had had one glass of wine too many, the mamas desperate to throw their daughters into the path of any rich, eligible man, and the empty-headed young ladies who went along with their plans.
One and all, they had little to say on the matter of Miss Young. In fact, simply trying to confirm their whereabouts at the time of the attack gave her a headache. No one seemed to know where anyone else had been at that time. It was a snarled mess.
Head throbbing, she ended in the wee hours with the Duke of Somerset, who seemed particularly agitated. “Do you think she’ll make a full recovery?” he asked.
“I can’t say, my lord. The physician has come and gone, so I am certain she was given the best care possible.”
“Miss Young doesn’t seem as well heeled as she might be. She might be grateful for that expense to be handled elsewhere.”
“That doesn’t answer my question, my lord. Where were you this evening after you left the parlor?”
Somerset started to raise his right hand to his mouth and flinched. He tucked his arm into his side and coughed into his left fist instead. “There was a card table set up in another sitting room. A bit smoke filled, what with the cheroots, but that’s where I’ve been all night.”
Could Somerset be telling the truth? A few of the other guests had mentioned cards, so that part was true, and now she would have to go back and find out who had stayed in the game and who had left.
Her gaze fell to his arm, the one he favored.
Miss Smythe had been viciously attacked during the murder, the most violent yet. Miss Rosehill’s had been far less violent, and Miss Young hadn’t been killed.
Were the attacks getting less intense? Could the reason be because the culprit had been injured between the first and second murders? Katherine wouldn’t know more unless she asked after Lord Somerset’s injured arm. If he was the murderer, she didn’t want to give away her hand by asking him directly.
Instead, she thanked him for his time and turned to the parlor. Although several of the guests clamored to leave, Lord Northbrook had followed her instructions to the letter and kept everyone in one place. The only person he had excused from this treatment was Mrs. Young. The victim’s matchmaker, Mrs. Fairchild, remained in the parlor with everyone else.
Once Katherine was freed once more, she turned to beckon Mrs. Fairchild closer. As Katherine had interviewed the guests, the plump woman had managed to be on the other side of the room, avoiding all questioning. Because Katherine didn’t think her capable of killing her own client, she hadn’t pressed to interview her. However, she must, for the interest of being thorough and despite her distaste for the woman.
Mrs. Fairchild glowered. As she stepped closer, she didn’t bother to lower her voice. “You witch. You threaten my client, and when she is attacked, you have the gall to point the finger elsewhere? Where were you at the time of the attack?”
Egad!
The throbbing in her temple renewed with vigor. Katherine bit her tongue to keep from spouting an obscenity aloud. If she hadn’t sent Lyle away upon finding the body, she might have had an alibi.
Straightening her spine, she composed herself and answered, “I was in the garden, as you very well know, being as I interrupted the attacker.”
“How do we know that you weren’t that attacker?”
Confound it! She had never met a woman more blind and stubborn. This entire time, Katherine had been attempting to warn Miss Young and to keep her from this very fate.
As she opened her mouth, Wayland stepped forward. “Lady Katherine was with me, Mrs. Fairchild. We were indeed touring the garden, a ways away when we heard Miss Young’s scream.”
Katherine bit the inside of her cheek to keep from contradicting him. For what reason would he lie to protect her? As lies went, it wasn’t her favorite one. Although it might exempt her from committing the attack, in its place he had started a rumor.
No doubt by the end of the party, the ton would think they were having an affair. A more ludicrous suggestion, Katherine could not fathom. Unless, by covering for Katherine, Wayland was trying to create an alibi for himself. No, he was also trying to catch the killer—it didn’t make sense that he could be the murderer. Did it?
With a predatory smile, Mrs. Fairchild divided her gaze between Katherine and Wayland. “Why, Captain, dare we hope for a happy announcement?”
Perhaps it was cruel of Katherine, but she couldn’t help but feel gratified at the look of alarm on Wayland’s face. He darted a glance around the room, as though seeking aid, before he answered in a clipped, harried voice. “She sought out my company for… business.”
Katherine fought the urge to cross her arms. Pigs might fly before she sought him out for any reason.
“Business?” The hostess stepped closer, her voice dripping with curiosity and the barest hint of scorn.
Wayland stiffened. “Indeed. She hoped to speak with me regarding—” He caught Katherine’s gaze, frowning.
Holding still, she waited for his response. The only commonality they held between them was the Royal Society of Investigative Techniques. Although her aim in attending this party had been exposed once she began to question the guests regarding their whereabouts, she still posed as a matchmaker.
Thief-takers had given those who dabbled in the investigative arts a bad reputation. Would Wayland expose her—and himself—as a detective?
“One of her clients,” he finished.
Katherine inclined her head to him by the barest smidge, a surreptitious acknowledgement of their shared profession. Some might suspect, especially those who knew of her father’s inclinations and might have hired him in the past. However, without a public acknowledgement, they would avoid the stigma associated with their profession.
For a moment, Katherine wondered if Mrs. Fairchild would accept that answer without pressing for more details. To her surprise, the matron merely sniffed and turned away. Katherine directed her to the corner, where she had set two chairs for the ease of the interrogation.
Although they remained in the same room as the other guests, Katherine had assured a modicum of privacy by moving them
out of earshot. When Mrs. Fairchild claimed her seat, so too did Katherine, facing her. The woman opposite wore a sour expression.
After a glance over her shoulder to ensure that the party had not drawn nearer, Katherine reassured the other woman. “I do not believe that you would harm your own client. It would prevent you from making a match and, I presume, acquiring payment.”
Mrs. Fairchild nodded, pursing her lips. She didn’t otherwise contribute to the conversation.
Katherine continued, “However, I must ask if you know of anyone who might have wished Miss Young harm. Was there one gentleman in particular who paid her more attention than the others? Did she have a falling out with one of the women?”
“A falling out?” The rival matchmaker scoffed. “You mean like Miss Burwick had with Miss Rosehill? Hardly. Miss Young is loved by all.”
Pru had a falling out with one of the victims? Narrowing her eyes, Katherine asked, “Forgive me, to what falling out between Miss Burwick and Miss Rosehill are you referring?”
“Why, they were thick as thieves at the Duke of Somerset’s party. However, the following week when Mrs. Burwick played the hostess, the two refused to speak a word to each other. Miss Burwick was particularly cold to Miss Rosehill, who as far as I can tell had done nothing to deserve such treatment. She would have been a good client, had she lived.”
Mrs. Fairchild no longer referred to the murder as an unfortunate accident. Perhaps, with the attack on her client, she had grown wise. Katherine sat back in her seat, thinking.
“Have we spoken quite enough?” The older woman’s voice dripped with contempt, as if she feared catching a disease should she remain in Katherine’s proximity any longer.
Katherine dismissed her with a wave of her hand. “By all means,” she answered absently, “though if you recall enough of Miss Young’s suitors to guess whom she might have been meeting in the garden, I trust you’ll let me know. It might prove pivotal.”
As the woman sashayed away without another word, Katherine watched her back. Her gaze slipped from the matchmaker to the Burwicks, standing close together.
Pru looked just as unhappy as her mother. Hadn’t Mrs. Burwick said that Pru was friendly with Miss Smythe, too? And if she had been such good friends with Miss Rosehill, what had prompted her change of heart? More importantly, had that change of heart been vicious enough to warrant killing?
Katherine wanted to dismiss the notion of Mrs. or Miss Burwick having committed the string of attacks, but she couldn’t. Pru had stolen the diary, and that in itself was suspicious.
Her eyes narrowed as Pru fluttered her fan. She couldn’t tell from this distance whether there was a chip missing from one of the delicate ivory ribs.
As Lyle stepped into the room, his back as straight as a pillar, Lady Reardon drew herself up as if she were a duchess. “This is an outrage. A violent criminal is on the loose, and I will not remain here a moment longer to see my daughter become his next victim.” The woman clasped her daughter’s upper arms so tightly, the young woman cringed.
Katherine expected her friend to shrink away from the woman’s glare. Whenever he found himself at her home when a peer called, he froze, refusing to speak a word and remaining little more than a decoration in the room until such a time as he could make his escape. However, she was surprised to see a change in him when confronted by a room full of such peers.
His eyes were hard. He straightened his jacket as he crossed to the middle of the room. In a firm voice with a lethal edge, he snapped, “You will remain at the estate until such a time as I, as the representative of Sir John, have concluded my investigation. I have been granted dispensation from the Crown to arrest anyone whom I believe to be a danger to society. Any attempt to leave this gathering prematurely, I will take as an admission of guilt in this matter and arrest you promptly. I don’t care if I take the lot of you back to Bow Street. If this offends you, you can take it up with Sir John at your hearing.”
The air rippled in the wake of his words. Several lords and ladies bristled, but their expressions held enough shadows of fear that they didn’t contradict him. In the silence, her friend turned to her, his expression every bit as sharp and authoritative.
“Lady Katherine, a word?”
She inclined her head. “Of course, Mr. Murphy. I’m done here.”
As he turned, he said, “Then you are all free to return to your rooms if it pleases you. Lady Katherine and I will discuss tonight’s proceedings.”
Katherine’s head throbbed as the guests hesitantly filed past. Her eyes were glued on Pru’s fan, but she didn’t see any chips missing from the ivory. Perhaps she had another fan.
When Lord Northbrook stepped near at the tail of the procession, he stopped to clasp Lyle’s forearm and whisper, “Godspeed.”
Godspeed, indeed. If Lyle hadn’t gleaned anything more useful than Katherine, they would be in for a long and thorny journey to apprehend the murderer.
Chapter Seventeen
The servants had seen no more than the guests, though to their credit it had been because most were abed and the others awaited their masters’ return. However, none of their interviews aided with their search for the Pink-Ribbon Killer. They exchanged information in the parlor until Katherine could barely keep her eyes open. Only then did Lyle urge her to get some rest. He had been given lodging in the manor for the night.
Even after she parted from him, her mind drowned in the details of the murders. Emma snored fitfully, woofing from time to time and kicking her feet. Katherine couldn’t seem to close her eyes without seeing Miss Young’s pale-as-death face and the ribbon around her neck.
If Katherine had only solved the mystery sooner, she might have been able to prevent Miss Young from coming to any harm. If she’d paid more attention to Miss Young’s whereabouts before she’d left… From the very start, she’d suspected there would be another victim. Perhaps, deep down, she had hoped that an attack of this nature would occur. Now they had the imprint on the ribbon that the killer had left behind. Unfortunately, it was all the evidence they had. That, and her suspicions.
Restless, Katherine rose and dressed in a simple frock, leaving her laces loose. She donned her dressing gown and scooped Emma off the bed. Perhaps the dog would enjoy a midnight jaunt to the kitchen.
Instead of her usual enthusiasm, the pug tucked her face into Katherine’s side and fell asleep once more. If not for the murderer on the loose, Katherine might have left her in bed to sleep, but she wanted some form of protection tonight. For all her miniscule size, Katherine knew that if Emma were ever riled, she would defend Katherine with her life.
So armed, Katherine left her room in search of some warm milk in the kitchen. She took the main staircase to the first level and tiptoed down the corridor with a candle in one hand and Emma in the other.
Ahead, more candlelight flickered in patterns over the open library door. Who was awake at this hour? Cautiously, Katherine slowed her step as she neared. Her dog didn’t stir.
When she reached the door to the library and peeked inside, she found the room still and silent. Shelves of books framed the walls on all sides. In the center, a wingback chair faced the unlit hearth on the far end of the room. Two other chairs flanked it, with a small table in between. On one such table, a candle guttered. On another, a decanter of amber liquid rested next to an empty tumbler with a few sips still left in the bottom.
What simpleton had fallen so deep in his cups that he forgot the candle alight? He could burn the house down! Releasing an exasperated breath, she crossed to blow it out before it toppled and set the manor ablaze.
Before she reached midway, a man’s hand shot out to the side to grip the decanter. He popped open the top, splashed whiskey into his glass, then returned the decanter to its place.
Taken unawares, Katherine jumped. Her hold tightened briefly on Emma, who yelped awake. The man in the chair whirled, sloshing liquid onto the leather arm.
“Who’s there?” Lord Mowbry’
s voice slurred. Upon seeing her, he grimaced and turned around again. “Leave me be, my lady.”
She might have turned on her heel, had Emma not started to squirm. Katherine approached the chairs to set the candle next to the stump of his while she adjusted her hold on her dog. “Hush now, Emma.”
When she caught a glimpse of Mowbry’s face, she saw such bald pain there that she couldn’t turn and obey his edict. He looked liable to drink himself to death if she did. Instead, she set her dog on the chair and gathered the decanter and tumbler to keep it out of his reach.
Mowbry moved as if to stand, but Emma lurched off the chair and bounded to him. When she rose up on her hind legs, she planted her front paws on his knee. He sighed and patted the dog as he resignedly remarked, “Don’t you know not to keep a man from his drink, Lady Katherine?”
She placed the decanter and tumbler on the mantel over the cold hearth before she turned. “I’m surprised your friend Mr. Greaves isn’t here doing precisely this.”
The young lord stared into his hands until Emma nudged him with her nose. He wearily rubbed her head. “This latest attack. It reminds me of—” His voice cracked. “Of…”
Miss Smythe. “I know.” Katherine’s words fell heavy into the silence.
Mowbry still didn’t look at her. His expression was heavy, lines of agony curling around his mouth and nose.
“You loved her very much, didn’t you?”
Running his fingers along the curve of Emma’s ear, Mowbry collected his thoughts. After a moment, he sighed. “Of course I did. I asked her to marry me.”
Given that Mowbry had been in possession of her diary, he likely knew that she had been in the family way. Katherine took a gamble. “I wager you did so even after knowing of her state.”
Mowbry jerked his head up to look at her, distaste clear across his face. “So you’re the thief.”
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