Sinclair turned the scrap of paper over and back again. “This nearly does it. I’ll be going to the magistrate on Monday. When this is over, Astin, I will owe you a great debt.”
“Your brother was my dearest friend, Sin. You don’t owe me anything.”
Young Althorpe was so grateful about the new evidence that he completely forgot about the proposal he’d come looking for. After Sin left, Astin poured himself a brandy. With only two days left before Monday and Marley’s arrest, this nonsense was nearly over with. And he had a nice party at Grafton House to look forward to on Saturday. It looked to be a lovely weekend, indeed.
“He was trying to distract me.” Sinclair paced around the dining table at Kerston House on Weigh House Street. “Vixen was right; he doesn’t have any damned copies of the damned proposal, because as far as he’s concerned, he’s destroyed all of them.”
Crispin, seated at the table, continued studying the new scrap of paper. “But what’s your evidence? You’ve got nearly enough to convict Marley, but I don’t see how you can even touch Kingsfeld.”
“I know.” Sin continued his pacing. “It’s the damnedest thing. A month ago, with this evidence, I would have gone to Marley’s home and shot him dead myself.”
“What does your Vixen know, and what does she think she knows? You can’t give all of her opinions equal weight, Sin, and you can’t let her suspicions sway you. You’ll go insane from spinning so fast.”
“She knows Marley.” Sin snatched the paper back, even though he’d already memorized the few scattered half words and warnings. “She said he didn’t have enough depth of feeling to murder someone.”
“It doesn’t take depth of feeling. All it takes is greed or fear.”
“I’ve already had this argument with myself, Crispin. Tell me something new.”
“The murder’s two years old, Sin. There isn’t anything new. That’s the problem.”
Nodding, Sinclair resumed his circuit around the room. He knew something was wrong. After two years of cold trails and cursing, suddenly every clue Astin Hovarth came up with pointed to Marley. “Astin said he would never have suspected Marley until after I mentioned my concerns about him. I might very well have fed John Madsen to him.”
“If the earl is up t’something.” With a heavy sigh, Crispin leaned over the table and nudged one of the chess pieces into the middle of the makeshift street. “Kingsfeld was at White’s that night, till at least ten o’clock.”
“And after that?”
“I don’t know. We didn’t look into it very closely. And if he was cozed up with some lady, we’ll never find out—unless he’s kind enough to tell us.”
“I find that very interesting, my lads,” Wally said, leaning into the doorway.
Sinclair hadn’t even heard him come in. He was tired and he was frustrated, and growing more so by the moment. Crispin was right; if he continued to allow himself to become distracted, he was going to miss something that might get one or all of them killed. “What’s so interesting, Wally?” he asked.
“I know of one lady Kingsfeld wasn’t cozed up with that night.” Wally approached their table map of Mayfair and picked up one of the chess pieces standing to one side. “Lady Jane Netherby left London the day before the murder and didn’t return for the rest of the Season.”
Sin stopped in his tracks. “And?”
“And according to her lovely maid, Violet, she wore black and wept for a solid month.”
“That’s not so odd. If she and Thomas were close, I don’t see why she wouldn’t have—”
“They went straight to her grandmama’s in Scotland. According to Violet, Lady Jane didn’t receive the London Times telling about your brother’s murder until they’d been at McKairn Castle for over a week.”
A cold dread ran through Sinclair. If she had known about Thomas’s death before she had read about it, then she had another source of information. “I think I need to pay a call on Lady Jane Netherby,” he said slowly, clenching his jaw. “Would anyone care to accompany me?”
“You’re a few days from seeing Marley in chains,” Crispin murmured in his soft brogue. “Are you certain you want to begin a whole new trail? Ye might just thank Lady Vixen for her suggestion, but tell her she’s wrong.”
Sin stopped halfway to the door. “You think I would pursue Kingsfeld just to appease Victoria?”
Wally cleared his throat. “You have to admit, Sin, since you got married you’ve spent less and less time turning over evidence, and more time…turning over in bed.”
“What?” Deep hurt and anger cut through Sinclair’s chest.
“Well, you are just marr—”
“What was I supposed to do here in London?” Sin snarled. “Do you think I like playing friendly with these bloated, self-important asses? Do you think I like going to their parties and dancing with their daughters when I know one of them killed my brother?”
“But you married one of their daughters.”
Sin strode around the table toward Wally. It wasn’t enough that he asked himself those same questions and had those same doubts every day—now his closest friends were throwing them in his face as well. “Why don’t you repeat that, Wally?” he growled.
His face pale, Wally shuffled closer to Crispin. “I think I’ll just keep my damned mouth shut from now on.”
“Good idea,” Crispin agreed, eyeing him balefully. “If I ever need help stabbing myself, I’ll come to see you first, Wallace.”
The spy scowled and flung his arms up in surrender. “That’s fine—you lot go ahead and make me the villain. I was just agreeing with you, Crispin.”
“I’ll stand on my own feet, thank you.”
“Then stand on your feet,” Sin demanded, “and tell me what you did mean, Harding. I thought Wally’s translation sounded fairly accurate.”
Crispin did stand, but only to pull his coat off the back of his chair and shrug into it. “We’ve stood back to back for five years, Sin. We knew we couldn’t trust anyone but ourselves.” He shrugged. “It was a safe way to live.”
“What the hell are you talk—”
“Will ye shut up for a moment?” the Scot snapped, jabbing a finger into Sin’s chest.
Surprised, Sinclair subsided. “I’m listening.”
“Thank you.” A half dozen candles lit the tabletop neighborhood, and one by one Crispin snuffed them out. “All I meant, really, was that maybe you’re looking for a way to extend the way things are.”
“I’m stalling.”
“Maybe,” Crispin said. “Three days from the end, you decide to turn around ’n chase somebody else.”
“I’m not stalling,” Sin argued, realizing what his large companion was hinting at. “I’m making sure. If there’s a chance Kingsfeld’s involved, I am not going to miss looking into it. And at the moment, I happen to think there’s more than a chance.”
With a sigh, Crispin motioned him toward the front of the house. “Then let’s be sure.”
Sin put out an arm and stopped him. “I happen to…like Victoria Fontaine. If you’re jealous of that, I’m sorry. But don’t expect me to give her up.” He wouldn’t do that for his friends, or anyone. “Believe me, the idea of having this over with terrifies me—but there are things beyond this mess that I would like to try.”
After a long moment Crispin nodded at him. “As I said, let’s go talk with Lady Jane Netherby.”
They headed for the front door, Wally on their heels. “Will someone please explain to me what we were just talking about?” he complained.
“Aye.” The Scot held open the door for them to pass. “We just established that our Sinclair is in love with his wife, and that he wants this investigation finished so he can become domestic and work on making babies.”
“Oh. That’s what I thought.”
“Ye did not, ye big clod.”
As the three of them made their way through the darkness to the stable, Sinclair slowed. They’d had arguments before, and he
knew Crispin and Wally’s banter was merely their way of apologizing. Crispin was right, though.
He did want this over and done with, because Victoria Fontaine-Grafton had shown him that something important lay beyond seeing justice done. For two years he had planned toward one point, one goal, and damned everything that got in the way. Now, suddenly, those barricades and distractions were looking more important than he’d ever imagined possible—nearly as important as finding out who had killed Thomas.
“Sin, you coming?” Wally called softly.
He started, and then went to collect Diable, who was waiting patiently in the deep shadows. “Let’s go,” he said, swinging into the saddle.
They quickly made their way to Bolton Street.
“How d’ye want to play this, Sin?” Crispin murmured as Sinclair climbed the narrow front steps.
“Right in her face,” he answered, and rapped the knocker against the door. “She knew Thomas, and by God, I have a right to ask her about him.”
“This is new,” Wally whispered, so low that Sin obviously wasn’t supposed to overhear.
“Aye. The front door approach. I like it.”
“You would.”
The door opened.
“May I help you?” An elderly woman, no doubt the housekeeper, stood in the doorway blinking at them.
For a heartbeat Sinclair wondered how late it was; he hadn’t thought to check. “I have an urgent matter to discuss with the mistress of the house. Please tell Lady Jane that Lord Althorpe needs to speak with her.”
He used the title deliberately and was rewarded by seeing the old housekeeper flinch. At the same time, though, it felt right.
“Wait here, if you please,” the housekeeper stammered, and closed the door.
“That was rude,” Wally complained. “She won’t even show us into the parlor.”
“I wouldn’t either,” Sinclair said in a low voice. “We don’t look very friendly.”
The door opened a second time. “This way, my lord,” the old woman said, gesturing. “But your…friends will have to leave.”
“They’ll stay out here.”
She hesitated for only a second before she nodded and stepped back to let him enter. “Up the stairs, my lord. First door on the right.”
“Thank you.”
He entered the drawing room and stopped just inside the doorway, all of his senses alert. A single lamp in one corner served as the room’s only illumination, while the room’s lone occupant sat in a chair as far from the light as she could manage. The setting seemed almost absurdly dramatic; if she’d been wearing flowing white robes instead of a conservative blue gown, he would almost have thought he’d stumbled into the middle of an opera. The fear in her eyes, though, was real.
“Lord Althorpe,” she said in her low, melodic voice. “What brings you here, of all places?”
“I have several questions. I thought you might be able to help me find the answers to some of them.”
“I…don’t know what you could want from me. I’m actually quite busy tonight. My grandmother is suddenly ill, and I leave tomorrow for Scotland to tend her.”
Sinclair kept his expression calm and aloof even as his mind leapt forward. “I’m sorry to hear that. Was your grandmother the reason you left London two years ago, right before my brother was killed?”
She gasped, her already pale skin turning gray. “I do not wish to speak of such sad things.”
“But I do. Tell me, Lady Jane, how you learned of Thomas’s death.”
Clutching a hand to her breast, she stood. “You should leave. I will not be interrogated in my own home. And certainly not by you.”
“I think you know who killed Thomas,” he continued, ignoring her protest. “If I leave, you won’t have to answer only my questions. You’ll be telling your tale to a judge and a horde of solicitors, as well.”
Abruptly she sank back onto the couch, as though she’d lost all strength in her legs. “I have no proof,” she whispered, “and he will deny everything. He told me that again today.”
His heart thudding, Sinclair took a slow step forward. “Lord Kingsfeld is well respected, but he is not invincible.”
She gave a brittle laugh. “Ha. That’s what you think. I know better.”
“You owe Thomas the truth.”
“Thomas is dead,” she said flatly. “And he should have known better.”
For a brief moment Sin closed his eyes. “Better than what?”
“Better than to make so many peers angry. Now go. I’m not going to say anything else—except to tell you that if he knew you suspected him, you couldn’t run far enough or fast enough to escape.”
She had begun shaking, her eyes staring and withdrawn. He knew that he would never get a straight answer out of her—she was more frightened of the unnamed murderer than she was of him. Still, she had given him something.
“Thank you, Lady Jane. Convey my best wishes to your grandmother.”
Her gaze darted in his direction and back to the shadows again. “Go.”
He did as she asked, and showed himself from the house. “Let’s go,” he told his friends, walking past them.
“What did she say?” Wally asked.
“She said that she wouldn’t tell me anything. Someone’s got her frightened half out of her wits, and whoever it was called on her today to remind her of that. I worked Kingsfeld into the conversation, and she didn’t contradict me.”
Crispin scowled. “That’s not much help.”
“It is, actually. I happen to know that Marley spent most of the day with my wife, and wasn’t available to make threats against frightened, lonely women.”
“Sinclair, you aren’t going to go do something rash, are you?” Crispin asked. When his friend declined to answer, the Scot clamped an iron hand over his shoulder. “Sin?”
He shrugged free. “With what proof?” he snapped. His brain still refused to accept the idea that Astin Hovarth had shot Thomas. They had been friends, for God’s sake. Friends.
“Your Vixen will be happy to know she was right.” Keeping a wary eye on Sin, Wally circled around to his horse.
“Vixen,” Sinclair repeated, his chest tightening for the second time that night. “I can’t tell her.”
“Why not?”
“Because she’s Vixen.” They looked at him blankly while he uttered a few choice curses. Victoria’s heart shone in her eyes, and she could no more lie than she could turn away her menagerie. Astin would know the instant he set eyes on her that they suspected him. “Kingsfeld is going to be at my house tomorrow night. And so are you, and Victoria’s friends. If she knew…I can’t risk her giving us away. Kingsfeld killed his closest friend; I won’t risk making him suspicious by telling Victoria.”
“In a way, this could be handy. Why don’t I miss the party and go calling on Hovarth House during his lordship’s absence?” Crispin suggested.
Sinclair shook his head. “I promised you would be there. I could explain Bates missing the soiree even if he returns in time, but not you two.” He caught their quick exchange of looks and frowned. “What’s done is done. Go back to Kerston House and see if you can find anything to help us with Kingsfeld.”
“And where are you going?”
“Home—to lie to my wife again.” And to pray that she would forgive him for it later.
“They agreed to come?” Victoria repeated, smiling widely.
Sinclair didn’t seem quite as pleased as she, but she put it to his more cautious nature. No one needed to know his friends were spies, but they could at least all become acquainted with one another.
“I don’t think Bates will be back in time, but Wally and Crispin will be here,” he confirmed. “And I need—”
Milo entered the open morning room, three china plates of varying patterns held out for display. “These were the three with green in them, my lady.”
“Which one looks the friendliest, do you think?”
Her husband looked at her. �
��Friendliest?”
“Tonight is important. I want it to go well.”
He smiled, though the light in his amber eyes wasn’t quite as joyous. “So do I. All of the settings look quite friendly. I doubt any of them would misbehave.”
Victoria leaned forward on the couch to smack his knee. “Rogue. Milo, I like the one with the roses.”
“They seem friendly to me, my lady. I shall have them put out at once.” With an awkward bow, the butler restacked the plates and exited.
Victoria sat back again to look at the guest list. For once it didn’t really matter where anyone sat, because most of the guests were friends already. “Would your Crispin mind sitting across from Lucien?” she asked, “or would that be too much like bear baiting?”
He didn’t answer. When she looked up, he was gazing at her, his expression the sheepish one of a schoolboy who’d put a frog in the teapot.
“What is it?”
“I…oh, damnation.” Sinclair sat next to her and pulled her hand over to play with her wedding ring. “I know you don’t like him, and I know you’re suspicious, but—”
“—but you invited Lord Kingsfeld, didn’t you?” She looked back down at her list so he wouldn’t see how hurt she was. “You said no suspects, Sinclair. I know how important this investigation is to you, but I wanted…I wanted tonight to be for us.”
His lips brushed her knuckles. “Whatever you think of him, I couldn’t exclude him without a reasonable explanation.” He kissed the inside of her wrist. “I won’t do any spying tonight.”
Victoria knew why he was kissing her, yet knowing he was attempting to distract her didn’t make it any less stimulating. She watched, mesmerized and shivering, as his mouth slowly trailed up the inside of her arm.
“Do you still believe me?” she whispered shakily. “Do you still believe it might be Kingsfeld?”
“What I believe,” he returned in a low, seductive voice, “is that I’m going to make love to my wife.” He removed the clips from her hair.
Meet Me at Midnight Page 26
