Phyllida escorted Lady Woking to the dowager’s chamber and had the satisfaction of seeing the two quickly submerged in plans. The dowager, she guessed shrewdly, must be delighted with this scheme. She had never been keen on the whole charity project in the first place, only concerned about the image she presented to society. This would allow her to display herself as suffering yet noble—and with little trouble to herself.
She left them to it and escaped. The thought of the cards awaiting her proved too much to bear though. She needed to get away so she descended to the entry hall, where a liveried footman sprang to attention and opened the front door for her.
A half-hour in the garden in the center of Berkeley Square did much to restore her slipping composure. By the time she returned, Lady Woking had taken her departure. Phyllida made her way to the breakfast parlor, where a light nuncheon had been laid out, to fortify herself for the remainder of the day. It didn’t seem possible it was only noon.
She selected a plate of fruits and cheeses to take with her back to the Ladies’ Sitting Room. As she reached the door to this apartment Withers, the dowager’s dresser, waylaid her.
“Her ladyship wishes to see you…miss.” The dresser sniffed, emphasizing the pause between the command and the grudgingly given respect.
Phyllida, long inured to slights in this household, merely nodded. After depositing her plate on the already crowded writing desk, she followed the woman to her mistress’s bedchamber.
The drapes were flung wide and sunlight and warmth now flooded the room. The dowager Lady Allbury remained in the great bed on the raised dais, though she had donned a frothy muslin dressing gown enhanced by copious amounts of lace. In her hand she clutched a crumpled but noticeably dry handkerchief. Withers remained in the doorway, as if standing guard.
The dowager looked Phyllida over with coolly assessing eyes. “You are not wearing black,” she declared at last.
“No, my lady. I do not have any mourning clothes. Only this gray.”
The dowager frowned, adding wrinkles to her heavy brow. “You must have something more suitable for the funeral. Allbury will expect it. He will consider it his duty to see that all proper observances are made.” For once his mother sounded displeased with so commendable a trait in her son.
“I fear there isn’t time for me to make something up.”
“I suppose you must visit a modiste then.” The dowager eyed her with disfavor. “Withers will attend you. I can safely leave the matter in her hands.”
Phyllida glanced at the expressionless dresser and repressed a shiver. She should be grateful there had been no mention of Cranbourne Alley and off-the-peg gowns. Lady Allbury had standards, thank heavens, even where an unpopular ex-relation-in-law was concerned. One must, after all, if one was the Dowager Marchioness of Allbury, maintain appearances.
As she left the room, it dawned on her this meant she would continue to have a roof over her head—at least until after the funeral. That must be another of the dowager’s reluctant concessions to her son’s sense of duty.
Apparently Miss Yarborough’s subdued browns had not met with the dowager’s approval either. Twenty minutes later the two ladies set forth with their glowering chaperone in the ancient landau reserved for transporting the servants.
The shop at which they stopped in Jermyn Street was by no means in the first stare of elegance but anything it offered, Phyllida felt quite certain, would be an improvement over her own homemade efforts. Half-finished gowns lined the walls, needing only to be fitted to a potential buyer. With the aid of a shop assistant Phyllida looked through these and quickly selected two, one of bombazine and one of muslin, that would suit her well enough. The alterations could be made quickly, the proprietress assured her, and the gowns delivered the following morning.
It wasn’t often she had the opportunity to purchase a new dress. She should enjoy it—though how could she, for such a reason? Or did she enjoy it too much? She analyzed the thrill of excitement she had tried to deny and guilt flooded through her.
Constance Yarborough showed no such constraints. She flitted from gown to gown displayed by the modiste and her assistants, obviously too awed by the novelty of this shopping expedition to be cast down by the reason for it. Phyllida escaped her raptures by the simple expedient of concluding her purchases and stepping outside the shop.
It was restful, just standing in the warm sun of the early afternoon, watching the fashionables sauntering along the street. She could almost forget—no, she couldn’t. Tears blurred her eyes and she turned and walked aimlessly, finally stopping before a milliner’s, where she gazed blindly into the window. Several minutes passed before her vision cleared and with a shaky sigh she strolled on toward the china shop beyond then turned to see what lay on the opposite side of the street.
A gentleman, standing at the window of the store across from her, caught her attention. She recognized in a moment that tall, broad-shouldered figure with the dark, thickly curling hair and the decidedly military bearing. She stiffened, anger flowing through her. How dare he follow her!
The next moment reason overcame her temper. The idea was ridiculous. Why should Lord Ingram dog her footsteps, even if he did harbor suspicions about her? Any number of people had chosen this bright, beautiful day to stroll down Jermyn Street. He must merely be one of them. Resolutely, she turned her back on him.
A tilbury approached through the traffic then slowed to a stop in front of her. The driver, a slender gentleman in a ridiculously tall, tapering hat and multi-caped driving coat hailed her and she looked up to greet Mr. Quincy Enderby.
He extended a hand to her. “Still can’t believe the tragedy, Miss Dearne.” He shook his handsome head as if bemused.
“No, nor can I.”
A rather nondescript man, neither tall nor short, separated from the crowd and bore down on them. Fair hair protruded from beneath his hat but it wasn’t until he moved fully into her line of vision, leaning on his cane, that she saw the briarwood pipe in his hand and recognized the Bow Street Runner.
There could be no coincidence about his presence on this street. Which left her with only one question. Did the Runner follow her, Mr. Enderby or Lord Ingram?
“You knew the marchioness well, did you, Mr. Enderby?” Mr. Frake, smiling benignly, closed in on the other side of the carriage.
Surprised, Mr. Enderby swiveled about to face his inquisitor. His frown faded beneath a faintly repulsed sneer. “Ah, the Runner, I perceive.” He raised his quizzing glass and subjected Mr. Frake to a languid stare, which noticeably failed in its objective of discomfiting the Runner. Mr. Frake’s bland smile never wavered as he awaited an answer to his question.
Mr. Enderby dropped the glass then nodded a greeting to Lord Ingram, who strolled up behind the Runner.
Ingram’s narrowed gaze moved across each of them. “Good afternoon, Miss Dearne, Enderby. Even Mr. Frake? How very interesting. Do I interrupt?”
“Not in the least, m’lord. You might as well join us. I was just asking Mr. Enderby if he was well acquainted with the late Lady Allbury.”
Mr. Enderby’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Maria—my wife, you know—was a close friend of hers from school. Both parlor boarders at an exclusive seminary in Bath. Maria is prostrate.” He turned to Phyllida. “I was on my way to call at Allbury House on her behalf.”
“Give her my best wishes and thank her for her concern.”
“She—” Mr. Enderby hesitated, his gaze riveting.
The tall, slender figure of the Marquis of Allbury strode purposefully along the street, ebony cane swinging from his black-gloved hand with each vigorous step as he bore down on them. He stopped in his tracks and stared hard at Mr. Enderby for several long, silent, chilling seconds.
Mr. Enderby looked away first and turned to Phyllida. “If you’ll excuse me? Don’t wish to intrude on your grief, you know—such an unpleasant occupation, to be forced to purchase mourning clothes. I’ll assure Maria you go on as w
ell as can be expected.” With a curt nod directed toward the men, he collected the ribbons, gave his horse the office and moved off.
The marquis ignored him. He turned to Lord Ingram and a slow smile touched his tired eyes. “I see you meant what you said.”
“About what, m’lord?” Mr. Frake asked at once.
Ingram answered, “I promised my friend to lend you any assistance in my power in settling this unpleasant matter.”
Phyllida’s cool gaze moved across the men. “I don’t see where that requires the three of you to follow me about.”
Ingram’s eyebrows quirked upward in sudden amusement. “Not ‘requires’, perhaps,” he murmured.
The deliberate provocation was not lost on Phyllida. She regarded him with appraising eyes.
Mr. Frake directed a reproving glance at him. “It’s nothing of the sort, miss. I just happened to see you enter that shop over there then his lordship come out of that one yonder. I thought I’d make sure as everything was all right.”
“Yes, one can never tell what dangers might lurk in the establishment of a respectable modiste, can one?” She smiled sweetly at him.
He merely smiled back, unperturbed by her sarcasm then turned to Allbury. “And what brings you here, m’lord? Quite a coincidence, one might say, us all being here.”
“Not in the least. I came for a purpose.”
“And that being?”
The marquis glanced down at the gleaming toes of his polished Hessians, looking much younger than his one-and-thirty years. “I wanted to make sure Miss Dearne and Miss Yarborough had all they required. My mother doesn’t always pay attention to little details.” He didn’t meet Phyllida’s eyes.
Her temper faded at his embarrassment. “We are quite all right, thank you, Allbury. Your mother has been kindness itself.”
He looked up quickly, frowning. “Has she? You know you may stay on as long as you like. Both you and Miss Yarborough. No matter what she may have said—” He broke off.
Her smile warmed, though if it came to a battle between the gentle marquis’ sense of duty and his determined mother’s iron will she was not at all certain he could enforce his promise. She had never known him to openly defy his mother, except in the matter of his marriage. Nothing less than Louisa’s tearful insistence that he had raised her expectations, indeed, compromised her reputation beyond repair, could have caused such an unprecedented occurrence. The fact the dowager had been out of town at the moment of Louisa’s declaration had not been a coincidence.
Phyllida shook her head and said merely, “That is exceedingly generous of you.”
“Not at all.” He looked uncomfortable at her praise. His glance strayed toward the shop door. “Miss Yarborough has nowhere to go.”
“I understand yours is a double loss, m’lord.” Mr. Frake returned the subject to the investigation. “In the family way, was your wife, as I understand it.” He shook his head. “A possible heir.”
The marquis’s jaw tensed and the open candidness of his expression closed, becoming unreadable. “Quite. As you say.” He awarded the Runner a curt nod, which could be interpreted as an acknowledgment of the condolence.
To Phyllida it seemed more a stiff dismissal, both of the questioner and the topic.
Allbury’s gaze met Lord Ingram’s for a moment then the marquis excused himself to Phyllida and continued on his way, the ebony cane swinging forcefully with every step.
Mr. Frake rocked back on his heels, his lidded gaze following Allbury’s retreating figure. “Rather cold,” he murmured. “Or…?” He quirked an eyebrow at Phyllida.
“Or?” she inquired, refusing to be led.
“Or he’s not overly grieved by his double tragedy.”
“Of course he is,” snapped Ingram. He glared at the Runner. “Allbury is not one to display his emotions for the edification of the vulgar.”
“Not one to display any emotions?” Mr. Frake asked, picking up on this likely sidetrack. “And how did her late ladyship feel about that?”
“I have not seen Allbury since his marriage.”
“Lord Ingram had never met Louisa before last night,” Phyllida reminded the Runner. “He could hardly judge her reactions.”
“Is that right, m’lord?”
Ingram’s gaze brushed over Phyllida. “I had met her.”
She blinked. “You had? Where?”
“Yes, where?” Mr. Frake pursued in lively interest.
“In Bath.” Ingram drew his snuff box from his pocket and weighed it in one hand. “My mother stayed there one winter and I visited her while I was home on leave.”
“While Lady Allbury was in the seminary?” Mr. Frake drew out his Occurrence Book and jotted down a quick note.
“Yes, though it was some weeks before I discovered she was still in the schoolroom.” Ingram’s lips tightened as if in remembered annoyance.
Cold enveloped Phyllida. He had known Louisa, probably been bewitched by her as all men tended to be. No wonder he had stared so at her in the opera box. And no wonder when he looked at Phyllida he found her lacking.
“Was there an attachment between you?” Mr. Frake asked.
Ingram’s brows rose a fraction. “She was in the schoolroom.”
“But you didn’t know that at first.”
He inclined his head, his expression unreadable. “A man may indulge in a mild flirtation with a lively young miss without serious intent upon either side.”
“And you are quite sure there wasn’t, m’lord?” Mr. Frake pursued. “Not on your part, nor perhaps on that of her late ladyship?”
Ingram regarded him through cold eyes. “There was not. I might have been an officer but I had not then any expectations of inheriting my brother’s title and estates.”
“Meaning as that’s what the young lady was after?” Mr. Frake jotted down another note. “And you, m’lord? What was it you was after?”
“Nothing, although you appear to find it impossible to believe. Louisa wished to learn the art of flirtation. I was one of many upon whom she practiced.”
The Runner glanced at Phyllida. “Does that sound like your sister, miss?”
“Yes.” The word came out dully. “Everyone admired her so, it made her somewhat…precocious. I doubt her intentions were serious.” Only the slightest emphasis sounded on the pronoun. What, in truth, had been Ingram’s?
A surge of understanding rushed through her, startling in its intensity. Whatever lay in the past between Louisa and Ingram, it explained his otherwise inexplicable dislike for her. Had Louisa hurt him? Had he loved the girl—then come to hate her? And did he expect Phyllida to behave in the same deceitful manner as the sister she resembled so closely? It would explain the antagonism.
He would learn better, she vowed.
“Were you also acquainted with Miss Yarborough and Mrs. Enderby, m’lord?” the Runner pursued, cutting across Phyllida’s racing thoughts.
“I did not have that honor. Had I been, I might have realized Louisa’s true age sooner.”
Mr. Frake closed his book. “Thank you, m’lord. That will be all for now.” He fixed his bland smile on Ingram and gave him a dismissive nod.
Ingram’s gaze rested on Phyllida and the lines deepened around his eyes—but not into a frown. “Miss Dearne? Do you require an escort?”
“No, I do not.” Regret filled her and only with difficulty did she keep it from her voice. At last he made a civil overture toward her and she couldn’t accept. “I only awaited Miss Yarborough. And now I see she awaits me by the landau.”
“Then I will bid you good afternoon.” With a bow to Phyllida, he strode across the street and entered the portals of a haberdashery.
Mr. Frake started toward the carriage where Constance Yarborough and the stern-featured dresser stood. Phyllida followed, wondering what had gone through Lord Ingram’s mind when he had seen Louisa last night, after three long years. Had it been longing—or hatred?
The Runner came to a halt and fixed Con
stance with his penetrating eye. “Did you know Lord Ingram knew the late marchioness while you was in Bath?” he asked.
The girl’s hands tightened on the door of the landau and she looked across to the shop where Ingram had disappeared then nodded. “She-she liked to brag about her conquests. Though of course he wasn’t Captain Lord Ingram then, merely a lieutenant, and not a baron.”
“Smitten with her, was he?” Mr. Frake smiled his encouragement.
“Oh yes.” Constance sighed. “All men were. It was so romantic, the way she managed to steal moments with him, even an occasional evening.”
“In the habit of slipping out of the seminary, was she?” the Runner asked.
Constance nodded. “So romantic,” she repeated. “Poor Lord Ingram. He must have been quite dreadfully shocked when he saw her in the box last night. I vow, my heart quite went out to him.”
“And why is that, miss?”
“He couldn’t have known! That she would be there, I mean,” she added at the Runner’s inquiring expression. “He came to call upon Allbury. It must have been a terrible blow, returning from the war like that to find the girl he adored had already married, and one of his oldest friends, at that.”
“Jealous, was he?”
“Terribly!” A wistful smile just touched her lips. “He had been so very much in love with her, you see. Why, once she told me he had threatened to kill anyone who touched her. Then another time he said he would murder Louisa if she so much as looked at…” her voice trailed off to a horrified whisper, “another man.”
Chapter Five
“Murder someone out of jealousy? Lord Ingram?” Miss Phyllida Dearne clenched her hands about the ribands of her reticule, her gentle face a picture of incredulity. “I’d be more likely to believe him to do it out of revenge or just pure hatred.”
“Now, miss,” Mr. Frake cautioned. “No one’s saying he’s our murderer. Not yet, at any rate.”
“I didn’t mean to imply that,” she declared with some asperity. “I merely meant he is not a mawkish person.”
Ivory and Steel Page 6
