Lady Woking patted the fluff of graying curls about her face. “That is exactly what I mean, my dears. This is no time for you to be dealing with this charity, not with the funeral tomorrow. I know one or two young ladies who will be only too pleased to help us. They draw quite delightfully, I assure you. Then later, when you’re feeling more the thing once again, I’ll bring everything back.”
“Oh no!” Miss Yarborough cried. “They are my fans. Everyone knows I do the painting. I won’t have some stranger taking over my work. Please, Phyllida, you know the project is ours. You cannot permit someone else to take control, not after all the work you have done.”
Phyllida blinked. “I do not believe she means—”
“I know exactly what she means.” Miss Yarborough’s nostrils flared. “She doesn’t trust us. She believes Louisa did all the work, that we did nothing.” She swung back to face their visitor. “You are wrong, Lady Woking. It was Phyllida who organized everything, who made the arrangements with the hospital and found all the supplies and approached the ton with her wonderful idea. And I have helped her every step of the way, sketching and painting. No one else has assisted us in the least.”
“Lady Woking and Mrs. Enderby have aided us by showing the fans,” Phyllida reminded her.
“Miss Yarborough, please.” Lady Woking fixed her with the stern eye that must frequently have silenced her pupils in the past.
Miss Yarborough appeared immune. “You, of all people, Lady Woking, should know the truth about Louisa.” She held her ex-deportment mistress’s gaze a moment. “Yes, of course you do. Louisa merely queened it over us, though she did none of the work. Just as she always did, even when we were in school. I am glad Louisa is dead! I hated her!” She broke off, her expression one of shocked dismay. Abruptly she spun about and ran from the room.
Lady Woking stared after her, mouth open, then turned wide, questioning eyes on Phyllida.
Phyllida swallowed hard. “You must forgive her. We have all been greatly distressed. Miss Yarborough more than she realizes, I fear. They were,” she hesitated over her choice of words, “very close.”
“Of course.” Lady Woking inclined her head. “Are you quite certain you do not want this added burden taken from you?”
Phyllida smiled suddenly. “It is very kind of you. I don’t believe I realized how dreadfully upset we have been until now. But the fans provide us with something to do —and it’s so very necessary, at a time like this, to keep occupied.”
Lady Woking patted her hand. “I quite understand, my dear. You have only to call on me though, should you change your mind. You know that.”
Thanking her again, Phyllida showed her out, though her mind still reeled as she turned back to the hall. She had never known Constance Yarborough to indulge in such a violent outburst. Or violence in any form, for that matter. Her earlier suspicions—no, she hadn’t really taken them seriously. But now… Had the meek young girl taken all she could from her spiteful, spoiled patroness? Too poor to leave and nowhere to go—could Miss Yarborough have crumbled under her desperation to be free?
Phyllida drew a deep, unhappy breath. She just might take Lady Woking up on her offer if Miss Yarborough’s nerves—or for that matter, her own—grew any worse. At the moment, that looked all too likely.
“Are you all right, Miss Dearne?” Lord Ingram’s deep voice sounded behind her.
She jumped then spun about to face him. “Where did you come from?” she demanded, too startled to be polite.
A slight smile just touched his lips. “Down the stairs.”
“I’m sorry. I must have been woolgathering. I didn’t hear you approach.” Her gaze took in the smooth-fitting riding coat and the gloves and whip he carried in one hand. “You are going out?”
“For some exercise,” he admitted. “I have spent the morning playing chess and piquet with Allbury and now find myself in need of some fresh air.”
Piquet, and now riding in the Park. How odiously unfair that the men could find diversion. She would have been glad to join them in either pastime.
“It was kind of you to divert him.” Only the slightest touch of sarcasm touched her words. “I hope it wasn’t too much of a sacrifice for you.”
She was rewarded for the sally with his deep and unexpected chuckle. The sound wrapped about her, warm and pleasant. Unnerved by the sensation, she turned on her heel and headed once more for the sitting room and her depressing task. To her further consternation, he followed.
“Is your horse not waiting?” she demanded. She entered the chamber then turned to face him.
“It should be some time still before he’s brought around.” His smile faded and the customary challenge lit his deep-green eyes once more. “Is there some way I may be of assistance to you?”
The unwelcome realization dawned on her that he could be helpful just by remaining to keep her company. His somewhat acerbic presence proved stimulating and helped relieve her growing tension. She looked away and her gaze fell upon her mother’s firescreen, the fine embroidery square stretched between two wooden posts.
“I should take that up before something happens to it. And no, I will not need any help,” she added with a measure of regret. “It is quite easily carried.” She picked it up by the top of one side and the small finial twisted in her hand. She set it down immediately.
“Is something the matter?” Ingram crossed to her side.
“This has come loose. It was dropped yesterday.” She pulled the decoration free and showed it to him. “It should fit right back—”
She broke off. The hole for inserting the finial’s peg was not empty. A delicate metal ring protruded, just enough to enable her to grasp it and pull out the tiny key to which it was attached. For a long moment she stared at it.
“What have you there?” Ingram took it from her and examined it.
“A key,” she responded, unnecessarily.
“I can see that. What is it for?”
She retrieved it from him. “I’ve seen it before, a long time ago…” Her voice trailed off. “Our toy chest! Of course. But why—” She looked up, directly into Ingram’s piercing eyes. “Louisa must have hidden it here, which must mean she has put something into the chest!”
Chapter Eight
Lord Ingram’s gaze narrowed. “Louisa’s diary.”
Phyllida stared at the key then nodded slowly. “It must be.”
“Let’s get it. Where is the chest?”
“No.” She shook her head. “We’ll wait for Mr. Frake.”
His brow creased and he regarded her with a heavy frown. “My dear Miss Dearne. You are probably holding the key to her murder.”
“Literally,” she agreed. “Which is all the more reason we should do nothing until Mr. Frake arrives. He has not visited us all morning. Surely it cannot be much longer before he calls.”
He paced to the window then turned back to her. “All right,” he said at last. “But I think you would be wise not to mention finding that key to anyone until he does come.”
The blood drained from her face, leaving her cold. “You mean someone might—” She broke off. “On the whole, it might be safer if I told everyone.”
The anger that flashed in his eyes sent her back a step. “Do you really think I would harm you to gain possession of her diary?” he demanded.
“I didn’t mean that!”
“No, you didn’t.” He sounded surprised. He stood perfectly still, staring at her as if he saw her for the first time and was discovering she was not at all what he expected. He shook his head. “Yet I haven’t given you the least reason to trust me, have I?”
He was right. She regarded him helplessly, knowing she was a fool.
“For all you know, I could have killed her.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Do you have this childlike faith in everyone?” he demanded, exasperated.
“No.”
“Well, that’s something, at least.” He strode to the hearth and rested the heel of one hand against the mantel.
He turned about abruptly. “You are too trusting by half, Miss Dearne. If you were wise you would go to your room, lock your door and admit only Fenton or the housekeeper. You should not let anyone else—especially me—near you again until you have handed that key into the Runner’s hands.” With that he strode from the room, being careful to avoid even the semblance of approaching her.
The door remained open behind him. Phyllida hesitated a moment then rammed the key back into its hiding place and screwed the finial into position. Tucking the firescreen under her arm, she hurried from the sitting room and didn’t stop until she reached the safety of her chamber where she turned her own key firmly in the lock.
She sat on the edge of her bed, hands clasped firmly together to keep them from trembling. Would someone kill her to obtain Louisa’s diary before the Runner saw it? Yes, the unwelcome answer came to her. If it betrayed the murderer, that person would do anything to keep it from the hands of Bow Street. He—or she—had already killed once. That person had nothing more to lose and a great deal to gain.
A desperate person…but not Lord Ingram. A warm glow seeped through her. He had proven her instinctive trust in him to be correct. Had he anything to hide he would never have taken this chance. He would have found some way to get the key from her.
Still, she remained where she was for nearly ten minutes before it dawned on her how silly she was behaving. Only Lord Ingram knew she had found the key, and he had shown by his actions she stood in no danger from him. Therefore she stood in no danger from anyone, for he was not likely to reveal their discovery. That meant she might as well return to the sitting room and answer more of the notes that kept arriving.
That task occupied her for the rest of the afternoon. When the gong at last sounded to change for dinner she looked up, startled at the time. Mr. Frake had not yet called.
Troubled, she returned to her chamber and immediately checked the key. It still rested in its hiding place. Leaving it there, though, made her uneasy. After a moment’s thought she strung it on a black riband and hung it about her neck where it disappeared beneath her chemise. She donned her new black muslin, checked to make sure the key remained hidden then made her way downstairs.
The others were before her in the salon. Lord Ingram looked up at her entrance then strolled over to join her.
“Have you delivered your present to Mr. Frake?” he asked in a lowered voice.
“He didn’t come.” She looked up into his frowning face. He was so straightforward in his dealings, surely he would know what to do.
“Shall I send for him?” he suggested.
“Oh yes, I think we should. Except—” She hesitated.
“Yes?”
“What if that chest doesn’t contain her diary?”
A slow smile lit his entire countenance. “Then we apologize for dragging him over here for nothing. I’ll send someone around to Bow Street at once.”
The footman, though, who returned as the gentlemen joined the ladies in the drawing room after dinner, brought unwelcome news. Mr. Frake had gone out of town that morning on a matter concerning the case and was not expected back until the morrow. These tidings, confided to Phyllida, drew a cry of dismay from her.
Ingram just touched her hand. “No one knows,” he said, keeping his voice low so the others might not hear. “You will be perfectly safe.”
“But if we could discover who killed her—” She broke off.
“You will do nothing.” His voice took on a determined note. “You will hide that key in a place where not even I’ll know where to find it, you will lock your door and you’ll say nothing more about it until you see that dashed Runner. Is that understood?”
She nodded and turned away. That would be the sensible thing to do, she supposed. Except I have to know who killed Louisa.
That thought haunted her throughout the remainder of the evening. Someone had torn Louisa’s bedchamber apart in an attempt to find her diary. It must reveal the reason she had been murdered. And she knew where it was. She had only to go up to the attic where Louisa had consigned their old toy chest.
What better hiding place, she asked herself just over two hours later as she succumbed to her frustration and curiosity. To keep her diary in her room invited intruders. No one would think to look in the attics though. Louisa could have slipped up there whenever she wished and no one would have been any the wiser. Perhaps she had even gone in the middle of the night—as Phyllida did now.
She relit her bedside candle, slipped her toes into soft slippers and wrapped her dressing gown about her. Her groping fingers found the key where it still hung about her neck. Reassured, she picked up the chamberstick and tiptoed quietly out of her room.
A dim light seeped along the hallway from the oil lamps that burned low on the stairs. Phyllida turned in the opposite direction, heading for the servants’ passage at the back of the house. Carrying her candle high, she mounted the narrow steps, holding her breath, afraid to make a sound.
To reach the attic she had to pass the servants’ rooms, which she did on tiptoe. At last she slipped inside the low-pitched chamber and closed the door softly behind her. The flame wavered, making it difficult to see. Her hand trembled, she realized. In disgust she set her chamberstick down and the glow steadied.
The toy chest stood just to the right of the door. Fortunately she didn’t have to move anything heavy to reach it. Of course not. Louisa would have wanted her diary conveniently at hand. With her heart pressing into her throat, Phyllida fumbled for the key then inserted it into the lock. It clicked open and she eased up the lid.
No book met her searching gaze. Only letters. Piles of letters. Phyllida shuffled them aside, searching, but no volumes met her questing fingers. Only the bundled sheets tied together with ribands. She sat back on her heels, perplexed.
She’d been wrong. That realization took a minute to sink into her numbed brain. The key, which had provided her with so many worried hours that day, held no mysterious secrets. Or did it?
She picked up one of the packets and with a pang recognized her brother Tom’s sloping hand. His letters from his first campaign. She set them down. The next packet bore her own neat copperplate. The third was addressed in a childish scrawl to Miss Louisa Dearne at the home of her godmother on Mount Street, where she had spent her first season. Phyllida pulled free the top sheet and checked the signature. Maria.
At least this expedition hadn’t been wholly a waste. Maria Enderby would be relieved to know her letters had been found. Phyllida gathered them up, then as an afterthought collected the others. She might as well check them to make certain nothing had been hidden among the pages.
She made her way back to her room with much less regard for noise then curled up in her warm bed with the piles on the floor beside her. A quick glance through the bundles assured her that only those from Maria might be of interest. No letters appeared from any of the others who might be involved in Louisa’s death.
She selected first one of Maria’s missives and then another, scanning the lines until they began to blur and her eyes stung. At last she blew out her guttering candle and settled down for what remained of the night.
* * * * *
The ordeal of Louisa’s funeral, which hung over the entire household the next morning, drove Phyllida’s nocturnal wanderings and their disappointing outcome from her mind. Somehow, she dressed. Somehow, she swallowed the breakfast that Constance placed before her. And somehow, she followed the others down to the carriages that waited to take them to the church.
Mercifully the service passed in a blur. She was aware that no expense had been spared, that everything had been arranged in the grand style. There were so many carriages, so many mourners—and so much black.
She longed to scream, to escape from the church, from the oppressive atmosphere, from the cruel reality of her sister’s murder. She wanted to run all the way back to the tiny country cottage where her mother nodded and smiled at whatever was said without taking it i
n, where her father relived his years with his regiment as if they still took place and neither of them recognized her—the elderly couple who cared for them were only too glad when she kept her visits brief. Compared to this Bartholomew Fair of death, her old home seemed almost welcoming.
Someone pressed a serviceable square of muslin into her black-gloved hand and she dabbed at her brimming eyes. Silence closed in about her and the very stillness where before there had been so much activity penetrated her consciousness. She glanced about the empty pews. She was alone. Only—she glanced at her companion and her heart twisted—only Captain Lord Ingram remained at her side. Inexplicably, she found his presence comforting.
“Are you better?” he asked.
She nodded. “Has it been over long?” She couldn’t read his expression as his frowning gaze rested on her face.
“A little while.”
She looked toward the door, distressed. “They must be waiting for me. Have you seen Allbury?”
“He went back to the house.” He rose then stood looking down at her.
“They just left me?” What little blood that remained in her face drained away.
“They had to, you know.” For once he spoke gently to her. “A great number of people are coming for the funerary feast. But Allbury didn’t leave until I promised to escort you myself. You looked as if you needed solitude, which you would most assuredly not find at Allbury House. You may stay here as long as you like.”
“That’s very kind of you.” She stood and stared down at her sister’s casket, her emotions forming Gordian knots in her stomach.
“Do you accompany him to the Castle tomorrow?”
Phyllida shook her head. “It will be such a dreadful journey. I don’t think I could bear the internment at its end. Do you go?”
“To support Allbury, yes.”
He took her hand and tucked it through the crook of his arm and suddenly, unreasonably, she felt better. She managed a shaky smile as she looked up into his face, into his somber green eyes, and a new and wholly unfamiliar sensation coursed through her. She felt safe with him, she realized with a sense of shock. That was something she had never before experienced, this desire to trust another, to share her burdens. It scared her.
Ivory and Steel Page 10
