She turned away and predictably—and somewhat frighteningly—he instantly took charge. He assisted her down the uneven stone steps as if she were some fragile creature in need of protection. She found it unsettling in the extreme. Normally it was she who managed and arranged everything for others.
She caught herself up on a romantic thought and stifled it. A man only had to pamper her a little and she went all weak-kneed and fanciful! That was something she could not afford to allow.
“My curricle.”
His deep voice cut across her thoughts. She looked up to see a low-slung racing vehicle which a groom walked up and down the street. As they approached, the little man brought the pair of blacks to a stop before them.
“How appropriate.” Phyllida eyed the horses and struggled to recover a measure of her usual composure. She would not be missish. He despised women who succumbed to the vapors. And so did she. “Did you hire them?” she asked.
“There was no need.” He assisted her into the seat then climbed up at her side. “They belonged to my brother.”
Phyllida looked up quickly but he concentrated on gathering the ribbons and finding his pair’s mouths with the gentlest touch. Never before had she heard that tone from him, that touch of sadness, of a loss that mirrored her own. He had shown himself vulnerable, whether he had meant to or not. She gazed on him and saw a man, not just the opponent she had known. And it touched her deeply. “Did he have many? Horses, I mean?” she asked.
He eased the blacks between two carts and into the steady stream of traffic before answering. “Mostly hunters. He preferred to ride rather than drive. I schooled these for him.”
“Is that a warning?”
He glanced at her, almost as if he had forgotten her presence at his side, then a slow smile eased the tension from his face. “Not in the least. They know better than to make their sentiments known.”
She could believe that. There was something determined about the set of this man’s jaw, his habit of command. He probably got his own way a great deal of the time.
They fell silent as they wended their way through the streets filled with pedestrians, riders and other vehicles. Boys darted back and forth, shouting, playing tag, using the carriages as obstacles for their pursuers. The blacks tossed their heads and snorted as Ingram caught their mouths, barely preventing them from trampling a young jackanapes. Otherwise they behaved with propriety, winning a word of praise and a congratulatory ear rub from their master when they at last drew to a halt in Berkeley Square.
Phyllida looked up at the house and cringed internally. She still had to face the many people who awaited within. Gathering her courage, she mounted the steps. The dowager would undoubtedly be angry. Phyllida could only hope Allbury understood her need to remain at the church.
Fenton opened the door as she reached the porch and stepped back with a slight bow, allowing her to enter.
“Is there a crowd?” Lord Ingram asked as he joined her.
“Yes, m’lord.” Fenton took the hat Ingram handed him. “In the main drawing room, Miss Dearne. Her ladyship has been asking for you.”
Phyllida thanked him for this warning. Of course the dowager had been asking for her. She was, after all, a main attraction at this event.
Ingram fell into step beside her and she drew courage from his presence. As they entered the black-draped chamber he caught her hand, and that simple gesture held worlds of encouragement. She managed a shaky smile.
The marquis swooped down on them at once, looking like a haggard fox denied a hole in which to go to earth. He dragged Ingram off for the ostensible purpose of finding him a drink, though Phyllida noted they slipped out through a back door. She did not see them return.
The dowager merely nodded and waved her away when she approached so Phyllida made good her escape. Apparently she was only required to be present, not dance attendance on the woman.
The fireplace at the far end of the room blazed merrily despite the warmth of the spring morning. Maria Enderby, in a fluttery gown of gray gauze, sat before this, a wineglass clutched in one hand. Mr. Quincy Enderby perched beside her, one arm about her shoulders, speaking softly into her ear. She looked up as if surprised by his words and her free hand fluttered to her mouth to stifle her giggle. Her husband clasped her fingers and carried them to his lips.
Phyllida looked away. She had never before seen Mr. Enderby so attentive to his young wife. Perhaps those rumors—instigated by Louisa, of course—that their marriage owed its foundation to her dowry were false. Possibly Louisa’s untimely death had shaken the couple, made them appreciate each other all the more. At least she hoped so.
Mr. Enderby looked up, saw her and murmured something to Maria. He rose, straightened his cutaway black coat and approached Phyllida. Taking her hand, he bowed over it. “Glad to see this ordeal hasn’t overcome you.”
“Not yet.” She extricated her fingers. “None of this seems real.”
“The worst is over,” he assured her. He hesitated and an apologetic smile flitted across his face. “Hate to bother you at such a time but there’s a favor I’d ask. Have you seen a gold locket?”
“A—locket?” With difficulty, Phyllida kept her expression merely curious.
“Belongs to my wife, y’see. Loaned it to Louisa to wear with some gown shortly before—” He broke off, gesturing with his hand to indicate the funereal setting.
“Was it engraved, or-or enameled, perhaps?” Phyllida gave him a deprecating smile. “I shall need some way to identify it. Allbury bought her a great deal of jewelry, you must know. Did it have anything inside?”
He set his teeth. “A lock of hair. Mine, in fact. Believe it was engraved, floral pattern or some such thing. Just trumpery, y’know. Sentimental value,” he added in explanation.
“Of course. I’ll watch for it, I promise. It will undoubtedly turn up.”
She moved quickly away, wanting a moment to consider. He admitted the hair in the locket was his. Well he could hardly deny it. He must know they would find it soon, if they hadn’t already, and recognize the color. Did he hope to provide a plausible explanation for it being in Louisa’s possession? Not for a moment did she believe Louisa had borrowed it from Maria Enderby.
And now he wanted it back, undoubtedly hoping to regain it before they guessed its significance. She ought to tell Mr. Frake that Mr. Enderby was asking for it.
Thought of the Runner reminded her of the other reason she had for seeking him out, which had faded from her mind, overshadowed by the funeral. She had still to tell him about the key and the letters. Yes, she should speak to him as soon as possible.
She glanced about the room, uncertain whether or not he might be present, until her gaze fell on a footman whose wiry form appeared somewhat unfamiliar in his liveried uniform. He moved with only the slightest limp as he circulated among the guests, bearing a heavy silver tray. His close-cropped fair hair framed a face characterized by a beaky nose and a lopsided smile, a friendly face that invited confidences. Mr. Benjamin Frake was not idle this day.
Did he hope to uncover clues to Louisa’s murder at her funeral feast? Well perhaps it wasn’t so unlikely. She had learned something—possibly.
A supercilious old gentleman whose creaking corset barely contained his expanding girth helped himself to the last of the salmon mayonnaise wafers. Mr. Frake deftly swept the empty tray away and headed out the door. Phyllida followed.
To her surprise, he awaited her in the corridor. He beamed at her and lowered the gleaming platter he carried.
“Now then, miss, was you wishful to speak to me?”
“How did you know?” She joined him, awed by his omniscience.
“Can’t miss much in my line of work, miss. Not if I want to learn anything, that is.” His eyes narrowed. “I’d say it’s you as has gone and done that though.”
“Possibly,” she said, though with caution. “Mr. Enderby just asked me if we have found a locket.”
“Aye, miss?” The
slightest touch of a Scottish burr colored his words as his interest perked.
“He told me it belongs to his wife.”
He rocked back on his heels, his eyes gleaming as he gazed at the wainscoting just beyond her. “Well, well. So he’s offering us an innocent explanation for it being in your sister’s possession.” He drew his pipe from his pocket and fingered the stem. “What if your sister grew tired of our fine gentleman and threatened to tell his wife if he didn’t leave off pestering her, like? That Mr. Enderby, he lives off the generosity of his wife’s family. He just might not have wanted any fuss raised.”
“Do you think he would have gone to such an extreme to silence Louisa?” Phyllida asked.
“Well now, miss, it’s a possibility we’d best not overlook.”
“What is?” Ingram’s deep voice sounded behind her. He listened to the Runner’s explanation and nodded. “Do you think that likely?”
“There’s always a chance, m’lord. Always a chance—no matter how slim.”
Ingram’s lips quirked into a wry smile and he glanced at Phyllida. “Have you presented him with the key yet?”
“Key, m’lord?” The Runner looked from Ingram to Phyllida then back again.
“No.” Phyllida drew forth the riband and handed it over. “The chest only contained letters though. Old ones, I think, but I haven’t gone through them all.”
“What do you mean, you haven’t gone through them?” Ingram demanded. “Did you unlock that trunk? Haven’t you the faintest idea what a risk you might have taken?”
“What trunk?” Mr. Frake asked. “Perhaps one of you would care to tell me what’s a-going on here?”
Phyllida did, beginning with their discovery of the key and ending, somewhat shamefacedly, with her nocturnal expedition. Ingram swore softly but otherwise contented himself with glaring at her.
Mr. Frake rocked back on his heels. “Old letters,” he muttered then shook his head. “I don’t see where they’re like to do us no good, miss, though I’ll take a look at them, of course.”
“Would you like me to get them for you? I left them in my room.”
“In a safe place?”
“Well, no one knows they are there.”
“And you didn’t see nothing in them which sounded urgent or dangerous-like?”
“No, I didn’t.”
He nodded. “There’s a little matter I ought to see to when I leave here and I’d rather not be carrying them. Why don’t I pick them up tomorrow? Well then,” he added when she agreed, “I’d best be getting back to my duties.” With an affable nod, he headed toward the kitchens.
Phyllida turned back toward the open door into the drawing room but Lord Ingram caught her arm and pulled her about to face him.
“What the devil do you mean by doing anything so foolhardy?” he demanded.
She stared pointedly at his hand which clasped her elbow and he released her. She smoothed the fabric of her sleeve. “As far as I could tell, the only person I stood in any danger from was you. No one else knew.”
His brow darkened even more. “I don’t want you taking risks.”
“I didn’t. Unless you were so foolish as to mention the key to someone? Or there is something you aren’t telling me?”
“I should have thought your common sense would tell you. You should have waited and given the key to Frake.”
“Of all the unfair—” She broke off, indignant. “You would have unlocked that chest at once, had you known where it was kept.”
“I am not a helpless female.”
“Helpless, am I?” Her eyes kindled.
A soft, unexpected chuckle sounded deep in his throat, enveloping her like a caress. Unnerved by the sensation, she glared at him.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. A smile lurked in his eyes.
“So you should.”
He awarded her a mock bow. “Just promise me you will not take any needless risks.”
“I have no intention of it.” She turned, and this time he permitted her to rejoin the throng within the drawing room.
Why had her action bothered Lord Ingram so much? Did he dislike being left out? Or did he fear Allbury might be faced with another death in the house? She shivered, not liking that possibility at all.
Finally, some two hours later, the last of the guests departed and Phyllida escaped to her chamber. The bundles of letters remained exactly where she had left them, heaped on the floor beside her bed. So much for Ingram’s fears. Still, she supposed she shouldn’t just leave them lying around. After a moment’s consideration she piled them into the bottom drawer of her bureau.
The remainder of the day she spent in answering the cards from those unable to attend the funeral. Elsewhere, Allbury and Ingram prepared for their solemn journey to the Castle on the morrow. The normally three-hour trip would take perhaps as many as six hours since they would be traveling with the slow-moving hearse. They should be gone less than two days. She retired to bed that night wondering if the dowager would cast her out of the house before the marquis returned.
Her restless tossings must finally have given way to sleep for a noise in the room brought her fully awake. A dull creak reached her, as of someone opening a wardrobe drawer, followed by the soft rustling of muslin garments being moved.
Phyllida stiffened, afraid to move, to betray the fact she was awake. Someone sought something, but what? Memory flooded back, of the open door into the drawing room. Someone must have heard her telling the Runner about the key and the letters, someone who stood just out of sight. She had been careless—but thought it a trifling matter. Apparently she had been wrong.
Carefully, she turned her head on the pillow, keeping her breathing deep and regular with an effort. Darkness engulfed the room, though her eyes adjusted quickly. Only a few feet away from her someone moved, a shifting of shadows, the swirl of an enveloping robe, the merest whisper of satin as fabric brushed fabric. Phyllida bit her lip to keep from crying out in fear. A woman?
The figure froze, then its head jerked to face the bed. Phyllida closed her eyes, feigning sleep with all her might. Her flesh crept with the eerie sensation of terror, of a menace bearing down on her…
She couldn’t just lie here like this, she had to discover who. If she screamed—no, the intruder could escape before anyone could come to her aid. Unless she could hamper the person in some manner, such as tripping her or knocking her down or even hitting her with something…
She eased her eyes open and searched through the darkness for a weapon. Nothing.
The person turned back to the drawer, apparently satisfied. Phyllida curled her legs with caution, drawing them under her to launch her attack. If she struck about the knees… Yes, that should bring the person down. Slowly she drew air into her lungs for the scream that would bring her aid.
The figure spun and an arm enveloped in fabric struck her in the face. Her breath escaped in a gasp and she rolled sideways, but the shadowy shape followed, crawling across her bed.
She screamed then screamed again as something crackled—like the breaking of ivory. Phyllida dove for the floor as a blade slashed into the mattress where she had lain a moment before.
Chapter Nine
For one endless moment Phyllida’s opponent loomed over her, then turned and fled through the open door, slamming it shut behind her. Phyllida dragged herself to her feet and lunged for the handle only to find it jammed. She shook it, yelling she knew not what, hoping only to raise the household. Frustrated, she hammered her fists against the oak panel.
“Phyllida?” Constance’s voice sounded in the hall. “What is going on?”
“Let me out! She’s getting away!”
A key grated in the lock then Phyllida thrust the door open and set off for the stairwell. As she reached it she tripped, caught the banister and slid down two steps before stopping. Wrenching pain shot through her arm and she gasped.
“Phyllida?” The marquis appeared on the landing below, rubbing his eyes. A sat
in dressing gown of brilliant flowers against a purple background wrapped about him.
Footsteps pounded down the hall behind him and the marquis turned as Lord Ingram, knotting the deep-green sash of his own dressing gown, joined him. “What the devil—” he began, then took the steps two at a time to kneel at Phyllida’s side. “Are you all right?” he demanded.
She nodded. “Someone was in my room, searching. She tried to-to stab me.” She shuddered and hugged her sore shoulder.
“Where—” he began.
Phyllida shook her head. “She locked me in. She must have escaped by now.”
“I’ll send Fenton to check the doors.” Allbury ran up the stairs, past them, heading toward the servants’ quarters in the attics.
Ingram lifted Phyllida to her feet. “Are you hurt?”
“No.” She rubbed her arm but knew no real damage had been done.
“We should have a look at your room.” He glanced toward the hall above. “Miss Yarborough, can you take Miss Dearne to your chamber?”
“No,” Phyllida protested. “I’ll be all right.” She led the way down the hall then paused just over the threshold.
Constance, carrying a candle high, moved past her then stood in the center of the apartment, looking at the garments scattered across the floor. Her gaze fell on the bed and she gasped.
Phyllida forced herself to take a step closer. Amid the disheveled sheets and comforter a fan lay open, sketched but not yet painted. The wavering light gleamed off the thin steel blade that penetrated the mattress.
Phyllida reached out and gripped the jamb to steady herself. Lord Ingram pushed past then stood for a long minute just staring at the broken fragments of ivory scattered across the pillow.
“I’ll send for Frake,” he said and turned away, only to be brought to a halt by the dowager marchioness’s basilisk stare.
The woman glowered at him then turned her furious gaze on Phyllida. “What is the meaning of this, miss?”
Ivory and Steel Page 11
