“How is Allbury?” she asked when the servant was out of hearing range.
“He has held up remarkably well. I think he was glad, though, not to have an audience at the Castle.”
Something in his tone made her search his expression. “Why?”
“He is not one to lightly display his emotions.”
His tone gave little away. Yet what emotions did he mean, she wondered. Allbury had not loved his wife. His infatuation had quickly passed with her entrapment of him. So what had the marquis felt as he consigned her body to the dark stillness of the family vault? Regret—or relief?
She shivered as they stepped out into the late afternoon sun.
Lord Ingram didn’t appear to notice. His attention focused on the curricle, pulled by his high-stepping blacks, which rounded the corner. They tossed their heads, fretting at their bits, as the groom reined them in before the steps.
Ingram moved to their heads, greeting them with a fond word, then turned to assist Phyllida onto the seat. He climbed in at her side and as they started forward the groom swung up behind. For several minutes Ingram concentrated on bringing the lively pair under control.
“You are silent,” he said at last when the pair turned with only a minimum of protest onto Curzon Street.
“I didn’t want to distract you.”
He shot her a searching look then seemed to accept her explanation at face value. A slow smile lit his eyes. “An admirable trait—in a passenger.”
The sincerity in his voice set an unfamiliar thrill dancing along her flesh. After their initial sparring he apparently had decided he liked her after all. What was even more disconcerting was how very much she liked him. She forced her lifting heart back into its customary humdrum position. A gentleman of Ingram’s position might flirt but he would have no serious intentions toward a dowerless female of insignificant family—especially one so nearly related to Louisa.
“Tell me about the Peninsula,” she asked abruptly.
“I have no desire to bore you.” He eased the high-bred pair around a cart.
“You would be diverting my mind.” From more than one topic, but she saw no need to say that. “Were you in Portugal?”
He reined in as a rider’s mount shied in front of them, then threw her a mischievous glance. “I should warn you, I was a member of the expeditionary force that landed at Mondego Bay.”
“Then you must have any number of stories. Pray begin.”
He shook his head but did as she asked. By the time they turned onto Half Moon Street he was well into a lively tale of the outbound voyage, just over a year before.
As he slowed the team before Woking House, a gentleman dressed in the extreme of dandified fashion emerged from the door and ran lightly down the steps. Mr. Quincy Enderby, Phyllida realized. Much of her pleasure faded.
Mr. Enderby stopped at sight of them, settled his high-crowned beaver more firmly over his curling hair and strode up to them. He nodded a greeting to Lord Ingram and turned his frowning gaze on Phyllida.
“What is this nonsense about moving Louisa’s ball to Woking House?” he demanded.
Her worries, which had faded so pleasantly before Lord Ingram’s entertaining conversation, tumbled back about her. Raising her emotional defenses once more as if they were armor, she forced herself to smile. “It is quite true. It’s impossible to hold it at Allbury House, you must know.”
“No, I don’t. Why is it?”
She blinked. “It is a house of mourning.”
Mr. Enderby waved that aside. “Surely this is a special case. Louisa worked so hard. It should remain in her home where she wanted it, where she planned every detail with such loving care. Everything will be spoiled if you change the venue.”
“No it won’t,” Phyllida declared with unaccustomed bluntness. “The decorations were all Lady Woking’s idea in the first place.”
He regarded her with a pained expression, as if she had turned traitor. “It won’t be the same,” he said coldly.
She barely prevented herself from agreeing with wholehearted thankfulness. Instead she shook her head, permitting just a hint of sadness to enter her expression. “For Louisa’s sake we all intend to work very hard to make it a success at Woking House. She would have wanted it that way,” she added in a blatant lie.
He frowned at her then gave her a curt nod. “If Maria and I can help, let us know.” With another nod for Ingram he set off down the street, his silver-handled cane swinging at his side.
Ingram watched his departure with narrowed eyes. “Why is he so anxious to have the ball at Allbury House? Does he hope to be able to wander about the place?”
“You mean search it,” Phyllida said. “For Louisa’s diary, I suppose.”
“Or the locket?”
“Or both?” she suggested. “Someone wants that diary rather badly.”
His brow darkened. “Keep your door locked at night.”
Before she could respond he swung down from the seat then held out his hand. She accepted his help and found his clasp strong, secure—comforting in some inexplicable way. For a disconcerting moment, she relished the sensation.
Ingram left the blacks to be walked by the groom and they mounted the steps. The butler admitted them at once, leading the way to the ballroom, where his mistress sat with her portable writing desk, making hasty notes on refreshments and decor. She laid these aside and rose gracefully to her feet, her silk shawl trailing off her shoulders, as her visitors were announced.
“My dear Miss Dearne. And Lord Ingram. What a pleasant surprise. You see me hard at work.” She gestured to where three footmen polished the crystal drops from the great chandelier, which had been lowered to barely four feet above the floor in the middle of the vast chamber.
Lady Woking, Phyllida noted, was in her element. “I have come to see what assistance you need from Allbury House.”
A slow, contented smile just touched their hostess’s lips. “None whatsoever at the moment, my dear. I am still planning. But on the day of the ball, of course?” She let the question dangle.
“Of course,” Phyllida promised. “We will be delighted to assist with the last-minute work.”
“And the fans. We must have them at the ball. Do you think Miss Yarborough could do preliminary sketches on a number of them? The details could then be filled in while our patrons dance.”
“I’ll ask her,” Phyllida said noncommittally.
“There will be so many things to do!” Lady Woking declared. “The muslin—did I tell you I’m turning the ballroom into a giant pavilion? The fabric will need to be hung of course, then the fans displayed everywhere. It will be quite a sight, I promise you.”
Phyllida agreed and took her leave amid more promises to provide much of the last-minute labor, arranging fans against their muslin backdrop. On the whole, she decided, Lady Woking did not appear to be missing Louisa in the least. If anything, nothing pleased her more than to have lost one whom she must have regarded as a social rival. And to think they had once been pupil and teacher.
“She seems to be enjoying herself immensely.” Ingram echoed her thoughts as the door closed behind them.
Phyllida glanced up into his dynamic countenance. All planes and angles, she’d thought it when they first met. Now she also saw the lines of character, the marks of suffering and laughter. Her heart swelled, filling her breast, making it difficult for her to breathe.
“Unfortunately,” he said, his gaze meeting hers, “that is not a motive for murder.”
“For—” She blinked. He spoke not of the inexplicable fascination she felt for him but of Lady Woking. “No, it is not. The reason she was killed must lie in her diary.”
“Which we cannot find.”
The groom, who had been walking the blacks the length of the street, brought them to a halt. Ingram assisted Phyllida into the seat before taking the ribbons from the little man.
“Only one of,” he paused, counting, “nine people could have killed her.
For the sake of argument I believe we can rule out ourselves and Allbury, which leaves six.”
Phyllida cast an uncertain glance over her shoulder at the groom and lowered her voice. “Can we rule out Allbury?”
“Of course.” Lord Ingram’s voice brooked no argument. “Murder is not in his nature.”
“The Runner thinks it might be, if he feared his heir was not his own.” Heat crept into her cheeks but she needed to see his reaction despite the impropriety of the topic.
His gloved hands clenched and the near horse tossed its head in protest. “Then the Runner is wrong,” he said, his teeth gritted.
Such loyalty. Phyllida could only hope it was correctly placed. It must be. “What of the others?” she asked quickly.
Ingram frowned, setting deep creases in his brow. “Lady Woking seems innocent enough. I know nothing of her from her days at the seminary though. Her husband I have met no more than once.”
“I cannot see how he would be involved,” Phyllida agreed. “What of the Enderbys?”
“That dandy?” His tone scorned the man but his features grew more thoughtful. “There is that locket with his hair and his wanting the ball to be held at Allbury House. He might have needed to silence Louisa if he indeed—” He broke off, casting an apologetic glance at Phyllida.
“If he were the father of her baby,” she said, forcing her voice to remain steady. “It is best, I fear, for us to speak plainly.”
“I would not have you discomfited.”
She shook her head. “There is nothing ‘proper’ about murder. If we do not face the facts squarely I do not see how we can ever hope to learn the truth.”
“We will. For Allbury’s sake—and yours.”
She lowered her gaze, touched by his including her under the mantle of his protection. “We have not yet discussed Maria Enderby.”
“Jealousy?” Ingram mused. “Or do you think something lies in their past?”
“I wish I knew. Constance Yarborough might, though she has not spoken of anything.”
“She is another possibility,” Ingram pointed out.
“I don’t believe any secrets lie in her past, though she has been searching in Louisa’s room. No, if she—stabbed—her, I am certain it was in hatred not in fear.”
Ingram shot her a quick glance. “Has your life been that difficult in Allbury’s house?”
“Oh no. Only-only at times, and especially so for Miss Yarborough. Louisa did not make it easy for her, constantly reminding her she was an object of charity.”
“And you?” he asked gently.
“I thought we were not considering me a suspect for the moment.”
“That’s not what I meant.” He fell silent for a long minute, glaring at a point somewhere between his horses’ ears. “Would the dowager gain anything by the death of her son’s wife?”
“Control of her household. They made no secret of their dislike for one another. I know she wanted Allbury to make a more suitable alliance. Perhaps she suspected Louisa of-of playing him false.” In short all the reasons for suspecting the marquis himself, though she did not speak that thought aloud. Ingram would deny the possibility utterly.
He made no answer until he had turned the pair once more onto Berkeley Square. As he drew up before the house he looked down at her, his expression sober. “I can see no reason for the dowager to search for the diary in secret.”
“Unless she sought it for proof of Louisa’s infidelity,” Phyllida began. “No, you are quite right. There would be no need for secrecy then.”
“Unless she hoped to indulge in a little blackmail, which hardly seems likely. Mr. Enderby is not flush in the pocket.”
Phyllida actually smiled at the implausible prospect. “No. Where does that leave us?”
“Back where we started, I fear. Literally.” He swung down to the cobbled street then assisted her from the vehicle. “We have returned.”
No, they hadn’t, at least not to where the two of them had started. She looked up into his deep-green eyes and warmth flooded through her. They had come a long way, she and Ingram. Yet logic warned her their road led to a fork, where each would take a separate path.
She turned away and ran up the stairs.
Chapter Eleven
Fenton opened the door and bowed Phyllida inside. In a moment Lord Ingram joined her. The butler took his hat and gloves and laid them on the pier table in the entry hall.
“Mr. Frake has called, miss. Again.”
“Of course he did.” Ingram cast a humorous glance at Phyllida.
She didn’t meet it. “Does he wish to speak with me?” she asked.
“I couldn’t say, miss. He is in the Red Salon at present.”
Phyllida thanked him then they mounted the first flight of stairs. They found the Runner glancing through his Occurrence Book, a frown of concentration on his face.
He looked up at their entrance and quickly stood, turning to Ingram. “Can you spare me a few minutes, m’lord? Just like to hear a little about your journey into the country. There’s no need for you to be a-staying, miss,” he added, dismissing Phyllida.
For once she felt no desire to remain and learn what might be revealed. She only wanted to escape Ingram’s mesmerizing company. She sought refuge in her bedchamber but even there thoughts of him intruded, tantalizing, intriguing—having nothing to do with the reality that was hers. She had to do something to get him out of her mind.
She needed to involve herself in the charity.
With a sense of relief she turned her thoughts to it as she had so often in the past few months. She had Lady Woking’s message to deliver to Constance Yarborough then the fans to collect. She put off her bonnet and went in search of the girl.
She found her at her work table in the Ladies’ Sitting Room, fans, paints, inks, brushes and quills spread out before her. Phyllida paused outside the open door.
Constance’s attention was not focused on her work. Allbury perched on the edge of a chair at her side, his expression rapt. His countenance held more animation than it had shown in days. Constance gazed into his eyes as if oblivious to the rest of the world. A becoming flush just touched her cheeks.
“He was a wonderful pony,” the marquis declared, obviously continuing a story. “He could go on for hours and never got the least bit cross, no matter how I kicked him. I only hope I can find such a one for my—that is, when—” He broke off in confusion.
Constance hesitated then laid her hand over his. “You will, my lord. You will find another one just as wonderful.”
Phyllida withdrew, unnoticed but not untroubled. Was this attraction between the two newly sprung into life or had it existed for some time? If Constance loved Allbury— No, she would not have murdered Louisa on the hope that once free the marquis might turn to her. Unless she was already sure of his affections. Or might they have planned Louisa’s death together? This attraction, coupled with the doubtful paternity of Louisa’s baby, might well have provided the motive.
Phyllida closed her eyes and turned away. She sincerely hoped it hadn’t.
The fans were all in that room. They would have to wait. She had no desire to disturb the couple within. She made her thoughtful way back to her own room, where she changed for dinner. She should tell Mr. Frake—though he probably knew already. He was far too perceptive not to have noticed. If he were still in the salon though, she would mention the matter. That decision made her feel the most dreadful tattlemonger.
She went down two flights of stairs then stopped short. The footman’s voice rose from the entry hall below, announcing the arrival of m’lady’s carriage. Phyllida peered over the railing then descended to the next landing for a better view. She hadn’t heard wrong. The dowager marchioness stood in the hall, gowned in an elaborate toilette of black silk and lace with three dyed ostrich plumes tickling her cheek. The footman draped a black velvet evening cloak over her shoulders.
The woman looked up, her expression one of supreme satisfaction, an
d her gaze fell on Phyllida. Her lips parted in a patently false smile. “I will be dining from home this evening.”
With difficulty, Phyllida kept her expression impassive. If the dowager hoped to goad her into an argument, she would be disappointed.
The woman waved the servant away and fingered the ebony fan she held until he was out of earshot. “Perhaps we might have a few couples over at the end of the week,” she told Phyllida. “Just to celebrate.”
“Celebrate!” Phyllida held on to her slipping control with difficulty.
“Certainly, my dear. Now, do not pretend you are grieving. Your sister’s death has been a godsend to us all.”
Phyllida gritted her teeth. “Indeed.”
“My son never wished to marry her. But we are free of her now, all of us, and she can no longer ruin his life. And don’t play the innocent with me, miss,” she went on before Phyllida could protest. “You knew perfectly well about her infidelities and scheming ways. I shouldn’t be at all surprised to learn you assisted her in arranging her assignations.”
“I—” Phyllida broke off, speechless at this aspersion.
“I am well aware of your own machinations.” The dowager waggled the fan in Phyllida’s direction. “You would have married Allbury yourself if you could have. I can only thank heaven he is not one to be taken in twice by a pair of sly minxes.” With a sniff, the dowager swept out the door to her waiting carriage.
Feeling properly annihilated, Phyllida started back up the stairs. She’d best locate the morning paper to see if any families had placed advertisements for governesses. Her hours in this house were clearly numbered.
She entered the salon with dragging steps only to find Lord Ingram there, alone. He too had found time to change into evening dress. He stood at the small table, which held a selection of decanters and glasses, pouring himself a Madeira.
“Mr. Frake has finished with you?” she asked.
“He has. I don’t believe I told him what he wanted to hear though.”
Ivory and Steel Page 14
