“Thank you, Mrs. Enderby,” was all he said. He tapped his notebook.
The girl hesitated. “Arguments are usually of far less importance than they seem,” she offered.
“Very true,” he agreed in that same noncommittal voice.
Fenton entered, bearing a tray, which Phyllida received with relief. Maria turned away and dabbed at her eyes with her wispy lace handkerchief. Phyllida poured lemonade for the girl, who took it in a trembling hand. Was that quavering part of an act or honest distress? Uncertainty gnawed at Phyllida.
“When you came in you said something was delightful,” Phyllida said, latching on to what she hoped was a safe topic.
“Oh yes.” Maria managed a shaky smile. “I thought you would be so very pleased. I-I have done just as you asked.”
“You have?” Phyllida stared at her blankly.
“I have taken more orders for fans. Seven of them, in fact. Is that not wonderful?”
“Indeed it is,” Phyllida assured her. “Do you have them with you?”
Maria set aside her glass then opened her reticule and drew forth a folded piece of paper. “Here. I cannot stay. I-I have another call to make.” She cast a nervous glance at the Runner. “If you have nothing further to ask me?”
“Nothing at the moment, thanking you kindly.” He nodded his dismissal.
Maria allowed Lord Ingram to bow over her hand then managed a trembling smile for the assembled company before heading for the door.
Phyllida saw her out then tucked the sheet into the bodice of her gown before returning to the salon. She fixed the Runner with a compelling eye. “Do you think—” she began.
“Well now, miss. At the moment I can’t say as I’m thinking anything in particular-like.”
“And you wouldn’t tell me if you did, would you?” She sighed.
Mr. Frake shook his head, smiling, and took his leave. He would return later that afternoon, he promised, if the course of his investigations permitted.
“You may be very sure they will,” Ingram said. “Miss Dearne, will you do me the honor of driving with me in the Park this afternoon?”
If he didn’t hear the rapid beating of her heart it would be a miracle. She was being a fool, she knew, but how could she resist the temptation to spend time with him? All too soon the chance for drives through Hyde Park with a handsome gentleman—with this handsome gentleman—would be beyond her reach.
“That would be very pleasant,” she managed, and hoped her voice didn’t betray her erratic reactions.
“At four, then.” He took her hand and raised her fingers to his lips.
For several minutes after he left she remained where she stood. She shouldn’t hope, she had too much sense—except when she gazed into those wonderful green eyes. Their lingering warmth hinted at a happiness for which she had never dared dream—and which she feared would evaporate if she tried to grasp it.
In this unsettled mood, she sought out Constance Yarborough and gave her the new fan orders. She then settled herself by the window in the sitting room and devoted her energies, if not her thoughts, to the basket of linens in need of darning.
At four o’clock she fetched her bonnet and shawl and went down to where Ingram awaited her in the entry hall. He looked up as she descended the last steps and the intensity of his gaze caused her severe difficulty in drawing a steady breath.
He ushered her outside and into his waiting curricle. Taking the reins from his groom, he climbed in beside her and gave his pair the office. A deep frown creased his brow.
It was more than the traffic that occupied his mind, she suspected; the blacks were well up to the few carts they passed. As the minutes slipped away her suspicions grew. She fixed him with a compelling eye.
“What have you in mind?”
“In mind?” He glanced at her.
“Why did you ask me to drive with you?” she demanded.
“Because the dowager ordered Allbury to take her out in his phaeton this afternoon.”
“I thought you must have an ulterior motive.” With an effort she kept her chagrin in check.
“On this occasion.” He directed an enigmatic glance at her.
She looked down, her pulse distressingly erratic, and concentrated instead on his earlier response. “Lady Allbury ordered him?”
“That was what he told me.”
“That seems very odd. Why would she want her son to drive her in the Park? Normally she takes the air in her barouche.”
“One can only assume she has an excellent reason.”
Phyllida shot him an accusing glance. “Am I your excuse for being there to discover it?”
His smile broadened. “Of course.”
No callous unconcern touched his words. He spoke them as if he expected her to share in some joke. She stared very hard at her hands and fought a losing battle with her dreams.
They said no more until after they entered the gates to the Park. The normal throng of Fashionables filled the tanbark and Rotten Row and more strolled along the paved walkways between the flowering shrubs or sat on the benches. Phyllida concentrated on the carriage drive, searching out swan-necked phaetons.
On their second round, Ingram suddenly exclaimed, “There!” He urged the blacks forward, sweeping past a loitering tilbury with ease.
Just ahead of them, pulled over to the side of the drive, stood Allbury’s chestnuts. The dowager, wrapped in her black satin, descended from the carriage, assisted by her son. The marquis then turned to a very modish young lady whose face was obscured by an oversized bonnet from which a single plume fluttered in the breeze.
“Who is that?” Ingram edged his pair closer.
The young woman turned and Phyllida glimpsed the long patrician face peeking out from beneath the high poke. “Lady Elspeth Osborne,” she declared, indignant.
“Lady—ah yes. The dowager’s choice. Allbury told me about her—and not in very complimentary terms, I promise you.” He glanced at Phyllida’s face. “I have the distinct feeling you do not believe this meeting is accidental.” He moved his horses away from the couple.
“Do you?”
“Oh no. I would be most surprised if it were. It would seem this time the dowager is determined to arrange her son’s marriage to her satisfaction. I wonder to what lengths she would go—or already has gone?”
Phyllida shook her head. “That could be only part of the reason.”
“So you think it possible because of the impending heir to the title.”
“Do you?”
Ingram’s hands clenched on the ribbons. “For Allbury’s sake I sincerely hope not. The scandal of a trial—” He broke off and for several minutes drove in silence, maneuvering his feisty blacks through the snarled traffic as carriages stopped to allow their passengers to greet acquaintances.
“There is Mr. Enderby,” Phyllida said suddenly, relieved to find a new topic. “Do you see him on that roan?”
Mr. Enderby, though, did not look toward them. Phyllida turned to follow the direction of his gaze and saw the swan-necked phaeton approach on its next round.
Mr. Enderby reined in and waited. Doffing his tall curly beaver, he called, “Afternoon, Allbury.”
The marquis drew his pair to a halt. For several long seconds he stared at his accoster as if that gentleman were a Cit or a mushroom attempting to gain admittance at the hallowed portals of Almack’s. Then, without so much as a nod of acknowledgment, he flicked his whip between his horses’ ears and proceeded on his way.
Mr. Enderby’s cheeks flamed. With a patent effort he pulled himself together, replaced his hat with a nonchalance that denied the embarrassing interlude had ever occurred and continued on his way. The next moment he drew in once more, his gaze resting on Lord Ingram’s curricle.
“Miss Dearne!” he called, and bore down on them.
“I wonder if Allbury suspects Mr. Enderby?” Ingram mused. “Should we emulate his snub?”
“You wouldn’t dare! It would be too dreadful of you.”
>
“I suppose receiving the cut direct twice in a row might be a little much for him. So very mortifying. Still, I much prefer either of the Enderbys as our villain instead of Allbury’s mother. Do not you?” He slowed his pair as Quincy Enderby drew near. “Good afternoon, Enderby.”
That gentleman exchanged greetings with him but as soon as it was politely possible he turned to Phyllida. “Well met, Miss Dearne. I intended to call at Allbury House to see you later.”
“Much easier to gain admittance to the Park,” Ingram said, his smile bland.
Phyllida gave his booted ankle a sharp nudge with her jean-shod toe, warning him to silence, then turned her dazzling smile on the other man. “What may I do for you, Mr. Enderby?”
“That locket of Maria’s, you know. I mentioned it to you before. Don’t suppose you’ve come across it yet?” He flicked a speck of broken leaf from his lower coat sleeve in an offhand manner.
Phyllida cast an uncertain glance at Ingram.
“I’m sure she has been very thorough in her search,” Ingram put in, smiling at her in a most unhelpful manner.
Mr. Enderby’s carefully cultivated casualness evaporated and he leaned forward in concern. “And you haven’t found it? Quite certain, are you, you’ve looked everywhere?”
“No, not everywhere.” About that, at least, Phyllida could tell the truth. “I promise I will tell you the moment I have it in my hands.”
“So make very certain you don’t touch it again,” Ingram told her sternly as Mr. Enderby left them.
She fluttered virtuous lashes at him. “It doesn’t matter, as long as he’s not where I could speak with him when my hand is actually upon it.”
He frowned, apparently mentally reviewing her promise, then his deep chuckle sounded. “My dear Miss Dearne, you are the most complete hand.”
“And how am I to take that, my lord?”
“Perhaps I should have said ‘charmingly devious’.”
She laughed. “That sounds much worse. Did you notice how concerned he is about that locket?”
“He probably hopes to pawn it to cover some of his debts before his wife learns of them.”
She ignored him. “He’s given us a reason why we will find a lock of his hair inside, so he cannot be worried about that. Unless it is Maria’s and he wants to return it to her before she knows it’s missing?”
Ingram shook his head. “It would have been foolhardy of him to give Louisa something that belonged to his wife.”
“I doubt his intellect is above average,” she stuck in but she conceded the point. “Then there must be something else about the locket. Do you think it holds some clue to Louisa’s death? Besides the hair, I mean?”
“What?”
“How should I know? If I did, we might already know who killed my sister.” She looked up at her companion, her excitement growing. “We have assumed it is her diary someone wants. What if it is actually the locket? Could she have been murdered because of it?”
“It doesn’t seem likely. She wasn’t wearing it the night she died, was she?”
“No.” Her lips twitched in sudden amusement. “Not to the opera. She always wore the Allbury diamonds for that. Never a lowly locket. Perhaps—” She broke off, trying to think of some reason the locket might be the key to solving their deadly riddle.
“Perhaps we had best examine it again, before your imagination carries you away.”
“My imagination? And what of yours, pray?”
“I’m not given to wild flights of fantasy.”
“By that I suppose you mean I am? How wretchedly unfair of you. I suppose you think I imagined having my room ransacked and being attacked the other night?”
That sobered him. “I do not,” he said shortly.
By mutual agreement they left the Park and returned to Allbury House. Fenton greeted them with the news that Mr. Frake had taken possession of the housekeeper’s sitting room to once more subject the servants to an inquisition. Phyllida did her best to soothe the butler’s lacerated feelings then hurried with Ingram to the nether regions of the house to learn what occurred.
When they entered the room the Runner sat in the housekeeper’s huge padded chair. “Enthroned” would be a better word, she decided, appreciating Mr. Frake’s sense of the dramatic. His wiry figure appeared quite regal, certainly awe-inspiring. The second footman, who stood before him, uneasily shifting his weight from foot to foot, appeared properly reverential.
Mr. Frake acknowledged their arrival with an imperious nod of his head then turned back to the hapless footman. “What happened then, Arthur?”
“Nothing, sir. Mr. Fenton, he helped her ladyship with her cloak and I opened the carriage door. I never seen her again.”
The last was said without a touch of sorrow. Mr. Frake gazed at the young man for a long time, during which his victim betrayed no further unease, only a sincere and understandable desire to return to his duties. At last the Runner nodded his dismissal, and the footman made good his escape with an audible sigh.
“Have you learned anything new?” Ingram inquired after the door closed again.
The Runner came to his feet. “Well, m’lord, I have and I haven’t.” A twinkle lit his tired eyes, animating his entire face. “Some of the servants are mighty pleased the young marchioness is no longer mistress here but none of them could have gone to the opera house that night.”
“Could any of them have assisted the murderer in any way?” Ingram asked.
Mr. Frake pursed his lips. “Not as far as I can tell. There are one or two who are loyal enough to the dowager to hold their tongues if they suspected something but—” He shook his head. “If any of that lot helped, they must have done it unknowing-like.” His eyes narrowed. “You looks as if you have something to say, miss.”
Quickly, Phyllida told Mr. Frake about Mr. Enderby and the locket.
The Runner rocked back on his heels and worked his lower lip between his teeth. “Well now, miss. That does sound interesting.”
He drew a velvet pouch from an inner pocket and emptied the locket onto the cushion of the chair he had just vacated. Phyllida reached for it but it was Ingram who touched the catch, springing it open.
“Just the hair,” Phyllida said after a long moment. “Could there be another compartment?”
Mr. Frake then Ingram and Phyllida each took a turn examining the small oval of gold. Yet try as they might they could discover nothing of any significance.
“No intertwined initials, no scratches, nothing!” Phyllida exclaimed in disgust as she returned the locket to the Runner. “Only the engraved flowers.”
“If it holds any secrets it’s keeping them very well,” Mr. Frake agreed.
Ingram tugged idly at his quizzing glass. “I did suggest Enderby might want it for its pawning value.”
The Runner regarded him for a long moment. “Did you now, my lord? Well it seems as if you might have been right about that.”
Phyllida ran frustrated fingers through the fluff of curls that framed her face. “Why don’t we go through the charity project’s papers?” she suggested at last.
Ingram swung the glass by its riband. “What entertaining ideas you have.”
“Well it’s better than doing nothing!” She turned on her heel and stalked from the room.
She didn’t go alone. The other two followed her up the stairs to the Ladies’ Sitting Room. She crossed to the writing desk, opened the bottom drawer and drew out an untidy stack of sheets.
Ingram selected the top one and studied it through his quizzing glass. He glanced up at Phyllida with dawning respect. “You have earned a great deal of money for your cause.”
She looked away, trying to hide her pride—and her pleasure—at his compliment. “We have worked hard—especially Miss Yarborough, who has done all the painting.”
“What about you?”
Phyllida shook her head. “Had I tried to sketch we would not have sold a single one. My work is ghastly.”
&nb
sp; Smiling, Ingram returned his attention to the sheet then picked up several more. “Who kept the books? They seem somewhat haphazard.”
“That was Louisa’s sole contribution.” That she herself had wanted to control the finances, but had been overruled by her sister, Phyllida didn’t mention.
Ingram studied each in turn. “There is room here for errors,” he said at last.
Mr. Frake looked up. “Do you mean…”
Ingram nodded. “It’s very possible someone could steal funds. These accounts are in such a jumble a discrepancy could go unnoticed indefinitely.”
“But you think Louisa discovered one?” Phyllida clasped her hands together to keep them from trembling. “Oh why did we not think to examine the books before! Of course, this must be the reason.”
“Is she likely to have confronted the thief, miss?” Mr. Frake asked.
“Yes, very likely.”
Ingram tapped the sheets with his quizzing glass. “Our culprit might well have murdered her to protect himself.”
“So much money.” Mr. Frake shook his head. “That would prove a nasty temptation to the most honest of souls. I think maybe I’ll just go and speak to the people at the bank who handle your charity’s account.”
He relieved Ingram of the sheets and replaced them in the stack. This he fastened with a string Phyllida located in another drawer then he took his leave of them to examine the papers in more detail.
Phyllida crossed to the window and stared out over the Square. “A real possibility.”
Ingram moved to stand just behind her. His warm breath ruffled the hair on the top of her head. For a long moment she savored the sensation.
“This is still speculation,” he reminded her. “We will have to wait and see if any funds are missing.”
She looked up at him, where he stood so close. “Do you think there will be?”
“I don’t know.” He touched her shoulder then allowed his hand to drop. “I hope so.”
“There are so many other reasons why someone might have wanted her dead,” she said when she could master her voice. “Mr. Enderby and his-his relationship with her, or the money she caused him to spend. Maria and her jealousy. Constance and her resentment. Allbury—” She broke off.
Ivory and Steel Page 16
