The questioning Miss Quinton

by Kasey Michaels

  Patrick laughed at the thought. “Let me tell you, friend, your brother would have caught cold there, as my family has always made it a point to be outrageous—and proud of it. We’d probably pay him to print what he learned! Oh, well. As for the Professor and myself, we parted in anger, to tell the truth, which is why I cannot understand his reasoning in leaving me his library and manuscripts.”

  “Quennel was bloody vain, that’s why,” Quentin said shortly. “He knew full well that Victoria would sell his books and abandon the project. By turning the stuff over to you, he wanted you to feel obligated to finish it for him so that he could live forever as a great historian. He was devilishly smart, you know. Papa wanted him to go into the church. Wouldn’t that have been a rare treat!”

  Sherbourne smiled his appreciation of the joke. “But he was taking quite a chance, if you’re right. How was he to know that I wouldn’t merely publish his existing research—and heaven knows there are reams of it stacked on these shelves—with my own name on it?”

  “He knew you are an honorable man, Patrick, that’s how,” Quinton informed him kindly. “A successful criminal has to be an extremely good judge of people.”

  “Does he now?” Sherbourne countered dryly. “Then Quennel certainly missed the mark if he thought Pierre Standish would just bow down to a demand for blackmail. Why, Pierre would kill him where he stood. Oh my God, it couldn’t be!”

  “You’re right there, son, it couldn’t be,” Quentin hastened to tell the Earl, whose face now wore an eloquent expression of pain. “At least I couldn’t find any mention of Mr. Standish—or yourself, of course—in the books and journals that held the money, although there’s quite a few P.S.’s listed in the ledger. Whatever was in that box Quennel left to him—oh yes, Victoria told me about that—m’brother never made a penny-piece from it.”

  “Maybe he never had the chance,” Patrick ventured against his will. “I don’t like this, I don’t like it at all. If there’s a blackmailed murderer out there somewhere, Victoria’s ridiculous investigation may force him into silencing her before he and his secret are uncovered. Quentin, give me the names of the other victims.”

  Searching among the small stacks of papers scattered over the desktop, Quentin unearthed a small sheet written in Victoria’s delicate feminine handwriting and handed it to the Earl. “I have all those with the proper initials right here. Victoria has been going through the journals and writing down any names she could find that have the proper initials. We may have been poking at it from different ends, Puddin’ and myself, but we came up with the same names. There’s yours, right at the top of the list. You can see she’s drawn a line through it. Guess you’re off the hook as it were, right?”

  Sherbourne studied the list in silence for a few moments. “Three of these gentlemen are dead, Quentin, poor fellows,” he said presently. “Victoria has already crossed them off, as well as Peter Smithdon, who’s off serving with Wellesley. That leaves Pierre, Philip Spalding, and Sir Perkin Seldon, the same two names Pierre—never mind. Well, let me tell you, Quentin, I don’t like it. Burn it, there has to be someone else; somebody you’ve both overlooked.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? Can you ask? Because neither Spalding nor Seldon are the sort to murder anybody, that’s why!” Wickford gritted, angrily flinging Victoria’s list onto the desk. “Spalding is a mincing fop who would swoon at the sight of blood, and Sir Perkin doesn’t have the wit.”

  Quentin lowered his gaze for a moment, considering the thing, then ventured weakly, “Maybe one of them visited Quennel earlier that evening and after he left, a burglar crept in and conked the old bastard on the noggin? That would be a pretty turn of events, wouldn’t it?”

  Picking up the Professor’s ledger of ill-gotten receipts and leafing through the many pages, noting dates that went back almost twenty years, Patrick replied bitterly, “Whoever it was, the fellow deserves a medal. But you’re right, Quentin. Victoria has to be stopped. This could get ugly before it’s done.”

  “Then you think it might be Standish? I know he’s a particular friend of yours, but you have to admit, he’s a bit of an odd, secret person.”

  “Pierre does have some secret in his past, something that happened to him when he returned home after serving with me in the Peninsula, but although he hasn’t felt inclined to confide in me, I can’t believe it’s so terrible that he’d murder to keep it hidden,” Patrick said as if to himself, already heading for the hallway. “I believe I’ll go have another talk with him. He’ll probably make an utter fool of me for my pains, but Victoria has to be protected at all costs. And tell her what you told me. She won’t hate you for it, I promise you, and the information might just serve to make her abandon her silly scheme before she really and truly lands herself in the briars.”

  Quentin sat back in his seat after the Earl’s departure, a small, satisfied smile lighting his face just as Wilhelmina entered the room, a full dish of sweetmeats held in her hand as a peace offering. “My, my. So the wind blows in that quarter, does it?” he mused aloud, gaining himself a confused glance from the love of his life. “It’s just as I thought. Lord bless the boy. We’ll have the Earl of Wickford legshackled to Victoria before he knows what hit him, Willie, and you have my word on it!”

  “Of course we will,” Wilhelmina answered flatly. “Was there ever any doubt? He may be an earl, but he’s a good-hearted lad for all that.”

  Quentin rose from his chair and went around the desk to relieve the housekeeper of her sweet burden, tossing three of the sugary confections into his mouth for courage before pressing Wilhelmina into a nearby chair and saying seriously, “The boy wants us to tell Victoria about William Forester, my love. He says it’s for the best.”

  “It’s best to tell the child she was nearly born on the wrong side of the blanket?” Wilhelmina asked, cocking her head to one side. “Elizabeth always said we shouldn’t take the chance, even though she was longin’ to tell the child about her real father. I don’t know, Quentin. But to say she’s really a bas—, well, you know. Oh dear me, are you sure?”

  “The Earl seems to think it’s the lesser of two evils, I guess,” he answered consideringly. “Hasn’t kept him from tumbling into love with Puddin’, has it? Besides, he says it will make Victoria happy. Come on, love, what do you say?”

  Wilhelmina pulled the candy dish toward her and selected one of the confections for herself. “I’ll think on it, Quentin,” she promised, chewing thoughtfully. “I’ll just have to think on it.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “HEYDAY, MY BOY, I thought it was you,” Quentin called out heartily, rising from his comfortable seat in the Quinton drawing room to go into the hallway to greet Patrick and his companion, an exquisitely dressed young man who—rather like some ancient Greek whom Quentin remembered hearing about somewhere—had arrived bearing gifts. “I took care of that little business you suggested during our talk yesterday,” he added under his breath as he put his arm through the Earl’s and drew him into the room. “Puddin’ was pleased no end to hear about her real, er, you know, just like you said, but she’s standing fast on continuing the search. Can’t figure women, can you?”

  “I was afraid of that, my friend,” Sherbourne whispered back. “Which makes me glad I planned this evening. You remember our plan, don’t you? Good. Perceive our first suspect behind you now.” More loudly, he said, “Good evening to you too, my friend,” before reaching over to literally push his reluctant companion—who had been hovering in the hallway as if contemplating a last-minute escape—into the room ahead of him. “Please allow me to introduce you to—”

  “You’d be Philip Spalding, wouldn’t you?” Quentin interrupted, coming forward to grasp Spalding’s hand in his fierce grip. “The good Earl sent round a note earlier telling us you were the one coming along tonight.”

  “Quentin,” Patrick warned softly. For a conspirator, the Earl thought, friend Quinton was sadly lacking in subtlety.

  �
��Huh?” Quinton asked before realizing he had nearly said too much. “Well, never mind that. Come in, come right in, the both of you, and sit down. The ladies are still primping. Been in a rare dither all day, to say it plainly, with everything at sixes and sevens so that a man feels quite abandoned. What ho? Are those sweetmeats you’ve got tucked under your arm, friend?” he asked Philip, who was still staring at Quentin, a rather bemused expression on his handsome face.

  “Yes, er, yes indeed, sir,” Spalding admitted dazedly, finally finding his tongue. “They’re for the ladies, you understand,” he added swiftly, while taking a firm grip on the box as Quentin looked about to snatch it away.

  “Oh, don’t be impolite, Philip, old man,” Patrick scolded mildly, already subsiding into what appeared to have become his favorite chair in the Quinton household. “Besides, I’ll wager Mr. Quinton here would gladly trade you some of that lovely port I see standing over there on that side table, if only you were to let him have a small sampling of the delicious contents of that pretty little box. Wouldn’t you, Quentin?” he asked, winking at the older man.

  “I would at that, my boy,” Quinton answered promptly, already moving toward the drinks table. “The gels will be a while yet, if Willie hasn’t put an end to the fuss I heard going on up there as I passed by Victoria’s door. Here you go, my boy,” he said, handing a generously filled glass to Patrick. “As soft a port as you’ll find, too, or at least it should be, considering what it put me back to get it.”

  “Indeed? Today’s prices are intolerable, aren’t they, what with the war and all,” Philip said politely, accepting an equally full glass while trying mightily to hide the fact that he thought Mr. Quentin Quinton to be just the least bit common, for, after all, he was a guest in the man’s house.

  “That’s quite a coat you’ve got on, fella,” Quentin remarked jovially, still standing in front of Spalding, his body so close that the younger man involuntarily took a slight step backward. “How many men does it take to get you into it, anyway? I once heard of a fella who used two, one for each sleeve, if I remember it rightly.”

  “I—why, I—” Philip began falteringly, looking toward Patrick, who returned his look blandly.

  “Sit down, man, sit down!” Quentin then motioned, obviously not really interested in the answer to his question. Once Philip has hastened to obey—perching himself gingerly on one small corner of the settee—Quentin also sat, raising his glass to Philip and Patrick before downing its contents as if it were water and leaning forward to say, “So you’re Philip Spalding. As I said, I’ve heard about you,” Lowering his voce slightly, he leaned forward and asked confidentially, “Is it true, then? Don’t worry that I won’t keep it mum. We’re all friends here. Tell me true. Do you really bathe in ass’s milk?”

  “Patrick—” Philip sputtered, this time looking in his companion’s direction with desperation evident in every perfectly sculpted feature on his handsome face.

  Lifting his glass in a sort of salute, Patrick responded interestedly, “Yes, Philip, pray do tell us. You simply cannot know how long I have agonized over the answer to that particular question. Ah, but here are the ladies,” he said, rising languidly to his feet. “It appears, Quentin, that we shall have to suspend this delicate discussion until another time.”

  Quentin also rose, turning toward the open doorway in anticipation of seeing his niece and her young dame de compagnie fitted out in their new finery, and his expansive chest swelled proudly at the sight that met his eyes as Victoria and Emma walked into the room.

  “Did you ever see two such beauties?” he demanded rhetorically, already advancing toward Victoria, his pudgy hands outstretched in greeting. “I tell you, my fine fellows, you’ll have to watch yourselves if you don’t want some other enterprising young bucks stealing a march on you. Surrounded by beaux, that’s what they’ll be, once this night is over.”

  “Uncle Quentin, do control yourself,” Victoria whispered fiercely, coloring hotly as she took his hands in hers and squeezed them in warning.

  “Nonsense,” Sherbourne admonished in his smooth voice, startling Victoria into giving a slight jump, for she had not noticed him coming to stand beside her, being fully occupied with trying to halt her uncle’s embarrassing discourse. “Really, Miss Quinton, you must learn how to handle compliments with more grace. It isn’t nice to contradict someone who is praising you.”

  Turning to look at the Earl for the first time—while maintaining her stern expression only through a commendable act of will, for the Earl of Wickford in evening dress was a sight to soften the strongest resolve—Victoria returned repressively, “I thank you for that information, sir, and please forgive my ignorance. You see, I have had such limited experience in dealing with flattery.”

  “Ah, that’s more like it,” Patrick exclaimed, inclining his head in her direction. “After all, what is left to a gentleman after a leading statement like that than to protest vehemently, and then go on to wax poetic over your shell-like ears, glorious hair, and alabaster skin, all of which pale beneath the sunshiny brightness of your smile?”

  “I’m not smiling,” Victoria pointed out unnecessarily, lifting her chin defiantly.

  Sherbourne merely shrugged. “Forgive my lapse, my dear Miss Quinton, which I must tell you, I feel to be totally excusable, considering the fact that your ravishing appearance tonight has so set my treacherous heart to fluttering that I scarce know what to say.”

  Victoria looked at Patrick assessingly, her gaze scanning him from top to toe before going back to his face. She was in looks tonight; she knew that because her mirror did not lie, and her newfound sense of herself as a female emboldened her to respond evenly, “Better, Wickford, better. In fact, I am encouraged to believe that there’s hope for you yet.”

  Patrick stared back at her, nonplussed for just a moment, before throwing back his head and roaring with appreciation. The awkward miss was fast being replaced by a woman of the world, and he found himself looking forward to the remainder of the evening with every anticipation of being highly entertained.

  Suddenly shocked by her display of forwardness, Victoria dropped her gaze to her satin-clad feet, secretly wondering if the new, snug-fitting slippers had somehow cut off the circulation to her head, thereby causing her to lose her customary common sense. But no, she countered mentally, that wasn’t it. What had her so lighthearted, so utterly in alt, was the guilt-banishing news she had received the night before—the intelligence that the Professor was not her sire.

  Indeed, after shedding a few heartfelt tears over the happiness denied her real parents, she had been floating through the hours, feeling almost reborn. She would have to take a firm hold on herself before she disgraced her beloved uncle by allowing her suddenly carefree heart to goad her into breaking into song!

  Sensing her embarrassment, and not wishing to have her refining overlong on her rather forward comment, the Earl quickly sought out a diversion. Looking over toward Philip Spalding, who was still staring into Mrs. Hamilton’s china-blue eyes with a look that could only be called adoring, Patrick leaned down to whisper to Victoria, “Observe our friend Spalding, Miss Quinton.”

  Victoria obliged, taking in the man’s physical perfection only superficially for, to her, there was no handsomer man in England than the one now standing so close by her side. “He seems much taken with Emma” was all she said, finding vindication in the pressure she had been applying to Emma all day as her companion had tried every ploy in order to find a way not to wear the new finery Quentin had purchased for her for the evening. “One can only hope that he finds her company unexceptionable, for Emma has been most apprehensive about overstepping what she calls her place.”

  “Put your fears for Mrs. Hamilton to rest, Miss Quinton,” Patrick offered bracingly. “If I am any judge, I do believe the gentleman to be utterly in thralldom. It’s a sight to warm one’s heart, although I do admit to a slight desire to go over there and close his mouth for him, as I do believe he is a
bout to drool all over that pretty waistcoat he’s wearing.”

  Victoria’s head turned sharply in Emma’s direction. She had forgotten about Philip Spalding, suspect, the moment Patrick had approached her, which was unforgivable, as the mission she had set herself for the evening—since learning the man was to be one of their party—involved discovering anything to the point that she could about the man. Frowning slightly as she took in the rapturous look on Emma’s face, she said impetuously, “I hadn’t planned on this.”

  Cocking one expressive eyebrow, Sherbourne quipped, “No! Don’t tell me you’ve decided to hang out your cap for friend Philip? Dull sport, if you ask me.”

  “Can’t you think of anything other than…than…” Words failed her and she left the sentence dangling as she spread her hands in disgust.

  “Other than what, Miss Quinton?” Patrick pursued, not adverse to teasing her a little bit. “Romance? The sweet thrill of the chase? The anticipation of a small dalliance in some secluded garden? Or are my thoughts too ordinary, too tame? Perhaps you, who have enjoyed a lifetime of literary pursuit, are put more in mind of Casanova, or our friend Byron’s scribblings—even some of the sentiments expressed by other, yet more worldly poets? Pray, enlighten me, as I wait with bated breath.”

  “Emma!” Victoria fairly exploded, rushing over to her companion (and away from Lord Wickford), for her new-found sophistication did not extend to listening to any more of Patrick’s sallies. “As you have the advantage of me, do you think you could formally introduce me to Mr. Spalding?”