The questioning Miss Quinton

by Kasey Michaels

  Now, here’s a dilemma, Victoria thought, frowning. It’s as plain as the diamond in Uncle Quentin’s cravat that Mr. Spalding is quite enamored of Emma—and she of him—yet, because of his initials and some scant mention of him in the Professor’s private papers, he has to remain a murder suspect. Oh, how she wished she could put a period to her investigation! But now, in addition to her own recently amended but still valid (at least in her mind) reason for going on with it, she had to be sure Emma wasn’t in danger of falling in love with a murderer. The last, the absolute last thing Victoria wanted was to see her delightful widget of a chaperone hurt, and she knew she couldn’t guarantee that such a thing wouldn’t happen.

  “I think Mr. Philip Spalding tumbled instantly and irrevocably into love with you from the first moment you stepped into the drawing room,” Victoria said at last, seeing the nervous tears gathering in Emma’s big blue eyes as she awaited an answer to her question.

  “Oh, Victoria—”

  “I also think that Mr. Philip Spalding cannot be entirely dismissed as a suspect in the Professor’s murder, if you will forgive my reminding you that his initials match those engraved on the snuffbox I showed you,” Victoria hastened to add as Emma looked about to swoon with delight. “I’m sorry, my dear friend, but I do feel responsible for you, dragging you into my investigation this way.” As she spoke, Victoria crossed her fingers tightly behind her back and wished most earnestly that Philip Spalding was guilty of no sin more serious than an excess of sensibility.

  “Oh!” Emma breathed, startled out of her beatific dream. “I forgot.” She looked across the room at Spalding, whose return had been delayed by the approach of two other gentlemen, before turning back to Victoria. Then, straightening her back as if preparing to launch herself into battle, she declared in utmost certainty, “I have never heard such a ridiculous piece of nonsense in my life! That sweet, wonderful man—why, he wouldn’t hurt a fly!”

  Lifting one gloved hand to her chin, Victoria surveyed Spalding as best she could as all four gentleman approached, while Emma held her breath. “I think you may be right,” Victoria said at last, stepping back a pace as it looked like Emma was about to kiss her. “Mr. Spalding doesn’t seem capable of cold-blooded murder. Now, the man walking next to him, well, I do believe you might not find yourself so willing to champion him.”

  Emma obligingly looked over at the tall, dark gentleman Victoria had indicated. “That one? Oh my. Oh my goodness! Isn’t that Pierre Standish?” she asked in a quavering voice. “They say he murdered his valet—or maybe it was his groom. Oh dear, whyever would Mr. Spalding wish to present Mr. Standish to us?”

  “I rather doubt, dear Emma, that Mr. Spalding had anything to say about it, judging from the outraged expression on his face,” Victoria pointed out as her heartbeat began to drum in her ears. What was Sherbourne about? she asked herself, wondering when it was that she had lost control of her own investigation. Drat her blabbermouth uncle, anyway, and drat Patrick Sherbourne for putting his oar in where it was neither wanted nor needed! Swallowing down hard on her mingled anger and apprehension, she went on: “Mr. Standish is a friend of the Earl’s, you see, although I don’t believe I know the fourth gentleman.”

  Emma, who had deliberately fastened her gaze on the floor, looked up quickly before averting her gaze to the carpet once more. “Oh, that’s only Sir Perky,” she told Victoria dismissively. “I went down to supper with him once when I was first presented—before I met Harry, of course. The man gobbled up everything on my plate! But he’s a sweet person, or at least he was then. Why would he be with Mr. Standish, do you suppose? It seems so—”

  “Why, thank you, Mr. Spalding,” Victoria said clearly, warning Emma into silence as she reached out a hand to remove a glass of lemonade from the tray the man had proffered with a slight bow. “Emma, do stop fretting about that uneven hem and look here—Mr. Spalding has thoughtfully brought us some refreshments. And some company?” she ended tentatively, tilting her head to one side as she looked directly into Standish’s dark eyes and tried her best not to look frightened.

  “Ah, the diplomatic Miss Quinton,” Pierre said, bowing deeply from the waist, “we meet at last. I have been out of the city, you understand, and could not resist rushing to the theatre when I returned and found the Earl’s message telling me he would be present here tonight. Such a dear man, such a good friend,” he added scrupulously, turning to smile at Sherbourne, who was standing in thin-lipped silence. “Isn’t that right, my dearest Patrick?”

  “I have been trying to reach you since yesterday,” the Earl replied shortly, a slight tic working in his cheek.

  “Ah, yes,” Pierre purred softly, neatly noting Patrick’s agitation before turning back to Victoria and continuing suavely, “but I digress. When the dear Earl informed me that you were one of his party, why, I was quite naturally nearly overcome! Please, dear madam, allow me to at last apologize for my rudeness at not introducing myself after the reading of the Professor’s will, but I had a pressing appointment and had to rush off.”

  “Really?” Victoria replied sweetly, only inclining her head slightly in acknowledgment of his bow. “I would have said your rush was more in the nature of a hasty retreat, if I am remembering the occasion correctly. I am so relieved to learn otherwise.”

  Patrick moved to stand beside Victoria as Pierre reached up to stroke the thin line of his scar with one manicured fingertip. “I believe the word you are searching for, Pierre my friend, is touché. Miss Quinton, would you please be so kind as to allow me to present to you and Mrs. Hamilton these two upstanding gentlemen— Mr. Pierre Standish and Sir Perkin Seldon?”

  As Patrick identified the second man, Victoria’s head turned sharply to look at Pierre, her eyes narrowed in speculation before widening at the look of smug satisfaction evident on his face. “Sir Perky” was really Sir Perkin Seldon—the fourth suspect? But how?… Oh no! They both know! What did Uncle do—take an advertisement in The Times? she thought wildly, her hands clenching at her sides momentarily as she silently cursed her prattlebox Uncle Quentin, who had admitted to her only last night that he had been keeping the Earl informed of all their discoveries about the Professor. Now Standish knew as well, and—dreadful beast that he was—the rotter was laughing at her! It is small comfort, she thought, that neither of the gentlemen knows about my true parentage, but it is absolutely the only thing that is keeping my feet from carrying me off somewhere private posthaste, where I might scream my vexation to the skies!

  “Miss Quinton?” Patrick prodded, looking at her expectantly. “You have already acknowledged Mr. Standish—in a manner of speaking. Surely you don’t wish to cut poor Sir Perkin, do you?”

  Victoria opened her mouth to speak, then shut it again in order to collect her thoughts. This was what she had wanted—to be presented to Society and meet all four of the suspects she had gleaned from the Professor’s papers—so why was she feeling so empty, so unbelievably disappointed?

  She hadn’t really believed that Patrick Sherbourne had taken a personal interest in her, had she? She couldn’t have pinned her spinsterish hopes on his falling madly, passionately in love with her, could she? How could she—normally a most sensible person—have entertained, for even an instant, the ridiculous idea that the Earl had visions of romance in mind when he had issued his invitation to the theatre?

  She should have realized that he was only funning with her, helping her as it were, in her “quixotic quest” (she flinched slightly as she recalled the term) to discover the Professor’s murderer. And now, just to make matters worse, he had included his crony Pierre Standish in his scheme. Oh Victoria, she rued silently, only a silly spinster at her last prayers could have been so lamentably gullible!

  Emma, sensing Victoria’s tenseness, although not yet realizing that all four men standing in front of her bore the same possibly damning initials, stepped neatly into the breach as a proper chaperone should do, saying, “Sir Perkin, I vow it’s been an age
. I doubt you remember me at all. Of course, I was Emma Connington then.”

  Sir Perkin answered Emma absently, his rather small brown eyes intent on the person of Victoria Quinton. “Ain’t she the daughter of that Professor fellow who slipped his wind some weeks ago?” he said, as if to himself. “No, couldn’t be her. Not in mourning, is she?”

  “Don’t be vulgar, darling,” Pierre breathed softly, “else I shall be forced to drop you.”

  But it was too late, for Victoria had come out of her brown study in time to hear Sir Perkin’s words. “The Professor didn’t wish for me to go into mourning, sir, and as an obedient, er, daughter, I have obliged. But tell me, how did you come to know the Professor? I don’t believe I recall ever seeing you in Ablemarle Street.”

  Sir Perkin reached into his pockets with both hands, searching until he unearthed a crust of bread he had placed there earlier after dining at Lady Sefton’s, and then popped the comforting morsel into his mouth. “I don’t recall,” he answered around the lump in his chubby cheek. “Ablemarle Street, you say? No, no, that wasn’t it. I met him here and there, I imagine. I say, isn’t that the warning bell? Best take our seats if we want to see the next act, right?” he said in a rush, already taking his leave.

  “Do stay, dear Sir Perky,” Standish commanded softly, halting the man in his tracks.

  “Sir Perky’s right, Standish,” Philip Spalding put in scrupulously, looking about for a table on which to deposit the empty glasses he had thoughtfully gathered from his companions. “It wouldn’t be proper to have the ladies miss a portion of their first theatre performance by standing about for a few minutes of idle chatter in the hallway.”

  “I stand corrected, of course,” Pierre said bowing once again. “As usual, my dearest Philip, you are the epitome of polite behavior, while I remain the rudest beast in nature, attempting to steal a few more precious moments of Miss Quinton’s delightful company. And yours as well, my dear Mrs. Hamilton. Ladies, your most obedient,” he drawled softly before slipping a hand around Sir Perkin’s elbow. “Come along, my informative friend, as I do believe you have served your purpose. I suggest we retire to White’s, where I imagine they may be prevailed upon to serve us a late supper.”

  “Do you suppose they have ham?” Sir Perky queried anxiously as he allowed himself to be led off like an obedient puppy, its stubby tail wagging furiously in happy anticipation of a treat for performing as asked. “I’m particularly fond of ham, you know. Goodbye!” he remembered to call over his shoulder as he skipped along behind the long-legged Standish. “Been a pleasure and all that.”

  “Wasn’t that odd?” Philip opined before dismissing the two gentlemen from his mind as he made to escort Emma back to her chair. “Has anyone ever remarked, my dear Mrs. Hamilton, on the absolute perfection of your earlobes?” Victoria could hear him saying as the two lovebirds drifted away.

  “Miss Quinton?” Patrick then nudged, holding out his arm so that she might take it.

  At last Victoria was free to speak her mind, and she immediately went on the attack. “You planned the whole ridiculous charade that occurred just now, didn’t you?” she accused angrily, taking his arm with much more force than was proper. “You and that supercilious Pierre Standish. That’s the only reason you offered to escort me here this evening, isn’t it? Don’t bother to protest your innocence to me, as I shan’t believe a word of it,” she rushed on as the Earl tried to slide in a word or two in his own defense. “Uncle Quentin told me that he had confided his fears for me in you, but then that poor, sweet, impressionable man couldn’t have known that you’d then go haring off—rubbing your hands together in gleeful anticipation, no doubt—to spill the soup to Mr. Standish so that the two of you could concoct some silly schoolboy plot to unmask the murderer. And, please, I beg of you, don’t go trying to fob me off with some farradiddle about doing it to protect me. You’re enjoying yourself mightily,” she fairly sneered, “and don’t dare to deny it.”

  “One question at a time, if you please. As to your first question, I planned half of it,” Patrick admitted, easing her tightly grasping fingers slightly away from the material of his jacket sleeve. “Once I knew exactly why Standish and I were suspects, I felt honor-bound to inform him of his position. It was my idea to bring Spalding along tonight, but Pierre has always been rather independent, and he must have decided to round up Sir Perky for you as well.

  “By the by,” he continued quietly, so that he could not be overheard by the few persons still strolling about the hallway, “even though I wasn’t going to bring up the subject tonight, you must know that you have my deepest sympathy, my dear. Your life with Quennel Quinton must have been nearly intolerable. Indeed, Pierre was quite overcome when I had told him the whole of it—gave me his word then and there to help you in any way he could. Although you probably will refuse to understand it, you should be considering yourself quite honored. Pierre doesn’t go out of his way for anyone very often.”

  “You know that he thinks he did it, don’t you?” Victoria declared, still refusing to move.

  “Perhaps you would clarify that a bit, please? Who do you mean by the second ‘he’?”

  “Mr. Standish thinks Sir Perkin Seldon is the murderer, of course,” she spat back at him. “It’s as plain as that scar on his—Standish’s, I mean—face.”

  “Sir Perky a murderer? That harmless nodcock? Don’t be ridiculous.” So she had caught on to Pierre’s cryptic remark about Sir Perky serving “his purpose,” had she? Patrick’s estimation of Victoria’s intelligence, already high, increased by another giant leap.

  Victoria sniffed her derision. “Ridiculous is precisely what I would be if I ever believed anything Pierre Standish had to say. The man is totally evil. Why, Emma told me just tonight that he has already murdered his valet.”

  “His groom,” Sherbourne corrected. “That’s old gossip. Besides, the man had the bad judgment to come at Pierre with a knife.”

  “With good reason, no doubt.”

  “So you’ve decided on Standish, then?” Patrick pursued thoughtfully, moving to face her in the now-empty hallway. “While I am greatly relieved to hear that you have abandoned your intention to see me swing from the gibbet, I find I must protest. I know the man well, and Pierre Standish is no murderer.”

  “And I’m no debutante,” Victoria said coldly. “As the farce is now over, I believe I should like you to take me home. After all, there is nothing left for you to do tonight.”

  “Isn’t there? You forget—I haven’t yet answered your second question. If I recall correctly, it had something to do with my motive for escorting you here this evening. Perhaps this will serve as your answer,” Patrick rasped in a low, determined voice before hauling her roughly into his arms.

  Stepping out of Lady Wentworth’s box in order to get away from her cloying perfume, George Brummell chanced to look to his left in time to see Patrick Sherbourne and Miss Victoria Quinton locked in a rather torrid embrace in the shadows.

  Lifting his quizzing glass to his eye, Beau drawled thoughtfully, “How ex-treme-ly in-ter-est-ing. Per-haps I shan’t be needed af-ter all,” before quietly stepping back the way he had come.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “IF I MIGHT SAY SO, Victoria my dear, you look a trifle cast down,” Emma Hamilton commented, looking up from the small embroidery square she was working on as she bore her charge company in the sunlit Quinton library. “Perhaps the headache that intruded on last night’s foray to the theatre has not fully abated. I could ask Miss Flint for some camphorated spirits of lavender, if you wish.”

  Victoria looked up from the Professor’s vastly boring daily journal for the year 1810, which she had been studying for the past half hour (without really registering anything she had read), and removed her spectacles. Resting them on the desk, she reached up to massage her throbbing temples. “I’m really quite all right, Emma, thank you. It was so silly, you know, as I am rarely ever ill. I’m only sorry I had to cut short your even
ing. Mr. Spalding was most disappointed.”

  Emma’s pretty face took on an adorably bemused expression. “He was sweet, wasn’t he? I had half hoped that he’d pay a morning call today, but—”

  “That would explain why you have deigned to wear one of the new gowns Uncle Quentin purchased,” Victoria commented, smiling a bit in spite of her depressed mood. “That is a most becoming style.”

  Looking down at the flattering pink muslin gown that showed her petite figure to such advantage, Emma sighed soulfully, then said in a sad voice, “Yes, but as the hour grows late, I am realizing the foolishness of my hopes. Mr. Spalding is just the dearest, the sweetest gentleman I have ever met, but he must have realized that he is quite too important in Society to consider showing an interest in a Nobody like me.”

  Victoria suddenly realized she was feeling even sorrier for her youthful chaperone than she was for herself. After all, at least she herself had not been foolish enough to consider that Patrick’s impulsive actions at the theatre had really meant anything, had she? She shook her head emphatically and picked up her spectacles, once more anchoring the thin metal arms firmly around her ears. “True love does not regard such mundane things as social prominence as obstacles, Emma,” she said kindly, knowing she sounded like one of the birdwitted characters in the marble-backed romances she loved so well. “If Mr. Spalding is genuinely attracted to you, he will find his way to Ablemarle Street—if not today, then very soon.”

  Emma looked across at Victoria, who had already picked up the journal again and was now looking completely engrossed in what she found there. “You’re so very level-headed, Victoria,” she breathed in real admiration. “Another young woman would have let her head be turned upon finding herself the recipient of the attentions of anyone as handsome and rich and well placed as the Earl of Wickford—but you have not let it deter you so much as a jot from your original plan of unmasking your dear departed father’s murderer.”