He became abruptly serious. “More trouble is the very last thing we need, Pris.”
Neville was unsure what excuse Priscilla used to persuade her aunt that the call upon Birdwell was so important it could not be delayed. Whatever it was, Aunt Cordelia must have accepted it because, within the hour, Priscilla was sitting beside him in his phaeton as they drove toward the address Reeve had given them.
An address near Grosvenor Square. That had been a surprise. Few actors could afford to live in a grand neighborhood. Then he had realized Birdwell could not have bought the house himself. Drawing the carriage to a stop, he looked in the other direction and saw the fine facades of the houses edging Grosvenor Square.
“You might wish to suggest,” Priscilla said as he handed her out of the carriage, “that Mr. Birdwell become the patron of the Prince of Wales Theater instead of you.”
He straightened the brim of her bonnet, which was decorated with small pink roses. “His money may not be his own.”
“All the more reason for him to risk it on his next play.”
“Pris, sometimes you put your finger right on the crux of the problem.”
She slipped her hand on his arm and smiled. “Surely these are thoughts you have considered yourself.”
“Do you think I would own to it if I had not?” He savored her lyrical laugh while he chided himself. Instead of letting his mind dwell on how Birdwell was living in such luxury, he should have been focusing on what they might learn about Lady Lummis’s death.
The door was opened by a footman who had the appearance of a man wishing he was anywhere but where he was. He bowed his head, not meeting their eyes as he murmured, “Mr. Birdwell is not at home.”
“Not again,” muttered Priscilla.
Neville patted her hand on his arm as he recalled what she had told him during the drive about her call at Lord Lummis’s house. “Reeve requested we call at this hour. I believe we are expected.”
“Tom are Sir Neville and Lady Priscilla?” The footman’s head snapped up, revealing freckles splattered across a pug nose.
“Did you expect someone else?”
“No,” the footman said, even though his expression belied his words.
Had the man feared he would find Lord Lummis standing on the steps? Or some other capricornified husband ready to demand satisfaction on the dueling green? Birdwell needed to be more circumspect with his affairs.
“Come in! Come in please.” The footman stepped back and yanked the door open so wide that the hinges protested with a squeal.
Neville drew Priscilla into the house with him, not letting her lift her hand off his arm. As long as there was the slightest possibility Birdwell had arranged for Lady Lummis’s murder, Neville intended to keep Priscilla in sight at all times. He almost laughed at the thought. He did not need a reason to want to keep her close, but he would take advantage of any excuse.
When the footman excused himself to announce them, Neville looked at the gold leaf decorating the plaster of the ceiling medallions. He could not keep from grinning. “Birdwell’s mistress kept him well cared for. Or, should I say, his mistresses?”
She did not answer, and he saw her staring at where black velvet portieres fringed with six inch long tassels smoothed the sharp corners of the doorways. Crystal and silver glistened in the multitude of candles burning on every available surface with the scent of sweet herbs.
“I knew Birdwell liked an extravagant life, but I had no idea he had illusions of living at Versailles,” Neville continued.
‘This is finer than Lord Lummis’s house,” she said, walking toward a niche that held a golden statue of a barely draped woman. “Do you know what dowry the lady brought with her into the marriage?”
“No, but it could not have been overly generous. Her family is not as rich as a nabob’s. I would describe them as comfortable. Nothing more.”
“Her abigail did say Lord Lummis was distressed with the amount of money his wife was spending. He—”
When Priscilla clamped her lips closed, Neville heard footsteps on the marble risers of the staircase. The footman returned, wearing a dismayed expression. Listening to the man babble about how Mr. Birdwell would not receive anyone now, Neville allowed him to go on until he took a breath.
Then Neville said, ‘Thank you for announcing us. You need not escort us to where Birdwell is hiding. You need only to direct us there.”
He thought he would get a refusal, but the footman nodded and gave directions to where Birdwell was. As soon as he was done, the footman rushed toward a door beneath the stairs, opened it, and vanished through it. The door slammed behind him.
Neville laughed. The footman could not have made his message more clear. He did not want to be nearby when Neville and Priscilla routed Birdwell from his hiding place.
“Ready, Pris?” he asked.
She nodded, and he frowned. It was unlike Priscilla to be tight-lipped. He was accustomed to her having a perceptive comment on everything and everyone around them. Her face was blank, and her gaze turned inward. She must be deep in thought.
Putting his foot on the first riser, Neville slid his fingers on the smooth banister which flowed up from the ground floor. The white marble risers were immaculately clean. He looked back when he did not hear Priscilla following. She was standing on the bottom step, but had not put her foot on the next one.
“What is wrong, Pris?”
“I don’t know. Something is not right, but I am not sure what. I have this unmistakable feeling of dread.
“Mayhap your own good sense is telling you to flee from Birdwell’s company.”
“It is not amusing, Neville. We are overlooking something. Something vitally important.”
“Standing here will not help you remember it. Speaking with Birdwell might.”
“Possibly.”
He walked back to her. Putting his hand under her elbow, he urged her up the stairs. She went without comment, astounding him again.
A maidservant waited at the top, but said nothing as she scurried past them down the steps, averting her face. Was she trying to hide her thoughts or simply attempting to be as far from Birdwell’s room as possible when Neville insisted the actor receive them?
The upper hall was bright with sunshine and the glint of more gold. He whistled tunelessly. “One would guess King Midas resided within these walls. How much gilt does one man need?”
“Gilt! ” gasped Priscilla as her fingers dug into his sleeve and his arm. “That is what we have not considered. Harmony was robbed of a gold brooch. I believe after the other thefts reported, it is safe to assume her murderer took it.”
“Yes.” He tapped his chin. The thievery had fallen out of his thoughts, because it seemed such a minor crime in comparison with murder.
“Why would Birdwell wish to steal from a woman who gave him all of this?” She spread her hands out to encompass the hallway and the gilded tables along the wall between the doors.
“We can only conjecture which items are from the late lady. Birdwell has many very good lady friends who feel they need to give him gifts in return for his performances. ”
“That is one way of describing such an arrangement.” A smile tugged on the corners of her lips.
He wondered if he had ever seen a more welcome sight, but said, “Birdwell is one more floor above.” He held out his hand as he began up the stairs.
She did not take it. Instead she walked toward a door that was half ajar. When she drew in a sharp breath—the same sound she had made when she saw Lady Lummis’s corpse—he jumped down from the stairs and ran to her. He steeled himself to look over her head, preparing himself for the horrible sight of Birdwell lying in his own lifeblood.
All he saw were wooden crates.
“He is packing,” Priscilla said. “He may be getting ready to leave London.”
“Or planning to sell a few items to hire himself good legal counsel.”
“If he believes he is the primary suspect—”
“Which is because of his relationship with Lady Lummis.”
‘Then he wisely is bolting from Town.”
He pushed the door open wider, but, before it went far, it struck what he assumed was a box. “Making himself scarce is sure to aim the finger of accusation at him.”
“Better to be accused than to be hanged.”
Such logic Neville could not argue with, and he did not try. Birdwell had been in a panic last night when Lady Lummis’s corpse was discovered. Had it been the honest emotions of a man who had affection for a generous woman, or had he been acting with a skill he had failed to show on the stage?
Going into the room, which was painted dark blue, Neville stepped around two wooden crates, then paused by a third that was open. Inside were china cups and a pair of gold candlesticks. On the walls, outlines revealed where paintings had been hung. He guessed they were now in the narrow boxes leaning against a black walnut table of the perfect height to be set by one side of a settee. If there was other furniture in the room, he could not see it past the boxes. The floor was bare, and he thought he saw the fringe of a carpet peeking around crates almost covered by blue brocade draperies.
“Either Birdwell is fleeing,” he said, “or he is clearing the house of everything valuable before his mistress’s husband comes to throw him out.”
“He must know to do that would be enough proof in some people’s minds to label him as the murderer.”
“But not in mine, and, I daresay, not in yours.”
“No.” She winced as she jerked her hand back against a crate. “Bother!”
“A sliver?”
“Yes.” She squinted as she raised her finger closer to her face.
“Allow me, Pris.” He took her hand, settling it on his much broader palm. Easily, he plucked out the sliver. He raised her finger to his lips and kissed it. “Better?”
“Much better.” Her voice had softened to the timbre that resonated with luscious longing throughout him.
His other hand curved along her cheek, and he wondered why he was wasting time trying to track down the killer of a woman he had met only a few times. He could be gazing into Priscilla’s eyes and reveling in the eloquent emotions afire within them. He groaned silently. Three more blasted weeks until he could sample what he wanted to share with her. Yet not all was denied him. He tilted her mouth beneath his. When her lips eased into a smile, he explored their sweetness and smiled.
Her fingertip traced his lips when he raised them from hers. “Are you trying to distract me, Neville?”
“Distract, befuddle, captivate, whatever word you would like to use.” He splayed his fingers across her cheek. “For you do all of that and more to me.”
“Such charming words, Neville.”
“I can be charming when I choose.”
She gave a hushed laugh. “So I have seen. If you would exert some of that charm on Aunt Cordelia—”
“Egad! It is not the charming prince’s job to charm the dragon, but to slay it.” He regretted the words as soon as he spoke them. The beguiling glow in her eyes vanished as she looked away from him and at the crates stacked in the room. Dash it! He had wanted the moment to last longer, but his own words had reminded her of the reason why they had come to Birdwell’s house.
Without saying more, Neville led the way out into the hallway. As they climbed the stairs, Priscilla slipped her hand into his, and he gave her the best smile he could.
“Do not berate yourself,” she said. “Everything reminds me of why we are here.”
“Everything?” He touched her lower lip while he brought her to stand beside him at the top of the staircase.
“Almost everything.”
His answer was overmastered by a string of curses, many of them the low cant of the streets. Past Priscilla, he saw a shadow. The oaths came from that direction. “Birdwell sounds in a vile mood,” he said.
“You would be, too, if you were accused of murdering your paramour.”
Her voice was so matter-of-fact, he was tempted to laugh. He did not when he saw Birdwell by a door at the far end of the hallway.
“What are you doing here?” Birdwell lurched toward him, a nearly empty bottle in his left hand and a full one in his right.
The odor of cheap gin struck Neville like a blow. Birdwell had set aside his taste for blue ruin when he rose through the ranks of actors to enjoy the company of the ton. Mayhap he had given every bottle of wine in the house a black eye, and now he had no choice but to drink gin. Neville stared at the actor’s dishevelment. He had seldom seen Birdwell when the actor was not in prime twig. Even backstage at the theater, when others were wearing old clothes to paint scenery or to practice a scene, Birdwell always appeared ready to enter Almack’s.
“We thought we would give you a look-in to see how you fared,” Neville said.
“A look-in?” His lip curled. “Do not lie to me, Hathaway. Reeve sent you to persuade me to change my mind.”
“Yes.”
“You are wasting your time. How can I change my mind? All the music has left my life. There is no rhyme nor harmony remaining in the world.” Bird- well dropped to sit on a chair near the staircase railing.
Neville was puzzled, then realized the actor was speaking of Lady Lummis.
“How many times,” Birdwell continued, “have you told me, Hathaway, that I need to understand the depths of emotion if I am to achieve the highest acclaim as an actor? I have found the depths of this hell without my beloved Harmony. Will I be cheered when I reveal this pain on the stage? No, for it will chase away patrons who cannot bear to see anyone suffer as I am suffering. People come to the theater to be entertained, not to be made despondent.”
“Shakespeare did not think so.”
Birdwell raised his hands in the air and shrugged. “That was hundreds of years ago. Mayhap the audiences loved tragedies then, but would they have loved a real life tragedy like the one I am enduring?”
“We are sorry for your loss,” Priscilla said with a sincerity Neville doubted he could emulate.
‘Thank you.” Birdwell focused his eyes on her. They widened in astonishment. “Lady Priscilla, I did not realize you were here, too. If I said anything that should not be heard by a lady—”
“Mr. Birdwell, this is a trying time for all of us.”
“I appreciate your kind heart, my lady. Few others see my pain.” He fired a scowl at nobody.
Neville wondered if Birdwell, in his drunken state, saw people who were not present. They will,” he said quietly, “once you start moving everything out of the house.”
“Move?”
“We saw crates in the room downstairs. We assumed you were arranging to leave the house Lady Lummis provided for you.”
Birdwell wove on his feet, but steadied himself against a chair. “Yes, I’m planning to leave. However, most of those crates have been there for weeks. Harmony and I had noticed her favorite gold statue of Pan was not in its usual place on the mantel in the bedroom, so I had the cases opened to see if we could find it.”
“Did you find it?” Priscilla asked, her voice revealing as little emotion as her face.
“Not yet, and I am not taking the time to look now. Mayhap later. For now, I must find somewhere else to live.”
She glanced at Neville with an arched brow. He was sure her thoughts, once again, matched his. Birdwell intended to take as many of those crates with him as he could before Lummis arrived to have him evicted.
“Have you noticed any other things missing, Mr. Birdwell?” she asked.
“Yes. No.” He shrugged and had to grip the chair harder to stay on his feet. “Mayhap. What does it matter?”
‘There were some robberies at the theater.”
“I know, but what does that have to do with Harmony’s missing statue?”
Before Priscilla could answer, Neville asked, “How many people from the theater call here?”
“I don’t keep an accounting.”
“Just a
n estimation would do.”
Birdwell scratched his chin that was covered with a low mat of whiskers. “In the past month or two, Harmony has asked for me to invite the whole cast of whichever play I am the lead actor in.”
‘Just the actors?”
He swore before asking, “Why do you care? Harmony shall not be the hostess of another gathering here.”
“Were Wiggsley or Robertson or any of the other backstage workers in attendance, too?”
“Probably.” He lowered his head. “Harmony loved everything to do with the theater. Lord Lummis does not feel the same, I have learned from his terse note to me this morning.” He tilted back one bottle and took a deep drink. Setting it on the chair, he reached for Priscilla’s hand. His fingers closed almost an inch from hers, but he bowed as if he held her hand. Releasing the hand only he could see, he took a drink from the other bottle. “If you will excuse me, I must prepare for this evening’s performance.”
“Will you be going on tonight?” she asked, her eyes wide.
“The show must not be allowed to fold.”
“Birdwell, Robertson has already closed the show,” Neville said.
“Nonsense. Wiggsley wrote a new ending.” He released the chair and raised his hand. “We will be cheered. The audience will love us. We will ...” He took one step and collapsed.
Neville caught him before he could strike the floor. Gin splattered everywhere. With a grimace, he lowered the unconscious man onto the flowered carpet.
‘That answers one question,” he said as he lifted the bottle which had sprayed them. Setting it on the chair beside the almost empty bottle, he wiped his hands against his spotted coat. “He is not planning to flee from London, but he is getting what he can out of here before Lummis arrives to evict him.”
“So we have learned nothing to help us find Harmony’s killer.”
“No, we are at a dead end.”
The Wedding Caper Page 8
