“I wish you would choose other words.”
“I cannot think of any better ones.”
With a sigh, she whispered, “Neither can I.”
Chapter Seven
“Mama, it is perfect!” Daphne was lying on Priscilla’s bed with her chin propped on her hands.
Aunt Cordelia walked around Priscilla and pinched the pleats in the pale yellow sleeves and readjusted the fall of the skirt. “I do wish you had chosen some other color, Priscilla. Yellow does not seem right for a wedding.”
“Why not?” Priscilla asked, turning with care to look at her appearance in the cheval glass. The dress still had many pins, because the modiste had not finished it. Neither the creamy yellow in the sleeves and underdress nor the richer yellow lace draped over the skirt were garish. The square neckline was modest as befit a bride. “I love this sunny color.”
“And you cannot be thinking to wear that chain.” Aunt Cordelia shuddered.
Looking down at the gold chain Neville had given her, Priscilla said, “It goes well with the dress.”
“But wearing the ring you received the day you and Lazarus wed is absurd.”
“I would like to think Lazarus is part of this wedding, too.” She went to the bed and smiled at Daphne. “In so many ways.”
“That is absurd,” Aunt Cordelia insisted. “If he were there, then you would not be wedding that man."
Priscilla decided her aunt was the one being absurd, but to say that would hurt her aunt’s feelings. So instead, she changed the topic to what Aunt Cordelia would be wearing to the ceremony.
When Daphne jumped off the bed and went to get the gown she had chosen for a soiree that evening, Priscilla undressed. The gown still had work to be done, but the seamstress had assured her it would be completed before the wedding.
Aunt Cordelia waited until Priscilla’s abigail had left the room before saying, “Priscilla, there is far too much talk about how you have become enmeshed in another investigation of murder.”
“You know Harmony Lummis was my friend. If Daphne were not being fired-off, I would have gone to the country to attend her funeral.” She brushed her messed hair, giving her an excuse not to face her aunt. “The very least I can do is help find her murderer.”
‘That is a task for Bow Street.”
“Which they are not doing well.”
“Do you think you can do better, Priscilla?” Aunt Cordelia moved to where Priscilla could not avoid her stern face. “If you will not consider your reputation, think of your daughter’s.”
Priscilla put her brush on the dressing table. “I am thinking of my children. I have tried to raise them to do what is right.”
“Even Neville believes you should not be chasing a killer now. You should listen to him. He is going to be your husband, and it is a wife’s place to heed her husband’s counsel.”
She was unsure which outrageous statement to respond to first. Aunt Cordelia had always been headstrong, and, if she had ever obeyed the counsel of any of her husbands, Priscilla had seen no sign of it Even more amazing was her aunt supporting a decision Neville had made.
Saying something that her aunt must have taken as assent, Priscilla quickly changed the subject again. She could not wait to tell Neville about her aunt’s comments. How he would laugh!
Or would he? He had been sincere when he said he did not want to be part of another investigation. Was it possible that he and her aunt were right this single time that they were in agreement? Yes, it was possible, but that altered nothing, because one thing remained the same and it would not change. Priscilla owed her friend the duty of finding out the truth.
The high-ceilinged room was hot and too crowded and shrill with voices trying to be heard over the orchestra. The scents of perfume battled with sweat and cigar smoke drifting from a nearby room where the gentlemen could withdraw to raise a cloud and enjoy gambling.
Priscilla waved her fan in front of her face. Even that gave her little more than a hint of fresh air. She would have moved toward one of the trio of open doors, but none would allow her as clear a view of the dance floor as she had here.
She smiled when Daphne glanced in her direction from where she was dancing beneath a great brass and crystal chandelier and waved to Priscilla. Her daughter was thrilled to be attending her first assembly and even more agog that she had been approached by a young gentleman before the beginning of each dance.
Priscilla was not surprised. Daphne was a comely sight in her pristine white gown. Even the lace on her sleeves and the ruffle at the dress’s hem were white.
Small flowers of the same hue were twisted through her blond hair, where a single curl glided down to her shoulder to accent her flawless skin. She was smiling as she took the hand of a handsome young man whose tawny curls edged his face. There was nothing effeminate about the man, for his jaw was straight and his shoulders wide enough to make Daphne appear fragile beside him.
An illusion, Priscilla knew, for her daughter had shown in recent months that she had inherited her mother’s strong will and her father’s quiet determination. Any young man who failed to perceive that would be in for a jolt the first time Daphne spoke her mind.
With a smile, Priscilla recalled her own first assembly. Aunt Cordelia and her father had been there to watch over her, but she had paid them little mind once she was introduced to Lazarus Flanders. He had recently completed his divinity studies and was looking forward to being assigned to his first church. His easy wit and sense of humor had shown her that he might be serious about his calling, but he had a cockeyed view of life she found very appealing. Within minutes, she would have sworn she had known him for years. Within weeks, she had known she wanted to spend the rest of their lives together.
“I wish you could be here tonight, Lazarus,” she whispered. “Would you be a protective papa as Daphne seeks what we were so lucky to find?”
Tears filled her eyes, blurring the image of Daphne swirling about with the young man whose hair was only a shade darker than hers. Not sad tears, for she would not have wished for Lazarus to linger in pain, but happy tears that they had been blessed with those years together.
“How could such a lovely lady be ignored by all the
young bucks?” asked a deep, dear voice from behind her.
“There are many lovelier and younger women to draw the attention of those dashing young men, Neville.”
He stepped forward to stand beside her. No matter how many times she had seen him dressed in his finest, the sight threatened to steal her breath as her heart pounded against her chest. The same style of black coat and white breeches were worn by many of the gentlemen in the room, but they seemed designed specifically with Neville in mind.
“I will agree with the latter, because one cannot argue with the passing of the days.” He chuckled as he lifted her gloved hand to his lips. “But I shall never accede to the former. There is no woman lovelier than you in this room or any other.”
‘They do say that love is blind.”
“Rather blinded by your beauty.”
She laughed. She could not halt herself.
“Pris, other women would be flattered by such flummery.” His smile was boyish. “Why do I have to be inflicted with one who can see it is flummery aimed at getting her to give me the smile that makes her more beautiful?”
“I ask you to be honest with me, Neville. I cannot treat you with less than the same honesty.”
“An occasional slip in that direction would not hurt my feelings.”
She raised her fan to her face and fluttered her eyelashes as she looked over it. “My dear Neville,” she said in a simpering voice, “I daresay I shall swoon if you continue.”
“Egad, spare me, Pris.”
“I have until you asked otherwise.”
“And you will always do what I ask?” He gave her a rakish leer.
“Yes, whenever it proves to you that you are wrong.” He roared with laughter, and heads turned. As women bent to whisp
er behind fans, Priscilla put her hand on Neville’s arm. He was like no one else in the room, and she did not want him to change, even if his ways often shocked the ton . . . and her.
Lowering her own voice, she asked, “Have you seen anything out of the ordinary?”
“No, but if robbery was the reason for the lady’s death,” he answered, taking care not to speak Lady Lummis’s name, which would draw more attention to their conversation, “this evening’s gathering is a paradise to a finger-smith.”
“Why would a thief bother to pick pockets when there are so many baubles glittering on the guests?”
“As long as no thief takes this.” He lifted her left hand where she wore the sapphire and pearl ring he had given her two months before.
“I doubt that either of us will allow that to happen.” He smiled, but then asked, “Who is that dancing with Daphne?”
“Burke Witherspoon.”
“The marquess?”
“Yes.” She laughed. “You sound like a suspicious father, Neville.”
“Suspicious?”
She patted his arm again. “That some other man might be paying attention to Daphne.”
“It is our obligation to act as chaperons, is it not?”
“Yes,” she said in the same jesting tone she had used before. “Do you know Lord Witherspoon, Neville?”
“I have seen him occasionally at the homes of mutual friends. He inherited his tide almost at the same time as your son did, and he appears to take his duties seriously. All in all, I would say he is a good chap with a fine sense of humor.”
“He will need one if he decides to call on Daphne.” His eyes grew wide. “Aren’t you making plans quite early on, Pris?”
“This is the second time they have danced tonight.” She smiled. “I believe he has spoken to some of his friends and asked them to step aside and let him dance with Daphne.”
“How do you know others planned to dance with her? Not that I am surprised Daphne is the center of attention. She resembles you, after all.”
“I received calls from several mothers and sisters in the past week. Each was interested in arranging for their sons or brothers to have a dance with Daphne tonight. It would appear, in spite of Aunt Cordelia’s concern, the family’s reputation remains sparkling.” He slipped his arm around her waist. “Those admirers may be waiting their turns.”
“No, for they have allowed Lord Witherspoon to dance with Daphne twice now.”
“Can I assume you have spies throughout the room?”
She laughed as she touched his cheek lightly. “Dear Neville, how can you be so much a part of the ton and yet be unaware of how it works? Daphne has dozens of watch-dogs tonight, each one reporting to me anything they deem out of the ordinary.”
“And Witherspoon’s arranging to dance with her more than once is something quite out of the ordinary?”
“Very much so.” Her smile fell away. “I am glad it is the only peculiar thing tonight.”
“It is not.”
‘What?”
He lowered his voice. “Have you noticed that nobody speaks one lady’s name?”
“No, I had not.”
‘That is because you are too intent on your daughter.” Slanting toward her, he drew her hand with her fan up as if he wanted to examine it “Don’t you find it odd, Pris, that there is no bibble-babble about the late lady?”
Priscilla scanned the room. The smiling dancers turned through the pattern dictated by the music. Clumps of guests gathered along the walls, talking while they watched the dancers. No cloud of worry seemed to linger over any brow.
“Her husband and son were not well received,” she said.
“But the lady was a member of the Polite World, and she suffered an appalling fate. When servants died under curious conditions on Bedford Square last year, the ton talked endlessly of it. Why would they be silent about one of their own?”
“They might believe if they ignore the matter, it will be as if it never happened.”
He grimaced. “I shall never understand the ton, Pris. Hiding like a fox in a hedgerow does not keep the hounds from the chase.”
“I would like to believe her death was a singular incident.”
“So would I.” His voice was as grim as his face. Then his smile returned, suggesting his only care was finding a glass of something cool to drink.
Priscilla looked over her shoulder to discover a man she did not know walking toward them. His hair was a brownish-red, and his face suggested he had spent too much time in the sun. Not only was it almost die same shade as his hair, but it was peeling across his cheekbones. Although she thought his riding boots out of place, the rest of his clothing, from his dark blue coat to his silver breeches, were appropriate for the gathering.
“What happened to you, Dentford?” asked Neville. “Too much sun, as you can see.” The man rubbed at his face, and she guessed the flaking skin was itchy.
Neville put his hand on Priscilla’s arm. “Dentford, have you been introduced to Lady Priscilla Flanders?”
“Your betrothed?” The red-faced man grinned as he bowed over her hand. “It is a pleasure, my lady, to meet the woman who finally snared such a wily man. He has long avoided finding himself standing in front of a parson.”
“Pay him no mind,” Neville ordered with a chuckle. “Pris, this is Theodore Dentford, fourth viscount.”
“It is a pleasure,” she said.
The viscount smiled in her direction, but became serious when he turned back to Neville. “Have I heard rightly? Are you involved in that messy business involving Harmony Lummis?”
“If you speak of her death, then, yes, we are involved in trying to figure out who did such a horrible thing.” He put his arm around Priscilla’s shoulders.
“We?” squeaked Lord Dentford. He recovered himself enough to add, “I mean no insult, my lady. Such pursuits are usually not of interest to women.”
“Nor to most gentlemen,” Priscilla replied. “It is fortunate that Neville has an aptitude for seeing what others overlook.”
Lord Dentford cleared his throat. “I heard Lord Lummis and his son have left Town.”
“Not surprising.” Neville sighed. “No doubt they wish to bury the lady in the family’s private plot.”
“True, true. So you think Lummis had nothing to do with the crime?”
“It is too early to say.”
“Oh, my.”
Priscilla asked, “What is wrong, Lord Dentford?”
“Nothing to worry yourself about, my lady.” He squared his shoulders. “My wife has been unsettled by the attack on Lady Lummis. She had intended to attend the theater that night and spend some time in conversation with the late lady, and now she is distressed by the multitude of rumors flying in every direction.”
“Rumors?” she asked.
“Rumors of infidelity and jealousy and retribution.” Neville’s laugh sounded forced. “There is always such talk in the wake of such a tragedy.”
“True, true.”
“Who has spoken these rumors to Lady Dentford?”
“Her friends, I suppose.”
“And they are?”
Lord Dentford frowned, his face growing a deeper crimson. ‘Why are you interrogating me, Hathaway?” Priscilla answered, hoping she could calm the viscount before his rising voice was noticed by others. “Neville and I were speaking of how nobody here tonight seemed to be discussing Lady Lummis’s unfortunate death. That fact makes us curious who is speaking of it.”
“Forgive me, my lady,” the viscount said, bowing his head toward her. “The whole of this matter is so upsetting that I find myself on edge. My wife earlier today received Lady Cordelia Dexter. I believe they spoke of the rumors.”
‘Thank you, Lord Dentford.” She managed to smile but she was disappointed. She was unsure why, because having Aunt Cordelia discussing the murder with Lady Dentford was more commonplace than the guests ignoring it.
“You are welcome.” He scratche
d his cheek, then
jerked his fingers away as if abruptly realizing what he was doing. “Good evening, my lady, Hathaway.”
As he walked away, Neville cursed under his breath. “Have pity on him,” Priscilla said almost as softly. “He is seeking comfort for his wife.”
“Foolish woman. Whether she was present or not might have made no difference about what took place. She has no reason to wallow in guilt.”
“But I understand how she feels.”
He turned her to face him. “Pris, I thought you wiser than that.”
“I know with the logical part of my brain that there was nothing I could have done to halt the murder. Even if I had spent every minute with her, the murderer might have stalked her at another time to steal her brooch and slay her. I know that! But still, there is a small voice within me that says there must have been something I could have done differently to insure the lady remained alive.”
“I understand.”
She clasped his hands and lifted them between their chests. “You do, don’t you?”
“How many times have I thought if I had peeked past the draperies at the back of our box sooner that I would have seen the murderer emerging from her box?”
“But would you have known he was the murderer? Such criminals do not wear brands upon their foreheads to show their intentions.”
“If the man had been out of place there—”
“Do you think that likely? I would suspect, because nobody noticed anything out of place, the killer is either a member of the theater troupe or a member of the ton."
The Wedding Caper Page 9
