The fence drew back. Pulling out a handkerchief, he held it to his nose. “It is dangerous to try to resell items that have been stolen.”
“It be dangerous to lift these items, too. My missus, she be good at it.” He winked bawdily at Priscilla. “She works at the theater. Cleanin’ up things, y’know. She found these in a box there.” He grasped Priscilla’s arm and gave her a rather rough tug forward. “Speak up, woman. Tell the man wot ye know.”
She fired him a scowl that would have daunted even him if he thought it was genuine. “Let me go, ye son of a sow.” Jerking her arm out of his grip, she came forward to bat her eyelashes at the fence. “Came from a fine lady who ’as no need of them.”
He bent to open a drawer behind him and reached in to pull out a magnifying glass. A glitter within the drawer caught the light.
“There it be!” cried Priscilla. “There be the brooch I told ye the fine lady was wearin’.”
Carter slammed the drawer closed. “You are mistaken.”
“I saw it with m’own two eyes. At the theater and ’ere. In the drawer there.”
“You are mistaken. Why don’t you leave?”
Neville took the fence by the lapels, but did not pull Carter toward him. With his hat tipped down over his face, he doubted the fence could see his features. “Don’t call m’woman a liar. She said she saw it. So she saw it.”
“Same one as the lady wore,” said Priscilla. “Fine brooch with blue stones in it. I wanted it, but I couldn’t lift it right off ’er chest.”
Still holding Carter, Neville motioned with his head for her to go around the counter. The fence warned them not to do something out of hand. Neville remained silent as he watched Priscilla open the drawer and lift out the brooch. Her fingers were trembling, and he hoped she could maintain the masquerade
while holding the piece of jewelry that had been stolen from her late friend.
He was amazed at her acting ability when she tossed the brooch onto the counter next to where Carter was trying to wiggle away. There was an air of indifference in her motion as she came back around the counter.
Giving the fence a shake, he ordered, “Ye owe m’woman an apology.”
“For her pawing through my drawers?”
“No,fer makin’ye see this” Neville shoved the man back a step and picked up the brooch. Setting it next to the earrings, he said, “See.”
Carter’s eyes sparkled with avarice. “Yes, I do see.” He held the earring up against the brooch to compare the gold and the stones. ‘They do look similar.”
“They should,” Priscilla retorted even as her fingernails dug into Neville’s arm. “Same lady wore them.”
“A woman who was murdered,” Neville said, dropping the street accent and pushing his hat back from his brow. He wore a terse smile.
“Hathaway! ” gasped Carter. His surprise became fury. “I should have guessed you would be behind a stunt like this.”
“Like what?” He scooped up the jewelry. ‘This is no stunt. I am trying to find where this stolen brooch had been sold. Who brought it to you?”
Carter scowled as he adjusted his coat. “Who sent you? Bow Street? I thought you had become some sort of sir.”
“This is personal, Carter. The jewelry was stolen from Lady Priscilla’s friend.”
The fence dropped onto a stool behind the counter. Looking at Priscilla, he tried to choke out something. He could only stare. She gave him her iciest smile, resisting her urge to put him at ease. This
man did not deserve the manners she used with the Polite World or her neighbors in Stonehall-on-Sea. He made a profit from the misfortunes of others.
“Speak up, Carter,” Neville said. “Who brought this brooch to you after killing Lady Lummis?”
“Killed?” he whispered, his face becoming gray. “I had no idea anyone had been killed.”
“Who brought it?”
As the fence began describing the man who had brought the brooch and other small pieces of jewelry to the shop, Neville felt his stomach cramp. The description of a well-spoken blond man fit Reginald Birdwell perfectly. Beside him, Priscilla gasped.
“Do you know the man?” asked Carter.
“Mayhap.” He put the jewelry under his coat. The fence did not protest. Neville did not expect him to, because Carter knew if he did, Thurmond would be sent to retrieve the brooch and put him out of business. “If he comes back again, send a message here.” He set a card on the counter. “I trust you can devise some way to persuade him to linger long enough for me to arrive.”
“If I try to keep him here, he will get suspicious and run.”
“Use whatever methods you have short of killing the man.” He rested his hands on the counter again. “Double-deal with me on this, Carter, and you will be sorry.” Pushing away from the counter, he cupped Priscilla’s elbow and led her out of the shop.
She said nothing, and neither did he, but he knew her thoughts were identical to his. Had Birdwell lied? Had he really killed his mistress?
Chapter Ten
St. Julian’s Church near Bedford Square was a grand edifice. Corinthian columns marched in perfect precision along its front, reaching the roof far above the doorway. Over the door was a great arched window. Its stained glass depicted the tablets of the Ten Commandments in letters large enough to be read from the floor. During morning services, the colors splashed onto the walnut pews within the sanctuary. A pulpit of the same wood, simply carved, could be reached only by climbing a quartet of stairs. Above it, the sounding board hung like the hand of doom. Candles always burned on the altar and on a metal stand set to one side of the church.
But its most magnificent aspect was the pipe organ that took up most of the western wall. Its pipes slipped up through the choir loft to boom music against the ceiling. The organist played, hidden, behind a purple velvet drapery, moving from light melodies to imposing hymns that threatened to shake the church’s foundations.
In a pew halfway back along the black-and-white tiled floor, Priscilla sat with Neville and her children. The service had gone long this morning, and Isaac was squirming in his seat. Leah had yawned more than once behind her gloved fingers, and Daphne
seemed intent on appraising every young man attending this service. That last fact made Priscilla especially glad when the notes of the recessional exploded from the organ and those sitting in the pews began to rise.
She could not fault the children for being unsettled when she was as well. Instead of listening to the sermon, she had found her mind wandering to Harmony’s murder and the fence’s description, which identified Mr. Birdwell as the man who had come to the shop. Several days had passed, and nothing new had emerged from the clues. Even Neville had said nothing about the crime this morning. Was he waiting anxiously, as she was, for the killer to appear again from the shadows? Would it be the actor?
When Neville offered his arm as she stepped out into the aisle between the pews, she put her fingers on it. His smile became a frown, and she guessed he had sensed, through his dark green coat, the tremble in her fingers.
“Not here,” she whispered before he could ask the question in his eyes. “And not when the children could hear.”
He nodded and led her out of the church. As they spilled onto the walkway with the other worshipers, she did not slow. He said nothing as she motioned for him to walk around the line of parishioners waiting to greet the reverend.
Priscilla paused when she realized Daphne was not keeping pace with them. Looking back, she saw two men giving her daughter overly warm smiles. She tugged on Daphne’s arm, and her daughter stumbled after them. Daphne’s face was an enticing pink, but Priscilla did not want those two men—one a well- known rogue and the other a married man whose wife had recently given birth to his fourth son—to find anything enticing about Daphne.
The men’s smiles vanished, and she discovered Neville was aiming a frown in their direction. Daphne scurried to catch up with her brother and sister. Her face remaine
d rosy, and a smile played at the corners of her lips.
“Something is upsetting you, Pris,” Neville said as they continued walking toward where her carriage waited.
“That is easy to guess.” She glanced toward her older daughter, who was paying no attention to her siblings’ prattle.
“Not just Daphne’s sudden rush of admirers, for you expected that.”
“Mayhap, but not at church. I thought they would show some restraint here.” She tried to smile, then gave up, for her strained expression must be ghastly.
“So there must be something else disconcerting you. Could it be the banns that were read as part of this morning’s service? One week of banns read, two more to go.” He grinned. “You still have time to change your mind.”
“Don’t change your mind, Mama!” said Isaac, bouncing from one foot to the other.
“Ah, a vote in my favor.” Neville lifted one finger.
“Me, too!” Leah raised her hand, waving it as if she feared she would not be seen, although there was no one else near them on the walkway. “Don’t change your mind, Mama.”
Priscilla laughed, grateful for Neville’s jesting to keep dismal thoughts from her mind, and put her hand on Isaac’s shoulder to keep him from skipping into a puddle. “I did not know that the question of whether Neville and I wed or not had become a democratic decision.”
“Quite true.” Neville wore a mockly stern frown as he bent toward the two children. “There appears to be only one vote that has any weight in this decision, and it is your mother’s.”
Leah and Isaac looked expectantly toward her. Daphne was still staring at the two men again giving her warm smiles.
Shaking her head and putting her hand on Daphne’s arm to remind her daughter of her manners, Priscilla asked, “Why are you being silly? Have I given you any hint that I have changed my mind? I think you would be wiser to consider the fact that Neville may change his mind. I understand there is quite a bit of money wagered on whether he actually will show up at our wedding.”
“How did you know about that?” he asked, obviously surprised as the children badgered him not to change his mind. Calming them with a few words and motioning for them to get into the carriage, he said, “You are an endless amazement to me, Pris. Where do you get your information?”
“All one needs to do is listen. I heard whispers during the church service, and I believe more than a few bets were placed at the recent assembly.”
“You said nothing of this.”
“I saw no need.” She laughed again. “And why wouldn’t there be bets on our wedding? The gentlemen will wager on just about anything.”
“But one should only wager when there is some question to the outcome.” He drew her hand within his arm. ‘Those placing bets that I will not be there to speak wedding vows with you are condemned to lose.”
“Mayhap I should have you place a bet for me.”
“You?” He gave her a horrified glance. “A parson’s widow? Gambling? I apparently have been as atrocious an influence on you as your aunt believes.”
Priscilla ran her other hand along his sleeve. “No one could be as atrocious an influence on me as Aunt Cordelia believes you are.”
“Where is your aunt this morning?”
“Can I dare to believe you miss her?”
He laughed. “As one would miss a burr in one’s leg if it falls off. I had thought she would be here for the reading of the banns.”
“I suspect she was delayed on her visit to Grosvenor Square. She planned to give her second husband’s third daughter’s first daughter a look-in before church this morning. Matilda recently gave birth to her fifth child, the long awaited son.”
“How do you keep track of all the numbers in your aunt’s family?”
She smiled. “It is not easy when Aunt Cordelia married three times, and each of her husbands had children with their first wives.”
“Children she never had to raise herself.”
“Aunt Cordelia always has been interested in men much older than herself.” She cocked her head and paused on the walkway. “Until she met your friend Duncan last fall. She asked me if I thought you would be upset if he invited himself to stay with you for the wedding.”
“McAndrews? I had no idea that she had given him much thought since she last saw him.”
“Apparently she has.” She stepped up into the carriage with the tiger’s help. When Neville sat next to her, she included the children in her smile as she said, “It appears you may be a better matchmaker than you guessed, Neville. Who would have guessed you would have such influence on Aunt Cordelia?”
Isaac leaned forward and, putting his hand to his mouth, whispered, “Aunt Cordelia really does like you, Uncle Neville.”
“Is that so?” He glanced at Priscilla who was struggling not to smile. “I suspected your aunt might have mellowed in her feelings toward me since our visit to Cornwall a few months ago.”
“She has said your name a few times.”
“Kindly?”
Isaac paused to consider the question, and Neville did not restrain his laughter. Ruffling the lad’s hair, he sat back and stretched his arm along the back of the seat.
When his fingers brushed her shoulder, all thoughts of anything but his touch vanished from Priscilla’s head. Later, she would tell him about her grim thoughts during the church service. She hoped he would keep the dreary notions out of her mind for the rest of the day.
Neville yawned as he stepped into his house on Berkeley Square. Dash it! These trips to and from Bedford Square were becoming tiresome. Propriety was an infuriating taskmaster, but he knew Priscilla would not be budged from following the strictures set by Society. Nothing must taint Daphne’s first Season. If he had been thinking clearly instead of concentrating on how much he longed to hold Priscilla, he would have tried to persuade her to hold off another year on firing-off Daphne. It would not have taken much convincing, because he knew she was worried that Daphne was still too young, in spite of her burgeoning maturity, to be a part of the ton.
He laughed tonelessly as he handed his hat and cloak to Stoddard, his butler. The man was unlike Priscilla’s majordomo. Gilbert seldom revealed any emotion. Stoddard’s face beneath his graying hair displayed each one, most commonly dismay at something Neville had done or was doing.
Neville had inherited the household staff along with the town house and his title. Stoddard seemed determined to remake Neville into the form of his Hathaway ancestors, something Neville had no intention of becoming. Most of them, if he were to believe the tales, preferred drinking and gambling to anything else in life. His predecessor, Sir Mortimer Hathaway, had been quite the opposite, never spending a farthing unless absolutely forced to. He had closeted himself in the Berkeley Square house with his art and the few friends he had. Mayhap that was why there had been no direct heir, and the tide had come to the son of a disowned branch of the family.
“Good evening, sir,” Stoddard said, his tone reproving.
Wondering what he had done now to distress his butler, Neville smiled. “It has been a very pleasant evening.”
“Now that Lady Priscilla has returned to Town.” The butler went along the hallway leading toward the back of the house and the door down into the kitchen. He paused beside the staircase, which rose as straight as a soldier’s gun barrel at one side of the foyer. Behind him, a niche was edged with gilt and held a vase with fresh flowers. “You have a caller, sir.”
“A caller? At this hour?” He did not bother to dress Stoddard down for failing to mention the caller until now. It would do no good, because his butler believed that Neville was the one who needed training in how a house should properly be run. Mayhap it was Thurmond, who had taken the information Neville brought about Carter and the brooch. The Bow Street Runner could have discovered something important.
“Yes, sir. He is waiting in the front parlor.” His nose wrinkled. “He requested that I not send word to Lady Priscilla’s house that he had
arrived.”
Curious at who was calling and why the caller had made the butler even more disgruntled, Neville climbed the stairs past the paintings and statues set in niches along the stairwell. He barely glanced at them as he slid his hand up the walnut banister, but reminded himself that many of the pieces the previous baronet had collected must be disposed of when Priscilla came here to live. She would not appreciate receiving guests when erotic statues and paintings were scattered everywhere.
Or would she want to come here to live? This house was grander than her Bedford Square house, but not as big. Dash it! He had to remember to discuss that matter with her.
Neville swept those thoughts from his head when he reached the top of the stairs and saw a familiar freckled face beneath black curls. A pinch of disappointment that Thurmond was not calling vanished as he smiled at his friend Duncan McAndrews. Duncan was shorter than he was, but had a way of drawing everyone’s attention whenever he entered a room. It might have been his good humor or the fact that he was not a stingy Scot when he sat at the card table.
His friend was, Neville noted, none the worse for almost being killed by a crossbow arrow last fall. He should not be surprised, for nothing slowed Duncan for long.
“Duncan! I had heard you were planning to take advantage of my hospitality again.” He clapped his friend on the shoulder before motioning toward the book- room he preferred to the fancy parlors. One of these days, he would have to have the house redone in a manner that better suited him. He chuckled. If they decided to live here, that task would become Priscilla’s.
“What is amusing?” Duncan laughed before adding in his heavy Scottish brogue, “No, there is no need to answer. I see by your moony expression that your thoughts are focused on the lovely Lady Priscilla.”
The Wedding Caper Page 13
