“That is obvious.” She sighed. “I had assumed I would spend these three weeks before our wedding trying to persuade Aunt Cordelia that I had specific ideas on how the wedding breakfast should be held.”
He smiled before resting her head against his shoulder. “I am astonished that even two murders keep her from giving you her opinions.”
“Duncan is distracting her.”
“I should invite him more often.”
“I believe I shall extend him an open invitation to Mermaid Cottage.”
“He may not want to return to Stonehall-on-Sea after his previous visit there almost ended up being a fatal one.”
She shook her head, then raised it. “He was eager to go to the theater tonight.”
“True. Duncan is always looking for a bit of mayhem.”
“No wonder you two are such good friends.”
He chuckled as she placed her head on his shoulder once more. Wishing the carriage ride could continue forever was an air-dream. They could not escape the madness surrounding them.
Dentford’s house was dark when the carriage halted in front of it. That puzzled Neville. Whenever Priscilla went out, a lamp shone beside the door until she came home, no matter how late the hour.
He said nothing, because he sensed Priscilla’s uneasiness in how tightly she gripped his fingers as he handed her out and went with her to the door. A servant answered it quickly, further proof that Lady Dentford had intended her homecoming not to be noticed. The footman scurried away with Neville’s request to speak to the viscount. He returned and asked them to follow him.
Priscilla’s fingers dug more deeply into his arm as Neville climbed the stairs with her. Blast and bother! He should have taken her back to Bedford Square first. She already had endured the difficulty of telling Lummis about his wife’s fate. She should not have to
suffer through the conversation to come with Dent- ford.
“Pris,” he began.
“I will be fine,” she whispered. “And you may need me.”
“I do need you.” He put his other hand over hers on his arm. “But if you wish to return to the foyer, I will tell Dentford.”
“Thank you, but no.” Her voice was grim, and, when they reached the top of the stairs where a single lamp burned, he could see her face was bleak.
Priscilla was relieved that Neville did not press further. She wanted to be done with this errand, but she must be strong for Lord Dentford ... and for Neville.
Another lamp was burning in a room that was too small for a parlor. Two chairs were set in the corners, and a table topped with a stack of books took up most of the center. Shadowed paintings hung along the walls.
From behind the table, Lord Dentford came to his feet. Surprise exploded across his face as he gasped, “Hathaway! What are you doing here at this hour?” He swallowed quickly, then said, “My lady.”
“We are here,” Neville said, “about Lady Dentford. We have just come from the Prince of Wales Theater.”
‘The theater?” He sat heavily on the chair. “Deuce take it! I told her she was asking for trouble if she continued going there.”
Priscilla said nothing as Neville walked to stand in front of Lord Dentford. The two men were such a contrast. With much of Lord Dentford’s sun scorching peeled away, his skin was a pasty white. Neville’s face was bronzed. Everything about the viscount suggested a gentle upbringing, while Neville retained the coiled wariness he had needed to refine before his life was abruptly altered by his inheritance.
Lord Dentford pushed himself back to his feet. “Why are you inquiring about my wife? What has happened?”
As Neville explained with a serenity Priscilla doubted she could copy, the viscount’s face grew even paler. He almost tumbled back into his chair. Priscilla put out a hand to steady the chair while Neville rang for a servant to bring something strong and strengthening for Lord Dentford.
“And we suspect she was robbed as well,” he said while he filled a glass and shoved it into the viscount’s hand. “Her fingers had been stripped of her rings. If she was wearing any other jewelry, we did not see it.”
“I cannot believe this,” Lord Dentford moaned. He tossed back the contents of the glass and slammed it against the table.
“You mentioned trouble there, Dentford,” Neville said. “Was she threatened by someone?”
The viscount shook his head and groped for the bottle. Finding it, he poured more wine into his glass.
‘Then what sort of trouble?”
He downed the wine. “You know, Hathaway! It is a topic we should not broach in front of Lady Priscilla.”
“I probably do know, but enlighten me.”
Priscilla added, “You may speak plainly, Lord Dentford.”
The viscount’s fingers closed into a fist on the table. “She is fascinated with him.”
“Him?”
“Your friend, Hathaway,” snarled the viscount.
“Who?”
Priscilla held her breath as she waited for Lord Dentford to answer.
“That actor. Birdwell. First he fascinated her with his seductions. Now he has lured her to the theater for an assignation and murdered her.” He pushed past Neville. “I am going to kill that son of a sea-cook.”
She watched Neville try to keep the viscount from storming out of the house to do something stupid. Was it possible? In spite of Miss Ayers’s assertions, had Mr. Birdwell been dallying with another titled woman? His description matched the man who had brought Harmony’s stolen brooch to the fence. One mistress murdered was a tragedy; two were a horror she wanted to deny as impossible.
But it was possible. That she knew all too well.
Chapter Thirteen
Neville smiled during the congratulations from his friends as he emerged with Priscilla from St. Julian’s Church and the second reading of the banns. It was a brittle smile, but nobody seemed to take note. Beside him, her hand stroking his sleeve, Priscilla wore an identical expression.
The message he had sent to Thurmond half a week ago had received no reply. He had been certain the Bow Street Runner would be interested in Lord Dent- ford’s assertion that his wife was involved in an affaire de coeur with Reginald Birdwell. Mayhap Thurmond was busy contacting Carter to discover if anyone had tried to sell him the lady’s rings. The description of them given by Lord Dentford would help Bow Street locate the missing jewelry. One ring had the family’s crest engraved inside where a thief might not notice it
He noted people talking with anxious expressions. The glances toward where he and Priscilla stood with the children announced their whispered conversations involved the topic nobody spoke of openly. Two dead women at the Prince of Wales Theater and a murderer who had not been captured.
Even the children were subdued when they returned to the carriage to go to Bedford Square. Aunt Cordelia, who had joined them for the service, agreed
to stop by later, and Neville suspected she was hoping for a call from Duncan as an excuse not to have to come to the house while he was there.
He had been surprised to see her in church this morning, because he had doubted she could restrain herself when the pastor said: “I publish the Banns of Marriage between Sir Neville Hathaway of St. Julian’s parish, London, and Lady Priscilla Flanders of St. Julian’s parish, London. If any of you know cause, or just impediment, why these two persons should not be joined together in holy matrimony, ye are to declare it. This is the second time of asking.”
He chuckled at the thought of how Aunt Cordelia’s mouth had become a straight line, as if she were fighting her yearning to jump to her feet and denounce the coming marriage in front of the parishioners. Fortunately, her desire for proper decorum overruled her dislike of him.
“Aunt Cordelia will never come to call once you and Mama are married,” Isaac said as he stood beside Neville while Priscilla entered the carriage with her daughters.
“That would be a great disappointment for your mother.” He smiled at the lad, who
never had been able to hide his feelings.
“Aunt Cordelia chides Mama all the time.”
“But your mother loves her.”
Isaac nodded ruefully. ‘That is true.”
“And so do you.”
“Yes.” The word was reluctant. He brightened as he added, “But if Aunt Cordelia does not come to the house, I will not have to recite my lessons for her.” Neville could not argue with that. He hefted the boy up to sit with Stuttman in the box before getting into the carriage with Priscilla and the girls. Leah was
sitting next to her mother. Picking the girl up, he set her close to her sister.
Leah giggled, but Daphne looked pained.
As he sat beside Priscilla, he whispered, “Is your oldest all right?”
“She is distressed.”
“About Lady—”
She shook her head. “About a certain peer who caught her attention, but has not been present at any events she has attended in the past day or so.”
Neville leaned back against the seat and regarded Daphne, who was staring at her folded hands. He never had seen the girl so dejected. Wanting to say something to give her comfort, he could not imagine what.
“She will be fine,” Priscilla said, so softly he could barely hear her.
He wondered how she could be certain of that. His doubts remained until they reached the house on Bedford Square and were met at the door by Gilbert. The butler welcomed them before holding out a folded page to Daphne.
“This arrived for you, Miss Flanders,” he said.
“For me?” gasped Daphne, her glum spirits vanishing.
“It was delivered into my hand by a footman who asked that it be given directly to you, Miss Flanders.” Gilbert almost smiled. He had, like the rest of the staff, a very soft spot in his heart for the Flanders children. “I assured him it would be, and it has been.”
“Thank you.” She started to break the seal, then said, “Excuse me, Mama, Uncle Neville. I think I would like to read this in private.”
Daphne gave no one a chance to reply as she rushed up the stairs at a pace she had given up with
her childhood. Neville wondered if her feet touched any of the risers.
“Who do you think sent it, Mama?” asked Leah.
Isaac rubbed his toe into the floor. “Probably that chap she is all moony about.”
“You are growing wiser with every passing day,” Neville said, ruffling the boy’s hair.
He laughed along with his sister as the two youngsters climbed the stairs. Even before they had reached the top, the butler said quietly, “The note for Miss Flanders was not the only one brought to the house, Sir Neville. This was brought for you.”
“Here?” He took the folded page from Gilbert. “Forgive the stupid question, Gilbert. Thank you.”
The butler took Neville’s hat and walked toward the back of the house.
Neville opened the page and read it.
“Is it from Thurmond?” Priscilla asked.
“No, it is from Dentford.” He handed her the note.
The few words were right to the point. Her husband had spoken with his wife’s abigail and discovered Lady Dentford had left the house wearing, in addition to the rings, a pearl and ruby necklace that had been in his family for generations.
Neville glanced at Priscilla as she read the note. Her face revealed nothing, but he knew her quick mind was already sorting through die few facts they possessed.
“Should we go to Carter’s shop?” she asked.
“It is a job better suited to Bow Street. I think I should alert Thurmond.”
“Be careful.” She curved her hand along his cheek.
“I have every reason to.”
Her kiss was, he suspected, the only warmth he would have for hours to come.
* * *
“We must be certain it was not left in the box where Lady Dentford was killed.” Thurmond pushed open the front door of the Prince of Wales Theater.
“Even if the necklace is there,” Neville said, stepping inside the theater, “it may be proof only that the murderer missed it in his hurry to flee with her rings.”
“I know, I know.” Frustration tainted Thurmond’s words.
That frustration deepened when a search of the box where Lady Dentford died brought no hint of the missing necklace. When Thurmond started grumbling that the lady’s maid might have been mistaken, Neville guessed his friend was assuming any clues would again lead nowhere.
Seeing a movement on the darkened stage below, Neville motioned for Thurmond to come with him. He did not have to caution the Bow Street Runner to silence when they rushed out of the box.
They edged into the stage’s wing. Neville drew aside the curtain and peered out onto the stage. A pair of lanterns set on a bench in the center revealed an astonishing sight. A man was standing between the lanterns. He held a long-barreled pistol up and aimed it in the direction of the box where Lady Lummis had been found dead.
Thurmond muttered an oath and leaped onto the stage. The man holding the gun whirled with a startled cry. The Bow Street Runner froze.
Pushing back, Neville ran behind the curtain. The light seeping under it helped him avoid coils of rope and pieces of scenery. He tensed, waiting for the detonation of the pistol.
“What are you doing here?” he heard. It must be the man with the gun, because it was not Thurmond’s voice.
He bent and tugged at the curtain. It was heavy, but
he could raise it enough to slither beneath it. He must be careful to slip under behind the man with the pistol. Otherwise, he might give the man a choice of targets.
Looking around, he saw a wooden box close to the curtain. He tiptoed toward it. He got down on his stomach and pressed the bottom of his boots against the box. Lifting the curtain, he saw two pairs of feet. Thurmond’s were planted solidly against the stage’s floor. The other man’s shifted. Was he getting ready to flee or to shoot the Bow Street Runner?
Neville had no time to determine that. Pushing his feet against the box, he propelled himself out onto stage. He jumped to his feet and wrapped his arm around the neck of the man holding the gun.
“Drop it! ” he ordered. He tightened his arm, and the man gagged.
The gun clattered to the stage, hitting a small pouch. Thurmond ran to pick it up.
Neville released the man’s neck. Grasping his shoulders, he spun the man to face him.
“Reeve!” He stared in disbelief at the actor’s valet. “What in perdition are you doing?”
The valet struggled to answer, but coughed and coughed.
Thurmond pushed past him. “You will want to see this, Hathaway.” He handed the gun to Neville.
He hefted it, surprised by its slight weight and that it was not particularly well-balanced. Checking it, he said, “This is not loaded.” He shoved it into Reeve’s hands.
The gun almost fell out of the valet’s grip, but he managed to hold on to it. Regaining his breath, he asked in a scratchy voice, “What are you doing sneaking up on a man and scaring ten years off his life?”
“We saw you pointing a gun,” Thurmond retorted.
“What did you think we should do? Two women have been killed here in the past fortnight.”
Reeve flinched, then said, “They were not shot.”
“No,” Neville said, “they were not. But that does not explain why you are pointing a gun at the box where one woman was slain.”
“I was? I did not realize that.” He swallowed roughly and put a hand to his neck, wincing. Then he pointed to a small, lace-edged garment hanging over a box farther past the one where Lady Dentford had been found. “I was aiming at that.”
“What is it?” asked Thurmond. “A lady’s undergarment?”
“One of Wiggsley’s fancier capes.”
“You were going to shoot a cape?” Thurmond sounded more and more puzzled, and Neville could not fault him. “Why?”
“I was practicing.”
“For wh
at?”
“For when I am a soldier.” He held the pistol close to his chest. “I am tired of following Birdwell’s silly orders to clean up messes after him.”
‘You would rather,” Neville asked, “follow some officer’s orders into a volley of gunfire?”
“At least that is heroic. This—” He gestured toward the side of theater where the actor’s dressing room was situated. ‘This is drudgery.”
“And nothing a woman would admire? Reeve, you are being a fool to join the Army simply to obtain a woman’s favors. Find another way to win her heart.” Raising his head, he glared at Neville, then at Thurmond. “If you gentlemen do not mind, I will practice handling a gun somewhere else.”
Neville smiled coldly. ‘Take care where you aim that gun. Someone else might believe you intend to shoot something other than Wiggsley’s cape.”
As icily, Reeve replied, “Which was why I was practicing here where I thought nobody would see me.” He bent to pick up the pouch which probably held balls for the pistol and walked toward die wings.
Thurmond wiped his hands as he looked out at the empty theater. “That was humiliating. If word of what happened here gets back to Bow Street, I will be a laughingstock.”
“Don’t look at me as if I am about to run and tell them.” Neville brushed dirt from his waistcoat. ‘Then I would have to explain how it took two of us to disarm a man with an unloaded gun.”
His friend chuckled. “We make quite a pair. There does not seem to be any—”
“Reeve!” came a shout from offstage.
Neville smiled as Reginald Birdwell walked out onto the stage. The actor stopped, staring at them. His feet shifted, just as his valet’s had. Was he giving thought to the idea of running, too?
The Wedding Caper Page 17
