“We were unsure if you would be calling this afternoon,” Priscilla continued.
“I said I was, didn’t I?”
Accepting the dressing-down as her due, Priscilla gave her aunt another hug before walking with her to where Daphne was coming to her feet. Daphne greeted her aunt while Priscilla rang for a fresh pot of tea. By the time she sat facing her aunt and her daughter on the settee, Aunt Cordelia was offering Daphne commiseration.
“You should be pleased, Daphne,” her aunt was saying, “that Lord Witherspoon took time to give you and your mother a call.”
“Why is everyone telling me how I should feel? Why will no one listen to how I do feel?” She sighed and stirred more sugar into her tea. She put down the cup when she realized her great-aunt had not been served any yet. “Forgive me. That was my frustration speaking.”
“I know.” She patted Daphne’s hand. “You have just embarked on your first Season. Allow events to unfold as they should.”
Priscilla smiled. “The very same advice I recall you giving me, Aunt Cordelia.”
“I trust Daphne will follow it more closely than you did, Priscilla, with your precipitous betrothal to a parson.”
Before Priscilla could answer, Daphne cried, “Deuce take it!”
“Daphne, you need to watch your language,” Priscilla said quietly.
“I have heard Aunt Cordelia utter far worse.”
Priscilla waited for her aunt’s explosion, but Aunt Cordelia said in a surprisingly even tone, “But I am not a young miss in need of Society’s approval. Dear child, it distresses me to see you in a flutter.”
“Then stop deriding my mother. Aunt Cordelia, you have married three times. Certainly you know as well as anyone that the heart listens to no sense other than its own.” Flinging out her hand toward her mother, Daphne continued, “Mama and Papa were the happiest married couple I have ever seen. Yes, they had their differences, because neither of them ever held back their strong opinions. But they loved each other, and they would not have been happy without each other. ” Tears filled her eyes. ‘You know that is true, Aunt Cordelia. Even if you doubted it before—and I have no idea how you could—you must have seen it after Papa died. Mama was strong for us, but when she thought we were not aware, she gave in to her grief at the idea of a life without Papa.” Priscilla took her daughter’s hand. “I thought I was keeping my sorrow from you. I did not want you to have a heavier burden.”
“What did Papa say so often? A burden shared is a burden halved?”
“That is true.”
Daphne looked back at her great-aunt, who was regarding her with both amazement and vexation. “Aunt Cordelia, I love you, and Mama loves you. I know you love us, but sometimes how you speak and act makes me question that. Mama was happy for you when you last married. I remember that. Why can’t you be happy for her that she found love with Papa and now with Uncle Neville?”
In lieu of an answer and admission that Daphne was correct, Aunt Cordelia changed the subject to the arrangements for seating in the pews during the upcoming wedding.
Daphne squeezed her mother’s hand before taking the fresh teapot from a maid. The squeeze told Priscilla that Daphne was over her rare passion and all was forgiven. It was the comfort she needed amidst the chaos caused by a killer who had left too few clues in his wake.
“Oh, Priscilla,” her aunt moaned, breaking the spell spun by Daphne’s solace, “I had so hoped you would come to your senses before the plans got to this point You have let that man beguile you.”
“That is true.” She smiled. “However, there is talk that you are the one who has most recently been tripped the double by romance, Aunt Cordelia.”
“Me?”
“You and Duncan have been much in each other’s company since his arrival in Town.”
“I never imagined one of his friends would be so charming and genteel.”
“His name is Neville, Aunt Cordelia. I had thought you agreed to address him by it.”
“I have, but I prefer not to drop names into conversation over and over.”
Daphne began to giggle, for Aunt Cordelia liked to mention often the names of her well-placed friends in the Polite World. Daphne doused the sound with a quick sip of tea. Even so, her great-aunt gave her a glower cold enough to freeze a pond.
“Would you like a frosted cake?” Priscilla asked as she held out the plate to her aunt as a peace offering.
‘What I would like is for you to close this house and take the children and return posthaste to Stonehall- on-Sea.”
She tried to swallow her vexation at the resumption of a brangle they had had too often. “Aunt Cordelia,
I have told you more than once that I intend to marry Neville at St. Julian’s Church.”
“You could marry him at St. Elizabeth’s in Stone- hall-on-Sea. The banns have been read there as well.” ‘You want me to marry Neville in Stonehall-on-Sea? Why?” She frowned as she set her cup back on the tray. “If you think I should leave Town because I am ashamed of my betrothed, then you are wrong.”
“No, you are wrong.” Holding up her hand to halt Priscilla’s reply, Aunt Cordelia said, “This has nothing to do with Neville. It has to do with keeping you safe.”
“Me?”
“Two women have been murdered.”
“Aunt Cordelia, why do you think that /would be a target for this murderer?”
“Both the women were married to wealthy men and had a title. Your father did not leave you destitute, and you have a title.”
“I could say the same of you.”
Her aunt shuddered, and Priscilla regretted her words. Upsetting Aunt Cordelia further had not been her intention. Before she could apologize, her aunt said, “That is true, and I will be glad to return with you to Mermaid Cottage. This time of year is lovely by the sea.”
“We have had this argument many times in the past, Aunt Cordelia, and every time you become perturbed when I say I will not leave when Neville insists on remaining here. I will not leave him in danger.”
“I understand your concern on his behalf, even though I believe it to be misplaced. He has shown over and over that he has learned how to protect himself from his onetime cronies.”
“What he has learned will safeguard us as well.” She forced a smile. “I appreciate your kindness in worrying about us, Aunt Cordelia.”
“But you will not change your mind?”
“No.”
“Even though you may be a target for this bedlamite?”
“I do not believe the murderer is mad. His targets have been quite carefully chosen.”
Her aunt folded her arms in front of her, and Priscilla knew she had pushed Aunt Cordelia too far. Whenever her aunt took that pose, it warned that she would not listen any longer, for her mind was completely and irrevocably made up.
“One fact you ladies may not have,” Neville said as he entered the room, swinging off his rain-splattered cloak, “is that both slain women were having affairs with Reginald Birdwell.” Dropping his cloak on another chair, he lifted Priscilla’s hand and kissed it. “I trust you are not also, sweetheart.”
“On that you can rest very assured,” she replied, holding back the questions she wanted to ask him. As she smiled up into his dark eyes, she heard her aunt’s grumble at his suggestion Priscilla would be interested in the actor.
“I am happy to hear that, Pris.” He bowed his head toward her aunt. “How pleasant of you to call this afternoon, Aunt Cordelia.”
“You need not sound as if you are already the master of this house.” Aunt Cordelia set herself on her feet, scowling at how he had addressed her.
Priscilla looked hastily at the teapot. She did not want to see her aunt regarding her with disapproval or to behold the amusement in Neville’s eyes at her aunt’s irritation.
“Mr. McAndrews is calling later this afternoon,” her aunt continued, “so I must ask you to excuse me. It is clear that anything I say will be disregarded.”
R
ising, Priscilla took her aunt’s hands. “You know that is not true. I listen to everything you say to me.” ‘Then choose to do exactly the opposite.”
“I am sorry if it appears that way to you. I truly thought you would understand why I cannot leave London now.” She hesitated, then knew she must say the words clamoring against her lips. “After all, when last you saw Duncan McAndrews, you were determined to see him healthy before you returned home. You did not leave him. Would you ask me to be less loyal with Neville?”
Aunt Cordelia said nothing, but paused to stroke Priscilla’s hair before she left.
“Uncle Neville, you need to keep a closer eye on Mama,” Daphne said with a grin.
To protect her from that virago?”
“Neville!” chided Priscilla.
Daphne chuckled. “No, she can handle Aunt Cordelia, but she did have a very handsome gentle- man giving her a look-in this afternoon.”
“Is that so?” He turned to Priscilla and grinned. That does not look like a jealous face,” Priscilla said.
“Why should it be when your caller is more interested in another lovely lady in this house than in you? Or so I would guess from what Gilbert happened to mention when he opened the door for me.” He looked back at Daphne. “I hear your name has been on Witherspoon’s lips quite often of late. He fancies himself quite your protector after making certain you were returned home safely from Ward’s conversazione."
When her daughter’s color rose, staining her cheeks pink with pleasure, Priscilla said, “Daphne, see that these dishes are returned to the kitchen. Neville, if you will come with me.”
“Anywhere ...” he drawled, but his easy grin faded as soon as she closed the door on her book-room at the rear of the house. He leaned back against her desk that was set near the overflowing bookcases. “Thank you for understanding I wanted to speak with you alone.”
“What did you discover at the theater?”
She listened as he told of speaking with both Reeve and Mr. Birdwell. When he listed the many women the actor had seduced, she shook her head in amazement.
“But no further clues to the murderer?” she asked.
“Save for the missing knife—which, quite honestly, could be missing for any of a score of reasons—there was nothing I noticed.”
“You do not believe the knife just happens to have been lost, do you?”
“No. Morton is too compulsive to let a knife vanish without his taking notice of its disappearance. The box being upset and the knives scattered might have been the killer’s attempt to allay suspicion in our minds.”
“Not in yours. I think you were born conjecturing others have ulterior motives.”
“Much like you, Pris, as I have learned through recent events.” He pushed away from the desk and put his hands on her shoulders. “Pris, Thurmond would like you to come to Bow Street”
“Me? Why?”
“He wants you to explain to his superiors what you know about Harmony Lummis. Lord Lummis refuses to come back to Town while in mourning.”
She sighed. “A reasonable response when he lost his wife in such tragic circumstances.”
“He lost her long before she was killed.”
Priscilla had no answer to that, so she remained silent as she sent for her cape and a straw bonnet that
would not be ruined by the rain. She told Gilbert only that she was uncertain when she would return and to have Mrs. Moore serve the children’s supper on time. If he was curious where she and Neville were bound when the rain was swirled about by the wind, she saw no sign of it.
Neville hurried to his carriage and handed her in. Priscilla brushed rain from her cloak as he jumped in beside her, closing the door. The carriage lurched into motion.
The interior was brightened by intermittent flashes of tight from the street lamps. Not all had been tit at this early hour, but some had in order to guide drivers through the storm.
When Neville’s arm curved around her shoulders, she smiled up at him. “Does Thurmond really need help with his superiors?”
“Yes.”
“But he could have come to the house.”
“Your house is busy. Your aunt and your children seem to want your attention far too often for a man who needs some of your time just for himself.” He feigned a frown. “And now you have that young pup calling, too.”
She searched his face, seeing the grim determination in his eyes. “What took place at the theater that has unsettled you?”
“Couldn’t you believe you are what unsettles me?”
“When I do, you wear a very different expression.” She ran her fingertip along his lowered brow. “Now you look tike a man who has lost his way in a wood with a highwayman close by.”
“The murderer has to be connected with the theater. He knows his way about it too facilely to be an outsider. As well, anyone not belonging to the theater would gain everyone’s interest. If you recall, when we went to see Morton, every eye was focused on us.”
“On you. They were hoping you would announce the theater was reopening.”
He nodded. “True, but, under customary circumstances, they would have waited to hear from Robertson. The theater manager brings such tidings.”
“Where has Robertson been during this?”
“In his office.” A suggestion of a smile tipped his lips. “When he is not drinking to escape the horror, he is preparing all the books for when I assume ownership of the theater, or so I have been told. I have not checked, because I want to avoid having him thrust those books at me and insist I take on the duties of the owner.”
‘That leaves Birdwell, Reeve, Miss Ayers—”
“And the rest of the employees at the theater. We need to speak with someone who can help us gain some insight on this.”
“Who? Mr. Thurmond’s superior?”
“Not likely, from what Thurmond says. He is hoping not to be pulled off the investigation again and given other work to do.”
“Then who should we seek out to help us see what we obviously cannot see?”
‘That is the crux of the matter, isn’t it, Pris?”
“Then what can we do?”
“Pris, you always ask the most enticing questions.” He framed her face in his hands and tilted her mouth beneath his. The remembered fascination of his lips faded before the thrill coursing through her as he gently—thoroughly—kissed her. As his hands slipped down her back to draw her to him, her fingers curved along his nape to comb through the coarse silk of his hair.
The furtive touch sparked alive embers deep within
her. She clung to him, every brush of his body urging her closer. Her hands stroked him in rhythm with the leap of the fires blazing within her. Finding his ear so close to her lips, she laved it with the tip of her tongue. When she felt his breath catch against her, she smiled. The pulse of his breath, rapid and warm, matched the tempo of her heartbeat.
When he recaptured her lips, he eagerly wooed them to soften beneath his gentle assault. His tongue delved within her mouth, stroking hers. Overmastered by the longing consuming her, she pressed to him. A gasp of unrestrainable delight burst from her when his mouth seared that flame along her neck.
Drawing his mouth to hers, for she ached for his lips on hers, she heard his muted chuckle. She opened her dazed eyes to see his smile.
Before she could speak, he whispered, “You are dazzling in my arms.”
“Don’t speak,” she answered as quietly. Each word fought its way through her breathlessness. Teasing the dark hair along his forehead, she whispered, “Actually, you talk too much, Neville Hathaway.”
“When I am teasing you?”
She shook her head as her fingertip traced the uncompromising lines of his free. “All the time!”
‘Then I shall say nothing more.”
“Good.”
“You shall miss my teasing.”
“I doubt that”
She pressed her mouth to his. In the moment before her eyes closed, a spar
k of longing in his eyes urged her to melt against him. One thing he had not said. Each time he went to the theater, seeking answers, he might be taunting the murderer, risking his own life if the investigation closed in too tightly and the killer struck out with that missing knife in an effort to escape detection. As he held her and kissed her with such passion, she did not want to imagine ever again losing a man she loved.
Chapter Fifteen
Priscilla had no interest in a ride in Hyde Park, even though the day was sunny and warm. Greeting acquaintances and listening to gossip and speculation had no appeal for her. However, she had promised Daphne they would visit the Park on the first pleasant day, and she did not want to break that promise.
She hoped Thurmond’s superiors were as unwilling to turn their backs on a pledge they had made. The interview with them had been brief, and they had seemed disinterested in the few facts she had to share. Even Neville’s reassurance that she should not judge by the Runners’ outward reaction failed to ease her disquiet.
When she stepped out of the house, two horses waited next to Neville’s phaeton. One was a tall bay, and the other a gray horse with a black mane. Neville held the reins of both. He was dressed in jaunty riding clothes, his dark coat over his buckskin breeches looking dull next to his hair, which glistened blue- black in the sunlight He held his tall, black hat under one arm.
Priscilla lifted the long hem of her green wool riding habit as she walked toward him. The length, which would be perfect when she was riding, made walking difficult.
“Horses and a phaeton?” she asked.
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