Fencing for Ladies (The Archer Family Regency Romances #5)

by Amy Corwin

  Olivia reached across Lord Milbourn to touch her brother’s sleeve before he could speak. “I believe that question lies within the boundary of Mr. Greenfield’s responsibility. I never saw the button and have no knowledge of when or where my maid apparently found it. For all I know, Farmer found it somewhere and tucked it in her pocket until Mr. Greenfield terrified her into producing it.” She tilted her head to one side and studied him. “I would ask, however, how you know when Mr. Grantham lost his button? If it is his, of course.”

  “A drop of dried blood marred its surface, my lady,” Mr. Idleman replied.

  “I am only speculating, of course, but might he have had a nosebleed? Did you examine his handkerchief?”

  The coroner and Mr. Greenfield exchanged glances.

  Mr. Greenfield shrugged and said, “It was stained. As to when that happened, we do not know.”

  “Then we appear to know very little about that button, or the circumstances surrounding its presence in my wardrobe,” Olivia pointed out gently.

  Mr. Idleman cleared his throat and poked at the papers in front of him again with his index finger before looking at Olivia. “I would like to return to the question of your maid, Miss Alice Farmer, and your statement concerning her discovery.” His gaze wavered, and he cleared his throat again. “Am I to understand that you believe your maid had something to do with Mr. Grantham’s death?” Mr. Idleman asked, his brows rising almost to his hairline.

  “I have no notion of where you obtained that ridiculous idea. I am not saying anything of the sort. If you are referring to my previous comment, I was merely trying to explain that I have no knowledge of that button.” Her hands clasped more tightly together. “And that should cover the matter sufficiently.”

  Her reply might not have been quite as forceful as Cynthia’s might under the circumstance, but she could see by the nonplussed expression on Mr. Idleman’s face that she had left him no choice but to proceed along other lines of inquiry. He shuffled through the papers in front of him and then picked up her statement, only to replace it on the table.

  Olivia stood. She didn’t look at either of her brothers, although she was aware of a flurry of activity on either side of her. “If that is all, I shall be leaving.” She stared at Mr. Idleman.

  His mouth opened, then closed again. He glanced from her to Edward and Peregrine. “The inquest is not over, Lady Olivia.”

  “I have written a full statement and told you everything I know,” she replied gently. “Have you any other questions with which I could assist?”

  Mr. Idleman looked around the room, his face flushing a dull red. “Questions? No, Lady Olivia. And I wish to thank you for your cooperation. There are no other questions at this time.”

  Mr. Greenfield jerked and glanced at her, clearly startled at this decision. But he didn’t comment. His patience, and the confidence in his gaze, suggested that he expected there to be plenty of time in the future to fix the noose around her neck.

  Assuming he could make his case sufficiently strong to convince a male jury.

  For the first time in her life, she was relieved to be a lady.

  She smiled and nodded graciously in his direction. She was not going to accept their conclusion, no matter what it was. She was going to fight to prove her innocence and discover precisely who had murdered Mr. Grantham.

  And why.

  Chapter Twelve

  As Alexander expected, the coroner’s verdict was unlawful killing by person or persons unknown. His failure to name a suspect meant he could escape from the political fire that might be lit were he to name the sister of an earl as the possible murderer. The decision also encouraged Mr. Greenfield and Constable Cooke to continue their investigation and uncover enough evidence to eliminate all reasonable doubt.

  Unfortunately, in addition to the button, Greenfield had revealed other troubling facts, as well, after Lady Olivia departed. The inquiry agent had searched Grantham’s rooms and discovered a journal.

  “Well, what do you think?” Belcher asked as they wandered outside into the cold, fresh air.

  “An interesting case,” Alexander answered absently, searching the throng of departing men. Spotting Edward Archer, he hailed him.

  “Lord Milbourn. Belcher.” Archer waited for them to catch up to him. He seemed to be in a somber, thoughtful mood as he turned and began walking toward the Archer terrace. Archer’s fascination with British jurisprudence meant he understood the implications of the inquest and subsequent inquiries better than any of them. And his subdued mood indicated he knew what the evidence they’d heard might mean for his sister.

  No wonder a small knot of worry had formed over the bridge of Archer’s nose.

  “Well, that was certainly interesting,” Belcher said. His blue eyes flashed with curiosity as he glanced from Alexander to Archer. “That Greenfield chap seems to know his business, doesn’t he?”

  The wrinkled knot between Archer’s brows grew more pronounced, but he didn’t answer. His pace increased.

  Alexander grunted. Greenfield might be intelligent, but was he smart enough to continue his inquiries, or had he already made up his mind?

  “What about that journal, eh?” Belcher chuckled. “I expect old Grantham had plenty to say about all of us. I don’t fancy that Greenfield chap reading about my youthful peccadillos, eh?” He laughed and nudged Alexander with his elbow. “Don’t suppose you will be any happier, either, Milbourn.”

  “I don’t suppose Greenfield will be any happier reading it,” Alexander said dryly. “Assuming Grantham even mentioned us, except in passing.”

  “Of course, you are correct, Milbourn,” Belcher said, looking from Alexander to Archer.

  Alexander shrugged, aware of the tension building in Belcher. The man had always hated silence and would rattle on forever, just to hear the sound of a voice. Which wasn’t necessarily bad, except that he was also one of those cheerful, optimistic sorts one invariably ended up wanting to strangle.

  Well, perhaps Belcher did have his uses. He might be as irritating as a flea under the collar, but he’d work himself into a lather to cheer one up, and right now, Archer seemed to need that.

  Noting that Archer had strode on ahead, Alexander lengthened his stride to catch up to him, knowing Belcher would follow suit.

  Alexander caught Belcher’s gaze and gave a sharp nod in Archer’s direction.

  “Say, Archer, old chap, join me at the club? I could use a spot of brandy, eh? Join me?” Belcher hurried forward and slapped Archer on the shoulder.

  As Archer glanced at him, his scowl deepened. He shook his head and hurried forward, his eyes fixed on his destination one block away.

  Belcher looked at Alexander, raised his hands, palms upwards, and shrugged. He’d done his best. Clearly, Archer was not amenable to distractions.

  When Archer opened the black wrought iron gate in front of his house, Alexander paused. He needed time alone to consider what he had learned at the inquest, and he suspected Archer felt the same way.

  Alexander particularly wanted to consider the fact that Grantham had been unwise enough to keep a journal and had left it where Constable Cooke could find it.

  What did it contain? Was there anything in it that would stir up a new storm of gossip, should the authorities unwisely reveal the contents? His thoughts left him with a cold sensation caressing his neck like the lips of an ancient ghost.

  Belcher might be amused to think about the adventures of his youth, but Alexander had a darker past he had no wish to bring forth into the light.

  He rubbed the back of his neck. He ought to return to his own house and think. Speak to Greenfield and Cooke. Instead, he followed Belcher and Archer up the shallow steps and into the large house.

  Latimore accepted their gloves, hats, and coats, his face carefully expressionless as he solemnly intoned the words, “Lady Olivia is in the Ivory Drawing Room, sir.”

  Without a word, Archer mounted the staircase. Belcher and Alexander glanced a
t each other and followed.

  “Edward!” Lady Olivia rose from her chair by the fire and turned toward the door, her right hand pressed against the base of her neck. Her skin was pale, and she appeared exhausted with worry, her eyes circled with heavy shadows. “What happened?”

  Archer shrugged and walked to the chair opposite her. When he saw Belcher and Alexander, he waved to a nearby couch. “Please, be seated.”

  Lady Olivia glanced at them, nodded, and also gestured at the couch. Then she sank down onto the edge of her own chair as if her limbs could no longer support her. She clasped her trembling hands in her lap. “What is it? What was the verdict?”

  “It was a coroner’s inquest, Lady Olivia,” Archer said. “The verdict was much as you would expect: unlawful killing by person or persons unknown.”

  She pressed her fingers to her lips for a second and took a deep breath. “They did not mention anyone, then? A suspect?”

  “That is not the purpose of such an inquest,” Archer said gruffly. He shifted in his chair and leaned forward to rub his hands together. “Only the manner of death is important at this juncture, and Mr. Greenfield will continue his inquiry.”

  “What else?” She gazed at each of them in turn. “They must have said more — you were a long time in returning.”

  “Greenfield mentioned a journal.” Archer raised a hand to keep her from speaking. “They did not divulge any contents. Presumably, they have not had time to inquire into whatever Grantham wrote about on its pages.”

  “God alone knows what old Grantham would decide to scribble.” Belcher gave a low chuckle. “I hope he did not include that time I —” he halted abruptly with a glance at Lady Olivia. “Well, I’m sure he could have included any one of a number of embarrassing incidents from our youths.”

  “You don’t think they will publish it, do you?” Lady Olivia appeared aghast at the thought. Her skin paled even more, and her hand rose once again to press protectively against her slender throat.

  “I would hope Greenfield would not be so irresponsible,” Archer said. But his slow voice indicated he didn’t have much confidence in the inquiry agent’s discretion. He rubbed the side of his chin as he stared moodily at the fire.

  Alexander studied him. He had the impression that Archer knew something not revealed during the inquest, and the information worried him. However, he also appeared reluctant to share his thoughts.

  “I don’t expect any of our families would appreciate the notoriety.” Belcher nodded. He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, clasp his hands, and stare at the golden flames. Suddenly, he straightened, smiled, and looked at Alexander. “Speaking of families; how is your daughter, Milbourn? Should have asked sooner, but this business.…” He shrugged, his brows raised, and his blue eyes fixed on Alexander’s face.

  Alexander stilled. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lady Olivia stiffen.

  She sucked in a quick, small breath. The rush of air was so slight it was barely audible, but it sounded like a low scream of pain to him. She sat so rigidly, with such pale skin, that she looked like a statue carved out of marble and labeled, Lady in Shock.

  With more to follow.

  “Maria is well,” he said.

  “Haven’t seen her in months. Off to school, is she?” Belcher asked with a polite smile.

  “Maria has been in Barcelona. With her grandmother.” Alexander gazed at Lady Olivia, but she looked away, staring down at the fire, her face a polite mask.

  Perhaps it was for the best that she knew the truth at last. She was engaged, after all, even if her choice of husband was ludicrous. So it could hardly matter to her that he’d been married and had a child. But at that moment, he could have run a sword through Belcher’s cheerfully imbecilic heart.

  “Delightful,” Belcher said. “Travel is so educational. Do the girl a world of good, I’d say.”

  “No doubt,” Alexander replied in a dry voice.

  He had no doubt that his fiery daughter found that traveling with a dour, elderly Spanish woman little more than a terrible inconvenience and a bore, but her grandmother wished to see her. What Alexander’s mother wished for, she inevitably got. One way or the other.

  Belcher suddenly chuckled. “Travel, eh — that reminds me of that little trip the four of us — you, me, Wraysbury, and Grantham — took to Paris.” He laughed again, his eyes flashing with amusement. “Don’t you remember?” He shook his head. “If old Grantham saw fit to describe that in his little notebook, well, I don’t suppose Wraysbury’s new wife would enjoy hearing about that one little bit.”

  Belcher glanced up to find Archer studying him. Anger tightened Archer’s mouth into a thin line, and he gripped the arms of his chair as if to prevent himself from leaping up and beating Belcher senseless.

  Belcher looked around hastily as if suddenly remembering Lady Olivia’s presence. He blanched and blurted out, “Enough of that, eh? The past is past. Well, I suppose that is that, then.” Belcher straightened and rubbed his palms against his thighs. “Sure you won’t join me at my club, Archer?”

  “No. Not today.” Archer seemed to shake himself and become aware of his duties as host. He glanced at his sister, but she remained as still as a statue, staring at the fire. “If you would care for a restorative? Claret, perhaps? Or sherry?”

  Belcher stood. “Nothing for me. I’m off to the club, then. Milbourn? Join me?”

  “I must leave as well.” He stood, still studying Lady Olivia.

  She seemed oblivious to their conversation. Her delicate hands clasped together so tightly in her lap that the knuckles stood out like white pebbles against the beach of her blue dress.

  “Lady Olivia!” Archer rose as well and held out his hand. “Our guests are departing.”

  “Not guests, surely,” Belcher chuckled. “Friends, my dear chap. Next thing to family, I daresay.”

  Lady Olivia rose slowly and looked at them. “Thank you for coming. It was very thoughtful of you.” Her low voice sounded mechanical.

  “Of course, of course,” Belcher replied with a bow. “At your service, dear lady. Least we could do.”

  “Good day.” Alexander bowed. There was really nothing else to say.

  He studied Lady Olivia’s face, but she refused to look at him, although she did give a stiff nod acknowledging his adieu. Despite her pallor and air of coldness, she remained a beautiful, unattainable figure, tantalizing and yet forever out of reach.

  Well, there was something more he could do for her. He could find out who was behind Grantham’s death and keep Lady Olivia safe. Even if it was just to watch her marry her wildly inappropriate, useless betrothed.

  Chapter Thirteen

  He is married and has a child.

  Olivia’s thoughts whirled like dead, brown leaves in a storm. Or he was married — no matter which. What a fool she’d been, pining for him all these years. His amused indifference should have warned her, but she’d been heedless and determined to have her own way.

  Although she loved fencing and wanted to share the excitement of the sport with other ladies, she realized now that a small part of her clung to another hope. Her academy represented a last, desperate effort to draw Lord Milbourn’s attention, make him admire her — want her — before it was too late. Panic shivered through her, turning her hands to ice. In a few months, she’d be sewn firmly and inescapably in place as Lord Saunders’s bride.

  Too late. It seemed it had always been too late for her.

  He had a daughter…Maria. Was she dark and sardonic like her father? Or did she take after the unknown mother? She’d probably been beautiful, perhaps Spanish like his own mother had been, with lovely dark eyes and rich black hair. Knowing her handsome father, Olivia couldn’t help but believe the little girl would be a beauty.

  She sighed with frustration and longing. She’d always wanted a little girl, a child to dress in ribbons and bows, someone who would shriek with joy and clap her hands when the beagles clattered into the room,
upsetting the tea things and making a wild, wonderful mess of the sitting room. They could gossip, go visiting other ladies, and stop for sweets at Gunter’s.

  Suddenly, she felt abandoned and lost on a dark path she didn’t want to tread.

  Dimly, she was aware that Lord Milbourn and Mr. Belcher were taking leave of them, but it hardly seemed to matter. She nodded, unable to make her stiff lips form any words except rote platitudes.

  Then they were gone.

  “Lady Olivia!” Edward said in an abrupt, exasperated voice.

  She had the impression that he’d already repeated her name several times, and she flushed. “What is it, Edward?”

  “What are your plans regarding Alice Farmer?”

  “Farmer?” She regarded him with surprise. “I don’t plan to do anything with Farmer. Why?”

  “She ought to be dismissed. You can hardly consider her loyal at this point.”

  “She was honest and did what was right. By your measure, we should dismiss Latimore, as well. He might at least have warned me.” She pulled her chair closer to the fire and sat again, a shiver going through her. “Would you ring for tea?” She rubbed her arms. “Please?”

  Edward scowled at her and grunted, before striding over to the bell pull. “Latimore has been with us for thirty years.”

  “I hardly think that excuses him,” she said gently. She should have gone to her bedchamber for a shawl. The cheerful fire didn’t seem as warm as it had earlier, even when she held her hands out toward it.

  “I am sure he did what he thought was right, under the circumstances.”

  “Then you may apply that same logic to Farmer.” She sighed. “What is done, is done. Farmer found the button and gave it to Mr. Greenfield. We can do nothing about that now, and dismissing Farmer will not change matters.” She smiled ruefully. “In fact, it will only make things worse as I shall be without a personal maid to help me dress. And so will Margaret and Hildie. We all use her services.”

  “Then get another maid.”