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

by Amy Corwin

  Greenfield shrugged and hurried faster.

  “Well, I, for one, believe you are following the wrong trail, Mr. Greenfield,” Belcher said. He glanced at Alexander and winked. “Perhaps we can assist you?”

  “Assistance is always appreciated, sir,” Greenfield replied.

  Alexander had to admire the man’s self-control. There was only the slightest edge to his voice, revealing his irritation. Alexander almost pulled Belcher back to suggest he go to his club as planned, but he resisted the impulse. If he continued to annoy Greenfield, the inquiry agent might let something slip.

  An amazingly obliging Belcher threw more questions at Greenfield, most of them so ridiculous that Alexander had to work hard to suppress his laughter. Not even an exasperated sigh escaped from Greenfield. However, as they approached the Archer’s townhouse, his brief answers disintegrated into ambiguous grunts. Not that Belcher noticed. He just kept babbling on like a merry little brook.

  “Here we are, sir,” Greenfield said, his hand on the wrought-iron gate in front of the elegant terrace. “If you will excuse me, my lord?”

  Both Belcher and Greenfield looked at Alexander.

  He ignored the faint plea in Greenfield’s eyes. “We will come in with you, Greenfield.”

  “That is not necessary. I’m sure you gentlemen have more important matters to attend to.”

  “Nothing more important than a large glass of brandy at the club.” Belcher laughed and slapped Greenfield on the shoulder again.

  Greenfield winced, sighed, and opened the gate.

  A few minutes later, Latimore escorted the three of them into the library at the rear of the house. Edward Archer was seated, quill in hand, at a large mahogany desk near the windows at the rear of the room. He glanced up when Latimore announced them, signed the document in front of him, and placed the quill in a brass holder on his right.

  “You two did not get very far,” he said as he rose and leaned across his desk to shake their hands. While his expression was polite enough as he gestured for them to sit in the chairs in front of the desk, his eyes were slightly narrowed and tight at the corners with annoyance.

  “Ran into this fine fellow.” Belcher slapped Greenfield on the shoulder yet again before flopping down in one of the chairs. He stretched out his long legs, crossed his ankles, and grinned.

  “Lord Milbourn?” Archer frowned at him as if he’d expected Alexander to show a trifle more consideration about returning so soon with Belcher.

  “We were concerned, Archer,” Alexander said mildly. He took the seat on the end, leaving Greenfield to either stand or sit in the chair in the middle.

  Greenfield moved behind the chair and rested his hands on its back. “I apologize for the interruption, sir, but I have a few questions.” He paused for a second before adding, “Perhaps you would prefer to speak in private?”

  Archer caught Alexander’s gaze and let out a long breath. He looked down at the top of his desk with a frown and pushed the top sheet of paper an inch to the right with his forefinger. Then he picked the papers up, tapped their bottom edges against the blotter to align the sheets, and set the pile on the left corner of his desk.

  “We are old friends. I don’t know what you could possibly ask that they do not already know.” He sat heavily and folded his hands on the brown blotter in front of him. “Proceed.”

  “Very well, sir.” Greenfield didn’t look pleased with Archer’s response, but he drew out a small notebook and pencil. He flipped the book open to a blank page and looked at Archer. “We have Mr. Grantham’s journal, sir, and several other papers.”

  “Yes. You mentioned those at the inquest. What of them?” Archer’s clasped hands tightened.

  “His finances were of some interest, sir,” Greenfield replied with a hint of chiding underlying his quiet tones. He glanced at first at Alexander and then at Belcher. “Perhaps one of you gentlemen knows the source of his income?”

  “Why the devil should we know that?” Archer asked. “He had some source, obviously. Family money or some sort of an estate. He went to Oxford, for God’s sake.” He ran a hand through his dark hair, making some of the thick curls stand up like storm-darkened waves. “He always seemed well-off. Comfortable.” He glanced at Alexander with raised brows. “He paid his wagers, did he not? Milbourn won enough of them — he certainly ought to be able to confirm that.”

  Alexander nodded and leaned back, bringing his right foot up to rest the ankle on his opposite knee. “He certainly never complained when he paid what he owed. He was never a poor loser, no many how many times he lost.” A lopsided grin twisted his mouth as he tapped his fingers on his right ankle.

  Greenfield cleared his throat. “He did not inherit a large estate, sir. As far as can be determined.”

  “Investments. Other holdings.” Archer shrugged and lightly rapped his knuckles against the leather blotter. “One doesn’t question one’s friends about their finances, sir.” He rapped twice, harder. “He was more Wraysbury’s friend than mine.” He glanced at Greenfield, his eyes glittering with sardonic amusement over the thought of the inquiry agent attempting to question an earl.

  Greenfield would be fortunate if he was even permitted in the servants’ entrance to the earl’s mansion, much less allowed into his presence. If anyone questioned him, it would be the House of Lords, as part of the murder inquiry. Assuming it got that far.

  “Though I doubt Wraysbury knows any more about Grantham’s estate than I do,” Archer added, before clasping his hands together on top of the desk. The gesture politely suggested that their interview was over.

  “Why the interest in Grantham’s finances?” Belcher asked, oblivious to the air of finality settling around Archer’s rigid shoulders.

  “He opened an account recently and initiated some investments,” Greenfield replied slowly. Reluctance to reveal the details of the case was evident in the thinning of his mouth and the way his gaze drifted from one piece of furniture to another, avoiding catching the gaze of the other men in the room.

  “What of it?” Belcher laughed and slapped his knee. “Must have won a few bets for a change. Good for him.” His laughter turned into low chuckles. “And excellent for his heirs, of course.”

  Alexander listened and stared at the beveled edge of Archer’s desk, perfectly aware of where Greenfield was so delicately and expertly leading them. He took a deep breath and looked at the inquiry agent. “You seem to be suggesting something more than luck at wagering, Mr. Greenfield.”

  “What?” Belcher straightened and with raised brows and wide eyes, he looked at Alexander and then Greenfield. “Are you suggesting he was blackmailing Lady Olivia?”

  Greenfield tilted his head to the left and gazed at Belcher with an expression of mild curiosity. “What makes you suggest Lady Olivia?”

  “Well, she — that is — you realize, well, I honestly don’t know. I was just — never mind me.” Belcher threw up his hands and shook his head. “I don’t know what I am saying.”

  “Have you found evidence of blackmail, Mr. Greenfield?” Alexander asked when Belcher’s babbling trailed off.

  “There were some notes,” Greenfield said slowly, as if cautiously measuring each word. “In the back of his journal.” A brief smile flitted across his face. “Somewhat cryptic as they were written in the form of initials, dates, and amounts. And there were other letters.…”

  Belcher snorted. “Wagers.”

  “I have to say, Mr. Greenfield, that if Grantham were engaged in blackmail, he would find my brother, the earl, a difficult nut to crack.” Archer smiled grimly. “As are all the Archers. You cannot have a loose screw like our cousin John Archer in the family without adopting a somewhat callous attitude toward public opinion.” His grin twisted. “And the fact that my sister, Lady Olivia, is engaged in founding a fencing academy for ladies, should indicate to you what she thinks of Polite Society’s opinion.” He flashed a quick, considering glance at Belcher, before he focused on Greenfield aga
in. “And she is not here at the moment, even if you wished to speak to her. Therefore, I am afraid you will have to look elsewhere, if blackmail is your concern.”

  “Indeed, sir.” Greenfield nodded in agreement. His gaze shifted to Alexander. He frowned briefly and stared down at his hands, folded together in his lap. “You know a Mr. Underwood, sir. Do you not?”

  Archer’s mouth tightened, and his gaze hardened. “I do. What of it?”

  “Was he having any difficulties of which you were aware?” Greenfield put the question delicately.

  “Nothing that I care to discuss with you.”

  Greenfield’s brows rose. “Indeed, sir. Perhaps we might discuss the matter in private. At your convenience, of course. In fact, I had hoped to speak to each of you privately. I am sure you understand.”

  “We know each other too well, already, to worry about such things,” Belcher said with a grin. “Light your fuses and fire the cannons, Greenfield.”

  Archer and Alexander exchanged glances.

  Archer said, “I agree with Mr. Greenfield. Privacy is best for such matters.” He stood, frowning. “You may use this room for your interviews. To whom would you prefer to direct your questions first?”

  “As you say, sir, Mr. Grantham was more a friend to the earl than you, and Lady Olivia is absent. So if you don’t mind, perhaps I may have a few minutes of Lord Milbourn’s time.” Greenfield raised his brows as he looked at Alexander.

  It was clear that he wished to give Archer time to reconsider his position concerning Underwood and whatever he knew of him. Perhaps the inquiry agent thought that when Archer’s initial anger cooled, he would realize that implicating Underwood might remove some of the suspicion from Lady Olivia.

  If that were his reasoning, it showed how little he knew of Archer’s character.

  “I have no objection.” Alexander nodded at Archer.

  Belcher’s brow furrowed with irritation as he stood and followed Archer to the door. “This is ridiculous.”

  Alexander waited for the library door to close behind the two men before he fixed his gaze on the inquiry agent. “Well, Mr. Greenfield, what did Grantham have to say in this fascinating journal of his?”

  “He had a great deal to say about all four of you.” Greenfield chuckled. “Quite the quartet of adventurers in your day, it seems.”

  Alexander shrugged. “And eventually, we all grew up.” He considered Belcher and added with a grin, “Though some of us matured more quickly than others.”

  “So it seems.” Greenfield paused to examine his fingernails again.

  Perhaps he hoped the silence would encourage Alexander to speak, but he simply relaxed and sat back in his chair and waited, his calm gaze resting on the inquiry agent.

  Greenfield sighed. “Prying is so disagreeable.” He took a deep breath and shook his head before looking at Alexander. “Nonetheless, I must ask about some entries Mr. Grantham wrote in his journal concerning yourself. And your wife.”

  “I thought that might be your concern. No need to spare my feelings. It all happened a very long time ago.” Alexander smiled, despite the bleak, cold feeling settling within him. It had indeed been a number of years, but some pain never seemed to diminish.

  “She…died?”

  “What a delicate way of asking if I murdered her.” Alexander stared again at the clean, straight edge of Archer’s massive desk. The line reminded him of the sharp edges of the stairs that night. The lamplight had caught them, turning them into bright yellow lines before the bottommost steps descended down into the darkness of the ground floor. “No. I did not.”

  The inquiry agent nodded. “An accident. She fell.”

  “Yes. We were arguing on the first floor landing. She backed up to grab the small statue sitting on the newel-post” — a grim smile fluttered over his face—”to throw at me. She liked to throw things — figurines mostly, because they shattered so satisfactorily — when she failed to win an argument any other way. She missed her footing and fell.” He stared at the floor, remembering the sickening, dull thuds as she tumbled down the staircase.

  “And she was pregnant at the time?”

  Alexander felt an itching sensation on the side of his face from Greenfield’s stare. He glanced up and shrugged. “Yes, so her physician said. Four or five months.”

  “You did not know at the time?”

  “She had not seen fit to tell me before…it happened.” Four or five months. A cold hollow remained inside him at the loss of the baby, whether it was his or not. A tiny little boy — a son he was unlikely to have, now. The specter of that painful question remained: was the boy his child or not? It might have been his if it was closer to five months than four. But four.…

  She had refused to share his bed the last few months of their increasingly acrimonious marriage. And she was not a woman to forgo her pleasures. She had welcomed someone with her lovely pale arms wide open, brilliant black eyes, and hungry, crimson mouth, but he didn’t know whom.

  He’d preferred not to know. Marriage had been a mistake — and blaming another man for his misjudgment was futile, especially when he had no intention of repeating his errors.

  “Grantham seemed inclined to speculate,” Greenfield said, before adding hastily, “A few initials only — no names.”

  “Initials.” Alexander grunted. The gnawing, bitter anger, guilt, and frustration at his past failures with his erratic, tempestuous wife made him bite back the question forming on his lips.

  Who, who, who? The question repeated like the mournful, low call of an owl. When did her love for me turn to hate? Who stole her smiles and lithe body? His foot, still propped up on his left knee, jiggled. Better off not to know, not to speculate.

  It could have been anyone, even a servant. A footboy or groom. Anyone.

  Knowing the initials would only drive him to discover whose name would match the letters.

  “Grantham never mentioned it to you?” Greenfield asked, pursuing the answers doggedly.

  Alexander laughed harshly, his foot jerking faster. He gripped his ankle and stopped the movement. “No, he did not. He did not try to blackmail me with any knowledge he may have had concerning her, if that is your concern.”

  Then it struck him. If Grantham wrote about Isabella’s affair, then at least she had not seduced him. Greenfield’s questions would have taken a dramatically different turn if that had been the case, and Grantham had noted it in his journal.

  The tight bands of tension around Alexander’s chest eased. Grantham had not betrayed their friendship — he’d never had an affair with his wife. One of the few men who had not.

  The thought made Grantham’s death seem even sadder. Unnecessary and tragic.

  He’d been such a gentle man, unobtrusive and always the last to join in any activity, particularly those promising any physical danger. Although no one would ever call him a coward, he did not court risk, either. And knowing him, it was difficult to conceive of Grantham indulging in blackmail, unless he was sure he was safe in doing so. Or if he desperately needed the money.

  “Greenfield, are you sure about your supposition that Grantham was blackmailing someone?”

  “It is difficult to be sure of anything, my lord. However, there were some letters.…” A self-deprecating smile curved Greenfield’s mouth. “And there were those deposits.…”

  “When did they start?”

  “About six months ago. At least, that is when he began investing.” Greenfield stared at his hands clasped in his lap. “His accounts were in arrears before that — had been for the last year.”

  Six months.

  What had happened six months ago that had brought Grantham’s financial matters to a head? If he’d had a lack of funds for a year or more, he could certainly have continued a while longer. However, there was nothing that Alexander could recall.

  “How much money was involved?” he asked.

  “Each deposit was one hundred pounds, and there were ten deposits. One per week
for ten weeks,” Greenfield replied.

  “And then they stopped?” Alexander frowned. One thousand pounds. A nice round sum, but hardly a fortune.

  But a nice, tidy sum that you might be able to squeeze out of someone.

  “There was a gap of three weeks, and then another series of deposits. Same amounts, at the same interval. The deposits continued until a month before Grantham died,” Greenfield said.

  “It does not appear to be the result of successful wagering.” Alexander rubbed the back of his neck. “The amounts and times would have been more varied.”

  “Unless he were the kind of man who saved his winnings until he had one hundred pounds before depositing. Bookkeeping would be easier,” Greenfield suggested, studying Alexander to see his reaction.

  “Grantham was not that methodical.” Alexander placed his right foot on the floor. “Are there any other questions?”

  Greenfield stood politely as Alexander got to his feet. “No, my lord. I appreciate your patience.”

  “Archer or Belcher?” he asked as he strode to the door.

  “Mr. Belcher, I believe,” Greenfield replied. He smiled. “Fortunate I ran into the two of you, was it not?”

  “Yes,” Alexander agreed in a dry voice. “Fortunate. Precisely the term I would have employed for our meeting.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The fencing lesson went surprisingly well, and Olivia felt invigorated as she locked the foils and masks in her office. The exercise had almost made her forget the recent tragedies, although the occasional hesitant question, high giggle, and nervous, darting glances from the young ladies who’d decided to attend confirmed that they were there mostly for the sheer thrill of seeing the building where two corpses had been recently found. And of course, the excitement of learning fencing from a lady who might be a murderer.

  However, Olivia thought that they also seemed to experience some of the thrill she’d always felt when crossing swords with an opponent. The excitement flaring in their eyes wasn’t only because of the recent, sad events.