Murder Most Malicious

by Alyssa Maxwell

  Eva rose and headed for the door. “I’ll leave you two alone.”

  “Stop right there, Eva.” Amelia’s command halted her in her tracks. “You’re as involved as Phoebe is, no use denying it.”

  “Amelia, please.” Phoebe stood and reached out to finger the lace trim on Amelia’s collar, adjusting here, smoothing there. “Nothing is going on. The constable simply had some questions to ask Grams, and she wanted us with her for moral support.”

  “That much may be true, but you and Eva have been conspiring like a pair of thieves. I wish to know what’s going on. I’m almost sixteen. I’m not a child anymore—”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “You know I am not, Phoebe, and I wish to help. Don’t you think I care about what happens to Vernon? Don’t you think I want justice for Henry?”

  The tiny catch in Amelia’s voice tempted Eva to put her arms around her, or better yet tuck her into bed with a cup of warm milk and cinnamon. Yet she heard too much of Phoebe in this younger sister’s demands. Had she thought Phoebe the only young Renshaw with spark? How wrong she had been.

  Lady Phoebe saw it, too, for she stopped fussing over Amelia’s collar and stepped back to regard her. “I’m sorry, Amelia. It’s all too easy to go on seeing you as you were. I suppose the same way Grams and Grampapa see us all, as sweet little dolls who never change and never grow up. They want to keep us safe all the time, but if we allowed that we’d never see much of life, would we?”

  “No,” Amelia whispered. Louder, she said, “Then you’ll tell me what you know and let me help?”

  Phoebe turned to Eva. “What do you think?”

  Eva raised both hands. “It is not my decision, my lady, and it sounds to me as if you already made up your mind anyway.”

  “I have.” She grasped Amelia’s shoulders. “I have an idea how you can help me this very night. Eva, don’t scowl. I promise my little sister will neither come to harm nor find herself in trouble. Now, here’s what we’re going to do.”

  At the sound of footsteps in the gallery, Phoebe and Amelia poked their heads outside Phoebe’s bedroom door. “It’s him,” Amelia announced in an excited whisper, and Phoebe shushed her.

  “I can see that,” she said calmly, though inside she felt anything but. Strolling along the gallery, Lord Owen gave an adjusting tug on his tailcoat and pressed two fingers to his bowtie as if to test the integrity of the knot. “He’s dressed for dinner. It isn’t likely he’ll return upstairs until sometime after the dessert course.” She eased out of her bedroom and down the corridor, acutely aware of Amelia following so close behind her she could hear her breathing and even felt an occasional puff against her nape. At the edge of the gallery, they stopped and listened to Lord Owen’s receding footsteps downstairs in the hall.

  “He’s gone to the drawing room,” Phoebe said.

  “About time. Let’s go, then.” Amelia took a step, which brought her thumping into Phoebe’s back.

  “Hold up a moment.” Phoebe impatiently straightened her bodice where it had slid askew thanks to Amelia’s bumping into her. “We know the others have gone down, all but Lady Allerton.”

  “She’s probably eating in her room again. . . .”

  “Probably.” But Phoebe made no move to cross the gallery until she felt satisfied that if Lady Allerton had decided to dine with the others, she would have made an appearance by now. Minutes ago, Amelia had made her excuses to their grandparents by saying Phoebe needed help with some tangled strands of beads and didn’t wish to bother Eva. That meant Phoebe had at most a quarter hour to make a quick search of Lord Owen’s room while the others mingled in the drawing room before dinner was served. Should she linger past that, Grams would surely send someone looking for both her and Amelia.

  “All right, let’s go.” Together they scurried across the gallery, their breaths held lest they be seen from below. Thankfully the hall remained empty. They made it across and into the guest wing without mishap. “Now, then, you remember what to say should Lord Owen take it into his head to return to his room before dinner?”

  “He won’t, will he?” The sudden worry in Amelia’s eyes fractured Phoebe’s confidence in having recruited her sister as her accomplice. Too late now. Phoebe didn’t dare enter Lord Owen’s room without a lookout. She had promised Eva. Actually, Eva had made her take a solemn oath.

  “There is no reason why he would, Amellie.” She used Amelia’s nickname from when they were little, and it had the desired effect. The worry vanished from her gaze and she gave a determined nod.

  “Well, then, if he were to return, I’ll pretend I was just coming from Lady Allerton’s room and claim I was checking to see if she intended coming down for dinner. I’ll say she didn’t respond to my knock and is probably sleeping. Then I’ll ask Lord Owen to escort me to the drawing room.”

  “That’s right. Being a gentleman, he cannot refuse. Just remember to speak in a loud voice so I’ll be sure to hear you.”

  Amelia nodded her understanding, and Phoebe left her to continue down the hall to Lord Owen’s bedroom. To her relief the doorknob turned in her hand. She opened the door only wide enough to slip inside and then closed it securely behind her. She went straight into the bathroom, not expecting to find anything there but wanting to rule it out quickly. As she supposed, nothing but extra towels, bars of soap, and Lord Owen’s leather-encased shaving kit occupied the shelves. She returned to the bedroom.

  The layout of the room was similar to Henry’s, with a carved bedstead flanked by two end tables, a towering armoire, a seating arrangement around the fireplace, and a heavy mahogany desk. She went there first.

  And found nothing of importance. As with the other guests rooms, a writing tablet, each page emblazoned at the top with the Wroxly coat of arms, sat on the leather desktop, accompanied by an assortment of pens and a pot of ink. A gilded porcelain bowl in the shape of an oak leaf held a few coins. She slid out the first drawer to her left and then the one beneath it. Both were empty. She made short work of the others and found only a few scraps of paper and a stub of a pencil most likely left there by a previous guest.

  She took another quick survey of the room. If Owen Seabright had brought a travel desk as Henry had, he’d apparently hidden it. Quickly she crossed to one of the end tables, pulled out the drawer, and then flung open the cabinet beneath it. Both were empty but for a book: Don Quixote, an 1885 English translation by John Ormsby.

  She paused and flipped to a page, then another, and stared down at the familiar words. She and Grampapa had spent weeks reading this book together. It was one of her favorites. She’d found it at once whimsical and sad, filled with hope and yet so tragic. She would not have thought a man like Owen Seabright—a commander, a leader of men—would read such a fanciful story. It showed another side to him, to be sure. A more tender side. The notion made her uncomfortable. Her snooping was meant to yield evidence that he was involved in the attack on Henry, or not. It wasn’t meant to provide a window into the man’s soul.

  Carefully she replaced the book and closed the drawer. If Lord Owen had something to hide, where would he put it? Under the mattress? She knelt and slid her arms beneath the down tick as far as they could reach, then ran around to do the same on the other side. She flipped over the corners of the Persian rug. Coming to her feet, she again scanned the room, struck by the impersonal nature of her surroundings. Did the man travel with nothing but the clothes on his back? She must remember to ask Mr. Hensley what he thought of Lord Owen’s utter lack of possessions.

  All right, then, that left the armoire.

  Behind the left-hand door some dozen suits of clothing hung above a perfectly straight row of shoes and boots, while to the right a bank of drawers held shirts, collars, ties, accessories, and such parts of a man’s wardrobe that aroused a sense of inappropriate intimacy. She was about to roll the last drawer back into place when a bit of paper peeked out from beneath a linen under chemise. Upon reaching for it she realized it was not
merely paper, but something thicker. A photograph. With shaking fingers she turned it over and beheld an image—albeit a clouded, slightly blurry one as if taken at a distance through a window—of Julia standing on the threshold of what appeared to be the open door of a city building, perhaps an apartment building or a townhouse.

  With a man.

  The breath went out of her. Even given the fuzzy quality of the photograph, she recognized the straight black hair, wide mouth, and the slight bump in the bridge of his nose: Lord Bellington, one of Henry’s friends and the individual who wrote Connie’s false letter of recommendation. In the photograph, Julia had her face angled to receive Lord Bellington’s kiss on her cheek.

  Phoebe pressed a hand to her throat. Lord Bellington was married. Married.

  She tunneled her hand through the folded piles of Lord Owen’s underthings and found two more photographs of Julia with Lord Bellington. In one they occupied the front seat of a motorcar, Lord Bellington at the wheel. In the other, again apparently taken through a window, they sat together inside a café. It was dark, shadowy, but Phoebe made out the image all the same. Lord Bellington’s hand lay over Julia’s.

  Julia, how could you? Phoebe’s vision blurred and an ill sensation roiled up inside her. Perhaps nowadays Julia might have gotten away with seeing a man unchaperoned, but a married man? Her reputation—the entire family’s reputation—would never endure it. And even Phoebe, with all her notions of women’s independence and the easing of society’s traditions, could not condone behavior such as this.

  “Oh, Julia,” she whispered. “Why?”

  But why had Lord Owen taken these photographs? What did he plan to do with them? Julia had acted puzzled over his presence in Henry’s room last night, but was that all it was—acting? Perhaps Henry and Owen both vied for Julia’s affections. But Henry, Owen, and Lord Bellington?

  And then an urgent thought struck her: the negatives. She burrowed her hand back into the drawer, in between, around, all the way down to the satin drawer liner. “They aren’t here,” she murmured. She was about to search through the other drawers again, but surely she would have seen something the first time—an envelope, perhaps.

  “Good evening, Lord Owen.”

  Amelia’s high-pitched, rapid greeting just barely penetrated the bedroom door. Phoebe gasped, shoved the photographs back into the folds of linen, and for an instant agonized over whether she could approximate the exact positions of the drawer’s contents. Those concerns fled in the next moment.

  “I was checking on Lady Allerton,” Amelia said in the same frenetic tone, “but it seems she is sleeping. Would you mind escorting me down to dinner?”

  “I would be very happy to, my lady,” Lord Owen replied. These words Phoebe only just made out, for he apparently didn’t share Amelia’s need to shout. “If you’ll wait here but one moment, I need to stop in my room first.”

  Phoebe’s eyes flew wide and her breath caught in her throat. Blood pounding in her temples, she glanced around wildly, but the turning of the doorknob left her with only one option. She stepped up into the left side of the armoire, knocking over a pair of boots in the process. She left them where they lay and pulled the doors closed behind her. She parted the suits, stepped behind them, and arranged them in front of her. With her back pressed against hard mahogany and the serge, tweeds, and superfine hanging right up against her face, it was all she could do to draw breath. Not that she dared.

  His footfalls were muffled against the carpet and she tried to picture where in the room he was. A drawer opened, closed. More footsteps, a creak from the floor beneath the rug, and then a pause. What was he doing? What was he looking at? Had she closed the doors properly? A maddening itch seized her nose, but she daren’t reach up to scratch. Another tickled between her shoulder blades. Her knees began to tremble.

  The thudding steps sounded again, becoming subtly louder until she pictured him standing right in front of the armoire doors. She bit down on her bottom lip as an urge to cry out gripped her. Please, please, don’t look inside.... Go away. . . .

  She almost sagged with relief when the footsteps receded. She heard them louder against the wooden floor where the rug ended, and then the bedroom door closed again. Her heart hammered against her ribs so violently her entire body shook, and now she did sag, just slowly collapsed into a crouch against the back of the armoire. That brought her face close to the footwear lined up in front of her, the pungency of leather mingling with the scents of wool. She sneezed—she couldn’t help it—but as she reached out to crack one of the doors a fraction of an inch, the utter stillness of the room assured her she was now safe. Amelia’s muffled voice, and then Owen’s, drifted from the corridor. She pushed the door wider, but froze.

  The tip of a blade protruded from inside one of the boots she had knocked over. Grams’s pugio, she thought with a start. She reached out, fingered the tip, then carefully caught it between her thumb and forefinger and slid it free.

  The boot clunked against the floor of the armoire. Phoebe absently set it and its mate upright as she stared down at the weapon dangling from her hand. Not Grams’s pugio. . . .

  A bayonet, some twelve inches long, its edges as well as its point razor sharp.

  CHAPTER 15

  Eva knocked on Julia’s bedroom door. At a reply from inside, she stepped inside, then took a startled stride backward. “Oh! My lady, I’m sorry, I thought you said to come in. I didn’t realize . . .”

  Julia stared up at her from the chaise longue set just beyond the dais that held her canopied bed. As eldest daughter, Julia had been allotted the largest and most elaborate room, second only to the one shared by Lord and Lady Wroxly. With rose-colored upholsteries and carved white furniture inlaid with mother-of-pearl accents, the room suited Julia—it complemented her beauty, satisfied her pride, and showcased her aristocratic tastes. Yes, when Eva pictured Julia Renshaw, it was usually here in this fairytale room, a princess holding court until just the right prince swept her off her feet.

  She had never envisioned that such a prince might be embodied in the person of Theodore Leighton, yet here he was, standing near the hearth, the glow of the fire gilding the scars on his chin and neck.

  Eva took quick assessment of the scene before her. They were still wearing their dinner clothes—all of them—and she had detected no sudden movements when she opened the door, such as Lord Theodore attempting to put distance between them in a show of innocence. Still . . .

  “Forgive me, my lady,” she said with a bobbed curtsey. “I’ll come back later.”

  Julia laughed. “Nonsense, Eva. Lord Theodore was just leaving.” She raised her chin to look up at him, the motion bringing a graceful curve to her elegant neck. “Weren’t you, Theo?”

  “Yes, it’s late. I’ll see you tomorrow, Julia.” He crossed the room to her and leaned to peck her offered cheek. Eva found herself having to step out of his way as he strode to the door, or he might have barreled into her. She couldn’t resist turning and watching him disappear into the corridor.

  “Eva, do stop staring. The man doesn’t bite.”

  “Doesn’t he?” she said so quietly she doubted Lady Julia could have heard as she rose from the chaise in a rustle of silk and beading.

  “No, he does not.” Standing at her dressing table, Lady Julia sent Eva a pointed glare through the centermost panel of the triptych mirror. She kicked off her high-heeled silk shoes. “Come help me get this dress off, would you? All this beading weighs a ton.”

  “Certainly, my lady.” Eva detoured into the dressing room for a nightgown, wrapper, and slippers. Upon returning she unbuttoned each tiny gold button down the back of Julia’s dress, helped her off with stockings and brassier, and slipped the lacy nightgown over her head. Julia sat at the dressing table and Eva went to work on her hair, first removing the jeweled combs on either side. Then she searched for each pin and gently slid it free. “I know it’s none of my business, my lady, but entertaining a gentleman in your ro
om alone—”

  “I understand your concern, Eva, but I was not entertaining Lord Theodore. He was merely inquiring as to my welfare, and I his.”

  “Excuse me, my lady, but is that not something that can be done downstairs, among the others?”

  “No, it cannot. I don’t expect you to understand, Eva.”

  “Nor is it my place to understand, my lady,” she said calmly. “I only wish to make certain no harm comes to you, or either of your sisters. It doesn’t do to put one’s trust in the wrong sort.”

  “And have you decided Lord Theodore is the wrong sort? Why?”

  The edge in Julia’s tone was subtle, but unmistakable. “My lady, there have been such goings-on here lately. How can you know whom to trust?”

  Julia went still. “What do you know about Theo Leighton, Eva? Have the servants been gossiping again?”

  Dared she reveal what she had learned? Would it be a betrayal of Phoebe’s trust? But no, this in particular she had learned from Vernon, who had served as Lord Theodore’s valet. She steeled herself with a breath and slid another pin from Julia’s hair. “There has been some talk, my lady. It’s said Lord Theodore might not have slept in his bed Christmas night.”

  Julia took several long moments before answering, and when she did speak, her voice was cold and lacking inflection. “And does this incriminate him in your mind?”

  “N-no, my lady. But it does raise a question or two.”

  Julia reached up and placed a hand over Eva’s, stilling it in midair. “I shall put those questions to rest here and now. Lord Theodore was with me for hours Christmas night.”

  “My lady!”

  “Not in that way. I’d just broken it off with his brother and was terribly upset. I met Theo in the gallery and he saw immediately something was wrong. We sat in the billiard room for hours talking. Even played a few rounds.” She released Eva and folded her hands in her lap. “Theo and I share something of a bond now. We were the two people closest to Lord Allerton when he died—Theo as his brother, and me as the woman both our families believed would become his wife.”