The idea that Sir Gerald could be deceiving us troubles me. I find that I don’t want to think badly of him even though I know I shouldn’t rule out any possibility at this early stage.
Voices emanate from the immense drawing room, where gold columns along the walls flare into ribbed vaults beneath the arched ceiling and a fire smolders in a hearth big enough to roast a deer. The room is a museum of treasures—medieval tapestries, dark gilt-framed oil paintings, and glass cases of taxidermy birds. Near the sofas and armchairs in front of the hearth, Sir Gerald, a woman, and another man stand by a table arrayed with bottles and glasses. As Hugh and I walk toward them across soft Turkish carpets, I feel the same quickening of my pulse as I did in Sir Gerald’s office. The other man and the woman are facing away from us. The man is tall, well built, and dressed in black; his thick black hair curls over his nape. The woman is a petite brunette in a brilliant-yellow frock. She must be Sir Gerald’s daughter Olivia, and the man her brother Tristan. Hearing our footsteps, they turn.
Hugh is the handsomest man I’ve ever seen, but Tristan Mariner is his equal. Deep, intelligent black eyes burn in a tanned face with chiseled features and a strong jaw. Many women must consider him attractive, but his haughty air puts me off. Then I notice his white collar. Tristan Mariner is a priest.
He and his sister regard us with surprise. Olivia Mariner is pretty rather than beautiful. Her bold brown eyes, inherited from Sir Gerald, are too big for her heart-shaped face, as is her wide mouth. She has a full bust, arms like slender twigs in the tight sleeves of her silk frock, and a tiny waist. Her hair is a cloud of loose ringlets tinged with auburn. She seems at once younger and more mature than her seventeen years.
“Here are our guests.” Sir Gerald performs the introductions.
Tristan bows to me. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Bain.” His voice is a cultured baritone, his manner somberly courteous.
I murmur a reply. Olivia squeezes my fingers with her small, delicate ones before pouncing on Hugh. “My lord! How delightful!” she says in a husky, breathless tone. She dimples as she offers him her hand.
“The delight is mine.” Hugh kisses her hand and smiles into her eyes. He’s an expert at flirting with women; he’s done it all his life in order to disguise his true nature.
Olivia casts a mischievous glance at her father, as if daring him to scold her for her pertness, but Sir Gerald is watching Tristan shake hands with Hugh. Antagonism flares as the two men size each other up. It’s more than the rivalry of proud male animals who think that the jungle isn’t big enough for both of them. Tristan’s glowering expression suggests that he knows about Hugh. Hugh’s face is rigid with dislike as they exchange terse greetings, and I think I know why. Soon after Hugh was exposed as a homosexual, the pastor from his church—a lifelong friend—ranted at Hugh, calling him a disgrace to God. The sense of betrayal plunged Hugh into a black depression, and he hasn’t been to church since. He must see every clergyman as a personification of the Church’s disgust toward him. Now he and Tristan step back from each other like fighters retreating to their corners of the ring.
While Sir Gerald serves us sherry, Olivia divides her attention into a big share for Hugh and a smidgen for me. “Are you friends of Daddy’s?”
“They’re private detectives,” Sir Gerald says. “I hired them to investigate the kidnapping and find Robin.”
A loud gasp comes from the shadows by the fireplace. There, in a red-and-gold damask armchair, sits a woman with her mouth open. She has faded blonde hair styled in tightly crimped curls and wears a gray frock over her dumpy figure. As she sees everyone staring at her, dismay fills her pale eyes. She shuts her mouth and clasps her hands to her bosom.
“Tabitha,” Sir Gerald says. “I didn’t know you were there.”
I suspect she’s often overlooked. Tabitha Jenkins is older than Lady Alexandra, with none of her famous sister’s beauty. I’m disconcerted that I didn’t notice her. The mansion is uncharted territory, and I’ll have to be more observant.
“Come and meet Miss Bain and Lord Hugh,” Sir Gerald says.
Tabitha obeys reluctantly. Tristan pours her a glass of sherry. She whispers, “Thank you,” and gulps the liquor as if for courage.
I’ve behaved similarly myself, due to shyness, but could it be guilt that’s made her so anxious? Did this meek, mousy woman kidnap her sister’s child? She seems no more likely a culprit than do Tristan the priest and seventeen-year-old Olivia. I also can’t picture any of them murdering Noel Vaughn and Ethel Norris. For now, my money is on the absent John Pierce.
“Why hire private detectives?” Tristan asks Sir Gerald. If he fears what Hugh and I might discover, the look he gives us contains nothing but repugnance. “The police are doing everything possible to find Robin.”
“Not in my opinion,” Sir Gerald says.
“But what fun!” Olivia turns an enraptured gaze on Hugh. “I’ve never met a detective before.”
“What sort of experience do you have?” Tristan asks Hugh.
I feel Hugh’s hackles rise. “Surveillance,” Hugh says. “Recovering lost property.”
Tristan eyes Hugh as if reading his origins in his speech, clothes, and manner. “You should have called in Pinkerton’s,” he tells Sir Gerald. “Not a dilettante who’s set himself up in the private inquiry business because he’s bored with society balls.”
Hugh flushes with humiliation. Sir Gerald says calmly, “Lord Hugh and Miss Bain will be staying in the house. Everybody is to cooperate with their investigation.”
“They’re staying in the house?” Tristan looks as appalled as if we’re vermin.
“Can I watch?” Olivia asks Hugh. “Oh, please say yes!”
Hugh forces a smile. “Of course.”
“Father, you’re usually so careful about who you employ,” Tristan says. “This isn’t normal for you. What’s going on?”
“This isn’t a normal situation.” Sir Gerald says abruptly, “Let’s go in to dinner.”
Olivia seizes Hugh by the arm and sashays toward the dining room with him. Tristan, visibly frustrated by his father’s evasion, ignores me and escorts Tabitha. His rudeness stings, and I dislike him on my own account as well as Hugh’s.
Sir Gerald draws my arm through his, smiles, and says, “The honor is mine.”
His arm is like steel. I feel as much dominated as flattered and as giddy as a girl asked to dance for the first time at her debut. I’m ashamed of my silliness, but I can’t help wondering what it’s like to be married to such a man, who could give his wife all the luxuries, status, and security that money can buy. I think of Barrett and the modest life we’ll have together if we marry, and I feel even guiltier toward him and more ashamed. I begin to resent Sir Gerald because his money has, in effect, bought me, and he’s the source of these discomposing, inexplicable feelings. Then I recall how his gaze softened when he spoke of Robin. He deserves my compassion even though I suspect, more strongly than ever, that he’s not been entirely frank with Hugh and me.
Olivia glances over her shoulder. The look she gives me could cut granite.
In the dining room, white plaster swags border gray-green walls. A ceiling like a huge white doily molded from stucco soars overhead. A crystal chandelier hangs above a long, linen-covered table with mahogany chairs for twenty people but set for six. Nude marble statues, wearing fig leaves for modesty, stand frozen in niches. From what I’ve seen of Mariner House, I think it must contain the most lavish, costly examples of every style of decor. Sir Gerald sits at the head of the table with me on his right and Hugh on his left. Olivia is next to Hugh, Tristan beside me. Tabitha sits on Tristan’s other side, somehow apart from the rest of us. A manservant pours wine into crystal goblets. A maid serves soup in porcelain dishes embellished with the Mariner ship in blue and gold. There are so many pieces of silverware that I have to watch Hugh to see which spoon he chooses before I pick up mine. The soup is a rich, creamy lobster bisque. Sulfur f
umes waft from the gas chandelier, and its flames flicker in drafts that flow in invisible currents. The room is cold despite the fires in the two hearths. I feel as if we’re dining in a Roman mausoleum.
“So where is your parish, Father Mariner?” Hugh addresses Tristan with a touch of belligerence.
Tristan pauses before deigning to answer. “I don’t have one. I’m a missionary in India.”
“You could have had your own parish. You still can,” Sir Gerald says. “A little talk with the bishop, a nice donation to the Church—”
“I don’t want you to buy a living for me,” Tristan says through gritted teeth.
“Why not?” Hugh asks. “Are you too holy to benefit from nepotism?”
Tristan glowers. Hugh smiles as if happy to give insult for insult. Although I know he can be snappish when hurt or angered, I’m shocked by his rudeness.
Sir Gerald seems more displeased with Tristan than offended by Hugh. “My son is too pigheaded to accept help.”
“I’m following my calling.” Tristan’s anger is glacial. “It’s my duty to God.”
Olivia whispers loudly to Hugh, “Daddy and Tristan don’t get along. This is Tristan’s first visit home in two years. He’s been here a month, and they’ve been at each other’s throats the whole time.”
I wonder if it’s mere coincidence that Robin was kidnapped while Tristan was home. Did his bad blood with his father drive Tristan to take revenge on his innocent brother? Not all priests are virtuous. At my boarding school, the minister waxed at length on the sins of the Roman Catholic clergy. His favorite example was a medieval Borgia pope who’d had mistresses, fathered children with them, and murdered his rivals.
“Your calling is just an excuse to neglect your duty to your family,” Sir Gerald tells Tristan. “You belong in business with me.”
“Father thinks he’s God,” Olivia whispers.
I don’t like Tristan, but I also don’t like the way Sir Gerald treats him. I’m surprised that I care.
“Please pass the bread, Olivia,” Tristan says.
Olivia complies, smiling innocently at him. “My dear half brother would rather nurse lepers than make money.” She sees the quizzical look on my face and explains, “Tristan and I have different mothers. His was Daddy’s first wife—a textile mill heiress from Yorkshire. Mine was an Italian opera singer.”
I can see where she acquired her tempestuous personality.
“Tristan’s mother died after falling off a cliff. Mine killed herself with poison,” Olivia says brightly. “Lady Alexandra is wife number three. I wonder who’ll be number four?” She flashes a merry, malicious glance at me.
I’ve done nothing to warrant her hint that I’ve set my cap at her father, but I blush. Sir Gerald regards her as if she’s a gnat buzzing around his head. She scowls, disappointed because she failed to get a rise out of him. The next course is rare roasted beef, enough for twenty people, with mushroom gravy and asparagus pudding. It’s the best meal I’ve ever been served, but I’m so tense that I can’t swallow much. Hugh washes his food down with wine. Sir Gerald eats hungrily, Tristan sparingly.
“By the way, where is Lady Alexandra tonight?” Olivia asks, gobbling her meat.
“She has a headache,” Tabitha says, joining the conversation for the first time.
Olivia snorts. “More likely she’s entertaining the friends or reporters who’ve been fawning over her since Robin was kidnapped.”
Sir Gerald ignores Olivia and tells Hugh and me, “Visitors are a comfort to my wife. She’s very upset about Robin.”
“She wallows in the attention like a pig,” Olivia says.
So Olivia is possessive of her father, jealous of her stepmother and any other woman who comes near him. That’s why she doesn’t like me. Did her jealousy extend to Robin, the new, favored baby of Sir Gerald’s family? I picture her lifting Robin out of his crib and carrying him down the back stairs.
“My secretary has found a new finishing school for you, Olivia,” Sir Gerald says. “The sooner you’re gone, the better.”
Tabitha murmurs, “Excuse me,” and scurries out of the room before things get uglier.
Olivia’s huge eyes shine with tears. She smiles through them at Hugh. “I was expelled from my last finishing school.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Hugh says politely.
“I stabbed the dance teacher with my nail file,” Olivia explains. “He tried to ravish me. He said I led him on. The headmistress took his side.”
Tristan has been watching Olivia with grave concern. “Olivia, you’d better learn to control yourself, or you’ll seriously hurt someone.”
“You’re a fine one to talk.” Olivia says to Hugh, “Tristan was thrown out of the army because he killed a man during a boxing match.”
Tristan’s face turns crimson with anger under his tan. “It was an accident.”
“Better your opponent dead than you.” Sir Gerald seems prouder of Tristan for killing a man than for his charity toward the poor.
“Is that why you’re a missionary?” Hugh asks Tristan. “To atone for your sin?”
Tristan shoves back his chair and stalks off.
Olivia bursts into tinkling laughter. “You should come hunting with me, Lord Hugh. You’re an excellent shot.”
Hugh preens himself. “I may take you up on your invitation after I find Robin.”
“Oh, don’t waste your time looking for Robin,” Olivia scoffs. “He’s probably dead.”
Sir Gerald’s expression turns menacing. “Olivia!” His outburst rattles the crystal on the table.
Gratified because she’s finally provoked a reaction, Olivia feigns wide-eyed, puzzled innocence. “Well, he must be. It would explain why the kidnapper took the ransom money but didn’t give him back.”
Hugh and I look at each other, sharing the suspicion that Olivia has reason to know that Robin won’t be found alive.
“Go to your room,” Sir Gerald says.
Olivia rises and says to Hugh and me, “We Mariners have a taste for violence. Did you know that Daddy started out as a slave trader? It was against the law, but he didn’t let that stand in the way of making money. When the Africans on his ship rebelled, he shot them. You’d better watch your step.” She flounces away.
I don’t like the way Sir Gerald treats Olivia, even though she asked for it. But his relations with his children are none of my business except as they relate to my investigation. The maid removes our dinner plates and serves fragrant chocolate sponge cake with whipped cream. The food I’ve already eaten sits in my stomach like lead.
“Now you see why I suspect my family,” Sir Gerald says. “There’s no love lost between my children and me.”
I think their love has been damaged by strife and unfulfilled expectations but not necessarily lost. My love for my father persists despite my feelings of hurt, anger, and betrayal. But damaged love could well be a motive for attacking Sir Gerald through Robin.
“Any news on the mystery witness since yesterday?” Sir Gerald asks.
Hugh doesn’t answer. He looks stunned, as if something has hit him and he doesn’t know what. I clear my throat and say, “We’ve come to a dead end.” I can’t reveal the shameful, incriminating facts about my father. We promised to keep Sir Gerald’s business secret; he didn’t promise the same for ours.
Sir Gerald changes the subject, as if he hasn’t time to waste on leads that didn’t pan out. “What’s your impression so far? Any idea who took Robin?”
“It’s too early to jump to conclusions.” I don’t want to believe my father is guilty of murder, and I doubt that Sir Gerald really wants to believe one of his children is guilty of Robin’s kidnapping. “We haven’t had a chance to talk to Miss Jenkins or Lady Alexandra.”
Sir Gerald tosses his napkin on the table and stands. Before he can leave, I ask, “Where were your family members when Robin was kidnapped?”
“That’s for you to figure out.”
He didn�
�t ask his family. I’m surprised to discover that this bold, powerful man is afraid to confront them, afraid of the truth. “Why did you spring Lord Hugh and me on your children and Miss Jenkins tonight?”
A crafty smile makes Sir Gerald look wicked. “Throw a cat among pigeons, and watch the feathers fly.” He says in parting, “I’ll be in the City tomorrow. I’ll expect a report when I get home.”
After he leaves, Hugh emerges from his daze and says, “His trick might panic somebody into doing something to reveal that he—or she—is the culprit.” He stands up. “Let’s go spy on Tristan, Olivia, and Tabitha.”
“Wait.” At the moment, I’m more concerned about him. “You shouldn’t have been so rude to Tristan.”
“Why not? The good priest might challenge me to a boxing match and knock my block off?”
His habit of being flippant at the wrong times irritates me, especially now. “That’s not what I meant. Tristan is our client’s son. Antagonize him, and you’ll antagonize Sir Gerald.”
“Tristan and Sir Gerald do a fine job antagonizing each other. But you’re right.” Hugh rubs his eyes. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have let him get to me. I’ll be more careful.”
I’m afraid to think about exactly in what way Tristan has gotten to Hugh. “Sir Gerald left before I could ask him who he thinks is the culprit.”
“And before we could ask about the old photograph of Robin,” Hugh adds.
“I still think it looks like a postmortem photograph, but I can’t picture the family hiding the secret that Robin died six months ago and conspiring to pretend he was kidnapped.”
“Maybe they’re not all in on the secret.”
The maid comes to remove our empty plates. We’re silent until she’s gone, in case she’s a spy who’ll report our conversation to Sir Gerald. I glance out the window and see one of his guards, as I can’t help thinking of them, walk across the terrace. “I wish I could trust Sir Gerald.”
“You and me both. I feel like we’re blind puppets in a show he’s directing, and we’re groping in the dark instead of finding Robin.”
A Mortal Likeness Page 8
