“You did the right thing, my love,” Marianne murmured.
Ambrose’s golden gaze grew focused. “There’s much to do,” he said. “I have to send for Dr. Abernathy; hopefully he can arrive from London by tomorrow or the day after and give us a more definitive opinion on the cause of death. I’ll need to contact Lugo and McLeod as well. My partners can search Monique’s residence in London; perhaps there’ll be clues there as to why someone might want her dead. In the meantime, I want to interview those closest to her: her maid and colleagues, to begin with. We’ll start compiling a list of suspects.”
Suspects… people who might want Monique dead…
The memory struck Vi with the force of lightning. She jumped to her feet. “I want to help too! In fact, I know who—”
“No.”
“Out of the question.”
Ambrose and Carlisle frowned at each other; they’d spoken simultaneously.
“But I can help,” Vi protested.
Carlisle shook his head. “You’ve seen enough for the night, Miss Kent. I am sure your delicate constitution would not benefit from further exposure to this macabre business.”
And there goes our armistice. It was nice while it lasted.
“I’ve got the constitution of an ox,” she said with a snort, “and everyone here knows it.”
“Now, Violet—” her brother began.
“This is important,” she insisted. “I know someone who had an argument with Monique just last night.”
Finally, she had everyone’s full attention. They were all staring at her.
“Who?” Emma said.
And the idiot sister shows her ace…
“Josephine Ashe,” Vi said triumphantly.
Chapter Thirteen
An hour later, Richard found himself in a private sitting room that their host had arranged for their use during the investigation. He shared a settee with Violet; the Duchess of Strathaven occupied an adjacent chair, her husband standing behind her. They were all awaiting the return of Kent, who’d gone to perform a search of Monique’s room and speak to her maid. The investigator had wanted to know as much as possible about the victim before interrogating Josephine Ashe.
As the other three talked in low murmurs, Richard couldn’t bring himself to join in. Inner turmoil consumed him. His profound worry for Wick. His unsuitable and undeniable attraction to Violet. The right thing to do on both counts.
As the shock of Monique’s death had worn off, an awful suspicion had arisen in Richard: was his brother somehow mixed up in the business? He didn’t believe for a second that Wick would harm anyone… but what if his brother had had a connection with Monique? An amorous one?
He recalled the noxious scent that had clung to Wick when he’d shown up at Richard’s townhouse several weeks ago… what had Wick said about it?
It’s French and expensive.
Richard had asked if Wick was referring to the perfume or the tart who’d worn it.
And Wick had said, Both.
That same vile smell had irritated Richard last night at supper. Could Monique have been the one wearing it? Had she and Wick been carrying on some sort of affair?
A vein throbbed near Richard’s temple. He prayed that his suspicions were unfounded because a connection between Wick and the Frenchwoman might make Wick a suspect. And there was still the matter of the ring: how had the deuced thing ended up in Monique’s hand?
Which brought Richard to the second source of his disquiet. Somehow, he’d allowed Violet to get entangled in this mess. He hated the fact that she was concealing evidence for his brother’s sake, but at the moment he didn’t know a better option.
He glanced at her. As she discussed the case with her sister, her features were animated—no doubt because she’d wrangled her way into the interview with Ashe. Watching her, he felt a stirring of a deep hunger, yearning beyond anything he’d experienced before. He knew his desire for her wasn’t wise, but that no longer seemed to matter.
It just was—and he was tired of fighting it.
Moreover, as far as he was concerned, they had to get married now. He’d taken advantage of her innocence not once but twice, and he needed to do right by her. His honor depended upon it. But how would he convince a free-spirited miss like Violet to marry a man she thought was a bloody stuffed shirt?
The door opened, and Kent walked in.
Richard put a lid on his rumination. You’ll talk to Violet soon. For now, focus—for Wick’s sake.
“How did it go?” Her Grace said. “Did you find any clues in Monique’s bedchamber?”
Kent cleared his throat. “No. Nothing in particular.” For some reason, his jaw reddened. “At least, nothing that would suggest a reason for her death.”
“Perhaps I ought to have a go at her bedchamber—” Her Grace began.
“That’s not necessary, Emma,” the investigator said firmly. “Heed me on this.”
“Did you learn anything from Monique’s maid?” Violet said.
Kent sighed. “When I informed her of the news, she became hysterical. ’Twas impossible to interview her in such a state. The housekeeper gave her a sleeping draught; I’ll talk to her again after she wakes.” He sat, stretching his long legs in front of him. “In the interim, I’ve summoned Miss Ashe. She’s on her way.”
“I can’t wait to hear what she has to say,” the duchess declared.
“Billings has yet to make an announcement concerning Monique’s death, so Miss Ashe should be in the dark about the business—unless, of course, she was involved. Your job is to observe her reaction, Em.” Kent aimed a stern look at his sister. “Let me take the lead.”
“Whatever you say,” Her Grace said brightly. “When do I ever interfere?”
Behind her, Strathaven looked… amused.
As Kent and the duchess discussed their strategy for the interview, Violet said under her breath, “Emma can be a bit managing, you see.”
Being neither deaf nor blind, Richard had surmised as much. Yet he heard the affection in Violet’s tone, a matter-of-fact acceptance of her sibling’s foibles. From what he’d observed thus far, the Kents seemed to share a rare respect for one another. Or perhaps they were too unconventional to notice each other’s eccentricities.
“Is this a problem for you?” he ventured.
“It’s part of Em’s charm.” Violet’s lips tipped up. “Just as dodging her is part of mine.”
The playful and unconditional warmth she had for her family was foreign to his own experience. In the Murray household, affection had been measured and expectations strict; any deviation from one’s role had led to repercussions. He’d always been the responsible son. Ever since he could remember, his father had pressed upon him the importance of duty, of taking care of the family. After Papa’s death, when Richard hadn’t been able to keep Mama in the style she’d been accustomed to, she’d made her displeasure clear.
Whereas Wick… Wick had always been the prodigal son for whom no repenting was necessary. He’d been cossetted by the entire family, Richard included.
And look at where that has gotten him, Richard thought heavily.
“You’re worried about Wick, aren’t you?” Violet said in an undertone.
Her insight surprised him. He wasn’t used to someone reading his thoughts—to having anyone care to do so. He cast a quick look at her siblings still engrossed in their conversation.
Quietly, he admitted, “Aye. I am.”
She nibbled on her lip. “Perhaps he and the others went on a jaunt to the village last night? It’d be just like them. Maybe they got three sheets to the wind and are just now waking up in some tavern.”
It was a heartening possibility. Much more so than the others rattling in Richard’s head.
“You ease my mind, lass,” he said.
A bemused look came over her. “I don’t think anyone has ever said that to me before.”
Before he could reply, a knock sounded on the door.
�
�Come in,” Kent said, and Richard rose with the other men.
Josephine Ashe entered the room. She was dressed in a plain bombazine gown, her manner as watchful as that of a governess. With the exception of her daringly short coiffure, she appeared quite ordinary. Nothing suggested that she juggled fire for a living.
“Good morning,” the duchess said. “Thank you for coming.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Miss Ashe’s curtsy was diffident, her wary gaze circling the room’s occupants and lingering for an instant on Violet. “You, er, wished to see me?”
“Please have a seat.” Kent gestured to a chair. “We’d like to ask you some questions.”
Perching on the very edge of the chair, Ashe said, “About what, exactly?”
“Your relationship with Madame Monique.”
At Kent’s direct reply, Ashe’s eyes narrowed. “Why would you wish to know about that?”
“Because Monique is dead,” Kent said.
Richard wasn’t the best judge of women, but even he saw the surprise flash through Ashe’s eyes. “Dead... Monique? But how?”
“That is what we are trying to determine,” Kent said briskly. “To do so, we are interviewing those with connections to her.”
“You don’t think I had something to do with it?” Ashe sounded aghast.
Violet spoke up. “I saw you and Madame Monique having an argument yesterday.”
Ashe ran a hand through her cropped blond locks. “That was nothing. Monique and I, we have never rubbed along—but that doesn’t mean that I would harm her.”
“What was the source of friction between the two of you?” Her Grace asked.
Color seeped into the juggler’s pale cheeks. “Monique wasn’t an easy person to get along with. She thought only of herself, never spared a thought for others. Sharing a stage with her was akin to sharing a bed with someone who hoards all the blankets.” An angry tremor entered her voice. “I was constantly left in the cold.”
Richard recalled yesterday’s performance. Monique’s dramatic entrance had cut short Ashe’s applause. Could professional jealousy be a motive for murder?
“I wasn’t the only one who felt that way,” Ashe added quickly. “Ask my colleague, Mr. Burns—or any of the other performers at Astley’s. Monique de Brouet was a selfish, unpleasant woman.”
“De Brouet is her true name?” Kent had removed a small notebook and was jotting into it.
“So she claimed.” Ashe’s eyes glittered with a hostility that she couldn’t hide. “Monique boasted that she came from la noblesse, you see. Liked to lord her origins over me just because my father was a fisherman from Marseilles. As if any of that mattered.” Her arms folded over her thin chest. “Even if her family was aristocratic, they lost everything in The Terror before she was born. Monique might like to act all hoity-toity, but the fact was she was a performer at Astley’s just like me. No better, no worse.”
“What were you arguing about yesterday?” Violet said.
“I did not appreciate the way her entrée cut short my ovation. It was not the way we had practiced; she was always up to such tricks.”
“I’d be annoyed, too, if someone altered a routine I’d practiced.” Violet’s matter-of-fact empathy seemed to calm the other. “Was that why you broke her looking glass?”
“For months, I’d been frustrated by her selfishness—and yesterday I gave in to my feelings. But it was a fit of pique, nothing more. On this, I swear.”
“Where were you last evening, Miss Ashe?” Kent said.
“I was indisposed.” Above the dark collar of her dress, Ashe’s throat rippled. “It had been a long day, with travel and the performance. I had dinner on a tray in my room.”
“Can anyone vouch for that fact?”
“I am an artist, sir. Not a harlot like Monique de Brouet.” Her voice quivered with outrage. “Unlike her, I do not entertain guests in my room.”
“I was referring to a maid or any other servant who might have seen you,” Kent said patiently.
“Oh.” Some of the wind left her sails. “Miss Billings did provide me with a maid… Mary, I think her name was. She helped me get ready for bed.”
As Kent scribbled in his notebook, Her Grace cut in. “Why do you call Monique a harlot?”
“Because she is… or was, rather.” Ashe cleared her throat. “Everyone knew she had lovers.”
“Do you know the identities of these lovers?” Kent said.
An invisible vise gripped Richard’s insides. By Jove, don’t let her say Wick…
“Monique was discreet,” Ashe said grudgingly. “Although she didn’t name names, she was constantly showing off this gewgaw or that, bragging that it came from some wealthy admirer. Her dressing room was bursting at the seams with gentlemen.”
Pencil poised, Kent said, “Do you recognize any of them here at the party?”
“I had better things to do than pay attention to Monique’s adoring hordes,” Ashe said with a sniff. “All I know is that she played fast and loose with her virtue.”
“What about enemies?” Richard spoke up. “Did Madame de Brouet have any?”
“With the way she conducted her life, I would be surprised if she didn’t,” the juggler said righteously. “If you wish to know particulars, ask that maid of hers, Jeanne. That one was the gargoyle at the gates, guarding all her mistress’ dirty secrets.”
“We’ll speak to her,” Kent said. “Thank you for your time, Miss Ashe.”
After the performer’s departure, he turned to the group. “What do you think?”
“She sounded like she was telling the truth,” Violet said.
“I can speak to the maid, Mary, to verify Miss Ashe’s alibi,” the duchess offered.
Kent nodded. “Good idea, Emma. You have a way with interviewing staff.”
Her Grace beamed, and Strathaven murmured, “I’ll go with you, pet.”
“I want to help too,” Violet said.
“You’ve done enough, Vi,” Kent said firmly. “Thank you for the help with Miss Ashe. We can handle the rest.”
“But Ambrose—”
“I’ll escort Miss Kent back to her room, if I may,” Richard intervened.
Kent’s gaze thinned. Although Richard lacked the ability to read women, he had no problems understanding masculine communication. A silent exchange passed between him and Kent.
The twitching muscle in Kent’s jaw warned, Harm my sister, and I’ll string you up.
My intentions are honorable, Richard’s jerk of the chin affirmed. You have my word.
After a minute, the investigator said aloud, “Directly to her room, my lord.”
“Thank you, sir.” Richard offered his arm to Violet. “Shall we, Miss Kent?”
Chapter Fourteen
Violet had never been a shrinking testament to her namesake, yet she was unaccountably tongue-tied as Carlisle escorted her back to her room. There was much to discuss concerning Wick, yet her brain refused to cooperate. Perhaps the lack of sleep combined with the excitement of the last several hours was finally taking its toll. She felt giddy, her pulse skipping erratically; she couldn’t control the wave of awareness flooding her senses.
Despite his brawny build, Carlisle moved with undeniable grace, his stride athletic and assured as they climbed the steps up to the floor of her room. Glancing beneath her lashes at his unsmiling mouth, she recalled the sensual firmness of those lips—and had to wet her own. Her gaze dipped lower, to the long-fingered hands at his sides, and molten heat welled inside her.
In the library, he’d awakened her to pleasure that she hadn’t known existed. His kisses had been so hot, his words even hotter. Then there was the way he’d touched her: inside and out until bliss had exploded, catapulting her over that dazzling, ecstatic edge… It had been, without question, the most exhilarating experience of her life. Better than any sport. Better than riding, climbing, and dancing combined.
“We should talk.”
Carlisle’s pronounceme
nt pulled her from her reverie. His brusque tone and the intent look in his eyes instantly filled her with wariness. Although she couldn’t deny her physical attraction to him, their differences were far from settled. The memory of his shoddy marriage proposal surfaced, along with all his past comments about her character.
And he’d sided with Ambrose in trying to shut her out of the case.
Nothing has changed, her inner voice said. Just because he dallied with you doesn’t mean he likes you.
Something inside her deflated like a soufflé. As much as she’d told herself that his opinion didn’t matter, for some infernal reason, it did. The fact made her feel exposed, vulnerable in a way she didn’t like.
As they passed the landing, which featured a Grecian urn gleaming in its recessed niche, she tried to bluff her way through. “Yes, we need to figure out how to help Wick—”
“There’s no we in that endeavor, Miss Kent. Wickham is my brother and my responsibility. I don’t want you involved.”
His rejection worse than stung—it hurt. A fragile connection had sprouted between them since finding Monique’s body. For a short time, they’d actually been working together, and it had felt surprisingly… right.
Swallowing, she said, “I’m already involved. Wick’s my friend. Don’t forget I’m protecting his secret, too.”
“I’m in no danger of forgetting. I’ve never regretted anything more in my life.” While she struggled to absorb that blow, Carlisle went on impatiently, “My brother aside, you and I have a matter to settle between us. A matter of honor.”
At the word “honor,” she stopped short in the deserted hallway, just a few doors down from her chamber. Anger shot up like a geyser. She welcomed the sudden surge of energy because it felt better than humiliation.
“You’re not going to propose again, are you?” she said acidly.
His eyes flickered. Did he flinch?
When he spoke, his words were harder than iron. “Is it the notion of marriage that you find offensive or the notion of marriage to me?”
“I don’t find the notion of marriage offensive.”
“It’s me, then.” His expression was darker than a forge. “At least you’re honest. So none of that meant anything to you, is that it?”
The Viscount Always Knocks Twice (Heart of Enquiry Book 4) Page 11
