Beguiled

by Shannon Drake

  This morning, watching her fiancé on the steps of the sheriff’s office, she had become more convinced than ever that she hadn’t been wrong about the importance of what she was doing. She had been afraid before at times, confident sometimes, and then, at other times, certain she was lacking real talent with words. But though she was certain she had a tremendous amount still to learn, she was also convinced that it was imperative for her to keep turning in her essays. Because of this luncheon, she was getting a chance to send her work straight from the city, instead of trying to appear nonchalant while she mailed it from the village.

  In fact, she realized, she had to thank Mark Farrow for his apparent disinterest. Had the man been there, she might not have escaped the museum so easily.

  She paused, admitting to herself that the man had been an excellent speaker. He did not rant or rave. He had a powerful voice, filled with both calmness and conviction.

  He spoke with wisdom, from the heart. And he had the physical presence that allowed him to rivet the attention of the crowd.

  Maybe he was a decent man and not just the idle son of a rich lord.

  Deep in thought, she never once looked back, the idea of pursuit never entering her mind.

  Rounding the final corner, Ally saw the post office. Walking inside, the hood of her cape over her head, she joined the line, and then finally approached the clerk at the counter. She gave him the folded letter from her pocket, paid to send it, then asked for all mail addressed to Olivia Cottage. An envelope was handed over to her; she thanked the man and hurried out.

  She found an empty alcove in front of a shop door advertising the fact that it would soon be opening as “Madame LeDeveau’s, Exquisite French Designs.” There she ripped open the envelope. With awe, she saw the bank check it held. The amount was far from huge, but to Ally, it was amazing. A. Anonymous had been published twice. And paid. Twice. That meant she was capable of fulfilling a dream. The feeling of accomplishment was sweet, and for a moment she let herself savor it.

  Then she started.

  She looked at the time on her watch pendant, and her heart sank. She had been gone far longer than she had intended. She started to hurry back to the museum, once again never thinking to look behind her.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  AFTER TEA, IAN AND MARK changed places.

  Eleanor Brandon appeared sane that morning, though drained of all energy and emotion. She had barely eaten a morsel of food, and had scarcely sipped her tea.

  “Eleanor,” Mark said gently, “is there anything, anything at all you can tell us that would help us in any way?”

  It was as if his words reached her from a great distance, and she had to struggle to focus on him. She smiled, but her smile was grim. “I have told my story over and over again. But I have heard the police sometimes ask you to come in and answer questions.”

  He shrugged. “I’m a good listener, that’s all. I try to fit puzzle pieces together.”

  She studied him with skeptical eyes. “I see.”

  He wondered just what she saw. She smiled suddenly. “They asked me if my husband and I got along. Can you believe such a thing?”

  “I’m afraid, Eleanor, that many a dead spouse winds up that way because love and hate are strongly linked.”

  “Do you think I could have done this?”

  “No,” he told her.

  “I see. Then aren’t you going to ask me if Giles had any enemies? Because of course he did. Rich, powerful enemies—enemies protected by the Crown.”

  “Eleanor, you can’t make assumptions,” he said quietly.

  She laughed softly, a hoarse, dry sound. “Do I think that Victoria herself hopped down from her throne to slash my husband’s throat? No. Do I think she wanted him dead? Yes. Of course the royals wanted him dead. Are they all so fine and pious? No.” She leaned forward suddenly. “You’re young. Perhaps you don’t remember the Ripper killings well. There was speculation Prince Albert was connected to it somehow, that it was a scheme concocted to keep people from knowing he was married to a commoner, a Catholic. How to get a prince out of such a situation? Why, murder the poor girl and a pack of prostitutes to make it all appear to be the work of a madman. How clever!”

  “Eleanor, everyone knows the story, and it makes no sense. The woman with whom he was supposedly involved was a Catholic, yes. But she wasn’t a prostitute. She worked in a tailor’s shop.”

  Eleanor impatiently waved a hand in the air. “They all start out with decent employment in the East End. And then they become prostitutes. Filthy, dirty old hags with no interest except for their next jigger of gin!”

  “But the Ripper was killing sad old prostitutes, not lowly workers.”

  “Mary Kelly wasn’t old. She was young. And still beautiful, so they said.”

  “And there was no doubt she was a prostitute.”

  “I believe the police knew who the killer was,” she said firmly. “Just as they know who’s doing these killings now.”

  “Eleanor—”

  “You won’t convince me that my husband wasn’t killed by the Crown.”

  He sat back, unhappily certain that she would spout her accusations everywhere once she was feeling up to going out again. He was a firm believer in the right of every man and woman to hold an opinion, but…

  “Eleanor, how can you discount the fact his death makes him a martyr to a cause? And,” he added softly, “you do know that the police must investigate all possibilities, even…” He trailed off and looked at her sadly.

  She stared at him, then gasped. “I’m still under suspicion?” she demanded. “But…I wasn’t here!”

  “The police have interviewed your sister. All alibis must be verified.”

  Her expression hardened. “My sister and I do not get along, but I know she would not lie. I was with her.”

  “Yes, she confirmed that you were at her house.”

  “She wasn’t pleased about it. And I’d never have gone, except for the fact that…”

  “Your husband wanted you out.”

  She flushed, lifting her chin. “You don’t understand a genius like my husband’s!”

  “Eleanor, I am sorry to speak ill of the man you have so recently lost. But his genius came with a touch of cruelty, and I believe you know that.”

  She looked away, and he was certain she flushed slightly.

  “Eleanor, where do you keep your keys to this house?” he asked.

  She frowned. “I…sometimes, they are in my reticule, and sometimes they are on the dresser in my bedroom.”

  “A shared room?” he asked quietly.

  Again her face took on a tinge of color. “We each had a bedroom—which is not at all uncommon,” she informed him. “Giles often worked late at night. He needed freedom to come and go, without disturbing me.”

  “There were times, then, when anyone in the house might have had access to your keys?”

  She shrugged.

  “I understand your husband often entertained a group dedicated to the downfall of the monarchy.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you often entertain those who were fiercely loyal to the queen?”

  “Never!”

  “Well, Eleanor,” he said quietly, “it appears that the key to this house was stolen and copied. It seems likely someone took it while in the house. Since you never entertained any loyalists…I’m not telling you what to believe. I’m just saying you should think long and deeply.” He paused, meeting her eyes, his expression firm. “And I swear to you, we will catch your husband’s killer.”

  ALLY WAS AFRAID SHE WAS still breathing too hard and that the thunder of her heart would give her away, but the museum guard just gave her a friendly smile of acknowledgment and she easily slipped in with a group of schoolboys in uniform.

  She stood at the rear of the group now, catching her breath and listening as their teacher gave a dissertation on the art of ancient burial rituals. Then she felt a tap on her shoulder and jumped, startled, before
turning to find Sir Andrew Harrington standing there.

  “Miss Grayson, there you are. I had heard you were here, but I have searched and searched, and all but despaired of finding you. I feared I wouldn’t get a chance to do so much as say hello before that errant fiancé of yours finally arrived.” He stepped up beside her. “Where have you been?” he asked. “I could add the words, ‘all my life,’ but that is such a sad and pathetic line.”

  She laughed. “We have met before, you know.”

  “Ah, but you were young, and what man would have dared face so many fierce guardians as give their protection to you? There are many besides myself who thought the time would come when we might gently press our suits. Who knew you would be introduced to society and affianced, all in one night?”

  She had to smile. He was merely flattering her, which she knew was his way. But he was attractive and charming, and she found herself enjoying his attentions. “Sir Harrington, I’m sure there are many young women who swoon at your mere presence.”

  He laughed and shrugged. “Well, perhaps not at my mere presence. But enough of that. Have you seen the new mummy? They’ve unwrapped it completely. Come along, I’ll show you.”

  “It’s not time to head down to the tearoom yet?” she asked anxiously, glancing at her watch locket.

  “We have a minute,” he told her.

  With a hand very properly on her elbow, he led her into the next room. She immediately noticed that Thane Grier was there in his typical pose, leaning against the wall, his notepad out. He didn’t seem to be paying attention to the exhibit, rather, he was watching the people who were there. As she walked into the room, he straightened. He couldn’t miss the fact that she was escorted by Andrew, but he didn’t seem to mind intruding. As he approached, she wondered what he intended to write.

  “Miss Grayson.”

  They paused. Grier approached, offering his hand. “Good afternoon. I’m sorry to interrupt, but your engagement is newsworthy.”

  “Why would my engagement be big news?” she inquired.

  Grier’s smile deepened. “Surely you must be aware that Mark Farrow is considered—”

  “The best catch in the realm, short of royalty,” Andrew supplied dryly.

  Ally frowned, but Thane Grier shrugged, as if he might not have put it in such terms, but Andrew had indeed expressed his meaning.

  “I’m not sure what you want me to say, Mr. Grier,” Ally murmured.

  “Well, if I may ask, why do you think, out of all the women in Britain—in the world, even—you’ve been chosen for such an honor? You will certainly be an incredibly beautiful bride, but…you aren’t titled. Indeed, you are an orphan.”

  She stared at him, aware that her every word might be skewed by him, and also aware that it was in terrible taste for him to question her so. But he was a journalist. He didn’t care if he was rude.

  “Legally, the Earl of Carlyle is my guardian,” she said. “I’m sure this engagement is due to his friendship with Lord Farrow.”

  “Still…”

  Grier was pressing for something, seeking something. A hidden meaning.

  If there was one, however, she certainly didn’t know what it was.

  “I’m afraid I’ve given you the best reply I can,” Ally said. “Perhaps you should pose your question to either Lord Stirling or Lord Farrow. Or to Mark Farrow himself.”

  “I have, but Mark Farrow has yet to reply.”

  “Then you’ll have to wait, won’t you.”

  “Look here, Grier,” Andrew Harrington said. “It’s one thing to ask Miss Grayson a question, quite another to hound her.”

  “I do apologize,” Thane Grier said quickly.

  “And I would tell you more, if I were able,” Ally said.

  Lord Lionel Wittburg somehow chose that moment to come upon them and rescue her. “Ah, there you are, Ally. Lady Camille was just looking for you.”

  “I’m on my way down to the tearoom,” Ally said.

  Thane Grier nodded respectfully in acknowledgment of Lord Wittburg. “Your Grace,” he said.

  Wittburg nodded in turn but had no interest in the journalist. “Writers,” he said, adding, “They’ll be the bane of all of us.”

  Ally didn’t entirely agree, but she let him lead her away. They took the broad marble stairs down to the lower floor, where the tearoom was already filled with benefactors and common folk alike. “Lady Camille is at the table of honor, and there is your seat, next to hers.”

  Ally thanked him and hurried across the room, aware that she was being watched speculatively by almost all eyes in the room. Many a young woman who had been presented that year was staring at her—as were their mothers and guardians. She hadn’t realized until just that moment that Mark Farrow truly was considered la crème de la crème.

  Yet the man of the hour remained absent.

  Certainly all those staring at her were aware that, despite her engagement, she was being left to attend this function alone.

  She took the seat next to Camille, noting the chair to her right was empty. Brian was not next to Camille, but down the table, seated next to Lady Newburg, who, after the Stirlings, was probably the museum’s largest benefactor.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” Ally apologized.

  “It’s quite all right. Many people are still finding their way down,” Camille assured her, squeezing her hand.

  Lord Farrow was on the other side of Camille. He leaned over, saying, “I’m quite sure my son will be along any minute.”

  But Mark Farrow wasn’t right along. A cucumber salad was served, and Brian, who had a long family history with the museum, stood up to give the welcoming speech. He was an excellent orator, and the room was filled with laughter and applause.

  Then the director of antiquities, a serious little man, stood to talk. He was a dear fellow, but not an eloquent speaker. Ally found her mind wandering.

  She wished she was seated by Kat, who was next to the author Arthur Conan Doyle, who was a dear friend of Kat’s. Ally had thrived on every minute when she had been at a function where he was either a speaker or a guest. His real-life stories were always amusing, intriguing, even sometimes sad, but they never failed to hold her enthralled. She looked about and saw other dignitaries in the room, authors, statesmen, an actor she had seen on the stage, an opera star. There was a photographer there, as well, with an assistant to run around with his heavy equipment.

  The director’s voice seemed to drone on and on as a main course of white fish in a tomato variant of Florentine sauce was served.

  And then cleared away.

  Dessert was an apricot puff, and still he spoke.

  Ally tried to pretend to be attentive. She glanced at Camille as coffee was poured and saw that Camille’s eyes were sparkling. Both of them were surely thinking the same thing: If the man didn’t make his point soon, the benefactors would be asking for their money back—with interest.

  “Hello.”

  The sudden sound of the whisper at her ear was so startling that she nearly cried out. Luckily, she refrained, turning around instead.

  Her fiancé had arrived at last.

  He drew out the chair next to her, taking his place. Up close, she saw his face was handsome and strongly sculpted. His shoulders were broad, nicely filling out his fawn overcoat. His brocade waistcoat was flatteringly fitted, and his brown trousers were the height of fashion. His eyes…

  Were disturbing. They were a mercurial blue, with a darker rim. There was something about him….

  “I’m sorry, forgive me. I was detained on business,” he whispered. “I’m Mark Farrow.”

  She was never tongue-tied, yet she was so at that minute. She nodded, and at last managed to say, “Hello. Pleasure.”

  What a ridiculous conversation. She was engaged to the man.

  No, that fact was what was ridiculous!

  The room suddenly burst into thunderous applause, and the director flushed and bowed, then bowed again.

  Poor li
ttle man. He had no idea people were welcoming the end of his speech.

  “Mark,” Camille said, delighted. “You’ve made it at last.”

  “I do apologize. It was most pressing business. I was actually one of the first ones here,” he continued, and then he smiled affectionately past Camille, at his father. “I’m afraid I was called away. But…Miss Grayson, perhaps I could show you the new exhibit?”

  “I’d be delighted,” Ally said.

  He smiled, rose and pulled back her chair. “If you will all excuse us…?”

  “Certainly,” Camille murmured.

  And so Ally rose, draped her cloak over her arm and allowed the stranger to whom she had been affianced to escort her out of the room.

  He waved to several people, and said a word here or there to others, as they wended their way between the tables. Leaving the room, they were blinded by a flash.

  The photographer hard at work, Ally thought dryly.

  Thane Grier was there, as well, writing away. He offered Ally his usual rueful smile.

  “Mark!” someone called, and Mark paused. Ally was surprised to see Arthur Conan Doyle heading for them, grinning broadly. “And dear Ally.” The man’s mustache teased her cheek as he gave her a kiss. “I have been greatly pleased by all I’ve heard, Mark. I tell you, some of those fellows, they don’t see the truth when it stares them in the eye.”

  “Arthur, you’re a brilliant man,” Mark said, and Ally decided she liked him a little bit, simply because his words seemed sincere and she so adored the man herself. “Actually, I’d like to probe your mind on a few subjects. Have you time this week?”

  “Indeed, we will make arrangements.”

  “It will be my pleasure.”

  “Congratulations to the both of you,” the author said; then, with a quick wave, he walked on.

  “You know him well?” Ally asked.

  “No better than you do, it appears,” he said dryly.

  “I think he’s wonderful.”

  “Is he your favorite author?”