Beguiled

by Shannon Drake

  She withdrew her hands from his and said, nodding toward the church, “I gather you have someone waiting.”

  “I’m afraid I arranged a meeting with an old friend, though one look at you and I had quite forgotten.”

  Merry giggled delightedly at his words. “This is so wonderful!”

  “Quite,” Ally murmured dryly.

  “Your father has just invited us to a lovely luncheon,” Violet informed him.

  “I hope to return soon and join you,” Mark said.

  “You are always so busy,” Edith said, shaking her head.

  “Well, when they are married, Ally will have the dear boy all night every night, and they will not have to miss each other.”

  “Merry!” Violet said, shocked.

  “What?” Merry protested. “I merely said when they’re married, they will…oh!” She blushed and fell silent.

  “You’d best go. Your friend looks quite nervous,” Ally advised him. “He looks like a policeman. Is he?”

  Mark was startled. Ian, who’d moved to stand at the top of the steps, was dressed in a simple suit.

  “Yes, actually, he is a detective. How did you know?”

  “His suit,” Ally told him. “Neat, but serviceable, not extravagant, and he has a weary look about him, yet one of a quiet dignity. And his shoes. They are firm leather, not fancy kid. They are made for walking.”

  “Very observant,” Joseph said. Mark stared at her.

  She shrugged. “I am a tremendous fan of Arthur Conan Doyle.”

  “And of Poe,” Mark murmured.

  “The one teases our fears while the other teaches us something of life,” Ally said. She smiled and walked past him, heading back toward the church—and Ian.

  Mark followed.

  Ally extended a hand. “I am Alexandra Grayson. It is a pleasure, Detective.”

  Ian flushed a deep red but quickly took her hand. “Miss Grayson, the pleasure is mine.”

  “I understand you and Mark are old friends.”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you here in pursuit of the highwayman?”

  “No, but many fine officers are seeking that villain.”

  “I see.”

  “We are all going to lunch at Lord Farrow’s lodge. Perhaps you’ll accompany us.”

  “I’m afraid that…”

  “Ian and I are dining closer to the city, as he must be back by nightfall,” Mark said.

  “Yes, yes, that’s right.”

  “I see,” Ally told him, and smiled. “Well, then, you must be going.”

  “I’m afraid so,” Mark said.

  “Then I mustn’t detain you. It has been a pleasure.”

  A moment later, their goodbyes said, she turned away.

  “Forgive me, dearest, but I must have a final kiss,” Mark told her, and drew her back, brushing her lips with a kiss. Dear God, the scent of her. Clean and sweet and…

  And strong. She was out of his arms in a heartbeat, her mouth tight. He was certain she longed to wipe his kiss from her lips.

  “Detective, again, it was a pleasure. I look forward to getting to know you,” Ally said, and then she was gone.

  Ian watched as she walked back to the others. He kept staring, not moving.

  “Ian!” Mark said sharply.

  “What? Oh, yes. The business at hand.”

  They rode out to Lionel Wittburg’s manor, west on the forest road toward London. As they traveled, Ian explained that he’d received a call from Lord Wittburg’s valet. The man had been very upset as he explained that Lord Wittburg had not risen in days, had simply lain there raving that the queen had killed his friend Hudson Porter. He had become like a madman, even refusing to eat.

  Mark had known the man and his valet, Keaton, since he himself was a child. Keaton greeted them eagerly, begging them to follow him to Lord Wittburg’s chambers.

  The room was vast, with a massive bed set apart on a dais, and the rest of the space set up for receiving.

  Lionel was in the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

  Mark rushed to the man’s bedside.

  He touched Wittburg’s flesh, and it was cold and clammy. The man didn’t seem to see them as he ranted. “It’s happening again. There is a conspiracy. All men are blind. All men see what they want to see. I believe it happened. I believe…Dead women. So many, and now it is dead men. Dead men in a row. All lined up.”

  “Lord Wittburg,” Mark said sharply. He glanced at Keaton. “Have you called a doctor?”

  “He saw the doctor last week, and he prescribed pills. Lord Wittburg was having trouble sleeping.”

  Mark looked at the drug vials and shook his head. “Opiates. Too strong. His pulse is weak. Ian, help me. Let’s get him up.”

  “Get him up?” Keaton said. “But…he is ill. Perhaps if he slept more…”

  “If he sleeps more, he may not wake up. Do you have coffee?”

  “Of course,” Keaton said, indignant at the suggestion that the household might lack such an important commodity.

  “Make some. Ian, help me, please.”

  Wittburg was a very large man. He was also dead weight. But with Ian on the opposite side, Mark managed to force him out of bed.

  “Now what?” Ian asked, struggling beneath the weight of the man.

  “Keep walking him.”

  As they walked, Lord Lionel Wittburg continued to rave on in the same manner as before. “Sins of the fathers. Always sins of the fathers. History shows us. Cain and Abel. It’s happening again. So many dead, and all life, they say, is precious. Some don’t believe that. Some believe life is more precious for the highborn. What is one dead prostitute, eh? A prostitute will die of liver disease in time. The gin will kill her. Perhaps a knife is more merciful. The killings were sick…sick. But the knife was swift. Dear God! There must have been moments of such terror. Still, cut. Cut! A throat is slit. The blood rushes out. The prostitutes were slain so. The anti-monarchists were slain so. Ah, Hudson. How we debated. How you attacked, how I defended, and never once did we let debate ruin the foundation of our friendship. They said you were bitter, but I knew you were not. You did not expect consideration after sleeping with the lieutenant’s wife! Slit, slit…throat cut. Prostitutes. Men with minds.”

  “What on earth is he talking about?” Ian asked.

  “He was, as you know, close friends with the first man killed, Hudson Porter. They served together in the war. Wittburg is a keenly intelligent man. Hudson Porter was a student and lover of history.”

  “But he’s talking about the Ripper murders, and those are long past.”

  “I’m afraid he’s connecting them to the monarchy.”

  “But he supports the monarchy.”

  “But even he has been swayed, so it seems,” Mark said.

  Just then Keaton returned with a silver tray bearing an urn of coffee.

  “Let’s get Lord Lionel into the chair before the fire,” Mark said.

  As they did so, Keaton poured coffee, which Mark then lifted to Lord Wittburg’s lips, forcing the man to drink.

  Lord Wittburg choked and coughed, then seemed to start. He stared at Mark, as if noticing him for the first time. “A man like your father,” he murmured. “If only the world had more of his ilk….” He frowned. “When did you come?”

  “Just moments ago. Lord Wittburg, you’re taking far too many medications,” Mark told him.

  “I wanted to sleep.”

  “I don’t mean to insult your physician, but these will give you delusions, Lord Wittburg.”

  The man glanced at his valet, who was looking on anxiously. He smiled after a moment. “I’m all right now, Keaton.”

  “May I…dispose of these, my lord?” the valet asked, indicating the drug vials.

  Lord Wittburg smiled. “I fought in India and Africa. I took down the fiercest Thugees. And yet I let myself fall prey to ghosts. Yes, Keaton. You are a good man. I am grateful for your care. Get rid of them.”

  “Keaton called yo
u?” Wittburg said to Mark.

  “He called Ian, knowing you were upset about the murder of Hudson Porter, and that Ian was one of the key men working on the case,” Mark explained.

  “I thank you both for coming. And I believe I will have more coffee. You may tell Keaton I will dine now, as well.”

  “We will stay awhile,” Mark assured him.

  They joined Wittburg for a meal, served there in the lord’s chambers. As they dined, Wittburg once again spoke with sanity, talking about horses, the races, the museum—anything but the social climate.

  At last, feeling assured that Wittburg was in a better state of mind, Mark indicated to Ian that they could leave, but as they readied themselves to go, Lord Wittburg called Mark back, beckoning him close, so he could whisper.

  “You do not know how history repeats itself, dear boy. You do not know the half of it.”

  At first Mark thought the man was raving again, but then he looked into Lord Wittburg’s eyes and knew he was not.

  The older man clenched Mark’s hand tightly. “Find out the truth about your marriage, Mark Farrow. Then you will understand. Find out the truth about the woman who would be your wife.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  ALLY HAD NOT BEEN EAGER to spend her day at Lord Farrow’s hunting lodge, though she liked the man very much. She was anxious to get back home and out to the stream to search for her sketchbook.

  But when she arrived at the lodge, she was thrilled to discover that Lord Farrow had a guest. Arthur Conan Doyle was there, sitting outside, watching the hounds romp.

  She greeted him with pleasure.

  A middle-aged man, he was solid, not too tall, with a face that was showing signs of both age and sorrow. She knew he suffered because of his wife’s illness. He traveled to Europe and to Egypt, often when the weather was bad, as a physician trying to find a way to help her.

  Louisa was a sweet and gentle woman, and very strong in her way. She loved the man she called Conan, and their children, Kingsley and Mary. She was ill, however, and seldom went out with her husband now.

  Seeing Ally, he rose and greeted her like an old friend, giving her a hug.

  “I see you know the woman who will soon be my daughter-in-law,” Joseph Farrow said.

  “Yes, we met through Lady Kat, who is a dear friend of mine.”

  The aunts were staring with a bit of wonder.

  Lord Farrow introduced them one by one. The author was charming to each of them in turn.

  Lunch was served by a man named Bertram, who apparently both ran the stables and managed the house quite efficiently. The aunts insisted on helping with the meal, and Ally assisted, as well. Everything was soon taken to a table on the terrace behind the house.

  There was a third man present when they brought out the food. Sir Andrew Harrington stood the moment the women appeared, as did Doyle and Lord Farrow.

  “How lovely to have a lunch served by such beauties,” Sir Andrew said.

  “Sir Andrew. What a surprise,” Ally said. “What brings you here?”

  “I’m often in the area. I have family about, you know. I was in church and heard that Lord Farrow was having a Sunday luncheon, and he is never rude enough to turn a hungry man away,” Harrington said.

  “You are always welcome,” Lord Farrow said. “And I must present—”

  “Violet, Merry and Edith,” Sir Andrew said, smiling and elegantly kissing the aunts’ hands, which of course caused Merry to giggle.

  “Charmed,” she assured him.

  “A pleasure,” Edith said.

  “Certainly,” Violet agreed.

  Sir Andrew joined them, and the talk was casual, the meal lovely. Sir Andrew told the sisters that he had seen their designs and had found none superior, anywhere.

  The aunts were incapable of simply being guests, Ally realized, as the meal was eaten and coffee served. Lord Farrow assured them that two women from the village came in during the week to keep the premises clean, but after coffee, they insisted on helping to clear the table.

  When that was done, Lord Farrow offered them all a tour of his stables, but both Doyle and Ally refused. She liked Andrew Harrington very much, but she wanted time alone with the author.

  As soon as the others were gone, Doyle leaned toward Ally and said, “Goodness, my dear. What lovely fortune has befallen you.”

  She hesitated and said, “I don’t really wish to marry.”

  “What?”

  “Well, I do. One day.”

  “You dislike Mark Farrow? I assure you, he’s a most honorable man.”

  “One who disappears frequently.”

  Smiling, Doyle wagged a finger at her. “I have been mocked, and I have been believed, but I have never been so thoroughly questioned as by that young man.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “He’s a smart fellow. Those who seek answers in science are sometimes brilliant, sometimes near insane. Those who look at the facts alone will make more discoveries than any other men.”

  “I’m still not following.”

  “I have made a very good living off the fictional Sherlock but in fact he was based on a Doctor Bell, a brilliant man, one of my professors. Holmes is fiction but the makeup of his character is not. Mark thrives on listening. Observing and then knitting all the facts together. It is mathematics, in a way, add up what is known and come to a conclusion.” He hesitated and leaned toward her. “He asked me here today. If he is not here, it is for a very good reason.”

  Ally frowned. “He went to lunch with a detective friend. Ian Douglas.”

  “Ah.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “It means he is searching for a killer.”

  “But he is not a detective.”

  “No. He is the son of the Earl of Warren.”

  “But—”

  “I think, if he could, Mark would be in his element running the force. But he has responsibilities he cannot abdicate. And, with his position, he can delve into nooks and crannies where a regular officer might not be able to go. Give the man a chance, Ally.”

  She hesitated. “There is something I suspect. But you must swear you will keep this secret between us.”

  He arched a brow.

  “I think Mark Farrow is the highwayman.”

  He sat back, trying to mask his thoughts.

  “You know he is the highwayman!” she exclaimed.

  “Hush,” he warned. “I know nothing.”

  “But—”

  “If he is the highwayman, there is very good reason for it. Please believe that,” Arthur Conan Doyle implored. “And hush. The aunts are coming back.”

  In moments the rest of the part was by their side.

  “Ally, what beautiful horses. You should see them,” Violet said. “But then, I suppose you will have many chances in the future.”

  “She will see them soon,” Lord Farrow said. “How interesting that you two have such a friendship,” he said, nodding toward Ally and Doyle. “You and my son have much in common,” he told her.

  “Would that I were your son,” Sir Andrew teased gallantly.

  “You, Sir Andrew, have been a fine soldier. You need be no one else,” Lord Farrow said.

  “Well spoken, as ever,” Sir Andrew said.

  “This has been the loveliest day,” Violet said, “but I fear we must go back, though I had hoped to wait until Mark had returned.”

  “The forest at night is quite dark,” Edith said.

  “I can certainly see you home,” Sir Andrew offered.

  “Bertram will escort them,” Joseph Farrow said.

  They chatted for a few minutes longer, but Mark Farrow still did not appear. Ally was not sorry—she had enjoyed her moments alone with Arthur Conan Doyle. And it was fun, as well, to be teased by Sir Andrew and his open flattery.

  Arthur Conan Doyle hugged her warmly again when they left.

  “You are welcome to call upon me at any time,” he told her after helping her into the aunts�
�� carriage.

  She smiled and thanked him.

  “Indeed, my life, too, is at your service,” Sir Andrew assured her before mounting his horse.

  Then she settled into her seat next to Edith, and Violet was clicking to the horse and lifting the reins.

  Lord Joseph Farrow watched Ally intently and waved as they drove away.

  Ally thought she would never sleep that night, and indeed, she lay awake for hours.

  What, exactly, was her fiancé doing in his clandestine life?

  MARK KNEW FROM THE MOMENT he stepped into the newspaper offices that every eye in the place was on him. The female typists and clerks flushed, nodded, then began gossiping behind his back.

  The men, he realized, did the same.

  A man with ink smeared on the elbows of his jacket led Mark to the office of Victor Quayle, the managing editor. He’d met Quayle on a number of occasions, but the man was still startled to see him, dropping the sheet he had been reading and nearly swallowing his pipe.

  “Good Lord! Lord Farrow.”

  “Please, Victor. It’s Mark.”

  Victor Quayle, balding young, shook his hand strenuously. “What brings you here?” He frowned. “I believe our reporting of your engagement was quite straightforward. If you were not at your own party. I can hardly blame my reporter for stating the truth.”

  Mark shook his head. “I’ve come because I’m concerned. And because I found this at the museum yesterday.” He produced the envelope addressed to Olivia Cottage.

  Victor seemed puzzled. “We mailed this out to a freelancer,” he explained.

  “Your freelancer must have been at the museum.”

  Victor shrugged. “I suppose.”

  “Who is Olivia Cottage?” Mark asked.

  Victor hesitated. “I…can’t say.”

  “I know it’s expedient for you to keep certain sources secret, but I believe this is the identity of your columnist A. Anonymous,” Mark said. He turned, making certain the door to the editor’s office was closed. “I fear for her—or him. I seek the truth only to see that the writer is protected.”

  Victor shook his head, looking tired. “Would you like something? The coffee here is dreadful, but it does help keep one up.”

  “No, thank you. Please, Victor. I swear to you, I’m seeking nothing but a way to help this person.”