by Liz Carlyle
The latter gentleman settled on one of the sofas and accepted a cup of coffee. When Mr. MacLachlan engaged him in a conversation about construction pilferage in the Docklands, Anisha excused herself and went to find Lucan. Lucy Rutledge, too, was absent. Suddenly, Anisha felt a moment of unease.
But as she passed from the parlor into the now empty withdrawing room, someone caught her elbow. She whirled around to see Rance glowering down at her.
“Is that your idea of a joke?” he asked, jerking his head toward the parlor sofas.
“Indeed not.” Anisha flicked a glance down at his hand. “It is my idea of getting to know Mr. Napier.”
“Is it?” Rance growled. “To what end?”
“Who can say?” Lightly, she shrugged. “Perhaps he is, as you seem to believe, the most conniving man in Christendom. Or perhaps he is merely misguided, with strong but misplaced scruples. Or he may be simply a womanizer.”
“And my opinion means nothing to you.”
“It means a great deal to me,” she replied stiffly. “But might I not be permitted to form my own? And would it not be better if at least one of us got on with the man? For your sake?”
He gave a soft, bitter laugh. “So it is for my sake that you are doing all this,” he said. “Ingratiating yourself with a man who is already enamored of you, and allowing him to think you might—”
“Rance, stop,” she interjected. “If you wish to insult me and have your face soundly slapped for your trouble, come back tomorrow. I haven’t time just now.”
He said nothing but stared hard into the parlor, the little muscle in his jaw twitching dangerously. He clearly wished Napier to the devil. And perhaps he was right; perhaps she was naïve. She remembered the cold feeling that had crept over her upon realizing Napier had been watching her at the theater. But pride stiffened her spine.
“What if he is worse than merely conniving, Nish?” Rance finally said. “What if he is dangerous?”
“I’m not a complete idiot,” she whispered, praying she spoke the truth. “I’m being careful. But in a few weeks’ time, I have accomplished more by getting on with Napier than you have accomplished in better than a year free of prison. Admittedly, it is not much. But I shall leave you to decide for whose sake I am doing all this.”
With that, she pulled away from his grip.
“Anisha, wait,” he said after her.
But she kept walking, suddenly quaking with anger. Unfortunately, when she turned the next corner, Higgenthorpe met her with a lavender cloak draped over his arm. “It has started to spit rain, my lady,” he informed her. “Mrs. Hathaway has called for her carriage, and I gather the Smythes mean to follow.”
Anisha turned around and spent the next few minutes saying good-bye to several of her guests. In the front hall, Napier held back, then bowed politely over her hand when the others had gone down the steps into the drizzle.
“Well, Mr. Napier,” she said briskly, “I trust this was not too onerous an evening for you?”
But when he lifted his head again, she saw something she could not quite make out glittering in his eyes. “Oh, I shall forever clutch the memory to my bosom,” he said. “A lowly government employee, hobnobbing with the crème de la crème. Who could have imagined it?”
Anisha withdrew her hand. “I believe, Assistant Commissioner, that you are poking fun at me,” she said tartly, “and that you are not nearly so humble as you make out.”
He hesitated, then lifted his gaze to look past her, something quizzical tugging at one corner of his mouth. “And I believe,” he replied, “that I shall very much enjoy sharing a quieter occasion with you, ma’am. At the theater, in a few days’ time.”
“Ah, that.” Anisha inclined her head regally, but behind her she heard departing footsteps and guessed at once who it was. “Yes, well. I shall look greatly forward to it. Goodnight, Mr. Napier.”
“Goodnight, Lady Anisha.” He gave a courtly bow. “By the way, you wear the exotic well. I find the sari and peacock feathers a most elegant touch.”
And with that, Napier turned and went swiftly down the stairs, his dark evening cloak swirling about his feet, his black umbrella at his side, unopened. No carriage awaited him. Instead, he set off on foot through the rain and melted into the gloom.
When she returned, many of the remaining guests had drifted into the withdrawing room. Lady Emelyn was there, playing a lively tune at the pianoforte, with Mrs. Rutledge whipping back the pages for her niece. A crowd now surrounded them, enraptured.
Upon settling into her seat, Anisha felt Miss de Rohan’s gaze fall upon her, intent and questioning. Anisha met her eyes over her coffee cup and gave a little shake of her head. Miss de Rohan returned her attention to her future father-in-law. His gaze distant, Rance stood alone by the hearth, his heel caught on the brass fender, a glass of Raju’s best whisky in hand. When his eyes did focus, they fell upon Anisha, grim and forbidding.
At the pianoforte, Lady Emelyn began another wildly intricate tune, playing it masterfully. When Mr. MacLachlan rose, Miss de Rohan slid very near, her smile knowing.
“I believe, Lady Anisha, that you have a scorned admirer.”
Anisha’s eyes widened. “I beg your pardon?”
Miss de Rohan nodded in the direction of the mantelpiece. “Lord Lazonby has scarce taken his eyes from you this whole evening.”
“Actually, I am in Lazonby’s black books,” Anisha returned. “He is angry, not enamored. Perhaps I have even provoked it. I beg you will excuse us both.”
“Angry?” Miss de Rohan looked at her curiously. “Why?”
“He deeply dislikes Mr. Napier and did not wish me to invite him,” said Anisha honestly.
“Truly? He seemed nice enough—though I did make up that bit about Papa.”
By this time, Lady Madeleine had leaned into the conversation. Anisha was well aware there was nothing of Rance’s history Geoff’s mother did not know. And Geoff’s chosen bride was a part of the brotherhood now; their lives were literally open books to one another.
“Lazonby blames Napier’s father for his arrest all those years ago,” Anisha quietly acknowledged, “and believes Napier refuses to reopen the Peveril case in order to protect his father’s reputation.”
“Both of which may be true,” Lady Madeleine added. “Perhaps he’s hiding something?”
Miss de Rohan’s eyes widened. “But that is unconscionable!” she declared. “I shall speak to my father. Napier must be made to open the files so that a thorough review can be conducted.”
Anisha laid a hand over Miss de Rohan’s. “I know you mean well,” she said, “but the St. James Society mustn’t appear to run roughshod over Scotland Yard. Besides, Napier has opened his files. To me.”
“To you?”
Anisha exchanged knowing glances with Lady Madeleine, still aware of the heat of Rance’s gaze upon her. “Yes, just yesterday,” she said. “I have extensive notes.”
Then swiftly she explained all she’d learned in Napier’s office. At the end, Miss de Rohan’s mouth was practically hanging open.
“It is all perfectly true,” Lady Madeleine whispered, her gaze darting toward the hearth. “I remember, for after the arrest, Merrick’s grandmother, Mrs. MacGregor, came all the way down from Scotland—for the first time in her life.”
“Because of Lazonby?” said Anisha. “Why? Did she know the family?”
“Vaguely, but remember that the Fraternitas was in great disarray at that time,” Lady Madeleine cautioned. “Mr. Sutherland summoned everyone with ties to the old order. Mrs. MacGregor was one of the great Vateis still living—a sort of white witch, I always thought of her.” Here, she hesitated, wringing her hands a little. “Of course that’s wrong, I know. She was nothing of the sort, and one oughtn’t use such a term. But how else can one explain the Vateis? Or the Gift?”
The Vateis, Anisha knew, were the descendants of the ancient Celtic prophets of the druidic age who still possessed the Gift in one form or
another. And occasionally, if Mesha born, one could be both a Vateis and a Guardian, sworn to protect the weaker amongst them. Such was the case with Raju and Lord Bessett—Rance and Miss de Rohan, too, Anisha believed, though in them, the Gift was far more subtle.
“I understand,” Anisha murmured. “And what did Mrs. MacGregor do?”
Madeleine twisted her hands again. “I don’t know,” she said. “Gave her opinion? Gave money? Merrick and I weren’t privy, for we are outside the Fraternitas, and Geoff was still a lad. But the scandal was in all the papers. Sir Arthur Colburne shot himself.”
“Did you know him?” asked Miss de Rohan.
“Oh, all girls of consequence did,” said Madeleine, “for he was a notorious fortune hunter. Eventually he did land an heiress—Lady Mary came out with me. But that sort of money never lasts, does it? Then Mary died, and Sir Arthur fell back on his cards—and, of course, his charm.”
“What do you mean, his charm?” asked Anisha.
Lady Madeleine colored faintly. “He—well, he befriended wealthy ladies, I believe,” she murmured, “and they gave him gifts to express their gratitude for his skills in . . . in—”
“—in being very friendly?” Miss de Rohan supplied.
Her future mother-in-law smiled wanly. “Something like that,” she agreed. “In any case, Sir Arthur died long before the trial, but several gentlemen of the ton were called to testify, and much sordid information came out. Two young men were disinherited by his fathers for gaming. Anyone who testified for Lazonby was blackballed from White’s—Peveril’s father, the duke, was very influential. And the scandal nearly ruined Sir Wilfred Leeton.”
“Sir Wilfred Leeton?” asked Anisha.
“The theater magnate,” said Miss de Rohan. “He owns half the theaters in England, I’d wager.”
“Yes, I saw his name in Napier’s files,” said Anisha. “But he was not titled.”
“He was recently knighted for his many charitable works,” said Lady Madeleine. “Though his wife handles much of the oversight. I actually serve as a patroness to their orphanage.”
“How kind of you,” said Anisha.
Lady Madeleine blushed again. “Not really,” she whispered. “Merrick’s firm built several of Leeton’s theaters. So I . . . well, I acquainted myself with Lady Leeton. Does that sound terribly scheming?”
“Not if you enjoy her company,” Anisha assured her.
“Oh, Hannah is lovely,” said Lady Madeleine, “though some think her a parvenu. But I find her refreshingly honest. Her first husband, you see, was a trader in Mark Lane and left her frightfully wealthy.”
“In Mark Lane?” Anisha’s brow furrowed.
“A broker on the Corn Exchange,” Miss de Rohan explained. At Anisha’s curious glance she added, “I live in Wellclose Square. We have all sorts of interesting characters on that side of Town. People who actually work for a living.”
“Oh, Hannah is interesting,” said Lady Madeleine, “and she’ll allow nothing to stand in her way when it comes to serving a good cause. I’m to attend her annual garden party soon, a fund-raising effort for her favorite charity, a girls’ school for the impoverished.”
Anisha was mulling something over. “I wonder if I might call on Sir Wilfred someday,” she murmured. “Would that be inappropriate? I should very much like to show him my notes, you see, and ask if there is anything that strikes him as odd.”
“What do you mean?” asked Miss de Rohan.
Anisha gave a weak shrug. “I don’t know,” she said. “Perhaps one of those old names might jog a memory?”
But Lady Madeleine looked wary. “Sir Wilfred mightn’t wish to revisit his past,” she cautioned. “The scandal erupted just as he was attempting to finance his theater business.”
“Ah, I see,” said Anisha.
“Oh, but I have a lovely idea!” said Lady Madeleine. “We must both go to the garden party. You could quietly make his acquaintance.”
“But how?” Anisha asked. “Lady Leeton does not know me.”
Lady Madeleine looked at her dotingly. “I fear the only requirement is to be moderately wealthy and possess at least a pretension of being well-bred,” she murmured. “The purpose is to make money by way of subscription. The place will be cheek to jowl with country cousins and aspiring coal merchants. One must only purchase a certain number of tickets.”
“The price of admission, quite literally?” said Miss de Rohan, grinning. “And you just loll about in Lady Leeton’s garden?”
“Actually, it’s more like a village fair,” said Madeleine. “There will be stalls with goods for sale—lots of lace and stitchery—things the girls have made. There’s a bandstand and a gypsy with a crystal ball, although I think she is just Hannah’s kitchen maid. Still, it really is quite delightful.”
“I’d love to go,” said Anisha. “And if I could befriend Sir Wilfred, he might eventually prove helpful.”
“And if not,” said Miss de Rohan acidly, “there’s always the Chronicle, which seems intent on churning up that old case. Perhaps they have a secret cache of information.”
“Oh, they are just dredging up old news,” said Lady Madeleine, scowling. “I’ve grown quite tired of that vexing newspaper fellow. Last autumn, our scullery maid caught him going through our rubbish bins, if you can imagine!”
“He’s a radical reporter, Sutherland theorizes,” said Anisha. “But I begin to think it’s more personal than that.”
“Personal?” Miss de Rohan looked intrigued. “Who could it be? Wait, wasn’t there a beautiful fiancée? Perhaps she has hired the fellow to drive Rance mad?”
Madeleine shook her head. “Elinor Colburne died of a shipboard fever,” she said. “So tragic, for she was the very image of Lady Mary. Fragile and lovely, an ice-blonde with a tiny beauty mark just here.” Lightly Madeleine touched the corner of her mouth. “Men swooned over her.”
But Miss de Rohan was not interested in the dead. “Then it was someone else,” she said, seizing on the notion. “Perhaps one of the Peverils hired him? No, I have it! A mistress! Had Peveril a mistress, does anyone know?”
Madeleine smiled. “My dear, you must take after your father,” she said. “But no, there wasn’t a mistress as I ever heard of. Peveril was, however, the duke’s favorite. Still, the duke died last year, and his heir—the new duke—did not much mourn his younger brother’s passing.”
But before Miss de Rohan could press the issue, Lady Emelyn’s incredible piece spiraled up and up and up, held for a moment in midair, then came to a heart-stopping end, the keys crashing in thunderous triumph.
Lady Treyhern and Mr. MacLachlan rose at once to their feet, applauding. On the sofa, Anisha and her party followed suit, further gossip now out of the question.
“Encore!” said Geoff, who was now standing by Rance at the hearth.
“Ladies, take a bow,” said Mr. MacLachlan. “That was truly extraordinary.”
Frederica Rutledge blushed. “I fear I did nothing but turn the pages,” she said, coming to join them in the parlor. “My niece is the virtuoso.”
Smiling, Mr. MacLachlan strode toward the sofa and leaned across the back. “Maddie, love, perhaps we’d best go?” he said, setting a hand affectionately on her arm. “Lady Anisha is doubtless tired, and—”
But Mrs. Rutledge suddenly spoke over him. “Chip?” she sharply interjected. “Chip, where is Lucy?”
Anisha looked around to see the young man rouse from a stupor in a chair some yards distant. “Couldn’t say, Mamma,” he said, his lids heavy. “ ’Fraid I was enthralled by Emmie’s music.”
Mrs. Rutledge’s eyes were darting through the room. “I beg your pardon,” she said, “but has anyone seen my daughter? Or Lord Lucan?”
Suddenly sick, Anisha leapt to her feet. She had been searching for Lucan earlier when . . .
Oh, dear God.
“Charles Rutledge,” said his mother sternly, “you were supposed to keep up with Lucy!”
The yo
ung man shrugged. “I haven’t seen her since just after din— ”
“Lucy just left,” Miss de Rohan interjected in a bored voice. “I believe Lord Lucan is showing her the picture gallery. One of the footmen went up with them to unlock it.”
Anisha’s gaze swept the room. Higgenthorpe and both the footmen stood in the depths of the withdrawing room. Her eyes returned to Miss de Rohan’s, questioning.
But Miss de Rohan’s smile was placid. “Perhaps, Lady Anisha, you should go up and fetch them?” she continued. “Your footman is likely needed belowstairs, what with all that plate to be washed. Geoff and I mean to stay here and finish the last of this excellent champagne. Come, the rest of you, and give us one last toast for good luck!”
“What a good idea,” said Lady Madeleine, settling back onto the sofa.
“Excuse me, then,” said Anisha, moving toward the passageway.
Setting away his whisky, Rance pulled away from the hearth, his eyes narrowing. “I need to stretch my legs,” he said.
Her lips in a hard, thin line, Mrs. Rutledge went out into the passageway, too.
“Now this picture gallery,” Rance murmured suspiciously. “Which way is it?”
Anisha looked back and forth between them. “We haven’t one,” she confessed. “Remind me never to play cards with Miss de Rohan.”
“The devil!” Rance swore. “I thought not.”
Mrs. Rutledge turned white. “And the footman?”
“We’ve only the two behind us,” said Anisha tightly. “But trust me, they will be enough to carry my brother’s battered corpse down to the coroner’s once I’ve found him. Please, Mrs. Rutledge, for Lucy’s sake, go back into the withdrawing room and pretend you are unconcerned. If anything is amiss, Lord Lucan will make amends.”
Mrs. Rutledge blushed furiously. “Perhaps you oughtn’t blame him,” she whispered. “Lucy is . . . dear God, I think she just breaks hearts for sport. And Chip is worse. I’m just grateful he was asleep in your chair, and not your parlor maid’s bed. They are loving children, but . . .”
Rance seized Anisha’s arm and propelled her toward the stairs. “I swear to God, I will thrash Luc,” he muttered as they hastened up the stairs. “I will put that boy over my knee and give him what he deserves.”
