The Madcap Marriage

by Allison Lane

  “Parker’s place, most likely. The location is good, but the house is cramped and falling to bits. Yours will do for now.” Though he had no intention of living in hers for long. He hadn’t spent years escaping Hillcrest’s thumb so he could crawl under his wife’s. He would buy a house himself.

  She shrugged. “Whatever. My first priority is the audit. Would your man of business have time to speak with me today?”

  “Brockman?”

  “If that’s his name. I don’t wish to make any hurried decisions, but if Goddard is truly incompetent, I need someone to oversee him until I decide what to do. All three of them, actually. I cannot understand how Papa came to trust Mr. Formsby. He was quite adept at spotting liars, yet Formsby must have lied often if Papa thought him supportive.”

  Rafe shook his head. “I thought he would expire from shock when you announced that you had written all the reports he thought came from your father. How did that come about?”

  “Papa supervised me while he could, but his health worsened rapidly. That last year, he was too ill to do anything. Some days he couldn’t muster the energy to speak.” Shouts drew her eyes to an angry teamster berating a youth whose curricle had cut him off. Or perhaps she was hiding tears. She clearly loved her father – something to envy.

  He stroked her arm, ignoring the sizzle in his blood. “I’m sorry for your loss, Helen.”

  “Thank you.”

  Pushing the problem of her inheritance aside, he focused on the other fear that had been growing since leaving the bank. “I don’t like what Formsby said about Alquist.”

  She again relaxed against his side. “His demand for an audit? I know that was outside his authority, but—”

  “That’s not what I mean, sweetheart. Alquist would never have made inquiries unless he suspected illegalities, which makes his death very convenient.”

  “What?” Shock suffused her face. Shoving his arm aside, she twisted to face him.

  “Think about it,” he said. “Alquist stirred up trouble. A week later he was dead.”

  “You can’t mean Formsby killed him!”

  “No.” The banker was foolish, arrogant, and distrustful of a woman’s ability to conduct business, yet he wasn’t openly dishonest. “But Formsby must have notified you of the audit. A week was long enough to return a response to London.”

  “You can’t believe there is a connection. Granted, Steven was intercepting my mail, but if he wished to stop an audit, he would attack the trustees.”

  “Not if he had any sense. It would provoke the very investigation he didn’t want.”

  Helen frowned. “Are you sure Formsby is innocent?”

  “I’m sure.” He again caressed her arm, nodding in satisfaction when she leaned into his hand. “Formsby might cancel the audit once circumstances gave him an excuse, but from laziness, not concern. On the other hand, Steven must fear an audit, for it would prove theft and forgery, at the least. Yet killing Formsby would install a new trustee, who would immediately examine the records.”

  “And who might be less credulous than Formsby.”

  “Exactly. Removing Alquist would trigger Formsby’s laziness, giving Steven time to force you into marriage, thus terminating the trust.”

  “He knows it doesn’t terminate,” she said absently.

  Rafe scowled at her reminder. Yet it made little difference which of them controlled her fortune. That it started as hers made it a whip. Just as his mother’s dowry had been a whip.

  He cringed at the way he’d worded the thought, yet it was true. And it was entirely Hillcrest’s fault that his mother had been forced to wield it. Given a choice, she would have been sweet and generous, but Hillcrest’s belligerence had pushed her to defend herself and her son using every weapon at her disposal.

  Helen dragged his mind back to business. “There is one huge flaw in your theory, Rafe – aside from an utter lack of evidence that Alquist’s death is suspicious. Steven was at Audley two weeks ago. So was Dudley. He is more likely to consider violence than Steven.”

  “True. Dudley acts first and thinks later. When did he arrive?” He again pulled her close.

  “The fourth week in April. When did Alquist die?”

  “The fifth of May.”

  She frowned, resting her head on his shoulder – which proved only that she was weary. She ought to be in bed. “Dudley was at Audley that day. I had to hide when he came home in his cups.”

  Rafe swallowed a flash of fury.

  “Steven was also there.”

  “One of them could have hired a cutthroat.”

  She shook her head, tickling his chin with a wayward curl. “Absurd! Steven has no money, and Dudley has been away for years. Who would he know?”

  “Well…” She had a point.

  “The audit might have pushed Steven into bribing that vicar, but that’s all it did. Marriage would end Alquist’s guardianship, and Steven had already proved he could control Formsby. I’m sorry Alquist died, but you must accept that the timing was a coincidence.”

  “No.” He couldn’t trust Dudley. “Alquist’s death makes no sense as an accident,” he began slowly. “I should have questioned it at the time.”

  Helen covered his hand. “I know you were close, but don’t let grief twist memory into something that wasn’t there. Accidents never make sense. That’s why we call them accidents.”

  He nodded. “True, but don’t dismiss the possibility without hearing the story.”

  She nodded.

  “We spent that last evening playing cards at White’s.”

  “Was he drinking?”

  “Very little, but he was unusually preoccupied. Perhaps he was concerned about you. Or maybe it was something else. I didn’t ask, and he didn’t say. I wondered later if distraction had made him careless.” He stroked her arm until she wriggled closer.

  “What happened?”

  “He left White’s about midnight – early for London. He was on foot.” Rafe swallowed a sudden lump in his throat, lifting Helen into his lap to counter the iciness forming in his stomach. It had been ten years since he’d last held someone for warmth and comfort. It felt good.

  Helen snuggled into this new position, rubbing his chest as his arms closed around her.

  He sighed. “Someone left an old wagon in a narrow lane a block from Alquist House. It had no brake, so he’d jammed a chock under the wheel – sloppily. It loosened, letting the wagon roll into the street. Alquist leaped aside but slipped and struck his head on the cobblestones.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Rafe, but it sounds like an accident. You know how slippery cobbles can be.”

  Especially when dampened by fog, but Alquist was no fool. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Why?”

  “Several reasons. The details were on every tongue by daylight. That in itself was normal – gossip spreads faster than the wind. But who started the story? No eyewitnesses ever came forward. Then there was the wagon. I’ve passed that spot hundreds of times at all hours of the day and night, but I’ve never seen a wagon there. It’s a narrow walkway between two buildings and not meant for vehicles. Even riders don’t use it.”

  “What did the wagon’s owner say?”

  “No one ever claimed ownership. Teamsters would starve without their vehicles, so who would abandon one? And where were its horses? None were found near the scene, nor were any unfamiliar horses stabled nearby. Which leads me to wonder if it was stolen. The culprit could have used the team to escape.”

  She smoothed his coat. “A lord died, Rafe. That’s enough to send anyone into a panic. Admitting involvement would lead to transportation, or worse.”

  Rafe ground his teeth, but she had a point. Even if the death was an accident, the teamster would face charges of negligence. But his gut insisted that it was no accident. “There are too many coincidences, Helen. Alquist was known for tenacity. He never broke his word, never left a job half done, never lost interest in a subject until he’d a
nswered all his questions. If he demanded an audit, he would press until it was finished.”

  “Hmm.” Helen frowned.

  “Another oddity was Alquist’s fall. The chock remained in the walkway, showing that the wagon had rolled barely twenty feet along a gentle slope. Wagon wheels on cobblestones are loud enough to wake the dead – especially at night when there is no other traffic. Even someone deep in his cups could easily have evaded it, and Alquist wasn’t drunk.”

  Helen fingered the bump on her head.

  “Exactly. I think someone struck him down, then arranged the wagon to explain his death. That same someone started the rumors to prevent awkward questions.”

  “But who? You think Formsby is innocent. Steven and Dudley were at Audley. No one else would care.”

  “What about Goddard? He is more than a credulous fool. He never quite knows what’s going on and agonizes over decisions for weeks. Thus he is the last to invest in any venture and the last to recognize when one goes bad. His investments show poor returns because he waits until the opportunity is nearly gone before deciding to try it. Many men turn to Goddard when they decide to dump shares, so he pays top prices for ventures that are ready to collapse.”

  “Ouch.” She shook her head, curling her hand around his neck. “But that would make him even less likely to kill anyone. A slow-thinking, indecisive man might consider murder, but he would still be debating the merits when his target died of old age.”

  “Under normal circumstances, perhaps. But even a coward will strike when cornered.”

  She frowned. “It’s possible, though unlikely.” Twisting, she met his gaze. “Intuition aside, there is no evidence of murder, Rafe. A scapegoat might mitigate your grief, but—”

  “I’m not imagining this, Helen,” he snapped. “Too many facts don’t fit the accident theory. I have to investigate. The first step is to discover what Alquist knew. Did he suspect Steven was holding you hostage? Did he think Goddard was cheating you? His wife should know. They were very close.”

  “Let’s call on her, then.”

  “Easier said than done. She remains in Hampshire.”

  “Hampshire is on the way to Somerset. I need to return home as soon as I arrange oversight for Formsby. Those forgeries bother me more and more. Steven is not scheming for Dudley’s benefit. He wants money on his own account, so he may be defrauding my tenants.”

  “You must face Formsby next week to judge whether he’s met your first deadline. Your orders will lack authority if you let that slide. We will use the intervening time to speak with Lady Alquist and investigate Alquist’s death. I owe him too much to let murder go unavenged. And I doubt Steven will bother with Audley now that you are wed.”

  “Sometimes it is better to delegate authority, Rafe.” She cupped his scarred cheek, kissing him lightly. “Your man of business can oversee Formsby better than I, for while I am a good estate manager, I have little training in finance. I’m sure that Formsby will whitewash any problems on this first report. I need a keen eye that can spot skullduggery. And since you have no experience in investigating crimes, you will be better off hiring a runner. Steven can hide any defalcations by ordering Audley’s ledger destroyed – the new servants would obey him. Or he can create havoc for my tenants. Since I have no one I can trust to protect them, I must go in person. His obsession won’t let him abandon his quest, despite our marriage.”

  Rafe tried to find a trick hidden beneath her words, but he couldn’t think while distracted by her warmth. Nor could he refute her logic. No matter how much he feared her position at Audley, he must let her run the place. The tenants did not deserve to be sucked into a struggle for control. After a lifetime trapped in other people’s wars, he knew what it felt like.

  “Very well. We’ll leave in the morning,” he murmured, abandoning further discussion for the lure of seduction.

  “Thank you.” Her green eyes glowed.

  Her hip pressed against a burgeoning erection. He licked her lips, then covered them. His temperature soared.

  “Rafe!” she gasped as his hand cupped her breast, teasing its nipple into a hard ball.

  Easy, he admonished himself as his hips flexed against her. He was supposed to bind her with passion, not succumb to his own.

  But her response drove his need higher than ever. Every touch sent sparks raging through his body. Every moan heightened his need. It took all his considerable control to defer acting on the fantasies raging through his mind. He longed to toss up her skirts and take his pleasure. It had been years since he’d last coupled in a carriage.

  But he couldn’t. They were already in Maddox Street.

  “We’ll finish this later,” he murmured, smoothing her gown as he forced calm over his ragged breathing.

  She was too stunned to respond.

  He smiled as his groom let down the steps. By the time he actually bedded her, she would be blind with desire.

  * * * *

  Brockman had already arrived for their daily meeting. Rafe introduced him to Helen, then headed for Hanover Square, accompanied by his secretary, Barnes.

  Number fourteen was on the west side, part of a brick terrace constructed shortly after passage of the Building Act of 1774. Helen was right about its size. The terrace was second-rate, according to law, so the units were a modest three bays wide and three stories high, occupied mostly by merchants. Cramped, though it would do for now.

  The iron railing around the kitchen area was rusting. A glance into the area itself revealed broken steps and enough dirt to start a garden. The staff had clearly skimped on cleaning.

  No one answered the front door. The knocker was down, but there should have been a caretaker.

  “It’s unlocked, sir,” said Barnes, testing the latch.

  “Damn.” That could only mean trouble.

  Entering confirmed his fears. The hall was littered with debris from deliberate, wanton destruction. Someone had hacked the walls and turned the banister to kindling. Shards of mirrored glass were everywhere. “I should have sent Sir Steven to Bow Street,” he growled. But he’d considered Steven’s attack a momentary burst of temper. The man should have come to his senses by the time he reached the street.

  He’d been wrong.

  Rafe glared at the destruction. If Helen had explained Steven’s obsession earlier, this wouldn’t have happened.

  A quick tour revealed damage in every room, though not as bad as to the hall. Her trunk stood upstairs, her clothing scattered but intact. Any jewelry was gone, though, along with any money she might have had. He wondered what else was missing.

  “Stay here,” he ordered Barnes. “Find out where the staff is – the neighbors should know. If Sir Steven turned them off, rehire them and order an inventory. Otherwise hire new. Arrange for repairs, and I want new locks on all the doors.” Steven might have a key.

  “At once, sir.”

  “And send a note to Shipley. I’ll call at four.” He added details, then loaded Helen’s clothes into his carriage and headed for Berkeley Square.

  The familiar façade of Alquist House revived his grief. Alquist had turned a wild boy into a responsible gentleman, offering the respect Rafe had never received at home. He’d been the anchor that kept Rafe from harm. Now the anchor was gone, and that boy was again adrift.

  “Good morning, Harris,” he said when the butler opened the door.

  “Master Rafe.” Harris welcomed him inside. The spacious opulence stood in stark contrast to the ruins in Hanover Square. Alquist House was solidly first-rate, occupying a double lot deep enough for a separate servants’ wing, formal garden, and mews. With eight bedrooms and its own ballroom, it was the sort of house Rafe had always wanted. But that was for later.

  “I just discovered that Alquist named me guardian to his ward, but he’d never discussed the girl. May I check his desk to see if he left any instructions?”

  “Of course, sir.” Harris led him to Alquist’s study.

  The desktop was empty
of its usual clutter. “Where are his papers?” he asked.

  “Lady Alquist ordered everything sent to Hampshire so Rhodes could deal with it.”

  Rafe nodded. The secretary had been with Alquist for thirty years, longer even than Harris. His collapse at the burial meant it would be some time before he could manage. Something else Rafe must see to. There might be matters that needed immediate attention. Alquist’s son was with the army in North America. Until he returned, Rafe was the nearest kin.

  “I am returning to Hampshire tomorrow. In addition to instructions, I was hoping to discover what bothered Alquist that night.” He met the butler’s shuttered eyes. “I’ve never seen him so pensive. If it was concern over his ward’s trustees, I need to know.”

  “I know nothing of that.” But he shifted his weight from foot to foot in a very unbutlerly fashion.

  “But you do remember something.” Rafe pulled several scraps of paper from a drawer – Alquist had always jotted notes to himself.

  Harris finally spoke. “A man called after he left that evening.”

  “Who?” Not a gentleman, or Harris would have identified him as such.

  “He claimed to have an urgent message for Lord Alquist. I sent him to White’s. But Lord Alquist had no time to act on that message. I fear something important was forgotten.”

  “Rhodes would know. Or the solicitor. Whoever sent the message would write to them,” said Rafe soothingly, but his stomach churned. No one had delivered a message to White’s. Rafe had spent the entire evening with Alquist. Had the caller’s goal been to learn Alquist’s location? “What did the fellow look like? Perhaps I know him.”

  “I doubt it, Master Rafe. He was only a messenger – coarse, dark, and dressed worse than a groom.”

  “In that case, the matter cannot have been as urgent as he claimed.” The description would fit half of London, including Goddard, though he doubted the man was smart enough to effectively impersonate a servant.