Tempted at Every Turn

by Robyn DeHart

  After the brief exchange of pleasantries, James made his way to the drawing room, where he would no doubt find his mother worrying over some needlepoint and his father reading one of many papers. He stepped into the room and they sat doing precisely as he’d imagined, as if they were on the set of a play rather than living an actual life.

  “James,” her mother said excitedly, “what an excellent surprise.” She set her sewing aside and patted the cushion next to her. “Come and sit for a while.”

  His father folded the paper just enough so he could see over the edge. “How kind of you to grace us with your presence. Your mother was just fretting about you only moments ago.”

  “Harry, don’t be so dramatic. I was hardly fretting, merely wondering about your well-being,” she said, directing the last sentence to James.

  He lowered himself onto the green and gold velvet sofa next to his mother. “My well-being is perfectly fine, Mother, I can assure you.”

  She smiled brightly. “Yes, dear, but I do like to see you with my own eyes so that I might know that you’re eating and sleeping and the like. You know how your activities make me nervous.”

  “I’m a detective, Mother, that’s not exactly an activity. It’s an actual paid position.”

  She pursed her lips. “Your allowance is waiting for you whenever you choose to take it,” she said smartly.

  His father rattled the paper a little too loudly for a simple turning of the page, then cleared his throat. It was a gentle nudge in the direction of his wife meant to cool her worried nature.

  “I came here to ask for your assistance. With my current investigation,” James said.

  His mother actually looked affronted. Her hand went to her breast and her eyes widened. “What help could I possibly provide in relation to a crime? You know what is a crime? The fact that you’re still a bachelor, and as looks would have it, perfectly content to stay that way. I would like grandchildren while I’m still alive.”

  “Fiona, don’t pester the boy, he’ll marry in his own time,” James’ father said.

  James had heard it all before, and it didn’t faze him. His mother had a flair for the dramatic; he’d have to be blind and deaf to have not recognized that by now.

  “Might I remind you, Mother, that you are already a grandmother.” His brother, who had not yet taken his father’s place as earl, had already married and secured an heir. A long line of heirs, actually. “Are six grandsons not enough?”

  “Well, there is always room for more,” his mother said. “I have hopes that you will find a match like Stephen has.”

  “Yes, well, there’s still time,” James said, not even attempting to hide the sarcasm from his tone.

  “Of course there is, dear. Men can marry and sire children well into their years. It is only we poor women who must marry early, else face life alone on the shelf.”

  Willow would be considered “on the shelf” already. She had mentioned she was nine and twenty. He pushed his hair back from his eyes. Willow had nothing to do with any of this.

  “I appreciate your concerns, Mother, but can we get back to why I’m here?” he prodded. The sooner they could discuss the case, the sooner he could remove himself and perhaps salvage the rest of the evening. At the moment, holing up in his townhome with a bottle of rich port sounded just the thing.

  “Yes, of course, dear,” she said. “Tell me how it is you think I might be of use and I will do my best.”

  “I believe you knew the victim.”

  “Victim of what?” she asked.

  “Murder.”

  “Oh, heavens.” Again her hand went to her throat. “I know someone who was murdered?”

  “Yes, the photographer Malcolm Drummond.”

  Her expression fell, clearly disappointed that the deceased hadn’t been someone slightly more important, and therefore more notorious. “Why would anyone bother killing him?”

  “I don’t know yet. But I know you met the man, and I thought you might provide some other contacts for me.”

  “Never trusted him,” his father said from behind his paper.

  “Oh, Harry, you never trust anyone,” his mother said. “I met Mr. Drummond on several occasions. We had planned to go to his new exhibit.” She shook her head and was quiet for a few moments. “I simply need time to think about it. Try to remember who I might have seen him with at times. You know what might help?”

  He knew that look. That twinkle that set in her eyes as soon as she had what she deemed to be a perfect plan. And her perfect plans were nearly always less than perfect for him.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Join us tonight.” She looked over at her husband, who met her gaze, shook his head, and went back to his reading. “It’s a small party. But seeing people might help my memory, and if you were there, I could point people out to you.”

  Point annoying girls on the marriage mart out to him, that’s what she would do. But it was the only way she’d help him. He knew that about her.

  He would have immediate access to them. Plus seeing the news of Malcolm’s death spread through Society might actually give him a better idea of who the man’s foes and allies were.

  “Where is it?” he asked.

  He thought he heard his father chuckle, but it was so brief, he couldn’t be certain.

  “Fieldcrest Hall,” she said.

  James snorted. “A small party? At Fieldcrest Hall? Mother, do you think me a fool?”

  “Of course not, darling. If it’s any consolation,” she said, “Louise said they invited half as many people this year as last year. And can you blame her, with all the traipsing around in her garden? It took them weeks to put her bushes back together. And the statue garden will never be the same. Insolent, the lot of them.”

  “Half as many,” James repeated. He sincerely doubted that. Lady Fieldcrest prided herself on hosting the first large ball of the Season and had been doing so for years. She still had one daughter to marry off, so no doubt this year’s gathering would be larger than ever and packed to the gills with eligible men. He didn’t really have the patience to wade through this sort of event right now, but it might be the difference between a break in this investigation and a dead end.

  “Here are my conditions,” he said, ignoring his mother’s glee-filled applause. “I’m going for business purposes only. Which means I will not dance with anyone. Nor will I fetch any pretty miss something refreshing to drink. Is that understood, Mother? I do not want to waste time tonight being paraded around for marriage-minded mothers.”

  His mother squeezed her lips together then gave him a big smile. “I promise.”

  Somehow he doubted she actually meant that. But he was stuck now. He would do his best to evade the marriage seekers for the evening and focus on the case.

  “Shall we pick you up, dear?” his mother asked sweetly.

  “No, I’ll take my own rig, thank you.”

  James poured himself a glass of port and then sat at his desk. He still had a few hours before he needed to leave for the Fieldcrest ball. And Drummond’s journal had been weighing down his pocket all afternoon. He practically itched to open it.

  Every entry was dated, and Drummond’s flourish-filled penmanship was difficult to interpret at first glance. Along with the date, each separate entry started with a name. Always a woman’s, sometimes the same as on previous days, but generally different each time. Jane, Anne, Millie, Sophia, Agatha, Eleanor—no surnames, just listed by their first name.

  The name would start the page and the text would launch into a monologue on each woman’s beauty, poise, grace, her every curve. “Agatha” appeared more often than any other name. Always the same details: her raven-black hair, her crystalline-green eyes, her perfect complexion, her flawless body. The details were worthy of Dickens or Brontë.

  Drummond had evidently spent some intimate time with each of them, as he knew of moles and birthmarks and scars and coloring. In addition to their physical beauty, he docu
mented words they’d said, expressions they’d made. But never a mention of one of the women being a lover.

  Had Drummond been murdered by a disgruntled lover? Perhaps one had discovered she was one of many, and her anger had driven her to the unthinkable.

  Fenby would surely know who these ladies were, could provide him with surnames so he could question each of them. Surely, they knew Mr. Drummond as well as he knew them.

  Chapter 5

  Willow examined the ballroom, trying to remember precisely why she had decided to attend. It was a lovely place; she could not deny that. The Fieldcrest ball usually was lovely. The room itself was a rather large rectangle with archways outlining doorways on the left, leading to other parts of the house. To the right, the French doors leading to the landscaped yard seemed to mock her with their invitation to freedom.

  “I don’t know how I allowed you to talk me into coming here tonight,” Willow said. She spoke to her brother through her teeth, keeping her gaze on her surroundings. The half balcony lining the room hosted the band, which at the moment was playing a soft collection of Wagner.

  “It amuses me how irritating you find these events. I would have imagined you, above all people, would find them entertaining.” Edmond gave her a little salute with his glass before downing his champagne.

  Willow turned to glare at him. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

  “With all the rules in Society, I would think you would be most at home.” He grabbed another glass of the bubbling liquid as a footman passed.

  “Yes, there are rules. But there are also gossips and mean-spirited people, for which I have no use at all.”

  Edmond chuckled. “Why are you so surly tonight? It’s a lovely evening. There’s even a fragrant breeze to refresh us.”

  She couldn’t argue with that. The scent of the potted rose topiaries wafted through the air of the crowded ballroom. She eyed her brother and softened. “I don’t mean to be surly. It’s a lovely night.” She was only irritable because her attempts to uncover any information about the late Malcolm Drummond had failed. She knew no more today than she had when she’d last seen James. It was going to be rather difficult to beat him if she had to rely on him for all of the clues. But she was persistent.

  She elbowed her brother in his side. “Shouldn’t you be pursuing some young miss tonight? Mama will be so relieved when you find a wife and settle down.”

  “You will be relieved. Mama is…well, Mama is Mama, and she’ll be happy for me, but it’s not her primary concern. You know that.”

  He was right. Their mother was far more concerned with her garden than on whether of her children married and started families. But Willow firmly believed that was a product of her illness and not her true feelings on the matter.

  Willow toyed with the necklace at her throat. “I do worry about you. All your gambling. Wherever do you find the money for that sort of thing? And the additional funds you give to Papa?”

  He gently tweaked her nose. “Willow, you are too nosy for your own good. One of these days that curiosity is going to land you in a heap of trouble that your blessed rules can not work out.”

  Couples filled the dance floor as the band began a quadrille. Willow immediately spotted Charlotte dancing with the Marquess of Sinclair. They made a striking pair together with their tall statures and attractive features. Willow snuck a look at Edmond and was unsure if he saw the couple before they moved further into the ballroom. She noted that his jaw clenched, and supposed he’d seen everything she had. While she had never received confirmation, she’d always speculated that her brother had fancied Charlotte more than he was willing to admit.

  Her eyes traveled back to Charlotte, who now laughed as a new partner twirled her about. Something in her chest pinched. Charlotte, always the beauty. Always the center of some man’s attention, more than likely a crowd of gentlemen. Willow tried to hide her wistful sigh. It had been ages since she had been asked to dance. Ages since a man’s hands had brushed her own and used his strength to guide her about the sheen of the dance floor.

  There had been a time when she’d enjoyed the few moments in which she’d held a man’s attention. But then she’d realized she didn’t have that sort of luxury with her time, couldn’t afford to encourage a relationship of that type. Not when it had become abundantly clear that her mother would require more constant care. This was precisely the reason Willow rarely attended these functions; they made her want things she could not afford to desire.

  “Willow?” she heard Edmond ask. “Your mind is elsewhere this evening.”

  She smiled. “Yes, it is. I apologize. I’m afraid I didn’t get much sleep last night and I—” Her eyes fell on the familiar form of Inspector Sterling and her words died in her throat. “Oh, goodness,” she said. What was he doing here?

  “Oh, goodness, what?” Edmond asked.

  “What?” Then she remembered she’d been in the midst of fabricating some story of lost sleep to excuse her flighty behavior. “I merely saw someone, that’s all.” There wasn’t any good way to tell her older brother that she’d unofficially joined the ranks of the Metropolitan Police. “Someone I wasn’t expecting.” So she couldn’t explain her new unladylike relationship with James, but the odds were quite unlikely she’d actually have to. There was no conceivable reason why James would engage her in public. Besides, it looked as if his entire family was with him.

  “Who?” Edmond asked.

  “James Sterling. A friend of Colin’s, an inspector with the police.” She’d seen Lord and Lady Dandridge on enough occasions to recognize them, but this evening she could see their resemblance to James. He and his father were nearly the same height, James having an inch or so on the older man. And Lady Dandridge—she had the same dimples Willow had briefly seen displayed in James’ smile. “We met at Amelia’s earlier this week,” she added absently. That was true enough.

  “And you do not like him,” her brother stated.

  It did not matter if she liked him or not. Or found him dashing—that especially did not matter. And it appeared she wasn’t the only one who found him so. As he stepped into the crowd, the fans started waving and a chorus of giggles broke out every time he walked past a clump of ladies.

  He actually swaggered, no doubt fully aware of the disruption he was causing. Willow tried to turn away, tried not to look at him. She didn’t want to be one from the crowd, merely another pair of feminine eyes tracking his every move. But that was just what she was.

  With all the beauties in attendance tonight, he’d have his selection of which woman to dance with. Perhaps he would ask Charlotte, if her dance card wasn’t already full. Or the hostess’s daughter.

  If he were to see her, would he nod politely as he walked by? She let her eyes flutter to the ground, trying to stare intently at her feet. Perhaps if he did not see her, she wouldn’t have to live through the humiliation of his ignoring her.

  “Like him or not,” Edmond said, “I believe your new friend is headed this way.”

  Willow’s head snapped up. Edmond was right. James had spotted her and evidently saw fit to speak to her. She mentally calmed the nerves that rattled inside her belly. There was no reason to work herself into a lather. He was being polite; his parents had reared him correctly and since they were present, he was on his best behavior. So they would exchange pleasantries briefly and then he’d be on his way.

  Not only had James reached her, but now the entire Sterling clan also stood before her. Willow swallowed what felt like a rather large lump, then painted on what she hoped was a perfectly genuine-looking smile.

  James reached for her hand and she watched as he bent his head over it. Such formality. She shut her mouth, which had unwillingly gaped open. A brilliant beginning for behaving properly. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

  “James, introduce us,” Lady Dandridge whispered. His mother was all smiles and ruffles and gems.

  He nodded curtly to her but his eyes said something else to
Willow. As if he were apologizing. “Miss Wilhelmina Mabson, may I present you to my mother, Lady Dandridge, and my father, Lord Dandridge.” Then he introduced his brother and sister-in-law.

  She bent in a curtsy and kept her smile in place. “Such a pleasure to meet all of you. This is my brother, Edmond.”

  “Your family name sounds familiar,” the earl said.

  “Yes, my father is Viscount Saddler,” Willow said. “I’m afraid he has retired from Society in recent years. I expect it won’t be long before he passes the title onto Edmond.”

  “Saddler, yes, I know that name,” James’ mother said. She looked up at the ceiling as if looking for divine guidance. “Agatha is your mother. I met her on several occasions. Such a…” she paused, clearly grasping for an appropriate adjective.

  “Energetic?” Willow provided.

  Lady Dandridge’s face erupted into such an unexpectedly genuine smile, it nearly brought tears to Willow’s eyes. “Beautiful. Your mother is truly lovely. How is she?”

  It was not the word Lady Dandridge meant to use and Willow could think of a string to give her. Erratic, impulsive, haunted. Loved and protected—she could not forget those. The list could go on. Edmond placed his hand at her elbow.

  “Mother is as lovely as ever. She keeps busy in her garden,” Edmond said. “She’s quite the accomplished gardener.”

  Willow was not certain what else could be said. Lady Dandridge was simply being polite. Willow let her gaze fall to the dance floor, where couples passed by in a flurry of black coats and trousers and a multitude of colored silks and satins. She looked down at her own simple dress, which was several years old and while still in prime condition was not the height of fashion. Her ears went warm and she mentally cringed, hoping her cheeks would not redden.

  “Would you care to dance?” The question seemed to come from her right and she looked up to find James’ gaze on her. The question—had it been directed at her? Had James Sterling just asked her to dance? She felt her eyes widen. He held his hand out and she realized that yes, in fact, the question had been aimed at her. Her stomach leaped in response. Mercy. What should she do with that?