Tempted at Every Turn

by Robyn DeHart

  Once they were secured in the evidence room, he turned to face her. “Is there something wrong, Your Grace?”

  She chewed on her lip and continued fidgeting with her fan. “The other day, when you came to visit my husband and you asked those questions, well…” she looked down at her shoes, “…I wasn’t completely honest with you.”

  “And?” James prodded.

  “I knew Malcolm Drummond a bit better than I led on. He was actually very dear to me.” She looked up and her blue eyes were lined with tears.

  “You loved him?”

  She nodded. “We were lovers.”

  “For how long?” James asked.

  “Nearly five months.”

  “You were still together when he died?”

  She squeezed her eyes shut. “Yes,” she whispered. Then her eyes popped open. Two tears fell from the right eye. “My husband does not know, Inspector, and you can not tell him. He is rather particular about how I spend my time. I believe he loves me in his own way, and I am…” she paused as if grasping for the right word, “…fond of him. I should not like to hurt him.”

  James nodded. “Why did you wish to tell me this?”

  “I do not like being dishonest, and keeping the affair from my husband has been necessary but difficult. This was my chance to finally tell someone.” She winced. “Selfish, I realize, to use you to make this confession.”

  “And that is all?” James asked, feeling confused.

  She bit down on her lip and shook her head. Her eyes filled with tears. “No, that is not all. I also just wanted you to know that Malcolm was loved. We were very happy together. He called me ‘Millie,’” she said, and then her voice cracked and she took a moment to compose herself. “I wanted you to know that despite some of his indiscretions he was a good and wonderful man. And I just thought that perhaps this would…I don’t know, I feel so helpless, and I just wanted to do something to assist in the catching of his killer.”

  She did love him; that much was evident. “Do you have any idea who might have wanted Malcolm dead?” James asked.

  “No, I don’t. I know that on occasion he dealt with unsavory people, selling special photographs. Aside from that everyone he knew is genteel and would never harm anyone. Could it not have been a burglar?” she suggested.

  James shook his head. “As far as we could tell, no. The butler has also verified that nothing was missing. I appreciate your candor.”

  “I ask one favor, if you will, Inspector. If you do find that this must come out, please allow me some time to tell my husband first. He will not take my infidelity in stride.”

  He nodded.

  Willow finished her row of stitches, then looked up to check on her mother. The older woman sat in her chair by the window looking out at her garden. It was raining today so they hadn’t allowed her outside.

  “Mama, are you all right?” Willow asked.

  She turned and faced her daughter. “Yes. I simply wish I could be out there. My roses desperately need pruning, and did you see the buddleia bush? It’s positively out of control. Butterflies would as soon sit on the cold ground than that mess.” Her hands worked her skirts into knots.

  Gone was the lucid woman she’d walked in the garden with the night before. “Perhaps it will stop raining soon and tomorrow will be dry enough. Right now, there is simply too much mud. You’d get filthy.”

  She waved a hand. “Pah. Nothing wrong with getting a bit dirty. Mud never harmed anyone.” She shook her head. “Your father, he’s too protective. Always afraid I’m going to embarrass him.”

  “Oh, Mama, that’s not it at all. Papa is never worried about being embarrassed.” She, on the other hand, had certainly had those thoughts before, but she pushed the shame out of her mind. “He only cares for your well-being and wants you to be safe and healthy. You could catch a fever out in this weather. It is nicer to stay inside and keep warm and dry.”

  Her mother nodded, but her lips were pursed.

  There would be no convincing her. Not today. So Willow went back to her embroidery. Her thoughts wandered to James and their night together. It had been nothing short of magical, but it was in the past now. She searched her heart for guilt or regret but found none. He had been there for her at the time she’d needed someone the most and she’d never forget him for that.

  They would solve the case soon, and then she would probably never see him again. Or she’d see him in a crowded ballroom or at the theatre and she’d wonder how he was doing. And perhaps they’d exchange pleasantries and his wife would ask who she was and he’d say that she was simply a girl he’d known once. But their time together hadn’t really meant anything. She knew that.

  His desire was simply a product of their situation. The investigation kept them close and because of that, things that wouldn’t have occurred otherwise had happened. Last night, it had been easy to see how women so frequently fancied themselves in love. When men showed their desire, no matter how chaste or passionate, it was a heady feeling. Powerful to know that you were desired, that a man wanted you.

  She’d be a fool if she pretended that she had not developed some feelings for him. But they could be nothing save a memory for her aged years. She could say she did not have tender feelings for the man who was trying to prove her father guilty of murder, but that did not make it so.

  But tender feelings and desire were not love. Her heart remained intact, carefully guarded in her chest. She might have let James touch her body, but she would never give him access to her heart. She could not afford to do so.

  Her father’s admission yesterday had shocked and terrified her and sent her running straight to James’ arms.

  Now, more than ever, her family needed her. What happened last night was in the past. They had shared a night together, and now she could shove her desire aside and pour her energy into the investigation.

  Regardless of whether or not her father might be capable of murder, she refused to even consider it.

  Chapter 17

  Willow stepped out of the carriage with James’ assistance and even through her gloves she could feel the warmth of his hands. Tonight might possibly be the biggest night in their investigation. Every woman who had sat for Malcolm Drummond was to be at the exhibit. Every woman but her mother.

  Willow knew she should tell James about the truth of her mother’s photographs, but she was too ashamed. If he happened to find some in that box they’d found, then so be it. Perhaps there had been mention of such photographs in the journal and James was keeping that a secret from her.

  James leaned down to her ear. “Did I tell you that you look lovely tonight?”

  The warmth of his breath sent chills down her spine. “Thank you.” She looked down at her pale blue satin dress. It was simple in cut and did not contain many embellishments, but it was flattering. It was one of the few dresses she still had from the year she came out. The pattern was such that it had maintained its style for the past nine years. And since she had not worn it much, the fabric still had a new sheen to it.

  The exhibit hall was abuzz as they entered. Immediately a footman took their cloaks and then they were greeted with a tray of champagne. Willow took a glass but was unsure if she wanted to sip any. She needed to keep all of her faculties in order tonight; she did not want to miss anything.

  “Let us go meet our host,” James said.

  The Duke and Duchess of Argyle were standing in a receiving line greeting the guests. They had yet to open the doors to the exhibition and everyone milled about in the exhibit hall’s lobby area.

  Finally they had their turn and the duchess immediately grabbed Willow’s hands. “How lovely to see you again,” she said softly.

  James and the duke were exchanging pleasantries and then it was her turn. The duke absently bent over her hand.

  “Your Grace, I’d very much like to have a moment with you to discuss Mr. Drummond,” James said.

  The duke eyed him and then nodded. “You’ll have to see
my solicitor and see if he can schedule something. I am a very busy man.” Then he turned away from James and directed his focus again to Willow. “Welcome to the exhibit,” he said, and then she too was dismissed.

  James pulled her away from the reception line into a relatively empty space by a closed doorway.

  “He was rather dismissive,” Willow said.

  James scanned the room. “Not entirely surprising.”

  “May I have your attention.” A voice was heard over the noise. “If you’ll all look to your right, you’ll see the doors open. Malcolm Drummond’s ‘Portraits of Ladies’ is now officially open.”

  Many oohs and aahs escaped from the crowd as they began to file into the hall.

  Willow waited for James’ cue as to what they were going to do. They weren’t really here for the exhibit; they had seen most of the photographs already. They were here to observe the crowd, to see if anyone might reveal any hidden secrets about a motive to kill Malcolm Drummond.

  “What are we doing?” she finally asked James after a few moments of not moving.

  “I’m looking for people,” he said.

  “Who?”

  “Women. From the other photographs.”

  Her heart seemed to stop beating and she pressed her hand against her chest. So he had looked through those images, and tonight he would match faces with the nude bodies he had seen. She felt a twinge of jealousy. Would he still find her attractive if she stood before him without her clothes, now that he’d seen so many images of women?

  “And there were women in those photographs whom you recognized?” she asked.

  He nodded. “A few, but there are more here tonight. Let us get closer—perhaps you know some of their names.”

  No mention of her mother. Relief poured through her like hot water melting her bones, making it difficult to keep her footing. She grabbed on to his arm to steady herself, and then nodded as if she were merely allowing him to escort her into the next room.

  They strolled through the exhibition, barely noting the lovely portraits hanging on the walls. The crowd around them conversed about the photographs and bent closely to see the details.

  James leaned near to her ear. “Who is that woman? Over there with the pale blond hair.”

  She followed his glance. “That is Jane Portfield.”

  “You know her?” he asked.

  “I do.” She eyed his face for an explanation, but found none. “Do you recognize her?”

  He nodded. “And there is mention of a Jane in the journal that meets her description. Is she married?”

  “No. Not for lack of proposals, though. She has a bit of a reputation for declining them.”

  He smirked. “’Tis a game for her?”

  “I’m not certain. I believe she simply enjoys her independence.”

  “And she has funds for such a lifestyle?”

  “It seems I recall she was left a hefty sum by a favorite aunt.”

  “We will visit her tomorrow,” he said.

  They moved a little farther in and she wanted to ask him how long he’d had to examine those photographs in order to commit the women’s faces to memory. She was curious to know how he felt about what he’d seen. But at the same time she didn’t want to know. It was a cruel bit of curiosity and one she should not indulge. So she forced her lips to remain closed, the questions to go unformed in her mouth.

  “And that one.” He nodded toward a woman, perhaps her mother’s age, whose red hair still shone. Evidently Malcolm Drummond’s taste for women was wide in scope rather than focused on one specific look.

  “Sophia Fulmer,” Willow whispered.

  “Do you know her?”

  “Of her, but I’ve never even spoken to her.”

  “What do you know of her?” James asked.

  “She’s a widow. For the second time. Her most recent husband was the Earl of Craggmere.” She swallowed, unsure if she wanted to share the next morsel of information.

  James’ eyebrows rose.

  “There is talk that she is rather close to the new Earl of Craggmere.”

  “Her son?” James asked, clearly disgusted.

  “Stepchild. I believe they are around the same age. She was the late earl’s third wife.”

  James’ lip curled. “That still is unpleasant, not to mention illegal.”

  “But you recognize her as well.”

  “Yes. So we will visit her tomorrow in addition to Miss Portfield.”

  They progressed into the next room of the exhibition. James stopped and casually visited with some of the women in the portraits, asking them basic questions about their interactions with Malcolm Drummond. Two of them were no more than girls and both of their mamas had been present at their sittings. Not one of them seemed to provide any new information or hints that there was more to their story beneath what they said.

  Willow watched all the people around them. Dressed in their finery, women flirted with their fans, batting their eyelashes and occasionally daring to touch a gentleman’s forearm. She located one specific couple, clearly not married but perhaps in the midst of a courtship.

  The couple, while not stunning by Society’s standards, was handsome enough. He was not an overly tall man, but the girl gazed upon him with admiration. He assisted her as she walked and looked at her as she spoke, clearly expressing interest in what she had to say. He said something to her and she laughed genuinely. Perhaps that could have happened to Willow had she encouraged any of her young suitors the first few years after her debut.

  She looked up at the man next to her. James was taller than most men in the room and as broad as some of the largest men. His black breeches and overcoat were well tailored to his muscular frame and his tie lay neatly in place.

  However, there ended any similarities between him and the other men. While most of the men in the room had taken careful consideration with their appearance, smoothing their hair back with lotion and shaving any hint of stubble off their faces, James let his long blond hair hang seductively in his face, and while he might have run a blade across his face this morning, regrowth darkened his cheeks and chin. He might be dressed like a gentleman—he might even speak as one—but Willow knew he was far too dangerous to be a gentleman.

  What was it about him that drew her in so inexplicably? Never before had she so much as looked twice at someone who so blatantly defied convention. Even knowing all of this about him, knowing he mocked propriety, she wanted him. Wanted to lean too close to him so that their arms brushed. Wanted to reach up and move that lock of hair out of his eyes. Wanted to press herself against him and feel his desire pour over her like a long-awaited rain.

  But she could do none of those things. She’d had her one night and that was all she could enjoy. Now she had to focus on the investigation, clear her father’s name, then return to her duties to her mother.

  Everything was in place. James assisted Willow into the carriage. He’d already spoken to her father and received his blessing—now all he had to do was ask the question. He probably should have told his family he was getting married, but he wanted time to fairly warn Willow about what she was getting herself into.

  He could already imagine the first dinner at his family’s house. The seat across from him would finally be filled and his mother would chatter incessantly about tablecloths and draperies and other household nonsense. Yes, he needed time to forewarn his betrothed so she could prepare herself. He knew she’d know how to handle his mother. She’d be brilliant.

  “That seemed successful,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Finding three additional women to question. I feel certain that we’re getting close to identifying the murderer.”

  “I think you might be right.”

  “Will you pick me up tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow afternoon. Around two o’clock,” he said.

  He probably should have purchased some sort of ring. A token that would represent their commitment. There hadn’t been a lo
t of time, though, and he wasn’t certain what to buy. Something simple, but elegant.

  And then the carriage stopped, and he still hadn’t asked her.

  “James, is everything all right?” she asked, her forehead furrowed with concern.

  “I have given it great consideration,” he began, “and I believe the best and most appropriate option is for us to marry.”

  Her mouth fell open, but she promptly shut it. “Whatever are you talking about?”

  “You are compromised, Willow, surely that fact has not escaped your attention.”

  “Well, of course it hasn’t,” she snapped. “But no one was going to marry me, and I certainly wasn’t harboring any thoughts of you proposing.” Her eyes widened and she pointed at him. “Is that why you think I came to your house the other night? To ensnare you? Do you believe that is the only way I could find a husband? I can assure you that if I did want a husband, I could find one. And I certainly have more pressing things to occupy my time other than plotting how to bring down bachelors such as yourself.”

  “Willow, I never said any of those things and I never thought them.” Somehow he never managed to say the right thing to her. He sighed in frustration. “Calm down. I know you’re not the sort of woman who would deliberately coerce someone into marriage. I would never suggest such a thing, let alone think it.”

  “You do?” she asked, clearly surprised but still angry.

  “Yes, I do. This was my idea.” He should have tried wooing her instead of appealing to her sensible side. Even a woman as proper as Willow wanted to be romanced, but it was a little late for that now. “I took liberties with you that only a husband has a right to take. So it is only right that I now become that husband.”

  “Honor,” she said, furrows wrinkling her brow. “You’re doing this out of honor?”

  “Is it so difficult to believe that I know how to be honorable?”

  Her lips pinched together. “You, who cares not a whit about what Society says? Why would you then allow them to dictate who you marry?”