by Candace Camp
Charity considered the thought. “Perhaps I had best tell Dure about it first. But I’m sure that he will not object.”
“No!” Theodora gasped. Her lovely face was panicked, and her eyes were wide with horror. “No, pray don’t tell Lord Dure!”
“But why not? He’s a very intelligent, fair man. He will not condemn you.”
“No, please, promise me that you won’t tell your husband, or anyone else, about this. It must be our secret. If it got out, I don’t know how I would live it down. You are the only one I’ve told.”
“Well, all right,” Charity agreed, a little reluctantly. She was sure that Dure would have a good idea about what the poor woman should do, and she knew that he was not the type to condemn someone out of hand. But she could see how upset and embarrassed Mrs. Graves was at the idea of anyone else knowing, especially a man, and Charity could understand that. She would not bring further grief on the poor woman by airing her troubles, even to her husband. “I won’t tell Dure.”
Theodora relaxed a little, but insisted, “Do you promise?”
“I promise. I won’t tell Dure, or anyone else. And I shall continue to be your friend. I want you to know that you can rely on me.”
“Thank you. It means so much to me. If it wouldn’t be too much of an imposition, I should love to talk to you again.”
“Of course it would not be an imposition! I should love to.” Charity squeezed Theodora’s hand reassuringly. “You can count on me.”
“Thank you, my lady.” Theodora looked down, a satisfied grin curving her generous mouth. “I so appreciate your kindness.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
IT WAS THE EVENING of their dinner party, and Simon could not imagine where Charity could be. He looked at the clock on the mantel in the drawing room for the fourth time, but it was no more help than it had been the other three times. The dinner party was in only an hour. Charity had gone out almost two hours ago, telling the footman at the door, Patrick, that she was going to buy ribbons for a dress and that she would be home in a few minutes.
Simon experienced a fear, an uneasiness, that once would have been foreign to him. There was little possibility that anything had happened to Charity; she had gone in the carriage, with Botkins driving. Yet, somehow, where Charity was concerned, reason played little part in Simon’s thoughts. His horror of losing Charity was so great that even the smallest possibility of it was enough to make him worry. Ever since she had decided to discover Reed’s killer and clear Simon’s name, he could not help but worry that she might somehow tumble herself into a world of trouble in her usual headlong fashion.
At that moment he heard the front door open, and he went quickly to the open doorway and looked down the hall. Charity swept into the entry, flushed and beautiful, casting her dazzling smile at the footman.
“Good evening, Patrick. I’m afraid I’m desperately late. Where is His Lordship?”
“Right here, my lady.” Simon strode down the hallway to her, determined to impress upon her the folly of dillydallying when there were a party and an anxious husband waiting for her. He was brought up short by the sight of the creature that suddenly leaped onto Charity’s shoulder, having been hidden until now in the flung-back hood of her cloak. “What the devil is that?”
Charity laughed merrily. “It is a monkey, my lord. Surely you must have seen one before.”
“Of course I have seen one. But never in this house.”
The monkey began to chatter and tip the foolish little red hat, approximately the size and shape of a large thimble, that adorned his head. He grabbed hold of Charity’s hair with his other tiny hand and swung around her neck, then onto her other shoulder.
“Churchill, behave,” Charity said severely, wincing as the animal’s fingers pulled at her hair.
“Churchill?”
“Yes, he’s named after the Duke of Marlborough. Absurd, isn’t it?”
“In more ways than one.” Simon cast a jaundiced eye upon the creature as it scrambled down Charity’s front and onto the marble floor.
They watched as Churchill scampered across the floor and up the heavy mahogany hat tree that stood against the wall.
“I imagine you want to know how I happened to come home with a monkey,” Charity said.
“I am waiting in breathless suspense.”
“I don’t precisely know what we’ll do with him, but I couldn’t leave him there.”
“And where was that?”
“With the man who owned him. Or, at least, he said he owned him, but I don’t think anyone should own a pet unless he acts more decently toward it.”
“I presume this owner did not?” Simon said fatalistically. “And you, of course, decided to uh…free Churchill from him.”
Charity smiled sunnily and stepped forward to kiss Simon’s cheek. “I knew you would understand.”
Simon smiled wryly. “I know you, my dear. However, that’s not precisely the same thing as agreeing to having this creature…” He cast a look toward the monkey, who had leaped from the top of the hall tree and caught the bottom of the crystal chandelier and was now swinging from it. Simon groaned and continued, “…having this creature living with us.”
“Churchill, come down,” Charity ordered firmly, but the monkey paid no attention, chattering merrily as the glass prisms shook around him. “He isn’t very well behaved,” Charity admitted. “However, I am sure it was because that organ-grinder was cruel to him. Once he comes to know and trust us, no doubt he will learn better to obey.”
“Or perhaps Lucky will have him for dinner,” Simon offered dryly.
Charity gasped and turned toward her husband, eyes widening. “Oh, Simon, no! Do you think so?”
Simon looked up at the monkey swinging from the light fixture. “Somehow I doubt Lucky will be able to catch him long enough to do him harm. But doubtless that will not stop the dog from trying. Lucky has somehow confused himself with a hunting dog. Patrick!” Simon turned toward the hapless footman standing beside the door. “Get that monkey down and lock him up somewhere—away from the dog.”
“Yes, my lord.” The footman’s expression remained stoically unchanged, but his eyes were eloquent as he gazed up at the monkey.
“I suspect you’ll need another person to help you—and a ladder, as well.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Thank you, Simon.” Charity beamed at her husband. “I knew you’d be willing to take him in. Now I really must change for dinner.”
She flew up the stairs and into her room. It was really most annoying, Charity thought, that she should be late on this night, of all nights. She was counting on this dinner party to help her find Reed’s killer. All the talking she had done to everyone she could think of over the past few weeks had yielded little important information. To glean something useful from their guests while remaining charming to her new in-laws—as well as keeping a competent eye on the progress of the party—would require her to have all her wits about her. She did not want to be rushing downstairs at the last minute, rattled and harried, to greet the guests.
Fortunately, her maid, Lily, was there, and she had already laid out one of Charity’s prettiest dresses on the bed, ready to be put on, with matching shoes on the floor beside the bed. On the vanity table, perfume, hairbrush and an array of hair ornaments stood ready.
“Oh, Lily, you’re a jewel….” Charity sighed with relief as Lily sprang up from the low chair in front of the vanity and came around to take off Charity’s cloak and begin unfastening the multitude of buttons down Charity’s back.
With Lily’s considerable help, Charity flew through the task of undressing and washing up, then submitted to the torture of putting on a corset so that she would look her loveliest in the ice-blue satin dress that lay spread across the coverlet. Attired in her dressing gown over her myriad petticoats, Charity sat in front of the mirror and closed her eyes while Lily brushed out her hair, letting the soothing strokes of the hairbrush calm her down. By the t
ime Lily was through coiling and curling her hair, decorating it with the ribbon that Charity had gone to such pains to get, Charity was quite calm, and prepared to subtly interrogate her guests.
She swept downstairs to join Simon in the drawing room, and the way his eyes lit up when she entered the room assured her that she looked as good as nature and Lily’s artistry could make her.
“Charity.” Simon rose and moved quickly across the room to her. He stopped, gazing down at her with warmth. “You look…delicious.” He bent and laid a kiss upon the white expanse of shoulder revealed by the wide scoop neckline of her dress. “Perhaps,” he murmured, “we should retire early and let our guests fend for themselves.”
The touch of his breath against her skin sent shivers through Charity. She wondered if any woman had ever loved her husband as much as she did Simon. She could not imagine it.
“Now, Simon…” she began as he raised his head and gazed down at her, but the reprimand in her voice was spoiled by the breathy giggle that escaped her, and she looked at him roguishly. “You know we can’t do that. ’Twould be exceedingly rude.”
“Rude be damned. I find I would very much like to be alone with my wife.” Simon leaned closer to her, his lips hovering over her mouth. Charity waited breathlessly, lifting her lips to his.
“Mr. and Mrs. Nathan Westport,” Chaney intoned from the doorway.
Simon and Charity sprang apart guiltily and turned. The butler stood in the doorway, his eyes fixed on nothing, his expression imperturbable. Slightly behind him stood Simon’s youngest cousin and his wife, trying to peer around the obstacle of Chaney’s frame into the drawing room. Charity blushed and glanced up at Simon.
“Damn,” he said under his breath. “Cousin Nathan’s timing was always unfortunate.”
Charity smothered a giggle as she put her hand on his arm and they started forward to greet their first guests. She knew what would happen after the dinner was over and all their guests had gone, knew how the promise in her husband’s eyes would be kept, and she hugged the knowledge to her throughout the evening. Going through the motions of greeting and chatting with her guests, she had in the back of her mind the small, constant titillation of what would take place between them in the bedroom once they got rid of everyone. Still, she could not let the thought distract her from her duty, the hidden layer of the evening’s conversations—her determined pursuit of Faraday Reed’s real killer.
So she pushed her decidedly licentious thoughts aside and turned her agile mind to questioning her guests without raising their curiosity. It was not easy. No one at this party was likely to bring up a subject so distressful to their host as Reed’s murder.
As she chatted politely with her guests, she grew more and more frustrated at the lack of opportunity to bring up the subject. She had tried in several oblique ways to work this conversation or that around to Reed, but the conversation had always somehow veered away from him. She suspected that it had been done on purpose, one person or another seeing where things might lead and steering the talk away, in order not to inadvertently cause her or Simon any distress. It was exceedingly annoying, and Charity found herself wishing for a less polite group, who would engage in a good gossip.
Finally she approached a small cluster composed of Venetia’s husband, Lord Ashford, Simon’s Uncle Ambrose, and Ambrose’s son, Evelyn. It was Ambrose and his son who had the most reason to implicate Simon in Reed’s death, though Charity had trouble envisioning either the pompous Ambrose or his cynical, quick-witted son doing away with Reed.
“Uncle Ambrose,” she said, smiling warmly at the older man. “I am so glad you could come tonight.”
“Of course, my dear. Always happy to see you and Simon.” The older man nodded his head to her in a dignified manner. “Family, you know.”
“Of course.”
“Hallo, Cuz.” Evelyn took her hand and raised it to his lips politely, giving her his usual wry smile. “You are in blooming health, as always.”
“Why, thank you.” Charity took a breath and plunged in, desperate to pursue her interest. “Frankly, I am quite amazed that I don’t look positively ashy. The past few weeks have not been easy.”
“What? Have you been ill?” Lord Ashford asked in friendly concern. “Venetia hasn’t said a word about it to me.”
Ambrose cleared his throat significantly and cast a frowning look at Ashford’s genial face. “Might not be the thing to be discussing with you,” he pointed out.
“Oh!” Charity realized that he was hinting at a possible pregnancy as the reason for her ill health, and she went on, blushing, “No, it’s nothing like that. I was simply saying that it has been difficult…with all this hanging over Simon’s head.”
“What is that?” Ambrose looked confused.
His son shot him a glance that appeared as exasperated as Charity felt. “I think she’s referring to Mr. Reed’s unfortunate demise.”
“Who? Reed? Oh, that blackguard.” Ambrose gave a snort of contempt. “The world’s better off without him, I’ll tell you. Came from no family, really. A lot of upstarts in Berkshire.”
“Still, that’s no reason to kill him,” Evelyn pointed out languidly.
“What? Of course not. Still, can’t see what the fuss is about, personally.”
Evelyn’s eyebrows rose lazily and he drawled, “Well, the man was murdered. It can hardly be overlooked simply because he was a scoundrel.”
“Whoever did it did the world a favor, if you ask me,” Venetia’s husband put in bluntly.
Charity glanced at him, surprised. Lord Ashford had always seemed the mildest and most pleasant of men to her, but the look on his face now was hard, and his eyes glittered unpleasantly.
Evelyn turned toward him, looking as surprised as Charity felt. Ashford glanced around at the others, realizing their amazement at his attitude. “Sorry,” he said, his tone a trifle embarrassed, and he moved back slightly, as if to distance himself from his statement. “Shouldn’t be talking about such a subject in front of you, my lady.”
“Nonsense,” Evelyn said, still smiling faintly. “I suspect that’s precisely the subject Lady Dure was hoping to hear about.” He turned to Charity, his eyes dancing. “Doing a bit of detecting, my lady?”
Charity raised her chin. Evelyn was a pleasant young man, but at that moment she would have liked to kick him in the shins. He was too clever by half. “Don’t be absurd, Cousin.”
Ambrose frowned at his son. “That’s right. You are being damned impudent, my boy. Her Ladyship would have no interest in that rascal, alive or dead. You’re the one who brought the subject up, and I must say, it’s hardly appropriate for the company of ladies.”
“Of course. I beg your pardon, Cousin Charity. However, perhaps you would like to know where I was that particular evening, anyway. Unfortunately, I was with a rather disreputable group of friends at Cecil Harvey’s house. All night. What about you, Father? Can you account for what you were doing the night the late, unlamented Faraday Reed was killed?”
Lord Ashford stared at Evelyn in astonishment. “I say, Westport, surely you’re not suggesting that Lady Dure thinks one of us did the scoundrel in.”
“Of course not,” Ambrose answered, before Evelyn could open his mouth again. “He’s playing his usual foolish games.” Ambrose smiled benignly at Charity. “Lady Dure is far too sweet a lass to think such a thing.”
“Why, thank you, Uncle.” Charity smiled sweetly at him and cast Dure’s cousin a quelling look.
Ashford, however, continued to gaze at Charity speculatively, and when Ambrose excused himself a moment later and moved away, Venetia’s husband said, “You do suspect one of us, don’t you?”
“No, of course not. I mean, not really. It’s just that—”
“If it’s not Dure,” Evelyn continued for her, “then it stands to reason it must be someone else.”
“Of course. Stands to reason, surely,” Ashford agreed in his bluff way. “But why Westport, or Evelyn here?”
“Or you,” Evelyn pointed out reasonably, his brown eyes still alight with humor.
“Me?” Ashford stiffened. “You can’t be serious!”
“Everyone is suspect.” Evelyn lowered his voice mysteriously. “And did you notice, my dear cousin, that my father did not actually give you an alibi for that night?” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.
Charity had to laugh. “Stop. You make me feel like a fool.”
“Never,” he returned gallantly. “Don’t worry. Someone murdered the man. It’s bound to come out sooner or later. The problem is that there are too many suspects. I am sure there are hundreds of people who would have liked to get rid of him.” He turned toward Lord Ashford. “Come along, George. Cousin Charity’s probably learned all she can from us. Let us allow her to find new prey.”
He sketched a bow to Charity and walked off, taking Ashford along with him. Charity watched them go, a smile lingering on her lips. But she couldn’t help thinking how odd Venetia’s husband had looked when Evelyn teasingly turned his suspicions on him. Ashford had looked, strangely enough, almost nervous.
But surely he could not have…
Charity could not envision Lord Ashford killing anyone; he was far too placid. But she also knew that he was very much in love with Venetia. What if he had found out about Reed’s threatening her? What if he had even discovered that Venetia had once been in love with the man? Charity wondered if love and jealousy could prod even a pleasant soul like Ashford to murder. On the other hand, she couldn’t see why he would attempt to throw suspicion on Dure, who was his friend, as well as a relation.
Charity roamed around the room, looking for Venetia. She could not find her in the drawing room, so she went into the hallway, where a few of their guests had drifted. Smiling at Dure, who was stuck in earnest conversation with one of his cousins on his mother’s side, a man whom Charity had already been unlucky enough to encounter, she hurried on down the hall. Her intent was simply to get away before her husband could try to palm the boring man off on her, but as she swept past the darkened library, she noticed a figure on the couch inside, and she stopped and peered into the unlit room.
