“It was certainly kind of you, ma’am, to allow your maid the time off,” she said politely.
“I’ve called her back, of course. No one could have foreseen how things would turn out.” Miss Townsend went to study her reflection in the mirror above the sink. She ran a finger lightly beneath both eyes, where smudges tinged the excess pockets of flesh. “How are you with cosmetics, Huntford?”
“Quite adequate, ma’am, if you require it.”
“Of course I require it,” she murmured. “What woman of a certain age doesn’t?”
Eva pulled the plug to drain the water. When the last of it spiraled away, she popped the plug back in and turned on the taps for Mrs. Seward’s turn. Then she followed Miss Townsend into the bedroom.
The woman went behind the dressing screen to don her undergarments. She reappeared in a camisole, bloomers, and an old-style long corset with garters and sat for Eva to help her on with her stockings. Fine silk, Eva noted. Veronica Townsend and her brother might not have been on the best of terms, but he had apparently kept her in ladylike style.
After turning off the bath taps for Mrs. Seward, Eva came back into the bedroom to find Miss Townsend waiting for her at the dressing table. Eva applied powder, rouge, and eye makeup. Miss Townsend smoothed on her own lipstick. That done, Eva helped her on with a crepe de chine undergarment that covered both the corset and legs, then slipped her dinner gown—black, in deference to her state of mourning, such as it was—carefully over her head.
It was as she did so that a raw streak on Miss Townsend’s arm caught her eye. Eva’s pulse jumped. A formidable scratch scored the underside of the woman’s plump left forearm, from just below the elbow to a few inches above her wrist—a deep, wide abrasion with raw edges and surrounded by red, puffy flesh. She marveled that she hadn’t noticed it previously. Had Miss Townsend been deliberately concealing it? Her speculations took off at a frantic pace. The blood on the deck rail had been especially incriminating for Lady Julia.
Eva tried to study the wound while she adjusted the dress and smoothed its folds. It didn’t appear quite new, but then, she had no practical medical knowledge about such things, only experience from her own growing-up years and tending to the Renshaw sisters.
She decided she must risk being impertinent. After retrieving the string of pearls from Miss Townsend’s dresser, she stepped behind the woman to secure it around her stout neck. “I couldn’t help noticing, ma’am. That’s a nasty cut you have there.”
“What?” Miss Townsend all but snapped the question, then relaxed. “Oh, that. Yes. Gotten while tending my roses before we left home to come here. Serves me right for not simply letting the gardeners do the work.”
“I suppose there is great satisfaction in growing one’s own rose garden, ma’am.”
She finished securing the necklace, and Miss Townsend turned around. “Yes, you’re exactly right about that, Huntford. Great satisfaction. And for a woman of my age, that’s certainly saying something.” The sadness in her expression took Eva aback, and she sensed they were not discussing only roses. “It’s worth a scratch or two.”
“Still, have you had it looked at?”
“Ah, no.” Her right hand went almost possessively to shield the left forearm. “It doesn’t seem to warrant.”
This at least gave Eva an excuse to look at the wound outright. She honestly couldn’t tell if the abrasion was new or not. It certainly looked sore and tender, but then, some people healed slowly, especially people of a certain age, as Miss Townsend liked to put it. Lady Phoebe would be most interested to learn of this development, and Eva longed for the freedom to speak with her. It was not to be for some time, however, for now Antonia Seward called to her from the bathtub.
Something in Miss Townsend’s square face made Eva pause. “Is there anything else I can do for you now, ma’am?”
“No . . . not at the moment, Huntford.”
Eva repeated nearly the same routine with the other woman, but her mind remained on the angry slash on Miss Townsend’s arm. So much so, Mrs. Seward scolded her for catching the hair at her nape on her necklace.
“Sorry, ma’am.”
“I should think a lady’s maid from such a noble house as the Renshaws’ should go about her tasks with greater skill.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, that will be all, at least for me.” Mrs. Seward sniffed. “Veronica? Do you require anything more, or shall we allow this creature to go about her evening?”
Eva stood with her chin level and her gaze straight ahead and, as earlier, gave no hint to her thoughts—which at the moment were not quite fit for polite society.
“That’s all for now, I should think. Huntford, please thank your mistress for us. This is most appreciated.”
Well, Eva had to give Miss Townsend credit for that much at least.
“Thank you, ma’am. Enjoy your dinner.” She went to the door. With her hand on the knob, she turned back into the room. “Oh, and, Miss Townsend?”
“Yes?”
“My deepest sympathies on the loss of your brother.”
She had purposely saved this for last, to put the woman entirely at her ease so she would not be expecting such a gesture. In the brief silence that descended, Mrs. Seward let out a huff, which she attempted to cover with a cough.
Miss Townsend’s nose became pinched; her mouth, tight. Her eyes turned hard. “Yes. Well. Thank you, Huntford.”
* * *
A subdued throng filled the dining room, and from the moment Phoebe stepped through the doorway, she felt the stares and heard the murmurs. As the maître d’ led them to a table, she realized even some of the wedding guests who had remained at the hotel, including her aunt Wilma, cast judgmental glances in their direction. Phoebe wondered if Aunt Wilma had spoken to Grams about her and Amelia’s interests in matters she deemed unfeminine, as she’d threatened to do yesterday on the Georgiana. Not that Phoebe cared a whit if she did, but she didn’t want Grams any more upset than she already was.
She wished to ask the maître d’ for a more secluded spot, perhaps a table in a corner, but a brief glance around the large room divested her of that hope. They should have waited before coming down, until the dinner crowd had thinned, but both Fox and Amelia had declared themselves famished, and Phoebe had had to admit to a growling stomach, as well. Funny, she thought, how such mundane needs continued in the face of the worst difficulties.
And yet when their food arrived, they all three fell to trailing their forks around on their plates, and when Phoebe did venture a bite or two, her vegetables tasted like sand and the medallions of beef like leather. However, she didn’t think the hotel chef was to blame.
“I wish they’d all stop staring.” Amelia lowered her face, as if her lamb kidneys held her fascination.
“They’re technically not staring,” Fox grumbled in return. “They’re darting what they believe to be furtive glances in our direction. I feel like giving them all a good dressing-down.”
“Please don’t,” Phoebe whispered somewhat more fiercely than she meant to.
Fox shot her an incredulous look, and she regretted snapping at him. She was still unused to this Fox—the chastened one who had lost the greater share of his former bravado. That Fox might not have stood up and confronted the whole of the dining room, but he very well might have made his sentiments clear in stage whispers that were meant to be overheard. This Fox, however, showed uncharacteristic restraint.
She offered an apologetic smile. “Sorry. This isn’t easy. Let’s just eat quickly and go. And don’t give these people the benefit of seeing us look uncomfortable.”
Her brother and sister nodded and from that moment focused entirely on their meals. Which accounted for Phoebe not noticing the man approaching them until his shadow, cast by the overhead chandeliers, fell across her plate.
“I—I wonder if I may? Er . . . if it wouldn’t be an intrusion.”
Startled, she snapped her head up, half exp
ecting the voice to belong to a reporter hoping to collect sordid details about Gil’s death and Julia’s supposed part in it. The florid complexion and blue eyes magnified behind spectacles made her smile with relief. She gestured to the fourth, unoccupied seat at their table. “Mr. Shelton, please do join us.”
Here were two fortunate opportunities in one. Phoebe had been hoping for a chance to speak with Mr. Shelton, and while she couldn’t question him here in front of her siblings as she might have liked, she could further their acquaintance, which would make it easier to approach him again later tonight or tomorrow. His sudden appearance also helped take Amelia’s and Fox’s minds off the unpleasant sensation of being on display.
“Mr. Shelton, how nice.” Amelia had brightened considerably. “I’m glad it’s you,” she added in an undertone. And then, her voice lower still, she said, “Are you sure you wish to be seen with us? We’re attracting quite a lot of attention at present.”
Fox nodded at that statement but also studied Ernest Shelton with blatant suspicion. He fell to practically seething when Mr. Shelton sat down and pushed a lock of mousy hair back from his forehead. Phoebe couldn’t begin to understand why.
“Thank you so much.” Mr. Shelton expelled an audible breath. “I do loathe dining alone, which I fear would have been the case had I not noticed you. I barely know another soul here.”
Phoebe regarded Fox and said, “We’re happy to have you, Mr. Shelton. I believe you met my brother yesterday.”
Mr. Shelton gave a nod in Fox’s direction. “Briefly. A pleasure to see you again, sir.”
“And you,” Fox murmured politely but also sat up straighter and stopped frowning. Phoebe supposed being called sir and not being spoken down to had elevated Mr. Shelton in Fox’s estimate. “You’re Gil’s cousin,” he said, as if only just remembering the fact. His skepticism showed once more on his young features.
“That’s right. But what’s this about attracting attention?” He directed his question to Amelia.
“Look around,” she whispered, and Mr. Shelton accommodated her.
“I see. Hmm. Well, don’t worry. Soon something new will happen to seize their interest. In the meantime, we’ll pay them no mind.” The waiter came then, and without having consulted a menu, Mr. Shelton ordered a rib eye steak. “If you wish,” he said after the waiter had left them, “I could always knock over a table or two on our way out.”
Phoebe and her siblings all regarded him in bewilderment, until he grinned and said, “It should do the trick and take some of the attention off you.”
Fox sniggered, and Amelia broke into soft laughter, while Phoebe found herself admiring a man who could joke about something that had embarrassed him greatly only the day before. Especially when he did so to make them all feel better.
“Thank you, Mr. Shelton,” Phoebe said, “but that won’t be necessary.”
“Please, call me Ernest. Or Ernie. We’re practically family now, aren’t we?”
“Are we?” Fox scooped braised vegetables onto his fork. “I mean, now that Gil is dead and my sister is accused of murdering him, are we still considered family?”
“Fox,” Phoebe murmured. Her face prickled with heat.
“No, no, it’s all right.” Ernest paused while the waiter returned with his steak. “Yes, Fox, I believe we are. Your sister is my cousin’s widow, and that makes us related by marriage.”
“She was only married to him for one day,” Fox said bluntly. “Not even a full day.”
“Be that as it may.” Ernest cut into his rib eye, revealing a tender pink interior. The juices streamed onto his plate. “We have a connection now. I’ve lost my cousin, and you’ve lost your brother-in-law.”
Fox set his fork down and pushed his plate slightly away. “Do you think my sister pushed him overboard?”
“Fox!” Here, at last, was the brother Phoebe recognized and often wished to throttle. She darted a glance at Amelia, who looked as if she might choke on the brussels sprout she had just put in her mouth.
“No, Fox,” Ernest replied calmly, “I don’t.”
“Then . . . who do you think did it?” Amelia ventured, as if fearing the answer.
“I wish I knew,” was Ernest’s simple reply.
Fox studied him again, the speculation rampant in his gaze. “You’re the Viscount Annondale now, aren’t you?”
Ernest blinked, as if Fox had taken him by surprise. “I suppose I am. Yes.”
He said it matter-of-factly, as if it meant nothing overly special, yet Phoebe had had this same thought when considering who stood to gain from Gil’s death. She found herself liking Ernest Shelton. After his initial bumbling in the Georgiana’s dining room yesterday, he’d shown himself to be a thoughtful, kindly gentleman, and well spoken, despite his occasional tendency to stutter. And yet . . .
Amelia broke into Phoebe’s thoughts with another question for Ernest. “Will you still be a veterinarian now that you’re the viscount?”
“I haven’t had time to give it any thought, really.”
“But you must have considered it before Gil married Julia, when there seemed no prospect of his having a son of his own,” Amelia persisted.
Fox’s gaze narrowed on him as they awaited his reply.
“Ah, well . . . I . . . er . . . suppose I never stopped to contemplate the possibilities. I suppose the running of the estate might take up most of my time now, and—”
“But you must go on being a veterinarian,” Amelia said with fervor. “The animals need you. You can hire someone else to run the estate, can’t you?”
“Amelia,” Phoebe snapped, suddenly feeling very much like the nanny she had told her grandmother Amelia and Fox no longer needed. “What Ernest does from now on is none of our business. It’s for him to decide.” And yet she found it nearly impossible to believe he’d never given a thought to how his life might change when and if he became Viscount Annondale.
Obviously, though, he hadn’t given any thought to the possibility that he would not be inheriting the estate. It might be a slim chance, but the chance nonetheless existed that Julia might, at this moment, be carrying Gil’s heir. It was a possibility Phoebe would keep to herself. She only hoped that Amelia would do the same, or that she had been too sleepy and too shocked when their sister pounded on their door last night to fully comprehend what Julia had told them.
Amelia, finished with her meal, played with the dessert fork waiting beside her plate. “If you don’t remain a veterinarian, you’ll have wasted your education.”
“Amelia . . .” Phoebe had grown weary of trying to remind her younger siblings of their manners.
“I’ll bear that in mind,” Ernest assured her. “But what about you, Amelia? You expressed an interest in following the same profession.”
“You should,” Fox put in. “Then you won’t have to marry. In fact, if you have a profession, you can’t marry. Everyone knows a woman can’t look after a household and a family if she’s occupied elsewhere. You’ll be better off.”
Both Phoebe and Amelia stared at Fox in shocked disbelief. Never before had he expressed such an egalitarian sentiment. What was happening to this family?
CHAPTER 12
On their way back to their rooms after dinner, Phoebe sent Amelia on to the one they shared, and followed Fox to his. “Why were you rude to Ernest?” she wanted to know, placing herself inside his threshold and crossing her arms to let him know she wouldn’t leave without an answer. She spoke quietly, however. Although the door to their grandparents’ adjoining suite was closed, she wouldn’t risk having them overhear.
He cast her an annoyed look, then shrugged. “I don’t much like him.”
“That’s obvious. Why not?”
“I didn’t like the way he was looking at Julia yesterday.”
The disclosure took Phoebe by surprise. She murmured, “Him too?”
“What do you mean by that?”
She didn’t feel like explaining to him about Curtis Mowbry an
d his photographs. Instead, she asked, “Looking at her how?”
“I don’t know . . . in a way I didn’t like.”
“As though he liked her?” she suggested.
“No, as if he didn’t like her.”
“I never saw any such thing from him.”
“Then you weren’t looking closely enough. It wasn’t all the time. Just when he thought no one would notice, especially Julia. And he hated Gil. Talk about something being obvious.”
“Hated might be too strong a word.” Phoebe sighed and crossed the room to sit in an armchair near the window. “I suppose he had lots of reasons to resent Gil. Gil wasn’t very nice to him, if that incident in the dining room was any indication. But why should he resent Julia?”
“Because of what we talked about downstairs. Ernest becoming the viscount.” Fox slid his arms out of his coat and tossed it over the foot of the bed and then worked his fingers into his necktie to loosen the knot. “I’m not a child, Phoebe. I understand that married women have babies, although I don’t suppose after one day of marriage Julia is going to. So I suppose Ernest is satisfied that he’ll be the new viscount.”
Phoebe merely nodded and said nothing. She wasn’t about to reveal any part of what had happened on Julia’s wedding night.
“Which gave him the perfect reason to push his own cousin overboard,” Fox continued. He perched at the edge of his bed, his expression challenging Phoebe to disagree.
“Why last night, though?” she reasoned aloud. “Why not sooner, when he and Julia first announced their engagement?”
“It might have been too obvious who did it if Ernest killed him on the estate. Besides, it’s easier to make it look like an accident on a boat. Just one good shove and—”
“Yes, yes, you needn’t be explicit.”
He gave another shrug, then turned more serious than Phoebe had ever seen him—far beyond his years. “All the better for him that Julia is being blamed. He can’t have foreseen that, but didn’t you notice how much confidence he has now, in comparison to just a day ago?”
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