A Study in Death (Lady Darby Mystery, A Book 4) (17 page)

“L
ady Darby,” Jeffers intoned, not looking the least shocked to see me despite my ignominious exit the night before. His gaze drifted over my shoulder to where the footman Johnny stood, balancing the large canvas in his arms.

“Lady Drummond’s portrait is finished,” I told him bluntly.

“I see.” He stepped back to allow us to pass. “Lord Drummond is in his study.”

I could tell from the shrewd look in his eyes that he knew exactly what I intended to do, and the slight curl of his lips at the corners told me he approved.

“Thank you,” I replied, marching farther into the house with my head held high.

Jeffers closed the front door and then turned to lead us, but I held up a hand to stop him.

“First, how is Aileen?”

His eyes softened. “Improving.”

“Good.”

He dipped his head in response and then guided us down the corridor to the room I knew to be Lord Drummond’s study. He knocked
once and then opened the door without waiting for a response. I sailed inside, stripping my gloves off as I searched the room for the baron. I found him slouched in a coffee leather wingback chair before his hearth. One glance at the half-empty whiskey decanter on the table at his elbow told me all I needed to know.

“Over there,” I directed Johnny, pointing toward the fireplace.

Lord Drummond pushed himself upright as I advanced toward him with Jeffers and Johnny in tow. “What are ye doin’?” he demanded.

Ignoring him, I stopped a few feet from the mantel to survey the ugly hunting scene holding prime place there. “Jeffers, would you mind removing that atrocious piece. I hesitate to call it a work of art.” I screwed my face up in distaste.

“Of course, my lady.”

Lord Drummond sat dumbfounded as his butler pulled down the painting and then assisted Johnny in hanging Lady Drummond’s portrait in its place. There were two small areas in the intricate folds of her skirts that had smudged, but the rest of her appeared unscathed. I decided I could live with that.

Lord Drummond’s eyes widened at the sight of his dead wife. “Noo, see here . . .” he began, but I disregarded him again.

“Thank you,” I told the two servants, dismissing them. “I’ll be but a few minutes,” I added to Johnny.

He nodded, his eyes straying toward the inebriated baron. “Are ye sure ye dinna need me to stay?”

I smiled, appreciating his concern. “I’ll call for Jeffers if I need anything.”

Johnny looked to the butler and then, as if finding this acceptable, nodded.

Once the door clicked shut, I turned back to glare down at Lord Drummond. “Now,” I declared, setting my gloves on the table at my elbow, and shrugging off my cloak. I draped it over the chair opposite him and settled into the seat. “We’re going to have a little chat.”

“And if I dinna want to?” he argued in a gruff voice.

“You really don’t have a choice,” I replied with an arch smile.

He scowled as his eyes drifted back up to his wife’s portrait. I was stunned as the man seemed to crumple before my eyes.

“I failed her, didna I?” he blubbered, his Scottish accent becoming even thicker in his distress.

I was still so astonished, I didn’t know what to say.

He bent forward, almost spilling the amber liquid in his glass, and cradled his head in his other hand. “I was her husband. I was supposed teh protect her.” He rocked back and forth. “But she was murdered. An’ in my own house.” He gestured in emphasis. “An’ then wha’ do I do, but accept the diagnosis o’ tha’ imbecile, an’ fail her yet again, lettin’ her murderer go free.”

Between the brogue and slurring, I had to concentrate to understand what he was saying. But in spite of it, or perhaps because of it, I thought I was finally hearing the truth from him. “Why
did
you accept his diagnosis?”

He waved his arm in a circle. “Because . . . because if she was murdered, then it was proof.”

“Proof of what?”

“That I was a rotten husband,” he snapped. “Do ye want me teh say it? I was a terrible husband. I was mistrustful, an’ mercurial, an’ I accused her o’ awful things. Things I had no right teh.” His eyes took on a faraway cast, as if looking into the past. “But I ken I always kept her safe.”

“From everyone but yourself,” I muttered.

“But if she was murdered . . .” His voice trailed away.

“Then you failed at that as well,” I finished for him.

He nodded despondently, and lifted his gaze toward his wife’s portrait again. I could see now that he had loved his wife, in his own warped, possessive way. Which didn’t mean he wasn’t capable of having killed her. Love was often an even stronger motive for murder than
hate. But in this case, much as I was reluctant to admit it, I was starting to believe he had not been responsible for her death.

It was easy to cast Lord Drummond in the part of the villain. He was mean, violent, and bad-tempered, and quite frankly, I despised him. But his emotion was too genuine to be feigned, and his excuse for listening to the physician also made sense, even if I didn’t like it.

Moreover, the solid evidence I had been building up against him in my head had already been shaken by another insight. When given more time to contemplate the events of the night before, I had realized that if Lord Drummond had been the killer, he almost certainly would have gotten rid of the poisoned cream at the same time that he instructed his staff to discard his wife’s breakfast and sugared plums. It was the work of a moment to order that her room be cleaned and the oils, creams, and unguents covering her dressing table be tossed out. It was far more likely that the culprit did not live at Drummond House, and so could not easily return to retrieve the tainted jar.

I scowled, frustrated that we’d been forced to waste all of this time proving Lady Drummond
had
been murdered when we could have been searching for her killer. “You realize that because of you, the murderer has now had over a week to conceal his actions.”

His brow lowered. “Had I believed she was murdered, I wouldna have hindered ye.” His gaze fixed on his wife’s portrait. “Who’d want to kill my sweet Clare? She never hurt nobody.”

“You,” I stated baldly.

He stiffened, but did not attempt to argue. He couldn’t. He’d just admitted himself how he mistreated her.

“Why were you so terrible to her?” I asked, needing to try to understand. “She was kind, considerate, and had a wonderful sense of humor, despite everything. What could she possibly have done to make you so cruel to her?”

“Nothing,” he admitted. “I . . .” His voice shook as he raised his
hand to rub his eyes. “I couldna stop believin’ she was like my first wife. Everyone admired Clare so.”

And by “everyone,” I could tell he meant men.

“She was beautiful and amusing and lovely. And whene’er I saw her smile at someone else, I worried it was happenin’ again.”

I watched him wrestle with how ludicrous that sounded, and all of a sudden I understood something I’d been puzzling over since the moment I met him. When first he had contacted me to request I paint his wife’s portrait, I thought he was like most of society, more interested in my notoriety than my talent. A portrait by Lady Darby, or K.A. Elwick—the pseudonym I had begun using after my husband’s death—was now fashionable. Which baffled me, for I couldn’t comprehend how I was too scandalous to be tolerated one moment, and then desirably infamous the next. But I quickly realized that Lord Drummond did not approve of me, nor was he the least interested in my notoriety, which left me mystified as to why he wanted me of all artists to capture his wife’s likeness on canvas.

It was because I was a woman, plain and simple. He couldn’t tolerate the thought of another man spending so much time with his wife, much of it alone. He was irrationally jealous, and I suspected, if pressed, he would lay all the blame for that at his first wife’s feet.

“Your first wife was unfaithful?” I phrased it as a question, but I already knew the answer.

He nodded, staring at the floor. “I dinna even ken if Imogen is really mine, and she was born ten months after our wedding.”

“I understand your first wife died in childbirth following a fall down the stairs. Did you assist that?”

His red-rimmed eyes lifted to meet mine. “I ken she was carryin’ a bastard, but I dinna kill her. Even if I woulda liked to.”

I studied his face, trying to tell if he was being truthful. I noticed he had phrased his answer very carefully. He hadn’t denied pushing her down the stairs, only killing her. This left room for interpretation.
Though whether he was capable of such deception in his current state, I didn’t know. But I still wasn’t certain of his innocence in his first wife’s death. I supposed we would never know, for if a servant hadn’t come forward already, they probably never would.

I arched an eyebrow imperiously, determined to draw this conversation to a satisfying conclusion. “Are you going to continue to impede our inquiry?”

“Do what ye must,” he muttered in resignation, closing his eyes. “I’ll no’ stop ye.”

I gathered up my things and left, hoping he meant what he said and would not conveniently forget our conversation the next day.

Johnny searched my face as I descended the steps toward him and the carriage. I appreciated his protective instinct. I would have to suggest to Philip that he should be assigned to assist Alana in the future.

Taking hold of his hand, I was about to step up into the carriage when I felt a creeping sensation along my neck that told me I was being watched. Night had fallen while I was inside Drummond House, and though the streetlamps had been lit, there were still pools of shadow all around. I glanced over my shoulder to the floor above, but unlike the week before, I could see no immediate signs of anyone observing me. In the bleak darkness it was not so easy to detect. I scoured the windows for any hidden vantage points, until I began to realize that the prying eyes were not scrutinizing me from above, but farther down the street.

I looked up and down the thoroughfare, but could see nothing outside the bright circles of lamplight. I frowned. Maybe it was merely one of Bonnie Brock’s men. In these conditions, it would not take very much skill to remain concealed.

“My lady,” Johnny said in concern.

I apologized with a tight smile and climbed up into the coach. As we turned the corner onto George Street, I twitched the curtains shut, but the unsettling feeling would not go away.

•   •   •

U
pon my return to Charlotte Square, I was still distracted by the evening’s events. So preoccupied, in fact, that I almost walked past Alana’s maid, Jenny, without acknowledging her.

“Oh, Jenny. I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there.” I smiled at her, but then the import of her waiting here at the base of the stairs struck me. Panic streaked through me. I reached for her arm. “Alana . . .”

“Is resting now,” she assured me. “But my lady was feeling sharp pains earlier, so Dr. Fenwick was sent for. He gave her some medicine and they subsided.”

“And the baby?”

“Was kicking when my lady was in discomfort. Dr. Fenwick said there is no way to know for sure how healthy he is until he’s born.”

I inhaled, steadying myself now that I knew the immediate danger was past. “And you said she’s asleep?”

Jenny nodded. “Dr. Fenwick said that was the best thing for her now.” Her face paled. “He told me her delivery might be long and difficult, and that I should do my best to see she’s as well rested as possible when the time comes.”

I squeezed the maid’s arm where I still grasped it, sharing her concern. “If she fights you on this, you let me know. And when the time comes, I don’t care where I am or what I’m doing, send for me at once. We’ll get her through this.” Desperate determination constricted my voice.

She blinked back tears and nodded in understanding. Feeling an answering emotion well up inside me, I sent her off to find some nourishment. It simply wouldn’t do for me to start weeping in front of the servants.

I stood, staring at the floor while I stuffed all my worries back down deep inside me. The house around me was silent, save for the occasional scuffle and clatter coming from the servants’ floor below. I had missed dinner again, I realized. I wondered if Philip had been home to enjoy it, or if once again the dining room had sat empty.

My gaze was drawn to the light shining across the gleaming wooden floor from beneath his study door. I squared my shoulders, deciding it was high time we had the discussion I’d been putting off. I rapped once and then twice, and when he still didn’t answer, I opened the door anyway.

At first I couldn’t find him. A fire crackled in the hearth, but no lamps had been lit, steeping much of the room in shadow. He was not working at his desk or in either of the two chairs positioned before it, or searching the bookshelves that stretched from floor to ceiling. Nor was he at the window, staring out at the mews. It wasn’t until I heard the clink of a glass that I found him stretched out on the settee in the corner to my left, half-hidden by the contents of the sideboard.

“Philip, we need to . . .” I began, moving in his direction, but the full impact of him brought me up short.

His jacket had been discarded somewhere and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to reveal the dark hair on his forearms. His cravat was draped carelessly over the back of the settee. One knee was bent so that his leg fell back against the cushions. His shoulders were wedged into the corner of the settee so that his head remained upright on the arm. The better to pour whiskey down his throat, apparently.

He was attempting to unsteadily pour from a bottle into his glass, which rested on the floor, though it appeared more liquid ended up on the wood than in his tumbler. He set the bottle down with a thump and nearly knocked it over reaching for the glass. I recognized the label as being a single malt from his family’s Matheson Distillery.

First Lord Drummond and now Philip. What was happening tonight?

I watched as he drank a third of the glass seemingly in one swallow. “What are you doing?” I gasped in shock.