A Study in Death (Lady Darby Mystery, A Book 4) (9 page)

I nodded.

He caressed my shoulders. “I’ll call on you tomorrow.” Then after dropping a quick kiss on my lips, he was gone.

I stared at the door as it closed behind him, feeling oddly cold and bereft. It was a sensation I had grown accustomed to in the years following my marriage and subsequent widowhood. I realized then that it had been weeks since I’d felt it. Not since accepting Gage’s proposal almost two months ago. It was unsettling to feel it again.

“My lady?”

I turned to see Figgins had reemerged.

“Is everything well?”

I offered him a tight smile. “As well as it can be for the moment.”

He nodded solemnly, though he couldn’t have known what I was talking about.

I turned to allow him to help me remove my shawl. “Is Lord Cromarty in?” I asked, deciding now was as good a time as ever to speak with my brother-in-law. Whatever his response, I doubted it could sour my mood further.

“In his study, my lady.”

I thanked him and pattered down the hall to the dark-paneled room at the back of the house.

“Come in,” he called out at the sound of my knock. He was seated at his desk, his head bent over a sheaf of papers while he massaged his right temple. From the lines radiating across his forehead and the dark circles under his eyes, I could tell he had not slept well the night before and was likely suffering from a headache.

I waited for him to look up.

“Kiera,” he sighed, finally taking notice. “My apologies.” He gestured to the stack of papers in his hand. “They bungled the wording on this again.” His brogue had deepened, as it normally did when he was tired. “Did ye need something . . . ah!” He set down the papers to
dig through the detritus on his desk. “I saw your note.” He located the letter of introduction I’d requested and held it out to me.

“Thank you.” I moved forward to take it.

Philip nodded absently, already becoming absorbed in his documents again.

I watched him a moment longer, trying to decide whether to broach the topic of Alana’s health and his increased absence. When he never again looked up and resumed rubbing his temple, I decided the matter could wait.

I slowly climbed the stairs toward my room, feeling the weight of my worries. My body craved the cushion of my soft mattress, but my head was spinning with the night’s revelations. Seeing the light under Alana’s door, I crossed the hall to rap on it softly, and then opened it to peer inside. My sister looked up from the book propped against her rounded belly.

“Kiera.” Her face brightened. “Come in. Save me from this dreadful novel and tell me about the ball.”

I smiled at her as I crossed the room to sit in the chair next to her bed. “If the book is so dreadful, why don’t you send Jenny to fetch you another?”

“Oh, it’s not the book,” she sighed, closing it and setting it aside. “It’s me. I simply can’t concentrate.”

“That’s understandable.”

“Yes, but not helpful.” She tipped her head back and groaned. “I’ve only been confined to this bed for a day and a half and I’m already restless. And yet I’m terrified of moving about, lest the bleeding start again.” Her face was drawn with fear and unhappiness.

My chest tightened at the reminder of how precarious her situation was.

Her eyes drifted to the opposite side of the bed, where her husband normally lay, and I felt a stirring of anger that Philip could not read
his parliamentary business in bed, keeping her company. But then would they both be worrying that his movements would harm the babe?

She grimaced suddenly and lifted her hands to gently rub her belly.

I sat forward in alarm. “Are you in pain?”

“No. It’s my skin. It’s so dry, and then the baby kicks and stretches.”

“Well, I think I may be able to help with that,” I replied, suddenly remembering.

She glanced at me in confusion as I rose to exit the room.

“One moment.”

The package from Hinkley’s was still perched on top of my dresser. I carried it to Alana’s room, setting it on the bed next to her.

“What’s this?” She leaned over to peer inside.

“Lady Drummond’s last act of kindness.”

Alana glanced up at me in surprise.

“I know it sounds morose, but it’s quite possibly true.” I perched next to her and began pulling out the jars. “During our last portrait session Lady Drummond told me how much these creams helped ease her discomfort during her confinements, and she thought they might help you as well.”

She examined one of the jars. “That was generous of her.”

“The package arrived two days ago, but in all of the excitement, I forgot about it.”

I could tell from Alana’s expression that she did not know what to make of the gift.

“Alana, I’m sorry,” I gasped, realizing how insensitive it was to offer her a gift from a dead woman when she was facing that possibility herself. “I should have thought. If it distresses you, I’ll take it away.”

“No, no,” she argued. “I just . . . I barely knew Lady Drummond, and for her to make such a considerate gesture . . .” Her words trailed away into tears.

I reached for the handkerchief on her bedside table and handed it
to her, having grown accustomed to her emotional displays. My sister was more weepy than normal when she was expecting a child. I suspected many women were like that.

She sniffed. “I wish I could thank her, that’s all.” She placed the jars carefully back in the box and I transferred them to the table. “How was your evening?” she asked as she dabbed at her eyes.

I moved over to the chair, firmly affixing a smile to my face as I launched into a description of Inverleith House and the guests. With all of Alana’s current troubles, I simply couldn’t burden her with more. If she knew how society was whispering about me again, how Lord Gage had treated me so abominably, it would only upset her. And given how protective my older sister was of me, that could be dangerous for her and the baby. So I kept the night’s indignities to myself, and prayed that in this, at least, I was a better actress than Gage claimed.

When Alana’s eyes had drifted closed, I tiptoed out of the room. I rang for Bree, who helped me out of my evening gown. But rather than slip into my nightdress, I donned an old woolen gown that buttoned up the front. My maid said nothing, having grown accustomed to my midnight forays to my art studio. When I could not sleep—which occurred more frequently than I wished—I painted. It quieted my mind and allowed me to momentarily forget what was bothering me. Though that night, as I worked on Lady Drummond’s portrait, I was reminded it was far more difficult to forget when the person you were painting was the very one whose death so disturbed you.

T
he next day dawned wet and dreary. The rain had begun sometime in the middle of the night, pattering on the roof as I painted in my studio, and it showed no signs of letting up. I sat alone in the dining room and picked at the remainders of my breakfast while I gazed out the window at the leaden skies. The scrape of my fork was the only accompaniment to the steady drum of rain and the clock ticking away on the mantel. It seemed as if I could be the only person in the world.

The garden at the center of the square was deserted—the weather keeping all of the governesses and their charges inside—and it had been over a quarter of an hour since I’d last seen a carriage. I’d already dismissed the footman, feeling it was silly for him to stand at the sideboard with only me to serve. I suppose I could have attempted to converse with him, but I always felt awkward trying to speak with someone standing across the room at attention while I tried to eat. In any case, I wasn’t feeling very chatty. My mood was much more suited to silent contemplation.

I didn’t know where Philip was, and I didn’t ask. Alana was confined to her room, and the children were in the nursery three floors
above me. So the home I always thought of as lively and filled with sound was suddenly neither of those things.

I stared down at my half-eaten sausage and toast, wishing I could shake this melancholy that seemed to have descended over the entire house. It was as if we were all holding our breaths, waiting for something terrible to happen, but hoping and praying it never did. Coupled with my grief over Lady Drummond’s death, the lack of real progress in our investigation, and Lord Gage’s treatment of me the night before, it was amazing I’d bothered to roll out of bed this morning.

I should visit the nursery. The children were undoubtedly in need of some reassurance. They couldn’t help but notice how somber the house had become since their mother had been ordered to stay in bed. And I could use a bit of their indomitable energy and cheer. Philipa and Greer at least were still young enough to trust that when you said everything would be all right, it would be. However, Malcolm was at the age when he was just starting to realize that everything adults told him might not be true. He was eight. The same age I was when I lost my mother.

The thought permanently soured my stomach, and I pushed away my plate.

I glanced up as Figgins entered the room, holding out a silver tray. “My lady, this just came for you.”

“Thank you.” I took up the letter, expecting it to be from Gage, but the handwriting was far more feminine than his almost illegible scrawl. I opened my mouth to ask Figgins who had delivered it, but he had already quietly exited the room. Picking up my knife, I split open the seal and unfolded the missive. My eyes went immediately to the bottom, where I saw with a start that it was from Lady Stratford.

My heart stuttered as memories from my first investigation flooded back to me. Seven months ago a viscountess had been murdered during a house party Alana had hosted at their home in the Highlands, Gairloch Castle. Lady Stratford had been framed for the murder, but because of my persistence, we had uncovered that it was her husband who was the
real culprit. The Earl of Stratford had then kidnapped his wife, her maid, and me, and nearly succeeded in sending us to our watery graves.

Though Lady Stratford had initially despised me, believing the rumors about me, she had eventually apologized and even extended a tentative offer of friendship. Knowing what she’d been through, I had not held her previous treatment of me against her, and had even felt a certain kinship with her. But I’d never expected to actually hear from her again, let alone be invited to join her for tea, I discovered as I perused the letter.

She would still be in mourning for her malicious husband, who had suffered the fate he’d intended for us after being shot during our rescue, so her activities would still be restricted. Personally, after what her husband had tried to do, I thought she should have refused to grant him the courtesy of observing full mourning. I had not remained in my widow’s weeds for as long as dictated after Sir Anthony’s death, and for all his sins, he had not framed me for murder and then tried to kill me. But then, I had been hiding away at my sister’s isolated castle, where no one but family and their servants saw me. Upon leaving Gairloch Castle, Lady Stratford had gone to stay with her great-aunt near Glasgow, and now she was apparently in Edinburgh, where there was a great deal more of society to encounter.

I considered ignoring the missive, but then I decided it would be silly not to accept. I had no immediate plans for the day, except stewing in my own gloom. If the visit turned out to be awkward, I could always decide not to return. Besides, I didn’t have many friends outside of my family. It would be nice to have someone to talk to. Just because I was not gregarious by nature did not mean I didn’t long for companionship. My marriage to Sir Anthony and the subsequent scandal had made it difficult to make and keep friends, but that was no reason to have given up on the prospect entirely.

So several hours later, after spending some time in the nursery with the children and then changing my clothes after one-year-old Greer
smeared snot across the shoulder of my dress, I found myself being ushered into a town house off St. Andrew Square on the opposite end of New Town. Lady Stratford was still staying with her great-aunt, Lady Bearsden. They had simply relocated to Edinburgh for the spring.

Lady Stratford appeared as lovely as ever, perhaps even more so, as she shook out her black bombazine skirts and rose to greet me. Widowhood, or more accurately, escape from her late husband’s philandering and insults, seemed to agree with her.

“Lady Darby, I’m so glad you could come.” Her smile was warm, and her cheeks flushed a pale shade of pink.

“Thank you for inviting me,” I replied, sitting on the pearlescent blue settee she indicated. “I hadn’t realized you were in town.”

“We only just arrived earlier this week, and, of course, I cannot go many places.” She gestured to her mourning gown. “Have you been introduced to my great-aunt, Lady Bearsden?”

I turned toward the older woman perched on a chair near the crackling fire. Her hair was an almost shocking shade of white, as pure as snow. “I have not. How do you do?”

“Very well, thank you.” Her voice was bright and musical. “I’m so pleased to finally meet you. I’ve wanted to thank you for what you did for my darling Charlotte.” She gazed at her great-niece affectionately. “When I think of what might have happened had you not been there . . .” She shuddered.

I squirmed in my seat, unaccustomed to such gratitude. “It was the least I could do.”

“No! To put yourself in danger like that. Why, I’m not sure my dear Lumpy would have been willing to do what you did, and he loved me.” Her eyes widened in emphasis. She had a way of speaking that stressed every second or third word, making it difficult to tell if she was being serious or sarcastic. I suspected it was the former, given that Lady Stratford was listening to her so calmly.

“Her husband,” she clarified, though I’d suspected just that. I couldn’t help but imagine what a man nicknamed Lumpy had looked like.

“Well, I’m glad I did,” I said, not knowing what else to say. At the time, I’d only done what I thought was right. And now, looking back, I could honestly say I wouldn’t have chosen differently, even knowing the danger I would face.

“Good.” Lady Bearsden nodded.

Lady Stratford smiled at me again and changed the subject. “Allow me to offer my congratulations on your engagement to Mr. Gage.”

“Oh, thank you.”

“I have to say, I’m not entirely surprised. The way he cradled you in the boat after they pulled you from the loch and you passed out and his urgent stride up to the castle were very telling.”

I felt a blush burning its way up into my cheeks. I hadn’t realized Gage had held me in the boat. No one had ever told me. I, of course, remembered how he jumped into the loch to save me, and the way he had first kissed me while we floated, waiting for the boat to reach us. And Alana had informed me that he’d carried me into the castle and up to my room. But the time between was an empty void. Apparently one filled with Gage’s embrace. Even knowing how cold I was and how much pain I had been in, I almost wished I could remember it.

There was a glimmer of teasing in Lady Stratford’s eyes. “I only wonder why it took him so long to propose.” She tilted her head. “Or did it take you this long to accept?”

I fumbled for a reply, unused to this side of Lady Stratford. There had been no light banter between us at Gairloch Castle, but then again, she had been facing much more difficult circumstances. I was glad to see how much happier and serene she seemed. I was curious whether this was how she had been during her London season when she had been a diamond of the first water, plucked up by the rakish and elusive Lord Stratford, who had hidden his darker side very well. I made a note to ask Alana, who had debuted the year before her.

Her mouth softened sympathetically. “You don’t have to say. I’m just pleased for you. Mr. Gage is a good man.”

I smiled in return, knowing she might be one of the few people who truly understood what it meant to find someone like him after such a horrible first marriage. “Yes. Yes, he is.”

“Is he related to a Captain Gage?” Lady Bearsden asked, leaning forward over a cane that was propped between her legs.

“Yes. Mr. Gage is his son. And Captain Gage is now Lord Gage.”

“Is he now? Given the title for his service during the war, I suppose,” she mused, settling back in her chair.

“Among other things,” I replied. Namely some delicate inquiry he’d conducted on behalf of King William a few years ago. I wasn’t privy to the details.

Her gaze turned wistful and her fingers tapped the gold figurehead on the top of her cane. “Oh, I remember how he set all the ladies aflutter when he first came to London. Such a charmer, and so handsome. I don’t suppose his son is anything like him?” Her eyebrows lifted hopefully.

I hid a grin. “Very much so.”

“Well, then you must bring him by the next time you call.”

I glanced at Lady Stratford, who appeared equally amused. “I’m sure he would be eager to meet you.” Especially when I told him what a character she was. “And actually, Lord Gage is in Edinburgh as well.”

Lady Stratford’s eyebrows lifted.

“Then you must bring them both,” the older woman proclaimed. “It would be good to reminisce. Didn’t he marry the Earl of Tavistock’s daughter?” Her eyes brightened. “Oh, yes. I remember. They discovered she’d been murdered. By her maid, if I recall correctly.”

Her great-niece appeared shocked by this news, but I had already heard the story from Gage. It was one of the things he had first confided in me to explain some of his actions at Gairloch Castle.

“Yes, that’s right,” I said, my voice more subdued.

Lady Bearsden shook her head. “So sad. And now I hear Lady Drummond may have been murdered as well.”

Lady Stratford’s already perfect posture stiffened further. “What?”

“Where did you hear that?” I asked hesitantly. How were our suspicions spreading so quickly when Gage and I had made such an effort to keep them quiet?

“I believe it was Mrs. Oakley next door who told me. And she said she had it from a very reliable source.”

“I’m sure.”

I could feel Lady Stratford’s eyes on me, but I did not look at her, choosing instead to stare at the landscape painting of a cliff-backed beach hanging over the fireplace.

A maid entered at that moment, carrying the tea service as well as a plate filled with delicious-looking sandwiches and small cakes.

“Well, if you’ll excuse me, I believe I’ll go lie down for a time,” Lady Bearsden said, pushing herself to her feet with the aid of her cane. “It was lovely to meet you, Lady Darby.”

“And you as well,” I replied.

“Mary, if you would?”

The maid slid Lady Bearsden’s arm through her own and helped guide her from the room.

“Sleep well, Auntie,” Lady Stratford called after her.

“Your great-aunt is delightful,” I told her after the pair had disappeared from sight.

She leaned forward to pour the tea. “She’s incorrigible, is what she is. But yes, thank you. I’m terribly fond of her. She helped raise me, you know. After my mother died in childbirth. My father was an old bachelor with no idea what to do with a young girl. So his favorite aunt stepped in.”

“That was good of her.”

“She was never able to have children of her own.” Lady Stratford paused, staring at the delicate china cups, and I knew she was thinking
of her own barren state, proved so cruelly by her late husband when he got one of her closest friends with child. “So she always calls me her little changeling.” She looked up at me through her lashes. “You know the myth?”

“That fairies will secretly take a human child and leave one of their offspring in the baby’s place? Yes.”

“She said the fact that I was so fair and beautiful only proved the matter.”

I smiled, imagining Lady Bearsden saying just that.

Lady Stratford passed me my tea and then took a sip of her own before carefully setting her cup back in its saucer. “Now. What’s this about Lady Drummond being murdered?”

I brushed a piece of lint from my plum skirt, avoiding her gaze. “What do you mean?”

“Do not play coy with me. If there is suspicion of murder, I know you and Mr. Gage must be involved somehow.” She ran a finger around the rim of her cup. “Especially since I know you were painting Lady Drummond’s portrait.”

I looked up into her soft gray eyes, realizing there was only one way she could know that. “You were friends.”

“Yes,” she confirmed. “Though not as close as we once were. The truth is, we hadn’t seen each other in years.” She glanced toward the dainty writing desk in the corner of the room. “We corresponded regularly. I sent her a letter on Tuesday asking her to call on me, and I received her reply that afternoon. She promised to visit this week, but . . .” her face paled “. . . she never got the chance.”