Beguiled (17 page)

“I'm afraid he's connecting them to the monarchy.”

“But he supports the monarchy.”

“But even he has been swayed, so it seems,” Mark said.

Just then Keaton returned with a silver tray bearing an urn of coffee.

“Let's get Lord Lionel into the chair before the fire,” Mark said.

As they did so, Keaton poured coffee, which Mark then lifted to Lord Wittburg's lips, forcing the man to drink.

Lord Wittburg choked and coughed, then seemed to start. He stared at Mark, as if noticing him for the first time. “A man like your father,” he murmured. “If only the world had more of his ilk….” He frowned. “When did you come?”

“Just moments ago. Lord Wittburg, you're taking far too many medications,” Mark told him.

“I wanted to sleep.”

“I don't mean to insult your physician, but these will give you delusions, Lord Wittburg.”

The man glanced at his valet, who was looking on anxiously. He smiled after a moment. “I'm all right now, Keaton.”

“May I…dispose of these, my lord?” the valet asked, indicating the drug vials.

Lord Wittburg smiled. “I fought in India and Africa. I took down the fiercest Thugees. And yet I let myself fall prey to ghosts. Yes, Keaton. You are a good man. I am grateful for your care. Get rid of them.”

“Keaton called you?” Wittburg said to Mark.

“He called Ian, knowing you were upset about the murder of Hudson Porter, and that Ian was one of the key men working on the case,” Mark explained.

“I thank you both for coming. And I believe I will have more coffee. You may tell Keaton I will dine now, as well.”

“We will stay awhile,” Mark assured him.

They joined Wittburg for a meal, served there in the lord's chambers. As they dined, Wittburg once again spoke with sanity, talking about horses, the races, the museum—anything but the social climate.

At last, feeling assured that Wittburg was in a better state of mind, Mark indicated to Ian that they could leave, but as they readied themselves to go, Lord Wittburg called Mark back, beckoning him close, so he could whisper.

“You do not know how history repeats itself, dear boy. You do not know the half of it.”

At first Mark thought the man was raving again, but then he looked into Lord Wittburg's eyes and knew he was not.

The older man clenched Mark's hand tightly. “Find out the truth about your marriage, Mark Farrow. Then you will understand. Find out the truth about the woman who would be your wife.”

A
LLY HAD NOT BEEN EAGER
to spend her day at Lord Farrow's hunting lodge, though she liked the man very much. She was anxious to get back home and out to the stream to search for her sketchbook.

But when she arrived at the lodge, she was thrilled to discover that Lord Farrow had a guest. Arthur Conan Doyle was there, sitting outside, watching the hounds romp.

She greeted him with pleasure.

A middle-aged man, he was solid, not too tall, with a face that was showing signs of both age and sorrow. She knew he suffered because of his wife's illness. He traveled to Europe and to Egypt, often when the weather was bad, as a physician trying to find a way to help her.

Louisa was a sweet and gentle woman, and very strong in her way. She loved the man she called Conan, and their children, Kingsley and Mary. She was ill, however, and seldom went out with her husband now.

Seeing Ally, he rose and greeted her like an old friend, giving her a hug.

“I see you know the woman who will soon be my daughter-in-law,” Joseph Farrow said.

“Yes, we met through Lady Kat, who is a dear friend of mine.”

The aunts were staring with a bit of wonder.

Lord Farrow introduced them one by one. The author was charming to each of them in turn.

Lunch was served by a man named Bertram, who apparently both ran the stables and managed the house quite efficiently. The aunts insisted on helping with the meal, and Ally assisted, as well. Everything was soon taken to a table on the terrace behind the house.

There was a third man present when they brought out the food. Sir Andrew Harrington stood the moment the women appeared, as did Doyle and Lord Farrow.

“How lovely to have a lunch served by such beauties,” Sir Andrew said.

“Sir Andrew. What a surprise,” Ally said. “What brings you here?”

“I'm often in the area. I have family about, you know. I was in church and heard that Lord Farrow was having a Sunday luncheon, and he is never rude enough to turn a hungry man away,” Harrington said.

“You are always welcome,” Lord Farrow said. “And I must present—”

“Violet, Merry and Edith,” Sir Andrew said, smiling and elegantly kissing the aunts' hands, which of course caused Merry to giggle.

“Charmed,” she assured him.

“A pleasure,” Edith said.

“Certainly,” Violet agreed.

Sir Andrew joined them, and the talk was casual, the meal lovely. Sir Andrew told the sisters that he had seen their designs and had found none superior, anywhere.

The aunts were incapable of simply being guests, Ally realized, as the meal was eaten and coffee served. Lord Farrow assured them that two women from the village came in during the week to keep the premises clean, but after coffee, they insisted on helping to clear the table.

When that was done, Lord Farrow offered them all a tour of his stables, but both Doyle and Ally refused. She liked Andrew Harrington very much, but she wanted time alone with the author.

As soon as the others were gone, Doyle leaned toward Ally and said, “Goodness, my dear. What lovely fortune has befallen you.”

She hesitated and said, “I don't really wish to marry.”

“What?”

“Well, I do. One day.”

“You dislike Mark Farrow? I assure you, he's a most honorable man.”

“One who disappears frequently.”

Smiling, Doyle wagged a finger at her. “I have been mocked, and I have been believed, but I have never been so thoroughly questioned as by that young man.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“He's a smart fellow. Those who seek answers in science are sometimes brilliant, sometimes near insane. Those who look at the facts alone will make more discoveries than any other men.”

“I'm still not following.”

“I have made a very good living off the fictional Sherlock but in fact he was based on a Doctor Bell, a brilliant man, one of my professors. Holmes is fiction but the makeup of his character is not. Mark thrives on listening. Observing and then knitting all the facts together. It is mathematics, in a way, add up what is known and come to a conclusion.” He hesitated and leaned toward her. “He asked me here today. If he is not here, it is for a very good reason.”

Ally frowned. “He went to lunch with a detective friend. Ian Douglas.”

“Ah.”

“And what does that mean?”

“It means he is searching for a killer.”

“But he is not a detective.”

“No. He is the son of the Earl of Warren.”

“But—”

“I think, if he could, Mark would be in his element running the force. But he has responsibilities he cannot abdicate. And, with his position, he can delve into nooks and crannies where a regular officer might not be able to go. Give the man a chance, Ally.”

She hesitated. “There is something I suspect. But you must swear you will keep this secret between us.”

He arched a brow.

“I think Mark Farrow is the highwayman.”

He sat back, trying to mask his thoughts.

“You
know
he is the highwayman!” she exclaimed.

“Hush,” he warned. “I
know
nothing.”

“But—”

“If he is the highwayman, there is very good reason for it. Please believe that,” Arthur Conan Doyle implored. “And hush. The aunts are coming back.”

In moments the rest of the part was by their side.

“Ally, what beautiful horses. You should see them,” Violet said. “But then, I suppose you will have many chances in the future.”

“She will see them soon,” Lord Farrow said. “How interesting that you two have such a friendship,” he said, nodding toward Ally and Doyle. “You and my son have much in common,” he told her.

“Would that I were your son,” Sir Andrew teased gallantly.

“You, Sir Andrew, have been a fine soldier. You need be no one else,” Lord Farrow said.

“Well spoken, as ever,” Sir Andrew said.

“This has been the loveliest day,” Violet said, “but I fear we must go back, though I had hoped to wait until Mark had returned.”

“The forest at night is quite dark,” Edith said.

“I can certainly see you home,” Sir Andrew offered.

“Bertram will escort them,” Joseph Farrow said.

They chatted for a few minutes longer, but Mark Farrow still did not appear. Ally was not sorry—she had enjoyed her moments alone with Arthur Conan Doyle. And it was fun, as well, to be teased by Sir Andrew and his open flattery.

Arthur Conan Doyle hugged her warmly again when they left.

“You are welcome to call upon me at any time,” he told her after helping her into the aunts' carriage.

She smiled and thanked him.

“Indeed, my life, too, is at your service,” Sir Andrew assured her before mounting his horse.

Then she settled into her seat next to Edith, and Violet was clicking to the horse and lifting the reins.

Lord Joseph Farrow watched Ally intently and waved as they drove away.

Ally thought she would never sleep that night, and indeed, she lay awake for hours.

What, exactly, was her fiancé doing in his clandestine life?

 

M
ARK KNEW FROM THE MOMENT
he stepped into the newspaper offices that every eye in the place was on him. The female typists and clerks flushed, nodded, then began gossiping behind his back.

The men, he realized, did the same.

A man with ink smeared on the elbows of his jacket led Mark to the office of Victor Quayle, the managing editor. He'd met Quayle on a number of occasions, but the man was still startled to see him, dropping the sheet he had been reading and nearly swallowing his pipe.

“Good Lord! Lord Farrow.”

“Please, Victor. It's Mark.”

Victor Quayle, balding young, shook his hand strenuously. “What brings you here?” He frowned. “I believe our reporting of your engagement was quite straightforward. If you were not at your own party. I can hardly blame my reporter for stating the truth.”

Mark shook his head. “I've come because I'm concerned. And because I found this at the museum yesterday.” He produced the envelope addressed to Olivia Cottage.

Victor seemed puzzled. “We mailed this out to a freelancer,” he explained.

“Your freelancer must have been at the museum.”

Victor shrugged. “I suppose.”

“Who is Olivia Cottage?” Mark asked.

Victor hesitated. “I…can't say.”

“I know it's expedient for you to keep certain sources secret, but I believe this is the identity of your columnist A. Anonymous,” Mark said. He turned, making certain the door to the editor's office was closed. “I fear for her—or him. I seek the truth only to see that the writer is protected.”

Victor shook his head, looking tired. “Would you like something? The coffee here is dreadful, but it does help keep one up.”

“No, thank you. Please, Victor. I swear to you, I'm seeking nothing but a way to help this person.”

“Of course. You are a Monarchist,” Victor murmured.

“I'd help the anti-monarchists, as well—had I a clue as to where the killer might strike next.”

“Dreadful, isn't it?” Victor asked. He looked a bit guilty. “My feelings on the situation are of no account. I have to print what's going on with the mood of the country.”

“You run an excellent paper,” Mark said. “And I am seeking only to keep people alive.”

Victor sighed. “I'd help you if I could.”

“What do you mean?”

Victor laughed dryly. “I don't know the identity of A. Anonymous—or Olivia Cottage, which is merely another false identity. When I tell you I can't say, I mean just that. I don't know who the person is. The article came to me, along with a request for any payment should we publish it, to be mailed to the post office, addressed to Olivia Cottage. The post office in question is quite near the museum. I'm grateful you've returned this. I can mail it out again. Though…”

“Though…” Mark prodded.

Victor shrugged. “I assume the person must not be in a dire financial condition or they would never be so negligent with a payment.”

“Have you received anything new from this Olivia Cottage?”

“Not yet,” Mark said. He smiled. “But I am hoping.”

“I don't wish to ask you to betray anyone, but will you let me know if you're going to publish another article by this person?”

“Yes, I can do that.”

Mark thanked him, asked about his family, and left. As he departed, he brushed by Thane Grier. “Good afternoon,” he said, studying the journalist.

Grier seemed surprised to see him there. “Is anything wro—”

“Nothing at all.”

“You didn't come about the article I wrote?”

Mark laughed. “You're a journalist, writing the truth. Why would I have a problem?”

“I did mention your absence from your own engagement party.”

“And it is true. I wasn't there,” Mark said.

“If you've read today's paper…there's a small piece about you and Miss Grayson at the museum. It's quite positive.”

“Thank you.” Staring at him, Mark frowned. “You were doing far more serious pieces than the social calendar before.”

“Indeed,” Grier muttered, then said swiftly, “This is not my preferred topic, I admit, but there are many reporters and only so much news. I did write the article on Giles Brandon's murder.”

“Yes, I read it. Well done. No sensationalism.”

Thane Grier shrugged. “Sometimes they prefer sensationalism.”

“I think you've done well. I prefer my news to be just that. An opinion piece is just that—an opinion. The news itself should never be slanted.”

“Mention that to Victor next time you're in,” Grier murmured. “Sorry…I just…Oh! Allow me to offer my personal congratulations on your engagement. I am seldom in such awe of a young woman who appears on the social pages.”

“Thank you,” Mark told him.

“She has a fine mind,” Grier said.

Mark nodded, and they made their goodbyes. As he left the office, Mark realized that the reporter had said something very true.

A fine mind…

Bright, sharp, witty.

All in lovely wrapping.

Thane Grier's words had struck at the essence of the truth. He might have been drawn in by beautiful appearance.

He had been seduced by a fine mind.

 

H
ER SKETCHBOOK WAS NOWHERE
to be found.

Although Ally searched high and low, she couldn't find the sketchbook in which she did so much of her writing.

Deeply disturbed and exhausted, she crawled atop the rock.

The highwayman hadn't come, either.

A chill slipped through her bones as she contemplated the conundrum she was facing. Yesterday, in the carriage, she was certain she had convincingly denied ever seeing the envelope addressed to Olivia Cottage. But Mark Farrow was the highwayman.

And if her book wasn't here…

If the highwayman—Mark!—had found it, then sooner or later, her denial yesterday would mean nothing.

 

M
ARK
'
S ORIGINAL INTENT HAD
been to ride out as soon as he had asked what questions he could at the newspaper offices.

But while riding out to his father's hunting lodge, he realized he could use his time better by first stopping to make another call that was both necessary and very important.

Elizabeth Harrington Prine was a woman of approximately forty, and still quite beautiful. She was tall, and moved with an elegance that drew the eye as much as did her appearance. She opened her own front door and seem quite startled to see Mark, but she recovered quickly.

“Mark!” she said. “Do come in. I apologize. I haven't been receiving visitors lately.”

“I beg you to forgive the intrusion when you are still in mourning.”