Beguiled (25 page)

Mark sat by his bedside. Lord Wittburg opened tired eyes to him. He half managed a smile.

“Mark.”

“Lord Wittburg.”

He wasn't unaware of his surroundings, Mark thought, as the older man shook his head. “That I have come to this.”

“Lord Wittburg—”

“I murdered no one, Mark.”

“Your Grace, I know you did not.”

The elderly man took his hand and squeezed it. “I believe you,” he whispered, little substance to his voice. “I shall need an excellent legal defense.”

“Lord Wittburg—”

“Those things were put into my carriage,” he said, his voice still weak but filled with anger.

“By whom?” Ian couldn't help but demand from the doorway.

Mark leaned low. “Your Grace, did anyone know you would be searching for Ally near the museum?”

Lord Wittburg didn't answer. His eyes had closed.

Mark thought he had drifted off.

“I saw the fellow from the paper. He was on the street,” Lord Wittburg said suddenly.

“Which fellow?” Mark asked.

“Grier. Thane Grier.”

“Anyone else?” Mark asked.

Wittburg exhaled. “I'd been at the club.”

“Yes?”

“Talking with Doyle. The author chap. Arthur Conan Doyle. Sad fellow. His wife is quite sick.”

“Who else was there?” Mark asked.

“Oh…the usual. Sir Angus Cunningham had come in, that was not so usual. But Sir Andrew Harrington had invited him for tea…so much happening these days.”

“Anyone else?”

“The usual.” Eyes closed again, Lord Wittburg smiled. “No women, though. The men…they were talking about the changing world. But the club is still a sanctuary! No women.”

“Lord Wittburg, can you think of anything else? Why were you so determined to speak with Ally?”

His eyes flew open. “She needs to know. To safeguard herself.”

“I will safeguard her,” Mark promised.

Wittburg's eyes closed again.

“Lord Wittburg?” Mark said.

There was no reply. The man's eyes stayed closed.

The orderly who had brought them in gently tapped Mark on the shoulder. “Sir, he has been sedated. I don't believe he'll wake again for hours.”

Mark nodded and rose. He and Ian walked out together.

“So now…what? Arthur Conan Doyle has decided to experiment before he writes, so he set out to commit murder and plant evidence?” Ian asked wearily.

“Amusing, my friend, amusing.”

“What has this to do with your earlier theory—housekeepers gone mad?” Ian asked.

“No women, he said. I think it's interesting that the fact was a topic of conversation,” Mark told him.

“Thane Grier tends to be about whenever something has happened,” Ian said.

“He's a journalist. It's his job to keep his ears open and appear at any newsworthy happening,” Mark mused.

“I'm sad to say that we've nothing as yet,” Ian said. “Nothing that will help Lord Wittburg.”

“Get those bank records for me. And the men's wills,” Mark said.

On the street, he paused. “Ian, I think we should pay a visit to Eleanor Brandon again.”

“She was devastated by her husband's death, Mark.”

“Let's see if she remains devastated.”

Ian let out a deep sigh. “All right.”

 

N
EITHER
E
LEANOR
B
RANDON
nor her housekeeper, Hattie, was pleased by another visit.

Tea was not offered. In fact, Hattie was loath to invite them in. Ian insisted.

Eleanor met them in the parlor. She was in black, and wore it well. She was far calmer than she had appeared before.

“Why are you back? You should be searching for my husband's killer,” she said, her tone hostile.

Ian looked to Mark.

“Eleanor, we've been concerned. We've come to find out how you're doing. Are you having any difficulties, financial or otherwise?”

“No. If you've come to help me…just leave. What I need now is peace in my own home.”

“Of course, of course,” Mark told her. “Well, then, we'll be going.”

Ian stared at him. He shrugged.

Outside the house, Ian stared at him as if he'd lost his mind. “You made us go there for that?”

“I think her pretense of being so hysterical when she burst into Lord Stirling's party for Ally was very well acted.”

“How can you know that?”

“I don't know it. I think it. We need to speak with her sister.”

Again Ian sighed. “I verified the alibi, Mark.”

“I want more.”

“It's a long ride.”

“So we'll take a long ride.”

 

W
HEN THEY WERE LEAVING
, Lord Farrow conferred with Patrick. Ally heard the latter say someone named Thomas would be coming, and that Geoff would soon follow, so he could let Mark know he need not worry, because between the three of them, they would not leave the cottage or the aunts alone.

Since Ally knew for a fact then that Patrick was one of the highwaymen, she was certain that Geoff and Thomas finished out the foursome. After going through another round of hugs with the aunts, she went to Patrick and thanked him sincerely. He assured her gallantly that he was more than pleased to be of service.

In the carriage with Lord Farrow, she demanded, “Well? What did you find in the forest?”

“Nothing…and something.”

“Lord Farrow!”

“Someone was there. I'm almost certain. They reached the road, though, and disappeared. I'm sorry we were too late, but I'm grateful to see my hounds know their duty, and now there will be two men guarding your aunts at all times.”

“I'm very grateful,” Ally murmured.

He shook his head, smiling suddenly. “With all that is going on, sometimes it's hard to see, but there are decent people in the world. They don't expect your gratitude for doing the right thing.”

“Still, I
am
grateful.”

When they reached the lodge, Ally discovered that Lord Farrow could cook, and he was happy for her assistance. He wanted Bertram tending to the stables and the horses, because they would be leaving again early in the morning. As he set a meat pie into the oven, Lord Farrow explained that he'd learned his skills in the military.

She dined with him alone, and he suggested an early night. She was exhausted and glad to comply. But once in bed, she didn't sleep.

She waited.

 

I
T WAS EVENING WHEN
they reached the home of Marianne York, sister to Eleanor Brandon. Miss York, a thin and prune-faced spinster, possessed a tart attitude and sniffed at the fact another London detective had come to see her.

“I wish I could tell you otherwise,” she said with another sniff. “Eleanor was here. Not by invitation, but she
is
my sister, and she arrived. I warned her about marrying Giles Brandon. Throws her out of her own house, he does, just because he's writing.”

“I'm curious. Your relationship is…not warm,” Mark said pleasantly. “There are wonderful hotels in London where she might have spent a night.”

“On what?” Marianne sneered.

Ian cleared his throat. He indicated the parlor, which was handsomely appointed. “Not to be indelicate, but…it's my understanding your father left you two well set.”

Marianne's snort was loud. “I have my money, and that's a fact. Eleanor, that silly goose, put everything into Giles Brandon's name when she married him. I told her she was a fool. She told me I was a dried-up spinster. But I live well enough on my own. She lived in torment. Oh, don't tell me she was so ready to be browbeaten by his
genius.
She seethed. She was miserable, barely able to stand it when she was forced by circumstance to seek hospitality from me. But still, she knew I would be obliged to let her in.”

“Well, thank you. Thank you for speaking with us,” Mark said.

It was late. When they reached the street, they prepared to head in opposite directions. Mounting Galloway, Mark looked at Ian. “I think we really do need to look at things a bit more deeply, don't you agree? Perhaps pay a visit to Elizabeth Harrington Prine tomorrow?”

Ian gave his deepest sigh of the day. “Poor Sir Andrew will be quite distressed to discover his kin being questioned,” he said with a shake of his head.

“Poor Lord Lionel might well hang,” Mark reminded him.

Ian nodded. “I should have the records you requested by tomorrow. And yes, we'll visit Elizabeth.”

Mark was certain his father would have chosen to ride to the lodge from the cottage in the woods. Weary, he headed Galloway for home.

Malcolm and Cara bounded out to meet him when he arrived. Bertram came from the stables, ready to take his horse. Exhausted, Mark thanked Bertram and headed into the house.

It was late, and the lodge was quiet. He was certain both his father and Ally had gone to bed.

He started for his room, then hesitated and slipped down the hall to hers. This time she was sleeping. He stood over the bed for several seconds, then lay down beside her. Her breathing was easy and deep.

He drew her into his arms and held her.

 

A
LLY WOKE ALONE
,
AND YET
…

She had the distinct impression that Mark had been there. She studied the bedding, the indentation in the pillow next to hers. She smiled. Then her smile became a frown.

How dare he go into such a fury over her article? He had plenty of explaining to do himself. For one thing, she was certain he had discovered the meaning behind Lionel Wittburg's words to her that evening, but he hadn't shared the information with her.

She hoped to accost him at breakfast.

But after dressing and finding Lord Farrow at the breakfast table with his coffee, she was in for deep disappointment. “Mark is off already, I'm afraid,” he told her.

“Indeed.”

Lord Farrow set his hand on hers. “It's important, or else he wouldn't leave you.”

“Of course,” she murmured, hoping he didn't hear the sarcasm in her voice.

“At any rate, I'm ready when you are.”

“A sip of coffee, my lord, and I am ready, too,” she returned.

Despite the distance from the lodge to the East End, they arrived in plenty of time. There were booths set up to provide food, and chairs arrayed for the events, everything located in the churchyard.

Ally knew that Maggie had received fierce criticism from many quarters for some of her unorthodox activities.

Maggie spoke to prostitutes about disease, and she handed out condoms. She was an entertaining speaker, explaining to her audience that thousands of years ago, the ancient Egyptians—without even understanding why—had learned that condoms made from linen or animal organs had prevented disease. Ally always watched Maggie, who was impatient with propriety when it stood in the way of health, with amusement. She was such a lady, yet facts about disease tripped off her tongue so easily.

Maggie ignored the outraged letters she received. She spoke with passion, assuring those who would condemn her that more starving mouths in the East End served no purpose. And since she was Lady Maggie, she prevailed.

Ally found herself assigned to the children's area. The elite of London had donated all manner of items, and poor wives with families, as well as prostitutes raising the offspring of unknown fathers, came to her. Diapers, booties, blankets and clothing—including last season's no-longer-fashionable hats and shoes—were available for the needy. Ally also had soap, towels and a bathing tin that a lad kept emptying and refilling, since sometimes she couldn't bear to put a truly filthy urchin into new clothing.

After four straight hours on her feet, she had to admit she was glad when Merry came to tell her to take a break and that was that.

“But you're still working,” Ally protested.

“Oh, no, dear. I just had a lovely tea break with Lady Maggie and the Reverend. Those two do go on, but how he loves and admires her. Slip around the corner there, and you'll find a sheltered little garden. Someone will bring your tea right along.”

And so, glad for a chance to sit, Ally washed her hands and wiped them on her apron, then started for the garden. She stopped near the entrance, seeing that Thane Grier was there, interviewing Maggie. They both paused, seeing her in return, and waved. She waved back and hurried on to a table.

She was barely seated when Thane joined her.

“Hello. Quite a day.”

“It always is,” she told him.

“That was your essay in the paper yesterday, wasn't it?” he asked her bluntly.

She gaped, taken off guard.

He lifted a hand. “You don't have to reply—you rather accidentally gave me the answer. But don't worry. Your secret is safe with me.”

“I don't know what to say.”

He grinned. “I've come to say thank you.”

“For what?”

“I think you got me on to something.”

“Oh?”

“I've started doing some silent investigating.”

He was a handsome man, younger than she had thought him at first, and he seemed honestly grateful to her. She smiled and nodded, urging him on.

“Well,” he said, looking around and lowering his voice, “Giles and Eleanor Brandon did not get along well at all. In public she worshiped the man. She allowed him to hold all kinds of meetings in the house. She had to. When they were married, she put all her assets into his name. Now that he's dead, she has everything back.”

“Still, what does that prove?” Ally asked.

“It
proves
nothing. But greed is among the top motives for murder, and has been throughout history. Elizabeth Prine didn't have any money—until she married Jack Prine.”

“And she inherited what he had?” Ally said.