Beguiled (26 page)

He nodded. “Exactly.”

“But Hudson Porter wasn't married,” Ally pointed out.

Thane grinned. “Ah-ha! And there lies my great discovery.”

“He was married?”

Thane shook his head. “No, though he does have relatives coming from America. But guess what?”

“Tell me!”

“The housekeeper was left a hefty sum.” He sat back, staring at her smugly.

“That still doesn't prove anything.”

His smile faded slightly. “No, but the fact that these three women have inherited vast sums is very suspicious, don't you think?”

She nodded. “But…”

“These women all know one another. Two of them socialized. And all had a reason to get rid of a man.”

“Still, I don't believe any of them had the strength to kill a man like Giles Brandon. And you still have no proof of a conspiracy. Many people know one another but never conspire to commit murder.”

“We have to find the evidence that these three did.”

“We?”

“You started me on this.”

“Yes, but I hardly have the freedom of movement to be an investigative reporter,” she informed him.

He grinned at her. “I have taken the liberty of delivering a number of older articles to Lady Stirling for delivery to you. You see, I don't believe for a minute that Lord Wittburg is guilty of murder, though you will note, when you have a chance, I did an excellent write-up about his strange assault on you, his subsequent arrest and the discovery of damning evidence in his carriage.”

“I don't believe he's guilty, either. I think he just wanted to talk to me. I do believe that we—or someone—must find the truth. If he is convicted of murder,
I
will be at fault.”

“Never at fault—those who are evil are at fault,” he told her gravely.

She smiled. “I haven't heard about any protests in the street lately—protests such as the one we saw in the village.”

“The furor seems to be dying down,” he agreed. “Well, until next time. If there is a next time.”

Ally gazed at him. “This is quite incredible. An entire nation might be brought to its knees because a few women wished their husbands gone.”

“A chilling thought, indeed,” he agreed. Then he said, “So tomorrow is the day.”

“Yes.”

He shook his head in admiration. “Yet here, today, the bride tends to filthy, unwashed children, and the lady of the castle helps her dear friend educate prostitutes.”

“What should I be doing?” she inquired, shrugging.

“Is there to be a honeymoon?”

“Am I being interviewed now?” she asked.

“Yes. If it's all right.”

“I don't believe we're taking a honeymoon now. Perhaps in the future.”

“Where is the bridegroom?” he asked. “Stupid question. Even I know where the bridegroom is.”

Ally frowned. “You do?”

“Of course. He often works with Detective Douglas.”

He stared at her. “He was instrumental in bringing in the Sheffield killer several months ago. You didn't know?”

“It must have slipped my mind,” Ally murmured dryly.

“Well, be prepared, you mustn't expect the usual with your soon-to-be husband.”

“And he must learn not to expect the usual with me. Sadly, it's time I get back to my duties. Thane, it's been wonderful to see you. And I will see you tomorrow.”

“Of course. And don't forget your envelope. Study those articles. Though I guess you'll be a bit busy. Still, when you get a chance…”

“I'll get a chance. I promise,” Ally assured him.

She had quite overstayed her tea time, she was certain. Thoughtful, she returned to her position.

 

E
LIZABETH
P
RINE
,
REGAL
in her widow's weeds, greeted Mark politely and formally, but with a puckered brow. “How are you? Have you come about my husband again? Of course you have. You would not have the poor taste to make a social call on a recently bereaved woman.”

“Elizabeth, we need help,” he told her. “May I come in?”

She hesitated slightly. “Of course.”

“Elizabeth, I honestly believe someone in the political movement you and Jack embraced is responsible for these killings.”

“Mark,” she said softly, forgetting decorum. “That's what you wish to believe.”

“How could anyone else have obtained the keys?”

“My housekeeper must have been negligent.”

“Eleanor Brandon's housekeeper isn't the negligent type in the least.”

“I'm happy for Eleanor Brandon.”

“Here's the thing—the murders are connected. The men were killed in the same manner.”

“They are anti-monarchists. So why look to another anti-monarchist!”

“Elizabeth, the killer knew your husband.”

She sighed. “Mark, I wish I could help.”

“Were you and Jack…I am sorry to ask, but were you and Jack having any marital difficulties?”

“Mark Farrow!”

“I have to ask, Elizabeth.”

“From what I understand,” she said sharply, “they have found the killer in Lord Lionel Wittburg. Oh, yes, a supporter of the Crown,” she said angrily. “You are here, tormenting me, when it seems that, however great a man he may once have been, he has snapped. Mark, please, I am so weary.”

He hesitated. “Really, Elizabeth?” he asked very softly. “There's been a suggestion that…you've been seeing someone.”

She gasped, then rose in indignation.

But not quickly enough, he thought. “How dare you!”

“I dare because I am looking for a murderer.”

“Get out of my house, Mark. And don't come back. I don't care how esteemed your position is.”

“Thank you for your hospitality, Elizabeth,” he said. He walked to the door, aware she was following him. “By the way, where's your housekeeper today?”

“Gone. If you must know, I fired her after Jack's death. Now, get out!”

“One last thing, Elizabeth. Witnesses have put you with a man.”

It was a lie. But it struck home, and it struck hard. Despite her desperate play at dignity, he saw that the color had completely drained from her face.

She slammed the door behind him.

He didn't know if her lover was inside with her or not.

But he now knew the housekeeper had quite probably been fired immediately after the murder—and that Elizabeth Prine had been concealing her lover in the house when he had visited with Ian Douglas.

He had taken a stab in the dark, followed a hunch and succeeded.

And he had largely done it, he had to admit, because of Ally's article. Husbands and wives, and the dramas between them. Love and hate. The very thin lines…

Some spouses might seek to rid themselves of a partner because of money, one of the oldest motives for crime.

Others might kill for love, for hate. Kill for the freedom to be with another.

He turned away from the house. He had to convince Ian to set men to watch the house as quickly as possible.

Something else had been evident today, as well.

Elizabeth Prine had started to pack. The little knickknacks that had adorned the house were no longer there.

She was planning to flee.

A
LLY HAD FORGOTTEN THAT SHE
and the aunts were going straight to Castle Carlyle. After a very long but productive day, she joined Camille and the aunts in the Stirlings' carriage, while Brian rode behind, and they made their way home.

The chatter along the way was exuberant. The aunts found it absolutely delightful that Lord and Lady Stirling, and Sir Hunter and Lady Kat MacDonald, had all pooled their resources for such a wonderful day of charity. Camille, amused, reminded them that there had been a time when royal children were required to ritually bathe the feet of the poor and the ailing in the church. Merry decided such an ordeal was perhaps better left in the past—she had smelled a few feet during the day.

Despite the excitement, both Merry and Edith were nodding off by the time they neared the castle, a head bobbing upon each of Violet's shoulders as they traveled. Ally, seated next to Camille, was ready to nod off herself. At the castle, she stepped wearily out of the carriage and helped the aunts down. Camille came last, offering her a large envelope.

“Thane Grier asked me to deliver this to you,” Camille told her.

“What is it, dear?” Violet asked.

“Oh, just some old articles. He's a nice man, and we have talked about how I love to read.”

“How nice,” Edith said, stifling a yawn.

Camille looked at her with a brow arched questioningly. Ally merely smiled, and headed for the entry.

“Good heavens, but we all need baths,” Violet murmured, wiping at a smudge on her hand.

“Yes, let me get you up to your rooms. It is late, so I'll have tea brought to you all, so you can fall straight into bed once you've bathed,” Camille assured her.

“You are such a dear,” Violet told her.

“Ever thoughtful,” Edith added.

“An amazing woman,” Merry finished.

Ally couldn't help but smile at her. “Ditto,” she said softly.

Camille shook her head, smiling. “It will be a busy day tomorrow,” she said. “The caterers will arrive early, there will be musicians running about everywhere…and there will be a bride to dress.”

“Lovely!” Violet said.

“So lovely,” Edith agreed.

“Absolutely lovely,” Merry said with a huge sniff.

“Please, darlings, don't start crying!” Ally kissed them one by one, saw Brian's amusement as he came in behind them, and obeyed his little wave warning her to escape quickly so they could better deal with the aunts.

She ran up the stairs, finding solitude and peace in the room she had known so long and so well. Egyptian art stared at her as she leaned against the door. She closed her eyes. She told herself that she would surely be back here, just as she would surely return to the cottage in the woods. But for a moment she felt like the aunts—ready to burst into tears.

She moved away from the door. Violet was right. They had all worked very hard, they were filthy, and they needed baths.

She ran very hot water and sank into the tub, a sigh of pleasure escaping her. Then her eyes flew open.

Tomorrow was her wedding.

She felt a sudden sense of panic.

She had fallen in love with him, she reminded herself. And the thought of sleeping beside him night after night was full of wonder, excitement, almost awe, but…

But she wouldn't have a chance to talk to him before the wedding now. And if he still didn't understand her need to be herself…

She jumped out of the bathtub, wondering at her own mind. Then she remembered the envelope.

Dripping, she ran back into the bedroom and found the envelope. Chilled, she ran back and slid back into the tub, holding the papers above the surface. She could let the heat ease her weary muscles as she read.

There were pictures with many of the articles. Some dated back several years. Most were about various meetings of anti-monarchy societies. Another was about Lord Wittburg paying to see Hudson Porter released from jail when he had been arrested for disorderly conduct. One reported on Jack Prine's wedding to Elizabeth Harrington and referred to a meeting of opposite poles. Andrew Harrington was in the accompanying picture. The wedding had taken place in the village, and Sir Angus Cunningham was there, too, standing proudly by the side of the groom. When she looked closely, she could see that Thane Grier had been in attendance, as well.

She replaced the articles in the envelope, careful not to get them wet, and set it aside. Then she leaned back.

What if murders of convenience could conveniently serve another cause?

Who would have spoken to whom first? And in whose mind had the original scheme been concocted? Had it come out of a chance meeting?

She didn't know. She sank beneath the surface, eager to wash her hair. Thoughts seemed to go crashing through her head. She realized she was too tired to make sense of them, and when she had thoroughly scrubbed, she rose, toweled herself dry, found a nightgown, finished drying her hair the best she could before the fire, and sank into her bed.

A bust of Nefertiti stared at her with painted ebony eyes. She turned off the lamp at her bedside, ignoring the Egyptian goddess.

She was going to be married in the morning.

 

I
AN
D
OUGLAS HAD BEEN
excited when Mark had talked with him, and had understood the avenue down which Mark thought they should go. Yes, he would arrange for officers to watch the house. It was outside his jurisdiction, but he could find some off-duty men. He could speak with Sheriff Cunningham, as well.

“I think it's time to use only men you trust implicitly,” Mark said.

Ian groaned, but said, “I believe you're right.” He hesitated. “I've looked at those financial records, as you suggested.”

“And?”

“On Jack Prine's death, Elizabeth inherited everything. On Giles Brandon's death, his estate reverted back into his wife's name. And Hudson Porter's housekeeper received a large inheritance in the will. Still…this is so…well, we'll see. If Elizabeth
has
taken a lover…. Even so, such an act may be immoral, but it's not illegal.”

“Depending on who that lover proves to be,” Mark pointed out.

“You should get home. You've tomorrow to think of.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Your wedding.”

“Good God, yes!” Mark said. He bade Ian goodnight and rode home. The trip seemed very long. When he reached the house, he hailed Bertram and handed over the horse. He rushed in, hurried along the hall and pushed open the door to her room.

It was empty.

For a moment, panic seized him. Then he winced. Of course she wasn't here. She was at Castle Carlyle.

His heart was thundering. He returned to the main room of the lodge and helped himself to a brandy, feeling ridiculous. How very strange. Just a few weeks ago she had been no more than a vague promise he had made. And now…

She was everything.

She was even his reason for being the man he must be. No harm must ever come to her. He couldn't imagine life without her.

How did he stop her from being so defiant, so determined, so…dangerous to herself?

“I marry her,” he murmured to the fire. “It's the best I can do.”

 

S
OMEONE WAS WATCHING
the house. He should have known it was inevitable once he had seen Mark Farrow return that day. Damn the man. His life had been made before his birth. He would inherit land, wealth, a title. Everything. Why did he have to meddle in the business of others, imagine himself a great detective, pit his mind against the criminal masses?

Farrow should die!

He shook his head irritably and knew he would rather not face Farrow. He had killed men unaware, when he had been armed and they had not. How was he to find Farrow without a weapon?

That was a worry for a later time.

He watched the man on duty; he was in plainclothes and followed the same route, up and down the walk.

The back entry.

The man wasn't watching the back.

It didn't improve his temper to have to climb through the trees and over the wall. To creep, all but on his stomach, to the back of the house.

He'd kept the full set of keys, so he had no difficulty gaining entry. The house was quiet. She was upstairs.

As he walked through the parlor, he saw the signs of her packing. All the shelves, tabletops and cabinets had been emptied.

He stood dead still. Mark Farrow had been in the house today. He had seen this. He would have known that Elizabeth was planning to leave.

He took a deep breath. How could she have been so stupid?

He looked toward the top of the stairs, then began to walk up them, feeling for the sheath at his ankle. When he reached the bedroom, she was waiting. Her hair was down, and she was propped against the pillow. A lamp burned at her side.

“Mark Farrow was here again today.”

“Yes. I took care of him,” she replied.

“Oh? How?”

“I was absolutely brilliant, I was indignant—I was regal!”

“He suspects you've been having an affair.”

She hesitated. “He can't prove anything.”

He moved toward her, smiling. When he reached her bedside, he doused the lamp. She made a purring sound. He lay down beside her. “Roll to your side,” he whispered huskily.

“However you want it,” she murmured, and obliged.

He drew the blade from the sheath.

He wished he dared to do it differently. He wished he could see her face. She thought he had done it all for her. That he hadn't been able to bear life without her.

But he couldn't afford for her to scream.

He was good. She was waiting—for a different touch.

He delivered the knife delicately to her throat, so that it was there before she ever knew what had happened.

Then he used force. And ripped.

The only sound that escaped her was a gurgling as the blood soaked into the sheets and pillow.

He didn't wait for her to die. He carefully wiped the knife on the sheets, then walked at his leisure down the stairs. He didn't relish the thought of escaping through the rear, crawling through the grass, hopping the fence.

Ah well, some things were necessary.

And his carriage awaited.

It was going to be a busy night.

 

“O
H
!” V
IOLET CRIED
.

“Dear Lord!” Merry said.

“Oh!” Edith repeated.

Ally was so grateful to them. She felt as if she were moving in a fog. The castle was alive with people everywhere, but Camille had arrived at her room early, in the best of spirits, to assure her that everything would be brought to her and that she mustn't be seen.

And then it was time to start.

Croissants reached the room shortly, accompanied by steaming coffee.

Then came the aunts, followed by Kat, Maggie and Camille. It was a large room, but…

First, her hair. Violet was a magician with the curling iron. Her nails were filed and tinted. Her toenails were tended likewise. The excitement grew downstairs, and eventually Camille was needed, then Maggie, then Kat. She was left with the aunts when it came time to don the dress, which had been waiting in an empty room down the hall.

Hose and delicate undergarments first. The corset. The dress…exquisite with thousands upon thousands of beaded pearls. Once she was in it, she wasn't certain she would be able to breathe. A touch of last-minute makeup, a dab of perfume, the shoes, the train, and then the tiara with the veil.

At last she was complete, feeling like a bird stuffed and ornamented for a feast. By then Camille, Maggie and Kat were back, dressed in their own finery for the occasion, beautiful as ever. The aunts looked lovely, too. The six of them surrounded her, three on each side, and Camille, called for the full-length mirror.

She didn't know herself. The sweep of her hair made her appear older and wiser. The gown gave her an hourglass figure. She seemed taller—the heels on the shoes, no doubt. The touch of blush on her cheeks, her eyes brilliant, showing no trace of the fear that was suddenly coursing through her system….

“I told you off-white would be perfect,” Violet said.

“My dear sister, that's a soft beige,” Merry protested.

“It's off-white,” Violet insisted.

“You're both wrong. It's pearl,” Edith announced.

“It's beautiful, whatever you call it,” Ally assured them, rushing to embrace them.

“Be careful. You'll wrinkle,” Violet protested, then embraced her. “Let it wrinkle!”

“Since there are six of us,” Maggie said wryly, “it will be very wrinkled. Kisses on the cheek, no crushing hugs.”

So the kisses began. But even the aunts were wearing lip color, and soon Ally's cheeks were bright red. Violet sighed, but it was Kat who laughed and did her makeup over again. Camille picked up her pendant watch and gasped. “It's time!”

“Do you think I actually have a groom?” Ally asked. They all fell silent, staring at her in horror. “It's just that Mark Farrow does have a tendency to be late, or absent altogether.”

“He's here. I saw him arrive,” Kat said.

There was a tap at the door. Ally's heart leapt. For one dreadful second she thought she might be sick. Camille threw the door open. Brian Stirling, excessively handsome, was waiting to escort her down the stairs.

“Ally?” he asked.

She nodded, striding forward to accept his arm. Then she panicked. She hadn't thought twice about the ridiculous curse Eleanor Brandon had cast on her in days, but it suddenly seemed to hang like a pall upon her.

“The scarab!” she gasped.

“What?” Camille demanded.

“The scarab.”

“Ah,” Kat said, understanding. “In the jewelry box, Ally? Where shall we pin it?”

“It doesn't exactly go, does it?” Camille commented.

“But it's such a beautiful piece,” Maggie said.