Beguiled (6 page)

“How do you do?” she murmured.

“Quite well, and quite pleased to meet you,” he said. He smiled at her, then glanced at Camille. “Miss Grayson is indeed a rare beauty.” He looked pained for a moment. “I'm terribly sorry that Mark could not be here. He is on the queen's business. Nothing else could have taken him away, I do solemnly swear. You'll have to forgive him.” He addressed his final words to Ally.

I don't even know him, Ally thought, but she answered politely, anyway. “Naturally the queen's business takes precedence over any party, my lord.”

“Horrid, isn't it?” he said to Camille. “Giles Brandon was a braggart and an oaf, but I fear his death will but inflame the masses.”

“So do we all,” Camille said.

“Well, I will not dwell on such things in the midst of such beauty,” Lord Farrow said.

“Would you escort Ally into the dining room?” Camille asked. “You are seated together, of course,” she said, and then she was gone with a whirl.

Of course?

“Giles Brandon was a braggart but a powerful writer,” Ally said gravely to Lord Farrow.

“You have read his work?” Lord Farrow demanded, frowning.

“I read everything, my lord. To dispute an argument, one must know what it is.”

He arched a brow. “Intriguing. I am fascinated to get to know you, my dear. Let's move in, shall we? I see that Camille is anxious to have her guests seated.”

She accepted his arm. The party slowly moved into the great dining hall. They were seated at the north end, surrounded by Brian and Camille, Maggie and Jamie, and Hunter and Kat. As the meal was served and consumed, the conversation covered the next season's expedition to Egypt, the state of museums in London, art and literature, and even the weather.

Ally smiled, replied and offered a comment or two. She longed to stand up and shout. She knew she had the strength of will to demand an answer to the question she had been asking all night.

What was going on? What announcement?

But as she looked around at those near her at the table, she knew she would not. Lady Maggie and Jamie had been the ones who had taken her in when she had been abandoned to the care of a local priest. Maggie's butler, a dear man, now gone several years, had been a relation of her “aunties,” so she had been given into their care in the forest, where she could be raised with no stigma because of her orphan beginning. The property where the cottage lay belonged to Lord Stirling. Kat and Hunter, as very good friends of the Stirlings, had adopted her as a godchild, as well, out of sheer love. She owed them all so much. They were all anyone could ever want in a set of guardians—even if it was difficult at times to have quite so many de facto parents. They were all beautiful, powerful and compassionate. They felt a keen sense of responsibility because of the positions life had granted them.

She would never dishonor any of them, and therefore, she would not be rude at Camille's dinner table.

Still, as she looked around, pretending to chat lightly, to smile, to enjoy the evening, the question still raged inside her.

What was going on?

A sense of dread filled her.

She had intended to make her own announcement that night, to confess she had taken her life into her own hands, and done so with a passion. Something told her she would not get the chance.

 

T
HE MORGUE SMELLED SHARPLY
of antiseptic, which did not, however, mask the underlying stench of death and decomposition.

Mark stood next to the operating table that held the earthly remains of Giles Brandon. Despite the naked lightbulbs above the corpse, the room seemed shadowed. He was there with two men, Dr. Evan Tiel, the coroner, and Detective Ian Douglas.

Detective Douglas was one of the finest men Mark had ever had the pleasure to meet. Big and gruff, he could handle himself against any man. The fifth son of a minor Scottish landowner, he had spent time dabbling in the law at Eton, then returned to his native land to study medicine in Edinburgh. By the end of his studies he'd realized he was most interested in bringing killers to justice and seeing that the innocent were never mistakenly convicted. He was a handsome man, strong and broad-shouldered, but showing the telltale stress of a man who fought a losing battle—defending the innocent and seeking to uproot evil. It might well be a grand and glorious age in which they were living, but poverty was rampant in London, and poverty was a sure breeder of crime.

Dr. Evan Tiel was an equally laudable man. Shorter, slim, wiry, he had the energy of a hummingbird. He was fascinated with the growing field of using science and medicine in the search for justice. He and Douglas had both attended classes in Edinburgh taught by Dr. Bell, the surgeon and teacher who had been Arthur Conan Doyle's inspiration for the character of Sherlock Holmes. While some men might mock the idea of paying heed to a writer of fiction when seeking truth, both Tiel and Douglas saw the wisdom in the methods Holmes propounded. While Bell devoted his observations to ascertaining the causes of disease, such methods were equally applicable in other matters.

“He was found slumped across his desk, his fingers clutching his last article,” Ian Douglas said.

“Indeed,” Tiel added, “from the way the blood set, it appears that his head was drawn back as his throat was slit, then the body cast forward onto the desk as he bled to death.”

“But he fought?” Mark asked, indicating slashes on the arms.

“I surmise,” Dr. Tiel said, “that he saw his attacker and fought, but the killer got behind him in the end. He must have stood thus.” Tiel demonstrated, using Douglas as the victim. He mimed holding a knife in his hand, showing how it had been drawn against the throat.

“All right,” Mark theorized aloud. “Giles Brandon was at his desk, typing. He finished his piece. The killer came into the room, and there was a scuffle, but the killer managed to get behind him and slit his throat.”

Ian Douglas cleared his throat. “Here's the problem. The door to the yard was bolted from the inside. The entry gate to the yard was locked. And Giles Brandon kept his office locked. I don't believe the killer simply entered by the door and took Brandon by surprise. I believe he was waiting there for Brandon's return.”

“Then it would seem that the killer stood in the back of the room, in the shadows, for a long time,” Mark said.

“Yes, that could be so,” Ian agreed.

“It's…almost more like an assassination than a simple murder,” Mark mused.

Ian Douglas stared at him. “Yes, maybe.”

Mark stared down at the sad remains of Giles Brandon. Many had hated the man, but few would wish anyone, even their worst enemy, such an ending.

He studied the slashes on the arms, looked at the deep gash on the neck.

“There are no other injuries to the body? No damage done after death?”

“None,” Dr. Tiel assured him.

Mark stood back. “So if the killer was in the room all the time, he—or she—must have had a key,” Mark said.

Ian Douglas shook his head. “His wife adored him. He was by all reports a bellowing wretch who abused her verbally, even in public, upon occasion. But she adored him. She thought he was a genius.”

“Something he probably told her himself,” Mark said sardonically.

Douglas nodded. “No doubt. But there is simply no way she could have done this, nor that she would have allowed it to happen.”

“Who else had a key?” Mark asked.

“Only Brandon himself, and the housekeeper, Tilly. And when you meet Tilly, you'll know she didn't do this, either. She is a frail bag of bones, hardworking, but hardly capable of overpowering a man such as Brandon. In addition, she needed the income she received from him, and despite his temper, there was an element of prestige for Tilly in being the housekeeper of such a man.”

“If the wife is not guilty and the housekeeper is not guilty, then one or the other was used by the killer. I would say that one of them had her key stolen, then replaced. This was not a random act of violence, obviously, and the killer took his time planning it,” Mark said.

“It's another attack on the anti-monarchists,” Douglas said, shaking his head. “Doesn't this fool zealot realize he is only making matters worse for the queen?”

Mark was quiet for a minute. “I believe,” he said, “that the killer is an anti-monarchist.”

“What?” Douglas demanded. “Then why kill…?” His voice trailed off as he realized Mark's point.

“Precisely,” Mark murmured. “The idea is to make the populace believe the monarchists are killing these men because they are speaking out. What better way to win a cause then to create an army of martyrs?”

“Then…?” Douglas said, eyes narrowing.

“I think we need to look at Giles Brandon's friends and contemporaries. Because I'm certain of one thing,” Mark said.

“And what is that?”

“Giles Brandon knew his killer. I'd say he knew him very well.”

 

W
ITH DINNER OVER
,
IT SEEMED
that the long table disappeared in an instant. New tables were set against the walls, with elegant little demitasses of coffee, small dessert plates and aperitifs. As the dancing began, Ally began to recognize more and more guests she either knew or knew
about.

The first to whisk her out on the floor was Brian Stirling. She danced very well with him, since, as a child, she had learned her first dances by standing on his toes, laughing as he swept her around the room.

As they moved across the floor, she whispered, “That journalist is here—Thane Grier.”

“Yes.”

Brian didn't sound pleased.

“You invited him?”

“Of course. Had I not…Well, it's best to befriend the enemy.”

“He's the enemy?”

“Anyone who rules the press can be a dangerous enemy,” Brian said. “So of course I asked him here tonight. Especially tonight.”

“Brian, I beg of you—”

Brian halted. She realized he'd been tapped on the shoulder. “Lord Stirling, if I may?”

It was Sir Andrew Harrington. She remembered seeing him only that morning, on the steps along with Sir Angus Cunningham and Lord Lionel Wittburg. They had crossed paths a few times through the years, once at a fund-raiser for the antiquities department, and once at one of Maggie's parties to draw attention to the plight of the poor in the East End.

Brian bowed courteously, though he seemed stiff as he graciously ceded her to Sir Harrington.

The man smiled charmingly at her as he took her hand and slipped an arm around her, easily sliding back into the waltz. “You have certainly come of age most beautifully, Miss Grayson,” he said.

“Thank you. And you, sir? How are you doing? I saw you this morning.”

“You did?”

“In the village.”

“Ah, yes…. It seemed Angus could use all the help he could get.”

“Military men stand together,” she murmured.

He smiled, then looked grave. “I heard you were accosted by that monster, the highwayman.”

“I'm quite all right.”

“Would that I had been there,” he said, sounding angry. “Someone needs to skewer that fellow through.”

“Thank you. I am fairly capable, however.”

He shook his head and said softly, “You underestimate your beauty and your allure, my dear, and the wickedness in the minds of some men. I tell you now—and I say this passionately, and even knowing that you have strong guardians—if you are ever in need of assistance, I would be there willingly.”

He was very good-looking, with rich brown hair and topaz eyes. Strong, tall, not heavily muscled, but still…she could feel the steely power in his hold.

She smiled, inclining her head. “Thank you.”

“So…what is the mysterious announcement to be made tonight?” he asked.

She didn't get a chance to tell him that she didn't know herself, for, as if aware that he had just been discussed, Sir Angus Cunningham was the next to cut in.

For such a large man, he danced very well. His voice was gruff when he said, “My dear sweet lass, I am ashamed by what befell you. As sheriff of the village and the surrounding forests, I failed you. Forgive me.”

“Angus!” She had known him since she'd been quite young. “You had your hands full this morning. The highwayman is no real threat. An ugly mob
is.
”

“You saw that,” he murmured.

“And I was very proud of you—you and Lord Witt-burg and Sir Harrington. You quelled that crowd quite nicely.”

Angus glanced across the room, his expression brooding. “Yes, well…Thane Grier was there, as well. We'll see what rubbish he puts in the paper tomorrow. Of course tomorrow may well be worse…another murder, perhaps.” He seemed to catch himself. “Forgive me. We'll not speak of it tonight.”

“It is of dire importance,” she said softly. Then, her mind suddenly taking a new direction, she frowned.

She had noticed several women there that night in black. Since Queen Victoria had mourned her dear Albert for so long, wearing black had become a trend. Even now, women wore black long after losing someone beloved. There was nothing odd about seeing a woman in black.

And yet…

Staring past Sir Angus's massive shoulder, she caught sight of someone who gave her pause. She didn't know why, but she was suddenly reminded of the woman in the village who had been crying out against the queen.

“Sir Angus?” she said suddenly.

“What, dear?”

“Who was that woman this morning?”

“What woman?”

“In the crowd, shouting so angrily about the monarchy.”

“Who wasn't shouting angrily?” he asked rhetorically. “I swear, someone riled up that crowd. There were placards everywhere. Our citizens are normally peaceful and law-abiding, other than that wretched highwayman. Though I believe he hails from London and merely uses my roads for his despicable deeds.”