Ivory and Steel (15 page)

“You will manage very well, have no fear.”

Frowning, Constance twisted her pen between her fingers. At last she said, “I don’t suppose I have any choice in the matter, do I?”

“I am sure you do. But it wouldn’t be so very terrible, would it? You can do most of the work in advance you know, then merely add names and whatever else is required in ink and only a few details with the paints. That should satisfy everyone. And you know how delighted people will be.”

“Do you really think so?” The girl brightened. “It might be fun, at that.”

With Constance’s aid, Phyllida gathered everything for the project they would not be needing for the next few days. With a determination that demanded her full concentration she set to work with the newly delivered silver paper. Distributing the fans at the ball, she admitted, would be an excellent idea. Not only would potential patrons see the finished products but it might encourage some who would not otherwise attend the ball to pay the hefty ticket fee in order to pick up their orders.

Less than an hour later she placed the last of the neatly wrapped fans into the box and adjusted the carefully penned tag that hung from its handle. The footman carried them down to the waiting landau and Phyllida set forth for Woking House.

Lady Woking, resplendent in trailing lavender silk, met her at the door of the salon with a cry of delight. “You brought them. Over here, Henry.” She gestured for the footman to place his burden. “Has dear Miss Yarborough started the sketches?”

“She has. It should keep her quite busy over the next few days.”

“Oh pray, do not go, Miss Dearne. Will you not have a cup of tea? I won’t take no for an answer. Henry, will you ask Erskine to bring it? Along with some cakes?”

Phyllida took the seat into which her hostess pressed her, wondering at this show of hospitality. She’d been treated as the poor relation she was on previous visits. Her suspicions rose like the hackles on a dog.

Lady Woking settled into the chair opposite. “There, my dear, what a sad trial this has been for you. How dreadful it must be, with everyone at Allbury House only too glad your poor sister is dead. It must be a terrible strain on you.”

“I do not believe anyone is
glad
Louisa is dead,” Phyllida said, cautiously if untruthfully. Lady Woking would receive no food for gossip from her.

That lady reached across and gave her hand a comforting pat, her expression all commiseration. “So very brave of you. But you need not keep up the pretenses before me, you know.”

She broke off as the butler entered bearing a tray on which rested a steaming pot, two delicate china cups and a plate filled with cakes and biscuits. He set this on a table near his mistress. Lady Woking poured, added sugar and handed a cup to Phyllida.

“My dear,” Lady Woking resumed as the butler closed the door behind himself. “I was never more shocked, I assure you!”

Phyllida nodded, though without encouragement. She would find out about what—and all too soon if she knew Lady Woking.

“Such a dreadful lack of taste, for Lady Allbury to be calling upon that wheyfaced Lady Elspeth Osborne. And to actually have dined with her family last night!”

“With Lady—” Recollecting herself, Phyllida broke off. So that was where the dowager had gone.

Her dismay must have shown clearly in her face for Lady Woking’s prim smile formed as she nodded. “Tongues are wagging all over London that she has chosen Lady Elspeth for her son’s next bride. And only days after the murder of his first.”

“They will wag even over the merest trifles,” Phyllida tried, though she feared her hostess would not be sidetracked. Lady Elspeth, as most of the
ton
must have known, had been the dowager’s choice for her daughter-in-law all along. She had pushed for that union even before the marquis had met Phyllida. It had been a severe blow to the dowager when her son had married Louisa.

A chill crept over Phyllida that a long swallow of hot tea failed to dispel. Just how much had the dowager wished this match between the marquis and Lady Elspeth? Enough, perhaps, to remove the primary obstacle—namely Louisa—who stood in the way? No, that would not be enough. Unless she took into consideration the heir that might not be Allbury’s own.

That thought haunted her throughout the ride home. When Fenton greeted her with the information that Mr. Frake awaited her return in the Red Salon she actually greeted the intelligence with relief and hurried up the stairs to see him.

The Runner wasn’t alone. Lord Ingram stood by the hearth, a deep frown creasing his brow. He looked up as she entered and his entire countenance lightened.

Phyllida faltered. It wasn’t fair he should affect her so. She didn’t stand a chance against him. Forcing her senses back under control, she advanced another step into the room.

“Miss Dearne.” His gaze rested on her and his expression warmed. “The very person we need.”

She swallowed. “What may I do for you?”

“Well now, miss.” The Runner regarded her with a kindly smile. “We was hoping you might be able to suggest some motive for your sister’s murder I haven’t thought up yet.”

She shook her head. “The only thing I can add is—” She stopped abruptly, feeling as if she told tales.

“Yes, miss?”

She stared at her hands. “I found Miss Yarborough searching Louisa’s room a second time. She said she looked for a ring.”

“And?” he prodded as she hesitated.

“There is a-a growing friendship between Miss Yarborough and Allbury,” she finished, feeling miserable.

“I had noticed, miss, but you was quite right to mention it to me. Now then, why wasn’t you educated at the same seminary as your sister?”

Studiously, she avoided Ingram’s gaze. “My parents are not wealthy. Louisa’s godmother paid her fees then sponsored her come-out in London.”

“But you had been brought out before then, miss?”

Phyllida nodded. “By an aunt. Louisa visited me, even though she thought our address to be in a most shockingly undesirable quarter of town. And yes, Louisa met Allbury on a visit to me.”

Mr. Frake pursed his lips. “Then you didn’t really see much of her from the time she started at that seminary until she married and you came to live here?”

“No, I’m afraid not. Can Miss Yarborough or Mrs. Enderby not tell you more? They were her closest friends during that time.”

He shook his head. “Neither one can think of nothing that might have led up to this tragic occurrence. Lady Woking remembers her as somewhat of a right regular handful. As your lordship can attest?” He ended on a questioning note.

“That I can.” A rueful smile just touched Ingram’s lips.

Phyllida stared at him in surprise. Had he forgiven Louisa at last for wounding his pride? He had carried that anger for three long years. His attitude had certainly undergone a change in just the short week since they had met.

“And you, miss?” the Runner pursued.

She dragged her gaze from Ingram and warm color seeped into her face. “She looked eighteen on her thirteenth birthday,” she admitted. “She delighted in flirting with the officers she met.”

Mr. Frake nodded. “A rare handful,” he repeated. “Well then, that’s about all for now.”

As he rose Fenton opened the door. “Mrs. Enderby, miss,” he announced and stepped back to let that young lady enter.

She swept in, robed in sprigged muslin boasting numerous bows and ruffles, talking as she came. “Phyllida, it is the most delightful—” She broke off, seeing the others. “Lord Ingram, Mr. Frake. How very pleasant.” Her voice lacked conviction.

Ingram bowed but the Runner rocked back on his heels. “Mrs. Enderby,” he said with a note of satisfaction. “I called on you a little while ago but you was from home.”

The young lady took an involuntary step backward. “About what did you wish to see me?”

“I visited your bank manager today. It seems Mr. Enderby has been drawing some fairly great sums of late.”

Maria’s jaw clenched and she raised her chin in defiance. “Is that so unusual for a gentleman?”

“Not in the least. Especially one who buys expensive presents for a
chère amie
.”

Maria paled and Mr. Frake’s smile became a touch more menacing. “According to two of your maids and one of your footmen you and your husband have been having violent quarrels recently concerning his—shall we say attachment—to the late Lady Allbury. One of the maids swears she heard you say you would kill her.”

Chapter Twelve

A silence so complete as to be almost audible filled the salon and Phyllida tensed. Ingram paused, his snuff box in his hand, and stared intently at Maria Enderby. The blood drained from that young lady’s face, leaving only a spot of burning color in each cheek.

“What a-a dreadful, wicked girl, to say such a thing.” With an effort Maria pulled herself together. “You did not actually believe her, did you? Such a farrago of nonsense? It was Agnes, was it not? You cannot rely on anything that creature says. I should have turned her off without a character months ago.”

“It wasn’t Agnes.” Mr. Frake rocked back on his heels. “Nor did I find the young person’s story in the least ridiculous.”

Maria Enderby straightened her shoulders in her best impersonation of her ex-deportment mistress. “Do you actually believe I would commit murder over one of my husband’s insignificant infidelities?” She managed a shaky laugh. “Louisa was not the first, I assure you. Nor do I have any reason to believe she will be the last.”

So vulnerable… Phyllida’s heart went out to the girl, only to clench as she encountered an unexpected glint of steel in Maria’s eyes. Was her nervous defiance an act calculated to impress the Runner?

“Oh no. Not over an infidelity.” Mr. Frake drew the briarwood pipe from his pocket and twisted the gnarled bowl between his fingers. “But keeping so much of
your
money from slipping through
his
fingers might be another matter.”

“Money!” Maria faltered then shook her head. “No, that is not an issue between us. We have quite enough to indulge his little whims. I know why he married me, there has never been any pretense of love. I-I imagine when I am more at ease about town I will indulge a few whims of my own.”

Phyllida stared at her, unable to believe her so indifferent to her husband’s roving eye. Nor could she believe Maria’s fortune to be that great, or the girl’s scheming mamma would have found a more prominent gentleman than a mere Mr. Enderby to entrap in her golden net. Maria told less than the truth, of that Phyllida felt certain. She looked at the Runner but his expression remained bland, betraying nothing.

“Thank you, Mrs. Enderby,” was all he said. He tapped his notebook.

The girl hesitated. “Arguments are usually of far less importance than they seem,” she offered.

“Very true,” he agreed in that same noncommittal voice.

Fenton entered, bearing a tray, which Phyllida received with relief. Maria turned away and dabbed at her eyes with her wispy lace handkerchief. Phyllida poured lemonade for the girl, who took it in a trembling hand. Was that quavering part of an act or honest distress? Uncertainty gnawed at Phyllida.

“When you came in you said something was delightful,” Phyllida said, latching on to what she hoped was a safe topic.

“Oh yes.” Maria managed a shaky smile. “I thought you would be so very pleased. I-I have done just as you asked.”

“You have?” Phyllida stared at her blankly.

“I have taken more orders for fans. Seven of them, in fact. Is that not wonderful?”

“Indeed it is,” Phyllida assured her. “Do you have them with you?”

Maria set aside her glass then opened her reticule and drew forth a folded piece of paper. “Here. I cannot stay. I-I have another call to make.” She cast a nervous glance at the Runner. “If you have nothing further to ask me?”

“Nothing at the moment, thanking you kindly.” He nodded his dismissal.

Maria allowed Lord Ingram to bow over her hand then managed a trembling smile for the assembled company before heading for the door.

Phyllida saw her out then tucked the sheet into the bodice of her gown before returning to the salon. She fixed the Runner with a compelling eye. “Do you think—” she began.

“Well now, miss. At the moment I can’t say as I’m thinking anything in particular-like.”

“And you wouldn’t tell me if you did, would you?” She sighed.

Mr. Frake shook his head, smiling, and took his leave. He would return later that afternoon, he promised, if the course of his investigations permitted.

“You may be very sure they will,” Ingram said. “Miss Dearne, will you do me the honor of driving with me in the Park this afternoon?”

If he didn’t hear the rapid beating of her heart it would be a miracle. She was being a fool, she knew, but how could she resist the temptation to spend time with him? All too soon the chance for drives through Hyde Park with a handsome gentleman—with
this
handsome gentleman—would be beyond her reach.

“That would be very pleasant,” she managed, and hoped her voice didn’t betray her erratic reactions.

“At four, then.” He took her hand and raised her fingers to his lips.

For several minutes after he left she remained where she stood. She shouldn’t hope, she had too much sense—except when she gazed into those wonderful green eyes. Their lingering warmth hinted at a happiness for which she had never dared dream—and which she feared would evaporate if she tried to grasp it.

In this unsettled mood, she sought out Constance Yarborough and gave her the new fan orders. She then settled herself by the window in the sitting room and devoted her energies, if not her thoughts, to the basket of linens in need of darning.

At four o’clock she fetched her bonnet and shawl and went down to where Ingram awaited her in the entry hall. He looked up as she descended the last steps and the intensity of his gaze caused her severe difficulty in drawing a steady breath.

He ushered her outside and into his waiting curricle. Taking the reins from his groom, he climbed in beside her and gave his pair the office. A deep frown creased his brow.

It was more than the traffic that occupied his mind, she suspected; the blacks were well up to the few carts they passed. As the minutes slipped away her suspicions grew. She fixed him with a compelling eye.

“What have you in mind?”

“In mind?” He glanced at her.

“Why did you ask me to drive with you?” she demanded.

“Because the dowager ordered Allbury to take her out in his phaeton this afternoon.”

“I thought you must have an ulterior motive.” With an effort she kept her chagrin in check.

“On this occasion.” He directed an enigmatic glance at her.

She looked down, her pulse distressingly erratic, and concentrated instead on his earlier response. “Lady Allbury
ordered
him?”

“That was what he told me.”

“That seems very odd. Why would she want her son to drive her in the Park? Normally she takes the air in her barouche.”

“One can only assume she has an excellent reason.”

Phyllida shot him an accusing glance. “Am I your excuse for being there to discover it?”

His smile broadened. “Of course.”

No callous unconcern touched his words. He spoke them as if he expected her to share in some joke. She stared very hard at her hands and fought a losing battle with her dreams.

They said no more until after they entered the gates to the Park. The normal throng of Fashionables filled the tanbark and Rotten Row and more strolled along the paved walkways between the flowering shrubs or sat on the benches. Phyllida concentrated on the carriage drive, searching out swan-necked phaetons.

On their second round, Ingram suddenly exclaimed, “There!” He urged the blacks forward, sweeping past a loitering tilbury with ease.

Just ahead of them, pulled over to the side of the drive, stood Allbury’s chestnuts. The dowager, wrapped in her black satin, descended from the carriage, assisted by her son. The marquis then turned to a very modish young lady whose face was obscured by an oversized bonnet from which a single plume fluttered in the breeze.

“Who is that?” Ingram edged his pair closer.

The young woman turned and Phyllida glimpsed the long patrician face peeking out from beneath the high poke. “Lady Elspeth Osborne,” she declared, indignant.

“Lady—ah yes. The dowager’s choice. Allbury told me about her—and not in very complimentary terms, I promise you.” He glanced at Phyllida’s face. “I have the distinct feeling you do not believe this meeting is accidental.” He moved his horses away from the couple.

“Do you?”

“Oh no. I would be most surprised if it were. It would seem this time the dowager is determined to arrange her son’s marriage to her satisfaction. I wonder to what lengths she would go—or already has gone?”

Phyllida shook her head. “That could be only part of the reason.”

“So you think it possible because of the impending heir to the title.”

“Do you?”

Ingram’s hands clenched on the ribbons. “For Allbury’s sake I sincerely hope not. The scandal of a trial—” He broke off and for several minutes drove in silence, maneuvering his feisty blacks through the snarled traffic as carriages stopped to allow their passengers to greet acquaintances.

“There is Mr. Enderby,” Phyllida said suddenly, relieved to find a new topic. “Do you see him on that roan?”

Mr. Enderby, though, did not look toward them. Phyllida turned to follow the direction of his gaze and saw the swan-necked phaeton approach on its next round.

Mr. Enderby reined in and waited. Doffing his tall curly beaver, he called, “Afternoon, Allbury.”

The marquis drew his pair to a halt. For several long seconds he stared at his accoster as if that gentleman were a Cit or a mushroom attempting to gain admittance at the hallowed portals of Almack’s. Then, without so much as a nod of acknowledgment, he flicked his whip between his horses’ ears and proceeded on his way.

Mr. Enderby’s cheeks flamed. With a patent effort he pulled himself together, replaced his hat with a nonchalance that denied the embarrassing interlude had ever occurred and continued on his way. The next moment he drew in once more, his gaze resting on Lord Ingram’s curricle.

“Miss Dearne!” he called, and bore down on them.

“I wonder if Allbury suspects Mr. Enderby?” Ingram mused. “Should we emulate his snub?”

“You wouldn’t dare! It would be too dreadful of you.”

“I suppose receiving the cut direct twice in a row might be a little much for him. So very mortifying. Still, I much prefer either of the Enderbys as our villain instead of Allbury’s mother. Do not you?” He slowed his pair as Quincy Enderby drew near. “Good afternoon, Enderby.”

That gentleman exchanged greetings with him but as soon as it was politely possible he turned to Phyllida. “Well met, Miss Dearne. I intended to call at Allbury House to see you later.”

“Much easier to gain admittance to the Park,” Ingram said, his smile bland.

Phyllida gave his booted ankle a sharp nudge with her jean-shod toe, warning him to silence, then turned her dazzling smile on the other man. “What may I do for you, Mr. Enderby?”

“That locket of Maria’s, you know. I mentioned it to you before. Don’t suppose you’ve come across it yet?” He flicked a speck of broken leaf from his lower coat sleeve in an offhand manner.

Phyllida cast an uncertain glance at Ingram.

“I’m sure she has been very thorough in her search,” Ingram put in, smiling at her in a most unhelpful manner.

Mr. Enderby’s carefully cultivated casualness evaporated and he leaned forward in concern. “And you haven’t found it? Quite certain, are you, you’ve looked everywhere?”

“No, not everywhere.” About that, at least, Phyllida could tell the truth. “I promise I will tell you the moment I have it in my hands.”

“So make very certain you don’t touch it again,” Ingram told her sternly as Mr. Enderby left them.

She fluttered virtuous lashes at him. “It doesn’t matter, as long as he’s not where I could speak with him when my hand is actually upon it.”

He frowned, apparently mentally reviewing her promise, then his deep chuckle sounded. “My dear Miss Dearne, you are the most complete hand.”

“And how am I to take that, my lord?”

“Perhaps I should have said ‘charmingly devious’.”

She laughed. “That sounds much worse. Did you notice how concerned he is about that locket?”

“He probably hopes to pawn it to cover some of his debts before his wife learns of them.”

She ignored him. “He’s given us a reason why we will find a lock of his hair inside, so he cannot be worried about that. Unless it
is
Maria’s and he wants to return it to her before she knows it’s missing?”

Ingram shook his head. “It would have been foolhardy of him to give Louisa something that belonged to his wife.”

“I doubt his intellect is above average,” she stuck in but she conceded the point. “Then there must be something else about the locket. Do you think it holds some clue to Louisa’s death? Besides the hair, I mean?”

“What?”

“How should I know? If I did, we might already know who killed my sister.” She looked up at her companion, her excitement growing. “We have assumed it is her diary someone wants. What if it is actually the locket? Could she have been murdered because of it?”

“It doesn’t seem likely. She wasn’t wearing it the night she died, was she?”