Ivory and Steel (16 page)

“No.” Her lips twitched in sudden amusement. “
Not
to the opera. She always wore the Allbury diamonds for that.
Never
a lowly locket. Perhaps—” She broke off, trying to think of some reason the locket might be the key to solving their deadly riddle.

“Perhaps
we had best examine it again, before your imagination carries you away.”

“My
imagination? And what of yours, pray?”

“I’m not given to wild flights of fantasy.”

“By that I suppose you mean I am? How wretchedly unfair of you. I suppose you think I
imagined
having my room ransacked and being attacked the other night?”

That sobered him. “I do not,” he said shortly.

By mutual agreement they left the Park and returned to Allbury House. Fenton greeted them with the news that Mr. Frake had taken possession of the housekeeper’s sitting room to once more subject the servants to an inquisition. Phyllida did her best to soothe the butler’s lacerated feelings then hurried with Ingram to the nether regions of the house to learn what occurred.

When they entered the room the Runner sat in the housekeeper’s huge padded chair. “Enthroned” would be a better word, she decided, appreciating Mr. Frake’s sense of the dramatic. His wiry figure appeared quite regal, certainly awe-inspiring. The second footman, who stood before him, uneasily shifting his weight from foot to foot, appeared properly reverential.

Mr. Frake acknowledged their arrival with an imperious nod of his head then turned back to the hapless footman. “What happened then, Arthur?”

“Nothing, sir. Mr. Fenton, he helped her ladyship with her cloak and I opened the carriage door. I never seen her again.”

The last was said without a touch of sorrow. Mr. Frake gazed at the young man for a long time, during which his victim betrayed no further unease, only a sincere and understandable desire to return to his duties. At last the Runner nodded his dismissal, and the footman made good his escape with an audible sigh.

“Have you learned anything new?” Ingram inquired after the door closed again.

The Runner came to his feet. “Well, m’lord, I have and I haven’t.” A twinkle lit his tired eyes, animating his entire face. “Some of the servants are mighty pleased the young marchioness is no longer mistress here but none of them could have gone to the opera house that night.”

“Could any of them have assisted the murderer in any way?” Ingram asked.

Mr. Frake pursed his lips. “Not as far as I can tell. There are one or two who are loyal enough to the dowager to hold their tongues if they suspected something but—” He shook his head. “If any of that lot helped, they must have done it unknowing-like.” His eyes narrowed. “You looks as if you have something to say, miss.”

Quickly, Phyllida told Mr. Frake about Mr. Enderby and the locket.

The Runner rocked back on his heels and worked his lower lip between his teeth. “Well now, miss. That does sound interesting.”

He drew a velvet pouch from an inner pocket and emptied the locket onto the cushion of the chair he had just vacated. Phyllida reached for it but it was Ingram who touched the catch, springing it open.

“Just the hair,” Phyllida said after a long moment. “Could there be another compartment?”

Mr. Frake then Ingram and Phyllida each took a turn examining the small oval of gold. Yet try as they might they could discover nothing of any significance.

“No intertwined initials, no scratches, nothing!” Phyllida exclaimed in disgust as she returned the locket to the Runner. “Only the engraved flowers.”

“If it holds any secrets it’s keeping them very well,” Mr. Frake agreed.

Ingram tugged idly at his quizzing glass. “I did suggest Enderby might want it for its pawning value.”

The Runner regarded him for a long moment. “Did you now, my lord? Well it seems as if you might have been right about that.”

Phyllida ran frustrated fingers through the fluff of curls that framed her face. “Why don’t we go through the charity project’s papers?” she suggested at last.

Ingram swung the glass by its riband. “What entertaining ideas you have.”

“Well it’s better than doing nothing!” She turned on her heel and stalked from the room.

She didn’t go alone. The other two followed her up the stairs to the Ladies’ Sitting Room. She crossed to the writing desk, opened the bottom drawer and drew out an untidy stack of sheets.

Ingram selected the top one and studied it through his quizzing glass. He glanced up at Phyllida with dawning respect. “You have earned a great deal of money for your cause.”

She looked away, trying to hide her pride—and her pleasure—at his compliment. “We have worked hard—especially Miss Yarborough, who has done all the painting.”

“What about you?”

Phyllida shook her head. “Had I tried to sketch we would not have sold a single one. My work is ghastly.”

Smiling, Ingram returned his attention to the sheet then picked up several more. “Who kept the books? They seem somewhat haphazard.”

“That was Louisa’s sole contribution.” That she herself had wanted to control the finances, but had been overruled by her sister, Phyllida didn’t mention.

Ingram studied each in turn. “There is room here for errors,” he said at last.

Mr. Frake looked up. “Do you mean…”

Ingram nodded. “It’s very possible someone could steal funds. These accounts are in such a jumble a discrepancy could go unnoticed indefinitely.”

“But you think Louisa discovered one?” Phyllida clasped her hands together to keep them from trembling. “Oh why did we not think to examine the books before! Of course, this
must
be the reason.”

“Is she likely to have confronted the thief, miss?” Mr. Frake asked.

“Yes, very likely.”

Ingram tapped the sheets with his quizzing glass. “Our culprit might well have murdered her to protect himself.”

“So much money.” Mr. Frake shook his head. “That would prove a nasty temptation to the most honest of souls. I think maybe I’ll just go and speak to the people at the bank who handle your charity’s account.”

He relieved Ingram of the sheets and replaced them in the stack. This he fastened with a string Phyllida located in another drawer then he took his leave of them to examine the papers in more detail.

Phyllida crossed to the window and stared out over the Square. “A real possibility.”

Ingram moved to stand just behind her. His warm breath ruffled the hair on the top of her head. For a long moment she savored the sensation.

“This is still speculation,” he reminded her. “We will have to wait and see if any funds are missing.”

She looked up at him, where he stood so close. “Do you think there will be?”

“I don’t know.” He touched her shoulder then allowed his hand to drop. “I hope so.”

“There are so many other reasons why someone might have wanted her dead,” she said when she could master her voice. “Mr. Enderby and his-his relationship with her, or the money she caused him to spend. Maria and her jealousy. Constance and her resentment. Allbury—” She broke off.

“I think we can leave Allbury out of this,” Ingram said, somewhat shortly.

“Can we?” She turned to face him. “I like him too but we have to consider the possibilities. It seems very probable Louisa played him false. You know his pride, his sense of honor to his name. He would never accept an heir that was not his.”

“He wouldn’t kill her.” Ingram paced away from her then turned back. “The dowager is far more likely, however little that idea appeals to me. She hated Louisa, wanted her son to form a more eligible alliance. From where do you think Allbury learned his pride? The dowager would never tolerate Louisa’s affairs.”

Phyllida swallowed to ease the dryness in her throat. “Have you said all this to Mr. Frake?”

“He knows.” He ran a hand through the unruly waves of his windswept hair. “But just because the dowager wanted her dead doesn’t mean she actually murdered her.”

“Someone did,” Phyllida said, though mostly to herself. When it came to suspecting Allbury and his mother she would get little support from Ingram. Rarely had she met a man so intensely loyal. It was a trait to be admired—unless she came up against it.

Dinner passed with Phyllida hardly aware of what she ate. She kept hoping Mr. Frake would return though she knew he would not yet have been able to visit the bank. She just wanted the matter settled, to finally know the truth—to be able to put Louisa’s murder behind her so she could remember her good traits, not just the reasons people hated her.

She sought her chamber early and prepared for bed. For a long while she lay awake, staring into the dark fastness of her bed’s canopy, listening to the noises of the others who remained below, at last drifting off.

She came fully awake with a jerk, skin prickling, alert to something not quite right. A streak of pale moonlight fell across her coverlet from a gap between the curtains but otherwise the room lay in darkness. No dark shapes threatened, no one loomed over her with the deadly steel blade of a fan. The stillness of sleep engulfed the house except…

It was more than her disordered nerves, of that Phyllida was certain. Not here, but somewhere… She lay without moving, straining her ears, until the thump and creak of an incautious step upon the stairs reached her. That must have been what had awakened her, that sound out of place. The servants should not be up and about yet for another couple of hours.

Unless someone had been taken ill. The thump had not presaged danger but distress for some poor maid or footman. Phyllida rose quickly, shoved her feet into slippers and drew on her dressing gown. The dowager would be angry if she were disturbed by some underling’s toothache.

The hall outside her room glowed dimly from the oil lamps that burned on the stairs. The noises came from below, she realized, not the attics. Someone must be heading for the kitchens and using the better-lighted main steps. She couldn’t blame the person—but the dowager would be livid if she knew.

On the second landing down she came to an abrupt halt. The door to Louisa’s room stood wide and the light from several candles filled the hall, falling across a hideously smirking crocodile carved on a table pedestal. Phyllida crept closer, hugging the shadows of the wall, her heart beating hard and rapid, until she could peek inside.

All seemed to be still.

Except for the drapes, which swayed in the gentle breeze from the open window.

She let out the breath she had held. One curtain hung outside, as if the intruder had made a hasty exit by way of a drainpipe. He must have heard her approach. Still, she had to force herself to inch over the threshold to see what damage had been done. She knew she was being silly yet she drew air into her lungs, ready to scream and run at the least sign anyone remained within.

She took one tentative step into the chamber then another. The room had been torn apart once more, with Louisa’s carefully stacked and boxed belongings again scattered over the floor and furniture. Phyllida bit her lip.
Why?
Surely everyone knew they had already gone through everything. Slowly she moved through the shambles, staring about in utter dismay.

Only the slightest sound warned her. She turned, a scream barely forming in her throat as a dark, robed figure lunged from behind the door, hurling a vase at her. It hit her shoulder and she staggered sideways, lost her footing and fell. Her head struck something hard and blinding pain shot through her only to fade as unconsciousness overcame her.

Chapter Thirteen

Voices reached Phyllida, deep and rumbling. Then another joined in, pitched higher and rising on a wail, painful to the ears. Phyllida winced and tried to escape the sound by rolling over. She struck something hard.

“Easy.” Ingram’s deep, soothing tones reached her.

Ingram? She dragged her eyes open but everything blurred into hazy shapes, no colors, only varying shades of dark and light. She raised one unsteady hand and Ingram caught it in a sustaining clasp.

“What—” She broke off as memory flooded back. She dragged herself up onto one elbow then into a sitting position. For a moment the world spun about in an unmannerly fashion then settled into the familiar setting of Louisa’s brightly illuminated bedchamber. Lord Ingram’s arm closed about her, keeping her from falling back to the floor. Her bleary gaze swept the scattered heaps of gowns that she had folded so neatly to be given away.

“
Again,
”
she breathed.

“Don’t try to stand,” Ingram ordered. His arm tightened about her, pressing her cheek into the soft brocade of his dressing gown.

“I doubt I could.” Nor had she any desire to leave such a secure haven, not when her forehead throbbed so. Hesitantly, she felt the lump swelling there.

“Here, miss.” Mrs. Battersea, enveloped in an ancient flowered wrapper, knelt at her side and pressed a damp cloth to the spot.

Phyllida bit back an exclamation then gingerly held the muslin in position herself. She allowed her cheek to rest against Ingram’s shoulder, grateful for his support yet knowing it would be prudent to keep her distance from him. Prudence didn’t stand a chance.

Slowly she looked about, moving her head with care. Her gaze fell upon Allbury’s velvet dressing gown, of so vivid a color and pattern as to make her wince again.

“You must have struck the bedpost when you slipped,” the marquis said. “What were you doing in here?” He gestured at the mess that cluttered the floor. “It’s no wonder you fell,” he added.

“Miss would never go making such a mess,” Mrs. Battersea declared. She gathered an armload of chemises from beside Phyllida and set them onto the bed.

Phyllida covered her eyes with one hand. “I heard noises so I came down to investigate. I thought someone must have taken ill. But the door here was open, the candles lit. When I came in someone—” She stopped. Those last couple of seconds remained a blur.

Ingram’s fingers dug into her arm through her flimsy wrapper. “I told you someone must have hit her,” he told Allbury, then he glared down at Phyllida. “Lord, didn’t you learn after the last time? Do you like walking into dangerous situations?”

“I don’t! Last time I was asleep and this time—” She broke off, mustering her strength. “This time I thought the room was empty.”

“Confound it, couldn’t you have made certain first?”

Allbury walked to the window and peered out. “Looks like the fellow left by the drainpipe.”

“That’s what I thought,” Phyllida agreed and cast Ingram a defiant glance.

Ingram muttered something under his breath then added, “How long do you think it will take that Runner to get here?”

Allbury shook his head. “A little while, I should imagine. Why would someone search her room
again?”

“Because he still hasn’t found what he wanted?” Phyllida suggested. She pulled free from Ingram’s arm and he helped her to rise.

“Why don’t you go to your room?” he suggested. “Mrs. Battersea, will you stay with her?”

“That I will, m’lord.” The woman sounded grim.

Phyllida started to object then changed her mind. If Louisa’s room could be searched twice then hers might be as well. She knew herself craven but she had no desire to be alone at the moment. She allowed the housekeeper to escort her to her apartment.

They encountered a wide-eyed maid in the corridor and Mrs. Battersea sent her running for hot chocolate and pastilles. The latter Phyllida declined but the former, when it arrived in her chamber some fifteen minutes later, she accepted with relief. She curled under her coverlet sipping the steaming mug, and began to feel a measure better.

Mrs. Battersea settled in a chair on the other side of the room, her own cup in hand, determined to play her role of watchdog. From below came the sounds of a search as Fenton and his footmen checked to make certain no evil strangers lurked in any of the other rooms.

The minutes dragged by and the dull ache in Phyllida’s head began to throb once more. When it grew unbearable she soaked a cloth in the water remaining in her pitcher then lay down on her bed with this clasped to her forehead.

Who?
her mind screamed. Someone had entered the house three times now to search for the diary.
Three times.
It couldn’t be that easy to break in…unless the person didn’t need to. He—or she—might already be inside.

Allbury, the dowager, Constance…and Lord Ingram. No,
not
Ingram. He never would have struck her.

But which one of those other three… With a groan, she buried her face in her pillow. The image rose in her mind of the dark figure in her own chamber, that rustle of satin, the flaring of skirts. A woman—or a man in a dressing gown. Her attacker no intruder but a member of the household. Not Ingram. Allbury.

No, she couldn’t—or was that wouldn’t—let herself believe that. She had been struck on the head, obviously she wasn’t up to thinking yet. She should try to clear her mind, get what rest she could and prepare herself for the inquisition she would undergo when the Runner arrived.

Dawn crept into the sky, tingeing the gray with streaks of gold and pink, before his summons came. With the assistance of the housekeeper Phyllida donned her plain black muslin, did her best to straighten her mussed hair then went down to the salon where he awaited her. Mrs. Battersea accompanied her, departing only after delivering her charge safely into official hands.

Mr. Frake rose to greet her, a heavy frown on his normally unreadable countenance. He ushered her to a chair then stood over her, his candid blue eyes clouded. “A disturbing occurrence, miss,” he said at last.

“I am in complete agreement.” She tried to smile but knew it a pitiful attempt. “You have seen Louisa’s chamber already, haven’t you?”

“That I have, miss. And the dressing room.”

“And—” Phyllida stared at him, aghast. “You mean
that
was searched also?”

“Yes, miss. In fact, that seems like to have been the primary target, as you might say.”

She swallowed. “Of course. Could you tell if anything was taken?”

“No more than last time, miss. Now, can you tell me if you gained any impressions about your attacker?”

She shook her head. “I never saw anything. He must have been behind the door.”

“Or in the dressing room.”

Phyllida frowned. “But surely if he had been in there Allbury must have heard—” She broke off. The dressing room lay between his chamber and the one Louisa had occupied.

Mr. Frake rocked back on his heels. From his pocket he drew his pipe then tapped the bowl with one meditative finger. “His lordship says as he didn’t hear nothing, not until the crash, which must have been you falling over that there table.”

Phyllida nodded. “He—the intruder—must have searched very silently. I only awoke because of that stair that always creaks…”

“And where is that, miss?” Mr. Frake caught her hesitation.

“On the floor between the marquis’s and mine. The step just beneath the landing—the half-landing, that is.”

“Now, why would our intruder be a-going up there?” the Runner mused. “Who else sleeps on your floor, miss?”

“Only Constance Yarborough. Lord Ingram is in the room beyond the dowager’s.”

“Miss Yarborough,” the Runner muttered then shook his head. “O’course, our intruder might have just been taking a look-see, to make sure no one was awake.”

The door flew wide and Lord Ingram strode into the room. He fixed Phyllida with a compelling eye. “You should not be up,” he said.

“I am much recovered.” She enjoyed his concern, even voiced so roughly.

He turned to glare at the Runner. “It is intolerable that she should have been attacked
again.
”

Mr. Frake tapped his notebook with his pencil. “Murder is an intolerable occurrence, m’lord.”

Ingram waved that aside. “Miss Dearne should leave this house.”

“And why is that, m’lord?” The Runner watched him through narrowed eyes.

“
Why
?”
Ingram demanded. “Someone tries to stab her in her bed then strikes her down and you ask
why
?”

“At least he didn’t use a knife last night,” Phyllida offered.

He turned on her and his frowning gaze searched her face. “You are taking this remarkably well,” he said at last.

“I fail to see where any useful purpose would be served by my succumbing to a fit of the vapors.”

The corners of his stern mouth tugged upward, as if against his will. “I have never known that to serve as a deterrent to other young ladies.”

Mr. Frake cleared his throat. “Was you wishful to say anything else, m’lord?”

“Only to Miss Dearne. I would have her safe and out of here.”

The Runner cocked an eyebrow at Phyllida. “Have you somewheres you might stay, miss?”

Phyllida hesitated. “No. But—”

“She may stay at my estate. My mother is there, and my sisters. I will hire a chaise if Allbury will not send his traveling chariot.”

“But I don’t want to go,” Phyllida interrupted. “I’m not in any real danger, I just happened to be in the wrong place. I’ll be more careful. But I mean to stay here until this matter is settled.”

He glared at her then slowly his expression softened. “Is there no hope of making you see reason?”

“None whatsoever.” She met his gaze and an unsettling flutter, as of tiny wings, began in her stomach. His eyes glowed and she felt herself sinking into their depths.

“Then it seems I must keep you safe myself,” he said. Abruptly, he turned back to the Runner. “Kindly keep me informed on the progress of your investigation.” He caught Phyllida’s hand and carried it to his lips then released her and strode to the door.

Happiness filled her, such happiness as she had never dreamed could be hers. Surely he did not trifle with her, not when he suggested sending her to his home, into the care of his mother. Perhaps she should have said yes…but that lay in her yet undecided future. She could not contemplate that until she could put the past safely behind her.

“I’ll be going now, miss.”

The Runner’s voice recalled her attention to her surroundings. Hot color flooded her cheeks at this reminder that another had witnessed the dawning of her dreams.

“Will you return?” she asked. “When you have visited the bank?” Her eyes widened. “Do you think someone sought the project’s records?”

He awarded her an indulgent smile. “It’s a definite possibility, miss. You just let it be known there’s nothing as shouldn’t be in your chambers and don’t go exploring no more at night and you should be all right and tight. I’ll let you know what I learn.”

Phyllida returned to her chamber, hesitated, then turned the key and removed it from the lock. It had been a long, mostly sleepless night. Tomorrow she must help decorate Woking House for the ball. Today she would indulge herself and rest…and daydream.

She did, but only for a very short while before she drifted off to sleep in her chair.

It seemed as if she had barely closed her eyes yet it was late afternoon when someone tapped on her door, disturbing her slumber. She dragged herself up to answer the summons.

The butler stood without. “Mr. Frake, miss. He said you wished to see him.”

“Oh.” She rubbed her scratchy eyes. “Thank you, Fenton. I’ll be with him in a moment.” She glanced at her reflection, tidied her mussed hair and gown then followed the butler down the several flights of stairs to the salon.

Mr. Frake sat on a sofa, perusing a magazine. Lord Ingram, as neat as ever in a coat of deep green superfine over buckskin breeches, stood near the window, staring out over the Square. Briefly she met his gaze as he turned to greet her and the warmth of his smile set a thrill dancing through her.

The Runner looked up, his expression solemn. “Well, miss, it’s just as we suspected. There’s five hundred pounds gone missing from the charity funds.”

“Five hundred—” She sank onto the closest chair. “Then someone
was
stealing. Oh, how-how dreadful.”

“As you say, miss.” He drew out his Occurrence Book. “Why don’t you just tell me who might have had access to the funds?”

She stared at her clasped hands, thinking. “Before they were put in the bank, almost anyone, I suppose. After that…” She ran the list through her mind and felt ill. “Only Louisa, myself—and Miss Yarborough.”

“The funds was never put in the bank, miss.”

Phyllida drew a shaky breath of pure relief.

“Now why don’t you tell me who’s been taking in the payments?” Mr. Frake invited.