Ivory and Steel (17 page)

Phyllida toyed absently with the fabric of her skirt while she considered. “The three of us, of course. Also Lady Woking, Maria Enderby, even the dowager on one occasion.”

“Only one?” The Runner looked up from his notes.

“She has never been involved to any great extent.”

“I see, miss.” He jotted down a note. “So any of you might have held out money without the others realizing, it seems.”

Phyllida nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

He let out a gusty sigh. “Well, miss. I’d best be a-getting back to work. M’lord.” He nodded to Ingram and took his leave.

“Theft from the charity—” Phyllida broke off as the implication dawned on her. She shook her head, trying to deny the truth.

“Miss Dearne?” Ingram seated himself on the chair opposite her then leaned across and possessed himself of her cold hand.

She raised horror-filled eyes to his face. “I killed her,” she whispered.

His brow snapped down. “What nonsense is this?”

“The charity—
my
charity! If I had never started it…” Her voice trailed off.

His grip tightened, causing her to wince. “You are talking the most blatant rubbish! We don’t know why she was killed.”

“But if it was over these funds—”

“Five hundred pounds.” He spoke the amount with scathing tone. “One doesn’t commit murder for so paltry a sum. No, I think we need look elsewhere.”

Phyllida let out a ragged sigh. “You are right. That isn’t all that much. Not enough to commit murder for, surely.”

He smiled suddenly. “Now all you have to dread is our decorating expedition tomorrow.”

“You are coming?” she asked quickly, her spirits lifting.

His gaze rested on her face and he nodded as if coming to a decision. “Yes, I intend to help.”

* * * * *

The following afternoon proved every bit as busy as Phyllida anticipated. The flowers arrived late and it was quickly discovered there were insufficient vases for the multitude ordered by the dowager marchioness. That lady merely waved the problem aside, told the distraught hostess-to-be to pay the matter no heed and dispatched Phyllida back to Allbury House to procure the necessary vessels.

By the time she returned a new crisis had developed. Newton’s of Leicester Square, the linen drapers, had sent the wrong color muslin. Lady Woking stood in the center of the ballroom with ells of fabric clutched in her hands.

“Green,” she declared dramatically. “What am I to do with
green?”

The others remained silent, leaving Phyllida to assume they had all taken their turns at answering. Lady Woking stared at Phyllida as if expecting her to work some miracle.

“It would look quite charming hung from the ceiling and gathered in folds, like shrubbery,” Phyllida suggested. “Perhaps we could attach the fans so they look like clusters of flowers…” Her voice trailed off under the glare directed at her.

“I ordered the loveliest pink,” Lady Woking informed her coldly. “I wanted a pavilion.”

Phyllida glanced about for aid but found the others had hurriedly returned to their occupations or had prudently removed themselves from the vicinity. With a sigh she set about soothing the ruffled matron, and after about twenty minutes she was able to summon three footmen to begin the job of hanging the cloth.

As Lady Woking hurried after the men, exclaiming over their supposed clumsiness, Miss Yarborough appeared at Phyllida’s elbow. “Might I have some of the muslin? Enough to drape about my working table?”

“Of course.” Together they measured and cut a length of fabric then carried it to the entrance of the ballroom.

“It was Lord Allbury’s suggestion to put my table here,” Miss Yarborough said. She gestured to the right of the doorway, where no one coming in or out could possibly miss it. Faint color tinged her cheeks as she added, “He thinks people will stop to watch me painting and that will encourage them to order more.”

“What an excellent idea.” That it might also create a blockage in the doorway, making it impossible for new arrivals to enter, she didn’t point out.

Allbury joined them as they reached the table and Phyllida abandoned her plans to assist with the arrangement of the cloth. They could manage very well on their own. Judging from the way Constance gazed up at the tall, slender gentleman, she would far rather not have anyone else about.

On the other side of the long chamber Maria Enderby tore away silvered paper and drew out one of the finished fans. With the help of her husband she fastened it with pins to the length of green fabric. The mistake on the part of the linen draper appeared to be all for the best—Miss Yarborough’s handiwork, Phyllida decided, would have been lost in pink. As long as Maria Enderby didn’t get carried away and display too many the effect should be quite delightful.

Phyllida returned to the folded ells of muslin to help measure and cut another length. On the whole Lady Woking had been right to insist on the ball continuing as originally planned. This way they made the most of public sympathy. In the past few days, more people than expected had rushed to purchase tickets to this not-very-exclusive event. Probably drawn by the aura of scandal. Louisa had done more for their cause in death than she ever had in life.

The dowager’s voice rose in the hall, berating a caterer who dared place a punch bowl an inch out of its designated position. Phyllida returned her attention to the fabric before her and tried to ignore the dull throbbing that began in her temples. Lord Ingram could deal with the dowager. When last seen, he had been in the drawing room where the refreshments would be laid out. Unless, of course, he had gone to oversee the arrangement of the card tables. Either way, she seemed to be seeing very little of him. She tried to stifle her disappointment and failed.

Almost two hours later she measured the last length of muslin and handed it to the waiting footman. Very little remained to be done. The maids would sweep up, of course, and there still might be silver to polish, but that lay beyond her province. What she really wanted was to return to Allbury House and lie down until her head stopped aching.

She looked about and discovered only Constance remained in the ballroom, directing the footmen in the placement of that last piece of muslin. In her hands the girl held two fans and a packet of pins.

Phyllida wandered into the hall, searching for the others, and almost collided with Allbury. He caught her arm to steady her.

“Do you like our table?” he asked.

He reminded her of a puppy, eager to be praised. Dutifully she admired their arrangement, refraining from pointing out how little room they had left Miss Yarborough to work. That could be changed at the last minute so it didn’t really worry her.

“Are we finished?” she asked.

“Not quite. Miss Yarborough wanted to change a few of the displays.”

“And Lady Allbury?” If the dowager entered the ballroom they would undoubtedly be here for another three hours while she rearranged everything to suit her—and no one else’s—taste.

The marquis’s jaw tightened. “I haven’t seen her for a while. Perhaps she is in the kitchens, terrifying the caterers.”

Phyllida blinked. Filial duty normally kept him from speaking of his mother with irreverence. Maybe there was hope for him yet. She excused herself and went to find Lady Woking to gain her permission to enter the basements in search of the dowager.

As she crossed the hall Maria Enderby ran lightly down the stairs from the floor above. That young lady started as she saw Phyllida, drew back a step then continued with a nonchalance that lacked credibility.

Phyllida’s eyes narrowed. Had she caught Maria doing something she shouldn’t?

The girl reached the landing, ran her fingers over the front of her sprigged muslin round gown and gave Phyllida a conspiratorial wink. “I vow, I was quite overcome by the dust,” she whispered. “Were not you?”

“No, but then I spent my time cutting the muslin.” Phyllida watched her, suspicious.

Maria giggled. “I slipped away to escape it and hid in a guest bedchamber. I found the most delightful novel. Never would I have expected Harriet Jennings—Lady Woking, I
should
say,” she rolled her eyes, “of having that sort of book in her house. My own deportment mistress!” With another hushed giggle, she hurried back into the ballroom.

She’d been prying, not reading, Phyllida was willing to wager. Lady Woking, it seemed, had failed to drill the essentials of propriety into her pupils. Shaking her head, she set off once more on her search, determined not to overstep the bounds herself.

She peeked into each of the rooms that would be open that night to the attendees but found no trace of her hostess. As she returned to the ballroom the butler came up the stairs with two footmen in his wake.

“Do you know where I could find Lady Woking?” Phyllida asked, relieved.

“In the kitchens, miss.”

No wonder she hadn’t found her. “And Lady Allbury?”

“Her ladyship is upstairs, miss, lying down.”

That didn’t seem right. Concerned, she asked the butler to take her to the dowager. That worthy dismissed his satellites then led the way up the staircase. At the third landing he turned down a short hall then stopped at the second door, which was closed.

“In here, miss.” With a slight bow, he returned to his duties.

Phyllida rapped lightly but there was no response. Had the dowager been taken ill? She hesitated then eased the door open and slipped inside.

Darkness engulfed the chamber, broken only by the dim illumination from the hall behind Phyllida. Someone had drawn heavy drapes at the window and the oil lamp at the bedside had not been lit. She could make out the shape of a heavyset woman lying on the four-poster, her hands clasped on her breast.

And something protruded from between her hands.

With fingers that trembled Phyllida located a tinderbox on the bedside table and lit the lamp. It sputtered then the globe filled with light that shone across the bed.

The dowager marchioness held a fan—one from the project. The glow of the lamp set sparkles flashing from the topaz necklace the woman had felt suitable for the day’s labors. Phyllida tilted the lamp closer and something glinted between the dowager’s fingers.

A steely glint, from the exposed metal fan blade that penetrated Lady Allbury’s blood-soaked gown.

Chapter Fourteen

Phyllida drew back, clutching the lamp between fingers numbed by shock. Nausea washed over her, leaving her weak and trembling, yet she was unable to drag her eyes from that fan—that dagger…

Strong hands gripped her shoulders and she spun about, stifling a scream as she recognized Lord Ingram’s stern features. With a half-sob, she buried her face in the forest green superfine covering his shoulder. His arm closed about her and for a moment his warm breath brushed across her forehead, ruffling her loose curls.

“What’s wrong?” His gentle voice sounded near her ear, comforting.

“The dowager. She-she’s— Just like Louisa…” Tears filled her eyes and choked her voice. She felt chilled, clammy, ill…

He murmured something soothing she didn’t catch and set her aside. After prying the lamp from her fingers he crossed to the bedside, where he stood for a long minute, studying the body.

“Who killed her?” Phyllida breathed.

Ingram placed the light on the table once more and returned to her, clasping her trembling hands. “She has taken her own life.”

“She—” Phyllida stared at him, eyes widening.
“Why?”

“Remorse over killing her daughter-in-law?” Ingram’s grip tightened on her.

“Remorse?” Her voice trembled. “She was
glad
Louisa was dead. Glad she…killed her.”

Ingram’s thumbs caressed her hands, soothing. “She must have believed Mr. Frake had discovered her guilt and she couldn’t face the scandal. The pride in their family—” He shook his head.

“So she has left Allbury to face it alone. How cruel of her.” Her gaze strayed to the dragoness lying on the bed whose imperious, demanding voice had now been silenced permanently. Quickly, she looked away.

“It won’t be that bad for him. A ten-day’s wonder, no more, I should think. He is not the guilty one. The scandal will soon be forgotten, now that the murder is solved—and settled so quietly. It would have been worse had a peeress been brought to trial.”

She shivered. He was probably right.

“Come,” he said, his voice gentle. “You don’t want to stay here.”

“What are we going to do?”

“Summon Mr. Frake.” He touched her cheek then smoothed a stray ringlet back from her forehead. “It’s over, my dear.”

She managed to nod. “Shouldn’t someone stay here with her? It doesn’t seem right, even considering—”

“We’ll have one of the footmen come up.” He located the bell rope and gave it a vigorous pull.

Phyllida stayed where she was but her gaze once more strayed to the bed. “She looks so peaceful. Almost as if she merely went to sleep…”

Her voice trailed off as her mind, dulled by shock, now began to whirl. She barely heard the arrival of the butler or Ingram’s curt order sending him for the Runner. All she could see was the dowager, slumped in her chair in the opera box, drugged, like Louisa, to make the murder easy…

Ingram’s hand closed over her shoulder. “Miss Dearne—Phyllida?”

Slowly she raised her head and stared at him then licked dry lips. “It
looks
as if she killed herself but—”

“She did. Don’t distress yourself imagining it otherwise.”

“What would have made her think Mr. Frake had guessed she was guilty?”

“I have no idea, but even we suspected, did we not? That she killed Louisa to prevent the birth of a misbegotten heir and to free her son to make a more suitable alliance? No one else had as strong a reason for wanting your sister dead.”

“But why would she have taken her own life here? Why not in her home?”

“You’re overwrought.” He took her by the elbow and drew her toward the door.

They waited in silence in the hall until the butler returned. That individual assured Ingram he had sent a footman for the Runner and promised to himself stand guard at the door to assure no one entered the chamber. Ingram thanked him and led Phyllida away.

“Should we tell the others?” she asked as they descended the stairs.

“I am afraid we must. They should be wondering what has become of us. Would you rather wait somewhere else?”

“No, I— Let’s just get it over with.”

They started toward the ballroom, from which laughing voices drifted forth. Before they could enter, though, the door in the entry hall below opened.

Ingram looked over the balcony then nodded in satisfaction. “Frake,” he announced. “He must have been on his way here already.” Leaving Phyllida in the wide corridor, he went down to appraise the Runner of the latest development.

They returned together, Mr. Frake shaking his head. “Bad business, this,” he said as they reached Phyllida. “Now, miss, don’t you go joining the others yet. I’ll just go upstairs and have myself a look-see, then I’ll be wanting to talk to you before the others find out. You too, m’lord. I can find my own way up.”

Ingram’s lips compressed but Phyllida nodded dully, grateful she did not have to accompany him back to that bedchamber. She turned away, drained, the dull throb increasing in her temples.

“Here.” Ingram led her to a secluded alcove and pressed her into a chair. His hands lingered on her shoulders. “This is a finish, not the beginning of new nightmares to come.”

Phyllida bit her lip. She couldn’t banish the image of the dowager sleeping…yet Ingram seemed very certain the woman had killed herself, that this was not another murder. Ingram was no stranger to death, he ought to know. She could trust him…

She peeked up at his strong features, the frown creasing his brow, the military set of his broad shoulders. Calm capability seemed to emanate from him, wrapping about her, warm and comforting. Yes, she trusted him. But the sensations that fluttered through her were so very much more than that.

Lady Woking emerged from the ballroom and, without so much as a glance in their direction, strode down the hall and entered a salon that would be used as a card room that night. She closed the door firmly behind her.

At least they hadn’t been seen, they hadn’t had to tell Lady Woking of the horror that awaited her upstairs. A death in her home, and only hours before a ball… An hysterical desire to giggle welled in Phyllida and she almost couldn’t stifle it.

A few minutes later the door to the ballroom opened once more and Mr. Quincy Enderby emerged. He drew his snuff box from his pocket, helped himself to a pinch then glanced about in a manner so casual as to make Phyllida wonder what he might be about. Apparently he didn’t see them in their alcove, for he made no acknowledgment. He closed the lid with a snap, returned it to his pocket and, humming off-key, headed with a springing stride toward the salon into which Lady Woking had so recently gone. With one quick glance behind him, he slipped inside and closed the door after himself.

Phyllida raised her eyebrows and looked up at Ingram.

For a long minute he stared at the salon and tugged his quizzing glass at the end of its riband. “Is he finding a new—diversion—to replace Louisa?” he asked at last.

“If so, he has chosen an older—and very wealthy—woman,” Phyllida said. “Oh dear, what an improper topic.”

“I imagine it is a welcome change for him. An impoverished gentleman, living off his wife’s fortune, must have found Louisa’s demands somewhat of a burden.”

“At least he didn’t murder Louisa to-to rid himself of her, not if the dowager—” She broke off, still unable to accept that dragon of a woman having taken her own life. It seemed every bit as impossible as Louisa’s being dead.

Heavy footsteps descended the stairs and she looked up to see the Runner pause as he reached the hall. Lord Ingram stepped forward and Phyllida rose, though she wasn’t quite sure why. Something about his grim expression made her feel ill with dread.

“Very clever,” Mr. Frake said, shaking his head. “Very clever indeed. It seems to have fooled even you, m’lord, and here was me thinking you a right downy one, up to every rig and row.”

“What do you mean?” Phyllida demanded. She glanced at the rigid set of Ingram’s jaw and gripped her hands together until they hurt.

“Oh it was made to look all natural-like, as if she had stabbed herself. Only the blade went in almost straight, which she couldn’t have done, not lying like she is.”

“But she had to have—” Ingram broke off, his expression unreadable. “You are mistaken.” His cold voice held a note of command, as if he could force the Runner to change his mind.

Mr. Frake shook his head. “Oh no, m’lord. You may not want to believe it but there’s not a doubt of it. She was murdered.”

Phyllida closed her eyes. “
Why
?”

“Well, miss, that’s what we have to find out now. Lord Ingram here tells me you found her?”

“Yes.” A shudder ran through her. “I was looking for her and the butler told me she had wanted to lie down.”

The Runner took a rapid note then bit the end of the pencil, frowning in thought. “The butler says as she went up there of her own free will. Most like she was drugged and became tired. Then our murderer only had to wait for her to fall asleep—which probably took no more than five minutes or so—then crept in there.”

“Why didn’t she just return home?” Ingram asked.

“She wouldn’t risk being left out of the final preparations for the ball,” Phyllida said softly. “She would have planned to come down again in a few minutes.”

“So if whoever did it knew her well, he could be certain of a splendid opportunity to kill her.” Mr. Frake paced across the hall then turned back to them.

Whoever did it knew her well. The words ran through Phyllida’s mind. Whoever knew her well…like her son, who had all the same reasons for wishing Louisa dead, with perhaps the more savage factor added of personal vengeance for playing him false with his firstborn. But why would he kill his own mother? Why not choose someone else to be his scapegoat?

“So we must once again guess at motives,” Ingram said as if he read her mind. “Does this bring new relevance to what we saw earlier of Lady Woking and Mr. Enderby?”

“And what might that be, m’lord?” Mr. Frake asked.

He told the Runner of the couple even now in the card room at the end of the hall. Mr. Frake rocked back on his heels, head tilted back, as if rolling the thought over in his mind like a fine wine on his palate.

“Yes,” he said slowly. “Mr. Enderby might well have been anxious to be free of your sister, miss. Would she have permitted him to escape before she tired of him though?” He cocked a questioning eyebrow at Phyllida.

“No,” she admitted. “If he had tried—” She shivered. “She would have caused him the most dreadful amount of trouble. Maria’s father would most certainly have cut off his allowance—” She hesitated, feeling the blood draining from her cheeks. “Do you think that is what happened?”

“It still doesn’t explain the dowager’s murder.” Mr. Frake closed his book and returned it to his pocket. “It’s about time we broke the news to Lord and Lady Woking.”

Lord Woking, though, had taken the only course open to a sensible man the moment the self-appointed decorators had descended upon his house. He had departed for his club, the butler said, informing him as he made good his escape that he would be home in time to dress for the event.

In the absence of the master of the house, Mr. Frake took possession of the bookroom. He directed Phyllida to take a seat in the corner then gestured for Lord Ingram to join her. The captain stood at her side, legs slightly spread, arms folded, his firm chin jutting out. In defiance of the Runner’s decision to treat the dowager’s death as murder, Phyllida reflected. Now the scandal would be intensified and Allbury would suffer more…

Her thoughts broke off as the butler returned with Lady Woking. She swept into her husband’s bookroom, her shawl looped loosely from her elbows, and glared at the occupants.

“What is the meaning of this?” she demanded. “I have much still to do this day. Can your questions not wait until tomorrow?”

“This does not concern the death of the young marchioness,” Mr. Frake informed her smoothly.

Lady Woking stopped before the desk, beside which the Runner stood. “What then? My good man, I expect upward of three hundred people in my house this night. What can be more pressing than that?”

“The death of the
dowager
Lady Allbury.”

“The—” The color drained from the woman’s face. “The
death
?
Of the
dowager
?”
She sank onto the chair Lord Ingram obligingly drew up for her. In a moment though, she rallied. “You must be mistaken. Lady Allbury is here—somewhere—harrying my servants.”

“She is in an upstairs bedchamber, where she went to lie down after being drugged, with the steel blade of one of those fans protruding from her breast.”

Phyllida winced at the Runner’s direct tactics. It brought the picture all too vividly to mind.

Lady Woking closed her eyes. “That-that’s impossible,” she breathed.

“I very much fear it isn’t.” Lord Ingram located a decanter on a table, poured her a glass of brandy and pressed it into her hand.

She swallowed a large mouthful and shuddered. “It-it’s true, then?” She looked to Ingram for corroboration.