The Mark of the Midnight Manzanilla A Pink Carnation Novel (17 page)

“Naturally,” said Miss Fitzhugh, with an air of wounded innocence.

Parsnip waved a plump hand at them over her mother’s shoulder. The child’s gurglings and the nurse’s continued complaints receded down the corridor. Miss Fitzhugh looked fondly after them.

“Isn’t she delightful?” Miss Fitzhugh said proudly.

“Delightful,” echoed Lucien, feeling himself at a disadvantage. “Miss Fitzhugh, I—”

“I know,” said Miss Fitzhugh, seating herself on a settee, with a sweep of her skirts. “You wish to thank me. There’s no need.”

Thanking really hadn’t been at the forefront of Lucien’s mind. Abandoning any attempt to proceed logically, he said shortly, “Why did you lie to Sir Matthew?”

Miss Fitzhugh looked at him quizzically. “I didn’t lie, precisely. I merely edited the facts a bit.”

Edit? The term Lucien would have used was “obscure.” Or perhaps “obfuscate.”

Lucien decided not to quibble about words. “Why conceal my presence?”

“I should think that would be obvious.”

It was all about as obvious as mud. Lucien braced a hand against the mantel. “Not to me.”

With great patience, Miss Fitzhugh said, “If Sir Matthew were to apprehend you, how should we go about finding the real killer?”

Lucien blinked at Miss Fitzhugh, who was sitting quite peacefully on the settee, her sprigged muslin skirts fanned out around her, her hands folded demurely in her lap, looking the very picture of innocent maidenhood. “We?”

“Well, who else is going to do it? Left to himself, Sir Matthew would simply arrest you and have done with it. It’s pure laziness, of course. I’m sure that’s what the killer was counting on. Most people can’t be trusted to look outside the obvious.” Miss Fitzhugh gave her skirts a little twitch with a flick of her wrist. “Obviously.”

Lucien’s head was swimming. “Not to discount the obvious . . . how do you know I didn’t do it?”

Miss Fitzhugh regarded him pityingly. “If you had, you would hardly have implicated yourself, now, would you?”

For some reason, her calm assumption of his innocence grated on Lucien’s nerves. “Unless I assumed that others would arrive at that same conclusion.”

Miss Fitzhugh raised a blond brow. “Implicating yourself to exonerate yourself? It seems needlessly twisty. Besides,” she added serenely, “you haven’t a hunch
or
a harelip.”

“I left them in my other waistcoat.” Lucien paused, taking a moment to get his thoughts back in order. Miss Fitzhugh had a remarkable ability to lead him off along verbal byways. Doing his best to keep it all as simple as possible, he said, “Explain to me. Why this excessive interest in my affairs?”

“I would hardly call it
excessive
.” Miss Fitzhugh looked reproachfully at him. “Really, I consider it quite civic-minded.”

“I’m hardly a public charity.” Lucien forced himself back to the point. “You’ve sought me out twice now. Three times if one counts today. Since meeting you, I have been accused of vampirism and implicated in a murder. Would you care to comment?”

“That’s really not quite fair,” protested Miss Fitzhugh. “Everyone was saying you were a vampire long before I— Wait. Are you saying—? Do you really think that I had something to do with—”

For once, Miss Sally Fitzhugh appeared to be bereft of speech.

“It does look rather suspicious, you have to agree,” Lucien said gruffly.

“No, I don’t!” Miss Fitzhugh popped up off the settee. There were two bright patches of color in her cheeks. “I do call that ungrateful. Here I am, trying to save you from the noose, and—You can’t really think I had anything to do with that poor woman’s death? Do I look like a cold-blooded murderess?”

Her bosom swelled with indignation, attaining impressive proportions.

“Not cold-blooded, no,” said Lucien. He felt himself losing the thread of conversation and forced himself to divert his attention back to her face. “You must admit the timing was suspicious.”

“The timing,” Miss Fitzhugh shot back at him, “was exceedingly unfortunate. For me. Do you think I
liked
stumbling upon that poor woman? It was excessively unpleasant.”

The two of them stared at each other for a long moment, the words ringing in the air between them, incongruous in the cinnamon-scented parlor.

The fire faded from Miss Fitzhugh’s face. “The more so for her. Whoever she is. Was.” She looked down at her hands, worrying at her lower lip with white, even teeth. “I keep forgetting that. That it’s not just a sort of puzzle. That she was a person. And now she isn’t.”

The words stopped Lucien cold.

“Yes,” he said, feeling a bit as though she’d just punched him in the gut.

He hadn’t stopped to think about the murdered woman at all, except for her role in relation to himself. And he certainly hadn’t considered the feelings of Miss Fitzhugh. He remembered her face last night on the balcony, pale and wide-eyed. She’d been more than a little bit unsteady on her feet, babbling nonsense about rosemary for remembrance. No one would have blamed her for going off in a fit of the vapors.

But she hadn’t.

And Lucien felt like the worst sort of heel.

“Well, then.” Miss Fitzhugh gathered herself together. With a sniff, she gave a little toss of her head. “I suppose I should be flattered. No one has ever suspected me of skulduggery before.”

“That,” said Lucien slowly, “I find hard to believe.”

He found himself looking at her, really looking at her, for the first time, not just as a girl in his garden or as that woman on the balcony, but as a person in her own right. In the peaceful parlor, in her demure gown, she looked like any debutante at home. But Miss Fitzhugh, Lucien was beginning to learn, was a debutante with a difference.

It was like picking up a bunch of daisies to discover that they were, in fact, a rather rare sort of orchid.

Miss Fitzhugh turned away from his scrutiny, sweeping one long curl back over her shoulder. “Do you know what
I
believe?” she said tartly.

“I suspect I’m going to hear it,” murmured Lucien.

Miss Fitzhugh pointedly disregarded that comment. “I believe that someone put about that ridiculous vampire rumor on purpose.” She turned back towards him, her blue eyes intent. “It’s terribly easy to start a rumor as long as one whispers a word in the right ears.
Especially
if one specifies that it’s all in strictest confidence.”

She spoke as one who knew.

“All right,” said Lucien, seating himself in a pink-patterned chair. “Then what?”

Miss Fitzhugh looked at him with approval. “Then we have to answer one question.” She paused for dramatic effect. “Who wants to see you hanged?”

Chapter Ten

“Beheaded,” said Lucien. He remembered that much from his long-ago history lessons. “They behead peers. They don’t hang them.”

“Because that is infinitely preferable,” said Miss Fitzhugh caustically. She waved a hand. “All right, then, who has reason to want your head severed from your shoulders?”

Lucien looked bemusedly at Miss Fitzhugh. “Are you always this direct?”

“I find it saves time—which you are currently wasting.” Miss Fitzhugh rubbed her slender hands together. “It’s a rather clever way to commit murder, don’t you think?” she said admiringly. “Death by jury. By implicating you for another murder, the murderer manages to see you dead without taking the blame himself. You’d be both dead
and
discredited. It’s really a quite well thought-out plan.”

“Forgive me if I fail to share your enthusiasm.” Lucien was finding this talk of his own demise more than a little disconcerting.

“Do sit down.” Miss Fitzhugh flapped a hand at a chair next to the settee. “It’s impossible to think with you looming like that.”

Lucien seated himself gingerly on the chair, a spindly gilt affair with the seat resting on the heads of two rather bored-looking sphinxes.

“That’s better.” Miss Fitzhugh settled herself more comfortably against the cushions of the settee, saying, in a tone of worldly wisdom, “Now. In the ordinary course of things, one would suspect your heir of having designs on your fortune. Who
is
your heir?”

“My uncle Henry,” Lucien responded mechanically.

Even as he said it, he knew that the very idea was absurd. Uncle Henry was a well-established man of middle years who had never, as far as Lucien could discern, harbored any designs on the ducal title. He certainly wasn’t in need of the money. Aunt Winifred had been a considerable heiress.

Lucien shook his head. “I can’t imagine Uncle Henry going about trying to drop large stones on my head. It’s a plot out of a bad novel.”

“Fiction borrows from life,” said Miss Fitzhugh wisely. “If heirs didn’t resort to plotting skulduggery, it would never have become such a popular theme. Who next?”

“My cousin. Hal.” And that was even more laughable.

Apparently Miss Fitzhugh felt the same way.

“Hal Caldicott?” Miss Fitzhugh wrinkled her nose. “He belongs to the same club as my brother. I’ve known him for ages. It is rather difficult to imagine him engineering something quite so Byzantine. I wouldn’t have thought he would have the initiative.”

Lucien found it equally unlikely. He remembered the little boy he had known, running along behind him, Will Scarlet to his Robin Hood. He thought of Hal’s angry face, in the hall of Belliston House three days before.

Hurt, yes. Betrayed, yes.

Hal, murdering young ladies, slinging them over his shoulder, and dropping them on balconies? No, no, and no again.

“Not Hal,” Lucien said. “Besides, he’s due to inherit a small fortune from his mother’s people. Unless Uncle Henry has squandered it all on wine, women, and farming equipment.”

Miss Fitzhugh looked at him speculatively. “In that case—”

“No,” said Lucien.

“All right, then,” said Miss Fitzhugh. “If your heir doesn’t want to shuffle you off this mortal coil, who does? And don’t tell me you have no idea, because I won’t believe you. I saw your face when you received that note.” She leaned forward, doing her best impression of a bloodhound. “What did you expect to find on that balcony?”

“Not that,” said Lucien.

Miss Fitzhugh rolled her eyes. “That much was clear.” She looked at him shrewdly. “But you were expecting something; otherwise you would never have been so swift to respond to that note.”

“Yes,” said Lucien slowly. He couldn’t have put into words quite what those expectations had been. After Uncle Henry’s revelations, nothing seemed impossible. “I was expecting . . . a message.”

And he had received it. Just not the message he had expected.

“Yes?” Miss Fitzhugh prompted.

Lucien looked at her, at her bright blue eyes and expectant face. The sitting room was warm from the fire on the grate, the bright light of the candles keeping the mist and fog at bay. The scent of cinnamon was strong in the air, mingled with lemon oil and lavender.

There had been no one to speak to last night. In truth, there had been no one to speak to since he had departed from New Orleans, with the exception of his valet, Patrice—and with Patrice, there was always the inevitable barrier caused by the fact that he was master and Patrice was servant, and if Lucien didn’t remember his place, Patrice certainly remembered his. How long had it been since he had had a real friend, a confidant? Someone to whom to pour out all the tangled thoughts in his head?

The urge to unburden himself warred with the habit of discretion.

Lucien contented himself with saying, “I have been making inquiries into matters about which people might rather I not inquire.”

Miss Fitzhugh was having none of it. With excessive politeness, she inquired, “What matter of matters might these matters be?”

Lucien felt a reluctant grin lift the corners of his lips. “You’re going to think it sounds mad. I think it sounds mad.”

“Don’t worry,” said Miss Fitzhugh reassuringly. “I have a very high tolerance for insanity. It runs in my family.”

Was that meant to be reassuring? Not that he had anything to crow about. He, after all, was the one with a family curse. And, apparently, dead chickens. “Do you know anything about my parents?”

Miss Fitzhugh perked up. “They died?”

“They were murdered.”

“Oh.” The blunt words made Miss Fitzhugh’s eyes widen. Surprise was followed by speculation, and, then, something else entirely. She leaned forward and rested her hand on the arm of his chair. “Poor old thing. You haven’t had an easy time of it, have you?”

Lucien didn’t know what to say. He’d expected shock, yes. Repulsion. Or ghoulish curiosity. Those were the usual reactions. But not sympathy.

Clearing a throat that felt suddenly tight, Lucien shrugged. “I wouldn’t recommend it as an experience.” He looked up at Miss Fitzhugh. “Where are your parents?”

“Not dead,” she said promptly, and then grimaced, as if she realized how that sounded. “They’re quite innocently occupied in Norfolk. My mother doesn’t like town.”

“Then this house—”

“Belongs to my brother, Turnip,” she said easily. She wrinkled her nose at the drapes. “He had it all redecorated a few years ago in an Egypto–Pink Carnation theme. I was rather hoping Arabella would take it all in hand, but then there was Parsnip, and—here we are.”