'Til Death Do Us Part (4 page)

T
HE
INTE
RVIEW
WITH
Calista Langley had not gone well.

Trent walked into the front hall of the town house braced for a controlled display of sorrowful disappointment, hurt, resentment, and a few accusatory tears from his sister.

But for the first time in a very long while, Eudora managed to take him completely by surprise.

She stormed down the stairs in a cloud of outraged fury.

“You went to see Miss Langley, didn't you?” she demanded. “How dare you? My business with her is just that—my business. It is none of your concern.”

Eudora was in her midtwenties, perhaps a year or two younger than Calista, Trent thought, but she gave the impression of being the older of the two.

Today Calista had made a fashionable impression in an elegant blue gown. Her chestnut-brown hair had been caught up in a delightful confection on top of her head and anchored with several handsome hairpins. The style served to underscore her striking profile and
intelligent hazel eyes. There was something bright, vivid, and dynamic about her. He had found himself oddly fascinated. She was an interesting, intriguing woman and he was quite sure she would be interesting and intriguing at seventy or eighty. Some qualities never aged.

Eudora, on the other hand, had, until recently, appeared to be fading before his eyes. Determined to play the role of the devoted sister who had sacrificed herself to the task of managing her brother's household, she wore her bright blond hair parted in the center and scraped back in a tight knot. Her gowns were fashioned of dull, dark, practical fabrics.

She pursued her self-assigned career with a vengeance. The house they shared functioned like a finely tuned machine. From dawn until bedtime there was a serene, orderly cadence to life. The staff went about their duties with flawless precision. The gardens were maintained with exquisite attention to detail.

But over the years the spirited, vivacious girl who had once insisted on learning how to ride a bicycle and playing croquet had vanished. In her place had emerged a woman who appeared to have locked herself in perpetual mourning. Eudora did not go about in widow's weeds or wear a veil, but she might as well have done so in Trent's opinion.

Nevertheless, she had appeared to be going through some changes lately, and he had been pleased, at least at first. She was certainly paying more attention to style and she had even gone shopping for some new earrings.

He knew he would have been relieved by the transformation had he not realized that it was linked to Calista Langley's weekly salons.

“Calm yourself,” he said. He handed his hat and gloves to Guthrie, the butler, but he kept his grip on the cane. “I made the appointment with Miss Langley because I was curious about her and her services.”

“I don't believe that for a moment,” Eudora snapped. “You called on her to try to intimidate her. Admit it. You could not persuade me
that she was a fraud and a con artist or worse, so you attempted to frighten her into severing our association.”

“If that was my plan I can assure you it failed,” Trent said. “Approximately three minutes into the conversation it became clear that it would take someone far more ferocious than a mere author to throw a scare into Miss Langley.”

Eudora halted on the last step, startled. Then she appeared pleased. Triumph gleamed in her blue eyes.

“So Miss Langley gave you a proper setdown, did she? I am delighted to hear that.”

“I comprehend that you are angry that I went to see her,” he said. “But I felt it necessary to investigate Miss Langley's rather unusual business.”

“She arranges salons where respectable people can meet. What is so dangerous about that?”

“We have discussed this,” Trent said. He went down the hall toward the refuge of his study. “Miss Langley undertakes to introduce complete strangers to each other.”

“
Single
strangers,” Eudora said.

“It would be one thing if she was well-acquainted with all of the parties involved, but that is hardly the case. The people who attend her salons are not personal friends, they are her clients. You possess a sizeable inheritance. That makes you vulnerable to the worst sort of predators.”

Eudora hurried after him.

“Miss Langley insists on references from every client,” she said. “In addition, she conducts detailed interviews with each one to make certain that there are no fortune hunters or married men hoping to prey on the ladies on her guest list.”

He paused in the doorway of the study. “They're not guests, Eudora. She is not a Society hostess entertaining respectable acquaintances
with teas and musicales. She's a businesswoman and that means money is her chief consideration.”

He went into the room. Eudora pursued him.

“You have no right to interfere in my private affairs,” she said.

“I'm your brother.” He hooked the cane over the back of his chair and went to stand at the window. “I have a responsibility to protect you.”

“I don't need to be protected from Miss Langley.”

He looked out at the vibrant garden and the glass-and-iron conservatory. Gardening and reading were Eudora's only pleasures these days. At least, they had been until she had begun attending Miss Langley's weekly salons. Lately she had returned from the events talking of the latest news in a wide variety of subjects—art, travel, books, the theater.

“I know you feel I'm being overcautious,” he said. “Nevertheless—”

“Do you really believe that I'm in danger of falling for a fortune hunter's lies? Please give me some credit for common sense.”

“I don't doubt your intelligence or your common sense,” Trent said quietly. “But I am concerned about this connection with Miss Langley.”

There was a short silence behind him.

“What did you think of her?” Eudora asked after a moment.

Her tone of voice was suspiciously neutral. He realized he had been trying to sort out his chaotic impressions of Miss Langley since leaving her very impressive mansion.

“What?” he said, trying to buy time to assemble his thoughts.

“You heard me. Now that you have met her, what is your opinion of Miss Langley?”

He attempted to formulate a response but for some reason he could not find the right words.
Attractive
but not in the ordinary sense of the word.
Unconventional
would be a more accurate description. But for some reason he kept coming back to
fascinating
.

He was a naturally curious man with wide-ranging interests that
had led him to investigate any number of odd subjects and skills. The research involved in each new Clive Stone novel routinely led him down unusual, sometimes bizarre paths. But Calista Langley aroused his curiosity in new and unsettling ways.

He had known immediately that Calista was a woman who was willing to fight for what she wanted; a woman who would do whatever it took to protect what was hers. And if she loved, he thought, she would be quite fierce about the business. There was something in her person that hinted at a capacity for passion.

He had known some intelligent, independent, strong-willed women in his life—he was attracted to the species—but Calista Langley was unique in her appeal.

“I found her . . . interesting,” he said. He turned around and gripped the back of his desk chair with both hands. “I admit she was not what I had expected.”

“Interesting?” Eudora looked startled. Then her eyes narrowed a little. “I think I understand. You find her
interesting
because she did not allow you to intimidate her.”

“I doubt that a medium-sized army could intimidate Miss Langley. But that only makes me all the more cautious about both her and the way she makes her living.”

“I am not going to stop attending her salons, Trent—not unless she strikes me off her guest list. And if she does, I will know that you are to blame.”

“Are these gatherings really so important to you?”

“Yes. Trent, please try to understand. I find the salons stimulating. There are so many new people to meet and the lectures are always on intriguing topics. Last week Professor MacPherson gave a talk about the Roman antiquities that can be found right here in Britain. The week before, Mr. Harper discussed his travels in the American West. The next salon will feature a lecture on the latest advances in photography.”

“Tell me, has Miss Langley introduced you to any man in particular?”

Eudora stiffened. “A guest is introduced to everyone at the salons. That is the purpose of the gatherings.”

“Let me be more specific. Have any of Miss Langley's male clients made an attempt to deepen his acquaintance with you?”

Eudora's jaw tightened in a stubborn line. “None of the gentlemen to whom I have been introduced has behaved in any way that could be termed improper or objectionable. But I can tell that nothing I say will convince you of that. Why don't you see for yourself?”

“That was exactly what I attempted to do today, if you will recall.”

“I'm not talking about your failed effort to intimidate Miss Langley.” Eudora smiled a brittle smile. “I suggest that you apply to become one of her clients.”

“Don't be ridiculous.”

“I realize that after today she may not be disposed to add you to her guest list, but I might be able to prevail upon her to take you on a trial basis. After all, she is a fan of your novels. Perhaps I can persuade her to allow you to attend a couple of salons with me and form your own conclusions about her business.”

“Are you serious?”

“Give it some consideration, dear brother.” Eudora spun around and went toward the door. “Because I assure you, I have every intention of continuing to accept her invitations.”

She let herself out into the hall and closed the door with considerably more force than was necessary.

Trent lowered himself into the chair. For a time he contemplated his private realm. His study was the one place where he could be assured of being alone and uninterrupted. The entire household understood that when the door was closed he was not to be disturbed except in case of fire or the end of the world.

He should get back to his writing, he thought. The visit to Calista Langley had been a disaster, not to mention a waste of time. In any event, the next installment of
Clive Stone and the Affair of the Missing Bride
was due to the editor of the
Flying Intelligencer
.

But he pondered the closed door for a long time. He was quite sure now that one of Calista's male clients had, indeed, taken a particular interest in Eudora. It did not require the devious mind of an author of mystery novels to deduce that Eudora returned that interest.

He had always hoped that Eudora would encounter a good man whom she could love, one who would appreciate her clever mind and organizational talents. A man who could give her what she needed most—a home of her own to manage.

In the past few years it had become increasingly evident that might not happen.

His intelligent, lovely little sister had become a spinster. That would not have been such a bad fate if she had been happy. But he was quite sure that was not the case. For some time there had been a certain wistfulness about her that had tugged at his heart. He wanted to protect her but he did not think it was in his power to make her happy.

Now things appeared to be changing for her, thanks to the mysterious Calista Langley. She was providing Eudora with the one thing he could not give her.

He ought to be grateful that his sister was at long last emerging from her self-imposed martyrdom. Nevertheless, he was concerned. Calista Langley was an unknown quantity. His intuition told him that she had the power to disrupt his quiet, well-ordered, and extremely predictable life.

He could not decide exactly how he felt about that but he was certain of one thing: he felt
something
—and the sensation was remarkably intense. Calista was the first woman in a very long time who had intrigued him more than the characters in his imagination.

“I
'
LL
BE
GOING
out tonight after dinner,” Andrew announced. “No point waiting up for me. I'm meeting some friends. I won't be home until quite late.”

His tone was laced with the familiar touch of defiance. Calista forked up a bite of stewed chicken while she considered how to deal with her brother's announcement. The truth was there was very little she could do or say to stop him from going out on the town, and the last thing she wanted was a quarrel. You must choose your battles, she thought.

Andrew was seated at the far end of the long dining table, hurrying to finish the meal so that he could leave the house to meet his friends. It might have been easier to talk in the more intimate confines of the morning room but Mrs. Sykes insisted on serving dinner in the gloomy, darkly paneled dining room.

The housekeeper and her husband had lived and worked in Cranleigh Hall since taking up their first posts as maid and footman several decades earlier. They had grown old along with their grim, depressed employer,
Roberta Langley. Roberta had left the mansion to her grandchildren but Calista privately considered that the Sykeses had a better claim on the moldering pile of wood and stone than she and Andrew did.

She knew that she and her brother should be grateful to have such a distinguished roof over their heads. There was no denying that Cranleigh Hall had proved extremely useful as a business prop. Prospective clients were reassured and greatly impressed by the imposing residence and the elegant address in Cranleigh Square. But in Calista's opinion, the great house would never be a warm and welcoming home to Andrew or to her.

She had a number of concerns about Andrew's new habit of staying out late into the night, but one of them was very personal and quite selfish. She did not want to be alone in the mansion. True, the Sykeses were always present, but they retired to their quarters promptly at nine o'clock, every night. Once they were abed, the loneliness that seemed to be infused into the very walls of the mansion emerged to haunt her.

The anxiety that had been icing her nerves ever since someone had pushed the dreadful little tear-catcher through the letter box in the door two weeks ago had intensified thanks to the visit from Nestor Kettering that morning. For days she had felt as if her every move was being watched. And now she faced another night alone.

She had to grow accustomed to the sensation, she told herself. Soon Andrew would announce that he wished to move into lodgings of his own. It was inevitable. Every young man needed to be free to discover his own path in life. She had no right to make him feel guilty for abandoning her.

“Will you go to the theater?” she asked, trying to sound pleasant and politely interested.

“Maybe.” Andrew wolfed down some green beans. “Probably play some cards afterward.”

Calista tightened her grip on her fork and tried not to show her concern. Of all the myriad vices available to a young man in London, she most feared the gambling hells. There was no faster path to ruin.

The small inheritance that had come to them along with Cranleigh Hall had gone to pay for the establishment of her introductions agency. Presenting a gracious, refined image to clients had required the purchase of fashionable furnishings for the first-floor rooms. She had known from the outset that she would be walking a tightrope of respectability. Appearances were everything in her business.

And fortunately, business had been brisk. She and Andrew were doing quite nicely on the income from her introductions agency but they could not afford to take risks.

She put the fork down very carefully on her plate. “Andrew—you are not in trouble, are you? Financially, I mean?”

“Why must every dinner table conversation between us end with you implying that I cannot take care of myself? I am no longer a boy. I do not need my older sister hovering over me at every step.”

Andrew was most certainly not a boy, she thought. Not anymore. He was nineteen, lean and fit and infused with the vitality of a young man coming into his prime. He had the additional advantages of their father's strong, distinguished profile and intelligent hazel eyes.

He was no longer the frightened little nine-year-old to whom she'd had to explain that their parents had been lost at sea and were never coming home. He did not need her now to protect him from the bleak moods of a grandmother consumed with bitterness. He was ready to step out into the world.

Nevertheless, the thought of losing Andrew to the dark streets of London filled her with a special kind of panic. It was obvious that there was no point berating him. It would only drive him away all the faster. And she would be truly alone all the sooner.

Best to change the subject.

“Today I had a rather disturbing interview with a gentleman I had hoped would become an excellent client,” she said.

Andrew looked wary for a moment, then his eyes tightened a little in genuine concern. “Anything to do with those nasty little memento mori objects that you received recently?”

“No. This is an entirely different matter. My visitor was Trent Hastings.”

She had no intention of mentioning the unpleasant scene with Nestor Kettering. She feared Andrew's reaction.

Andrew's brows shot up in astonishment. “Trent Hastings, the author?”

“Precisely.”

“But surely that is good news.” Andrew's eyes lit with enthusiasm. “Just think what securing a well-known client such as Mr. Hastings would do for your business.”

“You know very well I do not advertise the names of my clients. Many would be quite embarrassed.”

“Yes, I know. But you depend on word of mouth, and the right words from Trent Hastings's mouth would send a number of excellent clients your way.”

“Unfortunately, I don't think there will be any helpful recommendations coming from Mr. Hastings. He seems to think that I am in the business of taking advantage of some of my female clients who enjoy a respectable income—specifically his sister.”

“That's utter nonsense. How dare he insult you and impugn your reputation?” Andrew crumpled his napkin on the table. “I'll have a word with him.”

“No, you will not.” The thought of Andrew confronting a man as intimidating as Hastings was enough to send another bolt of panic through her. She should never have mentioned the interview with
Hastings to him, she thought. Frantically she searched for a diplomatic way to head off disaster. “Really, there's no need for you to speak to him. I set him straight, I assure you. It was all a simple misunderstanding. Keep in mind that his sister is an excellent client. We don't want to do anything to make her cancel her arrangements with my agency.”

“Hastings apologized?”

“Not exactly, however—”

“That bastard. Do you have his address? Never mind. I'll find him.”

“Andrew, please, listen to what I'm saying. It was all a mistake.” She summoned up a reassuring smile. “I was just somewhat taken aback at the time, that's all.”

“He owes you an apology.”

“I think he will come to understand that in time.” Not much chance of that happening, she thought, but she kept the opinion to herself. “Meanwhile, I don't want to do anything that might put Eudora Hastings in a position that forces her to choose sides, as it were. If she were to sever our business connection it would only give rise to unfortunate rumors.”

“Huh.”

Andrew was still angry but common sense was winning out.

“It's all right,” she said quietly. “I promise you, Mr. Hastings will not be a problem. His sister is a very strong-willed lady and she enjoys my salons. She told me that she had a delightful time at last week's event and she accepted the invitation to the next one. I doubt very much that her brother will be able to keep her away.”

Andrew did not appear to be entirely convinced but curiosity got the better of him.

“What's he like?”

“Mr. Hastings? He is quite—” Calista paused, trying to find the right word. “Formidable.”

“I meant what does he look like?”

“Oh.” She summoned up a mental image of Trent. “Well, as to that, he is endowed with a very manly build. Dark hair. Arresting eyes.”

Andrew frowned. “A
manly
build?”

“Mmm, yes, I think that is how one would describe it.”

Andrew watched her with a speculative expression. “Would you say that he was the sort of man women would describe as handsome?”

“Not exactly. But quite gratifying to look upon, if you know what I mean.”

“No, I don't know what you mean.”

Calista ignored the interruption. “He seems to think the scars will be a problem if he were to come to me as a client but I assured him that he was wrong.”

“Scars?”

“On the left side of his jaw. Rather dramatic, I'm afraid. There are some on one of his hands, too. He must have been the victim of an accident at some point in the past.”

“But the scars didn't frighten you?”

“Not at all,” Calista said. “He was rather annoying, to be sure, but I did not feel threatened.”

Andrew went very still. “Do you think it's possible he might be the person who is responsible for the memento mori objects?”

“
What?
Good heavens, no. Whatever gave you that idea? I'm sure Mr. Hastings is not the one who gave me those horrid objects.”

“Why are you so positive of his innocence?”

She thought about that for a few seconds, trying to put her intuitive certainty into words.

“From what I observed today, Mr. Hastings is nothing if not direct,” she said. “He would not torment a woman from the shadows.”

“How can you be sure?”

She considered the question for a moment and then waved it aside. “I don't know. Something about the way he looks at one, I suppose.”

“Not much to go on.”

“No. But you know very well that my intuition has generally been quite accurate when it comes to judging people.”

“Not when it came to that bastard who left you standing at the altar.”

It was a very good thing that she hadn't mentioned Nestor's visit today, she decided.

“Mr. Kettering and I were about to become engaged,” she said patiently. “I wasn't quite at the altar.”

“Very little difference.”

Some of the old anger that she had experienced because she had allowed herself to be deceived by Nestor resurfaced. She had been such a naïve fool. She strove to keep her voice lowered to a level that would not alarm Mr. and Mrs. Sykes, who were eating in the kitchen.

“Trust me,” she said, “there is a great deal of difference.”

“Sorry,” Andrew said brusquely. “Didn't mean to bring up the subject of Kettering.”

“My nerves have been somewhat strained of late.”

And that was putting it mildly
,
she thought.

“I know.” Andrew's mouth tightened in a grim line. “Bloody hell, I can't believe the person who is sending you the memento mori gifts actually gained access to this house, unnoticed. He was in your
bedroom
, Calista.”

“There is no need to remind me. We've been through this several times. There were a great many people coming and going yesterday afternoon because of the preparations being made for the next salon. Tradesmen and delivery people were in and out all day long.”

“He must have got in disguised as a deliveryman. The thing is, who could have known about the existence of that old lift?”

“Anyone who ever worked in this house or in the gardens, for starters,” Calista said.

“None of them has any reason to try to frighten you.”

“Whatever the case, I'm quite certain it wasn't Mr. Hastings who sent the tear-catcher to me and left the ring on my bed. Please believe me when I tell you that he did not come to see me today because he is feeling vengeful. In his view, he was simply attempting to protect his sister. You would no doubt have done the same in his place.”

“He must be a suspicious man by nature.”

“That is only to be expected. He writes novels with plots that revolve around dark secrets and murder. One can only imagine how dwelling on such matters day in and day out might affect a person's view of human nature.”

“I certainly have formed a very dark view of Trent Hastings now that you've told me about your meeting with him.”

“I must admit I won't be rushing out to purchase his next book,” Calista said. “Which is a pity. I quite enjoyed his last novel.”

“Very clever plot and the final scenes with the villain were riveting.” Andrew's brows scrunched together. “Not sure I care for the character of Miss Wilhelmina Preston in this new story, however.”

“What's wrong with Wilhelmina Preston? I rather like her.”

“It's all very well to insert a woman into the plot but we don't want Clive Stone to get sidetracked with a romance. It will ruin the series.”