A Suspicious Affair (4 page)

“Begging your pardon, Your Grace. You just seem powerful casual about Denning’s lapses, and Armbruster’s, too.”

“And why not? It’s the way of the world.”

“That’s what I mean, Your Grace. It’s not the way of
my
world, not by half.”

“Are you married, Mr. Dimm?”

“I was for twenty-two blessed years, until the good Lord saw fit to take my Cherry, and I never strayed onct.”

“What, never?” she asked in disbelief.

“Never even thought on it, or my name isn’t Jeremiah Dimm. I loved her too much to want any other woman.”

“Then your Cherry was a very lucky woman, sir, to have you, and you were a lucky man to have the luxury of marrying where your heart desired. I suppose we are different, those of us considered more fortunate, for we have to wed for title and property, wealth and position. I would it were otherwise,” she said with a new bitterness in her voice. “I do envy you your good fortune.”

“I don’t know how fortunate I am after all. Don’t suppose I’d miss her so now, iffen I’d loved her the less.”

“I am sorry. I did not mean to bring up sad memories. Who else is on your list of suspects? Besides my brother and myself, of course. I know Foster’s name is being broadcast, but he is a right one, as the gentlemen say, although regrettably hot-to-hand. We needn’t even discuss him.”

The Prince Regent couldn’t of done it better, Dimm decided to himself. Only thing was, the more pride she showed, the less likely he was to believe she put up with that blighter’s behavior. He’d have to think on it later. “If not
your
brother, Your Grace, what about the duke’s?”

“What, Boynton Pendenning? The man is a fribble. An expensive fribble, granted, who was constantly arguing with Arvid over money, but to murder his own brother? I cannot believe it.”

“Neither could Adam and Eve, most likely, but it happens. Jealousy, greed, ambition. One brother has the world on a string; the other brother has a rope necklace.”

“But if Boynton was so eager to step into his brother’s titles and vaults, why wait to murder Arvid now, when I could be carrying the heir?”

“That’s just what he said. A’ course, babies has been known to die in infancy.”

Dimm almost bit his own tongue off when the duchess clutched her stomach. “My baby! Do you think my baby could be in danger? Please, I pray you, tell me no.”

Dimm prayed he could, too, but no use lying to the poor thing. “Well, a girl will be safe enough,” he reassured her, “and a boy will be, too, if you can think of anyone else besides the heir presumptive what might of ventilated the duke. Sorry, Your Grace,” he said yet again when she turned a bit green at his choice of words. Lud, his nibs’d have Dimm’s liver and lights for this day’s work. “Anyone at all.”

“Why couldn’t it just have been a passing thief seeing easy pickings in an empty coach until he saw Arvid still inside? Or someone he cheated at cards? He did, you know, even when we played piquet. He couldn’t stand to lose. I just want it to be a stranger, someone I don’t know and won’t have to fear is hiding behind every bush. Not a neighbor or an in-law.”

“Speaking of neighbors, how well do you know the Earl of Kimbrough?”

“The Elusive Earl? Not at all. Goodness, never say he is a suspect? When I said a stranger, I meant a nameless footpad, a faceless cardsharp, not someone whose name is a byword both here and in Berkshire.”

“He had an argument at White’s with the duke the night before the murder. A real loud brouhaha, they say.”

“All of Arvid’s arguments were loud. I daresay it was over that piece of property again?” At Dimm’s grunted assent, Marisol explained: “I knew there was some bone of contention over the land, but Arvid never consulted me about business matters or anything of that nature. He simply forbade me to invite the earl to any of our parties the few times we were in Berkshire, so I never even got to meet the man. But the people in Berkshire think highly of him, and he was some kind of hero, wasn’t he? And I understand he only comes to London to speak in Parliament on reform issues. That doesn’t sound like a murderer to me.”

“You never can tell. If there’s one thing I’ve found in my years on the force, it’s that every criminal is somebody’s son or lover or mother or brother. There’s a berserker in every one of us. One time or another.”

Chapter Four

Berserker? Boynton Pendenning? Arvid’s brother certainly did not look like some blood-crazed fiend, not in his cheek-high shirt collars, nipped-in waist, and padded-out shoulders. He looked like a middle-aged dandy, laughable or ludicrous—not dangerous. Then Marisol looked more closely, at the lines of dissipation around her brother-in-law’s thin mouth, the pouchy gathers under his deep-set eyes, the unhealthy pallor to his indoor skin. Suddenly Boynton wasn’t just an amusing rattle. He was also a hardened gamester, always a short jump ahead of his creditors, like his friend the Prince, a man who lived—or died—by his wits. He could have been desperate enough for fratricide, gambling on not being caught, gambling on coming into Arvid’s legacy by hook or by crook.

Marisol’s hand shook when Boynton brought it to his mouth in greeting. She’d had to permit him to call, of course, since she had been unable to receive him last night. They had to discuss arrangements for the funeral, the makeup of a cortege to transport Arvid back to Berkshire, the provisions that might be needed for the reception following interment, and a score of other details Marisol felt Boynton should decide, since he might well be the next duke. She clutched her shawl more closely to her at the thought, and wished she hadn’t sent Inspector Dimm away with Arvid’s secretary, Mr. Stallard, to inspect the contents of the safe. Dimm, she knew, was holding out a last hope of finding a suicide note. Marisol thought his chances were much better of finding a fistful of vouchers. Some unfortunate cardplayer whose chits Arvid held could have come to ask for an extension in payment. Arvid would never grant the poor soul more time, of course. There could have been an argument; the pistol might have gone off accidentally. And Boynton Pendenning could go back to being an amiable here-and-thereian.

Meanwhile, she was alone with him except for her aunt’s little terrier. At least Max could be counted on to yap at any loud noise. Or soft noise, clatter of dishes, passing lorry. “How do you do, Boynton?” she asked, motioning him to the chair recently occupied by the man from Bow Street.

“Well enough under the circumstances, my dear,” he answered. “Surviving m’great loss as bravely as can be expected.” She could see his lip twitching and had to smile in return. At least Boynton wasn’t going to offer her any fustian about being grief-stricken or shed crocodile tears for the brother he loathed.

“Yes, I can see you are bearing up well,” she noted, while he preened for her inspection.

“You don’t think the trailing black ribbons are too much, do you?” he asked in mock anxiety.

Marisol pretended to consider the matter carefully. “Why no, they add a certain flippancy to your otherwise somber elegance. Arvid would have hated them.”

“I thought so, too,” he said in self-congratulation, then he took out a jewel-handled quizzing glass and surveyed her in turn through the horridly enlarged eyeball he presented. “And you are looking as lovely as ever, my dear, despite that abysmal black thing around your shoulders, the slight puffiness I detect around your chins—ah, chin—and the windblown look to your hair. Oh, did I neglect to offer my condolences?”

“I believe you did, Boynton, but let’s consider them said, shall we? And give over, do, Boynton. I don’t need your Spanish coin. We both know I am looking sadly pulled.”

“And who’s to blame you, under the circumstances? But you still have that Madonna-like quality to you, the glow those painterly types try so hard to capture. I always knew m’brother had all the luck in the family. Then to find himself a beautiful, tolerant, fertile bride.” He gave an exaggerated sigh, polishing his looking glass with a handkerchief edged in black lace. “Too bad Arvid never appreciated what he had.”

“I never did understand why you never married, Boynton, especially if you hold such tender feelings about women. A wealthy young bride could have solved your financial difficulties and added comfort to your life.”

“Ah, but I could never have tolerated a female more beautiful than myself, and looking at the phiz of an ugly wife every morning would only turn me off my kippers. There’s no hope for it. I should just scoop you up right now and carry you off to Gretna Green.”

“You and how many footmen?” she teased.

“Oh, at least three, I shouldn’t wonder. Wouldn’t want to strain the seams of my coat, don’t you know. But just think, I could marry you out of hand, get the fortune, the title, the heir, and a charming life’s companion, all in one throw of the dice! Ah, those wretched laws of consanguinity.”

Marisol nodded in sympathy, if not in agreement. As if she’d ever give her life—and that of her child—into the keeping of this jackanapes! She put her hands protectively over her swollen middle. “You might have it all soon enough anyway, mightn’t you? The fortune and title, at any rate.”

“If there is a god in heaven, ma’am, my niece will be as exquisite as her mother. That’s what I pray every night.”

“Before or after gaming, wenching, drinking to excess, and taking the name of the Lord in vain?”

“During, my dear, during. But seriously, Marisol, it’s the devil of a coil, isn’t it? The timing does leave all of us hanging.”

Her Grace wished he’d chosen a more felicitous turn of phrase, but she had to sympathize with Boynton’s quandary. “What do the solicitors say?”

“They won’t say beans over there at Stenross, Stenross, and Dinkerly. Quiet as clams, those chaps. They say I’ll have to wait for the reading of the will next week, like everyone else. Oh, they did mention all funeral costs and household expenses were to be covered until then, on your signature. Believe they were to meet with Arvid’s secretary over the matter earlier this morning. I don’t suppose proper mourning attire counts as a legitimate outlay, does it?” He picked a dog hair off his black superfine coat.

“I don’t see why not,” Marisol told him. “The Pendennings do have an image to maintain, to counter this awful, ah, embarrassment. Send your tailor’s bill over; I’ll sign it today before we leave. In fact, I think you might need two sets of mourning, since you’ll be greeting all the neighbors at the church in my stead, and then again at the Castle.”

He raised her hands and kissed the right, then the left, then the right again. “And I’ll say a special prayer that my precious niece has her mother’s generous heart. I’ll just be toddling off, shall I, so I can have something ready by the funeral. I’ll return later to settle any of those tiresome details you seem eager to thrust onto my shoulders, and I’ll be sure to bring Weston’s accounting.”

“Why don’t you come for luncheon? I have invited Mr. Dimm from Bow Street to take the meal with us when he is finished with Mr. Stallard. You might be able to help him decipher some of the names of Arvid’s debtors.”

Boynton raised his plucked brows. “A redbreast at the ducal table? My, my, how standards have flown in just a day. I’d be delighted to come, my dear, just to listen for Arvid gnashing his teeth upstairs. He does lie in the duke’s chamber, doesn’t he?”

“Yes, would you like to—”

Boynton held up a manicured hand. “No thank you, Your Grace, not before a meal.” He took his leave then, but paused at the door and held up his quizzing glass again. “You really should do something with your hair before luncheon, especially if there will be strangers present. Image of the Pendennings, don’t you know.”

“Yes, I shall. But my head ached so this morning I couldn’t let Tyson fuss with the curling irons. The hairpins seemed to be as heavy as horseshoes, but Arvid never did like me to leave my hair down. He thought it immature and undignified for a noblewoman of my position. He forbade me to wear it down my back, in fact,” she concluded with a grin, tossing those diabolical hairpins this way and that until heavy blonde curls lay against her shoulders. She shook her head, sending the curls into luxurious, wanton disarray and causing the little terrier to set up a shrill yapping. “He really is gone, isn’t he?”

Boynton just winked and went out the door.

Marisol sat back against the cushions. This was the first moment she’d had alone to think, without the numbing effects of the physician’s possets, her brother’s restless diatribes on Arvid’s moral turpitude, or her aunt’s fretting over what was to become of them if the child Marisol carried was a girl. The duchess laughed to find herself wondering whose prayers were more fervent, Aunt Tess’s or Boynton’s.

She didn’t care which, boy or girl, just that this baby be healthy—and safe. No one could wish ill of a daughter, now that Arvid himself was gone. He’d have been furious, of course, to be cheated of his heir. He’d threatened often enough those first years of their marriage to cut her off without a farthing if she proved to be barren. But they would manage, Marisol swore. She, Aunt Tess, and the little girl could live in a cottage somewhere on the sale of Marisol’s jewels, those that were not entailed, of course. Arvid had been intent on his duchess presenting the right impression to the ton; she had no say in their selection or when he took which piece from the vault for her to wear, but the gems were hers. If the income was not enough to purchase a pair of colors for Foster, she’d have to let him enlist as a common soldier. That was what he’d begged for this past year, when they both realized Arvid was not going to fulfill his promise. Serving on the line was more dangerous, and beneath the dignity of the Marquis of Laughton, but Foster was brave enough and dedicated enough to rise through the ranks on his own merits. Others had made their own successful careers this harder way. Foster would have to; Marisol vowed that she would not sell herself again.

Arvid was dead. She tried not to think of what he looked like when they carried him in, all the blood and gore. She recalled instead how he appeared when she first met him, an older, sophisticated man-about-town to her wide-eyed debutante naiveté. He offered a fortune, one of the highest positions in the land outside of royalty, and security—everything people told her she wanted in a husband. That wasn’t quite all Marisol had wanted in a husband, in fact, but those same people told Marisol she’d be a fool to look any further than the polished and poised duke.

He was patient, he was gratifyingly attentive, and she had no choice.

Why hadn’t
they
told her he was arrogant and cruel, petty and dishonorable? Likely because she had no choice.

Arvid planned the wedding; Arvid selected her gown, her attendants, and her lady’s maid. Marisol had not been permitted to make an important decision on her own since her “I do” in church three years ago, until her “I am going home” speech yesterday. And deciding to wear her hair loose today. No man would ever have that power over her again, she vowed. No man would demean her, abuse her, or threaten her family. Arvid really was dead.

*

Luncheon was a strained affair, and not just because of the empty chair at the head of the table. Arvid’s brother took a step toward it, and Marisol’s brother growled. Boynton inspected Foster’s thrown-together ensemble and carelessly tied neckcloth through his quizzing glass and offered to recommend a tailor. At which Foster offered to rearrange Boynton’s nose. At which Aunt Tess kicked her nephew under the table and hissed: “You gossoon, he might just be the next duke.”

At which Marisol asked Mr. Dimm if he had any luck with the papers in the safe.

Jeremiah put down his spoon. Turtle soup, by George! Wait till he told his sister Cora. “You was right about them gaming slips, Your Grace. His Grace held vouchers from half the gentlemen in London, looks like. Thing is, most times a swell can’t pay his bets he puts a hole through his own brain, not someone else’s.”

“That’s called honor, my dear sir,” Boynton drawled.

“How would you know?” Foster demanded from across the table.

“But you are going to investigate the names, aren’t you?” Marisol wanted to know,
and
wanted to distract her two other male guests. Aunt Tess had recovered sufficiently from her nervous indisposition to join them for the meal, but she was too busy feeding Max tidbits under the table to be of much help, if she even heard.

Dimm swallowed a mouthful of something that looked like a tadpole swimming upstream through a sea of white paste. Not bad. He thought of the miles he’d have to cover to interview half the names on his list. Not good. “Yes, Your Grace, me or my associates will go have a chat with all of them. Except the prime minister, I reckon.”

“Good grief, never tell me he owed Arvid money!”

Jeremiah nodded, scraping some thick sauce off the next dish so he could see what was beneath. Beef? Bedamned if the toffs didn’t buy such cheap cuts of beef they had to hide it!

Meanwhile Foster was asking what was to become of those outstanding debts.

“If Arvid had owed anyone, the estate would be expected to pay,” Boynton stated. “So the estate should collect,” he added hopefully.

Remembering his own father’s burgeoning obligations, passed down to him, Foster sneered. Before he could make a cutting remark, Marisol intervened again. “I’m sure the solicitors will tell us what is correct. I, for one, would be more than willing to forgive any debts.”

“Might be for the best,” Dimm commented, looking askance at the smallest little chicken he’d ever seen, set in a ring of peas and beans on the plate in front of him. He was supposed to get the meat off those tiny bones without picking the blasted thing up in his hands? Not in this lifetime! He pushed it aside and took up a forkful of vegetables, then noticed that they were all waiting for him to explain.

The Runner slid a deck of cards out of his pocket onto the table. “These was in the wall safe along with the jewels. Fuzzed.”

“What’s that?” Miss Laughton asked.

“Shaved, ma’am. It’s a crooked deck. I ain’t saying yes, and I ain’t saying no, but those gambling wins might of been dishonorably come by.”

Foster and Boynton were both eagerly reaching out for the deck. Marisol won, picking up the cards and handing them to the butler with instructions to see the things burned before they brought more dishonor to the house of Pendenning or Laughton. The butler handed the pack to the footman outside the door, who was the real winner, until he was caught out and stabbed by a very sore loser. But that was another story.