A Suspicious Affair (6 page)

“How do I know that? You come in here in a rant and expect me to change public opinion. You follow no form of social conduct I’ve ever heard of. How do I know what you are capable of?”

“And how do I know you didn’t kill the bounder yourself over some trinket or other?” he retorted.

“Trinket?” Marisol shrieked, pushed past her endurance. “You think I would kill my own husband over a pearl necklace or something? Was Lady Armbruster a trinket? Is my child’s welfare a trinket?” she yelled, pushing mightily to get her ungainly body out of the cushions so she could be more on a level with this hulking clunch. Max ran to hide under the couch.

Seeing her struggle, Kimbrough naturally offered her his assistance. She put her right hand in his and said “Thank you” when she’d attained her footing. Then she hauled back with that same right hand and slapped him across the face so hard even the powerful earl reeled back. Or perhaps it was the surprise.

“My husband lies dead upstairs,” the duchess was crying, “his mistress next door. I have been accused of murder by an odd little man in a red vest. My maid has given notice, and I am fat. But you…you are the worst of the lot!” She sank back to the sofa, her face in her hands, sobbing. “And now I have struck a man to whom I’ve never even been introduced!”

The earl held out his handkerchief and tried to speak past the dust of contrition in his throat. “Carlinn Kimbrough, ma’am, at your, ah, service.”

*

Jeremiah Dimm wished he’d stayed in the dining room searching out more fallen pastries. He could have heard the whole conversation from there, so loud were these two, and without having to put his ear to any door. Then again, that red handprint on the stiff-rumped earl’s cheek, even outlined by the tiny keyhole, sure warmed the cockles of the Runner’s heart. Didn’t help the case none, a’ course, Dimm realized, but salute
that,
you sanctimonious prig!

Chapter Six

Arvid had been an indifferent traveler, restless, uncomfortable, impatient of delays. His child looked to follow in Arvid’s unsettled path. No matter the finest sprung carriage, the slowest pace, the most careful avoidance of ruts in the road, the baby made Marisol’s journey a misery, the same as Arvid would have done. At least the baby didn’t get nasty and belligerent; neither did Arvid, for once, bouncing along in his ornately carved casket in the special funeral carriage up ahead. Boynton traveled next in his own coach with his valet and a mountain of valises, and the baggage wagon came after, with Mr. Dimm crammed between wardrobe trunks, delicacies from the London markets, household items from her own old home that the duchess did not wish to leave behind, and all the trappings she’d been gathering for the arrival of her child.

Dimm’s daughter rode in the spacious crested carriage with Marisol and her aunt, thank goodness, for Sarah turned out to be a marvel with biscuits and peppermints and distracting chatter about her own large family and Ned Turner, the soldiering husband she wrote to every day.

Aunt Tess managed to sleep for most of the journey, her knitting fallen in her lap. Marisol was green with envy…or something. She was also jealous of her brother, who had chosen to ride alongside, or ahead, or on short cross-country excursions. That was the first thing she was going to do after the baby, Marisol vowed, ride with the wind down tree-shaded lanes, taking her jumps flying. The baby protested the flying part, too, so she sighed and pictured quiet strolls through the castle’s rose gardens. Of course, that was in the spring, and who knew where any of them would be when the flowers bloomed? Except Arvid, of course.

Gardens, flowers, country rides, fresh air. It took Marisol a day and a night to recover from the journey before she could recall why she’d been so desperate to get to Berkshire in the first place. Then it took less than half an hour of raw, cold rain, winter-barren landscapes, and the drafty old barn of a relic, for reality to return with a thud. The thud of the dowager’s cane, to be exact.

Arvid’s mother had not moved to the Dower House on Marisol’s marriage. There was no need, the older Duchess Denning had decided, since Arvid intended to spend as little time away from London as possible, and his mother was such an admirable manager of the estate and the household. She managed Arvid, didn’t she?

The dowager obviously intended to keep on managing: assigning bedchambers, announcing dinner hours, selecting the hymns for Arvid’s service and new curtains for the nursery. She punctuated each of her pronouncements with raps of her ebony cane on the marble floors that sent tremors through Marisol’s aching head. The noise also set Max into a frenzy of yipping and lunging, so the dowager ordered the little dog banished to Aunt Tess’s room, which offended that lady so much she chose to take her dinner upstairs on a tray. Marisol was too spent to argue.

At least there was no confrontation over the bedchambers. The dowager had moved to the recently renovated east wing when Arvid brought home his bride, so Marisol still occupied the duchess’s suite, with its ill-fitted casement windows, antiquated furnishings, and resident pigeons outside in the battlements.

Dinner was another matter. The first night Marisol walked into the dining room on her brother’s arm to see that Boynton sat at the head of the table and the dowager at the foot.

“Boynton is head of the family now, Marisol,” the dowager declared, ignoring Marisol’s own seniority, of however short duration. Marisol decided she was not as well recovered from the journey as she thought. She’d do better with dinner on a tray in her room also.

The next morning Marisol ordered a round table. She was willing to compromise, not buckle under to her mother-in-law’s dictatorship. When the butler and housekeeper looked toward each other, and then allowed as how they’d best consult with Her Grace, Marisol reminded them that
she
was also Her Grace, for now, and possibly for years into the future. A round table it would be. Not for the state dining room, of course, but for the smaller room where the family ate. That night the dowager took dinner in
her
rooms. Unfortunately for Marisol’s appetite, this left the younger widow alone with her brother and brother-in-law, who sniped at each other throughout. The funeral tomorrow would be a relief.

*

The man from Bow Street was finding his stay in Berkshire a real treat. He’d decided to put up at the inn in Pennington after being consigned to the stables by that nasty piece of work at the Castle, once Her Grace, Lady Marisol, that is, took to her bed. He hired himself a gig and called in at the pubs and farmsteads. Over hearty ales and fresh-baked breads, the locals were happy enough to talk about the gentry. Their “betters,” they said with smiles and raised mugs.

No one had a good word to say about the late duke and less to say about the next, should it turn out to be that coxcomb Boynton. No one could think of anyone nearby with a reason to kill Duke Arvid, though, excepting that he was a miser, a lecher, and a snob. As far as absentee landlords went, that was the finest kind. He never came near Pennington much, so he never bothered them much.

Boynton scared the locals worse. Where Arvid had tried to make the most profit off his lands, Boynton could just wager the Pendenning holdings away, and with them the future of everyone in the little community of Pennington. The villagers were mostly agreed that if they had to have their lives in the hands of a gambler and they had their druthers, they’d pick a winner over a loser every time.

The young duchess and her babe were unknown factors to the country folk, and much would depend on who got named trustee for the little duke, if it be a boy, and if she got hanged.

Then there was Lord Kimbrough. No one hereabouts would hear a word against the earl. Could he commit cold-blooded murder? The vicar’s wife would tie her garters on the main street first. Kimbrough was fair, generous, and not above having a pint or two with the lads after a hard day’s work. Now
that
was a real gentleman.

Lord Kimbrough even made a point of finding Dimm at his inn and inviting the Runner to dinner one evening. A real dinner it was, too, not a batch of those pawky little bits of things swimming in sauces. The earl served an honest haunch of venison, mutton, and beef, with potatoes and turnips and peas, and no footman to scoop the platters away before a man had his fill. Kimbrough didn’t get to that size and strength eating no lark’s tongues, Dimm reflected contentedly. Besides, the Runner had already wangled a position in his lordship’s stables for his younger boy, who had a real touch with horses. And he was in a fair way to landing a living for Cherry’s brother, who was currently ministering to the lost souls of London’s slums, at Dimm’s expense. And that was all before dessert. Too bad that funeral was tomorrow.

*

Lord Kimbrough decided to attend the funeral after all. He wasn’t going to at first, not to pay respects to a man he despised. But he was keenly aware of his responsibilities and knew that as magistrate, neighbor, fellow nobleman, and bordering landowner, by rights he should go. He wouldn’t want to be thought lacking in courtesy to the duchess, either. Both duchesses, he amended. Besides, he didn’t want anyone suggesting he stayed away because of a guilty conscience. He had absolutely nothing to feel guilty about, Carlinn told himself, at least nothing to do with Denning’s murder. Making a recent widow cry, driving to tears a woman who was breeding, that was another matter. And then fleeing! Cow-handed and chickenhearted both!

His guilt must have shown, for even the amiable Dimm looked at him queerly, almost as if the Runner knew what a clumsy oaf Carlinn had been.

So he was going to Arvid Pendenning’s last rites. There might even be some satisfaction seeing the bastard put in the ground he cared so little about. And, too, he had Dimm beside him, so he could help identify anyone else come to gloat. It was Dimm who pointed out the duchess’s young brother, acting as one of the pallbearers. Laughton had the same fair coloring and the same patrician nose. With a little maturity and a bit of country cooking, the lad might be pleasant looking, as opposed to the sister. Carlinn recalled the duchess as looking aged beyond her twenty-one years and as if she’d been eating for two for all twenty-one of them. She wasn’t present, of course, but would be waiting at the Castle with the other women to receive those wishing to express their condolences.

Kimbrough did not so wish. He’d done his duty to Arvid’s memory, having sat through the Castle’s private chaplain’s droning attempt to find something nice to say about the blighter. Then he’d stood in the biting cold at the Pendenning burial grounds while the chaplain gave it a final go.

There were three distinct groups of mourners, Kimbrough noted as his mind wandered. One batch consisted of more relieved noblemen seen in one place than since Fou-Fou La Rue burned her journals. These were the men Dimm wanted identified, Arvid’s gulls come to see if their notes were being called in. Then there were enough tallow-faced Captain Sharps to fleece every lamb in Berkshire. Boynton’s friends, he supposed, come to support him in his grief—and to stake their claims to his future riches. The third group, a small gathering of tenants and local citizenry, stayed well away from the Londoners.

It was these last whose hands Kimbrough first shook when the cleric finally ran down. Then he moved among the knights, barons, and honorables, introducing Dimm when he could. Dimm in turn introduced him to young Laughton, who was pathetically glad of the opportunity, having little in common with any of the three disparate groups except his antipathy toward the deceased. On hearing the earl’s name, Foster developed an instant case of hero worship for the retired army officer and begged Kimbrough to accompany the funeral party back to the Castle for refreshments.

Carlinn was torn. He’d satisfied the conventions; now he wanted to put this whole sorry mess behind him. But the boy was a pigeon among these wolves, especially with the fiery temper gossip said he had. Leaving the young marquis alone would be like sending a raw recruit out to the front line. Kimbrough couldn’t do it, even if the bantling was one of the other murder suspects. He’d only have been defending his sibling. Kimbrough could understand that; he’d skewer anyone who offered harm to his own sister. So he accepted. And managed to get through half the curses he’d learned in the cavalry by the time a footman relieved him of his coat and gloves at Denning Castle.

Many of the grave-side mourners had refused Boynton’s invitation to partake of the Castle’s hospitality in favor of starting the trip back to London before the day was too advanced. Others chose to toast Arvid at a nearby tavern, where they might also get up a game of cards or two. The working people mostly went back to their farms and businesses. The company was thin, therefore, when Kimbrough and Dimm entered the large drawing room.

To one side gathered Boynton and his cronies, sampling Arvid’s wine cellar. Kimbrough nodded. He’d just seen most of those fellows. Near the enormous fireplace the dowager held court, accepting sympathy from the local matrons, the squire’s wife, and the mayor’s sister, all her bosom bows among the neighboring gentry. The earl bowed and murmured something about being sorry. He was sorry he wasn’t out riding his new chestnut stallion. But the dowager nodded and preened that the highest ranking gentleman in the shire—temporarily, naturally—had graced her son’s obsequies. It was fitting, of course, but one never knew about Kimbrough. She ignored the Runner’s presence entirely.

And finally, in a window embrasure across the vast room, sat Arvid’s widow, her brother, and an older woman. They might have been lepers for all the attention paid them. A lesser woman might have retreated, taken to her rooms, but the duchess sat straight in her chair, chin raised. She was all in black, with a black lace veily thing on her head like those Spanish mantillas he’d seen on the Peninsula. Her hair was still down, loosely tied at the back of her neck. She had bottom, Carlinn had to give her that. And dignity.

“Coventry, that’s what it is,” Dimm whispered as they crossed the Aubusson expanse. “The dowager’s got all the old biddies on her side, swearing the chit was responsible for Denning’s death. If she didn’t aim the pistol herself, according to the old besom, then it were the rackety brother. And it were the young duchess what forced Arvid to a life of sin in the first place.”

“She couldn’t conceive of Boynton being guilty?”

“No more’n you could picture your right hand up and cutting off your left. No, they got the gel drawn and quartered. She’ll be an exile out here, iffen the dowager has her way. A’ course, they’ll all have to change their tunes when the baby’s born, iffen it turns out to be the next duke. Or pay the piper. But that’s months away.”

“Do I detect a note of sympathy for Denning’s doxy? I thought you chaps were supposed to be objective.”

“I got daughters her age,” Dimm said with a shrug, pausing to relieve a passing footman of a handful of toast squares spread with goose liver and fish eggs. “And her life couldn’t of been easy, what I hear.”

“She married him for his money and the title. That’s what she got.”

Dimm clucked his tongue. “Were things all that black and white, I’d be plumb out of a job.”

*

There was no way she could get out of the room before he got to her. Heavens, there was no way she could get out of this chair in that amount of time. Unless the floor should open and swallow her up, she’d have to face the man she’d slapped. He’d deserved it, of course, barging into her drawing room like some ravening beast, but a lady should never lower herself to acting the fishwife, no matter the provocation. And then turning into a watering pot in front of a perfect stranger! At least he’d been gentleman enough to hand over his handkerchief and then leave before she disgraced herself further. Why did the barbarian have to show his second effort at proper conduct on this of all days?

He even looked more civilized. His clothes were well tailored if not absolutely bang up to the mark, without a single crease, spatter, or scent of the stables. His hair was combed, his eyes weren’t shooting sparks, and his hands were wrapped around a wineglass instead of her throat. She should be safe.