Beguiled (12 page)

They were both silent.

Then Maggie said, “But it wasn't always so, you see. We fell in love.”

“You will surely fall in love with Mark,” Kat assured her. “I was a fool once—Hunter stood before me, and I was blinded by someone I later realized would have sadly disappointed me within a few weeks' time. Love doesn't always just…appear. It begins slowly sometimes…with a word, a realization…a stirring sensation.”

Ally hesitated. She had felt the stirring sensation that Kat spoke about…

For the highwayman. But she would
not
fall in love with a criminal.

“Meet Mark, at least,” Camille implored her.

“Of course,” Ally said, feeling the ring heavy on her finger. “But I feel I must say something to Brian, Jamie and Hunter about my own plans.”

“No!” Kat protested.

“No, please. Not yet,” Maggie begged.

“Do nothing until you have at least spoken with Mark,” Camille said. “All I'm asking is that you give him a chance. Please?”

“As you wish,” Ally murmured. She didn't like it, but at least she had spoken her mind to both Camille and Kat, and if she knew the two of them, Maggie would soon know everything she had said.

So yes, she would meet Mark Farrow, the future Earl of Warren. But she was not going to give up on her dream.

 

M
ARK HEARD HIS FATHER
'
S SOFT
groan the minute they made it up the steps to the museum.

And then he knew why.

Ian Douglas was standing just inside the door, waiting.

“Now?” Joseph said, a growl in his voice.

Ian reddened, then spoke in hushed tones. “Forgive me, Lord Warren. Were this not of such great importance…but the chief has been with the prime minister, and he believes we must speak with the housekeeper and Eleanor Brandon immediately.”

“There is a large force involving sheriffs, the Metropolitan Police and the City of London police to deal with this crisis,” Joseph reminded Ian.

Ian shuffled uncomfortably, looking around before speaking again. “I'm sorry, Lord Farrow. Apparently the queen herself believes that another mind must be brought to bear, such as…”

“Such as my son, who is here to meet his fiancée, a young lady he failed to meet last week at his own engagement party.”

“Father, I believe we were to view the exhibition first, then go in to lunch,” Mark said. “I must obey Ian's summons, but I can surely do so and return in time to dine.”

Lord Farrow frowned at Ian. “He simply must be back in time for dessert and coffee.”

“Yes, my lord,” Ian said, and gulped. “I've horses waiting—faster than steering any conveyance through the city traffic,” he said.

“Father, I
will
be back.”

Mark turned and strode out with Ian. Handsome police horses were waiting for them, the reins held by an officer. Ian had chosen wisely, as there were various cart jams, a stalled automobile and other blockages on the street. On horseback, they quickly reached the town house where Giles Brandon had been killed.

Time had passed, but there were still officers in front of the residence, though Mark didn't believe it was necessary. The killer had done what he needed to do here. Eleanor was in no danger.

The front door was answered by the housekeeper. She was a bone-thin woman with wide brown eyes and a skeletal face. Her color appeared far too ashen for any living being.

“Hattie Simmons,” Ian said, smiling kindly, offering the woman his hand. She was probably not accustomed to such courtesy, because she looked at Ian for several seconds before accepting the greeting. Ian was about to introduce Mark, but he shook his head, offering his hand, as well. “Mark, Miss Simmons,” he said.

“Mrs. Brandon is in the parlor, waiting,” Hattie said.

“Have you tea, by any chance?” Mark asked.

Ian frowned slightly then realized his intent. “I'll sit with Mrs. Brandon. Perhaps you can help Hattie with the tea,” he said.

“A pleasure,” Mark said.

“I am the housekeeper. I must do the tea,” Hattie said.

“I used to help my mum with the tea,” Mark said. “A task I enjoyed. Truly, you must have had a wretched day and night. Please, let me be of assistance.”

She didn't answer nor show any emotion. She simply turned and began to walk toward the kitchen. Mark shrugged to Ian and followed Hattie as the two men parted.

In the kitchen, Hattie set a heavy pot on the stove.

Mark saw where a serving tray waited, and set it on the table before taking a seat. Hattie reached into a bread box, looking for scones or muffins, anything to serve, he thought. Neither she nor Eleanor Brandon looked like the type of women who would remember to eat unless someone prodded them into it.

“Hattie—may I call you Hattie?”

“It's what everyone calls me,” the woman said dourly.

“Hattie, I'm sorry to bring this all up, but you do know that we must talk, do you not?”

She nodded grimly, lips pursed.

“I want to make sure I understand everything fully, so I'll tell you what I've been told. You were out for the night because Mr. Brandon wanted the house empty. He wanted complete silence and privacy while he was working.”

She gave him the same grim nod. “I have told my story to the other officers.”

“I'm not actually an officer, Hattie. I want to listen to all you have to say and see if there isn't something we haven't done to solve these terrible crimes.”

She inclined her head to the side and shrugged.

“When you returned in the morning, the house was locked?”

“The gate and the house,” Hattie offered.

“Those muffins look absolutely delicious,” Mark said. “May I?”

She might have been as skinny as a starved mare, but apparently she took pride in her baking. “They're two days old, sir. I wish I had something fresh to offer you,” she said, bringing a muffin to him on a plate.

“I'm sure that your two-day-old muffins are far superior to many fresh ones,” he assured her. Taking a bite, he extolled, “And I am right. Delicious.”

She managed to flush despite her pallor. “Thank you.”

“All right, Hattie, so you returned home from a night out—where were you, by the way?”

“I stayed with my friend Maude. She's the housekeeper for the Perrys, down the street, but she has her own little room with a private entrance.”

He nodded, planning to have someone speak with Maude and the Perrys, just to certify the woman's words.

“So you came home, and you worked in the kitchen,” he said.

“Yes. I didn't hear Mr. Brandon about. I knew sooner or later he would start bellowing for his tea. But I try never to disturb him first.”

“I see.”

She watched him, and he made a display of savoring her muffin. “Hattie, at what time did you go up to Mr. Brandon's office?”

“Around nine, I believe.”

“Was his office door locked?”

“Yes, as always.” She hesitated, looking at him, and then she began offering information. “At first, I didn't want to knock. So I went away. But then…” Again she hesitated. Her face began to pucker. “I went back and knocked. And he didn't yell. I knocked harder, then again and again. Still he didn't answer. I went down for my keys.”

“You went down for your keys, you say. Where are they kept?”

She pointed. The household keys were on a ring that was hung on a clothes peg by the back door.

“So you got the keys and went up.”

“Yes. I knocked again. I called his name. Then I opened the door.”

Her face betrayed the horror she must have felt. “There was so much blood….” she said weakly.

“You knew he was dead?”

“Oh yes!”

“Did you touch him?”

She shook her head. “No. I didn't need to touch him.” She stared at him. “You wouldn't have needed to touch him. You would have known, too. There was no way I could have saved him. That…that was obvious.”

“So then?”

She swallowed hard. “I ran. I ran all the way to the police station. And an officer came back with me…but I didn't go back up. No…I couldn't go back up. I…I couldn't stay in the house.”

“What did you do?”

“I went back to Maude's.”

“Did a police officer escort you?”

She nodded vaguely. Then she stared at him. “I only came back this morning because of Mrs. Brandon. She needs me. She's a good woman, a kind woman.” Hattie was silent for a second, but then her next words spilled out. “A truly fine woman.” She crossed herself. “God knows, there's no man deserved what Mr. Brandon got, but…neither did
she
deserve what she was always getting from him.”

“They didn't get along?”

Hattie sniffed. “I can't say they didn't get along. They didn't fight. He yelled. She stayed silent. He ordered her about. She did what he said. And that was that.” Hattie smiled. “This was her house, you know. He was able to be a writer because of her money. Mrs. Brandon, she isn't even all that old. But she looks it. He wore her to the ground with his constant ranting and raving. He had her convinced he was the next best thing to our blessed Lord Christ and she was privileged to be in the same room as the likes of him.”

Hattie definitely hadn't liked Giles Brandon. But Mrs. Brandon's money or not, it seemed Giles had been in control of it. Looking at Hattie, he was certain she hadn't been the one to wield the knife against the man. And yet, skinny as she was…there was a steely strength about her. He didn't suspect her, but he didn't want to exclude her, either.

“Hattie…when you go out during the day, shopping, running errands, do you take your keys with you?” he asked.

“Yes. Well, not if I'm out for Mrs. Brandon. I don't need to be lugging that heavy chain with me when she's home. She can let me back in.”

“Who else comes here, besides yourself, of course, and Mrs. Brandon?”

“Are you jesting, sir?”

“No, Hattie, I'm serious.”

“I wouldn't know where to begin,” Hattie said. “All manner of folk come here. Mr. Brandon held meetings here sometimes. He didn't just
write
against the monarchy, you know. He was involved in groups planning to bring the Crown crashing right down.”

“How did you feel about that, Hattie?” he asked.

She lifted her hands, her gaze almost amused and very world weary. “What do I care, the likes of me, one way or the other? A woman such as me…well, there will be an old master or a new master. I work. I survive. It doesn't matter to me who is at the top of the list. I will always remain at the bottom.”

He wasn't sure how to respond to that. “You're a fine housekeeper, Hattie. And that is an excellent talent.”

She lowered her eyes. “Thank you,” she said awkwardly. Then she shrugged. “Mrs. Brandon is…well, I will be here for her.”

“That's good of you, Hattie,” he said. He clasped both her hands. “That's very good of you. And remember what I've said—you are a talented woman.”

She smiled, and right then, the water began to boil.

 

T
HE MUSEUM WAS FILLED WITH
people. The new exhibition had just opened, and Camille—who so often had a hand in such events—had determined it wasn't going to be a day just for the elite. The doors were opened to the general public as well. She hoped the well-off would offer contributions, but part of the reason she wanted such a mixture of people was that she believed in the goodness of humanity. She wanted the privileged to see what their contributions could do for those who were not quite so blessed.

“The tearoom is downstairs,” Camille said as they entered. “We should mingle for a while, then dine in an hour or so.”

“Perfect,” Ally said. “I'm quite anxious to see the exhibit.” She was lying through her teeth, but she had no other choice.

“Ah, there are Maggie and Jamie, speaking with Lord Joseph Farrow. I don't see Mark with him. How very odd. Perhaps he's already in the exhibit halls,” Camille said.

She started off toward the group. “Come along, Ally,” Kat said softly, and followed Camille.

But Ally hesitated. Even from a distance, she could hear Lord Farrow say, “He's had to step out for a moment—running late, I fear. But he will be along.”

He would be along? Despite herself, she felt a surge of anger. So the wondrous Mark Farrow still couldn't find the time to meet his fiancée! How insulting.

She wouldn't let herself dwell on that at the moment; she had to make use of it, and of her time here. She made certain her guardians were deeply involved in their conversation with Lord Farrow, then sidled along the wall and made her way back to the door—and instantly out through it. She didn't run, which would have called attention to herself, but she made her way quickly down the steps and to the street.

Luckily, she had been at the museum many times and had learned the surrounding streets quite well.

She didn't need to hire a hansom cab. She could reach her destination far more quickly on foot. The city was, as always, a hive of activity. She moved swiftly, threading her way through workers, businessmen on their way to banks, carriages, pushcarts, automobiles in a veritable sea of humanity.

As she walked, she lamented the fact she had left her sketchbook by the stream. She had written some excellent material in it, but she was very proud of the piece secreted in the pocket of her skirt, as well.

This morning, watching her fiancé on the steps of the sheriff's office, she had become more convinced than ever that she hadn't been wrong about the importance of what she was doing. She had been afraid before at times, confident sometimes, and then, at other times, certain she was lacking real talent with words. But though she was certain she had a tremendous amount still to learn, she was also convinced that it was imperative for her to keep turning in her essays. Because of this luncheon, she was getting a chance to send her work straight from the city, instead of trying to appear nonchalant while she mailed it from the village.