Late for the Wedding (17 page)

“A pity,” Charles murmured. “There are possibilities, you see. If only—”

“About the matter of blond-wig sales in recent months,” Tobias said evenly.

“Yes, indeed.” Cork clasped his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels. “I believe you said you would make it worth my while to discuss recent sales of yellow false hair?”

Tobias glanced at Lavinia, one brow elevated. “My assistant will handle the negotiations.”

Lavinia cleared her throat and prepared to make the same bargain she had struck with the other helpful wig-makers. “Like yourself, we cater to a very exclusive clientele, Mr. Cork. Only the most elegant sort apply to Lake and March for private inquiries.”

“I see,” Cork murmured.

“As we both know,” Lavinia continued smoothly, “every business establishment thrives on the right sort of advertising. I propose that, in exchange for whatever information you can provide us today, I shall make it a point to recommend your wig shop to my own clients.”

Cork did not bother to veil his skepticism. “I really don’t see much use in that.”

“I assure you, sir, we are talking about some very high flyers in the ton,” Lavinia stated. “A word in the proper ears here and there is worth far more than a notice in the newspapers, as I’m sure you are well aware.”

“Humph.” Cork rocked some more on his heels and then he nodded once. “Very well, I was asked to create one or two blond toupees and a couple of puffs this past Season, but that was the lot. As I said, the color is simply not fashionable. I don’t even bother to stock the excellent German yellow anymore. The majority of the demand is for French brown and black.”

“Thank you for the information,” Tobias said grimly. “It is very much appreciated. Rest assured, Mrs. Lake will mention the name of your establishment to her clients whenever the opportunity arises.”

He seized Lavinia’s arm and propelled her toward the door.

“Well, that was a complete waste of time,” he said when they were safely outside on the street. “I vow, I have learned far more about the arts of wig-making and hairdressing in the past two days than I ever wanted to know.”

“Nevertheless, you were correct when you said that we must pursue that line of inquiry. We could not afford to overlook such an important clue.”

“We will finish the last three shops now, and tonight I will have a look around the one that was closed and that will be the end of the matter. Hell’s teeth, Lavinia, I must find another angle on this case.”

She smoothed the fingers of her left glove. “I really feel that I should accompany you tonight, Tobias. You need me.”

“Indeed?” He sounded distracted, as though he was only half listening to her argument. “Why is that?”

“Because in spite of our interviews yesterday and today, you simply do not possess an adequate knowledge of fashion to know what to look for inside a wig-maker’s shop. You might well ignore a critical bit of evidence.”

He mulled that over for a few seconds and then, to her secret astonishment, he merely shrugged.

“Perhaps you are right,” he said at last. “I suppose there is no great risk in tonight’s venture. After all, the proprietor, Mr. Swaine, is out of town.”

“Excellent.” She gave him an approving smile. “I shall look forward to the expedition. When we get home you may lend me one of your picks so that I can practice a bit before we go out this evening.”

“Very well,” he said somewhat absently.

A sense of satisfaction welled up inside. Tobias was, indeed, starting to treat her like a true partner, she told herself.

But by the time they reached the end of the street and turned the corner, much of her triumph had faded. The little battle had been almost too easy, she thought. Tobias either did not have his heart in it or else he was too preoccupied with other matters relating to the case to bother to argue.

“Out with it, sir,” she said briskly. “You are not yourself today. What are you brooding on so intently?”

“The evidence of the ravages of time that has begun to appear in my hair, I suppose.”

Her jaw dropped.

“The ravages of time? Of all the ridiculous concerns.” She came to an abrupt halt, turned to face him, and surveyed the silver at his temples. It went very nicely with the interesting crinkles at the corners of his mesmeric eyes, she thought. “I cannot believe that you took Cork’s comments seriously. For heaven’s sake, he is a shopkeeper who was attempting to make a sale.”

“But he was right. I’m not getting any younger, Lavinia.”

“No, you are not,” she said crisply. “I certainly agree that you are no callow youth. You are a man in the prime of his life. Furthermore, I must tell you that I find the evidence of the ravages of time in your hair immensely attractive.”

His mouth quirked at one corner. “Immensely?”

“Yes.” She caught her breath at the interesting gleam in his seductive eyes. “Immensely.”

“That is fortunate, indeed.” He took her chin on the edge of his hand and raised it slightly. “Because I am inordinately fond of your hair too.”

The familiar little rush of heat and pleasure whispered through her. “Even though the color is extremely unfashionable?”

“I will have you know, madam, that I have never been a slave to fashion.”

She started to laugh at that outrageously accurate remark. But he kissed her, right there on the street, heedless of passersby glaring with disapproval and curiosity.

She stopped laughing.

Chapter 16

Anthony was in a good mood for the first time since Hood’s demonstrations two days ago. He followed Emeline through the door of Mrs. Lake’s study with a sense of keen anticipation.

The first person he saw was Tobias, who was sprawled comfortably in his favorite chair, legs stretched out in front of him, a glass of sherry in his hand.

“Mr. March.” Emeline smiled warmly. “Mrs. Chilton said you were here.” She looked around the small room. “What have you done with my aunt?”

“Started her down the road to a career of crime, I regret to say.” Tobias took a swallow of sherry. “But I must admit she does have an aptitude for the profession.”

“I’m right here.” Lavinia’s head popped up from behind her desk. She waved a lock pick in the air. “Practicing my trade. Mr. March and I are going to break into a wig-maker’s shop tonight.”

It struck Anthony that he had never seen a lady sitting on the floor.

“How exciting,” Emeline said. She hurried around to the other side of the desk to watch. “May I come with you?”

“No, you may not,” Tobias said decisively. “One overeager apprentice is all I can manage to supervise at a time.” He eyed Anthony over the rim of the sherry glass. “You look pleased with yourself. Did you learn something useful today?”

This was a perfect opportunity to affect the same air of cool competence that Tobias always exhibited on this sort of occasion, Anthony reminded himself.

He lounged very deliberately against the side of the desk and folded his arms. “I think we may have found the source of the memento-mori rings.”

Lavinia’s head shot up again, her eyes bright with admiration. “Did you, indeed? Why, that is excellent news.”

“Very good work,” Tobias said quietly.

Anthony felt the facade of coolness slip a little, allowing some of his pride and satisfaction to show. Praise from Tobias always had this effect on him, he thought. This was the man he admired most in the world, his model and pattern for all things masculine—except for matters sartorial, he reminded himself with affectionate amusement. His mentor’s insistence that his coats be cut for ease of movement rather than style and his lack of interest in intricate neckcloth knots would forever keep Tobias from becoming a paragon of fashion.

“Emeline deserves most of the credit,” he said, nodding in her direction. “She charmed the owner of the museum into admitting the loss of the rings.”

“But it was Anthony who suggested that we make some inquiries at that odd little museum after we had no luck with the antiquities dealers,” Emeline said quickly. “It was a stroke of genius.”

Anthony grimaced. “More like a stroke of desperation.”

“What’s this about a museum?” Lavinia asked.

“We were getting nowhere with the dealers,” Anthony explained. “But one of them mentioned that there was a large collection of memento-mori rings at a certain little museum in Peg Street. I thought we had little to lose, so we decided to make inquiries there.”

“The proprietor insisted that we purchase a ticket before he would talk to us,” Emeline said. “And when we told him that we were especially interested in the rings, he became quite agitated.”

“But Emeline soothed him with a few smiles and gentle words,” Anthony said. “And eventually he confided that his collection had been stolen.”

Tobias did not move in his chair. “When?”

Anthony recognized the lethally sharp edge on the single word.

It was a very fortunate thing, indeed, he thought, that his brother-in-law was obsessed with justice and the righting of wrongs. Such skills in a man who was not bound by such a strict private code of honor would have been terrifying.

“The museum proprietor said that he noticed the rings had gone missing some two months back.” Anthony pulled out his notebook and flipped it open. “I asked him if he could recall anyone expressing a special interest in them shortly before the theft.”

“Excellent question,” Tobias said. “And the answer?”

Anthony glanced at Emeline and inclined his head.

She could scarcely contain herself. “A day or two before the rings vanished, the proprietor noticed a woman with yellow hair examining them quite closely.”

Lavinia scrambled to her feet. “A blond woman? Really?”

“Yes.” Anthony snapped the notebook shut. “Unfortunately, the proprietor did not get a good look at her features because she wore a large hat with a heavy veil.”

“Age?” Tobias demanded in that same edgy tone. “Physical size?”

“Unfortunately, he was very vague on such details,” Anthony said. “It has been over two months, after all. The only thing that seems to have stood out clearly in his memory was the woman’s yellow hair.”

Tobias raised his brows. “He recalled that detail, did he?”

“Quite vividly,” Anthony said.

“A lady in disguise?” Emeline asked.

“More likely a man dressed as a woman,” Tobias said.

Anthony snorted. “I must tell you, your theory that we are chasing a man who wears women’s clothes to conceal his identity strikes me as extremely bizarre.”

Tobias cocked a brow. “It is not as uncommon as one might think.”

Anthony chuckled. “You jest, sir.”

“Why should it be so startling?” Lavinia said. “Ladies’ fashions have often imitated those of gentlemen. One need only recall all those stylish little hats and jackets that resembled military uniforms a few years ago, for example. I vow, every fashionable lady owned one or two such garments.”

“Yes, but they were designed to be worn with gowns,” Anthony said. “Not trousers.”

“You know, I have often thought that there are occasions when it would be very convenient to wear trousers rather than skirts,” Lavinia mused.

“Yes, indeed,” Emeline said enthusiastically. “So much more comfortable and practical.”

Anthony stared at her, too shocked to speak.

“Take tonight, for example,” Lavinia continued. “If I were to wear trousers when we break into the wig-maker’s shop, I could move far more freely.”

“When you consider the matter,” Emeline said, “our profession is of such a nature that there will no doubt be many occasions when trousers would be the perfect attire. I wonder if we could persuade Madam Francesca to design some for us?”

Lavinia looked at her. “What a positively brilliant notion.”

Anthony finally found his voice. He glared at Emeline. “What the devil are you saying? You know perfectly well that you cannot go about in trousers.”

She smiled very sweetly. “Whyever not, sir?”

“Uh.” The simple question brought him to a grinding halt. He looked at Tobias for assistance.

“Bloody hell.” Tobias downed the last of his sherry, got to his feet, and went toward the door. “Come along, Tony. We had best make our escape while we can. I do not believe that it would be wise for either of us to hang about for the rest of this conversation.”

Anthony took one last look at Emeline’s determined expression and concluded that Tobias was right. He was not prepared to fight this particular battle.

He quickly made his farewells and followed his brother-in-law into the front hall.

“You do not think they are serious, do you?” he asked as they went down the steps to the street. “About the trousers, I mean?”

“When it comes to Mrs. Lake I have learned to take everything she says quite seriously. I suspect you had best do the same with Miss Emeline. The alternative is to risk being taken by surprise. Never a wise position for one in our profession.”

“They were no doubt teasing us.”

“I would not depend upon that assumption, if I were you.”

Anthony hesitated and then elected to abandon the topic. “Speaking of our profession, there is a question I wish to ask. It has to do with technique.”

“What is it?”

“How does one set about making inquiries into a gentleman’s background?”

Tobias gave him a hard, searching look. “With extreme caution. Why do you ask?”

“I am concerned about Hood.”

“You mean that you are jealous of him, do you not?” Tobias asked in a low tone. “I assure you, there is no need.”

Anthony set his jaw. “I do not like the way he watches Emeline.”

“Calm yourself, Tony. Miss Emeline has eyes for no man but you. Take my advice and do not go prying into Hood’s affairs. Gentlemen, as a rule, do not take kindly to invasions of privacy. Some would view such inquiries as extreme insults. One misstep and you could find yourself invited to a dawn appointment.”

“I just want to be assured that he is no threat to Miss Emeline.”

Tobias was quiet for a moment. “I’ll ask Crackenburne to see what he can find out about Hood,” he said finally. “He is in a position to make discreet inquiries without arousing interest or suspicion.”

“Thank you.”

“Meanwhile, I want your word that you will not do anything foolish in that direction,” Tobias said. “I am very serious about this, Tony. Men have died in duels for lesser cause.”

“Yes, I know.” He adjusted the tilt of his hat with unnecessary care, angling the brim just enough to keep the afternoon sun out of his eyes. “My father, for example.”

Tobias shielded the small flame of the candle with his hand and watched Lavinia work on the lock of the back door of the wig-maker’s shop. She crouched on the step, the folds of her dark cloak draped around her, and bent industriously to her task.

There was a near-full moon tonight and no clouds. The silvery light illuminated the entire city in an otherworldly glow. The beams seeped into even the narrowest alleys and lanes, making their task simpler in some ways and more dangerous in others: the same moon that made it easier for them to see also made it easier for others to see them.

There was a soft click.

“I’ve got it,” she whispered, sounding thrilled with herself.

“Hush.” He glanced over his shoulder, checking once again for shadows or signs of movement.

Nothing shifted in the night. A lamp shone faintly in a room above a shop at the far end of the street, but all of the neighboring establishments were shrouded in darkness. He listened to the silence for a few seconds and was satisfied.

“All right,” he said quietly. “Let’s go inside.”

Lavinia rose and twisted the knob cautiously. The door opened with a rusty squeak.

Stale, fetid air wafted out of the interior of the shop. It was laced with an underlying stench that was all too familiar.

“Dear God.” Lavinia gasped and tugged the edge of her cloak across her nose and mouth. She looked at Tobias, her eyes widening in appalled comprehension.

He realized that she, too, understood what the dreadful smell implied. This was not the first time they had engaged in a midnight encounter with the dead.

“I’ll go first,” he said.

Lavinia did not object.

He raised the candle and surveyed the small back room of the wig shop. It was tightly packed with the articles of the proprietor’s trade.

Bald display busts were heaped in a large basket. In the flickering light the heads resembled nothing so much as the ghastly fruits of the guillotine.

Several wigs of various shades and shapes were spread out across a table. To Tobias, they looked like the skins of dead animals. Implements including scissors and combs were neatly arranged beside a stack of toupees. A small loom designed for weaving false hair occupied a nearby bench. The half-finished length of a dark brown hairpiece hung from it.

He raised the candle higher and saw a narrow flight of stairs that led to the rooms above the shop. The steps extended upward into thick gloom.

The foot of the staircase was concealed behind a crate, but he could make out a bit of crumpled white cloth and a stocking-clad foot.

“I think we have just found Swaine.” He went toward the bottom of the stairs.

Lavinia trailed after him.

Tobias came to a halt and raised the candle to examine the scene. The body was that of a balding elderly man dressed in a nightshirt. The victim sprawled facedown in a dreadfully tangled, most unnatural manner. There was a vast amount of dried blood on the floor beneath his head.

Lavinia stopped a short distance away and pulled her cloak more tightly around her. She gazed sadly at the body.

“Do you think he got up in the middle of the night and perhaps tripped and fell on the stairs?” she whispered without much hope.

“No.” Tobias bent down to examine the head wound. “I suspect he was struck from behind with some heavy object and then pushed down these stairs so the deed would appear to be an accident. I would say that the murder was done fairly recently. Sometime within the past day or two, I believe.”

“Perhaps he surprised a burglar.”

He straightened and looked up into the darkness at the top of the stairs. “Perhaps.” But his instincts told him that whoever had murdered the shopkeeper had been no ordinary burglar. “I will go upstairs and look around.”

Lavinia turned on her heel, spotted a candlestick with an unlit taper, and picked it up. She lit the candle from his flame.

“I’ll search the front room of the shop,” she said.

He stepped cautiously over the body and started up the steps. “Look for business records and recent receipts.” He paused briefly. “And a ring.”

She looked up at him. “You think this is the work of the Memento-Mori Man?”

“You know how I feel about coincidences.”

At the top of the staircase he found a cozy room furnished with a desk, chair, table, and a small carpet. The quality of the objects gave evidence of quiet prosperity but not great wealth. A doorway led to a tiny bedchamber.

One of the fireplace pokers lay on the cold hearth. He picked it up and examined it in the light of the candle. There were tiny bits of gore and gray hair stuck to it. The wig-maker had certainly not fallen accidentally to his death.

He searched the adjoining room, rummaging methodically through the small wardrobe and the drawers of the washstand. A variety of wigs hung from pegs on the wall. Evidently the late Mr. Swaine had worn some of his own creations.

When he was finished, he went back into the front room and started to search the desk. Downstairs he heard muffled noises that told him Lavinia was going through some cupboards.