Murder Most Malicious (23 page)

She tunneled her hand through the folded piles of Lord Owen's underthings and found two more photographs of Julia with Lord Bellington. In one they occupied the front seat of a motorcar, Lord Bellington at the wheel. In the other, again apparently taken through a window, they sat together inside a café. It was dark, shadowy, but Phoebe made out the image all the same. Lord Bellington's hand lay over Julia's.

Julia
,
how could you?
Phoebe's vision blurred and an ill sensation roiled up inside her. Perhaps nowadays Julia might have gotten away with seeing a man unchaperoned, but a married man? Her reputation—the entire
family's
reputation—would never endure it. And even Phoebe, with all her notions of women's independence and the easing of society's traditions, could not condone behavior such as this.

“Oh, Julia,” she whispered. “Why?”

But why had Lord Owen taken these photographs? What did he plan to do with them? Julia had acted puzzled over his presence in Henry's room last night, but was that all it was—acting? Perhaps Henry and Owen both vied for Julia's affections. But Henry, Owen,
and
Lord Bellington?

And then an urgent thought struck her: the negatives. She burrowed her hand back into the drawer, in between, around, all the way down to the satin drawer liner. “They aren't here,” she murmured. She was about to search through the other drawers again, but surely she would have seen something the first time—an envelope, perhaps.

“Good evening, Lord Owen.”

Amelia's high-pitched, rapid greeting just barely penetrated the bedroom door. Phoebe gasped, shoved the photographs back into the folds of linen, and for an instant agonized over whether she could approximate the exact positions of the drawer's contents. Those concerns fled in the next moment.

“I was checking on Lady Allerton,” Amelia said in the same frenetic tone, “but it seems she is sleeping. Would you mind escorting me down to dinner?”

“I would be very happy to, my lady,” Lord Owen replied. These words Phoebe only just made out, for he apparently didn't share Amelia's need to shout. “If you'll wait here but one moment, I need to stop in my room first.”

Phoebe's eyes flew wide and her breath caught in her throat. Blood pounding in her temples, she glanced around wildly, but the turning of the doorknob left her with only one option. She stepped up into the left side of the armoire, knocking over a pair of boots in the process. She left them where they lay and pulled the doors closed behind her. She parted the suits, stepped behind them, and arranged them in front of her. With her back pressed against hard mahogany and the serge, tweeds, and superfine hanging right up against her face, it was all she could do to draw breath. Not that she dared.

His footfalls were muffled against the carpet and she tried to picture where in the room he was. A drawer opened, closed. More footsteps, a creak from the floor beneath the rug, and then a pause. What was he doing? What was he looking at? Had she closed the doors properly? A maddening itch seized her nose, but she daren't reach up to scratch. Another tickled between her shoulder blades. Her knees began to tremble.

The thudding steps sounded again, becoming subtly louder until she pictured him standing right in front of the armoire doors. She bit down on her bottom lip as an urge to cry out gripped her.
Please, please, don't look inside.... Go away. . . .

She almost sagged with relief when the footsteps receded. She heard them louder against the wooden floor where the rug ended, and then the bedroom door closed again. Her heart hammered against her ribs so violently her entire body shook, and now she did sag, just slowly collapsed into a crouch against the back of the armoire. That brought her face close to the footwear lined up in front of her, the pungency of leather mingling with the scents of wool. She sneezed—she couldn't help it—but as she reached out to crack one of the doors a fraction of an inch, the utter stillness of the room assured her she was now safe. Amelia's muffled voice, and then Owen's, drifted from the corridor. She pushed the door wider, but froze.

The tip of a blade protruded from inside one of the boots she had knocked over.
Grams's pugio,
she thought with a start. She reached out, fingered the tip, then carefully caught it between her thumb and forefinger and slid it free.

The boot clunked against the floor of the armoire. Phoebe absently set it and its mate upright as she stared down at the weapon dangling from her hand. Not Grams's pugio. . . .

A bayonet, some twelve inches long, its edges as well as its point razor sharp.

C
HAPTER
15

E
va knocked on Julia's bedroom door. At a reply from inside, she stepped inside, then took a startled stride backward. “Oh! My lady, I'm sorry, I thought you said to come in. I didn't realize . . .”

Julia stared up at her from the chaise longue set just beyond the dais that held her canopied bed. As eldest daughter, Julia had been allotted the largest and most elaborate room, second only to the one shared by Lord and Lady Wroxly. With rose-colored upholsteries and carved white furniture inlaid with mother-of-pearl accents, the room suited Julia—it complemented her beauty, satisfied her pride, and showcased her aristocratic tastes. Yes, when Eva pictured Julia Renshaw, it was usually here in this fairytale room, a princess holding court until just the right prince swept her off her feet.

She had never envisioned that such a prince might be embodied in the person of Theodore Leighton, yet here he was, standing near the hearth, the glow of the fire gilding the scars on his chin and neck.

Eva took quick assessment of the scene before her. They were still wearing their dinner clothes—all of them—and she had detected no sudden movements when she opened the door, such as Lord Theodore attempting to put distance between them in a show of innocence. Still . . .

“Forgive me, my lady,” she said with a bobbed curtsey. “I'll come back later.”

Julia laughed. “Nonsense, Eva. Lord Theodore was just leaving.” She raised her chin to look up at him, the motion bringing a graceful curve to her elegant neck. “Weren't you, Theo?”

“Yes, it's late. I'll see you tomorrow, Julia.” He crossed the room to her and leaned to peck her offered cheek. Eva found herself having to step out of his way as he strode to the door, or he might have barreled into her. She couldn't resist turning and watching him disappear into the corridor.

“Eva, do stop staring. The man doesn't bite.”

“Doesn't he?” she said so quietly she doubted Lady Julia could have heard as she rose from the chaise in a rustle of silk and beading.

“No, he does not.” Standing at her dressing table, Lady Julia sent Eva a pointed glare through the centermost panel of the triptych mirror. She kicked off her high-heeled silk shoes. “Come help me get this dress off, would you? All this beading weighs a ton.”

“Certainly, my lady.” Eva detoured into the dressing room for a nightgown, wrapper, and slippers. Upon returning she unbuttoned each tiny gold button down the back of Julia's dress, helped her off with stockings and brassier, and slipped the lacy nightgown over her head. Julia sat at the dressing table and Eva went to work on her hair, first removing the jeweled combs on either side. Then she searched for each pin and gently slid it free. “I know it's none of my business, my lady, but entertaining a gentleman in your room alone—”

“I understand your concern, Eva, but I was not
entertaining
Lord Theodore. He was merely inquiring as to my welfare, and I his.”

“Excuse me, my lady, but is that not something that can be done downstairs, among the others?”

“No, it cannot. I don't expect you to understand, Eva.”

“Nor is it my place to understand, my lady,” she said calmly. “I only wish to make certain no harm comes to you, or either of your sisters. It doesn't do to put one's trust in the wrong sort.”

“And have you decided Lord Theodore is the wrong sort? Why?”

The edge in Julia's tone was subtle, but unmistakable. “My lady, there have been such goings-on here lately. How can you know whom to trust?”

Julia went still. “What do you know about Theo Leighton, Eva? Have the servants been gossiping again?”

Dared she reveal what she had learned? Would it be a betrayal of Phoebe's trust? But no, this in particular she had learned from Vernon, who had served as Lord Theodore's valet. She steeled herself with a breath and slid another pin from Julia's hair. “There has been some talk, my lady. It's said Lord Theodore might not have slept in his bed Christmas night.”

Julia took several long moments before answering, and when she did speak, her voice was cold and lacking inflection. “And does this incriminate him in your mind?”

“N-no, my lady. But it does raise a question or two.”

Julia reached up and placed a hand over Eva's, stilling it in midair. “I shall put those questions to rest here and now. Lord Theodore was with me for hours Christmas night.”

“My lady!”

“Not in
that
way. I'd just broken it off with his brother and was terribly upset. I met Theo in the gallery and he saw immediately something was wrong. We sat in the billiard room for hours talking. Even played a few rounds.” She released Eva and folded her hands in her lap. “Theo and I share something of a bond now. We were the two people closest to Lord Allerton when he died—Theo as his brother, and me as the woman both our families believed would become his wife.”

Eva's heartbeat, startled to a gallop by her misunderstanding of Julia's disclosure a moment ago, gradually resumed its normal pace. So this was the reason Theodore Leighton hadn't appeared to have slept in his bed that night, and why he wore the same clothes as the previous evening when Vernon saw him the next morning.

A turn of phrase Julia had used struck her as odd. “Your families believed. Did you not believe it, my lady?”

“No, not really.” Julia shook her head and shrugged one slender shoulder. “For a short time I considered the notion. But only a very short time.”

Eva found the last of the pins and now all of Julia's lustrous blond hair cascaded down her back. Eva reached for the silver-backed brush on the dressing table. She started at the side part in Julia's hair and stroked evenly down to the ends in a meticulous, steady rhythm.

“You've changed your mind many a time over suitors, my lady.”

“That's an impertinent observation,” Julia quipped, but a light hint of laughter let Eva know she hadn't taken offense. Julia confirmed this with her next words. “I've yet to find a man who satisfies all of my preconceived notions of what a husband should be.”

“And what is that, my lady?”

“Full of questions tonight, aren't you? All right, I'll play along. But do keep brushing, please.” Julia tilted her head back and with closed eyes shook her hair out until it fanned over her shoulders and danced nearly to her waist. “A man, in my opinion, should above all else be rich.”

“Wasn't Lord Allerton rich, my lady?”

Julia sent her a playful look through the mirror. “I'm not finished yet. He should be rich, British through and through and preferably a Peer, splendidly tall, broad in the shoulders, and wear impeccably tailored clothing at all times. And I do mean all. Even his smoking jacket should fit him like a second skin.”

“No foreigners, then, my lady? No Italians or Frenchmen or Spaniards?”

“No, I shan't have a foreigner. I want an Englishmen and a highly educated one at that. Eton, and then Oxford or Cambridge. Nothing less will do.

“Well, Lord Allerton was certainly all that, my lady.”

Julia suddenly pulled forward, out of reach of Eva's brushing. She propped her elbows on the tabletop and dropped her chin in her hands. With a sigh she regarded herself in the mirror. Her eyes clouded, became darker than the darkest sapphire. “The man I marry must be worthy of my respect.”

When she explained no further, Eva asked, “And how may a man earn your respect, my lady?”

She remained silent a long moment before replying. “I don't know, Eva. That's the problem. I only know, at least I hope, I'll feel it when it happens. So far, it simply hasn't.” She glanced over her shoulder at Eva. “Am I being foolish?”

Eva reached around Julia to set the brush down. “No, my lady. I think you're wise to wait for the right gentleman.”

“Even if it takes years?”

“Better that than spending the rest of your life unhappily married.”

“Grams wouldn't agree. She wants all of us girls married off as soon as possible. She sees it as the best way to keep Fox's inheritance intact.”

“Perhaps, my lady, but it hasn't escaped my notice that your grandparents seem well-suited and happily married. I don't believe it's too much to want the same for yourself.” With a hand on her shoulder, Eva gently turned Julia back to face the mirror, separated her hair into three sections, and began plaiting its length. Julia watched her through the mirror, a speculative light dancing in her eyes. “There now, my lady,” Eva said as she secured the bottom of Julia's braid with a velvet ribbon that matched the blue of her nightgown. “Will there be anything else?”

“Thank you, Eva, you may go. And do find out what's got my sister's knickers in such a twist.”

“I'm sorry?”

Julia rolled her eyes. “You'll see.”

A few minutes later, Eva knocked at Phoebe's door. It sprang open as if the girl had been standing on the other side waiting for her. She seized Eva's wrist.

“Come in. Oh, Eva, such goings-on!”

Phoebe swung the door closed again. Eva took a moment to study her appearance, noting Phoebe's high color and the sore spot on her lower lip that suggested she had been biting it like she used to do during thunderstorms. “What is it, my lady? Your sister told me you . . .” She thought better of repeating Julia's exact words. “That you seemed agitated this evening.”

“I'm assuming you mean Julia. Believe me, she doesn't know the half of it. Eva, I believe I know who our killer is.”

 

Phoebe didn't mean to lose her composure, but hot, stinging tears filled her eyes.

“My lady, what is it?” Eva's arm went around her and she felt herself led to the little settee near the fireplace. Shudders racked her in an outpouring she had been holding in check all through dinner, dessert, and the eternal moments she'd had to spend with the others before she could politely excuse herself for bed. How draining it had all been. Now she could no longer contain the strain and fear that had held her in a chokehold in Lord Owen's bedroom—inside his armoire, with those damning pictures of Julia and Lord Bellington, and the weapon that very probably had . . .

She shut her eyes, exhaled, and tried not to think of Henry's final moments.

“I don't understand, Eva. He seems so steady and honorable and . . . he's a war hero.”

“Who?” Eva grasped her shoulders and held her at arm's length. “Who are you talking about, my lady?”

“Lord Owen, of course. Lord Owen murdered Henry—Lord Allerton. I'm all but completely certain of it.”

Eva's grip tightened on Phoebe's shoulders. “First, where is Amelia? Is she all right?”

Phoebe nodded. “She walked Grams up to her room. We haven't been able to speak of what happened yet, but I know she suffered a terrible fright.” She sniffed and blinked away her last few tears.

Eva patted her cheek before reaching into a pocket in her skirt and taking out one of the handkerchiefs Phoebe and Amelia had embroidered for her for Christmas. “It's clean,” she said. “I never use them, they're too precious. But I always carry one with me.” She showed Phoebe one of her kindly smiles.

Phoebe reached to grasp the fabric, but a horrible notion prompted her to let it slip from her fingers and flutter to the floor.

Eva bent to retrieve it. “My lady?”

“It was in the box, Eva. In your Christmas box, with . . .”

“Yes, that's true.” Eva frowned. “But you and Amelia wrapped them so well, they aren't tainted, my lady. I could never think of them as anything but the perfect gift they are. So here, dry your tears and tell me what happened.”

As Phoebe's tale unfolded, she found she couldn't look Eva in the eye, for all her maid had helped devise the plan to search Lord Owen's bedroom. She had assured both Eva and Amelia of the foolproof nature of that plan, never expecting Lord Owen to deviate from the scenario she'd envisioned.

“This must end, my lady. It's too dangerous.”

“Yes, I knew you would say that and perhaps you're right. We can debate it later. Right now, Eva, tell me what you think. Does that bayonet signify that Lord Owen is guilty?”

A knock forestalled Eva's answer. The door burst open upon Amelia, still in her evening clothes. She shut the door quickly and hurried across the room to them. “Phoebe, it was so awful. I tried to prevent him—”

“I know, Amelia.” Standing, Phoebe embraced her sister. Though they'd traded numerous urgent looks across the dining table, they hadn't found a moment until now to speak of their near debacle. “I heard you try to persuade him to go downstairs. He wouldn't be deterred.”

“Well, what happened when he came in?” Amelia demanded. “Where did you hide?”

Phoebe shuddered at the memory. “In the armoire. It's quite all right, Amellie, he didn't catch me. Do you know why he returned to his room? Was he holding anything when he came out?”

“Nothing I could see, but that doesn't mean he didn't put something in his pocket. He's still downstairs with Grampapa. Perhaps it had to do with whatever they're discussing. Oh!” She gasped. “Do you think it's all right for Grampapa to be alone with him? Perhaps I should return. . . .”

Phoebe shook her head. “No, Grampapa will be safe, I'm quite sure of it. Don't you agree, Eva?”

Eva didn't hesitate in nodding. “Lady Amelia, whoever attacked Lord Allerton did so out of rage. It's unlikely such a beastly act will be repeated anytime soon.”

“A crime of passion,” Amelia said, “as they say in the penny dreadfuls. But how can you know that?”