Secrets of the Heart (20 page)

“No. I imagine you are right about that.”

They walked on in silence for a moment. Michael glanced at Rachel thoughtfully, then said, “I know where there is an inn not far from here. We could go there and get a bite to eat, mayhap.”

Rachel had to admit that she had worked up a hunger, but she hesitated. “But I cannot—what would people say if I went into an inn with a strange man?”

His brows rose comically. “You think you are going to see anyone you know going into an inn anywhere around here?”

“Well, no.” Rachel smiled. “Probably not, but…”

“Besides, you know how much I resemble Lord Westhampton. Anyone who saw you would assume that you are with your husband.”

“Yes, I suppose you are right. Although they would wonder why you were dressed so oddly.”

“We can discuss this investigation further over luncheon.”

Rachel looked at him warily. “What do you mean? You are going to try further to convince me not to do it?”

A smile quirked up his mouth, lighting his face in a way that reminded Rachel forcibly of Michael. “No. I mean, perhaps we could, um, work on it together. Perhaps you could do the sort of things that you are better at, like speaking to Lady Esterbrook's new maid, and I could talk to the men who work for Birkshaw—as an equal, see, 'cause they'll tell me things they would not tell a toff. And we could tell each other what we found out, and talk about it and what it means. After all, we are trying to find out the same thing.”

“All right,” Rachel replied, feeling rather daring. After all, there was, she told herself, nothing intrinsically wrong with dining with this man.

She remembered what had happened the last time she had been alone with James Hobson, but she immediately dismissed the thought. It had been an aberration, she told herself, something that had been brought about by that particular situation. Their emotions had been aroused, and even if it had been anger that she was feeling, somehow it had made it easier for her to slip into an unaccustomed passion. Being together in a public place like an inn, talking about working together on this case, would be an entirely different thing.

It took only a few minutes to arrive at the inn, named The Red Boar, a large, busy stopover for travelers. Hobson was able to procure them a private room in which to dine, and they were waited on by the innkeeper himself, who, Rachel noticed, addressed them as my lord and lady.

After he had bowed out, leaving them alone, Rachel turned to her companion, saying accusingly, “You told him you were Michael, didn't you?”

Hobson shrugged. “I told you no one would think it odd to see you dining with your husband. Besides, it got us a private room. You wouldn't want to be stared at by the common mob, would you?”

“I doubt there is a mob in this inn,” Rachel pointed out, then admitted, “But no, I would prefer to dine alone.” She paused, looking at him thoughtfully. “How often do you do that? Pretend you are Michael, I mean?”

He grinned, his eyes dancing with merriment. “Only as often as it helps me—and I can get away with it.”

“You are utterly shameless,” Rachel scolded, although it was all she could do not to return his grin, there was something so engaging about it. “Doesn't it bother you at all that you profess to disdain the man, then use his identity whenever it will get you something you want?”

He shrugged. “It isn't as if I steal anything from him. I don't even do anything that would reflect badly on him: I always pay my shot. I just use his name to get me the things that it gets him. He got that name from his father, didn't he? It isn't as if it was somethin' he earned, now, is it? He was born to it. And since his father is my father, it seems to me that there's nothing wrong with me getting a little bit of that, even if I didn't happen to get the name.”

“You have a way of making things sound very reasonable,” Rachel replied.

“That is because I am a reasonable man.” He picked up the bottle of wine the innkeeper had brought to them and held it over her glass, raising his brows in question.

Rachel hesitated. It was also not proper for a well-bred lady to be drinking wine, especially so early in the day, and even more especially with a strange man. But who would know? And she felt so invigorated by her activities this morning, so much freer and more daring, that she could not resist trying something else that was not proper.

She nodded, and he poured her half a glass. Rachel took a sip. It was not very good wine, rather sour, actually, but she drank a few sips, just to do it.

Rachel leaned back in her chair, leveled a serious gaze on Hobson, and said, “Now, then, tell me why you are wanting to talk to Mrs. Birkshaw's maid.”

When he hesitated, she prodded, “It's only fair—I told you why I was there. And if we are to work together…”

“Yes. Of course, you are right.” Except, of course, Michael thought, that he could not tell her the truth—that the husband she thought incapable of pettiness was so jealous and suspicious that he saw the possibilities of murder in what had in all probability been a simple, natural death.

“I was hired,” he said, using Cooper's explanation of Bow Street's involvement, “by a cousin of the late Mrs. Birkshaw, who thought that her death was suspicious.”

“But Anthony was not even at home when she became ill, isn't that true?”

Michael nodded, watching her with narrowed eyes. “Still, there is always some suspicion when a person dies at a young age…and when the spouse stands to inherit a great deal of money.”

“And who would inherit the money if Anthony Birkshaw were to be found to have killed his wife?” Rachel asked shrewdly.

“You are right, of course. The cousin would inherit, so there is self-interest behind his request.”

“I wonder if we could work together, then,” Rachel went on. “Would we not be working at cross-purposes—you to prove that Mr. Birkshaw did it and I to—”

“I would hope,” he put in, leaning forward and looking earnestly into Rachel's eyes, “that we would both be looking for the same thing—the truth.”

Rachel felt as if it were suddenly difficult to breathe. She could not move her eyes from his, and she was unaccountably warm all over. They were talking about Anthony and a murder, but her wayward mind seemed to want to turn only to the kiss she had shared with this man yesterday.

“Yes, of course,” she said, scarcely noticing what she was saying.

His hand lay on the table, palm up, and she reached slowly across the table and touched the tips of his fingers with her own. His eyes, still locked on hers, darkened. He turned his hand so that their palms faced each other and slid his fingers through hers, interlacing them. His skin was searing. His eyes drew her in. Rachel leaned forward, too, stretching instinctively toward him.

T
he handle of the door turned noisily, and both of them jumped at the sound. Rachel sat back in her chair, clasping her hands together in her lap as the innkeeper backed into the room, carrying a large tray. After him came a lad carrying another tray.

They busied themselves setting the trays down on a sideboard and bustling over to set the dishes of food on the table before them. Rachel looked away from Hobson, seizing the opportunity to bring her breathing—and her thinking—back under control. What had she been about to do! If the innkeeper had not barged in, what would have happened? Was she so weak, Rachel wondered, so unable to control her baser impulses, that she would have kissed Michael's brother again? She could scarcely believe that she would have, yet neither would she have believed she would have reached out and taken his hand!

By the time the innkeeper had laid out their lunch and retired from the room, Rachel had her face set in calm lines again. She did not look at James as she dished out food onto her plate, but chattered in an aimless manner about how good the food looked, how delicious it smelled, how little she would have guessed that such an unassuming inn would turn out such fare.

It was a relief to her to stop talking and begin eating. She thought, with an inner spurt of amusement that it was probably a relief to Mr. Hobson, as well.

By the time they had finished eating, Rachel was able to look Hobson in the face again. She knew that she should not work with the man on the investigation any longer. Obviously, she thought, she had some sort of bizarre reaction to Michael's half brother, some sort of…attraction, though she could hardly bring herself to think the word.

For his part, Michael was wondering what sort of insanity had prompted him to offer to let Rachel work on the case with him. There would be so much more possibility of his identity being discovered, not to mention the fact that he would be putting his gently bred wife into situations and places that were far from anything she had ever experienced in her sheltered life, even, perhaps, into possible danger, should it turn out that Birkshaw's wife actually had been murdered.

But there had been such unhappiness in Rachel's voice when she had talked about the way she thought people viewed her, about the boredom and lack of purpose in her life. He had wanted to protest that he did not think her useless or incapable at all, that yes, he wanted to protect her, but only because she was the dearest thing in life to him. But of course he could not tell her those things. And, wanting to lift her spirits—and, yes, wanting to be with her, he had to admit that, too—he had offered her this chance of working together. It was another symptom of the pure idiocy that seemed to afflict him every time he was around her.

“About our working together…” he began.

His words sent a chill through Rachel. She was certain that he was about to rescind his offer, so she jumped in before he could say anything more.

“Yes, I suppose we had better divide our duties, hadn't we? Well, I will talk to Mrs. Birkshaw's maid. I do not know Lady Esterbrook well, but I am sure that she will permit me to question the maid,” she said, presenting him with the thing that made her participation useful—a personal lady's maid was the person who a man, either genteel or common, would have the most difficulty getting to interview. “I shall start to work on it tomorrow. What will you do?”

He hesitated for a moment, then said, “I shall drop by the tavern most likely to be frequented by the servants from Birkshaw's house and engage one of them in conversation.”

“And what if they don't imbibe?” Rachel asked.

“Then I will have to find some way to approach them at his house. Confusion over a delivery is often a good way.”

“This could take some time, I suppose. How will we…communicate whatever we learn?”

“Send me a note and I'll come around—no, that wouldn't work.”

“No. I think my servants might find it a bit odd to see Michael dressed that way coming to pay a call on me. When I find out anything, I shall go to your sister's house and tell you.”

“All right.” Michael knew that he should tell her not to come, to simply send a note with her news, but he could not. He wanted to see her again, wanted the chance to spend a few more moments with her. It was odd, but there was something freeing about being with Rachel like this, all the constraints that seemed to bind them as man and wife suddenly gone. She had talked to “James” with an ease that was both a joy and a stab of pain. Why had she never told him—
Michael
—about her feeling that others viewed her as useless and incompetent? Was he so remote? So difficult to approach? So unlikeable?

The meal was over, their business done, but Rachel felt a curious reluctance to leave. It was pleasant to have someone to whom she could talk this freely without worrying over what he thought of her or if she had said the wrong thing, as she often did with Michael.

“Well, I guess it is time to go….”

“Yes.”

Neither of them made a move to get up, however. Rachel thought of the things she had waiting for her to do at home. There were calls she ought to return, but it would probably be too late for that, fortunately. There was the cunning little baby cap that she was making for Miranda's and Dev's child. There might be some household matter she had to resolve, and then later she would have to choose a gown and dress for dinner at the Mannings'. Her life, she thought, was unfailingly boring. She wondered exactly when she had grown tired of having nothing to do but dress and eat and attend social events, when the round of parties and plays and operas had taken on a dull routine.

Today had been much more interesting.

Resolutely, she pushed that thought aside, for life was rarely like today, and rose from her chair. “I had better find a hansom.”

“I will escort you.” Michael stood up and walked with her out of the room, holding the door for her and walking out after her, his hand going naturally for an instant to her elbow in a courteous gesture.

Rachel felt his touch all through her. She kept her eyes carefully in front of her, afraid that if she glanced at him, she would blush. Did he feel it, too, this explosive sizzle that ran through her at the merest touch? Or was it merely some mad reaction that belonged to her alone?

Whatever it was, Rachel knew that the best thing for her to do was to go home and never see this man again. She also knew that she would not heed her own advice.

 

Rachel laid her plans for approaching the late Mrs. Birkshaw's lady's maid. She thought that Lady Esterbrook would probably allow her to interview her new maid, although she would find it an odd request. However, Rachel thought that the resulting conversation with the maid would be awkward and stilted. She would get a far more honest reaction from the woman about her former mistress and that lady's death if she could approach her more naturally.

By happy coincidence, Lady Esterbrook lived on the street that ran along the other side of the park across from Rachel's own home, little over a block away. Therefore Rachel took a pad and charcoal and, donning a bonnet, went into the park and took up a position on a bench from which she could observe the Esterbrooks' front door. For a day and a half she drew, or pretended to, all the while keeping a sharp eye on the Esterbrook door. On the second afternoon she was rewarded by Lady Esterbrook leaving the house, a neatly and much more inexpensively dressed woman trailing a step or two behind Lady Esterbrook's stout figure. With any luck, Lady Esterbrook was being accompanied on her walk by her maid.

Excited, Rachel leaped to her feet, dumping the pad and charcoal pencil onto the ground. Leaving them there, she walked quickly through the park in the same direction in which the other two women were going. She had to make a detour to leave the park by its main entrance and then cut back over to their street, by which time they were half a block ahead of her. However, it was easy enough to keep them in sight, and she did not want to get close enough for either of them to notice her, anyway.

Lady Esterbrook dawdled in front of a millinery shop, looking in the front window at a display of hats, so Rachel had to idle where she was to keep far enough behind them. Since there were no store windows in which to look beside her, she fiddled with the buttons of her glove as if there was something wrong with it, glancing up now and then to see if they had moved on. When they did, she started forward once more. A few minutes later Lady Esterbrook stopped again to look into a window, and Rachel felt a twinge of impatience.

But then Lady Esterbrook said something to the other woman and went into the store, leaving the other woman waiting idly on the sidewalk. Rachel was certain now that the other woman was her maid. She would not have made a friend or even a hired companion loiter on the street instead of going inside the store with her. Rachel quickened her pace until she drew level with the woman. She glanced at the maid and took a step past her, then stopped and turned and came back to her.

“Martha?” Rachel asked in a tentative voice.

The maid glanced at her in surprise. “Yes, miss?”

Rachel smiled. “You are—I mean, you were Mrs. Birkshaw's lady's maid, were you not?”

The woman, who looked to be a few years younger than Rachel, beamed. “Why, yes, miss. How did you know?”

“I knew your mistress,” Rachel said, telling her the story she had concocted last night. “I saw you once at her house. Perhaps you don't remember me. I am Mrs. Glendenning.”

“Oh, yes, ma'am,” the maid said a little blankly.

Rachel was counting on the woman's not contradicting a lady of quality. She went on quickly. “Poor Doreen. I was so sad to hear about her death.”

“Oh, yes, ma'am. Such a dear, dear lady.” Martha's eyes filled with tears, which made Rachel feel somewhat ashamed of herself.

However, she reminded herself that she was trying to discover if the woman had been murdered, surely a project worthy of a bit of lying. “I can see you were very close to your mistress.”

“Oh, yes, I was. She was so good to me. Give me all her cast-off clothes, she did. Some of them were much too fine for me, but I cut them up and used the material for curtains and pillows and such.” She heaved a sigh.

“I hope she did not suffer much.”

Again the maid's eyes filled with ready tears. “She was powerful sick, ma'am. Her stomach, you know. I felt so sorry for her. But there weren't nothing I could do for her. She couldn't hardly keep nothing down, poor thing, and it got to where I had to feed her her soup and all.” She shook her head.

“It must have been devastating for Mr. Birkshaw.”

“Oh, aye. Now, there is a gentleman. And handsome!” The starry look that came into Martha's eyes bespoke volumes about how she had viewed her mistress's husband. “The missus, she loved him something terrible. She thought the sun rose and set on that man. And he was good to her. As soon as they sent word to him that she was sickly, he came home right away. And he sat by her bed every day, he did. I remember, even there at the end, her sayin' to me, ‘Martha, he's the best husband in the world. He means everything to me.' It made her real happy, even feelin' so sick like she was, that he visited her.”

Rachel felt tears sting her own eyes at the maid's simple words. They had brought home to her the reality of Doreen Birkshaw's death, the pain and sorrow of those who loved her. Her life had ended far sooner than it should have, and if, as Anthony suspected, it had been murder, then whoever had done it had acted in a manner so wicked that Rachel could hardly conceive of it. She could not help but feel a further pang at hearing how deeply the woman had loved Anthony, knowing that he had not loved her in return.

“I am so sorry,” Rachel told the maid sincerely. “It doesn't seem fair that her life should end so quickly.”

“I know—when there are so many others in the world that don't hardly deserve to live.” A quick glance from her toward the store gave a clear indication in which group she was inclined to place her present employer. “Oh, there's my lady now.”

“Well, I won't keep you, Martha. It was so nice to see you. Mrs. Birkshaw was truly lucky to have had you.”

Martha smiled and bobbed a quick curtsey to her. “Thank you, ma'am. That's very kind of you.”

Rachel could see the door to the shop opening to her side, and she nodded to the maid one last time and walked away. It would not do to meet Lady Esterbrook and have her call her by her true name right in front of Martha. She should have thought of that before, she told herself; she had thought the situation only partway through, knowing that it was unlikely that Mrs. Birkshaw in York would have been friends with a titled London woman. If she was going to continue to investigate, she was going to have to learn to be more thorough.

She started walking back to her house, crossing over to the next street to avoid running into Lady Esterbrook and Martha. As she walked, she mulled over what Doreen Birkshaw's maid had told her. Before she reached her house, she stopped, then turned and hailed a hansom cab. She called out Lilith's Neeley's address to the driver and climbed in.