The Perils of Pleasure (14 page)

This man might be cuckolding an earl, but Colin began to like him. He invariably found affection for people who weren’t complete fools.

“I canna think ’ow anyone could possibly know about me and Nor,” he said earnestly, and Colin, with some regret, instantly lowered his estimation of him, given the countess’s locked chamber door and the fact that any butler worth his salt would wonder where one of the footmen had got to. There was also the matter of the squeaky bed.

Then again, love wears blinders and earmuffs, which left one open to all manner of disasters, Colin thought darkly. His had begun at a pub and nearly ended at the gallows.

“What manner of man was this? Was he a gentle
man? A rough type? A servant?” Madeleine pressed.

Her commanding tone made Harry take his fi rst real
look above the pistol barrel at her. A hungry, appre
ciative, nearly frightened expression flickered over then fled from his face. A reflex, Colin, thought: the sort of reaction every red-blooded man has to a woman he in
stinctively knows he couldn’t possibly have or possibly equal. It was interesting to witness it on the face of an
other man. Had Madeleine Greenway
always
inspired this reaction, or was it something she’d become over the years?

Then Harry gulped in a deep breath, released it, and tipped his head back in thought. “’E spoke like a gentle
man. Verra polite. But I dinna think ’e was a gentleman. ’E looked like . . . like a solicitor.”

“How so?”

“’E brought to mind Mr. Paton, the earl’s bailiff. ’Is . . . manner of dress. ’Is way of speaking. There’s a way the quality walk, ye see, as if they know they’re bet—” Harry looked up sharply, considered his company and reconsidered his choice of words. “This man was differ
ent,” he concluded simply.

“Can you describe him?” Colin asked. “How did he look?”

“Well-fed.” Harry swept a hand out in a curve to indicate a paunch. “Middle years, I’d guess. Spectacles, so I couldna see ’is eyes well, and ’e nivver once looked me straight on. ’Is clothes were verra plain and dark, which was why ’is fancy waistcoat buttons struck me as odd.”

“Fancy buttons?” Colin repeated sharply.

“Aye. Not brass, nor silver as I’s seen on some of the fancier types we’ve ’ad in at dinners and the like. White-like . . . very shiny . . . like wee moons. The size of . . . ” Harry made a circle with his thumb and fore
finger. “ . . . shillings. His coat was buttoned up, and
he’d a cravat tied on, but they caught the light, and so

I looked.”

Like wee moons
.

Suspicion bloomed, cold and nasty, in the pit of Colin’s stomach.

“Mrs. Green . . . ” He said it carefully. “Show Harry the butt of your pistol, if you would.”

Madeleine flicked him an inscrutable glance from beneath her lashes, then locked the half-cocked pistol and turned it around to show the footman the silhou
ette of a woman in nacre.

Harry leaned forward. “Like that, yes,” he breathed. “Lovely, ain’t it? Like a moon, but wi’ rainbows in it?” He glanced sideways at the countess. Angling, perhaps, for an upgraded uniform with nacre buttons.

“It’s mother-of-pearl, Harry,” Eleanor said, her voice quietly instructional. “There is mother-of-pearl inlay in the Chinese screens in the library, and the chairs in Monty’s sitting room. The black lacquer chairs.”

“Mother-of-pearl,” Harry repeated. He looked faintly pleased to be educated. “That’s it, then. The button was mother-of-pearl.”

Harry and the countess exchanged a brief look of amused, almost childlike wonder, as if they could still hardly believe they were discussing things like inlay or Chinese screens. They were both admittedly a long way from Marble Mile.

“And this man never told you his name?” Colin asked. “Did you see him get into or out of a carriage, did he have a mount, did he go in any particular direc
tion on the street?”

“’E always found me on the street, Mr. Eversea. And ’e brought the money with him, for me to give to Mr. Croker.”

“Twenty-fi ve pounds?”

“I nivver looked, Mr. Eversea,” Harry said almost primly. “’Twas in a wee purse, ye see.”

“Was he wearing this waistcoat each time, Harry?”

“Twice, that I noticed.”

“How many times
did
you visit the Tiger’s Nest as a messenger?”

“Well, it were three times in all, Mr. Eversea. Two times to see Mr. Croker. I brought money twice. The third time I was asked to bring money to Horace.”

And time stood still. It took a second for Colin to get the question out.

“For
whom
?”

“For Horace Peele, Mr. Eversea. You might know ’im. ’E drinks everywhere. ’E’s the man with the—”

“Three-legged dog,” Colin completed.

He felt a brief sense of triumph.

Followed by a sick sensation of the world dropping from beneath his feet.

Nothing made sense. On the surface of things, it seemed the same person who had paid to ensure his conviction for murder by making Horace Peele disap
pear had
also
paid to save his life . . . and to kill the woman hired to save it.

It didn’t have the hallmark of the Redmonds . . . the cool finesse with which they accomplished every
thing. No Eversea would ever have done anything so clumsily, or so lacking in dash, nor could he imagine anyone in his family attempting to kill a woman. And Marcus . . .

Perhaps Marcus had actually paid Horace Peele to disappear, and then experienced an attack of remorse?

Colin felt sweat form cold beads on the back of his neck. He took in a deep breath and exhaled. He could
mull and sort facts later. Now he needed to gather them, and quickly.

“So you gave money to Horace Peele . . . when did this happen?”

“You was already in prison, Mr. Eversea. ’Twas . . . a fortnight ago. Wednesday, me ’alf day. And the thing was . . . he was more certain of ’imself. This was when I saw ‘im first, ye see. The next two times . . . he was peevish, like.”

There was a tap on the door.

They all froze.

“Wardrobe!” the countess hissed frantically.

Madeleine, Colin, and Harry the footman scrambled into the wardrobe and tried to pull the door closed, but the three of them were a tight fit. Colin needed to put both arms around Madeleine, a great sacrifi ce indeed. A little bit of footman peeped out in the form of a coattail.

The countess slid the bolt on the door to the chamber and opened it slowly.

The sweet piping voice of a young maid came through.

“Lady Malmsey? Shall I dress you for Lady Cover-sham’s luncheon? I laid out the blue.”

The blue was now lying in a crumpled heap on the fl oor.

“Oh, Katie, I fear I’ve the most terrible headache. You know how dull Lord and Lady Crump’s do’s can be. They never do supply enough food, and I fear I drank my way through the evening in an attempt to endure it, and I find myself paying now.”

Katie giggled a little. Colin imagined it was enter
taining for a young maid to have a young, lively mis
tress whose instincts were generally kind.

“You do look pale, Lady Malmsey.”

“I
feel
pale. I should like a bit of a lie down, and I shall need to send on my regrets to Lady Coversham. ’Tis a pity, but I shan’t be enjoying the services of her divine cook today.”

It was one too many mentions of food, and Colin’s stomach chose that unfortunate moment to complain of that fact. It was really more of a loud whine. The sound a dog makes watching his master eat.

The ensuing silence between countess and maid had a nonplussed quality to it.

“Goodness,” Lady Malmsey said cryptically, fi nally. Not quite taking credit for the whine.

“Shall I . . . shall I have luncheon sent up, my lady?” The maid’s voice was confused.

“Yes, straightaway, if you would, Katie. I’ll have . . . a whole chicken, a good portion of ham, cheese and bread, if you would. And cakes.”

And wine
, Colin wished he could whisper.

Another space of quiet ensued. The maid was almost palpably confused by the countess’s enormous appetite.

“I imagine I shall have quite an appetite after my lie down,” the countess explained.

What a glorious thing it was to be a countess. One needn’t ever make sense or make excuses. Unless, of course, it was to one’s husband, because you’ve been discovered with your legs up in the air and the footman between them.

“Yes, Lady Malmsey. Of course, Lady Malmsey.”

“Mind you, straightaway,” Eleanor said more crisply.

“Of course.”

The door clicked shut, the bolt slid, the countess ex
haled gustily, and the three hiders tumbled out of the wardrobe once more to fi nd her flushed in the face and looking exhilarated.

“Imagine Katie’s surprise when
every
crumb of that food disappears.” She laughed. “She’ll begin rumors about my enormous appetite.”

“Thank you, Lady Malmsey,” Colin said humbly. How wonderful that the countess was at least enter
tained by their predicament.

“You’re welcome, Colin, though why I should feed you and your
associate
when you’ve invaded my cham
bers, I’ll never know.”

“Because he’s Colin Eversea, Nor,” the footman re
proached. “And she’s . . . ” He flicked a nervous gaze toward Madeleine.

“The lady with the loaded pistol,” Madeleine com
pleted helpfully.

Harry gave her a wobbly, uncertain smile and his eyes once again lingered a bit on her face. He turned away again, with some relief, to Eleanor. She was beau
tiful, but she was no puzzle to him.

“It’s no admirable thing to be sentenced for murder, Harry.” Colin felt obliged to say it.

“But ye didna do it, did ye, Mr. Eversea? And ’tis the way ye went to the gallows. Brave-like. A gentleman all the way through. Witty and smart and bold. ’Twas a right grand thing.”

Brave? He’d realized he’d been numb the entire morning of his hanging, until he was jarred awake by a few words whispered against the back of his neck by the hangman, and then he’d been rescued. It was lovely, however, to hear someone, even a footman, say with conviction:
But ye didna do it
.

“Thank you, Harry,” he said gravely.

Colin knew he hadn’t thought it through, but now wasn’t the time to parse the morality of admiring con
victed criminals, and admiration had so far been the one useful thing he’d brought to their investigation. That, and the fact that he’d known Countess Malm-sey’s footmen wore pale blue stockings.

But who else might possibly know about the count
ess and the footman and use the information for blackmail?

“Did anyone else from your village find their way to London, Lady Malmsey? Someone who might know about you and Harry, your origins?”

She exchanged a look with Harry. “Only Willie August that we know of. But he would
never
. . . I can’t believe it of him.”

“Who is Willie August?”

“Willie is my physician. I put word in the ear of my husband—told him I’d heard of a talented doctor—and that’s how Willie became our family physician. And he now counts the king among his patients, thanks to his own talent and referral from Malmsey. No, Willie is our friend, and he owes me everything, and he would never tell
anyone
I hailed from Marble Mile.”

Madeleine made a choked sound, which seemed very unlike her. “Are you referring to
Dr.
William August, Lady Malmsey?”

“The man who removed a tumor from the Earl of Lydon’s head?” Colin knew of Dr. August, though he’d never met the man. Some argued that the world would have been a better place had Dr. August’s knife slipped as he played about with the Earl of Lydon’s head, but the surgery was a brilliant success, the earl went on to continue to plague the world with his bad temper, and Dr. August’s reputation had been made.

“Willie,” Harry confi rmed.

“The Dr. August who is considered something of a genius? He hails from Marble Mile, as the two of you do?”

Nods from the lovers.

“Quite an ambitious little town, Marble Mile,” Colin added.

The countess’s tiny smile was pure, impish self-satisfaction.

There was a tap on the door. Madeleine, Harry, and Colin dutifully piled back into the wardrobe.

The bolt on the countess’s chamber door slid once more.

“Thank you, Katie,” Colin heard the countess say. He heard the clink of silverware on a metallic tray and warm, savory food smells reached them in the wardrobe.

“You’re wel—”

The door clicked shut on the maid and the bolt slid.

The countess went to the wardrobe. “All right. You can come out now. But you can’t linger. You can wrap up the food and take it with you.”