The Marriage Maker and the Widows, page 12
“Oh yes, we shall be in tomorrow.”
Then, with an elegant nod, she passed on into the crowd. When she left, Stirling said, “That is an interesting turn of events.” He placed a hand on Lord Brandon’s shoulder. “You are now officially a lost man, my friend. And I am happy to leave you to your fate.”
Chapter Two
Helena sat, wrapped in a quilt, in a stiff chair beside the small fire that burned in her bedroom grate. She had spent many nights this way, at first numb with the shock of her husband’s death, and then, when the reality of his loss had penetrated her brain, with sobs of despair. Time had been her friend, however, and with time had come the comforts of contemplation and thought. When Reginald assumed her husband’s title, she had hoped that he wouldn’t soon cast her away from the homes that held the dear memories of her husband. Reginald assured her that she could live in the house in Edinburgh for as long as she desired. She didn’t know then, however, that the offer would come with tiresome attentions.
Any hesitation Cousin Reginald might have felt about bothering a grieving widow with unwanted presents and flirtatious conversation seemed to disappear after the space of a month. Helena had been forced to speak to him in direct terms and to implore him to remember that she was still too burdened with grief for her beloved Charles. These measures worked for only a short time, and Helena reluctantly admitted that she would not find peace under the new Lord Carlyle’s roof.
After that realization, she had done a tour of the country, so to speak, and stayed with her parents as long as she could stand their smothering solicitude, and then at this friend’s house and that schoolfellow’s estate, fending off the advances of any number of brothers, cousins and other relations until Aunt Wickersham had the happy thought to invite her to London for the Season. Even though Lady Wickersham was an eccentric older lady, more concerned with the welfare of her numerous pug dogs than the happiness of her niece, Helena jumped at the chance to free herself of unwanted male attention.
Finally, it was time for her to review the stacks and stacks of her husband’s correspondence. Reginald told her to leave her husband’s estate matters in his hands, but an innate distrust of Reginald made that impossible. Instead, Helena had met with the solicitor herself. She had placed everything he gave her and everything she found in her husband’s study in a large, locked trunk. After some time in storage, the trunk now reposed at the end of her old-fashioned, curtained bed.
She sighed. Perhaps it was wrong of her to thrust Lord Brandon into the middle of her problems, but he had been such a kind friend to Charles. She was sure there was not a steadier man in all of Britain. Lord Brandon had to be willing to help her now. He just had to.
The next morning, Helena dressed in a new, green cambric gown. Her hair, more loosely arranged than the night before, filled her lace cap. She stared at her reflection in the mirror, noting the pallor of her skin and the faint purple circles under her eyes. A vain woman would have attempted to rectify these faults with a judicious use of powder, but for all Helena had heard of her beauty, she was not a vain woman. It puzzled her how anyone could praise her deathly aspect and black hair. In Helena’s mind, she was still the tall, gangly girl her cousins had teasingly called the spider.
Her beauty had given her one gift, however—her dearest Charles. Lord Carlyle was freely acknowledged to be the recipient of multiple gifts from God. The chief of these, everyone said, was the most handsome face in the British Isles. His golden good looks had won Helena’s heart the moment she had set eyes upon him across the crowded floor of the ballroom at Almack’s. He had been the embodiment of all her girlhood dreams of romance. And now he was gone.
* * *
Lady Wickersham’s house, located in a part of town that had once been the height of fashion, was now a neighborhood slightly gone to seed. The houses were large and imposing but lacked the Grecian adornments and open plazas of the truly fashionable neighborhoods. Lord Brandon took a deep breath as the hackney carriage pulled up in front of the Wickersham house. He had spent the last several hours downing numerous cups of strong coffee and preparing for the sight of Lady Carlyle in her drawing room.
William had been so sure of his heart that it annoyed him to discover years of work destroyed by the mere sight of the woman. If he were smart, he would tell the hack to take him to Stirling’s rooms and make Stirling introduce him to the woman selected to be his bride. But no, William’s heart leaped at the thought of seeing her again. Besides, Lady Carlyle had a gift from beyond the grave, so he supposed that he owed it to his dead friend to receive it properly.
The elderly servant who took his hat and coat wore an old-fashioned livery of brown and gold. He walked at a stately, almost glacial pace that made William want to shout with frustration. Likely, Lady Carlyle would be guarded by Lady Wickersham, and William would have to make idle conversation with the elderly woman for some time before Lady Carlyle was able to tell him about these mysterious papers. They said that Lady Wickersham raised pugs. William had a sudden image of being trapped in a chair, surrounded by smelly dogs and stuck in a mindless conversation with a matronly lady while the woman who tortured him silently watched. Even for a man known to all of London society as a thoughtful, considerate gentleman, the imagined scenario was too much.
Lady Wickersham’s butler opened a door and William stepped forward into a faded drawing room at the back of the house. Lady Carlyle thrust aside a crumpled needlepoint and stood, her hand extended. “You must forgive the liberty,” she said. “Lady Wickersham would have been here to greet you, but she has the headache this morning. So, it is just you and I, with only Georgie”—she pointed at a pug dog stretched out on the rug—“to act the duenna. Come, sit by the fire. We have much to discuss.”
William couldn’t contain his relief as he sat in a straight-back chair pulled up close to a large fire in the grate. His relief was so great that he even looked benevolently on the sleeping Georgie and scratched him behind the ears.
Lady Carlyle sat down with a graceful movement. “How have you been since I last saw you in Edinburgh?”
As he had been mostly pining for her and trying to get over it, he replied, “I have been well, thank you.”
She nodded. They then discussed mutual acquaintances, and William came to understand that Lady Carlyle had been moving about with no fixed plan for some time. It took effort to hold his concern in check at the thought of her lonely vagabond existence.
After twenty minutes of conversation, she finally said, “I will not waste any more of your valuable time. I am afraid that I prevaricated last night. There are some papers that I wish to give you, but they are not a gift from Charles.” She sighed. “Perhaps it would be better to explain matters from the beginning. I have been very troubled by the manner of my husband’s death.”
William opened his mouth, but she held up a hand. “Please, I know I may be a fool, but I cannot think it very likely my husband would have prized his possessions over his life if accosted by highwaymen. You knew him, Lord Brandon. He was not a man to stand upon ceremony nor to begrudge even the most generous gift. And the servants with him were wounded but soon recovered. I do not conceive by what series of events a highwayman would need to shoot him in the heart. For that is what I have learned from Bow Street. My dear husband was shot straight in the heart.”
“Bow Street?” William said, startled. While he had nurtured his own doubts about the death, he had not heard that the nation’s foremost investigators of crime were involved.
“Yes. I asked for the magistrate of Bow Street’s assistance, and he assigned Principal Officer Stephens to the case. Stephens performed his investigations over the last year and a half, and I received the report before I came to visit my aunt. In fact, it was with the object of further investigation that I decided upon a London Season, for you must know that my heart has not yet recovered from the blow of Charles’s death. The thought of entering society otherwise would have been repugnant to me. Stephens was unable to identify the shooter but provided me with information I had not known before.”
She stood and went to a small trunk set on the floor in front of a rather ugly, flowered settee. William stood, transfixed by the sway of her hips as she walked. Truly indecent thoughts filled his head. Focus. He must focus. She needed his full attention.
“I was so happy to see you at Almack’s last night,” she said over her shoulder. “When I read the Bow Street report, I knew that I would need the assistance of someone connected to my husband’s friends and acquaintances to move the matter forward and thought instantly of you, Lord Brandon.” She opened the chest and extracted a sheaf of papers tied together with a string. “You have always been such a dear friend and, well, I know it is asking too much, but would you be willing to review the report and give me your opinion?”
He joined her, and their hands touched briefly as she handed him the papers. A shock of recognition shot through his body as if she were specifically made to fill the void within him—his perfect other half. And yet, he was sure she felt nothing of this strange attraction.
Looking down into her placid countenance, he replied as calmly as he could, “Of course. I will own that I have had my concerns, as well, about the manner of his death and will do anything in my power to assist you, but surely you don’t think one of our friends or acquaintances would stoop to murder?”
She shook her head slowly. “It seems impossible, I know, and yet there are too many things out of place—too many coincidences. I can think of no one who would hate Charles so much as to wish to kill him, but I am only his wife. You have known him longer than I have and live in the world of men. There are many places I cannot enter. Please, if you valued your friend, please say that you will help me find his killer.”
William gazed into the blue depths of her large eyes and knew in an instant that there could be nothing he would not do for her. “I will do anything you ask, Lady Carlyle,” he said, “but I fear that I am certain to fail if Bow Street cannot resolve the matter.”
“I have faith that if we both review the evidence, we may be able to find out who killed my husband. And I have Charles’s correspondence, which might aid us.” She turned back toward the trunk. “I was able to secure most of his papers despite Reginald’s repeated entreaties to leave all matters of the estate to him.”
William now perceived that the trunk was full of letters and scraps of paper. “Have you read it all?”
She turned back toward him. “Sadly, no. I was unable to bring myself even to look at his beloved handwriting until very recently, and since I came to stay with my aunt, it has been slow going. There are many things I do not understand.” She smiled wistfully. “A woman’s education in matters of estate management is not always what it should be. I can understand household accounts, but some of the correspondence escapes me.”
“You did not desire to enlist the help of the new Lord Carlyle?”
She hesitated just a moment. “I know not what your experience is with Cousin Reginald, but I do not trust his intentions. I could not express my suspicions to the man who had the most to gain from my husband’s death.”
William nodded. “I am happy to review his papers, but it appears that it may take some time. How do you propose to go about it?”
“My uncle’s library is little used since his death. Perhaps, if you would be willing to come to the house as if to call, you and I might be able to make relatively quick work of it by laying all the papers out on the desk—imposing order on the chaos, so to speak.”
William took a deep breath, contemplating the prospect of daily contact with the most bewitching woman he had ever known. It could be done. He wanted it to be done. He would just have to keep his mind and body under rigid control. “Give me a day or two to review the Bow Street report and then I will call upon you. Is that agreeable?”
Lady Carlyle smiled, a smile that actually reached her eyes. “I would love that above all things.”
The door to the drawing room opened. The butler said in sonorous tones, “Mr. Northcutt to call, Lady Carlyle. Should I show him in?”
Lady Carlyle stepped away from William and closed the lid of the trunk. “Yes, of course.”
William tucked the papers under his arm as casually as possible, trying to rein in his irritation.
Chapter Three
Mr. Northcutt, a slight man with agreeable rather than handsome features, had attained his exalted position in the heights of London society through the charming nature of his personality and the exquisiteness of his tailoring. He knew everyone there was to know, and everyone knew him. He had established himself as an arbiter of taste in all matters of etiquette and dress, and one cutting word from him could blight the prospects of even the most determined social climber, man or woman. As he entered the room, his attention paused on William and he frowned slightly. William kept his face impassive.
He was now greeted warmly by Lady Carlyle, as befitted an acquaintance of long standing. After the normal pleasantries, she said, “How do you like my aunt’s drawing room, Mr. Northcutt? I feel certain that you will have some droll comment to make and, as my poor aunt is not here to bear your strictures, you may feel free to tell me the worst.”
In the spirit of the challenge, Northcutt put up his quizzing glass and scanned the room, staying just a moment too long on the person of Lady Carlyle. “Why, I declare it is a disaster of epic proportions. And what, pray tell, is that thing by the fire?”
“Do you mean Georgie? He is one of my aunt’s pug dogs, if you must know, and very indolent. He spends most of his time sleeping anywhere he can find a fire burning.”
“That is not a dog, Lady Carlyle, it is a monstrosity.”
Lady Carlyle chuckled, and William resolved to stay and enjoy Mr. Northcutt’s company until he could have the pleasure of seeing the man out. Unfortunately, Northcutt seemed to have the same idea, and Lady Carlyle eventually hinted that it might be time for their departure when Lady Pendleton, one of her aunt’s oldest friends, arrived with her two daughters.
William, who had not formed any fixed plans for the day, went back to his lodgings and read through the Bow Street report twice. In summation, Lord Carlyle had been returning from London along the Great North Road. He traveled in a closed carriage with his valet, coachman and tiger. The coachman was the first person to see the highwaymen approach from a hilly outcropping to the right. He handed the reins to the tiger and raised the rifle he always carried. But the highwaymen, who numbered three, had the element of surprise and the sound of them thundering down the hill spooked the carriage horses so that the poor animals became tangled in their traces. The tiger had a time of it pulling the carriage to the side of the road while the coachman struggled in vain to find his shot.
Once the carriage came to a stop, the highwaymen quickly surrounded it. One man fired at the box, hitting the coachman in the arm. He then caused the tiger to jump down and held him fixed with a rifle. The tiger sustained a broken ankle as he leapt from the box. Another man dismounted and pulled the carriage door open. Apparently, Lord Carlyle had the presence of mind to carry a pistol, because a shot rang out from the inside of the carriage but missed the highwaymen. Lord Carlyle and his valet were dragged out onto the road and the valet shot in the leg. Before any demand for money could be made, the third man, who the tiger swore seemed “more the gentleman” than the rest, removed a small silver pistol from the folds of his coat and shot Lord Carlyle in the chest.
As Carlyle lay dead in the road, the men searched the body, and removed a signet ring from his finger and a gold pocket watch from his vest. Then, as if upon a signal, they mounted their horses once again and galloped back up the hill. It was some twenty minutes more until another carriage came upon the scene and was able to send word to the local authorities. Facts of interest for Principal Officer Stephens included: the boldness of the strike upon a road as well traveled as the Great North Road; the fact that the highwaymen failed to search the coach, for Lord Carlyle had carried a strongbox filled with notes from his London bankers that might have been discovered upon a cursory review of the carriage; the brutal treatment of Carlyle as compared to his servants, who seemed to have been wounded merely to prevent their freedom of movement; and the fact that no other such attacks have been noted on this or any section of the road within the last several years.
William threw down the papers. It was clear that some fiend had sought to kill his friend and make it look like a robbery. It was equally clear that Lady Carlyle had come to the same conclusion and had turned to him in her time of need. Even had he felt indifference toward her, William would not have hesitated to offer her all the assistance within his power. His dear friend Carlyle was practically calling for help from the grave. And his widow, well, perhaps if William solved the case for her, she might be inclined to look favorably upon a proposal of marriage.
There, he had admitted it to himself. He was as much in love with the beautiful Helena as he had ever been.
William felt too agitated to stay indoors. He tugged the bell pull, and when his manservant appeared, announced his intention to go to his club. At least there he could lose himself in idle conversation and bide his time until the morrow, when he would call upon Lady Carlyle and begin the task of solving the mystery.
* * *
Lady Carlyle spent the afternoon in an outwardly tranquil manner—going with her aunt to the shops and reading a book when her aunt went upstairs to rest before supper—but inwardly, she remained perplexed by the morning’s events. Specifically, she could not rid her mind of the strange sensation she felt when Lord Brandon’s hand brushed hers as she handed him the Bow Street report. Then when he gazed down upon her, it was as if he could see into her mind and understood the terrible loneliness that made her feel as if she were a hollow shell of her former self. But how could that be?
