A Suspicious Affair (5 page)

Marisol was discussing the coming journey, leaving Dimm in peace to enjoy the next course, until the footman whispered in his ear that he was supposed to dip his fingers, not drink the stuff.

“When you make the arrangements with the stables, Foster, figure on one less passenger. My maid Tyson has decided she’d rather stay on in London.”

Dimm came to attention, missing the pastry tray altogether. “Kind of sudden like, ain’t her decision?”

“Well, the whole move is rather sudden,” said the duchess. “I admit to being a trifle discomfited by her timing, but I do understand Tyson’s position. Her family is here in London, for one thing, and I really do not need a fancy dresser in my condition, for another. Tyson feels her talents would be wasted, what with the baby, and mourning, and country entertainments.”

“Deuced disloyal, if you ask me,” Foster grumbled.

“I do believe she has a
tendre
for Purvis, Arvid’s man, and that’s the real reason she wants to stay behind. There’s no purpose for him to travel to Berkshire, naturally. I said I would write them both recommendations.”

“I still say it’s dashed inconvenient and inconsiderate. I mean, there’s no time to find a suitable replacement, and you should have a maid with you for the journey at least, in case you need anything.”

“The trip to Berkshire cannot take long, even at the pace the physician insists I keep. And you forget, dearest, that Aunt Tess and I were used to doing for ourselves. We’ll manage.”

“Especially if you wear your hair in that charming new style,” Boynton put in, drawing attention to the simple black ribbon keeping Marisol’s long hair off her face. Foster looked thunderous, seeking the insult in the fop’s words, but Marisol just smiled and went back to peeling an apple.

Gor’blimey, Dimm thought, it’s a wonder they don’t starve!

“I have the answer to the problem, dear,” Miss Laughton addressed her niece, after feeding the terrier half a pork chop. A pork chop! Dimm griped to himself. Now where in hell did she come by an ordinary, unembellished pork chop? He felt like challenging the rugrat for it.

“Really, it’s the perfect solution. You send a note next door and hire Lady Armbruster’s abigail. Obviously she is looking for a position.”

Marisol almost choked on a thin slice of cheese. “Really, Aunt Tess, I do not think I could be comfortable with my dead husband’s dead mistress’s maid bringing my chocolate in the mornings.”

“Happens I have a daughter looking for work, Your Grace,” Dimm offered, shoveling cheese and fruit onto his plate before the footman could remove the serving dish. “She used to be an apprentice seamstress but her eyes were going bad and her husband didn’t want her working none. But he’s off with the army now and she’s lonely and bored. Might answer both problems.”

“And it might get you an informant in the household,” Marisol congratulated, raising her glass to him. “But since I have nothing to hide, it might serve. Send your daughter to me this afternoon and we’ll see if we suit.” She stood to leave the table. The men, perforce, stood. And the footmen cleared away the plates. Dimm sighed.

Chapter Five

A tart had fallen to the floor. Jeremiah beat the little dog to it and was munching the thing on his way out of Denning House. It was coming on to rain, naturally, so he paused in the doorway to raise the collar of his overcoat. He’d learned a lot this noontime, but not much of it having to do with the case.

He was trying to decide whether to go to Lincoln’s Inn Fields to try to winkle the terms of the will out of Stenross, Stenross, and Dinkerly—as in who would have benefited most from the duke’s passing—or to return to the gentlemen’s clubs and start raising the hackles of half the nobs in town by discussing their gaming debts. Debts of honor, the nodcocks called them, and the toffs didn’t usually pay them off with a ball of lead. Still, an investigator’s job was to turn over every rock and see what crawled out. Jeremiah nodded. Had to remember to tell young Gabriel that one.

Then a horseman galloped up on a tall bay horse all flecked with mud, and drew to a halt in a splash of water. Likewise spattered, the rider dismounted, tossed the reins to a groom who ran out, and strode two at a time up the stairs to the covered entrance to Denning House, where Dimm was still standing.

“Have you found the killer?” the Earl of Kimbrough demanded when he saw the Runner in the doorway.

“No, milord, but I’m working on it.”

“No, you are not, by Jupiter,” his lordship snapped back. “You are standing around wasting time, eating sweets and trying to keep your toes dry. You would not last long in the army, mister, nor in my employ.”

“No, sir,” Dimm found himself murmuring, almost tempted to salute, except the rest of the tart was in his saluting hand, and he wasn’t in the army anymore.

“Blast, then it’s even more important I see the female. Here,” he said, turning to the butler who had come to the door. The earl handed over a card, one corner carefully turned down to show he had called in person. “Tell Her Grace it is important that I see her.”

“I am sorry, my lord, Her Grace is not receiving.” The butler looked up, subtly trying to draw attention to the hatchments over the door, as if Kimbrough were unaware this was a house of mourning.

“Dash it, she has to see me! Tell her it’s crucial. Tell her it’s about her husband.”

“Her Grace is resting, my lord. Perhaps you’d do better to discuss your information with Mr. Dimm here, who is handling the investigation.”

The earl’s curled lip spoke eloquently of his opinion of the Runner’s investigation. “Just tell her I absolutely must see her.”

When the butler moved off, shaking his head, Kimbrough paced the narrow hallway. “Blister it,” he muttered, “she’ll send back a polite refusal. A slight indisposition, dash it, or a headache. Yes, I’d wager on the headache. By Jupiter, the baggage is not going to put me off.” He stormed down the hallway after the butler, dripping raindrops onto the Turkey runner.

Now Jeremiah Dimm would have given his eye-teeth to hear the conversation between these two folks what swore they never set their peepers on each other. He did the next best thing, giving some of his nibs’s silver to the footman on duty in the hall. In exchange he was led to the room adjoining Her Grace’s Chinese parlor. The connecting door wasn’t too thick, the keyhole wasn’t too low, and the bonbons in a little dish weren’t too filling.

*

One day her husband was murdered, almost in his lover’s arms. The next day her maid gave notice. What else could go wrong?

“Carlinn, Lord Kimbrough, requests an audience, Your Grace. Pardon me for disturbing your rest, Your Grace, but he insists it is—”

“He insists it is a matter of life and death,” an angry voice bellowed from directly behind the very upper servant.

The stately butler’s face took on a pained expression, to be caught so derelict in his duty as to permit an unwanted guest to intrude on his mistress’s privacy. Then he noted again the height and breadth of his lordship’s imposing physique and the thunderous scowl on his dark visage. The butler beat a hasty, not-so-dignified retreat. His mistress’s privacy be damned. She was leaving for the country tomorrow anyway. She’d find plenty of privacy among the cabbages and turnips.

Marisol looked up from her reclining position, and up some more. So this was Kimbrough. Indeed he was larger than life, just like the tales of his heroics. She thought he might have been attractive, had his thick brows not been furrowed and his mouth not been turned down in a frown of disapproval. He did not have Arvid’s classic features or Boynton’s elegance, of course, and certainly not Foster’s boyish good looks, but, yes, he was handsome. Marisol was sure many a young girl would be sighing over that cleft chin, those intense brown eyes and weathered cheeks, did he show his phiz in Town. No wonder they called him the Elusive Earl. Debutantes and their mamas would be falling all over themselves to get to him if he participated in the Season.

Of course, Marisol herself did not appreciate such rugged features, such oversized virility. Nor did she appreciate mud on her Oriental carpet, nor being stared at so rudely. She struggled to a sitting position and cleared her throat.

Kimbrough jerked back to attention. Gads, for the first time in his life he wished he carried one of those foppish quizzing glasses to give the jade a set-down for her inspection of his person. He hadn’t missed the curled lip at his muddied boots or the haughty lift to her eyebrow at his buckskins. Then she’d raised her nose—not the dainty little turned-up affair he admired in a female—as if he’d brought the smell of the stable in with him. Even if he had, she was an arrogant piece of goods with the bold look of a strumpet. Why, she was not the Diamond he’d been expecting at all. Her dress was less than elegant, and her blonde hair was loose like a wanton’s. Of course, circumstances were such that lapses could be excused, and those sky blue eyes, he noted objectively, were undoubtedly her best feature.

What Carlinn couldn’t tear his eyes from, however, what Marisol caught him guiltily absorbed in, was the sheer bulk of the duchess. Zounds, he’d seen dead cows in the hot Spanish sun less bloated. He hadn’t realized she was this close to term or he might have reconsidered his approach. As it was, he was forced to apologize. “Forgive me for staring, Your Grace. I, ah…”

“Yes,” she interrupted with a slight lift to the corners of her mouth. “I have never understood why they call it a delicate condition myself. As you can see, there is nothing whatsoever delicate about it.”

Instead of smiling in return, Kimbrough frowned even more. He took a step closer, and Marisol reached for the bell on the table at her side. At his step, however, Max the terrier started barking and tearing around, snapping at the earl’s scuffed boots.

“Hell and tarnation,” Carlinn swore. He bent down, grabbed the dog, and lifted Max to eye level. All four feet paddling in the air as if one of the dragons from the Chinese tapestry had come to life and was breathing fire at his nubby little tail, Max whined. Marisol was about to demand the dog’s release when Lord Kimbrough declared, “You, sir, are an embarrassment to the entire canine family. Now behave yourself or I shall lock you in one of those lacquered cabinets.”

He lowered the dog and Max ran to hide under Marisol’s skirts, trembling. “How dare you frighten my dog!” she exclaimed, forgetting for the moment that Max was actually Aunt Tess’s pet and a nuisance to boot.

“A real dog wouldn’t need to be frightened,” he snapped back, “but it’s all of a piece.” He waved his arm around at the exotic furnishings, as if they met his standards as poorly as Max or Marisol herself. Well, she’d had enough. Enough of some angry gentleman forcing himself into her presence and then doing his best to intimidate her. By heaven, she was not going to permit this…this ruffian to frighten her.

“Get out, sirrah! I did not invite you, and I do not wish to see you. I demand you leave at once!”

“Not until I’ve had my say, I won’t, so don’t you get on your high horse with me, Duchess. It won’t wash.”

“How dare you! You barge into a lady’s drawing room without permission—into a house of mourning, I might add—wearing mud and buckskins like some…some—”

“Country rustic? Gentleman farmer? Honest Berkshire landowner? I’m not surprised you cannot recognize the breed, ma’am.”

“And I am not surprised you stay away from Town if these are your manners! How dare you come to my own house and insult me!”

“And how dare you involve me in your sordid little scandals? My family has never been tainted with such filth before and wouldn’t be now, if not for you and the London rumor mills. Thank heaven my parents are not alive to see how low you and your kind have brought our good name. But what about my sister, Duchess? Have you considered anyone else in this? My sister will make her come-out next year, if her reputation is not already so besmirched by your scandal that no hostess will invite her anywhere and no man will offer for her.”

Outraged, Marisol sputtered. “My? My scandal? I involved you? My husband was murdered, and you were the last person known to have words with him! You threatened him. Scores of witnesses heard you.”

“Denning was a bounder.”

“He was my husband!”

“My regrets, ma’am.”

Marisol gasped. “Why, you—Here you are, spouting some fustian about finding your name in the muck, when you thrust yourself uninvited into the presence of an unchaperoned female. A recently unmarried female, I might add! For all I know you killed Arvid and you’ve come to continue your bloody path.”

“Don’t be absurd, Duchess. Not even gapeseeds from the hinterlands go around seducing or strangling pregnant women.”

He looked as though he might wish to do the latter, though, so Marisol demanded, “Then why in the name of all that’s holy
have
you come?”

Kimbrough drew a folded sheet of newsprint out of his inner pocket and tossed it down on the table beside Marisol. “I have come because of this,” he said with a snarl, “and a demand that you insist they print a retraction.”

The man was mad, Marisol decided, as she unfolded the paper. That was all there was for it; he was a Bedlamite. That he thought she could get a journal to issue an apology for a scandalous cartoon proved it. The drawing showed the interior of a coach where an
enceinte
woman and a large gentleman both held pistols on an entwined couple on the opposite seat. The caption read: “After you, my dear.”

“This?” Marisol asked in disbelief. “This is what has you so up in the boughs? It’s not even a good likeness.”

“Devil take the likeness! I don’t even know you, ma’am, and I resent being pictured with you in this filthy thing. You must go—No, you can write the newspaper at once, demanding they recant.”

“What, after you walked past that platoon of journalists on the street outside? Or were you so burning with righteous indignation that you did not notice the ragtag group out there with sharpened pencils? Shall I parade down to Fleet Street and sob to an editor that I don’t count any large gentlemen among my associates, or did you mean the one I had tea with this afternoon?”

Kimbrough ran his hand through his hair. “Blast!”

Marisol felt no sympathy for his chagrin. “Indeed. Not only would I be made to look more a fool than any cartoon could ever do, but I would destroy whatever credibility I possess at this moment. I cannot begin to imagine what Mr. Dimm would be thinking, after I told him we had never met. I thank you for casting doubts upon my honor, sirrah!”

“Honor? What would a Pendenning know about honor?”

The duchess was very much afraid that if she did have a pistol right then, she would use it. Eyes narrowed to slits, voice low and harsh, she told him again to get out. “For you are the rudest man of my acquaintance, and having been intimately acquainted with Arvid Pendenning, that is saying a great deal.”

“I suppose that last was uncalled for,” he conceded, pointedly eyeing the chair she had not offered. She still did not, so he paced to the mantel and examined a Ming dog there, while Marisol held her breath that the clumsy oaf would not drop the priceless porcelain. “So what are you doing about this bumblebroth?” he finally turned and asked.

“I am not confessing to Arvid’s murder, if that is your aim, no matter how it might suit you, my lord earl. Instead I am assisting Mr. Dimm to the best of my ability and opening my house to him both here and in Berkshire, so he might follow
all
his leads.”

Her emphasis on the
all
left Carlinn in no doubt that the duchess considered him the prime suspect in Berkshire. He swore under his breath as he stomped back and forth in front of Marisol’s couch until she was growing seasick. ’Twould be useless to ask him to desist, she felt. If he wouldn’t obey a direct order to leave, he wasn’t likely to care about her queasiness. Either the lunatic would exhaust himself with that furious pacing—Lord knew she was growing tired watching—or he’d wear a hole in her lovely Oriental carpet, or she’d cast up her accounts. Marisol was wondering which was likely to come first when he muttered, “Botheration. This is getting me nowhere.” He came to a stop across from her and impatiently asked, “Duchess, who controls the Pendenning lands now? Is it you? That caper-merchant Boynton? The solicitors?”

With great satisfaction at his frustration, Marisol was able to reply that she honestly did not know how things were left. “But knowing Arvid, they will be as awkward as possible. You shall just have to wait on the reading of the will with the rest of us, and on the birth of my child, I should suppose. You might join your prayers for a girl to Boynton’s, for I am sure he’ll sell off every unentailed parcel to finance his gambling.”

Then Marisol clamped a hand over her mouth. In her anger at this addlepated bumpkin, she’d forgotten he could be a murderer. If that acreage meant so much to Kimbrough that he’d kill Arvid over it, what was another tiny life? Especially after she’d practically promised that Boynton would be easier to deal with. She put her other hand on her stomach.

Carlinn didn’t miss the protective gesture, nor the fear in her eyes, and he cursed again. He was furious that a pregnant woman was afraid of him, even more furious that she’d believe him a killer. “Dash it, ma’am,” he shouted, “I do not murder innocent women and children. I did not even murder your husband! I cannot say I am sorry someone else did, but the fact is that I did not.”