No true gentleman, p.7
No True Gentleman, page 7
“Aw, Cat,” Bentley muttered, gathering her awkwardly into his arms.
Catherine flung one arm about his neck. “Oh, Bentley! I can see him as he was that day when they carried him in,” she sobbed into his shoulder. “But that’s all!”
Awkwardly, her brother patted her on the back. “Now, Cat!” he soothed. “It’s going on two years. Of course you don’t remember exactly. Life goes on.”
Weakly, Catherine fell fully against him. “Oh, Bentley!” she sighed. “Sometimes I think that’s what I’m most afraid of.”
Just then, a far more deferential knock sounded, and Delilah entered. Catherine barely noticed when Bentley returned to her bureau drawer and, oddly, began to neaten it. “Lady Kirton’s come, ma’am,” said Delilah with a curtsey. “She says you’re to accompany her to tea?”
Shoving shut the drawer, Bentley whirled about, eyes flaring with mild alarm. “Blister it!” he said, rushing to give his sister a quick peck on the cheek, then heading toward the door. “Best cut out the back. Ain’t up to doing the pretty for your Aunt Isabel today.”
“Bentley, wait!”
But just as he pushed past the maid, something heavy almost fell from his coat. Deftly, he caught it and shoved it deeper into his pocket. “Bentley, wait!” Catherine repeated, bouncing off the bed. “Where are you going? And what on earth do you have in your coat pocket?”
Bentley paused just beyond the threshold. “Snuff box,” he muttered, running a disordering hand through his hair again. “And I’m off to Essex. Got a hankering to tool up to Gus Weyden’s for a bit.”
Catherine followed him as far as the door. “Where in Essex?” she cried after him.
But Bentley’s heavy boots were already thundering down the servants’ stairs, and he had vanished into the depths of the stairwell.
In the late afternoon, de Rohan left Whitehall and set off in the direction of Mayfair. He was admitted to Lord Sands’s town house by the nervous butler. But he’d no sooner given over his hat and stick than he saw Lord Delacourt come out of the library.
“De Rohan!” His lordship looked relieved. “Well met, old fellow! I hope you’ve come to call on Harry and Cecilia? I confess, I’ve no notion what one ought to say in such dreadful circumstances.”
The butler withdrew. De Rohan hesitated just inside the door, studying Delacourt. “I do need to speak with Lord Sands,” he admitted, feeling rather like a traitor. “But I must tell you quite frankly, my lord, that I’m here as an agent of the Home Office.”
Delacourt smiled regretfully. “I see,” he said very quietly. “Well, what can one expect? It is a nasty situation, is it not? And I’m afraid my wife has not yet grasped just how bad things look for her brother. My God, what could Harry have been thinking when he threatened to pitch Julia over that balcony?”
“I beg your pardon?” De Rohan’s voice was sharp.
Delacourt looked vaguely uncomfortable. “Oh, the deuce! I’m awfully ham-fisted, aren’t I? But I suppose Cecilia never thought it worth mentioning. Harry got half-sprung at the theater the night before last. Then he and Julia proceeded to have a rather public quarrel.” He paused to draw an uncharacteristically unsteady breath. “Look here, de Rohan—I don’t suppose you would simply believe me if I swore to you that Harry was incapable of murder?”
Awkwardly, de Rohan hesitated. He had often seen Harry about town and had spoken with him for several minutes yesterday. Nothing he knew of Cecilia’s brother made him a likely suspect. It was not that Harry possessed an air of innocence—far from it. He simply did not seem to possess enough forethought to commit such a crime.
Apparently taking de Rohan’s hesitation as agreement, Delacourt smiled more warmly and patted him on the shoulder. “You may as well come into the drawing room, de Rohan,” he said, urging him across the corridor. “Cecilia’s inside consoling Harry. She will be pleased to see you. By the way, my friend, that’s the devil of a split lip.” He elbowed de Rohan suggestively. “Honorably earned, I hope?”
“Shaving cut,” de Rohan muttered.
With his free hand, Delacourt threw open the door. “Cecilia, my dear, look who has come to—” Smoothly, he halted, apparently noticing the two ladies who sat opposite Harry and Cecilia, their backs turned to the door. “Your pardon, my dear,” he murmured, stepping backward. “I can see we’ve interrupted.”
But it was too late. Harry had risen from his chair. Cecilia bounded to her feet and rushed toward them. “Oh, Max!” she cried a little plaintively, brushing past her husband to clasp de Rohan’s hand. “Thank goodness you’ve returned.”
“My pleasure,” he murmured uneasily, bowing deeply over Cecilia’s small, cold fingers.
But Cecilia seemed unaware of his unease. Urgently, she drew Max and her husband into the room. “Do come in and join us for tea. Ellie will fetch more cups. And look! Here is dear Lady Kirton—you will remember her from the Nazareth Society, I daresay? She has come to offer her condolences and brought her niece along.” Cecilia motioned toward two ladies, who promptly turned to face them. “Lady Catherine, I collect you’ve not met my husband, Lord Delacourt? And this is our very good friend, Mr. de Rohan.”
At once, a sharp intake of breath tore de Rohan’s eyes from Cecilia. Afterward, everything happened in a flash. The young woman seated beside Lady Kirton jerked to her feet. A porcelain cup struck the edge of the tea table in a spray of white chips. Hot liquid splashed across the carpet. At once, Cecilia darted forward, frantically dabbing at the woman’s skirts.
The woman.
Oh, merda!
Blankly, de Rohan stared at her, somehow managing to suppress a burst of bitter laughter. Cecilia seemed oblivious. “Oh, dear!” she cried. “Oh, Lady Catherine! Have you burnt yourself? Was it the handle? Did it snap?”
A maid thrust forward a tea towel, and Lady Kirton joined in the wiping, sweeping, and clucking. Delacourt stepped aside, making apologetic noises in the back of his throat. Harry just kept drinking—from a brandy glass, not a teacup. De Rohan began praying for an earthquake to split the floor and swallow him. His mind churned with embarrassing possibilities. He felt sick. It was little consolation to see that Lady Catherine looked worse. All color had drained from her face, and her gaze was focused somewhere near her feet. Soon, however, her skirts had been dabbed dry, and she was left with no alternative but to reseat herself.
“I do beg your pardon, Lord Sands,” she said, cutting a nervous, reproachful glance toward de Rohan as he sat down. “How very awkward of me.”
“Oh, pray do not regard it, Lady Catherine!” fussed Cecilia as she picked one last shard of porcelain out of the carpet. “Those cups are too fragile. Did I not say so when Julia bought them, Harry?”
“Just so,” said Harry soothingly, lifting his bleary gaze to stare across the tea table at Lady Catherine. “Besides, ma’am, we’ve a score of ’em. Blasted things ain’t made for a fellow to hold on to properly. Like a good, thick mug, myself.”
Just then, the maid set down three more of the accursed cups. “Now,” interjected Cecilia brightly, lifting the teapot as if to pour again. “I did introduce everyone, did I not?”
“You did, my dear,” Lady Kirton answered, bending gracefully forward to set down her saucer. “But unfortunately, Catherine and I must take our leave.”
“Really, ma’am!” murmured Delacourt. “There is no need.”
“Ah, David, I think there is.” Lady Kirton turned the warmth of her smile on de Rohan and began to tug on her gloves. “It was an honor to see you again, Mr. de Rohan. We’ve not met since the horrible incident at the Nazareth Society last year. If I did not say so at the time, the entire board of governors was grateful to you. Very grateful.”
As de Rohan muttered his thanks, the two ladies stood. The color had returned to Lady Catherine’s face. Indeed, it was now a rather livid shade of pink, and her once-lovely eyes were so narrow, one could not discern their color. But he already knew they were brown. A rich, dark shade of brown, ringed with gold and fringed with incredibly long, dark lashes. And at that very moment, Lady Catherine’s hand fluttered up nervously to brush back a wisp of hair, and he noticed something else, too.
Lady Catherine wore a wedding ring.
He watched her draw on her gloves over her long, slender hands, something heavy and tight catching in his throat. Well. How odd. He had not thought—or, somehow, he had simply not considered . . .
But he had considered, damn it. He’d believed her married, had he not? It had been, in part, that belief—and not his anger toward himself—which had made him lash out at her. Had it not? Awkwardly, he forced a stiff, formal bow. “Lady Kirton, Lady Catherine,” he said coolly. “It was indeed a pleasure.”
At last, her gaze snapped to his, and he could see the wrath which burned there. If looks could have killed, Lady Catherine’s eyes would have dropped him like a plumb-line, right in the middle of his lordship’s Aubusson carpet. As if fearing contamination, she swished her skirts in a wide arc around him, then lifted her chin to shoot him one last go-to-hell look as she headed for the door. De Rohan should have been mortified. But, to his horror, all he could do was stare at her lush, wide mouth and remember how it had felt beneath his.
A quarter-hour later, de Rohan was almost relieved to find himself in Harry’s library, a room which looked as little used as his lordship’s intellect. Harry carried in two glasses and his decanter from the drawing room.
“Eye water, Mr. de Rohan?” he offered, motioning toward a chair.
De Rohan shook his head. “No, thank you, my lord.”
Harry heaved a deep, weary sigh and settled himself behind his desk. “Daresay I ought to give it up myself,” he admitted, eyeing the brandy a little sorrowfully. “Yes . . . perhaps. When this is all over.”
Cecilia’s elder brother was a large, bluff man of perhaps thirty years, portly, with a gently receding hairline. Setting down his goblet, he turned to de Rohan. “Well, have at it, sir. Daresay everyone thinks I’m too witless to know how this looks—Julia getting herself strangled and all—but I ain’t. It looks deuced bad for me.”
De Rohan lifted his brows in mild surprise. “Did you kill her?”
With a twisted smile, Harry Markham-Sands shook his head. “Julia and I had an ugly argument, de Rohan. Of course, one thing led to another, and I . . . well, I said some things.”
“You threatened to kill her—?”
“No.” Harry looked bemused. “Specifically, I threatened to hurl her over the edge of our theater box and ‘into the hoi polloi of the pit where she belonged.’ ”
De Rohan found himself suppressing a smile at Harry’s unexpected wit. And if half the things he’d heard about Lady Sands were true, her husband’s opinion wasn’t far wrong. “Perhaps you’d best start at the beginning, my lord?” de Rohan calmly suggested. “Tell me exactly what occurred that night. I shall endeavor to keep your words confidential.”
At that, Harry snorted with laughter and tossed off the dregs of his brandy. “Don’t trouble yourself,” he returned, staring down into the empty glass which he held cradled against his waistcoat. “Everyone knows about Julia. But I’ll tell you what I can.”
Harry’s story was consistent with the statements Sisk had taken from his valet and coachman. His lordship had slept late, spent the better part of the day at his club, then dined at the Adelphi with friends. Afterward, finding himself at loose ends, he had traveled across town to Drury Lane where he kept a box.
He had not expected his wife to attend the theater that night—not until he had seen her alight from an unmarked carriage. From the shadows of the portico, he’d seen Lady Sands turn to speak to someone still inside—here, de Rohan noticed that the tips of Harry’s ears turned red—and then he had watched in humiliation as she leaned inside to kiss the man passionately. A shocking breach of etiquette, or so Harry described it. De Rohan thought it rather worse than that. Indeed, he did not greatly approve of the current English fashion which permitted married women to go about in carriages with men who weren’t their husbands. And whilst discreet affairs were often tolerated within certain circles of the ton—another fashion de Rohan didn’t condone—to actually kiss another man in public went quite beyond the pale.
“And then what did you do?” de Rohan asked quietly.
Harry let out another sigh. “I went upstairs to wait for her. She came into our box but a few moments later. She looked damned odd. Distraught, really. Then she saw me. I demanded to know whom she’d been with. Of course, Julia just laughed at me. I threatened her, told her I would no longer be cuckolded in public. She laughed again and said—well, she said words I am ashamed to admit my wife knew. Dash it all, I’d had too much to drink at dinner. Afraid I lost my temper. Must have been shouting. She came at me, slapping and clawing like a lunatic.”
“Were there witnesses?” interjected de Rohan.
Harry shrugged and began to toy with a brass paperweight which lay upon his desk. “The lights were dim, but someone sent an usher to ask—well, to ask if we required any assistance. It was clear what he meant. I was horrified. I left at once.”
“And what did you do then?”
“Why, I came straight home.”
“And what did you do when you arrived?”
“What did I do?” Harry looked suddenly surprised and glanced about the room as if searching for an answer. “Well . . . I guess I had a drink in the drawing room and went up to bed.”
De Rohan looked up sharply from his notes. He had not missed the hint of uncertainty in Harry’s voice. “You guess?”
Harry’s ears turned red again. “No, I’m certain. I had a drink. Then went up to bed.”
Harry Markham-Sands was lying.
The knowledge came to him in a flash of certainty. It happened that way sometimes, and de Rohan had learned to stake his life on his instincts. “And did you go at once to sleep?” he asked quietly.
“Why, to be sure!” Harry sputtered. “What the devil else would a fellow do?”
De Rohan smiled dryly. “Personally, I like to read a bit first,” he responded. “Some people say their prayers. Others like to have a glass of hot milk or write a bit in their journal. Can I take it that you did none of those things?”
The color receded in Harry’s ears. “Well, I’m not the bookish sort, you know. Went straight to sleep like always, and slept like the dea—” Harry jerked to a halt and blanched.
“Yes, I’m a sound sleeper, too,” agreed de Rohan gently. “Now, what happened next? I understand you heard nothing in the night? And Lady Sands’s maid—she, too, heard nothing?”
Harry’s eyes widened. “How the devil would I know what she heard?”
De Rohan paused. “I was merely attempting to confirm what Constable Sisk reported, my lord,” he answered calmly.
“Oh.” Harry shifted uncomfortably and set down the paperweight. “Well, that’s what she said. I mean, when I asked her. You know . . . whilst we were waiting for the watch to arrive.”
De Rohan held up a staying hand. “Chronologically, please, my lord. What happened after you went to sleep?”
Harry’s brows drew together in a red-blond squiggle. “Why, I just slept. Next I knew, Overturf—that’s our butler—was thumping on the door, saying that m’sister was downstairs in a terrible taking. So I threw on my dressing gown and went down. Figured it had to be something very bad to drag Cely away from the babe at such a god-awful hour.”
De Rohan flicked his gaze up. Harry appeared rather pale and shaken. It was time to end their discussion for now. He’d had Cecilia’s version of events from this point onward.
“You’ve told Overturf that the staff is to cooperate with Police Constable Sisk?” de Rohan gently pressed.
Harry nodded. “Cely told ’em. If anyone ain’t cooperative, have a word with her. She’ll see to it.”
De Rohan nodded. Tucking away his pencil, he snapped shut his leather folio. “Thank you, my lord. I regret having to ask such questions in light of your grief.”
Harry waved his hand in obviation. “No trouble. Better you than someone else. Hope you catch the blighter that killed her. I didn’t—and you’ll find nothing to say I did. Still, I don’t like suspicion hanging over me. Whatever Julia was, by God, she didn’t deserve to die.”
As Harry rose to leave, Cecilia stepped inside and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “He’s all right, do you think?” she asked, closing the door softly behind her brother.
De Rohan watched Cecilia float across the room. “Well enough,” he answered as they seated themselves in the wing chairs by the desk. “He is angry, to be sure. But fully sensible of how things appear.”
Cecilia nervously smoothed her hands down her skirts. “You mean he understands people might think him guilty?” She lifted her eyes to de Rohan’s. “But he isn’t. I swear it. Julia had enemies—scorned lovers, their angry wives. I can make inquiries. I am well known in society.”
“Cecilia,” said de Rohan gently. “It mightn’t be safe. And you are in mourning. You cannot go haring about asking questions. Indeed, you should take your brother away from town altogether, for his own peace of mind, and let me handle this.”
Cecilia began to chew on her thumbnail. For a long moment, she was silent, and de Rohan knew she was thinking. That could cause all manner of trouble. It would be best to divert her. “You have looked through the box of jewelry which we found?”
Her eyes widened. “I never dreamt Julia possessed so many baubles. But there was one thing . . .”
He sensed her mild alarm. “Something is missing?”
“I cannot be sure, but my mother did have one especially fine piece. The Sands Sapphire.” Cecilia laughed sardonically. “In the early years when we were all alone and money was tight, Harry and I often considered selling it. But it’s been in the family forever. A large single stone in a teardrop pendant.” Her hands balled into dainty fists. “Oh, I can’t believe that fool Harry gave it to her for the season! It had been safely locked in the vault at Holly Hill for eons, but somehow, he let her wheedle it out of him.”
