Kiss in the Mist by Elizabeth Brady (13)

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They told Sophie Fraser everything.

Nearly everything.

Amanda would wait until they were alone to tell her everything.

She listened with no interruptions. Not even to ask Lord Denbigh what he was doing in an open grave at the witching hour! Her lips pursed suggestively when told that the body was moved, but Amanda suspected she was busy envisioning how she, herself, would remove an unexpected corpse.

“I see how this could be a problem,” Sophie said. Then she poured the tea.

Lord Denbigh’s reaction was subtle but priceless. A muscle in his jaw twitched, his teeth grated audibly, and belying all other outward appearance of stoicism, his fingers began to stroke his thigh. (His upper lower-limb?)

He’d made plain his discomfort at divulging personal intimacies with a gossip. Nevertheless, the only aspect he’d neglected to mention was his reason for visiting the cemetery. Likewise, Amanda had withheld the majority of Shelby and Rory’s involvement. Lord Denbigh was also quite gracious when he described the act of throwing Amanda into his arms like a limp sack of potatoes simply as escorting her home. Amanda would reveal the truth on that account later. For now, she sipped her tea and awaited Sophie’s opinion.

The tea was a robust concoction imported from the Orient; sharp, sweet, and tart like apples. All three teacups barely fit as they sat huddled together around a squat table in the Fraser’s airy sitting room. Miss Heatly sat a distance away, chatting with an animated Lady Fraser and her elder daughter.

Lady Fraser held a keen interest in all things Egyptian. Thus she had decorated the room in what she called Alexandrian Luxe. The walls and curtains were a soft golden-yellow, the floortile pitch as ebony, and brilliant accents of green, red, and blue flashed from every direction. Vast empty spaces interspersed with clusters of low-set tables and chairs, heavily carved or inlayed with a mixture of Greek and Hieroglyphic designs. It was an alluring mishmash that espoused her vision of the Library at Alexandria.

Lord Denbigh looked particularly uncomfortable sitting in his backless throne, though with his stiff posture it was impossible to tell if he’d be more comfortable anywhere else. While the X-shaped stools and stumpy, square chairs were not conducive for extended entertaining, the intimate seating was ideal for dishing out secrets.

 

“‘A problem.’ That’s putting it mildly,” Lord Denbigh said in his brusque grumble.

“If word gets out, where do we stand for gossip?” Amanda had been reluctant to ask.

“It isn’t promising, I’m afraid.” She pat-patted Amanda’s hand. “Lord Edgbaston accomplished a Labour of Hercules by quelling the worst speculation, but everyone knows the details of his brother’s death. Although people stopped talking openly, they did not stop talking. Your Aunt’s reputation is impeccable, but holds very little sway. With Lord Edgbaston absent and no ally, I worry that…”

The unfinished sentence hung in the air. The truth was: Amanda would not recover and Father would return home to find his own standing in tatters. Amanda already knew this, feared it. Yet the comforting squeeze of Sophie’s hand gave her hope.

“Lord Denbigh should fare better.” He stiffened at the optimistic pronouncement. “Though you’re vastly mysterious—largely thanks to that silliness with Lady Fortescue—there’s very little scandal about you. By all accounts, your estates flourish and you have a reputation as a war hero.” His hand stopped stroking his upper-thigh-limb and bunched into a fist instead. “That both your mother and sister reside with you helps soften your image. But,” she took a breath and met his eyes which Amanda considered very brave, “the rumors of violence and ill-treatment will convince many otherwise.”

“Violence?!” He’d repeated the word with enough vigor to gather Miss Heatly’s attention.

Sophie took a sip of her tea. “While I, myself, find your reasons highly commendable, physically tossing a blackguard servant out of a house full of women and onto the streets demonstrates that you do have a bit of a temper and aren’t against a little rough and tumble.”

“How did you—”

“And, while I haven’t been able to pin down all the reasons half the staff quit the premises upon your return home, the exodus itself is rather damning.”

Amanda chose his stunned silence as perfect opportunity to focus the subject. “Is there anyone who might have done it?”

“Anyone might have done it.” Sophie smiled, her eyes sparkling. “I may be able to help narrow who is likely. That you now know it was a member of the ton helps immensely.” She took a sip of tea and replaced the cup precisely upon the saucer, as firm as her statement: “One thing we can be sure, it wasn’t a lover’s quarrel.”

“How do you know that?” After hearing her divulge intimate details of his own household, Lord Denbigh now sounded more curious than disbelieving.

Sophie, however, looked at him as if he weren’t using all his capacity. “If all this were anything to do with an illicit liaison, the entire sordid tale would be plastered across the scandal sheets. In the hierarchy of society gossip, romantic dalliance is the top-stone. The things which shouldn’t be mentioned are generally the things one hears about most. Money is a close second. Health, though only if it’s quite shocking.” She tapped a finger against her lip. “Politics ties weather for the bottom. Though a murder might even trump a naughty affaire de cœur.”

“So what do you think?”

“I think who depends upon why. It wasn’t love, so was it greed? Something to be gained? Revenge? Theft? You said his pockets were empty. I’d say it’s likely money. Or power.” She shrugged. “Both.”

“What about revenge?” Lord Denbigh leaned forward. “Who associated with Miss Pruett might have such motive?”

“You think it’s someone I know?” Amanda was genuinely shocked.

“It’s likely. The body was left in your house, why? To point blame? Though this certainly puts him in a compromising position, Lord Edgbaston holds very little political sway. It seems very personal. Perhaps this might be an elaborate plan to discredit your family. Could this have anything to do with your Uncle’s death? Who do you know who might have an interest?”

“Most everyone I’ve met is of recent acquaintance.” And they were all a little suspicious. Only the Worthingtons were nice and normal. Good Heavens, it wasn’t them, was it? “The only person with a longstanding connection to us is Lord Darvel. He was friends with both Uncle and Father.”

“Yes,” Lord Denbigh latched onto that with relish. “Yes, he also called upon you the day after the murder. As did Mr. Abercrombie.”

“As did you.”

“I didn’t do it.” The denial was more annoyed than defensive. “But either of them might have used their visit as an excuse to return. Perhaps the fiend left something in the house to incriminate himself? He might have tried to retrieve it the next morning. To my mind, that makes them highly suspicious. Well, Miss Sophie? Amidst your vast knowledge, is there anything you’ve heard of these men?”

Sophie thought for a moment. “Charles Abercrombie is a bit of a philanderer. Ambitious, too. He’s already chased away most of the eligible debutantes with his enthusiasm. A father with a title is more than enough reason for him to come calling and why a good number of mamas have seen to ensure their daughters out of the house when he does.” From the looks he had cast Amanda, she didn’t blame them. “Both he and Lord Darvel gamble, though I’ve heard Abercrombie has luck at the tables. He’s quite plush in the pockets. Lord Darvel, however…”

“Has pockets to let,” Lord Denbigh supplied. “Though I noticed he still tries very hard to appear en vogue.”

“Yes. His declining situation is more recent, but severe. His estates are profitable enough, however the extent of his gambling habit had to be supplemented by Garton’s.”

“Garton?”

“A bone china factory some relation had left him.”

“Ah, I remember he once gave Uncle a very fine vase.” Which they’d sold along with the periwinkle dishes. “Not Spode or Wedgwood, but charming.”

“It was rather lovely,” Sophie agreed, “and Garton’s made profit enough to cover his vice. There were some difficulties with the factory—a fire, if I remember—and then he lost his supply of china stone and was left with nothing but a massive amount of bone ash he can do little with.”

“An exploratory mine collapsed,” Lord Denbigh offered. “Somewhere in Cornwall. He told me no one would deal with him and they blamed him for the failure.”

A sad circumstance. One which would give him motive if there were profit in it.

“What about Sir Robert?” Lord Denbigh suggested, too casually.

Amanda felt a defensive rush. “Why Sir Robert?”

“The man cheats at cards.”

Amanda was shocked. Not only at the blunt assessment, but also at the cool accusation against the man’s character.

“You must have noticed.”

She thought back to that final trick when she’d swept the board. Sir Robert had slipped the last card onto the pile with such finesse, removing it so quickly she could barely identify the suit. I make it a point to win the battle even if I have lost the war.

She shifted uncomfortably on her stool. “I miscounted.”

“You? Miscounted? Ha. He swiped the card.”

Sophie quickly broke in before it could turn to argument, “Sir Robert is a bit of both men; he’s a charming rogue who enjoys women’s company, moderately ambitious though he doesn’t overexert, keeps a reasonable rein on his finances, gambles a little, and is generally well-liked and found to be agreeable.”

“There, you see?” Amanda huffed. Lord Denbigh had placed a kernel of doubt in her mind. He’d dinked her knight’s armor. So she grumbled, “Generally agreeable, unlike some. Because you think he cheats at cards, you also think he murdered a man?”

If looks could kill, Lord Denbigh’s gaze would have skewered her above a pit of flames for a long, tortuous roasting.

“The man is brazen enough to leave a body in another man’s library. Exactly the thumb-his-nose type who would think it all a good joke, with the punchline lost to the rest of the world. He’s already proven he likes to win using devious methods. It’s as good a reason—better, I’d say—as you had for thinking it was me.”

“You were in the middle of a cemetery digging up a grave! I still don’t know it wasn’t you. Besides, contrary to your theory, Sir Robert didn’t come to call the next day.”

“Suspicious in and of itself. Why shouldn’t he visit you? The man is unctuous and ingratiating. His absence suggests he might have been distancing himself from the scene.”

“You couldn’t think of another reason for him to pay call on me? That he might enjoy my company?”

Lord Denbigh simply looked at her.

Sophie gave an unfortunate pause to think about it.

“You cannot have it both ways! If you are to accuse every person of my limited acquaintance who did or did not visit me the following day, what about your uncle, Lord Worthington? Or Mr. Urquhart?”

“Uncle?” Sophie asked, puzzled. Amanda forgot she claimed a relationship (however removed) to the Worthingtons. Could Amanda accuse any more kith and kin of murder while she was at it? Miss Elizabeth, perhaps? Sophie’s mother? Was there a family cat, Sphinx?

“Not technically my uncle. My widowed maternal grandmother married Lady Worthington’s widower father when both girls were young. The families have always remained close.”

Sophie’s sparkling brown eyes widened. Then she laughed. Lady Fraser looked up from some anecdote, smiled at her daughter, then continued to keep Miss Heatly enrapt.

“I never realized!” Sophie erupted into a fit of giggles. “You are little Julie!”

Lord Denbigh glared at her.

“Stuck up a tree… picking apples… and the hound—that was you! Oh, now I shall have to call you cousin once I unravel the bloodlines…” She wiped away a tear. “That means the incident with the mud…”

“I think we’ve had quite enough vague allusions to my childhood, thank you.”

“…and the porcupine…”

“Quite enough.”

It took her another giggle or two to sober. “Oh, sweet coz!” Sophie sniggered. “I think we’re safe to discount Lord Worthington. Our good aunt keeps him quite busy the night before they entertain. As for Duncan Urquhart, I’ve known him for years. Sharp as a thorn, duller than a great thaw. He certainly has the brains to make a body appear in a library while he and all the evidence disappears, but he exhibits neither the brawn nor the intestinal fortitude. He’d faint at a papercut.

“All this time you have been assuming this was a man. What if a woman did it? If that vial held poison, poison is a woman’s weapon.”

Amanda caught the wicked gleam in her friend’s eyes. “Where were you on the night in question?”

“Slumbering abed, the picture of innocence.”

“Plotting world domination in your dreams, more likely.”

“Only to regain the Colonies.”

“One must begin somewhere.”

“Exactly,” Lord Denbigh said, finally exasperated. “We must make a start! Bah! There’s no set methodology for this. If there were, I’d be happy to follow it! I don’t know how to proceed without any information and we have so little time!”

Sophie blinked. She looked as if they’d been having a perfectly pleasant conversation for the simple joy of discourse. That the answer was vaguely known to all, but agreeably moot. Lord Denbigh’s outburst confused her.

“Well, it seems to me that you’re going about this the wrong way,” she said, simply.

“How so?”

“Just as you say: there’s little information and even less time to squander. Street thugs, watches, handkerchiefs—it’s been hounds chasing herrings! An energetic pursuit which results in exhaustion. Our suspects, too, are based entirely upon supposition. Rather than fritter precious time, I think you should put a stop to the chase.”

“Let fate take its course?” Lord Denbigh’s jaw clenched. “Do nothing as our reputations are torn to tatters?”

“Not at all! I entirely support your endeavour. Although you may find my cure about as appealing as the disease.”

In fact, Lord Denbigh did look ill. He sat back stiffly on his uncomfortable chair, face pale, stoic features still as granite.

“What do you propose?” Amanda asked, her voice quiet even to her own ears.

“We should take a lesson from Sir Robert. Rather than stumble about in the dark as we did during our game of Blind Man’s Buff, it’s time to strum the harp!” Sophie said. When neither reacted, she explained: “Draw Sir Sinister’s attention. Entice him to follow you instead.”

“Absolutely not!” Lord Denbigh almost rose from his chair. “Preposterous! It’s out of the question!”

At the same time Amanda asked, “Draw him out. How?”

Though it appeared as though every muscle in his body tensed in protest, Lord Denbigh remained quiet for her answer.

Sophie bit her lip. She leaned forward and whispered all at once, “That break-in is too coincidental! I think that Lord Denbigh is absolutely correct—there is something in the library!”

Though she agreed with him, he did not look pleased. “So, in order to draw the killer’s attention, we spread the word that we’ve found… what? Poison? A bloody dagger?”

“No, no,” Sophie shook her head, “if we claim that something was found, well! Any number of complications could result. We know the correct location, yes, but we don’t know what Sir Sinister might consider incriminating—a pistol, a noose, a wrench, a plumber’s pipe? If we are too overt in our suggestion, we’ll pique curiosity. The last thing we want is a curious gentry. We want them satisfied. No inquisitive snoops will find out about our body! No, we have to come up with something inciting, juicy, and vague that will catch every gossip by the ear but leave them as satisfied as a kitten after cream.”

“Something that will spread quickly,” Amanda nodded. “Something that… Oh. Oh.” She blushed.

Something inciting. Juicy.

“Yes. Quite.”

“What ‘oh?’ What are you talking about?!” Lord Denbigh scowled and his lips thinned in annoyance.

Amanda swallowed. “Miss Sophie mentioned before: what’s the fastest moving gossip that will circulate amongst the widest population?”

“Some romantic nonsense.”

“Exactly.”

Amanda paused, waiting for him to make the connection.

He didn’t. Instead, he looked exasperated.

“What does that have to do with the price of Longjing in Hangzhou? Fire and brimstone, woman, it’s not as though there’s some ridiculous rumor about a midnight tryst in your library.”

Amanda choked. Sophie sipped her tea.

Ah.

There it was.

A look of dawning horror.

“Oh. Oh. No.”

“Yes.” Sophie nodded, happily. Then she saw the grim line of his face and set the teacup in its saucer. “No need for worry! Remember, Lord Denbigh, you were merely in the cemetery—which might be overlooked if we can avoid exposing additional details. You are more than likely to recover from any scandal. And to mitigate damage to Miss Pruett, we could hint the man was a childhood sweetheart which is much more sympathetic than…”

“No.” Lord Denbigh’s eyes were cold, this time. A cool, impenetrable wall of blue ice. His voice was horribly calm. “We have been trying to save our reputations. What you are so casually suggesting, I cannot believe! It’s a bluff with no cards! In order to hint to the murderer that we might know something, you propose slander under the vain hope it will eventually save us?! No! No, I will have no part of this.”

For Amanda, there was little question. “When news breaks at the inquest, I’m as good as ruined already. I don’t see how a little innuendo could tarnish the family name further.”

She was looking at him when she said it and, for a moment, the ice cracked. She could see some raw, violent emotion flaring behind the frore curtain.

“You are suggesting I let you ruin your reputation to save mine?” Breath rushed through his nostrils in a great huff. “I forbid it!”

Amanda dropped her jaw. Before she could respond, he’d stood, chair squeaking across the ebony tile. With a curt nod, he walked away.

“Well,” Sophie sighed. “That’s that.”

“He forbids it?” Amanda repeated, shocked.

He forbade it.

The man had absolutely no right!

“Does he not realize we have only two days?”

“—so little time—”

“Until the inquest attaches my name to a man found in my home in the middle of the night! Someone is bound to insinuate unsavory reasons for such a visit.”

“—however unfounded—”

“Then my reputation will still be ruined, but this time for nothing!”

Hmph.

“And he dares to forbid my taking action!”

She glared across the table.

She huffed.

She picked up her teacup and clinked it right back down.

Sophie leaned forward.

“You want to act anyway, don’t you?”

It was next to impossible to find the culprit without taking immediate, drastic action. Geoffrey could give her a good telling to later. About how, by doing this, she would risk her Season, her one chance to marry, her future happiness. But how happy could she possibly be if her family was destroyed? If a boulder careened down a mountain, could she live happily knowing she’d stepped aside while it crushed those still in its path? She might cry into her pillow in a few years’ time, wallowing about the match that she might have made, but wouldn’t she feel better knowing she’d done all she could to protect those in danger’s path? Wouldn’t it be a comfort to know she’d done it for the best and not selfishly avoided risk? Was she willing to sacrifice a small part of her reputation to save the rest of it and everyone she loved?

“Absolutely.”

There was only one opportunity for Amanda to be able to save her family. This was it.

“I thought you might.” Sophie sat back, a mischievous smile playing across her lips. “So I came up with a plan for Lady Tisdale’s ball tonight. But I should warn you, I doubt a mere hint will entice people to gossip. There has to be meat for a feast. I’m afraid we might have to cause a little bit of a scandal.”