Kiss in the Mist by Elizabeth Brady (17)

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Where had they mustered all these carriages? From the park, the party split up each to head separate ways. Women, children, wolf, and servants all climbed aboard a variety of conveyances which had miraculously appeared as required. She had no idea what Great-Aunt Celia paid her coachman, but it must be astronomical for such service! Amanda, her aunt, Julian, and Miss Heatly (though she was not officially invited as she had been watching over Geoffrey, Great-Aunt Celia assured her the invitation naturally extended) all crowded inside, barely settled as the coachman flicked ear.

George Henry Ruthven, Baron Darvel lived in a grand house on Curzon Street. They could have easily walked the distance, but Great-Aunt Celia decreed it would be unseemly to appear at the man’s doorstep on foot. So, they drove the three blocks to Lord Darvel’s door.

Despite all attempts otherwise (and the conveniently uncurtained carriage windows which afforded all sorts of opportunity for distraction), Amanda found herself staring at Julian. Not at him at him, but at parts of him. She stared at his hand which wasn’t twitching to scratch behind Remus’ ears. She stared at his arms which had carried her home, safe and protected. She stared at his lips which had smiled at her today and kissed her last night (and perhaps a bit in her dreams). She stared at his eyes which were beautiful and brilliant and hid a wealth of emotion she couldn’t begin to describe. She stared at him staring at her and uttered a startled choke of laughter.

Great-Aunt Celia’s kid boot kicked her in the ankle.

The carriage drew to a halt at a magnificent five-storied, grey edifice which stood proudly halfway down the row. Triplet windows delineated each floor, supported by striking cream voussoirs as a bright contrast to the dark brick. It was truly charming. The façade was immaculate, each level’s windows sparkled, but Amanda noted that curtains only hung on the first floor. The remaining (she did a quick count) seven… eight! Eight windows were bare. What price could one get for used curtains, she wondered.

They’d barely alighted when Lord Darvel himself opened the door.

He was moderately dressed this morning, a blue coat and lilac vest over tan trousers. When he kept his clothing to the same color palette, the man looked almost handsome, if entirely frazzled.

“Oh, what a surprise!” his rolled Rs echoed in the hallway. “Here they are now! I thought I heard a noise! What luck! Saved a weary footman the bother. Come in, do. We’ve all gathered in the front sitting room. I’ll show you up, oh, forgive the hassle, since I’ve opened the door, why don’t you leave your coats here and the servants will see to them, what?”

His speech was rushed and practiced. It was obvious that he had invented a course of action, some excuse, so that the lack of footman seemed natural.

Amanda felt pity for the man.

If he weren’t a cold-hearted, ice-blooded, vicious murderer, that was. Which, given the desperate state he was in, was looking less likely by the minute.

He’d been reduced to opening his own door.

Even the Pruetts hadn’t stooped so low. Imagine! A little shudder raked her shoulders.

He led them through a hallway of closed rooms. Great-Aunt Celia was entirely correct about the impression that made. Amanda wanted to open each of them, but had the sinking suspicion it would reveal naught but empty space.

Finally, they reached a pair of open double-doors whence chatter and candlelight drifted. His sitting room was impressive. It must have been Lord Darvel’s only holdout. Heavy mahogany and rich colors flooded the room. The settee was upholstered in plush burgundy velvet. Matching leather saddle-cheeks flanked the fireplace. Gold and silver ornaments adorned pedestals and shelves. It was simultaneously masculine and inviting in its warmth, though the slightest bit gaudy for Amanda’s taste.

Charles Abercrombie and Duncan Urquhart had already arrived, along with a few gentlemen Amanda did not know. Julian made his way towards them while Miss Heatly and Great-Aunt Celia approached an older, bespeckled gentleman in the corner. Amanda had caught sight of Sophie and her sister and was about to join them when Lord Darvel himself offered:

“Tea?”

She had yet to see a servant. Her host was holding the pot expectantly over a pretty gilt-rimmed cup. She wondered how many of the set he still owned.

“Thank you.” Amanda glanced at Sophie who gave the most subtle shake of her head. “Just a small cup. No sugar.” He poured out a pale, jaundiced liquid and handed it to her with a smile. The most she could say for it was that it was hot. She brought it to her lips but did not drink.

Tea that weak was a sin.

“I hope you enjoy yourself, Miss Pruett. Your uncle and I—and even your father—would often hold impromptu meetings like this.” He glanced at the teapot in his hands. “Informal… very informal gatherings. Sometimes not even cakes, wouldn’t you know?” he gave a forced, uncomfortable laugh. “Just good conversation and friends.”

If he was a murderer, he deserved no pity. However, if he was innocent… “I am certain I’ll find a great deal to enlighten me this morning, my lord.”

He practically beamed, setting down the pot with a clatter. “I hope so, I hope so! Your father always did. It has been an age since I’ve seen him. Just after Garton’s closed. We had a bit of a falling out over it, you see. I do hope he… well, when he returns, I should very much like to speak with him. You’ll pass that along, won’t you?”

Amanda smiled. “Indeed I will.”

“Good. Good. You will tell him.” He nodded. “Also tell him that I tried my best! I’ve heard the most horrific rumor—” Amanda’s ears perked. If he’d heard a rumor, he was going to mention the library! “—that your house had been ransacked by those hooligans!” Hmm. Her heart still skipped a beat. “I am so relieved no harm befell you, but my dear, I did warn you.”

He emphasized the last so heavily, Amanda had to swallow the lump of lead which lodged in her throat. Lord Darvel had been the first to mention vandals in the area. Had it been a warning or a diversion? Was this a warning, too? Commiseration or a threat?

“I told you that while your father is away, you may call upon me…” he took hold of her free hand and gave it a too-tight squeeze, “…for anything unusual, out of the ordinary. If anything awkward were to happen, you could come to me.”

Anything awkward.

As in finding a body in the library, perhaps?

“Thank you, Lord Darvel, I shall keep that in mind.”

She pulled at her hand as delicately as possible, but his grip was unyielding.

How should she proceed? How did one hold polite discourse with a murderer—which appeared more likely with each moment—and what was the best course to set a trap for said murderer, or at very least determine if he truly was one? They’d laid the groundwork by putting the Pruett library on everyone’s lips, but they hadn’t actually discussed how to make the man reveal himself while having pleasant (if stilted) conversation over a cup of weak, watery tea while he held her hand in a vice-like grip.

Hmm.

If Darvel was Sir Sinister and if he’d killed poor Victor and left him in her library, shouldn’t she get some reaction from him if she unexpectedly mentioned the library when he couldn’t hide his emotions? Surprise, anger, even pride?

“At the moment, I’d like to enjoy this lovely party you’ve planned for us. Something which may interest you, my father left quite a few surprises in his library.”

He raised his eyebrow. Amanda couldn’t tell, but it looked like an eyebrow-raise of interest, not of guilt. But how could she judge a man’s factor of innocence by his eyebrows?

“Oh?”

This was not going well. Now she needed to invent something of interest for him in her empty library. Something that wasn’t a corpse. “Yes, um. Several books which might relate to today’s discussion.” Easily proven false. She’d have to raid Julian’s shelves.

“I would enjoy perusing them. Perhaps when your dear sire returns, he could show me himself.” He patted her hand. “Thank you, my dear. Oh, I say, it looks as if Mr. Finch could use a top-off while I’ve got the teapot.”

Was that the disposition of a murderer? He’d shown no interest in the library, but she hadn’t trapped him well, had she? He was clearly desperate. But why? His energetic personality had taken on a strange edge. Almost fanatical. The way he’d gripped her hand…

Wandering to the nearest wall, she continued to sip her tea as she examined a luxurious landscape with a thickly gilded frame. He didn’t seem like a murderer, but who did? She’d thought Julian had seemed like a murderer, and look where that had gotten her. Glancing around this room, Lord Darvel’s straits didn’t seem so dire, even if the man couldn’t brew a decent cup of tea. His desperate energy could be due entirely to his effort ensuring the success of his little party. Perhaps he’d retrenched? He may have seen the horrific fate awaiting him if he continued his ways and now was being frugal? He might not have resorted to murder if he still held onto all this.

“Half the furniture is gone,” Julian muttered to her ear. He’d approached without warning and a sudden shiver tickled across her neck and down her shoulders.

He must have followed her vision and consequent line of thought. “How can you tell?”

“Dents in the carpet. Moving scratches on the floorboards which haven’t been buffed. There are a few portraits missing, too. Look there—casually, woman!—you can see the faintest outline.”

It was true. This room must have been Darvel’s treasure trove. He had been forced to pawn his prizes.

They finally made their way to Sophie.

“Thank you for the warning about the tea.”

“No friend of mine should suffer through that. I’d say no enemy, but Lord Darvel made the tea himself. And, I’ll still give the man the benefit of the doubt. I took two sips before tossing the lot.”

“Where?” Amanda looked around for a potted plant, anywhere to hide liquid. Perhaps her secret spot had room for another cupful?

“His brandy decanter.”

Julian hissed. “Sacrilege!”

“So was the tea.”

“Has the instructive portion of the party begun?” he asked, drawing Mr. Urquhart into the conversation.

“Not yet. I’m interested in what direction this will take. So far the topics have varied widely.”

Sophie snorted (delicately). “Like drunks aiming at a dartboard, you mean. Mr. Abercrombie relayed a few of his hypotheses relating to gravity,” she paused. “He doesn’t have a solid grasp of one field, does he?”

Mr. Urquhart shook his head beside her. “‘Jack of all trades, master of none, though oftimes better than master of one’ is, ironically, a goal Mr. Abercrombie has yet to master.” He paused for effect, but only Sophie smiled. “He dabbles in his hobbies as he dabbles in women or wine. It’s all lazy ambition. His only serious commitment seems to be doing as little as possible to still achieve self-aggrandizement.”

Sophie leaned close, “Mr. Abercrombie has been flirting with my sister this morning. I suspect that may be why he is not in Duncan’s good graces.”

Indeed, Mr. Abercrombie was at Miss Fraser’s side that very moment.

“He tried a pretty compliment or two with me, but he knows it won’t get him anywhere. That he even bothers with Elizabeth shows just how much he doesn’t understand her. Brace yourself, he’s made eye contact.”

“A scandalous, penniless waif? I am in no danger.”

“Your father still holds a title. I’ll bet you a shiny silver half-crown he mentions it in the first three minutes.”

“Done.”

Amanda lost.

Mr. Abercrombie gushed. “Lord Denbigh, you’ve made it to our little salon! And with you, the sun! My dear Miss Pruett, have you had any idea when Baron Edgbaston might return? Lord Darvel has a little venture I think he might find interesting. And if we keep crossing paths, I may have a very interesting reason to request an audience.” He gave (what Amanda was sure he thought was) a charming smile. It came across as far too familiar, especially considering his tasteless joke.

If the man made light about making offers to a girl’s father, it was little wonder ton mamas avoided this man. Since she was certain she’d seen him being told the rumor about herself and Julian in the library, it was equally tasteless to make an insinuation of an offer in front of them.

Julian, for his part, remained calm, if his posture did stiffen.

“Lord Darvel has a business venture, you say?” Julian asked. His voice was casual without betraying any annoyance.

“Something about lamps. He said you have an interest? Perhaps he should speak to you while you’re here. I admit I dabbled in the subject a while back. I think Davy may have used a few of my ideas—likely why Darvel was asking me about it. Though he was raising some foolish questions about chemicals which, if you know, have nothing to do with firedamp from the lamp’s perspective.”

“Chemicals?” Amanda swallowed. “Such as phosphorus?”

Julian glared at her.

Hmph. The man couldn’t fault her for asking a simple question, could he?

“Why yes, Miss Pruett, exactly that!” Mr. Abercrombie exclaimed, turning his uncomfortable attention on her. “A lady with a head for natural philosophy! Imagine!”

“My younger brother has a recent interest,” she said. She gave a little laugh and hoped he dismissed any idea that he could flirt with her upon the topic of chemical elements.

“I see,” Abercrombie did sound a little disappointed. “But that, I suppose, is why he asked me to read my paper today. Well, and you showed interest, Denbigh. You’ll notice my design far superior than Sir Davy’s.” Amanda thought he’d sneered the title, but the man was an unabashed snob—Davy had only been knighted four years ago. Or perhaps earning a knighthood through scientific works wasn’t as honorable to Mr. Abercrombie as marrying into connections.

The conversation had finally turned to the scientific vein of Lord Darvel’s impromptu (and very informal) gathering. As the gentlemen spoke of lamp designs, it struck her that Julian’s interest in the topic stemmed from his accident. If they had had a safe method of generating and maintaining illumination in that dank French cave, there might not have been an explosion. Mr. Turner, too, had been effected—the strange lamp she’d seen above his workshop was a type of safety lamp, she realized, with a cover designed to simultaneously keep oxygen flowing for the fire while preventing unexpected reactions.

They spoke of gas and spark, light and ignition, flames and foils. The conversation drifted to minerals and aspects of mining, various gasses like nitrous oxide (which Mr. Abercrombie ignored, likely due to Sir Davy’s association), and finally settled on Fraunhofer’s spectroscope which Amanda knew Geoffrey would appreciate.

Her mind was not, unfortunately, as engaged as others. Though she listened with half-an-ear, she had not been blown up in an explosion, put into a giggling glee from laughing gas, nor was she overly worried about the division of the color spectrum. She had come across a dead body in her library and that’s where her mind strayed. Being in the apartments of a suspected murderer put various points into perspective.

So many things struck her as strangely coincidental. The very night they’d followed Sophie’s plan to lure out the murderer, Lord Darvel invited them to his house. Immediately before the burglary, Lord Darvel had been the one to warn her about hooligans in the area—what an easy diversion if he were the guilty party! He’d even mentioned it almost first thing upon greeting her this morning. Along with ensuring to squeeze in his friendship with her uncle, falling out with her father, and that he had a business venture to discuss with him. He’d seemed almost adamant she convince her father to meet with him. Was it truly a reconciliation he wanted?

But it was Mr. Abercrombie’s offhand remark that Lord Darvel had asked him about phosphorus—the very substance contained in a vial next to Victor’s heart—which had let creeping suspicion take rooted grip in her mind.

They had found their killer, the villain of the piece.

Sir Sinister was Lord Darvel.

She was almost certain of it.

 

She simply needed proof. But what?

There was a small lull in conversation and Lord Darvel began to circulate amongst the crowd, refilling teacups. Amanda moved as quickly and far away as possible. Julian was at her side.

A quick glance revealed they were secluded from the other guests. She pulled in as close as she could without drawing unnecessary attention. She smiled sweetly, leaned to his ear, and took him to task. “What in the world were you glaring at me for?”

“I didn’t glare,” he grumbled.

“That was very assuredly a glare.”

He rounded on her. “What possessed you? Why would you mention phosphorus?”

She gave him an incredulous stare. “To discover if that’s the element in which Lord Darvel was interested, of course!”

“Yes, but now he knows that we know.”

“He would know that we knew if Mr. Abercrombie told him he told us!”

“But now he knows that we knew enough to be asking!” Julian blinked as if startled he had even followed the conversation. Then he nodded and tugged his vest into place.

She conceded the point. But she wasn’t sure if she wanted him to know that yet.

“So you also believe it was Darvel?”

“I believe he is a strong contender, either spurred by his finances or some grudge against your family. His behavior has become increasingly erratic.”

“How will we catch him?” she whispered.

Their plan had succeeded in making the killer come to them—not only had he welcomed them into his house, he threw open the door himself!

Why? What did he want from them?

The man had told her. What was one of the first things he’d asked her about? Her father’s return. He’d requested a meeting with him. Did Darvel plan him bodily harm? Was he now, as Julian had suggested, plotting revenge upon Lord Edgbaston?

Darvel had mentioned the last time he’d seen her father was just after Garton’s closed. Sophie told her that was when his gambling became a burden. Then Amanda’s uncle—his good friend—died. Did the man mistakenly blame Father for both occurrences? Was he mad?

Julian glanced at their host. “If there is something he left in your library, we must find it. We must return and search high to low, every shelf, every floorboard.”

“I will invite Miss Sophie to join us at Gunter’s,” Amanda said. Before he could even utter the question, she read his confused expression. “As a diversion. Great-Aunt Celia detests ices. She gets a frightful headache eating anything cold. Miss Heatly will only touch them during a blazing summer. Gunter’s is respectable. It’s the one place where no one will blink an eye if we ladies lack a proper chaperone escort. You see? That way, we can return to Number Sixteen and search the house.”

He threw her a sidelong glance. “After we get iced creams, you mean?”

“Of course, after.”

She caught the smirk upon his lips quite clearly before he said, “Well, here they come for you to make your pretty invitation.”

Amanda had faith that Sophie could find a way to distract her sister along the way. She’d come up with a fanciful story that they were on a treasure hunt in the Pruett library or searching for a long-lost family recipe.

Both Misses Fraser accepted her offer joyfully. Miss Heatly turned her lip and shivered and Great-Aunt Celia actually snorted.

“Gunter’s, bah! It was better when it was the Pot and Pineapple. Gunter has made improvements, I grant you, but that Italian knew how to make cakes and a good cream which wouldn’t freeze one’s brain. Ices were not at all as cold back then.”

Amanda flatly refused to ask her how ice could possibly be less icy.

They had just made plans on who would travel in what carriage where, when Amanda caught sight of the first servant in the entire house.

A bedraggled-looking older gentleman tugged at his waistcoat before entering the room with as much dignity as he could muster. He lacked a silver platter, so he carried a note in his palm, making his way through the little crowd to deliver it to his master.

Lord Darvel glanced at the message, then made his way directly to them. “Terribly sorry, this came for you. It says you’re needed at home most urgently. I do home nothing’s amiss.”

Amanda’s heart sank to her stomach. Daniel. They’d finally had word of Daniel.

She couldn’t remember Sophie’s encouraging words or the carriage ride back to Great-Aunt Celia’s townhouse, though she did remember Julian placing a comforting hand upon her own. What she vividly recalled was the horror that gripped her upon seeing Shelby’s tear-lined face as they raced through the front door.

“Oh, miss! Miss…” Shelby rang her hands so furiously Amanda had to cover them. Tears welled in the other woman’s eyes. “I don’t know what to do, miss! He’s gone! Master Geoffrey is gone!”