Kiss in the Mist by Elizabeth Brady (3)

“Come, let me take a look at you, child.” Great-Aunt Celia stood in the drawing room, arms wide in welcome, a broad smile gracing her features. Age was a topic never discussed, but Amanda guessed she was barely over forty. She could easily pass for a decade younger; her hair still held the glossy golden sheen of youth, her grey-blue eyes pierced with astuteness, her skin was soft and clear, her dress impeccable. All were shared traits of the family line (excepting, of course, her fashion sense—to her impending dismay). Celia Lidgate was beauty and grace. (She was also the only person ever allowed to mention her practically imperceptible limp. The cane that went with it, however, no one could ignore.)

Amanda’s chaperone had arrived.

Her hands (lately established as soft) were also gentle as she swept back Amanda’s equally golden (slightly more unruly) hair to look at the tender bump formed behind her ear.

“Tsk tsk,” she clucked. “Simply awful. How utterly irresponsible of you to whack your head right before your entrée. Hmm. Well, I suppose most of the swelling will go down. And the ghastly bruises are hidden by that mass of unruly hair. Can’t we do something about that?” She glanced at her willowy companion, Miss Susan Heatly, who pursed her lips with a doubtful shake. “Well. Well, not much to be done, I suppose. But this gown… You haven’t gone out in public, have you? And pockets?” Another tsk. “No one wears pockets anymore, girl—no matter what some old biddies grumble about never being without them. Changing times, changing fashion! Pockets ruin a gown’s line completely! That’s what a reticule is for! I thought your mother had some taste. I do hope she ordered a few suitable dresses before they departed?”

Any meeting with Great-Aunt Celia usually left Amanda in a teetering state between anxious and affronted. Yesterday morning, Amanda had dreaded her arrival. Now, however, she could greet her Great-Aunt with a numb sort of equanimity. Ghosts, graves, cadavers, and Great-Aunt Celia—Amanda could conquer them all.

She bit back any response as to her mother’s fashion sense (or her own), wisely choosing to nod instead. Besides, it was highly unlikely she’d be able to edge in a word as demonstrated by the next impenetrable soliloquy:

“I cannot believe the negligent recklessness of your parents to desert the two of you! Especially at a time such as this. It’s a good thing your mother was at least here long enough for you to be presented and make your pretty curtsey, otherwise who knows what people might think. Traipsing all the way to some Italian kingdom. I’m sure your father need not have gone. He has a spare,” she flicked her wrist in Geoffrey’s direction. (Or near enough. She actually indicated closer to the vase sitting on the corner table rather than Geoffrey, who stood in the front of the room by the window. Still, it was a reasonable approximation as she hadn’t yet looked his way.) Great-Aunt Celia paused, reflecting on her words, then added with a suffering sigh, “Though, I would miss Daniel.

“And this boy!” She glanced first at the vase before redirecting her gaze. “He’s getting all tall and gangly and eager-looking. Why isn’t he in school? You haven’t been rusticated, have you?”

“No, ma’am, I—”

“Hmm.” She squinted at him. “Boys your age are always up to trouble.”

Amanda forced herself into the pause. “Father had a word with Dr. Keate, himself, about the situation. Geoffrey excels in his studies, it will do him little harm to miss a half…” Which was hopefully all he would miss.

“Little harm, hmm? Instead of school, he gets to sit cooped up in this,” she glanced around the room, “house, without learning anything. Nothing to do. Idle boys are mischievous boys.” Neither Amanda nor Geoffrey could deny this. “If you were staying with me, you would not be idle, I assure you. I cannot understand why your father refused to let me open my townhouse.” Great-Aunt Celia walked towards the fireplace. On her way, she flipped over the edge of the carpet with her cane. Wrinkling her nose at what she found, she flipped the carpet back into place, patting the corner with the cane’s tapered end. “I might still be able to have it ready before your first outing.” Her voice sounded rather hopeful.

“We must stay here, Aunt.” Amanda tried to maintain a reasonable tone. “We’ve let the house, we cannot leave it unattended to come board with you. Since you are my chaperone, the only thing to be done is have you live with us instead.”

“Oh, but the accommodations,” she groaned. It was supposed to be under her breath—which meant the whole room heard it. “Rented. With secondhand furnishings. Hired staff. Tallow candles, not wax? What next? Will I be sleeping on hay? There are feathers in the mattress, my girl?”

“I assure you, Great-Aunt Celia, your room is quite comfortable.”

“And no,” she whispered (loudly), “bedbugs?”

The neat and redoubtable Miss Heatly, shuddered.

“No bedfellows of any sort, Aunt.”

“Hmm. Well, if it can’t be helped, let no one say that I was an ungracious guest. Is there staff enough for someone to show me to my rooms, or are we to hunt for them ourselves?” She chuckled at her witticism, as if she were a little girl sent to hunt eggs.

“Follow me, Aunt, I will be happy to lead the way.”

“Good, child. And now that I’m finally arrived, let’s waste no more time. If that blasted wheel hadn’t shattered to bits on the road, I would have been here two days ago and could have better grasped your… circumstances. So, after you show me my rooms, take me to your wardrobe and let’s see if we can find something suitable for the Worthington’s soirée.”

Amanda stopped so abruptly, Great-Aunt Celia nearly crashed into her back.

The soirée.

Tonight.

“Move along, girl, move along. There’s no rest for the wicked.”

She sighed and squared her shoulders. It appeared Amanda had not been angelic for days.

With all the experience she’d had with watchmen and constables, Shelby knew better than to try to ply any womanly charms upon them.

So what in the world was she doing?!

She hadn’t flirted with the man, no. But from the moment he’d stepped around the hedgerow into the small courtyard, he’d made Shelby nervous. Tense and self-aware. As if those calm, hazel eyes could tell all she ate for breakfast from looking at an oat crumb escaped from her lips.

She brushed at her neckline, aware her movement had caught his attention, then let out an edgy titter. Which she brilliantly overcompensated for by batting her eyelashes. His response was to step beyond her to examine the body.

He hadn’t said a word and Shelby still felt a sheen of perspiration.

He wasn’t too tall, but he was broad. She supposed that was a handy feature for a man in his line of work—easier to tackle a quarry to the ground if you were twice his size—but he was also lean and lithe. Despite his bulk, he slipped around her in the narrow entry, stepping quickly and easily without brushing her, the body, or the surrounding shrubs. They were in a small square park, just off the cemetery, overgrown hedgerow eating away at the clearing. There was barely space for the body to lie. A small bench sat facing a lone angel, arms and wings outstretched. An unused, solitary refuge for mourners, long left forgotten. A quiet and fitting resting place.

The plain, almost hulking man squatted down beside the body, his wide back turned to her, stretching the simple blue jacket over his shoulders. She had the curious urge to trail the curve of his coat with her finger.

“This is how you discovered him?” his voice was low, steady, without inflection.

“The way I came upon him, sir,” she said. She mentally finished the sentence: after my brother placed him there. It was best not to outright lie when fabricating. Especially to the watch.

“Did you touch the body?”

“I nudged his shoulder.” While pushing him onto the carpet.

“Did you tamper with him in any way?”

“Certainly not!” She hadn’t. Her brother had. And possibly the young miss, but she didn’t rightly know.

“Do you recognize the man?”

“Not at all.”

The watchman sat back on his haunches and glanced over his shoulder. Hazel eyes swept up and down her form and, try as hard as she might to stand still, she fidgeted.

“You mean to say you were not meeting him here as a predetermined assignation?”

Oh, that put the spine into her! That reserved, haughty tone in his allegation. Shelby straightened up to her full five-foot-two, lifted her chin, and stared down coldly. “I was not.” Each word clipped nicely.

He simply raised an eyebrow and returned his attention to the body, rustling in the man’s pockets. He’d dismissed her! Shelby fumed. Was it worse for him to think she’d arranged a lover’s tryst, or for him to accept her denial without further interest? Both seemed equally insulting. Perhaps a wee bit more offensive was that the tear in the underarm of the dead man’s jacket received his full attention. Would he take notice at all if Shelby threw pebbles at his head?

“Was there any other person about?”

“None that I saw.” She and Rory had checked, carefully.

“It’s a secluded spot. What led you here?”

“I visit daily.”

“Did you come yesterday?”

“Aye.”

“At the same time?”

“Around.”

“Are you generally accompanied?”

“No.”

“No one disturbs you here?”

“As you said, it’s a secluded spot.”

“Hmm.”

Oh, no. He hmmed.

Before she could supplement her statement, he continued the barrage: “How much brandy have you had this morning?”

Shelby blinked. That startled her. But, she supposed, her breath reeked of the smell. (Along with mum’s biscuits.) “My…” her voice wavered. She cleared her throat and tried again, “My mistress let me steady my nerves.” That was a defense, not an answer. Be calm, girl. “A cogue, perhaps.” Perhaps two. And a half. “I ain’t bung-eyed,” she mumbled.

“You left the body for that purpose?”

To get drunk? Well, this was not going at all as she wanted. “I left to seek help and found a boy to call you.”

“You were absent for how long?”

“Naught more than ten minutes.”

He stood, at last turning towards her, fully. Oh, he did rattle her! Those hazel eyes held her, steady.

“None from the household followed for your safety? No one joined you upon hearing of your discovery?”

Shelby hesitated. It would be dangerous to deviate far from actual events, which might cause discrepancy when she retold the tale. But she wanted to avoid involving her brother.

“There was none available to accompany me. The staff isn’t paid to gawk. And, not to put too fine a point on it, the poor man’s dead. Not much harm he could do.”

“Hmm.” The watchman’s lips might have twitched, but his countenance was generally so stony, it was impossible to tell. “I was not thinking of harm from the man himself, but from the person who killed him.”

Shelby blinked. “What?” A cold shiver ran across her shoulders. “The one who…” She stared at the body lying upon the overgrown grass which, not an hour ago, had graced the library hearthrug. “He… was murdered?”

“As Cain killed Able.” Again, that imperceptible smirk. “Though, I greatly suspect a different motive.”

Shelby’s knees almost collapsed beneath her.

“How… How? Who? What…?” Shelby stuttered, all composure lost.

The man was murdered. An obvious possibility, but one she hadn’t thought of. Many men could fall victim to an overindulgence of alcohol or an illness. She knew men three sheets to the wind who’d find sneaking into the library a fun lark. It was easy to imagine the man had been drunk, that he’d stumbled, hit his head. What she hadn’t even considered was murder (and she doubted Miss Amanda had, either).

Shelby found the watchman watching her closely.

“I’ve shocked you with the news. My apologies. Perhaps we should continue our interview after I make some further inquiries? Your Christian name is Shelby, correct? Of which house?”

He hadn’t made introductions before pummeling her with questions, yet he knew her name. Shelby suspected he also knew her surname, where she lived, and her oats for breakfast. He was simply giving her a question to which she wouldn’t lie.

“Shelby Cooke. Number Sixteen. Constable…?”

This time, he smiled. It was a small smile, barely rounding his cheeks, but it touched his hazel eyes and made them shine. Shelby swallowed.

“John Lowe, Principal Officer…”

Oh no. Oh no, oh no. This man wasn’t a constable, nor a thief-taker, nor the simple watchman she’d thought would come.

“…of Bow Street.”

He was a Runner.