Kiss in the Mist by Elizabeth Brady (9)

---

 

When whispering death, who’d not think murder?

To answer the rhetorical question: no one.

Well, Sophie wouldn’t. But Amanda would, at least.

Obviously. Perhaps.

I cannot do this.

A current of shivers streaked her spine when she’d heard the rough voice utter those words. The same phrase, tone, and timber used to beg off playing pall-mall Amanda had heard in the Worthington’s hallway muttering about death. She’d found him!

She’d discovered the murderer!

Alright, very well, possibly not the murderer. As Sophie established, not all plots of murder were actual plots of murder. But then there was this juicy little morsel: He’s not asking you to kill again.

Meaning someone had previously asked Lord Denbigh to kill.

And now they asked him to do something else. It was simply a question of whether or not he’d accepted either request.

Oh, really Amanda! What would be the astronomical probability for a man standing in your garden during your first at-home to unveil himself as Sir Sinister?

The same, possibly, as that of a body being discovered in her library? Which, unless she was mistaken, was currently standing at one hundred percent.

And if that man were Lord Denbigh?

Despite his overwhelmingly irascible demeanor, Amanda couldn’t believe it.

But…

Hmm. When one thought about it, everything certainly pointed at him.

For example: the watch found in Victor’s pocket (which she suspected wasn’t his) and the handkerchief given to her by Mr. Diggs both bore the same initials. And what were those initials? Either the letter A or D…

D for Denbigh?

Oh, merciful heavens above!

A sudden connection flared in her brain.

She was suggesting Lord Denbigh was Mr. Diggs.

Mr. Diggs had carried her home…

Therefore Lord Denbigh had carried her home!

She had been limp, senseless in Lord Denbigh’s arms, snuggled against Lord Denbigh’s chest, inhaling Lord Denbigh’s cologne!

“Are you going to smack the ball or compose a sonnet to it, niece?”

Great-Aunt Celia’s voice snapped her attention like a whip.

“Wha—” Amanda looked at the small, yellow orb sitting patiently in the grass. “Oh!”

“You’ve been staring at that ball for an age! Are you about to compare its rounditudinous state to the glimmering circumference of the sun?” She chuckled at her own joke. “Save your woolgathering for the fields and apply an arm to your mallet. I intend to knock mine clear through.”

Amanda smiled vaguely, complying with a half-hearted whack of her ball a measly two feet down the mall. She nearly dropped the mallet from lifeless fingers.

Lord Denbigh.

She would prefer Mr. Diggs to remain a mystery. Or turn out to be a perfect stranger.

Wouldn’t she?

Lord Denbigh. Hmm.

There was one way to tell for certain—Geoffrey!

Her eyes shot to the back wall of the house. Second story, third window from the left, there was a definite shift to the curtains, yes! Her brother most certainly had been spying on them from his desk—anything to avoid unnecessary studies.

Not that Geoffrey didn’t enjoy learning. But he was a bit too energetic to pay rigorous attention for long periods unless deeply engrossed in a subject. It was the one thing that his tutors and masters declaimed—and the cause for many a rapped knuckle.

“Ow!” She felt a sudden flick against the back of her ear.

“Pay some attention! These are two very eligible youn— well, they’re gentlemen. It would do you a bit of good to exercise your charm, girl! You don’t want either of them telling tales about what an inconsiderate hostess you are! Lord Denbigh’s already abandoned the party! Best not make it three for three,” she added, darkly.

And she was quite right in her admonishment. Now that Great-Aunt Celia had arrived (with no notion of the extra-domicular events which held a third of the household preoccupied), Amanda would be expected to live according to a social calendar and fill her days with fittings, sittings, dinners, and balls—dancing and pall-mall alike. She couldn’t be inattentive, exposing murderers or not.

So, Amanda took up her mallet, firmed her fingers, and made a conscious effort to be charming.

The problem was, she was tired. Confused. And, if she were forced to admit it, she was overwhelmed.

She’d have been overwhelmed even without the daunting task of murderer-hunting! Too many worries plagued her and all of these preoccupations left Amanda feeling unusually exhausted. (Which is likely why, in precisely thirty-two minutes, she wouldn’t catch Geoffrey’s lie.)

Her thoughts swirled with a multitude of worries. Had her parents reached Daniel’s side? How was he? When might they receive word? She’d done calculations in her head using different scenarios from regular post to an express rider, but there were too many variables for any accuracy.

They simply must wait in suspense.

Then there was the matter of her other brother.

Had her father been correct in pulling Geoffrey from Eton? Financially, it eased the burden of unexpected travel expenses, but here Great-Aunt Celia was entirely correct: the boy had little to do and he was too sharp and inquisitive to stay put without occupation—dangerous under current circumstances. Geoffrey’d already gone out hunting for ghosts and was now intent to track down a murderer! He needed some sort of safe (distracting) occupation, and Amanda could not think of a single one. Even Miss Heatly’s studies couldn’t keep him engaged for long.

He could hardly reorganize the library collections, now could he?

Finally, there was the question which had riddled her with guilt these last few weeks, since before they’d received word of Daniel’s accident and Geoffrey was taken from school. Guilt tugged even now with every whack through the grass.

Had her parents erred in giving her this Season?

Bluntly, there was no money for it. It could be put off for a year. Though it was unlikely there would be more money next year—or the year after, either. Currently she was young, fresh-faced, and an aspiring newcomer. Before news of her father’s destitute title circulated.

In a year or two? Pft. She could just imagine the look on Mr. Abercrombie’s face. The simpering smiles he shot her from across the yard would turn to snide jibes from across a ballroom.

Not all the garish reticules in the world could save her.

This was her one and only chance.

Yet here she was, expected to frolic the days away while her entire family suffered! Mother, Father, Daniel, Gregory, even Great-Aunt Celia all sacrificed to make this happen.

She’d been provided a very great opportunity. Amanda could not squander it. She would play pall-mall with a twinkle in her eye and dimple in her cheek. She would be grace and charm personified.

And to top it all off, she must clear their name.

If that meant investigating from Lord Denbigh up to the Prince Regent, so be it.

Hmm. Best not Prinny. He wasn’t exactly the forgiving type.

But she could start with her little garden party. Though Lord Denbigh incriminated himself with… everything about him... if Geoffrey was right in thinking Sir Sinister was a gentleman, she couldn’t discount anyone offhand. Yes, she’d heard him mumble words in a hallway, but the only piece of evidence she had tying Lord Denbigh to anything was the flimsy connection of his initials.

And here, in her garden, were two men whose names began with the very same: A… or D.

Gracious, were there no other surnames or titles in England? Denbigh, Armytage, Darvel, Abercrombie… She was practically drowning in suspects! Since two of the names belonged to Lord Denbigh, did that count as two strikes against him?

Of course not. Maybe.

Since she, herself, had a convenient A name, she supposed not. She was fairly certain of her own innocence.

But she had to have proof of it to show Principal Officer John Lowe. The watch and handkerchief both had the same design, it was likely she’d find something similar in possession of the culprit. If she could discover a cufflink or stickpin bearing those initials… Or, she could first see who was missing a pocket watch.

Amanda saw the answer to her needs in the far corner of the garden. She hit her next shot wide, knocking the ball off course.

“Rotten luck,” Mr. Abercrombie said.

She smiled good-naturedly and skipped across the grass towards her ball—which had bounced rather conveniently against the garden sundial. Smacking a solid shot back, as artless as she could manage, Amanda turned, mallet head thwacking quite satisfactorily against the sundial gnomon.

“Oh!” she stared at the broken piece with wide eyes. “How careless! I’ve snapped the wedge clear off! Pray tell, what is the time?” Batting her eyelashes might have been a bit over the top.

Each man made a similar movement to his pocket. Neither came up short. Whether or not her little experiment had any relevance, she’d managed to determine that neither man was missing a watch.

“Nearly half past,” Lord Darvel answered first. His was gold-plated and elaborate, the perfect accessory for any dandy apparel. “But, my dear Miss Pruett, I think you’ll find it takes a bit of calculation to get the angle correct on the…”

Amanda snapped the metal back into place and attempted to smile a most adorable smile. “In the garden, no one should worry about exacts, Lord Darvel.” (She would remember that unfortunate pronouncement later.) She took his arm and let him escort her back to the game. “It looks like I’ve lost completely!” she said, clipping the tips of the grass with a little swing.

“I shouldn’t be too heartbroken, Miss Pruett. You’re only three strokes above me.”

“You’re kind, Mr. Abercrombie, but I know you sloughed at least two of your shots by being chivalrous. You moved your ball out of the way to avoid hitting mine further afield.”

He narrowed his eyes at her (he’d done nothing of the sort), then laughed, “Too keen to fool you, Miss Pruett.”

Amanda caught Great-Aunt Celia’s nod of approval.

“Shall we have another round, or is it time for more tea?”

Since none had been playing a particularly fine game, the call of Cook’s pastries held even more appeal. They sat in the little garden and chatted in the sun. Correction: Amanda and Mr. Abercrombie listened to Great-Aunt Celia and Lord Darvel monologue in the sun.

She was a bit surprised that Mr. Abercrombie had shown some interest in her this morning. Last night she’d barely spared the man a half-dozen words before he left. Had her recitation of their garden foliage encouraged him to want a gander? Ha!

He wasn’t Sir Robert for looks—a young dandy trying a bit too hard to look polished. He had rather bland tawny locks brushed too much to fall across his brow in artful disarray. Still, it was promising that she had some admirers at least.

Other than Lord Denbigh.

Why had the man even come? He’d been as quiet, brooding, and brusque as he had last night. He hovered around her in the library, stilted over conversation, then left at the first mention of fun. Even if he weren’t Sir Sinister, Amanda didn’t want to encourage his attention.

Sir Robert, however…

Sir Robert hadn’t shown.

Amanda sniffed and refused to contemplate why.

As for Lord Darvel, she had seen him at a few of the gatherings she’d attended with her parents, but he had been more of a friend to the previous Lord Edgbaston than the current. He was an old dandy trying a bit too hard to appear younger. His dark hair had a rather attractive silver streak, but it had been glossed back which highlighted a thin, almost skeletal face.

Unfortunately, he smiled at her then. It sent an unsettling shiver across her shoulders.

“I must admit, I am glad to find you well this morning. My call was a bit more than social. I’d heard of some hooligans making a ruckus in the area.” His Rs rolled merrily, despite his news. “Knowing Lord Edgbaston was not in residence, I felt it necessary to ensure your safety.”

Great-Aunt Celia looked shocked. A hand clasped to her bosom. “Oh, we’d not heard of anything! Not more reaction to the Corn Bill, surely? I read of the riots and house-breakings last year, quite happy to stay at home in Brighton!” If she was so astonished at the mention of hooligans, Amanda was grateful she had no idea what else had happened in the neighborhood.

“Nothing to concern yourself, madam, a singular event, I’m sure. Some men, a trifle disguised I was told, were wandering the streets hereabouts in the wee hours, causing some general mischief.”

Amanda made a serious effort to keep her features bland. She ate a bite of bread. It was impossible to make suspicious faces while worried about avoiding crumbs.

Great-Aunt Celia’s turban shook in dismay. “Goodness me. Well, I’m certain the night watchmen will round them up if they come nearby.”

“Quite.” Lord Darvel brushed an invisible speck from his vest. It landed somewhere upon his maroon coat, for he swiped at that, too. “I have full-faith in our local authorities, of course. But also allow me to offer my humble services if there is, however, any additional unpleasantness.”

“A gracious offer, Lord Darvel.”

Amanda took another disinterested bite of bread. This new information lent weight to Shelby’s hypothesis. Perhaps it truly was a street thug who coshed their unfortunate (and uninvited) houseguest.

Still, leave no stone unturned.

They spent at least another half hour in the garden discussing this and that. Amanda tried, to no avail, to veer the conversation (in as innocuous a way as possible) towards where everyone was during the horrible rain storm two nights ago. Unfortunately, it was nearly impossible to edge in a word between Lord Darvel and Great-Aunt Celia.

Mr. Abercrombie, meanwhile, kept glancing her direction. He wasn’t an unhandsome gentleman by any means, but something about his pinched eyes or the persistence of his glances grew to be a bit unwelcome. She now knew how an insect must feel to be caught in a jar.

When they finally rose from the table, Amanda let a rush of breath fill her lungs.

As soon as the door closed on their visitors’ backs, Great-Aunt Celia began her review: “Much better, child. You improved along the way. I suppose having gentleman callers is a bit overwhelming at first, but you’ll grow used to it. You shouldn’t have many to juggle, just remember not to always smile and simper, quite unbecoming. But keep up the pretty compliments. And pay more attention! You’re quite as bad as your brother. I saw him peeking out his window instead of work. I’ve a mind to go upstairs and have a word with him.”

“I’ll go.” Amanda tried to hide her eagerness.

“Very well, very well, but don’t be too lenient with the boy. He needs a firm hand, that one. Like the rest of this family.”

Amanda rushed up the stairs and into her brother’s room, unsure if she were prepared to ask the question which had plagued her, but more eager for answers.

Miss Heatly had left Geoffrey at his desk with a series of rather wicked looking mathematical problems. Great-Aunt Celia’s companion proved to be expert in all things with a keen eye and stern hand. Amazing how two such formidable women could live (without quarrel) under the same roof!

“Geoffrey!”

Her brother’s head remained bent, focused on the last of his maths.

Amanda nearly bounced waiting for him.

She was tired, exhausted… but she had found Sir Sinister! (Perhaps.) All she needed was her brother’s confirmation that Lord Denbigh was Mr. Diggs. Then, she could present the watch and handkerchief to Mr. Lowe along with her evidence that Lord Denbigh plotted murder in the Worthington’s hallway. The Pruett name would be cleared!

If Geoffrey would only finish…

He scribbled. Paused. Scratched the side of his head with the back of his pencil. Scribbled. Crossed out two markings. Scribbled. Then laid down his pencil.

“Geoffrey, Geoffrey, Geoffrey!”

“What is it, Aman—”

“I know that you were watching us in the garden, did you see the gentlemen who came to visit? Were any of them Mr. Diggs?” she asked, excitedly.

(It was now exactly thirty-two minutes since she’d lifted the mallet in the garden in her effort to be charming.)

Geoffrey looked her straight in the eye. “Mr. Diggs? No.”

Amanda slumped. “No? None of them?” She prodded. “What about the fair one?” Mr. Abercrombie was fair, too. “The man with the commanding look? Imposing. He left early. Did you see him?”

“Yes.”

“Clearly?”

“The handsome gentleman in the smart blue coat? Yes, I saw him.”

“Well, I suppose he is handsome.” In a grave, dangerous, serious sort of way. “He’s not Mr. Diggs? Are you sure?”

“Amanda…” he said, rolling his eyes as if she’d questioned him saying that milk came from cows.

“Oh,” she sighed. “I was quite sure, you see, that I’d found him. I suppose…” Well, she supposed she was wrong.

She was so very tired, she must have overlooked something. Lord Denbigh was not Mr. Diggs and had not carried her home. The disappointment she felt was at her failed theory.

Truly.

Though every emotion conflicted. She was at once happy and sad that Lord Denbigh was not Mr. Diggs. He didn’t carry her home, but he wasn’t a murderer.

Oh, she was upset over all the wrong things!

She should be frustrated, at least, that she hadn’t found the killer. But she was relieved that it wasn’t Lord Denbigh. After all, they’d played cards together just the night before. Did murderers go about the very next day playing cards at intimate soirées? Well, they must, of course, but she certainly felt safer knowing that she hadn’t partnered a murderer.

He’s not asking you to kill again…

Shivers hugged her ribs. She likely didn’t partner a murderer. Though even if he weren’t Mr. Diggs, he might know something about the man. It was all too coincidental. It would nag at her if she didn’t do this thing thoroughly.

“Was that all, Amanda? Miss Heatly gave me several problems…”

“What? Oh, yes, Geoffrey, that was all. Thank you.”

She smiled, kissed the top of his head, and left for her room. She needed a plan of action. But first, she was going to follow Great-Aunt Celia’s advice: a twenty-minute lie down to be fresh and revitalized.

 

Geoffrey, for his part, felt a modicum of guilt at having lied to his sister. It was only a modicum because his sister thought that Mr. Diggs killed Victor. Geoffrey was certain, certain, that he had not.

You see, Geoffrey had asked him.

Not in so many words, of course, but as good as.

The moment Geoffrey saw the man he knew as Mr. Diggs, he’d rushed down to meet him. (Miss Heatly, remarkable creature that she was, unfortunately was also human and, therefore, forced to leave him to his own devices while she attended the necessary. Though, remarkable creature that she was, her need was perfectly timed with Geoffrey’s own.)

Geoffrey ran down the stairs, swung around the banister, and skidded to a stop almost barreling into the gentleman’s chest. There was no denying: the man standing in their hallway in a neat, blue kerseymere tailcoat was the very same man who had stood in their hallway wearing a grubby, mud-caked overcoat when he’d carried Amanda from the graveyard.

Mr. Diggs was startled, but held himself in a way which suggested he was well-used to being accosted near stairwells by rambunctious youths. He simply stood, hat under his arm, and raised a tawny eyebrow.

Geoffrey found he quite liked the way that one simple movement gave an immediate air of superiority, so he raised an eyebrow of his own and assessed the man.

He did not look like a murderer.

He dressed well. Not a dandy but certainly not drab or dreary. The double-breasted tailcoat popped against his white vest and crisp cravat. Neatly polished shoes peeked from beneath fawn trousers. He looked rather smart, not sinister at all.

“Do you believe in ghosts, sir?”

“Ghosts?” He didn’t question Geoffrey’s question as most adults would. He pondered it. For a moment, his eyes glazed and stared sightlessly over Geoffrey’s shoulder. Finally, he shook himself and nodded, “I do.”

Good. He might understand. “That is what I was doing in the cemetery. I saw a ghost.”

He startled a gruff laugh from the man. “And you were going to…?”

“Speak with it.” He hadn’t told Amanda, but it wouldn’t hurt for this gentleman to know. “I was going to ask if it had news of my brother, Daniel.”

If Daniel had died, a ghost would know.

At that, the man’s face grew serious. His voice was stern, but in its own way, gentle. “There were no ghosts in the cemetery, young Master Pruett. Only fools.”

“Myself included.”

“Yourself included. And your daft sister.”

Geoffrey immediately came to Amanda’s defense. “She’s not silly-minded, sir. She was looking after me.”

“She was daft. When something is foolish, don’t try to make excuses for it. What was she thinking to chase you out into the night, alone? Devilishly foolish! She should have called the footman.” He canted a glance at him. “You do have a footman?”

“Aye, of a sort—we have Rory. Though I’m not supposed to say that.”

“Not supposed to tell me you have a footman?”

“Not supposed to acknowledge we have only Rory.” Geoffrey noted the man did not appear shocked. “But I suspect you know that.”

Mr. Diggs’ lips twitched. “You do have a butler.”

“Oh, Badcock, doesn’t count. He slept through half the commotion! Knew just what to do with a head wound, though. He agreed with you about the doctor. Said they were ‘sawbones and quacks, the whole lot.’”

“About that… about the other night.” Mr. Diggs paused, uncharacteristically hesitant in Geoffrey’s (quickly-formed) opinion. Both eyebrows furrowed in that concerned expression adults make when they’re trying to phrase something they think is complicated into the simplest terms. He finally settled upon: “It would be awkward if your sister were to discover who I am.”

“But who are you, sir?” He daren’t tell the man they were calling him Mr. Diggs. “We haven’t been properly introduced.”

Both Amanda and Miss Heatly would have been horrified—Amanda, because she’d made every effort to keep him out of the investigations, and Miss Heatly because he was ignoring his studies and propriety by daring to introduce himself.

The furrow smoothed and that superior eyebrow rose. He stood a bit straighter—almost at attention. “Lieutenant Julian Armytage, Viscount Denbigh.”

“Geoffrey Pruett, plain mister.” He’d added the lack-of-title flippantly, but a horrible thought occurred to him. His stomach roiled. “Unless my brother succumbs. That’s not something I’d like to think on.”

“No, Master Pruett, it’s not.”

For some reason, Geoffrey appreciated that the Lieutenant didn’t try to mollify him or give an unsubstantiated sense of hope. He’d heard the coddling phrases: “I’m sure he’ll be alright, he’s quite resilient,” from each and every female member of the household. (Badcock mentioned something about stiff lips. Rory had grunted.) Mr. Diggs—Lord Denbigh, rather—sounded like he knew exactly the muddled emotions Geoffrey was feeling.

The heir and the spare. Geoffrey loved his brother. Daniel could be a maddening wart most of the time, but Geoffrey loved him. He was the heir. Spares like Geoffrey were usually delegated to the military. He might have wished to be a third son, but the clergy held about as much appeal as his current lot. Yet if Daniel took a turn… he shuddered to think, selfishly not only for his brother but for the position that would place him in.

Was Lord Denbigh a spare, too?

“You were in the Army?” he asked.

“First Foot.”

“At Waterloo?”

“I was sent home before… I did not see Waterloo.”

Geoffrey feared the answer as to why. “Do you miss it? Not the fighting, of course.”

“It afforded the opportunity to see more of the world, more of people. It clearly demonstrated that rank and status don’t define a man. I will miss that luxury.”

“And you don’t wish for me to tell my sister that you were the man I saw in the cemetery.”

Lord Denbigh looked around the empty hall, but there was no one to overhear. “I’m sure you see it could be damaging to her reputation.”

Of course he could, that’s why he’d suggested their current actions. But the gentleman had just gone up in Geoffrey’s estimation with his prime concern for Amanda’s reputation.

“It’s best to let accountability rest on a passing Samaritan. I don’t mean for you to lie, simply be mute on the subject. I don’t think she even noticed me the other evening. She doesn’t seem to remember.”

“Oh, she noticed you, sir.”

“Did she?” Rich blue eyes widened in surprised. A bit of color flared into his cheeks before he shook his head. “Digging in the grave, of course. I daresay she thought I was a scoundrel. If that’s the case, the truth would be damaging to my reputation, too.”

“She might have mentioned something about you possibly being a resurrectionist.”

Another raw chuckle. “Is that what she thought? Well, I suppose it certainly looked that way.”

“Not a resurrectionist, then.”

“You sound disappointed!”

Geoffrey shrugged. “Well, a resurrectionist or a murderer.”

His smile was genuinely amused. “Neither, I’m afraid.”

And there you had it.

Lord Denbigh was Mr. Diggs, but he was not Sir Sinister. Which is why Geoffrey lied to his sister. If Amanda even remotely thought Lord Denbigh was Mr. Diggs, she would hound the man. Geoffrey would try to spare him that fate.

“Did you truly expect to speak with a spirit?” Lord Denbigh asked, assessing Geoffrey carefully.

Hmm.

He’d been reading the book his sister had given him with stories full of ghosts and talking dead. In the middle of the night with a raging storm, it almost seemed possible. Now?

“I thought so at the time, sir. I know it was likely a trick of the light and clouds, but at the time…”

“Most things tend to have a reasonable explanation. I have a few books upon natural philosophy and various vapor formations. I could let you examine the texts for an answer. Until your father’s collection is restored, of course.”

“Thank you, sir,” Geoffrey said. As way to voice his gratitude he added, “I laundered your kerchief. ’Fraid my sister kept it somewhere.”

“She kept it?” Both brows shot to the ceiling.

“I told her you didn’t sound keen to have it back. Though Maria managed to remove the bloodstains…”

Lord Denbigh choked a quick, “Quite alright.”

Something still puzzled him. “You’d said most things have a reasonable explanation and that there was a reasonable explanation for you being in the graveyard that night…”

“There is.”

He was simply keeping it to himself. Geoffrey could appreciate that. “You also said none but fools were in the cemetery. Does that include yourself, sir?”

“Young Master Pruett, of all the fools that night, I was the greatest.”