CHAPTER 2
A quick question posed to Honoria and the countess and Penelope had learned who she needed to question.
“They’re the biggest whisperers, of course, and the most insistent over being told what’s going on. We’ve left them until last.” Honoria pointed to a group of five ladies clustered by the windows, their husbands loosely grouped nearby. “That’s them over there—Lady Howatch is the redhead. She’ll introduce you.”
With a word of thanks, Penelope crossed the ballroom. As it transpired, she hardly needed an introduction; her connection to Barnaby, whose association with Stokes and the police was well known, ensured she had the immediate attention of all the ladies, as well as their husbands.
“My dear Mrs. Adair, what can you tell us about what has happened?” When Penelope didn’t immediately respond, the lady who had spoken lowered her voice. “Is it true that dear Marjorie was attacked and violated and then beaten to death by some itinerant who had taken refuge in the gardens?”
Penelope fixed the silly woman, whose name escaped her, with a direct stare and, borrowing her tone from Honoria, stated, “No.” Realizing that she needed to hold on to the conversational reins, she continued, “My husband’s cousin, Hugo Adair, found Lady Galbraith’s body in the garden several hours ago. She had already been dead for some time.” Hugo would have been among the first to depart; Penelope had no compunction in throwing his name, at least, to these wolves. “I am not at liberty to disclose further information, and a surgeon has yet to view the body and determine the cause of death.” All of which was perfectly true. “However, what the police need at this juncture is information. We need you to tell us whether you know of any reason or have any notion whatsoever as to why Lady Galbraith left the ballroom this evening.”
The ladies exchanged glances; it was easy enough to see that, while each of the five wished to claim some knowledge, none could.
Penelope swallowed her impatience. “Do you know of anyone who was present at the ball with whom her ladyship might have wished to meet with privately?”
Again, the ladies exchanged glances. This time, they looked back at Penelope and shook their heads.
“Do you know anything at all that might prove helpful?”
That caused some shifting and quick glances, then Lady Howatch ventured, “Well, there’s the feud, of course.”
Penelope blinked. “What feud?”
“Why, the feud over Lady Latimer’s shoes.”
Even Penelope, with her constitutionally low level of sartorial interest, had heard of the style of ladies’ shoes—dubbed Lady Latimer’s shoes—that had been a fervent craze since the beginning of the previous Season. Covered in crystals, the shoes were held to have a magical quality and were lusted after by scores of young ladies but, as far as Penelope knew, had thus far remained exclusive to the Latimer family, hence the name. As the Latimer household included four young ladies of marriageable age, the exclusivity was, at least in ton terms, understandable; it gave all four girls a way to stand out among the horde crowding the marriage mart.
Penelope vaguely recalled hearing that the eldest Latimer girl had married at the end of last Season, and that a second very favorable engagement was pending. In the same conversation, Lady Latimer’s shoes had been given another moniker: Cinderella shoes.
She fixed Lady Howatch with an impatient look. “I repeat, what feud?”
What tumbled out from Lady Howatch, with supporting comments from the four other ladies, was a tale of childhood friendship between Hester, now Lady Latimer, and Marjorie, subsequently Lady Galbraith.
“Their families were neighbors in the country—in Somerset, I believe,” Lady Howatch explained.
Of similar age, the two girls had shared all the experiences of their formative years, and as young ladies had made their come-outs together. “Thick as thieves, they were,” one lady said. “I can remember them from that time.”
Hester and Marjorie had married within a month of each other and had settled down to raise their families.
“And the families shared everything,” Lady Howatch declaimed. “Simply everything. Even their husbands are—or at least were—the closest of friends.”
“Their children,” another lady put in. “Well, it’s as if they are—were—just one big family.”
“And then came the feud.” Lady Howatch exchanged glances with the other ladies, then returned her gaze, now somber, to Penelope. “It was the shoes. They’d shared everything all their lives, but when Hester found those shoes and bought the exclusive license, well, Marjorie assumed Hester would share with her and her girls.”
“But Lady Latimer didn’t,” Penelope said.
“No.” Lady Howatch compressed her lips, but then grimaced and said, “I wish I could hold that against Hester, but the truth is, with the marriage mart so crowded, there’s not one of us who has or has had girls to establish who could say we wouldn’t have done the same thing.”
Another lady quietly confided, “I know—well, we all do—that Hester swore that the instant her girls were all spoken for, or even close to it, she would give Marjorie and her girls access to the shoes, passing on the advantage as it were.”
“Indeed,” another lady averred, “but Marjorie wouldn’t have it. She wanted those shoes now—then and there—and nothing else would do.”
“She dug in her heels and no amount of reasoning would sway her.” Lady Howatch shook her head. “One does not wish to speak ill of the dead, but if there was one characteristic Marjorie embodied, it was boneheaded stubbornness.”
“Marjorie broke with Hester and all the Latimers.” The oldest lady in the group drew her shawl tighter about her shoulders. “Worse, she insisted all her family did the same. And that was a cruel shame.” The lady met Penelope’s eyes. “Those children had grown up together—they were as close as, if not closer than, a single family—but Marjorie insisted on splitting them apart, on cutting every single tie.”
It was as if a pall of sadness had descended on all five ladies.
Eventually, Lady Howatch straightened and put the feeling into words. “The past twelve months have been a sad time in both those households. Indeed, it’s been rather painful to watch.”
The others all murmured their agreement.
Realizing that she now had somewhere else to be, Penelope briskly nodded. “Thank you. You’ve been a great help.” She glanced around. “Are the Latimers still here?”
“Yes. They’ve hung back, too. Hester will be aching to know…well, she’ll be wishing to comfort the others, but how can she?” Lady Howatch indicated a small knot of ladies and gentlemen on the other side of the room. “That’s their party over there.”
Penelope repeated her thanks and quickly crossed the room, but she didn’t immediately approach the Latimers. Under the direction of Honoria, Lady Fairchild, and the Countess of Cothelstone, the crowd was gradually leaving the ballroom, but the exodus was by inches, as all the guests had to pause to give their names and directions to the policemen at the doors, and, of course, speculation was rife, with the hum of voices a steady thrum; everyone was busy talking.
Spotting Gerrard Debbington and his wife, Jacqueline, toward the rear of the ebbing crowd, Penelope swooped in front of them and halted. Gripping Gerrard’s sleeve, she drew him around so that she could appear to be talking to him and Jacqueline while she observed the Latimers. Longtime friends of Barnaby and by now well acquainted with Penelope, Gerrard and Jacqueline laughed and asked who she was watching and why.
They sobered when she told them.
Aware that she was perfectly capable of carrying on a conversation while doing something else, the pair asked after Oliver, and Penelope in turn asked after their children—Frederick, nearly six years old, Miranda, a playful four, Alice, barely three but going on ten, and William, the baby of the family, who was a year older than Oliver.
The Latimers stood only a few yards away. Penelope scanned their faces, searched their expressions. Every member of the family—Hester, Lady Latimer, her four daughters, and the older gentleman Penelope took to be Lord Latimer—were unquestionably deeply shaken. All wore looks of helpless confusion, of welling horror, sadness, and incipient sorrow entirely consistent with the tale of the feud and the news of Lady Galbraith’s death. The only members of the group relatively unaffected were the two gentlemen of about thirty or so, each of whom hovered at the elbow of one of the younger ladies—the new husband of one and the prospective fiancé of the other. Penelope recognized both men—Lord Fitzforsythe and Mr. Herbert Brandywell respectively. Both were openly concerned and solicitous, which, she reflected, augured well for the Latimer family as a whole, and spoke well of the two gentlemen themselves.
Penelope took several moments to work out her strategy, then she refocused on Gerrard and Jacqueline, thanked them for their help, touched cheeks and squeezed hands, and with a shared promise to meet again soon, parted from them.
The Latimers were among the last groups of people remaining at the end of the ballroom; most guests were nearer the doors. Penelope suspected that by dallying the family had hoped to learn more—to learn something beyond the news that Lady Galbraith had died. But as Penelope neared, it appeared that hope had faded; the ladies were resettling their shawls and preparing to join the departing tide.
Gliding up, Penelope halted directly before the group. Fixing her gaze on Lady Latimer’s face, she said, “I cannot imagine what you and your family must be feeling, but you have my sincere sympathy.”
Lady Latimer was a tallish woman, with a spare figure and fairish blonde-brown hair pulled back to emphasize the strong bones of her long face, the plainness of which was overcome by a pair of fine pale blue eyes. From her rigidly controlled expression, Penelope had pegged her as a very reserved woman even before she spoke.
“Thank you.” Lady Latimer paused, then said, “I’m sorry. I know I’ve seen you about, but at this moment, I can’t place you.”
Penelope inclined her head graciously. “I’m Penelope, Mrs. Adair. My husband, Barnaby Adair, is a consultant to the Metropolitan Police and is assisting with the investigation into Lady Galbraith’s death.”
The interest from the entire group was immediate. All the others crowded closer.
“Can you tell us anything more?” the married daughter asked.
Penelope pushed her spectacles higher. “Sadly, no. All I can say is that Lady Galbraith was found dead on the path below the side terrace. The police surgeon has yet to determine how she died.”
“Have you—” Lady Latimer pressed her lips tight and didn’t go on.
Penelope met her pale blue gaze; even though her ladyship’s features remained set and uncommunicative, anguish was plainly writ in her delicately hued eyes. Penelope lowered her voice. “I have seen the body.”
Lady Latimer was of the sort who had been taught all her life to control her emotions, to never let them show. Her fists clenched; it took effort for her to ask, “Did she…suffer?”
“I don’t believe so.” Penelope chose her words with care. “It would appear she died instantly.”
Lord Latimer closed a large hand about one of his wife’s tightly clenched fists. He gave Penelope a short nod. “Thank you, Mrs. Adair.”
“Before you leave,” Penelope said, “and please understand that of all those here, you as a group, having known the Galbraith family for so long, are the only ones who might be able to assist us with this, do any of you”—with her gaze she included the entire group—“know of anyone who might have wished Lady Galbraith dead? Did she have any enemies?”
A pause ensued. The younger girls looked at each other, but from their expressions, while all were clearly racking their memories, none were finding any answer.
Eventually, Lady Latimer said, her tone again showing the strain of fighting against a deeply entrenched reluctance, “I know of no one who wished Marjorie ill. She was, generally, a likeable soul.”
Lady Latimer paused. A sudden tenseness gripped her; her features contorted as if in pain, and she turned her hand and gripped her husband’s tightly. “If anything, Mrs. Adair, the shoe was on the other foot. Marjorie had developed a marked enmity toward me over those wretched, wretched shoes.”
The degree of emotion invested in those last words was, from one such as Lady Latimer, utterly shocking. Her family reacted, immediately drawing closer, all the girls reaching to touch their mother in unspoken comfort.
Appreciating the moment, Penelope inclined her head and stepped back. “Thank you.” She stopped herself from wishing them a good night and glided away, allowing the family to gather themselves and, after a moment, fall in at the rear of the crowd moving toward the doors.
Halting by the side of the ballroom, Penelope stood and stared after them, fixing in her mind all she’d learned. Then, deciding it was time to rejoin Barnaby, she turned—and all but ran into Lady Horatia Cynster.
On a soft laugh, Horatia caught Penelope, tugged her the last inches into a fond embrace, then released her. “Well met, my dear.” Horatia’s shrewd eyes took in Penelope’s expression. “And how do you go on?”
Pushing her spectacles, dislodged by the embrace, back onto the bridge of her nose, Penelope grimaced. “I greatly fear this will not be an easy case. There are a lot of emotions involved.”
“As is generally the case whenever the ton is a part of things.” Horatia nodded and, in matronly fashion, folded her arms in her shawl. “Is there anything I—” She glanced around as three others joined them—Helena, Honoria, and Horatia’s daughter-in-law, Patience Cynster. Horatia smiled and amended, “Is there anything we can tell you that might help?”
The other three ladies bent inquiring—ready to be helpful—looks on Penelope.
Rapidly, she gathered her thoughts. “I’ve learned about the feud over Lady Latimer’s shoes. I’ve seen the Galbraiths—William, Lord Galbraith, Hartley, the son, and the daughters, Geraldine, Primrose, and Monica. Barnaby and Stokes are interviewing them, and doubtless I’ll learn more about them later. So…” She raised her gaze to the faces of four of the best sources of information in the ton. “What can you tell me about the Latimers?”
Helena blinked. “You don’t think they’re involved?”
“I really don’t know,” Penelope said. “But courtesy of the feud, at this point the Latimers stand out as the only obvious source of discord in Lady Galbraith’s life. We need to know more about them, if only to eliminate them from our deliberations.”
Honoria nodded in understanding. “While I don’t know the family intimately, I have met them and can certainly give you my impressions. Hester Latimer is one I would label a ‘good sort.’ Fundamentally a good person. She’s very contained—that’s both her character and her upbringing. She was always the quiet one, while Marjorie Galbraith was the bubbling, vivacious, outgoing one of the pair.”
“Until last year,” Penelope said.
“Indeed.” Patience nodded. “The Latimer girls are also straightforward and, relatively speaking, unremarkable. Georgina, the eldest, is now married to Lord Fitzforsythe, and the second girl, Cecilia, is, I understand, about to become formally betrothed to Herbert Brandywell, another excellent match.” Patience paused, then went on, “The third girl, Cynthia, is rather like her mother in that she’s quiet and contained. I haven’t heard anything yet about a match for her. The youngest girl, Millicent, is not formally out, so I don’t know much about her.”
Penelope looked inquiringly at the others.
Honoria shrugged lightly. “The only information I have to add is that Georgina is twenty-five years old, Cecilia is twenty-three, Cynthia twenty-one, and Millicent is just eighteen, I believe, and none of the four are in any way outstanding. In appearance, all are passable, but nothing more. However, they are well brought up and have nice, steady characters.”
“Of course,” Helena said, “while the Latimers are not paupers, with four daughters to establish, none of the girls have the advantage of large portions. That, to my mind, is the critical point that makes Hester Latimer’s stance over the shoes so very understandable.”
“What is the ton’s view of the feud?” Penelope asked.
Honoria grimaced. “There’s not one lady with daughters to establish—especially in number, as is the case with the Latimers and the Galbraiths—who does not understand and, indeed, sympathize with Hester Latimer’s decision. In essence, Marjorie forced Hester to choose between Hester’s daughters’ best interests and Hester’s best friend’s interests.” Honoria held Penelope’s gaze. “Hester’s daughters won.”
“That can hardly have been a surprise,” Penelope remarked.
“It was apparently a rude shock to Marjorie Galbraith.” Patience’s expression was firmly disapproving. “We all knew how close she and Hester were. Marjorie forced a break, and although Hester hides it well, having to deny her friend and then having that friend turn her back on her deeply wounded Hester. As for the rift Marjorie then forced between the two families…that was a level of vindictiveness no one had anticipated.”
Penelope considered that information, then asked, “Are Lady Latimer’s shoes really that influential? I’ve heard that some are referring to them as Cinderella shoes.”
Patience nodded. “I would have to say that I do think that they serve a purpose, and that Hester Latimer was inspired in securing the exclusive license and using the shoes as she has.”
Seeing Penelope’s puzzlement, Helena said, “You must understand, my dear, that at present, the marriage mart is dreadfully crowded, and it is very hard for any young lady to stand out—to attract the attention of gentlemen.”
“Precisely.” Horatia added, “The shoes do one thing and one thing only—they make gentlemen curious enough to come and look, and, really, that’s all any mother wants. If gentlemen come and look, then the chances are that at least one eligible is going to notice the girl standing in the shoes, and one excellent suitor is all one needs.”
Penelope frowned. She herself had assiduously avoided the marriage mart in all its many forms; she and Barnaby hadn’t met and grown to appreciate each other in any ballroom. But the four ladies before her understood that world in all its various aspects; she accepted their judgments without question. She turned her mind to what she hadn’t yet asked. “I understand the husbands—Lord Galbraith and Lord Latimer—were also close friends. How has the feud affected them?”
“Much less than their families, I suspect,” Horatia cynically replied. “I daresay you’ll discover that they still meet regularly at their club, where their wives—or, more particularly, Marjorie—couldn’t know.”
Penelope nodded. “Thank you.” Glancing around, she saw that most of the guests had departed; they were among the last in the room.
She turned and walked with the others toward the doors beyond which three constables stood, still taking the names and addresses of the stragglers.
Looking more frazzled than Penelope had ever seen her, Lady Fairchild was standing by the doors. She smiled weakly and touched cheeks with the four older ladies, thanking them for their sterling support.
At the last, she turned to Penelope and squeezed her hand. “My dear, I do hope you and your husband and that handsome policeman of yours can solve the mystery of how Marjorie died with all speed, for I have to tell you that if you do not, then I greatly fear that the weight on Hester Latimer’s shoulders will grow so great it will crush her.”
Penelope was puzzled. “Because of their falling out over the shoes?”
Lady Fairchild looked at her as if she were being woefully obtuse. “No, dear—at least not directly. But surely you know the ton well enough by now to know what the whisperers will say.”
Penelope blinked. “Oh.” Then she frowned. “Frankly, I would have thought that, if any murder arose out of this feud, it would have been Lady Latimer dead, with Lady Galbraith our prime suspect. That would have made sense.”
“Indeed.” Lady Fairchild nodded rather grimly. “But when has sense had anything to do with gossip? The inconvenient fact that there is no connection between the feud over Lady Latimer’s shoes and Marjorie’s death will matter not at all.”
* * *
The carriage rocked over the cobbles. With her head resting against the edge of the window frame, she kept her gaze fixed on the streetscape outside while her mind churned, alive with questions, possible answers, and potential reasons, all swirling in a sea of overwhelming emotion.
Why hadn’t he raised the alarm?
She suspected she knew the answer—the darling idiot was protecting her.
And hers.
He had and always would see her family as his; that was a part of what had drawn them together, a crucial strand in the rope that now bound them so tightly that neither could imagine ever drawing apart.
But did she agree with his stance?
She wished she could simply decide that she did and leave it at that, but…
Surreptitiously raising a hand, she rubbed at her forehead. Uncharacteristically, she was finding it difficult to think. She couldn’t remember ever being so shocked, so stunned, so…unable to follow any line of thought for more than two seconds.
The unprecedented difficulty was disconcerting, and only fed an escalating worry that his actions in trying to protect her and shield her and hers from the investigation, while perfectly understandable, would, nevertheless, only lead to worse complications.
She didn’t know what the explanation for what he and she had seen was. Her mind simply froze whenever the images replayed in her brain. Yet she was perfectly certain of what they had seen. And…
It took effort to fight the constriction about her chest, but she managed to draw in a deeper breath—and the fogs clouding her mind cleared sufficiently for one certainty to shine through. The one thing she knew beyond all doubt, the one thing in which her faith could never be shaken. She seized that certainty, clung to it, felt it like a rock beneath her mental feet, and, feeling more secure, set her mind to examining the situation again.
She knew that the truth behind what they’d seen wasn’t anywhere near as simple as the obvious conclusion he and she had initially leapt to, that the authorities would leap to if they knew.
But he and she couldn’t simply forget and hide the matter; such a path was unthinkable, for her as much as him.
The carriage tilted as it rounded a corner. They were nearly home. Soon she would be in the quiet of her room, in the silence of her bed.
She was going to have to give serious thought to how to turn the situation about.
But until she’d determined what their best path was, she would have to continue to keep her own counsel.
* * *
Penelope stood beside Oliver’s cot and looked down on her sleeping son. After a moment, she bent and placed a soft kiss on his ruffled curls, guinea gold just like his father’s.
Straightening, a soft smile curving her lips, she turned away.
Barnaby was lounging in the doorway, waiting and watching as he usually did; Penelope wasn’t sure why he accompanied her to the nursery, yet he always did.
Reaching him, she looked into his face, at the clean angles and planes and the depth of understanding behind his brilliant blue eyes that had drawn her from the first. After several seconds, letting the words flow from her mind without restraint, she said, “Every time we stumble on a murder, just looking at Oliver underscores for me why we need to help Stokes find the killer.”
Meeting her eyes, Barnaby let his thoughts follow hers. Two heartbeats later, he offered, “I think it’s something along the lines of balancing the scales, of needing to see justice done.”
Her gaze steady on his face, she tipped her head. “So that the world he grows up in will be—”
“The best place we can make it.” Taking her hand, he straightened from the door frame. Drawing her over the threshold, he closed the door.
Side by side, hand in hand, they went down the stairs to their bedroom.
In the carriage on the way home, she had told him of all she’d learned about the Galbraith and Latimer families, about Lady Latimer’s shoes and the resulting feud. She had, as he’d informed her, managed to collect a great deal more pertinent information than he and Stokes had. The Galbraiths, collectively and individually, had all been so overset that he and Stokes had been able to glean very little—nothing beyond vague and distracted assurances that none of the family had gone out to the terrace, and none had any idea of when or why Lady Galbraith had left the ballroom, much less why she had ventured outside.
Barnaby unbuttoned his coat, shrugged out of it, and set it aside, then, presented with Penelope’s buttoned back, he obligingly slipped the tiny jet buttons from their moorings while letting his mind freely sift through the facts.
“I wonder,” Penelope said, “what possible motive anyone might have for killing Lady Galbraith.”
It was, he realized, the point about which his mind, too, was revolving. Finishing the buttons, he straightened.
“Thank you.” Penelope glided away, stripping the gown off her shoulders. They hadn’t bothered to light a lamp, and the moonlight washing through the uncurtained window turned her alabaster skin pearlescent.
“I’m having difficulty,” she continued, “imagining it to be a crime of passion, or jealousy, or something of that nature.” She stepped out of her gown and, her hands rising to the ties of her petticoat, glanced at him. “She was a touch too old, don’t you think?”
He blinked; it took a second to realign his thoughts with hers. “She definitely didn’t seem the type.” He set his fingers to the buttons of his waistcoat. “And it’s unlikely to be money, either. I imagine all that will be in her husband’s name—although we should ask Montague to look into the financial side, just to be sure.”
“Indeed.” Tossing her petticoat aside, Penelope grasped the hem of her chemise and whisked it off over her head. After sending the delicate garment wafting to join the pile of her clothes on her dressing-table stool, entirely naked she walked to their big bed, lifted the covers, and slid beneath.
“Still,” she said, wriggling as she settled on her back, staring—slightly frowning—up at the canopy, “I can’t help wondering if, somehow, Lady Galbraith’s murder has something to do with this feud—that it’s somehow connected to Lady Latimer’s shoes—and no, I haven’t the foggiest notion how that might be so.”
Having dispensed with his clothes, Barnaby lost no time in joining his wife beneath the sheets. Shifting over her, letting their legs tangle and their hips meet, he propped his weight on his elbows and looked down into her face. And let his cynical skepticism show. “Murdered over a pair of shoes?”
Her grin flashed. “Trust me”—she twined her arms about his neck—“among the female half of the ton, that thought is not at all far-fetched.”
He chuckled, then bent his head and kissed her.
Ardently.
Penelope tightened her arms about his neck, kissed him back with equal fervor, and, setting aside all consideration of shoes and murder, gave herself up to the heady delights of being Barnaby Adair’s wife.