Chapter Thirty-Three
Sophie slammed shut the door to her allocated bedroom and stalked into the room.
“Are you all right, my lady?” Abby asked, jumping slightly.
Sophie merely nodded as she walked over to the interconnecting door between her and Devlin’s room and twisted the key in the lock. So angry, she could barely speak, she started pacing back and forth across the rug in the middle of the room.
“My lady? Are you certain I cannot assist with something?” Abby asked.
Sophie stopped pacing, breathing in deeply as she focused on calming herself. Surely no man was worth getting this angry over?
“I am fine, Abby,” she pronounced. “You can leave. I just need to go to bed.”
Abby frowned. “But what about your dress, my lady?”
She looked down at the ball gown and sighed. Abby was right; she did need her assistance. “Very well. Let us get me out of this darn thing.”
“You did not have a good time at the ball then?” Abby asked as she began unfastening the ribbon at the back of the gown.
“Not particularly, no.” Sophie stepped out of the now-unlaced garment.
“That is a shame,” the girl said, getting to work on the ribbons of the corset. “But mayhap the information I have discovered might lift your spirits?”
“What information?” she asked as Abby unlaced the last ribbon on the corset and pulled it away from Sophie’s frame.
“Well,” Abby began as she helped Sophie step out of the crinoline, “I was speaking to one of the footmen here, and he said that Lord Crowley keeps a diary in his study which lists all of the guests that have ever attended his house parties.”
“Yes, a guest list would be helpful.”
“It gets better,” Abby said in a conspiratorial whisper.
“How?” Sophie raised her arms as Abby helped put her nightgown on over her head.
“Apparently, Lord Crowley also makes detailed notes about what activities each of his guests got up to over the various weekends, and I ain’t talking about croquet and the like either. Supposedly, his notes are somewhat explicit.”
Sophie gasped. “You mean he keeps notes about his guests’ liaisons?”
Abby’s eyes widened conspiratorially. “Detailed notes. And the footman saw him in the study writing in it this afternoon, then leave the room without it. It must still be in there.”
Sophie put her robe on over her nightgown and sat at the dressing table. Abigail came up behind her and started pulling the pins out of her hair. “Is this common knowledge?”
The girl shook her head, the brown curls under her cap bobbing wildly. “Only amongst his servants, my lady. I daresay most of his guests wouldn’t appreciate him taking such notes.”
“No, they would not. Very good work, Abby,” she praised her. Sophie doubted that notes regarding illicit liaisons would assist in her quest for justice for Jane, but a guest list of who was at the Manor on the weekend Jane disappeared would be.
“Thank you, my lady. Must say it wasn’t too difficult; the footman was a bit handsome. Was no hardship talking to him.” Abby giggled.
Sophie smiled and picked up her comb. Abby’s lightheartedness could always lift anyone’s mood.
“Do you wish me to comb your hair tonight?”
“No, thank you, Abby, I will do so myself,” she replied. “You head off to bed. I shall see you in the morning.”
“Very well,” the girl said with a curtsey.
When the door shut behind Abby, Sophie got up and walked across to it, carefully turning the key into place. She had a sneaking suspicion that Devlin would be determined to speak with her before retiring for the night, and that was the last thing she felt like doing at the moment.
How he could have kept such an important piece of information from her was simply baffling. And then not to tell her of the discovery of the ring? The man was infuriating.
Walking back over to the dressing table, she sat down and picked up the comb again, brushing it through her hair. She had to think of anything other than Devlin. The man did not deserve her concentration after such disregard. She forced herself to think about the diary Lord Crowley reportedly kept. It could help lead to Jane’s murderer, and that was the important thing, after all.
If what Abby said was true and Lord Crowley did keep such a detailed account of his guests, then there would be a list of who was in attendance when Jane disappeared. But the only way to have a look was to try to gain access to Lord Crowley’s study later in the evening, when everyone was abed.
The sound of the door to the connecting rooms opening rang through the air. She whirled around in her chair and saw Devlin standing in the doorway.
“But that door was locked! How did you get in?” she demanded to know.
He shrugged, though there was a rather contrite expression on his face. “A useful skill I learned after running away from my grandfather.”
Sophie stood and replaced the comb on the table with very deliberate movements. She had to focus on calming down, for she did not think she had ever in her life been so vexed with a single person before.
Finally, she returned her attention to him. He was still dressed in his evening regalia, minus his cravat and boots. She gulped when she also noticed that the top three buttons of his shirt were undone, and some of his black chest hairs were peeking through the gap.
She had to stay focused and remember why she was so mad at him.
Straightening to her full five foot six inches, she swiped her hand toward the room’s entrance. “You had no right to unlock that door, and I demand that you leave at once.”
He folded his arms and leaned against the doorframe. “No. At least not until we have talked.”
“Now you wish to talk?” she scoffed. “How very novel.”
“I am aware that you are somewhat upset with me,” he remarked.
“You should be a Bow Street Runner. Your powers of deduction are startlingly accurate.”
“Sarcasm does not become you.”
“Nor does your overbearing brutishness.”
It seemed her words hit their mark, as he raked a hand through his dark hair, causing a lock of it to fall across his forehead. If she hadn’t been so upset, he might have looked almost charming. “I am not used to having to consider another person’s opinion or feelings.”
“That is abundantly clear,” she said, though she felt herself softening at his admission.
“Can I at least come in to talk to you?” He looked particularly forlorn standing there. Was it sincere? Or merely the act of a rake who knew how to play on a woman’s emotions?
She flipped her hand up in a resigned gesture. “I cannot believe you are actually asking, as you did not even appear to consider the question before picking the lock to the door.”
“I knew you would refuse to even open the darn thing,” he growled. But then he inhaled sharply, obviously steeling himself as he tried a different approach. “I promise I shall leave right now, if you want me to. But, for goodness sake, Sophie, I would not have you think that I am involved in these murders.”
She relaxed her shoulders somewhat. “I do not think you have anything to do with them.”
“You do not?” he replied. “I thought perhaps you had only said that to Abelard, because you’re so loyal. I wasn’t certain you actually believed I wasn’t involved.”
She felt her anger slowly dissipate, as she could see the genuine worry in his gaze, as he stood there looking completely ill at ease and nervous. Sophie had never seen him so uncertain, and a feeling of tenderness coursed through her.
“Can I come in, please?” he asked hesitantly.
“Oh, very well,” she relented. That rare “please” got her every time. “But I am in my nightgown and in a bedroom, two factors alone making it highly inappropriate to talk to a man in such a state.”
“I am not simply any man. I am your betrothed,” he reminded her softly, looking a great deal more confident now he had permission to be there. “And once we are married, I shall see you in your nightgown and in a bedroom, every night for the rest of our lives.”
Her cheeks caught fire at the very suggestion, and that same fire traveled down the rest of her as she found herself imagining just what those nights might be like. Shaking herself firmly out of those thoughts, she placed her hands on her hips. “You forget a great deal of things. Firstly, we are not married yet, which I have had to continually remind you of. And secondly, whether or not I allow you into my bedroom every night will be a decision I shall most likely make on a day-to-day basis. And let me say that if you continue being as autocratic as you have been, I foresee very few visits for you to my bedroom.”
“Is that so?” he asked, straightening from his position.
Pulling her dressing gown in tighter across her chest, she watched as he slowly came toward her.
“Yes, it is,” she stated, though her voice was wavering slightly. She cleared her throat and stood her ground in front of the dressing table.
“Perhaps I shall have to make a determined effort every night to change your mind?” He stopped barely a foot in front of her.
She tilted her head up and peered into his eyes. “A determined effort through the day to monitor your high-handed commands would be far more effective.”
He leaned his head down toward her ear. “Noted. But actually, I believe my endeavors at night shall be much more effective.”
She felt the whispers of his breath cascade down the side of her neck. She shook her head to clear away the disorientation starting to creep across her thoughts. “Why did you not tell me about the ring? You told me they had no suspects.”
He reached down and tilted her chin back up toward him. “As I know I am not the murderer, I told you the truth, for they do not have any true suspects. Though the Scotland Yard inspector is seeking to formally interview me next week and has advised that I should bring my solicitor with me.”
A different sense of dread coursed through her. A formal interview with need of a solicitor? That sounded far too official for comfort. “He can’t seriously think you are involved in any murders?”
There was a wry twist of Devlin’s lips. “The man is under pressure to find a suspect, I imagine.”
“You should have told me.” It hurt that he had not.
“I realize that now,” he said. “I am not used to having to share my thoughts or anything of real importance with anyone. It is somewhat of a daunting task trying to remember to do so.”
“I know it is. But you must, if we are to make a successful marriage.”
“I am beginning to understand that.” He looked deeply into her eyes, his sapphire-blue ones filled with what seemed to be a true sincerity. “And I am sorry that I did not tell you the complete truth, both about the ring and Scotland Yard, and about my past with helping the Crown. I will endeavor to never conceal anything from you again. Will you please forgive me, Sophie?”
Had he actually just apologized to her and asked for her forgiveness? Perhaps she was not hearing him correctly, for his very nearness was clouding her senses. She stepped away from him and walked across to the window, looking out into the black landscape of the night as she tried to compose herself.
“Why was your ring found underneath Tina’s body?” she asked him over her shoulder.
She saw him shake his head via the reflection in the glass. He looked almost sad, so she addressed him in the window. “Devlin, I meant what I said to the Earl. I do not for a moment believe you had anything to do with these killings.”
“It was not my ring.”
Sophie spun around. “I knew it! Surely, then, you can show the Inspector your ring and he will see you had nothing to do with it.”
Devlin paused. “Unfortunately, I cannot do that.” There was a rigidity to his shoulders that had not been there a moment ago. “I made certain the ring was buried with my grandfather. There was no way in hell I was going to wear the damn thing that he’d worn proudly for the better part of his life. So, you see, I cannot produce it to the Inspector.”
“I see.” And she did. For who would want to look down and see a daily reminder of a man responsible for the death of your parents? Sophie would have done the same thing. She felt her heart soften further at the obvious pain his action masked. “So the ring found was a forgery then?” That had to be the explanation. Though why anyone would want to frame Devlin, and in just a gruesome manner, too, was both baffling and of great concern.
“If it was, it was a damn good one. But I don’t think it was.”
“If not a forgery and not yours, whose could it be then?” Sophie could make little sense of it all. “And why does it bear the crest of Huntington on it?”
Devlin walked over to the back of the lounge, which sat near where she stood by the window. He leaned back against the frame of it. “Another possibility is that it is, or rather was, my uncle’s ring. A ring that has been missing since his death over twenty years ago. Though I cannot confirm such, as I never had the pleasure of meeting my uncle before his death. And unfortunately, the only person who could confirm that would rather freeze in hell before she assisted me.”
“Your aunt?”
“Yes, she would recognize if it was my uncle’s ring or not.”
“We must ask her to assist,” Sophie said.
“It would be a pointless exercise, as she would refuse.”
“She might surprise you,” she urged. Sophie might believe wholeheartedly in his innocence, but without proof, undoubtedly Scotland Yard would not. “She probably wants answers as much as we do. And if it is your uncle’s ring, then Scotland Yard will have no need to formally interview you.”
“No.” His voice was firm. “I do not want you having anything to do with that woman. She poisons all she comes into contact with.”
“But she could exonerate you, Devlin.”
“You are not to contact her, Sophie. Do I make myself clear?” He looked at her steadily. Whatever had happened between him and his aunt, he wasn’t about to accept any help from her.
Returning his stare, she stayed silent. The way Sophie saw it, the woman had treated her own kin so badly, she owed him help now just for putting up with her cruel tongue. Especially since he’d provided for her from his own funds in spite of it all.
“I mean it, Sophie. Do not talk to her.” His tone rang with conviction. “Besides, she won’t assist anyhow, and I know I am innocent, so a formal interview with Scotland Yard does not trouble me. In any event, it matters little if the ring is genuine or not. The fact is, it still bears the Huntington crest.”
“Which means someone is definitely trying to implicate you,” she concluded.
“As there are only two genuine rings in existence, the one buried with my grandfather and the one lost after my uncle’s death, which presumably has been found underneath a murdered girl, I believe it safe to assume such a thing,” he agreed. “I think we need to make a trip to Huntington Court.”
“Your country estate?”
“Yes,” he acknowledged. “If it is my uncle’s ring, then it would appear that this whole situation might somehow be tied up with his death all those years ago.”
“I thought he died after falling from his horse?”
“By all accounts, yes. However, he was considered an accomplished rider, which was why my aunt was so suspicious after his death. However, without any evidence to suggest otherwise, the authorities ruled it to be an accident, though my aunt was only too happy to blame my father.”
“Probably because she could find no one else to blame,” Sophie suggested.
“Yes,” he said. “But if it is his ring that has been discovered underneath a murder victim, one wonders if perhaps my aunt was correct, and his death was not an accident? For if someone stole his ring over twenty years ago and is only now using it to attempt to frame me for murder, then that changes the dynamics of this whole situation drastically.”