Beguiled

“Let us hope,” Camille said, glancing at the delicate gold watch pendant she wore around her neck, “we will have a few minutes together before the castle begins to fill, but first, to the kitchen. Inspector Turner is waiting.”

“MARK, YOU’RE JUST COMING IN?”

Joseph Farrow was standing by the fire. He was a tall, dignified man, and, Mark thought proudly, he still appeared handsomely fit.

Mark was an only child. His mother had died of fever when he had been but a boy, and though he remembered her gentle smile, the feeling of love with which she had enveloped him, and the scent of her perfume, it was his father who had guided his life.

It was because Joseph was so fine a man that Mark had always allowed this bargain. He would break his father’s heart if he were to be the cause of Joseph Farrow breaking his word. Still…

“Father, I cannot attend tonight,” Mark said.

He saw the frown that instantly began to furrow his father’s brow.

“Mark, this event has been planned for years—”

“I know.”

“There was good reason for me to give my word.”

“I have no intention of doing any less than promised, Father. But—”

The phone began to ring. Though theirs had been one of the first townhomes in London to have a phone, it seemed that Joseph Farrow still could not accustom himself to the sound of it. He winced at the shrill clang.

Jeeter, Joseph’s valet and butler, hurried into the drawing room to lift the receiver off the cradle. He answered with complete dignity, announcing that the caller had reached the home of Lord Farrow. Then he was silent as he held the receiver and looked toward Joseph.

“Detective Douglas,” he said quietly.

Joseph looked at his son as he walked over to speak. “Lord Farrow here.”

He listened, his eyes still upon Mark.

“Indeed,” he said at last.

Jeeter took the receiver from Joseph to return it to the hook.

“Well, son,” he said softly, “it will be awkward to express your regrets, but…Giles Brandon, dash it all,” he said sadly. “Jeeter, please see that my coach is ready.”

When Jeeter had left the room, Joseph looked at his son.

“Go, then. There is a dead man calling your name.”

CHAPTER THREE

THE KITCHEN REMAINED ALIVE with movement. Theodore called out directions, and at least two dozen workers and servers were scurrying about.

All movement stopped when Camille first walked in, Ally in tow. Heads bowed in acknowledgment to the lady of the castle.

“Please,” Camille murmured, a tinge of color in her cheeks. “Don’t let me disturb your hard work.” She steered Ally quickly toward a large butcher-block table, where Inspector Turner was waiting.

He’d been well fed. Theodore would have seen to that.

He stood as the women approached. “I’m sorry to be a nuisance on such an evening,” he apologized.

He had the look of a sad old basset hound, Ally thought. He had dark eyes that had seen too much, and a heavily lined face. But his bearing was tall and dignified, and he spoke softly. She believed he took his work to heart.

“How do you do,” she murmured.

“Inspector, my ward, Alexandra Grayson.”

“Miss Grayson…I have spoken to Lord Stirling, but you are the one who can really help me. I need a description of this man, the highwayman.”

“I wish that I could help you more, Inspector,” Ally said. “But as to a description…it’s quite difficult.”

“All right, let me ask you questions, then. Was he tall or short?”

“Tall.”

“And his build?” the inspector queried.

She hesitated.

“Certainly not a skinny chap? Though it’s true that a gun can make a small man seem more powerful than he really is,” he said.

“No, not skinny,” she said. They were both staring at her. She had to give them more than this. “He was built something like Lord Stirling, I suppose….”

“Rides well?” the inspector asked.

“Very.”

“Perhaps someone who has served with the queen’s forces,” the inspector said, more to himself than to Ally or Camille. “Now, what about his face? His coloring?”

She frowned. “Inspector, I wish that I could be more helpful. All of them wore masks, hats and cloaks.”

“But according to Lord Stirling’s man, Shelby, the highwayman himself took off with you.”

She shook her head. “He wanted only to know my name, and I was perhaps being a bit stubborn. He took nothing from me.”

“And…he did not hurt you in any way?”

If she weren’t feeling so uncomfortable herself, she would have felt sorry for the inspector. He was trying to ask the question so delicately.

“I was not harmed in any way at all,” she assured him quickly, wondering if she was flushing.

“And nothing was stolen?”

“Nothing.” Ally hesitated. “Perhaps it occurred to him that he had stopped a carriage belonging to Lord Stirling, and that Lord Stirling is a man who would come after him himself, and with a vengeance.”

“Perhaps,” the inspector mused.

He stared at her hard again, and Ally felt even more acutely uncomfortable. This was a man whose job was to question people. It was as if he read her every movement and nuance as he listened to her words.

“So…you can’t tell me his eye color?”

“I wish I could. They were dark, I believe, though the mask caused shadows, you know.”

“And you must have been very frightened,” Camille murmured, loading another layer of guilt upon Ally’s shoulders.

“Surely you’ve had other descriptions,” Ally murmured.

“Always the same,” Inspector Turner said with a sigh. “Even in broad daylight. People remember the mask, and a cape or a cloak…riding boots. Who in England does not possess a pair of riding boots? But don’t fear, Miss Grayson. We will apprehend this culprit.”

“I believe we have guests arriving,” Camille said as she noted waiters, clad in tuxedos, heading out of the kitchen with trays bearing crystal flutes of champagne.

“Then by all means attend to your company. I believe that Miss Grayson has told me all that she can—all her mind will allow—for the time being,” Inspector Turner said.

And what exactly did that mean? Ally wondered.

“It’s amazing,” Inspector Turner said, shaking his head sadly. “At least, Miss Grayson, you do not sound addled, as do some of the ladies who have been stopped by the highwayman. One would almost think they found the loss of a diamond trinket or the like to be well worth the price of an encounter with the man.”

“What?” Camille exclaimed, astonished.

Inspector Turner shrugged. “They tell me he is polite and charming as he robs them.”

“Ally is no silly child to have her head turned by such a brigand, no matter how courteous,” Camille said.

“Of course,” the inspector agreed. “Well, I thank you for your assistance. And I beg you, please, enjoy your soiree.”

“Inspector, you are most welcome to join us,” Camille said.

“Duty calls, Lady Stirling, but I thank you. I have already partaken of your hospitality. Your cook has seen to it that I’ve had the best meal I’ve enjoyed in…ah, well, maybe forever. I will bid you good evening.”

“I thank you for coming, Inspector,” Camille said.

“Yes, thank you,” Ally murmured.

Camille had her arm. Ally smiled uneasily at the inspector as Camille led her from the kitchen. In the hallway to the foyer, Camille shook her head, saying, “All this, on such a night.”

“Camille, please, why is tonight such an occasion?” Ally implored.

Camille opened her mouth to answer, but Brian had disengaged himself from a portly gentleman to come toward them. “Camille, my dear, I need you for a moment. Ally, come along and meet Lord Wittburg.”

Ally didn’t make it across the great hall. There was a mischievous tap on her shoulder, and she spun around.

It was Hunter MacDonald, another of her self-proclaimed guardians. She loved Hunter dearly. He was, in his way, a total rogue—or had been until he had fallen head over heels in love with his wife, Kat. They were a reckless couple, daring and a bit outrageous, ever ready to head out on an adventure.

“My dear, look at you!” Hunter exclaimed, eyes brilliant and teasing. “All grown up. Why, you will leave a horde of swains languishing wherever you walk.”

“That’s quite kind, Sir Hunter,” she said. “But I’ve been all grown up for some time, you all have simply not noticed.”

“I’m wounded.”

She laughed. “I’m so glad you’re here. I had thought you might be off on another adventure in Egypt.”

“Ally, Ally, has all my teaching been in vain? Way too hot in Egypt at the moment. Perhaps you can join us this year. It may be your one chance.”

“My one chance?” she inquired.

But he didn’t answer her. Kat had swept past him to give Ally a fierce hug. “Incredible,” she said with delight. “I must paint you in this gown.”

“Indeed, what a lovely picture,” Hunter agreed.

“Perhaps my father should have the honor,” Kat said.

“Your father is a great artist, but never doubt that his talent lies in you, as well, my love,” Hunter told her.

Ally felt a flash of longing, watching them. She felt a sudden deep craving to know the kind of love they shared. To know someone who would look at her as Hunter looked at Kat.

“Ally,” Kat said, drawing back, “whether you are captured in oil by me or my father, it must be done.”

“Thank you.” And then, before either of them could bring up some other subject, she asked, “Just what is going on tonight?”

Once again, her hopes for an answer were dashed.

“There she is!” cried a voice.

They were joined in a moment by Lady Lavinia Rogers. The widow of the earl who had owned half the lands in the northeast corner of the country, Lavinia was allowed to be bold and curious and quite outspoken. “Did you hear?” she demanded, after pecking cheeks all around with little kisses. “Our Ally was attacked by the highwayman.”

Ally could have groaned aloud.

“Good God!” Hunter said angrily, looking ready to stalk out of the house that very moment and comb heaven and earth to find the culprit.

“I wasn’t attacked,” Ally protested.

“Not attacked?” Kat said.

“He waylaid the carriage, and that is all. I am fine.”

“Ah, that I believe,” Lady Lavinia said. She was short, a bit stout and possessed bright blue eyes and hair that seemed to be a true silver. She was clad in a mauve ball gown and adorned with jewels. Some might have said that her couture was too much, but Ally thought that being a bit over-jeweled was perfect for the woman.

Lavinia, she knew, couldn’t care less what was said about her. She knew who she was. She loved people and life, and she let it be known.

“I was quite taken by the rogue, too,” Lavinia announced with a wink.

“You were waylaid by this man, as well?” Hunter demanded, frowning fiercely.

“I was. But here’s the thing. The police are after him, but I don’t believe they should be seeking him at all. They need to find the horrendous fellow who is going about murdering people. There has been a third murder. You do know that, don’t you?”

Hunter and Kat nodded grimly. Ally frowned. “A third murder?”

“Giles Brandon. His throat was slit. The police have nothing. Nothing. Or so I’ve heard,” Lavinia said.

“Lavinia, please. Give them a chance,” Hunter said.

Lavinia sniffed. “Give them a chance? By the time they have hunted down this murderer, the country will have collapsed. You do know who Giles Brandon was, don’t you, my dear?” she asked Ally.

“Yes, of course. I’ve read his columns. They are quite incendiary,” Ally said.

Lavinia nodded gravely. “I find it quite amazing that we—those who support dear Queen Victoria and her family—must always be so noble, despite the way we are baited. He was found with his last article clutched in his bloody fingers. That article will run in tomorrow’s paper—along with the news of his murder. The anti-monarchists are in a howl as it is, can you imagine the damage that will come by tomorrow?”

“Ally!”

This time, her name was being called by Lady Maggie, who was threading her way through the crowd, graciously nodding to those she passed, with Lord Jamie behind her.

Maggie, mindless of all around her, gave Ally a hug, and Jamie did the same. There was confusion again as they greeted Hunter and Kat, and Lady Lavinia, and then Maggie was assessing Ally’s gown with pleasure. “The color is just perfect.”

“Perfect for tonight,” Jamie said, tilting her chin, and giving her a kiss on the cheek.

“What is happening tonight?” Ally asked again.

“Did you hear about the third murder? We were just discussing it,” Lady Lavinia said.

“Did you know that Ally was waylaid by the highwayman?” Hunter asked Jamie, his voice angry.

“I have just heard,” Jamie said.

“About the murder or the highwayman?” Lavinia demanded.

“I was called about the murder, and we just heard about Ally being stopped by the wretched thief,” Jamie said.

“He’s not wretched, dear,” Lavinia said. “He’s quite charming, really. Now, as to the murders…”

“Atrocious. Of course, there will be a greater outcry against the monarchy now—as if the queen could be behind such heinous brutality,” Jamie said indignantly. “But, Lavinia, you may rest assured. The fellow will be apprehended.”

Lavinia sniffed. “As if the bobbies ever caught that Jack the Ripper fellow.”

“Lavinia,” Jamie said quietly, looking oddly uncomfortable, “the Ripper murders are long past, and no one ever really believed that the monarchy was involved then.”

“Jamie, don’t be so naïve. That theory will go down in the history books, along with others. But we all know—” Lavina began.

“The murders stopped. I think it’s obvious the police knew more than they could say,” Maggie told Lavinia.

“Silence only enrages people all the more.”

Camille swept suddenly up to their group, linking arms with Lavinia. “Shall we move into the great hall? Dinner is being served, and then, after the dancing begins, the announcement will be made. I must move all these people into the dining hall…. Hunter, Jamie, would one of you be so good as to escort Lady Lavinia?”

“What announcement?” Ally inquired.

“Oh,” Camille said, “there is Lord Farrow, Earl of Warren. Ally, you must come with me for a minute. Strange, he is alone, it seems. Come, dear.”

“Camille,” Ally begged. “What announcement?” She spoke seriously, her voice full of determination.

Camille stared at Ally, her lovely cheeks reddening. “One we should have told you about long ago, I’m afraid. We meant to. It’s just that we all wanted to be together, and one thing came up after another….” She lifted her hands. “Life, you know,” she murmured softly. “I suppose one of us should simply have spoken. This came about years ago, before you were old enough to understand, and then you were old enough, but it always seemed as if the right time had not yet come.”

“Lady Camille, what is the announcement?”

But they were interrupted by the arrival of a gentleman. “Dearest Camille,” he murmured. Tall, white-haired, and with a fascinating, lined face, he seemed to be one of those men who needed no title to command respect. Ally recognized him as Lord Farrow, the man Camille had indicated only moments before. He sat in the House of Lords, and was continually fighting for shorter hours and better pay for laborers. He was, if she recollected all she had read properly, a peer of the realm, an avid supporter of the queen, and a very good friend to the common folk, as well.

She was pleased to meet him.

“Lord Farrow, may I present our ward, Miss Alexandra Grayson?” Camille said.

He bowed courteously and took her hand, studying her curiously with dark, gentle eyes. She felt the warmth of his touch and also a strange sensation, as if he saw her as an exceptional artifact someone had brought back from an archeological dig, as if he found every aspect of her fascinating.

“How do you do?” she murmured.

“Quite well, and quite pleased to meet you,” he said. He smiled at her, then glanced at Camille. “Miss Grayson is indeed a rare beauty.” He looked pained for a moment. “I’m terribly sorry that Mark could not be here. He is on the queen’s business. Nothing else could have taken him away, I do solemnly swear. You’ll have to forgive him.” He addressed his final words to Ally.

I don’t even know him, Ally thought, but she answered politely, anyway. “Naturally the queen’s business takes precedence over any party, my lord.”

“Horrid, isn’t it?” he said to Camille. “Giles Brandon was a braggart and an oaf, but I fear his death will but inflame the masses.”

“So do we all,” Camille said.

“Well, I will not dwell on such things in the midst of such beauty,” Lord Farrow said.

“Would you escort Ally into the dining room?” Camille asked. “You are seated together, of course,” she said, and then she was gone with a whirl.

Of course?

“Giles Brandon was a braggart but a powerful writer,” Ally said gravely to Lord Farrow.

“You have read his work?” Lord Farrow demanded, frowning.

“I read everything, my lord. To dispute an argument, one must know what it is.”

He arched a brow. “Intriguing. I am fascinated to get to know you, my dear. Let’s move in, shall we? I see that Camille is anxious to have her guests seated.”

She accepted his arm. The party slowly moved into the great dining hall. They were seated at the north end, surrounded by Brian and Camille, Maggie and Jamie, and Hunter and Kat. As the meal was served and consumed, the conversation covered the next season’s expedition to Egypt, the state of museums in London, art and literature, and even the weather.

Ally smiled, replied and offered a comment or two. She longed to stand up and shout. She knew she had the strength of will to demand an answer to the question she had been asking all night.

What was going on? What announcement?

But as she looked around at those near her at the table, she knew she would not. Lady Maggie and Jamie had been the ones who had taken her in when she had been abandoned to the care of a local priest. Maggie’s butler, a dear man, now gone several years, had been a relation of her “aunties,” so she had been given into their care in the forest, where she could be raised with no stigma because of her orphan beginning. The property where the cottage lay belonged to Lord Stirling. Kat and Hunter, as very good friends of the Stirlings, had adopted her as a godchild, as well, out of sheer love. She owed them all so much. They were all anyone could ever want in a set of guardians—even if it was difficult at times to have quite so many de facto parents. They were all beautiful, powerful and compassionate. They felt a keen sense of responsibility because of the positions life had granted them.

She would never dishonor any of them, and therefore, she would not be rude at Camille’s dinner table.

Still, as she looked around, pretending to chat lightly, to smile, to enjoy the evening, the question still raged inside her.

What was going on?

A sense of dread filled her.

She had intended to make her own announcement that night, to confess she had taken her life into her own hands, and done so with a passion. Something told her she would not get the chance.

THE MORGUE SMELLED SHARPLY of antiseptic, which did not, however, mask the underlying stench of death and decomposition.

Mark stood next to the operating table that held the earthly remains of Giles Brandon. Despite the naked lightbulbs above the corpse, the room seemed shadowed. He was there with two men, Dr. Evan Tiel, the coroner, and Detective Ian Douglas.

Detective Douglas was one of the finest men Mark had ever had the pleasure to meet. Big and gruff, he could handle himself against any man. The fifth son of a minor Scottish landowner, he had spent time dabbling in the law at Eton, then returned to his native land to study medicine in Edinburgh. By the end of his studies he’d realized he was most interested in bringing killers to justice and seeing that the innocent were never mistakenly convicted. He was a handsome man, strong and broad-shouldered, but showing the telltale stress of a man who fought a losing battle—defending the innocent and seeking to uproot evil. It might well be a grand and glorious age in which they were living, but poverty was rampant in London, and poverty was a sure breeder of crime.

Dr. Evan Tiel was an equally laudable man. Shorter, slim, wiry, he had the energy of a hummingbird. He was fascinated with the growing field of using science and medicine in the search for justice. He and Douglas had both attended classes in Edinburgh taught by Dr. Bell, the surgeon and teacher who had been Arthur Conan Doyle’s inspiration for the character of Sherlock Holmes. While some men might mock the idea of paying heed to a writer of fiction when seeking truth, both Tiel and Douglas saw the wisdom in the methods Holmes propounded. While Bell devoted his observations to ascertaining the causes of disease, such methods were equally applicable in other matters.

“He was found slumped across his desk, his fingers clutching his last article,” Ian Douglas said.

“Indeed,” Tiel added, “from the way the blood set, it appears that his head was drawn back as his throat was slit, then the body cast forward onto the desk as he bled to death.”

“But he fought?” Mark asked, indicating slashes on the arms.

“I surmise,” Dr. Tiel said, “that he saw his attacker and fought, but the killer got behind him in the end. He must have stood thus.” Tiel demonstrated, using Douglas as the victim. He mimed holding a knife in his hand, showing how it had been drawn against the throat.

“All right,” Mark theorized aloud. “Giles Brandon was at his desk, typing. He finished his piece. The killer came into the room, and there was a scuffle, but the killer managed to get behind him and slit his throat.”

Ian Douglas cleared his throat. “Here’s the problem. The door to the yard was bolted from the inside. The entry gate to the yard was locked. And Giles Brandon kept his office locked. I don’t believe the killer simply entered by the door and took Brandon by surprise. I believe he was waiting there for Brandon’s return.”

“Then it would seem that the killer stood in the back of the room, in the shadows, for a long time,” Mark said.

“Yes, that could be so,” Ian agreed.

“It’s…almost more like an assassination than a simple murder,” Mark mused.

Ian Douglas stared at him. “Yes, maybe.”

Mark stared down at the sad remains of Giles Brandon. Many had hated the man, but few would wish anyone, even their worst enemy, such an ending.

He studied the slashes on the arms, looked at the deep gash on the neck.

“There are no other injuries to the body? No damage done after death?”

“None,” Dr. Tiel assured him.

Mark stood back. “So if the killer was in the room all the time, he—or she—must have had a key,” Mark said.

Ian Douglas shook his head. “His wife adored him. He was by all reports a bellowing wretch who abused her verbally, even in public, upon occasion. But she adored him. She thought he was a genius.”

“Something he probably told her himself,” Mark said sardonically.

Douglas nodded. “No doubt. But there is simply no way she could have done this, nor that she would have allowed it to happen.”

“Who else had a key?” Mark asked.

“Only Brandon himself, and the housekeeper, Tilly. And when you meet Tilly, you’ll know she didn’t do this, either. She is a frail bag of bones, hardworking, but hardly capable of overpowering a man such as Brandon. In addition, she needed the income she received from him, and despite his temper, there was an element of prestige for Tilly in being the housekeeper of such a man.”

“If the wife is not guilty and the housekeeper is not guilty, then one or the other was used by the killer. I would say that one of them had her key stolen, then replaced. This was not a random act of violence, obviously, and the killer took his time planning it,” Mark said.