Meet Me at Midnight Page 11

  “Crisp—”

  “Let all your yesterdays light his way to dusty death.”

  “I get your meaning. Quit quoting Shakespeare,” Sinclair grumbled. “Someone might mistake you for a gentleman.”

  Crispin grinned. “Only the nephew of one, m’boy. Only the nephew of one.”

  “Aye,” Wally mimicked, “only the nephew of the bloody Duke of Argyle.”

  “The fav’rite nephew, Wallace. And be thankful—without my blue-blooded relations, ye’d likely never see the inside of a fine gentleman’s club like this one.”

  “Don’t forget I’m a duchess’s grandson, Scot.”

  Bates snorted. “If you lot are finished discussing the blueness of your blood, I don’t have any news, either. That sot Ramsey DuPont couldn’t manage a murder if someone loaded a pistol and aimed it for him.”

  “Are all three of our fine gentlemen innocent enough that we can cross them off the list, then?”

  Crispin nodded. “Aye. If Kilcairn had killed your brother, it would’ve been in a fair fight. Not a murder.”

  Sinclair narrowed his eyes. “You’re not making me any more fond of him.”

  The Scotsman had the temerity to grin. “I know.”

  “DuPont is clear, too. He might do a murder, but not one clever enough to fool anybody.”

  “Wally?”

  “Oh, fiend seize it. Give me another few days for the cat drowner. I don’t have anything near a motive yet, but I wouldn’t put it past the bastard.”

  Sinclair wasn’t surprised. To find the murderer among the first three suspects on his list would have been too much to expect, but he wasn’t willing to discount anything—including luck. “Well then, we may as well move on to the next three n—”

  “Excuse me, Althorpe.”

  Sinclair turned in his chair. Part of him still expected to hear his brother’s soft voice answering the summons. “Lord William,” he drawled.

  William Landry was drunk—which, if the rumors were accurate, wasn’t any surprise. The hostility on his pretty face was unexpected, however, until Sin remembered that the Duke of Fenshire’s son had been one of the wolves circling Vixen the night he’d whisked her out to the garden. It was just what he needed for the evening: a former, drunken suitor who had probably been more intimate with his new wife than he had.

  “I think you should know,” Lord William continued darkly, “that just because you managed the easiest path to the Vixen’s bed doesn’t mean the rest of us are about to pretend we like having you here.”

  “I really don’t care what you like or dislike,” Sinclair said. “Was there anything else?”

  “Well,” Lord William drawled, looking over his shoulder at his equally inebriated table mates, “I—that is, we—were wondering, is the Vixen as wild in bed as she is when she’s upright?”

  Sin launched out of his chair and slammed his fist into Landry’s face. Dimly he heard his own companions cursing and clearing furniture out of the way, but he ignored them as he knocked the buffoon backward over a chair.

  Landry hadn’t been with her—but the revelation didn’t comfort him any. Someone Victoria had accepted as her friend and admirer would not utter such things in public. Not while he had anything to say about it. Snarling, he yanked the reeling Landry back to his feet and then leveled him again with a solid punch to the jaw.

  Before he could dive in for more, a pair of arms wrapped around his waist and hoisted him off the ground. “Damn it, Crispin, put me down!” he growled.

  “You plannin’ on finishing ’im off, Sin?”

  He looked down at Lord William, wheezing and curled up on the floor. Killing someone now would definitely complicate his own investigation. “No.”

  The big Scotsman let go, and he dropped to his feet. Eyeing the milling footmen and guests surrounding them, Sin squatted down at Landry’s shoulder. “Don’t ever insult my wife again,” he said softly, “or I’ll finish the job.”

  Landry moaned, but otherwise didn’t acknowledge his warning. It didn’t seem likely, though, that he would forget the lesson. Sinclair straightened, ignoring Wally’s proffered handkerchief for the blood and brandy staining his cravat, and strolled to the door.

  “I don’t think you have to worry about anyone thinking you’ve become too respectable,” Bates offered as they stopped in the street outside.

  “No doubt.” He rubbed his knuckles. Wise or not, it had felt good to pummel the weasel; he hadn’t been in a decent brawl since they’d left Europe. “As I was about to say, I confirmed three more of our suspects, all of whom were in town and all of whom possibly saw Thomas the day he was killed.” He extracted the Hoby’s list from his pocket and handed it to Bates.

  “Anything on Marley?”

  “Nothing so far,” Sinclair replied. The viscount had made himself scarce since the Franton soiree. And since Marley had been the one peer Thomas had mentioned in his letters as having “troublesome notions,” he was first on Sinclair’s personal list. “You just leave him to me.”

  “I’m not about to get between the two of you,” Bates muttered.

  “Do you have anything else going?” Wally asked, eyeing the list from over Bates’s shoulder.

  “I’m trying to get hold of the voting records for the House of Lords. If nothing else, it’ll tell us who wasn’t in London that week.”

  “That’d make things a bit easier,” Crispin agreed.

  “If it was actually a peer.” Bates sighed as he handed the list to the Scotsman.

  After two years, that was only one of the many “ifs” they’d faced on returning to London. The task hadn’t seemed that daunting from the distance of Paris and a hundred triumphant missions at least as sticky and dangerous as this one. They’d never had to follow a trail that had been cold for so long, though, or one that involved so many supposedly respectable people.

  “I’m tracking down someone who might be able to give us some help with that.” He glanced back toward Boodle’s. “Considering the gossip I’ve managed to stir up, I think we should correspond through Lady Stanton for the next few days instead of meeting face to face.”

  With their usual grumbling, Wally and Bates agreed, then headed off east toward Covent Garden and the less reputable part of London. Crispin, though, remained where he was.

  “What now?” Sin asked resignedly.

  “Go home,” his friend said. “When this is over she’ll still be there, and you’ll still have to deal with her.”

  “Hmm. Wise words, coming from a confirmed bachelor.”

  “Aye. You were one o’ those too, until you set eyes on Vixen Fontaine.”

  “I’m not some love-struck halfwit, Harding. Believe me.”

  “Tell that to William Landry. That wasn’t the most subtle thing you’ve ever done, Sin.”

  Sinclair bristled, then clamped an iron fist over his anger. He was going insane, obviously. “Every day I think of Thomas and how if I’d been here he might be alive,” he said slowly. “Every day. I haven’t forgotten why I came back to this pit. And I will find out who killed him—no matter what it takes, and even if I have to do it alone.”

  “And no matter who ye hurt.”

  “Vixen Fontaine is the most valuable resource we’ve been able to get our hands on. She’s not the first woman I’ve used.”

  “She’s the first woman ye’ve married.”

  “Oh, shut up.”

  “Eventually you’re going to have t’ask yourself why you’re doing this, ye know.”

  “Good night, Crispin.”

  By the time he returned to Grafton House, Victoria was asleep. In fact, the entire household had retired for the evening. Used to the darkness, Sinclair made his way down the long hallway and the maze of rooms into Thomas’s old office. Slowly he sank into the seat behind the mahogany desk. Fairly early in the evening, with the lamps lit, there could be no doubt: Thomas had seen his killer nearly as soon as he or she had entered the room. And still he had made no apparent effor
t to defend himself.

  One of these pleasant, bland-faced nobles had killed him—had murdered him—in cold blood. Sinclair didn’t trust any of them, after some of the hidden foibles he’d discovered about their kind in Europe. And what tore at him the most was that the whole thing could be his fault, if he had learned the wrong information and someone thought he had passed it on to Thomas.

  “Are you all right?”

  He started, grabbing for his pistol even as his brain registered that it was Vixen who had spoken. She stood in the doorway, a lighter shadow against the black of the hallway. With an effort, he relaxed his shoulders and leaned back in the chair. “I’m fine. What are you doing up?”

  “I heard you come in.” Tentatively she stepped into the moonlit room. “This is where Thomas was killed, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” Her black hair hung loose and curling down her shoulders, and his fingers twitched with the sudden desire to touch it. To touch her.

  “Wasn’t he seated at his desk when…it…happened?”

  “Right again.”

  She tilted her head at him. “I’m sorry I misjudged you, Sinclair.”

  “You probably didn’t.”

  Victoria glided up to him and held out one hand. “Don’t sit there. It makes my skin crawl.”

  Sin let her wrap her small, slender hand around his and pull him to his feet. “How well did you know Thomas, really?” he asked.

  “He was quite a bit older than you, wasn’t he?”

  Since she didn’t seem in any hurry to leave, or to relinquish her grip on his hand, he tugged her closer. Then he leaned down slowly, to give her time to object if she chose. When she didn’t, he kissed her softly, savoring the warm, supple play of her mouth against his.

  “Yes. He was nearly forty—a good ten years my senior. He and my grandmother practically raised Kit and me.” Sinclair ran his fingers along the line of her jaw. “You didn’t answer my question: were you and Thomas well acquainted?”

  “Hm?” she said, her voice dreamy. “Oh. No, I didn’t know him that well. I think my set was too loud for him.”

  “Anything you could tell me about him might help.”

  “Well, he was kind, and quiet—he admired Gainsborough’s paintings, as I recall. In fact, he mentioned to me that he sketched, himself.”

  “Did he now?” Sinclair murmured, feeling his brother’s loss even more keenly. “I didn’t know that.”

  “He said he wasn’t any good at it, but I remember thinking that he probably was. Have you found any of his work?”

  “I haven’t had time yet to look for much besides incriminating letters. My grandmother may have them, though.”

  “You should ask her.”

  “Perhaps I will.” He gazed down at her upturned face. “Why so friendly tonight?”

  “I’m not sure. I just keep thinking how awful it would be to lose a family member like that, and then I saw you sitting in that chair, with that look on your face, and—”

  “What look?”

  “That…intense look you have sometimes. And seeing that, I keep wondering what could possibly have kept you away from here for two years.”

  No one had ever mentioned that he had “a look.” A telltale change of expression could have gotten him killed. Hopefully, if he did have one, it was something he’d developed since his return to England. More likely, though, it was something no one else would notice except for Victoria. “If I’d known you were here, I wouldn’t have stayed away so long,” he murmured.

  Abruptly she wedged a hand against his chest and shoved. “Stop trying to use my compassion for your situation to seduce me.”

  He took a step back. “You were the one who came to find me, Victoria. And you’re the one who uses Thomas as an excuse every time we kiss. Why do I make you so nervous?” She unsettled him at least as much, but he had no intention of letting her know that.

  “You do not make me nervous,” she stated. “I told you before, you are not the first man to kiss me, or to murmur sweet, flattering nothings to gain my favor.”

  He narrowed his eyes, a vision of Marley twirling her in the air crossing his mind. “You didn’t marry any of them, though.”

  “None of them managed to be so clumsy as to attempt a seduction in front of my father and half of London.” She turned on her heel. “Good night, my lord.”

  His argument had been a weak one, he knew, and he had been clumsy that night—but only because in everything he’d expected to find when he returned to London, he hadn’t expected her. After several days together he still had little idea of what moved her and motivated her, when he could usually assess someone’s character in a matter of minutes. And it wasn’t her fault she kept advancing and withdrawing—he kept changing the battlefield rules.

  “Who do you think killed Thomas?” he asked quietly, reminding himself that he asked the question because he needed her cooperation—not because he didn’t like himself when he made her angry.

  Halfway out the door, she stopped. “I don’t know.” She faced him again. “Who do you think did it?”

  Sin released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Victoria was right about one thing; he did use her compassion every chance he got. “Everyone.”

  “Everyone?”

  He shrugged. “I’m not about to eliminate anyone. Anyone’s capable. What I need is a motive.”

  “Like what?”

  Sinclair leaned back against the edge of the desk. “That’s the difficult part. I don’t know with what—or whom—Thomas was involved. He corresponded when he could, but the letters didn’t always reach me, and when they did, they weren’t very informative.” Thomas had been far too careful to let slip that his brother was anything but a roué. His own return correspondence had been equally uninformative. Something, though, had gone wrong.

  “Why were you in Europe—in Paris, even—when it was so dangerous? What kept you there, Sinclair?”

  He wanted to tell her. She spoke with him in the same guileless, interested way she spoke with Milo, and, like the butler, he wanted to tell her everything. But until he knew why Thomas had died, he didn’t dare. “It was…entertaining. Wagering, drinking, women, all day and all night. Bonaparte’s new world order may have sounded conservative, but his nobles and most of his officers didn’t think it applied to them.”

  “Someone told me you lived in a brothel for six months. Is that true?”

  He was going to hate himself for this later. “Madame Hebiere’s. Prettiest chits in Paris.” And visited by some of the most influential members of Bonaparte’s government. “Come now, Vixen, you like your amusements, too, don’t you?”

  “Sometimes. They keep me occupied.”

  Victoria was looking at him again, a half-wary, half-curious expression on her face. He waited, wondering what she thought she had seen this time.

  “Last month,” she said slowly, “Lord Liverpool announced that the last of Bonaparte’s known conspirators had been arrested.”

  Uh-oh. “Did he?”

  “Yes. And if you were so friendly with that maniac’s officers and nobles, how did you manage to avoid arrest?”

  “I suggest you tread very carefully, Victoria. Are you implying that I’m a traitor?”

  “No. I’m implying that you’re not one.” She backed out of the room and turned for the stairs. “Good night, Sinclair.”

  For a long moment he remained where he was, torn between admiration and dismay. Perhaps he needed to rethink this telling her everything business, in case she figured out the entire knotted mess on her own.

  Chapter 7

  Bold as she liked to think herself, Victoria still had to fight a flock of butterflies banging about in her stomach as she stepped down from the Althorpe carriage. She sensed that the cause of the unexpected trepidation was a very basic one; this morning, she cared about the outcome of her adventure, and she cared about what the person she was about to visit might think of her. Taking a deep breath, she climbed the
shallow steps and swung the brass knocker against the white door.

  It swung open. “Yes, miss?” An elderly, kind-looking man in fashionable black livery looked at her curiously.

  “Is Lady Drewsbury home?”

  “I shall inquire. May I say who is calling?”

  She hadn’t yet made up any calling cards that reflected her new name. It still seemed somewhat…premature. “Lady Althorpe,” she replied, the words strange on her tongue.

  Immediately the butler stepped to one side. “Excuse me for not recognizing you, my lady. If I may direct you to the drawing room?”

  “Thank you.”

  The butler led her upstairs to a small, light room on the east side of the house. Decorated with embroidery and overstuffed pillows, it was obviously a woman’s room, in a woman’s household.

  She sat in one of the chairs that overlooked the small garden adjoining the house, and she fidgeted. If Lady Drewsbury didn’t like her, didn’t wish to speak to her, she didn’t know what she should do next. Finally she knew which questions to ask, but not who would have the answers. And she wanted the answers with a need that startled her in its fierce intensity.

  “Lady Althorpe.”

  Victoria bolted back to her feet and curtsied as Lady Drewsbury entered the room. Technically she outranked Baron Drewsbury’s widow, but she didn’t have the tiniest desire to slight her. “Lady Drewsbury.”

  “Please, sit. And call me Augusta.”

  “Augusta. Thank you. And please call me Victoria, or Vixen, if you prefer.”

  The baroness took the seat opposite her and signaled to the waiting butler for tea. “I would have suggested that you call me Grandmama, but I have the feeling that will take a little getting used to—for both of us.”

  Victoria smiled, a little more at ease. So far, so good. “I suppose you’re wondering what’s brought me here.”

  “I can guess. Sinclair?”

  Her heart began to flutter again. “Yes.”

  “Grandmama, I thought I made it clear that I was to be informed immediately if any attractive ladies entered the house.” Christopher Grafton strode into the room, a handful of obviously hastily picked daisies clutched in one hand. “Even if they crossed the street in front of the house.”