“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.
CHAPTER 3
At ten minutes past nine o’clock the next morning, Barnaby followed Stokes through the doors of Montague’s offices.
Slocum, Montague’s senior clerk, recognized them instantly. “Good morning, Inspector, Mr. Adair. I’ll let Mr. Montague know you’re here.”
“Thank you, Slocum.” Stokes had his policeman’s mask in place, sober and serious.
Slocum headed for the door to Montague’s office.
Glancing around, Barnaby noted that, like Slocum, all the rest of Montague’s staff working at their various stations around the large outer office had recognized them and had deduced the likely reason for their arrival; all were watching with expectant expressions.
Slocum returned and waved them to the door of Montague’s office. “Mr.
and Mrs. Montague will see you immediately, sirs.”
With nods of thanks, Stokes and Barnaby crossed to Montague’s office.
Montague met them just inside the door. He, too, looked expectantly intrigued. “Well met. Come in.”
The three men shook hands, then Barnaby and Stokes turned to greet Violet, who had risen from the chair behind the small desk on the opposite side of the room from Montague’s.
Smiling softly, she pressed Barnaby’s and Stokes’s hands and planted light kisses on their cheeks; she was a close friend of both their wives. “What an unexpected pleasure.” She waved them to the chairs angled before Montague’s desk. “Please, sit.”
She led the way, moving to take the chair to the left of the massive desk. As Montague sank into the admiral’s chair behind it, Violet fixed her gaze on Stokes and Barnaby. “Given the hour, I take it you have a case with which we might assist?”
Since her marriage to Montague several months previously, Violet had divided her days between being Montague’s secretary and being Penelope’s; in both positions, she organized people who had a tendency to become overly immersed in their work. Certainly, Penelope was much happier these days, and Montague was patently more relaxed; he smiled frequently, far more than he ever had.
At Violet’s eager question, Stokes wryly smiled. “Business at the moment must be boring.”
Montague feigned shock. “Business is never boring.” His features relaxed. “However, at times, it can be very predictable.” He scanned their faces. “You do have a case.”
Barnaby nodded. “A murder. Rather an odd one.” He outlined the bare bones of what they knew.
“There’s no reason to suppose that there’s any financial angle,” Stokes said. “The chances are it’s a purely personal motive. However, if you would check to see if there is anything unusual about the Galbraiths’ finances, we could eliminate that prospect with greater certainty.”
Montague was taking notes. He nodded. “It’ll be easy enough. Given who they are, I can ask directly, and discreetly. Slocum will know who the family’s man-of-business is.” Glancing up, Montague met Barnaby’s and Stokes’s gazes. “I should have an answer by tomorrow at the latest. I’ll send word if there’s anything of possible relevance.”
“Excellent.” Stokes rose.
“So what’s your next move?” Violet rose, too, as did Barnaby and Montague.
Barnaby glanced at Stokes. “We’re off to interview the Fairchilds’ staff.”
Stokes grimaced. “Just pray that someone noticed something, because otherwise, as things stand, we have no place to start.”
“No loose thread to tug on to unravel the mystery.” Barnaby cocked a brow at Violet. “Wish us luck.”
Violet smiled, and they parted.
Montague accompanied Stokes and Barnaby to his office door; he watched them cross the outer office and leave, then he called in Slocum and requested the Galbraiths’ man-of-business’s name and direction.
Turning back to his desk, he saw that Violet had again sat in the chair beside it.
Glancing up, she met his eyes. “I do hope Penelope is working on her translation and hasn’t been distracted by the lure of this investigation.”
Dropping into his chair, Montague considered, then humphed. “What are the odds, do you think?”
Violet’s brows rose. “I honestly don’t know. She is making a considerable effort to be stricter over allocating her time. Her ‘balance,’ as she calls it.” Standing, Violet shook out her skirts, then glided back to her desk. “Still, we haven’t had a case—not one we ladies might help with—for some time, and this Galbraith case certainly sounds like one of those.”
We ladies. Montague realized he’d frozen at the words. The instinctive reaction was novel, not something he recognized, much less understood. As, directly across from him, Violet settled again at her desk and gave her attention to the letters that were now her domain, he wondered at his odd feeling… He couldn’t be jealous over the time Violet spent with Penelope and Stokes’s wife, Griselda, could he?
Inwardly frowning, he studied Violet—his wife—as she worked; he drank in the calmness, the sense of serenity and simple contentment she projected, at least to him.
After a moment, he mentally shook himself, picked up his pencil, and returned to the column of figures he’d been checking.
Feeling put out over Violet spending time with Penelope and Griselda, even if they plunged into another investigation, was just plain silly.
* * *
“I’m not yet certain of where the best place to start in this new investigation will be,” Penelope informed Oliver. Holding his hand, she walked very slowly, one step to several of Oliver’s short and still uncertain ones, along the strip of lawn bordering the flower beds in Berkeley Square.
The square and its gardens were a few minutes’ walk from their town house. Noting that Oliver was eager to explore not just their garden but the sights, sounds, and colors of people and carriages, other children, nursemaids, and even dogs, Penelope had decided that whenever the weather permitted, an hour in the square was an excellent diversion. For Oliver, and for her, too.
Restraining Oliver, now a sturdy fifteen-month-old, from diving headfirst into a flower bed sporting a few last daffodils and jonquils among burgeoning pansies and violas, Penelope went on, “Of course, there’s that wretched translation to be finished. Why they couldn’t find a more legible copy of the original I can’t imagine—I’ve had to use a magnifying glass over most of it. And even then, I’ve had to use my imagination in several places.” She frowned. “I might even have to ask Jeremy Carling for a second opinion.”
Spotting a dog being walked on a lead, Oliver chortled and waved. “Ma, ma, ma!”
Which, Penelope knew, translated to Mama, take me over there!
She obeyed; halting, she exchanged a greeting with the dog’s attendant human, a footman from Lord Ferris’s household, who obligingly held the dog, a poodle, so Oliver could clumsily pet it. The dog accepted the attention with a resigned air.
As she and Oliver moved on, Penelope wondered if they should get a dog of some sort. Although they lived in a town house, they did have a decent-sized garden. Putting the notion aside for later discussion with Barnaby, and with her mother and his, Penelope refocused—not on the translation that was plaguing her but on the case that had so unexpectedly fallen into their laps the previous evening. “Who would have thought,” she said to Oliver, “that someone would be murdered at such an event? The premier ball opening the Season, and immediately someone is murdered. Much as I enjoy investigating, I do hope that that isn’t an omen.” She paused, looking ahead, then added, “Especially as we have the coronation coming up later in the year. Not a good time for members of the haut ton to end up dead. Not, I suppose, that there is a good time.”
She’d grown accustomed to talking freely to Oliver, more or less letting her mind ramble and the words tumble out without restriction. Upon reaching the northern end of the long oval that was the gardens, they turned and started back down the other side of the central court, toward where Oliver’s nursemaid, Hettie, sat on a bench enjoying the weak sunshine and a welcome break.
“I suppose,” Penelope went on, “that we—Violet, Griselda, and I—will have to wait for Stokes and Barnaby to establish what leads exist before we can pick one and start following it.” Glancing down, she saw Oliver looking up at her, curious and—at least as she interpreted his look—interested. “There’s nothing that, at present, stands out as an obvious place to start pushing and prodding.”
Oliver smiled a wide, five-toothed smile, then looked ahead and tugged at Penelope’s hand.
“Yes, you’re right. We should get back.” Penelope exhaled gustily. “And I suppose I must spend at least a few hours on that translation, or Violet will shake her head at me, and we can’t have that.” At the mention of Violet’s name, Oliver looked up eagerly. Penelope smiled back. “Yes, I know—you like Violet. But she??
?s not coming today. She’ll be in tomorrow…” Raising her head, Penelope grimaced. “Blast! I just remembered I have to attend that lecture at the Royal Society this afternoon. I promised Mrs. Fischer that I would be there to lend her and her son my support, and she’ll notice and be upset if I don’t appear.”
Oliver chortled and, with Hettie now in his sights, tugged her on.
“Back to what awaits.” Penelope obliged by walking slightly faster. “Sadly,” she said, keeping an eye on Oliver to make sure he didn’t overbalance, “it seems there’s little prospect of me being able to accomplish anything investigation-wise today. Regardless, I have to admit that I’m thoroughly fascinated by this feud over Lady Latimer’s shoes. And, just between us, I have a niggling suspicion that, somehow, in some way, we will find that the feud and the shoes had something to do with Lady Galbraith’s murder.”
Although Hettie was now only a few paces away, Oliver slowed and—somewhat to Penelope’s surprise—directed a wide-eyed, clearly questioning look up at her.
She blinked. “Why do I think that?” Although Oliver didn’t reply—his grasp of words was not that advanced—he did seem to wait, so she answered, “I suppose because it’s such a curiously odd situation that it really would be terribly disappointing if Lady Latimer’s shoes weren’t involved.”
* * *
Barnaby and Stokes arrived at Fairchild House with Sergeant O’Donnell and Constable Morgan, two of Stokes’s more trusted men, in their train. Leaving the uniformed men in the front hall, Barnaby and Stokes met with Lord Fairchild in his library.
“Terrible business.” His lordship frowned. “And so senseless. I didn’t know Marjorie Galbraith well, but I cannot imagine she would have posed any sort of threat to anybody. She simply wasn’t the type.”
Having foreseen the necessity, Lord Fairchild had already warned his butler that Stokes would need to question the staff.
“Primarily as to what they saw,” Stokes said. “Especially what they saw of Lady Galbraith. Neither Lord Galbraith nor Mr. Hartley Galbraith were with her ladyship around the time she must have left the ballroom, and sadly, her daughters are so overset that we’ve been unable to ascertain anything from them of their mother’s movements beyond that, at some point in the proceedings, she moved from the spot where they had parted from her. As yet, no one has been able to tell us exactly when, or by what route, her ladyship left the ballroom.”