Beauty in Black Page 20

  Because she was not the woman he wanted, as by now he knew too well. And he could not dare to test Mrs. Hughes’s forbearance, much less the faint chance that she might feel some attraction to him, until he had made sure of Miss Crookshank’s safety. Then, he would try to untie the tangled knots he had woven through his own folly, and then, and then—

  It was impossible to conceive. Muttering a few words which no lady should hear, he tapped on the panel again. But, caught in the usual London traffic, the barouche could move no faster.

  Gritting his teeth, John leaned back against the cushions.

  Eleven

  Unlocking a man’s true emotions can be as arduous as opening an oyster with a toothpick.

  —MARGERY, COUNTESS OF SEALEY

  The man John had hired to make inquiries about Louisa’s mysterious missing relative turned up early the next morning. He had been recommended by John’s landlord. The innkeeper had not seemed to find it unusual when his titled guest had requested the services of a dependable, respectable-looking man to make discreet inquires, and if he seemed to assume that the matter involved a lady—there was some truth to that.

  John put down his cup of tea and waited for the report.

  Hat in hand, Mr. Compton looked as meek and unremarkable as always in his somewhat threadbare brown coat and wilted neck cloth, but there was a suppressed air of triumph beneath his quiet appearance that made John feel a surge of anticipation.

  “I have found him, my lord!” he said.

  John drew a deep breath. “Well done!” His investigator already knew that there was a handsome bonus promised for this information, so John added only, “You have earned your commission. What is his address?”

  The man told him, and John made careful note of it. When the agreed-upon sum had changed hands, the little man took his leave, still looking most pleased with himself, and John ordered his carriage. He had a call to make.

  The next day Louisa looked pale and wan, and begged leave to stay home when Marianne went out for a luncheon with female friends. Marianne felt real concern for her ward.

  “Shall I stay at home with you?” she suggested, gazing at Louisa’s pallid cheeks and woebegone expression.

  “Oh, no, I just want to lie quietly. I have such a headache,” the younger woman said, her tone earnest. “Please go and enjoy your party.”

  So Marianne left her with her lady’s maid close at hand. Masters hailed a hackney, and when she arrived at her friend Therese’s home, Marianne was pleased to find Lady Sealey among the guests.

  “How are you, my dear?” the silver-haired matron asked. “You seem a bit abstracted today.”

  “You could say that,” Marianne agreed, her tone dry, thinking of mysterious attacks and vague threats they could not seem to pin down. “It has been a tumultuous week. My niece is somewhat on my mind, and—”

  “And?” The older woman asked, sipping a glass of sherry. “You have that look in your eye, my dear. Your niece, though a dear child, is not the only object of your thoughts. Has a man caught your fancy, at last? It’s high time, you know.”

  Marianne found herself flushing. “No, no, I mean, I am only concerned with Louisa’s happiness.”

  “And not your own?” Lady Sealey’s look was pointed.

  “I didn’t mean that, exactly. Only that she is the one who needs a husband, not I.”

  “Miss Crookshank has plenty of time to find the appropriate mate, she’s hardly more than a child. You should think about yourself for a change. You need to give matrimony another chance, dear girl. Or, at least, find an amusing lover.”

  Marianne blushed in earnest. Her older friend’s views on love were a bit . . . Continental.

  “Lord Gillingham is spending a good deal of time in your company, I’ve been told,” the countess continued.

  Marianne accepted a glass of sherry from the footman and took a sip, trying not to dissolve into nervous giggles. She was not a child, and she must not act so gauche. “No, no, he is courting my niece, who is in my care, so I am there, that is, we are often together, but it is only because of Louisa.”

  That sounded so jumbled that she was not surprised when the other woman raised her silvery brows.

  “Are you certain? Sometimes it takes a man a while to realize what, or whom, he hungers for. He may think he craves lamb chops when all the time, it was really roast beef that he yearned after. Men are dear creatures, of course, but sometimes a little slow to realize their true feelings.”

  Marianne shook her head. “No, no, I’m sure you are mistaken. Although to be honest, I have had few intimate—I mean—personal conversations with the marquess. He rarely talks about himself. I know very little about his family, for instance, or his childhood, and I still wonder what has set the two brothers at such odds.”

  She lowered her voice and, knowing the older woman would be discreet, told the countess about her disastrous dinner party.

  Lady Sealey looked thoughtful. “I think you should inquire of the marquess about an earlier love in his life.”

  Marianne blinked. “Oh, I couldn’t. Whatever love affairs he has had, I would not wish to pry, and anyhow, it’s none of my business.”

  “I meant a more important lady than any former amour,” the countess insisted. “On some moment when the occasion presents itself naturally, I believe you should ask Lord Gillingham about his mother.”

  “But why?” Marianne asked in surprise.

  Lady Sealey wielded her fan. “What he says might be revealing, or even what he does not say.”

  Marianne hesitated, not sure what to answer. And then they were called in to the luncheon, and she ended up seated on the other side of the table from Lady Sealey, so there were no more shared confidences about Lord Gillingham and his secrets. But that did not prevent her mind from repeating the brief conversation over and over, worrying the snippet of dialogue as a dog would a bone.

  What should she ask about his mother? Why did the countess think such an inquiry would help explain—what? Perhaps she should just stop worrying about it all and help Louisa plan her wedding and be done with it.

  And that was such a depressing thought that even her excellent cock-a-leekie soup lost its savor, and she put down her spoon with her bowl still almost full.

  John took his carriage to the modest set of rooms where Alton Crookshank was said to reside during his stay in London. The building was neat but a trifle run down and seemed to indicate that Mr. Crookshank might, indeed, be in need of more funds. Whether he was willing to commit murder to achieve a more comfortable lifestyle was the question.

  But when John rapped on the door of the second-floor flat, no one answered. John frowned and tried again, knocking harder.

  Still, nothing. John swore, then heard a slight creak, and the back of his neck prickled; was he being watched? He turned and detected someone peering at him from behind the slightly open door across the hall.

  “Do you know where I might find Mr. Alton Crookshank?” John demanded without preamble.

  He thought the door was going to shut in his face, then it opened a few more inches. He was able to make out the slight form of an elderly woman, her expression a comical mixture of curiosity and alarm.

  “Are you a bill collector?”

  John bit back another oath. Had he acquired his expensive new wardrobe for nothing? “Do I look like a bill collector?”

  She considered him, then shook her head. “Suppose not. Just don’t wish to do Mr. Crookshank an ill turn. He’s polite to me, which is more than I can say about most young things. And he does not use bad language!” She frowned in disapproval.

  “My apologies,” John told her. “I did not know anyone was listening, much less a lady.” Young? That did not sound like the man he sought. But taking a harder look at this ancient lady, John supposed that anyone south of threescore years would look young to her.

  “I only wish to pay my respects to Mr. Crookshank,” he told her.

  “You are acquain
ted?” She still looked suspicious.

  John shook his head. “No, but I know one of his relations.”

  She considered, then said slowly, “He’s at the Academy. He’s giving a lecture this morning. He’s a respected scientist, you know.” She said it proudly, as if Mr. Crookshank’s presence added some cachet to their shabby building.

  John raised his brows. This was unexpected. “Then I certainly would not wish to miss such an important event,” he said gravely. She was persuaded to tell him the address; then John thanked her and set out again.

  This time, he had more success. After some persuasion he was admitted to a small office, where he found a gray-haired gentleman seated behind a desk, shuffling several piles of papers.

  John’s heart sank. This man did not have the appearance of a potential assassin. He looked as inoffensive as anyone could. Did they have the wrong man?

  “The marquess of Gillingham to see you, sir,” the doorman who had led John in announced.

  The older gentleman looked up. “Are you here for the lecture? It’s not until ten, and I must go over my notes first.”

  John shook his head. “I will not keep you long, sir, I assure you. I only wish to ascertain if you are the great-uncle of Miss Louisa Crookshank. Her father’s name was Thomas.”

  The man took off the pair of spectacles with which he had been peering at the papers in front of him and gave John a harder look.

  “I am, although I have had little communication with that side of my family for years.” He paused for a moment. “Not their fault, really. I was a wild young man, and my father was incensed with some of my behavior. It led to a breach.”

  John nodded.

  “So why would they be searching for me now, and what connection do you have with the family?” the other man demanded.

  “I am a—ah—friend of Miss Crookshank’s. She is in London for the Season and will be making her coming-out soon. She and her family wondered if you would be interested in renewing contact.”

  The man stared at him for a moment. “They wish to extend a flag of truce, so to speak? I would not be amiss to that, certainly. Our falling out happened long ago, and much has changed since then. I have not seen my nephews for years, though I read about young Louisa’s father’s death, a sad thing to die before his time.”

  “Yes,” John agreed, even as he swallowed his disappointment. This could not be the man who had attacked Louisa. Which meant they had to start anew in their search for an assailant or accept that the accidents had been just that, unrelated and unplanned.

  “I will pass on to her family your willingness to receive an invitation,” he said. “I regret that I cannot stay for your lecture.”

  Mr. Crookshank rose. He looked over John’s well-cut coat and seemed to come to a decision. “A marquess, you say? The Academy is always in need of endowments, my lord, if I may be so bold as to suggest it. If you should feel inclined to sponsor some of our scientific surveys, my own research would benefit greatly.”

  “I will certainly consider it,” John agreed, offering his hand as if in apology for his earlier suspicions.

  But when they shook, John was surprised by the firmness of the man’s grip. Crookshank might be past fifty, but his frame was hard and lean, and his strong grasp spoke of a still healthy vitality. His brown eyes were unexpectedly shrewd, and by his own admission, he was in need of funds.

  Perhaps John had been too quick to judge, and this man was not as harmless as he’d first appeared. . . .

  When Marianne returned home, she had hardly entered the vestibule before there was another knock at the door.

  “Lord Gillingham,” her footman announced. His tone was suitably impassive, but Marianne knew her servants well enough to detect a tiny hint of complacency. At least her small staff were impressed with having a marquess calling so often, she thought, hiding her amusement.

  And she could not dwell on the fact that her own dark cloud seemed to disappear as if a brisk spring breeze had swept it away. It was merely proper to give him her hand and to smile in welcome.

  “I came to see if you—if you both are recovered after yesterday,” he said, holding her hand a moment too long. “And I have news.”

  Marianne hated to break that slight contact, but Masters was waiting to show the guest to the sitting room. She stepped back but glanced at her footman. “I will show the marquess up,” she said.

  After he departed, she said, her voice low, “What have you learned?”

  “I have met Alton Crookshank,” the marquess told her. “My agent located him, and I made a call this morning.”

  Marianne put one hand to her throat. “And? Does he admit—no, I suppose he would not, even if he were guilty. What did you think of him?”

  Lord Gillingham described the encounter, and Marianne frowned, trying to puzzle out what it all meant.

  “So he seems innocent on the surface, and yet—” the marquess hesitated.

  “Yet, you are not sure we should let down our guard? I agree, not when so much is at stake. It’s Louisa’s life we are speaking of!” Marianne sighed. “And speaking of Louisa, she had a headache this morning; let me see if she feels like coming down. I know she will be pleased that you called to check on her,” Marianne said. “Excuse me for just a moment.”

  She hurried up the steps, and when she reached Louisa’s bedchamber, she tapped lightly on the door. There was no answer. Marianne turned the knob and looked in. Louisa lay beneath a light coverlet, her eyes closed, her breathing even.

  Should she wake her? Louisa would be disappointed to miss seeing the marquess. On the other hand, she had really not looked herself this morning, and perhaps she needed the rest.

  While she tried to decide, Marianne heard a rustle of skirts and turned to see Eva, Louisa’s young maid, in the hall.

  “How is your mistress?” she asked, keeping her voice low.

  “She had a dreadful headache, ma’am,” the servant answered. “She only just dropped off to sleep a short time ago.”

  Marianne made up her mind. “I shan’t wake her, then.” She paused in her own room to take off her bonnet and glance quickly into the looking glass, then she descended the steps.

  But the marquess was not in the sitting room. He could not have left without saying good-bye; that would be inexcusably rude. Where was he?

  After Mrs. Hughes ascended, John started to follow her toward the staircase. But as she climbed the steps, something caught his eye, and he paused.

  A door was ajar—it led into a small room across from the dining room. He had never been in it before, so an impeccably mannered visitor should have ignored the unusual sight within and continued up the staircase.

  Not being burdened with perfect manners, John pushed the door open and stepped inside. The room seemed to be a tiny study, crowded with shelves of books and artifacts. He moved closer to inspect the object that had caught his eye. Made from polished wood, it was a carving of an elephant with trunk upraised. Its style was unusual. Behind it a framed print revealed a woman in an Asian-style dress with slanted eyes and a mysterious smile.

  He crossed to the bookcases and glanced through them. He saw histories and poetry and books of travels, an assortment of journals written by visitors to exotic lands. Not the usual sort of reading favored by ladies of the Ton, he suspected.

  A Persian rug on the floor was bright with color, and in addition to the books, the shelves and two tables revealed half a dozen small curiosities. This was a side of Marianne Hughes he had not discerned before, though he thought he had had hints of her far-ranging interests.

  These objects could have belonged to her late husband, of course, or been handed down from some other relative, but John had a strong sense that these were Mrs. Hughes’s particular treasures. The books, the prints, and the artifacts all revealed a lively curiosity about a world bigger than any she had been able to glimpse in person. Yes, from the things she had gathered around her, he sensed her longing for more than the pol
ite world of London Society. She had a bigger spirit than could be encompassed in a tearoom or even a fancy-dress ball. In this small room, he thought, he had been granted a glimpse of her heart.

  He heard a hushed sound and turned. His hostess stood in the doorway, her expression difficult to read.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “The door was open, and I wondered about the—ah—elephant.” His statement sounded foolish, and he hoped he had not angered her.

  Her eyes were very bright, but he still could not decipher her emotions. Her voice was cool when she spoke.

  “You have never seen an elephant before, my lord?”

  “Not in a lady’s chamber,” he told her frankly. “I see that your interests are wide, indeed, Mrs. Hughes.”

  “You are surprised? You have never wondered about continents beyond the sea, where people live so differently than we do?” She came into the room and lay one hand on the carving with a touch so light it was almost a caress.

  For one insane instant he envied the inanimate creature.

  She did not seem to note his intent gaze. “Where there are marvelous creatures very different from those who inhabit our native woods and moors . . . brightly colored birds that outshine our drab sparrows, unusual creatures who seem put together from odd bits left over when God was finishing his creation?”

  She picked up a book from a table and turned its pages. “Look, is this not a fascinating beast?” She held up the drawing for him to see.

  It was a monstrosity, he thought, its awkward form looking like something out of a nightmare. “What is it?”

  She smiled at his amazement. “A giant anteater, it lives in Africa. And there are so many more, unusual to our eyes but perfectly at home on their own native shore. Have you never wished to see more than the country in which you were born and bred?”

  This time there was no mistaking the feelings that colored her tone.

  “You have,” he said slowly, moved by this glimpse into a side of herself that she usually kept hidden. “You are an explorer at heart, Mrs. Hughes. Would you really travel to those countries if you could? Brave the dangers of wild lands and savage peoples?”