A Suspicious Affair (19 page)

So would Marisol.

Chapter Nineteen

“Traps is like women,” according to another of Jeremiah Dimm’s teachings. “They’s some what puts out lures, and they’s some what plays hard to get. The ones what turn their backs are the ones what get a man every time. Now, you take lions. You want to trap a lion, you can set out some bait and hope he shows up for you to get a net on. Else you can try to chase him into a corner somewheres, hoping he doesn’t turn on you. Or you can do what the natives do, and use your noodle. You find a path your big tabby takes. You dig a deep hole, then you cover it over with leaves and branches, so it looks natural, undisturbed. You put out your bait. Then you go away. You turn your back, he shows up, you got him, and he ain’t got you.”

Kimbrough wondered how many lions the Bow Street Runner had ever seen, much less captured. Then again, he also wondered how many crooks Mr. Dimm had captured.

The money was the bait. The absence of armed guards and sentinels was the big pit. Natural and undisturbed, that was the key. The plan was foolproof.

So Carlinn set out for Hyde Park at the fashionable hour. Of all of London’s absurd conventions, he considered, this one was right there with Venetian breakfasts that took place in the afternoon. A man couldn’t really ride in the park, the lanes were so congested, and driving a carriage was worse, with all the stopping to raise your hat or bow. Bowing in a curricle was a boneheaded idea in the first place; keeping highbred carriage horses standing around was worse. Most ludicrous of all was walking, for on foot you were then obliged to make chitchat with every passing toady or climber, or pretend to ignore them by striking up conversations with mere acquaintances. Either way, you never made progress, so why bother going for a walk in the first place? To be seen, of course, which was the whole point of the Promenade. Which was why Lord Kimbrough never went on the strut, even when he was in Town.

But here he was, bowing and tipping his hat, smiling at dowagers airing their pugs in landaus, and sidestepping young gamecocks atop more horse than they could handle. And it wasn’t even the height of the Season. He could see whispering behind fans as he passed by, speculation in gamblers’ eyes. They all wanted to know what he was doing in Town; luckily his reputation kept them from asking. The earl kept walking, swinging his cane as if he hadn’t a care in the world, as if he weren’t cursing every last popinjay among them. Natural and unperturbed, hah!

He moved through the knots of carriages, horsemen, and strollers, and set out for less congested areas of the park. Following the map, he took a path that paralleled the Serpentine, where nursemaids and their charges were feeding the ducks and a small boy was sailing a toy ship. Carlinn thought of his ward. This folderol was worth it for Nolly’s sake, and Marisol’s.

He passed an area less cultivated, where laughter from the bushes told him young couples were enjoying the seclusion. Here he could even notice that the trees were coming into bud and the grass was definitely greener. The whole of winter had gone by without removing his name, or hers, from society’s list of suspects in Denning’s murder. He quickened his step.

One more turnoff and he was back to a path made too narrow for horses by the benches on either side. Fewer pedestrians walked here, and those who passed were not of the same class as those near the park gates or on the carriage ring. Here was a young woman pushing a pram, a student eating an apple as he pored over a book, and a uniformed park employee scything the grass.

There was the monument, a verdigris knight on a charger so thick with pigeon droppings Carlinn couldn’t read the plaque. He walked on, whistling. On the first bench past the monument, a gentleman in an old-fashioned bagwig sat feeding squirrels out of a sack. On the second bench a grandmotherly woman was reading a story to a schoolboy in short pants. The fourth bench held the prone form of a tattered old man whose snores almost toppled the bottle of Blue Ruin by his side. The third bench was blessedly empty. Relieved, Carlinn sat there for a bit, polishing the brim of his beaver hat with a handkerchief until a distant clock struck the hour. Five o’clock. He checked his watch on its fob. Goodness, time to go change for dinner. He replaced the timepiece, replaced the handkerchief, and almost by accident dislodged a small, sealed parcel from his inner pocket. The packet managed to slip under the bench while Carlinn gathered his cane and his hat. He set the hat on his head just so, as if he didn’t have to doff it a hundred times before quitting the park. Then, swinging his cane and whistling, he ambled back toward the park gates where everyone and his uncle could see the Elusive Earl heading home. Natural and undisturbed, that was the ticket.

He got into his closed coach and had the driver pull away. Two blocks later he pulled the check-string and ordered the man to turn around, to go back and pull up opposite the gate and wait.

Carlinn had recourse to the flask in the door pocket while he sat there, wishing that he could have been the one to hide in the park waiting for the quarry to tumble into their ditch.

The first one to knock on the coach door and come inside was the young park attendant, scythe and all. “Quitting time,” said Jeremiah’s youngest son, who was currently employed in his lordship’s stables. “Da said it would look peculiar-like was I to stay on. No one’s picked up the package yet, though.”

The grandmotherly woman, Dimm’s sister Cora, stepped up to the coach next, assisted by that young boy some cousin had dropped off in Hill Street, Kensington, and forgotten to fetch. The lad was happy to scramble up beside the coachman, meat pasty in hand, after seeing his aunt seated across from the earl.

“No one would keep a boy out on a park bench past his dinner hour,” Dimm’s sister declared, “so Jeremiah signalled us to leave. Thank goodness, for I swear we read that story till the sprout knows it by heart. Oh, and the parcel is still there.”

They waited some more, until the student, Dimm’s nephew studying his anatomy text, reported in. “It’s getting too dark to read by, my lord. Uncle waved me off. No one has approached that third bench since you left.”

Carlinn put them all in a hackney and sent them home. He drummed his fingers on the door handle. Deuce take it, their pit-trap was growing shallower by the minute. That lion could climb right out again, after taking the bait.

The gentleman feeding the squirrels rapped on the carriage. “Sorry, can’t stay any longer,” he said when Carlinn opened the door. “Important meeting at Whitehall. I’ve been out of nuts for hours anyway, my lord.”

‘Thank you, your nibs, ah, your honor. I really appreciate your making this effort.”

“Like to see this case closed, my lord. Like to see every case closed. Won’t happen tonight, by George.”

“No, sir, it doesn’t appear that way.”

The chief magistrate shook his hand and shut the door again.

It was full dark when Dimm climbed into the coach, brushing off his coat and offering the earl a swallow of Blue Ruin. Kimbrough grimaced a refusal. “Did they come?”

“I allus said, no trap is foolproof. They must of recognized one of us, though I don’t see how. But they ain’t coming today or they’d of been here.”

“Hell and confound it. No, they won’t come in the dark when we could have constables behind every bush. I suppose I’ll just take the money back to the duchess and wait to hear from the extortionists again.”

Dimm wiped his mouth on his shirt sleeve. “Well, it’s like this, guv. I promised Her Grace I’d leave the brass no matter what, so you’ll have a hard time giving it back.”

“You mean to say you left two hundred pounds out there for some beggar to find, if the squirrels don’t get it first? We’ll never know if the blackmailers got the blunt or not, dash it!”

“I promised Her Grace,” Dimm repeated.

So Kimbrough took one of the carriage lanterns and picked his path back through the park, avoiding the calling cards left by the carriage horses, staying well away from the banks of the Serpentine, and brandishing his pistol instead of his cane to discourage those who hunted in the park at night. He turned down three propositions from prostitutes, two pleas from paupers, and one approach from a nearsighted pickpocket before reaching the turnoff to the smaller path.

He doused the lantern and stealthily picked his way to the statue, taking up a position near the horse’s tail, peering down the path. The packet gleamed white in the darkness, undisturbed by anything but a passing mongrel who sniffed at it, then moved on before Kimbrough had to shout him away. A doxy went by, a sailor on either arm, then a drunk, weaving his way down the path, grabbing onto each bench in passing.

Carlinn held his breath. The blackmailer? No, just a drunk finding his way into the bushes to cast up his accounts. If the fellow didn’t land in the Serpentine, ’twould be amazing. If none of the cut-purses and footpads got to him, ’twould be a miracle.

The moon rose, and Carlinn’s ire. His fingers on the metal horse’s rump were turning blue and, blast, no one was coming to fetch the blood money. He picked it up and went home.

*

“You did what? Of course they wouldn’t come while you were standing there. They must have seen you!”

“Your Grace, no one saw me but some pigeons. I had to throw out a perfectly good hat. They were not coming, period.”

“You don’t know that! Oh, how could you have taken the money? I mean, so what if you didn’t catch them? That wasn’t the point!” Marisol jabbed the needle through the gown she was embroidering for Nolly, then back up through the thin fabric. She set those tiny stitches at so furious a pace she never noticed that she was sewing her own gown to the baby’s dress.

Carlinn was pacing, as usual. “Oh, sit down, you impossible man. It’s enough that you have jeopardized my child’s life; you don’t have to give me
mal de mer
besides.”

“Let me tell you, Duchess, that I did not stand behind the tail end of a metal mount out in the cold for two hours just to put a blight on your life.” He sat, but restlessly, drumming his fingers on the chair arm. “It was no pleasure, by Jupiter. And no one was going to come along but some beggar looking for a bench under which to sleep. Your blunt would have made him happy, but that’s all. The blackmailers would still be as greedy. Meanwhile, Nolly is safe. Your tormentors will come back, never fear.”

“What if they don’t? I’ll never be able to sleep nights, worrying.”

She didn’t look well either, he noticed now that he was facing her. Pale and drawn, the duchess seemed to have lost more weight just since he’d been gone. Her dress hung loosely and her hair was more mussed than usual, too. Lord Kimbrough was the last person to quibble over clothes and appearances; he was sitting in Her Grace’s parlor in his riding clothes, after all, but he’d been anxious to relate the news. Still, proprieties aside, the duchess’s loose and untamed hairstyle, with a ribbon holding back only some of the blonde curls, was disconcerting to him. Not that he would have found fault with the style in a mistress, mind. Instead of reaching out and touching the silky length, he drummed his fingers harder. Dash it, he would not allow her to get to him.

“By the way,” he told her, reminded, “Dimm’s staying on in London, but he said to tell you he hasn’t managed to locate your old maid yet.”

Marisol noticed his intense gaze and grimace, and tucked her hair back into its ribbon. She raised her chin. By the stars, Marisol was not going to apologize to him for her appearance, even though she found herself wishing she were in looks for his visit. Besides, if Kimbrough could sit in all his dirt on the dowager’s crocodile-legged sofa, then she could leave her hair down when her head ached with fretting. Furthermore, if his clothes could be so unstylish as to give his arms ample room to move, then she needn’t be exercised over the fit of hers until she’d regained her figure. It seemed foolish to have her maid alter every gown every week, especially with Sarah so busy. Marisol thought that perhaps next month she’d be ready for a new wardrobe, when Arvid would be dead for six months. Six months was not proper mourning, not by half, but it was all she was willing to give, here in the country. By next month she should have a new maid, too.

“Yes, my Sarah’s husband is mending. He wants to go back to Yorkshire where his family has a small textile mill. He’ll have a job waiting, unlike so many injured veterans. I am glad for him, of course, but I am sorry to lose Sarah. They won’t be ready to travel for a while, but I thought that if Tyson hadn’t found a new position, she’d consider returning to my employ, even if I am just a country matron now, quite beneath her dignity.”

Marisol Pendenning could never be less than lovely even in her undress, Kimbrough was thinking, putting his first impressions entirely out of his mind. If only he could rid his imagination as easily of thoughts of her undressed altogether… He got up and looked out the window. He was
not
pacing. He was checking the weather. The sky was not quite as blue as her—Thunderation, he was no moonling! He went back to the sofa.

“Dimm says the agency you mentioned hasn’t seen the woman, but they gave him her mother’s address. He called, but got no information there either. They haven’t seen her since Christmas. That valet of Denning’s who was supposed to be sweet on her is packing for America, quite openly, nothing furtive. He says he asked Eleanor Tyson to marry him after the murder, but she refused. He hasn’t seen her since, he swears, but Dimm isn’t sure he’s telling the truth on that, for fear of getting her in trouble.”

“With Dimm? What kind of trouble could that be? All he wants is to pass on my offer of a job. Certes, it’s no big thing. Mr. Dimm says he knows a likely candidate for the position.”

“Oh, I’m sure he knows two or three, all relatives of his.”

“Blast!” Marisol had just realized she’d sewn the baby’s gown to the front of her dress. “Now look what you’ve made me do, I’m so upset. And using swear words! I never swear, dash it.” She started to cut all the stitches she’d just sewn, mortified to look like such a cake in front of him. And the wretch was grinning! “I do wish you’d left the money!”