A Perfect Scandal (18 page)

The town house on Lombard Street was in a well-to-do neighborhood a brisk walk away from the Royal Exchange. Isabel and Marcus arrived by hackney cab rather than his carriage so as not to draw attention to themselves.

Isabel studied the area through the window of the cab. It was the middle of the afternoon, and only a few people were about. Isabel guessed the lack of pedestrians and traffic was due to the fact that many of the residents were traders that could be found at the Royal Exchange in Cornhill. Marcus’s decision to search the property during the day seemed to be a good one.

Marcus donned a hat and pulled the collar of his coat up. As they alighted from the cab, he tossed a coin up to the driver. “Wait for us and there will be more for you.”

“Yes, sir.” The driver caught the coin in midair and slid it in his pocket.

Marcus took her arm and whispered in her ear, “Act as if you own the place and walk straight to the porch.”

Isabel adjusted her veil to fully conceal her features. “I’ll follow your lead.”

They approached the front door, and Marcus pulled out a lock pick he had hidden beneath his sleeve. He inserted the pick into the lock, and in less than thirty seconds, they were inside.

Shadows enveloped them. They stood still as their eyes adjusted from the bright sunlight outside to the dimness in the vestibule. Heavy draperies covered the windows, and a musky smell permeated the space.

“See if you can find a lamp,” Marcus said.

She stepped forward, hands in front of her, and a solid object jabbed into her right hip. “Ouch!”

“What is it?”

“Nothing serious,” she said, rubbing her bruised flesh. “There’s an end table here that I did not see.”

“There’s a lamp on it.” Marcus struck a match and lit the lamp, casting the room in a low, yellow glow.

“Let’s search upstairs first. I suspect he would store anything of value on the second floor rather than the ground floor.” He picked up the lamp and headed up the stairs. “Stay behind me.”

She didn’t argue with him. The place was eerie, and gooseflesh rose on her arms. What had seemed like an exciting adventure in the comfort of Marcus’s home now felt like a tour of a haunted house. She stuck close to him, and the stairs creaked as they climbed to the second floor. A long corridor branched off into different sections.

“Which way?” she asked.

“We’ll search the bedrooms first, starting with the master chamber.”

Halfway down the corridor, they made a right turn toward what they anticipated was the master bedroom. Light from the lamp caused shadows to flicker like ghosts on the striped wallpaper as they crept past. Isabel’s stomach twisted in a tight knot; her heart beat fast in her chest.

Pushing open the bedroom door, Marcus stepped inside. She followed behind, then stumbled over an object.

Marcus raised the lamp high. “The room has been ransacked.”

Debris was scattered across the floor. Clothes, books, and personal belongings were haphazardly strewn about. She glanced down and saw that she had tripped over a leather boot. Judging by its size, it was a man’s.

“I thought the house was vacant,” she whispered. “If there’s no bed or furniture in the room, then why is there clothing?”

“Turn around,” he said, an edge to his voice.

“Why?”

“We have to leave. It’s not safe.”

“But we haven’t found the painting,” she protested.

He gripped her arm. “We go. Now.”

He pushed her toward the door.

She sensed the newfound urgency in him, and it heightened her own fear.

Dear Lord, what had gone on here?

She rushed down the dim corridor, Marcus on her heels. In her haste, she took a wrong turn.

“No, Isabel! This way.”

She pivoted at Marcus’s voice, and made to move back when she tripped over a large object. Her hands flailed in the air, but she failed to catch her balance and she fell.

She did not hit the ground as she had expected, but landed on something soft. Confused and disoriented, she crawled off, her ungloved fingers dragging through a sticky substance.

“Are you all right?” Marcus asked, concern in his voice.

He squatted down and lowered the lamp to reveal a horrid sight.

Dante Black lay in a pool of blood, his head pitched back, his throat slashed.

Isabel scurried back, stifling a cry with a hand. As soon as her palm touched her mouth, she realized the viscous matter on her fingers was blood, and she screamed.

Marcus hauled her up by her arm. “Isabel!”

She buried her face in his chest, horrified at the gory scene. She tasted blood—Dante’s blood—and bile rose up in her throat.

Marcus set the lamp down, reached inside his jacket, and pulled out a handkerchief. He wiped the blood from her mouth and fingers.

Please don’t let me vomit!
she thought.

She gagged and would have wretched if he did not roughly shake her and force her to meet his intense gaze.

“Listen to me very carefully, Isabel. I know you are in shock, but he’s dead and can do you no harm. We need to leave and it is imperative that we not draw attention to ourselves. No one must identify us later when the body is discovered. Do you understand?”

She looked into his jet-black eyes and shivered. She knew she would never forget the grotesque image at her feet.

She repeatedly swallowed, forcing the bitter bile back down her throat by sheer will. “I understand.”

This time, he led the way down the stairs and out the front door. The hackney cab was waiting for them, and he helped her inside and shut the door.

“Are you going to faint?”

She leaned back on the bench and struggled to gain her composure. “No. I’ve never fainted. I’ll be fine.”

“I’m sorry you had to witness that. Have you ever seen a dead man before?”

“Dead, yes. Murdered, no.”

Blood…there had been so much blood. Would she ever forget Dante’s soulless eyes, his gaunt face, or his slashed throat?

What type of man could mutilate another human being so ruthlessly?

She looked down at the splotches of blood on her gown. Thank goodness Marcus had insisted she change. The dark fabric hid the stains, but she knew that as soon as they returned home, she would strip, bathe, and have the dress burned.

“When was he killed?” she asked, trying to keep her voice level.

“Judging by the warmth of the body and the lack of putrid smell, Dante Black was very recently murdered. Whoever did this must have just left the house. By the Grace of God, we did not run into the killer.”

She felt the blood drain from her face. “Do you think it was the rancid man I previously encountered?”

“It’s a safe assumption. A wealthy man like Gavinport would never dirty his hands or put himself at risk by committing murder on his own property. He has the means to hire any criminal to do the dastardly deed for him.”

A wave of apprehension swept through her that she may have had close contact with the killer. “What are we going to do? Should we report the murder?”

“No. The housekeeper will find the body in a few days’ time. With any luck, no one witnessed us coming and going. And if they did, they would not be able to identify us.”

“We never searched the entire property. Maybe the painting is inside.”

“Possibly. Although it’s just as likely the murderer took it with him. I’ll find out more when I return tonight under cover of darkness.”

“You’re going back?” she asked, alarmed.

“I must. Judging by the men’s clothes and personal belongings strewn about, Dante Black was hiding out there. If he did manage to successfully hide the painting, it may still be inside. And if it was removed, then clues may have been left behind regarding its whereabouts.”

Icy fear twisted around Isabel’s heart. “What if the killer returns?”

“I doubt it. The criminal chose to slit Dante’s throat rather than shoot him. It’s a more personal method, but much quieter as well. A loud gunshot would have alerted the neighbors. Whoever it was, he took a great risk when he came here to kill Dante. He’ll not want to jeopardize himself by returning to the scene.”

“Still, I don’t think it is a good idea—”

Marcus leaned forward on the bench opposite her, and taking her limp hand in his, he kissed the back of her hand. “Your concern is touching, but I promise to take every precaution.”

His long legs brushed her skirts, and the heat of his lips felt like a brand on her flesh. Her emotions were raw, and looking into his compelling eyes, she had a maddening urge to throw herself into his arms and lean on his strength.

“I’ll be back in time to escort you to Lady Carrington’s ball tonight,” he said.

She blinked. “I had forgotten about the ball. I’m not up to attending any festivities. It seems inappropriate after what we just encountered.”

“We must attend. All of society will be there, including the Gavinports. It is the perfect opportunity for me to return to Lombard Street. We do not want to act differently, especially in front of the ton. You once said you would make a most useful ally, remember?”

Yes, she remembered. But that was before she had stumbled over a bloody corpse. The stakes were higher now—much higher.

What had started out as the theft of a valuable piece of art had now evolved into a man’s gruesome murder.

The waiting was hell.

Isabel paced back and forth in her new art studio, her nerves tense, her fingers curled into tight fists. It had started raining sometime after they had returned to the town house, and a pattering of drops cascaded down the windows, creating a gloomy, humid atmosphere that matched her mood.

Where was Marcus?

He had left for Lombard Street over two hours ago. She was fully dressed in a violet gown trimmed with lace and seed pearls with matching satin slippers. Attending the Carrington ball seemed abhorrent to her after discovering Dante’s body, but she recognized the wisdom of Marcus’s decision to attend.

That is, if she ever saw her husband again…

Fear clawed at her innards, and her pacing increased. She widened her path around trunks scattered about on the hardwood floor. Jenkins, exercising his usual competency, had arranged to have her art supplies delivered from her father’s house within hours after Marcus had gifted her with the room.

She kicked the leg of a wooden easel in frustration as she passed. Not even her precious paints and canvases offered her the slightest bit of comfort.

She couldn’t stop thinking: What if the fearsome, ghoulish criminal she had encountered face-to-face was Dante Black’s murderer? Worse still, what if he returned to Lombard Street and had a run-in with Marcus?

The truth was she was in a state of near panic over Marcus’s prolonged absence. She hadn’t realized how much his well-being meant to her until it was threatened. It was a startling thought, considering she would leave him to his own devices in little less than half a year.

She heard the front door open, followed by low voices. She rushed to the vestibule.

At the sight of Marcus handing Jenkins a soaked cloak, she ran to his side. “Marcus! Thank goodness you’re home.”

Dressed entirely in black, he looked imposing, ominous—and most importantly—in perfect health.

A grin softened his rugged features, and he reached out to touch her cheek. “Thank you for the warm welcome, Isabel. If I had anticipated such an enthusiastic reception from a wife, I would have married years ago.”

She eyed him warily and stepped back. “Bah! I was overwrought for your welfare, but now that I know you are in one piece, I demand to know what took you so long.”

He laughed and looked to Jenkins. “Was my lady wife truly
overwrought
?”

The butler’s eyes traveled from mistress to master, clearly uncomfortable. “Lady Isabel was concerned by your clandestine activities.”

The humor left Marcus’s eyes. “I’m truly sorry that I was delayed, but it was due entirely to the weather and not any danger.” He eyed her violet evening gown. “I must change so that we are not more than fashionably late to Lady Carrington’s ball. I shall tell you everything in the carriage on the way.”

“So you found nothing?” Isabel asked.

“I wasn’t surprised,” Marcus responded. “The murderer would have removed the painting if it happened to be there. Otherwise, when Dante Black’s body is discovered, Bow Street will make a connection between Dante, Lord Gavinport, and the theft of the Gainsborough painting at Lord Westley’s estate sale.”

Isabel sipped from the glass of wine in her hand and studied the crowd in the Carringtons’ ballroom. The scene was one of melted elegance, as the glittering ballroom and the warm June evening resulted in a crush of lavishly dressed people overheated and vigorously fanning themselves in the humid air. The French doors were open, but the steady rain prohibited the guests from venturing outdoors onto the terrace.

Hoping to catch a breeze, a group of people stood by the open doors overlooking the moonlit gardens.

Isabel handed her near-full glass to a passing footman. Neither food, wine, nor music had succeeded in taking the edge off her nerves tonight. She was as tightly wound as a top; the strain of pasting on a stiff smile and acting as if she were having a wonderful evening as a newlywed was exhausting. She wanted nothing more than to return to the town house on St. James’s Street.

She glanced at Marcus to determine how he was faring. He looked strikingly handsome in his black formal attire. His jet hair gleamed beneath the candlelight of the chandeliers, his profile spoke of raw power and masculine grace, and his dark eyes held a sheen of purpose. If he felt uncomfortable or anxious at what they had earlier discovered, he showed no outward signs.

“How long must we stay?” she asked as the orchestra struck up another tune.

“A little while longer. We need to mingle before we leave. I see Lady Jersey and Lady Castlereagh speaking with Lady Carrington.”

The last thing Isabel wanted was to make polite conversation with their hostess and two powerful patronesses of Almack’s. Before she had married, both Jersey and Castlereagh held the power to terrorize any debutante’s life by refusing to put her name on the list for entry into Almack’s hallowed halls.

But once again, Isabel understood Marcus’s logic. They couldn’t very well leave the ball without thanking their hostess.

She placed her hand on his sleeve, and they wove their way through the crowd. Halfway across the room, they ran into Frederick Gavinport.

“Hawksley! I’ve been looking for you,” Lord Gavinport boomed.

Isabel blinked, and her fingers tightened on Marcus’s arm. She was again startled by his short stature, slim build, and cropped black hair, and found it disconcerting that they were almost at eye level.

The man is a murderer-hiring monster,
she thought.
I would expect him to be taller…larger.

Gavinport must have liked garlic, for the stench from his pores was overwhelming. He smiled up at Marcus, and eyed him with a calculating expression.

A fleeting image of pretty, young Lady Olivia Gavinport and Donald MacKinnon, her redheaded Scottish lover, flashed through Isabel’s mind.

Marcus smiled blandly. “Good evening, Gavinport. Are you certain you’ve been looking for me and not my brother, Roman?”

“No, no, you, of course,” Gavinport insisted. “All
true
art collectors know of each other, unlike the riffraff who are
told
by their art acquisitionists what to buy and who merely believe they are collectors. I’ve recently added to my collection of sporting artists. I’ve heard that you possess one of George Stubbs’s works, and I’ve been meaning to ask if you would consider selling.”

“Ah, I see. You must be referring to Stubbs’s painting,
A Grey Horse.
The artist painted it in 1793, and I went to quite a bit of trouble to acquire the work. It is an important part of my collection. Therefore, I must decline—”

“I fully intend to make a rich offer,” Gavinport said, licking his lips.

“Nonetheless, I still decline.”

“You should know something about me, Hawksley. When I want something, I go after it no matter the cost.”

Marcus’s eyes narrowed. “I’m certain you do, but my answer is still the same.”

Gavinport laughed bitterly. “All right. Please feel free to call on me when you change your mind.” His rapier glance turned to Isabel, and he leered at her. “Wives can be most expensive, and should you ever need the blunt to satisfy the lady, my offer stands for the Stubbs painting.” He bowed stiffly at Isabel and walked away.

“Oh, my,” Isabel whispered. “What was that about?”

“Don’t worry. He does not suspect we were at his town house on Lombard Street. His approach was coincidence.”

“How do you know?”

“Dante’s body has not yet been found. If it had, Gavinport would not be at the ball, but rather answering questions by the constable. Gavinport would probably claim Dante Black had broken into the town house and that he had no knowledge of Dante’s presence. Gavinport would eventually be released, of course, as there is no direct evidence leading him to the murder, and Bow Street is hesitant to detain an influential noble without solid proof.”

Isabel bit her lip. “Can we leave now? I feel…unwell.”

Marcus’s gaze snapped to her face. “I’m sorry. I hadn’t realized you were ill. We can leave at once.”

There was something strangely confounding about the intense look of concern on his face. His attention was focused entirely on her, and she had to remind herself to breathe.

“It’s all right,” she assured him. “The evening has been more than I am accustomed to.”

“I’ll have the carriage brought around at once.” Marcus motioned at a liveried footman, and the servant snapped to attention.

Moments later, their cloaks were retrieved, and the carriage brought up front.

Waving away the footman, Marcus helped her into the vehicle himself and took the seat across from her. Leaning forward, he took both of her hands in his. “You look pale, my dear. Are you going to faint?”

“I told you before that I have never fainted.”

His dark, earnest eyes held hers. “But you said yourself, much has transpired today.”

“True. I would have lasted if not for the confrontation with Lord Gavinport. I could not get the notion out of my mind that he murdered a man today, whether by his own hand or by his orders.”

Marcus’s thumbs began to make circular motions across the backs of her hands. Her skin tingled from the contact, and an invisible warmth rushed through her body, simultaneously enveloping and comforting her.

He shook his head. “This is my fault. You would have been better off if you had refused to act as my alibi weeks ago.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, I am a strong woman, Marcus. I don’t regret my actions, no matter how impulsive they may have seemed to you. What I would not have survived, however, was a life of servitude bound to Lord Walling as his wife.”

His dark eyes sharpened and sent a tremor through her. “You are by far the strongest woman I have ever known. I’m quite certain you would have tackled Walling with the same type of fearlessness you have shown today.”

She stilled, her heart wildly beating within her breast.

By the time they arrived home, the rain had turned into a full-blown storm. Lightning and thunder crashed outside the town house with enough noise to wake the dead.

Isabel immediately thought of Dante Black.

Kate was waiting to whisk her upstairs into her rooms. The maid helped her out of the violet dress and laid out a nightgown on the coverlet. It was a flimsy, flowing gown, quite ludicrous in Isabel’s opinion, but what a newlywed was expected to wear.

At Isabel’s questioning look, Kate rushed, “If Mr. Hawksley pays a visit.”

Isabel bit her lip to keep from arguing. “In that case, please bring me a large glass of brandy.”