Jacquie D'Alessandro - [Regency Historical 04] (9 page)

Her eyes widened, and her lips parted with a quick intake of breath. A beguiling wash of rose stained her cheeks. Her gaze dropped to where his mouth rested against her fragrant skin, and the tip of her tongue peeked out to moisten her lips.

Grim satisfaction filled him. So…it wasn’t just him. She felt it, too. This heat sizzling between them. Now the only remaining question was what were they going to do about it?

A knock sounded at the door. She gasped and pulled her hand away, and he silently cursed the interruption. By God, she looked flushed and aroused, and he’d barely touched her. Keeping his gaze on her, he called out, “Come in.”

His voice sounded husky even to his own ears, and he cleared his throat as the door opened. Ellis entered bearing a silver salver, a frown puckering his normally impassive countenance.

“This message just arrived from Lord Wexhall. His messenger said it was urgent and that he would wait for your reply.”

Urgent? During his service to the Crown, Colin had reported directly to Wexhall and knew
urgent
wasn’t a word the man tossed about lightly. A finger of cold dread ran down Colin’s spine. Nathan and Victoria were due to arrive tomorrow. Had some accident befallen one or both of them?

Stomach tight, he broke the seal, unfolded the thick vellum, and quickly scanned the brief note.

“Doctor Nathan and Lady Victoria,” Ellis said. “Are they—?”

“They’re fine, Ellis,” Colin said. The man’s shoulders drooped with relief that matched Colin’s own that his brother and sister-in-law were not the subject of this urgent missive.

He returned his attention to Madame Larchmont, whose inscrutable mask was firmly in place. “Sadly,” Colin said, “the same cannot be said for Lord Malloran. Or one of his footmen, a young man named William Walters. They were both discovered dead in Lord Malloran’s study this morning.”

The blood drained from Alex’s head. Her
knees wobbled, and she grasped the back of the settee to steady herself. Lord Malloran—the man in whose study she’d overhead a murder plot—the man to whom she’d written a letter detailing that plot—
dead?
Along with his footman? An image of the back of a tall, dark-haired man dressed in the elaborately gold-trimmed Malloran livery leaving Lord Malloran’s study last night flashed in her mind. Her stomach cramped with the sickening suspicion that the dead footman was the same man she’d seen.

Everything inside her stilled. Then turned to ice. Dear God. Was it possible that the note she’d left had somehow precipitated this tragic turn of events? She pressed her hand to her midsection in a futile attempt to calm her inner turmoil. Certainly the fact that the person to whom her note had been written
and
the man who’d most likely prompted her to write it were both dead couldn’t be a mere coincidence. Her survival instincts screamed it wasn’t.

But what of the other person whom she’d overheard in
the study? That person had most definitely not been Lord Malloran, whose deep voice boomed. Even if he’d attempted to disguise his voice, she doubted him capable of the whispery rasp she’d heard. Besides, it had been the footman’s voice that suggested they speak in Lord Malloran’s study for privacy. Such a suggestion wouldn’t be necessary to make to Lord Malloran himself.

Questions clicked rapidly through her mind. What had become of her note? Had Lord Malloran read it? If so, had he burned it—or was it still in his study? A chill raced down her spine. If the note had something to do with the men’s deaths…

The murderer would be looking for the person who’d written the note.

“Are you all right, Madame Larchmont?”

Startled, she turned toward the deep voice. Lord Sutton’s sharp gaze bored into hers.

“Y…yes. I’m merely stunned at the news.”

Without taking his gaze from her, he said to his butler, “Ellis, tell the messenger that Lord Wexhall may expect me within the hour.”

“Yes, my lord.” The butler quit the room, quietly closing the door behind him.

Lord Sutton’s gaze pinned her in place, and the all-too-familiar and much-hated sensation of feeling like a trapped animal crawled through her. Damn it all, she’d sworn never to allow herself to feel that way again.

“You’re very pale,” he murmured, walking toward her. “Would you like to sit down?”

She licked her dry lips and shook her head. “I must be going.” And she would. As soon as her knees firmed up.

He nodded, his gaze never leaving hers. “Before you leave, tell me, did you speak to Lord Malloran last evening?”

Dear God, she was trembling. “Briefly. When I first
arrived.” She licked her lips again. “How did he…they…die?”

“I don’t know. But given the fact that there were two deaths, I’d guess it wasn’t from natural causes. The note I received indicated there might have been a robbery, as the study was in some disarray.”

Clutching her reticule, she forced herself to move. “A tragedy,” she murmured, moving stiffly toward the door. “If you’ll excuse me, my lord, I’m afraid I must leave.”

“Of course,” he said, falling into step beside her. “I’ll have my carriage brought ’round to take you home.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but before she could say a word, he said, “I insist.” As she had no desire to prolong her exit by arguing, she nodded. “Very well. Thank you.”

Five minutes later she found herself ensconced in his well-sprung, luxuriously appointed carriage. Sitting back against the soft pale gray velvet squabs, Alex buried her face in her hands.

Dear God, what had she done?

And what was she going to do next?

When he arrived that evening at the Newtrebble soiree, Colin accepted a brandy from a passing footman, then slowly made his way around the perimeter of the crowded drawing room. Rather than a subdued atmosphere given the untimely deaths of Lord Malloran and William Walters, a sense of excitement seemed to hover in the air. The soiree was in full swing, with footmen bearing silver trays of drinks and hors d’oeuvres. As he moved along, he listened intently to the snippets of conversation buzzing around him. The deaths were the main topic of conversation, with speculation running rampant as to how and why they’d died and who—or what—had killed them. A robber? His lordship’s study had reportedly been searched. Or perhaps canapés gone
bad? The latest
on dit
was that the Malloran servants claimed a nearly empty plate of seafood tarts had been found on his lordship’s desk.

“Good heavens, I ate a prawn tart myself last night,” exclaimed a woman, who stood in the center of a small group of ladies. “It smelled a bit ‘off’ if you know what I mean, and I felt decidedly queasy afterward. Why, I’m lucky I didn’t meet the same horrible fate as Malloran and that poor young man—although why a
footman
was eating prawn tarts…” She made a tsking sound and shook her head.

“Servants,” said another lady with a sniff, while the rest of the group nodded in clear commiseration of the foibles of the lower class. “Makes one wonder if he deliberately served tainted food to Malloran in order to rob him, but was foiled when he fell victim to his own treachery.”

Moving on, Colin slipped into a shadowed alcove set behind a huge potted palm. His vantage point afforded him a good view of the room. Leaning back into the shadows, he swirled his snifter of brandy and frowned at the gently whirling amber depths.

His earlier conversation with Lord Wexhall, who, although recently retired from his service to the Crown, had gone at the magistrate’s request to the Malloran town house along with the magistrate and doctor, echoed in Colin’s mind.
Appears to be a robbery
, Lord Wexhall had said,
with both men having head wounds, the fireplace poker out of its holder, and the room in shambles. But my gut…and nose…tell me Malloran and Walters didn’t die from blows to the head. They both smelled faintly of bitter almonds, as did the dregs in the decanter. And you know what that means.

Colin took a deep swallow of brandy. Yes, he knew what that meant. Prussic acid. Malloran and Walters
had most likely been poisoned. By a substance frequently used to kill rodents.

By ratcatchers.

His fingers tightened on the cut-glass snifter, and he scanned the crowd, until his gaze riveted on the table in the far corner of the room. His stomach executed an odd maneuver, and his breath hitched. Madame Larchmont, dressed in the deep emerald gown he’d seen in her wardrobe this afternoon, sat with her cards spread before her, talking to the matron seated opposite her.

Alexandra
…Her name whispered through his mind, while his far-too-eager gaze roamed over her. Her hair, arranged in an attractive Grecian knot entwined with gold and green ribbons, gleamed under the soft light cast by the candle-filled chandeliers. She smiled, momentarily drawing his attention to her lush mouth.

Everything about her appeared perfectly innocent and straightforward. Just the evening’s entertainment, cheerfully providing what she’d been hired to do. She’d clearly regained the composure she’d allowed to slip earlier…or had she? For just an instant, her gaze shifted sideways, as if searching the nearby crowd, and a ghost of a frown whispered across her face. Indeed, the change in her expression was so fleeting, Colin wondered if he’d imagined it. But his gut told him he hadn’t. And that her perfectly innocent and straightforward appearance was just that—an appearance.

For there was nothing innocent and straightforward about the fact that two men were found dead in the room from which he’d witnessed her emerging through the window only hours earlier—in all probability killed by a substance she would, by her own admission that her husband was a ratcatcher, have easy access to. Although he had strong doubts as to the veracity of her admission.

Nor was there anything innocent or straightforward
in the fact that he’d neglected to share that information with Wexhall and the magistrate.

Resting his head against the wall, he tossed back a generous swallow of brandy and closed his eyes, savoring the burn down his chest, hoping it would singe away the guilt eating at him. Bloody hell, what was wrong with him? He’d never before shirked his duty, his responsibilities. Not toward his family and title, and not once during his years of service to the Crown under Wexhall’s command. During that service, he’d committed several acts, one in particular, that had resulted in much soul-searching afterward, but his duty had been clear and he’d done what he’d had to do. He should have told Wexhall, for whom he had the greatest respect, and the magistrate what he knew of Madame Larchmont’s nocturnal window-escaping. Yet he’d remained silent. And damn it, he didn’t understand
why
.

He opened his eyes, and as it had every time his gaze found her since that first time four years ago at Vauxhall, his breath hitched. Which confused and unsettled and severely irritated him. Damn it, in addition to having been a thief, everything he knew of her pointed to her
still
being a schemer. Or worse. Certainly a liar. She’d been untruthful about where she lived, and Monsieur Larchmont, if he even existed outside her imagination which, based on his search of her rooms he strongly doubted, did not reside with her as she’d claimed. No, instead she apparently lived with someone called “Miss Emmie” and had a trapdoor leading into her rooms with which an urchin child was familiar. Secretive, mysterious…she most certainly was both. Yet neither trait was illegal. Murder, however, was.

Still, in spite of his suspicions regarding her motives and honesty, he couldn’t cast her in the role of murderess. Someone who would, without feeling, poison two men. She’d been visibly shaken when he’d announced the
contents of his note from Wexhall. Was that shock or guilt? Or finely honed acting skills? Had she added something to the decanter, perhaps at the behest or demand of someone else, not realizing it was poison and would result in death?

A sound of disgust pushed past his lips.
Listen to yourself, you dolt. Making excuses, grasping at explanations, inventing rationalizations to explain away what you saw with your own eyes—a known thief exiting the now-dead Lord Malloran’s window
.

He shook his head and frowned, feeling uncharacteristically out of sorts.
Was
he making excuses for her? Or was he simply trying to avoid making the same mistake he’d made with Nathan—a mistake that had damn near cost him his relationship with his brother? Then, as now, all the evidence pointed one way—toward guilt—and four years ago he’d accepted damning evidence without question, refusing to listen to his heart’s suggestion there might be another explanation. Now his heart was making that same suggestion in regard to Madame Larchmont, and he found it impossible not to listen this time.

Time. He needed time. To find out more information about her. Her life. He had no doubt that she was up to something, but until he found out what that something was, he was reluctant to turn her over to the authorities for questioning. His common sense told him he was being a bloody idiot. But his instincts…those bloody instincts…warned him to wait.

One thing was for certain: He was more determined than ever to discover Madame Larchmont’s secrets. But his sense of honor, his ethics, balked at withholding information from Wexhall and the magistrate.

Three days, he bargained with his conscience. He’d give himself three days to watch her. Follow her. Spend time with her. Find out as much as he could about her.
With the goal being to firmly establish either her guilt or innocence. But regardless of his success, on the fourth day, he’d tell Wexhall everything.

Although his conscience no longer screamed outrage, it did continue to glare at him; but he forced aside any second thoughts. He’d made a decision, and he planned to abide by it. Now it was time for action.

After swallowing his last sip of brandy, he exited the alcove, preparing to make his way toward his quarry. Before he could take so much as a step, however, a female voice directly behind him said, “
There
you are, Lord Sutton!”

Biting back his irritation at this delay in his plans, he turned and found himself facing his hostess, whose ample figure was shown to dubious advantage in a dark blue gown, while a spray of peacock feathers fanned out around her head in a complicated coiffure. If her goal had been to resemble a satin-clad bird, she’d succeeded in an admirable, if rather frightening, way.

“Good evening, Lady Newtrebble,” he said, making her a bow.

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Whatever are you doing hiding here in the shadows?”

“I’m not hiding. I only just arrived.” He held up his empty snifter. “Thought I’d enjoy a bit of your excellent brandy before jumping into the fray.”

“Well, you’re here now, that’s all that matters.” She leaned in closer, and he barely evaded a jab with her feathers. “And a bit of revivification is probably wise given the task before you. Tell me, how goes the search?”

“Search?”

She tapped his upper arm with her folded fan and laughed. “For your bride, silly man!”

Bride?
He blinked. Bloody hell, he’d completely forgotten.

“There are at least two dozen eligible young ladies
here this evening, including my very own niece, Lady Gwendolyn.” She batted her eyelashes. “I introduced you last evening at Lady Malloran’s soiree.”

An image materialized in his mind’s eye of a stunningly beautiful young woman who, during their brief conversation, had done nothing but complain—about everything from the weather (too warm), to her family’s servants (too nosy), to the hors d’oeuvres she’d just eaten (too salty). All that beauty, wasted on such an unpleasant, petulant person.

“Ah, yes. Lady Gwendolyn.” A shudder of distaste he couldn’t entirely contain rippled through him.

Lady Newtrebble clearly didn’t notice. “The Season’s barely begun, and already she’s been declared an Incomparable.” She slipped her hand through his arm in a manner that could only be described as commandeering. “Come along, now,” she said, giving him a tug. “There is much to be done.”