Meet Me at Midnight (12 page)

Alexandra cleared her throat. “So. How did Lord Althorpe react to your menagerie?”

“I think they amused him. He didn’t seem to mind, anyway.”

“That’s something, isn’t it? I tend to think that any man who can accept Henrietta and Mungo Park can’t be all bad.”

“I haven’t actually introduced him to Mungo yet.”

“Uh-oh. That could be the deciding factor in any relationship.”

Alexandra was merely trying to raise her spirits, of course, but she appreciated the gesture nonetheless. “You have a point. But how can someone be so attractive and so…aggravating at the same time?”

“Well, h—”

“And don’t say I should ask myself that question, Alexandra.”

Her friend chuckled. “Then I won’t say anything at all—except that you’re not a coward or a quitter.”

“And I also suppose I should try being married for more than one day before I turn my nose up at it completely.”

“I think that’s fair enough.”

“I’ll let you know.”

Sin was gone when she returned to Grafton House, and Victoria went to feed and visit with her pets in the conservatory. The cats especially seemed to enjoy the overgrown plants scattered throughout the room, while Henrietta and the foxhound, Grosvenor, had commandeered the old couch she’d purchased for them. Mungo Park was still pretending to be part of the ornate cornice work above the window, but the pile of nuts she’d left for him on the mantel had shrunk by half.

She would love to give them the run of the house once they became used to their new setting, but she wasn’t certain how Sinclair would feel about that. Her parents had insisted that the useless beasts stay in the room adjacent to her bedchamber, with even Lord Baggles only allowed out at night and only as far as
her closed doors permitted. Lord and Lady Stiveton would have been happy to keep her enclosed in the same space.

For a long time after she retired for the evening, she stood looking out the window, but no shadowy figures appeared tonight. No doubt Sinclair had picked a different place for his rendezvous—somewhere she would never know about.

He had said that he pretended drunkenness out of habit, to loosen the tongues of those around him. That implied he’d used such tactics before, and often. And apparently his cronies used them as well. The question was, why? What information had he been looking for, precisely? Did it all relate to his brother’s murder? She didn’t think so—he’d said he’d returned to England for the purpose of finding the killer. So apparently he’d been up to something else in Europe.

And if he admitted to feigning drunkenness, were there other habits he merely pretended to? She kept thinking of that other Sinclair—the sharp, focused, and very sensual one who made an occasional appearance, apparently just to confuse and torture her.

Victoria smiled as she slipped beneath the warm, soft covers. They’d been married only a day, and she’d already discovered one secret. It was only a matter of time before she learned the others.

“
You told her?
”

Bates’s jaw dropped, while Wally sprayed ale across the floor. Crispin Harding managed to look smug, as though he’d expected nothing less.

“I didn’t have much choice,” Sin said defensively. “She saw you clods out in my stable yard the other night.” She’d seen him, too, but he left out that fact.

“So you told her the truth?” Bates hissed. “You? The master of misdirection?”

“I didn’t tell her
everything
, for God’s sake. Just enough to keep her from asking sticky questions.” He hoped the tale he’d told would suffice; his bride seemed to have an uncanny ability to see more than she was supposed to.

She’d been avoiding him for the past three days, either going out with her friends or staying in her rooms with her menagerie. He’d made a point several times of encountering her, both to determine whether she’d decided to give him a chance, and because he seemed to have developed an odd need to see her. He wanted more, of course—he wanted to touch her and kiss her and hold her—but he could wait for that. For a little while longer. He was patient, but he wasn’t a eunuch, for God’s sake.

“You’re going soft. A pair of pretty blue eyes looks at you, and you tell her all our secrets.” Wally signaled for another tankard of ale.

“Violet eyes,” Sin corrected. “They’re quite remarkable, really. And all I told her was that I wanted to find Thomas’s killer.”

“And how did you explain us?”

“Just to say that you were helping. And keep your voice down.” Crispin continued to gaze at Sinclair knowingly, and he scowled. “Speak, giant.”

“I was just wondering when you were going t’ask us whether we’d found out anything interesting.”

Sin kept his silence while a footman provided them with fresh drinks. He didn’t like what the Scotsman implied: that he’d become so involved with Vixen that he’d forgotten his brother’s murder. “I assumed you would tell me if you’d learned anything.”

“Nothing from me,” Wally muttered. “The cat drowner also kicks dogs and growls at small children. Our next saint, I suppose. Exports whatever he gets a good price on. Not much else, though, and nothing I could find that seemed illegal enough to warrant a murder. He attended Parliament yesterday, but you know that.”

Sinclair nodded. “I saw him. And Kilcairn, who seems to be rabidly anti-Bonaparte.”

“Aye,” Crispin agreed. “His cousin was killed in Belgium. Hate t’say it, Sin, but I don’t think he’s your man.”

As little liking as he had for the earl, he’d already come to that conclusion himself. “Why would I hate to hear that we’ve eliminated a suspect?”

“Because you practically breathed fire at ’im at your wedding. I figured you might want a chance t’make worms’ meat of ’im.”

“Right.”

“Let flights of angels sing him to his rest.”

“Crisp—”

“Let all your yesterdays light his way to dusty death.”

“I get your meaning. Quit quoting Shakespeare,” Sinclair grumbled. “Someone might mistake you for a gentleman.”

Crispin grinned. “Only the nephew of one, m’boy. Only the nephew of one.”

“Aye,” Wally mimicked, “only the nephew of the bloody Duke of Argyle.”

“The fav’rite nephew, Wallace. And be thankful—without my blue-blooded relations, ye’d likely never see the inside of a fine gentleman’s club like this one.”

“Don’t forget I’m a duchess’s grandson, Scot.”

Bates snorted. “If you lot are finished discussing the blueness of your blood, I don’t have any news, either. That sot Ramsey DuPont couldn’t manage a murder if someone loaded a pistol and aimed it for him.”

“Are all three of our fine gentlemen innocent enough that we can cross them off the list, then?”

Crispin nodded. “Aye. If Kilcairn had killed your brother, it would’ve been in a fair fight. Not a murder.”

Sinclair narrowed his eyes. “You’re not making me any more fond of him.”

The Scotsman had the temerity to grin. “I know.”

“DuPont is clear, too. He might do a murder, but not one clever enough to fool anybody.”

“Wally?”

“Oh, fiend seize it. Give me another few days for the cat drowner. I don’t have anything near a motive yet, but I wouldn’t put it past the bastard.”

Sinclair wasn’t surprised. To find the murderer among the first three suspects on his list would have been too much to expect, but he wasn’t willing to discount anything—including luck. “Well then, we may as well move on to the next three n—”

“Excuse me, Althorpe.”

Sinclair turned in his chair. Part of him still expected to hear his brother’s soft voice answering the summons. “Lord William,” he drawled.

William Landry was drunk—which, if the rumors were accurate, wasn’t any surprise. The hostility on his pretty face was unexpected, however, until Sin remembered that the Duke of Fenshire’s son had been one of the wolves circling Vixen the night he’d whisked her out to the garden. It was just what he needed for the evening: a former, drunken suitor who
had probably been more intimate with his new wife than he had.

“I think you should know,” Lord William continued darkly, “that just because you managed the easiest path to the Vixen’s bed doesn’t mean the rest of us are about to pretend we like having you here.”

“I really don’t care what you like or dislike,” Sinclair said. “Was there anything else?”

“Well,” Lord William drawled, looking over his shoulder at his equally inebriated table mates, “I—that is, we—were wondering, is the Vixen as wild in bed as she is when she’s upright?”

Sin launched out of his chair and slammed his fist into Landry’s face. Dimly he heard his own companions cursing and clearing furniture out of the way, but he ignored them as he knocked the buffoon backward over a chair.

Landry hadn’t been with her—but the revelation didn’t comfort him any. Someone Victoria had accepted as her friend and admirer would
not
utter such things in public. Not while he had anything to say about it. Snarling, he yanked the reeling Landry back to his feet and then leveled him again with a solid punch to the jaw.

Before he could dive in for more, a pair of arms wrapped around his waist and hoisted him off the ground. “Damn it, Crispin, put me down!” he growled.

“You plannin’ on finishing ’im off, Sin?”

He looked down at Lord William, wheezing and curled up on the floor. Killing someone now would definitely complicate his own investigation. “No.”

The big Scotsman let go, and he dropped to his feet. Eyeing the milling footmen and guests surrounding them, Sin squatted down at Landry’s shoulder. “Don’t
ever insult my wife again,” he said softly, “or I’ll finish the job.”

Landry moaned, but otherwise didn’t acknowledge his warning. It didn’t seem likely, though, that he would forget the lesson. Sinclair straightened, ignoring Wally’s proffered handkerchief for the blood and brandy staining his cravat, and strolled to the door.

“I don’t think you have to worry about anyone thinking you’ve become too respectable,” Bates offered as they stopped in the street outside.

“No doubt.” He rubbed his knuckles. Wise or not, it had felt good to pummel the weasel; he hadn’t been in a decent brawl since they’d left Europe. “As I was about to say, I confirmed three more of our suspects, all of whom were in town and all of whom possibly saw Thomas the day he was killed.” He extracted the Hoby’s list from his pocket and handed it to Bates.

“Anything on Marley?”

“Nothing so far,” Sinclair replied. The viscount had made himself scarce since the Franton soiree. And since Marley had been the one peer Thomas had mentioned in his letters as having “troublesome notions,” he was first on Sinclair’s personal list. “You just leave him to me.”

“I’m not about to get between the two of you,” Bates muttered.

“Do you have anything else going?” Wally asked, eyeing the list from over Bates’s shoulder.

“I’m trying to get hold of the voting records for the House of Lords. If nothing else, it’ll tell us who wasn’t in London that week.”

“That’d make things a bit easier,” Crispin agreed.

“If it was actually a peer.” Bates sighed as he handed the list to the Scotsman.

After two years, that was only one of the many “ifs” they’d faced on returning to London. The task hadn’t seemed that daunting from the distance of Paris and a hundred triumphant missions at least as sticky and dangerous as this one. They’d never had to follow a trail that had been cold for so long, though, or one that involved so many supposedly respectable people.

“I’m tracking down someone who might be able to give us some help with that.” He glanced back toward Boodle’s. “Considering the gossip I’ve managed to stir up, I think we should correspond through Lady Stanton for the next few days instead of meeting face to face.”

With their usual grumbling, Wally and Bates agreed, then headed off east toward Covent Garden and the less reputable part of London. Crispin, though, remained where he was.

“What now?” Sin asked resignedly.

“Go home,” his friend said. “When this is over she’ll still be there, and you’ll still have to deal with her.”

“Hmm. Wise words, coming from a confirmed bachelor.”

“Aye. You were one o’ those too, until you set eyes on Vixen Fontaine.”

“I’m not some love-struck halfwit, Harding. Believe me.”

“Tell that to William Landry. That wasn’t the most subtle thing you’ve ever done, Sin.”

Sinclair bristled, then clamped an iron fist over his anger. He was going insane, obviously. “Every day I think of Thomas and how if I’d been here he might be alive,” he said slowly. “
Every day
. I haven’t forgotten why I came back to this pit. And I will find out
who killed him—no matter what it takes, and even if I have to do it alone.”

“And no matter who ye hurt.”

“Vixen Fontaine is the most valuable resource we’ve been able to get our hands on. She’s not the first woman I’ve used.”

“She’s the first woman ye’ve married.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“Eventually you’re going to have t’ask yourself why you’re doing this, ye know.”

“Good night, Crispin.”

By the time he returned to Grafton House, Victoria was asleep. In fact, the entire household had retired for the evening. Used to the darkness, Sinclair made his way down the long hallway and the maze of rooms into Thomas’s old office. Slowly he sank into the seat behind the mahogany desk. Fairly early in the evening, with the lamps lit, there could be no doubt: Thomas had seen his killer nearly as soon as he or she had entered the room. And still he had made no apparent effort to defend himself.

One of these pleasant, bland-faced nobles had killed him—had murdered him—in cold blood. Sinclair didn’t trust any of them, after some of the hidden foibles he’d discovered about their kind in Europe. And what tore at him the most was that the whole thing could be his fault, if he had learned the wrong information and someone thought he had passed it on to Thomas.

“Are you all right?”

He started, grabbing for his pistol even as his brain registered that it was Vixen who had spoken. She stood in the doorway, a lighter shadow against the black of the hallway. With an effort, he relaxed his
shoulders and leaned back in the chair. “I’m fine. What are you doing up?”