Secrets of the Heart (21 page)

When Rachel arrived at Lilith's house, a maid showed her into the drawing room, where Lilith was sitting with a well-dressed gentleman. She sprang to her feet when the girl announced Rachel.

“Oh! My! Lady Westhampton…I, uh…” She cast a glance back at the gentleman, who had also risen to his feet. He was a dark man who looked faintly familiar to Rachel. “Lady Westhampton, I'm not sure if you know Sir Robert Blount.” “I don't believe we have actually met,” Rachel replied with a smile that hid her racing thoughts.

She had heard Sir Robert Blount's name a time or two, she thought, and she was rather sure that she must have seen him sometimes at parties, though he was not someone who moved in exactly the same circle she did. However, he was obviously someone of the aristocracy, and his presence here in Lilith's house, as well as his casual state of dress, his coat off and folded over the back of the couch, sent her leaping to the obvious conclusion that he was Lilith's lover.

Rachel hardly knew what to say. She had never been in such a situation before. Her mother or Araminta would doubtless have lifted her nose, turned and walked out. However, Rachel found it difficult to snub anyone—other than Leona Vesey, of course—and, besides, she rather liked Lilith. So she walked across the room, extending her hand to the man.

“How do you do, Sir Robert?”

“Very well. And you, my lady?” There was, Rachel thought, a definite twinkle in the man's dark eyes.

“Quite well, thank you.” Rachel turned to extend her hand to Lilith. “Good day, Mrs. Neeley.”

Lilith murmured something, her cheeks turning pink, and gestured vaguely toward a chair. “Won't you sit down, my lady?”

“I am sure you ladies must want to talk alone,” Sir Robert went on smoothly. “So I will be on my way. Lilith?”

She shot him a grateful look and a parting nod, and he picked up his jacket, draping it over his arm, and walked out the door.

“I—uh, forgive me, Lady Westhampton,” Lilith began apologetically.

“There is no need to apologize,” Rachel told her firmly. “I should apologize for coming here unannounced and chasing off your other guest.”

Lilith smiled. “You are very kind, my lady.”

“It seems to me,” Rachel went on, “that as you are my husband's sister, we could dispense with ‘Lady Westhampton.' I wish you would call me Rachel.”

Mrs. Neeley looked shocked. “Oh, no, my lady, I couldn't!”

“Please? As a favor to me? I feel most dreadfully out of place, you see, with you using my title all the time. Here I am, imposing on your hospitality, and you are calling me ‘my lady this' and ‘my lady that.' It makes me feel even worse.”

Lilith smiled. “All right…Rachel. You are very nice.” She hesitated for a moment, then said, “I, um, are you here to see, um…”

“Mr. Hobson? Yes. I am sorry to intrude, but I had something I wanted to tell him.”

“I'm afraid that he is out right now. He has been all afternoon. If you want to wait for him, you are welcome, but I don't know when he will return.”

“If it would not be a bother to you,” Rachel said tentatively. “I would like to speak with him, but I don't wish to impose on you.”

Lilith smiled. “It is no bother, I assure you. But, if you don't mind, there are some things I have to attend to, um, next door. So if you are all right just sitting here…I will tell the maid to bring you some tea.”

“That is most kind of you,” Rachel assured her. “I shall be perfectly fine here.”

“Very well, then.” Lilith started toward the door, then turned and said to her, a little wonderingly, “You are not what I expected, my—I mean, Rachel.”

Rachel grinned, saying, “Did you expect me to be another Araminta?”

“Ara—oh! Michael's sister! I have never met her, either.”

“She is your sister, too, is she not?” Rachel pointed out.

“Yes, I suppose so, but I, well, I do not really think of her—of either of them, really—as my siblings.”

“I can tell you without fear of contradiction that you would prefer not to make Araminta's acquaintance,” Rachel assured her. “I often wish I had not.”

A laugh escaped Lilith at Rachel's words. “I will not pine over it, then,” she replied gaily and left the room.

Rachel did not have to wait long. The maid had just brought her tea and she had barely begun to sip it when the front door closed and there came the sound of someone striding down the hall. Michael glanced into the drawing room and stopped abruptly, seeing Rachel sitting there.

“Rachel!” His eyebrows went up, and he hurried into the room. “Is something the matter? Where is Lilith?”

He did not even seem to notice, Rachel thought, that he had addressed her by her given name. For some reason, the sound of her name on his tongue warmed her. She stood up, aware that the world seemed suddenly brighter, warmer, more exciting. She smiled because she could not keep herself from doing so.

“Hello. Lilith is next door. She had something to do there. There is nothing the matter. I just came to tell you what I found out from Mrs. Birkshaw's maid.”

“Oh! Oh, yes. I suppose I did not expect you to come up with anything so soon.”

“I was lucky,” Rachel admitted. “I was able to arrange a ‘chance' meeting today.”

“Mmm. Sounds less like luck than good planning,” he replied.

“Perhaps a little of both.” Rachel was aware, with a combination of embarrassment and astonishment, that she wished very much at the moment that James would take her hand. Or kiss her again.

She turned aside, gesturing in the general direction of the teapot sitting on the tray. “Would you care for a cup of tea? The maid brought two cups.”

“Yes, that would be very pleasant, thank you.”

Rachel sat back down on the sofa and busied herself with the ritual of pouring tea. She could see the faint trembling of her hand as she handed him his cup. She hoped he did not notice it.

“What did you find out?” he asked, taking a sip of tea.

“That the maid saw nothing out of the ordinary in her death. She seemed to think it was an intestinal disorder. She said Mrs. Birkshaw was very sick, could keep nothing down.”

“Could be almost anything.”

“Yes. The girl seemed quite fond of her mistress. I think she would have been more outspoken about it if she had had any doubt that Mrs. Birkshaw's death was natural. She said, as Mr. Birkshaw had told me, that he was not there when Mrs. Birkshaw first became ill but came home as soon as he learned of it. She seemed to hold him in the highest regard, too. She believed that they loved one another devotedly.”

Her companion raised one eyebrow. “Do I detect a note of reserve about that statement? Were they not devoted?”

“I believe that Mrs. Birkshaw loved him, and apparently he was good to her. From what he said to me, I do not think he loved her. He characterized their marriage as an arranged one.”

“He does not mourn his wife?”

“Now don't get that look in your eyes,” Rachel said firmly. “He was fond of her, and both he and the maid certainly indicated that he was a good husband. But I do not think he loved her.” She sighed. “It seems rather sad, such an inequity of feeling.”

“Perhaps it is always so—the feelings of one side stronger than those of the other.”

Rachel looked at him. His eyes were so intent upon her face that she could almost feel their touch. “That would be even sadder, wouldn't it?”

“Love is often unkind,” he said abruptly, turning aside to set down his cup, then rising to his feet. He began to pace about the room. “I chatted up one of Birkshaw's footmen today. He, too, had no suspicions about the woman's death. But he did say one interesting thing. One of the footmen quit his job three months ago and moved to London. My bloke saw him not long ago in a tavern. The fellow gave him his address, which he was happy to sell me. I asked him why the other footman left, and he said the man didn't like living in York, as he was from London originally. He'd worked for them for only six months—three months before Mrs. Birkshaw's death.”

“And he left the Birkshaw residence about three months after her death?”

“Yes.” He turned and looked Rachel in the eyes. “Even more interesting, this footman carried Mrs. Birkshaw's tray to her room after she grew ill.”

“Always?”

“Almost every single meal. It was not a task the others liked—climbing two flights of stairs carrying a heavy tray without spilling any of the soup in the bowl. And they had a fear of the sickroom. So this bloke was given the task. Once, when the butler gave the job to someone else, he offered to do it for them.”

“That is interesting. He would certainly have had the opportunity to poison Mrs. Birkshaw's food, if in fact that is how she died.”

He nodded. “Yes, and he came and went rather conveniently.”

“But if this footman did in fact poison her, then surely it would mean that someone else paid him to do so.”

He nodded. “In all likelihood the poor woman's husband.”

“It was not Anthony,” Rachel said flatly. “Why do you assume it was Anthony?”

“In murder, you look to who would benefit. In this case, the husband.”

“But why would he pay someone to do it when he could easily do it himself? He was right there in the same house.”

“Yes. But not the first week, when she became ill, if you will remember. It gave him something of an alibi. Of course, once he knew she was ill, he had to come home to play the part of the concerned husband.”

“I cannot believe it,” Rachel said, shaking her head.

“You just told me that he did not love her.”

“Yes, but there is a great deal of difference between not loving a spouse and putting her to death!”

“To begin with, we do not even know if the woman was done in and, if so, whether this chap had anything to do with it. That is why I intend to visit him.”

“Now?” Rachel asked, rising from her chair. “I want to go with you.”

“You? No. Absolutely not.”

“Why not?” Rachel cried. “You said that we were going to work on it together. Surely it would be better if two people were there to judge whether this man is telling you the truth when you question him.”

“You are talking about a man who may have killed a woman. I am not putting you in the same room with him.”

Rachel shot him a disgusted look. “He poisoned her. I promise I will not eat or drink anything he offers me.”

“I'm serious.”

“So am I! What is he going to do to me with you right there? Surely he is not going to pull out pistols and shoot us both because you ask him a few questions. And if he is dangerous, two people would be better than one.”

“Do you plan to wrestle him to the ground if he proves a danger?” he asked, raising an eyebrow pointedly.

“If I had to, I would,” Rachel shot back. “However, if you have a small gun, I could conceal it in my reticule and use it if anything happened.”

“I don't know about him, but you are certainly frightening me.”

“If you are not serious about our investigating this thing together, then I shall simply go on my own,” Rachel told him.

“Dammit, I will not allow you to—”

Rachel crossed her arms and looked at him, brows raised. “Excuse me? I don't believe that there is any question of your allowing or not allowing me to do anything.”

He set his jaw, then said grudgingly. “Of course not, Lady Westhampton. If you wish to endanger yourself, there is nothing I can do about it.”

“I will not endanger myself,” Rachel retorted. “Don't be foolish. I can take a footman with me. Or Anthony could accompany me.” Of course she would not do that, Rachel knew. She had no intention of seeing Anthony again because of her long-ago promise to Michael, but this man did not know it. There was no reason for him not to believe that she would carry on the investigation without him.

His eyes flashed and he began “You will not—”

He broke off and slammed his hand down on a nearby mahogany dropleaf table, making the array of delicate porcelain figurines on it rattle. “Bloody hell! You are the most aggravating female I have ever had the misfortune to meet.”

“Then I presume you must have lived a life very much to yourself,” Rachel retorted amiably. She could sense that she had won the argument.

“No one but you would suggest taking a possible murderer with you as protection.”

“Oh, Anthony Birkshaw is no more a murderer than I am. Are we going to interview the footman or not?”

“You cannot go dressed like that,” he protested, looking her up and down with a critical eye. “It is obvious that you are a lady. He would never talk honestly in front of you.”

Rachel looked down at her dress, frowning. She had been rather obvious the other day in the East End, she thought, remembering the ragtag collection of children that had followed her.