The Marriage Trap (16 page)

She began to steam again. “The war is over, and Robbie is not a soldier. He—”

He held up his hand, silencing her. “I think I hear Mr. Wallace's step. Smile, Ellie, and make the old boy happy.”

Over tea and scones, they talked about everything but Robbie. The minutes slipped by, then an hour. Ellie was beginning to lose her sparkle. Uncle Freddie kept watching the clock. Finally, Jack could stand it no longer. He got up.

“Where am I likely to find him?” he asked abruptly.

Mr. Wallace heaved a sigh. Flashing an apologetic look at Ellie, he said, “I'm afraid he has got in with a fast crowd. They hang out at the Three Crows on the river beside the old Ranleigh Gardens.”

Jack nodded. “We passed it on the way in.”

Ellie jumped to her feet. “I'm coming with you.”

He drew on his gloves. “I think not. The Three Crows is not the sort of place a lady would wish to enter.”

Her chin tilted. “I've been in worse.”

“Yes,” he replied easily, “but not when you were engaged to marry me. Stay here. This shouldn't take long. In the meanwhile, you can make yourself useful. You can help Mr. Wallace pack your brother's boxes. He'll be coming home with us.”

He was aware of her smoldering gaze following him as he quit the room.

The light was beginning to wane by the time Jack arrived at the Three Crows. This was no bustling hostelry as could be found on the main thoroughfares into town, but a quiet country inn whose patrons appeared to be artisans, journeymen, or local shopkeepers who had stopped by for conversation and a tankard of ale at the end of a hard day's work. The members of his own club in London weren't so very different, except that they were dressed by the finest tailors and would have been passing around jeweled snuffboxes instead of puffing on clay pipes. The fog in the taproom was making his eyes sting.

One thing was certain. This was not the haunt of the fast crowd Mr. Wallace had mentioned, the crowd Robbie was supposed to run with. No self-respecting young buck would feel at home in these respectable surroundings. Having once been a young buck himself, he knew that they'd be looking for danger, excitement, rubbing shoulders with pugilists or highwaymen, anything to convince themselves that they were a devil-may-care lot and as different from their sober-sided parents as curry from custard.

Conversation was beginning to flag as the patrons became aware of his presence. He was a stranger and therefore of some interest. He approached the bar and spoke to the man dispensing drinks.

“I'm looking for a young friend,” he said. “Robbie Hill or Brans-Hill. Do you know where I can find him?”

The barman looked over the crowd. “He was here a minute ago, he and his friend, Mr. Milton, but I can't see them now.” On the next breath, he bawled out, “Has anyone seen Mr. Hill and his friend?”

A patron pointed to a door at the far end of the taproom. “They left in a hurry,” he cried out. “Must be something they ate in one of your pigeon pies, Bernie.”

Everyone laughed.

The joke was lost on Jack until Bernie, his host, explained that the door by which the two young gentlemen had hastily exited, was the door to the outside privy.

Jack tossed the barman a shilling and went after his quarry.

Failing light or not, it was impossible to miss the privy. The stench of it gave it away. He didn't approach it from the path, but took a detour around a wilderness of scraggy shrubbery that gave him some cover. These two young whelps were trying to avoid him and he was determined to find out why.

When he got to the privy, he listened for a moment, heard nothing, then used his booted foot to break in the door. There was no one there.

He took a moment to think things through. There was only one place Robbie could go, and that was back to Mr. Wallace's. But what about his friend Milton?”

He knew from Ellie that Milton was the friend from Oxford who had accompanied Robbie to Paris and had helped her get Robbie away. He'd had it in his mind to interview young Milton after he'd talked to Robbie, but he'd expected to find him in Oxford, not here. What the devil was going on?

All this hide-and-seek nonsense was beginning to annoy him.

Milton wasn't staying with Mr. Wallace, so where was he putting up? The logical place to look was the local inn.

Just in case he was right and they were observing him from an upstairs window, he wandered down to the river, then, keeping himself out of sight, doubled back. One of the chambermaids gave him directions to Mr. Milton's room, and after tipping her handsomely, he went up the back stairs.

Though the lamps in the inn were lit, there was no pool of light coming from under the door of Milton's room. All was quiet. That didn't deter Jack. He knocked at the door and spoke in the rough vernacular he'd heard in the taproom. “Beggin' yer pardon, Mr. Milton, sir, there's a lady downstairs who wants t'speak t'yer. A Miss Hill, she said her name was.”

There was a whispered conference on the other side of the door, the sound of flint striking iron, then the grating of a key turning in the lock.

Before the door was halfway opened, Jack charged inside, using his shoulder as a battering ram. The man at the door gave a grunt and went down like a skittles pin. The one at the window came at Jack brandishing a brass candlestick. He would have used it, too, but Jack feinted to the left and kicked his assailant hard in the gut. The young man made a
whoosh
ing sound, dropped the candlestick, and sank to his knees.

The man behind the door had come to himself. He came at Jack with flying fists. “Run, Robbie, run,” he cried.

Jack felled him with a blow to the chin. “I wouldn't advise it, Robbie,” he said, and stepping over Milton's inert form, he hauled Robbie to his feet.

“I'm Raleigh, by the way,” he said, “and your sister sent me to find you. No need to tell me who you two are. Now, shall we sit down and talk like civilized people?”

No one argued with him when he propelled them with a viselike grip to the nearest chairs.

Jack didn't give his companions a chance to argue their case. In a few curt words, he told them how things stood in Paris, that if Robbie didn't clear his name, he could quite easily be charged with the murder of Louise Daudet. He concluded by handing him Sir Charles's letter and telling him to read it.

Apparently stricken into silence, Robbie obeyed.

As Robbie read the letter, Jack put the flame of the candle to a rolled paper and lit the fire. When he was sure the kindling had caught, he turned to study his two companions.

Robbie was by far the more handsome, with the kind of good looks that would appeal to females. His hair had a reddish hue, but was several shades darker than his sister's. They had the same expressive eyes and those darting glances from Robbie were telling Jack that the boy was still wary of him.

Mr. Milton was harder to read. He was tall and slender, with a broad brow and angular features. While Robbie was careless about his appearance, Milton was meticulous. Even the scuffle hadn't made a difference to the folds in his neckcloth or the set of his garments. He was the kind of man Jack's valet wished his master would emulate.

“It's as bad as it can be,” said Robbie, stricken, and he passed the letter to his friend.

When Milton had read the letter, he carefully folded it and returned it to Robbie. He looked at Jack. “What's your interest in this, Lord Raleigh? Why did Sir Charles choose you?”

Jack plucked the letter from Robbie's fingers. “This belongs to me,” he said. “Sir Charles chose me because I've known the family for a long time.” To Robbie, he went on, “When I was about your age, your father tutored me in the classics for a while. I was Jack Rigg then.”

Robbie shook his head. “I don't recall the name.”

“No, you wouldn't,” said Jack. “You were an infant when I came to stay at the vicarage.”

Milton said, “I know who you are! Robbie, this is the man I was telling you about, the one who compromised Ellie and refused to marry her.”

“Did Ellie say that?” asked Jack.

“No,” replied Milton. “She said that you gave her an alibi. I heard rumors, though. Are they true?”

“That is between Ellie and me. At any rate, we're to be married at once.”

Robbie's face was a study in incredulity, as though he'd just been told that he'd passed his Greek and Latin examinations at the top of his class. Milton, on the other hand, looked as though he'd been told the opposite.

Milton was shaking his head. “Ellie would never marry someone like you,” he said. “She wouldn't . . . she couldn't.”

“Now, why would I lie about a thing like that?” Jack asked pleasantly.

“But . . .” It was Robbie's turn to shake his head. “But Ellie isn't like that. She would never marry anyone just because she was compromised.”

“How true,” said Jack. “We are marrying because we suit each other.”

Milton scowled. “You and Ellie have nothing in common.”

Jack let out an exasperated sigh. First Cardvale, now Milton. He could read the signs. It would be an exaggeration to call them lovesick swains, but their interest in Ellie was not entirely platonic, and he was becoming thoroughly peeved by everyone acting as though Ellie's marrying him was a tragic mistake.

“Ellie and I,” he told Milton, “are none of your business. Now, can we get back to what is really important? I want to talk to Robbie alone. Take a walk, Mr. Milton. Fifteen minutes should do it. But don't go far, because after I talk to Robbie, I'd like to talk to you.”

“I want him to stay!” said Robbie, clearly uneasy at the thought of being left alone with this formidable inquisitor.

Milton got up. “It's all right, Robbie,” he said. “Tell him the truth. We have nothing to hide.”

To Jack, he said, “I'll be in the taproom,” and he sauntered from the room.

Jack took the chair Milton had vacated. “I'm truly puzzled,” he said. “Your uncle seems to think that you're hanging out with the local bloods. Now how did he get that impression?”

“Uncle Freddie,” said Robbie with feeling, “has a vivid imagination. Yes, I meet my friends here occasionally, but it's only to drink a jug of ale and play a game of cards.”

“How odd,” said Jack. “I remember saying much the same thing to your father when he smelled strong spirits on my breath. I think on that occasion I was chasing the miller's daughter.”

Robbie looked interested. “And did that stop you from chasing the miller's daughter?”

“No. Ellie did that. However, that's another story. So”—he pushed back his chair and folded his arms across his chest—“I want to know why you ran from me and why you subsequently tried to bash my brains out when I entered your room.”

Robbie regarded him balefully. “You didn't enter the room, you charged in like a bull on the rampage.”

“Who did you think I was?”

Robbie looked at the door as though willing Milton to return. When he got no help there, he looked at Jack. Finally, he replied, “I thought . . . oh, it's all in such a muddle. I'm not sure what I thought, except that I'd be the prime suspect in Louise's murder.” He gave a short, brittle laugh. “We were hoping that the French authorities wouldn't have jurisdiction here, but we couldn't be sure, so we weren't taking any chances.”

Jack's voice rose. “And you were prepared to use physical force against an English officer of the law?”

“Of course not! You were the one who attacked us. We were trying to hide from you.”

Jack wasn't entirely satisfied with this answer, but he let it go for the moment. His voice was harsh when he spoke next. “For a man whose mistress was brutally murdered, you seem remarkably unaffected. All you seem to care about is saving your own skin.”

Robbie blushed to the roots of his hair. He fumbled over his words. “Of course I was affected by Louise's death. I was devastated! But we were not as close as you seem to think. Louise was not my mistress! She's your age, for heaven's sake!” Now he was tripping over his words in his haste to get them out. “She didn't love me and I didn't love her. I admired her. It was an honor to escort her to parties and so on. But that's as far as it went. You know how it is. Your generation fawned over that celebrated courtesan, Harriette What's-her-name.”

“Wilson,” Jack supplied.

He remembered it very well. He and his friends would cut tutorials and come up to town to attend the opera in hopes of catching a glimpse of London's most sought after courtesan. Occasionally, a favored few would be invited into her private box to pay her homage, but he'd never been one of those favored by an invitation. Worcester had, and the numbskull had fallen head over heels in love with the lady and almost caused his father, the duke, to suffer an apoplexy because his son and heir wanted to marry her. The rumor was that she'd been bought off.

Robbie went on, “And it's not as though I was her only admirer. There were legions of us.”

“But she singled you out. Why?”

Robbie shrugged helplessly and looked away. “I don't really know. She said I was amusing.”

This answer did not satisfy Jack and he wondered how much money Robbie had squandered on Louise Daudet. That might explain why she had singled him out.

“Tell me about your debts,” he said.

An edge of defiance crept into Robbie's voice. “I don't see what that has to do with Louise's murder.”

“Humor me.”

It was a command, not a request.

Glances locked and held, but Robbie's gaze eventually dropped away. “My debts just grew,” he said, “as though they had a life of their own.” He gave a forced laugh. “I arrived in Paris with money that I'd won gaming with my friends in London. I know, I know. I'm not supposed to gamble. I promised Ellie I wouldn't. But what's a fellow to do when his friends want to drop into some gaming establishment or other at the end of a night in town? Was I to wait for them outside the door? Was I to tell them I'd promised my sister that I'd be a good boy? You know as well as I what they would make of that. Of course I went with them. I made a small wager. And I won. And I kept on winning. So you see, when I arrived in Paris with Milton, I had a tidy sum of money at my disposal.”

Jack understood only too well. There were two camps of students in Oxford, those who had to work hard at their studies to fit themselves for a profession, and the drones, the sons of aristocrats, who would never have to earn a living. Most of the latter had more money than sense and, in the eyes of their less-fortunate friends, led glamorous if rather wild lives. There was no doubt that they were the envy of their peers.

At Oxford, he'd had a foot in both camps. He was the son of an aristocrat, but not the heir. Second sons had to make their own way in the world eventually, hence his stint with Ellie's father to prepare him for his examinations. All the same, it was a matter of pride to appear as devil-may-care as the next fellow. Of course Robbie joined his friends at the gaming tables. And the jaunt to Paris, where he was taken up by a celebrated actress, would have been an adventure to boast about for a long time to come.

Except that everything had gone wrong.

“Tell me about Milton,” he said. “Did
he
have a tidy sum of money at his disposal?”

“Hardly. He comes from a long line of university dons, and one day he'll be one, too. They don't make much money.”

“Didn't he go gambling with you? In London, I mean.”

“No. He's a Fellow and had students' papers to mark that night.”

Jack was impressed. A Fellow was an outstanding scholar who was paid a stipend to teach less-academic students. They came and went as they pleased. Some lived in the college and some did not. They all had plenty of time to pursue their own studies. A trip to Paris, he supposed, could be described as educational if one chose one's words with care.

Something else occurred to him. He could see why Milton was attracted to Ellie. How many females could speak intelligently about gerunds and gerundives? How many men would care?

He suppressed a smile. “So you paid the shot?”

Robbie nodded. “We're friends. I wanted him to come with me.”

“And, no doubt, squandered your little nest egg on the oh-so-admirable Mlle. Daudet.” If his voice was harsh, it was because he was thinking of Ellie and the risks she'd taken to help her brother.

“It wasn't like that,” Robbie protested. “Louise never asked for a thing.”

“But you did buy her presents?”

“They weren't expensive. Flowers, a lace shawl, dinners in the Palais Royal. Most of the money went to my own expenses, mine and Milton's. I didn't realize . . . I thought I had enough money to cover my debts.”

The harshness was still in Jack's voice. “And when you realized you were in tick up to your neck, you came up with the idea of having your sister bail you out.”

Robbie looked like a cornered mouse.

Jack said, “You're not betraying any secrets. I know all about Aurora. Ellie has told me everything.”

A look of relief that was nearly comical crossed Robbie's face. He heaved a sigh. “It wouldn't be the first time we'd done this, except that this time Milton went with her.”

“Because you were hiding from your creditors?”

“It wasn't only that. I was afraid that the French police might be looking for me.” He couldn't meet Jack's eyes. “You know, to ask me about Louise. Everyone believed we were lovers. Who else would they suspect?”

There was much that Jack wanted to say, but railing at Robbie wasn't going to get him the information he wanted, so he strove to bridle his temper. “Let's go back to New Year's Day and the night Louise was murdered. Where were you?”

Robbie thought for a moment, then said, “I hadn't seen Louise for a few days. Well, I was hiding from Houchard's thugs until . . .” He seemed to realize that any mention of Ellie's part in helping him would provoke Jack's temper, so he stopped and started over.

“I knew that I'd be leaving Paris soon, so I went to the theater to say good-bye to Louise.”

“When was this?”

“After the performance.”

Jack said slowly, “But that's . . . that's when she was murdered.”

Robbie gulped. “I know. I was the one who found her.”

Jack was thunderstruck. He had never imagined anything like this. As far as he knew, Robbie was a suspect largely because he was presumed to be Louise's lover, and had disappeared.

He looked at Robbie's fear-bright eyes and managed to bite back the spate of questions he wanted to ask. He didn't want to alarm the boy. But he did want answers.

“Go on,” he said levelly. “You went to the theater.”

Robbie nodded. “Milton waited outside while I went upstairs to Louise's dressing room.”

“Why did you take Milton?”

“Why do you think?” Robbie raised his head, his expression puzzled. “To watch my back in case the thug who was acting for Houchard was following me.”

“I see.”

When it looked as though Robbie had become lost in thought, Jack prompted, “So, you left Milton outside among the New Year's revelers and you entered the theater. Then what?”

“I remember thinking that the theater was practically deserted, apart from the cleaners. Well, it would be, wouldn't it, on New Year's Day? Everyone has a party to go to.”