Dinner Most Deadly Page 12

  “Had to, didn’t he? Diablo threw a shoe along the way. Ah well,” said the groom with a shrug, “if it had to happen, better that it should happen the night before than during review the next morning.”

  “Yes, I can see how it would be,” conceded Pickett.

  It appeared, then, that Captain Sir Charles hadn’t had an opportunity to kill Sir Reginald after all—unless, of course, he had done so with the full cooperation of the men in his regiment, who were now covering for him. Pickett sighed. He’d run up against government bureaucracy once before, during his investigation of Lord Fieldhurst’s death. On that occasion, the government entity had been the Foreign Office, and he had not come off well from the encounter. He would take on the British Army if all else failed, but he would prefer a simpler solution to the case. He could only hope for better luck in his tête-à-tête with Lady Fieldhurst.

  Alas, it was not to be. “Why, Mr. Pickett,” she exclaimed, when he was shown into her drawing room. “I did not expect to see you until tomorrow morning. Are you so eager to be rid of me that you would arrive a full day ahead of time?”

  This suggestion was so glaringly abroad that Pickett chose not to dignify it with an answer. “I’m afraid I will be unable to attend you tomorrow morning, my lady. I must undertake a journey in the morning, and will be away for at least a week.”

  “Oh. I see.” Her face fell, and Pickett could not help hoping that it was the prospect of his absence, and not the delay of the annulment, that caused her mouth to droop. “It was thoughtful of you to let me know, Mr. Pickett, but you need not have come in person. Surely a note would have sufficed.”

  “In fact, my lady, there is another reason for my calling. It concerns the investigation.”

  “Of course, if there is anything I can do—but will you not sit down?”

  “Thank you, my lady.” At her urging, he took a seat on the sofa, and was gratified when she eschewed the chairs that flanked it and sat down beside him.

  “Now we may be comfortable,” she said, smiling at him. “I daresay you have thought of more questions for me. As Emily Dunnington says, you may do your worst.”

  Pickett took a deep breath. “Speaking of Lady Dunnington, I should like for you to tell me why she was obliged to leave the room during dinner that night.”

  Her smile faltered. “But—but I told you.”

  “You certainly told me something, and Lady Dunnington told me something else entirely. Correct me if I am wrong,” he said thoughtfully, “but I believe it was the first time you have ever lied to me.”

  She lifted her chin, but her blue eyes held a hunted expression curiously at odds with the defiant little gesture. “How do you know it was I and not Lady Dunnington who was being economical with the truth? Surely Emily is more closely involved than I am; why don’t you put your questions to her?”

  “I doubt she would be any more forthcoming the second time than she was the first,” he confessed.

  “And yet you expect me to be. Why is that, Mr. Pickett?”

  Because there is—something—between us, something that refuses to be denied, no matter how many times I tell myself how impossible it is . . . Please tell me it isn’t one-sided, that you feel it too . . . No, this was hardly the time or the place for a declaration, if such a time and place existed at all. While he groped for an answer, the silence stretched uncomfortably between them until Lady Fieldhurst felt compelled to break it.

  “I didn’t lie to you, not really,” she insisted. “I told you it was a domestic crisis of some sort, and so it was, but more than that I cannot say. Pray do not ask it of me, Mr. Pickett.”

  “My lady, you know I must.”

  “I am sorry, then, but I must decline to answer.”

  It occurred to her that if Lord Dunnington had indeed shot Sir Reginald, she was shielding a murderer by her silence. And yet this prospect was somehow less disturbing than the bitter knowledge that she must be at odds with one whose good opinion had become invaluable to her for reasons she could not fully explain, not even to herself. But Emily had been her dearest friend for six years, had consoled her and helped her cope with the late Lord Fieldhurst’s infidelities when she was obliged to present a brave and smiling face to the rest of the world. Surely Emily was more deserving of her loyalty than a Bow Street Runner of scarcely more than six months’ acquaintance, be he never so winsome.

  “My lady,” Pickett said gently, taking her hand and clasping it between both of his own, “after all we have been through together, have I not shown you that you can trust me?”

  Her gaze faltered, and her free hand plucked at the skirt of her gray half-mourning gown. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, Mr. Pickett, I just—can’t tell you.”

  He released her hand abruptly and rose to take his leave. “If that is your idea of trust, I don’t think much of it.”

  “Please don’t go,” she begged, clutching at his sleeve. “Not like this. Sit down and I shall ring for tea, and we can talk about something—anything!—other than Sir Reginald Montague’s murder. I hear Mrs. Church will soon be making her final appearance on the Drury Lane stage. Do you remember when—”

  She was interrupted by Thomas the footman. “Begging your pardon, my lady, but Lord Rupert Latham is below.”

  She sighed. “Very well, Thomas, show him up,” she said with a marked lack of enthusiasm.

  If Pickett had been inclined to linger, the appearance of his most hated rival was sufficient to put paid to the idea. “I really must go, my lady,” Pickett said. “I leave at first light for Leicestershire, and my bags are not yet packed.”

  Her fingertips trailed down his forearm as she released his sleeve. “I see. I—I wish you a pleasant journey, Mr. Pickett. You—you will let me know when you return to London?” Lest he should read too much into this simple request, she hastily added, “So that I can inform Mr. Crumpton, of course.”

  Pickett, however, had more pressing concerns. “My lady—before Lord Rupert arrives—I should warn you—”

  “Lord Rupert Latham,” announced Thomas, returning at that moment with the gentleman in tow.

  Lord Rupert entered the room with feline grace, raising his quizzing glass to his eye at the sight of Pickett apparently tête-àtête with Lady Fieldhurst. He gave a curt nod in Pickett’s direction, then took Julia’s hand and lifted it to his lips. “My lady—or should I say Mrs. Pickett?”

  Lady Fieldhurst went quite pale as she and turned to confront Pickett. “You—you told him!”

  “I—I—I—” Pickett could not begin to explain his lapse; there was, after all, no defending the indefensible. “I—I’m sorry, my lady, I—I’d best be going,” he stammered, and beat a hasty retreat.

  “A wise man, our Mr. Pickett,” observed Lord Rupert, watching his scrambling departure.

  “I can’t believe he told you!” she exclaimed to Lord Rupert after he had gone. “Oh, how could he?”

  “Surely you cannot expect a man of his class to keep such a coup to himself,” said Lord Rupert. “I suspect it is not every day that a member of the Bow Street force marries into the aristocracy, even by accident.”

  “No, but—did he tell you how it came about?”

  “He did.” Lord Rupert inclined his head. “I suppose I should be flattered that you deemed me not insignificant enough to warrant your calling yourself Mrs. Latham.”

  “Mr. Pickett is hardly insignificant,” protested Lady Fieldhurst. “Still, his name is certainly less likely than yours to be recognized in polite circles. Naturally we intend to obtain an annulment as soon as it may be arranged. In the meantime, Rupert, it is imperative that you tell no one.”

  Lord Rupert bowed his acquiescence. “I daresay I can be at least as discreet as your artless young husband.”

  “That is hardly reassuring under the circumstances,” she retorted. “Still, I don’t understand why he told you. It seems at odds with what I know of his character.”

  “I fear I must shoulder part of th
e blame for Mr. Pickett’s, er, fall from grace,” confessed Lord Rupert.

  “You? Why? What did you say to him?”

  He shook his head. “The particulars of the conversation are not important. Suffice it to say that I seem to have goaded him into indiscretion.”

  She frowned at him. “By which you mean you were being horrid. Really, Rupert, it is unkind of you to taunt him. He hasn’t your advantages.”

  “Yes, quite unworthy of me, I know. But my dear, all that earnestness! He makes it well nigh irresistible.”

  “Irresistible,” she echoed. It was the right word for him. One look into those warm brown eyes, and she’d come within ames ace of offering up Lord Dunnington’s head on a platter in spite of her promises to Emily. I yearn for you body and soul . . . “Yes, he is, at that.”

  Lord Rupert bent a sharp look at her, but Lady Fieldhurst, gazing abstractedly at the door through which Pickett had just left, didn’t notice.

  CHAPTER 12

  Which Finds John Pickett in Leicestershire

  Pickett left for Leicestershire by stagecoach the following morning, and was on the road for the next three days. At last, having reached the end of his journey, he procured a room in a clean yet unpretentious inn and, having deposited his battered portmanteau in this chamber, inquired of his host as to the location of Lord Edwin Braunton’s estate and set out on foot.

  Lord Edwin’s country residence turned out to be a very pretty Tudor dwelling with half-timbered walls, diamond-paned windows, and ivy framing the door. He wondered anew at Lord Edwin’s determination to remain in London when by all accounts he preferred the country. Pickett, himself London born and bred and therefore no great lover of rural life, thought even he could be happy living in such a place, especially if he were to share it with a certain lady of his acquaintance—a lady, he reminded himself sternly, who was impatiently awaiting his return so that they might begin the process of voiding their marriage.

  He knocked on the door, and after some delay (during which Pickett began to fear the house was unoccupied, in which case his trip to Leicestershire was nothing more than a very expensive chase after mares’ nests) it was opened to him by an ancient butler.

  “John Pickett,” he told the old retainer. “I have come from London to see Miss Braunton.”

  The butler gave him a look filled with disapproval so acute it bordered on loathing. “From London, are you?”

  Pickett nodded. “Bow Street, in fact. Now, if you will be so kind as to inform your mistress?”

  “I shall inquire if Miss Braunton is at home,” the butler informed him, then left him to wait on the front stoop. After a delay that seemed interminable but that was probably no more than two or three minutes, he returned. “If you will follow me?”

  The butler led him into a wide hall with exposed beams on the ceiling and fine linen-fold paneling on the walls. Several doors opened off this central chamber, and the butler paused before one of these to announce, “Mr. John Pickett of Bow Street, miss.”

  Pickett entered the room, and thus had his first glimpse of Lord Edwin’s daughter and Eliza Montague’s erstwhile school friend. He noted at once that Miss Braunton was a beauty, much more so than Sir Reginald’s daughter, who was hardly an antidote herself. Aside from a certain air of aristocratic breeding, the two young women looked nothing alike, for where Eliza Montague was fair, Lord Edwin’s daughter was dark, with lustrous brown hair and sparkling dark eyes.

  But their coloring was not the greatest difference between the two ladies. For where Eliza Montague was slender as a reed, Miss Braunton’s belly was swollen with child.

  “Miss—er—Mrs.—?”

  “Yes, Mr. Pickett, it is ‘Miss,’ and likely to remain so,” acknowledged the fecund Miss Braunton with a rueful smile. “Will you please sit down and tell me what has brought you to Leicestershire? Has something happened to Father?” Her voice rose on a note of alarm.

  “When I last saw Lord Edwin, he was in perfect health,” Pickett assured her, seating himself on the sofa she indicated and trying very hard not to let his eyes leave her face.

  “What, then?”

  “It concerns, at least indirectly, an old school friend of yours. I believe you are well acquainted with Miss Eliza Montague?”

  The young woman nodded.

  “It seems Miss Montague’s father was killed a few nights ago.”

  Miss Braunton’s hand went to her bulging abdomen, telling Pickett a great deal without saying a word.

  “How—how did he die?”

  “He was shot through the chest,” Pickett said as gently as possible. “I am sorry if this upsets you.”

  She shook her head. “No, no, it is quite all right. Tell me, did—did Father kill him?”

  Pickett frowned. “Do you know of any reason why he should wish to?”

  Her gaze dropped to her belly. “Sir Reginald Montague is the father of my child.”

  Pickett sucked in his breath. He had already begun to suspect as much, but hearing it stated so baldly rendered him uncomfortable and embarrassed; he could only imagine how the confession must affect Miss Braunton. “I do not mean to pry, but will you tell me how it happened?” At the sound of his own words, Pickett flushed crimson. “That is, I know how it happened, obviously, but I should like to know—that is, I must ask—”

  As he descended rapidly into incoherence, Miss Braunton took pity on him. “Sir Reginald did not force me, if that is what you are thinking. I fear I must shoulder much of the blame for my own ruin. I was at school with Eliza, as you said. Whenever her father came to fetch her—on holidays, or at the end of term—the other girls and I were all a-twitter. He is—was—a very handsome man, you see, and I fear we were as silly a collection of females as ever were assembled under one roof.” She smiled a little at the memory. “He was most flatteringly attentive when I made my curtsy this past spring, and I was gratified that he should finally see me, not as a schoolgirl, but as a grown woman in long skirts and with my hair up—and that he apparently liked what he saw. I knew he had a wife, of course, but I was aware that even married people indulged in flirtations, and his attentions made me feel quite grown up and sophisticated. And then one evening at the Heatherton ball, he led me into one of the back bedrooms and kissed me. It was all very thrilling at first, although of course I knew it was wrong. And then when I realized he wanted more than a few kisses, it was—it was too late. I asked him to stop, I begged him to stop, but he—he—” She buried her face in her hands.

  Pickett withdrew a handkerchief from the inside pocket of his coat and handed it to her.

  “Thank you,” she said in a muffled voice.

  “Miss Braunton, I fear you take too much of the blame upon yourself. You say he did not force you, but it sounds to me as if that is exactly what he did. Not to put too fine a point upon it, what happened to you was rape.”

  “Yes, but I asked for it,” she sniffled. “I had led him on ever since the Season started, and I accompanied him to the bedchamber readily enough.”

  “Is that what he told you?”

  “Yes.” She dabbed at her nose with the handkerchief. “When I told him there was to be a child.”

  “You might have led him on, but I can assure you that no man is a slave to his impulses. You did not—you could not—compel him to do anything he was not already of a mind to do. Furthermore, he was an adult, while you were hardly more than a child. No, Miss Braunton, it seems to me you were more sinned against than sinning.”

  She sniffed. “Thank you, Mr. Pickett, you are very kind. But tell me, do you think my father killed him?”

  “To be perfectly honest with you, I don’t have enough information at this point to form an opinion, much less make an arrest. He certainly had adequate provocation, but so did half a dozen others. You know him far better than I; do you think he would be capable of such an act?”

  Pickett found it telling that she did not hotly defend her father against the very suggestion, but tilted h
er head at an angle and considered the question carefully before answering. “He was certainly furious when he learned about the baby—furious with me as well, for putting myself in harm’s way, but more so with Sir Reginald. And as he is an enthusiastic hunter and a collector of firearms, he would have had both the weapon and the skill to do so.” She shook her head. “More than that, I cannot say.”

  “As for the skill, Sir Reginald was shot at close range. No particular accuracy with a pistol would have been required. In fact, it would have taken a monumentally poor shot to have missed him at that distance,” Pickett assured her. “But I am aware that your father is an avid sportsman; in fact, I am puzzled as to why he was still in London when there were foxes to be chased and grouse to be shot in the country.”

  She sighed. “Need you wonder, Mr. Pickett? He is still in London trying to persuade some poor gentleman to marry me before the child is born. I already had an adequate dowry, but when my uncle, the Duke of Wexham, heard of my dilemma, he more than doubled it in an effort to entice some man to the altar.” She rested a gentle hand on her belly. “I fear it is a wasted effort. What man would be willing to take on the child of such a father? There is no telling what sort of monster the babe will grow up to be.”

  Pickett pondered this observation for a long moment, then asked, “Miss Braunton, may I tell you a little about my own father?”

  She looked rather nonplussed, but nodded. “If you wish.”

  “He was transported to Botany Bay for petty thievery when I was fourteen, but before he was arrested and sentenced, he had taught me well. I was already an accomplished pickpocket.”

  Miss Braunton made a faint noise indicative of surprise.

  “I daresay he saw it as teaching me to support myself, and I don’t blame him for it. Still, I don’t know where I might have ended up—transported myself, I suppose, or hanged—had another man not taken it upon himself to stand in the place of a father to me.” He smiled at the thought of his magistrate. “And he still does so, whether I want him to or not.”

  “I am glad for you, Mr. Pickett, but I do not quite understand what this has to do with me.”