Unmasking Sin, page 3
“Have you spoken to Mrs. Arnott about this?” Rebecca asked. Mrs. Arnott was the housekeeper, a woman she liked.
“No, my lady, I thought it best to bring it straight to you.”
She nodded. “Perhaps between you, you and Mrs. Arnott could subtly question the servants? Discover who noticed what and if anyone was up and about again after you retired. But only if you can do so discreetly, Dawson. I don’t want good people giving notice because they don’t feel trusted.”
“Very good, my lady.”
But as the butler departed, she knew with lowering spirits that suspicion was already destroying that trust, further cutting up her peace and security.
Chapter Three
In the morning, Ludovic sent Napper to keep an eye on the comings and goings at the Cornish house in Barclay Square, while he caught up on some of his bread-and-butter solicitor business—wills and inheritances, property purchases, and marriage settlements.
In these somewhat dull tasks—he much preferred the investigative part of his business—he was interrupted by his clerk Andrews, who stuck his head in the door to say, “Mr. Rawlston and Mr. Constantine Rawlston are asking to see you, sir.
Ludovic did not care to be chased up. He delivered his findings promptly when he had some and expected to be left alone in the interim, as he had, in fact, agreed with Messrs. Rawlston before he took on their case. He almost told Andrews to make an appointment for two days hence, but in the end, after a quick glance at his fob watch, he said, “Show them in Andrews.”
They came quickly on Andrews’s heels, giving Ludovic no time even to button his coat.
“Gentlemen,” Ludovic said briskly. “Good day. Please sit. I’m afraid I can give you only ten minutes before I must leave for an appointment.”
The elder Rawlston, Aloitius, pursed his thin lips. “Sir, we pay you to be about our business.”
“Sir, when you do pay me, be assured you will only be charged for your business. What can I do for you in these nine minutes?”
“What did you find last night?” Constantine demanded. “Did she go to Maida Gardens as we suspected?”
“Yes, she did.”
“Alone? Who did she speak to?”
“Yes, alone, and apart from one waiter, the only person she spoke to was me. She spent two hours with one glass of wine, watching the dancers, and then she returned to her carriage alone and went straight home.”
The brothers displayed almost identical frowns of bewilderment.
“What was the point of that? Did someone not turn up for her assignation?”
“I have yet to ascertain that fact, but my guess is she had not arranged to meet anyone. She sat alone at a table for one and, when I approached her, made it clear I was not welcome.”
Aloitius sneered. “Not rich enough for her. What did she say to you?”
“That she was waiting for someone,” Ludovic admitted with odd reluctance. He did not have to like his clients, but he owed them the truth. And if there was any truth in their belief Rebecca Cornish had murdered her husband and was stealing from his estate, he was determined to find it.
“Ha!” Constantine crowed. He looked very much the younger version of his brother, thin-lipped, balding, and discontented, yet somehow less substantial than the elder. Like a faded painting. “I knew it!”
“I think she was lying,” Ludovic said, “though I don’t know why. Now, would you please answer something for me? Did you send someone to her house last night?”
“Why would we do that?” Aloitius demanded. It was not an answer, and Ludovic noted it.
“I have no idea, but someone broke in very easily.”
“How?” Aloitius demanded.
“The area door had been left unlocked.”
“There! Totally unfit to look after our great-nephew! She is positively thrusting him into danger by the laxity of her household.”
“So you do not have someone working for you within her household?” Ludovic shot back.
“Of course not!” they both declared.
Ludovic wasn’t sure he believed either of them. He rose to his feet and walked to the coat stand to pick up his hat. “I’m afraid we have run out of time this morning, gentlemen. As we agreed, I shall be in touch with you when I have any definite information. In the meantime, I must bid you good morning.”
Fortunately, although they looked bewildered at such forcefulness on his part, they allowed themselves to be shepherded out of the door. He conducted them out of the office to where their carriage awaited, tipped his hat civilly, and strode off.
He walked to Grillon’s. Although the air of London, particularly in summer, was not very inviting, he walked everywhere when he could. It kept him fit and gave him time to think.
His brother, Adam, had organized this charity event, raising money from the tickets and from further donations he hoped to acquire during the luncheon. There were few aristocrats left in London by August, so the guests were likely to be wealthy financiers and tradespeople, though possibly with the odd gentleman thrown into the mix. Ludovic hoped these would not prove to be the Rawlston brothers, for he had enough of them for one day. Still, their presence was not beyond the bounds of possibility since it was Adam who had first sent them to Ludovic.
“Good Lord,” Adam said in mock astonishment as Ludovic walked into the room. “We are graced by your presence. I just told Aldbury you would send your clerk round with an extra donation instead of turning up in person.”
“My pockets won’t stretch to pacifying you as well as the orphans.” He shook hands with his brother and his partner and the partner’s wife and was offered a glass of decent sherry, with which he walked into the main room.
From habit, he scanned the occupants, who seemed to be mostly strangers of the variety he had expected. A few upper-class ladies, perhaps only in London for the day, had gathered together in the middle of the room. Ludovic amused himself by trying to spot their husbands in the other gaggles. And then his gaze fell on a lady standing alone by the window, quietly sipping sherry.
She? At a charity luncheon? Her dark hair was piled on her head in a simple but becoming knot, her expression one of aloof tolerance. Her poise was enviable, her dress of deep, attractive blue, embroidered heavily across the bodice and sleeves.
As though sensing his scrutiny, though she didn’t so much as glance at him, she began to stroll around the room with a familiar sensual grace, and his suspicion grew stronger.
He circled closer, as though looking for friends among the gathering, and paused beside the small group of well-born ladies, because they, too, were watching the young woman in blue.
“The nerve of her to appear at a charity event,” one said with distaste.
“Why shouldn’t she?” another asked with amusement. “Her money, presumably, is as good as ours.”
“Except that hers seems to have come from dead husbands she helped on their way to glory,” the first woman drawled.
Oh yes, the lady in blue was undoubtedly Rebecca Cornish, a beam of sunlight making her skin glow as she lowered herself into the cushioned window seat.
“Ah! Is she the Black Widow, then?” said the more sympathetic of the disapproving ladies. “I must say she’s pretty.”
She was. Without a mask, her beauty swiped at Ludovic’s breath. But why was she so reluctant to speak to anyone? What was she hiding from? Or, more simply, what was she hiding?
Ludovic moved closer, nodding to acquaintances, pausing to exchange a few words with those who hailed him, but inexorably, he drew nearer Rebecca Cornish. He halted barely a foot away and regarded her.
A sudden urge to caress her long, slender neck took him by surprise and propelled him into speech.
“Forgive my presumption, but you look like a lady who has attended one too many of these charity affairs.”
She turned her head slowly, as she had done last night. Her eyes searched his face, and he wondered if she recognized him from last night, too. If she did, she gave no sign beyond a cynical little smile. “One too many for the charity, perhaps.”
“That is cryptic.”
“Oh, I doubt it.”
“If I introduce myself, may I sit?”
She regarded him, her face revealing no clue as to her feelings. Then, she moved a few inches to the right to make a more decorous space for him in the window seat. “If you are brave enough.”
“Ludovic Dunne,” he said with a bow, and took the place beside her, being careful not to crowd her. She smelled fresh, of new roses, vanilla, and summer.
Her brows twitched very slightly. “Dunne? Are you related to our host?”
“I am his brother.”
Was that relief or disappointment flickering so briefly across her veiled eyes? He was at a loss to account for either until she said, “Contrary to popular belief, I have nothing to invest.”
“Oh, I am not Adam’s partner. I am merely a solicitor.”
Again, her eyes searched his face. “Merely?” she repeated. “I doubt that.”
*
In fact, Rebecca had known him immediately, more by his voice than his face, which looked different in daylight. Younger, surely little more than thirty years, despite the silvery-white hair that matched his cool, gray eyes. Watchful, assessing eyes. No banker pursuing her for investment, then, but no nobleman slain by her beaux yeux either.
“You don’t look like a solicitor,” she observed with a degree of insolence permissible only in a gentlewoman.
“How do solicitors look?”
“Old, stooped, bespectacled.”
“I expect I will grow into the role in a few decades.” His glance took in the general movement toward the inner door. “May I escort you into luncheon?”
“Not if you wish to have any clients left.”
He blinked, his only sign of surprise. “I don’t believe my clients choose me for my luncheon companions.”
“No, but they might dismiss you for them. I am not in need of chivalry, Mr. Dunne. You may escort some other lady.”
“They are all taken,” he said without looking. “And in any case, I find you much more interesting.”
Once, she had been used to flattery. Now it made her skin flush. Although, it seemed she could no longer tell flattery from a sincere compliment. That she should wish for the latter annoyed her. “I am not in need of a solicitor either.”
“I could not accept you if you were. Will you settle for a luncheon partner? I don’t add consequence, but I like to think I’m a better option than dining alone.”
He stood, offering his arm, and after a moment’s consideration, she rose, too, and laid her fingertips on his sleeve. She was almost afraid to touch him, for he seemed suddenly too big, too…masculine.
“You are certainly a more intriguing option,” she allowed with perfect truth.
“May I put that on my letterheads? Ludovic Dunne, solicitor. A more intriguing option.”
“The clients would come running,” she said flippantly.
Mrs. Belfont, who had been happy enough to attend her dinners and soirees last year, drew her skirts away as they passed.
“Providing,” Rebecca added cynically, “you do not attribute the quote to me.”
“What is the lady’s problem with you?” he asked curiously.
At least he didn’t pretend there wasn’t one. It must have been obvious to the entire room. “You would have to ask her that. Perhaps she did not care for the canapes the last time she accepted my hospitality.”
“She does look a bit sick,” Mr. Dunne confided. “As if someone is holding a rotting anchovy under her nose. Why do you put yourself through this? Would not a donation suffice? Or do you hope for forgiveness?”
“Forgiveness for what?” she asked flatly.
“I was hoping you would tell me.”
“My dear sir, do you not know that I am the Black Widow, who consumes husbands for breakfast?”
“Goodness me,” he said placidly. “How many, precisely, have you eaten?”
She couldn’t help her quick breath of laughter. “Two, apparently. Are you not afraid yet?”
“Of course not. We are not married.”
She glanced up at him. He was not precisely handsome, his face being a little too bony, more youthful than his distinctive, silvery hair. “You are a very odd solicitor. Are you a good one?”
“I am unique,” he said largely, inspecting the buffet laid out across two long tables. “An impressive spread. What may I help you to?”
It struck her, as he conducted her and her meager plateful to a table, that he had never once asked her name. Which meant he either knew it already or recognized the Black Widow epithet when she told him of it. Either way, he showed no obvious desire to shun her. He chose a small table for two, placed the plates upon it, and held her chair for her to sit.
He was not short of the gentlemanly courtesies, and, as they ate, she rather liked watching the precise movements of his large, deft hands. She even caught herself watching and appreciating the movement of his lips when he spoke and had to look hastily away again. But mostly, she liked his dry humor, the way the corners of his eyes crinkled in a smile that often didn’t reach his lips. A man used to hiding his amusement at a foolish world, perhaps. As a lawyer, he must surely see a lot of foolishness.
And yet…if he truly was her masked man from Maida, how odd for him to pop up again here. Perhaps he was lonely, too. Unless…
“Is your wife here, Mr. Dunne?” she asked abruptly.
“I am not married.”
“Because you do not wish the tie? Or because you hanker after an old, unrequited love?”
“Neither,” he replied. Amiability descended over his face like a veil, but not before she had seen the wary, almost wintry flash in his eyes.
“You are right, of course,” she observed. “One’s marriage, or lack of it, is no one else’s business.”
“And yet they are so often the subject of gossip and speculation. Were you happily married, my lady?”
My lady. So he did know exactly who she was. Had he known last night, too? Did he even recognize her from last night?
She swallowed the last of a very tasty little pastry. “Are we not agreed marriage is too personal a topic of conversation? Are you deeply involved in your brother’s charities, Mr. Dunne?”
“I turn up or, more often, throw a few shillings when he tells me to.”
She raised her eyebrows and pronged a slice of salmon. “Are you being modest, sir? Or poor?”
“Neither,” he said again.
“Strangely, this reminds me of another conversation. Have we met before, Mr. Dunne?”
“Surely we would remember.”
Was that an admission? Impossible to tell without confronting him outright, and she was not sure she wished to do that. At least he was an entertaining mystery and balm to her soul in the face of the exclusion—even the cut direct—she was growing used to from society.
“One would think so,” she murmured. She laid down her fork. “I believe you must excuse me.”
He rose with her, smoothly, although his expression was amused. “Planning to skip off before the speeches, my lady?”
“Why, is that what you do?”
His eyes gleamed. “Usually. Thank you for your delightful company.”
“Thank you for yours.”
Thus, with faintly mocking courtesy, they parted. While she walked unhurriedly to the door, Mr. Dunne returned to his luncheon.
As she emerged from the cloakroom, already dressed in her bonnet and spencer, she discovered Mr. Adam Dunne, her host, in the foyer with several other gentlemen. He saw her immediately and excused himself in order to come and meet her. His companions eyed her speculatively, looking her up and down with little respect, as one regards a particularly strange species of insect.
“Lady Cornish, are you leaving us already?” Mr. Adam Dunne inquired.
“I’m afraid I have run out of time, but I wished to add a donation to your box, so perhaps you would take charge of it now?”
“With pleasure, my lady.”
She handed over the banknote. “It is a worthy cause, Mr. Dunne, and I wish it well.” She hesitated, but only for a moment. “I have been talking to your brother.”
“Ludo? I trust you found him entertaining.” He smiled faintly. “For a solicitor.”
Then that much, at least, was true. “Would you recommend him?”
“Without hesitation, my lady.” His eyes looked straight into hers. “He is becoming known for solving a wide array of problems.”
Is he, indeed? She offered her hand. “Good day, Mr. Dunne.”
“Good day, my lady. And thank you again for your generous support.”
It was little more than a step from Grillon’s to Barclay Square, but as she walked, she was conscious of a tightening of the nervous knot in her stomach. She needed to be sure that Tom was well and had to stop herself from running. And yet she dreaded going home, as if some new disaster, yet another danger threatened her son, her household.
However, no fresh calamities had been visited on the house. Annie had taken Tom to play ball in the square while James watched and, probably, joined in, for they all doted on the child.
Only someone had endangered him, deliberately or carelessly, by leaving the kitchen door unlocked, allowing an intruder into Tom’s very bedchamber.
“He’s had luncheon,” Annie reported, opening Tom’s door to show him sound asleep in his cot.
“I might take him out this afternoon,” Rebecca said, glancing out of the window. “If the fog doesn’t come down again.”
Annie, a country girl, wrinkled her nose. “Bit whiffy, too, in town.”
“It can be,” Rebecca agreed, closing Tom’s door softly. Annie wanted to go home to Kent. But Redpath Hall was currently occupied by Rebecca’s mother-in-law, and there seemed no way to evict her short of throwing all her possessions out of the window. And even if she did that, Lady Cornish would no doubt have the servants bring everything back inside again. Just to prove that she and not Rebecca was the true lady of Redpath Hall, with the loyalty of all.
And Theo’s uncles and sisters and brothers-in-law would all cheer her on.
