The Wedding Caper Page 5

  “Reeve!” he called to Birdwell’s valet.

  The brown-haired man flinched and whirled, terror in his eyes. His knee-length work smock flowed around him like a lady’s gown. It was stained with food, and a dark patch along one side was damp.

  Neville was about to question him, then saw Reeve carried a half-filled teacup. Tea made small waves on the saucer as the man’s hand shook. Even as Neville watched, more splashed onto his smock.

  “Over here,” Neville said. “Come here.”

  “Mr. Birdwell—”

  “—Is letting Robertson know what has transpired. Did you send for the watch?”

  Reeve shuffled his feet. “I was on my way.”

  “Good. Wait a moment.”

  “Wait?”

  Neville turned back to Priscilla. Holding out his hand, he said as she took it, “Come with me.”

  “But...” She looked back at the draped figure on the floor.

  ‘There is nothing you can do for her now.”

  “Her family should be informed.”

  His mouth tightened again. “I shall do that.”

  “No.” She put her other hand on his arm. “I will do that. Harmony was my friend, and I am unfortunately accustomed to the task.”

  “But Lummis was not one of Lazarus’s parishioners. He may not accept the news well.”

  The sad smile that settled on her face each time her late husband’s name was mentioned did not ease the steely resolve in her eyes. “All the more reason I should be the one to tell him. He would be less likely to take out his sorrow and rage on me.”

  “Blast it, Pris. You are vexing when you are right.” ‘Then I must be vexing much of the time.”

  He started to laugh, but the sound froze in his throat. Putting his arm around her waist, he herded her out into the hallway where Reeve wore the expression of a man who could not decide whether to remain where he had been asked to wait or to make good his escape while he had the chance. Neville understood why when the valet looked past him, his face losing all emotion.

  “Mr. Birdwell is coming toward us,” Priscilla whispered needlessly, for Neville had guessed that already from looking at the valet. “If you will excuse me, I shall go and get Daphne.”

  Again he was tempted to jest with her about trying to avoid the obnoxious actor. Doing so would only add to her disquiet, and he wished to avoid that. As she slipped past him, he turned toward Birdwell.

  “Where is Robertson?” Neville asked.

  “He will be along as soon as he can.”

  “As soon as he can? What is more pressing than that?” He flung a hand toward the drapery.

  “You will have to ask him.” As he had when Wiggsley was dressing him down, Birdwell turned to his valet. “What are you doing here still, Reeve? I told you to go and find the watch.”

  Neville did not allow the valet a chance to reply. Instead, he walked to where Priscilla stood with her arm around a very ashen Daphne. “Reeve, will you escort Lady Priscilla and Miss Flanders to their carriage?”

  The valet nodded, making sure that the wet spots left by the splashed tea touched no one. “I would be glad to.” He frowned at Birdwell.

  He could not blame the valet for being furious at Birdwell. The actor needed to realize the murder was not part of some play where he was the lead, ready to uncover the truth and be draped in the laurels of a hero.

  “Pris, if you want to wait until I can go to Lummis’s house with you ...” Neville said.

  “Do what you can here to find the murderer.” She gave her daughter a bolstering smile when Daphne

  whimpered at the word murderer. “Come to our house as soon as you can.”

  “I will.” He touched her cheek, hoping he could strengthen her—and she could strengthen him—with the simple touch.

  She offered him the same smile she had her daughter, then brushed her fingers against his. Neville said nothing as the valet, after handing him the cup and saucer, cleared a path through what was left of the crowd for Priscilla and Daphne to slip through. With her arm around Daphne, Priscilla followed.

  Neville fought his feet, which wanted to send him after them. The throng at the top of the stairs would make any killer think twice before striking again. Lady Lummis had been in her box, out of view of most people.

  He frowned. Had she been alone? They had seen no sign of anyone else within the box, but the garrulous woman would have been averse to watching the play alone. Mayhap she had been expecting someone to join her. If that was so, the person whose arrival she had been anticipating could be the very one who had driven the dagger into her.

  Dash it! There were too many questions and not a single answer.

  He kneaded his forehead as Birdwell continued to squaw k about what had happened. Not waiting for the actor to pause to take a breath, he asked, “Where are the other actors?”

  “Huddling backstage.”

  “And Wiggsley?”

  “He is with them.”

  He should have known. Wiggsley always lingered backstage during an opening, hoping that his whining and pleading would urge the actors to give better performances. Tonight Wiggsley was fortunate. He

  had plenty of witnesses surrounding him to prove that he had had no hand in any disaster but the one on the stage. “Go and get them and bring them here.” He gave the actor a cold smile. “Unless, of course, you are avoiding Wiggsley.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “You did nothing tonight to help make the play a success.”

  “I could do only so much with the material I was given.”

  On that, Neville had to agree. It was not the time to discuss tonight’s performances. “Go to Wiggsley and the others, and tell them to come here.”

  Birdwell scowled. “Now see here, Hathaway. You do not give orders at the Prince of Wales Theater. Who do you think you are? The owner?”

  “It appears I shall be.”

  “What?”

  “It is a matter between Robertson and me. Where is he?”

  “I told you. He was busy in his office, and—” At the sound of footsteps, Birdwell looked over his shoulder. “Here he comes now.”

  Gordon Robertson was a small man, barely taller than Priscilla’s young son. What little hair was left on his head was the same black as the thick mustache that drooped over both his lips. Ink stained his fingers, and he wore a pair of spectacles balanced at what appeared to be an impossible angle on his forehead. His clothes were rumpled and well-worn. His shoes, however, were brightly polished. Had he just cleaned them to wipe away the lady’s blood?

  Without a word to either Neville or Birdwell, he pushed his way past them and shouldered aside the box’s drapery. He took one step inside before halting to snarl a curse.

  “Where have you been, Robertson?” asked Neville, following him.

  The theater manager did not answer. He stared at the blanket covering Lady Lummis. Groping, he clutched the drapery, his face growing as pale as the paint on the walls.

  “I thought Birdwell was exaggerating,” he whispered. “Nothing like this has ever happened here.”

  “I hope not.”

  “The Prince of Wales Theater will be ruined.”

  “I think that is not as important as the fact you have a dead woman in this box.” Neville rested a hand on the molding around the doorway. “I have sent for help in finding the identity of the person who carried out this crime.”

  Robertson looked at him for the first time. “Hathaway! I did not realize you were here.”

  “Compose yourself, man!” He wanted to shake some sense into the manager’s head, but suspected such an action would undo the man’s equilibrium further. “We have to figure out who killed Lady Lummis and why.”

  Looking at him, Robertson said with a wobbly smile, “You need to figure it out, Hathaway. With the disaster tonight—and the requests already coming in for refunds on tickets sold tonight and for tomorrow as well—it is clear that the Prince of Wales Theater is goi
ng to be your responsibility.” He glanced at the dead woman. “All of this is going to be your responsibility.”

  “When I spoke of helping the Prince of Wales Theater—”

  “I took you at your word. So what do you want to do now, boss?

  Chapter Four

  Priscilla had long been of the opinion that a person’s home either reflected their true thoughts or was a mirror image, showing the exact opposite to allow the owner to hide behind a facade. When she stood in the foyer of Lord Lummis’s house near Soho Square, she was unsure whether the elegant marble floor and exquisite staircase flowing upward like an inverted waterfall were camouflage or an accurate image of the family residing here. Even though she had long known Harmony, she had met Harmony’s husband only a handful of times, and, since he had become a man, her son fewer times.

  Chiding herself for her fanciful thoughts, she looked at the footman who had opened the door. His heavy eyes and tousled hair suggested he had been asleep, although he should have remained awake and at his post until Harmony returned home. He was dressed in livery of a light blue that matched the walls.

  “Lord Lummis is not at home at this hour,” the footman said with the indifference of a man who had repeated those exact words more times than he wished to count.

  “I suspected that, but these are extraordinary circumstances. Will you let him know Lady Priscilla Flanders wishes to see him and his son, if the young

  man is at home, without delay? It is a matter of utmost importance.”

  “Lord Lummis is not at home at this hour. If you wish to leave your card, my lady, I—”

  “I understand he is not accustomed to receiving callers at this hour, but he does need to see me without delay.”

  “My lady—”

  She assumed the tone she used whenever she had tired of an argument given to her by a lady in her late husband’s church. It always brought the end to any brangle and persuaded the woman to do as she should. Priscilla hoped that tone would have the same result here.

  ‘Young man . .. what is your name?”

  “Shelton, my lady.”

  “Shelton, I must see Lord Lummis and his son immediately. Please inform them of that.”

  “But—”

  “Immediately. You should know, so you can convey this to the gentlemen, that I do not intend to leave until they receive me.”

  The footman’s eyes grew wide, and he mumbled something as he backed toward the stairs. He bumped into the lowest riser and almost fell. Spinning, he rushed up the stairs so quickly he was nearly going on his hands and feet.

  Priscilla would have smiled if the reason for her call was not so dreary. She must collect her thoughts before she spoke with Lord Lummis and his son. Bother! What were their given names? As Harmony’s friend, she should know, for she had heard the names repeated often, albeit in a disgusted voice. Tonight it did not matter that the son was a prime rake and the father a complete block.

  She hoped the call would be brief. Daphne had

  wanted to come with her, but Priscilla had insisted her daughter remain on Bedford Square. Only the reminder that tomorrow evening Daphne would be attending her first assembly silenced her daughter’s protests. Priscilla had told Gilbert, her butler, to allow nobody to enter the house until Priscilla returned.

  “Not even Sir Neville?” the butler had asked, his face, as always, serene.

  “Yes, of course, you should let Neville in.”

  “And Lady Cordelia?”

  Priscilla grimaced now, as she had when the butler posed the question. Although it was unlikely her aunt would call at such an hour, Aunt Cordelia seemed to have a way of discerning when her arrival would most complicate Priscilla’s life. Her aunt no longer schemed to put an end to Priscilla’s betrothal to Neville, even though she still disapproved. It would have been simpler if Aunt Cordelia had remained at her house near Bath, but she would want to reassure herself that Priscilla was doing all she should for firing-off Daphne into the Season.

  Neville had teased Priscilla often about letting her aunt aggravate her. Aunt Cordelia deemed herself an expert on raising Priscilla’s children, even though she had, in three marriages, no children of her own. Priscilla’s genuine affection for her father’s sister stilled her tongue when her aunt made one of her outrageous comments.

  Hearing the footman coming back down the stairs, Priscilla was astonished. He was returning far more quickly than she had expected.

  His expression was grim. “My lady, neither Lord Lummis nor his son are at home now.”

  “Are they within the house?” She must set aside the canons of propriety, and she was doubly glad Aunt Cordelia was not here to witness this. And Neville, as

  well, because he would find her disregarding good manners amusing after the many times she had reminded him that etiquette was of utmost importance.

  Shelton stared at her, shocked that she would ask such a question. “Y-y-yes,” he stuttered, before recalling himself enough to add, “But they are not at home.”

  “Thank you.”

  As she had expected, the footman walked past her and reached to open the door.

  She went in the opposite direction and began to climb the stairs. His shout from behind her echoed through the foyer. She heard his footsteps following her, and she hoped that he would remember the strictures of good manners. As she continued up the steps, he pleaded with her to heed him. She wished she could turn and say that she wanted to, but she must appear unstoppable in her resolve to speak with Harmony’s husband and son.

  The odor of smoke from a cheroot led her to the right at the top of the stairs. The corridor was so dimly lit she could not tell if anything hung on the walls. A pair of tables appeared as lumpy shadows. Beneath her feet, a thick carpet might have had a pattern, but it was lost in the shadows.

  Priscilla paused in front of double doors. One door was open wide enough to give her a view of two men facing each other across a hearth. They sat in matching chairs upholstered in a garish green. Even if she had not seen both men previously in Town, she would have recognized them as father and son. Lord Lummis’s black hair was threaded with silver, but it remained as thick and curly as his son’s. Both men were stocky, looking as if they could wrestle any beast to the ground. The younger man had not inherited his father’s nose that resembled a parrot’s beak, but Lord Lummis had bequeathed him his long jaw.

  “My lady,” Shelton said in a whisper, “please come with me. Lord Lummis is not—”

  Sorry to upset the footman, but not willing to be stopped, Priscilla walked into the room. Shelton followed her, pleading with her to heed him. He halted in midword when the two men looked, astonished, at them.

  “Lord Lummis,” Priscilla said quietly, “I beg your indulgence with my intrusion into your evening.”

  The viscount came to his feet, squinting at her through the cloud from his cigar. “Priscilla Flanders, isn’t it?”

  ‘Yes, my lord.”

  “Why are you calling? Harmony is not here.” Priscilla almost blurted out that she was well aware that Harmony was not at home. She must choose her words with care. “I need to speak with you and your son.”

  Lord Lummis looked down at his dressing gown, pocked with spots where ashes from past cigars must have scorched the material. “I am in no condition to be receiving. I thought I told you that, Shelton. Why didn’t you—?”

  “Do not fault him,” she interjected as the footman started to make his apologies. “He tried to stop me.”

  “Then why are you here?” asked Elwen Lummis as he came to his feet, wearing the same puzzled frown as his father.

  “I think you should sit down,” she said, abruptly wishing she had not come here alone. Who else could she have brought? Leaving Daphne on Bedford Square had been a wise decision, and Neville needed to remain at the theater to investigate Harmony’s murder. She bit back the sob the thought elicited. Shattering into tears now would not make this any easier.

  “What is wron
g?” asked the viscount, clearly impatient for her to take her leave.

  “Please sit.”

  “Has Mother wagered more with you than she could afford to pay?” Elwen swaggered toward her. “You show no patience, my lady, in coming to collect that debt at such an hour. I know you are friends of long standing, but her other creditors have had the decency to wait for daylight.”

  “Please sit,” she repeated.

  Lord Lummis’s eyes narrowed as he motioned to his son. “Do as she asks, Elwen. It is clear she will not go until she has said what she has come here to say.”

  For a moment, Priscilla thought Elwen would balk; then, with a glower, he drew out a wooden chair for her. She thanked him quietly and sat, her hands folded in her lap, as she waited for the men to retake their seats.

  “All right, my lady,” the viscount said with another puff on his cigar. “We are sitting as you requested. Will you please spit out what you feel is so necessary for us to hear that you have come in with five eggs and four of them rotten?”

  “Excuse me?” she asked, wondering if he were in his cups.

  “Do you have anything worthwhile to say or not?”

  Assuming that was what his other words meant, she said, “I am sorry to come here with bad news.”

  “Bad news?”

  She faltered, wishing she could find a good way to tell these men what had taken place at the Prince of Wales Theater. In the more than sixteen years she had been a parson’s wife, she never had learned how to make such sad news acceptable.