“Miss Vivien. She’s back in Miss Marlowe’s office.” She led the way through the tables of workers to the tower entrance in the front corner near the windows.
At least the ballroom was large enough for the tables to have generous space between them so Rafe didn’t have to fear jarring scissors or needles. The same couldn’t be said of Lavender’s office. She had a desk of sorts there, piled high with papers, but she also had curtained dressing rooms, tables of books, bolts of fabric, and half-finished garments on dress forms. What had once been a medieval fortress, probably housing soldiers, was now a feminine maze to be navigated.
Kate was there, jotting notes while Lavender pinned fabric to a form. The vivacious, black-haired Vivien Jameson, along with another woman, who appeared to be an older, worn-out version of the young seamstress—the newly-arrived sister?—were seated, examining the fashion books scattered on a table. None of them paid him much attention, until Lavender glanced up.
Rafe had begun to see the ladies of the manor as his assistants when it came to domestic issues. He relied on their knowledge of propriety and more.
The young modiste eased her way around the tables. “May I help you, Sgt. Russell?”
He called up the proper address he’d just been given. “If I might, I'd like to speak with Miss Vivien about yesterday's incident. Is there somewhere we might speak privately?”
An authoritative miss with the command of her powerful male ancestors—despite her feminine frippery—Lavender gestured at her helpers. “Kate, take Viv up to the next floor with Sgt. Russell. You should be safe with him.”
The dark-haired, older woman he assumed to be Mrs. Jameson raised her oxen-slow head in protest. The chiseled cheekbones of Miss Vivien were concealed by weight and sagging skin in the sister.
Lavender, the young, fair-haired descendant of pirates and earls, quelled any objection with a sharp look.
Kate led the way. The black-haired seamstress limped along on a stick, holding up her bandaged foot. Rafe followed up the rear, wanting to object to the victim climbing stairs, but there really was no other choice unless she preferred hobbling half a mile of halls to find an empty room. There was nothing private about Lavender’s busy workshop.
The next floor had been set up as a perfumery by a relation of Hunt's French cousins. The perfumer was even younger than Lavender but had put together what appeared to be a professional laboratory.
“Sofia is out overseeing the new rose beds,” Kate explained, indicating the empty room. “Patience is eager to return to supervising the orchard and gardens, but Meera has told her she and the babe must rest a while longer.”
The title of Earl of Wycliffe had been lost because the mighty Wycliffes had no direct male descendants. Which meant the manor was now run by female descendants—and their spouses. Having seen the war-torn continent where women had to work to survive, Rafe saw nothing wrong with this arrangement.
“Miss Vivien, please, take a seat, I'd just like a better idea of what happened yesterday.” Rafe waited until she found a bench to perch on. “Now tell me where you were on the stairs when you were attacked.”
She pointed at the stairs they'd just traversed. “On the stairs.”
Behind the girl, Kate rolled her eyes but poked through beakers without interrupting.
“Where on the stairs? Did you just come out of the sewing room? Were you going up or down?”
The girl tossed her artfully arranged side curls. “I don't see where that matters. He pushed me. I fell down.”
Rafe had little patience with deliberate stupidity. “If you are accusing someone of pushing you, it matters,” he retorted. “Where on the stairs were you standing when you were pushed?”
He'd tried to ask these questions yesterday, but she'd been wailing too hard to interrogate. The implication that she was pushed opened a whole world of woe. He wanted to be certain she hadn’t just fallen and decided to be dramatic.
She sniffed, wiped her eyes with a lace hanky, pouted, then finally replied, “I'd just left Miss Marlowe's office, I think. I wanted to look outside.”
Shirking her duty or spying? Rafe doubted he'd get an answer. He waited. She didn't continue.
“The only way you can look outside is by the door on the ground floor, the window on this one, or Arnaud’s studio. Were you going up or down?” Kate asked impatiently.
They’d found the girl on the stairs between this floor and the lower one. Rafe waited with interest.
Miss Vivien looked startled by the question, as if she'd forgotten Kate’s presence. She shot a glare over her shoulder but answered. “I was here and on my way down, like poor Ana Marie. I could have been killed!”
“Did you see this person?” Rafe demanded, still not seeing how anyone but Arnaud could have been behind her.
“No, he pushed me and I fell! It was dark,” she insisted.
“You were near a window,” Rafe remonstrated. “It wasn’t completely dark. Mrs. Marie was on straight, dark stairs with an armful of linen and no way to break her fall. You were on curved stairs, nothing in hand, and could catch yourself on the curve of the wall or the handrail.”
“Someone pushed me. Hard,” she insisted, offended that he didn't take her seriously. “I am bruised all over. I may never walk properly again.”
Kate uttered a snort of exasperation.
