“I don’t know. Yet.” She shaded her eyes as they stepped outside, the door seeming to close unnaturally quickly behind them. “But if a man did sneak into my club, I will find out how.”
Frederick gave her an appraising look. For a woman, Lady Mary was made of unusually stern stuff. Perhaps she would discover how a man got into her club. He hailed a hackney and waited for the carriage to pull in front of White’s. Feeling benevolent, he offered, “I’m going to the Lyntons to question them. Do you want to come?”
Lady Mary nodded to her own carriage. The driver had hopped down to open the door. “No, I thank you. I have somewhere else to be.”
Just as well. He saw her inside, and nodded as her carriage drew off. He had some very pointed questions to ask Miss Eleanor Lynton, and he didn’t need Lady Mary there to run interference.
Chapter Eight
Eleanor
Eleanor decided tomake him wait. Mr. Rollins had been shown into their afternoon parlor, offered a beverage by the Lynton’s ever proper footman, and then left to stare at his navel for all Eleanor cared while she went to consult with her mother.
“You don’t have to speak with him,” Eleanor insisted, pacing her mother’s pale peach bedroom. Martha Lynton sat at her dressing table, brushing a bit of powder on her already pale face. “I can tell him you’re not feeling well.”
“But I feel fine.” Her mother looked at her through the mirror, her eyes sad. “I am sorry, Eleanor. You don’t deserve any of this.”
Eleanor’s heart pounded behind her breastbone. She knew her mother couldn’t have hurt Lady Richford. Not her mother. Not the woman who had kissed her scraped knees, untangled the curls in her hair.
The woman of the past eight years, the one who’d become bitter and angry, however, the one who’d raged as her daughter had to go out to earn a living, who’d sat stony-eyed at her husband’s funeral, well, Eleanor wasn’t quite as certain about that woman. What did her mother mean she didn’t deserve this? Didn’t deserve a troubled parent whom Eleanor needed to care for, or didn’t deserve a murderess for a mother?
“This Mr. Rollins is a tricky character.” Eleanor grabbed her elbow. “You need to—”
“It will be fine.” Her mother took one last look at the mirror, then rose. She gave Eleanor a wobbly smile. “I will tell the truth and all will be well.”
“Not all the truth.” She followed her to the top of the stairs. “He doesn’t need to knoweverything.” Didn’t need to know her mother had brought a gun to the club planning on killing Lady Richford. Didn’t need to know her mother had spent nearly the past decade hating the dead woman. There were some things that were common knowledge and he could learn elsewhere, but all the rest should remain private.
Eleanor took her mother’s arm as they made their way down the steps and to the parlor. At the open door, she paused, sucked in a deep breath, wiped all worry from her expression, then entered.
“Mr. Rollins.” She inclined her head as the man rose to his feet. “This is my mother, Mrs. Martha Lynton. Mother, Mr. Rollins.”
Her mother settled herself on a rose damask settee, smoothing her skirts. “I understand you wish to ask me questions about this terrible business. You may proceed.”
Eleanor’s lips tilted up as she settled beside her. Her mother might be fragile, but she still had pluck.
Mr. Rollins sat across from them. His jacket fell open as he reached into an inside pocket for his notebook and lead. His dark waistcoat was as conservative as the rest of his clothes and pulled snugly against a flat abdomen and broad chest.
She snapped her gaze back to his face, ignoring the slight curl of heat that coiled in her belly. The devil could take many forms, even attractive ones.
“I understand you have been acquainted with the victim for many years,” Mr. Rollins began. “Can you describe that relationship?”
“We had our first season together.” Martha arched an eyebrow at Mr. Rollins. “I will not admit to how many years ago that was, but Lady Richford and I have been acquainted for some time.”
“And you were friendly?”
Her mother swallowed. “For the most part. We’ve had some disagreements through the years.”
“Regarding?” He looked at her mother expectantly.
“She…well, we just….”
Eleanor squeezed her mother’s hand. “Shortly after my father discovered he’d lost his fortune in a bad investment, Lady Richford gave my mother the cut direct at a society function. It was petty, and cruel, and happened almost ten years ago. It is all forgotten about now.”
“Especially as Lady Richford is dead.” His eyes, a dark mossy green, she realized, held a hint of censure. He scribbled down a note. “Your daughter was at The Minerva Club at the time of the murder. Where were you?”
Both Eleanor and her mother hissed in a breath.
“Lady Mary and Bobby both saw me in the Tea Room when Lady Richford was killed,” Eleanor burst out. Mr. Rollins might have stated only a fact, but his tone certainly insinuated her guilt.
