Miss Lynton’s eyebrows shot up. She cleared her throat. “That would be one way of putting it.”
My neck ached with how stiffly I was holding it. I stepped through the doorway into the Great Room, the spacious hall we used for large assemblies. We hadn’t had any events for several days so all the chairs were put away, leaning on the far wall. It was a quick sweep of the eyes to make sure everything was in order before closing.
I strode for the lamps on the side wall. “Your mother can make her own decisions about her associations, young lady. If she sees fit—” My hand paused on the base of the lamp, my eyes narrowing. A low stage ran along the back of the room, used for the occasional play or concert. A bundle of fabric lay crumpled in the middle of it.
“My mother doesn’t know what’s best for her,” Miss Lynton insisted. She trailed after me as I made my way to the stage. “She doesn’t… Lady Mary? What is that?” Her voice went low with dread.
We both knew. As much as I wanted my eyes to keep seeing a pile of cloth, my mind knew the truth. A kidskin boot pressed out from the skirts of a striped percale gown.
I climbed the two steps onto the stage, my legs heavy as lead, my heart pounding dully.
“Lady Mary?” Miss Lynton repeated faintly.
She had been strangled, the white cravat around her throat a sharp contrast with her purpling skin. My breath stalled. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen death, but I’d never witnessed one so violent before.
“Go see if Bobby has left yet,” I said. “Tell him to run for the constable. The Viscountess of Richford is dead.”
Chapter Two
Lady Mary
That night andthe following morning were a practice in patience. It took over a half hour for the constable to arrive and two more before a magistrate could be roused to pay attendance. The insufferable man, one Sir John Stauncey of Bow Street, had only a handful of questions for me, Miss Lynton, and Bobby, but he repeated them over and over until my temper got the better of me.
“I’ve told you. Repeatedly. I saw no one except Miss Lynton and my workers after closing.” I tapped my fingers against my opposite elbows. “Would you like one of my men to make you some coffee? Your mind seems to want sharpening.” Throughout my life, I’d discovered that irritation was a much more comfortable emotion to feel than horror. If I focused on the magistrate being a lackwit, it kept the images of Lady Richford’s purpling face at bay.
The magistrate’s lips pinched. He was only about my height, so the intimidating atmosphere he was attempting to impart was sorely lacking. He scraped his hand through his thinning brown hair. “If you or the young lady or your servants didn’t kill Lady Richford, then someone else was in here.”
“It’s a club, not a prison.” I narrowed my eyes at the constable who sidled up next to the magistrate. “I don’t keep guards on all the entrances.”
“What?” Stauncey barked at the man, dragging his glare off me.
“We found this on the corner of the stage almost hidden by the curtain.” The constable held up a narrow red ribbon.
Stauncey snatched it from his hand. “A velvet ribbon. Do you recognize it?” he asked me.
“It looks like any other red ribbon.” I relented at his soft growl. “There is a member who sometimes likes to wear such a ribbon around her neck. Miss Abbott. She held a discussion in the Great Room five days’ past on the ideals of the French Revolution.” I sniffed. “Well, it was more of a lecture, really.” The woman barely let another member get a word in edgewise.
“Did you not sweep your floors between then and now?” the magistrate asked.
“It was a discussion, not a picnic. That ribbon could have been laying there for a fortnight.”
Stauncey leaned close, an approximation of commiseration on his face. “Having a difficult time affording decent help, are you? Don’t make enough to pay for a maid?”
“I am doing quite well,” I said between gritted teeth. “And if anyone is lacking for an attendant, it is you.” I pointed at his crumpled neckcloth. “You have mustard, just there.”
His face flushed darkly.
I feared the magistrate and I had a small chance of becoming friends. After my pointed comments about his person, he let me return home, but I spent the rest of the night only chasing sleep and eventually gave up when the sun rose.
“More coffee?” Jane, my lady’s maid of over three decades, lifted the silver pot in crepe-skinned hands, the lid rattling ever so softly with the effort.
“I’ll get it.” I took the pot from her and filled both our cups. We were in my morning sitting room, the windows opened to the early morning activity in my tidy garden. The September morning was brisk without being cold, and a robin took advantage of the remaining days of decent weather witha bath in a marble fountain. It hadn’t rained for weeks, and the fountains and baths in my garden had become increasingly popular with the wildlife as other water sources dried up.
It looked to be a beautiful day. If only my spirits could match it.
“What are the reasons a person would kill, Jane?” Becoming so angry as to wrap a cravat around a woman’s throat and choke the life out of her was an emotion I couldn’t quite fathom. I wasn’t naïve: revenge, jealousy, greed were always strong motives, but there had to be more. Besides, I had watched as the cocksure magistrate had gone through Lady Richford’s reticule. A roll of bills had been inside. At least I knew robbery hadn’t been the motive.
Jane blinked. “To remove a competitor for your lover? To punish the person who didn’t reciprocate your feelings?”
