How far would Mrs. Massey go to protect her marriage? Could the prim woman in front of her commit murder? And if Lady Richford and Mr. Massey were having an affair, would Mr. Massey have killed the woman to hide it?
I rubbed my forehead. I’d come for answers but only came away with more questions.
We said our farewells, mine a bit annoyed, hers frosty, and I had my driver return me home. I loved my club, but with all the problems surrounding it, my house was my only refuge.
Mr. Stavers greeted me at the door and took my cloak and walking stick. “Your nephew called on you, milady. He said to tell you that he’s available if you need any assistance with The Minerva Club.”
My chest tightened. Dear Marcus. As the Duke of Montague and one of the wealthiest men in England, I could only imagine in what form his assistance might come. His inquiry agency, of course, but with his money he might also offer to buyThe Timesto ensure no more filth was printed about me.
But Marcus was a new father. He’d had enough trials in his life without taking on his dotty aunt’s problems, too. Unless facing the direst need, I wanted to handle my club’s problems myself.
Mr. Stavers held up a silver platter, his nose close to touching it because of his stoop. “The correspondence that arrived today, milady.”
“Thank you, Stavers.” The man had been in service to my husband’s father. It was past time for him to retire, but whenever the offer was made, he flatly refused. And if I was being honest, I didn’t want to lose him, either. He was a connection to my husband, and there weren’t many of those left.
I took the four missives. Two were from friends, one was a bill. The other only had my name scrawled across the front with no indication of whom it was from. I started walking to my sitting room and opened that one first.
When I read the first line, my feet froze. “Who delivered this?” I asked Stavers.
He seemed taken aback by my tone. “A young lad. He seemed impressed upon receiving a shilling on delivery as well as pick-up.”
“Not one of our usual couriers then?”
“No milady.” He ran his needlelike fingers through his thinning hair. “I’d never seen him before.”
I nodded and changed my course from the parlor to my library. I kept brandy in the library. After I’d settled myself in my favorite wide upholstered chair with a tumbler of liquor on the table next to me, I reread the note.
Those that inquire into an area often become the subject matter.
It didn’t have to be a threat. It could be someone’s idea of a joke. Or merely a warning from a concerned party.
I took another sip of brandy, letting the sweet heat from the alcohol warm my chilled body.
It didn’t have to be a threat. But it certainly felt like one.
Chapter Fourteen
Lady Mary
Ididn’t thinkI’d ever seen a black as dark as Lord Richford’s mourning garb. It seemed to suck in all the light around it, even making the white of his cravat seem dull in comparison.
The day of Lady Richford’s funeral would have been warm except for the constant blowing of the wind. Without a cleansing rain in weeks, the sky was sepia-tinted, making even the heavens look as dirty as this whole sordid affair was.
The funeral was well attended, the section of St. James’s cemetery where the viscountess was buried a veritable crush of somber greys and deep blues and purples. The back rows of mourners had little chance of actually seeing Lady Richford’s casket lowered into the grave, or hearing the minister’s sonorous words as the wind whipped them away.
Being a white-haired society matron had its benefits. Most people gave way to me out of politeness, and when they didn’t, a well-placed strike to the shin with my walking stick did the trick. I had a front-row view of the funeral.
It wasn’t long. A chapter from Psalms was read. A few prayers. A creed. But for Lord Richford, it wasn’t over soon enough. As the gravediggers lowered the coffin into the earth, the viscount seemed to go down with it, his shoulders drooping, his knees sagging, until finally they hit the ground. The viscount let out an undignified wail as he knelt before his wife’s grave.
Bannister frowned down at his father. He rested his hand on the viscount’s shoulder and squeezed.
It could have been a squeeze of sympathy, I supposed, but it looked more like one of rebuke.
The minister rushed over his last blessings. Lord Richford’s grief was painful to witness. Shifting in my low-heeled boots, I looked over the crowd. Mr. Rollins was easy to spot, his auburn hair and top hat rising a foot above the women who seemed to have congregated around him. I suppose I couldn’t blame the women. He was a good-looking man, and his job as a Bow Street Runner lent him an air of intrigue.
I didn’t see Miss Lynton, but she could have been hidden amongst the throngs.
I did, however, see one Mr. Enoch Ryder. He tipped his head when our gazes met. A woman next to him touched his arm, seeking his attention. He broke our connection to smile down at her.
