Chapter 9
Igritted my teeth. “Let me out or I’ll scream.”
His lips curled with his cruel smile. “I’m the master of this house. Do you think the servants will dare go against me?”
“They might not, but your wife will. I doubt she’d like to deal with the repercussions if any harm came to Sir Ronald Bainbridge’s niece in this house.”
The mention of my uncle’s name had him staring at me. It would seem the butler hadn’t informed him who I was.
“Step aside, please,” I said sweetly.
His chest rose and fell with his deep breaths. “Why is Sir Ronald’s niece writing salacious articles for the papers?”
Someone knocked on the door. “Is everything all right, sir?” called the butler.
“Does Sir Ronald even know you’re here?” Lord Wrexham asked me.
I swallowed.
The knocking continued. “Sir?”
Lord Wrexham’s smile stretched. He stepped aside and opened the door. “See that Miss Fox finds her way out.”
I swept past him and found myself between the butler and Mr. Adams as I descended the stairs. The door to Lord Wrexham’s office slammed shut, the sound reverberating around the house.
On the second floor landing, movement in an adjoiningroom caught my eye. A woman stood in the drawing room, her skirts swishing as if she’d just risen from the sofa.
“Wait,” she said.
I halted, as did my escorts. The butler looked caught, unsure what to do. Obey his master or his mistress?
“We were just seeing Miss Fox out,” he said.
The woman moved to the door but didn’t leave the room. She wore dark purple with white bows on the sleeves and a large sapphire ring on her finger. She was a plain looking woman and much younger than her husband. From what Mr. Adams had told us about her reclusiveness, I’d expected to see a similar disfigurement on her face as her husband, or signs of illness, but she looked perfectly well to me. “And who are you, Miss Fox?”
The lie about the newspapers had ultimately failed with Lord Wrexham and, although I thought about using it again, I didn’t want to. “I’m investigating Pearl Westwood’s death. It may not have been suicide.”
“A woman detective? You don’t work for the police then.”
“I do not. Did you ever meet Miss Westwood?”
Her hand began to shake. When she saw I’d noticed, she tucked it behind her. “Why would I have cause to meet an actress?”
I glanced at the butler standing stiffly beside me. “May I talk to you in private, my lady?”
Lady Wrexham’s eyelashes fluttered. She gave a small nod.
I joined her in the drawing room and she closed the door. The furnishings reminded me of those in my hotel sitting room—elegant, expensive and all matching, as if all the pieces had been purchased together rather than over time. She moved the embroidery hoop she’d set aside on the sofa cushion and signaled for me to sit.
“I have some very personal questions to ask you, and I want to apologize in advance for asking them,” I said. “But they are necessary to find out who killed Miss Westwood.”
She settled her clasped hands on her lap. One of them still shook slightly. “I read about the actress’s death. It was a tragedy, but I can’t say I’m sorry for her. I know why you’rehere, Miss Fox. I know you’re trying to find out if my husband killed her.” She lifted her gaze to mine. “Or if I did.”
Her directness was more unsettling than Lord Wrexham’s fury. Ice ran through her veins, where fire heated his blood. “You say you never met her. But you knew of your husband’s relationship with her.”
She inclined her head in a nod.
“Miss Westwood called here between Christmas and New Year.”
