Trevillion felt his brows lift. Where had the boy come from? There were no residences for a half mile at the least in any direction.
The boy had a small, thin dog lying curled at his side, and the creature raised its head at their approach. In a blur it was up and racing over, yapping wildly.
Trevillion scowled at the beast. It was jumping excitedly at Lady Phoebe’s skirts. “Down, you.”
“Oh, Captain, I don’t think I need be protected from a lapdog,” Lady Phoebe said, and before he could ascertain if the animal was friendly or not, knelt before the thing.
Immediately it began pawing at her and licking her face.
Lady Phoebe laughed, hands outstretched, but the dog was too excited to hold still so she might pet it. Her round face was positively lit with joy. “What kind is it?”
“I don’t know,” he replied, looking away from her. “Something small, thin, and hysterical.”
“Daffodil’s an Italian greyhound,” the boy said, having trotted after his dog. “You can pet her if you like. She doesn’t bite, although,” he added, entirely unnecessarily, “she does lick.”
“I can feel that,” Lady Phoebe replied, smiling. Her face was tilted toward the sky. “I once had a friend who had an Italian greyhound. What color is she?”
“Red,” the boy said, adding with the frankness of the young, “can’t you see?”
“Lady Phoebe is blind, boy,” Trevillion said sharply.
His charge winced and turned a glare on him, which was quite effective, unseeing or not.
The child shrank back at his tone, and Trevillion noticed his eyes were mismatched: one blue, one green. “Oh. I’m sorry.”
“There’s no need to be,” Lady Phoebe said gently. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Indio,” he said. “That’s Caliban, my friend”—he pointed to Lord Kilbourne, which made Trevillion’s eyebrows rise farther—“and my mama is in the theater.”
Lady Phoebe turned her head at that as if she could look about. “We’re near the theater?”
“Yes.”
“But I thought the theater burned?”
“Well it did, mostly,” Indio replied. “But part of it’s good. That’s where we live.”
Her brows knit. “You live here?”
He nodded, apparently having already forgotten that she couldn’t see him. “My mama is a famous actress. She’s Robin Goodfellow.”
“Is she?” Lady Phoebe breathed, evidently delighted. “Might I meet her? I’m a great admirer.”
And within minutes Lady Phoebe had somehow become fast friends with Miss Goodfellow and was taking tea with her at a table brought out to the garden.
“Did… they already… know each other?” Lord Kilbourne asked.
He and Trevillion had taken themselves far enough from the theater that they couldn’t be heard by the ladies, but were close enough for Trevillion to keep an eye on his charge. Kilbourne had glanced once at his cane and suggested a fallen log to sit on. Trevillion had been too grateful for the respite for his leg to worry about his pride.
Somehow, in the days since Trevillion had seen him, the viscount had miraculously regained the power of speech, though his words were slow and his voice quite rough. There was a story there, Trevillion knew, but it didn’t concern him at the moment.
“Not at all,” Trevillion said, watching as Lady Phoebe laughed at something Miss Goodfellow told her.
“You’re sure.”
“Quite.”
“Simply… marvelous,” Kilbourne muttered, sounding nonetheless confused. His gaze, Trevillion noticed, lingered a fraction too long on the actress.
“If you say so, my lord.”
The other looked at him at that and Trevillion noticed that the viscount was sporting a series of new scratches across his face.
“I do,” Kilbourne replied coolly. “I collect… you have some… information for me?”
Trevillion straightened. “Yes, my lord. I’ve made some inquiries into the histories and situations of your friends who died that night. Maubry, as you said, was destined to become a churchman. According to his remaining friends he had no enemies and wasn’t in debt, nor had he offended anyone in the months before his death. I think we may consider him a blameless victim.”
Kilbourne nodded, looking grim. He was watching the ladies again.
Trevillion turned to look as well, observing as Lady Phoebe discreetly felt the tartlet on her plate with her fingertips before taking a bite. She was very deft at living with her infirmity, he mused.
“Mr. Tate was indeed his uncle’s heir,” he continued. “At Tate’s death, a very distant cousin became heir and eventually inherited the uncle’s estate of some two thousand pounds per annum—not a fortune, but by no means an insignificant sum. However, the cousin in question lived in the American Colonies until only a year ago. While he might certainly have sent agents to murder his cousin, it seems, on the surface at least, unlikely.”
“I agree,” Kilbourne replied, sounding a little absentminded.
Miss Goodfellow was at that moment licking her lips of some tartlet crumbs.
Trevillion cleared his throat. “As for Smithers, the last man, there I did find something of interest.”
Kilbourne looked at him sharply. “How… so?”
“Unlike the rest of you,” Trevillion said, “he was in debt—and for quite a large amount, to a rather nasty sort—men running a gambling den in the stews of Whitechapel.”
“Then that was… it?” Kilbourne’s face was stoically blank.
“I don’t think so,” Trevillion said reluctantly. “His creditors didn’t recoup their money on his death, nor was it widely known that he owed them.” He shrugged. “Murdering Smithers along with two other gentlemen would’ve been a poor business decision, and these villains are, if nothing else, quite sharp men of business.”
A muscle in Kilbourne’s jaw flexed and he glanced away—for the first time not at Miss Goodfellow. “Then… you have nothing.”
“Not quite, my lord,” Trevillion replied softly.
Kilbourne merely stared at him stonily, as if he’d let hope seize his emotions too many times in the past to permit it free rein again.
Trevillion met his gaze and said bluntly, “Your uncle is in debt, my lord, to your grandfather, the earl’s, estate—and has been for at least a decade. If you inherit the title, I suspect he would find himself in a very awkward position, for he doesn’t have the monies to repay the estate. Had you died that night, he would’ve inherited the title—and the money that goes with it upon your grandfather’s death. He would never have to repay the debt and wouldn’t fear the courts or debtor’s prison.”
Kilbourne’s expression didn’t even flicker—proving that he was as intelligent as Trevillion had suspected. “But I… didn’t die. Instead… apparently I… was drugged.”
“Think,” Kilbourne murmured low, for if what he suspected was true, they had a powerful man as an enemy. “Had you been murdered then, had not a common thief or some such been apprehended, your uncle, as the next heir to the earldom, would’ve been the natural suspect. But if you were drugged and your friends killed instead, you are made the murderer, and must perforce be brought to justice—and the hangman. A scandal, surely, but in no way your uncle’s fault—and with the same result as if he’d murdered you himself: your death. It was,” he added thoughtfully, “a rather elegant scheme, you must admit, my lord.”
“You’ll… forgive me if… I don’t,” Kilbourne replied drily. “I would’ve… been dead these four years… had not my distant… cousin, the Earl of… Brightmore not been so horrified… at the thought of a relation… of his being tried for… murder that he bundled… me away in Bedlam instead.” He paused, swallowing, after such a long speech. “Scant… comfort though… that was at the time. I think… I might’ve preferred… the noose.”
Trevillion reflected sardonically that he must be grateful, then, to Brightmore, for he’d saved Trevillion from
indirectly sending an innocent man to his death.
“Why…” Kilbourne started, and then had to cough and clear his throat. “If your… theory is true, why… wouldn’t my… uncle have had me killed in Bedlam?”
“Perhaps he thought you would die there, my lord.” Trevillion shrugged. “Many do.”
Kilbourne nodded, contemplating that for a moment, or perhaps letting his throat rest. He said abruptly, “My grandfather… is dying… or so my sister informs me.”
“Then your uncle will want you dead as well,” Trevillion replied. “He made some very unwise investments in the last year and his debt has doubled just in the last five months.”
Kilbourne stared at him, frowning.
“His need has become acute, I think.” Trevillion met his gaze and once again noticed the scratches on the other man’s cheek. “Where did you get those scratches, my lord? You’re looking much the worse for wear since I saw you last.”
“Yesterday…” Kilbourne coughed, raising a hand to finger the scratches. “I nearly died… from a falling tree… that was to… be planted. There… was a new… gardener… he is… missing today.”
Trevillion pivoted to face the other man fully, leaning on his stick urgently. “You’ve been discovered, my lord. If I could follow your sister, so, too, could your uncle’s men.”
Kilbourne shook his head violently, coughing. “Accident,” he gasped.
“You don’t think that yourself or you wouldn’t have told me,” Trevillion said impatiently.
At the same time a voice called, “Hullo! Hullo! I say, can anyone tell me where Mr. Smith is?”
They both pivoted to see a red-haired young man, not more than five and twenty, blinking in the sunlight far too close to the ladies, and already being assaulted by the little dog.
“Damnation,” Trevillion muttered. It seemed their tête-à-tête was over. “Listen to me, my lord. You must leave the garden. Find some other place of hiding until we can devise a plan to find evidence against your uncle.”
Kilbourne was still shaking his head, though more slowly now, his eyes fixed toward the theater. “Can’t.”
Trevillion followed the direction of his gaze—naturally to where Miss Goodfellow was rising to meet the newcomer. “Can’t—or won’t?”
Kilbourne never took his eyes from her, but his face hardened with determination. “Doesn’t matter.”
Chapter Nine
The next morning Ariadne journeyed to the golden castle. There the king sat on a jewel-encrusted throne with, beside him, his mad queen, spinning red wool with a wooden distaff and spindle. The youth chosen with Ariadne made a low bow to the king and then turned aside. But Ariadne, remembering her mother’s warning, curtsied to the king and then the queen and inquired politely of her if there was aught she might bring her son. Without a word the queen handed her spindle to the girl…
—From The Minotaur
Lily met Caliban’s gaze across the clearing and felt heat climb her cheeks. His eyes were hot and intent.
He looked at her as if with a single kiss he’d already claimed her.
She glanced away, inhaling. It had only been one kiss and they hadn’t had a chance to speak properly since. Last night there’d been Maude, sharp and sarcastic and disapproving, and this morning Indio had been excited and scampering about. And that had been before Lady Phoebe and Captain Trevillion showed up.
“Who is it?” that lady asked, facing in the direction of the young man advancing toward them. Daffodil had finished welcoming him and was now dashing off to her master. Indio had previously wandered away from their tea party and was playing by the corner of the theater in what looked suspiciously like a mud puddle.
“I’ve no idea,” Lily replied, hoping she didn’t sound as irritable as she felt. Good Lord, Harte’s Folly had become like a county fair—a veritable crossroads of visitors. Belatedly she remembered her manners and tacked on, “My lady.”
Lady Phoebe smiled and asked softly, “What does he look like?”
Of course Lady Phoebe had no idea of the aspect or even the age of the man approaching them.
“He’s a young man with bright red hair and a comely face,” Lily answered quietly and quickly. “Wearing a black tricorn and an acorn-brown suit. The waistcoat is a lighter shade, more tan than brown, and trimmed in a fine scarlet ribbon. Not expensive, but well cut.” She cocked her head, considering. “He’s quite handsome, actually.”
“Oh, good,” Lady Phoebe said with some satisfaction, sitting back.
Lily only had time for a glance of amusement at the other woman—she really was quite delightful—before the gentleman was upon them.
“Good morning,” he called in a faint Scottish accent. He came to a stop, swept his hat from his head, and gave a lovely bow. “I am Mr. Malcolm MacLeish. Whom might I have the honor of addressing?”
“I am Miss Robin Goodfellow,” Lily said as she curtsied, “and this is Lady Phoebe Batten.”
“Good Lord!” Mr. MacLeish exclaimed, his bright-blue eyes opening wide as he staggered dramatically back. “An honor indeed, ladies! I had the privilege of attending a production of As You Like It a year or two ago, Miss Goodfellow, in which you were a most magnificent Rosalind.”
She curtsied again, amused at his profusion. “Thank you, sir.”
“And my Lady Phoebe,” Mr. MacLeish said, turning to her, “I am in awe of your presence.”
“Indeed, sir,” Lady Phoebe replied, cocking her head, with a trace of a smile playing about her mouth. She didn’t look quite in his direction. “At my mere presence?”
“Y-yes, my lady,” he replied, obviously uncertain if she teased or not. He darted a quick glance at Lily, but she decided to leave him to his own devices since he’d dug the hole for himself with his enthusiasm. “Your beauty alone is enough to put wonder in my gaze.”
Lady Phoebe burst into laughter. From any other lady it might’ve been taken as an insult or at the very least a gentle belittlement—but from her it was simply a sign of joyous amusement.
Lily couldn’t help grinning in sympathy—the other woman’s laughter was that infectious.
“But Mr. MacLeish,” Lady Phoebe said, bringing her mirth under control, “I’ve been told that you are yourself quite an ugly specimen of manhood.”
The young man’s eyes widened as sudden realization washed over his features, but to his credit he recovered quickly—and without insulting Lady Phoebe’s intelligence. “But my lady, I do protest. I am accorded one of the finest-looking gentlemen in England, with milk-white skin, straight teeth, blue eyes… and shining golden hair.”
Lady Phoebe shook her head. “Lying to a blind woman, Mr. MacLeish? I’ve already heard you have bright-red hair.”
“My lady, you wound me,” the young man exclaimed, hand to heart, though Lady Phoebe couldn’t see the gesture. “I vow I’ve had many a lady at my feet.”
“And elsewhere?” she asked, her eyelashes lowered.
“You shouldn’t tease the boy, my lady,” Captain Trevillion said as he limped to the table. Caliban was by his side, his eyes alert, Lily noticed. He gave her one blazing glance and then focused on the newcomer.
The captain’s words fell awkwardly on their light flirtation, breaking the effervescent mood.
Lady Phoebe stiffened.
Mr. MacLeish sobered immediately, eyeing the pistols strapped across Captain Trevillion’s chest. “And who might you be, sir?”
Before the man could reply, Lady Phoebe said, “This is Captain James Trevillion, who has been set to guard me by my brother, like a dog chained before a tasty pork pie.”
“I think of you, my lady, as more of an apple tart,” Captain Trevillion murmured. He turned to the younger man. “And you are?”
“Mr. Malcolm MacLeish,” the Scotsman replied, and Lily was glad to see that he didn’t look at all cowed by the former dragoon’s stern manner. Caliban had explained that Captain Trevillion was some sort of business acquaintance, but she had seen the
soldier try to kill him, and only recently, so she thought she might be forgiven a bit of prejudice. “I’ve been commissioned as architect for the rebuilding of Harte’s Folly by His Grace the Duke of Montgomery. He informed me that the garden designer, a Mr. Smith, was to be found here.”
Caliban had stilled during this little speech and at the end of it he nodded. “I am… he.”
Mr. MacLeish brightened. “Very good to meet you, sir.” He held out his hand and for a moment Caliban looked at it as if it were a strange and foreign thing before he seemed to recollect himself and shook hands with younger man. “If you’ll show me the grounds and what you yourself have planned, I would be most grateful.”
Captain Trevillion’s eyes narrowed and he exchanged some type of significant glance with Caliban.
Lily sighed. She really was getting quite tired of not knowing what was going on.
And apparently she wasn’t the only one.
“Your pardon,” Lady Phoebe said, suddenly sounding every inch the daughter of a duke, “but I don’t think you introduced me to Mr. Smith, Captain. I confess myself curious to meet the man you were so eager to see today.”
Lily could tell by the stiffening of Captain Trevillion’s back that he did not care for Lady Phoebe’s interruption, but for the life of her, she couldn’t understand why.
Yet he said politely enough, “My lady, may I present Mr.…”
“Sam,” Caliban supplied. “Just Sam Smith.”
“Mr. Sam Smith?” Captain Trevillion continued smoothly. “Mr. Smith, Lady Phoebe Batten, the Duke of Wakefield’s sister.”
Lady Phoebe held out her hand imperiously and Caliban was forced to take it, bowing over it as he said in his broken voice, “My lady… I am most… pleased to meet you.”
She cocked her head at his voice. “Have you a cold, Mr. Smith?”
“No… my lady,” he said so gently that Lily felt an unfamiliar pang of jealousy. “I recently… injured my throat and… as a result… my voice.”