“Do you mean to say, sir, that you never once concerned yourself with the possibility that you had employed a murderess?”
Edison smiled. “Not as long as the victim was Chilton Crane.”
A rush of unexpected warmth went through hen “I am touched, sir. Quite … quite touched, indeed. You are certainly unique in my long string of employers.”
He shrugged. “I have always had a certain tendency toward eccentricity.”
The pleasant warmth faded. “I see. So it is only your eccentric nature that enables you to employ a possible murderess?”
“Umm.”
Annoyed, she pressed on. “Would any murderess do? Or is it only a certain species of murderess you are willing to employ?”
His eyes gleamed. “I am very selective.”
She decided her only option was to abandon the topic. “Let us return to the matter at hand. You still cannot be certain that Miranda actually shot Crane. We are speaking of murder, after all, sir. Surely Lady Ames would not risk such a dangerous deed merely to … to—”
“Secure a fortune? On the contrary, I think it’s possible that Miranda is a reckless opportunist who has already killed once to obtain the deciphered recipe from the Book of Secrets and, perhaps, the book itself.”
“Farrell Blue?”
“Yes. If that is true, why would she not kill a second time?”
Emma turned back to the window, her thoughts whirling. “I remember how stunned she appeared when you announced your engagement to me there in the hall that night. I assumed it was because it struck her and everyone else as a terribly unlikely alliance. But I suppose she might have worn just such an expression if she had suddenly realized that her plans had gone awry a second time that evening.”
“She had risked committing murder and had nothing to show for it. The prize was denied her.”
Emma made a face. “I do not care to think of myself as a prize, sir.”
He looked distinctly uncomfortable. “I did not mean that the way it sounded.” he muttered. “It was a poor choice of words.”
“Yes, it was.” She sighed and straightened in the seat. “Nevertheless, I suppose it is no worse than thinking of myself as bait.”
His brows drew together in a grim line. “Emma—”
“Returning to our current problem,” she interrupted smoothly, “I do not think anything you have said alters the way in which I shall deal with Miranda.”
“I thought I made it clear, she is dangerous. Very likely a murderess twice over.”
“Yes, but only consider, sir.” Emma gave him a determinedly bright smile. “I am the one person she dares not kill. She desires my help in her scheme.”
Edison sat back slowly. His eyes never left her face. “That fact no doubt gives you some protection from her venom. But you must not take any undue risks, Emma. Listen to her. Hear her proposal. Learn as much as you can, but do not provoke her temper.”
“Believe me, sir, now that the evidence of two murders is mounting against her, I shall make it a point not to do anything foolish or reckless.”
“I would feel infinitely more reassured about the matter if I did not fear our definitions of the term reckless differ greatly.”
“Any man who associates with known smugglers and who does not hesitate to meet a villain at a dockside rendezvous in the middle of the night is in no position to lecture me on the subject.”
Edison grinned reluctantly. “You really are much too impertinent to make a successful career as a professional companion, you know.”
“With a bit of luck, my finances will soon come right and it will not be necessary for me to go back into service after this post.” She peered out the window. “The carriage is slowing. We have arrived in Miranda’s street.”
Edison glanced out at the row of handsome town houses. “I realize that I’m starting to sound like you when you have one of your premonitions, but I do not like this.”
“What can possibly go wrong?”
“I would rather not contemplate the entire list of things that could go wrong, if you don’t mind. It is far too extensive.” Edison’s jaw was set in rigid lines. “Very well. I will wait here in the carriage while you meet with her. But, Emma, you must promise me that if you feel in any way uneasy, you will not hesitate to leave at once.”
“I give you my word on it.”
The carriage drew to a halt, as Edison had instructed, several doors down from Miranda’s house. Emma alighted quickly and walked the rest of the way.
The neighborhood looked vastly different this afternoon than it had on the night of the ball. On that occasion, Emma recalled, the street had been clogged with carriages. Miranda’s front steps had been thronged with expensively garbed guests. Lights had glowed from every window of her house. Music had echoed from the ballroom. An almost feverish air of activity had animated the scene.
There was no such lively aura about Miranda’s residence today, Emma thought as she went up the steps and banged the knocker. In fact things seemed almost unnaturally quiet.
A cool sensation shivered through her. She felt her palms tingle in a too-familiar way. No, please, she thought. Not another premonition. I have had quite enough of that sort of thing of late.
She glanced over her shoulder as she waited for someone to respond to her knock. The other town houses appeared subdued and silent. Of course, it was nearly five o’clock, Emma reminded herself, the hour to see and be seen in the park.
At this very moment most of the Polite World, seated astride spectacular mounts or driving elegant equipages, were parading along sylvan paths. It was the sort of scene in which Miranda no doubt gloried. That she had chosen to wait in her house all afternoon in hopes that her request for a visit would be heeded said a great deal about her sense of urgency concerning this situation.
No one came to answer the door. Emma flexed her gloved hands to rid herself of the prickling sensation. It did not work.
She knocked again and waited, listening for the sound of footsteps in the hall.
A few minutes later she was forced to conclude that no one was going to respond. Perhaps Miranda had gone out after all, she thought. Still, someone should have answered the door. Although it was entirely possible that the household staff had seized the opportunity to enjoy a bit of leisure time.
The uneasy twinges continued to plague her. She stepped back to survey the windows. The curtains were all drawn tightly closed.
She sighed. It was impossible to ignore the whisper of dread. Something was very wrong inside Miranda’s house.
She turned and hurried back to the waiting hackney. It was time to take more forceful action. She hoped Edison would not be difficult.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Edison scowled. “Break into Miranda’s house? Have you gone mad?”
“I think something is wrong.” Emma peered out through the hackney window. The steps in front of the town house were still quiet. No one had come or gone in the few minutes she had been arguing with Edison. “There are not even any servants at home. Miranda has a great number of them, if you will recall. Surely there should be a maid or a footman around.”
“Bloody hell.” Nevertheless, Edison leaned forward to study the scene. “I knew this was a bad notion.”
“Well, sir? Are we going to investigate or not?”
Edison hesitated a moment longer. Then he switched his attention back to her. She saw the grimly intent expression in his eyes and knew that he was as concerned as she.
“We will not do anything,” he said. “You will wait here in the coach. I’ll go around back and see if there is anyone about in the gardens.”
“I will accompany you,” Emma said firmly. “If there is something wrong, it will be better if there are two of us to deal with it.”
“No, Emma.” He made to open the door.
“Wait.” She grabbed his sleeve. “Listen to me. If you go in alone, someone may mistake you for a housebreaker.”
“Which is
precisely what I will be if things are as you describe. I don’t want you involved.”
“Nonsense. If we stick together, we can claim that we were invited to pay a social call and became concerned about Miranda’s safety when no one answered the door. Which is only the truth.”
“A bit thin, I think.” Edison opened the door and got out. He turned to look back at her. “You are to stay here, do you understand?”
He slammed the door without pausing for a response and started around the corner.
Emma waited until he was out of sight before she followed him.
As soon as she turned the corner, she saw at once that she had waited a little too long. Edison was nowhere to be seen. He had already vanished down a shadowy alley that ran between two rows of walled gardens. Leafy vines and an assortment of flowery creepers cascaded down the high stone walls. Tree limbs projected out over the alley on both sides. The late spring foliage was thick and heavy, creating a canopy of green overhead.
She hurried into the shaded alley and then paused, trying to orient herself. From this side it was difficult to tell which gate opened onto Miranda’s garden. She tried to recall how many town houses she had passed when she had gone to knock on Miranda’s front door a few minutes earlier. Four? Or was it five? She had not counted.
She stopped in front of the fourth gate and hesitated again. Things could become exceedingly awkward if she accidentally entered the wrong garden, she thought.
“One would think,” Edison said softly from the top of the garden wall, “that I would eventually learn that you do not take orders well.”
She jumped back and looked up quickly. “Edison.”
She searched frantically for him amid the overhanging foliage. It took her a few seconds to spot him. He was almost invisible in the tangle of greenery that flowed out and over the wall.
When she finally saw him, she glared. “Do not ever do that again, sir. You gave me a terrible start.”
“Serves you right. Well, as you are here now, you may as well come into the garden. It is obviously wiser to have you close at hand where I can keep an eye on you than it is to leave you to your own devices.”
He disappeared. A moment later the gate opened with a soft squeak. Emma slipped quickly into the garden. Hedges blocked her view of the back of the house.
“Follow me,” Edison said.
He avoided the paths, leading her through a maze of greenery until they emerged near the kitchen door. He surveyed the house for a moment.
There was an ominous quality to the silence that emanated from the depths of the town house. She realized that, although she had insisted on coming this far, she did not want to enter the place.
“Stay here,” Edison whispered.
She waited in the shadow of a hedge and watched as he went up the back steps to try the door.
It opened easily. Edison glanced back at her. She knew that he was going to proceed inside. She drew a deep, fortifying breath and hurried up the steps to join him.
The foreboding silence outside the house was nothing compared to the gloom-filled interior. There was no one about in the kitchens, but there was a general air of readiness. The workbenches had been freshly scrubbed. Vegetables filled a nearby basket, awaiting preparation for the evening meal. A pile of cleaned and plucked pigeons was heaped in a pan.
“It does not look as if she took a notion to suddenly close up her house and leave town,” Edison observed.
“No.”
Emma trailed after him through the kitchens into the rear hall. She recognized her surroundings instantly. This was where she had stood the night she had followed Swan down the back staircase. She glanced across the way and saw that the library door was closed.
Another terrible chill lanced through her. She could not take her eyes off the door.
“Edison, the library.”
He gave her an odd look but did not ask questions. He crossed the hall and opened the door.
Emma caught her breath at the sight of the chaos inside. The library had been turned upside down. But that was not what brought her stomach up into her throat.
The essence of death was unmistakable.
She reeled back a step. Instinctively she reached into her reticule for a handkerchief to put over her mouth. Breathing shallowly through it, she stared in horror at the figure that lay sprawled on the library carpet.
“Oh my God, Edison. Is it … ?”
“Yes. It’s Miranda.” Edison walked into the room and came to a halt beside the body. “Shot dead.”
Emma took a reluctant step into the room. She could not look away from the terrible bloody stain that soaked the bodice of Miranda’s afternoon gown.
“How could this happen in her own home?” Emma asked. “Surely the servants would have heard the shot. Where are they, anyway? Why did no one sound the alarm?”
“Perhaps she sent them away before the killer arrived.” Edison moved to a nearby table and studied the objects that lay scattered on the floor beside it. “She appears to have been expecting you, however.”
Emma forced her gaze away from Miranda’s body and focused instead on the items lying on the carpet beside his gleaming Hessians. There was a jar of herbs, a teapot, and a single cup. Next to the tea things was a deck of cards that had fallen and partially fanned out across the rug.
“She obviously planned to give me another one of her tests.” Emma looked at him. “But why would she do that? She was already convinced that I was a suitable candidate for the elixir.”
“Yes, but if she intended to talk you into going into partnership with her, she would have needed to persuade you that you really could read the cards under the influence of the elixir.”
“I suppose that explains why she sent the servants away for the afternoon,” Emma said slowly. “If she intended to give me a demonstration of the effects of her elixir and talk to me about the details of her scheme, she probably thought it best to be private.”
Edison slowly examined the shambles. The few books Miranda had used to decorate the shelves lay on the floor. Papers littered the carpet. The globe had fallen from its stand. The drawers of the desk stood wide.
“I suppose this could have been the result of a burglary,” he said.
“You do not sound very convinced of that.”
“I’m not.” He went to the desk and glanced into the drawers. “I think, under the circumstances, we must assume that whoever did this was looking for the recipe for the elixir or the Book of Secrets.”
“Do you think he found anything?”
“There’s no way to be certain.” Edison studied the room. “But he may have found something because he obviously decided that he no longer needed Miranda.”
“Dear God, Edison. What should we do now?”
“The answer to that is obvious. We should get out of here. As quickly as possible.” He reached for her wrist.
Alarm shot through her. “Edison?”
“The last thing we need at this point is for you to be connected to a second murder.”
Emma’s stomach lurched violently. “But how could anyone possibly link me to this crime?”
“I do not know and I do not intend to find out.” He hauled her out the door into the hall. “We must get out of here before one of the servants returns.”
“I will not argue with you, sir.”
“That makes a pleasant change.”
They retreated from the house along the same path they had used to enter it. Emma did not realize how tense she was until they reached the alley and found that it was still deserted. Then a light-headed sensation swept over her.
“Are you all right?” Edison glanced sharply at her. “You look a little pale.”
“Of course I’m all right. It’s not as though I have not seen murder before. This is my second one in less than a fortnight.” Emma took a breath. “At this rate I shall soon grow quite accustomed to the business.”
“How very fortunate for you, my dear. I, on the oth
er hand, may have to resort to carrying a vinaigrette.”
They hurried down the alley and stepped out onto the street. Emma saw the hackney waiting at the corner. The coachman was slumped in his seat, snoring peacefully. The horse dozed, one hoof cocked.
Edison rapped on the side of the coach. “Rouse yourself, coachman. Your customers have returned. We wish to be off immediately.”
The coachman jolted awake. “Aye, sir.” He took up the reins with a long-suffering sigh. “Typical of their sort,” he muttered to the horse. “Always changin’ their bloody minds. First they tell ye to wait until yer finally settled into a nice little nap and then they wake ye and tell ye they’re in a terrible hurry to get somewhere.”
Edison yanked open the coach door and bundled Emma inside. He got in behind her, shut the door, and drew the curtains.
Emma hugged herself. “Who would want to murder Miranda?”
“Personally, I do not doubt that there are any number of people, including a few jealous wives, who would cheerfully have shot her.” Edison sat back and looked at Emma. “But in this instance, I think we would do well to assume that whoever killed her was involved in this damnable affair of the missing book and the recipe.”
“Yes.” Emma reached up to massage her temples. “But, Edison, you mentioned jealousy as a motive.”
“What of it? I do not think it a likely explanation in this case.”
“You are forgetting that there is someone who did, indeed, have good cause to be jealous of Miranda’s many lovers.”
There was a short, brittle pause.
“Indeed,” Edison said softly. “It might be best if we found Swan before the authorities leap to the same conclusion. I have some questions for him.”
“What makes you think that he will answer them?”
Edison smiled his enigmatic smile. “I will offer him a bargain. In exchange for giving me the information I seek concerning Miranda’s past, I will lend him my assistance in evading the authorities, should they decide to try to arrest him for her murder.”
Emma froze.
Edison watched her. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Damnation, Emma, I am in no mood for games. Tell me what is bothering you about my plan.”