“Bloody hell,” he said softly. “The place has been ransacked.”
Iphiginia stared at the chaos around them. “What do you think happened here?”
“I don’t know.” Marcus moved toward the narrow staircase that led to the private rooms above the shop. “Wait here. I want to take a quick look around upstairs.”
Iphiginia ignored him. She followed him up the stairs and came to a halt beside him in a doorway that opened onto a tiny parlor.
Here everything was in order. The folding table of the secretary desk was neatly closed. The furnishings were not tumbled about. The carpet was not littered with papers.
“This room does not appear to have been disturbed,” Iphiginia said.
“No.” Marcus turned and walked down the hall.
Iphiginia followed.
Together they looked into one small, comfortably furnished room after another and then they climbed the stairs to the top floor.
It was not until Marcus put his hand on the knob of the bedchamber door that Iphiginia was suddenly struck by a deep sense of dread.
“Marcus?”
“I’ll go in first.”
He opened the door of the last bedchamber and stood very still in the opening.
Iphiginia tried to peer around Marcus’s broad shoulders. She could see what appeared to be gray skirts and a pair of high laced shoes lying on the floor. “Oh, my God. Is that …?”
“No doubt. Stay right here.”
This time Iphiginia obeyed. She watched Marcus walk toward the body. He came to a halt beside the dead woman and knelt down to examine her.
“She was shot,” Marcus said. He touched one of the fingers of a limp hand.
“She’s …?”
“Dead. Yes.” Marcus got to his feet. “I would estimate that she has been dead for several hours.”
Iphiginia’s stomach clenched. She backed hurriedly out of the doorway, gasping for air.
Marcus walked out of the room. He looked at her with concern. “Are you all right?”
Iphiginia nodded hastily. “Yes. I think so.”
“Come on, let’s get out of here. The last thing we want is to be discovered hanging about a dead woman’s rooms.”
Marcus took her arm and whisked her down the staircase.
“Do you think Mrs. Wycherley was robbed?” Iphiginia asked.
“No,” Marcus said. He came to a halt on the first landing and glanced into the parlor again. “If that were the case, the thief would have taken those silver candlesticks and a few other items.”
“Then what happened here?”
“I’m not positive, but I can create a hypothesis which would explain what we see.”
“What is your hypothesis?”
“I suspect that Mrs. Wycherley was the blackmailer and that your aunt and my friend were not her only victims. Nor were we the only people who managed to make the connection to the Wycherley Agency.”
“You believe that someone else came here after Mr. Manwaring talked to her yesterday?”
“Yes. It’s entirely reasonable to assume that Mrs. Wycherley was murdered by one of her victims.”
“And after he killed her the victim went through her files searching for the evidence she had used to blackmail him?”
“Yes,” Marcus said.
“Marcus, that is brilliant. It would explain everything.” Iphiginia frowned. “It also means that the crisis is over.”
“It appears that way.”
She tried to feel a sense of relief. After all, Aunt Zoe’s secret was safe once more.
But the blackmail problem was not the only thing that had disappeared, she realized. Along with it had gone her excuse for continuing her masquerade as Marcus’s mistress.
THIRTEEN
AT SEVEN O’CLOCK THAT EVENING MARCUS SAT AT THE worktable in his laboratory and pondered the dilemma of how to turn a mistress into a wife.
It was a problem he had never thought to encounter. By comparison, the construction of clockwork mechanisms, telescopes, and hydraulic reservoir pens seemed quite simple.
He pushed aside the leather-bound notebook he had opened a few minutes earlier, leaned back in his chair, and propped his booted feet on the cluttered table.
Glumly he contemplated the clockwork butler which he had constructed last year. It stood silent and still, a silver salver in one wooden hand. On a whim, Marcus had painted a proper black coat and a white shirt on the automaton. He had even made an attempt to capture Lovelace’s air of aristocratic disdain in the cold eyes and unsmiling mouth.
Life had seemed so simple until Iphiginia had appeared in his carefully regulated universe, Marcus thought.
As though she were a shooting star flashing through the dark night, she had lit up the sky. But if he did not find a way to catch hold of her, she would either disintegrate in a shower of sparks or fall to earth with a devastating thud.
A knock on the door of the laboratory brought Marcus out of his reverie. “Enter.”
“Marcus?” Bennet stuck his head around the door. “Thought you might be in here. Are you working?”
“No. Come in.”
Bennet walked into the room with his new languid, world-weary stride, closed the door, and approached the worktable. Marcus glanced at him and winced. His brother was very much the stormy-eyed poet again today.
Bennet’s dark hair was carefully brushed into a careless, windswept tangle. His shirt was open at his throat and he was not wearing a neckcloth or a waistcoat.
“I trust you intend to put on a cravat before you go out,” Marcus muttered. “You’ll not be allowed into any ball or soiree tonight if you show up looking as though you just got out of bed.”
“I have not yet dressed for the evening.” Bennet went to the window and slouched against the frame, ennui personified. He stood gazing out into the garden with a moody expression.
“Was there something you wanted?” Marcus finally prompted.
Bennet looked at him with hooded eyes. “I came here to tell you that I have made a decision.”
“You’re going on a tour of the Continent?” Marcus asked without much hope.
“I am going to ask Dorchester for Juliana’s hand in marriage.”
“Bloody hell.”
“Marcus, I have got to do it now. For God’s sake, don’t you understand? If I wait until I return from a tour of the Continent, Dorchester will have married her off to someone else.”
“Only if you are extremely fortunate.”
“Damn it to hell.” Bennet swung around, his expression passionate. “I know that you do not care for Dorchester, but why must you also condemn his daughter? She’s not at all like him.”
“You think not?”
“She’s a true lady. An innocent beauty whose spirit is as pure and untarnished as … as—”
“New-fallen snow, perhaps?”
“I warn you, I will not tolerate any of your poor jests about her, Marcus.” Bennet clenched his fist. “I intend to ask for her hand, do you comprehend?”
“God save us.”
“Do you know what your problem is?”
“I have no doubt but what you will tell me.”
“You’re a bloody cynic, that’s what you are. Just because you choose to indulge yourself with outrageous little adventuresses such as Mrs. Bright, don’t presume to judge a genuine innocent.”
Marcus was out of his chair before Bennet even realized what was happening.
He vaulted over the table and crossed the room in two strides. He caught hold of Bennet’s shoulder, shoved him hard against the wall, and pinned him there.
“Don’t call her an adventuress,” Marcus said softly.
“What the hell?” Bennet’s eyes widened in stunned amazement. “She’s merely another one of your paramours, for God’s sake. Everyone knows that.”
“She is my very good friend,” Marcus said. “An insult to her is an insult to me. Do you comprehend my meaning, brother?”
“Hel
l and damnation, yes.” Bennet eyed him warily. “Yes, of course I comprehend you. I had no notion you were so touchy on the subject.”
Marcus held Bennet against the wall for a moment longer and then released him abruptly. “Perhaps you had better leave. I have work to do and you obviously have plans of your own.”
Bennet straightened his rumpled lapels and adjusted the cuffs of his coat. “I apologize for any offense.”
“Apology accepted. Now kindly take your leave.”
“You cannot blame me for mistaking the situation. Your sentiments concerning Mrs. Bright appear to be far stronger than the ones you generally entertain toward your lady friends,” Bennet observed.
“You would do well to remove yourself from this chamber before I lose my patience entirely.”
Bennet angled his chin. “I’m going to do it, you know. I am going to seek Juliana’s hand in marriage.”
Marcus shrugged. “You have made it plain that nothing I say will dissuade you.”
“Will you wish me luck?” There was a tentative note in Bennet’s voice.
“I regret that I cannot do so.” Marcus stood looking down at the mechanical butler. “I do not believe that you will find any lasting happiness with Juliana Dorchester.”
“What would you know about finding happiness with a woman?” Bennet asked bitterly. “You have made so many bloody rules for yourself that you can no longer find any joy in your life.”
“Get out of here, Bennet.”
“So be it. I will not ask for your good wishes, then.” Bennet stalked toward the door. He paused with his hand on the knob. “Do you know something, brother? I believe that I actually feel sorry for you.”
“Don’t waste your sympathy on me. You will need it for yourself if you go through with this marriage to Juliana Dorchester.”
Bennet went out of the chamber without a word. He slammed the door so hard that the electricity machine shuddered on its bench.
Marcus reached down and snapped the switch that released the springs within the mechanical man. Wheels and gears clanked and whirred as the clockwork butler jerked into action.
The automaton lurched blindly forward, silver salver extended.
Marcus watched the progress of the soulless creature as it crossed the laboratory. How easy it was to be an automaton, guided only by a mechanical spring.
The artificial man stared straight ahead, looking neither to the right nor to the left, heedless of what lay before it or behind it. It had no past and no future. Its present was governed by the inflexible rules of a mechanical universe.
It did not know pain.
But neither did it know joy.
“There is a small item in the morning papers concerning the death of Mrs. Wycherley,” Zoe said. “No mention of her being a blackmailer, of course. Good lord, who would believe it?” She flung herself back against the elegant curve of her red velvet Roman sofa. “It is utterly astounding.”
“It is the only conclusion that Masters and I were able to reach.” Iphiginia picked up her teacup.
“I can hardly credit it,” Zoe said. “It is simply too fantastical.”
Lord Otis’s bushy brows drew together in a considering scowl. “Has a certain logic to it when you think about it.”
“Yes, it does,” Amelia said. “It explains why Iphiginia could not discover a clear link between Guthrie’s circle of friends and that of Lord Masters. There wasn’t one.”
“So much for all my clandestine searches for black sealing wax and a seal engraved with a phoenix.” Iphiginia heaved a small sigh of regret. “I was so certain that I was on to something there.”
“How positively brilliant of Masters to hit upon the notion of making inquiries into the whereabouts of our former paid companions,” Zoe said in tones of great admiration.
Iphiginia rolled her eyes. “His original hypothesis was not entirely correct, you know. Neither of the companions proved to be the blackmailer.”
“No, but his theory led straight to the real blackmailer,” Otis observed. “Man has an excellent intellect.”
Iphiginia made a face. “Yes, and he is well aware of it.”
Amelia gave her one of her infrequent smiles. “I do believe that you are somewhat jealous, Iphiginia.”
“Well, I was quite partial to my own hypothesis,” she admitted. “Masters’s notion is fascinating, however. And Otis is right, it’s very logical. Just think, all those years Mrs. Wycherley was using certain governesses and companions to collect damning information about some of the best families.”
“I never really cared for Miss Todd,” Zoe said. “She had eyes that reminded me of a small rat. I did not retain her for long.”
“You should have let her go much earlier than you did,” Amelia remarked. “She was obviously around long enough to conclude that Maryanne was not Guthrie’s daughter.”
“Obviously.” Zoe shook her head. “One wonders how many other victims the woman had. Is every house in London infested with spies?”
“I doubt it.” Iphiginia pursed her lips. “From all indications, Mrs. Wycherley was very selective and quite cautious, at least until recently. She no doubt chose her victims carefully.”
“Hah.” Otis’s whiskers twitched. “She made a serious blunder when she undertook to expand her list of victims to include my Zoe and a good friend of the Earl of Masters, by God.”
“Yes,” Iphiginia said. “She did.”
“Well, it’s over at last, thank heavens.” Zoe helped herself to a small pink cake from the tea tray. “Now we can get on with the Season. I confess I have had some difficulty planning Maryanne’s marriage, what with this blackmail business hanging over my head.”
Otis gave Iphiginia a shrewd look. “Masters is certain this is the end of the matter?”
Iphiginia hesitated. “He seems quite satisfied that it is.”
“Well, then, that’s the end of it,” Otis declared.
“Yes.” Iphiginia rose to her feet and picked up her white bonnet. “Amelia and I must be on our way. We have an appointment with our man of affairs. Perhaps we shall see you at the theater later this evening.”
“Very likely,” Zoe said cheerfully. “What a relief it will be to be able to sit in my box without wondering if a blackmailer’s eyes are fastened upon me.”
“There’s just one more thing.” Iphiginia fixed each of the other three in turn with a deliberate look. “I trust that you all realize that merely because the blackmail situation is finished, nothing else has changed.”
Zoe looked blank. “Whatever are you talking about, Iphiginia?”
“For all intents and purposes, I am still Mrs. Bright so far as Society is concerned.”
“Damnation,” Otis exclaimed. “She’s right. Cannot go changing her identity at this point. She’d be ruined.”
“We agreed at the beginning of this affair that when the matter was resolved I would disappear discreetly from the scene,” Iphiginia said. “But I have changed my mind.”
Zoe eyed her with grave interest. “You’re going to finish the Season as Masters’s mistress?”
“Yes.”
Zoe exchanged uneasy glances with Amelia and Otis. Then she turned back to Iphiginia. “Masters has agreed to this plan?”
“More or less,” Iphiginia said airily. There was no point in telling them that Marcus had actually insisted on marriage. She feared that they would all side with him.
And Iphiginia knew that she could not possibly marry Marcus unless she could find a way to make him fall in love with her.
Discovering the identity of the blackmailer had been a simple matter compared with her new problem.
She was confronted with the daunting task of persuading Marcus to change his own rules.
Iphiginia was aware of Amelia’s deep silence as they walked down the front steps of Zoe’s town house. Her companion said nothing until they had each been handed up into Iphiginia’s white and gilt carriage.
“Out with it, Amelia.” Iphi
ginia settled back against the white velvet cushions and arranged her skirts. “What is troubling you?”
Amelia watched her closely. “I sensed that you hesitated when you told your aunt and Lord Otis that you were certain the blackmail matter was concluded. Something is worrying you.”
The little carriage started to roll forward. Iphiginia looked out the window. It was nearly five o’clock in the afternoon. The street was filled with fashionable carriages en route to the park.
“What bothers me,” she said slowly, “is that Masters and I searched Mrs. Wycherley’s desk before we left yesterday.”
“So?”
“So we did not discover a seal engraved with a phoenix. Nor did we find any sign of black wax in her wax jack.”
“I can promise you that Constance Wycherley was many things, but she was no fool. She must have lived in constant fear of discovery. She would not have left any obvious evidence of her guilt lying about.”
“That’s what Marcus said. But if she was so very clever—shrewd enough to get away with blackmail, in point of fact—why did she make the serious mistake of trying to blackmail a friend of Masters? She must have known that she ran the risk of drawing him into the business.”
“Perhaps she had gotten away with blackmail for so long that she had grown quite bold,” Amelia suggested. “Or perhaps she got greedier. She may have needed more money to cover gaming debts or some such thing. Who can say?”
“I suppose we shall never have all the answers.”
“Come, Iphiginia. You have already admitted that what is really disturbing you now is that Masters’s hypothesis was the correct one.”
“My own was really quite good, you know.”
“It was. It just happened to be the wrong hypothesis. Now that the affair is over, what do you intend to do about your other problem?”
“What other problem?”
“I heard what you said in Aunt Zoe’s drawing room, but we both know that you cannot continue to masquerade as Masters’s mistress indefinitely.”
“I can carry on with it until the end of the Season.” Iphiginia cleared her throat delicately. “And you may as well know that it is not, strictly speaking, a masquerade.”