Don't Look Back

  “Must you lurk in dark alleys? I vow, you nearly gave me an attack of the vapors. What on earth do you think you are doing?”

  “You could not resist a firsthand look at the good doctor, could you?” Tobias did not trouble to hide his mocking smile. “Did you let Darfield put you into a trance?”

  “No. As it happens, I am not a suitable subject.”

  “That does not surprise me. You would not find it easy to surrender your will to another.”

  “No more than you would,” she shot back. “Only consider how stubborn you have been whenever I have offered to see if I could give you some relief from your wound.”

  “You have provided me with exquisite relief of another sort on a number of occasions, madam. I am very satisfied with your therapeutic treatments.”

  “That is less amusing than you can possibly imagine,” she muttered. “What are you doing here? Good grief, sir, you followed me, did you not?”

  “I will admit that I was somewhat curious. Well? Did you learn anything useful?”

  “Our primary client is a mesmerist, and the murder victim had some skills in the science,” she said stiffly. “I admit that the fact that another one of our clients, Mrs. Rushton, happens to be seeing a mesmerist bothered me. You are the one who taught me to be wary of coincidences.”

  “Given the number of people who consult mesmerists about poor nerves, it would be more astonishing if it transpired that Mrs. Rushton had not sought therapy for hers,” he said dryly. “Well? Were you satisfied with your inquiries in that direction?”

  She cleared her throat. “Quite satisfied.”

  “You are convinced that Darfield is a legitimate practitioner?”

  “Indeed.”

  Tobias glanced thoughtfully back over his shoulder toward the green door. “Judging from the patients I saw going into his establishment while I waited for you, he appears to specialize in the treatment of ladies.”

  “Yes. Yes, he does, as a matter of fact. He is an expert in the treatment of female hysteria.”

  “What the devil is female hysteria, anyway? I’ve often wondered.”

  “It is somewhat difficult to describe to an untrained person,” she said very coolly. “Suffice it to say that it is an extremely profitable complaint so far as those in the medical and mesmeric professions are concerned because the patient neither dies nor recovers from her disease. One gets a great deal of repeat business.”

  “As is the case with Mrs. Rushton.”

  “Yes.”

  “Something to be said for a profession that encourages repeat business.” He took her arm and started across the street. “How does Dr. Darfield treat female hysterics?”

  “Why are you suddenly so curious about such an arcane medical subject?”

  “I could not help but notice that the ladies who were admitted to his rooms seemed to go up those steps with a great deal of enthusiasm. I also recall that Mrs. Rushton spoke glowingly about his treatments. I assume Darfield’s mode of therapy is not only effective but painless.”

  “Indeed.”

  He drew her to a halt and stood looking past her toward the green door on the opposite side of the street. She did not care for the dangerously thoughtful expression in his eyes.

  “I also could not help but notice that you very nearly flew down those front steps a moment ago. You appeared quite eager to leave.”

  “I am in a hurry. I have a number of things I wish to accomplish this afternoon.”

  “Did something happen in Darfield’s rooms, Lavinia?”

  “Nothing of any significance,” she said airily. “As you surmised, Mrs. Rushton’s visits to him are entirely unremarkable and in no way connected to our case.”

  “You’re quite certain that there is nothing in this that I should know about?”

  “Tobias, I vow, on occasion you are like a dog with a bone.” She made a show of checking the time on the little watch pinned to her pelisse. “Gracious, where has the day gone? I wanted to do some shopping on the way home.”

  “About Darfield’s therapeutic techniques—”

  “Do not concern yourself, sir. I assure you that Dr. Darfield’s method of treating nervous disorders in ladies falls within the accepted boundaries of traditional and well-established medical and mesmeric practice.”

  Sixteen

  EMELINE WATCHED THE GARDENER CAREFULLY while Anthony questioned him. She felt a good deal of sympathy for the poor man. He stood in the middle of the kitchen, nervously twisting his cap, and gave short, unhelpful answers. He was clearly uncomfortable, although Anthony had gone out of his way to be polite and soothing in his approach, just as he had with the other servants.

  “Have you ever witnessed anyone going into his lordship’s dressing chamber at an unusual time? Late at night, perhaps?” Anthony asked.

  “Never even seen his lordship’s dressing chamber. Never seen his bedchamber, for that matter. Never been upstairs.” The gardener cast his eyes toward the ceiling as though peering toward an invisible metaphysical realm. “Worked ’ere for seventeen years. Kitchen’s the only room I’ve ever seen inside the house.”

  “Of course it is.” Mrs. Rushton, seated at the head of the long wooden table, spoke with conviction. “Gardeners have no business beyond the kitchens.”

  Anthony’s jaw tightened. Emeline sensed his impatience. This was not the first time Mrs. Rushton had interrupted.

  This morning’s investigation, which she and Anthony had begun with such great enthusiasm, had not gone well. None of the staff had been forthcoming. All had been ill at ease, and Emeline was quite certain she knew why. It was not guilt that made the maids, gardeners, and housekeeper so anxious. It was the fact that Mrs. Rushton had insisted upon being present during the questioning.

  Anthony thanked the gardener, who was only too eager to escape. He caught Emeline’s eye and shook his head very slightly. She closed her notebook with a sigh.

  “Well, then,” Mrs. Rushton said, “that is the last of the lot. Did you learn anything helpful, Mr. Sinclair?”

  Anthony gave her a winning smile that, in Emeline’s opinion, did nothing to conceal the irritation in his eyes. But Mrs. Rushton did not seem to notice. She was clearly quite taken with him. She had, in fact, paid virtually no attention whatsoever to Emeline from the moment she had been introduced to Anthony. There was a peculiar expression in her eyes whenever she looked in his direction, which was rather often.

  Emeline decided that if she had seen that expression when a gentleman eyed a lady, she would have accounted the man an out-and-out libertine and debaucher of the worst sort.

  “We won’t know the answer to that until we compare notes with Mr. March and Mrs. Lake,” Anthony said. “Thank you very much for your time this morning, Mrs. Rushton.”

  “Not at all.” Mrs. Rushton got to her feet. She kept her attention on Anthony. “You will contact me immediately if you learn anything concerning the bracelet, will you not?”

  “Of course.”

  “I would appreciate a personal report from you, Mr. Sinclair,” Mrs. Rushton said, lowering her voice to an intimate tone. “I feel that I can speak comfortably with you, sir. Indeed, I find it very reassuring to know that a gentleman possessed of such an obviously vigorous physique is assisting in this investigation.”

  “Thank you for placing your confidence in me, madam.” Anthony gave Emeline an urgent look and edged toward the kitchen door. “We will keep you informed of our progress, one way or another. Now, my associate and I must be on our way.”

  “A cup of tea before you leave?” Mrs. Rushton said quickly.

  Anthony’s mouth opened. Emeline knew that he was about to refuse. She leaped to her feet, frantically trying to signal him with her eyes.

  He hesitated, caught her silent message, and reluctantly subsided.

  Emeline turned swiftly to Mrs. Rushton. “Madam, before we leave, would it be too much to ask if I might borrow your gardener for a quick tour of your gardens before we dep
art? I could not help but note that they are quite extensive. Gardening is a passion of mine.”

  Mrs. Rushton hesitated.

  “Mr. Sinclair could join you in a cup of tea while I examine your plants and herbs,” Emeline added smoothly.

  Mrs. Rushton smiled. “Yes, of course. An excellent suggestion. Enjoy your little tour.”

  “Thank you.” Emeline slipped her notebook and pencil into her reticule and jumped to her feet. “I won’t be long.”

  Anthony gave her a hapless look as she sped out the door. She pretended not to notice.

  TWENTY MINUTES LATER THEY FINALLY ESCAPED from the gloomy mansion. Anthony wore a decidedly grim expression.

  It was clear to Emeline that his bad temper was only partially connected to the failure of their inquiries.

  “I trust you had a very sound reason for leaving me alone with that dreadful woman for such an extended period of time,” he growled.

  “Dreadful? How can you say that? Mrs. Rushton was obviously charmed by you. She did not care a jot about me, mind you, but I believe she would like to write a sonnet or an ode to your obviously vigorous physique.”

  “I am in no mood for your teasing.” He took her arm in an unexpectedly forceful manner and steered her toward the park.

  It occurred to her that this was the first time she had ever seen Anthony in a temper. It was a new and intriguing side of him.

  “Good heavens, sir,” she murmured, “you really are out of sorts, are you not?”

  “What was that business of touring the gardens all about?” He opened the iron gate and hauled her into the small, overgrown park. “You know very well that we did not go to that house today so that you could view a bunch of plants and posies.”

  “I know precisely why we went there.” He was marching her so quickly now that her bonnet had started to bob and wobble in a precarious manner. She reached up to steady it. “And we failed miserably.”

  “Because of that dreadful woman.” Anthony chose a path that cut diagonally across the park. “None of the servants was willing to be forthcoming in front of her. They know very well that, with Banks on his deathbed, she is their real employer. She could let any one of them go without any notice or references.”

  “Indeed.” She was obliged to skip a bit to keep up with him. “And that is why I took my little impromptu tour of the gardens with that poor, terrified gardener.”

  Anthony spared her a brief, searching glance. She could tell that he was still fuming, but he also knew her well enough to be sure she had not acted entirely on whim.

  “What did you and the poor, terrified gardener discuss?” he asked.

  She smiled, more than a little pleased with herself. “We discussed finances.”

  “Bloody hell.” But he slowed his pace a little at that news. “You offered him a bribe?”

  “A fee,” she corrected. “I was inspired by my aunt. Apparently she and Mr. March consider information a commodity like any other, and therefore they are on occasion willing to pay for it.”

  “True.” Anthony paused to open the gate on the far side of the garden. “Tobias grumbles about the practice, but there is no doubt that it is effective. Was the gardener receptive to your offer?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You mean he didn’t tell you anything?” Anthony drew her through the opening and turned back to close the gate. “I hope you didn’t give him money for nothing.”

  “He was obviously too nervous to speak with me in a direct fashion. He was well aware that Mrs. Rushton was not far away. But I sensed he knew more than he had told us and I assured him that the offer I had made would stand for a full twenty-four hours.”

  “I see.” Anthony took her arm again. He said nothing until they turned down a narrow street on the far side of the square.

  “Not a bad scheme,” he finally allowed grudgingly.

  “Thank you. I thought it was rather clever myself.”

  “But was it absolutely necessary to sacrifice me to Mrs. Rushton just so that you could offer a bribe to the gardener?”

  “I told you, it was a fee, not a bribe. And as for sacrificing you, I’m afraid I had little choice. I would remind you that I was forced to act swiftly.”

  “That strikes me as an excuse.”

  “Come now,” she said. “Tea with Mrs. Rushton wasn’t that bad, was it?”

  “The worst twenty minutes of my life, if you must know. The woman tried to persuade me to pay another call on her at a later time. Alone, mind you.” Anthony gave a visible shudder. “She suggested an evening visit.”

  “It must have been a somewhat harrowing experience. I vow, I have never seen you quite so shaken, sir.”

  “When I asked Tobias to take me on as his assistant, he neglected to mention that there were clients such as Mrs. Rushton.”

  “You must admit, we have embarked upon interesting careers.”

  He cheered a little at that observation. “Yes, very interesting, indeed. Tobias is still not altogether pleased with my decision to follow in his footsteps, but I believe he has accepted it.”

  “Aunt Lavinia shares similar reservations about me. But I think she understands.”

  Anthony frowned slightly. “Speaking of Tobias and your aunt, there is something I wish to discuss with you.”

  “You are concerned about their personal relationship, are you not?”

  “I collect that you have similar concerns?”

  “I have become a trifle worried of late,” she admitted.

  “It is obvious that they have become quite, uh, close. And not just in the business sense, if you take my meaning.”

  She fixed her attention on the far end of the street. “What you are trying to say is that you believe that they have become intimate.”

  “Yes. Forgive me, I realize that this is certainly not the sort of topic one generally discusses with a lady of your years and station, but I feel I must talk to you about the situation.”

  “Do not concern yourself with the proprieties,” she said gently. “You and I, Anthony, have not had traditional, sheltered upbringings. We have certainly had far more experience of the world than most people our age. You may speak freely with me.”

  “If you must know, I am troubled by the fact that Tobias and Mrs. Lake seem to be growing more quarrelsome of late.”

  “Yes, I know what you mean. The nature of their association appears to be quite nettlesome, to say the least.”

  “I thought, following the success of their investigation into the affair of the waxwork murders, that they had both sailed into more harmonious waters. Indeed, I would have said that they were falling in love. If nothing else, it was clear that they had conceived a passion for each other.”

  Emeline thought of Lavinia’s flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes on those occasions when she returned from one of her long walks in the park with Tobias. “Quite clear.”

  “I have no doubt but that the problem stems from Tobias’s singular lack of interest in romantical matters. He simply does not know how to woo a lady. I have tried to give him some advice, but I fear the lessons are not taking.”

  “I really don’t think that is the difficulty,” Emeline said thoughtfully. “It is true that my aunt loves romantical poetry, but I don’t believe that she expects Mr. March to conform to the standards of one of Byron’s heroes.”

  “I am relieved to hear that, because I fear he lacks that sort of polish and has no intention of acquiring it. But if that is not the problem, what the devil is going on between those two?”

  “Something Aunt Lavinia said recently leads me to believe that she thinks Mr. March is attempting to, uh, limit the competition, as it were.”

  Anthony’s brows knotted. “Bloody hell. Why would she think that?”

  “In part because Mr. March refuses to introduce her to some of his connections.”

  “Yes, I know, but he has what he feels is a perfectly sound reason for refusing. Some of his connections have links to the criminal
class. He does not think that it would be proper to introduce Mrs. Lake to that sort, and I must admit, I can see his point of view.”

  “It is not just that Mr. March will not introduce her to some of his more useful associates,” Emeline continued. “I fear that lately he has begun issuing instructions almost daily and giving unwanted advice at every turn. She finds him quite overbearing. My aunt is not accustomed to taking orders from anyone, you know.”

  Anthony contemplated that for a moment. “It is clear that we are dealing with two exceptionally independent, strong-minded people. What is more, they are both quite set in their ways, are they not? I wonder what—”

  A child’s voice broke into his musings. It came from behind them.

  “Sir. Ma’am. Please wait. My pa wants me to give ye a message.”

  “What’s this?” Anthony halted and swung around.

  Emeline stopped and glanced back over her shoulder. She saw a young boy of eight or nine years, clad in rumpled clothes and a cap, waving to them from the entrance to the narrow street. Excitement swept through her.

  “That is the gardener’s son,” she said to Anthony. “I met him in the course of my tour. He assists his father at the Banks mansion.”

  “What can he want with us?”

  “I’ll wager his papa sent him after us with some news. He probably hopes to collect the fee I promised. I knew my scheme would work.”

  The boy saw that he had their attention. He hurried toward them.

  The sudden loud clatter of carriage wheels and horses’ hooves rumbled behind the lad. Emeline looked past the boy and saw a black hackney rounding the corner. The two-horse team was moving at a swift trot. When the vehicle turned into the street, the coachman cracked his whip loudly over the rumps of the horses. The beasts lunged forward at full gallop.

  The gardener’s son was directly in their path.

  Emeline realized that the boy was in danger of being trampled beneath the hooves and wheels.

  “Look out,” she shouted.

  She did not know if the lad heard her warning, but in that instant he seemed to become aware of the din behind him. He stopped and turned. For an instant he seemed to be paralyzed by the sight of the onrushing carriage.