The Viscount Always Knocks Twice by Grace Callaway

Chapter Twenty-Four

After parting ways with Violet, Richard went in search of his brother. He found Wickham having refreshments in the main drawing room, and he was relieved to see the other paying court to Miss Turbett. Her father hovered nearby, watching the proceedings like a hawk.

Richard found a quiet spot in a corner, where he could better observe his brother and the general goings-on. To the casual onlooker, Wick appeared attentive and interested, his golden brown curls leaned close to Miss Turbett’s mousy ones. Richard, however, saw the subtle lines of strain on his sibling’s face.

In truth, Miss Turbett also looked far from content. Her pale green frock emphasized her pallor, and her lips were pinched. Every now and again, her gaze drifted from Wick to a nearby window with a view of the courtyard and amphitheatre. She looked as if she wanted to be a thousand miles away…

Richard wished that there was another solution to Wick’s money troubles. But he couldn’t worry about it now. At present he had his hands full dealing with his brother’s other looming problem.

“La, Lord Carlisle! Well met!”

He turned in the direction of the simpering tones and wanted to groan as Miss Anne Wrotham approached him in a determined flurry of lace and ribbons. She was accompanied by her grandmama, Lady Ainsworthy, a dowager countess and famed stickler amongst the ton. Richard had a passing acquaintance with the pair—which, for him, was more than sufficient.

The dowager’s sour countenance conveyed her displeasure with her present circumstances. Richard had heard that she had deigned to attend the party because her son’s estate relied on the support of Billings’ bank. Even dowagers had to occasionally sing for their supper. Miss Wrotham, a tall and narrow spinster in her forties, had likely accompanied her grandmama since, by society’s standard, she was not only on the shelf, but at the very back of it, and thus had little choice but to descend a rung—or six—if she wanted a match.

“Lord Carlisle,” Miss Wrotham said with a breathy, affected lisp, “I was so hoping to see you.”

Richard didn’t like the predatory look in her close-set eyes.

“Why?” he said.

Her harsh laugh grated against his nerves. “La, what a wit you are, my lord. But I am quite certain you understand my meaning. We must stick together, we birds of a more refined feather.” She cast a contemptuous look around the room.

Richard didn’t care for snobs. “I am content with the company, Miss Wrotham.”

“Content indeed. How naughty of you to tease me, my lord.” She rapped her fan against his arm. “But I suppose such familiarities may be permitted since we are old friends.”

He’d never cared for empty flirtation. Since he couldn’t think of a polite reply, he said nothing. The awkward silence stretched until it was broken by his brother’s voice.

“There you are, Carlisle.” Wick appeared at his side, saying easily, “I was wondering if I could have a word with you. That is, if you don’t mind being deprived of such enchanting company?”

Miss Wrotham preened. “La, Mr. Murray, what a charmer you are.”

“Come, Anne, we will leave the gentlemen to their business,” the dowager said.

“Do come look for us when you’re done!” Miss Wrotham called as her grandmama dragged her away.

“Thanks for the rescue,” Richard muttered.

“Least I could do after all you’ve done for me.” Above the complicated folds of his cravat, Wick’s face was uncharacteristically somber. “I mean that, Richard. I know how much I am in your debt. For everything.”

“Brothers don’t speak of debts.” As he said the words, however, Richard thought of how Wick had misled Violet about him, and his gut knotted.

“You’re a bigger man than I am. A better one too.” Wick dragged a hand through his windswept curls, the signet ring gleaming on his hand. “That is why I wasn’t truthful to Violet about my debts, you know. I was ashamed of myself. And… envious of you.” He exhaled. “Because I’m not as good as you and never will be.”

Violet had been right about his brother’s motives for lying.

With a sigh, he said, “That’s not true, Wick. You have much to recommend you and a bright future ahead. You can change the path you’re on, have a fresh start. And you’re doing the right thing by courting Miss Turbett.”

“Too little too late, but it’s better than nothing.” Wick’s smile was lopsided. “Enough about me. So you and Violet… it’s serious?”

He nodded. “All I have to do is convince her to marry me.”

“Shouldn’t be too difficult. The two of you are a perfect match.”

Richard thought so, and he hoped he was beginning to convince her of the fact. Using sports to lure her had been a masterful stroke, if he did say so himself. The truth was that the possibility of spending a lifetime playing with Violet, being with her, filled him with wonder… and embarrassing eagerness.

He reined himself in. He was a grown man, not some greenling. Moreover, he’d come to the conclusion that Violet’s insistence that they “like” each other stemmed from her uncertainty about him rather than vice versa. It was obvious he liked her; hell, he’d said it outright. How much clearer could he be?

Thus, the true trouble, he reasoned, must be that she hadn’t yet committed her feelings to him. His history reared its ugly head again: securing a lady’s devotion had never been his forte. But he told himself that Violet was different, that her uncertainty was understandable given their early antagonism. How many times had she accused him of being stodgy and traditional… a blasted stuffed shirt?

“If only I could get her to see that we’re a fit,” he muttered.

Hephaestus had managed to accomplish a similar feat. After he’d parted ways with Aphrodite, the humble god had somehow convinced Aglaea, the goddess of vitality, to take him on. But that was mythology; this was real life. How did one go about convincing a beautiful, spirited young woman that one wasn’t boring and tedious?

“I assume you’ve tried the usual strategies of persuasion?” Wick said.

Richard didn’t know there were any. “Er, usual strategies?”

“You know. Poetry and poesies, that sort of thing. A trinket to symbolize your affection.”

Wilted daffodils blazed in his head. He’d never been good at gifts. Neither Lucinda Belton nor Audrey Keane had been impressed with the trifles he’d presented them with… and reciting poetry?

Out of the question. He had to respect himself in the morning.

Apparently sensing his unease, Wick said hastily, “The gift itself doesn’t matter. With Violet, it’s the thought that counts. I’m sure she’ll appreciate anything you give her.”

The tips of Richard’s ears burned as he realized that he hadn’t given Violet any tokens of his esteem. Their courtship had consisted mostly of arguing and lovemaking. Even he knew that a man ought to go wooing with more than lust in his pocket. But what could he offer her…?

Inspiration struck him like a hammer against an anvil. The certainty of it resounded within him. He knew the perfect gift for Violet—and how to deliver it in a suitably romantic fashion.

“Uh oh,” Wick said under his breath.

Kent had entered the room and was heading over.

“Time to make myself scarce,” Wick muttered. “You’ll keep me apprised?”

Richard nodded, and Wick went to find refuge amongst his cronies just as Kent arrived.

“How did the meeting go?” Richard said by way of greeting.

“As expected.” Kent’s rawboned features looked weary. “On the bright side, the magistrate plans to follow my recommendation and send his men to local stations that sell tickets to Gretna. If Wormleigh was telling the truth about the lovers he overheard, there might be a record in a ledger somewhere of the couple. It’s a long shot, but I believe in leaving no stone unturned.”

Not for the first time, Richard was impressed by the other man’s diligence and clear thinking. He respected Kent, liked the man. Liked all of Violet’s family, actually.

“I admire your thoroughness, sir,” he said.

“It’s part of the job,” Kent said. “Where are the others?”

“Miss Kent is with some family members, I believe. Their Graces are taking a nap.”

“A nap.” Kent’s voice had a wistful edge. “Well, I shan’t disturb them. By the by, I ran into Billings on the way in. I informed him about Garrity and Burns, and he was adamant that we not approach the former on our own. He’s making arrangements for us to have an ‘audience’ with Garrity tomorrow morning.”

“He’s that afraid of Garrity?”

“Apparently, the moneylender is a man one doesn’t want to offend.” Kent sighed. “But it’s just as well. I have no desire to cut a swath through Garrity’s cutthroats just to talk to him.”

“That leaves Burns. Shall we go find him?”

“No need. Speak of the devil.” Kent lifted his chin toward the doorway.

Burns had made an entrance. Even as ladies swarmed the blond performer, he had a distracted expression. He craned his neck as if looking for someone… then he spotted Richard and Kent, his gaze widening. Extricating himself from his adoring female horde, he hurried out.

Richard and Kent took off after the juggler. In the hallway, Richard saw Burns’ wiry figure disappear into the billiards room. He and Kent exchanged a wordless nod; he strode toward the farther door while the investigator took the closer one. Between the two of them, they would block off the exits to the room.

Richard entered—and Burns nearly ran into him.

“In a rush?” Richard said.

“N-no, my lord.” Burns backed away from him. “I was just, er, looking for my partner, Miss Ashe. We have to practice our act—oof.”

The juggler had stumbled into Kent, who’d been waiting silently behind him. As most of the male guests were still out shooting, the three of them were the only ones in the room, the scent of cigar smoke and leather heavy in the air. Darting a nervous glance between his captors, Burns retreated to the billiards table occupying the center of the chamber.

Richard and Kent followed, facing Burns across the green baize.

“We’d like to talk to you, sir.” Kent’s tone was even. “Regarding Monique de Brouet’s death.”

“I don’t know anything about that,” Burns said quickly.

“Not too torn up over your colleague’s death?” Richard inquired.

The performer flushed beneath his tan. “Course I am. Terrible business. I only meant to say that it came as a shock—a complete surprise.”

“How would you characterize your relationship with the deceased?” Kent said.

“It was purely professional.” Grabbing an ivory ball, he rolled it around on the table, his movements nimble. “As you know, Monique and I were colleagues at Astley’s.”

“From what we understand, you wanted to be more than mere colleagues,” Richard said.

“Now that’s a bleeding lie.” Burns’ eyes blazed. “I had no personal interest in Monique. My preference is for gently-bred ladies, not strumpets.”

“What I meant was that you wanted to be Monique’s partner—in an acrobatics act.”

The fire left the juggler; he looked ill at ease again. “Nothing came of that. It was just an idea. A way for the both of us to benefit from combining audiences.”

“But the benefit would have been mostly yours,” Kent said, “as Monique had the greater fame.”

“Either way, I asked, she refused. End of story.”

Richard quirked a brow. “You harbored no animosity after she turned you down?”

“Look, business is business. Monique was looking after her own interests, and I don’t blame her for that.” Burns gripped the edge of the table. “I understand how difficult it is to fight one’s way to the top—to have ambitions that exceed one’s grasp. I might have envied Monique de Brouet, but I also respected her.”

“So you had nothing to do with her frayed tightrope?” Kent said.

Burns’ laugh surprised Richard. “Let me guess. That maid of hers mentioned it?”

Kent gave a terse nod.

“The old mort’s got a screw loose. Thought the world was out to get her and her mistress.” The juggler crossed his arms. “Ropes fray; it was naught but an accident. I was definitely not involved.”

“One last question.” Kent pinned the man with a stare. “Do you know of anyone who wanted Monique dead?”

Burns swallowed. A tremor entered his voice. “No, I do not.”

They let the juggler go.

“What do you think?” Kent said.

Richard shook his head. “For an innocent man, Burns seems to have a case of the nerves. But I can’t say for certain that I think he did it.”

“Agreed. He stays on the list.” Kent sighed. “Hopefully we’ll have better luck with Garrity in the morning.”