Lloyd Fellows, Insp., Scotland Yard, London.
“I see.” Beth gave the card back to him, not liking how it felt in her hand.
“May we sit down, Mrs. Ackerley? There is no need for you to be uncomfortable.”
He gestured her to a plush armchair, and Beth perched on the end of it. Inspector Fellows took the hard chair from the desk, turned it around, and sat, looking utterly composed. “I won’t stay long, so you may dispense with the usual polite offering of tea.” He eyed her keenly. “I’ve come to ask you how long you have known Lord Ian Mackenzie.” “Lord Ian?” Beth stared in surprise.
“Youngest brother of the Duke of Kilmorgan, brother-in-law to the lady who owns this house.”
His tone was brutal and sarcastic, but the look in his eyes was . . . odd. “Yes, I do know who he is, Inspector.” “You met him in London, I believe?”
“Why is that your business? I met him in London, and I met his brother and his sister-in-law here in Paris. I don’t believe any of this is against the law.”
“Today you spoke to Lord Ian here in this house.” Her heart beat faster. “You’ve been watching me?” She thought of the drapes pulled back from the windows of this very room, and herself perched on lan’s knee, kissing him madly.
Fellows leaned forward, his expression unreadable. “I’ve not come here to accuse you of anything, Mrs. Ackerley. My visit is in the nature of a warning.”
“Against what? Speaking to my friend’s brother-in-law in her home?”
“Mixing in the wrong company could prove your downfall, young woman. You mark my words.”
Beth shifted in annoyance. “Please be plain, Mr. Fellows. The hour grows late, and I would like to retire.”
“No need to get haughty. I have your best interests at heart. Tell me, have you read of a murder in a boardinghouse near St. Paul’s, Covent Garden, about a week ago?” Beth frowned and shook her head. “I was busy traveling about a week ago. I must have missed the story.”
“She was not an important woman, so the English newspapers wouldn’t have made much of it, and the French ones nothing at all.” He rubbed his finger and thumb over his mustache. “You speak French fluently, do you not?” “It seems you know much about me.” His manner and arrogance, in Isabella’s own drawing room, irritated her. “My father was French, so yes, I speak the language rather well. It is one reason I decided to visit Paris, if you must know.” Fellows pulled a small notebook from his pocket and turned over the pages with a quiet rustle. “Your father called himself Gervais Villiers, Viscount Theriault.” He glanced at her. “Funny thing, the Surete have no record of such a person ever living in France.”
Beth’s pulse sped. “He left Paris a long time ago. Something to do with the revolution in ‘forty-eight, I believe.” “Nothing to do with it, madam. Gervais Villiers never existed. Gervais Foumier, on the other hand, was wanted for petty theft, fraud, and running confidence games. He fled to England and was never heard of again.” Fellows flipped another page. “I believe both you and I know what happened to him, Mrs. Ackerley.”
Beth said nothing. She couldn’t deny the truth of her father, but she had no desire to break into hysterics about it in front of Mr. Fellows.
“What has all this to do with Lord Ian Mackenzie?” “I’m coming to that.” Fellows consulted the notebook again. “I have here that your mother was once arrested for prostitution. Can that be right?”
Beth flushed. “She was desperate, Inspector. My father had just died, and we were starving. Thank heavens she was very bad at it, and the first approach she made was to a detective constable in plainclothes.”
“Indeed, it seems the magistrate was so moved by her pleas for mercy that he let her go. She promised to be a good girl and never do it again.”
“And she never did. Will you please not discuss my mother, Inspector? Let her rest in peace. She was doing the best she could in difficult circumstances.” “No, Mrs. Villiers wasn’t lucky like you,” Fellows said. “You have been uncommonly lucky. You married a respectable gentleman who took care of you. Then you became a companion to a wealthy old lady, so ingratiating yourself with her that she left you her entire fortune. Now you’re the guest of English aristocrats in Paris. Quite a rise from the workhouse, isn’t it?”
“Not that my life is any of your business,” Beth said stiffly.
“But why is it of such interest to a detective inspector?”
“It isn’t, not in itself. But murder is.”