“That’s kind of you,” the woman said to Lady Westover, her dark eyes narrowing as she made a move toward the door.
She’s not going to talk to me. I decided to weave the story into a thicker cloth. “My sister died at about the same time as your daughter. I still miss her terribly, and not a day goes by that I don’t see something that I want to rush home and tell her about. But that can never be.”
The story was true, except it wasn’t my sister and it wasn’t two years ago. But my real feelings came through in my voice.
Tears sprang to Lady Dutton-Cox’s eyes and she wordlessly clutched my hands for a moment before motioning us to sit. In that moment, I smelled the liquor on her breath. I wondered if her family realized how badly she grieved for her daughter, and kicked myself for using her.
“How did your sister die?” she asked me.
I had read Victoria’s death certificate. “A weak heart.”
Instead of taking a seat herself, the woman paced the room. She spoke so quietly I had to sit forward to hear her words. “My daughter was murdered.”
Lady Westover gasped. I mentally applauded her timing while I said, “What a tragedy. Called not by God’s design, but by man’s. Have they caught the monster who did this?”
“No. Between them, her fiancé and her father made certain there was no investigation.” Remembering herself, Lady Dutton-Cox took a seat and rubbed her hands together. “I’m told this is only my fancy. She had a weak constitution and succumbed to a chill.”
“Still, a very troubling death,” I said.
Lady Westover shot me a warning look before saying, “And a tragedy for all of Victoria’s friends. But I suppose you still see them because they’d be Elizabeth’s friends, too.”
“Not so much since Elizabeth married. We’ve been quite alone since last summer.” The woman gave a wan smile.
“I suppose you haven’t heard the gossip about one of her friends that Lady Westover told me. A young man has vanished. A Nicholas Drake.” I hoped her loneliness or the liquor would cause her to speak freely and hated myself for increasing her misery.
“Drake. I didn’t think I’d hear that name again. He and Victoria were great friends. Along with Lord Naylard,” she quickly amended.
“Lord Naylard?” I turned a puzzled look from one lady to the other.
“Lord Naylard and his sister, Lucinda, introduced Drake to us. To Victoria, really. They thoroughly enjoyed each other’s company. Always telling jokes and laughing. Victoria loved to laugh.” Her mother sighed and looked away.
After a moment, Lady Westover glanced at me. It seemed Lady Dutton-Cox had forgotten us. “So the four of them made a little circle?” the older woman asked.
Another sigh. “Not Lucinda. She’s very serious. Very religious. High Church, almost Papist, I think. But Lord Naylard and Mr. Drake were both keen on Victoria before the duke asked for her hand. Then he wanted an immediate wedding and Victoria wanted to wait until summer.”
“Summer weddings are so beautiful,” Lady Westover said. “Elizabeth had one, I believe.”
“Yes. But the duke is very businesslike. I imagine that’s why he’s so rich. Why put off the wedding until summer when right now will do? But Victoria had her heart set on waiting. She didn’t want to give up her friendship with Mr. Drake and Lord Naylard, who were both more fun than the brooding duke.”
“The duke wouldn’t cut her off from her friends, would he? That’s so medieval.” Lady Westover’s tone didn’t allow for disagreement.
“No, but Blackford’s sister would. She also fancied Mr. Drake, always whispering to him, although the poor girl had no chance with him despite her wealth. No grace, no humor, just those flashing black eyes like the duke’s and a tragic air like Shakespeare’s Juliet. And so jealous.”
As we heard footsteps outside the parlor’s double doors, Lady Dutton-Cox leaned forward and whispered, “If anyone murdered my Victoria, it was that evil Blackford girl. And she was definitely murdered.”
*
I RETURNED TO my shop wondering why two people had now insisted the sister of the Duke of Blackford had murdered Victoria Dutton-Cox. Less than an hour later a carriage pulled up in front of our door. An elegantly dressed couple alighted with the assistance of a liveried footman. While the footman remained outside, the gentleman held the door open for the lady. Once she was inside, he hurried around her and marched up to the counter to face me. “Georgia Fenchurch?”
“Yes. How may I help you?” From the tip of his shiny top hat to the toes of his polished, impractical shoes, I could see he wasn’t a reader. Our customers seldom walked as far as the counter before being distracted by a shelf of books, and they never arrived without a smudge marring their hems or cuffs or shoes.