she provided to cover her daughter’s expenses, and my own of course, I suspected her pin money to be substantial, and Mr. Deaver was unlikely to miss it or his wife. If the gossip from my mother’s letters was true, Mrs. Deaver so scandalized the matrons of New York, none of them would let their sons near Lottie.
Considering Mrs. Deaver’s reputation across the pond, it was perhaps for the best that she moved on before she could establish one here. But while I appreciated the extra funds, I was left with the problem of what to do with Lottie. The unfortunate young lady sought an aristocratic husband during a time when the aristocrats were all tucked away at their country homes preparing to shoot red grouse as soon as the Glorious Twelfth arrived.
There were few social events this late in the summer, which meant we had her company all to ourselves for the weeks she’d been here. She was a pretty girl of medium height, slender, as fashion decreed, with an oval face framed by an abundance of russet hair. I found her to be endlessly interested in everything. As I told Sir Hugo, she was easy to entertain. She was also determined to be helpful. I learned very quickly, accepting her assistance could be dangerous.
If I allowed her to arrange the flowers, she’d only break the vase and spill the water. I’d once asked her to fetch a book from a shop just a few blocks away. She’d neglected to take a maid and, lost in thought, she wandered so far out of the neighborhood, three of us had to go out in search of her. A search that took several hours from my day and, I suspect, a few years off my life as I imagined her abducted and sold into slavery. How would I ever have explained that to her family?
She seemed always to have a spot on her dress, ink on her fingers, and a trail of destruction in her wake, but it was clear she always had the best of intentions. In fact, she was very endearing and I liked her a great deal, if only I could keep her from touching anything.
But as a match for Charles? I wasn’t quite sure who would make a good match for Lottie, but I’d never have picked him. For one, his home had far too many priceless antiques to be broken. For another, though I protested Aunt Hetty’s saying it, he was a bit of a dunderhead. Lottie needed someone to help her navigate the twists and turns of society. That would not be Charles.
There was one objection I could make. “It would probably be wise to find out from Mr. Evingdon why he didn’t form an attachment to Mrs. Archer before I introduce him to anyone else.”
“Why did you consider her a good match for Mr. Evingdon?” Lily asked.
Hmm, a good question. “In part because she’s a widow and her late husband’s family is rather prominent in society. They did a great deal of entertaining and Mary was quite the darling of the fashionable set. When Cousin Charles inherits, he will have to take his place in that world, take his seat in the House of Lords, and Mary would be a good helpmeet in that area.”
“Well, that’s very practical, I suppose.” Lily sounded as if she were talking about stale bread—it could be eaten, but she’d have none of it. I chuckled as she wrinkled her nose.
“That is only part of it, of course. They had many shared interests, and Mr. Evingdon told me he was seeking a woman of some maturity and intelligence. Mary fit the bill on both fronts. She is almost thirty and is very intelligent. Her wit is rapier sharp, but she is a very kind and caring person. I feel badly that she and Charles could not make a go of it. She doesn’t go out in society much these days, and I fear she may have fallen on hard times since her husband’s death. She’s managed to keep the home they lived in on the edge of Mayfair so perhaps she receives an allowance from her late husband’s family. Her only family is a sister who lives near Oxford. So, Mary is quite alone.”
Lily frowned. “Well, now I wish things had worked out between them.”
“I can always try again, I suppose. In two months I’ll be out of mourning and able to move about in society more. Perhaps I can find another likely match for her. From what Mr. Evingdon tells me, a match between them is impossible.”
“What did you say her name was?”
I glanced up to see Hetty watching me over the turned-down corner of her newspaper.
“Mary Archer. Why?”
Hetty twisted her lips into a grimace. “It appears Mr. Evingdon is correct in this matter. Whatever divided them, he’ll have no opportunity to reconcile with Mrs. Archer.”
Confused, I stared at my aunt. “What are you saying?”
“I’m sorry to give you this news, Frances, but I just read about her in the paper. It appears she’s been murdered.”
Chapter 2
Murdered? I snatched the newspaper from Hetty’s hands and spread it on my lap. “Show me where you read this.”
Hetty leaned forward and ran her finger down one of the columns of newsprint, landing on Mary’s name. It was one paragraph. “ ‘Found dead in her home,’ ” I read. The sentence was followed by Mary’s name, age, and family connections. “ ‘No details given by the police, but foul play is suspected.’ ”
“If the reporter has no details, why does he suspect foul play?” Lily asked.
“I think what he means is, the police implied they suspect foul play.” I crumpled the paper and stared up at my companions. “Why would anyone murder Mary?”
Lottie leaned forward in her seat and squeezed my arm. “I’m so sorry, Lady Harleigh. Was Mrs. Archer a close friend?”
Now that’s the strange thing. I’d known Mary for several years and wouldn’t say I knew her well. Yet I already felt her loss and regretted we hadn’t been closer. I patted Lottie’s gloved hand with my own. “More acquaintances, I suppose, but I liked and respected her.”
I didn’t notice we’d already arrived at Chester Street and drawn up in front of my house until the driver opened the carriage door. I climbed out first and waited on the pavement while he assisted the others, turning to gaze at my house. The pride of ownership still gave me a thrill. Though it was the smallest in the block of terrace houses, it was all mine.
Mary must have felt much the same about her home, as she never returned to her family after her husband’s death. The thought of some criminal breaking in and murdering her made gooseflesh rise on my arms. But she lived completely alone, I reminded myself, while I had family and servants with me.
The driver turned the carriage around the corner to the mews and the four of us proceeded into the house where Mrs. Thompson, my housekeeper, waited in the foyer. Her stiff spine and crisp black dress, buttoned up to the neck, gave her the appearance of a guard.
“Inspector Delaney is here to see you, my lady,” she said, shaking her salt-and-pepper head.
I took a step back. “Delaney? Whatever for?”
“He wouldn’t say, ma’am, but he was insistent about waiting for you. He’s been in the drawing room at least a quarter of an hour now.” Her hand was unsteady when she took my hat and bag.
“I’m sure it’s nothing you need trouble yourself about, Mrs. Thompson.”
The housekeeper pursed her lips but stopped short of revealing her doubts. Of course, she didn’t believe me. Delaney had never stopped by for nothing before. In fact, I hadn’t seen him for months, since the occasion of a particularly
