He did not want her to be involved in this affair, but it seemed there was no other choice. She had made it clear that she would pursue the investigation of Hastings with or without his assistance. The only thing he could do now was keep an eye on her. That would probably not be easy, he decided.
11
“I know that it is highly unlikely that I can talk you out of this venture,” Emma said. “Nevertheless, I feel I must try. There are so many risks involved.”
Louisa got to her feet and went to the garden window. “I have taken risks before.”
“Not like this. You have never investigated a murder.”
“That is precisely why I cannot pass up this opportunity. A story about the shocking murders of two women in Society that can be tied to Elwin Hastings is simply too important to ignore. Men like Hastings rarely pay for their crimes. This is a chance to drag one to justice.”
“Keep in mind that you do not know for certain that Hastings murdered anyone. You have only Mr. Stalbridge’s opinion of the facts to go on at this point. I told you, he may have his own reasons for wanting to fix blame on someone.”
Louisa looked out into the garden. “I do not think that he is pursuing this investigation solely to clear his own name, Emma. Frankly, I do not believe that he gives a fig for Society’s opinion of him. My intuition tells me that he is genuinely convinced that Hastings murdered Fiona. He is determined to obtain justice for her.”
“Perhaps you want to attribute such noble motives to him because you would like to believe that the two of you have something in common,” Emma said gently. “Both of you seeking justice, et cetera, et cetera.”
“I suppose you may be right.” Louisa turned around. “But either way, I am determined to see this through.”
“Do not mistake me, dear, I have nothing but admiration for your work as a correspondent, but I fear that you are becoming reckless in your pursuit of justice in the Polite World.”
“I appreciate your concern, and I promise you I will be careful.”
Emma sighed. “It is your old anger and fear of Lord Gavin that drives you. The man is dead, but he haunts you still.”
“I will not quarrel with you on that account. What happened last year is a nightmare that will be with me to the end of my days. Perhaps I have allowed it to push me into a risky business. At the same time, I cannot help feeling that I am doing what I was meant to do. My work as I. M. Phantom satisfies something in me that nothing else can equal.”
“You are determined to go forward with this arrangement you have made with Anthony Stalbridge, aren’t you?”
“I have no choice.” Louisa gripped the edge of the windowsill. She fell silent for a moment. “He must have loved her very much, Emma.”
12
Anthony went up the steps of the large house on Brackton Street. Dreading what lay ahead, he banged the gleaming brass knocker. Footsteps sounded in the hall. The door opened to reveal a tall, cadaverously thin, gray-haired man in a butler’s suit.
“Mr. Stalbridge, sir. Do come in.”
“Good afternoon, Shuttle.” Anthony moved into the hall and tossed his hat onto the marble-topped side table. “All is well with you, I trust?”
“I am in excellent health, thank you, sir.” Shuttle closed the door. “Your mother and sister are in the library. Your father, of course, is in his workshop.”
“Thank you.”
Anthony went along the hall and paused in the open doorway of the library, steeling himself for the assault. There was a large desk and an easel in the room, both positioned to catch the best light from the tall windows overlooking the extensive gardens. His mother, Georgiana, was at the easel, paintbrush in hand. The sun highlighted the silver in her dark hair. She was in her late fifties, tall and gracefully made. A paint-stained apron covered her gown. Clarice sat at the desk, poring over a stack of papers covered with her handwriting. Her latest script for the Olympia, no doubt. A cloud of red curls framed her elfin face and blue eyes.
“Good afternoon, ladies,” he said from the door. “You both appear to be busy. I will not intrude.” He took a step back. “I just stopped by to have a word with Father.”
“Tony.” Clarice looked up suddenly. “Come back here. Don’t you dare try to leave without explaining yourself.”
“Sorry,” Anthony said, edging farther out into the hall. “I’m in somewhat of a hurry at the moment. Later, perhaps.”
“No, not later,” Georgiana declared. She set aside her brush. “Your grandmother was here not more than an hour ago and told us everything.”
He swore under his breath. His grandmother, Lady Payne, was an indomitable woman who never failed to live up to her name. Her chief occupation in life, as far as he could tell, was to meddle in family affairs. At one time or another they had all suffered from her interference, but of late she had been focusing most of her attention on him.
To be fair, she was not alone. These days it seemed that everyone in the large clan was concentrating the full force of their no doubt well-intentioned attention on him. Fortunately, the only members of the extended Stalbridge family who were in town at the moment were his grandmother, mother, father, and sister.
Nevertheless, given the razor-sharp intelligence and forceful willpower that characterized virtually every leaf on the Stalbridge family tree, it was little wonder that he was doing his best these days to avoid even the four relations who did happen to be in London.
“Is it true?” Clarice demanded eagerly. “Did you really sweep a mysterious widow named Mrs. Bryce away from the Hastingses’ ball last evening and carry her off into the night in your carriage?”
He loved his sister. She was several years younger, sharp of wit, compassionate by nature, and generally quite entertaining, but there was no denying that she had a flare for the dramatic, a side effect of her playwriting talents, no doubt.
“Mrs. Bryce and I did leave the ball together,” he said, choosing his words with care. “However, we went down the steps and got into the carriage in an entirely normal manner. As I recall, there was no sweeping involved. Now, if you will excuse me, I will go find Father.”
“Wait, you must tell us more about her,” Georgiana insisted. “Who is she? What of her family background? What became of Mr. Bryce? Your grandmother did not have a great deal of information. The only facts she had were that Mrs. Bryce is a distant relation of Lady Ashton’s and that she has absolutely no sense of style.”
Anthony smiled at that. “The lack of details must have been extremely frustrating for her.”
“Does she really wear her spectacles when she goes to a ball?” Clarice asked.
“Yes,” Anthony said.
“Well?” Georgiana prompted. “What of her husband?”
“I do not know what became of Mr. Bryce,” he admitted. “The important thing is that he is no longer around.”
“Grandmother says Mrs. Bryce is out of mourning so he must have died at least three or four years ago,” Clarice offered.
“One could make that assumption, yes,” Anthony agreed.
“Your grandmother indicated that she does not appear to have any money in her own right,” Georgina observed. “Evidently Lady Ashton has taken her in out of the kindness of her heart.”
“That seems to be the case,” Anthony agreed. “Now, if you will excuse me—”
“What is she like?” Clarice asked.
Anthony gave that a few seconds of close contemplation.
“Unconventional,” he said finally.
“In what way?” Clarice demanded. “We want details, Tony. This is the first woman you have shown any interest in since Fiona died. The least you can do is tell us a little about her.”
“Among other things she admires your plays,” he said.
“You told her that I write for the Olympia?” Clarice’s eyes widened.
“I believe she was quite pleased that the heroine who had the illicit affair in Night on Sutton Lane did not drown at the end of the story even though she was not rescued by the man who had seduced her.”
“I couldn’t have Nigel rescue her,” Clarice explained. “He was already married.”
“I did try to explain that,” Anthony said. With that, he made good his escape.
He climbed the stairs and went down the long hall to the large room at the back of the house. The architect had intended the space to serve as a master bedroom and sitting room, but it had functioned as his father’s workshop for as long as he could remember.
The muffled clang of metal on metal reverberated through the upstairs hall. It was a familiar sound, one he remembered well from his childhood. He had spent countless hours in the workshop. When he had not been actively assisting his father with a project, he had wiled away a considerable amount of time playing with the unique clockwork and mechanical toys his father had created for him.
One thing about having an inventor for a parent, he thought, opening the door: Life had never been dull.
“Is that you, Clarice?” Marcus Stalbridge had his back to the door. He did not turn around. “I haven’t finished work on your burning house project yet. Bit of a problem with the chemicals that create the smoke, I’m afraid. They produce far too much of the stuff. The audience won’t be able to see the action on the stage.”
Anthony closed the door, folded his arms, and propped one shoulder against the wall. “Clarice is planning to burn down a house?”
“Tony. About time you got here.” Marcus put down a wrench and swung around. “I sent that message hours ago. Where the devil have you been?”
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