As it turned out, Mr. Lyons did not need much encouragement and spent the remainder of the evening regaling them with tales of King Arthur and his court. As enjoyable as the conversation turned out to be, by the end of the dinner, Cleo was no closer to solving the mystery. Nor was she any closer to ascertaining who might have wished her father ill. Every man in attendance spoke of the professor with glowing genuine warmth and respect.
“An eventful evening,” the Earl of Dustshore murmured as they bid the last guest farewell, with the exception of Arthur who had remained behind per Dustshore’s request for a brandy and cigar in the library. Turning, he escorted Cleo to the drawing room with his Lady Mother and her Aunt Caroline, while he and Arthur retired for their masculine indulgences.
Cleo sat by the window and watched the passersby on the darkened streets below. Sighing in discouragement, she sank down into her seat and allowed her mind to drift going back over the riddle in her mind over and over again. She had to have recited the words hundreds of times since deciphering it, and yet she was no closer to discovering its meaning than when she had started.
Had she been alone, she might have screamed and thrown things about the room simply to relieve the internal strife that bubbled up inside of her, threatening to boil over. As it was, she sat calmly and quietly as if nothing in the world could possibly be amiss. She had become quite adept in the days since her father’s passing in covering how she truly felt. If the world could see into her soul, they would have steered clear of her company. She was not a naturally volatile person, but murder had a way of doing that to a person.
“It was a pleasant evening, I thought,” Aunt Caroline spoke from across the room, her tone pleasant, mellowed by copious amounts of wine consumed during dinner.
“Indeed,” Lady Chapman agreed. “Most pleasant. I thought Mr. Lyons was most taken with Miss Wallace.” She smiled sweetly at Cleo. “It was certain to be bittersweet to converse with your father’s former colleagues so soon after his passing.”
“Yes, it was, but I am glad to have had the opportunity. Thank you for allowing my aunt and I to come with you to London. Without your kindness I would not have had such a lovely moment to remember.”
“The pleasure is ours, my dear, rest assured. My son has grown most fond of the both of you, as have I.”
Cleo smiled back at Lady Chapman and wondered what the earls were discussing in the library over their brandy and cigars. It was a customary practice after dinner for men to do so. In fact, Cleo had been surprised that the other men had not stayed to join them, but the Earl of Dustshore had been quite pointed in his invitation to the Earl of Irondale and not the other men. His behavior had puzzled Cleo, but none of the other men had taken umbrage by being excluded.
A good-natured lot, by and large. I cannot imagine any of them having anything to do with Father’s murder. Therein lies the rub, doesn’t it? I cannot imagine anyone wishing to kill my father and yet, here we are.
Cleo attempted to turn her attention back to her aunt and Lady Chapman but found that her mind could not stay focused. It continued to wander from one thought to the next, analyzing in her mind the men’s behaviors, words, and reactions at dinner. She looked for any sign that someone might know more than they were saying, or that they might have some hidden hatred of her father, but once again she came up with nothing.
Her thoughts were eventually interrupted by both of the earls rejoining them in the drawing room. “How are you feeling, Miss Wallace? The evening was not too emotional for you was it?” Dustshore came to sit near Cleo, while Irondale was forced to take a seat next to the older ladies.
“Nay, it was a pleasant evening. I thank you for your kindness in allowing me such an indulgence.”
“Not at all,” he waved her thanks away. “I was only too happy to do it. I rather enjoyed myself as well. What of you, Irondale?” Dustshore turned his attention to his fellow nobleman. “Did you find the evening diverting?”
“Indeed, I did. I thank ye for the invitation.”
“Nothing like a room of academicians and good wine to keep the conversation flowing.” Dustshore smiled, pleased with himself and the evening in general. “We must do this more often. I get so caught up with estate business that I do not journey to London as often as I would like, outside of the season, of course.”
“O’ course,” Irondale nodded in agreement, but Cleo was certain that she saw a slightly mocking note to the glint in his eyes. “I tae suffer from the same affliction.”
Cleo fought the urge to chuckle at the men’s flippant attempt at conversation. She wondered what on earth had happened in the study. Had they not gotten such trivialities out of the way beforehand, or were they simply putting on a show for the ladies in the room? They talked for a while about this and that before Arthur stood to take his leave. “Are you off then?” Dustshore arose to walk him to the door.
“Aye, I dinnae wish tae overstay my welcome.”
“Impossible,” Dustshore reprimanded. “Ye are welcome at any time.”
Arthur bent over each lady’s hand in farewell, but when he came to Cleo’s, he kissed the back of it and held on for a slightest bit more than was absolutely necessary, before standing and following Dustshore to the door. “Until we meet again,” he had murmured, his eyes promising that their association was far from over.
Cleo’s stomach felt as if it had suddenly learned how to perform the Scottish reel of its own accord. It was all that she could do to keep from jumping up and running after him. She hated the way that they had left things during the night and he had been so very helpful in attempting to extract information from Mr. Lyons at dinner. She could not help but think that perhaps she had been too harsh with him before.I should not have run away from him last night.
“Are you well, dear?” Lady Chapman asked, observing Cleo’s physical reaction to the Earl of Irondale. “You look suddenly quite flushed.”
“I am well, only warm from the evening’s festivities. I believe I will retire for the night.”
“Sleep well, dear, and we will all go for a stroll in Regent’s Park upon the morrow.”
Cleo curtsied a goodnight, then left the drawing room for her bedchamber. She climbed the stairs and walked slowly to her door thinking of all that had transpired since coming to London.In spite of my protestations, I now truly believe that coming here was for the best. If only the rest of life were so simple to make right.
Removing her clothing, Cleo slipped beneath the covers of her bed and drifted off to sleep, her dreams filled with adventures of King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table, only it was Arthur MacDonald’s face that she saw upon the king and the Earl of Dustshore upon that of Lancelot. Cleo stood trapped between the two men, as her father’s voice whispered from the lips of one of the other knights “Cleo, my dear daughter, mind that you do not fall prey to the fate of Guinevere.”
“The fate of Guinevere? Father what do you mean?” she called out in her dream, but all he would do was look upon her with wise knowing eyes.
“Fall not prey to the fate of Guinevere,” he admonished once more, then faded into the fog.
Chapter 17
