For a moment Langley watched her go. It helped that he knew where she was headed, because he had no intention of letting his Amazon go, not without a proper… fight, he mused? No, he didn’t want to fight her. Tackle her was what he supposedhe might call it, as it blended the right notes of confrontation and physical interaction, but it did not have quite the rightje ne sais quoi… He tried to locate the proper word, and then the front door clicked closed, and Adams coughed lightly.
“Right you are, Adams, let us begin our search. I don’t hold out much hope, but it is better to be on the safe side.”
“Yes, my lord,” Adams replied.
And, dutifully, Langley did exactly that. All thoughts of the orgy, and the contemplation that he might be missing something crucial in the sexual decadence taking place on the floor below him, was wiped from his mind by the promise of this new mystery and the Amazon at the centre of it.
CHAPTER 3
For all her first evening in London and into the following day’s dawn, Margot attempted to talk first to Ashmore’s servants, then on to a crying Elsie, before finally making ready to converse with the Bow Street Runner, who had finally arrived at the townhouse in the early hours. After that she had to speak to the doctor, who examined Ashmore’s body.
Around four in the morning, Hathaway sent most of the servants and Elsie off to bed, and Margot staggered into a nearby seat, and McCreary, the middle-aged Bow Street Runner, glanced this way and that around the duke’s study. If she were a betting woman, Margot would have thought that McCreary was more used to investigating petty theft than the killing of a peer of the realm. His questions peppered into her exhausted mind now and then, but Margot was certain she was making less and less sense with each answer she made.
“I think, sir”—it was Hathaway who stuck his head around the doorway, and proceeded to walk over to Margot— “that Miss Keating has told you everything she can. She is most distressed by the duke’s death, given his grace was her godfather.”
“Yes, yes,” McCreary said, his thick ginger eyebrows furrowed as he fixated on Margot. A large crease marred hisforehead, and he resembled a perplexed poodle. “I still do not understand why you chased after the killer, miss. Remarkably dangerous thing to do.”
As to that, McCreary was correct. It had been dangerous, stupid, and naive. It had led Margot into a sight she would not forget in a hurry, and it had not helped locate the blasted murderer. But there was something that Hathaway was wrong about, Margot knew. She had not made any mention of the map. That would explain why she had chased the shooter into the neighbour’s house.
Of the map, she had not even told Elsie, the person she was closest to in this whole world. The remaining slip of paper was folded and pressed into the pocket of her nightdress. Why precisely she did not wish McCreary to know was beyond her, but trusting this Bow Street Runner who looked as if he would have been better suited to curling up with a cup of tea and a biscuit than chasing down a murderer through Town and would be a mistake. It would do her little good to reveal such a secret. Ashmore wanted this kept quiet—only known to the family—and it dawned on Margot that this family did not include Elsie. Ashmore’s family, of which she was distantly but still a part.
You told Langley,her conscience whispered.You had no such scruples about revealing to that god of a man that there was a stolen object.
Hopefully, she comforted herself with the idea that Langley would probably immediately forget the incident—a hysterical virgin spinster could hardly compete against the bevy of beauties Langley could choose from. The earl would throw himself into whatever hedonistic pleasure awaited around the corner, be it women, cards, or wine. His lordship would disregard their strange little interlude. He probably already had done. She wondered how soon she would forget the shape of those legs, orthe way his grin seemed to have been designed to tempt a nun to sin.
Margot wouldn’t allow herself to focus on such things. She had described the attacker as much as she could to McCreary. Replayed in her mind what had happened when Ashmore had been shot. When he’d been killed. When her father, a man she’d only known for one day, had thrown himself in the way and saved her. Tears smarted her eyes. Ashmore had behaved like a cad to her mother, and had never been a true father to her, but his selflessness and courage today deserved honouring. Margot had not really known what this trip to London would bring, but now she had to find the duke’s killer and whatever the Ashmoreton Diamonds were, and know that she had honoured her father’s memory to at least that extent.
She accepted Hathaway’s hand to stand. The butler knew the truth. About the map. About her birth. About it all. But it seemed as if Hathaway was willing to be loyal to either the duke’s memory, or perhaps even to her.
“I will call again tomorrow,” McCreary said as he moved towards the doorway.
“May I take the liberty of suggesting that we keep this quiet,” Hathaway said. “I can ensure no servants mention this attack beyond these walls. Given the amount of shock this will cause amongst theton,and it might impact your investigation.”
“Very wise,” Margot said. The intruder had not known his shot had been true, and yes, she been shouting about a murderer, but if the duke were still alive, then it meant they would not need to immediately be plunged into strict mourning. It would be considerably easier to find the attacker were she not restricted to the townhouse and entombed in black crepe.
“My superior will wish to speak to the household tomorrow,” McCreary pressed. He closed his notepad and stashed it into his over-long coat.
Offering out her hand, Margot said, “I would request the meeting wait until at least eleven as it has already gone four in the morning. I, as well as everyone else, will require a few hours respite.”
“Very good ma’am,” McCreary said as he slipped from the study with the butler in his wake.
The queasiness of being in the study hit her then. Ashmore’s body had been removed, but no one had touched the spilled blood, and Margot gazed down at the dark red mark, wondering if she would ever understand the cruelty or motivation of a murderer. She really was a long, long way from the safety and security of Berwick-upon-Tweed. A wave of homesickness washed over her as Margot waited for Hathaway to return.
The butler entered slowly, his head bent, and with great consideration he bowed to her as if she were a fine lady and not some dead duke’s bastard. “I am so sorry for your loss. To have a parent so briefly…” He paused and drew his fingers over his moustache, truly at a loss for what to say. “I know it is not my place.”
It was not such a loss, Margot told herself. She had her real parents, still living, still loving. She had Elsie, and their younger brother, William, and their cat, Posey. It might be a great distance from London, but there were the familiar sights of Berwick-upon-Tweed which would never leave her. Yet she would never know Ashmore, never have the chance to understand him. Perhaps it would have been a thankless task, but it would never be an option to her.
“We are beyond that,” Margot said. Tiredness was seeping through every pore of her, a weariness she could not describe, and she feared if Hathaway said anything too sympathetic then the firm grip she had on her emotions would burst forth and she would give in to the urge to weep. “You knew Ashmore best, I believe?”
“I have been in the previous duke’s service for over thirty years. So, I have known the sixth and the seventh dukes as well as one can for a man in service.”
A wild, curious thought bobbed up in Margot, wondering if Hathaway had known her mother, but she buried that query down. “I will be reliant on you over the next… or for however long this goes on for. Your advice and knowledge will be invaluable, so please tell me anything you need to.”
“The duke was obsessed with that map,” Hathaway said. His pale grey eyes rose carefully; there was a touching level of worry there. “It is something of a family curse.”
“What do you mean?”
“Chasing after the diamonds, as Ashmore did, and his older brother, led to their destruction. Collecting, owning them all. They are said to be cursed. More beautiful, but more dangerous than…” Hathaway trailed off. “I do not think his grace, were he in his right mind, would ever mean to burden you with finding them. I am quite sure your mother would not wish for you to look for them.”
