Mr. Holt frowned. Clearly annoyed at the clarity of her query, and by the question itself. “I know the late duke requested hisheir’s presence numerous times over the last six months, but as yet the young man has not arrived.”
“Is he abroad?”
“As good as,” Mr. Holt muttered, before saying more loudly, “No, he is located on a far distant estate belonging to the Ashmore family. It is down in Cornwall.”
“How is he related to Ashmore?” Margot asked, wondering if he was a close relative, and whether the man would immediately know that she was her father’s bastard.
“The new duke is the nephew of the late Ashmore, the son of his youngest brother.”
“Cornwall?” Margot repeated, an idea forming in her slow tired mind. One which was slowly crystallising as she watched Holt fold and refold his papers. “And you say you have not heard back from any of your requests?”
“Not as yet,” Holt said. “My next course of action is to head down there myself, but I have matters in Town that make…”
Reaching out her hand, Margot latched onto her sister’s fingers, pulling Elsie into the conversation. “My sister will go.” Sending Elsie to Cornwall made sense, Margot thought—it would get her out of London, somewhere safe, removing her from a household that had been attacked. Besides, it was helpful because it would ensure the new heir would return, and if anyone could persuade a young man, then surely it was the adorably pretty Elsie?
To this suggestion, Elsie wrinkled her brow. “But…”
“You’ve always said you wanted to see Cornwall,” Margot lied, “and this would be most useful to both myself and to Mr. Holt as well. This journey would be greatly beneficial to us all.”
For a moment Mr. Holt looked rather dubiously at Elsie, doubting her capabilities. This very lack of trust was quite the ticket to motivate her sister, because Elsie reached forward andsaid, “Give me the papers and I will leave on the morrow. After all, I can be trusted to keep the matter quiet.”
A small sense of relief poured through Margot as her sister and the lawyer discussed the finer points of her journey to Cornwall. Then Mr. Holt handed across several documents and told Margot to send the bills to his office before departing the parlour.
“I suppose I should go and pack again,” Elsie said into the quiet. She did not look best pleased.
“You know I only want to keep you safe.”
Elsie sighed. “If you think the wilds of Cornwall will be free of any drama…”
At least they would be free of a murderer, Margot thought, as she leant forward and kissed her sister’s cheek. “We will write to each other. One of the maids will accompany you. I am sure you can find a tactful way of telling my cousin the truth, and convince him to honour the annuity.” But if you don’t, Margot thought, then I will need to find one of those diamonds to secure our futures.
“Very well,” Elsie said. She stood, clearly not best pleased at being managed so, “I know better than to gainsay you when you’ve decided on a matter. But when we are set up and all is in place, I will insist on an evening out in London. And if not, then at least Bath.”
With that ultimatum, Elsie slipped from the room, presumably going upstairs to prepare her trunks. With a heartfelt sigh, Margot sank back onto the sofa, all her muscles seemingly made of sponge. How she longed to head back upstairs to bed.
The door clicked open, and Margot lifted her eyelids, sitting up and righting herself. But it was too late. In the entranceway, smirking with the same devilish grin as he had worn last night,was Lord Langley, his smile telling her all too clearly that he had seen her lazy, inelegant pose.
CHAPTER 4
Langley had, as he had promised, searched his house alongside Adams. There was no sign of the attacker, and once this had been done, Langley had gone to bed. He assumed that he would be tired—his day had been filled with all the gentlemanly things a Corinthian of the finest order would be expected to indulge in, plus of course, he had had his interlude with Miss Keating and all her accusations.
But sleep, when he was finally sprawled naked in his bed, had proven elusive. Every time he closed his eyes, the memory of her sharp, perceptive gaze pierced him, the hint of her breasts, the braid of her hair, bits of it loose around her shoulders, plagued the murkiness of the night. Why she would grab his attention so was beyond Langley. She was not traditionally beautiful—handsome perhaps, but there was an unmistakable appeal to her, that had him in her thrall. Which, added to the murder, meant he had arrived at her door relatively early.
When his valet, Hale, had woken a sleep-deprived Langley up, he had dressed as elegantly as a fine man of thebeau mondeshould. Of course, there was his crisp white shirt, breeches of an equally pristine and starched condition, creamy stockings that hugged his muscular thighs, and following that Langley hadhappily donned a coat of rich, heavy navy. In such garb Langley was ready to face his Amazon. He was arrogant enough to know that with his ruffled curls and the tight cravat at his throat, Miss Keating would have her head turned.
When Langley wandered over to Ashmore’s townhouse, there was a muted presence in the building, servants moving this way and that as if confused at what they should be doing. It was easy to have himself shown through to a parlour, and the maid, flustered and disconcerted, promised she would find someone to see him. But the minutes ticked by, and Langley finally walked to the door, slid it open, and watched a tiny brunette hurry down the corridor. She had the faint look of Miss Keating, Langley thought as he saw the shorter girl hurry up the stairs, before he looked back to where the girl had come from. He eased himself out of the parlour, and towards the room Miss Keating’s relative had emerged from.
On pushing the door wide, he entered the chamber. It was cluttered to a certain extent, filled with antiques and busy mantelpieces, Ashmore’s love for the obscure and ancient evident. They were dotted here and there, from the vases to the oversized globe, and then to the overflowing bits of paper that were surrounding a tired Miss Keating, who had dark circles under her eyes. Clearly, she had spent the night without the restful respite she needed. Miss Keating had leant back her long neck, pressing it into the sofa, and Langley had a vivid image of licking his way down from the tip of her chin along her pearly skin, until he reached the trim of her day dress.
Hurriedly, Miss Keating sat up. She fidgeted at being caught in such a position, straightening her gown as she tried to make herself presentable. Her hair was in a tight knot, and Langley realised he missed the loose braid she had worn last night.
“It is nice to see you finally clothed,” Miss Keating said as she got to her feet.
“That’s not what most ladies say,” Langley replied. He pushed the door closed behind him, leaning against the frame as he watched her. “In fact, most of them say?—”
“Never mind that,” she interrupted, her cheeks reddening, “I don’t care about what the others might say. Unless they know about the killer. I don’t suppose you managed to find the man? That would certainly make everything much easier.”
“Unfortunately, despite my best efforts I was not able to locate the culprit.”
