“Fotheringham married rather late, nearing forty before he finally took a wife.”
“She wasn’t much help either except to confirm he spent most of his evenings away from home. She seemed a silly chit, more upset that she had to wear black than that her husband had passed.”
“She was at the museum as well?”
“No, she was having a dress fitting—entirely inappropriate for a new widow—but I arranged to have a fitting at the same time—a recent widow as well—and so we commiserated.”
“She didn’t recognize you as Father’s companion?”
“No. Few aristocrats actually saw me with him, and he never introduced me to anyone. Besides, I was gray-haired and dowdy. Part of my training included learning tricks mastered in the theater to make someone not look like themselves. Mannerisms play a large role in that.” Perhaps she shouldn’t have admitted the latter. He might begin to wonder how much of her aloofness toward him, the distance she maintained between them, was an act of self-preservation.
“Did Father provide you with any information about Fotheringham to make you believe he was involved?”
“It was his lack of wanting to talk about him that made me suspicious. Immediately after Fotheringham’s death, the duke became extremely melancholy. He would sit in front of the fire in my parlor and toss back scotch as though it were water. A couple of times he passed out. One night he wept uncontrollably. When I tried to console him and encouraged him to talk about his upset, he would say that he couldn’t.”
“Father never was good at voicing his emotions.”
“I was under the impression that it was more than that. Rather he was holding a secret. One night he did mutter that it was his fault, and I wondered then if he was referring to the accident. I comforted him as best I could, hoping he would reveal more. But he never did. Do you believe Fotheringham could have been involved?”
It was wrong to resent his father for coming here to draw comfort from Esme—and yet resent him he did. Even if he’d never bedded her, he’d known her gentle touch, her concern, her worry. He’d been comfortable enough with her to break down in her presence. A man Marcus had never seen shed a tear, a man who ridiculed anyone who didn’t appear strong at all times.
Marcus tossed the photograph onto the desk, got up, and strode to the window that looked out on the garden where last night two men had been skulking about. He’d originally suspected that other lords might be involved but not as many as those photographs hinted at. Four hundredyears ago, perhaps. But today they were civilized. Although at the moment he felt anything but. “I’d just be guessing, and I don’t really see that it makes any difference now.”
“I would like to confirm that this list has some authenticity to it.”
Slowly he turned to face her. “Do you know if a search of our residence, in particular my father’s study, took place? Was anything uncovered there?” Although if it had been, surely they’d shared it with her and they wouldn’t presently be so uninformed.
“Nothing of any significance was found.”
“Did you go through the residence?”
“No.”
“Considering the luck that you had in finding Podmore’s cubbyhole, perhaps you should have. Maybe we should take a look now. As of last week, it was still uninhabited and locked up.” The Crown had taken possession of it, and he suspected it would remain idle for a while, until Victoria created a new title and gave the entailed properties to the new holder. No one would want to be associated with Wolfford any longer. Or perhaps the Crown would sell everything off or distribute it among the Queen’s favorites.
Esme grinned mischievously, and he could see that she very much liked the idea of sleuthing. “And we both have the skills to enter without a key. When do you think would be the best time to go lurking?”
“Now, when we can see without a lamp. Otherwise, someone might catch sight of the light and send for a constable or Scotland Yard.”
She backed off, taking her rose scent with her. “I’ll have the carriage brought ’round.”
After she wandered out of the room, he turned back toward the window. He’d returned to the residence only once since his family had been kicked out of it, with few possessions to their name. He’d gone at night, stealthily creeping through with only the dim light of a single lamp to guide him, desperate to avoid detection. He’d not found anything to help him—and any small item of value that he might have carried with him had been removed—but perhaps he’d missed something, something that Esme with her clever ways might notice. Still, it was with a measure of dread that he prepared himself for a journey into his past.
Chapter 13
The honor of picking the lock at the servant’s entrance fell to Marcus, and as Esme watched him, she couldn’t help thinking that he would have had the job done in a tick if he weren’t breaking into what had once been his family’s residence but now belonged to the Crown. She’d considered suggesting that she come alone, to spare him what she feared might be a bombardment of memories, but suspected he wouldn’t appreciate knowing that she realized how difficult coming here might be for him. At one time, he would have inherited the grand residence upon his father’s death. It had to be infuriating to face what had been taken from him, not through any fault of his own. Neither he nor his siblings had done anything to deserve the punishment and yet it had been visited upon them because they carried their father’s blood and among royalty and nobility blood was everything.
After they’d arrived in the mews, she’d sent her driver on an errand, certain he’d return before they were done exploring the place, although she was beginning to think he might return before they’d even entered the dwelling. Then she heard the tiniest of clicks and Marcus’s sigh. Straightening, he released the latch, shoved the door open, and bent slightly, motioning with his hand that she should precede him.
It was eerie to walk into a residence that was absent of sound, the life of it hollowed out. It felt different somehow from an empty residence that one was viewing with the possibility of purchasing or letting. These walls seemed haunted, as though they knew they’d been betrayed. A shiver raced up her spine as she carried on down the hallway, aware of the door behind her closing and snicking into place and the echo of Marcus’s boots as he followed her.
Glancing in the kitchen, she envisioned all the staff who had once worked there. She reached the butler’s office and stopped. The furniture, draped in white, remained. “Do you think your father might have hidden something in there?”
Marcus had come up behind her and she was aware of the tension radiating from him. “I’m not even certain my father was aware the downstairs existed.”
She peered at him over her shoulder. “I find that difficult to believe.”
“He was a duke who yanked on bellpulls and people magically appeared to do his bidding.” Hesighed. “Although I suppose there’s no harm in looking.”
