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“Did they not find a note upon his body?” asked Demeter.
Chastity nodded. “It suggested he was crossed in love. But there is a murmur that Lord Kendall—his employer—questioned whether the man would really do such an act.”
“He is not wrong.” Eleanor twisted upon the sill. “I spoke to Mr. Harper only a short while before...his death...and he was most happy, speaking of his love for a woman.” She sighed and pressed her head against the windowpane. “If only I had stayed inside but I intended to fetch my sketchpad and sneak away. I had quite the marvelous idea.” Her shoulders dropped. “I suppose it was not that great an idea now.”
“Who is Lord Kendall anyway?” Cassie frowned and shoved a golden curl from her face. “I cannot even picture the man, though I have heard the name before.”
Chastity shrugged. “I have little idea—he is an earl so goodness knows how we have missed him. But it does not matter. If he believes what Eleanor says to be true—that the man would not kill himself—it means this really could be a murder case. And we should find out who did such an act. Then no one can possibly continue to malign Eleanor’s reputation.”
Eleanor rose from the windowsill. “I still do not like this plan. How could you possibly pass for a servant? You are a duke’s daughter. Someone will recognize you.”
Chastity offered a slow smile. “You would be surprised what I have disguised myself as, dear Eleanor. Or how good I am at playing pretend.”
She kept her smile fixed in place, ignoring the tiny, strange pang the declaration caused. Her sisters could never know quite how adept she’d become at living a falsehood during her marriage. And, anyway, such skills meant she was excellent at getting people to talk. If his lover murdered the poor man, she would find it out. But first she needed a job.
At this Lord Kendall’s house.
∞∞∞
Valentine uttered a grateful prayer for the thick fog that swirled in off the Thames, clouding the already dark night with a soupy mix that would ensure no one saw him arrive at the house. If he was to keep his sister’s memory intact, no one could know the man discovered at Guildbury Hall was his nephew.
He rapped lightly on the door and glanced around. Clustered into a tight corner, the Harper’s house offered glowing lamps in their windows, delving into the foggy evening like a lighthouse on a rocky coastline. It was no grand house, but Valentine always ensured Julian and the Harpers were well looked after—without drawing attention. Mrs. Harper had been thankful to leave her job as a maid and Mr. Harper wanted nothing more than a son to raise—something they had not managed in their seven years of marriage at the time.
Julian’s death would cut them both deeply.
He drew in a breath of smoke-scented air and held it as the door opened. Now nearing fifty, the warm twinkle in her eye or the air of efficiency that had led him to believe she would be a good fit for his nephew had not vanished. However, that twinkle could scarcely be seen behind the grief carved deep into the creases around her eyes. He had not looked forward to this. But it had to be done.
“It is good of you to come, my lord.”
“Valentine, please.”
“Of course.” She motioned him in, glancing around the quiet street before shutting the door.
Another reason for him choosing Mrs. Harper had been her understanding of the delicacy of the situation. She aided his sister during her labor and helped her hide her lack of courses. The lengths the woman would go to keep secrets amazed him. Though, of course, since he had been aware of his sister’s illegitimate child, he too had plenty of secrets to keep.
The balmy evening offered no reason to have a fire but the parlor room presented a cozy warmth with lit candles and lamps and slightly threadbare but soft furnishings. Mr. Harper rose from his seat as soon as Valentine entered and offered a dip of his head and hearty handshake.
“I wish we could be meeting under better circumstances.”
Valentine gave a grim smile. He’d seldom met with the Harpers and could count those occasions on one hand, but Mr. Harper could write so they corresponded when necessary about Julian. He certainly never anticipated having to make such a visit.
He drew off his gloves while Mrs. Harper busied herself pouring tea and setting the cups on the mahogany table covered in lace, likely made by Mrs. Harper’s own hand given that lace adorned almost every surface in the room. The embroidered flower framed proudly above the fireplace indicated Mrs. Harper had a keen interest in all needlepoint.
Mrs. Harper coughed and her husband shot into action, snatching up the one cup with a tiny chip in one corner before Valentine could take his own. The floral cups and matching teapot were positioned just so in front of a group of three chairs. He swallowed the knot in his throat.
Once he had set his gloves and hat on the nearby console table, he eased into the third chair and shoved aside any thoughts that Julian had likely been the last person to occupy it.
“The sheriff visited today,” Mr. Harper commented.
Valentine nodded. “He spoke with me but two days ago.”
“No doubt he told you what he did me. That Julian killed himself because of some tiff with a lover.” Mr. Harper’s lips twisted, making his thick gray moustache tilt.
“He would never do such a thing.” Mrs. Harper offered a china cup to Valentine and he took it, despite having no taste for tea or the cake on offer. “We just know it. He was a God-fearing boy.” Her voice cracked on the last syllable.
Mr. Harper leaned over and squeezed his wife’s hand. “Lord Kendall knows.”
“I do.”
