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I bit my tongue to stop myself saying more.
“Cleo, I don’t want to argue with you. In case you haven’t realized, I care about you.”
“Don’t, Jonathon. Don’t say anything more.”
His pace slowed. I thought I’d finally got through to him and he’d leave me alone, but he caught up to me again between the first and ground floors. “Are you doing this because of that Armitage fellow? I know all the girls like him, but he’s beneath you too, if I may be so blunt.”
I stopped and rounded on him. There was only so much I could ignore. “What I do has nothing to do with him, or with any man. I investigate because I want to. And if you want to be blunt then I will be blunt, too. Harry is one of the finest men I know. He’s not beneath anyone. Now, please stop following me if you value our acquaintance.”
I must have finally got through to him because he let me go. I was still seething, however, when I collected Harry from Mr. Hobart’s office. He was there alone.
He eyed me as though I were a steaming volcano on the verge of eruption. “Did you learn something about Amelia Livingstone that upset you?”
“I learned that Floyd keeps poor company.” I showed him the piece of paper with the Livingstones’ address written in Flossy’s childlike handwriting. “I also learned that Amelia and McDonald were lovers.”
He stared at me. I’d genuinely shocked him. “That would be enormously damaging if it got out.”
“It did get out. The men were talking about it on the night of the ball. I think McDonald himself is the source of the rumor.”
Harry shook his head. “There’s a name for men like him but I won’t repeat it in front of you.”
“Cad?”
“Much worse.” He tucked the piece of paper into his pocket. “If you still insist on coming with me to question Livingstone, we’d better go now.”
It was nice not to be lectured. Like Floyd, he knew he couldn’t tell me what to do, that ordering me about would only damage our friendship. I’d meant what I said to Jonathon—Harry really was one of the best men I knew.
“Thank you, Harry.”
He’d been about to open the door, but now paused. His gaze connected with mine. “What for?”
“For being good company.” I tore my gaze away from his before its warmth melted my resolve not to kiss him again.
I was quitesure Mr. Livingstone took no notice of me at the ball, but I lowered my hat brim and my head just in case. I’d been concerned that Amelia might be present, but she was either out or in her room. If the rumor about her and Ambrose McDonald was circulating, then she might be laying low until it all blew over.
If it ever did. Nasty rumors had a habit of leaving stains.
Mr. Livingstone wasn’t a very remarkable man. If he hadn’t been so exuberant with his applause when his daughter won Lady Bunbury’s awards, I wouldn’t have noticed him that night at all. Everything about him was average, from his height to his looks. He greeted us with bland indifference in his study, as if he were doing us a favor by granting us an audience.
But from the way he leaned forward when Harry introduced himself as a private detective, I suspected he was worried. That worry only deepened when Harry asked him why he’d wanted to meet Ambrose McDonald in the library thirty minutes before the body was discovered.
Mr. Livingstone clearly hadn’t expected to be asked that. He made all sorts of noises through his mouth and nose in protest before he finally got the words out. “I didn’t!”
“The servant who delivered the note to Mr. McDonald has come forward and identified you,” Harry said.
“He’s mistaken! He mistook me for someone else!” He surged to his feet and strode to the door. He opened it and shouted for the butler.
“Denying it only makes you appear guilty.”
“I don’t care how it looks. You are not the police. You are no one, and I don’t have to speak to you. Get out!”
“We know you wanted to meet him to stop him spreading rumors about your daughter.”
Mr. Livingstone’s jowls trembled with indignation. “How dare you!”
“But you were too late. He’d already started spreading the gossip.”
Mr. Livingstone blinked in surprise. He’d expected Harry to say something else. Were we wrong? Was Mr. Livingstone not too late? Had he expected us to accuse him of the murder because he was, in fact, the murderer and he thought we knew it?
