Evidence of Evil (Murder in Moonlight #2)

Chapter One

S olomon Grey had leased a pleasant house behind the Strand, from where, impenetrable fog permitting, he could look out and see the bustling River Thames. It was not a fashionable address, but he did not entertain, and it was located within easy distance of his main office and the charities that took up the rest of his time.

At eleven o’clock on a sunny September morning, Solomon sat in his large study, which was also his sitting room, a map of the world spread open before him on the table by the window. The wicked delight of truancy that had assailed him during his first day away from the office had lost its charm. Today, he felt restless, and the notion had come to him that he might like to travel purely for pleasure, merely to appreciate the art and architecture of the world’s capitals, and the beauty of unfamiliar scenery.

When he heard the knock on the street door below, he paid no attention—he had a servant to repel boarders—until his study door opened and Jenks, his manservant, announced, “Mrs. Silver, sir. I believe she has an appointment with you.”

Solomon started to his feet. Since he had quite expected to be alone, he had not troubled to don coat or necktie, so he was hardly fit to receive visitors. Moreover, he doubted he would ever be fit to receive this particular visitor.

Constance Silver glided into the room behind Jenks, a breathtaking blast of beauty and fresh air.

“Solomon,” she said affectionately, holding out both gloved hands as she sailed toward him. “How delightful to see you again!”

She was right, damn her. It was delightful, only surprise held him speechless and distinctly disadvantaged. This was not how he had planned to meet her again.

“Will that be all, sir?” inquired Jenks, who must have at least suspected that Constance had no appointment, but had clearly decided his master deserved this treat.

“Yes,” Solomon said, unaccountably flustered, for he had no choice but to take Mrs. Silver’s hands in a brief hold and give a very sketchy bow. “No. Tea, if you please.”

“Goodness,” Constance murmured as Jenks departed. “All this and hospitality, too. How are you, Solomon?”

For an instant, her eyes searched his face, and he realized this was the first time since her arriving that she had actually looked at him directly. She was not as confident in her welcome as she had appeared, and he had the flattering idea that she did actually care how he was.

He found his voice. “Flabbergasted,” he said. “How on earth did you find me?”

“Oh, it’s easy enough to find anyone if you know the right people,” she said vaguely. “I did try at your St. Catherine’s office, but they told me you were not expected there, so here I am.”

“Please, sit down.” He indicated the more comfortable chairs by the fire, but she had moved to the table and his map.

“Are you planning a trip?”

“I’m thinking about it.”

“Just thinking? Then you don’t sail within the next fortnight?”

“I don’t need to. Why?”

“I have a proposition for you.” Her eyes danced, and he knew she was teasing him with her choice of words but inviting him to share the joke.

Was that relief flooding through his veins? That the odd friendship they had found still existed, despite their not seeing each other for almost three months.

“Should I apologize for lying to your servant?” she asked, disposing herself gracefully in an armchair.

“Probably. You could just have sent up your card. I would have received you in more formal attire.”

She eyed him. “Please. We both know he would not have let me in.”

“He did let you in. I’m not quite sure why, since I doubt he believes in your appointment any more than I do.”

“He probably thinks you are too isolated. Why aren’t you going to work, Solomon?”

“I am perfecting the art of delegation.”

“So that you can travel with a clear conscience?”

“Something like that.”

A smile flickered across her long lips with their extra-fascinating upward curve. “You are bored.”

He was saved the necessity of answering that by the arrival of Jenks carrying a tea tray. A coat hung over one arm. After placing the tray on the low table between the chairs, Jenks handed the coat to Solomon, who shrugged into it as casually as he could under Constance’s amused gaze.

Jenks departed as impassively as he had entered, and Constance began to pour the tea without being asked.

“Tell me your proposition,” Solomon said, sitting down at last, aware of a spurt of excitement that might have been to do with her mere presence, or with what she had come to say.

“I have a friend who is afraid she will be accused of murder.” She handed him his cup of tea the way he preferred it, with neither milk nor sugar.

“Is she guilty?” he asked. It was not unreasonable to inquire. Constance lived among the demimonde , owning a discreet and expensive brothel in Mayfair. Wealthy and powerful men were rumored to frequent her establishment.

“No,” Constance said. “Lizzie would not hurt a fly, let alone a living person. I want to prove her innocence.”

“By discovering who did commit the murder?”

“I thought you might like to help.” She sipped her tea as gracefully as any Mayfair lady. “Considering how successful we were at Greenforth Manor this summer. And two heads are obviously better than one.”

Was she giving him too many reasons? She must have known he would not be eager to poke about among the unsavory lives of her women and their clients.

“Who is she? Who is the victim?”

“My friend is Elizabeth, Lady Maule,” Constance said, meeting his gaze. “She is the wife of Sir Humphrey Maule, a landowning baronet in Sussex.”

He refused to betray as much as a blink of surprise. He should have known.

“The dead lady is a Miss Frances Niall,” she went on, “the daughter of Maule’s neighbor. Her father is a colonel recently retired from India.”

“And why should your friend Lady Maule be accused of killing this woman?”

“Because she was the last person known to have seen her alive.”

“But with what motive?”

“I believe they had quarreled. And Miss Niall’s body was recovered from the lake on Maule grounds.”

“But you don’t believe she did it? Why not? How well do you know her?”

Constance sighed. “I thought I would impress you with the respectability of my friends, but I see I will have to be truthful. Lady Maule once stayed in my establishment.”

“She was one of your girls,” he said neutrally.

Constance waved that aside.

“And this Maule married her?”

“Well, he did not meet her in my establishment,” Constance said. “She answered an advertisement to become governess to his children—he was a widower. And they married the following year.”

Solomon did not regard himself as a puritan, but this sat uneasily with him. “I take it you engineered this? Was it right to put such a person in charge of children?”

“I believe so. Whores are not all cut from the same cloth, any more than seamstresses or bankers or plantation owners.”

“Point taken,” he said politely, though he should have known better.

“Liar. What do you think happens to the girls of respectable families who are seduced by the uncaring and disowned? How do you think they live, eat, feed the results of their seduction? They have no character. No one will house or employ a ruined woman, though the man who bears at least half the responsibility walks away without a care in the world.”

“Is that what happened to you?” he asked.

“God, no. But it’s what happened to Elizabeth. She comes from a gentry family, has the education and the nature to take care of children. She was an excellent governess, and I daresay she is an excellent mother. She should not have this taken away from her by false accusations.”

“Is that really likely to happen?”

“She fears it, which is why she has asked for my help. And I am asking for yours, if you can spare a week from your busy schedule.”

Solomon sipped his tea and regarded her. Her gaze was limpid and innocent. Too innocent.

“And?” he said steadily.

Constance set down her cup and saucer. “Well, naturally, I wrote back that I would happily go down to Sussex and stay with her while we sorted it all out. I also said I might bring a friend who is good at such puzzles as this. She immediately replied that my friend was welcome too, but that for the sake of respectability, since my friend is male, she told her husband that we are married.”

No doubt his jaw dropped at that.

“You must see it from her point of view,” Constance said hastily. “All her connections must at least appear to be of the utmost respectability. A woman—even a widow—traveling in the sole company of a man unrelated to her would not be remotely respectable.”

He regarded her with fascination. “But an unmarried woman traveling as the pretended wife of an unmarried man is respectable?”

“My dear Solomon, even you know respectability is all about appearance, not fact.”

“And you are…comfortable with appearing to be my wife?”

She picked up her cup and saucer again and took another sip of tea. “Well, at least we are friends, and we are unlikely to meet anyone we know. The Maules and their neighbors are all very much country people, not London gadabouts. There is a train tomorrow morning.”

“I would rather travel by coach.”

“It will take twice as long,” she objected.

“Then I am prepared to leave this afternoon. I shall call for you at two of the clock.”

“In broad daylight?” she mocked. “Mr. Grey!”

He bowed. “Mrs. Grey. Apparently.”

*

Although it was tempting to show Solomon the tasteful, understated comfort in which she lived, Constance elected to spare him the humiliation of entering a brothel and lurked in the entrance hall with her bags. She owed him that much for agreeing to come.

“You stepping out wif someone, Mrs. S?” asked Hildie cheerfully as she flicked her feather duster over the unlit gas lamps. She wanted to be a housemaid.

“No, I’m going into the country to stay with an old friend. Barbara’s in charge while I’m gone, so no impudence.”

Hildie grinned. “ Me , Mrs. S?”

“Carriage, ma’am,” said Joseph the footman, striding from his cubbyhole where he’d been watching out of the window. “Bang-up it is, too. Beautiful horses.” He hefted her bags and strode out of the house while Hildie opened the front door for her.

Solomon, ever the perfect gentleman, stepped down from the carriage to hand Constance inside. She was sure Hildie goggled from inside, though Joseph was busy stowing the luggage.

“How long are we staying?” Solomon inquired. “A month?”

“Don’t be facetious. I shan’t know what I shall need until we get there.”

“Are you not taking a maid?”

“I doubt the Maule household is ready for Janey.”

He climbed back in and closed the door then sat opposite her, with his back to the horses. “Why not?” The horses set out at a brisk trot.

“She swears like a trooper and slaps anyone who gets in her way. I taught her everything I know.”

He regarded her with amused disbelief until she entertained him with a few of Janey’s more exquisite curses. She was encouraged to see his eyes laugh rather than turn blank with distaste. She stopped before disgust could set in.

“So, explain to me how long we have been married and where we met,” he said.

“Oh, I think we have been married only a short while, don’t you? That will account for any lack of familiarity with each other. I suggest we met at an exhibition of art, or perhaps a lecture at the Geographical Society?”

He blinked. “Have you ever been to such a lecture?”

“Several. You would be surprised by the breadth of my interests.”

“I already am,” he said.

She wondered if it was true but refused to look at him to find out. Why had she thought of him as soon as she read Lizzie’s letter? Just because they had solved a mystery together in the summer?

No, it was more than that. It had always been more than that. Though he disapproved of her on a level that could never be undone, he had said they were friends. Which was a novelty. She knew many amiable men, but none were friends except Solomon Grey.

After Norfolk, when they had each returned from Greenforth Manor, she had expected him to call on her—a morning call, of course—only he never had. Nor had he written even the tersest note. And when she had run into Lady Grizelda, whose fault it was they had met in the first place, she had heard nothing of him for weeks.

Elizabeth Maule was her excuse.

Oh, Constance was truly concerned for her old friend, but Lizzie was given to panic and exaggeration, so Constance doubted that Lady Maule was truly about to be accused of murder. She was visiting mainly to be sure of her friend’s well-being, and to ascertain exactly what was going on in Elizabeth’s life. Suggesting a friend come too had been a moment of foolishness she instantly regretted—until Elizabeth wrote back that they must pretend to be married.

Constance had a mischievous soul. And so she had finally sought Solomon out. She hadn’t truly expected him to agree, let alone be prepared to sit in a carriage with her for two days and pretend to be the husband of a notorious courtesan.

But it seemed they truly were friends, for here he was. His gaze fixed on her face in the long silence that followed his admission of surprise.

He stirred. “What else have you been doing since leaving Norfolk? Have you been well?”

Truth be told, she was hurt that he had waited ten weeks to find out. But she would never admit it.

“Quite well, thank you,” she replied politely, and then went on the attack. “What of you? Are you ill that you are playing truant and planning journeys abroad?”

“No…”

She peered more closely at him, for the denial was not a very firm one. He looked healthy enough. His regular, handsome features were not marred by signs of exhaustion or pain. His velvet-dark eyes were clear and bright. He was thin, of course, but it seemed to be the way he was made. It did not denote a lack of physical strength, as she well knew.

She doubted he was ill, and yet he looked away, out of the carriage window, as though to avoid her gaze.

He drew in a breath. “I believe I am…bored.”

She blinked. “Bored?”

“It is a sort of sickness of the spirit.” He sounded almost apologetic. “Certainly, it is a weakness. Once I have things running as I wish, I tend to lose interest.”

“You have no more room for expansion?” she asked in amazement.

“Oh, there is always room. I just have no desire at the moment. In all my businesses, I have good people in place, though I have not given up my oversight. I have just made myself less…necessary.”

“While you make a leisurely journey around the world?”

He shrugged. “Perhaps. Certainly while I look for another area of interest.”

No, Solomon was not a contented man. Restless, clever, and crushingly lonely, he only ever seemed to be driven toward what made him more alone than ever. Once, she had vowed to show him happiness—an arrogant, overambitious vow if ever there was one. Certainly if he would not stay put, nor even write to her.

“Will you go back to Jamaica?” she asked lightly. Please say no …

“Not without reason.”

She knew what that meant. His only reason would be news of his lost twin brother, who had vanished without a trace at the age of ten. In the midst of the Jamaican slave revolt.

His gaze came back to hers, self-deprecating, with a touch of humor. “I am searching for inspiration. Perhaps I will find it with your mystery—and help your friend at the same time.”