Chapter 9
I blinked at Morris, certain I had misheard and he meant the inspector. “You mean the detective?”
The butler shook his head. “No, madame. Stephen Dorian. He is an author of some renown. Mysteries, in fact. I’ve read a few myself.
Very diverting,” he added, with the barest hint of a smile, and I was so shocked to learn that Morris liked Mr. Dorian’s books that for a moment I forgot all about my distress over his unexpected arrival.
However, my mother did not look the least bit impressed. “Well, you must tell him to go away. We don’t want some writer here snooping about looking for ideas for his next book.”
“No,” I sighed. “It’s nothing like that. We saw him last night,” I murmured by my mother’s ear.
Understanding dawned. “I see.”
Then I turned to Morris. “I will speak to him.”
“Very good. Shall I show him into the drawing room and call for refreshments?”
“That’s fine,” I said with a distracted wave, and Morris descended back down the stairs.
My mother placed a hand on my arm. “Shall I come with you?”
“No,” I said quickly. The only thing that could make this more awkward would be if my mother was in attendance. “I’ll be fine. He … he is the writer I knew on Corfu.”
Her eyes widened as understanding dawned. “I see.” My mother then waited for me to continue, clearly expecting me to say more, but that would inevitably lead to more questions I did not want to answer.
“I should go find your father anyway. It’s nearly time for his nap, and I am supposed to call on Lady Addison in an hour,” she said after a moment. “Good luck, Minnie. And thank you for helping your sister.”
“Of course,” I murmured.
She gave me a weak smile, then headed down the hallway to their suite.
When she disappeared around the corner, I moved towards the stairs and paused at the landing, but couldn’t hear anything coming from the entryway.
Morris must have already shown Mr. Dorian in.
That was just as well, as I very much needed a moment to gather my thoughts.
I continued down the stairs and stopped by a gilt-framed mirror in the hall to fix my hair.
Then I gave a quick look around to make sure I was alone before giving my cheeks a pinch.
There. I still looked tired, but not quite as ghastly pale as before.
Then I took a deep breath and charged into the drawing room.
I found Mr. Dorian, with his back to me, stooped over a dark walnut sideboard that was covered with a small collection of framed photographs.
He held one in his hand and appeared to be studying it so intently that he did not notice my entrance at first. My eyes lingered ever so briefly on the broad set of his shoulders.
His hair was also a bit longer than it had been on Corfu.
I hadn’t noticed last night, probably because I had been trying to look at him as little as possible.
“Hello,” I said, attempting for a casual, breezy air and failing miserably.
He immediately replaced the frame and whirled around. “Hello.”
I glanced away from his inquiring gaze and walked towards an open chair, but I could feel his eyes upon me with every step.
As I couldn’t begin to know how to converse with him, I decided to stick with the strict rules that dictated social calls.
“The tea cart should be here shortly,” I said as I sat down.
“Ah. Thank you, but I won’t stay long,” he said, then strolled over and dropped into the chair opposite me.
My hands tightened on my lap, and my spine stiffened in response. Why on earth did I feel disappointed? I smothered the feeling and forced my mouth into a polite smile. “Very well. What brings you here?”
He tilted his head and gave me a wry look. As if we were something like friends. “Surely you have already deduced that.”
I pursed my lips and cleared my throat. “Yes. Fine. The murder.” If he wasn’t going to bother with the standards of polite society, then I wouldn’t either. “That still doesn’t explain why you are here,” I said pointedly.
His eyes narrowed. “Have you already forgotten that it was my coachman that brought Mr. Pearson home?”
“No,” I said slowly.
“That makes him one of the last people to see the victim alive, apart from you and your sister.”
“Yes, I am aware,” I snapped.
He sat forward in his chair. “Then you are also aware that my brother is the detective on the case.”
I shrugged, now assuming his earlier nonchalance. “Of course. I met him last night. He seems like an intelligent fellow. I suppose that is how you learned of the murder?”
Mr. Dorian’s jaw tightened. “He woke me up at six this morning.”
“Well, that must have been very difficult since you like to keep such late hours,” I drawled.
His dark eyes flashed with irritation. “I haven’t seen him in nearly a year. Not since the—”
But just then there was a scratch at the door, and a maid came in with the tea tray.
The divorce.
I was certain that was what he had been about to say.
He had once mentioned that he and his brother were not close, and that the young inspector took issue with Mr. Dorian’s line of work.
Now I avoided his gaze and rose to meet the maid, grateful for an excuse to remove myself from Mr. Dorian’s eyeline.
“Thank you,” I said to the blond girl, who looked about the same age as Deirdre.
She gave me a shy nod. “Yes, ma’am.” Then she cast a blatant look of interest in Mr. Dorian’s direction.
I raised an eyebrow, which she noticed, and then quickly hurried out of the room. I rolled my eyes as she shut the door behind her, and began pouring myself a cup of tea.
“Are you sure you can’t stay?” I called to Mr. Dorian over my shoulder. I had little interest in resuming our topic of conversation and hoped he would follow suit. “Visitors always rave about our Madeira cake.”
“Not today,” he replied. Only once I turned back to face him did he continue: “I’m working on a book, and the deadline is fast approaching.”
I did my best to suppress any reaction, but I must not have been successful since his mouth curved just a bit. “Oh?” I said once I sat down. “Another Inspector Dumond novel?”
“No. It’s something different,” he replied as he crossed his legs, assuming that irritatingly casual air once more. “I don’t want to talk about it much yet. Not until it’s finished, anyway.”
“Well, then I suppose you had better get back to it.”
He watched me for a moment, no doubt trying to assess my interest, but I kept it carefully hidden beneath a stiff mask of politeness. “Yes, I suppose I should. But first I want to make sure you aren’t planning on doing anything foolish, like involving yourself in this murder.”
I had just taken a sip of tea and choked a little.
The absolute nerve of this man.
Once I recovered, I set down the teacup and shot him a glare. “I don’t see how that is any of your concern.”
“It isn’t,” he said, matching my expression. “But my brother seems quite certain you will meddle.”
I huffed. “Did you say something to him about me?”
“Oh no,” Mr. Dorian chuckled. “He came up with that all on his own.”
Was the man actually amused by this?
“And your response?”
His amusement slowly faded. “I told him you should not be underestimated, but that you are an honest woman. Exceedingly so,” he added, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more behind those words.
But I certainly wouldn’t show my interest nor ask, so instead I simply lifted my chin. “I will take that as a compliment.”
He chuckled again. “I certainly didn’t mean it as an insult. How are the children?”
The sudden question took me by surprise. “They’re well.”
“I take it Cleo is here attending that school she was interested in back on Corfu?”
“Yes. In Hampstead,” I answered, unable to hide my shock that he remembered.
Mr. Dorian nodded. “And Tommy is with you?”
“He is. We’re staying at my aunt’s home while she is on holiday,” I replied, though it certainly wasn’t necessary to tell him that little detail.
But Mr. Dorian only gave a thoughtful hum. “Have you taken him to the Natural History Museum yet?”
“No,” I said, feeling a touch defensive. “But I plan to.”
He smiled. “Good. He’ll enjoy it.” Mr. Dorian then pulled out his pocket watch and frowned. “I should go.”
Before I could even respond, the man was already on his feet, heading for the door.
“All right,” I managed to rasp, feeling a bit dazed.
Mr. Dorian paused with his hand on the doorknob and looked back at me.
“I meant what I said before, Minnie,” he murmured, his gaze as stern as ever. “About the murder. This isn’t Corfu. You must let Miles do his job.”
Then, without another word, he opened the door and left the room.
I remained frozen in place, until I was certain that if I left the room there was no chance of us meeting again. And also because I needed time to regain my bearings.
I meant what I said before, Minnie.
I couldn’t decide if I was annoyed by his outrageous presumption both in issuing such a warning to begin with and in using my first name, or touched that he cared enough to even bother making the trip.
Then again, I had no idea where he lived. For all I knew, he had simply strolled one street over. Perhaps Morris knew—No.
A warning note sounded in my head.
It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. Not why he had come here nor where he had come from.
I didn’t want to know. Besides, I had mistaken his concern for more once.
Much more. In fact, I had been on the verge of embarrassing both of us with some kind of impromptu declaration I could barely remember now when I learned that Mr. Dorian had packed up and abruptly left Corfu without bothering to say good-bye.