Chapter 15
I couldn’t help smiling to myself as I left the gallery, certain that this Sir Armstrong-Hughes held the key to this case. But as I stepped out onto the pavement, my smile died.
“Hello, Mrs. Harper,” Mr. Dorian said with a grin, as he leaned against a brick wall just by the entrance of the gallery. “Isn’t this a nice surprise.”
Surprise my foot.
“What are you doing here?” I hissed, though I already knew the answer.
As the infernal man pushed away from the wall and walked towards me, I reluctantly acknowledged that, in comparison to Mr. Henshaw, his smile appeared refreshingly genuine. However, that did not dispel my annoyance.
I lifted my chin, still feeling rather bold from my exchange with Mr. Henshaw. “I don’t need you chasing me around like a nursemaid. You should have made yourself known.”
He had the audacity to look surprised. “You think I’ve been following you?”
I frowned at his feigned incredulousness. Perhaps I had given him too much credit, thinking him genuine. “Then what, pray, are you doing here?”
“I was visiting a friend across the way and happened to see you entering this building. So I decided to wait.” Then he looked past me and squinted at the gallery’s sign. “Are you purchasing some art?”
I ignored this. “Who were you visiting?”
He gave me an indulgent smile. “Answer my question first, and I’ll tell you.”
I held his gaze as I pretended to consider the offer, and it was then that I noticed the slight strain in his face. The man may be acting friendly, but if I had to guess, he was actually very cross with me and only kept up appearances because we were in public.
I let out a short sigh. “The gallery owner was a friend of Charles Pearson’s, and I came to see if he knew anything about his business.”
Mr. Dorian nodded. “And were you successful?”
I narrowed my eyes. “Tell me what you are doing here first.”
He huffed a laugh. “I was meeting Mrs. Langham.”
I did my best to keep my expression neutral, even at the inconvenient flare of jealousy in my chest. “Oh?” I asked, managing to sound bored.
“She had some information for me. About the case.”
Without thinking, I stepped closer, unable to hide my interest. “Really? What did she say?”
But Mr. Dorian clicked his tongue. “You know the rules. What did this gallery owner know?”
I cast a wary glance behind me, thinking of that nosy clerk. “Perhaps we should discuss this somewhere more private.”
“Come,” he said as he offered me his arm. “I know just the place.”
I hesitated at first, then took it before the moment could turn awkward.
Just as I feared, being this close to Mr. Dorian took me back to Corfu. To the last time he had touched me. And all I could remember was how safe I had felt in his arms, though I had been on the brink of death. And the anguish in his voice as I had slipped from consciousness.
No. Not yet.
“Are you all right?” He was giving me a look of concern.
I must have shivered involuntarily at the memory. “Yes. Of course,” I lied. “Let’s go.”
He watched me for another moment, then led me down the street. “It’s around the corner. A tearoom I like.”
I couldn’t help smiling. “Do you make it a habit of visiting every tearoom in London?”
He shot me a mock frown. “Certainly not. Only the good ones. Why do you look so amused?”
“It’s just very … quaint,” I said. “I never would have thought a man like you would be so found of tearooms.”
“A man like me? What does that mean?” Then he arched a brow. “You expect I spend all my free time in gambling dens and bordellos?”
I tripped at that last word, and Mr. Dorian was forced to grip me more tightly. “No,” I said, once I recovered, but his hold didn’t loosen. He gave me an expectant look, and I scoffed. “I do not think you spend all your free time at such establishments.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “You can’t say the word, can you?”
“Well, of course I can say it,” I shot back. “I just choose not to. It isn’t proper,” I added, then immediately regretted it.
Rightly, Mr. Dorian laughed. “Since when are you concerned with what is proper?”
“Never mind,” I grumbled.
Luckily, I spotted the lace-trimmed windows of the tearoom up ahead. This one was called Polly’s.
Mr. Dorian paused at the door and shot me a look. “And just to be perfectly clear,” he began, “I don’t spend any time at such establishments.”
My cheeks heated and I gave a nod. “Understood.”
He then held the door open for me, but I couldn’t meet his eyes as I entered the tearoom. I sat down at the first empty table I spotted, and Mr. Dorian joined me.
“The scones are particularly good here,” he said conversationally, as if we hadn’t just been speaking of houses of ill repute.
I cleared my throat. If he was going to act unbothered, then so would I. “You do seem to like them,” I commented. He had ordered scones at the last tearoom as well.
Mr. Dorian looked affronted. “What kind of Englishman would I be if I couldn’t appreciate a good scone?”
The corner of my mouth lifted. “Quite right. I suppose I will have to try them then.”
A girl came over to our table, and Mr. Dorian ordered scones for us both along with a pot of strong black tea. Once we were alone again, Mr. Dorian took off his gloves and folded his hands on top of the table.
“All right,” he prompted. “What did this gallery owner tell you?”
I let out a sigh as I stripped off my own gloves. “He claimed not to know much about Charles Pearson’s business, but did say that there was a private auction he always attended each month.”
Mr. Dorian looked up, distracted. “Where is it?”
I had the strangest suspicion that he had been watching me remove my gloves. But no. That was ridiculous. “He gave me the address,” I began, as I searched through my reticule for the slip of paper. “It’s run by a man called Sir Armstrong-Hughes. Do you know him?”
He shook his head. “Never heard of him. But then, I don’t spend my leisure time at private auctions.”
My fingers tightened as I recalled how Mr. Dorian did spend his leisure time: at various shows, salons, and restaurants, always with a different lady. “Here it is,” I said as I pulled out the slip and handed it to him.
“This is an address in Belgravia,” he commented as he scanned the paper.
“Then I suppose Sir Armstrong-Hughes really is a knight.”
Mr. Dorian rolled his eyes. “They will give anyone a knighthood these days.”
“It could be a completely legitimate organization,” I pointed out.
But he didn’t look convinced. “If it’s a private auction held in someone’s home, there is a fair chance at least a portion of the items are stolen from somewhere. But there is a larger issue.”
“What?”
“There will be a guest list,” he said with a frown. “They won’t just let anyone waltz in and start asking questions.”
I sat back in my chair, feeling defeated. “I see.”
Mr. Dorian gave me a sympathetic look. “Give me some time. I’ll ask around and see if I can find a way to gain entry.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Don’t think you are going alone.”
He let out a laugh. “You can’t be serious. Mrs. Harper—”
But he stopped himself from saying more as the girl returned with our tea and scones.
“Here we are,” she said with a cheery smile, as she doled out our food and tea.
“Thank you,” I replied. The scones smelled heavenly, and my mouth began to water from the buttery aroma.
“Can I get you anything else?”
“No, we are very well,” Mr. Dorian said as he eyed the scones with a hungry gleam.
She gave a nod and turned on her heel, leaving us alone once more. Mr. Dorian offered me the plate of scones first, and I took one. It was still warm. Then he tore into his own and spread on it a thick layer of cream and jam. We were both silent for a long while as we ate.
“You can’t come with me,” he finally announced once his plate was nothing but crumbs.
I placed my half-finished scone down and daintily wiped my mouth with my napkin. “Why not? And don’t say because it’s too dangerous,” I added just as he began to speak. “It’s an auction in Belgravia.”
Mr. Dorian gave me a sour look. “And yet a man is dead possibly because of this auction in Belgravia,” he countered. “If the murderer is connected and they learn that we are there looking for them, it certainly could become very dangerous indeed.”
I was unmoved by this explanation. “So then you’ve decided that Mrs. Pearson is no longer a suspect.”
“Don’t change the subject,” he scolded. “And no, I haven’t. But I agree that this is another angle that should be pursued.”
I preened a little. “Then I must insist that we pursue it together. We can use false names and go in disguises. Then no one will know who we are.”
Mr. Dorian scoffed. “No disguises.”
“Why not? Surely your friend Mrs. Langham can help with that,” I said innocently, unable to keep from baiting him.
A muscle in his jaw ticked as he held my gaze. “Perhaps she can,” he said.
It felt like a challenge. One I had no choice but to meet. “Excellent. Then it’s settled.”
He raised an eyebrow. “For now. And only if I can find a way in.”
“I’m sure you will,” I replied and took a bite of my scone. I should have felt victorious, but it was difficult not to sulk.
“Don’t you want to know what Mrs. Langham told me?” he asked after a moment.
No. I don’t ever want to hear that woman’s name again, I thought. But somehow I managed to restrain myself and gave him a sunny smile. “Of course.”
He was giving me one of those inscrutable looks again. “Adeline Brooks, the rumored Mrs. Pearson, is in London. And allegedly has been for over a week, in fact.”
My jaw dropped open. “So she was here before the murder took place.” Mr. Dorian nodded.
He was obviously relishing in my reaction, but I didn’t care.
If this was true, then she was another potential suspect—and the most likely culprit, according to Mr. Dorian.
For the first time since the night of the murder, I felt something close to relief.
Delia wouldn’t be the prime suspect anymore. “Does your brother know this?” I asked.