Chapter 19
“I’m sorry, but did you just say Mr. Dorian went to the Natural History Museum with you?” Cleo looked from her brother to me, her gaze equal parts questioning and accusing.
The three of us were sitting in the large conservatory of her school in Hampstead, along with a number of other people visiting with students, and Tommy had just been catching her up on everything we had done since our last visit.
I bit back a sigh. “Yes. He happened upon us just as we were leaving.”
Cleo raised an eyebrow, immediately seeing this for the weak explanation it was. “How convenient.”
I turned to Tommy, who was blissfully unaware of the growing tension. “Darling, why don’t you go get another biscuit,” I suggested and pointed to the long table nearby that offered tea and biscuits for the visiting families. He was out of his seat at once and didn’t even look back.
Now that we were alone, I gave my daughter an apologetic smile, which she returned with a skeptical look.
“All right, Mama. Out with it.”
Cleo had far more sense than I did at her age, likely because I had not been able to shelter her from the harsher realities of life. I swallowed the guilt that usually accompanied such thoughts.
“We met by chance when I went out for the evening with Aunt Delia,” I explained. “And we have seen each other a few times since then.”
Her expression lightened, and I knew what she was thinking. “But, that’s wonderful.”
I shook my head. “It’s not like that.” I glanced back to make sure Tommy was out of earshot, and sure enough, he was still at the table, piling a plate with far more than one biscuit.
I quickly turned away, as I could deal with only so much at once.
“Your aunt was in a bit of trouble, and Mr. Dorian was kind enough to help.”
But Cleo only narrowed her eyes. “What kind of trouble?”
“She was being courted by a man who was … murdered,” I said, trying to sound unbothered.
This, unsurprisingly, did not work on my daughter. Cleo leaned forward. “Mama,” she hissed quietly, “you were almost killed the last time you tried to investigate a murder. Don’t tell me you are doing it again.”
For one brief moment, I considered lying to her, but knew I could never fool Cleo. That girl could have broken the leader of the Spanish Inquisition. “This isn’t like last time—”
“No.”
“I’m being careful,” I insisted.
But Cleo was unrepentant. She sat back in her chair and crossed her arms. “Then make him do it.”
I let out a sigh. “I was trying to protect your aunt. The police were treating her as a suspect, and I was worried that she would be arrested.”
Cleo’s frown softened slightly. “And now?”
“I think they have determined that only a man could be the murderer.”
“So then there’s no need for you to continue,” she said, with a hopeful look in her eyes that broke my heart.
I shook my head. “No, darling. There’s more.” I paused to take a sip of tea, and because I was a bit of a coward. Cleo waited patiently while I gathered my nerves. “I’ve begun to suspect that there may be some connection to your father and the work he was doing in Greece.”
She blinked as she absorbed my meaning and finally let out a soft Oh. “Do you mean at the embassy?”
I held her hopeful gaze. “I’m not entirely sure yet.”
That was technically true, as I had yet to determine if Oliver had used his official position to gain entry into a black-market antiquities ring or if it was merely something he had cultivated outside the office.
I grimaced at the thought. But the how didn’t matter.
I was far more concerned with the why and whether this had somehow played a role in his death.
I could barely bring myself to even conceive of such a thought.
To consider that years of pain, both my own and my children’s, could have been avoided if Oliver had only behaved differently.
But there was also still a sliver of hope.
A possibility that this was all a part of some massive misunderstanding and that, even in death, my husband was still the man I had believed him to be.
It was that possibility that fueled me now, even in the face of my daughter’s entirely understandable concern.
Cleo worried her lip. “Can’t you tell someone else to look into it? What about Uncle Jack.”
I let out a mirthless laugh. I couldn’t trust Jack. He seemed far more concerned with suppressing any possible connection to scandal than uncovering the truth. And I was certain he would destroy any evidence he did manage to find, whether it absolved Oliver or not.
“No. I’m sorry, Cleo. But it has to be me. I have to do this,” I said with more force than I meant.
Yet it had the desired effect as Cleo reluctantly nodded. “I understand.”
“Thank you. And I promise, I will be careful.”
“All right,” she said, not sounding the least bit convinced.
I longed to give her more reassurance, but nothing short of swearing to stay home every evening darning socks would do. And I simply couldn’t promise that.
“Will you at least tell me what you find? Even if … even if I might not like it?”
As I took in the apprehension in her eyes, my heart broke.
While Tommy barely remembered Oliver, Cleo had idolized him.
I suddenly wondered if I was being horribly selfish in pursuing this.
For it wasn’t only my image of Oliver that was at stake, but the children’s as well.
I hadn’t felt this uncertain since I was trying to decide whether to stay in our home or move closer to the center of Corfu Town after Oliver died.
But, in the end, I had decided to honor my late husband and remain in the home we had shared as a family.
Now I was choosing to do something that threatened to ruin those last memories.
I cleared my throat and managed a quick nod just as Tommy returned with his pile of biscuits. I halfheartedly told him to share with his sister, which he did with some reluctance. When he then offered me his plate, I shook my head.
“No thank you, darling,” I said. For I had lost my appetite.
Visiting hours ended a short while later, and I pulled Cleo into a fierce hug until she tapped my shoulder.
“Mama, I have to go,” she said, her voice muffled against my shoulder.
I immediately released her. “Right. Sorry.”
“But I will see you next week.”
“Yes,” I said with a firm nod, hating the uncertainty in her gaze.
The image stayed with me as we left the school grounds and walked to a main road, as I flagged down a hansom cab, and all through the long ride back to Hyde Park Street.
Thankfully, Tommy didn’t seem to notice my distraction, as he was preoccupied with a recently published book on dinosaurs that Cleo had lent him from her school’s library.
One thing I appreciated about her school was that the curriculum was rigorous and well-rounded.
The students studied mathematics and science alongside more traditionally feminine pursuits like horticulture and music.
When we finally reached home, I was exhausted, both mentally and physically. I wanted nothing more than to take a long, hot soak in my aunt’s exquisite marble bathtub. But as we entered the house, Mrs. Ford greeted me with a knowing smile, and I knew it was not to be.
“You have a visitor, Mrs. Harper. The Baron Linden is in the parlor.”
I frowned in surprise just as Tommy shot me an accusing look. “You know a baron?”
“A little, yes,” I admitted. “Though I can’t imagine why he has come here.”
Or how he knew where to find me. Then my stomach sank. He must have gone to Portman Square first. I highly doubted Delia was receiving guests, so the only other person he could have spoken to was my mother. And if that was the case, I would never hear the end of it.
“Thank you, Mrs. Ford. Would you send in a pot of tea?” I asked as I helped Tommy out of his coat.
“Certainly,” she said with a nod. Then she turned to Tommy. “Would you like to assist me?”
Tommy’s eyes lit up, and I shot her a grateful look. Someday the allure of helping an adult with mundane tasks would lose its thrill for my son, but thankfully that day had not yet arrived.
As I walked down the hall to the parlor, my mind riffled through all the possible reasons for the baron’s visit.
If it had merely been to pay his respects after the funeral, leaving his card would have sufficed.
No. If he had bothered to then come here, it meant there was something specific he wanted to speak to me about.
Given how I had been spending my time as of late, I felt wary.
Did the baron somehow know that I had undertaken an investigation into Charles Pearson’s murder?
And if so, how would he react? Would he be angry or intrigued?
I didn’t know him well enough to even guess.
I pushed open the parlor door and found him standing before the hearth with his back to me. He turned at my entrance, and I was surprised by the uncertainty in his gaze.
“Mrs. Harper, hello.” He came to me at once, and I barely had time to greet him myself before he took my hand and brushed his lips across my knuckles.
“Hello. I hope you haven’t been waiting long?”
“It’s no matter,” he demurred as he straightened and gazed at me rather intently.
“I must admit, this is quite a surprise,” I said, as I took a seat and gestured for him to do the same.
He ducked his head in a surprising display of contrition as he sat down across from me. “I know. I went to your parents’ home first, and your mother was kind enough to give me your aunt’s address. I hope I haven’t imposed?”
“Not at all,” I said with a tight smile. My mother was probably planning our wedding at this very moment. She would be sorely disappointed.
The baron managed a weak smile of his own before his gaze turned serious. “Forgive me for speaking rather plainly, but I’ve come here on a matter of some urgency.”
My stomach turned as I suspected the worst. “Is this about Delia? I’m so sorry if her presence at the funeral was a distraction—”