Chapter 21 #2
“I see,” Mr. Dorian replied flatly at this rather generic description.
“Oh!” Mr. Buckley suddenly exclaimed. “I did think it looked rather long for a gentleman. Nearly to his shoulders, in fact,” he added, sounding slightly scandalized.
My stomach did a little flip. That sounded like a general description of the baron. And it was certainly possible that Lord Linden would have come to this auction with Charles.
“Thank you, Buckley. That is all very helpful,” Mr. Dorian replied a tad sardonically, but that was lost on the man.
“Glad to hear it. Now then, I had better get to my seat!” he said before hurrying past us.
“Come on.” Mr. Dorian took my arm and led me to the cloakroom, where we quickly retrieved our coats, and then stepped out into the night.
“I think he may have seen the baron,” I said once we were a few steps away from the house.
“Do you?” Mr. Dorian then considered this. “I suppose it’s possible.”
“But why would he be so secretive about coming here?”
Mr. Dorian shrugged. “Sometimes these avid collectors don’t want people knowing what they have on hand.”
It was reminiscent of Mr. Henshaw’s explanation for hiding the identity of the buyer for Delia’s painting. “I suppose.”
The air had grown quite chilly, and I instinctively hugged my arms close to my chest.
Mr. Dorian then pressed a hand to the small of my back as he guided me towards the waiting carriage. I jolted at the familiarity of his touch, and a rush of heat swept through me from head to foot as I remembered our embrace from only minutes ago.
“Please give Mrs. Langham my regrets,” I began, keeping my gaze firmly ahead. “Unless you think it’s better not to mention it at all.”
It. Goodness, I couldn’t even bring myself to say the word kiss.
Mr. Dorian stopped in his tracks, and I was forced to look at him. His brow was furrowed in confusion. “What are you talking about?”
“I … what we did. In the study,” I said haltingly.
But as soon as the words were out, I was swamped with regret.
It probably hadn’t even crossed his mind to mention it in the first place.
And now he thought me deranged for even bringing it up.
“Never mind,” I added. “Forget I said anything.” Then I began to hurry away, as if I could outrun my embarrassment.
But Mr. Dorian was beside me in an instant. “Wait,” he said as he grabbed my arm to stop me. “I don’t understand. What does Mrs. Langham have to do with anything?”
I let out an exasperated huff. Now he was just taunting me. “Because I know she is your mistress. And I certainly wouldn’t like it if my paramour kissed another woman. No matter the circumstances.”
Mr. Dorian stared at me with a bemused expression. “I told you. We’re only friends.”
“You never said anything of the sort, actually,” I said hotly. “And there is no need for you to hide your relationship. I am not so na?ve that I expect a grown man to live like a monk. Do whatever you want. But please don’t lie to me.”
His eyebrows rose in shock, and I turned away again, but he moved to block my path. “I am not lying. I have known Mrs. Langham for years, and she has only ever been a friend to me.”
I crossed my arms and looked away. “Fine.”
“It’s true,” he insisted. “I met her through her father.”
I glanced back, unable to hide my surprise. “You did?”
The corner of his mouth lifted ever so slightly. “Mr. Rohan Merriweather. A dashedly interesting fellow and the inspiration for the character Rohan Seymour.”
“Oh,” I said, as I recalled the details. The wryly funny Anglo-Indian solicitor was an excellent foil to the more sober inspector.
“When Merriweather retired from practicing law,” Mr. Dorian went on, “he turned his hand to poetry and became a minor sensation. I met him at a reading one evening, along with his very protective daughter, and we all became friends.”
“Oh.” I cleared my throat primly. “I see.”
“Unfortunately, the gentleman passed away a few years ago, but my friendship with Mira has endured.”
“Then, Langham is a stage name?” I asked with a casual air in a bid to save face.
The corner of Mr. Dorian’s mouth lifted, and he shook his head.
“Her late husband was a Langham. He was a director and brought her into the theater world. Quite a bit older, though. Rohan didn’t like him much.
Mira swore off marriage after he died. Frankly, I can’t imagine her being any man’s mistress,” he added with a chuckle, then quickly sobered.
“Even still, I’m sorry if I gave you the impression that we are romantically involved. ”
I inadvertently sucked in a breath as he stepped closer to me and lifted my chin. “I don’t know why you would be,” I replied, fighting to remain detached. “But it was Lord Linden who told me anyway.” I certainly didn’t want him thinking I had even bothered to make such an inference on my own.
That caught him by surprise. “Linden?” Then he shook his head. “That blackguard,” he muttered.
“He is nothing of the sort.”
Mr. Dorian let out a dark laugh. “You think it was simply a mistake on his part?”
“The baron was only trying to help.”
He let out a derisive snort. “He’s after something. I’ve seen the way he has been sniffing around you,” he added, his voice dripping with disapproval.
“Right,” I said, barely able to contain my outrage. “Because the thought that he would enjoy my company is simply too absurd for you to fathom.”
“That is not what I meant—”
“And even if you and Mrs. Langham are just friends, what about the rest of them?”
He narrowed his eyes. “The rest of who?”
“You are written about in the papers nearly every night!” I threw up my arms in frustration. “And always in the company of a different woman. You may not be involved with Mrs. Langham, but you are with someone. Not that I care, of course,” I added in a rather pathetic attempt at nonchalance.
Mr. Dorian pinched the bridge of his nose. “It isn’t what it looks like.” I could only laugh at this clichéd excuse. “You know that I have long been a target for gossip,” he insisted. “My activities are often embellished, if not outright invented, simply to sell papers.”
I pursed my lips. “Fine. I understand. It doesn’t matter anyway,” I added softly, more to myself than him.
He held my gaze. “Doesn’t it?”
I swallowed and looked away. “I … I should go.”
It was a cowardly response, but my nerves were already so worn from our evening that I simply lacked the will to endure anything else.
Something like disappointment flashed in Mr. Dorian’s eyes. “Take my carriage, then. I’ll walk.” I began to protest, but he held up a hand. “Please.”
There was an unfamiliar weariness in his gaze that caught me off guard. I gave him a stilted nod and then followed him the rest of the way to his waiting carriage. I stood on the pavement as he quickly spoke to the coachman, then he brushed past me and opened the door.
He held out his hand, and I stared at it for a moment before I took it. Once I climbed into the carriage and took my seat, I turned back. Mr. Dorian was leaning in the doorway, waiting for me to look at him.
“Think whatever you like if it makes it easier for you,” he began. “But there hasn’t been anyone, Minnie. Not since my marriage.”
Then he stepped back and shut the door quite soundly in my face.
Unsurprisingly, I did not sleep very well that night. After tossing and turning for hours, I finally gave up and instead set to work recording my latest discoveries. By the time dawn broke, I was bleary-eyed, exhausted, and had little to show for it.
I was nowhere closer to uncovering Charles Pearson’s killer nor Oliver’s possible role in illegally exporting Greek antiquities, and had quite possibly destroyed my acquaintance with Mr. Dorian in the process.
I closed my notebook and stumbled into bed, where sleep finally embraced me.
I was awoken later by a soft knock on the door and the housekeeper’s concerned voice.
“Mrs. Harper, are you well?”
“Yes, I’m fine,” I rasped as I pulled a hand down my face. Then I rolled over and squinted at the small bedside clock. It was nearly 9:30. I threw back the covers and hurried over to open the door.
Mrs. Ford was waiting in the hall, her face pinched with worry. “May I bring you a tray?”
“Thank you, yes. I’m afraid I had trouble sleeping last night,” I explained.
Understanding dawned on her face. “You poor thing. I have a tincture that does wonders, if you need.”
“I appreciate that and will certainly let you know. How is Tommy?”
“He’s perfectly well,” she said with a reassuring smile. “Curled up with a stack of books in the study.”
“Good.” I let out a breath of relief. Between the book Cleo had lent him and the stack we had brought home yesterday, I hoped he could be occupied for the rest of the morning.
“Now you go on back to bed, and I’ll be in shortly with some breakfast,” Mrs. Ford said.
I nodded at her gentle command and did as I was told.
As I nestled under the covers once more, my gaze caught on the desk by the window and the notebook I had pushed aside in frustration mere hours ago.
My mind and body were desperate for more sleep, but my thoughts churned with renewed vigor and the need to do something.
By the time Mrs. Ford returned with a poached egg, toast, and tea, I had already dressed for the day.
She raised an eyebrow as she set the tray down. “Going somewhere?”
“I was hoping to visit Delia this morning,” I replied, pouring myself a cup of tea.
Mrs. Ford pursed her lips in disapproval. “Might it not be better to let yourself rest?”
I gave her a smile. “Believe me, I have functioned on far less sleep many times,” I added with a knowing chuckle that the housekeeper did not return.
“Pardon me, Mrs. Harper,” she began. “But I promised your aunt that I would watch out for you, and I must admit that I am not merely speaking of last night. You’ve been pushing yourself ever since that man’s death.”