Читать книгу The Questioning Miss Quinton - Kasey Michaels, Кейси Майклс, Kasey Michaels - Страница 9

PATRICK REMAINED in his chair, idly watching Standish sign the receipt with a flourish and then depart, a small oblong wooden box tucked neatly under his arm. Perhaps he was desperate for diversion, but Patrick would have given a tidy sum to know the contents of that box. Pierre was a good friend, but not very forthcoming, and it was slowly dawning on Patrick just how little of a personal nature he really knew about Pierre Standish, even after serving with him in the Peninsula.

He looked around the book-lined room, wondering if M. Anton Follet was mentioned in any of the volumes, or in any of the papers holding Professor Quinton’s extensive, although incomplete, history of the British upper class. His own research was devoid of any such reference, he knew, but then he had not gone much beyond a compilation of his and a half dozen other loosely related family histories before the whole idea had begun to pall and he had shelved the project (as he had so many others that he had begun in the years since his return to London from the war).

Rising stiffly from his chair—for he had spent the previous evening with Marie La Renoir and his muscles were still sending up protests—he realized that he and Miss Quinton, who had at some time reentered the library unnoticed by him to stand in the shallow window embrasure, were now the only occupants of the depressing room.

Steeling himself to pass a few moments in polite apology for having somehow usurped her claim on her father’s life work (it would never occur to him that either he or Standish should apologize for their rudeness during the reading of the will for, in their minds, the crushing boredom of such an occasion had made them sinned against rather than sinning), he walked over to stand in front of her, a suitably solemn expression looking most out of place on his handsome, aristocratic face.

“Miss Quinton,” he began carefully, “I can only tell you that your father’s bequest came as a complete surprise to me. As I could not but help overhearing your housekeeper’s refreshingly honest reaction at the time, I can only assume that you had a deep personal interest in his work.”

Victoria Quinton turned around slowly to look at the Earl levelly, assessingly—dismissively. “Yes, you would have assumed that, wouldn’t you?”

Patrick blinked once, looking at the young woman closely, unwilling to believe he had just been roundly insulted. She was standing stock-still in front of him, her hands clasped tightly together at her waist, the picture of dowdy dullness. He had to have been mistaken—the woman hadn’t the wit to insult him. “I assure you,” he then pressed on doggedly, “if there are any papers you particularly cherish—or any favorite books you would regret having pass out of your possession—you have only to mention them to me and I will not touch them.”

“How condescending of you. In point of fact, sir, I want them all,” Victoria Quinton replied shortly. “Indefinitely. Once I have discovered what I need to know, Lord Wickford, you are welcome to everything, down to the last bit of foolscap. Make a bonfire of it if you wish.”

Not exactly the shy, retiring sort, considering her mousy exterior, Sherbourne thought, his curiosity reluctantly piqued. Possessing little that would appeal to the opposite sex, she had probably developed an animosity toward all men; no unmarried miss of his acquaintance would dream of speaking so to him. “Would it be crassly impolite of me to ask what it is you hope to discover?” he asked, staring at her intently.

Victoria turned smartly, her heavy black skirts rustling about her ankles, and headed for the hallway, clearly intending to usher her unwelcome visitor to the door. “It would be, although I am sure you feel that being an earl makes you exempt from any hint of rudeness. But I shall nevertheless satisfy your curiosity, considering your generosity in allowing me use of the Professor’s collection. I shall even pretend that I did not overhear your complaints when you first heard of the bequest.”

Patrick’s dark eyes narrowed as he stared after this infuriating drab who dared to insult him. “How kind of you, Miss Quintin,” he drawled softly as they stopped walking and faced each other. “I vow, madam, you fair bid to unman me.”

Miss Quinton’s left eyebrow rose a fraction. “Indeed,” she pronounced flatly. “As I was about to say, sir: I have dedicated myself to the unmasking of the man who murdered the Professor. The answer lies in his papers, and I shall not rest until the perpetrator is exposed. And now, good day to you, sir.”

She then moved to stand beside the open door that led down three shallow steps to the flagway lining the north side of Ablemarle Street. But her startling disclosure (and jarring candor) had halted Wickford—who could only view departing the house as his single most cherished goal in life—in his tracks, leaving him standing some distance from the exit.

“Find the murderer?” he repeated, not trying very hard to hide his smile. “How very enterprising of you, madam. Have you perhaps looked underneath your bed? I hear that many spinsters believe murderers lurk in such places.”

Victoria’s chin lifted at the insult. “I’m positive you are considered quite amusing by your friends in those ridiculous clubs on St. James’s Street, but I can assure you that I am deadly serious.”

“But your father was killed by a burglar he must have discovered breaking into his library,” Patrick pressed on, caught up in the argument against his will. “Murder, yes, I agree, but it’s not as if the man’s identity could be found amid your father’s research papers or personal library. I fear you will have to resign yourself to the sad fact that crimes like this often go unpunished. Law enforcement in London is sorry enough, but investigations of chance victims of violence like your father are virtually nonexistent.”

The front door closed with a decided crash as Victoria prepared to explain her reasons to the Earl—why, she did not stop to ask herself—so incensed was she by his condescending attitude. “The Professor knew his murderer, probably opened the door to him, as a matter of fact. I have irrefutable evidence that proves my theory, but no one will listen to me. I have no recourse but to conduct my own investigation.”

“What is your evidence?” Patrick asked, feeling a grudging respect for her dedication, if not her powers of deduction.

“That, Lord Wickford, is of no concern to you,” she told him, pulling herself up to her full height. As she spoke she slipped a hand into the pocket of her gown, closing her fingers around the cold metal object that was her only lead toward discovering the identity of the murderer. “Suffice it to say that I have in my possession a very incriminating clue that—while it does not allow me to point a finger at any one person—very definitely lends credence to the theory that you, sir, or one of a small group of other persons I shall be investigating with an eye toward motive, entered the Professor’s library as a friend and then struck him down, leaving him to lie mortally injured. Before dying in my arms the Professor charged me with the duty of bringing his murderer to justice and, I say to you now in all sincerity, sir, that I shall do just that! All I ask of you is some time before you remove the collection. I will notify you when I no longer require it.”

“Admirable sentiments, eloquently expressed, Miss Quinton,” Patrick owned soberly, “although I feel I must at this point protest—just slightly, you understand—that you have numbered me among your suspects.”

Bats in her belfry, Patrick then decided silently, becoming weary of the conversation. That’s what happens to these dusty spinster types after a while. But aloud, he continued, “I’ll respect your right to hold to your own counsel about your ‘clue,’ of course. But my dear Miss Quinton, you must know that I would be shirking my duty as a gentleman if I didn’t offer you my services should you find yourself in need of them. That is, if you are willing to accept help from one of your suspects?”

“I shan’t need your help,” Victoria retorted confidently, deliberately ignoring the vague feeling of unease that had been growing ever since she first began this strange conversation. Longing to do Sherbourne an injury, she thought to herself: If I cannot throw actual brickbats at him, I can at least attack him verbally. “For now,” she continued in a voice devoid of emotion, “it is enough that I have been able to interview my first suspect. I might add, sir, that I shall strive not to allow your boorish behavior today—and all I have read in the newspapers about your questionable pursuits—to prejudice me against you. At the moment, you are no more suspect than any of the other gentlemen who could have committed the crime.

“I apologize for baiting you so openly, Lord Wick-ford,” she then conceded, her voice softening a bit, “but you are only the second suspect I have encountered today, you understand, the first having escaped before I could speak with him. I was merely testing your responses, feeling you out as it were,” she added, not entirely truthfully, for in fact her opinion of him and his kind was not especially high.

Now Victoria had Sherbourne’s complete attention. “Second suspect, you say? As I doubt that either the solicitor or that down-at-the-heels tradesman who scurried out of here with the Professor’s collection of pipes is capable of murder, could you possibly be trying to tell me that Pierre Standish is also to be considered a suspect? My, my,” he remarked, seeing the answer on her expressive face. “At least, Miss Quinton, you have put me in good company, although I imagine I should be feeling quite put out with you for even supposing I could have had anything to do with your father’s death, except for the fact that I find it extremely difficult to take seriously anything you have said. Your last revealing statement implicating Mr. Standish has served to confirm my opinion of the worthlessness of your arguments.”

Patrick smiled then, shaking his head in disbelief. “Therefore, I won’t even dignify your assumption of my possible guilt with a question as to your reasons for it. I make no secret of my disagreement with your father when last we met, as I realize it is more than possible that you overheard us.”

“I have not yet been able to ascertain a motive for you, or any of the suspects,” Victoria was stung into saying. “To tell the truth, there may still be suspects I have not yet discovered. I am in no way prepared at this time to make any accusations.”

“I shall sleep better knowing that, at least for now, you are only assuming to place guilt rather than running off to the authorities with a demand for my immediate arrest, I assure you,” Patrick returned, bowing with an insulting lack of respect. “I shall also—need I even say it?—make it a point to enlighten Mr. Standish of his new status as a suspect in a murder, although telling him that he is not unique in his position, but has merely been lumped in with other would-be dastards, may not be a wise move on my part. Pierre does so hate running with the herd, you understand. But I’m sure you won’t let Mr. Standish’s righteous anger frighten you if he should happen to take umbrage at your accusation, for your motives are pure, aren’t they, Miss Quinton? After all, you are only doing as any loving daughter might do, and you are a loving daughter, aren’t you, Miss Quinton?”

Victoria’s pale face became even more chalklike before a hot flush of color banded her features from neck to forehead—the only portions of her anatomy Patrick could, or wished to, see—and she replied coldly, “My feelings for and relationship with my late father are not at issue here, sir. The Professor was murdered, and I have undertaken the fulfillment of a dying man’s last wish. It’s the only honorable thing to do under the circumstances.”

Patrick looked about the drab hallway consideringly. “You’ve led a rather quiet, almost sequestered life, Miss Quinton. Dare I suggest that you are contemplating using the Professor’s death as an excuse to insert a bit of excitement into your previously humdrum existence? Although, looking at you, I can’t imagine that you possess any real spunk, or you would have asserted yourself long since rather than live out your life in such dull drudgery, catering to the whims of an eccentric, totally unlikable man like the Professor. No, I must be mistaken. Obviously you believe yourself to be embarked on a divine mission. Do you, perhaps, read Cervantes?”

“This is not some quixotic quest, sir, and I am not tilting at windmills. I have control of my mental faculties, and I am determined to succeed. I suggest we terminate this conversation now, so that I may get on with my investigation and you may repair to one of your ridiculous private clubs, where you can employ that inane grin you’re wearing to good use as you regale your low-life friends with what I am sure will be your highly amusing interpretation of my plans and motives.”

Sherbourne’s smile widened as he shook his head in disbelief. “I really must read the columns more often, if their gossip has indeed painted me as black as you believe me to be. At the very least, such a vice-ridden, pleasure-mad libertine as I should be enjoying himself much more than I think I am, don’t you agree? Either that or—oh, please say it isn’t so—you, Miss Quinton, have hidden away behind that dreary gown and atrocious coiffure a rather wildly romantic, highly inventive, and suggestible mind that is considerably more worldly than your prim façade, educated speech, and high-flown ideals indicate. Is that why you’re so hostile, dear lady? Are you a bit envious of those lives you read about in the scandal sheets? Are you out to snare a murderer to fulfill the Professor’s dying wish, or do you see this as a chance to deliver a slap in the face to a society that you equally covet and despise?”

“That’s not true!” Victoria exclaimed, aghast. “How dare you insinuate that I have ulterior motives for my actions? You don’t know me. You know less than nothing about me.” The Earl’s verbal darts were striking with amazing accuracy now, and all Victoria could think of was finding some way to make him leave before she could be tricked into saying something that confirmed his suspicions. “Every word you utter convinces me more that you are the guilty party—attacking blindly in the hope you will somehow be able to dissuade me from my intentions. Let me tell you, sir, yours is an exercise in futility! I shall not be defeated by such an unwarranted personal attack!”

“As you say,” Patrick answered, one finely arched eyebrow aloft. “Well, good hunting, Miss Quinton. If you desire any assistance, or need rescuing when you find yourself in over your head, please do not hesitate to contact me.”

“I find it incumbent upon me to say that I cannot think of what possible use you’d suppose yourself to be,” Victoria marveled nastily, “considering your reputation for the aimless pursuit of pleasure, not to mention your renowned propensity for immature exploit.”

“Oh no, you misunderstand, Miss Quinton,” the Earl informed her mildly. “I shan’t come pelting into the fray on my white charger to save you, you understand, but I might be inclined to wander by and say ‘I told you so’ on my way to some nearby low gaming hell or depraved orgy.” Moving once more toward the door, he added, “Now that we have exchanged the requisite pleasantries, I do believe I shall take my leave. Do please try not to weep as I pass out of your life forever, Miss Quinton. I’d wager a considerable sum that yours is not a face that would be enhanced by a maidenly show of tears.”

“I never cry” was all Victoria answered, bent on correcting his misconception without seeming to take exception to his ungentlemanly remarks. The only outward sign that his insult had hit a tender spot was to be found in a slight widening of her curiously amber eyes, but it was enough to afford Patrick some small solace.

“I can believe that, Miss Quinton,” he answered cheerfully, patting his hat down on his head at a jaunty angle as he prepared to leave before she said something that tried his overworked patience too high. “I imagine any emotion save your obvious contempt for your fellow man to be alien to one such as you. Indeed, it must gratify you in the extreme to be so superior to the rest of us poor mortals. When your father’s papers pass into my possession—in other words, on the day when you finally are forced to admit defeat in your ‘quixotic quest’—I shall be eager to inspect the Quinton family tree. It must be thick with truly outstanding specimens.”

“You have not heard me boast of my ancestry, sir. It is you who carry a coat of arms on your coach door like a badge of honor, as if anything any of your ancestors has done can possibly reflect advantageously on you, who have done nothing to deserve the slightest honor at all.”

Patrick’s back stiffened as he swallowed down hard on an impulse to strangle the unnatural chit. He hadn’t yet gotten through her iron-hard shell, no matter what he had thought earlier. He hadn’t found a single chink in her armor of dislike and indifference that had refused to yield even an inch. She should be reduced to tears, not standing there toe-to-toe with him, trading insults.

“When first I saw you, Miss Quinton, I thought your father hid you away because of your lack of looks,” he offered now, knowing he was behaving badly but somehow unable to help himself, for the woman seemed to bring out the worst in him. “I see now I was sadly mistaken. It was your serpent’s tongue he strove so hard to conceal. Hasn’t anyone ever told you it’s not nice to go around antagonizing people with every other word that rolls off your agile tongue?”

Victoria took in the heightened color in Lord Wick-ford’s thin cheeks and decided that she had tried him high enough for the moment. He had revealed nothing of himself save a reluctance to admit to anger and an ability to trade verbal insults without flinching, and he had appeared truly surprised to hear of her belief that her father had known his murderer.

Even so, she should have considered her tactics more closely before deciding to opt for a full, frontal assault. After all, hadn’t Willie always told her that one caught more flies with honey than with vinegar? Victoria winced inwardly, wondering if the Earl was right—that she was, at three and twenty, taking on all the less-than-sterling traits of the waspish spinster.

Of course, she comforted herself, his surprise could have just as easily stemmed from his realization that she had somehow discovered some evidence that could incriminate him, she amended carefully, knowing it wouldn’t be prudent to jump to any conclusions this early in the day.

She was just about to open her mouth and apologize for having behaved so shabbily when Sherbourne, who had just interrupted his latest move toward the front door as a sudden thought occurred to him, whirled to point a finger in her face and demand: “Pierre Standish, Miss Quinton. Humor me, if you please, and speculate for just a moment—what possible reason could he have had for putting a period to your father’s existence?”

“Who is M. Anton Follet, Lord Wickford?” was Victoria’s maddening reply.

Patrick inclined his head slightly, as if acknowledging a flush hit. “Ah, madam, such deep intrigue. I do so love cryptic questions, don’t you?” His smile was all admiration as he ended silkily, “If this is a sample of your sleuthing, however, I suggest you repair to your knitting box without further delay.”

“I don’t knit.”

Patrick’s eyes closed in a weary show of despair. “This, I believe, is where I came in. And, madam, this is where I depart. Good day to you, Miss Quinton.”

So saying, Sherbourne opened the front door and let it close softly behind his departing back.

It wasn’t until his coach (the one with the gilt coat of arms on the doors) had delivered him to his own doorstep that Sherbourne realized he was more than just extremely angry. He was also confused, upset, and intensely curious about Pierre Standish, M. Anton Follet, Quennel Quinton, Miss Victoria Quinton’s bizarre scheme, and the identity of the Professor’s murderer.

It did not occur to him that the one thing he was not was bored.