Tell Me No Lies Read online

  “Can I catch a ride into town with you?”

  “Thomas, no.” Ruth rushed up to stand beside him. “The ambassador.”

  “Business, my dear. So sorry. But I’ve just been called back to Washington.”

  Phil saw Godfrey and Luther exchange looks.

  “But of course,” Max said, frowning a little. “If you’re ready to leave now.”

  “Just let me get my coat.”

  “Thanks for a delightful evening, Godfrey.”

  “Glad you could attend. I’ll walk you out.” The two men left the room.

  “Well,” said Daisy. “I wonder what that was about.”

  Thomas ran out from the cloakroom, pushing his arms into his coat sleeves as he hurried toward the front door. As he passed Phil, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his gloves, dislodging a piece of paper that drifted to the floor. Phil scooped it up meaning to call after him, then changed her mind.

  It had a familiar feel. A quick glance showed her what she already suspected.

  Thomas Jeffrey may have been called back to town, but Phil suspected that it wasn’t to Washington, and that whatever his business was, it was with the stock market and not the government.

  She folded the piece of ticker tape he’d dropped and slipped it into the neckline of her jacket.

  Godfrey returned, rubbing his hands. “Who’s for a brandy?” He offered his arm to Daisy. The others followed.

  So that was that. The guests were gone and she hadn’t had a moment with Mr. X. Hadn’t even figured out which one he was. Maximillian Rosarian? Could Mr. X be an ordinary citizen like Sir Percy Blakeney from Baroness Orczy’s delightful novel? For all she knew he could be Colonel Baiole. More than once during the evening she’d been tempted to snatch the mustache off the illustrious gentleman’s upper lip.

  Of course she couldn’t take the chance.

  The girls went up to bed; Morris and his friends went off to the pool room, except for Vincent, who took himself to bed. He wouldn’t be joining the men in the morning because he insisted he had work to do.

  “Not to worry,” Luther assured the others. “It will burn off by the morning, though we may have a few lingering clouds.”

  “I don’t suppose any of you ladies will be joining us?” Godfrey asked.

  None of them would, including Phil, who could shoot tolerably well. She didn’t enjoy the activity, not so much because of maidenly squeamishness, but because Lord Dunbridge had enjoyed it too well.

  “Foggy Acres has lovely grounds. You must take in the ponds in the gardens, and if you’re up for an excursion and the weather permits, we’ll all go down to the beach for a picnic.

  “Feel free to amuse yourself, but I must warn you the fog does roll in during the evenings just as it did tonight. And sometimes during the day when the weather inversion is like it was today. You don’t want to get too far from the house when it does. A veritable pea soup.

  “Gwen, please remind the girls not to go past the brick walls into the woods. It’s easy to lose your way once the fog sets in. Our groundskeeper lost his young son when he wandered away from his cottage and fell into the lake. Horrible business. I should probably put a fence around it, but it is so lovely I hate to spoil it.

  “And there are plenty of other places to explore without having to send out a rescue party to find you.”

  He smiled genially as to take the edge off his words. But it merely served to make the admonition that much stronger.

  Didn’t he know that kind of warning just made one want to see things for themselves? It certainly had that effect on Phil. At the back of her mind she wondered if he was worried about their safety or if there was something beyond the wall he didn’t want them to see.

  * * *

  It wasn’t until much later, after Phil had changed, not into her nightgown, but into an orange and black figured kimono of Chinese silk. After she’d sent Lily to bed with the orders not to disturb her until morning. After she’d turned out the lights and stretched out on her bed to read Sir Edward Henry’s Classification of Fingerprints. After she’d closed her book and fluffed her pillow and was about to turn off the reading lamp, that she heard the latch click on the French doors.

  The door opened slowly, bringing a gust of cold air. A figure dressed completely in black slipped through the narrow opening.

  She wasn’t afraid. She had Lily’s stiletto under her pillow.

  She held still, peering into the shadows to catch her first glimpse of him. But he lingered in the dark.

  She knew it was him. Her pulse raced a little, but not so much so that she lost her head. She slipped her hand beneath the pillow, slid the stiletto close to the edge, and sat up.

  “Don’t you ever make a proper entrance?” she asked.

  “Only when the lights are on,” he said from the dark.

  “But the lamp is—”

  The lamp went out.

  19

  Phil didn’t move. She felt the bed dip as he sat down. He had crossed the room like a panther—well, at least like a cat. Any self-respecting lover would have at least tripped or banged his shin on the several things she’d spread about as booby traps to catch him off guard.

  A finger touched her cheek, traced a line to her mouth, across her bottom lip where it curved and he gently grasped her chin. “I’m a bit jealous.”

  His voice was barely above a whisper, not low, not light, but rich and smooth and practiced and she wondered if it was really his, or one of the accents he did so well. The other times they’d met alone, he’d spoken in an American accent. She was pretty sure that it was not assumed.

  “Why?” she asked, finding her voice.

  “I saw you making eyes at Maximillian Rosarian all night.”

  “That wasn’t you?” That explained why Max had seemed so remote. He was actually Maximillian Rosarian. Her eyes were becoming accustomed to the dark and she could make out his silhouette, feel the heat of him, and smell the faint aroma of the recognizable tobacco.

  “That oily charmer? Really, my dear.” He shifted position, slid his hand beneath her head.

  He leaned closer. So close she could feel his breath on the open décolleté of her kimono. She leaned into him, his hand slid behind her—then he moved away.

  “Expecting to use this?” he asked.

  She saw the glint of the stiletto he held before her eyes.

  “I wasn’t sure what to expect.”

  He chuckled quietly.

  She didn’t see what was so funny. “I thought he was handsome. Were you the colonel?”

  “No.”

  Thank goodness she hadn’t tried to rip off the old man’s mustache.

  He pushed her down to the pillow, stretched out beside her, propping his body upright on his elbow.

  “But it’s nice to know you were looking for me.” His free hand roamed along the edge of her kimono.

  If she had been a young innocent, she would have blushed, trembled, demurred. But being a dowager, she let him roam. She had time, and evidently so did he.

  “Who were you?”

  “You made a very understandable mistake. You were looking for me among the guests, among the dashing young men.”

  “Uh-huh, or the decrepit old geezers.”

  “Touché, but wrong again.”

  “Then who?”

  He drew closer and nuzzled her neck. He was clean-shaven, almost as if he already knew she couldn’t abide hairy kisses. “Did you enjoy Godfrey’s champagne? I made sure your glass was filled all evening.”

  She pulled away. “You were one of the waitstaff?”

  “A man of many talents.” He went back to her neck. “I really shouldn’t tell you these things, but you’re such a quick study, you’re almost too good. Too soon.”

  His hand moved inside her kimono and she had to stifle a sigh. It had been a while since her last lover … she batted his hand away and sat up. “What do you mean too soon? Too soon for what?”

  “You
are dealing with powerful men, my dear. Ruthless businessmen. There was a reason Perry didn’t run the trust. He was much too naïve and reckless and arrogant, as young men tend to be.”

  “Says you from the grand heights of old age?” He couldn’t be too old, not with that body, that agility.

  “Not too old, as I will soon demonstrate. Fauks’s murder is one of many small parts in a bigger mare’s nest.”

  “Are you saying he was murdered because he knew too much?”

  “Perhaps, perhaps not; murder except at the lowest level is rarely what it seems.”

  “And what is the lowest level?”

  “Passion,” he said, and fit his actions to the word.

  * * *

  Phil awoke to a scratching sound.

  “My lady. My lady?”

  My lady? Phil sat up. “Lily? What’s amiss?”

  “Nothing … my lady.”

  More awake now, Phil said, “One moment!” She turned to find an empty bed. But what had she expected? And how would she explain it if he hadn’t gone?

  “Come.”

  The door to the dressing room opened a crack. Lily peered into the room, looked around, then stepped all the way inside.

  “Is he gone?”

  “Who?”

  “Him.”

  How stupid. She had completely forgotten to ask his name. “Yes.” Alas. It was a night she wouldn’t soon forget and would hopefully soon be repeating. But business before pleasure.

  “What time is it?”

  “Past ten.”

  “Dear me. Coffee, please.”

  Lily curtseyed and went out.

  “My lady” and a curtsey first thing in the morning? Either Preswick’s lessons were finally seeping in or something was afoot.

  Phil slid her hand beneath the covers to the empty space beside her. Cold. Gone for a while, before dawn most likely, just like Romeo. She couldn’t help but chuckle at that comparison. More like Oberon than the hapless young Montague.

  Phil stretched, relishing in the memory of a few high points of the night, then sat up abruptly as one particular subject sprang to the front of her mind.

  Where was Lily’s stiletto?

  A frantic search among the bedclothes found it beneath her pillow, just where he’d found it. She leaned over to place it on the bedside table and noticed the small black smear on the pillow.

  She ran her finger along the spot. Dye. He dyed his hair and black would be hard to remove. Today she would pay attention to any staff members with dark hair, though in the back of her mind she knew that would be fruitless. He wouldn’t be so obvious. He was probably miles away by now.

  Phil slid out of bed and picked her kimono from the floor where it had fallen rather early in the night’s encounter. She checked the French doors. All were completely closed. A neat lover, she noted. Outside the fog had burned off just as Luther said it would. She wondered if the men would stay out all morning or retreat into the warmth of the house and their brandy and cigars.

  Lily returned with coffee and toast.

  Phil let out a squeak. “That was fast.”

  “Mr. Preswick brought up the tray for me.”

  “Why?”

  “He didn’t know if you would be requiring one cup or two.”

  Phil groaned. “I suppose he’s still waiting outside?”

  “Yes, my lady. He said he would stay to make certain you had no immediate need for his services.”

  Like engaging her nocturnal visitor in fisticuffs over her honor, such that it was. Or pistols at dawn? “You sound just like him,” Phil said, picking up her cup. “I suppose you might as well tell him to come in.”

  Lily’s eyes only rounded a tiny bit, before she curtseyed and hurried to the door.

  As Phil waited, she couldn’t help but smile with affection for her loyal retainer, even as a shiver of contrition passed through her. She had no illusions as to how much Preswick knew about her life away from the earl. But this was the first time she’d indulged in her “vagaries,” as her father called them, under the same roof as her faithful butler. She wasn’t at all certain what his reaction would be. Though a good butler would pretend to know nothing. And Preswick was nothing if not the consummate butler.

  The door opened and Preswick, looking even more somber and nonjudgmental than usual in an immaculate black suit, compliments of Godfrey’s laundress, stepped in. Lily stood behind him, peering around his elbow.

  Phil swallowed. “Well, Preswick. Am I to have a scold this morning?”

  “I wouldn’t presume, my lady.”

  “But you brought up my coffee yourself.”

  “I took the liberty of anticipating that it would be welcome.”

  “And you were correct.” She cut to the chase. “How did you know to expect a visit from our elusive Mr. X last night?”

  “I deduced that with the party and the extra staff hired for the occasion, it would be a perfect situation for him to insinuate himself into the company.”

  “And again you were correct.” Phil had anticipated—dare she say hoped for—the same.

  She put down her cup. “Bennington hired extra staff?”

  “Yes, my lady.” Preswick refilled her cup and handed it back to her.

  “I see. I had expected him to be among the guests, but he said he was one of the waitstaff. I should have paid more attention but I was too busy suspecting the guests.”

  “Only natural, my lady, but I did offer my services to Mr. Tillis to coordinate the downstairs service with the one above. I was able to observe his instructions to the hired staff, and I must say they were impeccably trained.”

  “None of them seemed even slightly out of place?”

  “No, my lady. In fact, they worked with almost military precision. Either Mr. X is a military man himself or he’s very good at what he does.”

  Indeed he was. She’d had ample opportunity to experience that the night before.

  “If that is all, my lady. I will try to ascertain more about the temporary staff.”

  “Excellent. Though I don’t think we need worry overmuch about him making another appearance. At least not in that guise. And Preswick…”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “He said we were dealing with ruthless men, and that we should be careful. That goes for you and Lily also.”

  “Yes, my lady.” He strode quietly out the door.

  Phil turned to Lily, who was standing well out of the way. “Were you expecting a row?” Phil asked, more than a little relieved herself to have escaped Preswick’s real opinion.

  “No, my lady.”

  “Then stop calling me ‘my lady.’ There are some things you must learn to accept about the way we live.”

  “I like it very much, my—madam.”

  “Excellent.”

  “Only Mr. Preswick sometimes worries about—”

  “My reputation?”

  “Your safety.”

  “Ah. But there is no need to worry. The three of us will do famously.”

  Lily only glanced down to where she had safely restored the stiletto to her ankle strap. “Yes, madam.”

  “I think I shall wear the russet walking dress this morning,” Phil said, reaching for her cup.

  “The one with the split skirt? You’re going out?”

  “One never knows. I may take it into my head to explore the gardens.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “You don’t approve?” Phil asked, but Lily had already quitted the room.

  Phil sat down at the dressing table, but her mind was not on her toilette. It was on the last romantic murmurings of her mysterious lover. “Don’t go to the shoot tomorrow, though I’m certain you can hold your own against the pigeons.”

  “I don’t really care about the shoot at the moment,” she’d murmured back.

  “Nor do I. But stay with the women … where you can do the most good.”

  Now she wondered what he’d meant. Because he’d said no more and she wou
ldn’t have remembered if he had.

  Where she could do the most good. Not just a ploy to keep her away from the shoot because he thought it was too dangerous for her? He would never insult her by trying to protect her.

  He needed her at the country house. And so did Atkins, though neither would ever actually admit it. So she would stay in and find out what she could. Besides, how much information could you overhear with the air constantly reverberating with gunshots?

  “What do you find so amusing, if I may ask?” Lily said, hanging up the walking dress.

  “You most certainly can. I was just thinking how men expect women to solve their problems without ever really telling us what the problem is.”

  Lily frowned as she began unbraiding Phil’s hair.

  “Perhaps because they don’t really know what the problem is themselves.”

  “Now that is a thought worth pondering.”

  “Yes, madam.” Lily coiled Phil’s hair to the top of her head, while Phil sipped her coffee. It was hot and strong, just what she needed.

  “Did the Jeffrey twins bring their own maid?”

  “Yes. Two of them.”

  That was interesting—each had their own maid as well as Ruth? An expensive practice, and if what Gwen said about living beyond their means was true—and why would Gwen lie about that—certainly that was an expense that could be cut. But so much of success—and failure—was about keeping up appearances.

  “Are the maids friendly?”

  Lily paused, the hairpin she was holding aimed directly at Phil’s scalp. It slid neatly into place.

  “You mean did I ‘pump’ them for information?”

  “What an imaginative turn of phrase. I don’t suppose you learned it from Preswick.”

  “No, madam. At the stables.”

  Phil fought with a smile. “I think it’s very colorful, just please don’t say it in front of Preswick.”

  Lily grinned. “Yes, madam.”

  “But did you? Pump them?”

  “Oh yes, though it was a little difficult with me speaking only Italian.”

  “Oh yes, I keep forgetting.”

  “Fortunately, I can listen in all languages.”

  Phil grinned. “Clever girl.”