Out of all the decanters, this one had the least liquor left in it. Archer’s favorite, if she had to guess. The stopper came loose with a harmonious ring and released the smoky sweet notes of the liquor.
She poured herself a measure, relaxing at the sound of the decanter letting its treasure loose in a soft glug-glug-glug, and the crackle of the ash—not coal—fire within the grate behind her. No wonder men coveted the simple ritual of having a drink and kept such things away from women. To the victor always went the spoils.
Caramel and smoke and heat, the bourbon burned a slow delicious path down her throat. Miranda closed her eyes in pleasure. And then snapped to attention as she heard Archer’s voice join with that of another man’s out in the hall. Footsteps sounded, heading her way, and she tensed.
Her stomach turned at the notion of facing Archer so soon.
“Let us talk in here, Inspector.”
Inspector?
“As you wish, my lord.”
Alarm lifted the hairs at her nape. She knew that voice. It was Winston Lane, newly appointed inspector for England’s Criminal Investigations Department. Winston Lane, her eldest sister Poppy’s very dear husband and Miranda’s very dear brother-in-law. She most certainly did not want to face Winston and Archer with her hair down and wearing a ratty old dressing gown, or explain why she felt the need to partake in a man’s drink in the middle of the night.
With a wild look around, she considered her options. The door handle turned, and Miranda made her choice. Not a very good choice, she conceded as she all but dove behind the large chinoiserie screen in the corner. She was now trapped like a mouse.
From the cracks between the screens, she saw slices of her brother-in-law’s face: pale and thin with a long mustache the color of straw embracing his upper lip. His hair, of the same color, was carefully swept back. He had not taken off his tweed overcoat but held his bowler in his hand. Once in the room, he set the hat down upon a small table by one of the armchairs. A bit of boldness on Winston’s part as it was an obvious sign that this visit would not be easily rushed.
Miranda tensed and slipped farther into the corner as Winston slowly surveyed the room. He did as she had done, inspecting its contents, looking for clues to what might lie inside the infamous Lord Archer’s head.
Then the man himself moved into view. Though Winston inclined his head toward him, Archer was looking at the bar, she realized in cold horror. She could almost feel his eyes upon her discarded glass, still half-full.
“Inspector Lane,” he said finally, turning so that only his arm was visible from her hiding spot. “What unfortunate news do you have for me?”
“Lord Archer, I do apologize for the late hour. However, I thought it best to come when I did. I fear by morning my presence here would bring an even greater inconvenience.”
For everyone would note it, and tongues would wag.
“Whom should I thank for such a courtesy?” Archer asked dryly.
Winston took a step closer to Archer. “Forgive me, but I have not yet offered my congratulations in your marriage to my good sister, Miranda.”
Archer’s arm flinched. “Miranda is your sister?”
“She is sister to my wife, Poppy. I am quite fond of Miranda. I was pleased to hear that she had found a husband who could see to her welfare.”
Miranda’s cheeks colored. She knew what was behind his proper words. He was pleased she had finally left Father. For a cold moment, she wondered whether Winston had heard tales of her less than lawful activities.
“Had I not been away on business this morning, I would have accompanied my wife to the ceremony.”
Would he have? Miranda was not so sure. Clearly, he was not altogether pleased at her choice of husband, or he would have said as much.
“Since we are family”—Archer’s voice tightened on the word—“let us speak plainly. What do you want?”
Winston nodded. “Shortly after one o’clock this afternoon, Sir Percival Andrew, fifth baronet of Doddington, was found murdered in his bed chamber.”
Miranda blinked in surprise as the words fell over the room.
“I am sorry for it,” Archer said in a quiet voice.
“Then you admit to knowing Sir Percival.”
“Of course. I have known him nearly all my life. Though I haven’t seen him in some years.”
At that, Winston pulled a small notebook from his pocket to consult it. Miranda knew from Poppy that he did this for show. Winston memorized every fact he collected.
“In eight years, correct?”
“Correct, inspector.” Dry amusement laced Archer’s voice. “Not since the week I sent his granddaughter’s fiancé, one Lord Jonathan Marvel, to hospital after an altercation with him. A fact I am sure you have committed to memory as well.”
Winston snapped his notebook closed.
“It is quite a juicy tidbit of gossip that fails to die,” Archer said.
“It is said that as a result of that altercation, Lord Marvel broke off his engagement with Sir Percival’s granddaughter, causing much stress and heartache between the two families.”
“Broken engagements often cause familial strife.”
“I believe Sir Percival and quite a few others held you accountable for the mishap.”
“As do I.”
“Your relations with Sir Percival were not in good standing when last you met.”
“My relations with Lord Marvel were not in good standing. Sir Percival and I were of like mind in the matter.”
“Which was?”
“Lord Marvel is, and was, a spoiled snot, and I have a foul temper.”
Winston’s lips curled but his eyes remained shrewd. “Yes, there is much talk of that violent temper, my lord.”
“A logical fellow might deduce that a man in possession of a volatile temper would lash out when offended, not wait in cool composure to do the deed eight years later.”
“I should like to think myself a logical fellow,” said Winston.
“Which means you have something more to go on then mere conjecture.”
“Upon questioning of the house servants, some disturbing news was brought to light. Mr. James Marks, Sir Percival’s valet, was resting in his room next to Sir Percival’s. He swears that he heard his master call out the name ‘Archer’ as if surprised. A moment later, Sir Percival made an odd sound, and Marks went to investigate.” Winston kept his eyes on Archer. “Sir Percival had been sliced across the neck and then eviscerated.”
From behind the safety of her screen, Miranda clutched her knees as bile rose in her throat. She did not want it to be him. She liked Archer, almost instantly. And she never took an instant liking to anyone.
“Is that all that was done to him?” Archer’s quiet query shocked Miranda back to sensibility.
Winston raised a blond brow. “An odd question, my lord. Do you assume there were more insults done upon his body?”
“You are here because I am suspect. If I am to be accused, I will know the whole of it, Inspector. Now, what was done to him?”
“Sir Percival’s face was slashed, his right eye gouged out and missing. His heart taken.”
The fire snapped in the grate, and Miranda jumped. Dear God, was she married to a madman? Please don’t let it be so. She’d gotten her first glimpse of hope. She did not want to recede back into a world where shame and darkness dwelled.
Archer’s fingers curled round the back of a chair. “I am sorry for it,” he said again, softer this time.
“My lord, that is not all.”
“It never is.”
Something stirred within her, a churning that came upon a person just before danger caught hold and dragged a soul down.
“A scullery maid, Miss Jennifer Child, reports seeing a man in a black mask running through the stable yard moments later.”
Miranda pressed her knees against her chest as if the action would still her pounding heart. For a moment, she considered leaping up and running to Winston. He would take her from here. No one would fault her for seeking an annulment. The thought filled her with a wild sense of freedom. She could do this. She could get away.
Yet she stayed in place. Her heart would not let her move. It could not be Archer. Not the man she had dinner with this very night. He had shown her respect and caring, been protective of her feelings. But what did she really know of him?
“All very damning testimony,” Archer said, stopping her running thoughts.
“It appears that way, my lord.”
Poor Winston was on dicey ground. One did not question a peer, yet here he was. One certainly did not accuse a peer of murder. Miranda could almost feel Winston’s tension. He would not ask Archer for an alibi. But he desperately wanted to hear one. The churning in Miranda’s belly grew.
“Inspector Lane, you may question my servants at your leisure. You will find that upon showing my bride her new home, I disappeared from the hours of twelve o’clock noon to shortly before nine in the evening. There will be no one but myself to account for my whereabouts.”
Miranda’s head fell forward. She had hoped for Archer’s reassurance. But the man wouldn’t even proclaim his innocence. Surely an innocent man would? Her fingers twitched, digging into the silk weave of her gown. She should go. It was madness to stay. Perhaps he would murder her as well. Slice her throat in the dark of night. Why then could she not move? Silently, she cursed herself for being a fool.
“That is most unfortunate, my lord.”
“Yes.”
“Yet you can account for your whereabouts.” Winston was careful not to phrase it as a question.
“Of course. But I will not. Only that I was alone. I am often alone.”
Stubborn man! Her nails sank into the flesh of her knees.
“Do you have a theory as to who might have done this thing, my lord?”
“A coward who likes to play games.”
“Murderers generally are cowards,” Winston said. “I have one more question, my lord.”