The other guests turned, faces startled or expectant according to their personalities.
Edwin was in his element with an audience. He bowed and strutted to the middle of the room. “I have received many accolades for the play you enjoyed last night, but now I must reveal to you the real talent, the real playwright of A Wastrel Reform’d.” Edwin paused for a pregnant second and then turned and bowed to Lily. “My own sister, Miss Robin Goodfellow!”
Even knowing what he might say, Lily was caught by surprise. For a moment she simply stared, wide-eyed, at her brother. Then, grinning, he took her hand and drew her to the center of the room.
The guests rose, clapping, and she could do nothing but curtsy and curtsy again. In the back of the room a footman tapped on Mr. William Greaves’s shoulder and leaned close to whisper something in his ear before Mr. Greaves turned and left the room.
Amid the uproar, Lily looked at her brother. “Why?”
He shrugged, his look rueful. She wondered if he’d already begun to regret his decision to reveal the authorship of her plays. “It was time,” he murmured, close to her ear because the applause was continuing. “And, no matter my own self-interest and pettiness, I do love you, Sister.”
Tears sparkled in her eyes and she threw her arms around her brother. Over his shoulder she could see Apollo, standing and clapping with the other guests, his eyes full of pride.
APOLLO WATCHED LILY blush and smile as she was finally acknowledged for the words she’d written. He wanted to go to her and take her in his arms, to congratulate her himself, but they hadn’t progressed to a point where he could claim her in public—yet. So instead he used the distraction to slip from the room.
Outside the breakfast room, footmen scurried back and forth, paying him no mind. He strode down the hall and ducked around the corner. His uncle’s study was at the back of the house on this floor, in an area normally reserved for the family.
He was nearly at the door when he was hailed from behind.
“Mr. Smith.”
He turned to find his uncle staring at him in puzzlement. “Might I help you, Mr. Smith? I fear there is nothing of interest down this way, merely my own study.”
“I apologize,” Apollo said easily. “I must’ve gotten turned around.”
“Quite.” The older man’s gaze sharpened on him and he cocked his head. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, Mr. Smith. Have we perchance met before?”
“I don’t think so, sir,” Apollo replied, holding his uncle’s gaze. It was the truth, after all: he had no memory of his father’s family’s ever visiting when he was young, save for the one time his grandfather had come to announce Apollo’s enrollment in Harrow.
“Strange,” the older man murmured as they turned back toward the front of the house and the rest of the party. “But I find that something about you is reminiscent of…” He trailed away, shaking his head. “I feel that I’ve seen you before.”
He slowed as they came to the end of the corridor, and although Apollo wanted to rush away, he made himself slow as well.
“My father,” the older man said suddenly, “the earl, is a big man. I used to be quite afeard of him as boy. Broad shoulders like a bull, huge hands.” He seemed lost in a not entirely happy memory. “My brother and I did not inherit his frame—much to my father’s chagrin—but I’m told my nephew is at least as large as my father. And, of course, my son George bears him some resemblance.”
He looked at Apollo and there was a sort of frightened question in his eyes.
“Mr. Greaves.”
Both men looked up at the low voice. A servant stood at the other end of the hall, backlit by the window there.
“Ah, Vance,” the older man said. “There you are.” He turned back to Apollo. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Smith?”
“Of course,” Apollo murmured. He watched as his uncle walked to the manservant.
“I hope you have the matter well in hand?” William Greaves asked.
“Just as you ordered, sir, but if I may…” Vance leaned toward his master, murmuring something in his ear. As he did so, he turned his head just enough for his face to be revealed. Vance had a port-wine stain over much of his left cheek and chin.
Apollo stepped back, merging into the shadows of the corridor, his heart beating fast. He’d seen that face.
Four years ago in a tavern in Whitechapel.
He waited as the two men disappeared into Greaves’s study before slipping back to the breakfast room. It was simply too much of a coincidence for his uncle to have in his employ a man who’d been in the tavern that night. Was he an assassin? Had his uncle sent Vance that night to do such ugly work?
When he reentered the breakfast room, the guests were still dining. Quietly he slipped back into his seat beside the Duke of Montgomery.
“Did you learn anything?” His Grace asked casually as he buttered a piece of toast.
“In the necessary?” Apollo knit his brows as if confused.
“Come now,” the duke said. “Don’t prevaricate with a master like myself.”
He crunched into his toast.
Apollo sighed. He didn’t trust Montgomery, but at the moment the man was his only ally. “William Greaves’s valet was there at the tavern—the night before the murders.”
Montgomery paused mid-crunch. “You’re sure?”
Apollo gave him a look. “The man has a conspicuous port-wine stain on his face.”
“Ah.” The duke swallowed. “Then it seems to me that we ought to find out how long the man has been in William Greaves’s employ.”
“How—?”
But before Apollo could finish his question the duke had leaned forward over the table. “I say, George, how long has your father had that valet of his?”
“Three years,” George Greaves replied slowly, looking between the duke and Apollo.
Apollo swore to himself and hunched over his plate of eggs.
The duke, naturally, wasn’t perturbed at all. “Strange. Saw a man with a birthmark just like his in Cyprus two years ago.”
Cyprus? Apollo glanced up casually to see if George Greaves had bought this ridiculous story.
Judging by his suspicious look, he had not.
Apollo sighed as the other guests chattered around them. “What the hell was that?” he hissed at Montgomery.
“A question.” The duke reached for another piece of toast.
“Did you mean to alert him to our investigation on purpose?” Apollo growled.
“Yes and no.” Montgomery shrugged. “I’m bored. Nothing’s happening. Sometimes it’s best to send the fox into the chicken house to see if a snake slithers out.”
Apollo glared. “You know nothing at all about chickens.”
“Don’t I?” Montgomery smiled winsomely as he slathered butter on his new piece of toast. “If you think that, then perhaps you really ought not to be taking my advice on poultry, hmm?”
Well, and that was the question, wasn’t it? Apollo thought as he took a bitter sip of coffee. Should he be trusting the duke with anything at all?
He glanced again at his cousin, blithely drinking his tea. George had said that Vance hadn’t been in William’s employ four years ago. But that didn’t mean William couldn’t have known Vance at the time of the murders. And, of course, George might’ve simply lied. Perhaps father and son had acted together. After all, it was to George’s benefit as well should Apollo be hanged.
Apollo shook his head, taking a bite of coddled eggs. If only he had concrete evidence against his uncle.
That decided him.
He had to take another chance at his uncle’s study—tonight.
APOLLO WAS IN her rooms again when Lily returned that night. She should have been outraged at his presumption, but all she felt was happiness tinged with sadness.
She doubted that they’d last much beyond this house party. He’d find the murderer and justice and return to his life, she was sure of it. Apollo had a sort of calm resolve that she’d seen before in men who got what they wanted. He was born to be an earl and he would be someday.
An actress had no place in such a life.
As the days of the party passed, so too did their time together.
“You look pensive,” he said quietly, holding his hand out from where he lay on the bed. He wore only his shirt and breeches.
She went to him without protest. Why pretend when they really had so little time left together?
He gathered her against him, her back to his front, and began plucking the pins from her coiffure. “Have I told you how much I admire your hair?”
“It’s just plain brown,” she murmured.
“Plain, lovely brown,” he replied, raising a lock he’d freed to his face.
“Are you smelling my hair?” she asked in amusement.
“Yes.”
“Silly man,” she said lightly.
“Smitten man,” he corrected, spreading her hair over her shoulders. “I’ve been watching you today.”
“In between escorting Miss Royle about the garden?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder at him.
“Yes. I’d rather it’d been you, but that wouldn’t’ve been prudent.” He frowned down at the strands of her hair caught between his fingers. “Or, perhaps, safe.”
She stilled. “What do you mean?”
“My uncle commented that I looked like my grandfather today, and then later Montgomery said some rather unwise words to my cousin.”
She turned all the way so she could see his face clearly. There was a small dent between his brows. “They’ve discovered who you are?”
“Maybe.” He shrugged. “Maybe not. My uncle suspects, I think, but only that. As for my cousin…” He trailed away, shaking his head. “That I simply don’t know.”
“You need to be careful,” she said, placing her hand on his chest. “Your uncle killed before to prevent you gaining your title. There’s nothing to stop him doing so again.”
“I can take care of myself,” he said, smiling indulgently down at her.
“Don’t be a fool,” she whispered urgently. “No man can withstand a bullet.”
His smile slipped from his face. “You’re right.” He kissed her forehead. “Now tell me why Ross is troubling you.”
She blinked at the sudden assault. “There’s nothing. I—”
“Lily.” He trailed his fingers along her hairline. “I care for you. I would protect you if I can. Please tell me.”
She opened her mouth and then shut it again. In a little while they would part and probably never see each other again. Did she really owe him anything when such was the situation?
But in this time—this stolen time before all that would come next—they were close. If things had been otherwise, she might’ve made this man her husband. Might’ve borne his children, kept his home, slept beside him night after night until they both had white hair.
Perhaps in this in-between time she did owe him the truth.
So she laid her head on his chest and listened to his reassuring heartbeat as she spoke.
“When I was little, living in various theaters with my mother, there was another girl my age. Her name was Kitty and she was my friend. Both her mother and her father were actors and I suppose we grew up together. Kitty had flaming red hair and blue eyes and when she laughed, her nose scrunched up so adorably. Once she was old enough she always played the heroine. She was funny and kind and I loved her. She was very fond of seedcake, I remember. Maude would sometimes smuggle a small cake in for us especial and we would have a tea party behind the stage as my mother and her parents worked in whatever play they were in at the time.”
