'Til Death Do Us Part Page 5

  “He must have got in disguised as a deliveryman. The thing is, who could have known about the existence of that old lift?”

  “Anyone who ever worked in this house or in the gardens, for starters,” Calista said.

  “None of them has any reason to try to frighten you.”

  “Whatever the case, I’m quite certain it wasn’t Mr. Hastings who sent the tear-catcher to me and left the ring on my bed. Please believe me when I tell you that he did not come to see me today because he is feeling vengeful. In his view, he was simply attempting to protect his sister. You would no doubt have done the same in his place.”

  “He must be a suspicious man by nature.”

  “That is only to be expected. He writes novels with plots that revolve around dark secrets and murder. One can only imagine how dwelling on such matters day in and day out might affect a person’s view of human nature.”

  “I certainly have formed a very dark view of Trent Hastings now that you’ve told me about your meeting with him.”

  “I must admit I won’t be rushing out to purchase his next book,” Calista said. “Which is a pity. I quite enjoyed his last novel.”

  “Very clever plot and the final scenes with the villain were riveting.” Andrew’s brows scrunched together. “Not sure I care for the character of Miss Wilhelmina Preston in this new story, however.”

  “What’s wrong with Wilhelmina Preston? I rather like her.”

  “It’s all very well to insert a woman into the plot but we don’t want Clive Stone to get sidetracked with a romance. It will ruin the series.”

  “That is a matter of opinion.”

  7

  HER HUSBAND WAS a very dangerous man. She was terrified of him.

  Anna Kettering was intensely aware of her racing pulse. Her heart was pounding. Her breath seemed to be trapped in her throat. She was certain now that the only thing keeping her alive was her inheritance.

  The terms her father had insisted on incorporating into his will were strict and quite clear. If anything happened to her—a fall down the stairs, a fever, anything—the money would go to distant relatives in Canada.

  Papa must have had some suspicions about Nestor, she thought. Her husband had appeared to be the ideal husband. Her father must have feared that Nestor was too perfect.

  Her fingers were shaking so badly it was all she could do to insert the key into the lock. She finally managed to get the door open. One last glance down the long hall assured her that there was no one about to observe her. It was the servants’ afternoon off and Nestor was supposedly attending a sporting event but she knew she had to be very careful.

  Satisfied that she was alone in the big town house, she entered the shadowed chamber and quickly closed and locked the door. She lit a candle and looked around the small space.

  The room was decorated in the somber hues of deep mourning. An elaborate arrangement of white flowers was displayed on a wrought-iron stand. The heavy scent of the dead and dying blooms was almost overpowering. The gilt mirror had been covered with black velvet as was the custom. It was nonsense to think that it was bad luck for the mourners to see their own reflections in the house of the recently deceased but some of the old superstitions still informed the rituals associated with death.

  The clock on the mantel had been stopped at five minutes to midnight—the time of death.

  She crossed the small space and looked down at the silver tray lined with white velvet. The tear-catcher and the jet ring were gone. The only item left was a black enameled bell inscribed with the initials C. L. The bell was attached to a metal chain. There was a ring at the end of the chain.

  A photograph of the deceased hung on the wall. A pair of scissors had been applied to it in order to remove everyone except the dead woman from the scene. Black lace was draped around the frame.

  Below the photograph was a funeral announcement card. The name of the deceased was written in an elegant hand: Calista Langley. The line where the date of death was to be inserted had not yet been completed.

  Calista Langley was not the first woman whose portrait had hung in the chamber.

  Anna hurried back across the room and let herself out into the hallway, relocking the door behind her. She did not breathe a sigh of relief until she was downstairs.

  There was no question but that her husband was obsessed to the point of madness. She had to find a way out of the nightmarish marriage. But who would believe her?

  It was all too easy for a husband to convince the authorities that his wife was insane, but it would be next to impossible for a wife to have her husband committed.

  8

  CALISTA WALKED INTO Masterson’s Bookshop with a sense of relief. The bells over the door tinkled cheerfully in welcome. There was something about the very atmosphere of the place that calmed her strained nerves. The tranquility of the cozy shop was infused with the comforting smell of the volumes, old and new, that were shelved in the bookcases.

  It was as if she had stepped into a different dimension. Outside, the fog drifted ominously in the street. The clatter of hooves and carriage wheels echoed eerily in the mist. Strangers appeared and disappeared into the gray, featureless landscape. With each step she had been uncomfortably aware that any one of the people she had passed could have been the intruder who had left the memento mori ring in her bedroom.

  But inside Masterson’s all was calm and serene. It was only when she took a few deep breaths that she realized just how unnerved she had become in the past several days.

  The middle-aged woman behind the counter was in the midst of ringing up a sale but she smiled warmly.

  “Miss Langley,” she said. “How nice to see you. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

  “Good day to you, Mrs. Masterson,” Calista said. “Please don’t rush on my account. I always enjoy a browse through your shop.”

  “Right, then, take your time.”

  Martha Masterson went back to her customer, a young man who looked to be about the same age as Andrew.

  “There you are, sir,” she said briskly. “Enjoy Clive Stone and the Affair of the Murder Machine. It’s been very popular since it came out as a book.”

  “Read it when it was serialized in the Flying Intelligencer of course, but I wanted a copy for my personal library,” the customer said. “I’m reading Mr. Hastings’s latest in the newspaper now. Not sure about the character of Wilhelmina Preston, though. Don’t know why the author had to bring in a lady who appears to be more or less in the same line of work as Clive Stone.”

  “Miss Preston is a scientist,” Martha said. “Not a detective.”

  “But Stone is asking her for assistance on his new case,” the customer grumbled.

  “Not to worry,” Martha said. She gave the young man a reassuring wink. “Perhaps Wilhelmina Preston will prove to be the villainess. You know Mr. Hastings likes to conceal the criminal in plain sight in his stories.”

  “The villainess.” The customer was clearly cheered by that news. “Now, that would be a very clever twist. Good day to you, Mrs. Masterson.”

  “Good day, sir.”

  Martha waited until the door closed behind the young man and then she made a tsk-tsking sound.

  “I do hope Mr. Hastings hasn’t made a serious blunder with the character of Wilhelmina Preston,” she said. “My female customers are thrilled by her appearance but my gentlemen customers are a bit alarmed, to say the least.”

  “Speaking of Mr. Hastings,” Calista said. “He is the reason why I am here today. First, I wish to thank you for sending his sister to my agency.”

  Martha’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction. She was a comfortably rounded woman with a friendly, outgoing manner. “So Eudora Hastings took my advice, did she? I do hope you will be able to find a match for her. That poor woman is growing old long before her time. Such a pity.”

  “
She has attended some of my salons and appears to be enjoying herself.” Calista hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “I am wondering if you or Miss Ripley have recommended my services to any of your gentlemen customers recently?”

  “No,” Martha said, surprised. “Why do you ask?”

  “Merely curious,” Calista said, somewhat untruthfully. “Thank you, again.”

  She did not realize until that moment just how much she had hoped to find some connection between Martha Masterson and whoever was sending the memento mori items. The odds of identifying the person who seemed determined to make her life miserable had been poor from the outset, she reminded herself. Nevertheless, there had been a faint possibility that the bookshop proprietor and her friend had unintentionally sent some mentally unhinged individual to the agency. Martha was the one former client who came into contact with a wide variety of people due to the nature of her business.

  So much for that notion. She would have to go back to her client files and look for someone else who might have been less than discreet with the wrong person.

  She was about to make some excuse to depart without making a purchase when a voice spoke from the back room.

  “Is that you, Miss Langley?”

  A woman of approximately the same age as Martha appeared. Slim, tall, and angular, Arabella Ripley was the physical opposite of the proprietor. Her narrow, sharp-featured face was transformed by a bright smile when she saw Calista.

  “I thought I heard you out here, dear,” Arabella said. “I was just unpacking a new shipment of books. So nice to see you again. What was it I heard you asking Martha?”

  “Miss Langley wanted to know if we had sent any gentlemen to her agency,” Martha explained.

  “Oh, my, no,” Arabella said. “Just that very nice Miss Hastings. Was that all you wanted to know?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Calista said. A thought struck her. It seemed like a shot in the dark but she was desperate. “On second thought, have you, by any chance, mentioned my agency to any other ladies besides Miss Hastings?” she ventured.

  Martha and Arabella exchanged questioning glances and then each shook her head.

  “No, no one else,” Martha said. “We are very discreet about your agency.”

  “Thank you,” Calista said. “I appreciate that.”

  Arabella’s brows rose in concern. “Do you need more business, dear? We could certainly sit down with our list of regular customers and see if there might be some other prospective clients.”

  “No, no,” Calista said quickly. “Business is quite brisk, thank you. Just curious. I’m, ah, attempting to determine the most useful ways to attract new, respectable clients. As you know, I work only by referral, so my promotional possibilities are somewhat limited.”

  “Yes, we understand, dear,” Martha said. “One can hardly put an advertisement in the newspapers, can one? Can’t have just anyone turning up on your doorstep demanding to be introduced to other people. Discretion is the key to your business.”

  “We are extremely careful about discussing your services.” Arabella smiled at Martha and then turned back to Calista. “You changed both our lives by introducing us last year. I can’t imagine how lonely we would be now if it hadn’t been for your agency. We don’t want to see your business ruined by the wrong sort of rumors.”

  Calista drew a deep breath. “As I said, I’m just doing a bit of research. If you will excuse me, I must be on my way.”

  The shop door opened with considerable force, sending the delicate bells into a discordant cacophony. Nestor loomed on the threshold. Calista stopped breathing.

  “Thought I saw you come in here, Calista,” Nestor said.

  He gave her what he no doubt considered his most devastating smile but his eyes were cold and sharp. An icy shudder swept through Calista but she managed what she hoped was a cool, unruffled expression.

  “Mr. Kettering,” she said. “I had no idea you were a customer of this shop.”

  “Never stepped foot in it until today,” he said. He did not bother to glance at Martha and Arabella. “But when I saw you enter, I thought it might be a good time to catch you. Allow me to buy you a cup at the tea shop on the corner.”

  “Sorry,” she said. She adjusted her gloves and headed for the door, hoping that Nestor would step aside. “I have a number of appointments to keep.”

  She advanced on him with such determination that he was left with no choice but to move. Behind her, Martha spoke in uncharacteristically unwelcoming tones.

  “May I help you, sir?” she asked.

  Nestor’s response was short and curt. “Not today.”

  He pursued Calista out onto the street.

  “Calista, I must speak with you. The least you can do is give me a moment of your time.”

  It was a command, not a request. She did her best to ignore him but when he fell into step beside her she knew she had no choice but to confront him. She came to a halt and turned to face him.

  “Whatever you wish to say to me, do me the favor of saying it quickly,” she said. “I have a great many things to do today.”

  “How did your appointment with Hastings go yesterday?” Nestor growled.

  “That is none of your affair.”

  “Did you take him on as a client?”

  “I refuse to discuss my business with you. Now, if that is all you wish to say, you must excuse me.”

  She started to turn away. Nestor grabbed her arm. Shocked that he would be so bold on a busy street, she looked down at his hand wrapped around her upper arm and then she met his eyes.

  “Do you wish me to summon a constable?” she asked softly.

  He released her as if she had sent a jolt of electricity through him.

  “I insist that you give me a chance to prove that my feelings for you have not changed over the past year,” he said.

  “The thing is, I don’t care whether or not your feelings have changed. Even if you were not married, it wouldn’t matter because my feelings for you burned to ashes long ago. You set the fire.”

  “I can rekindle the flame.”

  “No,” she said, “you can’t.”

  “Bloody hell, Calista—”

  She started to turn away again but paused. She would never get a better opportunity to ask the one question that had been disturbing her since Nestor had reappeared in her life.

  “Why have you decided to come back into my life now?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “You heard me. You’ve been married for nearly a year. What made you call on me after all this time?”

  Nestor frowned, clearly surprised by the unexpected query. Then he appeared to realize that he now possessed something she wanted—an answer.

  “Give me another chance to prove my love for you and I will tell you,” he said.

  So much for the direct approach, she thought. Disgusted, she turned away, searching for a cab, but the fog was so thick she could scarcely see any vehicles at all until they were almost in front of her.

  In desperation she started walking, hoping to lose Nestor in the mist.

  But he spoke again and this time she froze.

  “If you do not allow me to try to resurrect the passion we once shared, I shall feel free to discuss the rather unusual nature of your business with certain parties in Society,” he warned. “A word dropped in the right ears at my club might do considerable damage to your professional reputation—”

  “You really are a bastard, aren’t you?” She whirled around to face him, trembling with rage. “Clearly I had a narrow escape a year ago. Your wife has my deepest sympathies. But let me assure you that if you attempt to compromise my professional reputation, I shall drag you down with me. I will go straight to the press.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Just imagine the goss
ip in the papers if it gets out that a former fortune hunter who married well is now hunting another wealthy bride through an introductions agency. One wonders what the current Mrs. Kettering thinks of this plan. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. You’ll be ruined, Nestor.”

  Nestor stared at her, his mouth falling open in shock. “You’re mad.”

  “We both know where that sort of talk would lead, don’t we?” she said. “People would question the stability of your finances. You cannot survive in Society with chatter like that swirling around you. At the very least you and your wife would likely be forced to retire to the country. You’d hate that, Nestor. You’re a shark who thrives in Society.”

  His face turned a blotchy red.

  “You stupid little bitch,” he said.

  He said it very, very softly.

  “Did you really think that I would not strike back if you tried to blackmail me? You don’t know me very well, Nestor. One of the great advantages of spinsterhood is that it allows a woman an opportunity to learn how to sharpen her claws.”

  A cab appeared miraculously out of the fog. She whisked up her skirts and went swiftly toward it. The driver jumped down and opened the door with a flourish.

  “Your destination, ma’am?” he asked.

  “Cranleigh Square.”

  “Aye, ma’am.”

  He handed her up into the cab, put up the steps, and closed the door. A moment later the carriage lumbered off down the street.

  She looked back only once. Nestor had disappeared into the fog. She took a few more deep breaths in an effort to calm her skittering pulse and regain control of her roiling emotions.

  Only then did she notice the box wrapped in black silk and tied up with black satin ribbon sitting on the opposite seat.

  It might as well have been a cobra. Her pulse and her breathing certainly reacted as though the box contained a venomous snake.