She asked Morton to fetch Isabella’s carriage, convinced the housekeeper to release a maid to accompany her, and made her way to visit Eleanor, the Duchess of Kilmorgan.
Fellows’ investigations didn’t take him often to Mayfair. Murders in London were most likely to happen at the docks or in slums where gin and desperation overrode sense, and knives came out. Mayfair was for the polite crimes of embezzlement and fraud and, long ago now, dueling.
The death of the Bishop of Hargate was a crime of Mayfair. Though the event itself had taken place in Richmond, every single person at that garden party had a London residence for the Season, all of them in Mayfair.
Fellows knew Mayfair as well as he did the rest of London, because he was thorough. The people who walked these streets, though, were not the ladies and gentlemen who lived there, but the tradesmen and domestics who worked it. Those who reposed in the houses wouldn’t consider strolling more than three doors down without a carriage.
For the past three and a half years, Fellows had made use of a new base of operation in Mayfair, the Duke of Kilmorgan’s mansion on Grosvenor Square. Once Hart, the duke in question, had officially acknowledged Fellows as part of the family, he’d made it known that Fellows could walk into and out of the Grosvenor Square house anytime he chose.
Fellows mostly didn’t choose, but he’d relaxed enough in the last few years to realize that taking Hart up on his hospitality could be convenient. Since Hart’s marriage to Lady Eleanor Ramsay last April, it had become even more convenient.
Eleanor knew everyone. She not only knew them but knew everything about them. If anyone could tell Fellows about the people at the Richmond party, it was Eleanor.
Fellows took an omnibus to Hyde Park, then walked through the park to Park Lane and north. This took time, but Fellows liked to think as he walked, and he enjoyed the open green spaces of the park. For Fellows the boy, London’s city parks had been his idea of pristine countryside. He’d sneak away from home and play in Hyde Park, St. James’s Park, Green Park, or Holland Park, until someone reported an urchin in their garden spaces, and a constable chased him away.
On Park Lane, whose giant houses grew more ostentatious by the year, he noted a moving van outside the mansion formerly belonging to Sir Lyndon Mather. It must have been sold yet again—that made three times in the last three years. Unlucky, that house must be. Fellows had never liked Mather, though Mather had inadvertently guided Fellows to the right path to solving the High Holborn murders. Nothing about that case had ended up as Fellows had ever dreamed it would. It had led, indirectly, to him meeting Lady Louisa Scranton.
Fellows turned onto Upper Brook Street and walked to Grosvenor Square and Hart’s house. Hart’s first footman had the door open for Fellows before he reached it.
“Good afternoon, sir,” the footman said, reaching to relieve Fellows of his coat and hat as Fellows stepped into the wide front hall. A staircase wound up through the middle of the house, spring sunshine lighting it from windows at each landing. The balustrade was elegance itself, the airy space quiet, beautiful, and at peace.
Fellows’ father had lived here. The old duke had walked up and down these stairs, no doubt growling at his footmen and butler to jump to do whatever he commanded. Hart had traversed the stairs as well, as the boy Fellows remembered from that day on the street when Fellows had pummeled the duke, the duke had beaten him, and Hart had given Fellows a coin. Hart didn’t remember the encounter—at least he’d never mentioned it. Fellows had never mentioned it either.
Fellows wondered briefly if the stern-faced Hart had ever slid down the banisters as a boy. Hart had been wild in his youth, so perhaps he had. Then again, he’d always maintained strict control over himself, so maybe he’d forgone the pleasure.
“Her Grace is in the morning room upstairs,” the stately butler who stood at the bottom of the stairs said.
Fellows shook himself out of his woolgathering and returned to the task at hand. He thanked the butler, mounted two flights of stairs, and made for the sunny sitting room at the rear of the house.
He knew the way, because whenever Fellows visited, Eleanor insisted they have tea in her sitting room. Eleanor had redecorated this room after she’d married Hart, filling it with peach and cream colors, comfortable furniture, soft carpets, and Mac’s paintings. A cozy retreat, filled with feminine grace. One of the Mackenzie dogs, Old Ben, was generally in residence. The hound liked to curl up near the fire in the winter, or lie on his back in a sunbeam in the warmer months.
Old Ben was there now, his soft doggy snore sounding between the words of the women sitting together, April sunshine touching them both. One lady was the duchess—Eleanor. The other was Louisa.
Chapter Seven
Louisa got to her feet. Fellows couldn’t force his gaze from her, even though Eleanor was also rising, coming toward him, a smile on her face. Louisa wore cream and peach like the colors in the room, a fall of soft lace at the neckline of her bodice. Red ringlets of hair straggled against her throat, making him want to lift them and lick the soft skin beneath.
“So kind of you to call, dearest Lloyd,” Eleanor said. She walked past Louisa, who stood unmoving, and reached out for him.
Eleanor took Fellows’ hands, rose on her tiptoes, and kissed his cheek. The Mackenzie women were impulsively affectionate, and Fellows had learned to tolerate them. Cameron advised him to take it like a man, though Hart seemed to understand Fellows’ discomfiture.
Louisa was in no way inclined to come forward and join the welcoming kisses. She barely gave Fellows a civil nod.
“Sit down and have coffee,” Eleanor said, still holding his hands. “I know you loathe tea.”
She half dragged Fellows toward the sofa where Louisa had sunk down again. Fellows broke away from Eleanor and moved to a balloon-backed chair at the writing table. The fact that it had been turned around to face the ladies meant someone else had been using it and recently departed.
Eleanor saw his assessment. “You’ve missed Hart. He’s off to tell the House of Lords what to do. He so enjoys it.”
Hart Mackenzie at one time had departed the House of Lords in a quest to become prime minister. He’d backed away from that for Eleanor, for his family, for his life. But he still enjoyed politics, and according to the newspapers, was a force to be reckoned with.
Fellows waited for both ladies to sit down again before he took his seat. His mother had taught Fellows that much—no, had shouted manners into him. No one was going to say her son had the manners of gutter trash, she’d declare. He was going to rise above himself, he was. Didn’t he have a duke’s blood in his veins?
“Now, then,” Eleanor said. She poured coffee from a pot, handed the cup to Louisa, who had been sitting in stiff silence, and indicated she should take it to Fellows.
Louisa had to rise to do it, and Fellows sprang to his feet. They met halfway across the carpet, Louisa holding out the cup and saucer, Fellows reaching for it politely.
The look Louisa gave him was anything but polite. She was enraged, her eyes smoldering with it. She was angry at Eleanor, and she was angry at Fellows.
Fellows closed his hands around the cup. Louisa quickly let it go, making certain their fingers didn’t touch. She turned from him and sought the sofa before Fellows had the chance to say a word.
“You’ve come to tell us about the investigation,” Eleanor said once Louisa had resumed her seat.
Fellows sank to the chair again, balancing the coffee. He hadn’t come here for that, but he didn’t argue. “My sergeant and I have interviewed everyone who was at the garden party, some of them twice. I looked over Hargate’s flat in Piccadilly, but found nothing to suggest he’d angered someone enough for them to poison him. I will speak again to those who were closest to the tea tent. Unfortunately, no one saw anything. They were too busy talking, drinking, and wagering on the upcoming croquet match.”