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Authors: Robyn DeHart
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smile. “I promise.”
Somehow he doubted she actually meant that. But he was stuck now. He would do his best to evade the marriage seekers for the evening and focus on the case.
“Shall we pick you up, dear?” his mother asked sweetly.
“No, I’ll take my own rig, thank you.”
James poured himself a glass of port and then sat at his desk. He still had a few hours before he needed to leave for the Fieldcrest ball. And Drummond’s journal had been weighing down his pocket all afternoon. He practically itched to open it.
Every entry was dated, and Drummond’s flourish-filled penmanship was difficult to interpret at first glance. Along with the date, each separate entry started with a name. Always a woman’s, sometimes the same as on previous days, but generally different each time. Jane, Anne, Millie, Sophia, Agatha, Eleanor—no surnames, just listed by their first name.
The name would start the page and the text would launch into a monologue on each woman’s beauty, poise, grace, her every curve. “Agatha” appeared more often than any other name. Always the same details: her raven-black hair, her crystalline-green eyes, her perfect complexion, her flawless body. The details were worthy of Dickens or Brontë.
Drummond had evidently spent some intimate time with each of them, as he knew of moles and birthmarks and scars and coloring. In addition to their physical beauty, he documented words they’d said, expressions they’d made. But never a mention of one of the women being a lover.
Had Drummond been murdered by a disgruntled lover? Perhaps one had discovered she was one of many, and her anger had driven her to the unthinkable.
Fenby would surely know who these ladies were, could provide him with surnames so he could question each of them. Surely, they knew Mr. Drummond as well as he knew them.
Chapter 5
W illow examined the ballroom, trying to remember precisely why she had decided to attend. It was a lovely place; she could not deny that. The Fieldcrest ball usually was lovely. The room itself was a rather large rectangle with archways outlining doorways on the left, leading to other parts of the house. To the right, the French doors leading to the landscaped yard seemed to mock her with their invitation to freedom.
“I don’t know how I allowed you to talk me into coming here tonight,” Willow said. She spoke to her brother through her teeth, keeping her gaze on her surroundings. The half balcony lining the room hosted the band, which at the moment was playing a soft collection of Wagner.
“It amuses me how irritating you find these events. I would have imagined you, above all people, would find them entertaining.” Edmondgave her a little salute with his glass before downing his champagne.
Willow turned to glare at him. “And what is that supposed to mean?”
“With all the rules in Society, I would think you would be most at home.” He grabbed another glass of the bubbling liquid as a footman passed.
“Yes, there are rules. But there are also gossips and mean-spirited people, for which I have no use at all.”
Edmond chuckled. “Why are you so surly tonight? It’s a lovely evening. There’s even a fragrant breeze to refresh us.”
She couldn’t argue with that. The scent of the potted rose topiaries wafted through the air of the crowded ballroom. She eyed her brother and softened. “I don’t mean to be surly. It’s a lovely night.” She was only irritable because her attempts to uncover any information about the late Malcolm Drummond had failed. She knew no more today than she had when she’d last seen James. It was going to be rather difficult to beat him if she had to rely on him for all of the clues. But she was persistent.
She elbowed her brother in his side. “Shouldn’t you be pursuing some young miss tonight? Mama will be so relieved when you find a wife and settle down.”
“You will be relieved. Mama is…well, Mamais Mama, and she’ll be happy for me,
Somehow he doubted she actually meant that. But he was stuck now. He would do his best to evade the marriage seekers for the evening and focus on the case.
“Shall we pick you up, dear?” his mother asked sweetly.
“No, I’ll take my own rig, thank you.”
James poured himself a glass of port and then sat at his desk. He still had a few hours before he needed to leave for the Fieldcrest ball. And Drummond’s journal had been weighing down his pocket all afternoon. He practically itched to open it.
Every entry was dated, and Drummond’s flourish-filled penmanship was difficult to interpret at first glance. Along with the date, each separate entry started with a name. Always a woman’s, sometimes the same as on previous days, but generally different each time. Jane, Anne, Millie, Sophia, Agatha, Eleanor—no surnames, just listed by their first name.
The name would start the page and the text would launch into a monologue on each woman’s beauty, poise, grace, her every curve. “Agatha” appeared more often than any other name. Always the same details: her raven-black hair, her crystalline-green eyes, her perfect complexion, her flawless body. The details were worthy of Dickens or Brontë.
Drummond had evidently spent some intimate time with each of them, as he knew of moles and birthmarks and scars and coloring. In addition to their physical beauty, he documented words they’d said, expressions they’d made. But never a mention of one of the women being a lover.
Had Drummond been murdered by a disgruntled lover? Perhaps one had discovered she was one of many, and her anger had driven her to the unthinkable.
Fenby would surely know who these ladies were, could provide him with surnames so he could question each of them. Surely, they knew Mr. Drummond as well as he knew them.
Chapter 5
W illow examined the ballroom, trying to remember precisely why she had decided to attend. It was a lovely place; she could not deny that. The Fieldcrest ball usually was lovely. The room itself was a rather large rectangle with archways outlining doorways on the left, leading to other parts of the house. To the right, the French doors leading to the landscaped yard seemed to mock her with their invitation to freedom.
“I don’t know how I allowed you to talk me into coming here tonight,” Willow said. She spoke to her brother through her teeth, keeping her gaze on her surroundings. The half balcony lining the room hosted the band, which at the moment was playing a soft collection of Wagner.
“It amuses me how irritating you find these events. I would have imagined you, above all people, would find them entertaining.” Edmondgave her a little salute with his glass before downing his champagne.
Willow turned to glare at him. “And what is that supposed to mean?”
“With all the rules in Society, I would think you would be most at home.” He grabbed another glass of the bubbling liquid as a footman passed.
“Yes, there are rules. But there are also gossips and mean-spirited people, for which I have no use at all.”
Edmond chuckled. “Why are you so surly tonight? It’s a lovely evening. There’s even a fragrant breeze to refresh us.”
She couldn’t argue with that. The scent of the potted rose topiaries wafted through the air of the crowded ballroom. She eyed her brother and softened. “I don’t mean to be surly. It’s a lovely night.” She was only irritable because her attempts to uncover any information about the late Malcolm Drummond had failed. She knew no more today than she had when she’d last seen James. It was going to be rather difficult to beat him if she had to rely on him for all of the clues. But she was persistent.
She elbowed her brother in his side. “Shouldn’t you be pursuing some young miss tonight? Mama will be so relieved when you find a wife and settle down.”
“You will be relieved. Mama is…well, Mamais Mama, and she’ll be happy for me,
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