A Murder at Rosamund's Gate - By Susanna Calkins Page 0,71

That will have to do.”

Lucy wanted to slap him. This was her dear brother he was speaking of, not some common oaf out of the gutter. A life in jail was as bad as swinging. She marshaled her anger and tried to stay calm. Her tone was icy, reasonable. “What about the painter, Master Del Gado?”

“What about Del Gado, Lucy?” he asked, stacking the papers into a pile.

“He certainly knew Bessie. Indeed, he knew her intimately.”

Adam shrugged and picked up the wine. “He had no motive.”

“Yes, but he also knew Jane Hardewick!” she cried. “Quite well! What do you make of that?!”

Adam set the mug down heavily. “What do you mean? How could you possibly know that?”

“Sir, I was at Master Del Gado’s today, and I—”

The force of his glare stopped her midsentence.

“Why were you at Del Gado’s? For God’s sake, Lucy! Are you completely addled?”

Lucy flinched. “I’ll have you know that your mother, Mistress Hargrave, sent me and—”

“Of course she did.” Adam picked up his mug again and set it down without taking a sip. “No thought about sending a girl like you into a scoundrel’s den like that.”

Lucy shuddered as he unconsciously echoed Del Gado’s own words.

“By God, Lucy, it isn’t right. Anyone can see you’re a decent respectable innocent girl! Mother shouldn’t have sent you there; John should have gone to check on her precious portrait, which I imagine is the excuse she gave you! I’ve a good mind to say something to her!”

“Oh, no, sir!” Lucy cried. “Please don’t! Mistress Hargrave did not want me to tell anyone she had sent me. I mean, I wasn’t to tell the master. I mean…” She trailed off.

“All right, Lucy. I won’t say anything. But sometimes my mother—” He muttered, “I mean, look at you! A girl like you! A man like him! Your brother would never allow it!”

Thinking of her brother made her remember why she had come to his room in the first place. “Oh, yes, sir! Do you think that Master Del Gado may have had something, er, to do with Bessie’s death? I mean, he did paint her, and I know he gave her the box with the dressing brush and combs…”

“Combs?”

“Well, the combs like the ones your mother wears.” Her voice faltered; she was unsure how to put her thoughts into words. “When I was dressing your mother’s hair, I saw her combs. They were just like Bessie’s, painted, I’m sure, by the same hand. I asked her about them, and she said they were a gift from your father. Forgive me, sir, I think they may have been from Master Del Gado.” Lucy twisted her hands uncomfortably.

“Never mind about that,” Adam responded tersely. “I daresay everyone knows about mother’s, er, sessions with the painter. Everyone excepting Father, that is, but that is neither here nor there. I’m afraid I’m not following you.”

“It got me thinking. I knew Bessie and Mistress Hargrave had both posed for Master Del Gado, and I think he gave them the combs—”

“Yes, yes,” Adam interrupted. “I understand that. What does this have to do with Jane Hardewick?”

Suddenly, Lucy felt trapped, like a hen before the butcher’s knife.

He went on. “So somehow you assumed that Jane Hardewick had posed for Del Gado, too? You thought, what, that you would just ask him? Tell me, Lucy.” Adam’s voice grew hard. “Exactly how did this leap in logic come about? I’m quite eager to know.”

Lucy glanced at his writing desk. The tobacco pouch was nowhere to be seen. Following her quick look, his eyebrows raised. “I see. In your infinite devotion to this household, you thought to make sure that all nooks and crannies, including the pouch containing the miniatures of two eyes, each from a different nameless woman, were thoroughly cleaned. Clearly, I underestimated how much a chambermaid—ahem, lady’s maid—will snoop.”

Lucy’s hand tightened into a fist, but she willed herself not to cry. She felt something dear had slipped away. He no longer trusted her, she could see. A different thought arose, and she heard herself speak. “Why did you have a portrait of Jane Hardewick’s eye, sir?”

Adam crossed his arms, his own face taut. “I found it where the poor woman was murdered. I assume it depicts her eye. I have no doubt you saw that I also found Bessie’s comb. This object I also found where she was killed.”

“But why—?”

“Why did I go searching these morbid scenes? Simple enough. I believe that when a crime has occurred there is