A Stroke of Malice (Lady Darby Mystery #8) - Anna Lee Huber Page 0,53

brothers had been some of the only people in residence for nearly the entirety of the month of December, which meant that any one of them could have been involved in the murder and concealment of that body in the crypt. Perhaps they all were.

It was a troubling thought. For while none of them had seemed particularly culpable, in all likelihood at least one of them was involved in some way or another. In any case, I knew all too well that appearances could be deceiving. And while none of them had appeared capable of violence, they were all adept at playing the game of deception that was endemic among society.

Then there were the boots. As far as I was aware, no one except the members of the duchess’s family was aware of the existence or importance of those boots and their potential to help identify the victim as Helmswick. Which meant one or more of them had been responsible for stealing them from Gage’s bedchamber.

I deliberated over this as Gage turned to answer the second rap on our sitting room door.

“You sent for me?”

I turned to see Marsdale lounging against the doorframe, a gleam of mischief in his eyes. Gage gestured for him to enter, and he sauntered forward, allowing his gaze to trail over the contents of the chamber. Given everyone’s late-night indulgences, and Marsdale’s history of drunkenness and infamous behavior, I hadn’t known what to expect from him. But he was dressed respectably in a fawn-colored coat and walnut trousers, his dark hair artfully tousled, and his jaw clean-shaven. However, the look in his eyes when his gaze fell on me clearly communicated that whatever he was about to say was far from respectable.

“I must say, I was surprised you invited me to your chambers. The last time I proposed just such a thing, I do believe you threatened to do me some sort of violence,” he drawled to Gage, never removing his gaze from mine. “But perhaps your wife’s expectant state has given her unexpected urges.”

A furious blush burned its way up into my cheeks.

“Marsdale, sit down and close your mouth,” Gage snapped. “Or I’ll carry through on that threat of violence I made. Perhaps in triplicate.”

Given the fact I didn’t recall, or perhaps hadn’t heard, this threat of violence, I was at a loss as to what this meant, but I supposed having anything painful done to you three times must be worse than once. At any rate, his threat seemed to restrain Marsdale to some degree, for he sank down onto the sofa opposite and smothered his smile. Or at least attempted to. His teeth no longer flashed at me, though a hint of his amusement still lingered at the corners of his lips.

“Now,” Gage declared, resuming his seat in the chair beside mine. “What is your relationship with the Duke of Bowmont’s family? You seem to be rather familiar with them.”

Far from being intimidated, Marsdale leaned back, crossing one leg over the other as he draped an arm across the back of the watery blue cushions. “What is our relationship? Well, I suppose we’re cousins of some sort. Third or fourth through some great-great-great-grandmother of theirs and some great-great-great-grandfather of mine. As you well know, the entire bloody aristocracy is much the same. Everyone married to everyone else. Keeps the blood as blue as possible.”

Gage glowered at him in weary aggravation. “Don’t be facetious. How do you know the Kerrs?”

Marsdale stared silently back at him for a moment, as if debating how much to try his patience. Then he shrugged. “We played together often as children. Our mothers were good friends. Perfectly natural, really, them both being duchesses. And as the children of dukes, their children were thus deemed to be suitable playmates.” His mouth twisted ruefully. “Of course, that was before the rumors about the Duchess of Bowmont’s infidelities reached Norwich.” His father. “The old duke always did prefer the country. Closeted himself away with his moldy old manuscripts, trying to unravel the code in Charles I’s letters. It was his life’s work, you know,” he murmured, his voice shaded with mockery. “To decrypt the doomed sovereign’s correspondence that was smuggled out of his prison at Carisbrooke Castle during the last months of his life.” Before he’d been executed by the Roundheads in one of the more shocking moments of the English Civil War.

“I’d not realized your father was such a scholar,” I said.

He shrugged one shoulder negligently. “I’m not sure I