Chapter 3

For all her first evening in London and into the following day's dawn, Margot attempted to talk first to Ashmore's servants, then on to a crying Elsie, before finally making ready to converse with the Bow Street Runner, who had finally arrived at the townhouse in the early hours. After that she had to speak to the doctor, who examined Ashmore's body.

Around four in the morning, Hathaway sent most of the servants and Elsie off to bed, and Margot staggered into a nearby seat, and McCreary, the middle-aged Bow Street Runner, glanced this way and that around the duke's study. If she were a betting woman, Margot would have thought that McCreary was more used to investigating petty theft than the killing of a peer of the realm. His questions peppered into her exhausted mind now and then, but Margot was certain she was making less and less sense with each answer she made.

"I think, sir"—it was Hathaway who stuck his head around the doorway, and proceeded to walk over to Margot— "that Miss Keating has told you everything she can. She is most distressed by the duke's death, given his grace was her godfather."

"Yes, yes," McCreary said, his thick ginger eyebrows furrowed as he fixated on Margot. A large crease marred his forehead, and he resembled a perplexed poodle. "I still do not understand why you chased after the killer, miss. Remarkably dangerous thing to do."

As to that, McCreary was correct. It had been dangerous, stupid, and naive. It had led Margot into a sight she would not forget in a hurry, and it had not helped locate the blasted murderer. But there was something that Hathaway was wrong about, Margot knew. She had not made any mention of the map. That would explain why she had chased the shooter into the neighbour's house.

Of the map, she had not even told Elsie, the person she was closest to in this whole world. The remaining slip of paper was folded and pressed into the pocket of her nightdress. Why precisely she did not wish McCreary to know was beyond her, but trusting this Bow Street Runner who looked as if he would have been better suited to curling up with a cup of tea and a biscuit than chasing down a murderer through Town and would be a mistake. It would do her little good to reveal such a secret. Ashmore wanted this kept quiet—only known to the family—and it dawned on Margot that this family did not include Elsie. Ashmore's family, of which she was distantly but still a part.

You told Langley,her conscience whispered. You had no such scruples about revealing to that god of a man that there was a stolen object.

Hopefully, she comforted herself with the idea that Langley would probably immediately forget the incident—a hysterical virgin spinster could hardly compete against the bevy of beauties Langley could choose from. The earl would throw himself into whatever hedonistic pleasure awaited around the corner, be it women, cards, or wine. His lordship would disregard their strange little interlude. He probably already had done. She wondered how soon she would forget the shape of those legs, or the way his grin seemed to have been designed to tempt a nun to sin.

Margot wouldn't allow herself to focus on such things. She had described the attacker as much as she could to McCreary. Replayed in her mind what had happened when Ashmore had been shot. When he'd been killed. When her father, a man she'd only known for one day, had thrown himself in the way and saved her. Tears smarted her eyes. Ashmore had behaved like a cad to her mother, and had never been a true father to her, but his selflessness and courage today deserved honouring. Margot had not really known what this trip to London would bring, but now she had to find the duke's killer and whatever the Ashmoreton Diamonds were, and know that she had honoured her father's memory to at least that extent.

She accepted Hathaway's hand to stand. The butler knew the truth. About the map. About her birth. About it all. But it seemed as if Hathaway was willing to be loyal to either the duke's memory, or perhaps even to her.

"I will call again tomorrow," McCreary said as he moved towards the doorway.

"May I take the liberty of suggesting that we keep this quiet," Hathaway said. "I can ensure no servants mention this attack beyond these walls. Given the amount of shock this will cause amongst the ton, and it might impact your investigation."

"Very wise," Margot said. The intruder had not known his shot had been true, and yes, she been shouting about a murderer, but if the duke were still alive, then it meant they would not need to immediately be plunged into strict mourning. It would be considerably easier to find the attacker were she not restricted to the townhouse and entombed in black crepe.

"My superior will wish to speak to the household tomorrow," McCreary pressed. He closed his notepad and stashed it into his over-long coat.

Offering out her hand, Margot said, "I would request the meeting wait until at least eleven as it has already gone four in the morning. I, as well as everyone else, will require a few hours respite."

"Very good ma'am," McCreary said as he slipped from the study with the butler in his wake.

The queasiness of being in the study hit her then. Ashmore's body had been removed, but no one had touched the spilled blood, and Margot gazed down at the dark red mark, wondering if she would ever understand the cruelty or motivation of a murderer. She really was a long, long way from the safety and security of Berwick-upon-Tweed. A wave of homesickness washed over her as Margot waited for Hathaway to return.

The butler entered slowly, his head bent, and with great consideration he bowed to her as if she were a fine lady and not some dead duke's bastard. "I am so sorry for your loss. To have a parent so briefly…" He paused and drew his fingers over his moustache, truly at a loss for what to say. "I know it is not my place."

It was not such a loss, Margot told herself. She had her real parents, still living, still loving. She had Elsie, and their younger brother, William, and their cat, Posey. It might be a great distance from London, but there were the familiar sights of Berwick-upon-Tweed which would never leave her. Yet she would never know Ashmore, never have the chance to understand him. Perhaps it would have been a thankless task, but it would never be an option to her.

"We are beyond that," Margot said. Tiredness was seeping through every pore of her, a weariness she could not describe, and she feared if Hathaway said anything too sympathetic then the firm grip she had on her emotions would burst forth and she would give in to the urge to weep. "You knew Ashmore best, I believe?"

"I have been in the previous duke's service for over thirty years. So, I have known the sixth and the seventh dukes as well as one can for a man in service."

A wild, curious thought bobbed up in Margot, wondering if Hathaway had known her mother, but she buried that query down. "I will be reliant on you over the next… or for however long this goes on for. Your advice and knowledge will be invaluable, so please tell me anything you need to."

"The duke was obsessed with that map," Hathaway said. His pale grey eyes rose carefully; there was a touching level of worry there. "It is something of a family curse."

"What do you mean?"

"Chasing after the diamonds, as Ashmore did, and his older brother, led to their destruction. Collecting, owning them all. They are said to be cursed. More beautiful, but more dangerous than…" Hathaway trailed off. "I do not think his grace, were he in his right mind, would ever mean to burden you with finding them. I am quite sure your mother would not wish for you to look for them."

He, Ashmore's butler, had known her mother. Margot cast curious if tired eyes at the man, but Hathaway lowered his gaze, giving nothing away.

"It is not merely about locating those jewels," Margot said. "It is now about finding who killed him."

To this Hathaway nodded.

"With that in mind, tomorrow I will need to meet with Ashmore's lawyer, so I know how his estate is broken up, and what I have liberty to do here."

"Very good, miss," Hathaway said.

"I will bid you goodnight," Margot said. Her feet were dragging, but she made it to the doorway. "I would prefer to conduct any other business I have in another room. Not here." A note of emotion ebbed into her voice at the final word.

Offering out his handkerchief, Hathaway said it would be done. Turning to the scrap of silk in her left hand, Margot hurried up the stairs, at last at liberty to let the tears stream down her face. Crying for a reason beyond herself, for feelings she could not summarise, for the sheer waste, and what she would never know.

Margot was wokenfrom a reckless and unpleasant dream where she was on board a boat, tossed between the rough sea and the tempting smell of masculine whisky. It had some logic, but only of the kind that made sense in a dream. Then a hand was on her back, a small soft stroke, and she rolled over and looked up into her sister's heart-shaped face. Elsie was looking down at her, concern nettling her brow.

On the nearby table there was a cup of strongly smelling tea.

Elsie sunk down onto the mattress next to Margot. "I didn't want to wake you, but Hathaway said the Runners would be here in thirty minutes and I knew you would want to be ready."

"Thank you." Margot forced herself to sit up. The restless night's sleep had not been ideal, but at least she had dozed off. Lifting the cup to her mouth, she took a reassuring gulp. It scalded her tongue and burnt down her throat, but Margot was English enough to be grateful for the sensation—there was something reassuringly familiar about it.

"You are very brave," Elsie said, "chasing after the shooter."

"Or foolish." Of that, Margot had no doubt. She certainly would not write and tell her mother that particular piece of information.

"I arrived in the study," Elsie said, her expression pained, "as the duke was dying. Ashmore. I held his hand. He told me he was sorry. I think he thought I was Mother."

The two girls took each other's hand, their bond unbreakable, despite their differing fathers. She was relieved that the duke had made no mention of the diamonds to her imaginative and curious little sister. She had no idea how Elsie would react, but she had no doubt Elsie would want to know as much as possible. Which would really go against Margot's wish to shield Elsie from such things. Especially if those jewels were cursed.

"You are my sister." Margot sniffed. "I am sorry you had to witness such a scene."

"I am glad I could comfort the poor man. I promised I would look after you. As Mother always has."

"Well, you already brought me tea," Margot said, trying to lighten the tone. "So that is an excellent start. I suspect I will require a great many more cups throughout the day."

"Excellent. Let me start by picking out your clothes for today's meeting. Hathaway said we are to keep quiet about the death until the investigation is done with."

Climbing out of bed, Margot proceeded with her toilette, Elsie helping as she had at home. Once dressed in a sombre mauve day dress, as there was nothing in her limited wardrobe that would be suitable for mourning, Elsie helped dress Margot's dark hair in a simple chignon, and the two of them hurried downstairs. She was pleased to see that Hathaway had confined the two Bow Street Runners to the library, and they were interviewing the various servants of the household. Hathaway ushered Margot and Elsie into the parlour, were there was a tea tray, sandwiches, and a grim-faced young man with fine eyes and an overbite waiting for them both.

"This is Mr. Holt," Hathaway said, "his grace's solicitor. He manages the Ashmore estate."

With a quick bow, Mr. Holt resumed his seat. "I thank you both for seeing me. I know that the duke has set a prevision aside for the elder Miss Keating." His eyes rested briefly on Margot. "But I understand you are both his goddaughters."

"Yes, that is correct," Margot said.

The lawyer continued without much concern on to his next point. "That is perfectly fine, the issue however is that whilst there is money set aside for this household, until Ashmore's heir is brought to London, I am not at liberty to release this annuity to you, miss."

"How much is it?" Elsie asked. If the sum was paltry, it might be touching that Ashmore had thought of her, but it would not be enough to set up Margot or Elsie, and definitely not enough to send William to university.

Rifling through his papers, Mr. Holt said, "A handsome sum of five hundred pounds a year. Please note, it is only to the elder Miss Keating, though."

It was not paltry. Margot swallowed down her sadness. She felt the sum was Ashmore's way of apologising for all those years of neglect and abandonment. The problem was how she was to receive the sum he wished her to have.

"But we have no way of drawing upon those funds?" Margot asked. "How are we to maintain the staff here, continue whilst the investigation goes on?"

"I think the next duke would approve maintaining this household, however, I do not know if the new duke would agree to the annuity."

"I am therefore trapped here until the heir arrives?" Margot asked.

Mr. Holt frowned. Clearly annoyed at the clarity of her query, and by the question itself. "I know the late duke requested his heir's presence numerous times over the last six months, but as yet the young man has not arrived."

"Is he abroad?"

"As good as," Mr. Holt muttered, before saying more loudly, "No, he is located on a far distant estate belonging to the Ashmore family. It is down in Cornwall."

"How is he related to Ashmore?" Margot asked, wondering if he was a close relative, and whether the man would immediately know that she was her father's bastard.

"The new duke is the nephew of the late Ashmore, the son of his youngest brother."

"Cornwall?" Margot repeated, an idea forming in her slow tired mind. One which was slowly crystallising as she watched Holt fold and refold his papers. "And you say you have not heard back from any of your requests?"

"Not as yet," Holt said. "My next course of action is to head down there myself, but I have matters in Town that make…"

Reaching out her hand, Margot latched onto her sister's fingers, pulling Elsie into the conversation. "My sister will go." Sending Elsie to Cornwall made sense, Margot thought—it would get her out of London, somewhere safe, removing her from a household that had been attacked. Besides, it was helpful because it would ensure the new heir would return, and if anyone could persuade a young man, then surely it was the adorably pretty Elsie?

To this suggestion, Elsie wrinkled her brow. "But…"

"You've always said you wanted to see Cornwall," Margot lied, "and this would be most useful to both myself and to Mr. Holt as well. This journey would be greatly beneficial to us all."

For a moment Mr. Holt looked rather dubiously at Elsie, doubting her capabilities. This very lack of trust was quite the ticket to motivate her sister, because Elsie reached forward and said, "Give me the papers and I will leave on the morrow. After all, I can be trusted to keep the matter quiet."

A small sense of relief poured through Margot as her sister and the lawyer discussed the finer points of her journey to Cornwall. Then Mr. Holt handed across several documents and told Margot to send the bills to his office before departing the parlour.

"I suppose I should go and pack again," Elsie said into the quiet. She did not look best pleased.

"You know I only want to keep you safe."

Elsie sighed. "If you think the wilds of Cornwall will be free of any drama…"

At least they would be free of a murderer, Margot thought, as she leant forward and kissed her sister's cheek. "We will write to each other. One of the maids will accompany you. I am sure you can find a tactful way of telling my cousin the truth, and convince him to honour the annuity." But if you don't, Margot thought, then I will need to find one of those diamonds to secure our futures.

"Very well," Elsie said. She stood, clearly not best pleased at being managed so, "I know better than to gainsay you when you've decided on a matter. But when we are set up and all is in place, I will insist on an evening out in London. And if not, then at least Bath."

With that ultimatum, Elsie slipped from the room, presumably going upstairs to prepare her trunks. With a heartfelt sigh, Margot sank back onto the sofa, all her muscles seemingly made of sponge. How she longed to head back upstairs to bed.

The door clicked open, and Margot lifted her eyelids, sitting up and righting herself. But it was too late. In the entranceway, smirking with the same devilish grin as he had worn last night, was Lord Langley, his smile telling her all too clearly that he had seen her lazy, inelegant pose.