Chapter 4

Langley had, as he had promised, searched his house alongside Adams. There was no sign of the attacker, and once this had been done, Langley had gone to bed. He assumed that he would be tired—his day had been filled with all the gentlemanly things a Corinthian of the finest order would be expected to indulge in, plus of course, he had had his interlude with Miss Keating and all her accusations.

But sleep, when he was finally sprawled naked in his bed, had proven elusive. Every time he closed his eyes, the memory of her sharp, perceptive gaze pierced him, the hint of her breasts, the braid of her hair, bits of it loose around her shoulders, plagued the murkiness of the night. Why she would grab his attention so was beyond Langley. She was not traditionally beautiful—handsome perhaps, but there was an unmistakable appeal to her, that had him in her thrall. Which, added to the murder, meant he had arrived at her door relatively early.

When his valet, Hale, had woken a sleep-deprived Langley up, he had dressed as elegantly as a fine man of the beau monde should. Of course, there was his crisp white shirt, breeches of an equally pristine and starched condition, creamy stockings that hugged his muscular thighs, and following that Langley had happily donned a coat of rich, heavy navy. In such garb Langley was ready to face his Amazon. He was arrogant enough to know that with his ruffled curls and the tight cravat at his throat, Miss Keating would have her head turned.

When Langley wandered over to Ashmore's townhouse, there was a muted presence in the building, servants moving this way and that as if confused at what they should be doing. It was easy to have himself shown through to a parlour, and the maid, flustered and disconcerted, promised she would find someone to see him. But the minutes ticked by, and Langley finally walked to the door, slid it open, and watched a tiny brunette hurry down the corridor. She had the faint look of Miss Keating, Langley thought as he saw the shorter girl hurry up the stairs, before he looked back to where the girl had come from. He eased himself out of the parlour, and towards the room Miss Keating's relative had emerged from.

On pushing the door wide, he entered the chamber. It was cluttered to a certain extent, filled with antiques and busy mantelpieces, Ashmore's love for the obscure and ancient evident. They were dotted here and there, from the vases to the oversized globe, and then to the overflowing bits of paper that were surrounding a tired Miss Keating, who had dark circles under her eyes. Clearly, she had spent the night without the restful respite she needed. Miss Keating had leant back her long neck, pressing it into the sofa, and Langley had a vivid image of licking his way down from the tip of her chin along her pearly skin, until he reached the trim of her day dress.

Hurriedly, Miss Keating sat up. She fidgeted at being caught in such a position, straightening her gown as she tried to make herself presentable. Her hair was in a tight knot, and Langley realised he missed the loose braid she had worn last night.

"It is nice to see you finally clothed," Miss Keating said as she got to her feet.

"That's not what most ladies say," Langley replied. He pushed the door closed behind him, leaning against the frame as he watched her. "In fact, most of them say?—"

"Never mind that," she interrupted, her cheeks reddening, "I don't care about what the others might say. Unless they know about the killer. I don't suppose you managed to find the man? That would certainly make everything much easier."

"Unfortunately, despite my best efforts I was not able to locate the culprit."

"That is disappointing to hear." Her lips were pinched, and Langley wanted to run his fingers along the pink seam, urging her mouth into a smile. He wanted to make her laugh, and then he wanted to make her gasp with desire.

"And Ashmore?"

"He died." She had an animosity to her, but beneath that burnt a familiar disdain that Langley knew too well was born out of attraction.

Bending his head, Langley dropped his normally charming persona, and said with sincerity, "I am sorry for your loss, Miss Keating."

The lady opened her mouth, words of doubt on the tip of her tongue, but then she nodded, acknowledging his sympathies. There was a formality to the process of mourning, of grief, that the beau monde would expect from the household now.

"Is there anything I can do?" Langley asked.

To this, Miss Keating moved closer to the window. She was not following convention and ringing for tea. Failing that, she had not offered him a seat. "I would request the names of the people present at your… your party last night. A written list would be sufficient."

"And then what would you do with it, miss?" Langley moved forward away from the door, and over to one of the numerous armchairs. "Give that over to the Bow Street Runners? Or are you going to hire a private investigator, or perhaps battle down the streets searching yourself?"

With her back to him, Langley let his more lascivious desires study her shape. He could not remember the last time he had tupped someone of her height. Her long legs would be delightful wrapped around him as she rode him. Or perhaps sprawled before him on the settee in…

"When can I expect that list?"

Before Langley could muster up an answer, not that he really had one on the tip of his tongue, there was a knock at the door and in blustered three men, one of whom Langley vaguely recognised as Ashmore's butler. The other two, based on their severely plain clothes and the officious looks they both wore, had to be the Bow Street Runners, the older of whom looked so world weary that Langley was tempted to suggest the man sit down. Neither looked as if they would be much help in searching London for a killer.

"Miss Keating, there you are. Your butler…" The harried looking one with thick ginger eyebrows and a hangdog face looked distinctly annoyed. "Well, my boss, this is Mr. Talbot, he wants a word about the circumstances?—"

"Good God, she is the goddaughter of a duke, and his grace is dead. Miss Keating is distressed," Langley said, cutting off the Runner. He moved to the mantelpiece and was looking at the more senior officer. This man coloured slightly, his fine lips pinching at Langley's words, and he reached out a restraining hand to his subordinate's arm.

"Thank you, my lord," Miss Keating said. All eyes in the room drew to her, and with a great deal of dignity she straightened and moved back to her seat on the sofa. Waiting to continue until she was comfortably perched and able to view them all. "Lord Langley was most kind to assist me last night in the search for the intruder."

"What we want to know is why?—"

"Mr. McCreary," Miss Keating continued, "that is what my godfather's estate is hiring you to investigate. Why Ashmore was struck down. Until we know the answer, we will be maintaining that his grace is unwell. No one is to speak differently, or report his murder. This will give us an advantage over the attacker, who may try and strike here again, and then we would be able to capture him." There was a gleam to her forest green eyes at this idea, as though Miss Keating was relishing the notion of such a confrontation.

The thought of her being hurt was beastly, Langley thought, but no one else present raised an objection to her scheme. Langley took comfort that at least he was close by were the intruder to try again.

With a decided sniff, Miss Keating continued, her hands coming to fold in her lap. "We also are awaiting the arrival of Ashmore's heir to Town. With that in mind, my younger sister is leaving London today, in order to fetch the young man up here."

Having no idea who Ashmore's heir was, Langley imagined him very much in the mould of Ashmore himself, perhaps with a limp, or a harelip… certainly of an age to be at least fifty if not more. Then he glanced back at Miss Keating and knew her motivation: she did not want her little sister, presumably the short, curly haired girl Langley had seen departing up the stairs, to be in any danger. Chasing after an errant heir was vastly preferable to cavorting around London after a murderer.

"So, unless you have any further questions for my sister before she departs, I think that concludes our business here today."

No one moved. Neither of the Bow Street Runners even fidgeted.

Langley coughed, and this seemed to awaken them.

"Of course, sirs, should you wish to ask me about last night, or indeed make use of my abode whilst this unpleasant investigation is under way…" Langley said. With leisurely grace he moved forward and handed his card to the more senior officer. "I am only next door."

To this, the man finally moved. Shuffling and promising to return shortly with any news. The butler showed them out, leaving Langley alone with Miss Keating.

"Do you notice that they didn't listen to me, but as soon as you talked, they were all agreeable." Her statement was less of a query, and he saw how furrowed her brow was. Reaching out for the bell, Langley rang it, and when the maid appeared requested tea be brought.

Miss Keating watched him move through the chamber with a narrowed, suspicious expression on her alert face. "I did not invite you to stay, my lord."

"Would you not appreciate the distraction?" he asked.

"I think your help might be more warranted." She sighed.

"Do call me Langley if you like. Or I can tell you my first name, love?"

"You are not at liberty to use my first name." She sounded as shocked as a religious matron or even a dowager, and Langley rather liked how pink her cheeks grew.

Smirking, he crossed his legs in front of himself. "I do not even know your first name."

"Let us keep it that way."

"I doubt, miss, that it would take too long to discover it." With mock seriousness he mimicked a pensive expression. "Let me see… Sophie? Too girly. Katherine? No, too much alliteration… Perhaps…"

The tea tray arrived, and the maid did not leave having brought it in, instead she stood shyly smiling at Langley.

"Thank you, Samson," Miss Keating said to the maid, and the sigh she uttered as she tasted her tea was heartfelt. "You can go and check on Miss Elspeth as she finishes packing." When the maid departed, Miss Keating fixed Langley with a gimlet eye. "As I was saying, there might be some merit to you staying here, my lord."

"How is that, Miss Keating?" His curiosity might be roused, but he doubted that was what she was leaning towards.

"Those Runners did not pay me any heed. I am used in Berwick-upon-Tweed to being listened to, up to a certain extent, at least. My father holds a position of respect and authority, and I am his eldest daughter. But I see in London that counts for nothing. Until Ashmore's heir arrives, there is little I can do."

Briefly, Langley wondered what it was her father did, but he did not press her as Miss Keating was continuing.

"If, and only if, I asked for your help." She slowly drew from the pocket of her dress a sheet of paper and laid it down on the table between them. He was fairly sure this was the item she had mentioned last night. "Would you help me?"

He leant forward, his hand coming to rest on the paper, but all the while, Langley kept a close watch on Miss Keating. Taking in her features as if he were a card sharp reading each and every one of her tells.

"What would it involve?" Langley was not disgusted by the idea. Yes, it would give him time with Miss Keating, which he knew he wanted. But there was also the matter of Lord Ashmore. Langley hadn't known the old braggard well, but he wouldn't stand for a neighbour and a member of the ton being shot. If Miss Keating thought he could aid in this, Langley's interest was caught. "I certainly have some caveats."

"I do too," Miss Keating said. "First and foremost, I want a list of who was present last night. Then?—"

"Let us cover mine first," he cut her off. "What precisely does this show?" Langley tapped the torn page.

"I believe it to be a map of London."

Squinting now, Langley leant closer. At first, he could not make hide nor hair of it, but he realised it had been torn jaggedly in half, and by Jove, Miss Keating was right: it was London, or at least part of it. The only bugger was it was dotted with little red marks. Before he could study them more closely, it was whipped away from him. "What do the marks symbolise?"

"On that I would have to trust you a great deal more than I already do. I merely wish you to take me to these locations when I ask."

The bald-faced nerve of the woman in front of him had Langley sitting back and emitting a laugh. "You don't have people saying no to you very often, do you?"

This at least drew a faint smile to the bow of her lips. "Not often, no," she admitted.

"If I do this, then I want to know the truth of what you're looking for, the truth about you, and how you are connected to Ashmore… and finally—" His gaze swept her imperiously. "—a kiss. Freely given."

Miss Keating blanched. He was not sure which of the requests quite spooked her the most, but it seemed as if she was very naive, isolated, or just did not know his reputation at all. If anything, the mere request for a kiss was a relatively minor ask, given what he might have requested…

"I think it would prove disappointing."

"Let me be the judge of that."

For a moment, he thought he had flustered her enough, but Miss Keating snapped back, "Perhaps I meant I would be disappointed in the experience."

To this reply, Langley could not help laughing. The idea was absurd. He stretched out his hand, dangling the bargain in front of her. "Do we have a deal? I will not rush for the three requests, and they can come in any order you like…"

Miss Keating froze, her face tense, and then she leant forward and took his hand, giving it a brisk shake. "Very well. But I want your help throughout it all. I know you weren't the killer, but if I find out you've helped him in any way…"

Before she could break away, Langley leant down and brushed his lips over her knuckles, enjoying the gasp of surprise that slipped from her open mouth.

It was in this pose that the door banged open, and in waddled a wide, bright haired matron that Langley knew fleetingly as a Mrs. Bowley. She let out a screech at seeing them so. He watched as Miss Keating hastily jumped up and pocketed the map.

Mrs. Bowley charged towards them, her piles of blonde hair shaking on her head, a neat little blue hat in place, pinned there with netting, and with a rounded, pretty face the matron reminded Langley of a well-fed and indulgent Siamese cat. There was a great deal of lace on Mrs. Bowley, both on her neckline and on her cuffs. All her elegant curls and fripperies were blended together seamlessly. She did not care for Langley's reputation in the slightest. Hurrying forward, she grabbed Miss Keating's hand and shook it fiercely both in greeting and as a way of pulling her further from Langley's range.

"You must be Miss Keating. I am to be your chaperone, Mrs. Bowley. Hired by Ashmore to care for you. Oh dear. Oh dear. This man." She levelled an accusatory finger at Langley before looking in shock at Miss Keating. "You are very new to Town, my sweet thing, and no one will tell me where Ashmore is. But this man…" She paused for dramatic effect and then said, her bottom lip wobbling as if she might cry, "is not to be trusted. The servants should have warned you a great deal better." Turning, Mrs. Bowley glared at Langley. "My lord, really now… My charge is new here in society, and if anyone…"

Knowing that his interlude was done with the arrival of Mrs. Bowley, Langley gave them both a leisurely smile. "Now, now, Mrs. Bowley, I rather think you enjoy our yearly tête à tête over the debutantes. I like to make sure you are on your toes."

With a girlish sigh, Mrs. Bowley swatted at him. There was a pink-cheeked rosiness to her face, as if she were charmed by him, despite herself. "You are quite the naughtiest man I know."

Langley bowed, first to Mrs. Bowley and then Miss Keating, before proceeding towards the doorway. In that stretch of seconds, Miss Keating called out to him, "I will honour my side of the deal. Make sure you do the same, my lord."