Chapter 5

With Langley's departure, Margot let out a small, shaky breath. That man's reputation was warranted. With his rich, warm stare, the remembrance of that gaze Margot could still feel pressing into and heating her body, snaking his way past her defences even after he'd left the room. The way he smiled, a crinkle in his right cheek, that softened his demeanour, giving him such a roguish air. If someone could have drawn an Adonis, and somehow made the man into flesh, then it was Langley.

It should have been a comfort that Langley was a renowned London seducer. If he was the worst London had to offer, then at least Margot had been tested. So far, she had succeeded. Although she had agreed to that kiss…

When Margot looked back over her shoulder at the newly hired companion, Mrs. Bowley was frowning, her round little face creasing with displeasure at Margot's final words to his lordship.

"Now, now, my dear." There was a tutting noise to her voice. "You are very green. I think Ashmore said you were raised in Scotland, very rurally, but surely…"

"I know, Mrs. Bowley." Margot bent her head. If she were to get her way in investigating the murder, then she needed as many people on side as she could manage. "He is very persuasive, and as you say, I have been isolated."

"Come join me." Mrs. Bowley tapped the sofa beside her, and Margot sat down. "You are twenty-five, I believe?"

"Twenty-eight," Margot corrected.

Mrs. Bowley studied her features with deep reflection and concern, as if Margot had declared she had a wasting disease. "Perhaps we could tell everyone a slightly younger age…" She paused, her words almost to herself. "If you were hoping to latch onto the marriage mart then we would have to tell a few little lies…"

"Madam." Margot leant forward and tapped Mrs. Bowley's hand in what she hoped was a reassuring manner. "I have no interest in matrimony. That is not why I am in London. I have happily embraced my spinster status. Nonetheless, I hope we will deal very well together."

"It is a little unusual." Mrs. Bowley looked very undecided. "All my other girls…" Fretful eyes and a nibbled lip told Margot that Mrs. Bowley was attempting to manipulate her. "Perhaps if we were to speak to Ashmore, and get his guidance."

"His grace is unwell, locked away with his doctors," Margot lied. Guilt twisted through her, but the fewer people that knew what had happened, the safer the investigation would be. "Until he is better, we must tackle this together. I look to you for all possible advice on how best to manage the London beau monde, and I will bend to your instructions as best I can. With the exception of desiring a match."

"But that is why everyone comes to Town!" Mrs. Bowley started fanning herself.

Before Margot could think of something to say to this, there was a knock, and in waltzed Elsie. At the sight of her sibling, Mrs. Bowley made a delighted sigh.

"This is your younger sister," she said, getting to her feet and walking briskly to Elsie, snatching up her hands and spinning her this way and that. "Do tell me we may introduce this sweet creature to society."

"You are right, this is my little sister, Miss Elspeth Keating. This is Mrs. Bowley, Elsie. But I'm afraid my sister has been called out of Town. I would imagine she will be returning in a week or two."

"Oh," Mrs. Bowley demurred, pouting a little, "Well that is better than nothing. You would be a charming sight in the latest fashion, and just look at all those curls. Why you are ever so lucky. When you do return, my dear, we will be certain to get you to the dressmakers, and the?—"

To this Elsie nodded. "Thank you, madam." She glanced at Margot. "Hathaway has arranged the duke's own coach to take me down to Tintagel Manor."

Drawing nearer, Margot hugged Elsie tightly. "You will do very well. I am sure the heir will be most considerate."

Elsie nodded and whispered, "You're doing this to get me out of the way aren't you?"

To this question, Margot kissed Elsie's cheek. "Mamma would never forgive me if anything happened to you."

"She would want to know you are well too." Elsie stepped back, drawing herself up as much as she could. Still, very much in Margot's eyes, Elsie resembled a delicate china doll, but with such an impressive set to her chin that Elsie looked ready to defy the world.

Linking arms, Margot walked her towards the door. She turned only to say to Mrs. Bowley. "I will see my sister off, and then return to you, madam."

"Very good, my dear. I look forward to your speedy homecoming to London, Miss Elsie."

Out in the corridor the two sisters walked arm in arm. It was odd to be saying goodbye, and Margot realised that in all her life, she had never been separated from Elsie for longer than a day or two. To say goodbye now, when there was so much to discuss and devour and understand—how was she to do that without her dear sister and friend she relied upon so much? Then again, there was a murderer on the loose, and Margot would not be so selfish as to leave Elsie in danger.

"I will write," Margot promised as they walked down the steps towards where the carriage waited.

"Indeed. We have often said to each other we would be excellent correspondents, and now we have a chance to prove it."

"You must tell me how the heir is, and I leave it to your discretion on what the man can be informed of."

"You mean whether or not to tell him you are his cousin?" Elsie's voice was low, but she was grinning impishly.

"Quite."

"I will be back soon," Elsie called out, giving Margot a quick, impulsive kiss, and hurrying into the carriage.

Servants moved around the smart vehicle and Margot stepped back, still waving, feeling even more desolate then when she'd left Berwick-upon-Tweed.

Off the carriage went at a fair old pace, with Elsie's hand still waving out of the window, before it disappeared around the street corner.

Now it felt as if it were London versus Margot. Yes, she had the dubious allyship of Mrs. Bowley, who as long as she wasn't trying to wed Margot to the nearest available male in the vicinity, could at least be trusted to know the rules of the ton better than a country bumpkin like Margot. She had hidden the murder of the duke, and there was a dissolute rake next door who seemed a little too curious about her—but surely that would die off as soon as he realised quite how dull she was, and how in danger he might really be?

Margot turned and looked at Langley's townhouse. Why was there the slight pull to march up to the door of Langley's home and knock? He would probably be out, chasing after that stunning blonde who'd been wrapped around him last night, or perhaps chasing after another young lady. A strange sense of jealousy twisted through her.

‘There is nothing you cannot do, Margot Johanna Keating. With enough good will and patience.' It was something her mother used to tell her; a shining, encouraging smile bestowed as Mrs. Keating moved through their cottage. And grit, Margot thought grimly as she walked away from Langley's home, and back inside towards Mrs. Bowley.

It had been a demanding afternoon.Mrs. Bowley had a strict set of rules for introducing young debutantes into society. No matter how much Margot pointed out she was neither a deb nor young, Mrs. Bowley was rigid on her formulas.

"This is much the best way," she said. "First, we must get you a new wardrobe."

Margot could envision the heir arriving and finding numerous bills from seamstresses, milliners, and ever so many ribbons, based on how Mrs. Bowley dressed. He might be far less inclined to approve the annuity if he discovered Margot had acted like an indulgent brat in his absence. She could not afford to offend the new duke when she was desperate to ensure he approved the old duke's will.

"Do not fret," Mrs. Bowley said, her air confiding and a little condescending. "Ashmore has already paid some of these merchants, so they simply require your measurements and colouring."

Margot released a small sigh.

"Although of course there will be other expenses. We will have to send to Ashmore's man of business. Most of my girls can think of nothing more fun than?—"

Another spurt of guilt twisted through Margot, and she muttered, "Let us try and keep as frugal as we can."

She might as well have cursed God for the look Mrs. Bowley gave her. "That is not what the London Season is about."

"I bow to your wisdom," Margot said, vowing to herself that she would not spend money that was not hers. "I should like to think that given your knowledge on the entire beau monde, you would be an expert on the entirety of London Town."

Seemingly mollified by the compliment, Mrs. Bowley nodded. She settled back amongst the pillows of the sofa, and regarded Margot with a small, arched eyebrow.

Unwilling to show another person the torn map, Margot said idly, but not sure how else to narrow in on the different sites featured on the page, so in the end she settled on: "I suppose we will be able to see a great deal of the city."

"If you wish to meet and know the ton." Mrs. Bowley folded her hands in her lap, "There will be several families who I shall introduce you to. You will see their homes for private balls. Then there will be the regular picnics, parties, musicales, theatre trips… promenades, of course. If there were tourist sites like St Pauls, I suppose I can include that in amongst our itineraries."

Margot made a noise of agreement. How on earth was she supposed to investigate her long-lost father's murder, whilst also playing at being a debutante? Ten years after it was suitable for her to do so. Were it a decade earlier when Ashmore had reached out to her, Margot wondered fleetingly if she would feel differently. Would the appeal of several glistening, gaudy gowns, the promise of Almack's, of an unnamed but dashingly handsome suitor have hit differently were she a younger, naiver girl? Briefly, tauntingly, the idea of Langley bowing to her across the dancefloor before sweeping her up in his arms to spin her away flashed merrily before her eyes. Cynicism had flooded in with age, and a hard-eyed view that few people were as generous and as kind as her parents, whose loving marriage put everything else to shame. Besides, she didn't doubt if the truth was discovered, as a duke's bastard daughter she would be shunned.

Margot reasoned that whatever she might once have felt was now irrelevant. The duke had been killed. He would never be some fairy tale father here to help her. No, in this case, he had instead pulled her into a deadly mystery. Distractions like the promise of dresses and courtships were only that—gossamer promises which practical Margot had to ignore.

"Madam, I look forward to your many instructions," Margot said, preparing herself for whatever might follow.

It was notuntil gone two in the afternoon that Mrs. Bowley let her charge retire for lunch, and only after they had arranged a trip to the dressmaker. Reluctantly, Margot had agreed, and a visit to the modiste, Madam Celine Fletcherite was settled on, with a trip arranged by footman first thing tomorrow morning. Then there were half a dozen other things to discuss and manage, before finally Mrs. Bowley retired to dress.

Sneaking out into the rear of the garden, Margot took a grateful stroll around the quaint green space, enjoying the noises of the city from the sheltered stretch. It was a comfort to be in amongst the hedges, grasses, and the rose bushes, and there was the faintest whiff of an apple blossom close by, which immediately conjured up memories of home. Finding a secluded bench away from the view of the house, Margot settled down. She could either look towards Ashmore's house, and the study, or across and over into Langley's garden. Unwilling at first, Margot schooled herself to ignore the earl's home, but after a minute or two she gave up and let her eyes travel over to his lordship's abode, replaying and remembering what she had seen just last night.

Margot was in a difficult position. Firstly, as a vicar's daughter, ignorance and virtue were blended tightly together. This had run into a block for Mrs. Keating, who had insisted her daughters not be completely unknowing, and had given both Margot and Elsie a better knowledge than a great many of their female peers. However, her mother's focus had been on the begetting of babies, and Margot had her doubts that was what any of the men or women last night had been remotely interested in. No, there was something else entirely that was driving them.

Lifting her hand to cool her pinkening cheeks, Margot knew whilst it had shocked her, there had always been within her curiosity which was now awaken. She was not entirely certain whether that arousal had occurred because of the interlocking, pulsating bodies, or if it were focused on the lone, central figure of Langley. Would it matter either way? Both thoughts, wants, and desires were of no use to her. They could only leave her hurt, abandoned… possibly pregnant, just like her mother nearly thirty years ago. There would be a certain grim twist of fate if she ended up like her mother.

Maybe that is why you came all this way,a voice in her head whispered to her. As soon as you discovered the truth of who your mother was, you realised you were little better: a woman driven by impure wanton desires…

Where this unpleasant feeling came from, Margot was not sure. Neither of her parents had ever tried to instil such damaging attitudes in her. Perhaps it was Grandmother Keating, based in Edinburgh, who had regarded Margot with chilly disdain throughout her life. Now, of course, Margot realised it was probably because she knew Margot was not really her grandchild.

Wrapping protective arms around herself, Margot leant further back on the bench. Night was falling fast, dusk darkening and leaving shadows all around her. But Margot made no move to rouse herself and go back inside. The thought of continuing to manage Mrs. Bowley, or confronting the reality that she had sent her sister away when she most needed allies, was not an appealing prospect. For now, it was preferable to remain outside, despite the growing nip of cold.

A bright light sparked to life, and Margot raised her head, her gaze following the bloom of a candle carried by a servant. Langley's footman, who moved around the earl's terrace, lighting an array of outdoor lanterns illuminating the space. Instinctively, Margot huddled back, although common sense would have told her she was not visible all the way back here. Her eyes followed the footman inside, and she waited, breath caught in her throat, for someone to appear.

When they finally did, it was Langley all at ease, having not yet changed for dinner with a curvaceous blonde lady beside him, Margot recognised her from the previous night. An unpleasant weight crystallised within Margot, but as much as she commanded her feet to lift and carry her indoors, she could not find the right strength to avert her gaze.

Being too far away to hear their conversation, she had to rely entirely on body language, and watch in mounting fascination, horror, and distaste as whoever the blonde was—she was clearly rather emotional. There were tears, even a beating of her chest, and then finally a desperate jump into Langley's arms. When they kissed, it was the motivation enough for Margot to drop her eyes down to the path and hurry back towards the townhouse. One inadvertent viewing of forbidden acts would be forgivable—spying on a pair of lovers would not be.

Margot reached Ashmore's terrace and her feet slowed, careful not to be overheard as she tiptoed towards the back door.

"Aah, there you are Miss Keating, I was about to send the maids out to look for you," Mrs. Bowley waved from the nearby window, clearly having spotted Margot trying to sneak back inside. "Dinner is only an hour away. You must hurry and change." Then the dratted woman turned back to whatever she was doing, leaving Margot frozen in place.

For a few quiet seconds, she did not move, hoping against hope that the intertwined couple next door had not heard a thing. As she took a tentative step closer towards the door, she overheard a few mumbled words, and then what sounded distinctly like a slap, before finally a door slammed. Before she could escape there was a loud sigh, and a masculine voice full of humour said quite clearly, "Did you plan that, Miss Keating?"