Part 27 (1/2)
”Very good. Except he's neglected a candle-”
”-or perhaps he pulls the candle from the holder.”
”To what purpose?”
”I do not know.” Their eyes met, and Garrett released the deep-drawn breath she had been holding. The thrill of the chase.
”Were you restless last night, Don Sebastien?”
”I am always restless at night, DCI.”
”Then perhaps-” she advanced with a firm step like a duelist's ”-you would be better served at home, resting in your bed.” She didn't smile to soften it, and again their gazes crossed. Garrett fancied she could hear the ring of steel. ”This is still a Crown investigation, Viscount.”
Don Sebastien reached up to tip his hat, which he had not removed when they stepped inside. ”I am very restless,” he answered. ”And, too often, very bored. And I do not imagine that this is anything but your case, Crown Investigator.”
”As long as you understand me.”
She turned away and went to the window again. She was leaning out to grasp the edge of the cas.e.m.e.nt with the intention of swinging it closed when he spoke again from close beside her. ”Oh, never that, Abigail, I-”
His body struck hers a moment before she properly registered that he had stopped speaking mid-sentence, slamming her forward, belly against the windowsill and her arms flung out like a diver's. Her corset took the brunt of the impact, whalebone bruising her at belly and breast, and she shouted outrage and scrabbled at rain-slick wood. She teetered, Don Sebastien's weight pinning her, and kicked wildly, expecting any moment to feel his hands on her ankles tilting her forward into a sickening, tumbling fall.
She didn't think the rose-bushes would break her fall enough to save her. Especially if she hit the fence. Why would the Great Detective murder a wealthy East Side boy? Amazed by the calm precision of her own thoughts even as she twisted, bringing her gloved hands up to fend him off.
His strength was irresistible. He simply wrapped hands as hard as barrel-hoops around her wrists and-hauled her spluttering back into the room and down onto the floor. ”Are you hit?” he asked, patting her cheek anxiously. His hat had tumbled off and fetched up in the far corner, and his glossy, hard-looking hair stood up in disheveled spikes.
”Hit?”
”The carriage-” He shook his head. ”You didn't see.” And rolled on his back, away from her, and raised his right hand to point across his face to the ceiling directly overhead. ”There was a rifleman down on the street.”
Detective Crown Investigator Garrett certainly knew the look of a fresh bullet-hole in plaster, when she saw one. ”Ah,” she said quietly. ”Someone must be taking an interest in the case.”
A little before noon, Garrett marked time in the antechamber outside the Mayor's office, grateful at least for the chance to shed her soaked oilcloth. Although the rain had stopped falling and the clouds had thinned shortly before Don Sebastien took his leave, the afternoon promised a continuing overcast.
Blood and mud still smirched the hem of her walking dress, and it might have been politic to return to her rooms and change. However, his Lords.h.i.+p, Peter Eliot, Mayor of New Amsterdam, had made it known that he expected to see her with all deliberate speed, and far be it from her to think of preserving the man's prized Persian carpets under such circ.u.mstances. Garrett swallowed a pleased smile.
By the watch pinned to her bodice, she'd been waiting at least twenty minutes before the door opened and the Mayor's confidential secretary-a well-made young man with dark blue eyes, whom she noted appreciatively-gestured her in. Garrett smiled; she'd taken the opportunity to rifle his desk while he was away, and had one of his visiting cards slipped inside the cuff of her glove. Simon LeMarque, M.Th.S. Another sorcerer. And French. How interesting. The Mayor must be more worried about the Duke and me than he admits. Although, given the number of times he's tried to-embarra.s.s- us both, I shouldn't be surprised.
She swept past Simon LeMarque, holding her soiled dress well aside, and glided to a halt before Peter Eliot's enormous mahogany desk. The Mayor didn't trouble himself to look up from the papers that occupied his attention, and Garrett gave her sodden skirts an extra shake to settle them. ”Your Lords.h.i.+p.”
Eliot glanced up. ”I understand there was some trouble in the city this morning, Detective.”
”Crown Investigator, sir,” she answered. ”And yes.”
He nodded judiciously, setting his papers aside. ”Have you identified a suspect yet? I'm under pressure from the press, you understand. The gruesome aspect of the murder....”
You blithering idiot, I've been at the crime scene for six hours. I've barely begun my investigation, and you know it. But he isn't a blithering idiot, and I'd better remember that. ”Respectfully, sir, because of the possibly-probably-arcane nature of the crime, it's a Crown matter now. You shall have to address the press's inquiries to the Duke's office.”
”I'd hate to have them jump to the conclusion that the Duke's officers are impeding a murder investigation.”
Ah. The threat made manifest. ”The Duke is quite capable of handling his own public affairs, your Lords.h.i.+p.”
Eliot smiled, uncoiling from his desk. He was a long, narrow man, grey hair thinning at the top, waistcoat tight across the small bulge of his paunch. Probably not much older or taller than the intensely annoying Don Sebastien. Despite her professional dislike for the so-called Great Detective, Garrett found herself comparing the Mayor unfavorably to the Spanish aristocrat. ”Ah, yes, the Duke. Has he taken an interest, then?” Garrett didn't miss the jeweled-serpent glitter in the man's eyes.
She knew she was one of Richard's-the Duke's-biggest political weaknesses. And she suspected the Mayor knew as well, or at least suspected. But he cannot prove a thing, and that is the important part. And my service record is impeccable, for all I am a woman.
”I have yet to speak to him regarding the case, sir. Usually he prefers not to be involved until the evidence is more complete, and in any eventuality, I have not yet even had time to write up my notes. But you appreciate that I can discuss nothing relating to a Crown investigation with anyone who is not in my chain of command.” And here in the G.o.d-forsaken West, my chain of command begins and ends with the Duke. You have no power over me.
Well, other than the power to endlessly complicate my life. With the exception of Garrett and the city Guard, New Amsterdam's law enforcement reported to the office of the Mayor. And Garrett desperately needed to keep her access to the resources of the Colonial Police.
”And I know you like to keep a very personal hand on your investigations, Detective ... Crown Investigator.”
Familiar ice stiffened Garrett's spine, and she let it freeze her professional smile on her face. ”Surely, sir, I have no idea what you might be insinuating.”
”Ah, of course not. You will keep me apprised?”
And that's what this is about. An offer to betray Richard for a place at Peter Eliot's right hand? Oh, how will I ever resist the temptation. Years of practice kept the ironic tinge from her voice. ”Of course, your Lords.h.i.+p.”
Eliot came around his desk and laid a hand on her upper arm, turning her gently toward the door. ”I would be indebted to you, Lady Abigail. I hope you know how impressed we all are with your work. So many women consider themselves fit to fill any man's shoes-it is always refres.h.i.+ng to meet one who can actually do a job. There are always opportunities for people like you.”
Ah, yes, the carrot and the stick. The touch, warm through damp cotton, made her skin crawl, and she was again moved to contrast the Mayor with Don Sebastien. She frowned, pus.h.i.+ng disloyal images aside. You despise the man, Abigail Irene. The reminder amused her; she let that amus.e.m.e.nt color her tone.
”You will be the third to know, your Lords.h.i.+p. Possibly the fourth.”
That brought him up short, or perhaps he merely stumbled, spit-s.h.i.+ned shoes catching on the nap of the richly knotted carpets. ”The fourth?”
”Ah, yes,” Garrett said, taking advantage of his momentary distraction to disengage her arm and break for the door with all the dignified haste she could muster. Two years of finis.h.i.+ng school not entirely wasted. At least I can manage an imperious exit. ”Don Sebastien de Ulloa appears to have interested himself in the case.” And he has no loyalty to the Duke, but neither bears he any love for you.
It was too much to hope that the Mayor would not have her followed, so Garrett did exactly as he would expect. Resuming her carriage, the Crown Investigator gave instructions to her driver to wake her when they arrived at the Duke's residence, in Queens.
But she could not sleep. Somewhere along the way, the clouds broke and a slanted line of sunlight glanced off rain-frosted stones, gilding the city. Garrett took a breath of cold air, rich with the promise of spring, and let it out again on a sigh. That's what you do it for, Abby Irene, she thought. Seven million souls, thirty percent of the population of the Colonies, and the capitol of the British Protectorate of North America. So what if it's not London?
She chuckled at the comparison. Well, it's just not London. That's all. But you live with your decisions, Abigail Irene. And if living in the would-be-Plutocratic chaos of the Colonies is what it takes to fulfill your duty, so mote it be.
After crossing the Elizabeth Bridge, her driver turned the rattling coach down Brewster Street, and Garrett smoothed her dress. The mud had somewhat dried; she slipped her gloves off, cracking the powder off her hem. Then she dug in her reticule for lotion to smooth her face and disguise her exhaustion. Not that she had anything to hide from Richard, Duke of New Amsterdam, but old habits died hard.
She was tugging the fingers of her gloves back into place when the carriage jolted to a halt on the gracious circular drive of the Duke's ma.s.sive white Colonial. Garrett nodded coolly to the groom who rushed to hand her down, and made her way up the broad, shallow steps to the portico.
The Duke's servants opened the door before she reached the landing. They ushered her into Richard's study, where she shooed a two-hundred pound Mastiff out of the loveseat and settled herself before the fire with a brandy from the sideboard. Candles blazed on the marble mantle; the gaslights were not lit. The fair-haired, fiftyish Duke himself joined her before she had halfway finished the gla.s.s.
She set it on an end table and would have stood, but he raised one hand and shook his head. ”Keep your seat, Abby Irene. And finish your brandy. I can see that you need it.” He poured a gla.s.s for himself before coming to sit beside her, curling his long legs to the side. His hair was wavy, silver at the temples and the nape, the rich ashen color of tree bark. She wanted to run her fingers through it, and instead she sipped her brandy.
”You can't be ready to make me a report on that murder yet,” he said, leaning toward her.
She gave him a troubled smile and put her other hand on his knee, first glancing past him to make sure the door was latched.
”I locked it,” he said.
”People will talk.”
”People do,” he said. ”Someday you'll tell me what brought you to America, Abby Irene. My curiosity keeps me up nights.”