The Questioning Miss Quinton. Kasey Michaels
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all men; no unmarried miss of his acquaintance would dream of speaking so to him. “Would it be crassly impolite of me to ask what it is you hope to discover?” he asked, staring at her intently.
Victoria turned smartly, her heavy black skirts rustling about her ankles, and headed for the hallway, clearly intending to usher her unwelcome visitor to the door. “It would be, although I am sure you feel that being an earl makes you exempt from any hint of rudeness. But I shall nevertheless satisfy your curiosity, considering your generosity in allowing me use of the Professor’s collection. I shall even pretend that I did not overhear your complaints when you first heard of the bequest.”
Patrick’s dark eyes narrowed as he stared after this infuriating drab who dared to insult him. “How kind of you, Miss Quintin,” he drawled softly as they stopped walking and faced each other. “I vow, madam, you fair bid to unman me.”
Miss Quinton’s left eyebrow rose a fraction. “Indeed,” she pronounced flatly. “As I was about to say, sir: I have dedicated myself to the unmasking of the man who murdered the Professor. The answer lies in his papers, and I shall not rest until the perpetrator is exposed. And now, good day to you, sir.”
She then moved to stand beside the open door that led down three shallow steps to the flagway lining the north side of Ablemarle Street. But her startling disclosure (and jarring candor) had halted Wickford—who could only view departing the house as his single most cherished goal in life—in his tracks, leaving him standing some distance from the exit.
“Find the murderer?” he repeated, not trying very hard to hide his smile. “How very enterprising of you, madam. Have you perhaps looked underneath your bed? I hear that many spinsters believe murderers lurk in such places.”
Victoria’s chin lifted at the insult. “I’m positive you are considered quite amusing by your friends in those ridiculous clubs on St. James’s Street, but I can assure you that I am deadly serious.”
“But your father was killed by a burglar he must have discovered breaking into his library,” Patrick pressed on, caught up in the argument against his will. “Murder, yes, I agree, but it’s not as if the man’s identity could be found amid your father’s research papers or personal library. I fear you will have to resign yourself to the sad fact that crimes like this often go unpunished. Law enforcement in London is sorry enough, but investigations of chance victims of violence like your father are virtually nonexistent.”
The front door closed with a decided crash as Victoria prepared to explain her reasons to the Earl—why, she did not stop to ask herself—so incensed was she by his condescending attitude. “The Professor knew his murderer, probably opened the door to him, as a matter of fact. I have irrefutable evidence that proves my theory, but no one will listen to me. I have no recourse but to conduct my own investigation.”
“What is your evidence?” Patrick asked, feeling a grudging respect for her dedication, if not her powers of deduction.
“That, Lord Wickford, is of no concern to you,” she told him, pulling herself up to her full height. As she spoke she slipped a hand into the pocket of her gown, closing her fingers around the cold metal object that was her only lead toward discovering the identity of the murderer. “Suffice it to say that I have in my possession a very incriminating clue that—while it does not allow me to point a finger at any one person—very definitely lends credence to the theory that you, sir, or one of a small group of other persons I shall be investigating with an eye toward motive, entered the Professor’s library as a friend and then struck him down, leaving him to lie mortally injured. Before dying in my arms the Professor charged me with the duty of bringing his murderer to justice and, I say to you now in all sincerity, sir, that I shall do just that! All I ask of you is some time before you remove the collection. I will notify you when I no longer require it.”
“Admirable sentiments, eloquently expressed, Miss Quinton,” Patrick owned soberly, “although I feel I must at this point protest—just slightly, you understand—that you have numbered me among your suspects.”
Bats in her belfry, Patrick then decided silently, becoming weary of the conversation. That’s what happens to these dusty spinster types after a while. But aloud, he continued, “I’ll respect your right to hold to your own counsel about your ‘clue,’ of course. But my dear Miss Quinton, you must know that I would be shirking my duty as a gentleman if I didn’t offer you my services should you find yourself in need of them. That is, if you are willing to accept help from one of your suspects?”
“I shan’t need your help,” Victoria retorted confidently, deliberately ignoring the vague feeling of unease that had been growing ever since she first began this strange conversation. Longing to do Sherbourne an injury, she thought to herself: If I cannot throw actual brickbats at him, I can at least attack him verbally. “For now,” she continued in a voice devoid of emotion, “it is enough that I have been able to interview my first suspect. I might add, sir, that I shall strive not to allow your boorish behavior today—and all I have read in the newspapers about your questionable pursuits—to prejudice me against you. At the moment, you are no more suspect than any of the other gentlemen who could have committed the crime.
“I apologize for baiting you so openly, Lord Wick-ford,” she then conceded, her voice softening a bit, “but you are only the second suspect I have encountered today, you understand, the first having escaped before I could speak with him. I was merely testing your responses, feeling you out as it were,” she added, not entirely truthfully, for in fact her opinion of him and his kind was not especially high.
Now Victoria had Sherbourne’s complete attention. “Second suspect, you say? As I doubt that either the solicitor or that down-at-the-heels tradesman who scurried out of here with the Professor’s collection of pipes is capable of murder, could you possibly be trying to tell me that Pierre Standish is also to be considered a suspect? My, my,” he remarked, seeing the answer on her expressive face. “At least, Miss Quinton, you have put me in good company, although I imagine I should be feeling quite put out with you for even supposing I could have had anything to do with your father’s death, except for the fact that I find it extremely difficult to take seriously anything you have said. Your last revealing statement implicating Mr. Standish has served to confirm my opinion of the worthlessness of your arguments.”
Patrick smiled then, shaking his head in disbelief. “Therefore, I won’t even dignify your assumption of my possible guilt with a question as to your reasons for it. I make no secret of my disagreement with your father when last we met, as I realize it is more than possible that you overheard us.”
“I have not yet been able to ascertain a motive for you, or any of the suspects,” Victoria was stung into saying. “To tell the truth, there may still be suspects I have not yet discovered. I am in no way prepared at this time to make any accusations.”
“I shall sleep better knowing that, at least for now, you are only assuming to place guilt rather than running off to the authorities with a demand for my immediate arrest, I assure you,” Patrick returned, bowing with an insulting lack of respect. “I shall also—need I even say it?—make it a point to enlighten Mr. Standish of his new status as a suspect in a murder, although telling him that he is not unique in his position, but has merely been lumped in with other would-be dastards, may not be a wise move on my part. Pierre does so hate running with the herd, you understand. But I’m sure you won’t let Mr. Standish’s righteous anger frighten you if he should happen to take umbrage at your accusation, for your motives are pure, aren’t they, Miss Quinton? After all, you are only doing as any loving daughter might do, and you are a loving daughter, aren’t you, Miss Quinton?”
Victoria’s pale face became even more chalklike before a hot flush of color banded her features from neck to forehead—the only portions of her anatomy Patrick could, or wished to, see—and she replied coldly, “My feelings for and relationship with my late father are not at issue here, sir. The Professor was murdered, and I have undertaken the fulfillment of a dying man’s last wish. It’s the only honorable thing to do under the circumstances.”
Patrick looked about the drab hallway consideringly. “You’ve led