“That will be all, Greenhouse. Thank you.” Marissa nodded toward the door. God save her if Greenhouse thought his duty was to protect her from Tomkin. Her butler looked like an overstuffed Cornish hen with his chest puffed out in such a way. She doubted his thin arms carried enough strength to hold a pistol, if it came to that.
Not that it would. Marissa was completely safe with Tomkin. He worked for her nephew. And her father before that.
Once Greenhouse shut the door, Marissa waved for Tomkin to sit. “Should I ring for tea or would you prefer something stronger? Whisky perhaps?”
A grunt sounded from Tomkin as he itched his nose. “Please, my lady. If it isn’t too much trouble.”
“Whisky is never a bother, Mr. Tomkin.” Marissa strode to the sideboard and poured out two glasses of whisky, one for each of them; his eyes widened when he saw she meant to join him. “I do appreciate a glass of good whisky, Mr. Tomkin. My father’s doing, I’m afraid.”
Tomkin’s eyes widened further at the mention of the late Duke of Dunbar; he probably had not anticipated that this meeting would involve drinking whisky with the daughter of his former employer. “The duke did enjoy his whisky, my lady.”
She’d engaged Tomkin’s services after her arrival in London, quietly of course. It would do Marissa no good for her nephew to catch wind of her activities and attempt to be involved. Tomkin’s attention to detail, his discretion and especially his loyalty to the Dukes of Dunbar had made him a very wealthy man, though one wouldn’t know by looking at him. Tomkin excelled at gathering information, though Marissa was certain he possessed other skills, as the bulge of a pistol in his coat pocket could attest to.
The big man took a sip of the whisky, the glass looking diminutive in his massive hands. His eyes closed in pleasure. “You’ve excellent taste in whisky, if I may say so, my lady.”
“You may. And if you’ve brought me good information,” she said, “I’ll send you a bottle or two.” Marissa took a seat behind the massive yet delicately carved feminine desk dominating her study. Another gift from her father.
Her hands ran over the inlay of pearl around the edges. Ladies didn’t have a study, but Marissa did. She found it a more convenient place to handle her correspondence and other business affairs, preferring certain matters, like Mr. Tomkin, not invade the sanctity of her private parlor.
“I have. At your request, my lady, I went first to Viscount Pendleton’s home in the Peak District.”
“Brushbriar.” Marissa sipped, enjoying the fiery burn of the whisky sliding down her throat.
Tomkin nodded. “Lady Whitfield remains in residence.” He cleared his throat as he spoke of Simon’s sister. “She’s had several visitors.” The tips of his ears pinked which was disarming on a gentleman such as Tomkin who had no doubt seen the seedier side of life.
“Gentlemen callers, I’m sure.” Catherine had always been a bit of a slut.
“Many gentleman callers. A Mr. Kendicott, in particular.”
Marissa wasn’t familiar with Mr. Kendicott. “And he is . . .?”
“Wealthy. He owns most of the land to the west of Brushbriar. New money. His family isn’t distinguished in any way. Father was a pig farmer. Kendicott married a wealthy heiress who, to his great fortune, died barely two years after their marriage. The talk in Buxton is that he is courting Lady Whitfield.”
Marissa placed a finger against her lips in thought, cradling the whisky in her free hand. There would be only one reason Catherine would ever consider lowering herself to attach herself to a man like Kendicott. Money. Simon’s debts had to be enormous if Lydia meant to sacrifice her daughter to the son of a pig farmer. The stack of markers Marissa had acquired thus far were only further proof.
A pity Catherine wouldn’t have to suffer the indignity of becoming Mrs. Kendicott.
“I’m afraid, Mr. Tomkin, that Kendicott will need to be apprised of Lady Whitfield’s other gentleman callers. A shame. But we can’t allow Kendicott to be married under false pretenses.”
“No, my lady.” The right side of his mouth tipped up.
“I assume, and forgive me for being indelicate, she is being attentive to one gentleman more so than the others?”
“Yes, a handsome gent named Doren. Works as paymaster for a local quarry.”
What an odd coincidence to have one of Catherine’s lovers in Haddon’s employ. “Have you matters in hand, then?”
“Two of the maids at Brushbriar, a footman and a groom are all in my pocket, my lady. According to the footman, whom she has also dallied with”—he coughed—“Lady Whitfield favors a particular spot in the gardens for her . . . activities. I can arrange for her and Doren to be stumbled upon by Kendicott, with your permission.”
This was excellent news. “You have it, Mr. Tomkin.”
“If I may?”
“Pray, continue.” Tomkin had more than earned his whisky. She made a mental note to have several bottles sent to him.
“Lady Whitfield, when not entertaining callers, took many of the more expensive furnishings of Brushbriar to Castleton where the entire cartload was sold at private auction. Blue John, my lady, most taken from Lady Pendleton’s private sitting room. The auction was by invitation only and the source of the objects not disclosed, though I’m certain those bidding knew the items came from Brushbriar.”
Marissa sipped her whisky. This was a cause for celebration. Not only was Lydia driven to accept a man like Kendicott as a son-in-law, but she was also willing to part with her precious Blue John, which Marissa suspected was far more dear to Lydia than her own daughter. Brushbriar was garnished with lavish displays of the mineral, carved vases, ornate eggs, windowsills, candy dishes and the like.
All things Lydia and her husband had murdered Reggie for.
“A terrible shame, to have to sell such precious items.” A smile played at her lips. She could not be more pleased her efforts were bearing such immediate fruit.
“Indeed, my lady. And there is one other bit of
