The location of the quarrel was quite interesting, for what cause could the chef have to be in his master’s dressing room. “Was is common for Monsieur Alphonse to be there?”
Annette could not say, as she did not closely monitor the victim’s movements. “But I would not be surprised if he had gone in there before to look for a cheroot. He had a habit of doing whatever he wanted. That, too, might have rubbed Mr. Stebbings the wrong way.”
Bea, who had already planned on confirming Mr. Mayhew’s own account with his valet, thanked Annette for her time and requested that she send for Stebbings. The maid complied at once, rising to her feet and executing a smooth curtsey before striding to the door. Standing on the other side, eager to be of service, were the Mayhews, and although Bea assured the couple they did not require refreshments, the banker pushed his elbow into the opening before Bea could close the door.
“I have an excellent Haut-Brion in the cellar that I have been saving for a special occasion,” he added as inducement. “I would be delighted to open the bottle and toast to your happiness while we wait for Stebbings.”
Firmly, Bea thanked him for the generous offer but explained that it was essential to their investigation that she and the duke have a moment to confer privately before their next interview. Mr. Mayhew, attempting to insert himself again into the process, responded with his qualifications, for as a banker he was accustomed to private conferences and knew many tactics for conducing successful interviews.
He barely managed to remove his arm before Bea shut the door.
Even so, she could still hear him on the other side cataloguing his skills.
Having never had anyone be overly eager to assist her before, she knew the problem was uniquely the fault of the duke. If he had been a second son—or even a third or fourth or someone wholly unimportant—then she would not have vexatiously obsequious bankers risking damage to their limbs to curry her favor.
“Fie on you, Kesgrave,” she said with mild exasperation as she heard Mrs. Mayhew offer muffled consolation to her husband.
The duke, who was accustomed to accepting blame even when he did not know its cause, approached Bea with amusement flickering in his eyes. “Oh, no, brat, not this time. If you have any complaints about your current situation, you must lodge them with yourself, for interviewing servants in the tiny dressing room of the wife of a toadying banker was not on my list of activities for the afternoon. If you recall, I had suggested we have an informal dinner in our bedchamber. Indeed, according to my itinerary, you should be trembling beneath me right now, not waiting to ask a valet about his tussle with a dead chef.”
It hit her hard, the surge of emotion that swept through her at these words, the wave of desire that washed over her. All at once, it was impossible to breathe and difficult to stand and she pressed her back against the frame of the door for additional support.
How casually he said it—trembling beneath me—how coolly, as if they were still discussing Mr. Réjane’s cheroots.
Was this how it would be going forward, the sublime tossed carelessly into the mundane?
Forcefully, she drew air into her lungs and took two steps away from the door to prove to herself she was sturdy on her own. Then she curled her fingers to resist the compulsion to touch him and, striving to match his nonchalant tone, said, “Although I now have a keen understanding of how a duke may manipulate time, I also have a passing acquaintance with the clock mechanism. There is one on the wall over there, which is how I know that, according to your own schedule, you would still be bracketed in your study with Mr. Stephens discussing the roofs. I would not be trembling beneath you for another one hour and forty-eight minutes.”
A light entered his eyes, hot and fierce, and observing it, Bea felt a strange mix of potency and powerlessness. It was, despite the absurdity of their location and the knock on the door signaling the arrival of Stebbings, a welcome sensation because it made her feel giddy and happy to be in the absurd location awaiting her next suspect.
The annoyance she had felt at Mr. Mayhew’s enervating neediness lifted as she stepped farther away from the door.
Kesgrave, assuming an air of fresh understanding, announced that he began to perceive at last why she nurtured such a sharp dislike of dukes. “You are under the misapprehension that we possess magical abilities like Merlin or a sorcerer in a fairy story. Rest assured, my dear, I can no more manipulate time than I can control fire. That said, the clock on the wall over there is off by several minutes, for in fact you should be trembling beneath me in one hour and fifty-one minutes.”
Naturally, she was compelled to point out the pedantry that required him to account for three minutes.
Although he usually submitted meekly to the frequent charge, he caviled now at the allegation, for it was not a fondness for accuracy that motived him. “Rather, when you regret your decision to alter our schedule—and I am confident you will very shortly—I want to make sure you lament every minute.”
Smothering a grin, Bea opened the door to admit the valet and, realizing she could not bear to listen to Mrs. Mayhew prattle anxiously again about the wobbliness of the John Cobb chair, asked to be conducted to the servants’ hall.
Chapter Eleven
Mrs. Blewitt, in accordance with the behavior of her fellow servants, was eager to blame another member of the staff for Mr. Réjane’s horrendous decapitation. To her credit, however, she managed to patiently answer several of Beatrice’s questions before forcefully pointing her
