Free Lord Ashford's Wager by Marjorie Farrell Page B

young…admirer,” replied Dawson.
    The constable lifted his eyebrows inquiringly and the butler continued.
    “Lady Fairhaven had been seeing a lot of this young man and we all assumed that she might eventually marry him. Or at least, that is what it looked like until last night.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “When they arrived, they went directly to the library and not the drawing room, where it is more comfortable, as though they had business in mind and not pleasure. And when I came in with a tray of brandy, they seemed to be arguing.”
    “About what?”
    “Lady Fairhaven was refusing to lend the earl any more money.”
    “So she has lent him money in the past?”
    “Well, the word is that Ashford is badly dipped. Owes the blacklegs and his tailor and chandler, among others.”
    “Did Lord Ashford seem angry?”
    “More embarrassed, I would say. He turned away from me immediately.”
    “And your mistress?”
    “My lady was a lovely woman. I have never heard her speak so sharply to anyone. But she was sharp last night.”
    “Is that all you know? That she wouldn’t give him the money he needed? Did she refuse to see him again?”
    “I don’t know. I suppose she could have, but I didn’t hear it. She sent me up to bed directly after I served the brandy.”
    “So there was no one else here besides Lord Ashford?”
    “No, no, Jim was in the hall.”
    “Jim? I haven’t met Jim.”
    “No, well, Jim is the new under-footman and I asked him to stay up and see Lord Ashford out and Lady Fairhaven up to her room. But he was gone this morning. Disappeared without even taking any of his things with him.”
    “There were no signs of foul play anywhere else?”
    “What?”
    “Blood or signs of struggle?”
    “No, no. You don’t think someone killed Jim too?”
    “It is a possibility to consider. But from what I see, no. It may be he had a very good reason to leave.”
    Dawson looked puzzled.
    “Either he killed Lady Fairhaven, or he saw who did.”
     

Chapter 12
     
    By noon, most of society was buzzing about the death of Lady Fairhaven. Some had heard that Lord Ashford had been the last to see her alive and gave knowing looks to one another. Others heard that a new footman had disappeared. And bets were being laid at Brooks as to who was the more likely suspect. The odds were clearly in favor of Tony Varden.
    Tony himself had heard nothing yet. He had been tempted to go straight to St. James Street and pay off his debts, but then thought better of it. He wasn’t sure he could trust himself, so he just went home. His valet was already in bed, and Tony undressed himself and fell asleep immediately, free for the first time in weeks of nagging worries and guilt and shame. He would not gamble again and he would make Claudia the loving husband she deserved. The fact that he wasn’t in love with her didn’t seem to matter to her, and he had hope that his own feelings would deepen over time.
    He slept late and was awakened by his valet shaking his shoulder and saying in a worried voice: “Wake up, my lord, there is a Runner here to see you.”
    As he climbed up from the depths of sleep, he had an odd fantasy of a young man, looking like a figure from the Greek games, waiting to meet him. Then it penetrated. “Oh, God, it must be the tailor. He’s laid charges and they are going to take me off to the Marshalsea. Well, thank God, I can pay them.
    Tony threw on his dressing gown, and fumbling through his clothes, pulled out the money Claudia had given him.
    The Runner was standing by the door inspecting a Stubbs print on the wall. He was an unprepossessing figure of a man, thought Tony. Not at all what you would expect a thief-taker to look like.
    “You are come from Grants, I presume?” Tony asked with his most charming smile.
    The Runner turned and looked blankly at him.
    “Or McLean? Well, no matter,” said Tony. “You can tell whoever it is to send someone over. I can pay every penny I owe.” He waved