Page 9 of The Rake
“That is disappointing to hear.” Her lips were pinched, and Langley wanted to run his fingers along the pink seam, urging her mouth into a smile. He wanted to make her laugh, and then he wanted to make her gasp with desire.
“And Ashmore?”
“He died.” She had an animosity to her, but beneath that burnt a familiar disdain that Langley knew too well was born out of attraction.
Bending his head, Langley dropped his normally charming persona, and said with sincerity, “I am sorry for your loss, Miss Keating.”
The lady opened her mouth, words of doubt on the tip of her tongue, but then she nodded, acknowledging his sympathies. There was a formality to the process of mourning, of grief, that thebeau mondewould expect from the household now.
“Is there anything I can do?” Langley asked.
To this, Miss Keating moved closer to the window. She was not following convention and ringing for tea. Failing that, she had not offered him a seat. “I would request the names of the people present at your… your party last night. A written list would be sufficient.”
“And then what would you do with it, miss?” Langley moved forward away from the door, and over to one of the numerous armchairs. “Give that over to the Bow Street Runners? Or areyou going to hire a private investigator, or perhaps battle down the streets searching yourself?”
With her back to him, Langley let his more lascivious desires study her shape. He could not remember the last time he had tupped someone of her height. Her long legs would be delightful wrapped around him as she rode him. Or perhaps sprawled before him on the settee in…
“When can I expect that list?”
Before Langley could muster up an answer, not that he really had one on the tip of his tongue, there was a knock at the door and in blustered three men, one of whom Langley vaguely recognised as Ashmore’s butler. The other two, based on their severely plain clothes and the officious looks they both wore, had to be the Bow Street Runners, the older of whom looked so world weary that Langley was tempted to suggest the man sit down. Neither looked as if they would be much help in searching London for a killer.
“Miss Keating, there you are. Your butler…” The harried looking one with thick ginger eyebrows and a hangdog face looked distinctly annoyed. “Well, my boss, this is Mr. Talbot, he wants a word about the circumstances?—”
“Good God, she is the goddaughter of a duke, and his grace is dead. Miss Keating is distressed,” Langley said, cutting off the Runner. He moved to the mantelpiece and was looking at the more senior officer. This man coloured slightly, his fine lips pinching at Langley’s words, and he reached out a restraining hand to his subordinate’s arm.
“Thank you, my lord,” Miss Keating said. All eyes in the room drew to her, and with a great deal of dignity she straightened and moved back to her seat on the sofa. Waiting to continue until she was comfortably perched and able to view them all. “Lord Langley was most kind to assist me last night in the search for the intruder.”
“What we want to know is why?—”
“Mr. McCreary,” Miss Keating continued, “that is what my godfather’s estate is hiring you to investigate. Why Ashmore was struck down. Until we know the answer, we will be maintaining that his grace is unwell. No one is to speak differently, or report his murder. This will give us an advantage over the attacker, who may try and strike here again, and then we would be able to capture him.” There was a gleam to her forest green eyes at this idea, as though Miss Keating was relishing the notion of such a confrontation.
The thought of her being hurt was beastly, Langley thought, but no one else present raised an objection to her scheme. Langley took comfort that at least he was close by were the intruder to try again.
With a decided sniff, Miss Keating continued, her hands coming to fold in her lap. “We also are awaiting the arrival of Ashmore’s heir to Town. With that in mind, my younger sister is leaving London today, in order to fetch the young man up here.”
Having no idea who Ashmore’s heir was, Langley imagined him very much in the mould of Ashmore himself, perhaps with a limp, or a harelip… certainly of an age to be at least fifty if not more. Then he glanced back at Miss Keating and knew her motivation: she did not want her little sister, presumably the short, curly haired girl Langley had seen departing up the stairs, to be in any danger. Chasing after an errant heir was vastly preferable to cavorting around London after a murderer.
“So, unless you have any further questions for my sister before she departs, I think that concludes our business here today.”
No one moved. Neither of the Bow Street Runners even fidgeted.
Langley coughed, and this seemed to awaken them.
“Of course, sirs, should you wish to ask me about last night, or indeed make use of my abode whilst this unpleasant investigation is under way…” Langley said. With leisurely grace he moved forward and handed his card to the more senior officer. “I am only next door.”
To this, the man finally moved. Shuffling and promising to return shortly with any news. The butler showed them out, leaving Langley alone with Miss Keating.
“Do you notice that they didn’t listen to me, but as soon as you talked, they were all agreeable.” Her statement was less of a query, and he saw how furrowed her brow was. Reaching out for the bell, Langley rang it, and when the maid appeared requested tea be brought.
Miss Keating watched him move through the chamber with a narrowed, suspicious expression on her alert face. “I did not invite you to stay, my lord.”
“Would you not appreciate the distraction?” he asked.
“I think your help might be more warranted.” She sighed.
“Do call me Langley if you like. Or I can tell you my first name, love?”
“You are not at liberty to use my first name.” She sounded as shocked as a religious matron or even a dowager, and Langley rather liked how pink her cheeks grew.
