Page 26 of Temptress in Disguise
She might say Matilda was a scheming shrew.
“It’s Mrs Chance,” she corrected, hoping her husband would be her alibi. “I was married by special licence last night in St Augustine’s near Highgate.” She gestured to the agent seated on the wooden chair beside her. “Mr Sloane bore witness and can attest to the fact.”
Mr Sloane sat forward. “As Daventry explained, Mrs Chance is far too slight to lift a marble bust of Julius Caesar and hit Budworth on the head. Her clothes would have been splattered with blood.”
“She might have changed before leaving the theatre.”
“Have you found evidence to support your claim?”
The sergeant drummed his fingers on his bloated belly. “No.”
Naomi fought to keep the tears at bay. With her sister missing and her stepmother’s treachery, she had enough to fear without the threat of the noose. “Have you questioned the person who supposedly found the key to the office and opened the door? Do they have an alibi?”
The sergeant narrowed his beady blue eyes. “You must admit, it looks mighty suspicious. Your sister vanishes, and you’re promoted from scullery maid to the leading role. An hour before you marry, your lover is found dead in a pool of blood.”
“Mr Budworth was not my lover!” She would rather die than have that letch put his clammy hands on her person. “What leads you to think I’m that sort of woman?”
The sergeant gave no apology for his vulgar assumptions. “Miss Fontaine has had more lovers than lines. In my experience, younger siblings tend to follow in their elders’ footsteps.”
“What poppycock,” she said, finding her temper. “My husband is the only man I have ever entertained, as I’m sure he will be pleased to confirm. Perhaps your time would be better spent examining the crime scene. I’m sure Mr Budworth had many enemies. I am not one of them.”
The incompetent fool rocked in his chair. “You say you married Mr Chance last night. Explain why you’re living alone in a cottage on Mr Sloane’s?—”
The door burst open, and Aramis stormed into the room, looking dangerously handsome amid the glow of candlelight. “Don’t say another word, my love.” Like Lucifer rising from the bowels of hell, he glared at the sergeant. “I’m taking my wife home. It’s not a request.”
A wave of relief swept through her as Aramis captured her hand and urged her to stand. This show of solidarity was surely why he did not relinquish his firm grip.
Sergeant Maitland hauled himself out of the chair. “But she’s a suspect in a murder investigation.”
“No, she’s not. I met her at the Belldrake last night. Speak to Mrs Wendon. She lives in Leicester Square and rode with us from the theatre. Daventry said the manager was hit so hard he died instantly. Does my wife look like she could inflict such horrific injuries? There wasn’t a speck of blood on her face or clothes.”
Naomi glanced at her husband’s arresting physique. In or out of the ring, he was a force to be reckoned with. Only a fool would challenge him. Mr Sloane was right. With Aramis Chance leading the army, one was sure to win the war.
Beneath the weight of Aramis’ stare, Sergeant Maitland stuttered, “If you were m-married last night, why was she hiding in a cottage in Little Chelsea? You must admit it’s rather odd, sir.”
A delightful shiver rippled through her when Aramis slid his arm around her waist. “Did you expect me to take my bride to a gaming hell? I thought renting a cottage would afford us some privacy. I was leaving Fortune’s Den to join her there when Daventry informed me she was at Bow Street. I ask you, do I look like a man who would leave his wife unsatisfied?”
Heat rose to her cheeks. If she’d learnt one thing about her husband during their brief acquaintance, he was thorough.
“Half the peers in London owe me money,” he growled. “Save yourself the embarrassment. Don’t make me call in a debt.”
Mr Daventry stepped into the room, as did another man who looked remarkably like Aramis but a little more menacing. He glanced at her, his gaze cold and darkly assessing.
“I’ve been granted the authority to investigate Budworth’s murder.” Mr Daventry stepped forward and handed the sergeant a letter. He gave the man time to read it before adding, “Due to my agents’ success at solving crimes, the Home Secretary welcomes my assistance. One of my agents will report to Bow Street daily to update you on our progress.”
Sergeant Maitland gave a frustrated sigh. He shoved the letter in his desk drawer before speaking in a more congenial tone. “I suppose you’ll want access to the theatre. Mr Kendrick is overseeing things there. It seems murder brings in the crowds. They mean to open as usual tomorrow night.”
“Do you know who owns the theatre?” Mr Daventry asked.
The sergeant began flipping through his notes.
“Mr George Budworth and his brother Edwin,” Naomi informed him. The men argued constantly, often over Edwin’s insistence Lydia get the starring role. Lydia knew how to use her womanly charm to get what she wanted. “They were partners in the venture. Some say they inherited the money to buy the theatre. Some say they were swimming in debt. I’m afraid the details are a little vague.”
Aramis snorted. “Is that not a motive for murder?”
A little red-faced, the sergeant averted his gaze. “I’m paid to follow every line of enquiry, sir.”
Mr Daventry insisted they wait outside while he conversed with the sergeant.
