Suzanne Robinson by Lady Dangerous Page B

words with theviscount. He’d left in a miff, if the police were to be believed, and gone drinking in Whitechapel. Fastidious, snobbish William Edward drink in Whitechapel? Never.
    The other man, Airey, had died the same way. Such coincidences weren’t to be believed. And now this man Stapleton was dead, the Honorable Alex Stapleton. He too had been a member of this select group of ex-cavalry-officers-turned-political-aspirants. Stapleton, however, had drunk himself to death. Too much alcohol in his blood, the paper said. A hard-drinking man like that would know not to swill brandy. Three odd deaths. Three odd deaths. The cadence reminded her of a nursery rhyme.
Three blind mice, three blind mice. See how they run
. They ran or got their tails chopped off.
    It was late. She was supposed to be helping the scullery maid with pots and pans, but she’d been diligent about the washing up for two nights and done the bulk of the work for the scullery. Her absence wouldn’t be resented.
    Liza skimmed along the hall and down the front stairs after looking to see that the foyer was uninhabited. Darting into the parlor next to the library, she shut herself in and crept to the door that connected the room to the library. She had oiled its hinges and lock only this morning.
    She caught her breath, twisted the handle, and eased the door open so that a sliver of light beamed into the dark parlor. Letting the air out of her lungs slowly, she waited a moment before risking a look through the gap. The movement hadn’t been detected, so she widened the crack.
    All five of them were there, including Jocelin Marshall. As she examined the group lounging aboutthe room, Asher Fox seemed to be listening to a muted discussion he found distasteful. His nostrils widened while his drooping eyelids swept down to conceal a gaze she’d often seen when a gentlewoman happened upon her while she emptied slops. From a family of military heroes, Fox was the grandson of old General Lord Peter Bingham Fox, of revered memory for his part in the battle of Waterloo. His father, the present Lord Peter, had served in the Horse Guards with distinction. His distant ancestor had fought for Charles II’s restoration.
    She’d seen the man warming himself nearest the fire. Lord Winthrop, he whose chin and hairline were in a race to see which could disappear faster. Even Liza, uninterested as she was in Society, knew that his mother was the offspring of a liaison between the daughter of one of the queen’s uncles and of the Earl of Mumford. Winthrop was glaring at Arthur Thurston-Coombes, a son of mere gentry. Then there was the earl, martinet of the drill field and parade ground, Reginald Underwood, Earl Halloway.
    The earl had settled himself in the chair opposite Winthrop. Halloway was known as a connoisseur of women. He leaned forward in his chair and followed Jocelin’s every move. Choke, in a rare moment of gossip, had commented that Halloway resented Jocelin’s attraction for the ladies, mostly because a certain Miss Birch had deserted him for the viscount.
    Liza surveyed them all and marveled that the veneer of civility these men cultivated could contain all the seething resentments and personal foibles. Her gaze snapped back to Lord Winthrop when he made a sound of impatience.
    “Blast it, Coombes, must you reveal your lack ofbreeding? Take the band from around your cigar, man.”
    Thurston-Coombes, the youngest of the group, flushed, sucked on his cigar, and blew smoke at Winthrop. “You always were a bounder, Buggy old chap, but we’re not in the regiment anymore, so stuff your pretensions up your ass.”
    Jocelin laughed softly. Halloway left his perch and walked over to him. He swirled the remaining port around in his glass.
    “I saw you riding in the park yesterday,” the earl said. The others went silent and watched the two. Jocelin glanced down at Halloway, then took a sip of whiskey.
    “Keeping track of my social engagements?” he