Drury Lane Darling by Joan Smith Page A

done that before Max offended her.
    If the assistance of another man had been foreseen, it would surely be Mr. Spiedel Fleur chose for the job. This handsome young drifter was often seen in her company. Outside of his looks, he had little enough to recommend him. He had no fortune, no known family, and no particular talents. Spiedel had hinted once or twice that he’d like to try his hand at acting. Fleur didn’t support this plan at all, and nothing had come of it.
    Breslau shook himself to attention, suddenly realizing that Pamela was talking to him. “I expect a director has tickets at his disposal, if the theater is sold out, I mean,” she said. The question in her eyes told him he had missed something.
    “Yes, er—were you planning to visit the theater, Miss Comstock?”
    “Haven’t I just said so, twice?”
    “I will be very happy to give you tickets. How many do you require?”
    “I can hardly go alone. My Aunt and Uncle Foster would be accompanying me.”
    “My wits are gone begging. You must use my box. I’ll bring the tickets around for you. Where do your aunt and uncle live?”
    “On Half Moon Street, at the corner of Curzon. Would it be possible for us to go backstage and meet the marquise? Uncle Foster would love it of all things.”
    “Entirely possible, if Fleur’s performing. She had two nights off, you recall. I hope by tomorrow evening…”
    “You’re not still worried about her?”
    “A few things puzzle me,” he admitted, but didn’t go into details.
    When the carriage pulled up in front of Belmont, the front door flew open and Nigel came darting out. His pale face was drawn and haggard. “Mama told me you had gone to Maxwell’s. Did you find out anything?” he asked.
    “The general doesn’t know anything,” Breslau replied.
    “We think Fleur has returned to London,” Pamela added.
    “Think again. She’s been murdered, just as I said all along. I’ve found her grave.”
     

Chapter Seven
     
    Two audible gasps echoed in the carriage. Pamela was the first to recover and fly out the door. “Where is it? We must go at once and see it.”
    “This way,” Nigel said, and headed off for the spinney. “I went for a walk to escape Mama’s ranting and stumbled across it.”
    Breslau wasn’t a yard behind them. He caught up and said, “Is there actually a body…?”
    “No, the villain was interrupted at his work, but there’s a grave dug, and Fleur’s shawl was in it—all trampled in the mud, Wes. Her beautiful green and rose shawl. I felt like bawling when I saw it. I hid it behind a tree. Mama, you know. We had to tell her Fleur had left, when she didn’t appear for breakfast by eleven. Mama went darting straight over to discuss the whole thing with Mrs. Maxwell.”
    “What’s your father doing?” Breslau demanded.
    Nigel gave a haughty look. “Nothing. Why do you ask it in that way, as though Papa had anything to do with it? You’re thinking of my delusion about Mama’s diamond bracelet, I suppose.”
    Pamela whirled around in surprise. “What do you mean?”
    “Nothing,” Nigel scowled.
    “Did Fleur have it? What do you mean?”
    “It was a delusion after too much literary inspiration.”
    Undeceived, Pamela continued hurling questions. “Did your father give it to her, or did she take it?”
    “Damme, how should I know? She had it on her wrist when I went to her room, that’s all.”
    “Oh!” Pamela gasped. “Your father caught her stealing it and shot her. He must have mistaken her for an intruder, Nigel. They’ll never hang him for it.”
    “Now see what you’ve done,” Nigel said accusingly to Breslau.
    Breslau gave him a scathing look. “You haven’t answered my question. Where is your father now?”
    “He was in his study going over his account books last I saw. I don’t know what that has to do with anything.”
    Pamela had hard work keeping up with the gentlemen. Between her shorter legs, hampering skirts, and efforts to avoid the worst