Jacquie D'Alessandro - [Regency Historical 04] by Never A Lady

perhaps canapés gonebad? The latest on dit was that the Malloran servants claimed a nearly empty plate of seafood tarts had been found on his lordship’s desk.
    “Good heavens, I ate a prawn tart myself last night,” exclaimed a woman, who stood in the center of a small group of ladies. “It smelled a bit ‘off’ if you know what I mean, and I felt decidedly queasy afterward. Why, I’m lucky I didn’t meet the same horrible fate as Malloran and that poor young man—although why a footman was eating prawn tarts…” She made a tsking sound and shook her head.
    “Servants,” said another lady with a sniff, while the rest of the group nodded in clear commiseration of the foibles of the lower class. “Makes one wonder if he deliberately served tainted food to Malloran in order to rob him, but was foiled when he fell victim to his own treachery.”
    Moving on, Colin slipped into a shadowed alcove set behind a huge potted palm. His vantage point afforded him a good view of the room. Leaning back into the shadows, he swirled his snifter of brandy and frowned at the gently whirling amber depths.
    His earlier conversation with Lord Wexhall, who, although recently retired from his service to the Crown, had gone at the magistrate’s request to the Malloran town house along with the magistrate and doctor, echoed in Colin’s mind. Appears to be a robbery , Lord Wexhall had said, with both men having head wounds, the fireplace poker out of its holder, and the room in shambles. But my gut…and nose…tell me Malloran and Walters didn’t die from blows to the head. They both smelled faintly of bitter almonds, as did the dregs in the decanter. And you know what that means.
    Colin took a deep swallow of brandy. Yes, he knew what that meant. Prussic acid. Malloran and Waltershad most likely been poisoned. By a substance frequently used to kill rodents.
    By ratcatchers.
    His fingers tightened on the cut-glass snifter, and he scanned the crowd, until his gaze riveted on the table in the far corner of the room. His stomach executed an odd maneuver, and his breath hitched. Madame Larchmont, dressed in the deep emerald gown he’d seen in her wardrobe this afternoon, sat with her cards spread before her, talking to the matron seated opposite her.
    Alexandra …Her name whispered through his mind, while his far-too-eager gaze roamed over her. Her hair, arranged in an attractive Grecian knot entwined with gold and green ribbons, gleamed under the soft light cast by the candle-filled chandeliers. She smiled, momentarily drawing his attention to her lush mouth.
    Everything about her appeared perfectly innocent and straightforward. Just the evening’s entertainment, cheerfully providing what she’d been hired to do. She’d clearly regained the composure she’d allowed to slip earlier…or had she? For just an instant, her gaze shifted sideways, as if searching the nearby crowd, and a ghost of a frown whispered across her face. Indeed, the change in her expression was so fleeting, Colin wondered if he’d imagined it. But his gut told him he hadn’t. And that her perfectly innocent and straightforward appearance was just that—an appearance.
    For there was nothing innocent and straightforward about the fact that two men were found dead in the room from which he’d witnessed her emerging through the window only hours earlier—in all probability killed by a substance she would, by her own admission that her husband was a ratcatcher, have easy access to. Although he had strong doubts as to the veracity of her admission.
    Nor was there anything innocent or straightforwardin the fact that he’d neglected to share that information with Wexhall and the magistrate.
    Resting his head against the wall, he tossed back a generous swallow of brandy and closed his eyes, savoring the burn down his chest, hoping it would singe away the guilt eating at him. Bloody hell, what was wrong with him? He’d never before shirked his duty, his