The other guests turned, faces startled or expectant according to their personalities.
Edwin was in his element with an audience. He bowed and strutted to the middle of the room. “I have received many accolades for the play you enjoyed last night, but now I must reveal to you the real talent, the real playwright of A Wastrel Reform’d.” Edwin paused for a pregnant second and then turned and bowed to Lily. “My own sister, Miss Robin Goodfellow!”
Even knowing what he might say, Lily was caught by surprise. For a moment she simply stared, wide-eyed, at her brother. Then, grinning, he took her hand and drew her to the center of the room.
The guests rose, clapping, and she could do nothing but curtsy and curtsy again. In the back of the room a footman tapped on Mr. William Greaves’s shoulder and leaned close to whisper something in his ear before Mr. Greaves turned and left the room.
Amid the uproar, Lily looked at her brother. “Why?”
He shrugged, his look rueful. She wondered if he’d already begun to regret his decision to reveal the authorship of her plays. “It was time,” he murmured, close to her ear because the applause was continuing. “And, no matter my own self-interest and pettiness, I do love you, Sister.”
Tears sparkled in her eyes and she threw her arms around her brother. Over his shoulder she could see Apollo, standing and clapping with the other guests, his eyes full of pride.
APOLLO WATCHED LILY blush and smile as she was finally acknowledged for the words she’d written. He wanted to go to her and take her in his arms, to congratulate her himself, but they hadn’t progressed to a point where he could claim her in public—yet. So instead he used the distraction to slip from the room.
Outside the breakfast room, footmen scurried back and forth, paying him no mind. He strode down the hall and ducked around the corner. His uncle’s study was at the back of the house on this floor, in an area normally reserved for the family.
He was nearly at the door when he was hailed from behind.
“Mr. Smith.”
He turned to find his uncle staring at him in puzzlement. “Might I help you, Mr. Smith? I fear there is nothing of interest down this way, merely my own study.”
“I apologize,” Apollo said easily. “I must’ve gotten turned around.”
“Quite.” The older man’s gaze sharpened on him and he cocked his head. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, Mr. Smith. Have we perchance met before?”
“I don’t think so, sir,” Apollo replied, holding his uncle’s gaze. It was the truth, after all: he had no memory of his father’s family’s ever visiting when he was young, save for the one time his grandfather had come to announce Apollo’s enrollment in Harrow.
“Strange,” the older man murmured as they turned back toward the front of the house and the rest of the party. “But I find that something about you is reminiscent of…” He trailed away, shaking his head. “I feel that I’ve seen you before.”
He slowed as they came to the end of the corridor, and although Apollo wanted to rush away, he made himself slow as well.
“My father,” the older man said suddenly, “the earl, is a big man. I used to be quite afeard of him as boy. Broad shoulders like a bull, huge hands.” He seemed lost in a not entirely happy memory. “My brother and I did not inherit his frame—much to my father’s chagrin—but I’m told my nephew is at least as large as my father. And, of course, my son George bears him some resemblance.”
He looked at Apollo and there was a sort of frightened question in his eyes.
“Mr. Greaves.”
Both men looked up at the low voice. A servant stood at the other end of the hall, backlit by the window there.
“Ah, Vance,” the older man said. “There you are.” He turned back to Apollo. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Smith?”
“Of course,” Apollo murmured. He watched as his uncle walked to the manservant.
“I hope you have the matter well in hand?” William Greaves asked.
“Just as you ordered, sir, but if I may…” Vance leaned toward his master, murmuring something in his ear. As he did so, he turned his head just enough for his face to be revealed. Vance had a port-wine stain over much of his left cheek and chin.
Apollo stepped back, merging into the shadows of the corridor, his heart beating fast. He’d seen that face.
Four years ago in a tavern in Whitechapel.
He waited as the two men disappeared into Greaves’s study before slipping back to the breakfast room. It was simply too much of a coincidence for his uncle to have in his employ a man who’d been in the tavern that night. Was he an assassin? Had his uncle sent Vance that night to do such ugly work?
When he reentered the breakfast room, the guests were still dining. Quietly he slipped back into his seat beside the Duke of Montgomery.
“Did you learn anything?” His Grace asked casually as he buttered a piece of toast.
“In the necessary?” Apollo knit his brows as if confused.
“Come now,” the duke said. “Don’t prevaricate with a master like myself.”
He crunched into his toast.
Apollo sighed. He didn’t trust Montgomery, but at the moment the man was his only ally. “William Greaves’s valet was there at the tavern—the night before the murders.”
Montgomery paused mid-crunch. “You’re sure?”
Apollo gave him a look. “The man has a conspicuous port-wine stain on his face.”
“Ah.” The duke swallowed. “Then it seems to me that we ought to find out how long the man has been in William Greaves’s employ.”
“How—?”
But before Apollo could finish his question the duke had leaned forward over the table. “I say, George, how long has your father had that valet of his?”
“Three years,” George Greaves replied slowly, looking between the duke and Apollo.
Apollo swore to himself and hunched over his plate of eggs.