“Yes.”
“But I thought the theater burned?”
“Well it did, mostly,” Indio replied. “But part of it’s good. That’s where we live.”
Her brows knit. “You live here?”
He nodded, apparently having already forgotten that she couldn’t see him. “My mama is a famous actress. She’s Robin Goodfellow.”
“Is she?” Lady Phoebe breathed, evidently delighted. “Might I meet her? I’m a great admirer.”
And within minutes Lady Phoebe had somehow become fast friends with Miss Goodfellow and was taking tea with her at a table brought out to the garden.
“Did… they already… know each other?” Lord Kilbourne asked.
He and Trevillion had taken themselves far enough from the theater that they couldn’t be heard by the ladies, but were close enough for Trevillion to keep an eye on his charge. Kilbourne had glanced once at his cane and suggested a fallen log to sit on. Trevillion had been too grateful for the respite for his leg to worry about his pride.
Somehow, in the days since Trevillion had seen him, the viscount had miraculously regained the power of speech, though his words were slow and his voice quite rough. There was a story there, Trevillion knew, but it didn’t concern him at the moment.
“Not at all,” Trevillion said, watching as Lady Phoebe laughed at something Miss Goodfellow told her.
“You’re sure.”
“Quite.”
“Simply… marvelous,” Kilbourne muttered, sounding nonetheless confused. His gaze, Trevillion noticed, lingered a fraction too long on the actress.
“If you say so, my lord.”
The other looked at him at that and Trevillion noticed that the viscount was sporting a series of new scratches across his face.
“I do,” Kilbourne replied coolly. “I collect… you have some… information for me?”
Trevillion straightened. “Yes, my lord. I’ve made some inquiries into the histories and situations of your friends who died that night. Maubry, as you said, was destined to become a churchman. According to his remaining friends he had no enemies and wasn’t in debt, nor had he offended anyone in the months before his death. I think we may consider him a blameless victim.”
Kilbourne nodded, looking grim. He was watching the ladies again.
Trevillion turned to look as well, observing as Lady Phoebe discreetly felt the tartlet on her plate with her fingertips before taking a bite. She was very deft at living with her infirmity, he mused.
“Mr. Tate was indeed his uncle’s heir,” he continued. “At Tate’s death, a very distant cousin became heir and eventually inherited the uncle’s estate of some two thousand pounds per annum—not a fortune, but by no means an insignificant sum. However, the cousin in question lived in the American Colonies until only a year ago. While he might certainly have sent agents to murder his cousin, it seems, on the surface at least, unlikely.”
“I agree,” Kilbourne replied, sounding a little absentminded.
Miss Goodfellow was at that moment licking her lips of some tartlet crumbs.
Trevillion cleared his throat. “As for Smithers, the last man, there I did find something of interest.”
Kilbourne looked at him sharply. “How… so?”
“Unlike the rest of you,” Trevillion said, “he was in debt—and for quite a large amount, to a rather nasty sort—men running a gambling den in the stews of Whitechapel.”
“Then that was… it?” Kilbourne’s face was stoically blank.
“I don’t think so,” Trevillion said reluctantly. “His creditors didn’t recoup their money on his death, nor was it widely known that he owed them.” He shrugged. “Murdering Smithers along with two other gentlemen would’ve been a poor business decision, and these villains are, if nothing else, quite sharp men of business.”
A muscle in Kilbourne’s jaw flexed and he glanced away—for the first time not at Miss Goodfellow. “Then… you have nothing.”
“Not quite, my lord,” Trevillion replied softly.