The Gilded Shroud

by Elizabeth Bailey

  “And the gentleman in question was invited to return it in person to her bedchamber, I take it?” There was no reply, both ladies looking a trifle taken aback. Ottilia smiled. “Pardon my plain speaking, ma’am. I am pledged to assist Lady Polbrook in this matter, and the fan is highly pertinent in this instance.”

  Mrs. Arncliffe goggled at her, but her cousin’s glance became keen. “How so?”

  Ottilia spread her hands. “That I am not at liberty to divulge.”

  “Never mind that,” cut in Sybilla. “Can you or can you not say whether this—this ‘boy’ gave the fan back to Emily at the ball?”

  Mrs. Bucklebury turned to the other. “Do you recall, Phoebe? I do not remember seeing it in Emily’s hands. But I could not swear to it.”

  “Let me think.” Mrs. Arncliffe closed her eyes, as if she were reviving the scene within her mind. In a moment, she opened them again and her whole countenance brightened. “Do you know, I believe young Bowerchalke had it all the time. He was by her most of the evening, though she danced with others. Emily could dance the night away, I believe, and she never lacked for partners.”

  “Do you by chance remember what time she left the ball?” asked Ottilia, seizing a cue.

  “I did not see her leave, for I had repaired to the card room.”

  “And you, Mrs. Bucklebury?”

  The thinner woman looked regretful. “I am afraid I cannot help you on that score. She departed before we did.”

  “What time was it when you both left, then?”

  “Not much after one, if that. I am past these late nights.”

  Ottilia exchanged a glance with Sybilla. It seemed Emily’s maid had judged aright. “You cannot tell, I daresay, if the boy escorted her?”

  “Oh, he would not have done,” said Mrs. Bucklebury positively. “Emily never left with a favoured suitor. I must suppose she had some idea of discretion. Or perhaps she was afraid of meeting with Polbrook.”

  “He was there that night, was he not?” asked Sybilla.

  “Oh yes, but they spent no time together.”

  “They never did,” averred Mrs. Arncliffe. “So sad. Indeed, Polbrook was rather like Quaife in that respect. Out in the cold, you know, obliged to worship from afar.”

  “Well, I am sorry to contradict you, Phoebe,” said her cousin, “but I cannot support any claim that Polbrook worshipped his wife. For one thing, they came and went separately always. All the world knows they were estranged.” She gave a little shrug. “I do not scruple to say it before you, Sybilla, since you have enjoined our candour. And, I may add, I would not attach such significance to Quaife, either. His was rather the attitude of a dog in the manger.” She wagged an admonitory finger at the dowager. “You should not discount him, you know. I daresay he had been so much in the habit of regarding Emily as his property that he could not endure to see another man take his place. Particularly a young whippersnapper such as Bowerchalke.”

  Mrs. Arncliffe was looking put out. “You might say the same of Jeremy Feverel.”

  “No, for you are forgetting he introduced the boy to Emily.”

  “Hardly in the expectation of her taking him into her bed,” objected her cousin, indignation suffusing her cheeks. “I should think Feverel might be justly angered by such conduct.”

  “Enough to throttle poor Emily? I cannot think it possible. Quaife, on the other hand, has precisely the temperament.” Once more, she belatedly remembered her company and apologised. “I never was used to mind my tongue, as you know, Sybilla. But I did not mean to prattle so indiscreetly of poor Emily’s sad end. I could not wish that on anyone.”

  “No, indeed,” agreed Mrs. Arncliffe, dabbing at her perfectly dry eyes. “It is utterly horrid.”

  There was an uneasy silence for a moment. Ottilia, with a view to bringing back into play the useful flow of words, broke it.

  “You are quite certain, both of you, that there was no other man at the ball in whom the marchioness could be said to have an interest?” She saw both ladies frown as they considered the question. “Anyone with whom she danced more than others? Anyone who caught her in private conversation?”

  Mrs. Arncliffe looked dubious. “She was so very popular, you must know. You would see her all over the place, talking and laughing with many.”

  “Oh yes, Emily was everywhere at once,” Mrs. Bucklebury agreed. Her gaze narrowed. “But no. As I see it, the only one who can be said to have been in close attendance throughout was the boy.”

  “That is true,” agreed the other with vehemence. “Wherever Emily was, he hovered, even when she paid him scant attention.”

  Sybilla’s glance returned to Ottilia. “Could it have been he after all?”

  Mrs. Bucklebury stared. “You are not suggesting young Bowerchalke did the deed?”

  “The thought had occurred to me.”

  “Gracious, Sybilla, banish it! That young man could not strangle a kitten. He has a palsy of the left hand. The result of an accident as a child, I believe. The fingers are near useless to him, poor boy.”

  Francis had barely begun swallowing his breakfast upon the following morning when he was beset by a series of interruptions. First came a message from Turville at the stables, announcing that Randal’s travelling chariot had arrived back from Portsmouth at last. Next arrived the lawyer Jardine, who was requested to attend Francis in the dining parlour since Candia had chosen to breakfast in bed.

  “Otherwise I should have had to see him in the book room, I suppose.”

  “You should have let him kick his heels,” said his mother vengefully.

  Francis shook his head. “He could not have sought me so early if his business were not of some import.”

  Across the table, Mrs. Draycott set down her cup. “Perhaps he has news of your brother.”

  This had the effect of changing his mother’s tune. “If that is so, I can forgive him everything.”

  At which moment Jardine made his entrance. Francis waited while the fellow performed his punctilious greetings, noting that the severity of his countenance was accentuated with a preoccupied frown. The butler was hovering.

  “Thank you, Cattawade, that will be all.” When the man had withdrawn, Francis turned to the lawyer. “You have news, Jardine?”

  “Information rather, my lord, which came to me by a circuitous route.”

  “Well?”

  Jardine became austere. “You did not tell me, my lord, that the Polbrook fan had gone missing.”

  Before Francis could answer, his mother emitted an impatient exclamation. “Since you had no interest in anything beyond keeping Polbrook’s whereabouts a secret, that is hardly surprising.”

  “How did you find out, Mr. Jardine?”

  Francis looked at his mother’s companion with increasing appreciation. As ever, she went straight to the point. He had no doubt it was due to her sagacity that so much had been extracted from his mother’s cronies—as wily a couple of tabbies as one could hope to know.

  “I am coming to that, ma’am,” said the lawyer. “It appears, my lord, that someone attempted to dispose of the fan through the medium of a somewhat disreputable fence.”

  Chapter 14

  Francis exchanged a startled glance with Mrs. Draycott, but his mother was sharper. “‘Attempted’? You mean he failed? I presume it was a man?”

  Jardine permitted a slight smile to curve his lip. “Indeed he failed, my lady. And it was a man.”

  “How did the matter come to your attention?” asked Mrs. Draycott, pursuing her theme.

  “The fence in question was too fly to take the thing without enquiry. Such a valuable item, in his opinion, might well prove an untenable prize. He fobbed the man off.”

  Hope leapt up in Francis. “He kept it?”

  The lawyer looked regretful. “No, my lord. The man in possession would not give it up. But the fence described it to my informant, a jeweller of rather better moral standing.”

  “And he came to you?”


  “My informant thought he recognised the description, and he had heard of the tragedy of the marchioness.” Jardine’s nostrils twitched distastefully. “I would not have you think it was altruism. I am known in certain circles as a man who will pay for useful information.”

  Which came as no surprise to Francis. A man of Jardine’s stamp must inevitably maintain a wide network of sources. “I suppose it is too much to hope for a description of the wouldbe seller?”

  Jardine shifted his shoulders. “It was dark and the man was masked. The fence spoke of a man of some height, but I fear that is unreliable as a guide, for the fellow is a snivelling little weasel to whom almost anyone would appear large.”

  The dowager snorted. “A lot of help that is.”

  “Quite so, my lady.”

  “Thank you, Jardine,” said Francis. “No doubt you made provision in case the man should return a second time?”

  The lawyer’s response was forestalled. “He won’t do that.”

  Francis looked at Mrs. Draycott. “Why won’t he?”

  “Because he must fear to be recognised, despite the mask. If he attempts to sell it again, which is doubtful, he will go elsewhere.”

  Jardine was looking surprised, and Francis concealed a smile. The fellow was unacquainted with the brilliance of Mrs. Draycott’s mind. She was looking at the lawyer with that intent expression that signalled a pertinent question.

  “Do you know when this attempt to sell the fan was made?”

  “Very soon after the—er—after the marchioness died, ma’am.”

  “How soon?”

  “Three or four nights ago?” The lawyer cast his eyes upwards as he considered, then brought them down with a decisive air. “Likely it was Saturday.”

  “I fail to see that it matters,” said the dowager impatiently. “It is enough that the wretch dared to try to sell the thing.”

  Mrs. Draycott said nothing, and Francis wondered what was in her mind. He recognised that look. She’d had a reason for the question and it clearly did matter.

  Having discharged his errand, Jardine was anxious to be gone and Francis made no attempt to detain him, intent as he was upon ferreting out whatever avenue Mrs. Draycott had been treading. But the opportunity was denied him, for the moment the lawyer left the dining parlour, Cattawade reentered it, bearing a silver salver.

  “This arrived by the hand of a footman, my lord. From Berkeley Square.”

  He presented the salver and Francis picked up the folded sheet reposing upon the tray. His mother looked across at it.

  “It must be from Harbisher.”

  “The footman said it was urgent, my lord,” said the butler.

  “I imagine so,” put in Mrs. Draycott. “It is not even sealed.”

  “If it is not one thing, it is another,” Francis complained, unfolding the note. He looked at the signature. “It is from Dorothea.”

  “Gracious heaven, what can have happened?”

  He hardly heard his mother, for he was mastering the contents. An exclamation escaped him.

  “Confound the fellow!”

  “Harbisher?”

  “He has gone after Quaife.” As if it was instinctive, Francis looked to his mother’s companion. “George said you suspected this might happen.”

  She nodded. “Particularly if he has chosen to make enquiries. After what Sybilla’s friends told us—”

  “Dorothea writes that he went to Endicott House yesterday and demanded an account of Emily’s movements from her hostess.”

  Mrs. Draycott’s brows rose. “Dear me. What a pity he should be intent upon acting alone. We might with advantage have made use of his services.”

  Francis uttered a short laugh. “Some hope.”

  “The man is mad,” stated his mother flatly.

  “Mad with grief, yes.” Mrs. Draycott’s wide gaze fixed upon Francis. “Do you think you can track him down?”

  “I shall have to, shan’t I?” He gathered his forces. “I will send a message to George and have him meet me at Quaife’s residence. Cattawade!”

  The butler had effaced himself, but he came forward at once. “At once, my lord. I will despatch the boots.”

  “What else does Dorothea say?” asked the dowager as Cattawade left the room.

  Francis passed the sheet across to his mother. “Nothing of moment beyond that. As you see, she knows Hugh has gone in search of Quaife and she fears the outcome.”

  The dowager was running her eyes down the scribbled note. She gave a snort. “Trust Harbisher to make a friend of a man like Quaife. No doubt Emily came to know the man through him.”

  “Which must naturally add to the earl’s fury,” said Mrs. Draycott.

  “Why so?”

  “My dear ma’am, there is no enmity so inimical as that of a broken friendship. And knowing himself to have been the instrument of their coming together must be doubly galling. His guilt now is pitiful to contemplate.”

  The dowager frowned. “You mean he cannot endure it?”

  Francis rose to his feet. “Easier to shift the blame, I take it?”

  “Just so.” Mrs. Draycott’s smile encouraged him. “This intervention is like to ruin all, if you don’t stop it. Godspeed you, my lord!”

  Francis bowed slightly. “Be sure I will do my damnedest.”

  The Baron Quaife inhabited one of the myriad narrow terrace houses along Maddox Street and it did not take Francis many minutes to walk there. He was obliged to waste a deal of time, however, arguing with a foolish manservant who refused to state whether or not his master was home. But when his representations were reinforced by the arrival of George Tretower, resplendent in the red coat and cream breeches of his chosen calling, the fellow was instantly overawed.

  “Thank the Lord you are come, George,” Francis muttered. “Try if you can get any sense out of this fellow, for I have done with the brute.”

  Tretower raised his brows and focused upon the offending manservant, his tone deceptively mild. “My dear fellow, what is the difficulty? We are here to see Lord Quaife. I should be much obliged if you will inform him that Lord Francis Fanshawe desires a word.”

  A feeling of grim satisfaction entered Francis’s bosom as he noted the immediate change in the man’s expression. The underlying steel in George’s voice had its effect.

  “My master is not in the house, sir.”

  “Indeed?” George eyed the man with a meditative look Francis knew well. “I wonder, are we not the first to enquire for him this morning?”

  “Why, no, sir,” the man blurted out, looking startled. “Lord Harbisher come asking for him not a half hour since.”

  “Ah. And where did you send his lordship?”

  “Brooks’s, sir.”

  Francis grunted his satisfaction. Barely tolerating the brief time it took George to dispense with the manservant’s assistance, he set off towards St. James’s Street at a cracking pace.

  “Hold hard, man,” his friend protested. “We will not fare the better for arriving out of breath.”

  “Harbisher is half an hour ahead of us, George. Lord knows what havoc he might have wrought by this time!”

  “You don’t think he may be hampered by the public nature of the venue?”

  “I think he is in a mood to ignore everything but his thirst for revenge,” returned Francis. “My only hope lies in his not being a member of Brooks’s.”

  George was moved to grin. “Ah. He’ll not easily get past the porter.”

  “He has only to wait for some willing member to accompany him inside, however.”

  His mind filling with hair-raising possibilities, all of which must increase the tide of gossip and speculation, Francis hastened his steps the more.

  When they entered the hallowed portals of Brooks’s, however, it was at once evident that Lord Harbisher’s impatience had got the better of him. The altercation was taking place in the hall, in full view of a number of members who had clearly been drawn by the commotion to come ou
t and watch the fray.

  Quaife was facing them, his pose very much that of a creature at bay, his head down as if he wore horns readying for battle. The little that could be seen of Harbisher opposing him showed him at full growl, with his hands up, fists curled and ready.

  “Hey? What do you say, scoundrel? Answer! Else I’ll beat it out of you.”

  The other came back strongly. “You’ll get naught of me, Harbisher, threaten how you will. Lay violent hands upon me, would you? Try if you can best me, you big-bellied poltroon!”

  A roar of rage burst from the throat of Lord Harbisher, and he sprang for the man, attempting to seize him by the throat. Quaife’s hands shot up, grabbing his wrists.

  Mesmerised by the ensuing struggle, Francis only half heard Tretower’s rapped-out orders.

  “Don’t stand there like a set of dummies! Take hold of Quaife! Fan, with me.”

  Francis snapped his attention back to his friend and found him already taking hold of the earl’s shoulders. With a fluent curse under his breath, Francis raced to his aid, tugging at one side while George heaved upon the other.

  The watchers on the other side having laid hands on Quaife, the two men were wrenched apart and dragged back, still spitting curses at each other.

  Francis, his senses once more on full alert, addressed a goggling waiter over the top of the hubbub.

  “A private parlour, fellow. And look sharp about it!”

  Thus adjured, the man started. “Yes, sir. At once, sir.”

  He pushed through into the vestibule beyond, leading the way, and both combatants were manhandled out of the hall and through into one of the small apartments reserved for gentlemen who desired privacy.

  By the time, with a brief word of thanks, the door had been firmly shut in the faces of those who had brought the earl’s opponent, Harbisher had sufficiently recollected himself to be once more upon his dignity. Quaife, on the other hand, was in a rare fury.