“What message, Lady Harbisher?” asked Ottilia, trying to make herself heard above the grunts and growls issuing from the male element still locked in combat.
The wispy creature had her eyes still on her struggling spouse, and there was a breathless quality to her voice.
“He set a man to watch the house.”
“This house?”
Lady Harbisher nodded. “The fellow was to bring news of Polbrook’s arrival. Hugh would have been here long since, but that he was out of town.”
At this point the earl was successfully detached from his brother-in-law’s person, but Lord Francis and Abel were obliged to hold him back. He was panting, and his voice was hoarse, but he continued to revile the marquis.
“Dastard! You killed her. Assassin!”
The marquis rose, flinging out his arms. “Have you run mad, Hugh? Of course I did not kill Emily.”
“You hated her. You wanted to be rid of her.”
“Even if that were true—”
“You admit it!”
“Nothing of the sort, I merely—”
“By God, Polbrook, you’ll answer to me!”
“That is enough!”
Startled into silence, both men turned as one to stare at Lord Francis. Ottilia was no less astonished at the harsh fury of his utterance. She had not supposed him capable of so thoroughly losing his temper.
“If you don’t cease this ridiculous charade this moment, Harbisher, I will have you conveyed to Bedlam for a lunatic,” he pursued, the deadly calm of his voice in no way lessening its effect. Then he turned on his brother. “As for you, Randal, you would do well to keep your mouth shut. If neither one of you has the common decency to observe a little dignity in the face of Emily’s demise, then I recommend you look upon the gruesome ravage of her features, as we had no choice but to do. If that does not bring you to your senses, nothing will.”
Ottilia could have applauded. Lord Polbrook dropped into his chair, looking shamefaced, and took refuge in his glass. The earl, a dull colour seeping into his cheeks, fell back, his shoulders drooping. His mouth worked, and then his hand went out and grasped Francis’s arm.
“I am well rebuked.” A bitter note crept into his voice. “But do not suppose me content. I will have justice.” He cast one last glance of loathing upon his brother-in-law and turned to look for his wife. “Come, Dorothea.”
The frightened woman hurried up to him. “I am here, Hugh.”
With pity, Ottilia saw the man stagger a little as he set a course for the door. Lady Harbisher, slight as she was, took his weight, supporting him to where the butler was holding open the door. He looked back.
“Let him look to his lawyers, I say, for I will have justice.”
His departure left an atmosphere one might slice with a paring knife. Ottilia sought in vain for a way of breaking it without worsening the mood. Then Sybilla, who had remained mute throughout the altercation, rose magnificently to the occasion.
“Be so good as to serve the remove, Cattawade. And replenish the glasses, if you please.”
Galvanised, the butler immediately set the footman to removing platters, despatched Jane to the kitchens, and himself went round with the claret. The dowager addressed a commonplace remark in French to Madame Guizot, who bravely attempted a response as close to normal as possible. Ottilia watched Lord Francis go around the table and resume his seat. He did not look at his brother, and stealing a glance towards the head of the table, Ottilia saw that the marquis was likewise avoiding eye contact. He had tossed off the contents of his glass and was watching the liquor splashing into it from the decanter in the butler’s hand. He drank deeply of the replenished supply, downing half the contents at a gulp. It had not escaped Ottilia’s notice that he had imbibed freely throughout the meal. A habit of drowning his sorrows? If so, it was not an uncommon method.
From what Lord Francis had told her, in a swift exchange seized earlier in the day, the marquis’s indulgence was understandable. In their discussion in the library, Lord Polbrook had admitted the violence of his quarrel with his wife that fatal night, but had vehemently denied any intent of harm. His memory of time was less than useless, Lord Francis complained, for he could not precisely place his homecoming from the ball nor his leaving the house, averring he’d been in no state to be consulting his watch. But he was adamant that Emily had been alive and well when he had last slammed himself out of her chamber. On the subject of the fan, he had become voluble and incensed enough to corroborate Mary’s recollection, declaring his right to withdraw it from his wife’s possession and his anger at her practice of using it as a lure, of which he was fully aware. Ottilia could not think him a reliable witness and believed it would go hard with him should the matter come to trial.
By the time dinner finally came to an end, a semblance of good relations had been restored, the brothers addressing one or two innocuous remarks to each other. It was well they had a moment alone with the port, Ottilia thought, as she followed Sybilla and Madame Guizot to the parlour.
When the gentlemen joined them, the Frenchwoman excused herself on the score of seeing to her offspring. She added, with a nervous flicker of her eyes towards the dowager, that she hoped they would understand her tiredness from the journey. Once she had seen the children, she would go to bed.
The dowager sent her on her way with every expression of goodwill, but added a sharp rider, in English, to her elder son as he made to escort Madame Guizot.
“Do not forget, Randal. In five minutes, in the library, if you please.”
Lord Polbrook threw a harassed look at his brother, which augured well for a better understanding between them, but agreed to present himself at the rendezvous and departed after the Frenchwoman. The moment the door closed, the dowager broke out in a fury.
“Madame Guizot! I’ll warrant the creature has scant right to such a title. How dare he! How dare he bring her here?”
Lord Francis rolled his eyes at Ottilia and attempted to mitigate the onslaught. “He saved her life, Mama. Not to mention the lives of those innocent children.”
“I do not forget that, but he need not have insulted Emily’s memory by bringing them into her house. Why could he not have deposited the creatures in a hotel somewhere?”
“I daresay that is just what he would have done, had circumstances been otherwise. Recollect, ma’am, that Randal must have had this in mind when he left for France. It is not his fault that fate struck Emily down at the same moment.”
Sybilla showed no sign of softening. “Not his fault? Pray, how is it not his fault that he became entangled with this woman at the outset?”
Lord Francis sighed. “That is neither here nor there. I hope you do not mean to approach him in this spirit, Mama, for I doubt he will listen to you with any degree of patience.”
The dowager’s glare was directed upon the luckless Lord Francis. “Do you suppose I care about that?” She drew a shuddering breath, clenching her fists in her lap. “I should not mind it so much if he had shown the least vestige of remorse or sorrow. There is poor Candia, distraught, and all he can think of is this—this harlot!”
Moved, Ottilia came quickly to kneel beside the dowager’s chair. She covered those unquiet hands with her own. “Dear Sybilla, it is very upsetting for you, but do pray think a little.”
She saw she had the elder lady’s attention, the distress receding a little as the dowager’s eyes turned upon her.
“Think? Of what would you have me think, Ottilia? Try if you can offer me a modicum of mitigation, for I can see none.”
She was close to tears, and Ottilia took hold of one of her hands and held it between both her own.
“Dear ma’am, Lord Polbrook has not been here. As Lord Francis earlier pointed out, neither he nor Lord Harbisher have seen the ugly sight to which we have all been witness. It is perhaps unreal to him, even the fact of Emily’s death, let alone the brutality with which it was accomplished. Yes, his disinterest is callous, but let us
rather suppose him to be thoughtless than uncaring. Had he been the one to find his wife, instead of Lord Francis, I cannot but believe that his sensibilities must have been as harrowed as your own.”
She saw that her words were having an effect. The dowager’s high colour began to die and the shallowness of her breathing lessened. Her fingers released themselves from Ottilia’s and reached out. Ottilia felt her cheek stroked with a hand that shook, and Sybilla’s voice came husky and low.
“My dear, dear friend. You will never know how great a comfort you have been to me. Without your calm good sense, we had all of us been in danger of going to pieces.”
With which she put Ottilia gently aside and stood up. Her step was a trifle shaky, and Lord Francis saw it.
“Will you take my arm, Mama?”
She waved him away. “I can manage perfectly, I thank you.”
Still kneeling where the dowager had left her, Ottilia watched her walk out of the room, her back straight and determined, her control magnificent.
“Bravo, Tillie!”
Turning, Ottilia discovered Lord Francis holding out a hand. She took it and allowed him to help her to her feet. Only then did she take in that he had once more used the nickname he had bestowed upon her last night. Her heart glowed.
“By the by,” he went on lightly, “I have had no chance to congratulate you on your handling of Candia. What in the world did you tell her to make her go off with Harriet as meekly as you please?”
Ottilia let out a laugh. “And here I had expected one of your scolds.”
“No, why?”
“I thought you would have objected to my interference, especially when you had all agreed that it was best for Candia to be kept in ignorance of the whole.”
“On the contrary, I was immeasurably grateful to you. None of us knew how to do, though I confess I had qualms about how much you might feel it incumbent upon you to reveal.”
Ottilia sat down in the dowager’s vacated chair and looked up at him where he stood, leaning one arm along the mantel.
“I revealed as little as I could get away with, you may be sure. But it did seem to me to have gone past the point where the poor girl could be kept completely in the dark. She had sensed too much.”
He sighed. “I am to blame. I should have packed Harriet off with her upon the following day.”
“You could hardly have done so, my lord. She was not fit to travel, such a state as she was in.”
He grinned. “Thank you. I stand corrected and can only be glad of it. What did you tell her?”
“That her mother had died an unnatural death and that we were doing everything we could to find out who had killed her. She was horribly stricken, of course, but I think also relieved.”
“Relieved?”
“It is not so surprising, my lord, for—”
With an impatient gesture, he flung away a little from the fireplace. “If you don’t stop ‘my lording’ me, woman, I will not be answerable for the consequences. We have surely moved too far for that.”
Too far toward what? But Ottilia did not say it. She could feel her heart beating unnaturally fast. She strove for calm.
“Very well, if you desire it. In private at least, I will address you by name, but you must excuse me if I keep to formality in the presence of others.”
His dark gaze was upon her, its expression unfathomable. “Afraid of scandal, Tillie?”
Ottilia’s breath stuck in her throat. Would there might be cause! She essayed a nonchalance she was far from feeling.
“It would scarcely be seemly, as your mother’s companion, to be seen to be upon terms of—of—”
The word would not leave her tongue. Lord Francis supplied it.
“Intimacy?”
She let out a faint gasp. “I was going to say ‘friendship.’”
“Were you indeed?”
Ottilia felt her breathing to be quite as shallow as that of the dowager so recently. She controlled its passage as best she could, and firmly brought the subject to an end.
“We are wandering from the point.”
For a moment he did not answer. Then he withdrew his gaze from hers and threw himself down into the chair opposite.
“Yes. You were saying?”
As Ottilia had not the remotest recollection of what precisely she had been saying, she was nonplussed. “What was I saying?”
Lord Francis eyed her coolly. “That Candia was relieved on hearing of the murder.”
“Yes, just so,” Ottilia said quickly, feeling relief herself. “She had sensed there was more to her mother’s death than she knew and perhaps it was of benefit to her to know she had not imagined it.”
He nodded, his manner seeming more normal. “That I can appreciate. And the Runner?”
Ottilia shrugged. “There I had little choice. I had to tell her that as her father’s departure had coincided with the event, he had naturally been put under a false suspicion. I made out that it was all a mistake and would very soon be sorted out. But it provided the perfect excuse for her departure. Indeed, your sister jumped upon it, suggesting that while her father’s attention was taken up with this matter it would be less of a worry to him to know his daughter was well taken care of.”
“Oh, that was well done of Harriet! Bless her, she has not a tithe of your talent, but she was ever quick.”
This encomium of the brother for the sister amused Ottilia. She suspected the bond between the two was greater than that felt by either for their older brother.
The thought of Lord Polbrook recalled Ottilia to the matter at hand. She jumped up.
“Francis, what are we about? We shall miss the half of it, if we do not hurry.”
He had risen at once, but at this he frowned. “What are you talking of?”
“Your mother and Randal. I take it this room adjoins the library?”
For a moment he stared at her, and then a delighted grin split his face. “Have I not said time and again that you are an atrocious wretch? You mean to eavesdrop.”
Ottilia giggled. “Well, of course. How else are we to know just what was said. Do you forget we are pledged to prove your brother’s innocence? How can we do so if we don’t witness his statement?”
At this, Francis jerked towards the inner wall and turned, throwing out a hand. “After you.”
She went towards him and took a place at the wall, putting her ear against the wallpaper. A faint murmuring came through the intervening stucco and brick. Sighing, she shifted back.
“This will not do. A door will work better.”
Francis frowned. “You can’t stand with your ear to the door in the lobby.”
“Why not?” She was already crossing to the door. “Pray bring a candle, if you please, Francis.”
She saw him hesitate, but continued on her way. A muttered expletive reached her and Ottilia let out a laugh as Francis flung over to the escritoire in the corner and seized a candelabrum that stood there.
“I feel like a conspirator,” he said as Ottilia preceded him from the room.
Ottilia threw an amused look back at him. “Well, you are one.”
“Yes, and I can see that association with you is rapidly undermining my moral sense.” His eye gleamed. “It is well for you to giggle, woman, but there is no doubt you are a debilitating influence. Ah, here we are.”
Slipping into the vestibule, Ottilia put a finger to her lips and tiptoed into the lobby, where a short wooden settle was placed in the alcove opposite the servants’ staircase. Ottilia indicated it and lifted her brows in question.
“A convenience for persons engaged to see Randal on business,” said Francis, his voice low.
Wasting no more time, Ottilia crept up to the door and leaned in, setting her ear to the woodwork. She could hear the murmur of voices, but could not make out the words. Pulling back, she stared at the door, thinking.
“Well?”
Ottilia looked round. “Francis, I am a little thirsty.”
H
e frowned. “Why did you not say so before we came?”
She shrugged. “I was not thirsty then.”
“Can’t it keep?”
Ottilia smiled at him. “Would it be too much to ask you to fetch me a glass of water? A tumbler, if you will.”
He looked disconcerted. Ottilia waited.
“Are you trying to get rid of me, by any chance?”
She laughed, and quickly smothered the sound with her hand. “Of course not.”
He eyed her with suspicion, she thought. And then capitulated, turning towards the dining parlour. Then he checked and came back, speaking low.
“If I return and find you gone, Tillie, I shall be very much displeased.”
“But why should I go anywhere?”
“Heaven knows! Why do you do anything mad? I don’t trust you an inch.”
But he went off to the vestibule and disappeared through the dining parlour doorway, and Ottilia once again put her ear to the door, pressing flat and covering her other ear with one hand. It was better, but not good enough.
From what she was able to hear, it was clear Sybilla was holding a tight rein on her temper, for her tones were taut and clipped. The marquis, on the other hand, sounded alternately blustering and wheedling. Striving to make out words, Ottilia mentally urged speed upon the absent Francis.
When she heard his step, she shifted back and looked round. Francis was possessed of a little silver tray, upon which reposed an empty tumbler, a small jug of water, and a glass of wine.
His brows rose as her gaze came back up to his. “If I am to act the part of a spy, I require fortification.”
“I quite understand.” Her demure tone deserted her, however, as Francis set down the tray on the settle and lifted the jug. “No, don’t pour!”
Darting to the tray, Ottilia seized the tumbler. Throwing him a look brimful of mischief, she returned to her post and set the tumbler’s open maw carefully to the door. Then, aware of Francis’s astonished gaze, she put her ear to the flat glass end.
Instantly, the voices within the room beyond became audible, albeit of an oddly echoing quality.
“At least you admit this woman is more to you than a mere acquaintance,” the dowager was saying. “Will you then have me believe that these children are not?”
The Gilded Shroud Page 28
