“I don’t care what you believe, ma’am,” came in anger from her son.
Sybilla’s tone sharpened. “Randal, are they your children?”
There was a perceptible pause. Then a rough, long-drawn sigh. “Yes.”
Ottilia jumped, her shock tinged with satisfaction. Had she not guessed as much? She glanced towards Francis, ready to convey this intelligence, and found him shaking with suppressed laughter.
Startled, she abandoned her position. “What in the world is the matter?”
Francis’s eyes danced. “Can you ask? Unscrupulous is what you are, Tillie. But sheer genius! How did you think of it? And why not say so instead of pretending to be thirsty?”
He spoke in a whisper and she responded in like manner. “I thought you might refuse to fetch the glass if I said what I really wanted it for.”
“Only too likely, you wretch. How do you come to know this boys’ trick?”
She had to control a spurt of laughter. “Precisely through boys, of course. My nephews.”
He struck a couple of fingers to his forehead. “I had forgot them.”
Ottilia put out a finger. “I must listen. Your brother has just confessed the Frenchwoman’s children are his.”
“What?”
“Hush!”
He lowered his voice. “Are you sure?”
Ottilia already had her ear back in place. “Your mother asked him outright and he admitted it.”
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Francis look at the glass in his hand and then toss off the wine in one quick motion. But her attention was reclaimed by the discussion going forward on the other side of the door.
“Don’t you see, Mama? That’s why I went. I knew they were in danger, for Violette had written of the unrest in the area and her fears for their safety.”
“I understand so much, but could you not have spoken of it?”
“I had the intention of telling Emily that night. I knew I must bring Violette and the children to England. I could not see how it was to be done with the same secrecy I was able to maintain while they were in France. An establishment had to be set up, and—”
“Wait one moment. You intended to tell Emily? Distress her? For what? What was your intention, Randal?” Suspicion ran rife in the dowager’s tone.
“I have told you. I meant to fetch my family out of France.”
“Your family? And what of your legitimate family? Don’t tell me. You had it in mind to abandon them, didn’t you? Didn’t you?”
“Abandon? No!”
“What, were you going to live a double life as you have done these many years?”
“And why should I not?” The marquis’s fury erupted and Ottilia had a glimpse of what must have occurred during his quarrels with his wife. “What sort of life have I had with the woman you and my father picked out for me? Why should I continue to suffer the indignities of her faithlessness?”
“Her faithlessness?”
“I did not conduct my amour in the full light of public scorn. Yes, if you will have it, I wanted to leave her. I was going to tell her so that night.”
“Desertion! Oh, Randal, how could you?”
In the pause that ensued, Ottilia lifted her head with the intention of passing the gist of this information to Francis, but found him close beside her, his ear glued to his wineglass, which was fastened tight to the woodwork. She could not think his glass would prove as effective as her tumbler, but the grim look in his face told her he had heard enough.
Her heart reached out to him. She wanted to cradle his hurt and croon him to comfort. Instead she applied her ear to her improvised listening device as the voices started up again.
“To think of dragging your name, your children’s names, through the mire! What had you in mind, divorce?”
“Separation rather.”
“I am sick to my stomach.”
Sybilla’s voice had sunk, and the desolation in it caused Ottilia to look quickly to Francis. That he was cut to the heart was patent. Without thinking, Ottilia reached out a hand to him. He saw it, took it, gripped it as might a drowning man. But he did not shift from his position.
“There is no need to take it so, ma’am,” the marquis was saying, his voice rough and strained.
“Is there not? I tell you, boy, if it were not for the despicable manner of poor Emily’s death, I could almost wish her joy of being spared all this. And you! You stand there, self-righteous in your sins, without a vestige of realisation of the consequences of your deeds.”
“I know, I know,” came with impatience. “But I would risk all for Violette’s life.”
“And what of your own, my poor deluded son?”
His mother’s acid note had the effect of altering his tone.
“What do you mean?”
“I am talking of your life. You appear to have little understanding of your own danger.”
“Pooh! What danger? Oh, you’re talking of that officious little Runner, are you? I’ll soon send him to the rightabout.”
“And will you send your peers to the rightabout? Will you have an answer for them when they know you meant to put aside your wife for the sake of your French mistress? You may as well have set the noose about your neck yourself!”
In the deadly silence that followed, Ottilia could almost feel the thickness of the stupor that enwrapped the marquis. She came away and looked at Francis, only then realising he had released her hand.
“He has taken in at last the danger in which he stands,” she said quietly.
Francis nodded. He shifted away from the wall and set the wineglass down on the tray. Then he slumped into the settle beside it, his shoulders hunched, his chin sinking half to his chest.
Ottilia, all too conscious of his distress, had for once no words of comfort. Everything that came into her head she dismissed for a platitude. She would have liked to offer her hand again, but a foolish fear of rejection held her back.
At length Francis looked up. He tried to smile, but it went awry.
“Come, Tillie, have you nothing in your armoury?”
She shook her head. “I must fail you on this occasion.”
Francis sighed. “Well, so be it.”
Then he got up in a restless way, shifting into the vestibule. Compelled, Ottilia followed him.
“Say something,” he whispered urgently. “Make me laugh.”
At that, Ottilia was surprised into merriment herself. “To order? But you laugh only at what you consider my eccentricities.”
His lip quirked. “Do I so?”
The effort to overcome his lowering mood moved her even more than the mood itself. Ottilia forgot caution and held out her hands to him.
“If I cannot make you laugh, I can listen.”
Francis took the hands and held them. His dark eyes looked deep into hers.
“You are too good, Tillie. I am ashamed to think how much we have put upon you. Not once have I heard you complain.”
She controlled her voice with an effort. “I could scarcely complain when I brought it on myself. No one asked me to interfere at the first. And though I am sorry for your distress, on the whole there is still much to entertain me.”
His eyes lit and his grip tightened. “There now, I knew you had it in you to lighten my load. Entertain you, forsooth, you wretch!”
Ottilia could not prevent her happiness in the moment bubbling over into mirth. Francis let go one of her hands and reached up a finger, brushing it lightly across her mouth.
“Of all your eccentricities, I think I like that gurgling laugh of yours the most.”
“And I like—” She broke off, appalled at what she had been about to say.
Question was in his face as he prompted, “And you like—what, Tillie?”
“You, Fan.”
It was out before she could prevent it, the endearment of his nickname slipping naturally into the confession. She felt heat in her cheeks and knew she was flushing.
The dark eyes gle
amed in the candlelight. Softly, so softly he spoke.
“Do you know, that is the kindest thing you have ever said to me.”
Kind? No, she had not meant to be kind. Disappointment swept over her in a wave, and Ottilia released her hand from his, shifting away.
“We are neglecting our duties.”
With shaking fingers, she hunted for her tumbler, spied it on the settle where she had unthinkingly set it, and seized it up. But when she put it to the door, there was no sound to be heard. She moved away again.
“They are silent. We will be remarked. You take the tray back and I will go to the parlour.”
With which she set the tumbler on the tray and slid past him without meeting his gaze. That he did not speak, nor make any move to prevent her leaving seemed to Ottilia to bear out her conviction that she had wholly misinterpreted both his words and his actions.
The necessity to dispose of the tray and its contents afforded Francis a much-needed opportunity to compose his unquiet mind. Whether his brother’s duplicity or Ottilia’s inexplicable withdrawal rankled most, he was unable to decide.
Only when she had left him did it occur to him that he had been within an ace of kissing the woman. Without intent and wholly out of the blue. Or so it seemed. But in truth it did not take a deal of wit to trace the path that had led him thus far. Having begun with admiration, his esteem for her had imperceptibly grown until it had taken off on a sudden and plunged him into wholehearted affection.
Yes, affection. Francis balked at going further, falling into a commitment that must turn his life upside down. Besides, he was loath to dare to suppose that Tillie’s “liking” masked a warmer feeling. Her precipitate exit argued otherwise.
Depositing the tray on the sideboard in the dining parlour, he recalled her little subterfuge and laughed out. Whatever came, he had at least the satisfaction to know that Ottilia’s presence, quite aside from her genius in divining what had occurred, was responsible for leavening the bitter pill the family had been obliged to swallow. That he must ever regard with gratitude.
In this more settled frame of mind he reentered the parlour that had become their headquarters to find his mother seated, Randal noticeably absent, and Ottilia in the act of pulling the bell. She smiled at him, as composed as if the little scene between them had never happened.
“We are going to have in the tea tray. Sybilla is tired. And no wonder, for it has been quite a day.”
“A masterly understatement,” Francis returned.
He glanced at his mother, dismayed at the drawn look in her face. She had aged all in a moment. He longed to offer words of comfort, but remembered he was not supposed to know what had passed between her and his brother.
“Has Randal gone to bed?”
She lifted her bowed head, with an effort, it seemed to Francis. “I have no notion.” She fiddled with her fingers for a moment, and then looked up at him. “We quarrelled.”
Francis strove to sound nonchalant. “I expected no less. Did he give you any satisfactory assurances?”
“If you mean concerning the woman now residing in this house,” said his mother with something of her accustomed acid, “he gave me nothing beyond the headache which plagues me now.”
Francis could not refrain from glancing across at Ottilia, seeking either her advice or opinion, he knew not which. She met his eyes and flashed him one of her warning looks. Dangerous ground? Undoubtedly.
He was just wondering whether he should probe further or leave it until the morning when the knocker sounded at the outer door. His mother started and Ottilia looked round, as if she might see through the wall.
“A strange hour to be calling,” Francis said, and made towards the parlour door.
“It must be urgent,” Ottilia said from behind him, and he realised she, too, had risen and was following.
He reached the door, pulled it open, and found Abel already walking down the hall. Remembering Ottilia had rung the bell in the parlour, he must suppose the footman had been responding to it. Vaguely he wondered at Cattawade’s absence, but forgot it at once as the front door opened and a well-known voice spoke.
“Ah, Abel. Is Lord Francis here? I must speak with him without delay.”
“George!” Francis strode forward as his friend entered the house. Tretower saw him and came quickly up. “What’s to do?”
George seized his outstretched hand. “I will tell you directly. Let us go in. How do you do, Mrs. Draycott?”
Francis waited only to instruct the footman to bring the tea tray and followed his friend into the parlour. George was bowing over the dowager’s hand.
“What brings you here so late, colonel?”
His mother was looking as apprehensive as Francis was beginning to feel. “Out with it, man. What fresh disaster is about to befall us?”
George faced them all, his back to the fire. “I have just come from Bow Street. Justice Ingham has issued a warrant for your brother’s arrest.”
Chapter 18
Disbelief swept through Francis, and he barely heard George continue.
“Ingham intended to carry it through tonight, but I managed to persuade him that nothing was to be gained by incarcerating the marquis at such an hour. But he intends to come himself in the morning to administer the warrant and take Polbrook into custody. Meanwhile, there are Runners stationed front and back outside the house.”
His mind blank, Francis saw the colour draining out of his mother’s face. Instinctively, he looked to Ottilia, hardly aware if he expected succour from that quarter. She stood tensely, her features painful with enquiry.
“But on what grounds, Colonel Tretower? There has been no interview, no questioning. What can Justice Ingham know that justifies his taking this action?”
Francis looked automatically to his friend and found Tretower setting his teeth. His heart lurched. “What is it, George?”
George drew a breath. “I don’t know how to say this, but say it I must. There has been an information laid against Lord Polbrook.”
“An information?” Francis echoed. “What sort of information?”
George shook his head. “Ingham would not tell me.”
“By whom was this information laid?”
Ottilia, as ever, asking the most pertinent question. Francis almost dreaded his friend’s answer.
“He would not tell me that, either.”
“The devil!”
In the silence that followed, Francis sought options. Who could it have been? His mother gave a sudden cry.
“Harbisher! He left here baying for justice. He must have gone directly to Bow Street.”
George’s frown intensified. “Tonight, you mean?”
“He interrupted dinner with the declared intention of smashing Randal’s face in,” supplied Francis, an edge to his voice.
“Then it cannot have been he. Whoever laid this information did so earlier. He spoke to the fellow who went after Polbrook—Grice, was it?”
Ottilia’s gaze was fixed upon George, but Francis noted that faraway look in her eyes that meant she was thinking of something else. Before he could enquire the reason, she spoke up.
“Just what did Justice Ingham tell you, Colonel Tretower?”
George thought for a moment. “That an information had been laid which gave him reason and witness to Lord Polbrook’s culpability in the crime.”
“Witness? But that must mean Bowerchalke.”
His mother’s tone expressed astonishment and Francis looked to see how Ottilia took this notion. She was frowning, but she did not speak. Francis mustered his own resources.
“If it was Bowerchalke,” he said, thinking aloud, “then it would explain why he put back the jewel box. He would wish to disassociate himself from the theft.”
Both George and his mother gazed at him with blankness. He recalled there had been no opportunity to report on the find.
“Ottilia and I discovered it last night. She caught the fellow in the act, but did no
t see who it was in the dark.”
George glanced curiously from one to the other of them, and a gleam of amusement crept into his eyes.
“You two have been busy, it seems.”
Francis brushed this hastily aside as his mother’s puzzled eyes flicked across at him. “Never mind that. We were driven by sheer necessity.”
He could only suppose his mother’s attention was concentrated upon the matter at hand, for she said nothing.
“Ottilia,” he pursued, “don’t you think it possible?”
She had been lost in a brown study, but she looked at him then. “That Bowerchalke was the one who returned the jewel box? I can’t believe he stole it in the first place. Nor does it seem politic to endanger himself by laying an information.”
“Why should he endanger himself?”
Ottilia’s glance went to the dowager. “Because I am certain he was still in Emily’s bedchamber when she was murdered, concealed behind the bed-curtains.”
“Indeed? Then it would be to his disadvantage to go to Bow Street.”
“Exactly so,” Francis agreed. “I imagine the notion of persuading the justices that he had seen and heard all but had taken no hand in the proceedings would terrify Bowerchalke.”
“And he is probably the only witness,” said his mother despairingly. “I daresay, if we only knew, he could readily exonerate Randal.”
“The only witness we know of.” Francis struck his hands together in frustration. “Who the devil could have laid that information?”
“I thought of Quaife,” offered George, “but it seems unlikely.”
“For the same reason as Bowerchalke?” asked the dowager.
“No, ma’am. Because if Quaife had been involved, he would have more sense. Bowerchalke is an untried and very nervous pup. I am ready to believe any folly of him.”
A silence fell. Francis felt sorely in need of a restorative and bethought him of the tea tray. “Where in the world is that wretched footman? I told him to bring the tea an eon ago.”
Ottilia’s eyes turned towards him, and Francis saw an odd look flash in them. Without thought, he moved towards her.
The Gilded Shroud Page 29
