Lady Anne and the Menacing Mystic

by Victoria Hamilton

  “How long were you gone?”

  “Some time, milady. Mr. Lonsdale was gone when I got back.”

  The mystic had wanted Bridie out of the way. “Before you left did you happen to overhear aught that was said that day?”

  The child stopped brushing and met Anne’s gaze, but Irusan nudged her hand and she set to her task once more. “I did,” she said meekly, working out a knot in the cat’s fur. “You’ll no’ think me a terrible sort, milady? It is a small place, those rooms, and you can’t help but overhear sometimes.”

  There was something in the girl’s tone . . . “And has it been your job to overhear sometimes, Bridie?” Anne asked gently. “And then to tell the mystic what you have heard?”

  The girl nodded, blinking back a tear that nonetheless spilled down her cheek.

  “I’ve heard tell you’re treated badly by the mystic. Is that so?”

  Bridie, tears welling in her eyes, gazed up at her and nodded again. “She’s hasty, milady, and she slaps me. But other girls elsewhere get worse, I know, beaten and . . .” She shrugged, unable to explain further, but Anne understood what she could not say.

  “But some other girls are treated much better, safe and unharmed, a warm bed and nice clothes, left to work in peace.” Anne watched the child. “I’ll see that you’re never mistreated again, Bridie, I promise. You need not even go back there, if you don’t like. I have friends, and know many places you could go instead.”

  The girl dropped her eyes to Irusan again with a sigh of satisfaction. She nuzzled the cat and fluffed his mane.

  “Will you tell me what you overheard that day between Mr. Lonsdale and Mr. Graeme, before you were told to leave?”

  “It was a terrible argument. First, though, Mr. Lonsdale was a-waiting for Mr. Graeme, and Mother Macree said why didn’t he sit down and she’d read his tea leaves? So he had a cup of tea—”

  “Wait . . . did you see him drink it?”

  “Aye, milady.”

  “And who made it for him?” Anne asked.

  “Why, I did, milady.”

  “Oh.” Deflated, Anne slumped. “Go on, what happened next?”

  “Mother Macree read his leaves; she told him he must keep his own counsel or he’d be sure to bring down a heap of trouble on his own head, and that of people he loved.”

  That was as bold a threat as could be, Anne thought. “What else did she say?”

  “Naught, for then Mr. Graeme arrived.”

  “You said there was a quarrel?”

  “Mr. Graeme has a terrible temper. Mild as mild can be sometimes but when he is crossed . . . his eyes go dead, like Friday’s cod, you know.” She shuddered. “Mr. Lonsdale looked upset. He said he couldn’t let Mr. Graeme go on with his schemes, that no matter what it cost him in his personal life, he would expose Mr. Graeme to the magistrates.”

  Anne felt her stomach lurch; she had said the same to the mystic. “And then . . . ?”

  “I were sent away, milady. When I came back I saw him leavin’, down the street.”

  “Alone?”

  “Aye. Alone.”

  “And there was no one with the mystic when you got upstairs?”

  “Just Mr. Graeme. Him an’ my mistress muttered together for a minute, and Mr. Graeme said loudly that he’d stop Miss Molly in his tracks, or know the reason why.”

  Anne, confused by the new name, said, “Miss Molly?”

  Lolly, close by, muttered, “A gentleman who prefers the company of other gentlemen, Anne.”

  “Oh. Oh! I see.” Lonsdale had threatened that he would turn him in for his dastardly scheme, and Graeme was set to stop him. It was Bridie who prepared the tea, but there may have been an easy opportunity to introduce the poison yew infusion. Mother Macree could have done so herself, if Anne assumed she was in on the scheme. Now that she knew Graeme was the mystic’s grandson, it made it all the more likely. Still, Anne could not rely on that conclusion when there were others who harbored ill will toward the gentleman. “Thank you, Bridie. My offer of help stands; if you don’t wish to, you don’t have to go back to Mother Macree’s ever.”

  The child looked up, then gently set Irusan on his feet on the floor and scrambled to stand. She straightened her gown and apron, a look of determination on her pretty face. “Milady, an’ it please you . . . I’ll go back to Mother Macree for now. I’ve heard tell of the poor gentleman Mr. Lonsdale’s death. Was he murdered?”

  “We think so.”

  “Is it the mystic or Mr. Graeme you suspect?”

  “Among others. But I am in no way certain, not at all.”

  She took a deep breath. “I’ll go back for the moment, then.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “If I didn’t, wouldn’t they suspect I was telling tales to the magistrate?”

  “They might think that if you deserted her service suddenly.” In retrospect, threatening the woman was an unwise action to have taken. She had intended to force them to stop whatever plots they had in action, but was there not a possibility that it would simply accelerate their plans?

  Plucking gray cat fur from her apron, she said, “I’ll go back and keep my ears open, milady, as little as I like Mr. Graeme, especially. But I’d be obliged if you found me another place.”

  “I will find you a new position, I swear it.” Anne put one hand on the girl’s shoulder and looked her in the eyes. “I will be guided by your wishes. But be careful, child. You can get a message to me whenever you need to through Mrs. McKellar’s household maid. Leave immediately if you are in danger, and come here.” She wrote down her mother’s address on the Paragon.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  After the girl left, Anne considered her next move. “I think, Lolly, I shall go and visit my friend Mrs. Basenstoke. May I set you down at Milsom?”

  They descended to the waiting carriage and wound through the narrow streets, stopping on Milsom in front of the Bestwick residence. Irusan, in a huff over the child’s abrupt cessation of combing—he preferred to nap once he had been cosseted into drowsiness—appeared to blame Anne for his ruffled feelings, so when Lolly got out of the carriage on Milsom, head held high, he followed.

  “I think Irusan would enjoy a visit to Lydia. Do you think she’d mind?” Anne asked, leaning out the carriage window, smiling at her haughty cat’s irritation.

  “It would be a distraction for the poor young lady,” Lolly said, picking him up and cradling him in her arms.

  Anne considered for a moment, then said, “I can’t let Lydia worry needlessly. I need to tell her that there is no curse, that she has been deluded.”

  Lolly reached out one staying hand to Anne. “My dear cousin, may I make a suggestion?”

  “Certainly,” Anne said.

  “Let me set the child’s mind to rest. You will charge in, tell her she’s a fool, make her cry, and she will not believe you. I would never set myself over you, dear Anne—”

  “But you have a much better chance of soothing her fears than I. I don’t mean to be hasty with her, you know.”

  “You’re very good to her, my dear cousin,” Lolly said gently.

  “But in this instance you are the best person to give her truth and reassurance at the same time,” she said. “I know it because when I was young, you were so with me, the very best at soothing my fears and worries with a kind word. Thank you, my dearest Lolly. I will come back and fetch Irusan in an hour.”

  Anne headed to the Basenstoke residence. As she was let down by the coachman, Mr. Roger Basenstoke was striding up to the door. “My lady,” he said with a deep bow. “Are you here to visit my mother?”

  “I’ve come to pay a visit of condolence,” Anne said. “I know how deeply she mourns Alfred Lonsdale’s passing,” she added, watching his face as he opened the door for her.

  “Yes, rather more than she should,” he said dryly. “I’ll never understand what she saw in my cousin, a droopy mopey young fellow, all sentiment and no action.”

  Anne bit
back her retort, which would have been that some gentlemen were more welcome for their conversation and gentility, which many men lacked. “It is clear that you didn’t like him yourself, sir, and yet the morning he died you served him tea. Poured it yourself, and then asked to speak to him after. I wonder why that was?”

  He stopped in the shadowy hallway and stiffened. “That is surely none of your business, my lady, but as an old friend, I will confide in you. Yes, I stopped for breakfast and served tea, trying to unbend with a little joke, trying to get Alfred to warm to me. As much good as it did me,” he said, disdain in his voice. “I wished to discover something.”

  “What did you wish to discover?”

  “From whence came the man who has been paying court to my mother. Lonsdale knew; he’s the one who introduced them. Him or that wheedling friend of his, Graeme. I’ll not have my mother cheated by a card sharp or swindler.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “I . . . never got to speak with him, as it turns out. He was in a hurry. I told him I’d see him the next day.”

  Was he in a hurry, or did he merely wish to avoid Roger? Or . . . was Basenstoke lying? “But he died that night. Why were you so angry the doctor took his body?”

  His face reddened. “It’s disgusting the lengths doctors will go to to get a corpse!” He stopped. “I’m sorry to be indelicate, my lady, but you don’t know the ways of the world as I do. What those resurrectionists will do, it would curdle the blood.” He narrowed his eyes. “Now see here, my lady, what are you getting at?”

  “Nothing . . . nothing at all.” She passed by him as a footman approached. “Should I send in my card?”

  “No need, my lady,” he said, giving the footman his hat and gloves. “My mother will be in the drawing room. You know where it is, I’m sure. Go ahead.”

  Anne stiffened at the casual arrogance, but then realized that this was his house to command, in truth, and not his mother’s. “I’m so sorry you did not see the value in Mr. Lonsdale. I found him to be a lovely young man.”

  “Yes, all the ladies did, as little hope as any lady could ever have of bringing him to the point of a marriage proposal.”

  She paused and turned back to him as she was about to enter the drawing room. “What do you mean by that?”

  “He had little time for the ladies unless it was to coddle him,” Roger said with a sardonic lift to his dark brow. “If you don’t understand me beyond that, I do not care to elaborate. If you’ll excuse me.” He bowed, slightly, then headed for the stairs as the footman opened the sitting room door for her, then retreated to dispose of the master’s hat and gloves.

  His dislike for Alfred Lonsdale survived the young man’s death, it appeared. It was disturbing, since it was evident that he knew of his cousin’s preference for male company. It made her suspect him despite his ready explanation of why he had stayed for breakfast on the day of Lonsdale’s death, of all days. She didn’t wish to suspect him of Lonsdale’s murder, knowing how it would devastate his mother.

  And yet he had the perfect opportunity that morning during a breakfast that was said to be unusual, at least.

  She entered the sitting room and spied a flash of quick movement, Mrs. Basenstoke hurriedly escaping the embrace of a gentleman who sat beside her on the settee. Anne cleared her throat and strolled across the dimly lit room toward her friend, whose cheeks were flushing a dull red.

  “Anne, how good of you to visit,” Clary said, standing and shrugging her shawl up over her shoulders.

  “Clary, it’s good to see you. I only entered so because Roger was at the door and told me I would find you here, and to come right in.”

  The lady gestured for Anne to join her and her caller. “Lady Anne Addison, may I introduce to you Mr. Herbert Smythe?”

  Anne curtseyed, and the nice-looking gentleman of about forty bowed over her hand. With all that she had so recently learned she regarded him with suspicion, struggling to keep her expression neutral. She sat, forcing the gentleman to take the morocco leather chair, as Clary sat back down beside Anne on the settee.

  There was silence for a moment, but Anne could not be quiescent, not when someone as dear to her as Clary was concerned. “Mr. Smythe, I have heard that you are in woolens manufacture. Where is your business located?”

  He flipped back the skirt of his frock coat and pushed one shapely leg forward. “I have recently begun the process of selling my business,” he said.

  “Oh? Why?”

  With a glance at Clary he said, “Dreadfully complicated business, you know, woolens and all that. Tedious. Manufactories, machinery, thread . . . I would not bore you ladies with such matters. Not when there are so many other delightful things of which to speak: music, books, the theater! Have you read the latest novel, called The Errors of Innocence, by a Miss Lee? Five volumes!”

  “I do so enjoy a good book, Herbert,” Clary said, a beaming look on her face. She held out her hand, oddly, and declaimed, “Whosoever should love me must love books and music and art, I say!”

  Anne saw the flash of gold on her finger. She hesitated as the gentleman smiled and Clary beamed. “Is that a new ring?”

  She smiled, the lines of her face pulling into brackets for her thinning lips. “It is,” she said, her voice clogged with emotion. “Herbert—Mr. Smythe—has asked me the sweetest of all questions.” She grasped his hand and stared into his eyes. “And I have said yes.” She held out her hand for the ring to be admired.

  Anne, stunned into speechlessness, took her friend’s hand and stared at the ring, a poesy ring circled by vines and flowers.

  “It says on the inside, As gold is pure, so love is sure.” She took back her hand and held the ring to her heart. “We are to be married! Within the week, if we can secure a special license.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  “You are to marry? And so . . . so soon?” Anne exclaimed, her heart thudding. She had thought she’d bought enough time to investigate, but marriage . . . it was a permanent state. She could not bear for Clary to be put in such danger as she suspected.

  “For what do we have to wait?” She beamed and smiled at Mr. Smythe.

  “What does your son have to say?”

  Clary’s smile died, and she shifted uneasily. “I . . . have not yet told Roger—”

  “Not yet told me what?” Roger asked, emerging from the shadows. He had entered so quietly they had not noticed him.

  “That she and Mr. Smythe are to wed,” Anne blurted, still shocked and alarmed by the news. As little as she liked male oversight of a woman’s business, in this case it could save a life.

  Clary paled to an ashen shade, and Mr. Smythe stiffened, two dots of high color blooming on his cheeks.

  “Wed?” Roger bellowed, striding closer, hands fisted at his sides. “Wed? What madness is this? Mother, you will not wed this upstart, this jumped-up parvenu.”

  “Roger, I am not your child, you are mine,” Clary said, her voice tight with tension and high with anxiety. “Remember that!”

  “I’m responsible for you. You can’t marry this . . . this nothing,” he said, flailing one hand toward the trembling Mr. Smythe. “This zero, this nothing, this false gentleman.”

  His voice tremulous, Mr. Smythe said, “Mr. Basenstoke, remember there are ladies present. I will not allow you to badger your mother, my love, the light of my life, for—”

  “Shut up!” Roger screamed, choleric tone rising, his face red. Anne, alarmed by the fear she saw on the gentleman’s face, turned to watch Roger Basenstoke.

  “You’re a fortune hunter,” he exclaimed. “You’re nothing but a cheat, a swindler, out to honey an old woman with a smooth tongue.”

  “Roger!” Clary cried in anguish as Anne gasped at his crude allusion to his mother.

  “Mother, I’m sorry!” Roger took a deep breath and in a quieter tone said, “My lady, Mother, I beg your pardon. I will ask, Lady Anne, that you leave us, as we must have a family discussion.”

&
nbsp; “Anne, you need not go,” Clary said, her voice trembling.

  Anne watched Roger; he was calm once more, the choleric red in his cheeks ebbing. However, the view into his quick and mercurial fury was frightening. What might he do, given the impetus? She turned to Mrs. Basenstoke, who was calmer, too, seeing her son settle down. Mr. Smythe still trembled and was wide-eyed with alarm. “I will stay if you need me.”

  Clary took a deep breath and let it out, the sound a hiss in the sudden quiet. “No, it’s all right.” She was unhappy, but calmer, and tilted her chin up, glaring at her son. “Please go. We’ll work it out,” Clary said, though her fiancé appeared unconvinced.

  “Mr. Basenstoke, would you walk me to the front door?” Anne said, rising. She bid the others adieu, and followed Basenstoke. At the door, she requested her carriage be summoned, and the footman was dispatched. She turned to Clary’s son. “What do you intend to do about your mother’s marriage?”

  “Prevent it,” he said, his mouth turned down in bitterness. “She is not in her right mind since Alfred’s death, and so shall I argue.”

  Anne felt a cold fist clutch her stomach. “What do you mean, and so shall you argue?”

  “If she insists on going forward I will have no choice but to see her committed to an asylum until she regains her sanity.”

  “You cannot do that!” Anne gasped. “Mr. Basenstoke, think what you are saying! It’s shocking. Unnatural for a son to say such a thing. She is a woman of intelligence and sensibility.”

  “I know, I know! I would never truly do that. It would look very bad in society.”

  “Is that your only concern?”

  “No, of course not, but . . .” Expressions flickered over his dour face: anger, fear, anxiety, bitterness. “How else am I to think? She loses Alfred, and instantly she is transformed into a desperate widow, looking for solace in the arms of who knows what he is?” His emotions were again rising, the color flooding back into his pale face. “Mr. Herbert Smythe . . . no one has heard of him before he arrived in Bath! I have inquired the length and breadth of England. He is a nothing. I thought it a harmless flirtation, a mere pleasant acquaintance. She never would have met him but for my cousin and his sly friend. If he weren’t already dead, I’d strangle Alfred with my bare hands.”