“You’re right about that; she knows the truth about Alfred now and doesn’t care one bit.”
“Kattenby and Mrs. Basenstoke were once close to an understanding until Bella set her sights on him.”
“Clary has a new beau, though, a Mr. Smythe, who . . .” Anne stopped, mouth open, eyes wide. “Oh, dear,” she said at last. “I fear that my mother’s friend may be in the same plight as the baron, in which case—”
“You think Mr. Smythe is one of the swindlers?”
Anne sighed. “I fear so. Perhaps she and the baron can console each other.” It occurred to her in that moment to wonder if the baron’s recent bout of ill health had been a sign he was being poisoned with some accumulative toxin that would culminate in his death after marriage; it was safe to assume he was not to be murdered until after that event. She shuddered and shared her thoughts with her friend, who agreed that she should tell the doctor and the baron at the earliest possible moment—the doctor would need to examine him to be sure no harm had been done—but that he was not likely to be in danger now, not with his fortunate escape from his jailed fiancée.
“Mrs. Basenstoke deserves someone as kind as Kattenby. I have learned to value goodness and kindness over an assumed beauty of face and form.” Alethea mused. “Seeing Quin happy has taught me much; Susanna loves him sincerely, and between them is a trust I wish to emulate. And a love I seek.”
“Don’t be too hard on yourself, my dear friend,” Anne said. “It cannot be easy, to hide your truth and yet find love.”
“I think sometimes I have it, and then it slips away from me.”
Anne knew she was referring to Mrs. Meredith Hughes, and the woman’s husband’s precipitate removal of her from Bath. She didn’t know how to answer.
“What are we urged to do?” Alethea continued, a hint of desperation in her tone. “Women are told to hide their innermost light, or they will shine too brightly and surpass the gentlemen. Even I . . . I fear I have absorbed the lesson all too well. But how can we ever find love unless we are our true selves, our honest best, while seeking someone to love?”
“You make finding love sound impossible,” Anne said gently.
“Isn’t it? Other than our darling Quin, who is the essence of gentle manliness, and sweet Susanna, I have never seen it.”
“Speaking of my own experience, I have found that not every man is frightened of a strong woman. I have fought and berated and quarreled with my Tony. I have defied him, run away from him, scolded him, and yet . . . he says he can love no one but me. I have found real love with Darkefell.”
Alethea stared into the fire and then met her friend’s steadfast gaze. “How do you know it is safe to love him, that he won’t break your heart?”
“I don’t,” Anne replied.
“Then how do you have the courage?”
“It’s not some magical sense of it being right, Alethea. I’ve tussled with it in my mind, knowing I give up my independence, as illusory as it is, when I marry Tony. But I have to take the chance. It is a risk; I know it. I have seen miserable unequal marriages. But for every fault he has, I have a virtue, and for every virtue he has, I have a fault. We balance. I hope it’s enough. All I know is, I can’t imagine life going on, knowing he was in the world, and not be with him.”
Alethea smiled and nodded. “Then you are indeed fortunate, my dear friend. I will not say your path has been simpler but . . . I have not been so lucky. Mayhap someday I will, and if so, I hope I have the courage to accept such good fortune. Bertie could have had love with poor Alfred. Between the church and society, and appearances, they never had a chance. Bertie was too careful to give himself fully other than at their club.”
“On Lonsdale’s side, he had been raised to think he was an aberration, I’m afraid,” Anne replied. “I have read his journal; he began to loathe himself, I fear, as all around him conspired to tell him he was deviant and wrong to feel as he did. He excoriated himself constantly. It was a war within him.”
Alethea sighed. “Bertie became impatient with his uncertainty. He stopped going to their club when he and Alfred fell out.”
“What is the club, anyway?”
“It’s a place for gentlemen like Bertie to go and be themselves. There is lovemaking, yes, from what I understand, but it is also a place to talk, and play billiards and dance, to be open and playful and laugh.”
“Why is it called the Sacred Theban Club, Alethea? Do you know?”
“It began as a little joke among the gentlemen, based on the old Theban story of an army made up of lovers, one young and one mature.”
“So Osei was right about the meaning of the name,” Anne mused, staring down at Alethea’s hand, which she still held.
“You knew about it? What do you mean, Osei . . . that is Mr. Boatin, correct?”
Anne explained what she and Osei had learned and figured out from Alfred’s journal and letters. Her friend looked alarmed, but Anne reassured her that Osei was the soul of discretion. “I think Bertie would be comforted by Mr. Lonsdale’s journal. In it he tells of the one love who escaped him, of whom he was unworthy. I read it late one night. It is sweet and poetic, how he speaks of Bertie.”
Alethea nodded. “Perhaps you can let him read it. It was a dreadful tangle, you know . . . the two of them trying to find a safe place in an unsafe world. And then Thomas Graeme seduced Alfred away, courting him with coquetry and soft words. He offered a thrilling vision of youthful passion, rather than Bertie’s rather conservative caution, and it quite bowled poor Alfred over. He was so young and vulnerable. Graeme exploited his insecurity and doubt in his love with my husband. You never knew him at his best, before all his troubles, but Alfred was sweet and honest and humble, and Bertie loved him deeply before Graeme came along.” She sighed. “And as for me . . .” She shrugged.
“I’m sorry, my friend.”
“At least I have Bertie,” she said. “He is the best friend I will ever have, and the only one who fully understands me. If that is not a basis for a good marriage, I don’t know what is.”
“I think I agree with much of what you say,” Anne replied gently.
There was a commotion below, a din that rose up to them along the staircase. Anne stiffened . . . that voice! That shouting, hectoring, angry, beloved voice! “It’s him! It’s Tony!” She rose and dashed through the door, long hair streaming behind her, and went to the top of the staircase, leaning over the railing. “Tony, I’m here!”
“Anne! Anne, where is here?”
Laughing, she said, “Come up. You will see me!”
Such a thudding on the stairs, then, as he took them two at a time! It shook the house. He hove into view and stopped, staring up at her. “My darling Anne!”
“I look a fright,” she said, pulling back her streaming hair.
“You look beautiful,” he said, charging up the rest of the steps and grabbing her roughly, pulling her to him, and kissing her.
Swirling into his magnificent grasp, taken by his ferocious love, she relaxed and for the next few blissful minutes thought of nothing but how she had missed this ardor, this resolute passion that flared between them. The proof of his passionate love pressed against her, and she was lost, head swimming, gaze misty, feeling the hunger grow.
“You two should marry by special license and not wait a second more.”
Anne pulled away, her lips moist from his kisses, her gaze misty, to see Alethea grinning and watching them from her doorway. “Oh, goodness, I completely forgot where I was. Tony, this is Alethea, one of my dearest friends,” she said, stretching out her hand. “Alethea, this is . . .” She shrugged. “My Tony.” She put one hand up to cup his cheek as he stared down at her, his dark eyes still hungry.
“I would never have guessed,” Alethea said dryly.
Bertie had climbed the steps after the marquess’s hasty ascension. “Do you believe me now, my lord? We are not holding Anne captive. I’ll admit, her being in my banyan does not look proper at all
, but she can assure you of the complete innocence of the occurrence, despite how it appears.”
Hand flat on his chest, Anne said, “Tony, you didn’t accuse them of holding me captive, did you?”
“If you had heard your mother you would not be surprised. That note you sent her . . . it was most mysterious. What has happened? And more to the point, what did you tell her about what happened?”
“It’s a long and complicated story,” Anne said. “And I’m famished. Alethea, do you have any food? And where is Quin? Is my hero all right?”
“Who is Quin?” Tony said, his dark brows drawn down over his eyes. “And why is he your hero? An honor I reserve for myself, by the way.” He kissed her again, and closed his eyes, breathing heavily. “Must we stay?”
“Yes. Collect yourself, Tony,” she said, secretly enjoying every bit of his unrestrained delight at being with her again. “These people are my friends, and when you hear the story, Quin will be your hero too.”
“I’d rather go somewhere private with you than hear the story.”
“Do you not care how I almost died at the hands of a swindling female?” she asked archly.
He grumbled but agreed that his ardor would have to wait.
• • •
The magistrate arrived to get all of the information needed for the charges, and to update them on what had happened in the hours since the dramatic events. Anne, dressed in a too-tight gown of Alethea’s, descended and with the help of Bertie, Alethea, Quin and Susanna, told what she could of the tale. It was slow, and tedious, for she was mindful that there were parts of the story too damaging to her friends to admit, and she had to find a way around it.
In return the magistrate, an amiable elderly gentleman, told them what they had discovered. The so-called Mystic of Bath had balked at leaving Bath with her grandson, too old and too tired to flee. She confessed much, and it was revealing. Mrs. Bella Venables was not who she said she was; she was, in fact, Mother Macree said, her daughter, Miss Betty Macree, never married to Tommy Graham, whose natural son Thomas Graeme/Graham was. The magistrate told them his conclusion, that Mother Macree was more than a little afraid of her daughter.
“I think that is probably true,” Anne said. “That woman had an iron hold over both of them, I think, her mother and her son. I saw fear in their eyes, fear of her.”
“She fooled me,” Bertie said sadly. “I have sent out letters to two people I know who lived where Bella last lived; I hope they can find out what happened to her. I’m assuming that this woman, Betty Macree, knew Bella in Spain, where my dear cousin lived with her husband. In one of her letters she spoke of a ‘Betty’ who did her laundry. She was most likely a camp follower. Bella probably fell ill, after her husband died, with the same wasting fever. As awful as it is, I think that she died alone, with just this woman to receive her letters.”
Anne had no proof beyond conjecture, and it made no sense to deepen Bertie’s pain by giving voice to her suspicions, but she feared that something much more sinister may have occurred. Given her behavior in Bath, Anne thought it possible that Betty Macree killed Bella Venables to assume her identity. If it was so her friend would know soon enough, but Anne thought it possible, especially given her vague allusion to a Spanish prison.
“She had enough information to fool you,” Anne said softly.
“I didn’t know what had happened to poor Bella. When this woman wrote, I was so overjoyed . . . I don’t suppose I questioned closely enough. Her writing was altered, compared to Bella’s fine hand, but she had been ill, I reasoned. I sent her money and she came home to England.”
“But you recognized her as Mrs. Venables?” the magistrate said, setting aside his glass of sherry.
Bertie shrugged. “It had been so long since I saw her—we were practically children when last we met, over twenty years ago—and I suppose she had enough of a similarity to my poor cousin, and had her family jewelry and my letters to lend her charade credence. I was fooled because I wanted to be fooled. I wanted it to be Bella.”
There was no question of the perfidy of the Macree-Graham alliance, and their cheating of so many. Those suspected of being confederates of Betty Macree and Thomas Graeme had been apprehended. The supposed Mr. Herbert Smythe had been caught fleeing Bath in the company of the lady who had been presented to society as Mrs. Honoria Noakes. Both had been supported in their charade by Thomas Graeme, and both were out-of-work actors. Smythe had answered an advertisement for genteel gentleman actors, was given a history, clothes, rented rooms, and enough money to splash about, and set a task: to romance into marriage Mrs. Clary Basenstoke, whose sizable estate would become his upon marriage. Mrs. Noakes was a friend, he told the magistrate, meaning, Anne supposed, his lover. He swore he only wanted a soft place to land, and was, he claimed, genuinely fond of Mrs. Basenstoke.
Meanwhile, the widow of Mr. Courtland was being sought in London.
The magistrate asked Anne how she figured out the scheme. Surprised to be asked by a gentleman of his years—she had expected to be ignored—she lied, the only way to protect the existence of the love letters, which had exposed Graeme’s blackmailing machinations, and the journal, which had relayed a vague hint of Lonsdale’s suspicions. Instead of revealing the written record, she told him a tale, that she and Mr. Lonsdale had chatted a couple of days before his death and he told her that he was suspicious of Mr. Graeme/Graham. He had asked the young man to explain why he was lying about their friendship—they did not have a long-standing friendship, as the fellow had been saying—and had threatened to turn him in if he discovered anything untoward going on. That, Anne said, was likely why the fake Mrs. Venables gave him poison (slipped into his tea by Mother Macree, most likely, though that would probably never be proven) when he visited the mystic’s rooms the morning of his death. Bridie was cooperating with the magistrate and had confirmed Mr. Lonsdale’s presence there that day, she learned.
The magistrate appeared to accept her fictional account of a conversation with Lonsdale. The rest was gossip and suspicion, she told him. She began to see Graeme’s sly insinuation in Bath society, and how many times ailing gentlemen married ladies he had introduced them to, or in some cases, had inveigled Lonsdale to introduce, and a pattern of deaths after marriage. Anne wrote down, for the magistrate, the list of those who had died after marrying one of Graeme’s made-to-order ladies: Mr. Courtland was the most recent. Could they prove it was murder? Perhaps not, but the death of Mr. Alfred Lonsdale most certainly was, as Dr. Fothergill would attest, and a distillation found in the mystic’s abode was being examined by the doctor even now, to see if it was the same concoction.
“No matter what Miss Betty Macree says now to blacken Mr. Lonsdale’s name, or anyone else’s name,” Anne said to the magistrate, exchanging a look with Bertie, whose shadowed expression held a trace of concern, “you must not believe her. She will tell wild lies in an attempt to evade her fate.” Anne remembered the mystic’s warning to Quin about secrets of those he loved, and how they should pay handsomely to keep those secrets. The woman clearly knew from her grandson all about Alfred Lonsdale and Bertie Birkenhead’s relationship, and was issuing a warning that she hoped would be conveyed back to Lonsdale about paying the blackmail Graeme was demanding. Quin didn’t know about the extortion and apparently did not pass on the message. His alarm that day had likely been in response to the mystic’s mention of ‘secrets,’ of which Bertie had an abundance. The Macrees never missed an opportunity to press their advantage. Anne was determined to undermine the credibility of any accusation they might make.
With a comfortable chuckle, the magistrate said, “I hope I know a liar when I hear one, after a lifetime of listening to them. The woman has already tried to buy her freedom with what she called scandalous secrets.” He shook his head, his peruke slipping sideways. He had been fed a great deal of very good sherry. “I told her I’d see her gagged before I’d let her blacken the names of Bath’s best citizens,” the magistrate ass
ured her. “I no more countenanced her ridiculous tales than that a man could fly.”
Finally, the matter had been thoroughly explained and examined. The magistrate heaved himself to his feet, saying, “I must go. There will be more arrests, but at least we have the worst of them.”
He was walked to the door by Bertie. Anne followed and listened in. Bertie thanked the magistrate warmly and said, “One more thing, sir; I would consider it a great favor if you can obtain from that woman the amber cross she wears around her neck. It was given to the real Mrs. Bella Venables by her husband on her wedding day, and she treasured it.”
“I will do my best.”
As the door closed behind the good magistrate, she watched Bertie, noting his gaunt face and haunted eyes. “How are you, dear friend?” Her voice echoed strangely up the stairs and to the high ceiling.
He turned from the door. “I can’t help feeling if I had just not argued with him poor Alf would still be alive,” he said, a catch in his voice.
She threaded her arm through his. “Don’t blame yourself. You had a right to be upset; Lonsdale wronged you, and then flaunted his lover in front of you.”
“That’s not true!” he cried.
“No, but that’s what it seemed like to you. How were you to know Graeme was threatening Lonsdale—and you—with exposure?” She was silent for a moment, then squeezed his arm and said softly, “You loved him, and you lost him. I am truly sorry.”
Bertie nodded. “He was such a lovely boy, sweet and intelligent and . . . he went to his grave trying to rectify his mistakes.”
“You agree with me, that Lonsdale had decided he must turn in Graeme’s family no matter the cost?”
He nodded. “He had decided to do the right thing and, knowing Alfred, was going to tell Graeme the honest truth, that he would be turning them all in. It cost him his life. But at least I know. And I have you to thank for knowing that in his last day he was trying to weigh the balance of harm and do the right thing.” He shook his head and gave her a rueful look, smiling down at her. “This must all seem so odd to you, who only learned of . . . who only learned about Alethea and me so recently.”
Lady Anne and the Menacing Mystic Page 30
