I poured the tea, and as we each sat back with our cups, Charlotte picked up the strands of the conversation.
“Well, from where I sit, the first thing to be done is to find you another portrait commission. One for a lady whose reputation is either so impeccable or status so unassailable that no one would dare naysay her.”
“Don’t you already have scores of people waiting for you to paint them?” Lorna asked after licking a dollop of frosting from her lip. “Why, just the other evening, Lady Fleming approached you.”
“Yes, as did Lady Redditch.” I frowned into my tea. “But I hesitate to contact the people further down my list and risk each of them refusing.”
Charlotte’s eyes narrowed, considering the matter. “No, that won’t do. And much as I like Lady Fleming and Lady Redditch, neither is unassailable.” She tilted her head in thought. “Are you acquainted with any duchesses?”
“My cousin’s wife,” I admitted. “The wife of my father’s mother’s nephew.”
In fact, it was through the Dukes of Chatton that my grandmother had been given the dowry property that had later become my father’s holding and my childhood home—Blakelaw House.
I sighed and shook my head. “But the Duchess of Chatton barely acknowledges me. I can’t imagine her condescending to have me paint her portrait.”
Charlotte’s mouth pursed, evidently familiar with how tedious and high in the instep the duchess was. “No, she won’t do at all.”
“What about the Duchess of Bowmont?” Lorna suggested before popping a morsel of cake into her mouth.
We both turned to stare at her, and her eyes widened in question.
“You’re acquainted with the Duchess of Bowmont?” Charlotte asked as Lorna swallowed.
“Yes. She’s my godmother.”
I blinked, wondering how exactly this had come to be, and whether I was silly to be so surprised. “How . . .” I began to ask, but didn’t know how to continue without it sounding insulting.
Lorna smiled. “My father was one of her young swains, once upon a time, and later they remained friends, even after my father had met my mother and fallen in love.”
She seemed to think this was explanation enough, but Charlotte and I shared a look of mild disbelief. That the Duchess of Bowmont had claimed Lord Sherracombe as an admirer, and possibly a lover, despite his being approximately a decade younger than her, was not a wonder. But Lorna’s ability to speak so sanguinely about the matter, and the infamous duchess’s willingness to play godmother, was.
I had never met the Duchess of Bowmont, but I was well aware of her reputation. Everyone was. For she and the duke took no great pains to stifle the rumors surrounding them. The duchess had given birth to six children, but it was widely accepted that the younger four had been fathered by different men than her husband, even though the duke had claimed them as his own. Although, far from playing the part of the cuckold, the duke himself had a number of side-slips birthed by a string of mistresses.
From all appearances, the duke and duchess seemed to find it an amicable arrangement. There was little to no tension displayed between them when they appeared in public together or exchanged greetings at a soiree. They were either very good actors or they truly didn’t care.
Regardless, the duchess’s reputation was far from impeccable. In fact, she was about as notorious as one could be.
“I’m sure the duchess is lovely,” I hedged. “But I’m not sure how my painting her portrait is going to bolster my standing. Far be it for me to cast any aspersion, but her own reputation is not exactly unimpeachable.”
Charlotte tapped her lips with her finger. “Yes, but her status is unassailable.”
I couldn’t deny that. Scandalous she might be, but a duchess was a duchess. And this one happened to be related to half the royalty of Europe, including our own. She and the duke might have done nothing to squash the rumors surrounding them, but they were also careful to never do anything beyond the pale. Publicly, they behaved with perfect propriety. Of course, they flirted and cajoled, but anything disreputable was done behind closed doors. As such, they were neither snubbed nor shunned, even if they were gossiped about voraciously and criticized behind their backs.
Charlotte’s eyes gleamed with speculation as she appeared to warm to the idea of my painting the Duchess of Bowmont more with each passing second, a shocking thing in and of itself. “Do you think she would be interested in Kiera painting her?” she asked Lorna.
“I’m sure she would leap at the chance. Particularly when I explain a bit of the circumstances.”
Charlotte nodded decisively. “Then I think Kiera should do it.”
“I think you’ve been spending too much time with your great-aunt,” I couldn’t help but tease. Much as I enjoyed Lady Bearsden and her lively chatter, I couldn’t deny she was an incorrigible rattle and nearly impossible to shock.
“Oh, fiddlesticks!” she retorted, making me laugh out loud, for Lady Bearsden exclaimed this in exactly the same manner.
She smiled, waiting for my humor to subside before pressing me. “Say you’ll do it. Let Lorna speak to her godmother on your behalf.”
“Yes, do,” Lorna said. “I think it’s a capital plan, and I know the duchess will approve.”
Met with two such eager faces, I could hardly say no. In truth, the thought of painting the Duchess of Bowmont appealed to me. She was a beauty, but an aged one, and so lively that I knew it would take all of my considerable skill to capture her on canvas.
“If you could arrange a meeting for me, I would be much obliged,” I told Lorna.
She beamed. “I shall call upon her today.”
“Now that that’s arranged, my great-aunt, whom I believe you meant to unpardonably disparage earlier . . .” Charlotte bantered, knowing full well my affection for Lady Bearsden “. . . is demanding you and Mr. Gage be her guests of honor at a small dinner party she’s hosting tomorrow evening. Just a few of her particular friends.”
This could mean a party of ten or eight dozen. Lady Bearsden had a lot of “particular friends.” But I was pleased to accept, touched beyond words that the good lady wished to do such a thing for me.
I had just finished attempting to express my gratitude, when the door opened and Jeffers ushered my sister inside. Upon finding me pleasantly ensconced with Lorna and Charlotte, Alana hesitated on the threshold for but a moment before striding forward.
Her concerned expression warmed. “Well, I’m glad to see I’m not the only one fed up with such nonsense.”
I nodded to Jeffers, who I knew would bring more tea, and then rose to embrace my sister. If she hugged me a trifle tighter and longer than usual, that was to be expected. After all, she’d seen me at my lowest and most beaten-down after my appearance before the Bow Street Magistrates, when I thought the mob outside would tear Philip’s carriage apart to get to me.
She said nothing, but I watched as she blinked away a suspicious brightness. She sat beside me on the sofa, still clutching my hand. “Now, I trust you ladies have already formed a plan to deal with this folderol.”
“We have,” Charlotte replied.
She nodded. “Good. Now, tell me.”
* * *
• • •
I should have known better than to doubt Charlotte. Despite her assurances, I had been nervous about attending her great-aunt’s dinner party the following night. Any number of things could have gone wrong, and yet they hadn’t.
Three dozen guests had graced Lady Bearsden’s table, and none of them had glared or cut me. There had been a moment or two of awkwardness when the conversation had inevitably turned to current events, but no one had been rude. Or perhaps, more accurately, no one had dared to be rude to me in Lady Bearsden’s presence. For all her impish, good-natured demeanor, everyone knew the baroness could be feral when she was crossed.
I h
ad enjoyed myself exceedingly. If only all of society’s events could be like that one, I would not mind taking part.
Gage and I would have remained longer, but Lady Bearsden’s home had become stifling thanks to two crackling fireplaces and the heat of so many bodies. In my current condition, I was prone to overheat, and consequently grow nauseous. So I had begged Gage to walk home, despite the cold evening, knowing the fresh air would set me to rights.
The chill of the evening air blew blessedly cool against my flushed cheeks as Gage and I set off down Park Street. A light mist had begun to gather, along with all the peculiar scents that seemed to accompany a London fog—coal smoke, a salty scent like the sea, and a pungent undernote of ale or some other bitter draft. It being Mayfair, the streets were tidy and quiet but for the leaves gathering in the gutters and the rumble of a passing carriage. From time to time, a burst of laughter could be heard coming from inside one of the elegant Georgian townhouses lining the street, and we passed one other couple strolling like ourselves, but other than that, we were alone.
“You must feel gratified,” my husband said, tucking me closer to his side, as if he feared I’d already grown cold.
I tilted my head to consider his words. “I would more describe myself as relieved. But, yes, I suppose I’m glad, too.” I looked up into his sparkling blue eyes as we passed under a gas-lit streetlamp. “It was a lovely evening. And I was very pleased to see Charlotte and Rye looking so cozy together.”
He chuckled. “Playing matchmaker, are we?”
“Not in the least. They seem to have gravitated toward each other without the need for my interference.” I allowed Gage to guide me around a suspicious puddle on the pavement. “Nothing could be more ideal. They’re both the finest of people. Quiet in their pursuits. And Rye is a widower in need of a mother for his young children, and Charlotte a widow desirous of children she can never have herself.”
Already being aware of this, he was not shocked to hear me say so. “Yes, if the course of love and companionship were to run that direction, it would be ideal.”
What he didn’t say was that sometimes things were not so smooth or simple. Something I well knew.
We passed an estate agent’s office and then the narrow shopfront of a bookseller, both shuttered for the night. I could see copies of Sir Walter Scott’s Tales of a Grandfather and Benjamin Disraeli’s The Young Duke displayed prominently in the window next to Eugène François Vidocq’s memoirs—a criminal turned informer, who later became Napoleon’s head of police in Paris. Beside these sat stacks of the most recent editions of the Police Gazette, and then newspapers and cheap broadsheets, all emblazoned with headlines about the inquest into the Italian Boy, each more sensational than the last. It seemed everywhere one went there were reminders of the city’s current turmoil.
“Do you think the coroner’s jury has finally reached a verdict?” I asked, recalling Gage’s earlier comment that he didn’t think the hearing could possibly last for another day.
“I suppose we shall find out from Anderley when we return home.” His nose crinkled. “I certainly hope so. The matter has gone on long enough. They’re almost certain to be brought up on charges of ‘willful murder against some person or persons unknown,’ so they should simply get on with it and pass it on to the magistrates to sort out.”
I could sense the frustration behind his sharp words. He was as anxious as I was to see the matter resolved. That the facts were already to receive two more airings—assuming the Bow Street Magistrates remanded the men to Newgate for trial at the Old Bailey—would only serve to keep the crimes fresh in Londoners’ minds.
I squeezed his arm where it linked with mine, briefly resting my head against the shoulder of his caped greatcoat. “Well, for now, let’s think on happier things.”
He exhaled a long breath. “Agreed.”
Bracing my arm, he helped me step down to cross Upper Brook Street. The pavement was slick with damp and wet leaves, and the peel of an orange lay discarded in the gutter. To the west, there was the distant clatter of a passing carriage driving past Hyde Park, its noise muffled by the fog. I turned to ask him what he’d decided regarding the beautiful stepper he’d been waxing eloquent about since his visit to Tattersall’s near the park’s Rotten Row two days prior, when my words were arrested by a shout.
Both of our heads swiveled toward the sound, which seemed to have come from the east in the direction of Grosvenor Square. At first we could see nothing through the eddying mist despite the thumps and sounds of shuffling feet, which communicated there was a scuffle of some sort occurring. Then the fog parted to reveal the outline of two figures locked together at the edge of the glow of one of the streetlamps.
“Stay here,” Gage ordered me as we reached the corner.
I huddled inside my amethyst mantle as he moved forward to intercede. The two men twisted back and forth in conflict, and then one of the men dropped to his knees before pitching forward to strike the pavement with a loud crack. The second man backed away, his face obscured by shadow and mist. By his stance, I could tell he clutched something in his hand. His head jerked upward at the sound of Gage’s rapidly approaching footsteps, and then he turned and fled.
Gage called out after him to stop. He hesitated for a moment next to the crumpled figure, throwing a glance back at me over his shoulder before resuming his pursuit of the other man.
Though he hadn’t spoken to me, his intentions had been clear. I hastened forward, kneeling next to the man in dark evening clothes. “Sir,” I said calmly. “Sir, can you hear me?” I reached over to roll his face toward the light, my hand catching on some cloth. But when I tried to brush it away from his cheek, it remained fast. Turning his face with the article still attached, I was astonished to discover not only that it was a sticking plaster normally used to treat wounds but that I knew him.
It was Lord Feckenham, the Earl of Redditch’s disagreeable son. Except he would no longer be making himself disagreeable to anyone. He was dead.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Lord Feckenham’s eyes stared vacantly up at me, their malicious light extinguished. The sticking plaster that had snagged on my glove dangled limply from his face, adhered to one cheek. Confounded, I draped it forward to find that if applied correctly it would cover both his nose and mouth.
My blood ran cold at the implication. The iconic woodcut images of Burke and Hare showed them using such devices as sticking plasters to smother their victims, and the more lurid broadsheets had already implicated their use in the images of the London burkers. But Feckenham could not have been smothered to death. The timing wasn’t right. We had watched him struggle. Perhaps he’d fainted, but the sticking plaster had been dislodged from his mouth by the fall, which would have allowed him to breathe again.
The sight of his wide eyes gazing up at me from above the cloth unnerved me, so I brushed the plaster aside and swiped a hand over his eyes to close them. A splash of red on the pavement next to where he lay compelled me to turn his head to examine it. Above and behind his left ear, his hair was matted with blood. This, then, must have been what killed him. When he’d fallen, whether he’d been unconscious or not, he’d struck his head.
I was about to rise to my feet again when I remembered how the other man had been holding something. It had been difficult to see in the fog, but I could have sworn it was a knife of some sort. Sparing a moment to pray that Gage had recognized the weapon as well, I spread aside Feckenham’s greatcoat and began to carefully run my hands over his torso, the likeliest place he’d been stabbed.
It didn’t take me long to find the wound. On his right side, midway down the chest, I found a gash. From all appearances, the knife had not bit deep, perhaps striking a rib and being deflected. It had undoubtedly been painful, but had he not hit his head, I suspected he would have survived.
I glanced up at the crunch of footsteps approaching, peering warily into
the dark mist.
“It’s me,” Gage gasped between breaths, emerging out of the gloom. Finding me alone, he tucked the pistol I’d grown accustomed to him always carrying back into the pocket of his greatcoat. “The blackguard darted down one of the mews and then an alley.” He shook his head. “I lost him after that.” He nodded to the figure at my feet. “Is he dead?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Who is it, then?” He moved a step closer, his eyes widening as he recognized his face. He lifted his head to look up and down the street. “Doesn’t the earl live on this street?”
“Yes,” I replied, taking the hand he offered me to rise to my feet. “Two houses that way.”
Gage followed my finger before glancing down at Feckenham again, his brow tight with unspoken words. “I can’t say I liked the man, but no one deserves to be murdered.”
His gaze then caught on the blood staining the fingertips of one of my long white evening gloves as I rolled it down my arm, wrapping the offending stains inside as I removed it. I destroyed an alarming amount of gloves this way.
“Did the knife wound kill him?” he asked, taking the glove from me and stuffing it into his pocket.
“No, it’s not deep enough.” I described my findings and suppositions, and he nodded in agreement.
“You’re undoubtedly right. Unless the victim suffers a stab to the heart, the wound usually takes at least several minutes if not hours to bleed out. But a hard enough blow to the head could kill instantly.”
“What do you make of the sticking plaster?”
His gaze met mine, dark with foreboding. “I suspect I’m thinking the same thing you are. But let’s save that discussion for later. We need to alert Redditch’s household.” He took a step in the direction of the earl’s townhouse and then swiveled back to say, “Remove the sticking plaster and put it in your reticule.”
An Artless Demise Page 7
