Baleful Godmother Historical Romance Series Volume One

by Emily Larkin

  Marcus crossed to the open doorway to the bedchamber. The stench emanating from it was even worse. Behind him, Honeymay articulated his dismay: “Oh, dear me. Dear me.”

  Marcus pressed the handkerchief more firmly to his nose and entered, jerked the curtains wide, flung the window open.

  There were gin bottles here, too, and vomit, and several days’ worth of clothing on the floor. The chamber pot was full. Phillip hadn’t bothered to empty it; he’d let it overflow.

  The bed was a filthy nest of twisted sheets. Phillip lay on it, half-naked and unshaven. His snores were snuffling, grunting. A pig in his sty.

  “Phillip.”

  Phillip kept snoring.

  Marcus reached down and gripped his shoulder, shook him. “Phillip!”

  It took almost a minute to rouse him. At last, Phillip squinted open his eyes. “Wha’?”

  The slurred voice, the bloodshot eyes, the gin fumes, told him Phillip was still drunk. Good. I may get an honest answer. “I’ve come about the Smiths.”

  “Wha’?” Phillip blinked and focused. “You.” His face twisted into an expression of loathing.

  “Yes, me,” Marcus said grimly. “You and I need to talk. About the Smiths.”

  “Smiths? What Smiths?”

  “The Smiths you hired.”

  “Hired? I haven’t hired anyone.” Phillip fumbled among the sheets and found a gin bottle. “Norton left me. Took my watch and all my fobs, damn his eyes. And my best coat. Said I owed him.”

  “I imagine you did.”

  Phillip opened the bottle and emptied what gin was left down his throat. “Go away. Leave me alone.”

  “With pleasure.”

  Marcus retreated to the sitting room, where Honeymay stood wringing his hands. “I apologize for Mr. Langford.” He pulled several folded banknotes from his pocket. “I’ll be back shortly to remove him. If you could have someone clean up the vomit and the chamber pot, I would be extremely grateful, but please don’t touch anything else until my secretary and I have gone through Mr. Langford’s papers.” He unfolded a banknote. “How much does he owe you in rent?”

  Marcus trebled the amount Mr. Honeymay stated; cleaning the rooms, making them habitable again, wouldn’t be cheap. He was conscious of Albin exploring the sitting room, sniffing the furniture. From the bedroom came the sound of snoring. “I apologize,” he said again. “I didn’t realize matters had come to such a pass.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Honeymay said, clutching the banknotes. “You’re most generous.” He escorted Marcus downstairs. As the door closed, Marcus heard him call for the maid, Jenny.

  Marcus grimaced; she had a foul task ahead of her.

  * * *

  “Are you going to bring Mr. Langford here?” Albin asked, pulling on his breeches.

  “Heaven forbid.” Marcus crossed to the brandy decanter, reached for a glass—and hesitated. Memory of Phillip intruded: the stench, the squalor.

  He’d been drinking more heavily the past year and a half. Nowhere near as heavily as Phillip, but even so . . .

  Marcus put the glass down. “I’ll send him to his mother until I decide what to do with him. He can’t stay in London. He’s incapable of looking after himself, the state he’s in.”

  Albin shrugged into his shirt. “I don’t think the Smiths had been there, sir . . . but it was hard to smell anything.” His nose wrinkled.

  Marcus grunted. He leaned against the sideboard. “Let that be a lesson to you, lad; drink too much and it’ll ruin you.”

  Albin buttoned his waistcoat. He reached for his neckcloth. “What now, sir?”

  “Now? Now we go back to Rathbone Place, pack Phillip off to Derbyshire, and search his rooms.” Marcus straightened away from the sideboard. “Give me that neckcloth. I’ll tie it.”

  * * *

  Shortly before eleven o’clock, Phillip was carried from his room in a snoring stupor. Tiny snowflakes drifted from a gray sky. The water in the puddles was congealing into ice.

  “He’ll likely kick up a fuss when he wakes,” Marcus told the two footmen he’d chosen to accompany Phillip. “If it helps to keep him half-sprung, do it—but make sure he’s sober by the time you reach Derbyshire.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’ll need to clean him up before his mother sees him. There’s a change of clothing in the valise, and more in the trunk. Mrs. Langford will undoubtedly be upset. Give her my message and tell her I’ll be up as soon as I can.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Keep your wits about you . . . and if he should mention anything about anyone named Smith, make note of it.”

  Marcus watched the post-chaise depart. The footmen hadn’t a pleasant journey ahead of them. It should be me taking him home. He owed Phillip’s mother that courtesy.

  The carriage turned the corner and disappeared from sight.

  Marcus climbed the stairs to Phillip’s rooms two at a time. Once he’d exposed the letter-writer, he’d post up to Derbyshire, talk with Mrs. Langford, see if anything could be retrieved from this mess.

  Albin was where he’d left him, going through the drawers of Phillip’s escritoire, putting everything in a leather satchel.

  “Honeymay?”

  Albin nodded in the direction of the bedroom.

  He found Honeymay staring dolefully at the soiled bed. “Please direct anyone who wants payment from Mr. Langford to Grosvenor Square.” He handed the man his card. “Mr. Albin will settle any outstanding bills.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The vomit and the overflowing chamber pot were gone, but their stench remained, filling his nose and mouth with each breath. “Have I reimbursed you sufficiently, Mr. Honeymay?”

  “Oh, yes, sir,” Honeymay said, a smile wreathing his face. “You’re been most generous.”

  Marcus nodded. “My apologies once again for the trouble Mr. Langford has caused you.” He strode back into the sitting room. “Do you have everything, lad?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Let’s be off.”

  On the doorstop, Marcus inhaled deeply, clearing the stink from his lungs. Specks of snow drifted down, stingingly cold on his face, stingingly cold on his tongue.

  One problem dealt with.

  No, only part of one problem. The fact that Phillip had attempted to murder him still remained.

  Marcus trod down the steps to the street. Percy Chapel drew his gaze—small, built of dark stone, reminding him that the first anniversary of Lavinia’s death was only a few days away. How did one mark such an event?

  Marcus’s footsteps slowed.

  How could he be relieved that Lavinia was gone from his life when it meant she was in her grave?

  “Sir?”

  Marcus blinked, and saw Albin with the satchel of Phillip’s bills and letters.

  “Did we forget something, sir?”

  He shook himself. “No. Nothing.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The earl poured himself a glass of brandy, tipped it back into the decanter without drinking, and rang for a pot of tea.

  Charlotte emptied the satchel onto her desk. She sorted through the papers—bills, dunning notices, a handful of letters.

  The pot of tea arrived. Cosgrove drank a cup, frowning.

  “There’s nothing here that links Mr. Langford to the Smiths, sir.”

  Cosgrove grunted. His frown deepened. He poured himself another cup of tea.

  Charlotte shuffled the dunning notices. Bootmaker. Tailor. Hatter. She glanced at Cosgrove. That dark hair, those gray eyes, that tired face. Her heart did its familiar tightening in her chest. “Sir . . . is something wrong?” And then she bit her tongue at the stupidity of her question. Of course something was wrong. The earl’s heir was trying to kill him and his political enemies were intent on destroying his reputation.

  Cosgrove lowered his teacup. “The anniversary of Lavinia’s death is in two days. How would you suggest I mark it? Putting flowers on her grave seems hypocritical, given th
e state of our relationship.”

  Charlotte opened her mouth, and then closed it again. She shook her head. “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Neither do I.” The earl placed his teacup in its saucer. He raked his fingers through his hair. “I must discover who wrote that letter. Until my reputation is restored, I can’t remarry—and I have to remarry. I have to sire an heir. If anything were to happen to me—” He grimaced. “I have over five thousand acres of land, hundreds of employees and tenants. It’s my responsibility to see that the estates prosper, my responsibility to ensure that everyone’s welfare is taken care of. If Phillip were to succeed to the earldom . . .” He shoved the teacup away, making it rattle in its saucer. “It doesn’t bear thinking of!”

  “We’ll find the letter-writer, sir.”

  “How?” Cosgrove pushed to his feet, strode to the window, and looked out at the square. “I can think of only one way, and that requires someone to enter Brashdon’s house and search it.”

  Charlotte nodded. She’d come to the same conclusion herself. “I’ll do it, sir.”

  “No.” Cosgrove swung around. “I can’t ask that of you.”

  “I don’t mind, sir.”

  “Well, I do! If you’re caught—”

  “I won’t be caught, sir. No one will see me. I have a . . . an advantage.”

  “An advantage.” Cosgrove grunted a laugh. “Yes. You do.” His eyes squeezed shut for a moment. “God, I hate this.”

  Her heart clenched again. I’ll discover who did it, sir. I promise.

  Cosgrove returned to his desk and poured himself another cup of tea. “It’ll be harder to find a wife, after this—even once I’ve cleared my name. No smoke without a fire.” His voice held a bitter inflection.

  Charlotte looked down at the bill she held. She folded it in half. Unfolded it. I don’t want him to marry anyone.

  But Cosgrove had to remarry. For the sake of his tenants. For the sake of his estates.

  She folded the bill. Unfolded it. He’ll do it soon. His wife had been dead almost a year. Once that anniversary was past, he could remarry without censure.

  Dead. A year.

  She looked up. “Sir, what date did your wife die on?”

  “October twenty-eighth.”

  “And what date was your marriage?”

  “April twenty-second, the year before last,” Cosgrove said. “Why?”

  Excitement prickled through her. “Let me check something, sir . . .” Charlotte hurried to where the ledgers were shelved and took down the latest London accounts. She turned the pages hastily. “The windows were first broken on April twenty-second!”

  Cosgrove frowned. “So?”

  “So, the Smiths started harassing you on the anniversary of your marriage.”

  “Coincidence.”

  She heard whispered words in her ears: . . . do it now, or wait until . . .

  “Sir, I think they were hired to kill you—not now, but soon—and the anniversary of your wife’s death is in a few days.”

  “Coincidence,” Cosgrove said again.

  Charlotte closed the ledger. “The twentieth of October, when the conservatory was burned down . . . was that date at all significant in your marriage?”

  Cosgrove opened his mouth—and paused, his lips shaped to say No. His eyes narrowed.

  “It was significant, wasn’t it, sir?”

  “I asked Lavinia to marry me on October twentieth, three years ago. In the Hazelbrook conservatory.”

  “They’re connected, sir! Your marriage and the vandalism, the attacks. It’s not Phillip who hired the Smiths; it’s Monkwood!”

  The earl’s eyes narrowed still further. He was silent for almost a minute. Finally he shrugged, with his eyebrows, with his shoulders. “You could be right.”

  Charlotte shoved the ledger back into the bookcase. “And the letters? Do you think they could be Monkwood too?”

  Cosgrove shook his head. “No.”

  I do. Charlotte returned to her desk. It wasn’t human reasoning that made her think Monkwood was behind the letters; it was what she’d sensed as a dog. Monkwood’s hatred. The faint scent on the letter.

  But why would Monkwood do such a thing?

  She stared at Phillip’s bills, turning pieces of information over in her head, trying to make a pattern . . .

  “People knew you were divorcing your wife?” She glanced at the earl.

  “A few.” Cosgrove leaned back in his chair. “I came up to London the day after I found out about the affair, to speak to the Upper House. While I was here, I met with my lawyer, set things in motion for both church and court divorces. I told Grenville and Fox and a few others. They needed to know; it was going to be a scandal, in all the newspapers. If it got too bad, I’d have to step down from the campaign for a while.” He grimaced. “When I got back to Hazelbrook, I told Lavinia I was divorcing her.”

  “And she ran up to the roof and fell off?”

  “There were a couple of weeks while she tried to make me change my mind. Tears. Sex. Tantrums.” His expression altered, as if he tasted something rancid in his mouth. “When they didn’t work . . . the roof.”

  “Monkwood knew about the divorce?”

  “He knew.” The earl snorted, a contemptuous sound. “He came down to Hazelbrook for a few days. To support her.”

  “Were there rumors in London? About the divorce?”

  “Grenville said it was all people were talking of.”

  The pieces fitted together in her head. Lady Cosgrove had been facing social ruin. No longer a countess, but a divorced adulteress, her standing in Society lost. And then, she’d died.

  “Sir . . .” Charlotte leaned forward. “Sir, I think Monkwood’s trying to punish you for what happened to his sister. He wrote the letters.”

  “What? Nonsense.”

  “Public disgrace. And then, death. That’s what happened to Lady Cosgrove. That’s what’s happening to you.”

  The earl’s lips pinched together. He shook his head.

  “Think about it, sir.”

  Cosgrove’s lips tightened still further. He thrust to his feet, walked to the window, and stared out at the square.

  The ebony and gold clock on the mantelpiece ticked a minute away. Cosgrove was rigid, motionless, a statue silhouetted against the falling snow.

  Another minute ticked away. The hour hand crept closer to twelve.

  Cosgrove turned and looked at her. His face was sharp-edged and angular, jawbone and cheekbones pushing through his skin. “I want it to be Brashdon!”

  “I know, sir. But I think it isn’t. I think it’s Monkwood.”

  She saw emotions on his face—anger, frustration, denial—then he exhaled, a sharp and hissing sound. The lines of his face became weary, not angry. He leaned against the windowsill. “Very well, Monkwood’s house first. If you find no proof he wrote the letters, we’ll move on to Brashdon.”

  “Today?”

  Cosgrove’s gaze flicked to the clock. “Tomorrow morning. Monkwood’s a late riser, takes a good hour to dress, doesn’t leave his bedchamber until noon. His study will be empty all morning.” He pushed away from the windowsill. “Here, I’ll draw a plan of the house.”

  A footman knocked. “Message from Baron Grenville, sir.”

  The angularity returned to Cosgrove’s face. He took the note, tore it open, read it. “His man’s waiting for a reply?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Cosgrove refolded the note, creasing the lines sharply between his fingers. “Tell him yes.”

  The footman bowed and withdrew.

  Cosgrove met her glance, and answered her unspoken question: “Lunch with Grenville and a number of others. At his club. A public show of solidarity. As long as I can keep my temper.”

  “Can you, sir?”

  His mouth twisted in another grimace. “I’ve had plenty of practice the last year and a half.” He screwed up the note and threw it in the fire. “I’m a cuckold—and impotent, because why el
se would a young wife have an affair?” His voice was tight, flat. “And depending on what gossip you listen to, I’m either the man who drove his wife to suicide—or murdered her. And now I’m a rapist.” The bones of his face were sharp again, pushing through his skin. “Yes, I can keep my temper in public.”

  Charlotte’s ribcage did its familiar squeezing around her heart. The earl didn’t deserve this. Any of this. I’ll discover who sent the letters, sir. I promise.

  The longcase clock in the entrance hall struck noon. A second later, the clock on the mantelpiece chimed, too.

  Cosgrove glanced down at his clothes. “I need to change.” He took two steps towards the door, halted, and turned back. “While I’m gone, can you write out these notes for me?” He opened a drawer in his desk, took out a handful of pages, and spread them for her to see. It was the speech he’d been working on the past few days. The pages were covered in scrawled writing, crossed-out words, slanted annotations. “The paragraphs are a bit out of order. I’ve numbered them, see? If you could copy them out in the order I want, that would be helpful.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Good lad.” Cosgrove clapped her shoulder and strode from the study.

  * * *

  Charlotte read the speech once she’d copied it. It was logical and concise and to the point. No meandering waffle, no extraneous words, no straying arguments. But more than that, it was passionate, powerful. There was fire in the words.

  I’d love to see him give this in the Upper House.

  But could Cosgrove give it? Would he be listened to—or heckled?

  Just after four she heard the earl’s voice in the corridor, heard his footsteps. He didn’t enter the study.

  A housemaid bustled in, lit the candles, closed the shutters, and departed. A while later, the study door opened again. Charlotte looked up. Cosgrove stood in the doorway, a towel in his hand. He’d taken off his coat and neckcloth and waistcoat. His shirt was rolled up at the sleeves, unbuttoned at the neck. The bandage was white around his throat.

  “How was your lunch, sir?”

  Cosgrove shrugged. He wiped his face with the towel. “Not too bad.”