The Perfect Lover

by Stephanie Laurens

  There was a note in her old voice, a flicker in her black eyes, that told them both she’d been seriously alarmed.

  Portia put out a hand and gripped one ancient claw. “I was never in any danger.”

  “Humph!” Lady O cast a warning glance up at him, as if to put him on notice that she would disapprove mightily if he fell short of her expectations in any way.

  Apropos of which . . . glancing at Stokes, absorbed calming Lady Calvin, assuring her he would explain if she would permit it, Simon stepped back and beckoned one of the footmen; when he came, he rattled off a string of orders. The footman bowed and departed, very likely glad of an opportunity to carry the latest news back to the servants’ hall.

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” Stokes stepped to the middle of the room, his tone harassed. “As you’ve insisted on remaining, I must ask you all to remain mute while I question Mr. Calvin. If I wish to know anything from any of you, I will ask.”

  He waited; when the ladies merely composed themselves as if settling to listen, he exhaled, and turned to Ambrose, slumped in a straight-backed chair under the central chandelier, facing the congregation before the hearth.

  Blenkinsop and a sturdy footman, both standing to attention, flanked him.

  “Now, Mr. Calvin—you’ve already admitted before a number of witnesses that you strangled Kitty, Mrs. Glossup. Will you please confirm how you killed her?”

  Ambrose didn’t look up; his forearms on his thighs, he spoke to his bound hands. “I strangled her with the curtain cord from the window over there.” With his head, he indicated the long window closest to the desk.

  “Why?”

  “Because the stupid woman wouldn’t let be.”

  “In what way?”

  As if realizing there would be no way out, that speaking quickly and truthfully would get the ordeal over with that much faster—he couldn’t but be aware of his mother, sitting on the chaise deathly pale, a woman who’d been dealt a deadly blow, one hand gripping Lady Glossup’s, the other clutching Drusilla’s, her eyes fixed in a type of pleading horror on him—Ambrose drew in a huge breath, and rushed on, “She and I—earlier in the year, in London—we had an affair. She wasn’t my type, but she was always offering, and I needed Mr. Archer’s support. It seemed a wise move at the time—she promised to speak to Mr. Archer for me. When summer came, and we left town, we parted.” He shrugged. “Amicably enough. We’d arranged that I would attend this party, but other than that, she let go. Or so I thought.”

  He paused only to draw breath. “When I got down here, she was up to her worst tricks, but she seemed to be after James. I didn’t worry, until she caught me one evening and told me she was pregnant.

  “I didn’t see the problem at first, but she quickly fixed that. I was appalled!” Even now, the emotion rang in his voice. “It never entered my head that she and Henry weren’t . . . well, I never dreamed a married lady would behave as she did knowing she no longer had the protection of her marriage.”

  He halted, as if stunned anew. Stokes, frowning, asked, “How did that contribute to your reasons for killing her?”

  Ambrose looked up at him, then shook his head. “There are any number of tonnish ladies who bear children who are not their husband’s get. I didn’t foresee any problem until Kitty roundly informed me that under no circumstances could she, or would she, bear the child, and if I didn’t want it known it was mine—if I didn’t want her to make a fuss and tell her father—I’d have to make arrangements for her to get rid of it. That was the ultimatum she gave me that night.”

  He studied his hands. “I had no idea what to do. My career—being selected for a sound seat and being elected—all I needed was Mr. Archer’s support, and while here I’d found Lord Glossup and Mr. Buckstead well-disposed as well—it was all going so swimmingly . . . except for Kitty.” His voice hardened; he kept his gaze on his hands. “I didn’t know how to help her—I honestly don’t know if I would have if I’d known. It’s not the sort of thing ladies should ask of their lovers—most women would know how to deal with it themselves. I thought all she needed to do was ask around. She’s here in the country, there’s surely plenty of maids who get in the family way . . . I was sure she could manage. Either that, or engineer a reconciliation with Henry.”

  Clasping his hands tight, he went on, “I made the mistake of telling her so.” A shudder ran through him. “God—how she took on! You’d have thought I’d recommended she drink hemlock—she ranted, railed—her voice rose and rose. I tried to shut her up and she slapped me. She started to screech—

  “I grabbed the curtain cord and wound it about her neck . . . and pulled.” He fell silent; the room was still—a pin dropping would have echoed. Then he tilted his head, his gaze far away, remembering . . . “It was surprisingly easy—she wasn’t at all strong. She struggled a bit, tried to reach back and scratch me, grab me, but I held her until she stopped struggling . . . when I let her go, she just crumpled to the floor.”

  His voice changed. “I realized I’d killed her. I rushed out—upstairs. Away. I went to my room and poured myself a brandy—I was gulping it down when I saw my coat sleeve had been torn. The flap was gone. Then I remembered that was where Kitty had grabbed. I realized . . . then I remembered seeing the flap in Kitty’s hand when I’d looked at her lying on the floor. It was plaid—only I wore a plaid coat that day.

  “I raced out of my room. I was at the top of the stairs when Portia screamed. Simon came running, then Charlie—there was nothing I could do. I stood there, waiting to be accused, but . . . nothing happened.”

  Ambrose drew in a breath. “Charlie came out and closed the library door. He looked up and saw me. I could see in his face he didn’t think I was the murderer. Instead, he asked where Henry and Blenkinsop were.

  “When he left, I realized there was hope—no one had noticed the flap yet. If I could get to it and retrieve it, I’d be safe.” He paused. “I had nothing to lose. I went down the stairs. Henry and Blenkinsop came rushing up and entered the library. I followed.

  “Portia and Simon were at the other end of the room, Portia deeply shaken, Simon focused on her. Both saw me, but neither reacted. I was still wearing the plaid coat—they couldn’t have seen the flap.

  “I followed Henry and Blenkinsop to the desk. They were shocked, stunned—they just stared. I looked at Kitty—at her right hand.” Ambrose lifted his head. “It was empty.

  “I couldn’t believe it. The fingers were open, the hand lax. Then I realized both her hands and arms had been moved, her head shifted. I immediately thought of Portia coming in, finding Kitty, rushing to her, then touching her, chafing her hands—doing all those useless little things women do. The flap was narrow, only a few inches long. If it had fallen from Kitty’s hand . . .”

  He looked down at the Turkish rugs spread over the library floor. “Brown, green, and red. The plaid was the same colors as the rugs. The flap could easily have caught in Portia’s skirts or petticoats, or even a man’s trouser hem. Once out of Kitty’s grasp, it could have ended anywhere, and in this room, it would have been difficult to see. I looked about the body, but it wasn’t there. I couldn’t risk openly searching. Henry and Blenkinsop were still stunned, so I seized the moment. I walked around the desk and bent as if to look closer, and snagged my sleeve on a handle of one of the desk drawers. I straightened, and it ripped. I swore, then apologized. Both Blenkinsop and Henry were dazed, but they did notice. If the flap was found later, I could say I’d lost it then.”

  Ambrose’s gaze remained distant. “I felt safe. I left the library, and then it struck me—what if someone else had found Kitty before Portia, recognized the flap and taken it away? But I couldn’t imagine any of those here doing such a thing. They’d have raised the alarm, denounced me . . . all except Mama. She’d told me she was going to spend the afternoon writing letters, keeping in touch with people whose support I needed. I went up to her room. She was there
, writing. She didn’t know anything about the murder. I told her, then left.”

  He paused, head slightly tilted, as if looking back on a strange time. “I returned to my room and finished the brandy. I thought about the servants. No reason any should have gone to the library at that hour, but one can never be sure what an enterprising footman or maid might think to do.

  “I decided to burn the coat. No one would be surprised that I’d got rid of it after ripping it. If anyone later tried to blackmail me, with the coat destroyed, I could say the plaid of the flap was like mine but not the same. No one can ever be sure about plaids.”

  He shifted on the chair. “I took the coat into the woods and burned it. The gypsy undergardener saw me, but I didn’t worry about him then. I felt sure I’d successfully covered all eventualities . . . except for the possibility that, as I’d first supposed, the flap had been in Kitty’s hand when Portia found her, but the shock had driven it from Portia’s mind.”

  He looked down, lifting his bound hands to rub his forehead. “I could see the flap in Kitty’s hand—the image was so vivid in my mind. The more I thought of it the more I felt certain that Portia had to have seen it. Even with both flap and coat gone . . . she’s usually calm and collected, and very well-connected. Any suggestion from her that I was the murderer would make people step back. An accusation from her could easily ruin my career. I realized I had no guarantee that when she recovered from the shock, she wouldn’t remember.”

  Stokes stirred. “So you tried to scare her witless by putting an adder in her bed.”

  Gasps and a ripple of consternation broke the spell holding the gathering; for most, it was the first they’d heard of the adder.

  Staring down at his hands, Ambrose nodded. “I came across the adder on my way back to the house—I still had the sack I’d used to carry the coat. I thought another shock would keep her from remembering, even make her leave . . . but she didn’t. And then you arrived, and I had to be careful. But as the days passed, and no one came to tell me they’d found the flap, I realized that it was as I’d thought—no one else had taken the flap. It was there when Portia found Kitty.”

  Raising his head, he looked directly at Portia. “Do you remember now? You must have seen it. She had it clutched in her right hand.”

  Portia met his gaze, then shook her head. “It wasn’t there when I found her.”

  Ambrose pulled a patronizing face. “It had to be—”

  “You fool!”

  The exclamation startled everyone. Drew all eyes to Drusilla, sitting bolt upright beside Lady Calvin. Her face was white, her eyes huge, her whole body in the grip of some powerful emotion.

  Her gaze remained locked on her brother. “You . . . you . . . idiot! Portia said nothing—she would have if she’d seen it. She might have been shocked but she hadn’t lost her wits.”

  As stunned as anyone, Ambrose simply stared at her.

  Stokes recovered first. “What do you know of this missing flap, Miss Calvin?”

  Drusilla looked up at him, and paled even more. “I . . .” The emotions flitting across her face were visible for all to see. She’d only just realized . . .

  Lady Calvin lifted a hand to her lips as if to suppress a cry. Lady Glossup put an arm about her.

  Mrs. Buckstead, seated beside Drusilla, leaned forward. “You must tell us all, my dear. There really is no choice.”

  Drusilla looked at her, then dragged in a breath, and glanced at Stokes. “I was walking in the gardens that afternoon. I came back into the house by the library doors. I saw Kitty lying there and saw the flap in her hand. I recognized it, of course. I realized Ambrose had finally had enough and . . .” She paused, moistened her lips, then went on, “For whatever reason, he’d killed her. If he was caught . . . the scandal, the shame . . . it would kill Mama. So I prised the flap from Kitty’s fingers, and took it with me. I heard voices in the front hall—Simon’s and Portia’s—so I went out by the terrace doors.”

  Stokes regarded her gravely. “Even when the attempts to silence Miss Ashford commenced, you didn’t think to tell anyone?”

  Drusilla’s gaze flew to his face. She swayed; her skin turned grey. “What attempts?” Her tone was weak, horrified. “I didn’t know about the adder.” She looked at Ambrose, then at Stokes. “The urn . . . that was an accident—wasn’t it?”

  Stokes looked down at Ambrose. “You may as well tell us.”

  Ambrose fixed his gaze on his hands. “I’d taken to pacing on the roof—I couldn’t let anyone see how worried I was. I saw Portia on the terrace. She looked to be alone—I couldn’t see Cynster by the wall. I was there—it was easy to do . . .” He suddenly drew a huge breath. Lifted his head but didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. “You have to remember I had no choice—not if I wanted to win a seat and become a Member. I’d set my heart on it, and . . .”

  He stopped, looked down. Clasped his hands tightly. Stokes shifted his gaze to Drusilla.

  She was staring at Ambrose. Her face was ashen.

  When she lifted her gaze to Stokes, he asked, “Why didn’t you tell your brother you’d taken the flap?”

  For a long moment, she stared at Stokes; he was about to repeat the question when Drusilla lowered her gaze to Ambrose.

  Drew breath, and said, “I hate him, you know. No—how could you? But in our house, it was always Ambrose. He got everything, I was given nothing. Only Ambrose mattered. Even now. I love Mama, I’ve cared for her dutifully, I remain by her side—I even took the flap to protect her—her, not Ambrose, never Ambrose.” Her voice was rising, more strident and strong. “Yet even now, all Mama thinks about is Ambrose.”

  She kept her gaze fixed on her brother’s bowed head. “He inherited everything from Papa—I was left nothing. Even Mama’s estate will all go to him. I’m his pensioner—he can throw me out whenever he wishes, and don’t think he doesn’t know it. He’s always been quick to make sure I understand my position.”

  Her face contorted. Vitriol had infused her; jealousy, suppressed and now loosed, poured from her. “The flap—taking it, keeping it, was my chance to pay him back. I didn’t tell him—I wanted him to feel fear, to squirm—more, to know someone had it in their hands to ruin him.”

  Suddenly she looked at Stokes. “Of course I would have told him eventually. When next he thought to tell me how useless I was, how unflattering an ornament I was to a man of his future position.”

  She stopped, then added, “I honestly didn’t think he wouldn’t realize . . . he only had to think to know only Mama or I would protect him by concealing the flap. And Mama would have told him straightaway. When he didn’t say anything, I thought he’d guessed I had it, but was too careful to broach the subject while we were here.” She met Stokes’s gaze. “It never occurred to me that he would think Portia had seen it and was witless enough not to remember.”

  Silence filled the room. The ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece was clearly audible.

  Drusilla dropped her gaze to the floor. Ambrose sat with head bowed. Lady Calvin looked from one to the other, as if she no longer recognized them—her own children—then she buried her face in her hands and softly wept.

  The sound released others from the grip of the revelations; they stirred, shifted. Charlie stood as if he could no longer remain seated, as if he longed to leave, to get away.

  Lord Netherfield cleared his throat. He glanced at Stokes. “If I may . . . ?”

  Stokes nodded.

  His lordship looked at Ambrose. “You haven’t mentioned Dennis, the gypsy. Why did you kill the lad?”

  Ambrose didn’t look up. “He saw me burning the coat. Then Stokes came and started questioning everyone.” He twisted his hands, then went on, “I didn’t mean to kill Kitty—I didn’t intend to. She drove me to it . . . it didn’t seem fair that killing her should ruin me. There was only Portia and the gypsy who could . . .” He stopped, then rushed on, a spoiled child e
xcusing himself, “It was them or me—it was my life!”

  Lord Glossup rose, his well-bred features reflecting patent disgust. “Mr. Stokes, if you’ve heard all you need?”

  Stokes straightened. “Indeed, sir. I’m sure we can . . .”

  He and Lord Glossup discussed arrangements for holding Ambrose. The rest of the company dispersed.

  All the ladies hesitated, then Lady O heaved herself to her feet. “Catherine, my dear, I think we should retire to the drawing room—tea would be most welcome. I daresay Drusilla will wish to retire immediately, but I believe the rest of us could do with a restorative.”

  Portia rose; Simon laid a restraining hand on her arm. Lady O glanced back at them, saw, nodded. “Indeed—you should go up and take a bath, and get out of those wet clothes. Unhealthy to do otherwise—your brother won’t forgive me if I send you home with a chill.”

  There was just enough emphasis in her words, just enough gleam in her old black eyes to tell them she was determined to send Portia home with something else.

  Simon merely inclined his head, acknowledging her message. Lady O humphed and stumped off, the other ladies in her train, Lady Calvin supported by Lady Glossup and Mrs. Buckstead.

  “Come on.” Taking Portia’s arm, he steered her toward the far doors, those closer to the main stairs.

  Stokes intercepted them. “One last thing—I have to consider whether or not to lay charges against Miss Calvin.”

  Both Simon and Portia looked back at Drusilla, sitting alone on the chaise now that the others had all departed. She was staring at her brother; he was leaning forward, forearms on his thighs, his gaze fixed on his bound hands.

  Portia shivered, and looked at Stokes. “What a dreadful thing jealousy can be.”

  Stokes nodded, met her gaze. “She didn’t mean to harm anyone else. I accept she had no idea Ambrose was so murderously inclined.”

  “I don’t think charges are necessary.” Portia lifted her head. “She’s brought censure enough down on her head—her life will not be easier because of what she’s done.”