The valet drew himself up. “Do you think Philippe does not know this? I—moi—who dressed his lordship twice for the ball? Who would know he was not wounded until this evening, if not myself?”
Tom grunted. “Then what are ye blatherin’ about?”
“Because, imbécile—” Philippe gave him an impatient sniff— “it is these gentlemen who must believe, not you—and not me!”
“Well, I’ll tell ‘em. Just as soon as you get his lordship tooken care of.”
The dubious look on Philippe’s face caused Tom’s stomach to flip.
“I hope, mon cher Thomas, that your word will be enough.” The Frenchman shook his head. “I hope your English law will believe two servants of monsieur le vicomte. In my country, they would not.”
“Then it’s a damn good thing this is England,” Tom growled, but the Frenchy’s comment had unnerved him. What if he was not believed? No English jury would believe a Frenchman—the French were known to be liars. And no one else could swear to the fact that Lord St. Mars had been wounded in the street except his groom, who was known to love him.
A slower man than Tom might have worried that the words of a servant willing to die for his master would carry little weight. What if the justice of the peace already believed Lord St. Mars had killed his father?
But no—they couldn’t hang a peer on only one man’s supposition. It was a worry, though, to think that St. Mars would be bothered with such foolishness when he was ill and grieving.
If only he had done as Master Gideon had ordered and pursued the attacker, he would have had his proof. But he had not. And his master was too delirious now to tell him what he should do.
By the second day after the ball, all of London had been stunned by the news of Lord Hawkhurst’s murder. Knowing of the rumours about Isabella and Lord St. Mars, ladies who had seldom visited Mrs. Mayfield paid evening calls on her in the hopes of gleaning gossip for their friends. Not even the news that Niccolini had returned to the opera, the rumblings from Parliament, or fears of the Pretender could eclipse such a shocking event in their midst.
More than once that next week, Mrs. Mayfield had the tea table set out in the withdrawing room. She had bought it in a moment of riotous indulgence after her last successful round at the bassett tables. The tiny tea dishes had come all the way from China, as had the tea, which cost more than the household budget could spare. But for once Hester had more on her mind than their precarious finances.
From each visitor they learned a bit more. That St. Mars had been carried into his house in a raging fever. That Sir Harrowby’s personal physician had been called to attend him. That his lordship’s condition was very grave.
The round tea table only seated five with comfort, so during these visits Hester occupied a chair against the wall, using the time to ply her needle. Her aunt hardly wanted her to indulge in the expensive tea, so her work became her aunt’s excuse for excluding her from the treat. As annoying as this was, it did give Hester a chance to observe the ladies’ faces without being observed herself.
It never took long for visitors to begin speculating about St. Mars. Today, Lady Dimsborough stunned them with news she had learned from her husband.
“They say that the magistrate from Kent has grown tired with waiting for Lord St. Mars to recover, and that he has set two constables to guard Hawkhurst House.”
Hester’s hand froze. For a moment none of ladies responded. She could see the tension in her aunt’s back.
“What does he want to speak to St. Mars about?” Mrs. Mayfield asked.
“According to my husband, Sir Joshua has some questions concerning the argument he had with his father the morning Lord Hawkhurst was killed.”
“Does anyone know the subject of their quarrel?”
Two of the ladies exchanged embarrassed glances.
“There have been rumours,” Lady Dimsborough replied with a glance at Isabella, “but I hate to repeat them. They may be false. All I can say is that Dimsborough always did say that the Fitzsimmons family has a violent temper. And he said it would get them into trouble one day.”
No one could have missed the implication. St. Mars had argued with his father about his plans to marry Isabella, and in a fit of temper he had killed his father. Hester would not be surprised if the reason for their quarrel was just that. Isabella would not be the choice a man as powerful as Lord Hawkhurst would make for his son. Her portion was much too small.
But her aunt would never admit that any such considerations should be made when it came to her daughter.
Apparently St. Mars had ignored his father’s objections, for he had clearly been intent on pursuing her the night of the ball. He must love Isabella very much. But would he have continued to love her in the face of his father’s disapproval? They would never know.
“Well,” Mrs. Mayfield said, and something in her shrug caused Hester a twinge of anxiety, “I’m sure I do not know what to make of it all. All I do know is that St. Mars was in a very queer frame when he arrived at Lord Eppington’s ball. He nearly bit my head off when I made a polite inquiry after his papa. It struck me as queer at the time for wherever I go, I am usually treated with the greatest respect. I remember wondering how he could be so intemperate with Isabella’s mama. He has been quite wild for her, you know.”
Hester had to bite her tongue. She looked up from her stitch and poked the needle into her thumb.
One of their other visitors asked Isabella, “Did you notice anything odd about him, my dear?”
“No.” Nibbling on a piece of cake, Isabella shook her head—truthful, at least, if unconcerned. “Not until that man took him by the arm and I saw his blood. That made me scream.”
“She didn’t notice, naughty puss,” her mother inserted quickly, “because she was busy dancing with so many fine gentlemen. But I am certain she would have noticed that there was something wrong had she not been so distracted.”
Hester thought it very unlikely. Isabella seldom noticed anything but her own pleasure. Certainly no one but herself had noticed St. Mars’s fever.
She wished she could make that point, and she was wondering how she could do so without appearing to be particular, when a lady whose daughter had been named maid of honour to the Princess of Wales asked Mrs. Mayfield, “What did you notice?”
For a moment Mrs. Mayfield was stumped. She had not had time to think of a credible lie.
“St. Mars didn’t want me to dance with anyone else,” Isabella offered unexpectedly.
This made the ladies glance around at one another. “Do you mean he was jealous, dear? Did he threaten you at all?”
Hester could not keep from snorting, though her snort went completely ignored.
Isabella seemed unsure. “No,” she finally said on a drawn-out note. “I wouldn’t say that he was threatening. He just seemed so serious, and I could tell that he wanted me all to himself.”
Beneath the ladies’ painted faces, Hester detected a cold, silent waft of suspicion. She sensed an uneasiness so deep, it threatened the very ground on which they stood. No one wanted to be the first to point an accusing finger at a peer, but the notion that violence in its most heinous form might have infected one of their rank had them examining their neighbours with barely-disguised fear. The security of their class rested firmly on the keeping of the King’s peace. The aristocracy must always be above the sins of the rabble. This sort of violence must never be seen to spread.
If Hester had possessed the smallest degree of influence, she would have used it at once to quell their gossip. Dismayed, she found no opportunity to broach the subject until the next day when she was sitting with Mrs. Mayfield and Isabella in the back parlour. Then, she urged them both to demonstrate their faith in St. Mars.
Mrs. Mayfield took immediate exception to her suggestion. “I do not see that my Lord St. Mars’s affairs are any business of yours, Hester. Your partiality for that gentleman is quite unbecoming. If I was you, and I did not wish to become a laug
hing-stock, I should keep my tongue inside my head.”
Hester swallowed the cruelty of the taunt, as she had so many others—by ignoring it, although the teeth on this particular knife were sharp.
“You mistake me, Aunt. I merely think that Isabella could show more interest. Surely a note, consoling St. Mars on the loss of his father, would not be inappropriate? She was, after all, in his company when he received the tragic news. And if she is still entertaining his suit—for I am certain he means to propose when he is well—mightn’t she write to inquire how he is healing?”
“I am not so certain that his suit will be welcome then, Miss Prig. We shall know more after dinner tomorrow. I have asked Sir Harrowby Fitzsimmons to join us. He will be able to tell us if these terrible rumours about St. Mars are to be believed.”
“Surely you do not believe them! You, who have been so much in his company!” As Hester spoke, she could not keep the indignation from her voice.
Mrs. Mayfield gave a toss of her head. “I do not pretend to know everything the way you do, Hester. But I can tell you that I will never let Isabella throw her prospects away! Not when she could have the greatest gentleman in London.”
“And who might that be, Aunt, if not my Lord St. Mars? I presume you to mean his Grace of Bournemouth. Has he spoken yet?”
Her aunt’s smile was brittle. “Not yet, perhaps, but he will, when he sees that my little girl may be ready to accept someone else.”
“Is she?”
“If you expect an answer to that, you must think me a greater simpleton than I am.” Mrs. Mayfield tossed her head, as she rose from her chair by the fire, dropping her needlework to one side. “I must speak to Cook about the menu. I wonder if Sir Harrowby would prefer eels or salmon with his tongue? I had better check the colour of the gills on that salmon Cook bought this morning. Hester, you may finish the work I began on these sheets, but mind, keep your stitches as fine as mine.”
Since Hester had never known Mrs. Mayfield to set more than five stitches in a row, she had no fear that her handiwork would throw a stain on her aunt’s. Suppressing her frustration, she took the sheet from the mending basket, grateful at least to have this chance to speak to Isabella alone.
For all the reaction she had given to their conversation, Isabella might have been in a different room. Her thoughts seemed far away, as she slowly worked her needle.
Unwilling to wait for her aunt to reenter the room, Hester asked immediately, “Is it true, Bella? Have you decided on a suitor?”
Isabella gave a sigh. “I don’t know. I think I should like to have Sir Harrowby, but if the Duke should offer for me, then Mama says I will have to jilt him.”
“And if the Duke does not?”
“Then maybe I can have Sir Harrowby instead.”
Hester felt a clutching at her heart. “Then your mama has given Sir Harrowby permission to pay his addresses to you?”
“No. But after tonight, she might. It all depends on what he says about St. Mars.”
“You cannot believe that St. Mars has killed his papa!”
“I don’t know, Hester. Last night Mama told me that gentlemen can do terrible things in a passion. And everyone says that Lord St. Mars fought with his papa.”
“But you know him, Bella. You have danced and talked with him. Has none of your time together taught you that he would never do anything unjust?”
Isabella shook her head. “I told you that St. Mars looks at me as if he wants me. What if he wants me so badly, he decided to kill Lord Hawkhurst so he could be an earl?”
“I do not perfectly understand.”
“Well, neither did I, at first. But Mama explained it to me. Lord St. Mars must have known that I would never marry him if the Duke offered. How could I, when he was not even an earl yet?”
A feeling of distaste made Hester grimace, but her thoughts turned in a whirl. “Does my aunt truly believe St. Mars would have killed his own father in order to improve his chances of winning you?”
Isabella gave an empty-headed shrug. “She says that he might, and Mama knows a great deal about gentlemen.”
Hester closed her eyes to smother the retort that sprang to her lips—she would have liked to say something about how her aunt had gathered her knowledge of men. But she had no wish to hurt Bella. It was not Bella’s fault that her mother was vulgar. Nor was she to blame for being too stupid to think for herself.
Opening her eyes, Hester drew her chair close to Isabella and took her by the hand. “Bella, listen to me. Whatever you do, you must never repeat your mother’s notion to anyone else. Do you hear?”
Isabella’s worried look did nothing to comfort her. “Mama says I will have to tell the justice what she thinks if they come to question me.”
A chill spread all the way to Hester’s toes. Mrs. Mayfield, it seemed—either one way or the other—would have her daughter made a countess yet.
What puzzled her most was why her aunt seemed so determined to harm St. Mars when she had recently encouraged his suit. Had she altered her thinking in order to have her way and give Isabella hers, too?
Or had St. Mars, in his polite treatment of her, shown more will than Mrs. Mayfield wished to have in her son-in-law?
Think not when Woman’s transient breath is fled,
That all her vanities at once are dead;
Succeeding vanities she still regards,
And though she plays no more, o’erlooks the cards.
Her joy in gilded Chariots, when alive,
And love of Ombre, after death survive.
For when the Fair in all their pride expire,
To their first Elements their Souls retire . . .
Sol through white curtains shot a timorous ray,
And oped those eyes that must eclipse the day . . .
CHAPTER 5
That afternoon, Hester’s aunt outdid herself for their guest. Sir Harrowby was treated to a first course which included both the salmon Mrs. Mayfield had examined and turbot for fish, a Soupe de Santé, Westphalia ham and pigeons, Battalia pie, a dish of roasted tongues and udders, pea-soup, an almond pudding, olives of veal à la mode, and a dish of boiled mullets—all under the guise of a cozy family meal.
An extra lackey had been hired to serve, so that Colley, Mrs. Mayfield’s butler, could devote himself exclusively to their guest. Sir Harrowby, who had arrived in a harried state, distracted by his family’s troubles, received this courtesy with surprise. Then, as his hostess’s profuse attentions worked their magic, he became expansive under the glow of her approval.
Throughout the meal, Mrs. Mayfield displayed a certain tact, expressing only her shock with regard to Lord Hawkhurst’s death. But once the broiled pike, jellies and creamed tarts had been removed and the servants had retired, her questions grew more pointed.
It was clear that Sir Harrowby had been disconcerted by his uncle’s death. “God’struth, but I never thought to see an end to the old man! Quite intimidating, my uncle could be, I assure you! Naturally, I was fond of him and all that, but he wasn’t the sort of fellow one ever imagines dead.”
“And to be murdered!” Mrs. Mayfield exclaimed. “Do they have any notion who might have done such a terrible deed?”
Sir Harrowby threw her a flickering glance. “Oh, as to that . . . . Well, I am sure it is far too soon to say. Sir Joshua Tate, the JP, you know—a right Puritan if I ever saw one—has some questions he would like to ask my cousin Gideon. But poor ol’ Gid is right out of his head.”
“Has the doctor seen any improvement in his lordship’s condition?” Hester asked, trying to keep the worry from her voice.
“Oh, he is taken very low, I’m afraid. This wound to his shoulder, don’t you know. I had my own physician, Mead, pay a visit to him. But poor ol’ Gid. It’s Mead’s opinion that things could go either way. He did have some mighty nice things to say about St. Mars’s valet—says the fellow’s better at tending wounds than half the doctors he knows. I must say, I have envied him that Phi
lippe of his. What a fellow wouldn’t pay to have a valet like that!”
Hester ignored the last part of this speech. The first had made her chest contract as if a corset had been laced around her heart.
“So my Lord St. Mars may not recover?” Mrs. Mayfield seemed to greet the news with eagerness.
“Wish I could say.” To his credit, Sir Harrowby seemed truly to wish for his recovery. “Sick as a calf from all I’ve heard. Got the whole household working on plasters for his feet and drinks to relieve his fever. The whole place reeks of cinnamon and nutmeg—not that they are so intolerable, mind. That valet of his, Philippe, is a marvel with his potions and his linens and whatnot. Splendid servant! I just wonder if all his thingumabobs will work. They say that Gideon hasn’t come ‘round once since he collapsed on the steps of Hawkhurst House. If it were me, I’d have popped off in a sennight, but he’s always been a robust sort of fellow, you know.
“Can’t help wondering, though, why he would be such a dunderhead as to attend a ball with a cut like that on his arm. If it were me, I should have taken to my bed.”
“Why, indeed?” Mrs. Mayfield remarked, with just the proper inflection to make Sir Harrowby give a start, his expression still dim.
“Perhaps Lord St. Mars—” Hester began— “Lord Hawkhurst, I should call him—had a particular reason for not wishing to miss the ball.” Hester directed a pointed look at her cousin.
Mrs. Mayfield issued a pleased, tinkling laugh. “For shame, Hester! You will turn my poor Isabella’s head!”
After a moment of studious thought, Sir Harrowby’s face lit up. “Why, by Jove, madam, I do believe Miss Kean could be right! How could anyone stay abed when Mrs. Isabella had promised him a dance?”
Isabella spread her fan and covered her uneven teeth as if to hide a blush. “Sir Harrowby, you do me too great an honour, sir.”
Though practiced, her reply had been delivered with a charming air, enhanced by the fact that Isabella had inadvertently caused the tassel of her fan to sway between her breasts.
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