The Birth of Blue Satan

by Patricia Wynn

  It took no more than a second for Gideon to realize his meaning. “You think that is how I got my wound?”

  Sir Joshua spoke. “Perhaps you have confused the two incidents, my lord.”

  Gideon exploded. “Are you saying that I killed my father? That I lied about the attack on me?”

  “It is possible, my lord. The coincidence would seem to be remarkable.”

  Dazed and incredulous, Gideon tried to shake off the fury that rendered him dizzy again. “That is impossible! Ask anyone.” The very notion that he could injure his father pricked him more than anything Sir Joshua could say.

  “There are some who think it probable.”

  “Who would accuse me of such a thing?” His anger spiraled out of control, bringing him off the pillows to raise his voice, before weakness made his head swim. “I’ll kill the man who would say it!”

  “Perhaps your lordship’s famous temper is to blame. We have proof you left your father’s house in high dudgeon.”

  Betrayed by his hasty anger, the first thing he had inherited from his father, Gideon fell back, spent. “That was different,” he said, remembering with pain his last exchange with his father. “My father and I often had words. That did nothing to diminish the strong affection between us.”

  “But there are greater attachments than a son’s for his father. Wouldn’t you say so, my lord?”

  Alerted to Sir Joshua’s train of thought, Gideon clenched his teeth. “What the devil do you mean?”

  Sir Joshua gave him a mean, satisfied look. “It will do you no good to curse, my lord. There are laws against swearing. I only refer to your quarrel on that particular day. We have witnesses who heard it.”

  Gideon felt the breath being drained from his body. He recalled his father’s words with respect to Isabella, and knew that Sir Joshua had heard Lord Hawkhurst’s dictate. What a mortification for Isabella if the public were to hear the details of their fight.

  “I say again that such matters were between my father and me. They are not to be discussed.”

  “But they will be discussed when this matter comes to trial.”

  To trial? Weak and wan, Gideon could not believe his ears, not when this conversation was more twisted than a dream.

  He could not combat his frustration now. Nor could he refute Sir Joshua’s charges when he had barely enough strength to raise his head. “You must come back another time. I have talked long enough. Tell me one thing, at least. Was my father robbed?”

  “No. Strange, is it not, my lord?”

  “How do you know?”

  “Your father’s agent insists there is nothing gone missing. It seems that a different motive inspired this killer.”

  Gideon could not mistake his meaning. The murder had been committed for personal reasons. And if Gideon were the murderer, he would have no need to rob his father of things he would inherit himself.

  Rage, pure and simple, infused Gideon with a coldness he did not know he possessed.

  “Go!” Rising up from his bed, he stared furiously into Sir Joshua’s malicious face. “If you wish to speak to me again, you can reach me at Rotherham Abbey.” He forestalled the protest forming visibly on Sir Joshua’s lips by adding, “I plan to attend my father’s burial.”

  This proved undeniable, which told Gideon that Sir Joshua could not be confident of his ability to accuse the new earl with impunity.

  “Very well, my lord. My constables will attend you, however, and I would advise you not to leave the country until this matter has been resolved.”

  Gideon had no desire to leave England. He would travel to his home, uncover the facts that Sir Joshua refused to supply him, find out who had accused him, and bring his father’s killer to justice himself.

  It was absurd, he thought, as the two men bowed themselves out. Absurd to fear them. They could not possibly bring him to trial for a crime he had not committed. The government would not stand for a peer to be so mistreated. How dare they make these false accusations?

  But as Gideon’s rage played out, so did his strength. Impatient with himself, he leaned back against his cushions and waited for his pulse to resume a normal pace. Damn, but he was weak! How could he pursue his father’s murderer when he could barely lift his head, much less a sword?

  But he must. It was clear Sir Joshua had formed his suspicions and had no intention of looking further. Who could have put such an impossible notion into his head? Someone who hated Gideon, that was sure.

  But it was also true that Sir Joshua’s prejudice against his family would dispose him to use any tool in his power to bring an Earl of Hawkhurst down.

  Gideon tried to recall when the animosity between the Tates and the Fitzsimmons had started. It was long before his own birth—something to do with the execution of Charles I and the Restoration. The Fitzsimmons had been Cavaliers, the Tates firmly on Cromwell’s side.

  Skirmishes over property and elections had been common during Lord Hawkhurst’s and Sir Joshua’s youth, resulting in suits and counter-suits between their parents. Gideon had been taught to despise his Whiggish neighbours. Though having no particular love for Sir Joshua or his Puritan family, he had still possessed too great a knowledge of his father’s intolerance to be completely swayed. Sir Joshua, however, seemed determined to carry on with the hatred passed to him from his.

  Was this hatred so deep as to lead him to commit murder?

  The thought nearly brought Gideon to his feet. If Sir Joshua had been his father’s assailant, he would have a powerful motive for throwing the blame on Lord Hawkhurst’s own son. Gideon knew he had to ride to the Abbey as soon as possible. The question—who the killer was—had begun to eat at his aching heart.

  By tomorrow, he insisted, he would be strong enough to travel. Meanwhile, he would see what he could do to discover what nonsense had led to Sir Joshua’s accusing him.

  A large handbell had been left beside his bed. He rang for a footman, but an anxious Tom answered the summons instead. He had done nothing more than change his clothes before returning to the corridor outside Gideon’s room.

  “I thought I told you to rest.” Gideon frowned as Tom bent his knee.

  “I did rest a bit, milord.” His obeisance completed, Tom showed no expression as he moved to plump Gideon’s pillows. He added, “Never could sleep in the middle of the day, milord.”

  “Well, I wish I could say I was sorry to see you, but the truth is I need your help. I want you to find out why Sir Joshua Tate is able to convince himself that I stabbed my own father.”

  As his bitterness escaped, Tom’s hands grew very still. In a moment, they resumed their activity, but Gideon could feel Tom’s anger vibrating beneath the calmness of his words. “I told the constable that your lordship was attacked here in the street. The Frenchy and Will did, too.”

  “It appears, nevertheless, that someone in this household disputes what patently occurred. See if you can find out who it is. Will you, Tom?”

  But Tom had been thinking, a frown on his forehead. “Mayhap it’s that new boy, milord. That Jim we just took on. He said your lordship was in a rare heat when you came back to town. Looked like he’d tooken your lordship in dislike, if you’ll excuse the liberty. I had to speak to him sharp-like for abusing your lordship when he stabled your horse.”

  Gideon considered this, but the notion that a stable boy with a grudge could sway a justice of the peace when all the other servants supported his story seemed ludicrous. There had to be more behind Sir Joshua’s accusations than this.

  More angry than concerned—though a niggling fear warned him not to dismiss Sir Joshua’s bias lightly—Gideon instructed Tom to find out if the new groom had been questioned by the law.

  Later that night, Tom came back to say that Jim had indeed been questioned by a constable and later by Sir Joshua himself. Tom could ruefully add that none of the other servants’ stories—his own included—had been accorded that much attention by the officers of the law.

  �
�Twas He had summoned to her silent bed

  The morning dream that hovered o’er her head;

  A Youth more glittering than a Birth-night Beau,

  (That even in slumber caused her cheek to glow) . . .

  O say what stranger cause, yet unexplored,

  Could make a gentle Belle reject a Lord?

  CHAPTER 6

  The next morning, Hester was sitting at her aunt’s writing table responding to the invitations Isabella was reading out, when Mrs. Mayfield bustled into the room and hurriedly shut the door.

  “Quick, Hester!” she whispered in a panicked voice. “St. Mars is below. You must hurry down to speak to him.”

  Hester started to her feet. “Lord St. Mars? He has come to see me?”

  “No, foolish girl! It is Isabella he wants to see. But I will not let her go to him.”

  Isabella erupted with, “Oh, no! I do not wish to see him, Mama!”

  “There, there. Nobody will make you, pet, as I’ve said. I would not have you talking to murderers, would I? But you, Hester, tell him Isabella is too unwell to receive visitors today.”

  By now, Hester had composed herself, ashamed of her revealing outburst. She had worried so much over St. Mars, it had almost—ridiculously—seemed natural that he would come to her if he survived. She welcomed the news of his recovery with such a full heart that it took a moment for her aunt’s words to sink in.

  “You wish me to lie to him, ma’am? Why not say yourself that you forbid Isabella to see him? For if you turn him away today, I make no doubt he will call again tomorrow.”

  “I don’t forbid it, insolent girl!” With a flush, Mrs. Mayfield took a few nervous turns about the room. “I have no wish to offend his lordship. I merely wait to see which way the wind will blow.”

  Hester knew how frantic her aunt had become over Isabella’s prospects. As she herself had predicted, the Duke of Bournemouth’s attentions had waned. He had not visited Isabella once since Lord Eppingham’s ball. Neither had he sent her any more verses or gifts.

  Even Mr. Letchworth had stopped his daily inquiries at the house, and the pace of his missives had slowed. With St. Mars ill, Bella’s most determined suitor had disappeared, so her mother had thrown herself into the pursuit of his possible successor. Only Mrs. Mayfield’s encouragement of Sir Harrowby had kept that gentleman coming, however, for with all the matters attendant upon Lord Hawkhurst’s funeral, he had barely had a moment to call.

  The result was that the house had seemed unsettlingly quiet, and Mrs. Mayfield had grown more anxious by the day. With the Duke apparently out of the running, her goal had naturally fixed upon the earldom of Hawkhurst. Yet, she could not be certain which gentleman would inherit.

  Rumours continued to fly. Everyone had heard of the constables at Hawkhurst House. Sir Harrowby had grown less reticent by the day and had let some of the Crown’s information out. With Mrs. Mayfield’s encouragement, he had begun to suspect his cousin more openly. Hester had done what she could to counteract her aunt’s influence, but since Sir Harrowby’s personal interest coincided so completely with Mrs. Mayfield’s, she had had no success.

  Mrs. Mayfield shooed her out of the room before Hester could protest again. “Tell him that my daughter is unwell. But do not offend him, Hester. And for Isabella’s sake, do not let on that she fears him. You will know what to say. You always do.”

  Nervous, and feeling unequal to the task, Hester took a moment to compose herself at the top of the stairs. Mrs. Mayfield had slammed the bedroom door behind her and would not notice if she tidied her hair. The hallway had no glass, and she could only hope that her clothes looked neat and her colour normal. She had not been dowered with a complexion to blush.

  For once, grateful for this distinctly unromantic characteristic, she hurried down to the withdrawing room and opened the door.

  Inside, she found three men—two burly ones who must be constables, standing near the door with their arms crossed, and his lordship, pacing the room.

  Dressed in black from head to toe, St. Mars looked extremely pale, but nearly as eager and restless as ever as he glanced up to see who had entered. Hester felt a moment of intense relief to see him so much like his former self when she had feared his death. She prepared herself to witness his disappointment, but all she saw was surprise as his mind adjusted to the sight of her instead of her cousin.

  As he came forward to greet her, Hester dropped into a deep curtsey. “My lord, I am glad to see you restored to health.”

  In his gallant way, he took her hand to help her up before bowing, equally low. “Thank you, Mrs. Kean. I seem to remember that I have you to thank for your solicitude the evening of the ball.”

  She did blush. She could feel it. But seldom had Hester been thrown so far off guard. “My lord, I am only sorry I could do nothing to spare you the pain of that gentleman’s news. You have my deepest sympathy on the loss of your father.”

  Gideon felt the sincerity behind her words, and it made him falter. It was a moment before he could respond. “Thank you, Mrs. Kean. Perhaps because of the circumstances of my father’s death, I have received fewer words of consolation than you might imagine. Everyone seems more earnestly intent on accusing me of the murder.”

  He ignored her cry of protest to add, “You will have to beg Mrs. Mayfield’s forgiveness for my bringing these men into her drawing room. They insist on accompanying me wherever I go.”

  He had not meant to let his bitterness show, but it had slipped into his voice. Instead of condemnation, however, he read her understanding of his mortification in her eyes.

  After only a moment’s hesitation, she seemed to take some resolve. She retreated to the door and opened it. “No apology is required, my lord. Nevertheless, I see no need for these men to stand while we conduct our visit. They may descend to the kitchen, where I am certain the cook will find them something to drink. A glass of sack, perhaps?”

  The constables gave an eager jump, then glanced at each other as if for permission.

  Gideon had been privy to their complaints about this unusual duty away from their homes. As unpaid officers of the Crown, these petty constables had been asked to come away from their real occupations and leave their families to go up to London to act guard in a hostile household. Under the circumstances, Gideon was sure that his servants had not been the most gracious hosts to these two men, the one a butcher from Flimwell, the other an innkeeper from Cranbrook. He understood that the constable in Hawkhurst, who knew him, had refused to come on the grounds that it was a fool’s errand.

  In spite of his embarrassment and the anguish he had wakened to the previous morning, he almost had to laugh at the play of emotions across their faces. Duty demanded that they watch him, but the mention of sack, when they had had nothing better than his meanest beer for the past several days, was more temptation than they could resist.

  He decided to give them a push. “If you men agree that you should respect this lady’s wishes in her own house, then I for one will swear an oath not to flee until you have taken up your duties again.”

  He was tempted by a light in Mrs. Kean’s eyes, to add, in a serious tone, “And, if I were to attempt to leave, I am certain that a lady of Mrs. Kean’s noble character would be prepared to sacrifice her life rather than to allow a heinous felon like me to escape.

  “Is that not true, Mrs. Kean?” He directed the constables’ gazes her way, then indulged in a smile.

  He could see that she would be forced to think of something dire to avoid breaking out in a laugh when both constables quickly urged her not to do anything so foolish, but to call on them for help at the slightest provocation.

  “I promise not to restrain his lordship myself,” she conceded, “although I doubt it will be necessary. He has given you his word.”

  “Just you leave the door open, miss, and we’ll be sure to hear.”

  Gideon was astonished to witness her rather pale cheeks bloom with a sudden infusion of pink. “It is
not my practice to receive men—even such perfect gentlemen as my Lord St. Mars—in a closeted room. I shall call you, however, when he goes.”

  The warmer colour became her. It was amusing to see a lady as levelheaded as Mrs. Kean put out of countenance by something as harmless as these men’s ignorance. But then, he reminded himself, she was a parson’s daughter.

  She ushered the constables out and handed them over to a servant.

  When she returned, her face—and her colour—were once again composed. She was careful to leave the door half-open.

  “Now, my lord,” she said. “Perhaps you would care to be seated?”

  Gideon laughed and waited for her to take a chair before lowering himself onto a sofa. “That was well done, Mrs. Hester. I should beg you to act for me with Sir Joshua Tate. If once you could speak with him, I am certain I would be relieved of those men.”

  “They must be a dreadful nuisance, my lord.” Though she kept her tone light, he could sense the sympathy underneath.

  During her absence, Gideon had had the time to ponder why she had received him instead of Mrs. Mayfield or Isabella. As he studied her, he could see that she was trying to show him the same calm, friendly mien she always had, but that something was bothering her. In the silence that fell between them, she found it hard to meet his gaze.

  “Are you not afraid to be alone in the room with a possible murderer, Mrs. Kean?”

  She started, in embarrassment, not fear, before she frowned. “That is plainly nonsense, my lord.”

  “I am glad you seem to think so. May I ask if your cousin and your aunt both share your opinion?”

  He could see her reluctance to hide the truth from him.

  “You must be wondering why I received you,” she said. “And I apologize for leaving you to wonder. I am afraid your companions diverted me from my errand. My aunt sent me down with her compliments, but instructed me to tell you that Isabella is too unwell to receive visitors today.”