The Birth of Blue Satan

by Patricia Wynn

  “Why, quite simply—” with an effort at insouciance he tried to regain the upper hand— “that a rather large price has been placed upon your head. Just one word from me, and the rabble in this room would start fighting over the right to take you in.”

  “But if they did, I should have to tell them about your signature on a very interesting piece of paper.”

  Bournemouth flushed. “If you did, one of my men would shoot you before you could open your mouth.”

  “And one of mine would see to it that a very damaging letter came into the hands of the Lord Chancellor.”

  “You wouldn’t dare! Your own property would be forfeit!”

  Gideon raised a brow. “But would I not be dead? I was under the impression that your servant had already dispatched me with a bullet. And, in that case, I have to tell you that Harrowby’s inheritance is unlikely to be my concern.”

  His amused answer had a strange effect upon the Duke. He first seemed enraged. Then, as if a small sense of humbled arrogance seemed to infuse him, he collected himself and gave Gideon a measuring look.

  Gideon decided that it was time to stop playing games. “Will you not be seated? It seems we have some matters to discuss.”

  The Duke still hesitated. He checked behind him again, before taking a seat on the bench across from Gideon.

  “How much do you want for those papers?” he asked, as if the deal were understood.

  “They are not for sale and never will be.”

  Bournemouth tightened his jaw. “Then why did you bring me here?”

  For the first time since he had entered the room, Gideon leaned forward. “I brought you here to get answers to my questions.”

  The Duke was not stupid enough to ask what Gideon would do if he refused to answer. The stakes had already been named on both sides.

  “Did you kill my father?”

  As the Duke started violently from his bench, his right hand reaching for his sword, Gideon said through gritted teeth, “Not so hasty, your Grace! I have a cocked pistol pointed directly at your stomach. You would never survive the wound.”

  Half-way to his feet, the Duke froze, then dropped back onto his bench, his face crimson with rage.

  “How dare you try to pin your crime on me!” he said.

  Gideon stared at his enraged expression and felt his first doubt. How he wished with all his soul that the truth could be read in a man’s features!

  “I did not kill my father,” he said, “nor have I ever committed a treasonable act. I read your hand in the charges brought against me.”

  The Duke’s eyelids flickered, and Gideon knew that he had, indeed, had something to do with them.

  But the charges against him were unimportant. “You have not answered me. Did you murder my father?”

  The Duke’s impatient scoff surprised him. “What possible reason could I have had?”

  “He knew that you had flirted with the Pretender’s cause. You are the only man on his list who turned coat and profited by doing so.”

  A defensive twitch appeared in the corner of the Duke’s mouth. “I am not ashamed of being the only one sensible enough to embrace the realities.”

  “Especially when that reality conveys such advantage to yourself. Did I not hear recently that King George has arranged a splendid match for you?”

  Unruffled, the Duke inclined his head.

  “That match would never have been possible if my father had taken his knowledge of your treachery to the King.”

  Now it was his Grace’s turn to lean forward, and he spoke with conviction. “He never would have given the King that information because he could not have done it without implicating himself and his friends.”

  He let the words settle in, before continuing in a dogged voice, “I did not kill Hawkhurst, because as long as he was alive, I did not have to fear that those papers would fall into the wrong hands. It was only after his death that I began to fear that someone—you perhaps—would use them against me. Your father was a true believer in the Stuart succession. He never would have jeopardized the Pretender’s cause or his supporters.”

  He went on, “You say that you did not kill him. And I have to suppose you speak the truth, or you would never have arranged this meeting.

  “But neither did I kill him. I had no motive. In fact, it was in my interest for your father to stay alive.”

  Gideon had intently watched his face throughout this monologue, and he had seen no signs of prevarication. No blinks. No averted gazes. And, in the end, it was he who first lowered his eyes.

  “Please pass me your sword,” he said.

  Surprised, but betraying no uneasiness, the Duke removed his sword from its sheath and offered it to him sideways on his upturned palms.

  Gideon reached for the hilt and examined it. It had an ornate basket design with the Duke’s arms wrought into the steel and covered in silver. A peculiar curl in the metal tip satisfied him that this was not the sword that had been used to murder his father.

  He handed it back without a word.

  After the Duke had replaced it, and a few moments of silence had passed, he asked, “What is your intention with respect to those papers?”

  “I shall keep them for a while. Eventually they must be burned.”

  “Why keep them at all?” Clearly, he had been astonished by Gideon’s honesty.

  “I have to keep them, until I find the man who killed my father. Until then, I cannot be certain that they have no significance.”

  In a more thoughtful tone than he would have expected, the Duke said, “The same reasoning is likely to apply to those other names as to me. Even more so, since his Majesty already suspects them. You will find nothing among them to help you, St. Mars.”

  Gideon shook his head. “I shall have to keep them. Once I have found my father’s murderer, I promise to destroy them. I do not wish for my father to be labeled a traitor.”

  He could feel the Duke’s lack of satisfaction with his decision, but also his acceptance that he could do nothing to change his mind. His Grace made ready to go, but before he stood, he said, “I should be grateful—and mind, my gratitude may count for something in future—if you will notify me when those papers are destroyed. It would greatly add to the peace of my sleep.”

  Gideon gave a nod, upon which his Grace rose to go. “I would offer to send you word if any information comes to me that could assist you; however, I do not know where to forward it.”

  “I will be receiving The Daily Courant. An advertisement would reach me.”

  The Duke inclined his head, and Gideon stood to repeat the courtesy. His visitor had turned to go, when he bethought himself of something else and turned back.

  “You have undoubtedly by now seen the announcement of your cousin’s engagement to Mrs. Isabella Mayfield. If it is of any consolation, I will tell you of my certainty that she will take a lover before the first six months of her marriage is out.”

  Gideon felt a sickening wrench in his stomach. He made no response, however, only watched the Duke’s retreating back as he made his way through the brawling, sprawling drunks and out into the night.

  Tom joined him as soon as the Duke and his men had ridden off on their horses. He found him staring cheerlessly into his mug.

  “You let him go?”

  St. Mars gave a curt nod. “I don’t believe he did it. He had no good reason. We shall have to start over, Tom.”

  Looking up, then around, he ordered, “Sit down and join me, or you will draw too much attention.”

  Tom obeyed uneasily, saying in a whisper, “Shouldn’t we ride out of here in case his Grace sends for the law?”

  “He won’t. He has too much to lose if he does. Never mind why. Just know that we are safe from him.

  “It is pleasant to be back in London, is it not?” St. Mars said, changing the subject. He drained the rest of his mug. “I suppose we shall have to establish a house to live in here, before long.”

  “You’re never gi
ving up!”

  “No, Tom.” St. Mars gave him a sad smile. “I am not giving up. I just wonder how long it will take us to discover the truth.”

  Some thought it mounted to the Lunar sphere,

  Since all things lost on earth are treasured there.

  There Heroes’ wits are kept in ponderous vases,

  And beaux’ in snuffboxes and tweezer cases.

  There broken vows and deathbed alms are found,

  And lovers’ hearts with ends of riband bound,

  The courtier’s promises, and sick man’s prayers,

  The smiles of harlots, and the tears of heirs . . .

  CHAPTER 17

  They rode back all that night and half the next day. Without the ability to change horses at the posting houses where he was known, they could not make the time they were used to making. Penny had been bred to race, not to plod along at this pedestrian speed, but she performed like a royal trooper.

  Gideon regretted the hours he’d been given to think, especially in the dark. He had tried not to think about Isabella’s defection, but the Duke’s parting words had forced him to consider her in a different light. His feelings on hearing her shrieks, when she had shrunk from him, had run from shock to dismay and revulsion. It was the revulsion that had bothered him ever since.

  He had been repulsed by her fear, because of what it had meant. She had not known who he was. If she had loved him, if she had had any thought of him in the past few weeks, she would have looked for him in every face she saw. But she had forgotten him entirely—presumably even before his father had been murdered. He could no longer think of her smiles the way he had thought of them before. They had little to do with goodness, and everything to do with a childish happiness. There was nothing wrong with childishness, but that had not been the foundation for his love.

  His father had been right, according to the Duke. And he had fought with his father—had made it easy for his assassin to kill him—all for a mistaken love for a lady who did not deserve his loyalty.

  She had repulsed him at the moment in which he had realized his terrible mistake. But that revulsion was nothing compared to the self-loathing he felt for being such a fool.

  The next afternoon gave Hester her first opportunity to speak with James Henry, St. Mars’s illegitimate brother.

  Her eagerness to see him had increased since her rendezvous with Philippe the night before. They had met on the first floor, outside the privy chamber nearest to Hester’s own room, where she had headed after excusing herself from cards. She had chosen that place, since anyone seeing them would assume she had simply come to use the close-stool.

  But she had returned to the withdrawing room not one step closer to solving the mystery of Lord Hawkhurst’s death. Philippe had reported that, much to his regret, Harrowby bore no trace of a scar.

  While Hester could not be surprised, since his lack of an injury merely confirmed what both she and St. Mars had always known about him, she had still been disappointed. She reconciled herself to his innocence, however, for she reasoned that they would never discover the real murderer until they had first eliminated other suspects.

  This morning, Harrowby had finally taken the time to speak with the man who knew more about the Hawkhurst estate than any other. While a more intelligent heir would have asked to see his receiver-general immediately, Harrowby inevitably put business after pleasure. When showing Isabella and his mother-in-law about the Abbey and its grounds had begun to pall, he had sought James Henry out as a means of varying his day.

  Since his days habitually started very late by country standards, the two were still closeted together when the dinner hour sounded. Harrowby gave instructions for an additional place to be laid for Mr. Henry to join them.

  Hester’s first impression of St. Mars’s brother was of a younger and humbler version of the portrait she had seen of Lord Hawkhurst in the gallery. To be certain, there were clear similarities between father and son, and she could only imagine that St. Mars’s failure to see them must have been due to some overwhelming difference in the two men’s characters.

  As the introductions were made, Mr. Henry included her in his sober bow. Although his manners were considerate, he appeared to lack the openness and warmth that seemed so much a part of St. Mars. He apologized for not being here to greet them, but their marriage on the way down had not been foreseen.

  The dining chamber was on the first floor in Harrowby’s suite of rooms. The food invariably arrived there cold, but the hall and large parlour on the ground floor had traditionally been used for the servants’ meals.

  Hester found herself next to Mr. Henry, with her aunt and Mr. Bramwell across from them, and her cousin and Harrowby seated at either end. Mr. Bramwell said grace.

  As Harrowby and Mr. Henry resumed their conversation about the estate, she was surprised to detect no trace of resentment on the latter man’s part. He seemed to accept his new employer, when surely, as Lord Hawkhurst’s son, he should feel that Harrowby had an inferior claim. After listening to him speak, however, she began to understand that his contentment sprang from his stewardship of the estate. He would be the one to oversee it and to preserve it for future members of the Fitzsimmons family, which was, after all, the task of the heir. He had no heirs of his own to be concerned for. And, while he performed his duties, he lived much more comfortably than most would ever live.

  She understood from things that had been said that he possessed an independence—surely not too harsh a fate for an unacknowledged bastard.

  She had hoped to dislike him enormously for St. Mars’s sake, and more than half expected to decide he was the murderer. But he had just enough Fitzsimmons in him—some of the very same qualities that St. Mars had—that she could not help but find him attractive.

  Mrs. Mayfield did not know what to make of a servant with his status. Coming from a humbler house, herself, she had never encountered his kind before. And since Harrowby’s manner towards him varied wildly from a condescending bonhomie to plain uneasiness, tinged with ignorance, it was hard for her to gauge which precise sort of attitude she should take.

  Never one to give an inch, however, when she might take a league, she tried in various little ways to assert her superiority over Henry. Hester could almost hear her aunt’s reasoning. She was the mother of the new countess, which made her family. On the other hand, he was independent and a man, which, strictly speaking, gave him a leg up. Since she did not have the faintest notion about his breeding, she had to assume he was the son of a gentleman. A younger son, perhaps, but equal in birth to her, as most men in his post would be.

  Her dilemma was exacerbated by the reality that James Henry controlled the purse strings at the Abbey, and plainly Harrowby had no intention of assuming them himself. Hester could imagine the worry this information had caused her aunt. To have to apply to Mr. Henry for every penny that came out of the estate, and to have to justify her expenses . . . .

  His presence at the table today, though, gave her an opportunity to satisfy her curiosity on certain points, and as soon as a break fell in the men’s talk, she asked him more particulars about the size of the staff and the assignment of duties to each.

  They learned that the household staff, including the cook, was predominantly male. No more than a few women served as maids, although more from the surrounding farms and villages were often engaged for temporary tasks. The female housekeeper reported directly to Robert Shaw, who reported to James Henry.

  “We lost our clerk of the kitchen in the last smallpox,” Mr. Henry said, “and his lordship did not see fit to engage another, considering his retirement from Court and the small demands of his family. If you, sir,” he said, “intend to host larger numbers, it would be wise to engage a new man.”

  Harrowby gave him a startled look, which revealed how little prepared he was to make decisions. He looked to Isabella for help. “A clerk?”

  “Yes. His duty is to supply the kitchen with meat, game, fruit, vegetabl
es, and dairy goods. Robert Shaw has taken over these duties for the time-being, but since he is primarily responsible for supplying all your lordship’s houses with wine, groceries and coal, he has found these additional duties somewhat onerous.”

  “Complained about it, has he?” said Harrowby peevishly. “I cannot abide a servant who complains. You can tell Robert Shaw that!”

  Hester thought she detected a cooling from Mr. Henry. “You will find no more dedicated servant than Robert Shaw,” he said gently. “It shall be as your lordship wishes, of course, but I do not believe that one man can fill both positions if the household is to be larger. Taking on a new clerk will ensure that your comfort will never be disrupted.”

  Mrs. Mayfield spoke up. “Hester could fill that duty. She’s done all my marketing this year.”

  Mr. Henry gave Hester a quick glance that, while assessing her in a new capacity, was not lacking in sympathy. “I hate to differ with you, madam, but the job I speak of would not be proper for a woman. It entails a great deal of travel—much more so than in previous years. With more than forty servants to provide for on a daily basis in this house alone, the clerk must see to moving cattle from his lordship’s estates in other counties.”

  Isabella gave a good-natured laugh. “I cannot imagine Hester doing that!”

  “No, my lady,” Mr. Henry agreed with an indulgent smile.

  It was his first of the day, and Hester found it surprisingly pleasant, though she reflected wryly that Isabella had managed to charm another Fitzsimmons.

  “Oh . . . well, in that case,” Harrowby said, obviously bored with the subject, “just do whatever you think best.”

  Mr. Bramwell, who had remained silent since giving his prayer, interposed, “You cannot go wrong by leaving everything to Mr. Henry, my lord. Your uncle placed all his confidence in him, and he was never disappointed.”

  Mr. Henry had acknowledged Harrowby’s agreement with a nod. Hester admired how quickly he had learned to manage his new employer. She did not believe that Harrowby would ever take any direct role in managing his estate or his fortune.