by Jo Beverley
“In the room with his victim?” Torrismonde protested.
“I doubt he has any of the finer sensibilities, despite his exquisite airs. He’d certainly have to wait until high tide, whenever that was. I must add this to my letter.”
He sat, broke the seal, and did so.
“It’s a remarkable story,” Torrismonde said, “but I say again, you have no shred of proof.”
“But chance of some, now. We might find evidence that Vance died, and even the place of murder, with people remembering Sellerby and Vance there.”
“It still might not hang an earl.”
“That’s for later. Now, we must remember that Sellerby is a very dangerous man. If I’m right, he killed by his own hand, despite his aversion to blood. I’m even wondering about his valet. Perhaps Sellerby’s capable of bashing in a man’s skull when desperate.” He impressed his seal with force. “He must not be allowed close to Georgia on any pretext, for I fear by now his passions might teeter between adoration and hatred.”
“Damned theatricality! And beneath my own roof. I don’t hold you to blame, but by God, I do not like it.”
Dracy could only say, “Nor do I. I assure you, I’ll work as hard to protect your family as I will to protect Georgia Maybury. And that is with all I have.”
“What lies between you?” Torrismonde asked.
“I wish I knew. We’re close, but we’re also a mismatch, and now this. I neglected to tell you that this new idea has hit her hard. She holds herself responsible, and I can only hope your wife can restore some balance. Georgia didn’t want me to come here with her, in part because she sees herself as a danger to men who love her.”
“Do you love her?” Torrismonde asked. He was not a man to ask such an intimate question without cause.
“Yes, but I won’t be like Sellerby about it.”
Torrismonde nodded. “I thought there was something between you at Thretford, and so did my wife. I wish you well there.”
“Thank you,” Dracy said, surprised. “But I’m committed to a country life.”
“As am I, but some time in London never comes amiss, especially when we have our duty to Parliament.”
“It’s expensive, especially if Georgia were to be with me. Alone, I could take a simple room, but she would want more.”
“Stay at Hernescroft House. It’s large enough, and thus most of your costs are blown away.”
Dracy wasn’t sure how Georgia would regard that, but it was a thought; indeed it was. “And her adoration of expensive fashion?”
Torrismonde acknowledged that with a grimace. “A problem, I grant, but she delights in the ingenuity of design. She might embrace the challenge of creating wonders on little money.”
“She might,” Dracy agreed, but dubiously.
“She’s young, Dracy, and will surely change in one way or another. This might be a natural time for her to progress out of extravagance.”
“Some never manage that, not even in their dotage,” Dracy said, “but I thank you for some hope. First, we must keep her safe.”
Georgia was sitting on the settee in Lizzie’s boudoir, in her friend’s arms. She’d wept again. She was very tired of weeping. She felt a little better, but not free of guilt and hopelessness.
Lizzie had said, “You can’t blame yourself, Georgie. As well blame the sky for lightning. If Sellerby devised that plan, he’s an evil man and always has been. You didn’t make him so.”
Those had been pleasant words, but she couldn’t believe them. “Without me, Sellerby would never have taken such steps.”
“You need rest,” Lizzie said, “and time to regain your balance. I prescribe good country air and food, long walks, and time with the children.”
“I pray you’re right, but Dracy’s come with me. I fear he’ll want to stay.”
“He’s welcome here.”
“But I’m trying to push him away. I can’t allow any man close to me again! Not one I care for.”
Lizzie straightened them both and looked Georgia in the eye. “No theatricals. You know how much Torrismonde dislikes them. I mentioned lightning. Would you avoid walking through a field because someone was once struck by lightning there?”
“No, but I’d avoid walking there during a thunderstorm!”
Lizzie chuckled. “Always practical. You won’t live in a constant thunderstorm. Only think. Who else among your admirers turned demented? Shaldon—he’s untouched. Beaufort, still with his sense. Porterhouse, as well-balanced as always. I know you don’t believe this now, but you will—you are not to blame for Sellerby’s vileness. Let me take you to your room. I recommend a quiet supper and an early night. You look worn-out.”
Georgia remembered the adventures of the night before—an eon ago—and didn’t wonder at looking exhausted.
Dracy would be under the same roof again… but she wasn’t the slightest bit tempted to engage in wickedness again tonight. She could be tempted by other things, however, by his tenderness and his strength.…
“I think you’re falling asleep as you are,” Lizzie said, helping her to her feet. “Come, Jane will take care of you, and truly, love, everything will seem a little brighter tomorrow.”
Chapter 32
Lizzie was wrong. Georgia’s mind had trundled around and around horrors all night, and she wasn’t sure she’d caught much sleep at all. Morning found her sluggish and hopeless. All very well for everyone to tell her Dickon’s death wasn’t her fault, but she knew the truth. If she’d been a sober, quiet wife, her husband would still be alive. She washed and dressed without a care for the details and could hardly face her breakfast.
Jane had brought a letter with her breakfast, a letter from her mother expressing shocked disapproval of the possibilities and a stern instruction to Georgia to behave with dignity and avoid all hazards.
“Yes, Mother,” Georgia murmured as she refolded it, but she wondered if there’d been a touch of caring in those last words. What was she coming to if she longed for solace from her mother?
There was also a letter from Perry, but it didn’t tell her much.
My dearest sister,
I hear a good report of your journey and arrival, my dear, and urge you to enjoy your time at Brookhaven to the full. As for myself, I have been busy on many fronts and have yet more commissions. You must ask Dracy about one of them, and also about the creator of letters, about whom I’ve written to him.
Be kind to Dracy, sister. He will do you no harm, nor you him.
Your exhausted but devoted brother,
Perry
That must mean he’d found the forger. She supposed that was good news, but that laid the way to a dreadful path. She wanted Dickon’s murderer hanged at Tyburn for his crime, but that would pillory her—the cause of it all—far beyond her sufferings so far. Five years ago, Earl Ferrers had been tried and hanged for the murder of his steward. A peer of the realm, publicly executed. That would never be forgotten, nor would the execution of the Earl of Sellerby for arranging the murder of the Earl of Maybury for love of his wife.
Doubtless his wicked wife. Many would assume she’d been Sellerby’s lover!
The sun was shining and it was a glorious late June day, but when could she ever be carefree again?
Jane came in and tutted at the scarce-touched breakfast. “You must eat something, milady. Starving yourself won’t do a bit of good.”
“I’m not starving myself,” Georgia protested, but she saw that she’d taken only one bite from a piece of buttered bread and one sip from her chocolate.
She drank the chocolate and refilled the cup, then took another bite from the bread. Too theatrical by far to faint for lack of nourishment, and dear Torrismonde did dislike theatricality.
“There’s another letter, milady,” Jane said, offering it. “From Lord Dracy.”
Jane looked as if she expected Georgia to refuse to read it, but she was determined not to go to extremes. She considered the seal, however, for she’d never seen i
t before. She’d never received a letter from him before. A coat of arms, presumably the Dracy ones. Two animals supporting a shield with perhaps a helmet on top.
Similar to so many others.
Not a matter for fascination.
And yet she broke it gently because it was his.
She unfolded the paper.
My dear Lady Maybury,
So formal, she thought.
I am kindly invited to stay at Brookhaven and intend to avail myself of a respite from Town for a few days at least. I will be often away from the house, for Lord Torrismonde has graciously agreed to let me attend him around the estate so I may learn more of my business.
He was telling her that he’d keep his word and not bother her with his close presence.
I ask for an opportunity to speak privately with you about a recent matter, and as soon as may be convenient. Of course you may have your maid in attendance if you trust her with sensitive matters.
Your obedient and humble servant,
Dracy
Obedient, perhaps, but humble? Never.
He had things to tell her, and she realized what she needed. She needed him to tell her a great deal more.
“I must dress, Jane. What gowns do I have?”
“I didn’t have time to pack many, milady. The blue lustring, the yellow sprig, the floral damask. That thing you wore yesterday.”
Georgia was tempted by “that thing,” for it seemed suitably penitent, but she said, “The yellow, Jane. And pick out that lace from the bodice. I won’t pretend to be a silly sixteen again.”
In due course, Georgia was dressed in the yellow gown she’d worn to Lady Gannet’s musical evening. It had been restored to its low-bodiced simplicity, but she wore a linen fichu to make it suitable for day wear. Her hair was simply dressed beneath a small, plain cap.
She thought of wearing the mourning bracelet, but that would be theatrical, so she placed it in front of the miniature of Dickon. He’d have been better off married elsewhere, but there was nothing she could do about that now except make sure that his murderer was punished, no matter what the cost to herself. She did want the Earl of Sellerby tried before the House of Lords and hanged at Tyburn before a jeering mob, and she’d do anything in her power to achieve that.
She met with Dracy in the small breakfast parlor, but it felt too confined, as if she couldn’t breathe.
“I need us to talk outside,” she said. “We can walk in the garden.”
“As you will,” he said, and they left the house.
Fresh air did help, but Georgia shivered slightly despite the warm air. “I need you to tell me about the duel,” she said.
“Why?”
They were walking a gravel path between beds overflowing with summer flowers. It was beautiful, but the blossoms might as well be shades of gray.
“I need to make sense of it,” she said. “I need it to be clear in my mind.”
“You’d be better off without it in your mind.”
She looked at him. “And how can that be? Tell me, Dracy.”
“I wasn’t there.”
“But you understand it, don’t you? You’ve thought about it and you understand it.”
He sighed. “Perhaps. You’re certain you want to do this?”
“Yes,” she said, looking ahead. “Start with the quarrel.”
“Remember, this is only my interpretation. The men spent the day racing their carriages and drinking. In the evening, they ate and also drank more. Vance said something cutting about your husband’s driving ability. That would cause a little spat, but it grew, presumably because at some point Vance insulted you. It might have been a play on horse and filly, and the ability to manage and enjoy them.”
“Like the cartoon.”
“Like that cartoon. It seems no one was sober enough to remember any details, but I think Vance had been preparing the way. A man called Cavenham remembered Vance hinting about having you in his bed. He probably did the same in various places, and your husband might have caught wind of it.”
“He’d never have believed it.”
“No, but it would rankle, and he’d know some men would make a duel of it. I can only think it boiled up and he threw his wine in Vance’s face. Vance couldn’t issue the challenge, you see, not with them being so unequal in swordsmanship, so he had to provoke your husband to do it.”
“Dickon turned up at Lady Walgrave’s ball,” she said, “still somewhat drunk. He insisted I return home with him.…” She didn’t say the rest, but she wished he’d told her what was afoot. She’d have stopped it. “Tell me about the duel.”
“I spoke to Shaldon at the masquerade, and he said he expected it to blow over in the sober morning, but of course Vance didn’t want that. He insisted on the duel going ahead but gave everyone the impression it would be only for form’s sake. A little light sword work, at most a minor wound, and a merry breakfast afterward.” He stopped her with a slight touch and turned her to face him. “That means, I think, that your husband wasn’t afraid. From the account at the inquest it went exactly that way until Vance made the killing blow. If you’re disposed to be kind, you might think that Vance wished to cause as little pain and distress as possible.”
“Am I supposed to thank him?”
“Perhaps. It could have been more brutally done.”
“It should not have been done, especially for money. Wherever he is, I hope Charnley Vance is suffering the horrors of the damned.”
“Now, that is very likely.”
She stared at him. “What?”
“I had a new thought yesterday. I wrote to your brother about it but haven’t yet received his response, but I think Sellerby killed Vance.”
“What? No, no. Vance was a big brute of a man. It’s impossible.”
“Not with poison.”
Georgia listened to a story bizarre enough for Mr. Walpole, author of The Castle of Otranto. She put a hand to her head. “I think I must have fallen into a fevered dream.”
“Into a web of evil,” Dracy said steadily, “but we will keep you safe. I will stay close, and you must be suspicious of any unusual food or drink.”
“Suspicious…You think Sellerby would try to poison me? But why? He wants to marry me!”
“He may have tipped beyond reason. I don’t think it’s likely, but it’s best to be aware. If a box of sweetmeats or some sweet cordial arrives as a gift, don’t sample it.”
“Lud! I’ve heard of whole families killed by rat poison in a stew instead of salt.”
“Calm, calm. Torrismonde is aware, and any items that arrive will go first to him or me.”
“This seems…it truly does seem fit for the theater.”
“Evil is unfortunately real. Sellerby has paid for one man to be killed and poisoned another. He might have killed his valet himself.”
“Killed Gaspard?”
“His murder seems too convenient.”
“But Sellerby was distraught. He truly was.”
“Possibly over having to commit violence. Or just from losing a highly skilled valet. He said that to me.”
Georgia sat on a wooden bench, feeling slightly faint. “How do we stop him before he hurts anyone else? Dracy—the supposed betrothal. You might be a target.”
“Then I’ll stay here, safely with you.”
He was teasing her, but Georgia stared at him, cold with dread. She rose and gripped his arm. “That attack. That was Sellerby too!”
“What?”
“After Mirabelle’s! You said the linkboy had led you.…Sellerby paid them to kill you!”
“By heaven…He heard about the false betrothal, then I confirmed it. I always thought that attack odd, that the ruffians struck to kill rather than steal.”
She thrust away from him. “See? You could have died that night, and all because of me! Keep away from me, Dracy. Return to Devon and to safety. Forget all about me!”
She turned and fled back to the house.
Chapter 33
Dracy watched her run away, sick with despair. If only he’d thought of that for himself, he might have prepared some defense, some rationalization.
