Her Grace's Passion

by M C Beaton

  “My lady should not drink so much,” said Clarisse.

  This, as she hoped, had the desired effect.

  “Damn your impertinence,” said the countess. She reached blindly out for the glass of brandy, picked it up, and tossed off the contents. Clarisse stood back and watched.

  Nothing happened.

  Clarisse began to tremble. Surely she had put enough powder in that brandy to kill a cellarful of rats, let alone one unwanted countess.

  “I am ready for bed,” said the countess, standing up. Clarisse turned down the bedcovers. The countess was just climbing into bed when she gave a startled gargling sound and clutched her throat. Then terrible retching noises seemed torn from her. Impassively Clarisse watched the death throes of her mistress. When it was all over she smoothed down her apron with a careful hand, picked up all her clothes and carried them back to her room, and with loving hands, hung them away again. She returned, but only to fetch her jewels. She opened the countess’s jewel box and took out several of the smallest but choicest items. These she carried through to her room and hid in a trunk under her bed. She returned and stood for a few moments, looking impassively at the now-dead countess, and then Clarisse ran to the door and began to scream loudly, “The mistress has been poisoned. Come quick!”

  An uneasy silence fell between the Earl of Torridon and Matilda. She had talked of her childhood in the country and laughed over all the economies her family had undergone to keep up appearances. He had told her of going to the wars straight from school and of the campaigns and long marches, of how he had sold out when he had inherited the earldom, and of the struggle to put his estates in order. They sat in opposite chairs, not touching, but each painfully aware of the other. Bands of fog lay across the room adding an air of unreality to the scene. The clocks chimed five in the morning and at last he reluctantly got to his feet. She rose as well.

  He took her hands in his and looked down into her eyes. “If only she would die,” he said.

  “You must not say that,” exclaimed Matilda. “Oh, I wished the same so many times, but about my husband. And then when he was murdered, I felt such shame and guilt, almost as if I had murdered him myself.”

  “We will see each other again, no doubt, at one of the social functions?” said the earl.

  Matilda shook her head sadly. “I could not bear it. I shall stay as a recluse until you have left London.”

  “Oh, my darling.” He pulled her into his arms and kissed her deeply and longingly. She wound her arms about his neck, still and motionless in his embrace, lost in it. They stood like that for a long time and then the little rubies of Matilda’s tiara began to shake as she pushed him away.

  “No, you must go now,” she pleaded.

  “If she were dead, would you marry me?” he asked.

  “Yes, with all my heart,” said Matilda. “But she will not die and we must not wish it.”

  He kissed her hand then turned and walked from the room. She crossed to the window and looked down. Although she heard the street door open and close, she could see nothing of him for the fog blotted out the street below.

  The earl walked home slowly through the fog. He dreaded the scenes and tantrums that lay ahead. But he could not live with his wife any longer. He would get a divorce and then perhaps Matilda might change her mind. As he entered St. James’s Square, he sensed there was something up. He could not see anything but there seemed to be a great deal of turmoil from the corner of the square in which his house stood. He quickened his pace.

  The door to his home stood open and, as he walked up to the steps, he saw two parish constables standing in the hall. His servants were milling about, chattering and exclaiming. They fell silent at the sight of him.

  “What are you doing here?” he cried. “What’s amiss?”

  The door to his library opened and the magistrate from Bow Street, Sir Henry Baxter, stepped out. “There is sad news, my lord,” he said. “I must tell you that your wife is dead.”

  He stood there, shock, bewilderment, and relief flooding his body. “Dead. But how?”

  “My lady died of arsenical poisoning. There were traces of arsenic powder in a glass in her room,” said Sir Henry.

  “But she would never take her own life. Never!” said the earl.

  “That is what we thought, my lord. We have already interviewed the servants. We understand you were not on good terms with your lady, in fact, had been overheard several times wishing her death. Where were you this night, my lord?”

  “I was visiting a lady.”

  “And the name of that lady?”

  “That, I am afraid, I cannot tell you.”

  “My lord,” said the magistrate severely, “I must warn you that no one else but yourself held any ill will toward her.”

  “Are you accusing me of murdering her? You must be mad.”

  Sir Henry thought quickly. Had he been dealing with, say, Mr. Bloggs of Clapham, he would have taken him into custody on the spot. But the earl had powerful friends.

  “As far as you are concerned, my lord,” said the magistrate with careful deference, “the matter can be quickly cleared up. As you had asked the servants not to wait up for you, none can tell whether you returned earlier in the evening or not. The lady’s maid, Clarisse, said her mistress told her that she had been deceiving you over the matter of her pregnancy and that you had threatened to kill her. Clarisse said her ladyship retired immediately after coming home. There is no reason to suspect the lady’s maid or any of the other servants. They had nothing to gain and no reason to wish the countess dead. If you have, as you say, been with a lady this night, then I must ask you again for the name and address of that lady so that we may look elsewhere in our investigations. Come, my lord, you have had a dreadful shock and you must see that were you in my position, you would ask the same thing.”

  “Do what you will,” said the earl wearily. “But I cannot give you the name of the lady. The call was all that is respectable, but I have no wish to damage her name.”

  “Then you disappoint me, my lord. I will call on you later today.”

  “May I see my wife?” demanded the earl harshly.

  “Of course, my lord.”

  The earl strode upstairs. He opened the door of his wife’s bedchamber. She was lying on the bed. Her hands had been crossed on her breast and her eyes closed. But her face was distorted and covered with blue marks like bruises. He shuddered and turned away, saying to his butler who had followed him, “Send Clarisse to me. I shall be in the study.”

  Ten minutes later Clarisse entered the study and stood with her eyes lowered.

  “Now, Clarisse,” said the earl, “tell me exactly what the countess said and did before her death.”

  “My lady came back from the ball and I went to attend her,” said Clarisse, not raising her eyes. “My lady was in a great taking, saying you had discovered her deception. She said I was as much to blame. But, my lord, she made me do it. I had no other alternative. She would have cast me off without a reference.”

  “I understand. But what was her state of mind?”

  Clarisse thought quickly. She had assumed the earl would be arrested for the murder, for had not she and the other servants often been witness to the couple’s stormy scenes? But the earl had not been arrested, and unless she thought quickly, the authorities would begin to look elsewhere for the murderer.

  “My lady cried a great deal,” said Clarisse. “She said her life was ruined. She demanded brandy and drank a great deal. Then she dismissed me, saying she would attend to herself.”

  “And did you tell all this to the authorities?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “Why, in God’s name?”

  “Suicide is a crime, my lord, before God. I am sure my lady took her own life. I did not say so at the time and I am sorry. I felt I had to protect her name even in death. I will tell them the truth.”

  “You had better,” said the earl grimly. “What possessed you to tell Sir
Henry that fiction about me threatening to kill her?”

  “I was distraught. I meant that in Scotland, for example, you did say and in front of me that you wished she were dead.”

  “Hardly the same thing. You have given Sir Henry the impression that I threatened to kill her after the ball. You must tell the truth this time.

  He rang the bell. “Is that magistrate still in the house?” he demanded.

  “Sir Henry is just taking his leave,” replied the butler.

  “Then catch him and fetch him here.” The earl looked curiously at Clarisse. “You say you are French?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “And yet you have no accent.”

  “My parents are French, my lord. I was schooled in England.”

  She raised her eyes briefly, found he was studying her intently, and dropped them again.

  “I have noticed my wife gave you many of her best clothes and some jewelry. That was no doubt to keep your mouth shut.”

  “Oh, no, my lord. My lady was most fond of me.”

  “You amaze me. My wife was fond of no one but herself.”

  Clarisse began to cry, or to pretend to cry, but once started, she found the tears were genuine, for she was beginning to feel very afraid.

  “Dry your eyes,” said the earl abruptly. “Here comes Sir Henry. Tell your story honestly and properly so that he may not think I have bullied you into implying suicide.

  Sir Henry listened carefully to the maid. Clarisse was impressive in her distress.

  “Then it seems it must be as I first feared,” said Sir Henry. “Tell me how and when you discovered your wife was not pregnant, Lord Torridon.”

  The earl put his hand to his brow. “It was at the Courtneys’ ball this night. She insisted on dancing. It was during the quadrille that a cushion rolled from under her gown onto the floor, revealing, not only to me, but to society the sham and deception.”

  “Did you want a child very much, my lord?”

  “It was not that. Not like that. My wife was much given to scenes and tantrums and excesses of rage. I did not think I could tolerate her any longer and so I demanded a separation. That was the night she told me she was with child. I am not usually so easily gulled, but she was very convincing and said she had been to a doctor in Hadsborough, a Dr. Ferguson. I called on the doctor and he told me that she was indeed with child. I should have known that he could not possibly tell at such an early stage. But she was so convincing.”

  “And because of the episode at the ball, would you again have demanded that separation?”

  “My dear man, after what you so politely call that episode, I would have divorced her and had excellent grounds for doing so.”

  “Then we must conclude that your wife committed suicide, my lord.”

  “I cannot believe it,” said the earl. “No matter what happened to her, she would never, ever contemplate suicide.”

  “Of course you find it hard to believe,” said the magistrate. “I have seen a case like this before. The husband naturally does not want to think, faced with the shock of such a death, that he may have done anything to cause his wife to take her life, but you must admit, there does not seem to be any other explanation.”

  The earl looked at him wearily. Had he really caused her to take her own life? He would never know. Now he was free, but in such a manner that he could not possibly expect Matilda to marry him, ever.

  Matilda received a call from Annabelle late the following afternoon, an Annabelle who made profuse apologies for her absence from the ball. “For I had been to the physician and there is no doubt in my mind, dear Matilda, that I am to have a child.”

  Matilda hugged her and congratulated her warmly. “But,” said Annabelle at last when she had exhausted the subject of possible sex and name for the baby, “what of you? The drama of last night! It is all over London.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Matilda. “The countess gave birth to a cushion right in the middle of the quadrille.”

  “Not only that, but found dead of arsenical poisoning!”

  Matilda went quite white. “How? Who did it?”

  “’Tis said she committed suicide, but gossip will have it that the sinister earl poisoned her himself.” Annabelle bit her lip and colored. The gossips had also said that the earl was obviously enamored of the pretty dowager duchess.

  “And when did she die?” asked Matilda faintly.

  “Evidently shortly after she arrived home. The earl himself did not arrive until before dawn, but he had told the servants not to wait up, so they cannot say whether he had returned home earlier and then left. The earl says he was with a lady but will not give her name. He was suspected, but the countess’s lady’s maid now swears her mistress was much distraught.”

  “And how did you find out so much detail?”

  “Well, Sir Henry, the Bow Street magistrate, is a tattletale. He confided in his wife and she told Lady Blessington and swore her to secrecy and so Lady Blessington promptly told the half of London, relieving her conscience by swearing them all to secrecy as well. Where are you going?”

  “You must excuse me, Annabelle. I must go to Bow Street. You see, he was with me.”

  “Matilda!”

  “Not in my bed, Annabelle, but sitting, talking all night.”

  “But Sir Henry has decided on suicide. If you go to him now, you will ruin your reputation and to no end.”

  “You cannot stop me. This visit to London was a mistake. I shall go to Bow Street and then tomorrow I will leave for the country.”

  “You are throwing away your chances of a happy life and the possibility of a good marriage for some Scotch philanderer. He could have returned home, followed her home, and put the poison in the glass.”

  Matilda shook her head. “He came straight to me. He was waiting here for me when I returned. Do not try to stop me, Annabelle. You and Emma think because you were both fortunate to find men who loved you after the deaths of your husbands that the same will happen to me.”

  She made her way to Bow Street and waited in the magistrate’s chambers. A Mr. Thomas Hughes saw her enter the court. He himself had just been leaving, having been reporting on the trial of a young rip, Lord Dempster, who had been charged with breaking all the windows in Curzon Street with the butt end of his whip the night before while on a drunken spree. Mr. Hughes, who wrote a column of social gossip for the Morning Recorder, recognized her as the widow of the late Duke of Hadshire. Scenting a scandal, he waited patiently until he saw her leave, then he sent his card in to Sir Henry.

  Sir Henry was delighted to receive the reporter, for the clever Mr. Hughes always referred to the magistrate in his column in flattering terms.

  “I could not help noticing you received a visit from the Dowager Duchess of Hadshire,” said Mr. Hughes. “What’s to go? One of her relatives in the dock?”

  “Oh, dear me, nothing like that. But my lips are sealed,” said the magistrate, who had just received a blistering lecture on his gossipy ways from the forthright duchess.

  “Of course they are,” said Mr. Hughes, leaning back in his chair and putting his thumbs in his waistcoat. “Ain’t I always said, Sir Henry is a veritable tomb? Vastly pretty, the little duchess. Hadshire gave her a rough time, everyone knew that. Course with her money and looks, she might marry again, but said to be devilish respectable, almost a recluse. Was at that Courtneys’ ball, however, the one where the late and unlamented countess dropped the cushion. Amazing how quick off the mark the print shops are! Already have pictures of the earl killing her by putting a cushion over her face. It was arsenic though, was it not?”

  “Yes, and I fear the lady took her own life.”

  “Thought you would have arrested the earl. That would have been a great story. Trial by his peers in the House Of Lords and all that. Pity. Sure he didn’t do it?”

  “No, he spent the night with a lady and that lady has come forward to support his story.”

  Mr. Hughes leaned back farther in his
chair and closed his eyes while his mind worked busily. What were the gossips saying about Torridon and that ball? That he had been obviously smitten by the widow Hadshire, and here was the widow making a call on a Bow Street magistrate. He opened his eyes and smiled slowly. “So the little duchess was entertaining the Scottish earl all night, was she?”

  “I never said that,” said Sir Henry, aghast.

  “I happen to know it for a fact.”

  “I am disappointed in you, Hughes,” said Sir Henry. “I should have known you were the sort to listen at doors. Get out of here.”

  “I wasn’t listening at the door,” said Mr. Hughes cheerfully as he got to his feet. “But you have just answered my question.”

  The following day, the Earl of Torridon settled down to make all the arrangements for his wife’s burial. The body would need to be conveyed to her family home in Yorkshire. He found his butler at his elbow.

  “What is it?” he snapped. “I am not at home to any callers.”

  “I know you do not read the Morning Recorder, my lord, but Lord Blessington’s butler saw fit to bring round a copy. The social column, my lord, contains your name.”

  “I have no doubt. I am not interested in the reportings of the scurrilous press.”

  “Nonetheless, my lord, it does contain intelligence of which you might not be aware.”

  The earl took the newspaper from him. “While his lady was poisoning herself with arsenic, a certain Scotch lord was avisiting a certain Dowager Duchess, a visit which took all night. He and the beautiful dowager have much in common, violent death of a spouse being common to both. But his lordship’s alibi is secure, for the dowager visited Bow Street to explain to the magistrate the nighttime whereabouts of the noble earl.”

  He threw down the paper. “Get my carriage round,” he snapped.

  He drove to Bolton Street, his only thought to see her again. But the house was locked and shuttered. A footman was emerging from the house next door and volunteered the information that the duchess had left that very morning.