He glanced uncertainly at Miss Kirkbride. He was not quite certain what he was being offered felicitations for—not his brilliance in solving her father’s murder, of that much he was certain—but at the moment he had another, more pressing concern to address.
“Miss Kirkbride, Mr. Kirkbride, I fear I must ask what are your thoughts regarding the manner of Gavin’s death. Lady Fieldhurst is concerned that she will have to stand trial for her part in it. With your permission, I should like to be able to reassure her on this head.”
They did not disappoint him. “I think my family has had enough of scandal and bloodshed, Mr. Pickett,” Elspeth said. “Gavin has paid for his crimes with his life, just as the law would have demanded. Let it be said that Father died of an accidental overdose, and that Neil committed suicide, and that Gavin inadvertently fell from the cliff path in his haste to impart the terrible news to Duncan.” She sighed. “Someday, if we repeat the tale often enough, we may eventually come to believe it ourselves.”
CHAPTER 19
IN WHICH JOHN PICKETT RECEIVES
SEVERAL SURPRISES
* * *
Lady Fieldhurst awoke the next morning to grey skies and the pounding of rain on the roof. Clearly, the unseasonably warm weather was past; the Scottish skies had finally recalled that the month was October, not June. She sat up, and every movement of her aching muscles brought back the terrifying events of the previous day. She bent her arms and legs in turn, as if to assure herself that each one worked properly, then pushed up the long sleeves of her linen night rail. Her hands and arms were scored with long scratches from the gorse bush that had broken her fall, and on her left wrist, she could trace one, two, three, four perfectly formed oval bruises marking the place where Mr. Pickett’s fingers had bitten into the tender flesh as he’d dragged her to safety.
Her head was still a bit befuddled from the laudanum she’d been given, but on one point her mind was perfectly clear. Yesterday, with her life hanging precariously from a clump of gorse, she’d been aware of one overwhelming regret, one thing in her life left undone, one experience without which she could not bear the thought of dying. And, miraculously, she had not died. She had been granted a second chance, and she intended to make certain it did not go to waste. Mr. Colquhoun might not like it—in fact, she was quite sure he would hate it, should he ever learn of it—but Mr. Pickett was a grown man (albeit a young one) and at four-and-twenty was surely old enough to make his own decisions.
She threw back the sheets, then poured water from the pitcher on the stand beside the bed and scrubbed her face until it shone. She then snatched a fresh gown from the clothes-press, wishing she had something—anything!—less funereal than the unrelieved black deemed suitable for a widow of six months’ standing. Having attired herself in this despised garment, she turned her attention to dressing her hair. Soon, after pinching her pale cheeks to lend them color, she regarded her image critically in the looking-glass and judged herself presentable.
She hurried down the corridor to the chamber occupied by Mr. Pickett and his magistrate, and drew up short on the threshold. The door was open and the room empty save for a collection of valises and fishing tackle piled beside the door, clearly waiting to be taken downstairs. Outside the window, the stable yard buzzed with activity as the Royal Mail Coach discharged its passengers and offloaded its sacks of mail prior to changing horses and speeding on its way with a new contingent of travellers. Mr. Pickett and his magistrate, it appeared, would be among them.
With a renewed sense of urgency, she spun away from the chaotic scene, clattered down the stairs, and burst into the private parlor. As she had hoped, Mr. Pickett sat alone there, addressing himself to a plate of kippers and buttered eggs.
“My lady!” he rose at her entrance, his breakfast forgotten. “I feared I would not—I had not expected to see you up and about so soon. How do you feel? I hope you are recovered from your ordeal?”
“Except for some soreness and a few scratches which I daresay will soon heal, I am quite well. Are you—are you leaving Scotland so soon? I thought you and Mr. Colquhoun were fixed here for a fortnight.”
He nodded. “That was the original plan. But my work here is done, and Mr. Colquhoun is persuaded the fish have too much sense to be out and about in this weather,” he added with a hint of a smile.
“I should have been sorry to have missed you. I have—I have wanted to speak to you ever since—ever since you rescued me on the cliff—”
“You need have no fear, my lady,” he assured her. “You will not be forced to stand trial. In fact, Miss Kirkbride and Duncan will be far too busy planning their wedding to think of preferring charges.”
“That is good news.” She smiled fleetingly, but her manner seemed so distracted he could tell it was not the prospect of standing trial that burdened her mind. She clutched her hands tightly together at her waist and took a deep breath. “Mr. Pickett, my friend Lady Dunnington—you may remember her, you met her once in London—Lady Dunnington, it seems, has been telling me for some time now that I should take a lover—”
“Lord Rupert Latham,” he said, trying to keep his voice devoid of the distaste he felt whenever Lord Rupert’s name was mentioned. “I remember him.”
She shook her head impatiently. “No, no, Lord Rupert and I are quite passé. In fact, we were finished before we even began. Actually, I had thought—it occurred to me that—well, you and I do seem to have a habit of ending up in each other’s arms, so I thought perhaps that you—that you and I—that we should—”
She broke off, blushing crimson. Pickett, listening to this disjointed speech with dawning incredulity, was moved to ask, “Are you saying you want to—to—with me?”
“Not here, of course,” she assured him hastily. “Not while I have the boys in my charge, but later—after we return to London—shall I—may I send for you, Mr. Pickett?”
Pickett hardly heard the question, so distracted was he by the images conjured up by the viscountess’s proposition. At last he might end his self-imposed celibacy, and in the arms of the lady he had always imagined to be as far beyond his reach as the stars in the heavens. It was more than he had ever dared hope for—no, it was all he had ever dreamed of, ever since the night he had first seen her, pale and frightened, standing over her husband’s body.
And yet, even while he contemplated the delights inherent in such an arrangement, he knew how it would end. Eventually she would meet a man of her own class and think of marrying again. When that time came her summonses would grow less and less frequent, and the intervals between them longer and longer, until at last they ceased altogether. Perhaps, he thought bitterly, she would present him with a handsome parting gift, like the gentlemen of her class were wont to give their cast-off doxies; perhaps he would not know the reason for her loss of interest until he read the wedding announcement in the Morning Post. Either way, it was unthinkable. Surely it was better to avoid an alliance that could only end in heartache, better not to know what one was missing than to be tormented with memories of what must be forever lost.
“My lady,” Pickett began, choosing his words with care, “I am more honored than I can say by your, er, interest in me, but I am afraid I must decline your very flattering offer.”
“Oh.” Lady Fieldhurst gave a shaky laugh that held nothing of humor. “Oh dear, how very awkward! Pray forgive me. I thought you—that is, I was under the impression that you—”
“You have nothing to apologize for, my lady,” Pickett assured her hastily. “It is not the inclination I lack, but the—”
“There you are!” The door to the breakfast parlor was flung open, and none other than George Bertram, seventh Viscount Fieldhurst, entered the room, his greatcoat dripping with rain and his person dripping with righteous indignation. “I should like to know what you are about, Cousin Julia! When I received word that you had never arrived at Inverbrook, I naturally assumed the worst. I never thought to find you gallivanting all over Scotland w
ith my sons when you were supposed to have been settled at the family estate for the last fortnight!”
“George,” she acknowledged him feebly. “This is not at all what you seem to think. The boys merely wished to see the ocean and, well, I meant to write the housekeeper and tell her not to expect us, but then we found Miss Kirkbride on the beach and—”
“And I suppose this fellow’s presence here is the merest coincidence!” The viscount gave Pickett a contemptuous glance.
“As a matter of fact, yes, it is,” Pickett put in.
He might have spared his breath, for all the attention the new Lord Fieldhurst paid him.
“Go upstairs and gather your things at once, Cousin Julia,” George commanded. “We will leave for England as soon as you and the boys have packed.”
“Oh, are we to travel on the mail, then?”
She glanced uncertainly toward Pickett, and then at the mail coach outside the window. Pickett wondered if she were hoping for an answer in the affirmative, or wanting only to avoid him.
“I should say not! Do you think I want to announce your indiscretions to the world? I have hired a private conveyance—and a pretty penny it has cost me, let me tell you!” he added peevishly.
“I beg your pardon, George. I shall pack my things directly.”
She left the room without looking back. George Bertram followed in her wake, no doubt to stand over her and harangue her as she accomplished the task he had assigned. It infuriated Pickett to see the way her late husband’s family treated her. It sickened him to know that her willingness to comply so meekly with her husband’s heir was due to his own apparent rejection of her. It was either the noblest or the stupidest thing he’d ever done—he was not quite sure which—and it was clear he would have no chance to offer her an explanation for his seeming indifference; Cousin George would see to it that she was bustled aboard his expensive private conveyance with no opportunity to see him again, even if she had shown any desire to do so. It can’t end like this, he thought desperately. It can’t end like this.
Upstairs, George Bertram soon made the unwelcome discovery that his cousin’s errant widow was the least of his problems. In the room shared by his three sons, he found himself confronting three boys he scarcely recognized, boys with skin bronzed by the sun and cheeks ruddy from the stiff ocean breeze.
“Good God!” he exclaimed in dismay. “You look like gypsies!”
“Father! Father!” cried his two youngest sons, both talking at once and each trying to outdo the other in volume. “We found a dead lady on the beach—”
“Only she wasn’t really dead, and then—”
“And Harold got to go out on the sea in a boat, only we didn’t get to go, which I call the shabbiest thing ever—”
“Will you hire someone to take us out on a boat, Father? Harold says it is the jolliest thing!”
“Except that it made Uncle John sick, only he isn’t really our uncle, but a Bow Street Runner, Father, if you can imagine that! He came to investigate the dead lady—”
“And since we didn’t get to go out on the water with him and Harold, he bought us these little boats, and only look at all the things we found on the beach!”
Each taking an arm, the two boys all but dragged their father into the middle of the room, where they eagerly displayed for him the tiny cork boats, along with an assortment of seashells, pebbles, and gulls’ feathers collected during their seaside ramblings.
“Yes, yes, I see,” the new Lord Fieldhurst said, dismissing these valuable items with a shooing motion. “Nasty things! Dispose of them at once!”
“I won’t!” the usually quiescent Robert declared mulishly. “I intend to take them home and make a study of them. May I have a microscope, Father, so I might examine them more closely?”
“A microscope? No, you may certainly not! What possible use would you have for—”
“Or should I ask Mother for one? I’ll bet she would buy me a microscope, if I told her you wouldn’t let me have one—”
“What’s that?” asked George in genuine alarm. “No need to be plaguing your mother over such a thing. Very well, I shall purchase a microscope for you once I return to London, and send it to you. Only pack your things so we may leave!”
At the mention of their mother, the Bertram boys were stunned to see their father’s ill temper give way to shame-faced guilt. With dawning glee, they realized they might exploit this useful tool to gain almost anything their hearts desired.
“Father, I have been thinking about my return to Oxford,” put in Harold, who up to this point had allowed his younger brothers to do all the talking. “The last term has been most uncomfortable, for reasons I am sure I need not explain to you. I believe I might do well in His Majesty’s Navy. I have been meaning to ask if you will use your influence to help me obtain a berth as a midshipman.”
“The navy?” echoed George in dismay. “Of all the queer starts—”
“It’s not a queer start, Father! I find I like the ocean, and Mr. Boyd—he’s the fisherman who took Mr. Pickett and me out in his boat—Mr. Boyd says he thinks I have a knack for it, for even when Mr. Pickett was hanging his head over the side, I never felt sick at all! So will you do it for me, Father?”
“No, Harold, you cannot have thought! What would your mother say?”
“Very well, then, I shall run away from school and enlist as a common seaman, and once everyone hears of it, there will be such a scandal that Cousin Julia’s will be as nothing to it!”
“Oh, all right, I’ll think about it,” said George reluctantly, as Harold and Robert exchanged triumphant grins behind their father’s back. “But I daresay there will be the devil to pay when your mother hears of it.”
“What about me, Father?” young Edward piped up.
“You are rather young for the navy, Edward, unless you intend to go for a cabin boy—”
“No, Father! I want to be a Bow Street Runner!”
“What? Good God, no! No gentleman’s son would ever—of course, I need not ask who put such an ill-conceived notion into your head, for I can see that Pickett fellow’s hand at work—yes, Robert, I see your hermit crab, but I haven’t the slightest desire to hold it! Now, will you all cease plaguing me and pack your things so we may go!”
Left alone in his misery, Pickett stood at the window of the breakfast parlor, staring unseeing at the confusion in the stable yard. As ostlers rushed forward with fresh horses for the mail coach, an elegant black equipage drew as near to the door as the commotion in the yard would allow. No coat of arms adorned its door panel, but Pickett had no difficulty in identifying George Bertram’s expensive private conveyance.
A moment later, as if to confirm his assumption, the door to the inn was flung open and a man, heavily bundled against the inclement weather, hurried across the mud-spattered yard. He held an umbrella over a lady swathed in a black pelisse and bonnet, but in spite of this seemingly solicitous gesture, his grip on her arm resembled less a gentleman escorting a lady than a prison warden hauling an escaped convict back to the roundhouse. Behind the truant female were three boys whose descending heights made them resemble nothing so much as a set of stair steps. The five entered the conveyance with minimal ceremony, the female being thrust inside first, to be followed higgledy-piggledy by the three boys, with the gentleman bringing up the rear. For one brief moment, Pickett’s eyes seemed to meet those of the lady, framed as she was in the carriage window, but a moment later the man’s arm reached up and drew the blind closed, leaving Pickett to wonder if he had imagined the exchange.
He had not long to dwell on the matter in any case, for he was soon interrupted by his magistrate, who entered the breakfast parlor lugging a bulging valise in one hand and his fishing tackle in the other.
“Well, Mr. Pickett, if you’ve finished your meal, we’d best see our bags stowed and stake out a couple of seats on the mail coach. I don’t know about you, but I’ve no intention of being obliged to sit on the roof in this we
ather.” He gave a satisfied nod. “Still, one can’t complain. At least the rain held off until the day of our departure. An excellent trip, all told.”
“Yes, sir,” Pickett said without conviction.
“What’s this?” Mr. Colquhoun regarded his youngest Runner with an all too piercing gaze. “You’re looking mighty long-faced for a fellow who’s nabbed both a murderer and a wife, all within a matter of days.”
“Hardly ‘nabbed,’ sir. Gavin Kirkbride will never stand trial for his crimes. As far as the Kirkbrides are concerned, his death was an accident, as was his uncle’s, and that poor stable hand committed suicide over the fair Elspeth.”
“Nevertheless, he paid with his life for his crimes, although they will never be publicly acknowledged.”
“Miss Kirkbride said something to that effect,” Pickett recalled.
“Aye, you’ll find that justice is sometimes a messy thing, my boy. And, on a happier note, there’s still the matter of the wife.”
Pickett pushed his unfinished plate away, having long since lost his appetite. “I believe you know that any ‘marriage’ between Lady Fieldhurst and myself was no more than a ruse.” He heaved a sigh. “I very much doubt that I will ever see the lady again, unless someone in her circle is so obliging as to get himself murdered.”
Mr. Colquhoun scowled, his bushy eyebrows drawing together over his nose. “I believe you need to acquaint yourself with Scottish civil law! Tell me, John, are you familiar with the concept of marriage by declaration?”
“No, sir, I can’t say that I am.”
“I thought not. Simply stated, all it takes to make a valid marriage in Scotland is for the couple to declare before witnesses that they are man and wife.”
“What?” Pickett rose from the table so abruptly that his chair fell over backwards.
“Aye, why do you think Gretna marriages are so popular? You’ll want to consult a solicitor to be certain, but I believe there is a very good chance that you and her ladyship are in fact married.” The magistrate bent a fierce glower on his young protégé. “I warned you to be circumspect in your dealings there, but did you listen to me? Of course not!”
Family Plot Page 20
