Unmasking Lady Helen: The Kinsey Family (The Kinsey Family Series Book 1)

by Maggi Andersen

  He cursed under his breath. “That’s not wise, Lady Helen. Leave this to me. Please exercise care until this matter is resolved.”

  She put a hand to the curls at her temple. “How does one exercise care in one’s own home?”

  He paused. “This matter may have little to do with the inhabitants of Kinsey House.” He wished the reason for Bart’s horrible death could be easily explained. “You might consider retiring to the country with your siblings for a time if you are concerned.”

  “I have no intention of leaving London, my lord.”

  “Until your father returns?”

  “No. Diana’s ball is soon to be held. She certainly won’t go to the country, and neither will I.” Her dark lashes swept down, a habit he’d noticed she adopted when she wished to hide her feelings. “I’ll ask Mama if she’ll send the boys to our grandfather. Toby loves to visit Walcott. There’s so much more for him to do there. He can ride with the hounds and fish in the river. But Alexander, he’s only a baby and will kick up a fuss if I don’t go.” She surprised him with the first unequivocal look she’d afforded him. “I was wool gathering. I do apologize, my lord. This can be of no interest to you. We are all so distressed about Bart.”

  He smiled, taking in her delicate features as wisps of chestnut hair stirred in the breeze exposing a crescent-shaped scar near her ear. “Perfectly understandable. And remember, not a word to anyone. Good day, Lady Helen.”

  She hesitated. “I should like you to keep me informed. With my father away, and Mama busy with her latest charity, it behooves me to deal with these matters.”

  “Of course.” He was pleased he hadn’t revealed his shock at that statement. How did she think of herself, twenty-four going on forty? He watched her walk briskly away down the path. And she was wrong. Everything about the Kinsey family was now of intense interest to him. Jason walked along the street. He’d always managed a pleasant rapport with his servants, but the Kinseys seemed to care a great deal for their staff. He suspected that Lady Helen was, by nature, a mother hen. Had she decided to trust him? Or was she still reserving her opinion? She would not trust easily, he suspected.

  It could be that Bart ingested arsenic or even mercury in some tonic he bought. Systematic poisoning pointed to regular doses, either by him or administered by someone else. It wasn’t an accident. The footman had something important to tell him. It was too convenient for him to be silenced so neatly. If only Bart had added his name and address to the letter, Jason might have been able to save him. The possibility brought him to a stop, and he curled his fingers around the green-painted wrought iron fence enclosing the entry and stairs leading to the basement of a townhouse and stared blankly, forcing his thoughts back to the war.

  Some of his army friends liked to relive the glory of battle when they gathered together in some tavern. Jason did not. He left it to his dreams. But Bart’s death brought it back in all its gory horror.

  It had rained during that night of the last campaign. While he stood here in Mayfair, he could almost detect the metallic smell of blood, mingling with the malodourous odors of farm animals and mud, the heavy moisture-laden air thick enough to choke a man. The screams and groans of the injured men and horses that rent the air came back with startling clarity.

  After the British, under Colonel MacDonnell, had taken over the range of chateau buildings at Hougoumont, Jason spent the night working with the men, building fire steps and loopholing, which made narrow slits in the walls. All the gates were blocked, other than the main gate on the northern side to provide access.

  On the morning of the eighteenth of June, the French attacked the chateau. They surged around the buildings and charged the main gate. Under the barrage, the gate was damaged. It became a deathly struggle to keep the French from swarming inside. Finally, Jason and a party of British and German soldiers were able to force the gate shut, and Sergeant Graham of the Coldstream Guards put the bar in place. After it was fortified, Jason led a group of men to hunt down the few French soldiers who had slipped through and roamed the outbuildings.

  The attack on the château continued hour after hour, and during the afternoon, the supply of ammunition began to dwindle. Corporal Bartholomew Smyth volunteered to drive the ammunition wagon through the French lines. The young man argued forcefully that his childhood spent in Cumbria, the wettest county in England, lent him the advantage of being able to drive fast over the muddy ground. Jason had watched him go off toward the main line with little hope the lad would return. Two hours later, a cheer went up, when Bart, bleeding heavily from a nasty wound to his arm, arrived with a wagon of cartridges.

  They held on when Napoleon ordered the château be razed to the ground. Howitzer shells demolished the château and set it ablaze. In the final closing hours of the battle, despite heavy casualties, and only the chapel left standing, they prevailed. The French failed to capture Hougoumont, and the woods and fields around it were strewn with their dead and dying.

  Later, Jason visited Bart, whose wound was being tended to. He poured a considerable amount of his whiskey down the young corporal’s throat from his flask before the sawbones sawed off Bart’s arm at the elbow. Jason had seen many acts of valor during the war, but Bart’s cheeky young face, good humor, and stunning bravery remained in his memory.

  Jason was only too aware that thousands of ex-soldiers like Bart flooded into London after the war. Jason had employed a few himself, sending some to his country estate. The small government pension did little to help them overcome their injuries, find work, or deal with the changed circumstances they’d returned to. It had disgusted Jason and caused him to lose heart. That Bart had been taken back into the Kinsey household as footman, even though he’d lost an arm, said a good deal about them.

  With a soft curse, Jason pushed away from the railings and continued along the street, vowing to find Bart’s murderer.

  He raised his cane to a passing hackney.

  “Whitehall, if you please, jarvey,” he ordered, climbing inside.

  “Right you are, guv.”

  As the carriage turned into Pall Mall, Jason thought again of the compassionate Lady Helen. Most young women were more concerned with finding a suitable man to marry than taking care of staff. Bart must have appreciated her kindness.

  He removed the fragment from his wallet but, even in broad daylight, still could not make out the blurred words. He put it away again as the jarvey pulled the carriage to a stop.

  ***

  Helen entered the morning room, feeling uneasy about Lord Peyton. Why was she drawn to confide in him? To trust him when she knew so little about him? It was unlike her to allow his good looks and manliness to affect her judgment. And it would be foolish to put her trust in him before she found out what lay behind his involvement. Bart deserved her objectivity. She had promised him she would find out the truth.

  “Where have you been?” Diana asked. “I wanted to show you the riding hat featured in this month’s La Belle Assemblée.” She held the page up, showing a hat of a rather flamboyant design.

  “I was just seeing Lord Peyton out. I don’t care for it. You’d have enough feathers to fly with.”

  “Peyton was here?” Diana frowned. “And you didn’t tell me?”

  Helen did not like keeping secrets from her sister but knew she must shield her from this worry. “I wasn’t aware of it myself until I came across him in the passage with Mama. He didn’t stay long. He wasn’t here on a social visit.”

  Diana turned the page of her magazine. “Was it concerning Bart?”

  “Yes. Peyton was his captain during the war.”

  “Oh, really? How remarkable. What did Peyton have to say?”

  “He is trying to find out why Bart wished to see him.”

  The confusing mystery nagged at her. Had someone threatened Bart or even deliberately harmed him? What did those strange words written on the burned fragment mean? Would Peyton be able to make out more of it and discover their significance? If
he did, would he tell her? Infuriating how women were shielded as if they were fragile ornaments to be tucked away somewhere safe. Even he had suggested she leave London. It was all she could do not to snap at him, when he really didn’t deserve it. He was obviously trying to protect them. She bit her lip. There she was making excuses for him. He was a man after all. And some men could be underhanded and ruthless. Well, she would continue to investigate on her own. She might find something of interest to aid him. Warming to the plan, she hoped another chance would come to talk with him and learn his thoughts. Something incomprehensible had occurred when their hands had touched. She still wondered at it. She must be on her guard and not be taken in by his clear green eyes, which appeared so compelling and trustworthy. Or his deep voice, which carried such authority. Bart had put his trust in him. But Bart was dead.

  “Helen?”

  Helen looked up from toying with the scalloped edge of her sleeve. “Mm?”

  “I just asked if Peyton plans to call again.”

  “Yes. When Papa arrives home.”

  “Oh, that’s good. I’ll be sure to see him.”

  “You can hardly lurk in the corridor or force your way into the library. Papa would be cross.”

  “Papa is never cross for long.” Diana giggled. “Mama and I are to visit the dressmaker tomorrow for the final fitting of my ball gown. I can’t wait for you to see it. Mama insisted I wear white because all debutantes do, but I did want something that would make me stand out. It is lovely though. I’m sure you’ll agree.”

  “You will stand out, dearest,” Helen said confidently. “You’d look lovely if you were dressed in a jute sack.”

  Diana laughed. “Well, it’s certainly not a sack. Do you think if I asked Papa to invite Lord Peyton to my ball, he would come, and dance with me?”

  “He might. You can only ask.” Helen bit her lip at the flood of intense jealousy that snaked through her. She was still trying to reason with herself when their mother entered the room.

  “Here you are. I have decided your idea is an excellent one, Helen. Toby and Alexander are to stay with your grandfather for a few weeks. And Miss Prince is to accompany them.”

  “Toby will like that. He is dreadfully fatiguing when he has nothing to occupy his time, but why are you sending Alexander?” Diana glanced at Helen. “He won’t want to go without Helen.”

  “Nonsense,” Mama said. “There is still much to be done to prepare for the ball. Alexander loves Miss Prince, and your grandfather spoils him most dreadfully. They will leave for Walcott tomorrow.”

  “I might go with them and help Miss Prince settle Alexander in,” Helen suggested.

  “But you might miss my ball!” Diana cried.

  “Diana is quite correct. If we have a spate of bad weather, the roads could become impassable.” A small smile tugged Mama’s lips as she walked to the door. “You must wear your new gown. It cost your father a small fortune.” She paused a hand on the doorknob. “I need to discuss a matter with Mrs. Chance. Come and see me in my sitting room in fifteen minutes, please, Helen.”

  Was she in trouble? As the door closed behind their mother, Helen traced the scar at her temple, unnerved. Nothing would sway Mama when she was determined. Didn’t Papa always say so?

  She had not wished for a new dress. She loathed balls, and anyway, it was Diana’s night to shine.

  Helen had not enjoyed a social occasion for years. Not since she danced twice with a handsome gentleman and strolled in the perfumed garden by moonlight. He had proved himself not to be a gentleman at all, as it turned out. Instead, he was a cold, unfeeling rake.

  “My goodness, your face! What ghastly thing are you thinking about?” Diana asked.

  Diana had never been told the extent of Helen’s fall from grace, and Helen wasn’t about to tell her now. “That I shall have men crushing my toes again,” she said, “and either treating me with indifference or sympathy.”

  Diana shook her head. “You never know, you might meet the man of your dreams.”

  Peyton’s lean face appeared in her mind’s eye, and annoyed with herself, she feared she already had.

  In answer to her mother’s summons, Helen found her at the small desk in her sitting room, the household accounts open before her. One finger absently toyed with a curl at her neck.

  “May I help you with the accounts, Mama?” Helen asked, pleased to find something to distract her mother from her purpose.

  “No thank you.” Mama pushed back her chair, rose, then sat on the small tapestry sofa, gesturing for Helen to join her.

  Helen sat, bracing herself for one of Mama’s talks.

  “You must not give up on life, dear child.”

  Helen sighed. “I haven’t Mama.”

  “If not marriage, what do you plan for your future?”

  “Harry insists he will never marry. I thought I might live with him at Cherrywood, when the time comes, and assist him in managing the estate. I am rather good at that sort of thing.”

  Mama put an arm around her. “My dear child. Your brother might state at the ripe old age of twenty-two that he has no wish to marry, but I assure you he will change his mind.”

  “Not everyone marries, Mama.”

  “No. Not everyone is suited to it. But you are. You’re practical and capable. You are also very loving. Surely you want to be a mother one day?”

  “I don’t expect to.” That was unfair. A pain struck deep in Helen’s ribs, and she drew in a slow breath. “I don’t know how you can say…”

  Mama patted her hand. “Because I know that life moves on and brings with it change. Be brave, my dear. Now go along. I have much to do.”

  Helen made her way downstairs. Was she cowardly? She’d considered her decision to be an honorable one. She ran her hand down the smooth wooden banister, her plan still solidly in place. Once Diana married, Helen would refuse to come to London for another Season. She would remain at Cherrywood. She continued down with a sigh. To be there again in June when the wild roses and blackberry were in bloom and the pretty house martins with their short, feathered legs collected mud for their nests. To sit by the pond and watch the demoiselle dragonflies skim across the water. It was a balm to her wounded soul. She could be content there. The ancient house set in its lovely park required a keen hand to run it, even before it became Harry’s, and Mama with her charities and Papa with his explorations showed little interest.

  Chapter Seven

  At the sound of a trumpet, Jason looked out Parnell’s office window and was caught by the colorful display made by the mounted King’s Life Guard in their red tunics and white-plumed helmets and the Blues and Royals in their blue tunics and red-plumed helmets. Mounted on their immaculately groomed horses with breastplates shining in the sun, they assembled on the north side of the Horse Guards enclosure.

  Parnell leaned back in his chair and formed a steeple with his fingers. “We still have the problem of this threat to the country’s security. We can leave the murder of the footman for Bow Street to deal with. The government cannot be seen to spend more time and waste resources on what might be the fanciful notions of a footman now deceased, but it appears that we must get to the bottom of Smythe’s letter in case there is any substance to the threat.

  “I find it impossible to suspect Lord Kinsey of being involved. Smythe may have heard about the threat elsewhere.”

  “I’d be happy to continue with the investigation, but outside of Kinsey House, I have nothing to go on.” Jason flicked a gaze at Parnell’s shrewd eyes. He saw no reason to explain that he owed it to Bart. Parnell was a hardnosed member of the War Office, where everyone was seen to be expendable for the right cause and, sometimes, the wrong one. He must always have his eye to the bigger picture, the security and protection of England.

  “Then continue on.” The spymaster cocked an eyebrow. “No woman involved in this who you feel you should rescue is there?”

  Jason tightened his jaw, as the heavy weight of responsibility set
tled over his shoulders. “Yes, several, as a matter of fact, and two young males. Lord Kinsey is away in the East.”

  Parnell gave him a wry glance then picked up a sheath of papers. “Send Bartlett in on your way out. And keep me informed.”

  Leaving Whitehall, Jason made his way to Mr. Belvedere’s home in Curzon Street. A solidly built man in his fifties, he was a member of the Royal College of Surgeons, who Jason considered to be a cut above the self-serving quacks and sawbones he’d dealt with in the past.

  Belvedere pushed the tonic bottle across the desk to Jason. “I’ve tested this. Arsenic. There was enough to prostrate Smyth while slowly killing him. I might have suspected poisoning, but other symptoms masked it. The patient had not told me he was taking a tonic. I would certainly have advised him to stop. God knows what these unscrupulous, so-called herbalists add to their medicines they peddle to desperate people. I became suspicious at the amount of hair Smyth was losing, but it was too late then.”

  Jason’s hand tensed around the bottle.

  “It wouldn’t have helped the poor fellow much if he had stopped. I ordered an autopsy on Mr. Smyth. He had a cancerous tumor of the stomach and only a few months to live.”

  “Thank you.” Jason drew in a breath to ease his tight chest. “I’ll take the bottle with me and pay this herbalist a visit.”

  “You won’t stop these people, though. Once they’ve found a way to fleece the public they don’t let up.”

  “Unless they’re placed behind bars,” Jason said bitterly as rage rampaged through him.

  “Quite so, but there’s no law to enforce it, sadly. One day perhaps.”

  Jason pocketed the bottle and walked home. Should the poisoning prove to be deliberate, it would have to be handed over to Bow Street for evidence. Tonight, he had other fish to fry in a certain gambling establishment. And he would go armed.