“Aunt Edith heard strong rumours from the servants, but there was no evidence whatsoever, so she kept such tales from Lord Arnwell’s ears. After the fire, his mind was dreadfully disturbed and Lady Lucia was not well, so my aunt was obliged to take over the running of the household in its entirety. I cannot imagine what would have become of them if she had not — an asylum, most likely. For both of them, familiar surroundings and a calm atmosphere enable them to function almost as normal, but the least disruption could be fatal. She has been most concerned about Lord Arnwell lately — attending church and attending dinner engagements! It could disrupt his mind totally.”
“He seems sane enough to me,” Fin said thoughtfully. “Eccentric, of course… reclusive… and bitter, naturally, but I should have said he is no more insane than I am. His actions, bizarre as it may seem to ruin one’s own estate, are yet directed by a clear purpose — to deprive you of as much of your inheritance as he can. It is vengeful, but not at all insane.”
Buckley frowned. “That is a good point. Perhaps time has enabled a recovery of sorts, but I should not like the responsibility of telling him that two of his children may or may not be alive, that we cannot prove it and we do not even know where the son may be hidden.”
“The responsibility would be mine, for I shall tell him myself,” Fin said absently. “But why were they hidden in the first place?”
“My father said they needed to be kept safe,” Mr Buckley said. “Although safe from what — or whom — is a difficult question.”
“From whoever started the fire,” Fin said. “That is the logical conclusion, is it not? And forgive me, Buckley, but I have always wondered if your father started the fire himself in vengeance for losing the title.”
“To deliberately murder an entire family? My father was not the most honourable of men, my lord, and he was lucky he was never called out by the many he cheated at the card tables, but he would never stoop so low as that. If he was responsible for the fire at all, the deaths were a mistake, the consequence of a small blaze that got out of hand.”
“And yet, your father thought they were not safe…”
Is she safe?
“Percival!” Fin said, abruptly sitting forward as he remembered the coded letters. “Percival thought they were not safe, too. He is still worried if Felicia is safe, and not from your romantic snares… there is some other risk.”
“Percival?” Buckley said, shaking his head in bewilderment. “Your uncle? The one who stole all that money on the night of the fire?”
“Yes! He has been writing secretly to Giles from wherever he is hidden — with the boy! What was his name? Oswald… he is keeping Oswald safe, and Miss Armiger, whoever she was, kept Felicia safe. Percival must have realised that the fire was a deliberate attempt to kill the whole family, so he got the two youngest children out, stole the money to live on and sent them somewhere safe. And Giles knows… has known all these years. Perhaps not where they were, but that they had survived and were hidden away.”
“That… seems to be a reasonable assessment,” Buckley acknowledged.
“But Buckley, do you not see? It must have been your father who started that fire, because he was the only one who stood to benefit. He tried to kill Arnwell and his whole family, but he failed. The children were hidden away to protect them from him.”
“My father was a broken man, Finlassan, who was incapable of harming anyone. Besides, he died two years ago. If he were the threat, the heir could have reappeared then.”
“Perhaps he does not know that, or perhaps… perhaps he thinks you are the threat now?”
Buckley swore. “How in God’s name am I to prove my innocence?”
Fin chuckled. “I have no idea, but one thing is very clear — we must lay the whole story before Arnwell tomorrow. It is for him to decide how to proceed.”
~~~~~
Fin, Felicia and Buckley waited for the carriage in the entrance hall. Felicia was white-faced and silent, having been woken early to the astonishing news that she might be the Lady Edwina Buckley, daughter of the Marquess of Arnwell. Buckley was subdued, too, for his own father was surely implicated in the disastrous fire. Fin was not quite sure what to think. If Felicia was indeed Arnwell’s daughter and a great heiress, then perhaps she would want to see something of the world before settling down to marriage. Perhaps she would not want to marry a grumpy, reclusive earl after all.
The carriage arrived, and silently they entered it, the doors were closed and they moved off. They rattled down the drive and crept through the village behind a shepherd herding some sheep along the main street. They had reached the village square and were about to turn through the Shotterbourne gates when Felicia gave a cry.
“There he is! The green coat… by the inn… the man who followed me… he is here! He is here!”
Fin yelled, “Stop!”, Buckley banged on the roof of the carriage with his cane, and they lurched to a halt. Fin had the door open and leapt to the ground in an instant. He tore across the road, heedless of an oncoming cart, and over the village green, his long legs striding. The man in the green coat watched unmoving at first, perhaps puzzled by the sight of a gentleman tearing towards the inn, but then alarm set in as he realised his danger. He turned and fled into the inn.
Fin barrelled through the door after him, through the tap room to a chorus of cries of “Hey there!” and “Watch out!”, into the smoky back room and through the open door to the kitchen. The green coat was half way across it, to outraged shrieks from the cook and her helpers, and a clatter of falling pans. Fin did not break stride, racing through the mêlée, pushing aside a man entering through the far door, and out into the yard, a whirlwind of feathers and squawking chickens.
The green coat had vanished. Where had he gone?
“Over the wall, my lord,” a maid called out, pointing.
With a cry of thanks, Fin set off again and leapt the low wall, only to find himself in a neat garden. Where was he? There! Off again, and in the open Fin’s long legs had the advantage. He was gaining… gaining… but the green coat dashed into a small orchard. He was heading for a wrought iron gate leading into the woods, and there perhaps he would be able to evade capture.
Except that the gate was locked.
The man pulled frantically, then pushed, then jiggled the handle in desperation. It was useless. With no way out, he turned to face Fin, who, without hesitation, thumped him hard on the jaw. It was only as his fist connected with flesh that he saw his quarry clearly. He was naught but a boy! Younger than Felicia, pale-faced and plainly terrified. And now he lay, half unconscious, in a crumpled heap at Fin’s feet.
“My lord! My lord!” Buckley jogged across the manicured lawn. “Well done indeed! A famous capture. That was splendid right hook. But who is he?”
“That is what I intend to find out,” Fin said grimly, hauling the boy to his feet. He groaned slightly and swayed a little, but otherwise seemed able to stand. Blood poured from his nose, but he raised his eyes to Fin’s with an assessing expression.
“He seems harmless enough,” Buckley said, blandly. “To what did you take exception? His coat is not quite the latest fashion, but perfectly respectable for country wear, I should say, or would be without the mud. Oh, I rather fear there is a tear about the shoulder, too. What a pity.”
Fin managed a small smile, but was still too angry to view the occasion with amusement. “He and his father hounded Felicia when she was in Hampshire, following her about in the most threatening manner.”
“We meant her no harm,” the boy said. “We would never hurt her. Quite the reverse, for we were watching over her to ensure no harm came to her.”
His accent was good, like his clothes, and if he had met him in other circumstances, Fin would have stated without hesitation that he was a gentleman. Now… he was merely puzzled.
Several men from the inn arrived, and one had rope with which to bind the boy’s hands and feet.
“Throw ’im in the cellar
, shall we?” one of them said. “Just till someone fetches the constable, like.”
“No, he will stay within my sight at all times,” Fin said.
“Aye, ’e might scarper, sure enough.”
“Indeed he might. Leave his feet untied, if you will, but make sure the binding on his hands is secure. Buckley, will you help me lead him up to the house? I will not take him in the carriage with Felicia.”
“Where are you taking me?” the boy said, not at all fearful. “Which house? Yours?”
“Later,” Fin said. “For now, I hope it will not inconvenience you too greatly if I require you to accompany us to Shotterbourne.”
“Excellent,” the boy said, grinning. Buckley laughed at such insouciance.
They made their way out of the garden, past two elderly ladies hovering anxiously on a small terrace.
“Good day, Miss Trimm, Miss Mary!” Buckley called cheerfully. “No cause for alarm, and no damage to your pear trees.”
They made an odd procession up the long drive to Shotterbourne, Buckley and Fin walking ahead with the boy held by a long rope. Behind, the carriage followed slowly. As they arrived, a troop of footmen emerged. They were expected, for Fin had sent a note to Lord Arnwell.
The boy was gazing around him, wide-eyed and unafraid, until his eye caught the burnt-out shell of the family wing and his expression clouded. Fin took hold of his rope and tugged on it, forcing the boy into the pillared entrance hall. His jaw dropped and he gazed around him in unabashed amazement. At the top of the stairs, Arnwell appeared, with Miss Buckley at his side. He descended the stairs slowly.
“What is all this?” he said, frowning at the boy, an unexpected addition to the party.
“Pray forgive me for bringing such a peep-o-day boy into your house, Arnwell,” Fin said. “I hope he may not bleed all over your floors. He has been harassing Felicia and I dare not let him out of my sight.”
“Has he indeed?” Arnwell said, frowning.
But the boy smiled at him. “Lord Arnwell?”
“I am. And who may you be, ruffian?”
The boy lifted his chin, and with an unexpectedly haughty demeanour said, “I am the Earl of Shotterbourne.”
The marquess made a strangled sound deep in his throat.
“The devil you are,” Fin murmured.
“Wait…” Felicia sounded confused, as well she might be. “You went by the name of Hubert Jameson in Hampshire.”
“That has been the name I have taken for many years,” the boy said. “My true name, however, is Oswald Buckley. I am the only son and heir of Lord Arnwell, and therefore take the courtesy title of Earl of Shotterbourne.”
Fin laughed. “What an interesting day this is, for here is another of your children, Arnwell. We believe Felicia to be the Lady Edwina Buckley.”
“Nonsense.” It was Edith Buckley who spoke. “It is all a sham. I knew this would happen! It is always so when there is no body to be buried… just like the poor Princes in the Tower, impostors appear and the credulous fall for their tall tales. I have been a victim myself, but now I know better. There were no survivors that night. All the children died along with their mother, and anyone who says different is lying.”
And in that moment, Fin understood everything.
28: Reunions
All the air whooshed out of Felicia’s lungs. Was it all about to be snatched away from her, this dream of a family and a true name and a history? But Fin smiled at her and shook his head very gently at Miss Buckley’s words, and Felicia was reassured. Whatever happened, whether Felicia was Lady Edwina Buckley or a bastard of no account, she still had Fin. That must not be forgotten.
“There is much to be talked over, I think,” Lord Arnwell said calmly. “Let us all go into the saloon, yes, this ragamuffin boy too, Finlassan. Hillman, bring some tea, and something to eat. Macaroons… cake… something sweet. Come now, all of you. Princess, will you take my arm, since Finlassan has his hands full.”
Gently he shepherded them up the marble staircase. Felicia was glad of Lord Arnwell’s arm as she trod with care up the polished steps. The boy gazed about him in wonder, craning his neck to gaze at the magnificent arched ceiling high above and twisting to see the lines of marble pillars.
“It is beautiful, is it not?” Felicia said.
“Awe-inspiring! I never imagined— I have heard so much about it, and seen pictures, but nothing quite prepares one for the reality.”
“I am glad you approve, ruffian,” Lord Arnwell said, with a chuckle.
“Look your fill, for you will not be here long,” Miss Buckley said.
“Enough, Edith,” the marquess said gently.
The saloon was another sight to impress the boy. With an amused expression, Fin cut him free of his bonds, and allowed him to walk around the perimeter while the others settled on sofas and chairs around one of the fires. Felicia watched Lord Arnwell anxiously. He seemed calm, but it must be agonising for him to have the prospect of a living heir dangled before him, and then perhaps to have it snatched away again immediately. For her, it made no material difference, for she would marry Fin and be happy… she had a future. But if Miss Buckley was right, then for the marquess there was no future. One shining moment of hope, that was all, instantly dissolved into the same dreary prospect of an empty life and a slow decline of failing health.
The servants moved about silently, opening some of the shutters to let in sunshine, lighting fires, laying out cakes and pastries and bowls of hothouse grapes, handing round glasses of Madeira, just as if this were any normal morning call. Only the dishevelled Mr Jameson struck a discordant note, with his torn, muddy coat and the blood staining his neckcloth, and the usual conversation of such occasions was lacking. Eventually the servants were satisfied that the requisite level of hospitality had been attained and withdrew.
“Now, Edith,” the marquess said. “You will tell us all that you know, and we shall listen respectfully, shall we not, ruffian?”
“Yes, my lord.”
For some reason, Lord Arnwell found the composed answer amusing.
Fin found the boy a footstool to sit upon, one that would not be too stained by his mud and drips of blood, and they all turned to Miss Buckley expectantly.
“There were rumours right from the start,” she said. “One or other of the children had somehow survived… smuggled out and hidden away somewhere, although no one had a reason as to why. The stories differed so wildly that I took no notice, and there was no point in raising false hopes. Gradually it all died away, until she came here.” She cast a supercilious look at Felicia. “Yes, you look so innocent now, miss, but I saw what you were about with your insinuating ways, and I know Lady Drusilla did, too. We both saw how you ingratiated yourself, first with Lord Finlassan and then with Lord Arnwell.”
“Now, just a minute—” Fin began, but Lord Arnwell shushed him with a frown and a little shake of his head. He subsided, but Felicia loved him for leaping to her defence.
“I thought at first it was just the usual — a pretty young woman flattering the men to see what she might achieve. A title, perhaps, from Lord Finlassan. But with Lord Arnwell, she conceived a bolder plan. I hoped to catch her in a lie, and to my regret I used Godfrey as a decoy, to see if she could be ensnared, but she was too clever for us.”
“No, he drew back from any deceit in the end,” Felicia said. “However he might have begun, he ended honourably, upholding his principles.”
“How very touching,” Miss Buckley said sourly. “Nevertheless, she is not Lady Edwina, and now we have another impostor!” She looked at Mr Jameson with such disgust that Felicia was shocked. “I suppose she set you onto her little scheme, did she?”
“You are mistaken, ma’am,” Mr Jameson said politely. “I have had almost no conversation with the lady.” He seemed entirely at his ease in the company, and despite the blood stains and mud and the bruises on his face, he comported himself with a graceful dignity, as if he were truly an earl.
“So you say, and I say you are a liar and a charlatan and a rogue. You are not the Earl of Shotterbourne and you cannot prove that you are.”
“Now that is where you are wrong,” came a deep male voice from the opposite side of the room, where the still-closed shutters cast a deep gloom.
Miss Buckley squealed in alarm, and Buckley leapt to his feet, but the others were smiling, Felicia noticed, even Lord Arnwell.
“Who are you?” Miss Buckley cried, although there was a hint of fear in her voice. “How did you get in here without the servants seeing you? Come out of the shadows and show your face like an honest man.”
“Yes, come forward, Uncle Percival,” Fin said calmly.
Miss Buckley’s intake of breath was audible.
Felicia recognised the newcomer the instant he moved towards them. There before her was the older man who had followed her in Hampshire, although, like the boy, he looked rather more the gentleman in appearance than when she had seen him last.
“You are Percival Warborough?” she said, bewildered. “Then why did you give me such a fright in Hampshire? I do not understand what is going on here.”
“Forgive me for that, my dear, and for sneaking in upon Edith’s farrago of nonsense in this way. I worked here for long enough to know all the concealed doors and servants’ stairs.”
Fin rose to his feet. “I am glad to see you again at last, Uncle, and to have the answers to some of my questions, but there is one I cannot make out. Who is ‘K’ who recently gave birth to a fine boy?”
Percival Warborough burst out laughing, and strode across the room to shake Fin’s hand. “Lord, how you have grown, nephew. Katherine is my wife, as I am sure you have guessed. So my correspondence with Giles has been intercepted. Ah, no, Edith. No sneaking away, if you please.”
Miss Buckley had quietly made her way to one of the side doors of the saloon, but Mr Percival Warborough ushered her back to the group clustered around the fire and loomed over her as, with pursed lips, she seated herself in a chair, while Fin poured Madeira for the newcomer.
The Painter Page 29
