by Darcie Wilde
With a bow, Lord Adolphus led her to a corner of the room. There, standing quite on her own, a small crystal glass of sherry in her hand, was a tall, thin girl, her sharp face surmounted by a large, beaky nose.
“Miss Vaughn, may I introduce Miss Rosalind Thorne, who is a friend of my cousin, Mrs. Seymore. Miss Thorne, please allow me to present Miss Penelope Vaughn.”
Miss Vaughn smiled, but much more at Lord Adolphus, Rosalind noticed, than at her.
“H-how d-do you do, M-miss Th-orne?” said Miss Vaughn as they made their curtsies.
“I am very well, thank you, Miss Vaughn.”
“L-lord Adolphus p-promised to introduce you tonight. He s-s-s-says you are an avid reader of history.”
Rosalind had thought the stammer was the bashfulness of a plain girl, but now it was clear it was a chronic condition and may have helped explain why she was standing alone. Persons who stuttered, especially women, were frequently considered to be mentally deficient. But a lively intelligence shone behind Miss Vaughn’s eyes and Rosalind soon found herself settling into a conversation of both history and politics that caused the waiting hour to positively fly past. She could not help but notice, however, how frequently Miss Vaughn’s gaze strayed restlessly about the room, until she saw where Lord Adolphus had gone, at which point she would smile and relax again.
“Have you known Lord Adolphus long?” Rosalind inquired.
Miss Vaughn blushed. “W-w-we met last year. A-a-at a book auction my father took me to. Th-they were bidding against one another, and Father went to congratulate him wh-when Lord Adolphus out-bid him.” She smiled. “H-h-hardly romantic, I know.”
“Any meeting that results in a friendship is a good one.”
“Just s-so. Lord Adolphus b-began coming frequently to m-my father’s house to talk with him about books and read in his library, a-and we b-b-became correspondents. It is easier for me.” She made a small gesture toward her own mouth. “B-but we became friends as well.”
The gong sounded for dinner and Mrs. Oldman began moving among her guests, directing the gentlemen to lead in the assorted ladies. Lord Adolphus came at once to stand by Miss Vaughn’s side, and would not be moved. Rosalind could not help but notice how Miss Vaughn’s eyes shone as his lordship held his arm out to her.
Well, Rosalind thought as she let herself be taken to dinner by Admiral Broadhurst, his wife being given over to Mr. Coombs. Another ritual of the dinner party was that, for reasons lost to antiquity, husbands and wives did not go in together.
Rosalind wondered if Lady Bertram knew about even the existence of Miss Vaughn, let alone the smiling warmth with which Lord Adolphus helped her to her chair before he took his own place. What would she think if she did? If Lord Weyland were as close to death as everyone believed, it was Lord Adolphus who would succeed him. If he married and produced a son, or two, or three, the title and all its privileges and appurtenances would slide entirely out of reach to Sir Bertram and his branch of the family.
Inside her mind, Rosalind frowned. Not only at the memory of Lord Weyland, pale and wan on his sofa, speaking with such elegant covetousness of his collection, but at the fact of Lord Adolphus and how he stood between his brother and Sir Bertram. While Lord Adolphus remained unmarried, Sir and Lady Bertram’s attempt to keep the captain from having a legitimate son made some sort of sense. But if Lord Adolphus planned to make an offer to Miss Vaughn, or anyone else, such maneuvers seemed not only malicious, but laughable.
Once again, Rosalind thought that if Sir Bertram, or Lady Bertram, had been inclined to murder anyone, it ought to have been Lord Adolphus. Captain Seymore was the only member of the family who had reason to murder Cavendish.
What a strange and callous creature I am becoming, she thought ruefully as she helped herself to the white sauce for the fish that was placed in front of her. To sit musing over who is most likely to consider killing some member of their own family.
It might all still prove pure coincidence—the story of drama and possible suicide, the death of the actor, the pathetic chasing after the remote possibility of a title. Mr. Cavendish’s death could have been over money, and the malice or disappointment confined to the house of Captain Seymore. But no matter which way she turned them, Rosalind’s thoughts refused to settle quietly on this conclusion. Something was still missing in her understanding.
She thought again of Lady Weyland, and her resemblance to Mrs. Seymore, and how Mrs. Seymore claimed to be an orphan, and yet came so easily and quickly into the sphere of that family.
Rosalind wished she had Alice to talk to, or Mr. Harkness. But as it was, she ate her fish, and smiled at the conversation around her, and continued to wonder.
The dinner passed smoothly, as did that time afterward when the ladies retired to take tea together so the gentlemen could enjoy their port in masculine privacy. A few hints were put forward about the Cavendish murder and the inquest, but Mrs. Oldman squashed them with ruthless politeness. Miss Vaughn sat next to Rosalind and drank her tea, and smiled. The young woman was clearly used to saying as little as possible, and ignoring the pitying glances that were cast in her direction.
But as Rosalind passed her a fresh cup of tea from Mrs. Broadhurst, she saw a different look in Miss Vaughn’s eyes. It was not quite anger, but it was a promise, and a cold one. Miss Vaughn looked out on this host of pitying ladies, and Rosalind knew she was thinking of Lord Adolphus and the day she would outrank the entire gathering. What, she imagined Miss Vaughn was thinking, would they do with their condescension then?
Rosalind drank her tea and wondered that as well.
The gentlemen rejoined the ladies to talk for a while of the season that was drawing to a close, of plans for retiring to country houses, the state of the roads, and the difficulties in packing up a household. Mrs. Oldman proposed that Miss Tully play for the gathering and that young lady leapt up at once. Somewhat to Rosalind’s surprise, she proved to be very good, working her way through a Bach prelude with accuracy, if not inspiration.
Rosalind took advantage of the moment provided by the applause to get to her feet and walk to the window to stretch her legs just a little. A moment later, Lord Adolphus joined her.
“Well, Miss Thorne,” he said. “How goes your acquaintance with Miss Vaughn?”
“I like her,” said Rosalind at once. “She is a very intelligent and perceptive young lady.”
“She is, very much so.” Lord Adolphus smiled fondly at Miss Vaughn. She must have felt his regard, because she glanced in their direction and instantly blushed.
His lordship dropped his gaze. He also changed the subject. “There was something I wanted to bring up with you, Miss Thorne,” he said. “I understand you went to visit my mother today?”
“Yes. I am helping a friend canvas for her charity, and Mrs. Seymore, Virginia, mentioned your mother was particularly interested in causes related to the relief of consumption patients.”
“I see.” Lord Adolphus touched the lapel on his coat. “And did Mother agree to assist?”
“I’m afraid I was unsuccessful in that regard.”
“Well, Miss Thorne, some days my mother can be a little prickly. Perhaps I could be of assistance?”
“That is very generous of you, Lord Adolphus,” she said. “But I would not care to impose . . .”
“It is no imposition. I believe very firmly in the importance of charitable works.” He pulled a folded letter from his coat pocket and passed it to her. Rosalind took it in the hand that held her fan, so that the exchange might be shielded from the gathering.
“Miss Thorne,” said Lord Adolphus softly but firmly. “I am aware you are my cousin Margaretta’s friend. I see that you are also a woman of sense and discretion. You want to help her. I am glad she has help. But I ask you to understand this. My mother’s care for my brother has taken a toll on her. She may sigh after the adventures of her
youth, but she is no longer strong, or worldly. I must ask you to see that she is not disturbed any further with this business. If you have questions, you can ask me, and I promise I will do my best to answer.”
Lord Adolphus walked away then to stand behind Miss Vaughn’s chair and to smile at the music, and at that particular young woman.
Rosalind looked at the paper in her hand. Making sure her back was to the gathering, she unfolded it quickly. It was a bank draft, made out in her name.
It was for one hundred pounds.
CHAPTER 29
The Inquest Is Opened
When the coroner receives news of violent death . . . he is then to issue a precept or warrant to summon a jury to appear at a particular time and place, named, to inquire when, how, and by what means the deceased came by his death.
—John Impey of the Inner Temple,
The Practice of the Office of Coroner
“I hope you had a good breakfast,” Alice said when she and George arrived at Rosalind’s door. “It’s going to be a very long day.”
That had been four hours ago, and only now was the clerk of the court ringing his great bell and calling the inquest into the death of Fletcher Cavendish to order.
“Oyez! Oyez! Oyez!” the old man hollered over their heads. “You good men of this county summoned to appear on this day to inquire for our sovereign lord the king when, how, and by what means Fletcher Cavendish came to his death, answer to your names as you shall be called!”
The magistrate’s court at Bow Street took up one end of a surprisingly plain room. Its unadorned blue-gray walls had been dimmed with ash and soot from all the usual sources. There was only one inadequate window for air, and so the chamber remained hot, close, and stale. The officials who took the statements and testimonies sat behind a broad table covered with papers, pens, candles, and ledger books. A short set of stairs led to the witness stand, which was little more than a raised landing fenced by a carved rail.
The court itself was bounded by an openwork iron fence. The rest of the room was used as a gallery where any who wanted to watch the proceedings could stand. Today, they jostled shoulder to shoulder. The clash and rumble of their voices had begun to feel like a ragged drumbeat against Rosalind’s ears.
According to George and Alice, in a more ordinary case, the hearing would have been held at the public house across the street. Today, however, the crowd was expected to be so large, and so potentially unruly, it was decided to give over the magistrate’s court to the inquest. That way there would be a better chance of keeping the proceedings from becoming a complete mob scene. Rosalind was glad. The partial mob scene around them was enough to make her unexpectedly grateful that she and Alice were to be called to give evidence. The status of witness earned them a place in the actual court, where there were benches, and some relief from the immediate press of the crowd.
Captain and Mrs. Seymore sat at the end of one of the benches, he in his blue coat with its gold braid, and his hat held on the knees of his white breeches. She wore a lace veil, and she was not the only one. Adam Harkness stood talking with another veiled woman, who sat with a horse-faced man Rosalind realized with a start was the actor Edmund Kean.
Adam saw her watching him, and he nodded to her, but did not approach. Rosalind looked away and tried not to think about how she had missed him yesterday. There was so much else to concentrate on, beginning and ending with Mrs. Seymore.
What was Margaretta going to say when she was called? Would she still be wielding the sword and shield of that suicide tale? It was beginning to make the rounds in the papers. Even Alice had been obliged to write something about it, although, Rosalind noted, A. E. Littlefield’s comments were much more ambiguous than the lush and lurid speculations in a number of papers.
“I don’t want to have to retract too much,” Alice said. “In case Margaretta changes her mind.”
“Have you had any luck finding out about her marriage?”
“None!” shouted Alice. “Do you have any idea how many St. Margaret’s there are in London? At least four! There’s Margaret’s-by-the-Lane, by-the-Field, and by-the-Water, and that’s not counting the three variations on St. Margaret and St. Mary’s. You’d almost think she didn’t want anyone to know where she’d actually got married.” She glowered over at Margaretta. Something, Rosalind realized, was wrong.
“I was expecting you for dinner the other night,” Rosalind said.
“Yes, I’m sorry about that.”
“What happened?”
Alice’s mouth tightened.
“Oh, tell her,” said George. “You’re going to have to anyway.”
“I went to see Margaretta,” said Alice. “We had a lovely little quarrel and I’m not sure I’m speaking to her again, even if she comes out of today unscathed.”
“A quarrel? Why? Over what?”
“Over the fact that everybody knows she’s lying!” shot back Alice. “Over the fact that it’s a stupid lie and it’s going to get somebody hanged!”
Heads were beginning to turn in her direction. George whistled and made a lowering gesture. For her part, Alice glowered at the staring men and women, until every last one of them looked away.
“Did Margaretta listen?” asked Rosalind as softly as she could and still be heard. She very much wanted to tell her friend about the resemblance she’d found between Lady Weyland and Mrs. Seymore, but now was not the time or the place.
“I don’t know,” said Alice. “That’s why I don’t know if I’m speaking to her again.” But Rosalind heard her friend’s voice break.
Because you don’t know if you’re going to get the chance. Oh, Alice.
The coroner’s clerk worked his steady way through the business of calling up and swearing in each of the twelve men of the jury. Now, much to Rosalind’s surprise, they seemed to be filing out of the court.
“What’s going on?” she bawled at George.
“Going to see the body!” he shouted in answer. “I hear they’ve brought it down to the cells.”
Rosalind tried not to shudder at the thought of the elegant Mr. Cavendish being carted about in such a manner, and failed.
“Courage, Rosalind!” Alice patted her arm. “Whatever Margaretta decides . . . Oh, look! Isn’t that Lord Adolphus?”
“Where?” Rosalind craned her neck to try to see through the jostling crowd. Alice caught her shoulders and turned her toward the front left corner of the room.
Lord Adolphus had sensibly secured himself a place by the wall, which meant he was only squeezed on three sides. She couldn’t see Sir Bertram or anyone else with him. It seemed once again, Lord Adolphus was acting as his family’s representative. She found herself wondering if his lordship had instructed them to stay away.
“I need to speak with him!” Rosalind cried to Alice. “I’ll be back directly!”
Alice looked at her as if she’d declared she needed to part the Red Sea. However, as no divine intervention seemed forthcoming to ease her passage, Rosalind resorted to the use of her elbows and the judicious application of the heel of her half boot on several sets of toes. By these indecorous but effective means, she managed to maneuver herself to stand in front of the younger of the Seymores’ aristocratic cousins.
Lord Adolphus tried to bow, but there was not enough space.
“Miss Thorne!” he cried. “How may I be of service?”
“I came to return your property, Lord Adolphus.” Rosalind pulled a sealed packet from her reticule. “I am unable to use it.”
She’d sat up late with the bank draft lying on her desk in front of her. She’d written a half-dozen necessary letters, and several unnecessary ones, while she tried to decide what it meant and what to do. The conclusion she reached was the same one she’d held at the beginning.
Lord Adolphus, the bookish and considerate peacemaking brother of a dying marquis
, had offered her a bribe.
“I do not ask for it,” he said to her now.
“And yet here it is.”
“Oh, take it, man!” bawled the stranger at his shoulder. “Got anything for me, sweetheart, eh?”
“Have a care, sir!” snapped Lord Adolphus. “This is a lady!”
“Oh, aye, and can’t you just tell by looking?” sniggered another fellow.
“Your property, Lord Adolphus?” said Rosalind calmly.
Lord Adolphus stared at the packet, and slowly, reluctantly took it from her hand. Rosalind nodded, and turned and began to make her way back toward Alice and George, stepping a little more decidedly on some toes than others.
When she returned to her place on the bench, Rosalind saw that Mrs. Seymore was watching her. But Margaretta did not rise, or speak, or even gesture, except to rest her hand on her husband’s arm.
The jury had reassembled in front of the benches set by the court’s front wall for their use. The clerk was ringing his great bell once more. Both Alice and George pulled out their notebooks and began scribbling furiously. Alice, Rosalind noted, was applying her old drawing lessons and sketching the faces of the persons around them, and not always in a complimentary fashion.
“Oyez! Oyez! Oyez!” the clerk cried and a relative hush spread through the sweltering room. “If anyone can give evidence on behalf of our sovereign lord the king, when, how, and by what means Fletcher Cavendish came to his death, let them come forth and they shall be heard!” The clerk paused for a deep breath. “The court does call one Adam Harkness. Adam Harkness! Draw near and give your attention to this court!”
Because of the crowd, the process of drawing near took a little time, but eventually, Adam was able to mount the stairs to the witness stand. He was, Rosalind saw, formally arrayed for the occasion, wearing his red waistcoat and carrying his white staff of office. His badge was clearly visible on his coat.
She was staring at him, and it took her a moment to realize why. It was because Rosalind had never seen Mr. Harkness so at home. This jostling crowd, this stifling room where fates and secrets would be laid bare before the law was as comfortable to him as a quiet drawing room might be to her.
