Jane and The Wandering Eye jam-3

by Stephanie Barron

  “Then I may thank the excellence of my art, my lord.” Maria Conyngham abandoned a small knot of fellow players at the nether end of the stage, and drew close to her brother. Her colour was high and her countenance stormy. “I should think you guilty of the grossest presumption, sir, had I not already learned to expect it of the Trowbridge family. For any of you to show your faces here must excite comment — and we have drawn the public eye far too much already!”

  “Maria—”

  She stayed Hugh Conyngham’s words with a look. “My brother is too noble to reproach you, my lord. But I cannot claim so admirable a restraint. Your family has reduced us to our present misery — has nearly accomplished our ruin — and yet you would burden us with your attentions! This is hardly kind, sir; and it cannot be met with civility. I would beg you to quit the theatre as soon as may be. Any notice from the murderers of Richard Portal must be an insult to his memory.”

  Her brown eyes blazed with indignation, and perhaps a film of tears; but the wonderful carriage of her head — courageous, unbowed, determined — must quell the most impertinent.

  Lord Harold parted his lips as if to speak, a curious expression on his countenance — but at that moment, Maria Conyngham started forward, the Trowbridges forgotten.

  “My lord!” she cried, and dropped an elegant curtsey. “You honour us, indeed.”

  The Earl of Swithin brushed past our party, his eyes fixed on the actress, a bouquet of hot-house flowers in his arms. “My dear Miss Conyngham,” he said with a smile, “I cannot remember when I have been made so thoroughly happy by any theatrical performance. Your servant, ma’am.”

  And while the Dowager Duchess looked on, aghast at the myriad discourtesies visited this evening upon the house of Wilborough, her favourite ingénue received the blossoms with a cry of pleasure, and the most ardent look. Mr. Conyngham, however, was less happy in the Earl’s attentions; for he paled, stepped back a pace, and swallowed convulsively.

  But all speculation must be deferred a while, for at my side the Lady Desdemona had commenced to seethe. “What insufferable insolence!” she muttered, her hands clenched within their delicate gloves. “What a despicable display!”

  Whether she spoke of the actress or the Earl, I could not bother to learn; for if ever there was a moment for feminine diversion, surely this was such a time. A crowd of well-wishers had gathered in the wings at our backs, and in an instant must inundate us entirely.

  I stepped around Lord Harold, and hurried forward with a little flutter of breathlessness, as though all but overcome by the proximity of the great; rushed towards Mr. Conyngham with words of appreciation bubbling upon my lips; caught my heel in the hem of my new gown (to such sacrifices a heroine must be resigned), and pitched headlong at the actor’s feet. A shriek of agony, and a clutching at my ankle, amply completed the picturesque.

  I was gratified with a chorus of exclamation, and the swift despatching of a prompting-boy for compresses and ice. Maria Conyngham set down her flowers, and wrung her hands in dismay; the Earl of Swithin looked all his indignation and contempt; and Mr. Conyngham himself carried me to his dressing-room, which proved the nearest to hand. Lady Desdemona Trowbridge followed hard upon his heels.

  “I hope you may be more comfortable here, Miss—”

  “Austen,” I supplied, all humble gratitude, as Conyngham deposited me upon a settee. “I cannot think how I came to wrench the joint so dreadfully. But I was in such transports at the excellence of your performance, sir — I can only think that the headiness of the experience — my utter delight in Kotzebue — undid me sadly. I shall not attempt the theatre again, until I may command a greater restraint of feeling.”

  Hugh Conyngham knelt down at my foot, then hesitated. “May I be permitted to ascertain whether any bones are broken?” he enquired.

  “I cannot see how that is necessary, sir,” Lady Desdemona interposed. “We shall attend to Miss Austen when once we have got her into the carriage. My uncle has gone to summon it even now, I believe, and will have it drawn up to the entrance near the wings.”

  Blessed child! The falsehood was uttered, of necessity, in clearest innocence; but I was certain Lord Harold had embarked upon his scheme of searching Mr. Portal’s offices. I must, at all cost, detain Hugh Conyngham.

  “If I might have a little water, sir,” I said in the feeblest accent.

  “Of course — Smythe! You there — Smythe!”

  The door was pulled open, and a massive, bearded fellow entered the room. Hardly a player, for he lacked even so much refinement as an actor might claim; a labourer about the wings, perhaps, adept in the joining of scenery. Smythe looked from Conyngham to myself, and then at Lady Desdemona, with the most surly expression; and I started involuntarily under the weight of his gaze. For the man possessed a most peculiar aspect, in having one brown, and one blue eye. A hundred years since, it should have been called the mark of the Devil — and might still be considered so, in the remoter villages of the kingdom.

  “A glass for the lady. Quick, man!”

  Smythe turned without a word, and the door slammed behind him.

  “And now I come to think of it — perhaps some brandy?” Mr. Conyngham exclaimed.

  “The pain is excruciating. Perhaps a little would not be amiss—”

  “I should have a bottle to hand, somewhere beneath this chaos of props.” He began to shift among the piles of playbills and swords, horses’ heads and kingly sceptres, that littered the tiny space. Lady Desdemona sat disconsolately at my side, her thoughts quite distant. The Earl and Miss Conyngham, I noted, had not seen fit to follow us to her brother’s rooms. The man Smythe, however, reappeared, and noisily deposited several glasses upon a little table before quitting us abruptly.

  “Capital,” Mr. Conyngham declared, and lifted high a bottle. “The last of my stores from France. Brandy, Miss Austen?”

  I accepted a glass from his outstretched hand. “You are very good to take such prodigious care of me, Mr. Conyngham, and in the midst of all your trials and sorrows. The company is much cast down, I suppose, at Mr. Portal’s sad demise?”

  “How could it be otherwise?”

  “Naturally. A dreadful business. I gather it was entirely unexpected?”

  “But of course, madam! What other possibility might there be, in such a case?”

  I shrugged and sipped at my brandy. “When a man is murdered, one must suppose him to possess some enemy.”

  “One at least, of that we may be certain,” the actor replied, with a painful look for Lady Desdemona.

  She flushed hotly. “If you would mean my brother the Marquis, Mr. Conyngham, I must declare you to be mistaken. Lord Kinsfell is entirely innocent.”

  “I wonder, sir, whether you might not elucidate matters for Lady Desdemona and me,” I said with a conspiratorial smile. “You were placed to advantage at the moment the murder occurred, were you not? For though we were trained upon yourself, in attending your declamation — and it was admirable, by the by, as is every performance you attempt—you were facing the anteroom door. Did you observe anyone other than Lord Kinsfell to enter it, pray?”

  He turned pale, and fixed his piercing blue gaze upon my face as though intent upon reading my thoughts; and then shook his head in the negative. “I did not.”

  “How unfortunate. Perhaps we should enquire of your sister. But I gather she is presently engrossed in the delightful Earl. Their acquaintance is of some duration, I collect — for Lord Swithin is only lately come to Bath. He cannot have met Miss Conyngham here”

  “No — that is to say — I believe they became acquainted in Ramsgate last summer,” Mr. Conyngham replied, backing towards the door, “and I thank you for reminding me of my duty. I must not delay in expressing my thanks to the Earl for his attention; and the pantomime, too, is about to commence. Forgive my desertion, Miss Austen, and pray accept my best wishes for your swift recovery—” And with that, he fled the room.

  “Oh, where is my uncle?�
�� Lady Desdemona cried. “Was there ever so villainous an evening? I am wild to be gone!”

  “And so you shall be, Mona, in a very little while,” Lord Harold said, appearing at the door. “The coach is even now drawn round to the wings, and I am come to convey Miss Austen thither.”

  The glint of satisfaction in his hooded grey eyes did not escape my scrutiny. He had discovered something of worth in the manager’s office, then.

  “Place your hands about my neck,” he whispered, as he gathered me into his arms, “and do not even think of blushing. It would be too much of a performance altogether, my dear, even for your considerable talents.”

  • • •

  “WHAT A QUANTITY OF CORRESPONDENCE OUR MR. PORTAL did conduct, to be sure.” Lord Harold gripped the reins, gave a nod to the boy at the horses’ heads, and chucked the team into motion. We had tarried just long enough in the wings to avoid the greater part of the departing crush, and Orchard Street showed tolerably clear. “By the by, you did not truly suffer an injury, I hope?”

  “To my pride alone, I assure you. We may dismiss the event upon the morrow, when I shall declare my ankle much improved from the hasty attentions and fortuitous brandy of Mr. Conyngham.”

  “He is more solicitous of strangers than his sister.”

  “Indeed. She was consumed with the attentions of her friends — of whom Mr. Conyngham appears more than a little wary.”

  A swift glance, sharp with interest. “You think him no friend to the Earl?”

  “I think him most uneasy in Lord Swithin’s company. He certainly did not meet the gentleman with composure; and I believe he fears his lordship’s influence with Miss Conyngham. I chanced to enquire when the acquaintance was formed, and so discomposed Mr. Conyngham with my curiosity, that he summarily left the room.”

  “You interest me exceedingly, Miss Austen. I had not observed Mr. Conyngham at the Earl’s entrance.”

  “Naturally not. Your gaze was fixed upon the lady.”

  Lord Harold seemed about to speak; hesitated; and fell back upon the gesture of snapping at the reins.

  So he did not contemplate Maria Conyngham with tranquillity. To my extreme surprise and displeasure, the slightest finger of jealousy stirred along my spine.

  “I profited from the moment to enquire whether Hugh Conyngham had observed any to enter the ante — room in the midst of his speech, and from his dreadful reaction, I may assume that he did so — but finer arts than mine must be deployed, before he leaves off denial. But tell me, I beg, of the manager’s office — how went your researches there?”

  “It was as I assumed,” Lord Harold replied with satisfaction. “The magistrate has no more considered of its existence than he has been to the moon. I cannot claim to have been the first to venture within its walls — but I may congratulate myself upon having carried with me those little props so requisite to the occasion.”

  “I do not understand you, my lord.”

  “I would guess that some part of the theatre’s company has already sorted out Mr. Portal’s personal belongings. It should be astonishing, indeed, did they not give way to the temptation. Some few have been at the cash box, which bears the marks of decided ingenuity about its locks, unhappily to little purpose — it is a fearsome thing, and quite impregnable — while others have tumbled his books and what papers he left to hand. I wanted leisure for a thorough perusal of the damage, and leisure I did not have; and so I bent my efforts to an assault upon Mr. Portal’s cunning little desk.”

  “His desk! But had not others been there before you?”

  “Possibly they had. But I alone possess the means to open it.”

  Lord Harold thrust the reins into his left hand, and with his right, fumbled in the pocket of his greatcoat. A slim iron ring was deposited in my lap.

  “A quantity of picks, my dear Miss Austen,” he said exultantly. “One should never travel without them. Occasions invariably arise in which this single device will prove as gold. As it has certainly done this evening.”

  “Your resources must astonish me, my lord,” I replied with conscious irony. “Is any claim of privacy impervious to your seeking mind?”

  “Where it springs from virtue, perhaps,” he conceded. “But I would counsel you never to attempt a conscious deceit, my dear Miss Austen — for from my confederates I demand the most ardent truth.”

  Something in his tone — a harsher tenor than I had experienced of late — brought my gaze to his face. In the faint glow of a moon beset with clouds, the narrow features were utterly unreadable, as fixed as a mask of death.

  “And so you opened the desk?”

  “It bore an admirable lock — French, I should think — and required no less than five attempts with my picks; but in the end, it surrendered to my hand.”

  “Then make haste to share your discovery, my lord! We are nearly come to Green Park Buildings!”

  Lord Harold permitted himself a snort of amusement — for, in truth, we had barely achieved Cheap Street, with the lights of the White Hart aglow around us. “I was so fortunate as to find a packet, Miss Austen, bound up with ribbon and innocent to the naked eye. A swift perusal of its contents, however, revealed it to contain copies of Mr. Portal’s correspondence. I had only moments to shift the papers, but saw any number addressed to at least one gentleman among our acquaintance.”

  “Do not keep me in suspense, I beg.”

  “The Earl of Swithin.”

  “—whom we know to be most anxious on the subject of letters. And what was the nature of Mr. Portal’s discourse?”

  “I cannot undertake to say, without a more concerted study of the documents. I may presume, however, from the tenor of Portal’s words, that they present one overriding aim — the extortion of funds in return for silence.”

  “A blackmailer, as you supposed.”

  “Could you doubt it would be otherwise?”

  “But how despicable!”

  “Say commonplace, rather, and I shall be entirely in agreement.”

  “Then we have found our man!” I declared with sudden hope. “It is the Earl who must have schemed for Portal’s death — and now labours under the most acute anxiety, for fear of the letters’ discovery! This, then, is the meaning of his injunction to Hugh Conyngham, overheard by myself in the Pump Room yesterday.”

  “Not so hasty, if you please, my dear,” Lord Harold cautioned. “There were others consigned to infamy among the packet’s pages. My nephew, Lord Kinsfell, is one.”

  “But what possible ill could Mr. Portal have known of your nephew?” I cried — and too late bit back the incautious words. “Forgive me, Lord Harold. The Marquis’s affairs can form no concern of mine.”

  In the darkness beside me, he inclined his silver head. “I greatly fear, however, that they must command all my attention. If Simon has sadly involved himself, I shall never be easy until I comprehend the whole. But perhaps he has considered of his silence, and I shall learn something to advantage before the inquest tomorrow.”

  I lapsed into silence, in contemplation of inquests, and of the rakish Mr. Portal; his cheerful air, his fondness for wine, his general conviviality. That such hearty good looks might disguise an extortionate heart! It was gravely troubling, and confirmed my general observation of mankind — that they who appear too plausible by half, are generally consumed with iniquity.

  “The packet of letters might be deemed treasure enough, but I was so fortunate as to locate another item of interest,” Lord Harold continued, with a glance in my direction. He eased the curricle around the corner of Charles Street into Seymour, and I espied the bulk of Green Park Buildings looming to the fore. “A small, leather-bound volume, which a hasty survey suggests is Mr. Portal’s account book.”

  “In which he records the fruits of his correspondence, no doubt.”

  “I have learned to hope for it — yes.”

  “And you bore all away?”

  Lord Harold patted the breast of his greatcoat. “I did. The
better part of the small hours shall be spent deep in the manager’s accounts.” He slowed the team to a walk, and drew up before my door.

  “I could wish, sir, that your activity might profit you more than the unfortunate manager,” I said lightly, as I gave him my hand. He eased me down from the curricle’s step, his aspect suddenly grave.

  “Wish me more of courage, Miss Austen. I dread what I may find. For once we risk Pandora’s box, we cannot shut it up again.”

  Chapter 8

  The Dangerous Mr. Lawrence

  Friday,

  14 December 1804

  I SPENT THE FIRST PART OF THIS MORNING — THE MORNING of Lord Kinsfell’s inquest — in composing my account of last evening at the Theatre Royal, and inscribing it here in my little book. I had determined, however, to spend a few hours after breakfast in the society of my sister Cassandra, embroidering a flannel waistcoat that should serve as my father’s Christmas gift. I am a decided proficient in the satin stitch, and may offer my work to the most discerning without hesitation or blush; and though I detest flannel in general, the damps of Bath in January are so penetrating — and the Reverend’s health so very indifferent — that no other cloth would do. And so I took up my workbasket and sought my dear sister in the little dressing-room that adjoins our bedchambers.

  Cassandra’s head was bent over a muslin cap of her own design, intended for my mother.

  “So you did not think well of Lovers’ Vows,” my sister enquired, “though the Conynghams were quite in form last evening?”

  “The entire company might have played the truant, Cassandra, for all my notice — as I think you very well know. I am no friend to Kotzebue.”

  Cassandra was silent at this, her eyes fixed on her cap and her needle flying. “Lord Harold is a very — a very imposing gentleman.”