by M C Beaton
“There is something in the wind,” said Matilda. “You may not remain ostracized for long. My lady’s maid was chattering the other night about how it is the talk of the town about what an evil man Sir Benjamin was—treating his saintly wife so cruelly. And now, of course, with this other murder, surely suspicion will be lifted from you.”
But Emma, who did not know that her servants had been gossiping assiduously on her behalf on the comte’s instructions, sadly shook her head. “I do not think London society will ever accept me now,” she said. “And I think the comte will soon tire of the game of hunting for the murderer.”
Annabelle glanced uneasily at the watch pinned to her bosom. “I feel I must go,” she said. “My husband lost more money last night and was drinking deep. He will be in a foul mood if he wakes up and finds me gone. Why did I ever marry him? Why did I ever marry at all?”
“It is our lot in life,” said Matilda sadly. “Sold to the highest bidder. That is the way of the world.”
The three women hugged one another affectionately and then went on their separate ways.
Emma approached her home in Curzon Street with a nagging feeling of dread. She was tired, and the events of the night before struck her with force. Tamworthy was waiting for her with the news that the murder of the secretary was in some of the morning newspapers. Emma was amazed. In the country, the local newspaper was often months late with the news, let alone days. She decided to go back to bed and get some much-needed sleep, telling Tamworthy to rouse her if the comte should call.
She awoke at noon and rang for Austin to dress her. She went down to the drawing room and tried to read, tried to play the piano, but found she could not concentrate on anything. Fear dogged her thoughts. When the comte was present, it seemed to Emma that his very presence gave her hope.
The day wore on. The comte did not call, but to her surprise, several members of society did and other left cards and invitations. Emma had become the latest curiosity. Her servants’ gossip had done its work. Society was now prepared to believe her innocent and to secure the novelty of her presence at their parties.
By evening she had given up hope of seeing the comte again. Surely for such a dilettante as he, the novelty of the chase had palled.
The Comte Saint-Juste was being entertained by Madame Beauregard. He had waited in his carriage opposite her home in Manchester Square until he had seen her husband leave.
He explained the reason for his call. He said he was weary of speaking in a foreign tongue and wished to converse with one of his own country-women, while all the while his lazy blue eyes surveyed Madame Beauregard, wondering if this beautiful creature could have anything to do with the death of Sir Benjamin.
And she was beautiful in a full-blown way. She had creamy skin and a high color, corn-blond hair, and very full, very red lips. Her plump figure was voluptuous and her elbows, of which she was very proud, daintily dimpled.
“I sympathize with you, my dear comte,” she said, leaning back against a satin-covered, red-and-white-striped sofa in a way that showed her snowy bosom in a low-cut gown to the best advantage. “These English! Such clods. So heavy and ponderous in their conversation and cold in their amours.”
“And yet,” said the comte, “they gave so many of our countrymen refuge from the Terror.”
“The Terror, the Terror,” she said with a shrug. “I believe the tales to be grossly exaggerated. Seventeen thousand dead, they say. Impossible.”
“Not impossible, alas, madam. There are too many witnesses still alive to tell the tale of the massacres.”
The comte glanced around the well-appointed drawing room and at the rich hangings. Who were the Beauregards? And where did their money come from?
She was leaning toward him now. “Tell me,” she said huskily, “what is the real reason for this visit?”
“Your beauty, madam, draws me like a moth to the candle flame,” said the comte, startled for a moment at his own lack of originality. But Madame Beauregard seemed to take it as her due. “You forget, I am married,” she said, lowering her lashes.
“And I would you were not,” cried the comte. “Pah! This English society wearies me. I long for my own country, my own countrymen. I long to see France strong again and no longer under the heel of these brutish conquerors.”
Now I have gone too far, he thought. But I must gamble. I must fish. I must cast out lures and see which bait she will take.
Her beautiful eyes narrowed a fraction. “So the restoration of our monarchy does not please you?”
“What can a fat fool of a king do?” he exclaimed. “Was all the suffering and bloodshed for nothing?”
“No,” she said in a low voice. “It was for three things—equality, liberty, and fraternity.”
The comte experienced a feeling of triumph. So Madame Beauregard was a Jacobin. His mind raced. So what connection could there be between this French lady and a respectable British politician? And then a voice in his head seemed to say, But this respectable politician loved money so much that he marked the cards and loaded the dice.
“France can be restored,” said Madame Beauregard urgently. “There is a way…” Her voice trailed off and her blue eyes were suddenly shrewd. “But we shall talk of lighter things. Why do you pay court to me when society knows you to be enamoured of Lady Wright?”
“Oh, Lady Wright,” he said casually. “She amused me for a time, but I cannot strike sparks from a cold statue.”
“It is also said you are interested in finding out the murderer of Sir Benjamin Wright.”
The comte laughed. “My dear lady, I have no interest whatsoever in who got rid of the old fool. It was a means to an end, you see. That interest is over.”
She patted the sofa beside her. “Come and sit next to me, dear Comte,” she said, “and tell me when you first became attracted to me.…”
The comte left an hour later and climbed into his carriage, resisting the temptation to scrub with his handkerchief the lips she had so recently kissed. She might be watching him from the window. He had not asked what she had been doing in the Yellow Saloon that midnight, that would have been too clumsy. But he knew that Madame Beauregard longed for the escape and restoration of Napoleon.
Jolly was waiting in the library of the comte’s house with a small, fat, bad-tempered-looking woman whom he introduced as his cousin, Miss Agatha Tippet.
“I trust Mr. Simpson has explained matters to you, Miss Tippet,” said the comte. “You are to chaperone Lady Wright. I am investigating the murder of her husband, and it is essential I move into her home in Curzon Street. But Lady Wright must be correctly chaperoned.”
“Does she keep a good kitchen?” asked Miss Tippet querulously.
“I have not dined there, Miss Tippet, but faults in the cuisine can be easily remedied.”
Miss Tippet had a short neck and one of those heavy, thick-lipped faces you see in Hogarth prints. “I like my food,” she said still in that irritatingly cross voice. “Mr. Simpson has told me my duties, and I will take them seriously. While I am in residence, there has to be no… er… between you and Lady Wright.”
“You are in danger of being impertinent, Miss Tippet,” said the comte sharply, “but rest assured, there will be no… er… at all. Now, I shall escort you to Curzon Street so that you may take up residence immediately. What is it, Jolly?” Mr. Simpson was grimacing and winking.
“Excuse us a moment, coz,” said Jolly, and drew the comte from the room. When they were outside, Jolly said urgently, “Are you sure you want the old quiz? She’s as greedy as a pig and she’s demanding a lot of money.”
“I’ll pay her,” said the comte. “I haven’t the time to look for anyone else. With any luck, Lady Wright will need to endure her for only a short time.”
Had the comte brought Miss Tippet to her any earlier in the day, Emma might have refused her chaperonage. But when they arrived, darkness had fallen and Emma had been beginning to imagine murderers lurking in the dancing
shadows thrown by the candle flames.
“For reasons I would like to keep to myself for the moment,” said the comte after he had introduced Miss Tippet to Emma, “I would not like it known that I am residing here. In fact, I shall only sleep here and be seen at my own home as much as possible.”
“I would like some supper,” interrupted Miss Tippet.
“Madam, you already ate supper,” said the comte.
“That was a little bite, nothing more,” said Miss Tippet. “The only way I can face this unusual situation with equanimity is to eat to keep my spirits up.”
Emma rang the bell and ordered Tamworthy to serve Miss Tippet with supper in the dining room and felt relieved when that large lady eventually departed to take yet another evening meal, leaving the door pointedly open so that, as she put it, no… er… could take place in her absence.
“Horrible, isn’t she?” said the comte with a grin. “You shall not have to endure her company for very long.”
“Have you discovered something?” asked Emma.
“A little. But I will let you know as soon as I have something positive. You can rest easy tonight, Lady Wright. Have you a bedchamber prepared for me?”
“Yes, of course, and it has a window overlooking the garden. I have had callers today. It seems society has decided I did not kill my husband.”
“Excellent. There is no need to wear full mourning any longer, and it will do you good to get about a little. All men are not as your husband was. You are now a rich widow and can afford to pick and choose.”
“I shall never marry again,” said Emma firmly. “I have found freedom and do not want to relinquish it.”
The couple looked at each other, suddenly feeling out of sorts. The comte wondered why he was wasting his time looking for murderers when the frivolities of life were so much more entertaining, and Emma thought he was a shallow-brained man who assumed marriage to be her only goal in life.
Miss Tippet returned, breathing heavily through her nose, and demanding permission to retire. Emma rose and said she would like to retire as well, and Tamworthy was summoned to show the comte to his room.
Emma felt sad and depressed as she lay in bed. The comte had been quiet and polite as he made his good-nights. His eyes had not held that teasing, mocking, and caressing look that had so excited her senses. He did not care for her one whit, she thought miserably. Not that she wanted him to, of course. But it was very lowering to find he thought her unattractive.
When Emma arose the next morning, it was to find the comte had already left. Miss Tippet ate a solid breakfast of grilled kidneys, bacon, eggs, cold pheasant, and toast, all washed down with a small beer.
She did not seem a very talkative lady. Emma wondered what she thought of her odd situation and then decided that Miss Tippet thought only of food and how much she could get of it.
The day was fine and sunny and the footmen had rolled down the red-and-white-striped awnings over the windows. Emma felt restless, a dowdy black figure on this glorious day. She sent a footman to summon one of London’s top dressmakers and then spent a happy hour going through magazines and fashion plates, choosing a new wardrobe.
This action seemed to have brought her to life. She told Miss Tippet to get ready to go out and sent for the carriage. They would drive in Hyde Park and look at the fashionables, and with luck she might meet Matilda and Annabelle.
With Austin she searched the contents of her closets until she found a dull blue silk carriage gown trimmed with black velvet, suitable for half mourning. She ripped the flowers from a shady bonnet and pinned a ribbon of black velvet around the crown. “Now I look less like a crow,” she said to Austin as she twirled around in front of the long glass in her bedchamber.
Austin privately thought her mistress had never looked better. There was a flush of pink on Emma’s cheeks and a sparkle in her blue eyes.
Miss Tippet grumbled under her breath as she climbed into the open carriage. She had been looking forward to an afternoon nap. She was wearing a fusty gray carriage dress which was strained to bursting point over her roly-poly body, and a coral necklace, her pride and joy, had disappeared into the folds of fat around her three chins. She wore a hard, flat, squarish hat impaled with a large pin ornamented with a carved ivory eagle.
Emma tried to make polite conversation as the coachman drove them sedately toward the park, but Miss Tippet answered only with mumbles and grunts.
To Emma’s delight, a great many people smiled and bowed to her. It was almost possible to forget that the murderer of her husband was still at large and might strike again. Surely the secretary, Mr. Tocknell, had simply committed suicide, and whoever it was who had killed her husband had been cheated by him at cards.
The most superb carriages and horses in England were on parade in the park, their occupants dressed in the finest silks and muslins and jewels.
And then she saw the Comte Saint-Juste. He was driving his curricle and talking to his companion, a ravishing blonde dressed in near-transparent pink muslin. She laughed at what he was saying and put a dimpled little hand on his arm.
Emma felt lost and alone and frightened. The comte had said that finding the murderer of her husband was merely an amusement. But she had not believed him. She had hoped… But she refused to allow herself to think what she had hoped. The comte did not see her. She called to the coachman to head for home, and then with relief she saw Annabelle and Matilda sharing a vis-à-vis approaching briskly in her direction. She called again to the coachman, this time to stop.
“You see, dear Emma,” cried Annabelle. “You are fashionable again and it appears we are to be allowed to visit you.” She looked curiously at Miss Tippet, and Emma made the introductions. “Miss Tippet is a relative of Mr. Simpson, the Comte Saint-Juste’s friend. The comte feels I need a chaperone.”
“Yes,” said Matilda doubtfully. She thought Miss Tippet a very depressing sort of chaperone. “We saw the comte. What is he doing with Madame Beauregard?”
“Is that who she is?” said Emma airily. “Probably one of his amours.”
Matilda said slowly, “If she is, then it is odd. I do not remember our frivolous comte ever having set up a mistress, although he is a hardened flirt.”
“I thought the comte was in love with you,” said Annabelle. Emma threw a warning look in Miss Tippet’s direction although Miss Tippet had extracted a bonbon from her reticule and was crunching with the slow satisfaction of a ruminating cow and seemed oblivious to everything else. “Oh, here come three of my husband’s gambling friends.”
Lord Framley, Lord Fletcher, and Mr. Henderson rode up and reined in beside them. They already knew Matilda, so Annabelle introduced Emma. While Lords Framley and Fletcher talked to Annabelle and Matilda, Mr. Henderson said to Emma in a low voice, “I am so sorry for all the distress and misery you must have endured over the death of your husband, Lady Wright. I knew him well.”
“I do not remember meeting you before, sir,” said Emma, “but then, the only friends of my husband that I met were Members of Parliament or ambassadors or diplomats.”
“I would I had met you a long time ago,” he said, and Emma, startled by the boldness of the compliment, raised her fan briefly to cover her face. As if sensing her embarrassment, Mr. Henderson began to talk of operas and plays in a light, amusing way. His eyes were admiring, and Emma found it balm to her wounded soul to be flattered by this handsome Englishman instead of being misled and betrayed by a foreign count whose tastes obviously ran to blowsy blondes.
“I have a box at the opera, Lady Wright,” Mr. Henderson was now saying. “Cannot I persuade you and your companion to join me this evening?”
“That is very kind of you, sir,” said Emma gently, “but, you forget, I am in mourning.”
“Not at all. You would not be expected to attend the ball or supper afterward. It might do you good to sit quietly in the back of my box and listen to the music.”
Emma hesitated. She was about to refuse when she
suddenly thought of the comte arriving in the evening and finding her out instead of sitting waiting for him.
“Thank you, Mr. Henderson,” she said with a smile. “I should like that above all things.”
The comte arrived at Emma’s house in Curzon Street in low spirits. Madame Beauregard had finally told him the name of the man who had been with her in the Yellow Saloon. She said she had been flirting with a great many men that evening at the Harveys’ ball and her husband had been insanely jealous. They had retired together to the Yellow Saloon and had a blazing row, followed by a passionate reconciliation. Lady Harvey had walked in on them, had seen only Madame Beauregard’s face, and had assumed the gentleman with her to be a lover. It was all very neat. But somehow, after he asked the all-important question about the Yellow Saloon, Madame Beauregard had ceased to talk radical politics with him and behind her caresses and wooing he sensed a withdrawal.
“My lady in the drawing room?” he asked Tamworthy as the butler relieved him of his cloak.
“No, milord,” said Tamworthy. “My lady is at the opera.”
“Just like that. With whom did she go?”
“A Mr. Henderson.”
The comte’s face went blank. Then he said, “Bring some brandy to the drawing room and I will wait for Lady Wright to return.”
The comte tried to settle in the drawing room, to read, to do anything to pass the time. But every time he heard a carriage in the street, he leapt to his feet and ran to the window only to retire, disappointed. His anger against Emma grew as the time passed. Here he was, giving up his valuable evening on her behalf and she had gone jauntering off to the opera with one of the very men she ought to avoid. Fear for her sharpened his anger, and when she finally returned, the normally sunny-natured comte was in a towering rage.
“How dare you go out without consulting me first?” he raged.
Emma’s face went blank, as dead and blank as it used to go when faced with her husband’s tantrums. “A Mr. Henderson kindly asked me to share his box at the opera,” she said. “I am tired of being mewed up here like a prisoner.”
