The Scandalous Lady Wright (The Regency Intrigue Series Book 4)

by M C Beaton

  “I suppose you’ll be safe enough,” sniffed Miss Tippet. “He obviously dotes on that Frenchie woman. Did you ever see such a gown? And not even a handkerchief in her garter.” Miss Tippet breathed heavily through her nose with the irritating wheeze of the overfed. “Oh, here’s m’cousin.”

  Jolly wandered amiably over, sat down next to them, and introduced himself to Emma. “I was just telling Lady Wright,” said Miss Tippet, “that the Comte Saint-Juste is making a cake of himself over that Frenchwoman. And her here with her husband, too! But then, your friends never had any morals.”

  “He’s investigating Sir Benjamin’s murder,” said Jolly, throwing Emma a comical look of dismay.

  “So that’s what it’s called,” said Miss Tippet with a breathy laugh. “In my day it was called—”

  “Never mind what they said in your day,” interrupted Jolly hastily. “Care to walk with me for a little, Lady Wright?”

  Emma rose and went off on his arm, grateful for his undemanding company. It was a formal, regimented garden, still laid out in the Elizabethan manner with clipped yew hedges and flower beds edged with lavender. The smell of the yew reminded Emma of churchyards and funerals. They passed the comte and Madame Beauregard. The comte smiled and bowed; Madame Beauregard looked briefly at Emma, a small curved smile on her mouth and a hard look of hate in her eyes.

  “By George!” exclaimed Jolly as they moved on, “That Frenchwoman looks jealous of you.”

  “She has no reason,” said Emma quietly.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said Jolly, glancing down at her. “Never known Saint-Juste to take such an interest in anything before.”

  “It’s the joy of the chase,” said Emma with a bleak little laugh. “A fox, perhaps, would do just as well.”

  “Oh, he don’t hunt,” said Jolly cheerfully. “Can’t stand it.”

  “He considers it cruel?”

  “Perhaps, but he says he don’t like his clothes getting muddy.”

  “I should have guessed,” said Emma in a thin voice. “My lord does not take anything seriously.”

  “Never had reason before to take anything seriously,” said Jolly. “His grandparents actually supported the revolution in France… well, before it got under way. But they got topped just like the others. I think that’s a serious enough thing for a whole lifetime.”

  “How dreadful!” Emma raised her hands to her cheeks.

  “They’re a cruel race, the French,” said Jolly easily, forgetting he was also talking about his best friend. “Cut your throat as soon as look at you.”

  Again, Emma had that odd feeling she did not know the comte at all. She had half a mind to refuse his invitation to the play, but that would mean spending an evening watching Miss Tippet eat. The Harveys’ breakfast was to be followed by a dance, but because of her mourning state, Emma could not dance. At least the play would take her mind off her troubles.

  But at the playhouse, her treacherous body seemed constantly aware of the comte, of every shift of muscle, of the curve of his mouth, of his ridiculously long lashes, of the faint scent of cologne which he wore.

  The play was silly. It was called The Wicked Squire and followed the well-worn theme of the heroine and her aged mother being put out in the snow if the heroine did not marry the squire. And then Emma sat up straight and leaned forward. There was something familiar about the heroine’s voice. Her name on the bills had proclaimed her to be a Mrs. Jessica Friendly. Emma fumbled in her reticule and took out a small pair of opera glasses, studied the stage, and then let them drop into her lap with a gasp. For Mrs. Friendly was none other than Mr. Henderson’s Miss Philby.

  “What is wrong?” asked the comte sharply.

  “I have been the victim of a cruel trick,” said Emma slowly. “I did not tell you because I thought I was protecting a good lady’s name. The reason I did not go driving with Mr. Henderson was a Miss Philby called on me and said that she was not only Mr. Henderson’s mistress but the mother of his child. Why would anyone do such a thing?”

  “Obviously to stop you getting close to Mr. Henderson,” said the comte. “But why? Did Henderson say anything about the murder?”

  “He sent me a letter saying he wished to help to solve the murder and that he was sure Sir Benjamin must have papers hidden in the house.”

  “And so someone hired an actress to put you off! We’ll go and visit her afterward and see what we can find out.”

  But when they met Mrs. Friendly in the Green Room after the performance, she looked boldly at Emma and disclaimed all knowledge of her and of a Mr. Henderson and would not be shaken.

  “Someone is paying her well,” muttered the comte as he helped Emma into his carriage.

  “But there is more!” exclaimed Emma. “She showed me a love letter from Mr. Henderson, and I compared it with the letter he had sent me earlier, a letter in which he suggested there might yet be papers hidden in the house, and handwriting and signature both matched.”

  “Gentlemen are always sending passionate love letters to actresses,” said the comte. “I have done so myself. He could have sent her one some time ago. I had better see Henderson tomorrow and find out who knew of his proposed drive with you and who knew he had sent you a letter suggesting you tear the house apart.”

  But that remark of the comte’s that he, too, had sent passionate letters to actresses had sent Emma’s spirits plummeting to a new low. There was no sign of Miss Tippet, and Emma only sat briefly with the comte in the drawing room over the tea tray before pleading tiredness and retiring to bed.

  She slept badly, tossing and turning, plagued with dreams of the comte making love to Madame Beauregard. She awoke with a start, and by the light of the bed lamp looked at the clock. Two in the morning. She turned over on her side and tried to get to sleep again.

  And then she heard a furtive, intermittent tapping sound through the stillness of the sleeping house. She rose and pulled a thin muslin wrapper over her nightgown, picked up a candle and lit it, and cautiously opened the bedroom door.

  Silence.

  And then just as she was turning away that tap-tap-tapping started up again.

  She crept toward the landing, the long skirts of her nightgown making a whispering noise on the floor. She leaned over the banister. The tapping was coming from the ground floor. She made her way cautiously down to the next landing and again leaned over.

  The study door was open and a yellow shaft of light from the oil lamp that stood on a table inside the study shone out into the hall.

  She inched her way down the stairs, blowing out the candle as she did so. She would try to get a glimpse of whoever it was in the study and then rouse the servants.

  She reached the open door of the study, set the candlestick down on a side table, and looked inside.

  The Comte Saint-Juste, attired in a garishly embroidered dressing gown, was tapping at the paneled walls of the study. She was about to call him when she suddenly felt a frisson of fear. Why was he so assiduously searching in the middle of the night when he could easily search with the help of the servants in broad daylight? His profile was toward her and his face looked grim and set.

  And then he suddenly turned, as if aware of her gaze, and looked straight at her, his eyes quite blank. Then he smiled, and his face was restored to its usual, charming, smiling… mask?

  “What are you doing?” asked Emma, her own voice sounding oddly faint to her ears.

  “Looking for more evidence,” he said lightly.

  “Why now?” demanded Emma. “You have all the time in the world to search during daylight hours.”

  “I could not sleep,” he said. “I was thinking of you.”

  He walked toward her, and Emma backed away into the darkness of the hall, all at once aware of the thinness of her nightdress covered only with a frilly muslin wrapper.

  “I suggest you leave your investigation until morning,” said Emma, “and get the servants to help you.”

  “As you will. You l
ook so very beautiful. Your hair is like a midnight river.”

  “Stay away from me!” said Emma.

  He stopped and looked at her, his eyes searching hers in the darkness. “All men are not as your husband was,” he said softly. “I could show you…”

  He moved quickly and caught her in his arms. She stood rigid with fright.

  His head bent down toward her mouth and she closed her eyes. His mouth would crush hers and his teeth would grate against her own. His hand would squeeze and crush and maul her breast—such was Emma’s experience of lovemaking. But the mouth that met her own was gentle and warm and caressing, the body now pressed tightly against hers, firm and muscled under the dressing gown. The kiss grew deeper and more searching. She felt a hot yearning, and then her body went on fire and fused into his own. Her hands rose to caress the crisp fair curls at his neck. He freed his mouth and looked down into her eyes. “You enchant me,” he said huskily.

  A voice of reason screamed in Emma’s head. He is a practiced seducer. He has not said one word of love. She wrenched her treacherous, betraying body out of his arms and ran up the stairs, not stopping until she reached the sanctuary of her room.

  She locked the door and then leaned against it, shaking. He could no longer stay in her house. She might find the courage in the morning to tell him to leave. She was ashamed of her own aching body. Her breasts felt heavy and swollen, and there was a pain at the pit of her stomach. He had bewitched her as he had bewitched so many women. The murder must be forgotten. Better to live at risk without the comte’s help than to lose her soul to an uncaring fribble.

  She fell asleep at last, rehearsing dismissal speeches in her head, as yet unaware that tragedy would step in to make any such speeches unnecessary.

  Austin was brushing out Emma’s hair in the morning when she said, “Did you get your present, my lady?”

  “No,” said Emma, regarding the maid in the mirror. “What present?”

  “It was the most gigantic box of sugar plums you ever did see. Came while you were at the play.”

  “From whom?”

  “Don’t know, my lady. Just a card to say that they was from an admirer. Tamworthy took them up to the drawing room and Miss Tippet said she would see that you got them.”

  Despite her worry about the comte, Emma began to laugh. “Poor Miss Tippet. It must have been more than flesh and blood could bear. She has probably eaten the lot and is now wondering what to tell me.” Then Emma frowned. She wanted Miss Tippet to be present when she told the comte that he must no longer spend his nights in her home. Then he could smile and charm for all his might, but Miss Tippet would be protection.

  “I can finish dressing myself, Austin,” she said. “Go and rouse Miss Tippet and tell her I wish her to attend me.”

  “Very good, my lady.”

  Austin left and Emma sighed. What a good maid she was! And how good and loyal the other servants were. If only this awful menace would go away and leave her free to lead a normal life.

  And then a piercing scream seemed to rend the house from top to bottom.

  Emma ran from her room, half dressed, toward the direction of those terrible screams. They were coming from Miss Tippet’s bedchamber. She collided with the comte, who came darting out of his room. “Something awful has happened,” gasped Emma. He pushed past her, his face looking harder and older. Followed by the servants and Emma, he strode into Miss Tippet’s bedroom. Austin was standing by the bed. Her screams had stopped and she was sobbing hysterically. Miss Tippet lay half in and half out of the bed, her face purple, her eyes staring, her tongue sticking out. Sugar plums lay strewn across the bedspread, and a large box lay upended on the floor where it had fallen.

  “Silence!” ordered the comte, thrusting the shaking, weeping maid toward Emma. He stooped over Miss Tippet and then straightened up. “Call the runners,” he said over his shoulder to Tamworthy.

  “But surely she has simply eaten herself to death and had an apoplexy!” said Emma over the weeping maid’s shoulder.

  “No, my lady,” said the comte. “Unless I am very much mistaken, the unfortunate Miss Tippet has been poisoned!”

  The rest of the day was a nightmare of comings and goings, of interviews by the authorities, of a visit from a distressed Jolly and his relatives, and of the awful awareness for Emma that the poisoned sugar plums had been meant for herself.

  By late afternoon she was looking so white and strained that the comte said urgently, “Go! Get away from this house. Go and call on one of your friends, the Duchess of Hadshire, say. Take Austin. I will handle any more inquiries.”

  “Yes, yes,” agreed Emma in a distracted way. She wished he had not kissed her. Then she might have been able to stay with him and talk away some of her fears. And what if he himself were the murderer? She called for her carriage and departed for Matilda’s home, glad to escape.

  The duchess was at home, and to Emma’s delight was entertaining Annabelle. Both women listened in shocked alarm as Emma told them of the latest developments.

  “You must not return,” said Matilda firmly. “You must stay here with me. Your maid may return with my servants and collect your baggage.” She reached out a hand to ring the bell, but, at that moment, the double doors to the duchess’s charming Rose Saloon were thrown open by two liveried footmen, and the Duke of Hadshire walked in.

  Matilda’s hand dropped from the bell as she rose to face her husband, who had taken out his quizzing glass and was surveying Emma as if she were a new and curious type of beetle.

  “It is all most shocking, my love,” said Matilda. “Poor Lady Wright’s companion has been murdered… poisoned… and by a box of sugar plums intended for her. She must not return there, and so I have asked her to stay with us for a little. Our servants can collect her trunks and…”

  Her voice trailed away before her husband’s raised eyebrows and frosty stare.

  “More mayhem?” he asked in his thin, precise voice. “I am sorry, Lady Wright, but we cannot allow you to reside with us. Your very presence would put our own lives at risk, as someone appears very determined to be rid of you. Not,” he went on, giving Emma a slight bow, “that we would not normally be charmed, nay, delighted to have your fair presence in our household.”

  Matilda’s little hands tightened into fists. “A word with you in private,” she said to her husband.

  “La! We have no secrets and therefore anything we say is for public ears. Rougemont!” he called over his shoulder. His valet came quietly in and stood to attention. “Rougemont, Lady Wright and Mrs. Carruthers were just on their way out. I am sure you will be charmed to assist them to the door. Ladies, your servant.”

  The air of veiled menace in the duke’s manner and the brutish air of his servant were enough for Annabelle and Emma, who quickly took their leave. Outside on the pavement, Annabelle said tearfully, “Oh, if only you could return with me, but Mr. Carruthers is hardly ever sober and he… he can be quite violent, especially when he has lost as much at the tables as he has done recently.”

  Emma returned home, her heart sinking as Curzon Street approached. The London streets were quiet. Society was all indoors, preparing for the evening’s entertainments that lay ahead. A lamplighter was climbing up his ladder to light the parish lamp at the entrance to Shepherd Market. Emma could smell the whale oil from his can as she passed and the smell of meat from the now-closed butchers’ shops in the market.

  She felt very alone in the world and then chided herself for forgetting that she had Austin and the other servants. But it was hard to forgive her parents for not rushing to her side. She had written to them an express about the murder of the secretary but had received no reply at all. There was only the comte left, a man who devastated her senses so that she could not think about him clearly.

  And yet when she entered the house and was told that the comte had removed his belongings, she felt a sense of loss and a deeper sense of isolation. But how could he stay? She was without a chaperon
e. Miss Tippet’s relatives had removed her body after it had been examined by two physicians and a pathologist, said Tamworthy in a hushed voice. Miss Tippet had indeed been poisoned. If Tamworthy might make a humble suggestion? My lady would be better to remove to the country on the morrow, away from this evil place.

  “Of course you are right,” said Emma. “And yet to run like a coward! There must be something in this house, Tamworthy, that the murderer or murderers know of and fear. Tomorrow morning, send for joiners and builders and carpenters, and we will take this place apart piece by piece, floorboard by floorboard, and then we will leave for the country.”

  But Emma did not feel nearly so brave when she sat alone in the drawing room over the tea tray. She had a mad impulse to ring for all the servants and ask them to join her. But that impulse quickly died. Servants were even more rigidly aware of the caste system than their betters. They would stand politely to attention and she would be made to feel even more uneasy than she did with her own company.

  A footman came in and made up the fire and lit the lamps and the candelabrum.

  Emma tried to read, and then she crossed to the piano and began to play softly. If only the comte would come so that she might tell him how she distrusted him. What was he doing?

  In the servants’ hall, Tamworthy was telling the others about the proposed move to the country, “although my lady plans to have this place ripped apart before she leaves.” Mrs. Chumley, the housekeeper, exclaimed in dismay. There would be plaster dust everywhere. The little housemaid, Bertha, put her hand to her brow. “I feel ever so faint,” she whimpered. “Couldn’t I just step up the stairs to the street for a breath of fresh air?”

  “You are always going up to the street,” said Mrs. Chumley sharply. “I think you have a caller.”

  “Oh, no,” said Bertha. “Which of them grand London servants would come calling on a country maid?”

  “Very well,” said Mrs. Chumley, “but only for a moment.”

  Bertha scuttled off. Soon she was standing at the top of the area steps, straining her eyes into the blackness of the night. There was a lamp in its hooped bracket over the main door, but it left the top of the area steps in shadow.