by Jo Beverley
Macy shook his head. “Not this time, Your Grace. Not this time. His daughter’s illness had been the final blow. When the poor Princess Amelia dies—and it cannot be long now—the worst is feared.”
“I must thank you for the potpourri, Miss Massinger,” said the Dowager, as if unaware of any other conversation.
“It is no trouble, Lady Stanforth,” said Belinda comfortably.
“Oh, but it must be a great deal of work,” said the older lady as she pushed pork and boiled potatoes around her plate. She seemed to have forgotten what to do with them. “So clever the way you mix it. I only ever used to use roses. . . . What was the name of that rose? Oh dear, my poor memory. Dear Henry planted it, especially for me. . . .”
She sat, frowning, wandering through the wasteland of her memory.
The Duchess spoke up to fill the silence. “I have a lovely wall of red roses at the Towers. When we were married, the Duke had his gardener create a new one for me called Lady Beth. It took years to produce just the bloom he wanted, and dear Clarence did not want it ever to grow anywhere other than at the Towers. He was, I’m afraid, a very possessive man. Since he died, I have given cuttings away quite frequently, whenever I encounter another Elizabeth whom I like. You should plant something, Chloe. There is a satisfaction in seeing a growing thing for which you are responsible.”
“Surely that is what children are, Grandmama,” said Chloe dully. She would doubtless never have children now. Having lost Justin, she would never marry.
“Plants are a great deal more reliable,” said the old lady tartly, and Belinda laughed.
“They are also more controllable,” the young woman said with unusual dryness.
“Devoniensis!” exploded the Dowager triumphantly. “A beautiful perfume, and quite unmistakable. You have it in the potpourri you brought to my room today, girl. Devoniensis. So clever. The blend you use is most unusual. You must tell me sometime why you include what you do. . . .” Her voice trailed into uncertainty and she looked around. “Vegetables,” she said.
Chloe wondered if the Dowager thought she was sitting at table with a group of elegantly dressed cabbages. She looked meaningfully at Miss Forbes.
“Did you want more beans, Sophronia?” asked that lady anxiously.
“Beans?” The Dowager studied the long slivers of scarlet runners. “You wouldn’t think they’d have a perfume, now would you?”
“They taste very good,” said the companion desperately.
The Dowager looked at Miss Forbes. “What has that to do with it?” The old lady peered around the table. Chloe saw, with a pang, the remnants of the Dowager’s normal self realize she wasn’t being rational, that she was talking nonsense. Her mother-in-law stood with a sigh. “I am afraid I feel very tired,” she said with dignity. “I will take dessert in my room.”
It was a creditable exit, except for her voice floating back. “Did the King leave, Amy? I didn’t notice. . . .”
Randal moved adroitly to fill the silence. “Did you hear about the time old Grivenham fell asleep in front of the Prince. . . .”
When the ladies retired, Chloe thought to escape, but the Duchess took hold of her arm. “Oh no you don’t,” she said. “Ashbys never run.”
“Grandmama, I have a headache.”
“Play some Bach. It’ll do you more good than a powder.”
So Chloe sat at the pianoforte and desperately played Bach, while the Duchess and Belinda sipped tea and conversed. Since discovering Belinda’s ability at cards, the Duchess had been more kindly disposed to the young woman.
Playing familiar pieces gave Chloe time to think. She shied away from thinking about Justin. She knew she should work on the puzzle of the missing papers, but it all seemed unimportant now.
She let her fingers trail to a stop, and no one seemed to notice. She found she was resting her aching head on her hand. This was ridiculous. Then she heard the approach of the gentlemen. No. She wouldn’t. Her grandmother could go to hell.
She stood sharply. “You must excuse me,” she said. “I am not well.”
She reached the door just as Justin opened it. She sailed through without a word, the gentlemen parting before her. She thought she might have heard his voice saying her name, but if so, she ignored it.
15
IN HER BED, the headache was no better, but she had a feeling of security, and time for thought.
It would appear she could never hope to gain a reputation for integrity. Even the man who claimed to love her thought her either wicked or foolish. She found she had the sheets clenched tight in her hands. God damn him for not having faith in her.
Now, however, with a cooler head she could see it was jealousy which tormented him. She knew there could have been a profusion of evidence of treason all around her room, and he would have laughed it off. It was the evidence of her having loved other men which had driven him insane. “Jealousy is the greatest of all evils.” Who had said that? La Rochefoucauld. But then the local people had a saying, “There’s no love without jealousy.”
How would she have felt if she had found a perfumed letter treasured in his room? She imagined it. “I long for you, my darling Justin, for your kisses and the murmur of your beloved voice in the night, for your hand in mine and the feel of you . . .” She broke off what she realized was a letter composed from her own desires.
How would she have felt if she had found him in Belinda’s arms, no matter how innocent it all appeared?
Chloe suddenly realized how much she loved Justin. How right he had been to be irritated with her for pretending it was all academic—a matter to be considered and contemplated—when such a flame was burning between them. With disgust at her own stupidity and complacency, she realized she had been playing like a child secure in the knowledge of a parent’s love. Now that his love had gone, she realized how much she valued it.
Had it gone? Not completely, but it was dreadfully strained. What should she do?
The only thing that would mend matters would be to find those papers and discover who had put the letter and the handkerchief in her room. Their only purpose, she now saw, was to distract herself and Justin so the villain would have time to find the papers without competition. Her headache fled, and her mind felt as clear as crystal.
Probably the culprit hoped Justin would actually fight Randal over the handkerchief. That whole brouhaha would have kept everyone busy for days. Even now, she knew, Justin wasn’t putting his mind to the problem.
Who could have authored such a plan? Belinda? Matthew? Could he write French? Macy? Miss Forbes?
Chloe was suddenly distracted by curiosity as to what was going on right now. She had heard Belinda come up a little while ago. It was likely that the Duchess had retired. If the men were still downstairs, would Randal and Justin end up in a fight? Justin was mad with jealousy, and, though Randal had a cool head, if he realized just how deep and unpleasant Justin’s suspicions were, he might well lose control of himself. She imagined them even now in the garden, facing each other over long lethal pistols. Randal was a dead shot. She’d seen him shoot the flame off a candle without touching the wax.
She was out of bed, struggling into her robe, and halfway down the stairs before she thought how peculiar this was going to look. She froze at the sound of voices. Then relaxed.
Laughter from the billiard room. She heard Randal’s voice and Macy’s. They sounded on the go.
“. . . her garter round the statue’s neck!”
Laughter. “Reminds me of the time the Duchess of Glenatherton fell off her horse . . .”
Chloe retreated rapidly. Was Justin taking part in that carouse? She doubted it, but had no intention of going in search of him. As long as he wasn’t baiting Randal, it could wait until the morning.
Compared to her precipitate travels down the stairs, she crept back up them like the most cautious thief. She was terrified that at any moment Justin might appear and put the worst possible interpretation to her midnight wanderin
gs.
Once safe again in her room, she sighed with relief. Why had she ever thought she wanted an adventurous life? This business was likely to drive her mad. The thought of tranquil, predictable days was as sweet as cool water in the summer.
She slipped with a sigh back into her bed, still pleasantly warm from before. Her mind seemed less tangled now. She tried to consider again who might be the French agent in the house and how to catch him, or her. Gradually, however, tiredness began to drift over her. She wasn’t sure whether she had slept or not, when a sudden notion popped into her head and jerked her fully awake.
Vegetables? In potpourri?
The Dowager’s wanderings often made sense. Had the older lady discovered a vegetable in her potpourri? She tried to recollect exactly what the Dowager had said. She’d talked of Belinda’s unusual mix, then mentioned vegetables . . . then something about perfumed beans. . . .
Sitting straight up in bed, Chloe thought furiously. No one could get a potato in the potpourri jar. On the other hand, it was a very strange design. Perhaps there was a way of removing that wire grid, after all. Would anyone else be made curious by the Dowager’s words?
She would be unable to sleep until she had investigated the possibility. She leapt out of bed.
Her fire was out, and the room pitch dark. Chloe drew the curtains back, but the moon was clouded over and only the faintest light entered. Her eyes were accustomed to the gloom, however, and she could make out shapes. There was no need to light a candle. She knew the house perfectly and there was always a night lamp in the corridor. After the day’s events, Chloe did not want to be discovered creeping around the house so late.
Carefully, she eased open her door and slipped out into the passage.
Justin heard a noise. It was faint, possibly the natural sound of an old house settling in the cool of the night.
He had been unable to sleep. The disastrous outcome of the search haunted his mind. He had considered a hundred alternative ways of handling it, from laughing the whole thing off, to murdering both Randal and Chloe.
He had undressed, but made no attempt to go to bed. In his loose banjan, he sat by the window and suffered. Beneath his conscious attempts to think through the situation, he was aware of lurking suspicion. Why had Randal been in Chloe’s room? Had they been plotting together? Would they attempt a tryst tonight? It would hardly be discreet, but desire could overwhelm common sense. Justin knew that only too well.
Almost against his will, he was on his feet and moving quietly to the door. In his hand, he held the pistol he had prepared and laid on his dressing table. The click as he cocked it seemed to echo through the house.
If anyone was creeping around Delamere tonight, surely it was his duty to investigate.
As Chloe opened her door, she stopped, disconcerted. It was pitch dark. The corridor lamp had gone out.
Still, she knew the place well. It was only a matter of going down the passage to the end, where the Dowager’s rooms were located. There were two right-angled bends as the passage worked around the stairs opposite the master suite, but she would expect those. She knew the placement of each of the four chairs and two tables that lined the passage.
She began to walk forward. It was disconcerting to step into the black even when she knew what to expect.
She heard a noise and froze. A mouse? No. A sharp sound, as if someone had knocked against one of the chairs. She almost called out, then realized the other person could be the villain, on exactly the same mission as herself.
What should she do?
She should get help. Justin’s door was to her left, not very far ahead.
No. Impossible. With things as they were, she simply couldn’t creep into Justin’s room at night.
Randal’s room was a little farther down. She shuddered. That option was even worse.
Curse the events of the day which had led to her being unable to call upon help without scurrilous doubts. Nonetheless, she would press on. It was not so large a house, after all. If she found there really was evil afoot, she would scream and all her gallant swains could come running.
There had been no other sound, but now she found herself stretching her senses for any hint of movement. Had she imagined it? Could she herself be heard? Her soft leather slippers made no sound on the carpet, but her silk robe brushed against the floor. She gathered it up around her.
At the head of the stairs there was the faintest trace of light from windows on the lower floor. It only illuminated shades of gray but was a relief. Chloe thought of going back to her room for a candle after all, but she hoped the other person, if there was one, was unaware of her presence. She wanted to catch the villain red-handed.
She came to the place where the corridor turned back. Randal’s door must be to her left. She again considered seeking his help. But, apart from other considerations, if she opened the door and spoke to him, she would surely be heard by anyone else around.
She wasn’t, however, looking forward to rounding the corner into the stygian dark again.
Resolutely she crept around.
Something touched her, fumbled. A hand grabbed her arm.
“A sound and you’re dead.” The voice was a murmur.
Shocked, Chloe hesitated for a fatal moment. An arm came around her throat and something cold touched her there. She felt as if she’d stopped breathing, then a small squeal escaped her as the edge of a knife scraped against her skin.
The arm jerked her. “Quiet! I have a blade at your throat and I will use it if I have to.”
The voice was still a murmur, but Chloe recognized it and the portly body pressed against her back. Macy! Though she had put him on her list of suspects, she could hardly believe it. Humphrey Macy, man about town, intimate of the Prince of Wales, a spy? A desperate spy, she realized with terror.
He must know she would recognize him. Her life was not worth a farthing. She could not help but tremble as she waited for the cut of the knife which would end everything.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said softly by her ear. “I won’t hurt you.” She didn’t believe him. “I need those papers and we both know where they are, don’t we?”
Terror was threatening to deprive her of her wits, but she fought against it. If he did not kill her here and now, there was a chance. Strangely, it was the thought of Justin’s grief at her death which was her strongest motivation to survive.
“Yes,” she choked out.
She had hoped to make the sound louder, in the hope someone might hear, but fear tightened her vocal cords. Had she heard a sound somewhere in the corridor? Was help at hand? Macy’s breathing in her ear and the terrified pounding of her own heart shut off all other sound.
“Sensible, my beauty.” Macy spoke directly into her ear. “Are you not a little disappointed at your lover? I expected more from that letter and that handkerchief. If he really cared he would have killed Ashby.”
She had been correct in her suspicions. The thought of the pain he had caused strengthened Chloe’s nerve. She remained very still, waiting for a chance to escape.
“Ah well,” said Macy, when she wouldn’t react to his tauntings, “let us go forward slowly. You will take me straight to the Dowager’s potpourri. Once I have destroyed what is there, you have nothing to fear.”
Does he believe I am stupid? Chloe thought as they inched awkwardly forward. He cannot let me live.
He also had no intention of letting her escape. He was half a foot taller than she, and he kept one hand tight on her upper arm. The other held the knife pressed to her throat. She felt it at every move, scraping against her skin. When she stopped so as not to collide with a heavy oak chair that stood near the Dowager’s door, she felt a sting and then blood running down her skin. She couldn’t hold back the gasp of fright.
“Did I nick you?” he said without concern. “Don’t worry. It’s no worse than a man cutting himself when shaving. That’s what you’ve got against your delicate throat, my pretty. My razor. If I cu
t your throat, you’ll know the difference.”
They had arrived at the Dowager’s rooms. Surely, Chloe thought, she heard voices somewhere behind them. Who was still awake? How could she alert them?
“Why?” she whispered, as loud as she dared. “Why are you a traitor?”
“No noise!” he said sharply, but always in that quiet murmur that would not carry. “I am no traitor,” he added, and Chloe could hear the desperate need to excuse what he had done. “The petty information I give the French makes no difference to anything, but it pays me well. It’s not cheap, being the Prince’s friend. What is the layout of the Dowager’s rooms?”
Chloe thought of lying, but could see no benefit in it. “The door on the left opens into her boudoir. The door on the right into her bedroom. There is an adjoining door.”
“What about the companion?”
“She has a small room off the Dowager’s bedroom.”
“Where is the potpourri?”
“I don’t know—” Chloe gasped as his hand tightened viciously on her arm.
“Don’t lie. I’m no fool.”
“She moves it around,” Chloe lied. Then she had an idea. “It is usually on her dressing table.”
He pushed her forward. “Open the boudoir door, quietly.”
Chloe wished Delamere were less well maintained, for Miss Forbes had often complained of being a light sleeper. Chloe longed for a creaking floorboard or a squealing hinge. The turning of the knob caused only the faintest click, however, and the door swung wide without the tiniest squeak.
They walked forward a few steps, and he turned her back. “Now close it,” he said.
When she had done so, she felt him relax slightly. “Good girl. If I’d known you were so sweet and docile, my dear, I’d have courted you myself.” Something in his voice made Chloe feel sick. She gave thanks that he was too involved in saving his neck to pursue any other matters.
“I think we’ll open the curtains,” he said, allowing his voice to grow a little louder now that they were in a room. “There may be a trace of light.”
