“It never occurred to you to wonder why my uncle was not at the Commons’ vote yesterday?”
“I don’t make a habit of concerning myself with Plantagenet Halsey’s whereabouts,” the Duke said coldly, all urbanity at an end.
“Had my uncle made his speech condemning the Bristol Bill, he might possibly have persuaded more than one member to vote it down. As it happened there were a surprising number of abstentions. The bill passed by the narrowest of margins.”
The Duke was incredulous. “Plantagenet Halsey’s emotive ravings wouldn’t have made one tester of difference to the outcome of that vote.” He frowned his distaste. “His speech would only have held up proceedings; an annoying habit he has claimed all his own.”
“My uncle was bashed unconscious. His head is wrapped in bandages.”
The Duke frowned. He stared again at the button in the palm of his gloved hand and then at Alec. He seemed to require further explanation.
“He went to the aid of a gentleman who had been set upon by two of your liveried servants, and for that he, too, was assaulted.”
The Duke looked very hard at Alec. “Who was this fellow?”
“Perhaps you should ask your servants that question, Duke.”
“You think I would enlist my servants to use such tactics?”
“I would not have thought so,” Alec answered with remarkable composure. “However, if it comes to protecting one’s pride of place at the expense of decency and honesty—”
“How dare you,” hissed the Duke, taking a step forward, face livid with indignation. “You—you—have the effrontery to—to… Are you drunk?”
“You deny sending Weir to enlist my help on your behalf?”
The Duke’s anger melted into bewilderment. “On my behalf? Weir?”
“A small matter of your stepson’s deplorable past, your Grace,” Alec stated with dangerous politeness.
“Weir visited you about George’s conduct?” The Duke’s bewilderment turned to impatience when his valet slipped into the room unannounced and motioned to the window with a jerk of his head. “I have no notion of what you’re blathering about.” He gave a sealed parchment to Molyneux. “See this is given to Mrs. Jamison-Lewis.”
Alec decided to change tack because he was beginning to wonder if the Duke did indeed know of his servants’ violent behavior or, for that matter, about Weir’s visit. Either that or the man was a consummate performer. “Perhaps your Grace would care to comment on the possibility that the Reverend Blackwell was poisoned?”
There was the slightest of pauses before the Duke answered, but it was not his hesitation that convinced Alec that Cleveley considered it a very real possibility, it was the way in which the valet, Molyneux, flinched and looked swiftly at his master, as if to say, I told you so.
“Blackwell suffered a heart attack—”
“—leaving his considerable fortune to one Catherine Bourdon,” Alec interrupted him. “Your Grace was a signatory to his will.”
The Duke did not try to deny this and it was evident he was momentarily startled that Alec should know the contents of the dead vicar’s will. He made a swift recover, however, saying with icy composure, “A man may make as many wills as he pleases.”
“Wills?” Alec repeated. “He had another, earlier will?”
The Duke stiffened. “That is not an unusual circumstance in itself.”
“Indeed not. What is unusual is the fact Blackwell died the day after making this, his last, will. This will was in the possession of the gentleman who was accosted by two of your liveried servants. My uncle went to the gentleman’s aid and in the mêlée, Blackwell’s will was shoved into my uncle’s pocket. That will is now in my possession and I intend to see that it is put into the hands of Blackwell’s lawyer Thaddeus Fanshawe. You look surprised, your Grace…”
Alec let the sentence hang and the Duke seemed about to speak until the heavy silence was prematurely broken by the valet Molyneux who continued to hover at his master’s elbow.
“The horses, your Grace…”
At that the Duke turned on a heel, saying, “As you can appreciate, Halsey, I cannot afford to let my horses stand in the street a moment longer. I am obliged to leave for Somerset at once.”
Alec, who had let his eyes drop from the valet’s disfigured face to the letter in his hand, itching to know its contents, looked up swiftly. He had a flash of insight. “Somerset?” He followed master and servant out onto the landing where, at the bottom of the curved staircase the butler and a footman waited patiently with the Duke’s greatcoat and sword. “Going to take care of Catherine Bourdon yourself, Duke?” he asked with casual insolence. “A wise decision. Lord Russell would be an unnatural parent if he permitted his daughter to marry into a family that condoned the ruin and abandonment of a young girl of good family.”
If Alec had hoped to goad Cleveley into making an unguarded reply he got more than he bargained for when the Duke staggered and half-turned; he looked as if he was about to faint, such was his unhealthy pallor. There was a tightening in jaw and throat, and a gloved hand was clenched so hard about the banister rail that each knuckle was clearly outlined through the taut black leather. The consummate cold-blooded statesman, through sheer force of personality, was holding tight reign on the distraught and exasperated parent. It was not difficult for Alec to sympathize with a parent who called Lord George son.
Molyneux bounded down the stairs two at a time and snatched his master’s sword, sash and greatcoat from the wide-eyed butler and held these out. The Duke came slowly down the stairs after his manservant, still holding the polished banister rail and was helped into his greatcoat with all the care and solicitude of Molyneux’s twenty years of devoted service, but with a sense of urgency to be out from under the prying eyes of strangers. It did not stop the valet glancing up at Alec with such utter contempt that it was evident he was aware of the situation to which Alec alluded, even if his master could not bring himself to speak of it. But speak of it he must, Alec decided, and he followed master and servant into the wide expanse of the black and white marble entrance foyer and tried once more to rouse the Duke to confession.
“If a terrible injustice has been committed, how could you turn your back—?”
The Duke cleared his throat loudly. “Whatever you’ve been told,” he said hoarsely, “you’ve been singularly misinformed.”
“Have I, your Grace?” Alec answered with skepticism and lowered his voice so that he would not be overheard by the opened-eared servants who had retreated to the back of the foyer, leaving only the porter holding wide the heavy front door. “A supposedly penniless vicar may have been murdered. As it turns out he was the son of a Viscount. He left a considerable fortune, bequeathed to one Catherine Bourdon of Ellick Farm in Somerset. Would it be presumptuous of me then to assume that this female is one and the same as the girl who was seduced, impregnated and abandoned five years ago—”
“This matter is no concern of yours! Do not involve yourself!”
“A terrible injustice was confided in me and thus I am now involved. I cannot so easily dismiss it; not without good reason; not if it is true.”
The Duke looked out through the open front door to his waiting carriage and stretched his neck in its fine white lace cravat. His features wore a hollow expression. His eyes were blank. “Do not interfere in a matter you know nothing about, Halsey.” And in a whispered aside close to Alec’s ear, “The future of the Clevely name depends upon it.”
“Avoiding his lordship won’t help matters,” Evans lectured, a bundle of freshly laundered silk stockings clutched to her thin chest as she followed Selina Jamison-Lewis from the warmth of the cozy sitting room through to the expansive bedchamber. She placed the stockings in an opened wooden trunk that was neatly packed with clothes and stood in the middle of the floor and waved forward two hovering footmen. The brawny servants closed and bolted the lid and between them carried the trunk down to the travelling carriage. “You should t
ell him the truth,” she added as she continued on through to the cluttered dressing room. She scooped up a pair of Selina’s discarded silk mules. “Mr. Halsey—I mean, Lord Halsey—I will never get used to calling him that—His lordship would understand.”
“He is not used to the title himself,” murmured Selina as Evans unpinned her embroidered stomacher and unfastened the silk ribbons holding up her petticoats. She stepped out of the heavy velvet petticoats and sat before the gilt dressing table in her stays and linen chemise to strip off her garters and white silk stockings. “Has Mr. Vesey’s trunks been loaded onto the carriage?”
“Yes, m’lady.” And before she could help herself, as she scooped up the discarded petticoats and stockings, “His lordship has a right to the truth.”
At that forward pronouncement Selina glared at her lady’s maid, momentarily mute with anger. “If you feel you cannot live with my decision then you are free to g—”
“No! I could never leave you,” Evans answered swiftly. “How could you think it, at a time like this; at any time?”
“Then keep your puritan principles to yourself, Mary,” Selina ordered, although she was ill with despair every time she thought about what she had forced upon herself during her detestable marriage and how the consequences of her actions then would now haunt her for the rest of her life. “Help me dress and then you can get on with the packing,” she added quietly as she rolled clean white stockings over her knees and fastened them in place with silk garters. “I want to be gone from here before nuncheon.”
Evans nodded and looked away before Selina saw the tears of sorrow in her eyes. Pouring warm fragrant water into a large patterned porcelain bowl on the dressing table she asked lightly, “May I ask if your—your meeting with his Grace went well… ?”
“Yes, better than expected. I have leased this marble monstrosity to a very wealthy mill owner from Lancashire. He and his wife have six daughters and three sons.”
“Praise be.” Evans sighed with relief, helping Selina step into a fresh petticoat before she tied the ribbon with two pockets attached around her mistress’s small waist. A scratching on the outer door saw her quietly go in answer, as if on a cushion of air, knowing their days within these wretched walls were numbered. She hated this mansion. It had been ruled over by a monster who had made her darling Selina’s life a misery for six long years. Perhaps now they could put the terrible memories behind them forever…
Selina disappeared behind the ornate dressing screen to finish dressing.
Draped over the upholstered back of a frail-legged chair was a travelling gown in deepest blue silk and a matching delicately embroidered stomacher with sprays of flowers in the Chinese manner, the colors so deep they could easily pass for mourning black; matching silk shoes complimented the gown. She was looking forward to her month in Somerset with Miranda and Sophie. If only her brother’s painting had not been vandalized… Who would want to be so hideously destructive to a harmless picture? And by a harmless painter. There wasn’t a wicked bone in Talgarth’s body.
They had returned home from the exhibition in silence, her brother cradled in her arms, neither speaking of the wanton destruction to his beautiful painting; she unable to find adequate words of comfort. He had looked so ill she wanted to call a physician, but he refused and went straight up to his rooms, to be left alone with his devastation, and had locked himself in. She knew he would deal with the pain in his own way; in the same way he had dealt with the mental and physical abuse meted out by their overbearingly rigid father.
A much decorated General, their father had never understood his youngest son’s artistic inclinations and had had him beaten senseless every week since the age of seven in the belief physical punishment would force Talgarth to conform. Talgarth had not conformed. Nor had he become an army officer as was the family expectation. The years of abuse had turned him into an opium addict, opium secretly supplied to him by the General’s batman; an infantryman who had served in the Far East and was himself an opium eater. The irony was not lost on Selina.
The door to the dressing room opened with a squeak, bringing Selina out of her abstraction and to the realization Evans wasn’t there to help her complete her toilette. How was she expected to shrug herself into her gown alone, least of all pin the stomacher into place? The soft measured tread across the polished floorboards and then the Oriental carpet did not belong to her maid, nor did the equally measured and deeply masculine voice.
“How does your brother fair?”
The question was simple enough. But it made Selina stand still, and her heart to thud hard against her ribs. After what seemed the passing of minutes, and fearing her ears had deceived her, she poked her fair head around the ornate screen. And there was Alec, propped on the window seat, his handsome angular profile with its strong narrow nose to the daylight, and he seemingly interested in the traffic loudly tumbling along the cobblestones in the square below. She disappeared again and hurriedly shrugged herself into the gown, cursing her romantically minded lady’s maid.
“He is dealing with it in his own way,” she called out calmly, though she wanted to throw herself in his arms and tell him how much he was missed since their acrimonious parting in Paris. She smoothed out the tight satin sleeves down the length of her arms to her elbows and did her best to fluff out the lace ruffles that cascaded from elbow to wrist. But there was no means by which she would be able to pin the stomacher onto the front of her stays without assistance. She swore under her breath that Evans had dared to abandon her, and that Alec’s presence had the power to turn her fingers all to thumbs.
“Have you spoken to him?” Alec enquired.
“No. But there’ll be plenty of opportunity shut up together in my carriage. The journey west is tedious in the extreme.”
Alec smiled, knowing her to be an indifferent traveler.
“Do you have any idea who would want to vandalize one of your brother’s pictures and in such a public place?”
“Not in the least.” Where was Evans? Her maid’s presence was sorely needed and would preclude intimate conversation. Although, that notion appeared absurd given the run of Alec’s conversation. It was as if their Paris disagreement was quite forgotten. But had he forgiven her? “Although, I must admit that there have been several occasions, one episode in particular, when he has displayed a most unpleasant temper.”
“During self-inflicted episodes of withdrawal, perhaps?”
There was an extended silence and then Selina reluctantly answered from behind the ornate dressing screen, voice barely audible. “Yes. But he has never succeeded and such episodes are mercifully short-lived.”
Alec came away from the window. “It’s been suggested that the portrait was vandalized as a warning to your brother.”
Selina’s head showed itself again, hair a little more mussed than before. “Warning? Why?”
“To stop Talgarth’s threats of exposing a crime committed against the sitter.”
This brought Selina out from behind the screen. She tiptoed across the carpet in her stockinged feet, mass of bright apricot hair without hairpins falling freely about her bare white shoulders. She was doing her best to hold the gaping front edges of her satin gown across her low cut stays while she held in her left hand the embroidered stomacher, pressed against the space where it needed to be attached, yet failing miserably at both.
Alec smiled to himself, watching her struggle to keep the stomacher of Chinoiserie black—or was it blue?—silk pressed against her full breasts. She was useless at dressing herself, but what female of the nobility wasn’t? Female clothing was not designed for ease of wear, or movement for that matter, and was dictated by the whims of fashion; as much about self-protection as anything else: difficult to take off as well as put on.
Selina still frowned. “Crime? Against the sitter?”
“May I know who sat to your brother for that portrait?” he asked, coming to her assistance. He turned her to face him squarely, took the sto
macher from her and proceeded to fasten this delicately embroidered piece of stiffened material, pinning the tabs at the sides of the stomacher to the stays.
“I don’t see why—”
“You will. All in good time,” he said mildly, a glance up from the task at hand. “The portrait was a full-length of a woman with a small child, wasn’t it?”
Selina shrugged and tried to appear disinterested. “Miranda. Her name is Miranda. She sat to Tal on his return from the Continent, which was about a year ago.”
He was silent a moment, inspecting the sit of the silk stomacher across her breasts and if it sat flat against the yards of silk gathered at her waist. His long fingers lightly touched her bare left shoulder and then her breast as he gently tucked the pretty lace edging of her chemise out of sight under the square neckline of the stays’ embroidered hem. Blotches of color appeared on Selina’s throat. There was something very intimate in his propinquity and the feel of his fingers on her skin, despite his no-nonsense approach. It made her lift her dark eyes from the intricate folds of his plain white stock up to his smooth-shaven chin, then dared to go higher and look at his blue eyes, but as expected he was focused on the task at hand. This did not stop the spread of heat up her throat where it deepened into color in her cheeks.
“Miranda?” he repeated as he proceeded to gently push the tabs of the stomacher out of sight into the silk pleats. “The child’s name?”
“Sophie: Miranda’s daughter.” Selina looked up at him through her lashes. “Should I give Evans her marching orders?” she asked saucily.
Alec gave a hint of a smile as he stepped away before her fingers could caress his cheek. “The real expertise is in the undressing, m’lady. How old was Miranda when she gave birth to Sophie?”
“Fifteen or thereabouts,” Selina answered mechanically, wondering why he chose to put distance between them by returning to the window seat. She retreated to her dressing table and caught Alec’s frown of distaste in the reflection of her looking glass. “It’s not uncommon for girls to be married off to the highest bidder at a young age,” she said matter-of-factly. “Especially the daughters of rank. After all, we are but commodities to our parents, floated on the marriage market as soon as possible after our first bloody rag to ensure we catch a husband of wealth and title.”
Deadly Affair: A Georgian Historical Mystery (Alec Halsey Crimance) Page 11
