Deadly Affair: A Georgian Historical Mystery (Alec Halsey Crimance)

by Lucinda Brant

  Alec smiled away his discomfort, knowing it was precisely what had happened to her. “Yet, I don’t think Miranda was auctioned off to the highest bidder in the marriage mart, do you? Little Sophie is the product of something more vulgar than a contrived marriage for parental advantage.”

  Selina could not deny this. “Miranda wasn’t auctioned. She ran away from home, denying her parents the satisfaction of parading her about society.”

  “Do you know why she ran away?”

  “She could hardly remain given her condition,” Selina explained with asperity. “I’m surprised she managed to hide her pregnancy for as long as she did because she is a slight little thing; but with hooped petticoats and a good corset—”

  “She was impregnated while still in the schoolroom?” Alec interrupted, incredulous. “I presumed governesses to be better keepers than any Newgate jailer. She told you this?”

  “I worked it out for myself. Miranda doesn’t readily volunteer information about her previous life. For one so young she is very cautious.”

  “She’s never mentioned her family or friends?”

  “No. That is, I’ve never enquired after them. I assumed she wished to put the past behind her and start afresh.”

  “If she wished to put the past behind her then she could very easily have changed her name to suit her new life, couldn’t she?”

  “Perhaps…”

  “Where did she go after she fled her home? To Ellick Farm? Is that where she gave birth to Sophie?”

  “No. She disappeared into the slums here in the city and arrived on my doorstep when Sophie was just weeks old, and with a letter of introduction from her parish priest—”

  “Parish priest? Do you still have the letter? Do you remember the name of the priest?”

  Selina regarded Alec’s reflection with a thoughtful frown. “The letter could still possibly be amongst my things at Ellick Farm. As to the name of the priest or the parish… It was almost five years ago… I’ve no recollection… It didn’t seem important at the time. What I do remember is my great surprise that this beautiful child and her baby should come to me and from such a wretched place. There was no need to ask the obvious question why she was living in the slums, nor did it matter a jot to me. I was just glad her vicar had the sense to send her and the baby to the country.” Her dark eyes widened as she saw Alec’s brows lift. “Good God! You think that poor man who died at Sir Charles Weir’s dinner party and Miranda’s vicar are one and the same, don’t you? But isn’t that just too coincidental?”

  “Not if you consider that the Reverend Blackwell was in truth a very wealthy man who left his entire fortune to one Catherine Bourdon, whom I believe is in all probability your Miranda.”

  “Did he? How intriguing! Then the vicar and Miranda are related?”

  “Quite possibly.” Alec came away from the window. “Have you ever wondered why mother and child were sent to Ellick Farm?”

  “Yes, of course. But my yearly visits to Ellick Farm have always been a time for me to forget my—concerns… I presumed also that Miranda had no wish for me to pry into her past. That she too wanted to forget…”

  “And the identity of Sophie’s father?” When Selina shook her head and began to brush her long hair free of tangles, lips firmly pressed together, Alec added patiently, “I ask in the hope that the information confided in me might prove false.”

  “Information?”

  Alec looked down at his black leather shoe with its large silver buckle. “Do you think it at all possible that Miranda was seduced—possibly raped—in her own home? That she ran away for fear the rape would be disbelieved?”

  “Raped?” Selina paused in mid brush stroke and stared at Alec, who held her gaze with an understanding small smile. It was a painful subject for both of them. Selina’s husband had raped her repeatedly over the course of their six-year marriage. But within marriage it was not called or even considered rape when a husband took from a reluctant wife what was his by right. “I thought—I presumed an illicit liaison.”

  “What were you to think when she fled her home pregnant? And she has not helped her cause by remaining silent on the subject.”

  “Who would’ve believed her?” Selina answered quietly, flushed cheeks blanched white. “That poor child. Raped. Impregnated by her tormentor… To give birth to such monstrous offspring…” She shuddered, staring at her reflection without really seeing herself. “Impossible.” When she came out of her abstraction it was to find Alec staring at her acutely. It made her say sharply, “Who confided this in you?”

  “Sir Charles Weir.”

  Selina’s dark eyes narrowed. “Weir? How could that toad know such intimate details about a girl he has never met?”

  Alec smiled crookedly.” How do you know they have not met? The information Charles imparted to me leads me to suppose that he does indeed know her and her family. You see, Charles confided in me that the adopted son of his illustrious mentor is being blackmailed because it was he who raped and impregnated Miranda.”

  “George Stanton?” The prospect so revolted Selina that her shoulders hunched with disgust. Yet she had to concede there must be some truth to the allegation. After all, as the Duke’s secretary Weir had been party to a whole host of confidences. He not only cultivated the Duke but had been intimate with the Duchess and as a consequence, her good-for-nothing son. “But why would Weir enlist your help?”

  Alec took a turn about the room. “In the misguided belief I can somehow put a stop to the blackmail. He wants me to retrieve a letter Lord George wrote to Miranda in which he admits to being the father of her child.”

  “Why would Weir think you’d help Stanton out of his difficulties?”

  “Charles hopes I can influence you to put a stop to the blackmail.”

  “Me? Why? Who is blackmailing Lord George?”

  “According to Weir: Talgarth.”

  Selina paused in mid brush-stroke. “Talgarth? Blackmailing Lord George Stanton? But what proof has he to make such a contemptible accusation against my brother?”

  “Charles says Talgarth threatens to reveal Lord George’s rape to the world if Miranda isn’t adequately compensated for her suffering,” Alec explained as he gently took the brush from her and laid it aside, a hand in her soft curls. “He says Stanton has in his possession threatening letters written in your brother’s fist.”

  “Letters? Written by Tal?” Selina said with considerable surprise but was remarkably calm given the seriousness of the allegation. “Were you shown these letters?”

  “No. Weir told me of their existence.”

  “Has Weir seen these letters?”

  “I presume so or he wouldn’t have approached me with such confidence. Do you think it possible Miranda has confided her past in your brother and he’s taken it upon himself to champion her cause?”

  “Oh, it’s just the sort of thing Tal would do, especially for Miranda,” she replied, trying to sound off-hand as Alec’s long fingers tangled in her curls, pad of his thumb caressing the bare skin at the nape of her neck. “He’s been in love with her since he first saw her at Ellick Farm.”

  “And when was that?”

  “Twelve months ago, on his return from Florence.”

  “He lives at the farm with Miranda?”

  “No. She and Sophie live there alone. Tal has a studio in Bath, but from Miranda’s letters I know he has taken to paying her regular visits.”

  “Then perhaps on one of these visits she confided in him…?”

  “I don’t know… What I do know is that Tal isn’t capable of writing letters, threatening or otherwise…”

  “Is that so…?” he murmured, distracted by the pleasing, ever present scent of lilies in her hair. He brushed aside the weight of long curls from her bare shoulder and stooped to kiss her there. “Four wretched months of abstinence,” he murmured. “Is that what you want?”

  Want? Barely a month had passed since they had made love. Yet, that final night
of unrestrained passion that had started on the dining room table, progressed to the chaise longue in the sitting room, climaxed on the hearth rug in the bedchamber and roused the long-suffering landlord to pound his fist against the thin apartment walls in Gallic protest, was, to Selina, a lifetime ago now. Of course, it wasn’t what she wanted.

  She turned on the dressing stool to face him, arms up about his neck, lips parted in anticipation of his kisses progressing to her mouth. She knew she did not possess the god-like willpower to resist this man whom she loved above all others. And yet the tiny, nagging voice of conscience castigated her for lacking the moral fortitude to deny herself earthly gratification (after all it was she who had demanded they end their affair until her mourning was over), and for possessing a gross conceit.

  She was acutely aware that after a past littered with a succession of lovers, his deep physical need was now singularly devoted to her; that he loved only her and wanted her to be his wife. Yet this only made her miserable because she had no right to her triumph when it meant living a lie and ruining his future. She must deny herself and him any further physical expression of their feelings and commitment until she found the resolve to tell him the truth. And so she pulled free of his embrace before passionate need got the better of them both.

  “Forgive me,” she whispered, dropping back onto the dressing stool, a hand to her trembling mouth. She lowered her gaze to the clutter of crystal cosmetic jars and trinkets littering the surface of the dressing table. “I didn’t mean for that to happen…”

  There was a long, awkward silence between them. Then Alec spoke and in such an altered voice that Selina gave an involuntary shudder. She stole a look at his reflection and wished she had not. His handsome face was taut and the confused anger in his blue eyes starkly evident.

  “Am I making a fool of myself, Madam?” he enunciated coldly, the acute unbearable ache of frustrated longing giving his normally placid deep voice an edge. When she remained mute, he gritted his teeth and let out a great huff of anger. “Christ, Selina, I was willing to remain a monk for an entire twelvemonth if it meant at the end of your mourning we would be married. Then, without warning, you send word from Paris. It didn’t need a second thought from me to be in your arms, glad to dispense with this ridiculous charade, believing we could finally get on with our lives. A week of mutual pleasure and you decide my interests are better served if we remain apart?” He stopped to breathe deeply, blue eyes never wavering from her pale reflection. “What was that week all about? If I was sent for to satisfy your itch, better you had found a Parisian cicisbeo! Or perhaps you think me incapable of constancy and summoned me before I went mad from wanting you and headed off to the nearest brothel to slake my lust?”

  “You hold my thoughts very cheap, sir,” Selina said in a low voice.

  “Oh, I’m not really complaining,” he said with a flippancy that belied an angry confusion. “Our week of love making was well worth the preceding months of celibacy.” He took a turn about the room and something on the mantle caught his eye. It was an opened letter propped in front of a Sèvres vase. Instinctively he knew it for Cleveley’s note. The Duke’s presumptive kiss and smug assurance of knowing Selina’s mind stung enough for him to retort, “But perhaps it is your dear friend the Duke who now avails himself of your considerable allure?”

  At such a totally outrageous and unjustified suggestion Selina was stone no more and she stood before him, hands angrily bunching up the yards of her silk petticoats. “Has my character sunk so low in your estimation that you believe me capable of making love to any man all because I so readily give myself to you?”

  He was instantly contrite.

  “Selina, I—”

  “There has never been another man—I never shared my husband’s bed willingly, and well you know it—only you.”

  He looked away from her then and stared unseeing across the cluttered room. “That was unforgivable of me. Yes. I do know that.” Yet he could not help voicing a niggling doubt as he brought his gaze back to her flushed face. “But I wonder what influence his Grace of Cleveley does have over you?”

  Damn Cleveley’s wise counsel, Selina thought angrily. “I value his opinion,” she stated coolly, bravely looking up at him.

  He lifted a mobile eyebrow.

  “You mean you’re prepared to be influenced by him to the detriment of our future happiness?” And when she looked away, crookedly biting her lower lip, he knew it to be so. Well, at least he knew who he was up against. It was now a matter of finding out the Duke’s persuasive line of argument; and it must be a damn good one to influence Selina, for she was nobody’s fool. “As you know him better than I, perhaps you can tell me to what lengths Cleveley would go to ensure his stepson’s future isn’t ruined by a past act of lustful madness.”

  “Cleveley? Cover up for Lord George?” And although Selina sounded unconvinced, privately she had to concede that as Lord George was Cleveley’s nominated heir the Duke would do all in his power to protect him. It was a depressing thought and one she did not voice.

  Alec took her silence for stubborn disbelief.

  “Whatever your faith in him, I cannot rule out Cleveley’s involvement in concealing his stepson’s despicable behavior. When I offered his Grace the opportunity to deny the rape, impregnation and abandonment of Catherine Bourdon, he gave me the satisfaction of telling me he was off to Somerset—”

  “His estate is in Somerset,” Selina interrupted defensively.

  “—and any interference on my part would jeopardize the Cleveley name.”

  “He said that?” Selina asked rhetorically, knowing Alec would never lie to her, whatever imagined jealousies prejudiced him against the Duke. “Then it’s just as well Tal and I are not half a day behind him. We leave for Ellick Farm today. Miranda will need our support more than ever if indeed what Weir has told you is true. Although…” A thoughtful expression came into her dark eyes and she plucked the Duke’s note off the mantle. “This is my annual invitation to the Michaelmas ball at Bratton Dene, the Duke’s estate. All the local landowners are invited. Ellick Farm, the farm where Miranda and Sophie live, is on the Duke’s estate, in fact it’s visible from Bratton Dene’s east turret, and this year I’ve been specifically requested to bring Tal. He’s been commissioned to paint an official portrait of the Duke. Why would he give Tal such a lucrative and honored commission if he thought my little brother was blackmailing Lord George?”

  “You are Cleveley’s tenant?” Alec asked, his annoyed surprise overshadowing her pertinent question and the fact he had been about to voice the same thought.

  “Yes. He gave me the farm for my lifetime. A retreat, he said; a place where I could get away from—from J-L.”

  Alec smiled crookedly. “A clever ploy. Your husband would never have dared trespass on the great man’s lands.”

  She sank onto the window seat, silk petticoats billowing out around her, and clasped her hands in her lap. “You have no right to mock him for providing me with the only sanctuary I had from that fiend.” Then made to rise at a persistent scratching on the outer door but Alec sat beside her and took hold of her hands. “The door…” she began and faltered when he gently planted his lips to one wrist then the other.

  “Forgive me,” he said gently. “It is I who am acting the fiend. I’m jealous of Cleveley because he was able to offer you some respite from that madman, when I could not. I am forever grateful to the Duke for sheltering you.” He brushed a wisp of apricot curl from her cheek. “I meant every word I said to you in Paris. In and out of your bed. I repeat the question I put to you then, and I want an answer now, before you run off to the wilds of Somerset and the company of others: Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

  She kept her head bowed, unable to meet the expectation in his blue eyes, and withdrew her hands from his. She wanted to marry him more than anything she had ever wanted in her life but Cleveley was the voice of reason. Marriage was out of the question. As a wife s
he could not give Alec what he deserved and had a right to expect. The past was unalterable. She had no right to ruin his future.

  With all the courage she could muster she met his unblinking gaze.

  “Alec… Darling, I love you with all my heart… I just… I just can’t marry you.” His silence made her stumble on to say what she had not said in Paris, anxious her nerve would not fail her a second time. “I thought perhaps we could come to some—some arrangement. It’s a common enough practice, particularly amongst our kind, as you know. Of course I would have to be discreet, for Cobham’s sake, but Tal would understand, in fact I don’t think he would much care one way or t’other. I’ve given the notion plenty of thought and the more I think about it the more I’m certain such an arrangement would suit us both.”

  Alec’s eyebrows drew sharply together. “You’re willing to be my mistress in preference to becoming my wife?”

  Selina smiled hopefully. “Yes, that’s it.”

  He could hardly believe his ears. The hope in her dark eyes and the accompanying anxious smile made him feel hollow.

  “You want me to visit you under cover of darkness, via the tradesmen’s entrance and skulk up the back stairs, so you can play the whore for me behind the closed doors of your boudoir? And if we are discreet you can remain the respectable wealthy widow, accepted in all the best drawing rooms, your elder brother none the wiser?” He swallowed. “You would be satisfied with such a beggarly arrangement?”

  “When you put it in such terms—”

  “For God’s sake, Selina, what other terms are there? You’ve no idea what it is to be a man’s whore!”

  Selina blushed. “Of course I do. I’m not so naïve.”

  “Indeed? Then do you think so little of my character that you believe I look upon you as nothing more than a desirable means of satisfying my lust? That I may avail myself of your body and your carnal talents where and when it suits me with little or no thought to your needs. That is a whore.”