Alec smiled thinly. “Fanshawe can correct me if I am wrong, but if Blackwell and Ellen Dewalter were legally married, then her subsequent marriages to Stanton and then to Cleveley would both be deemed bigamous. She was never legally married to either Duke. George Stanton is the offspring of her first and only husband, Kenneth Blackwell, and thus the vicar’s legitimate son and heir.”
“That is indeed correct, my lord,” the lawyer beamed.
“Well, I’m flabbergasted!” announced Plantagenet Halsey. “The more I learn about the good vicar the less I know about him. He waits until the end of his life to acknowledge his marriage to a woman who paraded about society as a duchess, and whose son was believed to be sired by one old duke and heir to another! And what does the good vicar leave of his fortune to this estranged son, a trinket of a snuffbox and a small miniature. Now ain’t that marvelous!”
“Iniquitous is the word that springs to mind,” Alec replied as he pushed back his chair. He nodded to his butler to have the footmen clear the table of the remainder of the dishes and glasses. “I believe your good friend the vicar had no intention of exposing Lord George Stanton for a fraud. You were to inform Lord George of his true lineage only after the Duke’s death, and that assumes with Lord George safely elevated to the Dukedom of Cleveley. I should think that bequest made by Blackwell far outweighs any other, a fortune willed to a small child of four into the bargain, don’t you?”
Plantagenet Halsey and the lawyer exchanged a wide-eyed look before both stared at Alec with dawning realization.
Alec regarded both his uncle and the buck-toothed lawyer with a crooked smile. “Question is: Would you have allowed Blackwell to get away with fraud and see Lord George elevated to a dukedom to which he has no legal entitlement?”
The old man’s brows drew together over the bridge of his long nose. “Blackwell knew me for a man of my word,” he said darkly, squaring his shoulders. “I’d be bound by his wishes. You know that.”
“Yes, he knew that also. That was selfish of him and an inexcusable abuse of friendship.” Alec showed the lawyer to the door. “I have one final question, Fanshawe: In the course of finalizing Blackwell’s second will, was mention made of the whereabouts of Catherine Bourdon and her mother?”
“Somerset, my lord. A farm on the Duke of Cleveley’s estate,” Thaddeus Fanshawe replied without hesitation as he straightened the front of his canary-yellow frockcoat.
“Aye? Not St. Judes, then?” asked Plantagenet Halsey in bewilderment as he shuffled across the room after them.
“No, not St. Judes,” Alec said with satisfaction, “but a farm in Somerset, as I suspected. Do you know the name of the farm, Fanshawe?”
“Unfortunately not, my lord, as such correspondence as I franked on Mr. Blackwell’s behalf was sent to a hotel in Bath. Barr’s of Trim Street; a rather select establishment, so I am told.”
“Did Mr. Blackwell give you an explanation why correspondence for Miranda Bourdon was sent to Barr’s rather than to the farm?” asked Alec.
The lawyer was confused. “I presumed he did so because the letters were addressed to a Mr. Ninian Bourdon at that direction, my lord.”
Uncle and nephew glanced at one another.
“Mr. Ninian Bourdon?”
“Miranda Bourdon’s husband, my lord,” replied the lawyer as if the connection was self-evident. When nephew and uncle exchanged a look of surprise, Thaddeus Fanshawe blinked and added, “Mr. Blackwell conducted the ceremony himself, a little under a year ago. He was particularly pleased for the little girl to finally have a father.”
“Naturally,” Alec responded with a faint smile, as if nothing was amiss. He stepped aside to allow Wantage to escort the lawyer from his house. “Thank you for coming here today, Fanshawe. Your visit has been most invaluable. I will have my carriage take you home.”
“The codicil, my lord—”
“—will remain safely lodged here until this imbroglio is set to rights. If you should receive any further visits from the Duke’s servants, I would be obliged if you would refer them to me. I doubt they will bother you after that. But, if it will make you feel more at ease, I offer two of my most burly servants to post at your door for a week or two.”
“Thank you, my lord,” the lawyer bowed gratefully and bowed again as he backed out into the passageway. “I am most grateful to your lordship. Thank you, my lord.”
“Who’s this Ninian Bourdon fellow?” Plantagenet Halsey asked as the butler closed over the door on the lawyer’s continued bowing and scraping. “Perhaps he poisoned Blackwell so his wife’s child could get her inheritance?”
“No one of that name was a dinner guest.”
“So he used another name!” the old man threw out recklessly.
Alec grinned. “Invert that thought and you may be closer to the mark.” When his uncle looked puzzled he added, “Mayhap one of the gentlemen who attended Charles’s dinner party uses the name Ninian Bourdon as a nom de plume? Yes, I thought that would open your eyes. It’s an avenue worth exploring. But we’ll talk about this later,” he added gruffly, putting a supportive arm across the old man’s stooped back. “Now it’s back to bed with you, and a dose of laudanum. We’ve a long journey ahead of us tomorrow.”
Plantagenet Halsey was tired and his head hurt. He did not have the strength to argue. Laudanum and sleep would be welcome. Still, he voiced a last niggling doubt, “Neat how Miranda Bourdon and her daughter happen to live on a farm on the Duke’s estate…”
Alec smiled grimly at his uncle’s astuteness. He wondered at the parts played by Talgarth and Selina Vesey in Miranda Bourdon’s enigmatic life, and was of the opinion that in truth Selina knew very little about her orphaned charge and even less about the depth of her brother’s involvement with the woman and her daughter. As for the Duke’s part in Blackwell’s demise just days after writing a most extraordinary codicil…? The revelations contained in that document threatened the very future of the Cleveley dukedom, and made a mockery of the Duke’s marriage to Ellen DeWalter. George Stanton was not what he claimed to be, whether he knew it or not, and Charles Weir was just the kind of sycophant who would do anything in his power to have the Duke and his nominated heir beholden to him. All had reason and motivation enough to want the good vicar dead.
“Neat?” Alec responded with a huff. “A sinister contrivance belike.”
“Ha! I knew it,” the old man said with relish, looking up with satisfaction into his nephew’s hard-set features, “Cleveley’s up to his neck in dirty dish water and drownin’ fast!”
Alec didn’t doubt it.
Sir Charles Weir found Lord George Stanton face down in a pool of his own vomit. The servants dared not move him. His lordship’s manservant had departed for a post befitting a gentleman’s gentleman. This last drinking bout had been the breaking of him. He could not, would not, stay in the employ of such a drunken lout, whatever his nobility of name; the man was in every other way fit only to inhabit Gin Alley.
Sir Charles’s first action was to send for a pail of cold water. He then removed his frockcoat, took off his lace ruffles, rolled up his shirtsleeves and, with some effort, managed to turn Lord George onto his back. The young man gave a sleeping series of snorts that unclogged his nostrils, then went back to sleep. Sir Charles felt himself heave, rushed to the window, forced up the sash and gulped in fresh air.
When the servant returned with the pail of water he was ordered to dash its contents over his sleeping master. This the servant did with a horrified thrill, threw aside the bucket and ran out of the room on the nobleman’s blasphemous yelp.
At first, Lord George was inclined to continue to lie sprawled on the floor, the thud in his head was that bad. But he was cold and wet and his dry tongue felt twice its normal size. He struggled up, cursing his servants, and wiped spittle from his face with his wig. It was then that he saw Sir Charles Weir’s reflection in the long looking glass and he wondered if he was in the middle of a nightmare; a weekly occur
rence since the death of his mother. Sir Charles soon put paid to his doubts.
“I’ll wait for you in the dining room,” he said curtly. “I suggest you wash. Your person reeks.”
When an unshaven Lord George reappeared, leaning in the doorway, he wore an open necked shirt without ruffles, a pair of brown buff breeches in need of pressing and on his shaved head sat a turban of red and gold thread that not only appeared ridiculous in itself but had the effect of making its owner appear egg-headed. Sir Charles couldn’t help smiling into his ale, despite the fact he was furiously angry with the Duke’s stepson.
Lord George slumped down at the table and covered his face with his fat hands. “Christ, I feel ill. Why did you wake me, Charlie? Did I ask you to wake me? I don’t recall—”
“Do be quiet,” Sir Charles complained and pushed a tankard toward his lordship. “Drink up. You’ll feel better for it.”
“I don’t want—”
“Do it!”
Lord George stared resentfully at Sir Charles through splayed fingers. “I don’t care for your tone, Charlie.”
Sir Charles smiled unpleasantly. “Then behave yourself.”
Lord George dropped his forehead onto the table and groaned. “Go away; there’s a good little secretary.”
“You haven’t an ounce of gratitude, have you?” Sir Charles said bitterly.
Lord George shrugged his indifference.
“Listen to me. If you don’t sober up and see what’s going on around you, you stand to lose everything, everything that is rightfully yours. Do you understand?”
“What is rightfully mine?” Lord George moaned. “All I dreamed of having died with Mamma.”
“What self-pitying twiddle-twaddle!”
Lord George’s head snapped up and he shook Sir Charles’s arm. “Apologize, secretary! Apologize! Apologize. Damn you!”
Sir Charles sighed. Why must he be bothered with this simpleton? But he knew the answer to that, and although he wanted nothing better than to tell this big bloated oaf what he really thought of him, he controlled the urge and said in a voice dripping with false sincerity, “Of course I apologize, George. You know I am only interested in what is best for you. So was the Duchess. It is because of her I am here today.”
“Because of Mamma?”
“Yes. It was her wish, was it not, that you succeed Cleveley?”
“What does that matter now?” whined Lord George, dropping his chins onto his sleeve. “You saw what happened at the opera. So much for Mamma’s wishes! Dearest Papa has gone and gotten himself engaged to be married to Hatty Russell. My Hatty Russell! Mine.” He pushed away the ale and covered his face with his hands. “How could he do that to me?”
Sir Charles rolled his eyes heavenward and prayed for patience. He patted Lord George’s arm. “There. There. Dearest George. One cannot always predict the actions of others. I, too, was just as devastated by that display. It never occurred to me. This time His Grace’s political astuteness has surprised even I. But, one must learn to adjust and turn to one’s advantage what could be a potential disaster. He may have the upper hand for the moment, but that will soon change…”
Lord George shrugged him off. “What are you blathering about, Charlie? Who gives a damn if it caught you off your guard? Thing is, what are you going to do about it?”
Sir Charles raised his eyebrows. “I? About what?”
Lord George pulled a face. “Come on, Charlie! Don’t play close-faced with me. You’ll put a stop to this engagement, won’t you?”
“Why should I?”
A rare flash of insight made Lord George momentarily forget his headache. “You’ve invested too much in me to see it all go to waste on any brat Father might have with Hatty.” When Sir Charles laughed, Lord George knew it to be forced and he couldn’t help twisting the knife a further turn. “For a man who practically wore Father’s wig for him, you’re in a bit of a quandary as to what to do about this engagement, aren’t you, Charlie? And I’ll wager you can sign his fist better than he can himself. So what are you going to do stop him marrying Hatty?”
Sir Charles took snuff. He didn’t think Lord George amusing and it showed.
“And if Cleveley discovers to what lengths you’ve already gone to lay claim to your Hatty?”
“Now Charlie, don’t go threatening me!” Lord George growled and sunk his head into his hands again. “Oh God, I feel ill,” he moaned. “I wish you’d blow away…”
“You and I must decide what’s to be our next move.”
Lord George sighed impatiently. “You’re such a bore. But I’ll listen. I’ve no ideas of my own.”
“Just so,” murmured Sir Charles.
Lord George had a sudden thought.
“Mayhap I don’t need to worry. After all, it’s not as if it was Mamma’s fault the marriage was barren. We all know what’s whispered about the clubs: Father can’t even get a whore with child. And God knows he’s had his fair share of them over the years.” He snorted a lopsided grin and gave Sir Charles a nudge. “Whose to say he’ll fair any better with Hatty? Ha! No need to panic at all!”
“Think on it a moment, George. If Lady Henrietta marries your father then she’ll be in his bed, not yours.”
Lord George frowned and chewed on a fingernail gloomily
“Although… There has been no official announcement of the engagement…”
Lord George bit off a piece of quick and flicked it away.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, that until a notice appears in the newssheets announcing the engagement between His Grace and Lady Henrietta Russell, you have as much hope as I do of becoming Lady Henrietta’s husband.”
Lord George’s mouth dropped open and then he burst out laughing as he shuffled to a walnut sideboard that concealed a chamber pot in its lower drawer. He proceeded to urinate into the opened drawer. “You? Hatty’s husband?” he said over his shoulder. “That’s priceless, Charlie!” Turning back to adjust himself he discovered the chamber pot missing. A servant had removed it to empty and not bothered to put it back. Undaunted, Lord George buttoned his breeches and kicked closed the now dripping drawer.
Sir Charles regarded him with barely concealed loathing. It nauseated him to think this turbaned buffoon had even placed a paw on the Lady Henrietta Russell. As for succeeding to a dukedom… Yet, while he could overcome his bitter disappointment should the Duke marry Earl Russell’s daughter, the thought of that marriage producing an heir and Lord George not being the next Duke, did not bear thinking about. Such an outcome left no room for Sir Charles to exercise any political influence. He had spent the better part of his formative political career cultivating the Duke’s family, the Duchess and her son in particular, and he wasn’t about to let his efforts come to nothing. Up until the Duchess’s demise he had been supremely confident of enjoying many more years bathing in the golden glow of the Cleveley patronage. With her death had come uncertainty of its continuance; the impending engagement of the Duke, a severe jolt that his political career was at an end, unless, that is, he could rally Lord George into action.
“Be a good fellow, Charlie, and have a lackey fetch a physician.”
Sir Charles ignored the request.
“His Grace has gone post haste into Somerset. I presume he means to pay a visit to the Bath studio of a particular painter, to ascertain by what divine right he took it upon himself to immortalize a bastard brat and her whore of a mother. It was the devil’s own luck that his most prized painting was mutilated beyond recognition. That may yet save you.”
This had a profound effect on his ailing lordship. He looked at Sir Charles with a sense of overwhelming panic. His eyes went very round. “Vesey knows where she lives and if he knows where she lives then it is only a matter of time before Father knows where she lives also.” He slumped onto a chair again. The ale did not look so bad after all. He drank it down in one breath and belched. “You told me she and the brat had been taken care of!” He pouted at Sir
Charles and shook his arm. “You promised Mamma. You said she was gone from our lives forever. Ha! And now you tell me she’s living as some painter’s whore? You lied to me, Charlie!”
Sir Charles freed himself. “I did no such thing,” he answered haughtily. “Against my better judgment, but in deference to the Duchess, I implicated myself irrevocably in your sordid business. I did what was asked of me. Nothing more and nothing less. That the whore and her bastard are being championed by an emaciated boy-painter and have come back to haunt you after all these years is hardly my affair.”
Lord George chewed on a non-existent thumbnail. “But you will do something about it, won’t you?”
Sir Charles baulked. “I? Why should I further incriminate myself? Unlike you, I can explain away my involvement as a loyal secretary merely looking after his noble employer’s best interests.”
“Damn it, Charles!” Lord George whined. “You’re just as much a part of this!”
Sir Charles sniffed contemptuously but was secretly pleased Lord George had the honesty to be frightened. He sensed the tide had once more turned in his favor. “Oh, don’t look so forlorn, George,” he said with a bright smile. “I am willing to offer you my assistance.” He propelled Lord George into the bedchamber. “Get dressed. We’re off to Somerset as soon as you’re packed.”
Lord George visibly froze in the doorway. “You won’t get me to confess a syllable to father! Not after all these years. Never.”
“No one is asking you to do that,” Sir Charles said with forced patience; his accompanying smile tight. “Those pictures were a mightily unpleasant reminder for you, George, but I am of the opinion that the dead should stay dead. The only person who can ensure this matter is dealt with once and for all time is your aunt Lady Rutherglen and before the Duke becomes involved. She is the person we are to visit. I have it on good authority she’s at Bath taking the waters.”
Lord George tossed his turban onto the tumble of bedclothes and scratched the back of his matted head. “Aunt Rutherglen?” he grumbled. “What can that old serpent do for me?”
Deadly Affair: A Georgian Historical Mystery (Alec Halsey Crimance) Page 15
