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

by Lucinda Brant

When Selina looked away, desolate, he lifted her chin and turned her face to his.

  “It’s all right, darling. It doesn’t change how I feel about you. I love you. And we are together now. That’s all that matters. God, I was no saint during your horrid marriage to Jamison-Lewis. I wanted to expunge all thought of you married to another. That you found comfort in the arms of an understanding lover doesn’t surprise me. I just wish I’d been there for you; that I’d been he.”

  Selina swallowed.

  “Once. It happened just the once,” she confessed and voiced her thoughts because it was better than dealing with silence between them. “I’d been married two years. His Duchess had been told she was dying, and he had just buried his niece. We were both very low and lonely. It’s just something that happened. I can’t explain how. He was very gentle and understanding.” She glanced up at him. “If it’s any consolation, the whole time I was with him I was wishing it was you…”

  “Don’t be too harsh on yourself,” Alec heard himself say in an even tone, though he felt anything but calm. “Sometimes circumstances arise… situations develop…” His voice trailed off, he didn’t know what else to say.

  He was thinking that once was once too often. No wonder Cleveley’s smile had been smug at Hanover Square. He knew he shouldn’t let it bother him that Selina had found comfort in the arms of the Duke because he had treated Selina with kindness and an understanding of her plight married to a sadistic misogynistic husband. But it did bother him, not only because they had shared a bed, but because the Duke was still very much part of Selina’s life. He knew he was being utterly selfish and vain; possibly unreasonable, but it smarted whichever way he thought about it.

  What she confided next sucked the air out of his lungs.

  “I fell pregnant but lost the child early in the pregnancy.”

  “To Cleveley? You were pregnant to Cleveley?”

  “Yes. Such things can and do happen.”

  “Are you sure it was his child and not your husband’s?”

  Selina scowled, wondering where his questions were heading and not liking his tone. “Yes. Certain. Women know these things.”

  Alec tempered his tone and said evenly, “I only ask because the rumor, according to Olivia, is that Cleveley is—”

  “—barren? Yes, that’s the whisper. But it’s not true. It’s just that he—Justinian—thought it best not to shout my pregnancy from the rooftops; and the Duchess was dying of cancer…”

  “His Grace is all consideration,” Alec murmured, asking before Selina could launch into another defense of the great man, “So you told him?”

  “Of course. J-L? Never in a month of Sundays!” Selina suddenly teared up. “He—Justinian—was so joyous at the news. He said my pregnancy was a gift; it gave him hope and then—and then I lost the baby…”

  When Alec just sat there, a deep furrow between his brows, Selina could not bear with his brooding silence, which was much more difficult to deal with and hurtful than a jealous lover’s castigation, so blurted out, as if by confessing every lurid detail she would be cleansed,

  “Cleveley is my godfather, which renders the affair and the subsequent pregnancy that much more sordid, doesn’t it? Making love with one’s godfather isn’t far removed from sleeping with one’s own father or brother or uncle. After all, he was there at my christening with them. As for falling pregnant by him… It’s the stuff of Julio-Claudian melodrama. And to make certain I would loathe myself forever more for what I’d done, while I was imagining he was you, he was imagining I was her… At the crucial moment, he cried out for Mimi. He cried out for his fifteen-year-old niece.”

  Evans opened the door on a heavy silence. Following her were four of the inn’s waiters. Two carried trays heavy with dinner things, a third had two bottles of the inn’s finest claret and two glasses, and the fourth brought extra candles and an ornate candelabra for the center of the table. Alec got off the sofa and went to stoke the dying fire while the table was reset with cutlery, plates, wine glasses and candelabra. Bread, a fancy tureen containing soup maigre, a pot of olio, bowls of pickles, parsnips, mushrooms and carrots and various sauces in small dishes completed the feast. Nothing had been spared for his lordship. Evans had made it clear to the Cook that the dinner he was to prepare was for the Marquess Halsey.

  When a waiter remained behind the chair at the head of the table, Alec dismissed him, saying they would serve themselves. Evans saw the gaping functionary to the door before she once again retired to the darkness of the bedchamber, a look from one bleak face to the other deciding her that the food could not have arrived at a more inauspicious moment. She silently closed over the door to give the couple further privacy.

  Alec was starving. He had eaten his soup and was well into the main course before Selina took her place at the table and decided that whatever her frame of mind, her stomach required sustenance. The silence continued between them until Alec, pouring her out a glass of wine, asked mildly,

  “Where’s Talgarth?”

  “The next room along. He’s locked himself in. No doubt, by this hour, he’s experiencing some nether world after finally feeding his addiction.”

  “There goes my plan of bedding down on his floor for the night.” When Selina glowered at him he added with a crooked smile, “It’s not a new thought, darling. I’d always intended to bunk in with your brother. There’s not even a spare square of hay to be had here tonight. And with your maid and little Sophie for company you’ll find the bed crowded enough. But I might need to take the sofa, and be up before the sun. Talgarth should be able to drag himself to the door by then and I can wash and shave in his room. Here, try these caramelized onions. They’re delicious.”

  “I shouldn’t have told you!”

  “Why?” He tried to sound off-hand. “If spending one night with your godfather is the worst of it and the reason you can’t see your way clear to marrying me then—”

  “No! That has little to do with my decision.”

  Alec suspended his fork mid way between plate and mouth. “I see. Well, no, I don’t see…” He set the fork on his plate. “Correct the grand supposition but I presumed Cleveley, doing his duty as your godfather, counseled you against aligning yourself with a man who many believe hasn’t the right to wear his brother’s coronet, least of all be presented with a shiny new Marquessate and who has the suspicion of murder upon his head; twice now, what with the good vicar dropping dead after eating his meal seated beside me.”

  Selina fortified herself with a sip of wine. “Yes, he did advise me, as my godfather. But you have it topsy-turvy. He is against your marriage to me. He says your character needs rehabilitating in Society and that takes time. But his most persuasive line of argument can’t be faulted.”

  “His consideration is noted,” Alec muttered dryly, and took up his fork again. “But I do believe the decision to marry the woman I love is mine alone, don’t you, whatever your godfather’s valid arguments?”

  “Not tonight,” she pleaded, reaching for his long fingers curled about the stem of his wine glass. “Please. I don’t want to sink any lower tonight.”

  He stared into her pale face and nodded and returned to eating what was on his plate, the food less appetizing than before.

  Actually he was relieved to drop the discussion. Food had restored his vigor but he was mentally exhausted. She was right, too. Knowing Cleveley had abused his position as her godfather and not only seduced her when a young married woman of twenty and he a middle-aged man, but impregnated her, had given him a severe jolt of disgust. He had always been sensitive to the age difference between he and Selina; not such a great gulf in their ages now but she had been only eighteen and he in his mid twenties when they’d fallen in love and he had asked her to marry him. But Cleveley didn’t love Selina and he, old enough to be her father and in a position of trust, had taken advantage of her, a young, unhappily married girl; that while making love to his darling Selina the Duke’s carnal thoughts were
for his even younger niece revolted his every bodily sinew.

  “Did you manage to speak with Talgarth at any stage during your tedious journey?” he asked casually, breaking the silence with a question he hoped would lighten the mood.

  Selina selected a piece of candied fruit and pushed the small bowl away.

  “He wasn’t very amenable to confidences. And when I pressed him for a name as to who might want to deface one of his portraits he rattled off a number of previous clients whom he had offended in some way. But I doubt even the likes of Lady Rutherglen would stoop to attacking one of Talgarth’s canvases to vent her dissatisfaction, do you?”

  “Talgarth would only have to render a true likeness to raise her ladyship’s ire.”

  Selina smiled.

  “So you do know Lady Rutherglen. Vile woman. Poor Sybilla lives in terror of her sister-in-law’s visits. Despite her nobility, descended from an unbroken line of Dukes of Romney-St. Neots that goes back to Edward the Third, Sybilla will never be good enough in Frances Rutherglen’s eyes for her adored brother the Admiral. Frances absolutely dotes on men. The dear Admiral and her nephew George Stanton can do no wrong. But she has a very Greek view of girl children. Worthless creatures to be put out for the wolves. Her daughter Mimi was doomed at birth for not being the son she so craved.” She bit into the candied fruit on a wistful sigh. “Long suffering Mimi and her country cousin were confined to the schoolroom to rot. Poor Mimi left it in a casket.”

  “And the letters to Lord George?” Alec enquired, breaking her abstraction.

  Selina was reaching for another sweetmeat, but at his simple question withdrew her hand and put out her glass to be refilled. “I have a confession. I meant to tell you when you came to Hanover Square but we became distracted and then you went away… I’m sure Talgarth won’t care in the least if I tell Apollo—”

  “Apollo?”

  “You. Talgarth refers to you as Apollo. He has a very good eye for manly beauty…” She tilted her head and smiled at him quizzically. “I wonder if there’s ever been a painting of Apollo with evening shadow…?”

  Alec flushed in spite of himself and rubbed his stubbled cheek.

  “This confession?”

  “Talgarth cannot read or write.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Selina smiled thinly at his astonishment.

  “He never has been able to read and he can barely form the letters to write his name. God knows he tried, just to stop the beatings. The opium helped him cope with the years of abuse, or as my parents liked to think of it, their son’s willful conduct.”

  “The poor fellow,” Alec muttered, appalled. “But he paints such wonderfully emotive paintings. Didn’t your parents see the value in such enormous talent?”

  “My father was a General lord in the army. A man’s man who knew how to instill discipline and expected absolute obedience. My mother was a pretty airhead who could barely read and write her own name. What of that? She’s female. Talgarth’s great talent was considered an abomination by my parents.”

  “Dear God, what demons must he carry around with him? No wonder he’s found solace and oblivion in opium taking!”

  “Just so,” was Selina’s tight response, gaze focused on the intricate folds of Alec’s linen cravat. Talgarth’s treatment at the hands of their parents never ceased to bring tears to her eyes. “So, you see, Sir Charles Weir was lying to you when he said my brother was blackmailing George Stanton. Those letters are a fabrication.”

  “That is one possibility… Or Lord George duped Charles into believing the letters were written by your brother… Or, the letters do exist and Lord George believes, for one reason or another, that they were written by Talgarth.”

  “How? That’s absurd when Talgarth cannot read or write!”

  Alec patted his mouth with a corner of his napkin and set it aside. “Absurd that Talgarth wrote them, yes, but not necessarily absurd to think they were written by Talgarth. I gather that neither Charles Weir or George Stanton knows your brother is illiterate?”

  “Very few people know. So, no, Weir and Lord George would not know that about Talgarth.” She wrinkled her nose in thought as she absently twirled a loose curl about one finger. “What you’re suggesting is that if there are letters written in Talgarth’s name, they were written in someone else’s fist? Now that is absurd!”

  “Is it? Did you receive letters from Talgarth when he was in Florence?”

  “Of course. Almost weekly.”

  “Who wrote those letters?”

  “Nico.”

  “Nico?”

  “My brother’s valet, majordomo, call him what you will.”

  Alec raised one mobile eyebrow.

  Selina’s jaw dropped. “No! Not Nico. He’s devoted to Talgarth. Talgarth couldn’t survive without Nico.”

  “Nico is in a position of trust. He must know your brother intimately. He also reads and then writes all your brother’s correspondence and looks after his accounts.”

  “But why would Nico write threatening letters to Stanton purporting to be Talgarth?”

  “I never said that. If Talgarth dictated the content and Nico was merely his scribe then it’s as if Talgarth did indeed write those letters to Stanton.”

  “I don’t see Talgarth as a blackmailer. He wouldn’t threaten anyone in that way.”

  “You said yourself he’s threatened many of his clients, so what’s to say he wouldn’t threaten George Stanton?” asked Alec as he pushed out his chair to stretch his long legs so that his dusty jockeyboots were to the warmth of the fire, and to better view Selina who had left the table to pace in front of the same warmth. “Seeking revenge on behalf of the woman he loves is motive enough. Seeking revenge on behalf of his wife and her child is even more reason to blackmail her tormentor.”

  “You can’t be suggesting that Talgarth and Miranda are married?” Selina’s swaying petticoats came to a swishing halt. She smiled her incredulity. “Now who is being duped! Never. He would never… She would never… Not without speaking to me first.”

  “Perhaps they didn’t have the luxury of time nor want to await your negative response?”

  “I don’t know why you’re laughing! Besides, how do you know they were married?”

  Alec told her what Blackwell had confided in Thaddeus Fanshawe about marrying Miranda to a Mr. Ninian Bourdon at Ellick Farm. Selina was unconvinced.

  “The word of a flunky lawyer who can’t provide proof of this ridiculous notion because the vicar is dead? And he never mentioned Talgarth by name.”

  “You only have to ask your brother to find out if the lawyer speaks the truth.”

  “And you think Talgarth and this Mr. Bourdon are one and the same man?”

  “Do you have another candidate for Miranda’s husband?”

  Selina did not. Miranda lived a solitary existence in the wilds of the Mendip Hills and aside from the local villagers and her infrequent trips into Bath she saw no one and went nowhere. Or so Selina had always presumed.

  “Tell me, darling, if you think Talgarth isn’t the sort of fellow who, when the mood comes upon him, would just up and do something without thought to the consequences?” Alec took out his spectacles from a shallow waistcoat pocket, perched them on the end of his nose then extracted from the same pocket one diamond drop earring and a slim gold wedding band and these he placed on the table. “You don’t think your brother has the emotional character that lends itself to chivalrous behavior? Not to mention his affliction which must make such behavior erratic and spontaneous at the best of times…?”

  Selina was shaking her fair head but then she paused in thought. “Now and again… perhaps,” she begrudgingly conceded. Curious, she picked up the gold band. Realizing what it was she quickly put it down again.

  “It’s not for you,” Alec drawled over the rims of his spectacles and held out the ring to her with a lopsided smile. “I wouldn’t dare to presume to offer you such a token of my esteem and fidelity u
ntil your mourning is over. And when I do offer it, yours will be set with diamonds. This was found in the dead boy’s pocket; the earring was in the straw near where his body lay. No doubt stolen along with the letters. Yes, the ring is a wedding band and if you take a closer look you will see engraving.”

  “Three initials: T or is it a G or a J? It is difficult to make out. The other two letters are better etched. B and an M. All three intertwined, the initial B is the larger of the three.”

  “Any thoughts on who owns these initials?”

  Selina shrugged and returned the gold band to Alec, who slipped it back into his waistcoat pocket. “The obvious answer is Miranda. But now that seems an all too simple response.” She scooped up the drop earring and held it close to the branch of candles on the table. The configuration of heavy teardrop diamond surrounded by a gradation of a dozen smaller diamonds sparkled and winked in the candlelight. “How does a girl who lives in the depths of the Mendips come by extravagant earrings better suited to a London ballroom? And who gave them to her?” Her gaze drifted to the darkened bedchamber and the little lump in the bed; Alec’s eyes followed hers. “The more I learn about Miranda Bourdon the less I know her. I have more questions than answers.”

  “And the only person who may have been able to supply those answers is dead.”

  Hearing the tiredness in his voice she turned back to him and with a cheeky smile deftly slipped the gold hook of the diamond earring through the piercing in her right ear lobe. She laughed at his surprise “Can you think of a safer place for an earring until it is reunited with its twin?” and led him by the hand to the sofa where she snuggled into the warmth of him, suddenly very tired. “There is someone else who may be able supply the answers…”

  Alec nodded, a hand lightly to her hair and gaze on the flickering flames in the grate of the small fireplace.

  “Yes. Miranda.”

  Miranda was searching through the wrapped parcels from a shopping excursion of the day before when her maid came silently into the sitting room carrying a tray laden with morning tea things and set it down on the low table between a striped sofa and overstuffed wingchair.