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

by Lucinda Brant

  “Egad! I hope not!” Lord George shuddered. “Not sorry I missed the service. Coming face to face with her in the Abbey would’ve been unbearable.” He appealed to his aunt in a pleading whine, “She won’t try and foist the brat on me, will she, dearest Aunt?”

  Lady Rutherglen’s watery yellowed eyes narrowed. “With another bastard on the way? She wouldn’t dare.”

  “Eh? Another?” Lord George asked, as if this information had just penetrated his brain. He stared at Sir Charles. “She’s carrying another bastard?”

  “I agree with you, my lady,” Sir Charles answered, ignoring Stanton’s whine. “Her present—er—condition must surely preclude any further attempts to blackmail Lord George; for how can she cast blame in his direction when this second pregnancy must forever damn her as deplorably base? I wonder if the painter will own to being its father?”

  “Well this one ain’t mine!” Lord George declared with a snort and retreated behind the crinkled newssheet.

  “I invited myself to dine with her this evening,” Sir Charles informed them with a self-satisfied smile.

  The crumpled newssheet was ruthlessly crushed once more in Lord George’s lap.

  “Dine with her?” Lord George scrambled to sit up straight, his bottom lip stuck out in a sulk of incomprehension. “Dine with a harlot? To what purpose? After what she’s put me through? Are you mad, Charlie?”

  Lady Rutherglen extended a thin hand to her nephew and was pleased when he took it. She tugged at him until he got out of his chair and knelt beside hers. “You’re a good boy, Georgie,” she whispered, pinching his fleshy cleft chin a little too hard. “If you continue to be a good boy your Aunt Frances will see to it you are the next Duke of Cleveley. But you must leave Charles to do the thinking. Do you understand me, dear boy?”

  “Yes, Aunt,” he answered docily, staring into her yellowed eyes with an equal measure of revulsion and fear. He pulled a face at Sir Charles. “You’re welcome to the whore, Charlie!” for which he received a severe tug on his thick earlobe. “Ow! What-what did you do that for, Auntie?”

  “Insolent boy,” Lady Rutherglen hissed at him, cursing the memory of her dead sister who had been a sentimental fool yet managed to produce a son who would one day succeed to a dukedom when she Frances, the younger and far more intelligent sister, had produced one sickly insignificant and recalcitrant daughter who had been nothing but a disappointment and then had had the bad manners to die before she could marry her off. She let go of her nephew’s reddened ear saying in a deceptively sweet voice, “Treat Charles well. He has our best interests at heart. Now help me up.”

  Begrudgingly, Lord George did as he was told. Unable to help himself he glared over his aunt’s powdered wig at Sir Charles. “Are you sure he has my best interests at heart and not his own?”

  Lady Rutherglen regarded Sir Charles from under half-closed lids devoid of eyelashes. “By serving us he serves himself, George. Is that not so, Charles?”

  Sir Charles bowed politely, his face masking his feelings, and ignored Lord George’s snort of contempt, as did Lady Rutherglen who said to Sir Charles,

  “Maria Russell and her daughter are due in Bath today. I don’t want that whore within five miles of town.”

  “As you wish, my lady,” Sir Charles replied obediently, a glance at Stanton. “It would be too bad if Lady Henrietta was to—”

  Lord George took an angry stride toward Sir Charles. “Don’t say Hatty’s name in my presence! Ever,” he bellowed. “I know your game, secretary.”

  “—come face to face with Mrs. Bourdon,” Sir Charles enunciated, ignoring Lord George’s tantrum. His brows contracted over his snub nose. “What do you mean game, my lord?”

  Lord George gripped his aunt’s thin arm convulsively. “Auntie told me about your designs on Hatty Russell. As if her father would ever allow you to touch one hair on Hatty’s head least of all marry her! Ha!”

  “And does his lordship have any notion of what you’ve touched, my lord?”

  “Enough! Enough!” growled Lady Rutherglen, fending off both gentlemen with outstretched arms when they bristled at each other. “I won’t have Cheltenham tragedies here!” She gave Lord George’s puffed out chest a contemptuous little push. “Sit down and read your newssheet, Georgie, and let Sir Charles and I do the thinking.”

  “Any notion why Mrs. Bourdon, as she calls herself, has suddenly decided to pester us from the grave after all these years, my lady?

  “I’ve no idea why the trollop has shown herself in good society at this time, but she is mistaken if she thinks she can outwit me,” Lady Rutherglen ruminated, grinding her few remaining teeth, gaze fixed beyond the window on a memory. “She thought herself so very clever, seducing Georgie under my roof, and even cleverer when she got herself with child by him. Pshaw! As if a bastard amounts to anything! Polluted creature! Like begets like. I blame Ellen.”

  “Blame Mamma?” Lord George blinked, expression suitably vacant as he looked over the spread newssheet, at his aunt then at Sir Charles and back again. “Auntie? Charlie? What’s Mamma got to do with this damnable pickle we’re in?”

  Lady Rutherglen regarded her nephew, not at all surprised. She opened her dry mouth to answer him, then thought better of it and fixed her gaze on Sir Charles.

  “I won’t allow that ungrateful hedge-whore to jeopardize our future, Charles. Find out if she knows about the vicar’s demise. If she’s ignorant: Tell her. It may yet persuade her to skulk back to the bushes from whence she came. And Charles: By dusk.”

  Sir Charles bowed. “Have I your permission to use whatever methods of persuasion I deem necessary, my lady?”

  Lady Rutherglen waved a dismissive hand. “After the hell she’s put George—us all—through? Send her with my good wishes in a box to Hades for all I care!”

  Tam followed the sedan chair carrying Miranda all the way to Milsom Street. Here the chair set her down and she began to walk up the street, the chairmen following behind, as if she merely wanted to stretch her legs before climbing back within the confined space of the chair to continue on her way. Tam kept a discreet distance yet was close enough to run to her assistance should she, a young lady without a chaperone, be accosted by an unwelcome stranger. Enough heads turned in her direction, shoppers, ostlers, laborers upon scaffolding, that there had to be more to it than the fact she was heavily pregnant and unattended. It was no surprise her exceptional beauty was attracting attention in the street. Yet she seemed unselfconscious of the effect she had on those around her. Or if she noticed heads turn she ignored them. Tam would have supposed pregnancy an anathema to such waiflike beauty yet it suited her very well.

  She halted abruptly on the opposite side of the street to a narrow townhouse squeezed between the Octagon Chapel and a wide-fronted building whose façade was covered in scaffolding. Outside the townhouse was a horse and cart piled with crates, large flat parcels wrapped up in cloth and pieces of furniture all a jumble and held in place by strong rope. Several chairs and an easel remained on the stone pavement waiting to be thrown up to the two strong-armed lads loading the cart; a third man stood by the wide open door. A short swarthy dark-haired young man wearing a gaily colored waistcoat came out of the premises on the heels of a man of business, gesticulating wildly from the townhouse to the laden cart and back again to the man of business who kept his head down as he called out loudly from a list of chattels to the two lads atop the cart to be heard over the traffic of carriage wheels.

  Tam waited patiently for Miranda to continue on up the street or cross the busy road, as if the activity of an eviction (for that’s what it looked like to Tam) was a mere distraction to her real purpose. But she remained watching the comings and goings of the bailiff and his henchmen for a full five minutes before her hired sedan chair took her up again; the burly chairmen making an about face to retrace their steps down Milsom Street to disappear around a corner. Tam watched the sedan’s slow progress then chanced to glance across the street at the
narrow-fronted townhouse that had held Miranda’s attention to the exclusion of all else going on about her. And there, standing on the pavement, talking to the bailiff and the gesticulating little man in the gaily-colored waistcoat was Lord Halsey.

  By the time there was a break in the traffic of carriages, carts and horsemen, and Tam crossed Milsom Street, Alec had disappeared inside the narrow-fronted townhouse, and the bailiff was directing his men to unload the cart of its confiscated contents and return them within doors. Tam skipped in front of two men juggling a heavy mahogany lowboy and entered the building, taking the stairs to the first landing where two more men were carefully angling what looked like a table top wrapped in canvas through the open doorway. Giving them directions was the little man in the gaily-colored waistcoat, who waved his hands about and hopped on the balls of his feet. He rattled on in a tongue Tam suspected from his Latin training to be Italian, and thus was no help to the burdened men. Yet it was obvious from his expressions and the pitch of his voice that their cargo was precious.

  Once the men had successfully negotiated the doorway, Tam followed the Italian into the room and found his master strolling about a painter’s studio. The room ran the entire length of the building, and was half its width. At the furthest end was an ornate screen partitioning a narrow bed from a small kitchen that was dominated by a large recessed hearth. Above the bed a circular iron staircase led up to a loft with a fireplace, large mahogany four-poster and several pieces of furniture. The rest of the cavernous space belonged to the serious business of painting. The once polished floorboards were thickly speckled with paint, the walls groaned under a large assortment of portraits and landscapes and a long workbench pushed under two sash windows was littered with an artist’s tools of trade. Rolled canvases were stacked higgledy-piggledy beside the workbench and several large finished canvases in ornate gilt frames were neatly displayed along the rest of this same wall. Here the two men, who had unwrapped the canvas, were placing three more framed pictures under the excitable direction of the Italian.

  No sooner had these men departed than two of their fellows arrived with the heavy lowboy and, behind them, another carrying a spindle-legged upholstered chair and a couple of easels. The Italian gestured where to place the furniture and then shooed them out. At the end of these comings and goings Tam thought it time to make his presence known to his master, but the Italian got to him first.

  Alec had his back to the activity and was casually flicking through a bundle of ink and charcoal sketches stacked on a chair by the workbench. One pencil sketch in particular caught his eye. It looked to be an early outline of the mother and daughter painting hideously attacked at the Oxford Street Exhibition, for he recognized the composition of figures and landscape. Taking up the lower third of the sketch was a larger, more detailed study of the mother’s face. That she possessed great beauty was indisputable, but there was something about her expression that reflected a goodness of purpose and heart, and said as much about the artist’s exceptional talents as it did about the sitter. He felt suddenly very sad for Talgarth at the loss of his painting but was shaken out of this momentary melancholy by the little Italian who fell to his knees at his feet and proceeded to cover his long white hand with kisses.

  “Grazie, Signore! Grazie! You save Nico! Grazie! Grazie!”

  “Fermata! Stop that at once and get up!” Alec ordered in Italian, disentangling his fingers as the little man’s grasp transferred to the embroidered short skirts of Alec’s dark blue velvet frockcoat. He smiled at Tam who stood in the middle of the vast space. “Good to see you, Tam. Do you understand the Italian tongue?”

  “Not fluently, my lord,” Tam replied, coming forward with a suspicious glance at the groveling Italian.

  “Then Nico will have to do his best with what little English he does speak. Si? And do get up. Pronto!”

  “Si, Signore,” Nico replied obediently, getting up off his knees. “Nico cannot thank you enough, Signore. I tell Signore Vesey about demands for payment but he ignore them always. Always! I tell him he cannot ignore accounts and expect that we eat. But he too proud to seek help from family. So, the bailiff he come.”

  “How are Mr. Vesey’s accounts usually settled?”

  “Ah! The bills they are collected every other month by a servant of Signora Jamison-Lewis, the beautiful sister of Signore Vesey. And accounts she settle. This time, Signore Vesey he decide to take accounts with him to London. I said to him you will forget to give to Signora Jamison-Lewis. And this, it happens!”

  “Mr. Vesey’s sister settles his accounts? And you, do you read and write for Mr. Vesey?” Alec asked smoothly, as he flipped through the pile of charcoal sketches. When there was no response he looked up and saw Nico regarding Tam with suspicion. “Tam is my servitore—my valletto. Capisce?” When Nico nodded, he added, “I know Mr. Vesey cannot read and write.”

  “Si, monsignore, but Signore Vesey he not like for people to know this. He say only peasants not read and write and he, Signore Vesey he not a peasant. But I say to him, let me, Nico, write the English letters. My writing in the English,” he added proudly, “it is better than the speech. When I read the letters to Signore Vesey I translate to the Italian. It makes it easier for both of us. Signore Vesey he speak my language beautifully.”

  Alec held up a corner of the parchment he was admiring. “Do you know this lady?” he asked Nico, and when he saw Tam give a start, eyes widening in recognition, looked to him for a response.

  “Mrs. Bourdon, sir,” Tam replied just as Nico began to shake his head.

  “Yes, of course,” Alec answered placidly, and before he could repeat his question to the little Italian Tam added,

  “Mr. Halsey and I made her acquaintance on the stairs at Barr’s. Mr. Halsey’s been invited to dine with her this evening.”

  “I see that bump to his head hasn’t dulled his charm,” quipped Alec and repeated his question.

  “Nico he never met this signora. But men, they want,” Nico replied in his broken English. “She very beautiful so is natural Signore Vesey he sketch her. But Signore Vesey, he tell me I never to sell her likeness. Never.”

  “Signore Vesey has had offers for her pictures?”

  Nico made a face of resignation. “Signore Vesey he make her a promise. He sketch her but he never to paint her. And he never to sell her likeness. Never. Signore Vesey he keep promise about the selling but he not able to resist to paint her from sketches. She not know this. But me I never make her such a promise. Never.”

  “Are Signore Vesey and this woman lovers?” Alec asked bluntly in Italian.

  The little man grinned and made an exaggerated gesture of embarrassment with a lift of his shoulders, as if not comprehending his native tongue. When Alec repeated the question Nico answered him in his native tongue, saying with a little knowing smile, “Signore Vesey makes love to her many, many times but only with his brush. You understand, Monsignore, si?”

  Alec pretended not to understand.

  “Because she repelled his advances or because your master’s addiction to opiates has made him impotent?”

  Nico looked momentarily stunned but when Alec held his gaze he turned down his mouth and shrugged. “He is in love with the beautiful signora, that is true, but the situation you have hit with the nail, Monsignore.”

  “Did your master have you write letters to a Lord George Stanton on behalf of the beautiful signora?”

  “Stanton? No. I do not know that name,” Nico replied, though Alec noted he could not meet his gaze. “Why should I write letters for her when she can write for herself? I have the letters she wrote from her farm to Signore Vesey.”

  “Did her letters mention a Lord George Stanton?”

  “I told you: Nico has never heard that name before. And I tell you this for nothing,” he added, pulling a face, “the Signora’s letters are full of female trivialities about jam and the weather and her little bambina. Very boring, I assure you, Monsignore. So it is as well she
is beautiful because her likenesses they fetch a good price for Nico.”

  Alec smiled at the Italian’s obvious disgust for female matters of importance but asked him seriously, “Why did you sell her likeness?”

  “Because Signore Vesey and I, we need food and to be warm,” Nico responded in angry defense. “My master’s mind is on his art or on nothing at all. Food it is not important to him but to Nico, it is very important. One of us must be practical. Si?”

  “Yes, of course,” Alec replied placidly, adding in English for Tam’s benefit, “Who bought the sketches?”

  “A gentleman; he very persistent. He come here two, three, maybe five times,” said Nico in English. “He want all pictures of this beautiful lady. He say very important. I tell him no pictures of her here. I do not tell him about large canvas that Signore Vesey he taking to London for important exhibition. Everything else I say is immondizia; not important. Just sketches like this one, on scraps of blotter.”

  “But this gentleman still wanted them?”

  Nico grinned and opened wide his arms. “Molto! Molto! He want to buy up all her likenesses! I think Signore Vesey he not mind when he realize Nico he get enough of your English guineas to pay for food and wine and new coats! This one,” he added with a pout, giving the parchment Alec still held a casual flick with his thumb, “I not know it here or it too I sell.”

  “Did the gentleman give you a name?” asked Alec, moving away from the bench to inspect the row of framed portraits stacked against the wall, Nico and Tam following; the little Italian rudely shouldering past Tam to be one step behind Alec.

  “No, Monsignore. He never say and he always come at dusk, when only Nico here.” The little Italian pulled a face. “I think he come in darkness because he very, very ugly.”

  “Ugly? In what way?”

  Nico lightly tapped both his cheeks with his fingertips “Vaiolo. Smallpox. Scars. They very very bad.”