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

by Lucinda Brant

  Alec smiled and shook his head. “A fine gesture, Tam, thank you, but no. The legacy is yours and you must use it wisely. If you wish to repay me then do so by finishing your apprenticeship and honoring the memories of Master Apothecary Dodds and Mr. Blackwell. Now, tell me,” he asked, changing the subject because Tam was close to tears “what brought you to Milsom Street?”

  “I followed Mrs. Bourdon from the Abbey like Mr. Halsey asked, sir, and that’s where the chairmen took her. She stood on the opposite side of the street watching the men load up that cart and then she got back in the chair and went down the street again.” He smiled sheepishly, taking a slice of seedy cake from the plate Alec held out to him. “Thank you, sir. I assumed she had the sedan chair bring her straight back here?”

  “It did. Don’t know what got into her pretty head to go traipsing all over town given her delicate condition.”

  “Delicate?” Alec pulled a face. “She’s with child?”

  Plantagenet Halsey sucked in his thin cheeks, a glance at Tam. “Heavily with—er—child, my boy.”

  “I wonder what possessed her to come to Bath at such a time?”

  The old man put up his bushy brows. “Mr. Ninian Bourdon, perhaps?”

  Alec was skeptical and sipped silently at his coffee, watching Tam consume every last cake crumb on his plate. He offered the boy a second slice, which was taken with another bashful smile.

  “Jeffries says the hotel proprietor ain’t too pleased to have a woman stayin’ under his roof whose pregnancy is so advanced,” Plantagenet Halsey explained. “He don’t want the child born here, y’see. Bad for business. But Jeffries says the proprietor ain’t goin’ to say boo to Mrs. Bourdon not after he presented her with your note and seal upon it. So your elevation has proven useful after all.”

  “Jeffries has settled himself in well; he could yet prove useful,” Alec commented, ignoring his uncle’s lopsided grin and Tam’s almost inaudible grumble about upstart footmen.

  “One of the surly nose-in-the-air waiters told Jeffries that Mrs. Bourdon ain’t a Mrs. at all but a nabob’s fancy woman. Damned barefaced cheek!”

  “That may be closer to the mark than you think,” Alec answered quietly and was surprised when his uncle’s cheeks instantly glowed with embarrassment. “Dear me, you are smitten. Selina predicted as much.”

  The old man ground his teeth. “Did she? Ha! Any excuse to lock horns with dear Mrs. J-L when she arrives!”

  Tam felt he should contribute to the conversation, particularly when Hadrian Jeffries was bending himself over backwards to ingratiate himself into his lordship’s good graces. Besides which, he needed to voice his frisson of remembrance about Mrs. Bourdon, if only to have his master reassure him that the feeling he had met Mrs. Bourdon before was absurd and thus could be dismissed without consideration.

  “Sir, you don’t think… With Mr. Vesey making all those sketches of Mrs. Bourdon, and she waiting outside his studio today… You don’t think they… That he and she… I know his valet says differently, but I can’t help thinking, what with her being with child…” He swallowed when Plantagenet Halsey glared at him and his lordship raised an eyebrow at the old man but said nothing. “Perhaps that’s why she’s come to Bath? To be with him. And she went to his studio today to see if he’d returned from London. I know she calls herself Mrs. Bourdon but just like the hotel waiter said, and you must forgive my impertinence sir,” he apologized to Plantagenet Halsey, “but I know for a fact that many unmarried women of a certain age do that. Not that Mrs. Bourdon is of an age to do so but she does have a child and another on the way. And in St. Judes parish there were plenty of females calling themselves Mrs. this-or-that, but they didn’t have husbands as far as I could see. Mr. Blackwell said they called themselves Mrs. to hide their shame and the shame from their brats who had no father who’d own them… You understand, don’t you, sir?”

  “Yes, Tam,” Alec answered evenly. “Your skepticism regarding the excitable valet’s assertions that Mr. Vesey and Mrs. Bourdon are not lovers is justifiable. I was inclined to believe Nico when he said that Mr. Vesey saw Mrs. Bourdon in an entirely platonic, somewhat revered light: diffuse and wearing a halo. But perhaps I need to amend my confidence in the valet’s statement having discovered Mrs. Bourdon is with child?”

  “If she’s a painter’s doxy, or any man’s wife in water colors for that matter, I’ll kiss Cleveley’s hoary big toe!” the old man spat out, finger jabbing at Talgarth Vesey’s sketch. “And I’ll have you take care with your low opinion of her when you meet her! Both of you.”

  Tam held his tongue, not as confident as before, regarding his niggling suspicion he had met Mrs. Bourdon before. More coffee and cake were consumed in silence, Alec finally saying as he stood to take his leave, the short sharp rap on the outer door was Hadrian Jeffries come with the welcome news the hot scented waters of the large copper bath awaited him,

  “I had no right to cast aspersions on the character of a woman as yet unknown to me, Uncle. For that I apologize.” Thinking of his own circumstances, he added quietly, “One should not make assumptions about a woman’s character if, for whatever reasons, she finds herself a man’s mistress.” He glanced at Tam and saw that the boy had put his cup on its saucer and lowered his gaze to the crumbs on his plate. He wondered if it was from embarrassment or guilt or a bit of both. “Yet, just because Mrs. Bourdon looks and acts the virtuous angel, Uncle, does not necessarily make her one. Tam’s remarks, the fact Weir believes she is party to Talgarth’s blackmail of Stanton, and when you consider she has already given birth to one bastard child and is pregnant with a second—”

  “Well I don’t buy it!” argued the old man stubbornly. “You can think me a smitten old fool, and I don’t give tuppence for that, but she just don’t come across as the type who’d be party to blackmailin’ someone. There’s somethin’ about her… I wish I could put me finger on it… Most girls in her predicament are either brazen strumpets or over-emotional weeping pots, and yet she calmly goes about her affairs without a chaperone, ignoring the snubs of the hotel staff with her head held high and politely shaking hands with this old gent whom she doesn’t know from Adam and yet willingly allows him to escort her to church. To church! Bless her. Now off you go and have a good soak,” he added gruffly at his nephew’s self-restrained smile; nothing could hide the humor in his blue eyes. “A meditative soapy scrubbing will give you time to mull over what I’ve said. When you return to take dinner with me and finally meet her you’ll see that I am not dribblin’ pap about the woman!”

  Alec made his uncle a small bow and silently took himself off, Tam about to follow to discover for himself what havoc Hadrian Jeffries had wrought with his fastidious ways, no doubt he had rearranged to his exacting standards Tam’s careful unpacking of his lordship’s portmanteaux, when in through the servant door shuffled a young woman, hands scrunching up the front of her plain muslin petticoats with worry.

  Tam and the old man thought her come to clear away the afternoon tea things but when she hesitated in the doorway, bobbed a quick curtsey, and hovered in expectation of being addressed, Plantagenet ushered her forward. It was her hard stare at Tam that stopped him from leaving the room and when she turned to address the old man, he waited to hear what she had to say.

  “Sir, the hotel porter told me this was the rooms of Mr. Plan—Mr. Plant—of Mr. Halsey. Is that you, sir?” When the old man nodded, the girl bobbed another curtsey. “Very good, sir. Mrs. Bourdon mentioned ye were kind to her. There’s no one else, no one else in Bath that knows her… Mr. Vesey ain’t at his studio…”

  When the old man sat forward on his chair, a worried glance exchanged with Tam, the girl let out a shattering breath.

  “She was al’right until her visitor. He upset her, sir. I don’t know what he said ’cause I was sent to fetch the tea. But I could tell him just being there was not right. I wanted to stay but Mrs. Bourdon sent me for tea and I was away such a long time on account of everyone
in this place wantin’ their tea at the same hour, and the housekeeper not wantin’ to bother with searchin’ out a vase for the flowers he gave her, and then when a vase was found and I came back up to the rooms, he was gone and she was in a frightful state. Shakin’ all over she was and as white as white can be.”

  “Are you Mrs. Bourdon’s maid?”

  The girl nodded vigorously.

  “Yes, sir. Janie. M’name’s Janie. Janie Rumble. I be Mrs. Bourdon’s maid these past few years.” She bobbed another curtsey and let go of her scrunched up petticoats, looking from Plantagenet Halsey to Tam. “You will come, won’t ye?”

  Plantagenet Halsey slowly rose to his feet and Tam passed him his Malacca headed cane. “I’ll come,” he said firmly.

  Janie bobbed another curtsey.

  “That’s very kind of ye, sir. But it’s him she wants,” she said with a nod at Tam. When Plantagenet Halsey and Tam exchanged a startled look, adding, “She was very particular about it.”

  “She asked for Thomas Fisher?”

  “No, sir. She didn’a say a name.” Janie looked at Tam. “Is that your name: Thomas Fisher?”

  Tam nodded but was still too surprised to speak.

  “Are you certain, girl?” the old man asked without heat.

  “Yes, sir. She said I was to fetch the red haired boy who was with Mr. Plant—with you, sir.” She looked anxiously at Tam. “You will go to her won’t ye, Master Fisher? She needs you. She says only you can help her at a time like this.”

  Tam found his voice. “Needs me, miss? Time? What time is that?”

  Janie stared at him as if it was self-evident.

  “The babe. The babe’s on his way.”

  An hour earlier, Sir Charles had the hotel porter rap on the door to the Arch apartment. There was a moment’s hesitation when the hotel porter let it be known to the maid who came in answer to his short sharp rap that Sir Charles Weir had come to call on Mrs. Bourdon. Miranda had told Janie that she would be dining with a Mr. Plantagenet Halsey and a Sir Charles Weir later that evening and to have a couple of the hotel servants set the table at the far end of the sitting room, as well see if two could be engaged to wait on the table for the evening. She had then disappeared into her bedchamber to rest. She was still asleep when the unexpected visitor was shown into the parlor and was offered to sit on the silk striped sofa while Janie went to rouse her mistress; Sir Charles apologizing but saying it was necessary for him to speak with Mrs. Bourdon now rather than later. Janie bobbed a curtsey and did as she was told, Sir Charles’s commanding tone alerting her to the fact that it was pointless to try and put him off with the genuine excuse her mistress needed her rest at such a time.

  Sir Charles continued to wait, holding the bouquet of flowers and feeling awkward and when five minutes came and went he started to wonder if his ruse was necessary after all. And then Miranda appeared in the doorway, hair mussed and cheeks apple red from sleep, a heavy silk embroidered open robe over her nightgown that did little to hide she was heavily pregnant. For all that she looked heavenly, reminding Sir Charles of a medieval painting of a pregnant Madonna. All that was missing was the halo. He felt a stab of nostalgia. At that moment he had never hated his association with the illustrious House of Cleveley more, Lord George Stanton in particular. He wished the nobleman had choked on his own vomit years ago; five years ago to be precise.

  Miranda recoiled seeing the parliamentarian but quickly masked any feelings of uneasiness by coming across the room with a smile and hand outstretched. He bowed politely and gingerly offered the flowers, Janie quickly coming forward and taking the bouquet.

  “What lovely autumn colors, Sir Charles,” Miranda said, taking a tentative sniff of the floral arrangement when Janie presented them to her, but drew back at the overpowering smell of sage. “The kitchens will have a vase, Janie. You can find one when you fetch the tea. Tea, Sir Charles?” She offered Sir Charles to sit on the sofa, saying with apology, “I fear if I sit now I shall never get up. Janie? The tea…” she reminded the girl when Janie hovered in indecision by the servant door that opened onto the back stairwell that led down to the kitchen, the flowers propped on the window seat with its view along the length of Trim street.

  Sir Charles did not sit and he did not speak until Janie, who reluctantly bobbed a curtsey and departed, had closed over the servant door. He then turned to Miranda with an expression she found difficult to interpret. It was as if he was trying to penetrate her skin, at some other layer beneath that was only known to her and no other. His scrutiny made her blush and slowly back toward the window seat, trying her best to make it a natural action and not one that showed she wished to put as much space as possible between her and her uninvited guest, a hand to her rounded belly, as if her child required protection. Her action made him smile crookedly, confident again that he had the upper hand; any feelings of remorse had departed with the maid. He spoke to her in an altogether different voice to the one he had used when Janie was present.

  “I shall not take up your time, and neither shall you mine,” he said flatly, a step toward her. “You know why I am here and you can no doubt guess who sent me.”

  Miranda baulked at his tone and pretended an interest in the bouquet, lifting it up and then leaning it against the window ledge as Janie had done, then taking a deep breath, hoping her features did not communicate her sense of uneasiness, she turned to him with an enigmatic smile,

  “As to the former, I have no notion, Sir Charles. And as I must guess the latter perhaps you would do me the kindness by telling me?”

  “Kindness?” He spat out the word. “How can you speak of kindness when it is surely your unkindness that has brought us to this pretty impasse?”

  “May I know what unkindness I have done you—done anyone?”

  “Madam. We could argue that point all day. You have had years to ruminate on the folly of your wanton actions. Indeed, such wantonness produced the worst possible fruit and now you stand before me heavy with shame and pretend you do not know what you have done? That you had the barefaced audacity to show yourself in decent company in this shameful state; to enter a house of God as if you had the right! It is no small wonder Lady Rutherglen collapsed.”

  Again Miranda paused and drew a deep breath, the politician’s words making little sense; his anger baffling. She did not doubt his sincerity. Yet mention of Lady Rutherglen did elicit a response from her.

  “I am sorry Lady Rutherglen suffered distress, but as her ladyship has not given me an ounce of consideration since the day of my birth, indeed would not know me if she stared me in the face, I am under no obligation whatsoever to offer you any words that may be a comfort to her.”

  “Obligation? Dear God, madam, the woman reared you, put food in your mouth and a decent cloth to your back and you repaid her how? By forgetting your carefully nurtured upbringing, an upbringing afforded you because her ladyship was forced to own to the connection by blood against her better judgment but did so because of a sense of Christian charity. And how did you repay her? By fornicating with the first fool who offered you a posy of flowers and a wink of consideration!”

  They stared at each other across the carpet: Miranda’s face bleached white, Sir Charles’s cheeks diffuse with blood. One willing the other to own to the accusations; the other wondering how best to refute them without exposing herself and everything she held dear. The only sounds in the room, those coming up off the street below the arch and in through the sash windows over the window seat that had been pushed up to allow fresh air into the parlor: carriage wheels and the clip-clop of horses hooves over cobbles, the sing-song shouts of a fruit seller, and the low buzzing of a bee…

  “By fool, Sir Charles, are you referring to Lord George—”

  “You know perfectly well it is to Lord George Stanton I refer, Madam!” he hissed. “As if you can pretend ignorance! As if you care a fig if he is a fool or not! Your motives were patently clear from the off. You may have been able to use your malve
rsations on a wantwit like George, that’s no great feat, but you were never going to succeed with your designs living under the watchful eye of Lady Rutherglen and her Grace of Cleveley. And nor shall you now!”

  “What designs were those, Sir Charles?”

  Weir stared at her as if she had sprouted a second head, such was his incredulity. She was either incredibly naïve or as wafer-headed as George Stanton; perhaps they had been made for each other after all. He scoffed.

  “Come now! Like the rest of your kind, you used all the tricks available in a whore’s armory: you ensnared him, opened your legs to him and got yourself with child by him, all in the hopes he would marry you!”

  Miranda winced at such crude speech but she did not retreat from the accusation.

  “Why must you make a sordid tale of it, Sir Charles? It is just as plausible that Lord George was in love—”

  “In love? In love? George?”

  Sir Charles took a step closer, as if he needed to bring Miranda into sharp relief to digest her words. He was now only a stride away from her.

  “Why do you find the notion so astonishing, Sir Charles?” she asked steadily, forcing herself to sound calm though she felt anything but. She took a step away, not liking his closeness. “Lord George is capable of such an emotion; I have seen it. He—”

  Weir waved his hand about, as if swatting away an insect.

  “No. No. No, Madam. What you saw is what you wanted to believe you saw. Are you truly so witless that you could not make the distinction between lust and love? And if that is true, then I am truly sorry for you, but it does not alter the fact that once you found yourself with child by him you did your upmost to ensnare him into marriage.”

  “Perhaps I am not the one who has it topsy-turvy?” Miranda countered, a glance at the servant door and then over Weir’s shoulder at the door that led out onto the landing where a hotel servant sat at his post in the passageway waiting and ready to do the bidding of a hotel guest. If she could just get to the door the servant would surely hear her calls? “Perhaps Lady Rutherglen has persuaded you that there was no love, as she herself is surely devoid of such an emotion and therefore would not know love if it was offered to her on a silver salve? I truly believe Lord George was in love and if not for the inconsiderate actions of others many years before, tragedy may have been averted, which surely makes it a pitiable state of affairs…”