Less alone than she’d felt since the terrible year when she’d lost both her parents, she curled up beside him like a kitten, and drifted into sleep with a smile in her heart.
In the morning she woke up and found him gone.
Chapter 24
Whoever put the Queen’s House in order, removing the Holland covers, putting fresh linens on the bed, dusting and polishing every surface till it gleamed, had failed to wind either of the handsome clocks. Jacobin had no idea what time it was. She looked out of the window to check the position of the sun and found it was snowing. No wonder she felt cold.
Really, she thought, as she dressed in her own shabby garments, he might have lit the fire before leaving. Then recalled that wasn’t one of his skills.
Never mind. He had other, more important talents. Her muscles were a little stiff, there was some tenderness between her legs, and she felt wonderful. And starving. Breakfast in bed would have been nice.
She skipped downstairs and found her cloak, bracing herself against a blast of frigid air when she stepped outside. The snow had thickened and a light mantle of white clothed the path away from the hamlet. Even the prospect of asking Mrs. Simpson for breakfast didn’t dampen her spirits. She had no illusions that the events of last night—or at least their general tenor—wouldn’t be common knowledge in the servants’ hall. She could expect all sorts of insolent glances and suggestive remarks.
But this morning she found it impossible to care. She and Anthony would arrange something. He wouldn’t be needing her services as a cook anymore, now the match with Candover was over. Perhaps she’d take up his offer of a house on the estate and they could spend hours in bed together.
What that would mean in the long term, she refused to consider. She wouldn’t look beyond the immediate concern of her growling stomach. Even Candover couldn’t have eaten everything served last night. And if the servants had demolished the lot—she’d noticed their scorn for her didn’t extend to rejecting the fruits of her labor—she’d whip up something new. Almond tartlets sounded good.
Humming to herself, she rounded the rhododendrons and almost tripped over the body. The large body sprawled on its back in the pathway, an ugly wound leaching blood into the snow.
Candover. My God!
She knelt and felt for a pulse. Nothing. The flesh was cool, and she was almost certain he was dead. Her mind was numb as she gazed at her uncle’s lifeless hulk. She had no fondness for the man and he had surely loathed her, yet she felt no joy in his demise. Maybe he wasn’t beyond help. She gathered her scattered wits, just as footsteps approached from the direction of the house.
“Anthony!” she called out. “Help!”
A man emerged through the bush-lined walk. She’d never seen him before. He bent over and felt Candover’s pulse, as she had, and swore under his breath. Then rough hands pulled her upright. She glimpsed a scarlet waistcoat beneath the man’s heavy coat.
“Jacobin de Chastelux. I arrest you for the murder of Baron Candover of Hurst.”
Too late, drat it, and not by very much if he judged correctly. Hawkins cursed the snow that had slowed the last miles of his journey from London to Sussex. He should have left last night, as soon as he’d discovered from Storrington’s secretary that wherever Jane Castle had come from, it wasn’t Scotland.
At least he had the satisfaction of catching the wench red-handed. In this weather it was hard to tell how long the man had been dead, but he judged it wasn’t long.
The girl tried to shake off his firm grip. “Fetch Lord Storrington,” she had the nerve to demand. As though he didn’t know the earl was in it with her up to his arrogant eyebrows. Unfortunately he was going to have a hard time pinning the deed on His Lordship, even as an accessory.
“Forget it,” he said. “His Lordship’s left you to face the music alone. He drove to London this morning.” Hawkins’s leathers had been splashed with icy mud by a speeding carriage that must have been carrying Storrington like a bat out of hell away from the scene of the crime. “You’re coming with me to the magistrate.”
Mr. John Withercombe, the local beak, was less accommodating than Hawkins would have wished. Residing two miles from Storrington Hall, he held his neighborhood magnate in considerable respect.
“Storrington’s cook, you say.” He scratched his head under the old-fashioned wig, and his wrinkled face creased with concern. “I don’t think I can let you take her away without consulting him. He wouldn’t be pleased.”
“I found her leaning over the body,” Hawkins repeated. “And I have ample evidence this wasn’t her first attempt. She should be lodged in Chichester to await trial at the next assizes. The Prince Regent himself will be most displeased at any delay in bringing her to justice.”
Obviously Lord Storrington’s displeasure meant more to Withercombe than the prince’s.
“I’ll lock her up here,” he said stubbornly, “and if Storrington hasn’t returned by tomorrow we’ll think again.” It was the only concession Hawkins could wring from him.
The woman was billeted in the magistrate’s lockup while the two men returned to Storrington Hall to look for the murder weapon.
It wasn’t much of a jail, at least in the view of one who’d been brought up on stories of the worst excesses of the French Revolution. No massive stone walls; no chains; no dripping water; no jailers clanking bunches of heavy keys; no weeping aristocrats awaiting the tumbrels; no rats. The English, it appeared, didn’t have the French flair for drama when it came to incarceration.
It was really quite tame. More like an ordinary room in the domestic offices of a manor house. A narrow bed stood in one corner, and a hard straight-backed chair was supplied for seating. The floor was of rough pine and the walls whitewashed. A canvas bucket in the corner completed the amenities. Jacobin hoped it would be emptied with reasonable frequency. The small window did at least have bars, but they didn’t look very formidable. She fancied that with a blunt instrument she might be able to gouge them from the window frame and make her escape. There could be worse places to spend a few hours.
That was how she felt all morning, when she expected Anthony to come and rescue her at any time. She didn’t for a moment believe the runner’s assertion that he had fled to London without a word to her.
By mid-afternoon she was anxious, but comforted herself with a recollection of his trying to wake her. She’d buried her face in her pillow and refused to move. Sleep seemed irresistible after such an exhausting night. He must have been telling her he had business to conduct that morning.
By the time a servant delivered her a tray of plain but palatable food she was worried. And long after dark, when the single tallow candle had guttered and the absence of all noise told her Mr. Withercombe’s household had retired for the night, she lost all trace of composure. She would still have welcomed Anthony’s appearance at the door of her prison, but was prepared to greet him with a bang on the head with the slop bucket.
As she shivered through the night on the hard little bed, she replayed the events of the morning and didn’t like her conclusions.
Anthony had a prime motive for killing Candover: to keep him quiet about their aborted card game and save face with the London ton.
Anthony had traveled the same path to Candover’s body that she had, but sometime earlier.
Anthony had disappeared from the scene, leaving her conveniently in place to be seized.
And she’d given Anthony the one piece of evidence that no one else knew about, the piece of the puzzle that would surely have hanged her for the Brighton poisoning: that it was she who had filled the dish from Candover’s armorial service with rose Bavarian cream.
Chapter 25
“I’m surprised to see you again so soon, Storrington. Delighted, of course. And sorry to have kept you waiting. I collect your business is of some urgency.” Lord Hugo Hartley displayed his usual grace, but Anthony thought he looked drawn and pale, lending credence to his servant’s earlier excuse t
hat His Lordship was engaged with his physician.
Anthony could have retorted that it wasn’t nearly soon enough. He’d been frantic with anxiety at having to wait until late afternoon to be received by the old gentleman. But he couldn’t treat the elderly doyen of the ton with discourtesy and expect cooperation.
“No matter, sir,” he replied politely. “I used the time to attend to another matter.”
“How can I be of service this time? More reminiscences of Versailles? I enjoyed our conversation.”
“Not this time. I’m anxious to find out about some recent activities of Chauncey Bellamy.”
“Bellamy again?” Anthony didn’t detect anything in Hartley’s face beyond polite curiosity and he was looking hard. “Why don’t you ask him. He’s almost your next-door neighbor.”
Anthony tried not to gnash his teeth. “Unfortunately I discovered this morning that the family left London two days ago to spend Christmas in Northumberland.”
“Ah, yes. At Lady Caroline’s family estate, no doubt. I don’t know why you think I would be able to give you any information.”
He had to move carefully with Lord Hugo, though he’d been quite prepared to beat the truth out of Bellamy. “I wish to know about a recent altercation between Bellamy and Candover.”
“Candover? I recall you asked about him before. May I be crude enough to ask what affair it is of yours?”
“I believe Bellamy may be implicated in the attempted poisoning of Lord Candover.”
Lord Hugo raised his eyebrows. “And you wish to find out if this is true out of a purely altruistic interest in justice?”
“A…dependent of mine is under suspicion of the crime. Naturally I wish to see that justice is done. And as I said, I have reason to believe Candover and Bellamy quarreled badly.”
“I still don’t know why you’ve come to me.”
“My surmise is that Candover extorted a large sum of money out of Bellamy by threatening to expose a secret about him. I hoped, knowledgeable as you are about so many members of the ton, that you might be able to cast some light on the matter. If you cannot, I shall communicate my findings to the investigating officer, who will, I imagine, pursue the matter. But things could not then be kept from becoming public, and I should be loath to cause a scandal if it wasn’t…merited.”
“The gloves are off, I see,” Lord Hugo said with a cool smile. “I suppose you wouldn’t let the matter rest if I were to assure you that Chauncey had nothing to do with the unfortunate event in Brighton.”
“No,” Anthony replied baldy. “I would not.”
“I was somehow afraid of that. Would you be so good as to pour me a glass of sherry? And one for yourself, if you wish. My doctor won’t be pleased, but the telling of such a tale requires a douceur.”
As he handed the old man a glass, Anthony felt a stirring of guilt. Lord Hugo looked tired and distressed. It didn’t sit well with him to bludgeon the truth out of the venerable dandy, but it had to be done, and without delay. Once news of his card game became generally known, Anthony was going to find his influence in London greatly diminished. Lord Hugo mustn’t know that his threats of creating a scandal were probably hollow.
“So, Storrington. I’m going to tell you an old, old story.”
Anthony sat down and prayed desperately that what he discovered would be enough to clear Jacobin.
“A long time ago in Paris, a young man stopped in the city on his way home from touring the German states. Very dull, the German states, very staid. Just like the young man and, indeed, like his father who had arranged the tour. But Paris has a way of shaking the sobriety out of a man, especially a young one. This youth had all his short life fought against certain…desires…which were, let us say, socially unacceptable. But in the heated atmosphere of the queen of all cities he lost his head and committed an indiscretion. He wasn’t the first to find himself in this situation, and likely no lasting damage would have been done. But unfortunately for our protagonist a certain peer, spending an evening touring the city’s more notorious locations, discovered what happened. I’m sure I have no need to go into details with a man of the world such as yourself.”
Anthony nodded and sipped his wine quietly, suppressing a rising optimism.
“No great harm was done. The young man returned to London and in a few years made an advantageous marriage. From time to time over the years he found it necessary to give some slight financial aid to the peer who knew his secret, never enough to seriously trouble a man of fortune such as himself, but annoying, nonetheless. One does so dislike to be obligated.”
Anthony could scarcely remain seated. He was ready to bolt for Bow Street without a second’s delay. But Lord Hugo’s story wasn’t over.
“Then a few months ago his tormenter made a new and very large demand, far greater than could be met out of normal expenses. A sum that would arouse suspicion in any inspection of his accounts. He came to me for advice. Men with his tastes have a way of doing that. They see me as something of a father figure, I believe, though a far more sympathetic father than most of them were born with.”
“You advised Bellamy to kill Candover?” Anthony blurted out, smashing the anonymous charade of the narrative and getting straight to the point.
Lord Hugo closed his eyes and shook his head distastefully. “Please, Storrington, don’t accuse me of such methods. Candover got his money, but in return he signed a letter confessing to some little peccadilloes that I knew he’d committed over the years. In chess parlance we created a stalemate: Candover would not be able to trouble my friend again without in turn being faced with disgrace. Quite a poetic solution, don’t you agree?”
“But the poisoning…” Anthony began.
“Clearly poor Chauncey had no need to murder Candover. And I can assure you he never made any such attempt. I see by your face that you are disappointed. But much as I’d like to help Mademoiselle de Chastelux, I can’t do it by sacrificing an innocent man.”
Anthony could only gape at him. “How did you…?”
Lord Hugo’s face lit up with a genuine smile. “I don’t go out much these days, but I am lucky enough to have many faithful friends who keep me amused by telling me what’s going on in society. Then I have many idle hours to ponder what I’ve heard. I know a young cook went missing from the Pavilion, a young man who looked very like my old friend Auguste de Chastelux. And I know you recently employed a female pastry cook of surpassing skill. It wasn’t very difficult to reach the conclusion that the two cooks were, in fact, one. I’d like to help Auguste’s daughter. I asked Candover about her once and received a very chilly answer. Someone should have done something about the poor girl.”
“There, I agree,” Anthony growled.
“It appears you have the matter in hand. Do let me know if there’s anything I can do to help, but you seem a man of considerable resource. And bring Mademoiselle de Chastelux to see me. I’ll see what I can do to smooth over any social difficulties that arise from her late employment.”
Anthony spent the night at an inn, though without taking much advantage of the excellent bed. He passed most of the nocturnal hours pacing in frustration at the weather. What in London had been a sooty sleet turned to a businesslike snow once away from the human-generated warmth of the metropolis. He wasn’t going to be any use to Jacobin or anyone else lying in a ditch.
Added to his bitter disappointment at the loss of Bellamy as a suspect was a nagging concern about that damn Bow Street runner. His secretary had sustained an interrogation by Thomas Hawkins. Discreet as he was, he’d let out the fact that Jane Castle’s Scottish origins were news to him. Anthony castigated himself for not writing to warn him.
He prayed the snow had also delayed Hawkins.
Jacobin’s heart sank when the key turned in the lock of her jail and the door opened to reveal the runner. He tied her hands behind her back with a piece of twine and conducted her roughly into the magistrate’s office.
Her eyes were scratc
hy with tears and sleep, her gown was creased and her hair loose and tangled. She’d never felt less confident. Raising a degree of pride, she lifted her chin into the air and imagined herself Marie Antoinette, facing the tribunal.
To her dismay Withercombe was alone. No sign of Anthony, who seemed truly to have abandoned her. Disdaining to show fear, she stared down her nose at the magistrate.
“Well, Miss Chastelux,” he said. “I trust you spent the night comfortably.
The runner muttered impatiently.
“The accommodations were quite comfortable, thank you,” Jacobin said, pretending she was the Queen of France. “And the dinner palatable. I commend you on the excellence of your jail.”
Withercombe seemed nervous. “Well, yes. I’m glad you found it acceptable. Be sure to mention it to Lord Storrington.”
She couldn’t help an inward smile. The man sounded for all the world like an innkeeper. “I shall make a point of it.” If I ever see him again, she added silently.
“Thank you,” he said, clearly gratified. Then responded to a cough from the runner. He picked up a silver-handled gun from the desk in front of him.
“Have you ever seen this weapon before?”
“No,” she said.
“Are you certain? It belonged to your uncle, Lord Candover. His coronet and the letter C are engraved on the stock.”
“I suppose he brought it with him to Storrington. There are so many dangerous criminals on the roads these days. The authorities do nothing to stop them.” She gave Hawkins a nasty look. “They prefer to waste time persecuting the innocent.”
Withercombe looked stern. “This is one of a pair of guns reported stolen from Hurst Park around the time of your departure from that house. It was discovered in the shrubbery near Lord Candover’s body.”
Jacobin kept tight control over her facial muscles, but internally she quailed. This was bad. Very bad.
Never Resist Temptation Page 23
