by M C Beaton
“I think perhaps I will send Ferrant a note begging him to meet me there in the name of friendship,” said Lady Macdonald. “If his wife tells him she is to go, then he might reply that tomorrow is not a good moment. But if she plans to talk to you, then she may lie to him.”
Gerald affected a gaiety he did not feel as he asked the all-important question. “What is Ferrant’s favorite food? I only ask because the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”
“I will take him some pâté de foie gras,” said Lady Macdonald. “He is inordinately fond of that, and I doubt if Lady Markman will have any. Although the wars are over, it is still very expensive and very hard to find.”
Gerald left praying that Alice and the duke would not arrive together. If they did, then it meant that Alice had told her husband openly that she wanted a few words with him, Gerald.
Alice did not see her husband at breakfast. The duke had gone out early to fight a duel. He had called at his club late the previous evening and had overheard a young buck telling his friend that the Duchess of Ferrant was having an affair with Sir Gerald Warby. The duke had promptly demanded satisfaction for the insult. Seconds were named. The duel took place at dawn. The young buck missed the duke by a yard, but the duke put a ball into his arm, saw that the surgeon was attending to the young man, and then told him that if he or any of his fellows mentioned such a slur again, he would take him to court…. And that, the duke thought ruefully as he tumbled into bed, was what he should have done in the first place, society being more terrified of the law courts than they were of duels.
He rose and dressed and then read the letter from Lady Macdonald. He called his secretary. “Where is the duchess?” he asked.
“Her Grace left a few moments ago with Mrs. Duggan, Lord Dunfear, and Mr. Donnelly.”
“Do you know where they have gone?”
“No, Your Grace, but I overheard Mrs. Duggan say that it was a beautiful day for a drive.”
The duke frowned down at the letter in his hand. He had treated Lady Macdonald badly. He should have made it clear to her from the beginning that he had no intention of divorcing his wife. But then at that time, he had thought of divorcing Alice. He thought of Alice’s sweet kisses and smiled, and felt suddenly in charity with all the world. Yes, he would see Lady Macdonald and be kind and courteous to her—but in a way that would make it plain to everyone that they were friends, nothing more.
To Lady Macdonald’s surprise, Gerald called on her the next day and said he was prepared to escort her to the picnic. She regarded him impatiently. “I am not ready yet,” she said, “and besides, I do not want to upset Ferrant by turning up with you. Off with you.”
But Gerald had found out what he wanted, the reason why he had called. On the table in Lady Macdonald’s drawing room stood a jar of foie gras, waxed and sealed. He made a mental note of the brand, Janvier et Fils, bowed and took his leave, and scoured the shops until he had purchased, at great expense, a jar of the same kind. He took it back to his lodgings and with a heated knife carefully removed the wax seals, lifted the lid and mixed in a quantity of arsenic, smoothed the top of the pâté, replaced the lid, and resealed it. Then he hired a curricle and drove briskly in the direction of the Surrey fields, feeling again that surge of power.
When he arrived, he noticed that Alice was there with Mrs. Duggan and those two Irishmen, and also noticed with pleasure—from Mrs. Duggan’s startled look—that Alice had told her nothing about his going to be there. He smiled blandly on Lady Markman, who was saying loudly and acidly that she could not remember inviting him, and then went and mingled with the guests. He chatted and laughed with people he knew, but out of the corner of his eye, he watched the arriving carriages.
He was rewarded by the sight of Lady Macdonald, driving herself in a smart phaeton, her maid beside her clutching that jar of pâté. Lady Macdonald and the maid descended; the pâté was left on the carriage seat. Quickly Gerald went to his own carriage and retrieved his own pot of pâté, and effected the switch when the footmen, grooms, and coachmen were busy gossiping.
Then he returned to the picnic. People were lying on rugs on the grass or strolling about. He approached Alice and bowed low. “Would you do me the honor of walking with me for a little, Duchess?”
Mrs. Duggan put a hand on Alice’s arm, but Alice rose to her feet and said quietly, “Only for a little. I shall not be long, Mrs. Duggan.”
Timing! Oh, what perfect timing, thought Lady Macdonald as the Duke of Ferrant drove up.
She fluttered over to him, her filmy muslin skirts blowing about her body in the light breeze. “Ferrant!” she cried gaily. “So you are come after all.”
“I had not time to reply to your letter,” he said, bowing over her hand. Then his eyes went past her to the squat figure of Mrs. Duggan, seated on the grass with Donnelly and Dunfear.
He frowned. “Is my wife here?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Lady Macdonald, letting an embarrassed look appear in her eyes. “Er… I suppose she is somewhere.”
Only a moment before, thought the duke bleakly, the day had been full of light and color. Now the picnic was a strangely gray scene, and at the edge of that gray scene walked his wife—on the arm of Sir Gerald Warby.
Alice did not spend long with Sir Gerald. She listened gravely to his protestations of undying love and his repeated apologies for having sent her that letter. Then she said earnestly that he could best please her by leaving London and putting an end to the rumors. Up until then, Alice had been feeling sorry for him, and guilty at the same time, for she had been secretly wondering why she had ever thought herself in love with him. But when, in what she thought was a rather stagy manner, he put his hand on his heart and said that to be in her neighborhood was all he asked of life and he could not dream of leaving London while she was in it, she felt herself feeling trapped and irritated and said brusquely, “It is time I returned to my friends. I have granted you this time, Sir Gerald, but it must not happen again.”
And as she walked back to the picnic, she almost stopped dead at the scene before her eyes. Her husband was sprawled on a pile of cushions next to Lady Macdonald and was smiling up into her eyes. The day was warm or, thought Alice waspishly, Lady Macdonald might have died of exposure, her gown was so thin.
Feeling small and dingy, Alice sank down beside Mrs. Duggan.
“What were you after doing a thing like that for?” demanded Mrs. Duggan. “Faith, that husband of yours arrived just in time to see yourself promenading with Sir Gerald. And if you wonder why he is flirting with that trollop, you have only yourself to blame.”
Alice watched miserably. A Highland servant of Lady Macdonald’s was crouched over a spirit stove making toast and looking as if he thought the whole business beneath him. The maid fetched the jar of pâté. The duke looked delighted. Lady Macdonald took a slice of toast from the Highlander and spread pâté on it, then held it, laughing, up to the duke’s mouth.
But at the same time, a scabby cur ran up, a mangy half-dead creature. With a muttered curse, the Highlander went forward to boot it away, but the duke laughed and held out the toast covered in pâté to the animal, who gulped it down. Alice saw Lady Macdonald pout prettily and say something, saw the duke laugh again as he covered another piece of toast with pâté and give it to the dog.
And then the poor animal began to shiver and shake and roll its eyes. Convulsions tore at its thin body. It was dreadfully sick and stretched its length on the grass, its eyes closed. Sir Gerald had laced the pâté with enough arsenic to fell an ox.
There was a startled silence. For everyone had seen what had happened, everyone’s eyes traveling avidly from Alice’s face to her husband’s.
“I really don’t think we should eat this,” said the duke. “The animal was on its last legs, but still…”
Servants had built a large bonfire at the edge of the picnic field. Sir Gerald sped up and seized the jar of pâté. “I wouldn’t trust anything that comes
out of France,” he cried. “Let’s burn this nasty stuff.”
Alice, very still, watched as he walked through a cheering crowd and hurled the jar of pâté into the center of the bonfire. Servants carried the dog to the edge of the field and threw it down. She shivered. Something was badly wrong. She could not explain it.
The duke noticed her white, set face. He said quickly to Lady Macdonald, “I am behaving disgracefully, you know, giving the gossips fuel by staying here with you. I beg your pardon.”
Mrs. Duggan saw him striding toward them and said to Donnelly and Dunfear, “Up with you, lazybones, and let us go and get some champagne.”
“I can call a servant,” said Lord Dunfear lazily, and then yelped with pain as Mrs. Duggan pinched his arm.
They left as the duke arrived.
He sat down next to Alice. She bent her head, the wide brim of her Lavinia hat shading her face.
He was about to berate her for talking to Sir Gerald, for having dared to talk to Sir Gerald, but as soon as he opened his mouth, he considered his own behavior. She had merely walked and talked with Sir Gerald who was, after all, an old friend. She had not flirted with him or smiled on him. So instead, he said, “You overset me. I arrived in time to see you walking with Warby. I have already had to threaten gossips who are circulating a tale that you and Warby are having an affair.”
“Lucy came to see me,” said Alice in a low voice. “She had heard the rumors, too, and had sent for Sir Gerald to say they must be scotched. He begged her to see me. He wanted to talk to me for one last time. He—he said my parents had called on him and lied to him, saying I was in love with you. That was the reason he went away. All he wanted to do was explain and say good-bye.”
The duke sighed, threw his hat on the grass, and ran his hands through his thick hair.
“Why do you think I flirted with Lady Macdonald? I asked my secretary where you had gone and he was under the impression that you had simply gone for a drive with your friends. Lady Macdonald had written to me, asking to see me for old times’ sake. It has been a misunderstanding. I must believe you, and you must believe me.” He wanted to take her hand and draw her to him, but that phrase of hers—that her parents had told Sir Gerald that she was in love with him, with all its implications that she had not been in love with him at all—hurt him dreadfully. She had kissed him dutifully because she was trying to be a good wife. They would need to put these scandals behind them and try to get to know each other.
“We must start again,” he said. “We are still strangers to each other, are we not?”
“Yes,” whispered Alice.
A tear rolled down her nose and plopped on her dress.
“No, don’t cry,” he said quickly. “You make me feel like an angry father rather than a husband. Let us walk together and look as affectionate as we can manage to try to repair some of the damage we have done.”
He helped Alice to her feet and they walked off together. He began to ask her about the changes to the drawing room; Alice answered shyly at first and then in a more relaxed manner. It would be all finished in a week’s time, she said, and he must not look at it until then. It was to be a surprise.
They reached the corner of the field and Alice stepped back with a cry, for the dead dog lay in front of them. “Don’t look at it,” he said. “I shall send some of Lady Markman’s servants to bury the creature. Well, we shall never know what killed the animal, for Warby threw the whole pot of stuff into the fire.”
“I wish he had not,” said Alice, “for we could have taken it to an apothecary and gotten him to look for poison.”
The duke laughed. “My mad behavior has really overset you. That poor dog was near death and had probably been eating all sorts of rubbish.”
“Of course,” said Alice, looking relieved. “Oh, here is Lucy with Edward.”
The Veres joined them. The duke asked Lucy how she was feeling and walked with her while Edward fell into step beside Alice.
“I gather you were at a curricle race at Hammersmith yesterday,” said Alice.
“Yes, and lost a packet of money, but don’t tell Lucy that. I feel such a fool.”
Something prompted Alice to say, “I believe Sir Gerald was there.”
“Hey, what? Oh, yes, him,” said Edward, with a scowl. “Fact is, Alice, he’s not very good ton and can’t take a snub. Ran around bowing and scraping and talking to people who would rather not know him. And then right at the start of the race, he rode off hell-for-leather.”
Alice felt a lurch of fear. “I wonder why he did not stay to watch,” she said.
“Demme, who knows or cares? Probably off to shoot something. Had a ratty canvas gun bag with him.”
Chapter Seven
Alice felt very cold. Everything looked suddenly threatening. There was no sign of Sir Gerald. Even Lady Macdonald was walking toward her carriage. There had been that pâté, thrown so conveniently in the fire. But such things did not happen outside the pages of romances. Had Gerald appeared mad with thwarted passion? No, there had been something stagy about him. But the Gerald she had known, the Gerald she had been looking forward to marrying, would never have hurt a fly. She should voice her suspicions of Gerald to her husband and let him handle it. But what if she were wrong? The scandal! The hurt to Gerald! It did not bear thinking of. But why had he left that curricle race carrying a gun bag, a canvas gun bag? The man she had seen near those bushes had been carrying an empty canvas gun bag!
She would need to wait and watch and pray that nothing else happened. Gerald had, in his way, been wronged by her parents. If only he would go away!
Lucy came up to her. “What is the matter, Alice? You are looking quite pale.”
Alice forced a smile. “A harrowing afternoon, Lucy. I did not expect Ferrant to be here, and neither did he expect to see me. It is like one of those comedies at the Haymarket—or would be if one were not involved in it oneself. But Ferrant and I have resolved our differences.”
Lucy looked relieved. “Oh, I would give anything to see you as happy as I.” She looked cautiously over her shoulder. Edward had dropped back to talk to the duke, exchanging places with his wife. Both men were deep in conversation. She whispered to Alice, “Sad as it all has been, would you not say that your parents did you a favor? I never knew Sir Gerald really well, but he has changed I think.”
Again Alice experienced that stab of dread. “We all change as we grow,” she said. “Gerald was left only that small estate and the house when his parents died. He is a brave man. He was knighted when he was only twenty!”
“I remember the excitement of that,” said Lucy. “His Majesty was traveling through the county and his horses ran away with the carriage, and it was Gerald who rode to the horses’ heads and subdued them. He was such a hero to us all. Do you remember, Alice? When we knew he was going to be in the village, we would all find some excuse to be there as well so as just to look at him.”
And Alice remembered, standing with her governess and looking in awe at the young man who had been knighted by the king. How brave and noble he had seemed, the very stuff of romance.
Then her first ball, and Gerald asking her to dance, and how she had felt the world had not more joy to offer. Life had seemed so innocent and simple then. She loved Gerald and would marry him, and they would live happily ever after. Her father’s mutterings that Gerald had done nothing to improve the poor condition of his estate went unheeded by Alice.
To add to Alice’s bewildered thoughts as she walked along beside Lucy was the nagging fear that her husband might not be so disinterested in Lady Macdonald as he claimed to be. How neatly he had explained away his flirting.
They were joined by Mrs. Duggan, Mr. Donnelly, and Lord Dunfear. “Is everything well?” asked Mrs. Duggan, her small periwinkle eyes searching Alice’s face.
“Oh, yes,” said Alice.
“You haven’t eaten anything,” said Mrs. Duggan.
“I do not feel very hungry.” Alice looked abou
t her and shivered. “Besides, the sun has gone in.”
The duke came up to her. “We’ll go home,” he said. “You may have an hour’s rest before we go out this evening.”
“Where are we going?”
“Alas! A duty supper party at Lord Werford’s. We need not trouble about the nasty old man after this one event.”
Gerald found Lord Werford and Percy waiting for him at his rooms and scowled horribly. “I thought the whole idea was that I was not to be associated with you,” he said, flinging himself into an armchair.
“Extreme measures,” barked Lord Werford. “So far you have not been successful. Now we are going to try our hand, and if we succeed, you may hand back that advance we gave you.”
Gerald eyed them narrowly. If they succeeded, then they would not hesitate to kill him, for he could always blackmail them, and he was sure they had thought of that.
“How do you plan to do it?” he demanded scornfully.
“Ferrant and his duchess are coming to supper tonight. Turtle soup. Shake of arsenic and the deed is done.”
“And how do you get the arsenic into the soup without your servants knowing about it?”
“I keep old-fashioned ways,” said Lord Werford. “Serve from the head of the table. Plates passed down. Poison in the duke’s plate.”
Gerald thought furiously. If they did it, then he would lose all chance of any money, and, what was more important, possibly his life. He, Gerald, had arsenic left over after his abortive attempt this afternoon, an attempt he had no intention of telling them about.
“I’ll do it,” he said abruptly. “Plate passes in front of me, I calculate which is the duke’s plate, nod to you, you create a diversion, I pop in the poison, and that’s that. What about the death certificate?”
