by M C Beaton
Alice tethered her horse to one of the hitching posts at the edge of Horseguards. She was looking very elegant in a blue velvet riding dress with a little jaunty hat on the side of her head.
“Alice!” cried Gerald, seizing her hands. She experienced a qualm of doubt, for the Gerald who was looking at her was in that moment the Gerald she had once known, happy and carefree. She disengaged her hands. “Those soldiers are staring at us,” she said quietly. “Walk for a little with me under the trees.”
“So to what do I owe the honor of this meeting?” asked Gerald.
Alice took a deep breath. “Gerald, I think… I know… that you are trying to kill my husband.”
He put his hand on his heart, that stagy gesture she so much distrusted, and his eyes were limpid. “I? My heart, you must be mad!”
“I saw you,” said Alice wearily. “I am sure it was you, in the Park, on the day of the shooting. You were wearing a wide-brimmed hat and a cloak, and I only saw your back, but I know it was you. You were walking away from those bushes, where the gun was found, with a canvas gun bag slung over your shoulder. Then there was the pâté. Why throw it in the fire? And then the supper party at Lord Werford’s. Then I heard Ferrant had been tossed from his horse in the Row and a sharp piece of metal had been found under the saddle. Too many coincidences.”
“I’ faith, nothing to do with me,” exclaimed Gerald angrily, angry that he had been found out. “Alice, you know me. We were to be married.”
“But you have changed,” said Alice sadly. “There is an air of coarseness, of untrustworthiness about you. It is no use arguing, Gerald. My husband is at the House this afternoon, and when he returns, I am going to insist he listen to my suspicions.”
Gerald turned pale. News of the duke’s duel had filtered to his ears. Already his mind was racing around, seeking a way out of his predicament. He had money enough from the advance from Werford. He could leave the country and lie low until everything had blown over. But still he protested his innocence—while Alice looked at him with a new hard cynicism in her eyes—and he found himself wondering how he could ever have been in love with her.
At last, he said, “Alice, for the love I bear you, I will leave London and go abroad again. But you will find out you were wrong. I bear no malice toward your husband. I envy him.”
The hard look left Alice’s eyes. “Oh, Gerald, please do go away.”
Alice had left the duke’s town house at one o’clock, first to call on Mrs. Duggan, which is where she had told the servants she was going.
This the duke learned after he had looked in at the newly decorated drawing room in search of her. She was not there, but Oracle was, preening himself in his large cage and regarding the duke with bright, intelligent eyes.
The duke looked at the bird with amusement. “Where is your mistress?” he asked.
“Gerald,” said the bird. “Love… Gerald. Love, love, love. Only one that loves me.”
The bird then cocked its head on one side and looked at the duke hopefully, expecting a grape in reward.
The duke stood and stared at the bird, and then he reached out a hand and jerked the bell rope.
Hoskins, the butler, came in. “Where is the duchess?” demanded the duke harshly.
“Her Grace went riding. Her Grace said she would call on Mrs. Duggan.”
“Why not in a carriage? Where is her maid?”
“In the servants’ hall.”
The duke studied his butler with icy eyes. “Did my wife receive a letter from anyone this day? Or did someone’s footman call?”
Hoskins had been dreading this. He stared straight ahead and said woodenly, “Sir Gerald Warby’s man called with a letter, Your Grace.”
The duke walked straight past him and up to his wife’s rooms—and straight to her writing desk. There was a crumpled sheet of paper on the top of it with a broken seal. He smoothed it out and read,
My dear, It is my pleasure to wait on you in St. James’s Park, as you requested, at two this afternoon at the south end near Horseguards. As you know, your slightest wish is my command, Your Loving Servant, Gerald.
The duke ran downstairs, calling for his racing curricle to be brought round.
Gerald, standing with Alice by her horse, saw the duke speeding toward them out of the corner of his eye. “Give me something of yours, Alice,” he begged. “Your handkerchief. Something to take with me on my exile.”
She drew out her handkerchief and handed it to him. He pressed it to his lips. And having noticed that the duke had just witnessed this affecting scene, he suddenly took to his heels and ran off as hard as he could. He hoped Alice had a rotten time trying to explain her gesture. Serve her right! Now home to pack as quickly as possible, before Ferrant came looking for him.
The duke marched up to Alice. “Oh, John,” said Alice, with a smile. “It must look very odd, but I can explain.”
“Get in the carriage,” he snapped. He tied her horse onto the back of the curricle. Alice got in. He jumped in beside her and picked up the reins.
“Please listen,” begged Alice.
“Not a word until we are in private,” said the duke. He was white with rage and his lips were set in a thin line.
He drove home at great speed, then shouted to his servant to put the carriage away, and, taking Alice’s arm in a firm grip, he marched her into the library.
“John, should you not be in the House?” said Alice weakly. “Your speech…”
“My speech be damned!” He drew Gerald’s letter out of his pocket. “You sent for your lover,” he hissed, “thinking I would never find out about it.”
“I can explain,” said Alice wretchedly. “Gerald is trying to kill you!”
“What?”
“He is trying to kill you. The shot in the Park… The man I saw walking away from the scene looked so like Gerald… The pâté, Mrs. Tregader…”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Do you take me for a fool? What Gothic nonsense is this? While your bird cries, ‘Gerald,’ and ‘love, love, love,’ do you expect me to believe such rubbish? I would dearly like to call Warby out, but there has been enough scandal. You will remove to Clarendon and you will stay there, guarded by my servants, until I decide what to do with you.”
“John, for pity’s sake, hear me.”
“No, you wanton, I have listened to you enough.” He rang the bell and told the footmen to send in Mr. Shadwell, the secretary.
Mr. Shadwell came in, his eyes flickering to and then away from Alice, who was now weeping.
“Mr. Shadwell,” said the duke heavily, “I trust your discretion. Her Grace is to be conducted to Clarendon as soon as possible. She is to be guarded on the journey. At Clarendon she is to keep to the house and gardens. She is not to go beyond the gardens, nor is she to receive any visitors, particularly her parents. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Your Grace,” said Mr. Shadwell, thinking gloomily that he had become the duke’s secretary to further his own political ambitions, not to act as jailer to the duchess.
“Very well. Instruct the maids to pack Her Grace’s belongings and put that hell bird in its carrying cage and get it out of my sight.” He swung round and faced Alice. “You will stay here until Mr. Shadwell tells you the carriage is ready. You will ride inside on the journey, Mr. Shadwell, and see that no one approaches or speaks to Her Grace. Come, Mr. Shadwell. We have much to do.”
He marched out of the library and waited until his secretary had also left the room before locking the library door.
Alice sat huddled on a sofa in the middle of the room. Books in serried ranks stared down at her, all the wisdom of the ages, and none of it able to help her in her predicament.
By the time a highly embarrassed and miserable Mr. Shadwell unlocked the door to tell Alice that the traveling coach was waiting outside, she was red-eyed but composed. The beginning of anger against the duke was lending her courage.
The duke was nowhere in sight as Alice walked out
to the carriage with Mr. Shadwell on one side, the maid, Betty, on the other, and a footman carrying the squawking Oracle in his cage behind.
Mr. Shadwell came across the first test of his new duties in the shape of Mrs. Duggan, who was standing, open-mouthed, with her maid, watching the procession.
“Faith, are you leaving us?” she cried.
“Her Grace is unwell,” said Mr. Shadwell firmly, “and is not able to speak to anyone.”
Alice’s step faltered, but the secretary took her arm in a firm grip and urged her toward the carriage. “Like a prisoner,” as Mrs. Duggan told her cronies, Dunfear and Donnelly, later.
Gerald had just finished packing. His manservant was guarding the downstairs door with a blunderbuss. Gerald heard voices below and stiffened in fright. Then he heard footsteps ascending the stairs, cursed his manservant under his breath, and slammed his bedroom door shut on the evidences of his packing. He was standing in the middle of his sitting room, feverishly priming a pistol, when Lord Werford and Percy walked into the room.
“That’s our man,” said Lord Werford, highly pleased. “You are doing fine work, Warby.”
This was the last thing Gerald had expected and he smiled weakly at the unlovely pair.
Lord Werford rubbed his pudgy hands. “So because of your little rendezvous with the duchess, the jealous duke has banished her to the country and stays alone in London. Well done, Warby.”
It was on the tip of Gerald’s tongue to burst out with the news that Alice had accused him of trying to murder Ferrant, but he bit back the words as his mind worked busily. Alice could not have told the duke of her suspicions. Either that or the jealous duke would not listen. If he, Gerald, told them of Alice’s suspicions, they would either order him to get rid of her as well, or they might decide to get rid of him and do the deed themselves.
“I arranged the meeting with the duchess,” said Gerald, lying quickly, “and then made sure the duke knew about it.”
“Very clever, Warby,” drawled Percy. “A man after our own heart. But we have decided to help you. The trouble is that you have been rushing, hurly-burly, into things. Planning is what is needed.”
“Planning?” echoed Gerald stupidly, for he still could not believe he was to get off so easily.
“Yes, planning,” said Lord Werford. “Old Lord Rother at Streatham was an old friend of the late duke’s. After being a bachelor and something of a recluse, he has recently married a flighty widow and the widow wants to entertain. To that end, she is giving a breakfast in the gardens of Blackberry Hill House at Streatham in two weeks’ time. Now Blackberry Hill House, as you may have heard, is a miserable Gothic folly that the miserly Lord Rother did nothing to maintain before his marriage. Repairs are to begin on the ugly place next month. In the meanwhile, bits of masonry keep tumbling off the building. Percy here has been cultivating the company of the new Lady Rother. The breakfast, which begins at three in the afternoon, will be, as I said, laid out in the gardens, and Percy has persuaded her that the table with the most important guests should be next to the building under the west front—and the west front carries some nasty and crumbling gargoyles.
“Your job is to gain entry to the house with a bag of mason’s tools. Percy here will see that the seating arrangements are correct. You will chisel loose one of those gargoyles, the one directly above the duke’s head, and send it crashing down.”
“But how do I get into the house?” asked Gerald. “Would it not be easier if you simply engineered an invitation for me?”
“No, I will tell the staff that a mason is to call to inspect the building. You, in appropriate dress, will call at the door of the servants’ quarters and will be admitted without any trouble.”
“Sounds almost too easy,” said Gerald doubtfully.
“It will be easy.”
“But what about Ferrant? He won’t feel like going to parties and things after the breakup of his marriage.”
Lord Werford rubbed his hands again. “I think his great pride will force him to try to appear as normal as possible. Now we will leave you. We are most pleased with you.”
The Duke of Ferrant, turning the corner of South Molton Street on his road to Gerald’s apartment, saw the stout figure of Lord Werford and the prim figure of Percy walking away from the building. What had that pair been doing calling on Gerald Warby?
But he marched up to the door and hammered on it. Gerald’s manservant, now unarmed, for Gerald had told him the panic was over, looked at the duke in dismay.
“Your master?” demanded the duke.
“Not at home,” said the manservant quickly.
The duke thrust him aside and climbed the stairs. Gerald was sprawled in an armchair, celebrating with a glass of brandy, which fell from his suddenly nerveless fingers as the duke loomed in the open doorway.
“I am come,” said the duke evenly, “to tell you that if you ever dare to approach or speak to my wife again, I will shoot you dead.”
“What w-was I to d-do?” stammered Gerald. “She wrote to me, begging me to meet her.”
“Where is the handkerchief she gave you?”
Gerald thrust his hand in his pocket and held it out. The duke snatched it.
“I would like to beat your face to a pulp, Warby,” he said, “but there has been scandal enough. Heed my words or I will kill you.” The duke turned to go. “Did I see Werford and that son of his leaving here?”
“Not here,” said Gerald. “Fitzwilliam lives next door and he knows Werford.”
And thank God that’s over, thought Gerald, as the door closed behind the duke, and thank God I’m still alive. But somewhere in his mind, he wished that Werford and Percy had not called, that he had left, but as soon as he had heard them out, he thought again of all the money they would give him. He was sure they would give him the money and then try to kill him and take it back, but he meant to leave the country for once and for all before that happened.
He poured himself another glass of brandy and drank it down in one gulp. And then he thought of Lady Macdonald. He would call on her and let her think he had deliberately engineered Alice’s disgrace. She might even give him more money! His conscience gave another twinge, but he put it down to indigestion.
Chapter Eight
Humphrey Dogget-Blythe, “Doggie” to his friends, looked like a whipped cur. In the cruel world of society, it was not only young ladies who were press-ganged into unsuitable marriages but young men as well.
Humphrey was the victim of domineering and ambitious parents who had teamed up with another set of equally domineering parents with a marriageable daughter. So in spite of Humphrey’s bewildered protests that the Honorable Mary Sutworth was a long-nosed, Friday-faced antidote, he soon found himself wed to her. At university and then in the army, he had experienced freedom. He had been popular and had led an easygoing life. Now he was nagged by Mary from morning until night. Her voice had a particularly shrill edge that reminded him of an unoiled garden gate.
Edward Vere, calling on his old friend, was appalled to see the once cheerful and plump Doggie of the army reduced to a thin, careworn man who jumped at his own shadow. Edward could only count his blessings in having found his Lucy. Ferrant was miserable, and now Doggie was miserable. While Lucy talked to Mary, Edward suggested that Humphrey show him the garden.
“My only consolation.” Humphrey sighed as they strolled across the lawns. “I wish I could reenlist.”
“Why don’t you?” asked Edward.
“Can’t,” said Humphrey miserably. He jerked his head in the direction of the house.
Edward wanted to say that it was time Humphrey asserted himself, but he had only the day before received a stinging lecture from Ferrant on the impertinent folly of friends poking their unwanted noses into other friends’ marriages.
“Going to this breakfast of Rother’s tomorrow?” asked Edward instead.
“Yes,” said Humphrey. “Mary says we are going.”
“Humphrey! Co
me here!” called an imperative voice from the house.
Humphrey trailed back. “I did not give you leave to go wandering off like that,” said Mary, meeting him at the French windows.
“Sorry, dear,” mumbled Humphrey.
“Doggie was showing me the roses,” said Edward.
“I will not have anyone calling him by that ridiculous nickname,” said Mary.
She was a tall, thin, flat-chested woman, and the nose Humphrey so disliked had a habit of developing a pink spot on the end of it when she was displeased, rather in the manner of a sort of marital beacon warning of reefs ahead.
“We really must go,” said Lucy brightly.
“No, don’t go,” pleaded Humphrey. “Haven’t seen Edward this age. Haven’t seen anyone this age.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Humphrey. You are always being ridiculous,” said Mary. “Simpkins! Call Mr. Vere’s carriage. We shall be pleased to entertain you again, Mr. Vere, but in future, write to apprise us of your visit. We do not like impromptu visits.”
“Oh, poor Doggie.” Edward sighed as he and Lucy made their way home. “Another unhappy man.”
Humphrey listened for the rest of that day to strictures from Mary on his “vulgar” friends. Edward was so coarse, more like a Billingsgate porter than a gentleman. And Lucy was vulgar and made no effort to conceal her pregnancy, as any lady ought to do.
It was while she was talking that a little glow of comfort began to spread through Humphrey’s soul. He would kill himself, that very evening. He would probably go to hell, but he might find some jolly fellows there to play cards with. Mary prided herself on being good and she would probably go to heaven, but he did not relish the idea of a heaven full of Marys. For once, he felt an inner strength, and the flow of her voice broke on the rock of his decision and swept out past his shoulders to the garden. Hanging would be fine and tidy and quiet, thought Edward. There was a hook on a beam in the tack room that would do perfectly. Provided he was cool and calm about it all and made sure the knot was under his ear so that his neck would break immediately, it should not be too bad.
