Gifford's Lady

by Claire Thornton

  He turned and strode away from her, leaving Abigail to stare after him, at first with bewilderment, but then with growing indignation. The man was far too free with his orders and far too contrary about when he

  kissed her! He caressed her in public, then refused to kiss her in private.

  But he had agreed that Charles Johnson should stand trial.

  And he had called her Abby again. Her emotions had been so overtaxed when he'd first shortened her name she had not fully appreciated how much like an endearment it sounded. But now when Gifford called her Abby it felt almost as if he had called her sweetheart. She hugged that cheering thought close to her heart as she climbed the stairs to her bedchamber.

  Abigail was playing the pianoforte when Gifford opened the door to the music room. He paused in the entrance, watching her and listening to the music. He frowned as he realised she had her back to him. When she was engrossed in her playing it would be easy for someone to walk up behind her and startle her.

  The harp had been his mother's, and no one had played it for nearly thirty years. His father had purchased the pianoforte, not to play it, but because he was fascinated by the construction of the new-fangled instrument. Until Abigail's arrival, no one living in the house had played either of the instruments. The room wasn't arranged for the comfort or peace of mind of a musician.

  Gifford quietly closed the door and went to give Kemp orders to rearrange the furniture. He couldn't abide a situation in which his back was exposed, and he didn't imagine that Abigail was any different. He

  wanted the pianoforte repositioned so that she would be able to see immediately if anyone opened the door.

  When he returned she had stopped playing. She heard the door open and turned towards him.

  'You're back!' She sprang up and hurried over to him, an anxious expression on her face. 'Did you find him? What happened?'

  He took both her hands in his, and looked down into her wide green eyes.

  'Let's sit down,' he said.

  'Oh, God! Is it bad news?' she asked, scanning his face worriedly.

  'I don't believe so.'

  'Not bad news?' Abigail let him lead her over the to the sofa. His expression was serious, almost solemn, but he didn't seem angry. 'What happened? Did you find Charles?'

  'Not exactly.' Gifford replied. His grip tightened on her hands. 'Charles Johnson is dead,' he said.

  'What?' Abigail stared at him in disbelief. 'Dead? But you—?'

  'I didn't kill him,' Gifford said curtly. 'I gave you my word last night.'

  'I know.' Abigail felt dazed. 'I don't understand,' she said. 'How did he die?'

  'He was murdered,' said Gifford more gently. 'His body was discovered in his lodgings two days ago. No one knows who killed him.'

  'Charles is dead?' Abigail repeated. The news was so shocking and so unexpected she couldn't fully comprehend it.

  'Yes.'

  'Someone killed him?'

  'Yes.'

  'How?'

  Gifford hesitated.

  'How did they kill him?' Abigail insisted. She needed details. Information that would help her turn these disconnected facts into a believable picture.

  'He was garrotted,' Gifford said reluctantly. She saw that he was watching her worriedly. He didn't know how she would react at this news.

  'Why?'

  'I don't know,' said Gifford.

  'Oh.' Abigail felt numb. She had carefully avoided thinking too much about Charles—now he was dead. She hadn't wanted to harbour evil will towards him— but evil had befallen him. And none of it made any sense.

  She tugged her hands from Gifford's grasp and covered her face.

  'Abby?' He moved closer and she felt his comforting touch on her back.

  She took several steadying breaths, as chaotic emotion suddenly crashed through her. Tears filled her eyes and blocked her throat. She swallowed and lifted her head.

  'No trial,' she whispered. 'There'll be no trial.'

  'No trial. No scandal,' Gifford said, satisfaction mingling with the reassurance in his voice.

  Abigail closed her eyes. Her head fell forward as her whole body slumped with relief. Gifford pulled her close to him. She rested her head on his shoulder, grateful for his solid strength. She hadn't realised ex-

  actly how much she dreaded the prospect of a public trial, of confronting Charles again across a court room, until the need to do so no longer existed.

  'I'm so glad,' she murmured. 'That there won't be a trial. I shouldn't...I shouldn't be glad that Charles is dead—' she remembered how he'd caressed her breast with his pistol and shuddered '—but I am.'

  Gifford's hold on her tightened in response to her shudder. 'So am I,' he said harshly. 'You have no reason to feel guilty. And no need to think of the matter again.'

  'But we don't know why he was killed.' Abigail lifted her head to look at him. 'And what about Sampson? Gifford?' she prompted him, when he didn't immediately answer.

  'We don't know where he is at the moment, but we do have an idea how to find him,' he said at last. 'We must go out again tonight—but there is nothing for you to worry yourself about.'

  Abigail pushed herself away from him. 'I will not be excluded from matters that closely concern me,' she said stiffly. 'I am not so feeble I cannot withstand a little worry.'

  'Very well,' said Gifford coolly. 'Johnson discharged his previous manservant just before he returned to Bath to abduct you, hiring Sampson in his place. We've been told that the discharged servant returned to London independently and that he may know where to find Sampson. This evening Anthony is going to visit an alehouse where we've been told the dismissed servant has friends and often visits. If we find

  him he may be able to tell us where we can find Sampson.'

  'What will you do with Sampson if you do find him?' Abigail asked.

  Gifford pressed his lips together. 'It may be difficult to make a convincing case against him, now that his master is dead,' he said. 'He can always claim he was acting under orders, possibly even under duress. But I'm damned if I'm going to let him escape unscathed.'

  'You won't...you won't k-...you won't...' Abigail was so disturbed she couldn't force the words past her lips.

  'I won't kill him,' Gifford said icily. 'You made your views clear enough in relation to his master. But he will be punished.'

  'Yes.' Abigail didn't protest any further. She'd been just as fearful of Sampson as she had been of Charles. Her nightmares had included both men. She sighed. There was so much she and Gifford needed to resolve, yet it seemed impossible to talk about their situation until all the consequences of her abduction had been dealt with. 'I will be glad when this is all over,' she said.

  Anthony stepped over the threshold of the alehouse and looked around. Nearly all of the faces around him were black. Most of the men drinking in the taproom were probably servants, a few of them might be independent tradesmen and some were poor labourers. There was a significant black community in London, with its own taverns and other places of entertainment.

  Anthony had visited such places before, though he felt as much of an outsider here as he often did in the drawing rooms of the ton. He'd been most at home on the Unicorn, for all the men and officers had accepted him entirely on his own merits, despite the fact he'd never previously been to sea. But that period of his life was over. Now he had to find a new goal for himself. In the meantime, he needed to find Charles Johnson's discharged manservant.

  He ordered a tankard of ale and when he'd been served he enquired for the man he was seeking.

  'Why do you want him?' the tapman asked warily.

  'He may be able to help me find a mutual...enemy,' Anthony replied coolly.

  A few minutes later he was joined by an even more suspicious man dressed in the rather shabby clothes of a gentleman's gentleman. He bought Johnson's ex-servant a drink and it was soon clear he hadn't exaggerated when he'd claimed to the tapman that Sampson was their mutual enemy. Johnson's mistreated valet
had hated his late master and he harboured no warm feelings towards Sampson. It wasn't long before Anthony had all the information he needed.

  'A very satisfactory conclusion to the whole business,' said Gifford. He was sitting with Cole and Anthony in the library.

  'And a grim warning to anyone foolish enough to borrow large sums of money from Saul Dunlin,' said Anthony. 'Not a fellow I have any personal ambition to meet. But it may be worth remembering his name.

  To avoid him. Sampson was even more afraid of the man than he was of Gifford once we'd finally tracked him down.'

  'Dunlin is a moneylender?' Cole clarified. 'Why the devil did Johnson borrow money from such a dangerous character? Desperate though he was, surely there were better alternatives?'

  'According to the servant he discharged shortly before he abducted Abigail, Johnson's estate was already heavily mortgaged,' Gifford replied. 'He was a compulsive gambler, and the more reputable moneylenders he'd previously dealt with had refused him any further credit. As long as he still had the prospect of inheriting Miss Wyndham's famous—but non-existent jewels— he could hold Dunlin at bay with promises and piecemeal repayments. Once he'd discovered there were no jewels he became desperate.'

  'So he tried to sell Miss Summers,' Cole said, his lip curling in disgust.

  'He did sell Abigail,' Gifford replied grimly. 'I bought her. Sampson told us Johnson even considered calling here, in Berkeley Square, for payment—he was so frantic for cash. But then he made a few enquiries about me.'

  'So he raced back to London and staked everything on one last, desperate game of piquet,' said Anthony. 'According to what his ex-servant told us, Johnson had never previously staked his estates—he really did have aspirations to be a country gentleman. But, in the end, he had no other option but risk everything—and he lost. Which will be a nice tangle for the fellow who

  won. If he wants to claim his winnings he'll have to pay off the mortgage!'

  'So Johnson couldn't repay Dunlin, and the moneylender decided to make an example of him,' Gifford took up the tale, 'though I think that would be exceptionally hard to prove. Sampson told us the story, but I doubt he'd repeat it to a magistrate. Saul Dunlin seems to have a very long and powerful reach in certain parts of London.'

  'You won't pursue him?' Cole looked at his brother through narrowed eyes.

  'No.' Gifford stretched out his long legs in front of him. 'I have no personal quarrel with him, and he saved Abigail from the distress of a public trial.'

  'She is a very determined woman,' said Cole, respect in his voice, 'I was impressed by her resolution on the matter. I must admit, I was having difficulty thinking of a way to satisfy her insistence on bringing Johnson to trial without allowing her name to be made public'

  'So was I,' Gifford admitted. 'Fortunately it wasn't necessary, but I dare say we would have found a way. Johnson no doubt committed other crimes—in addition to amassing monumental debts—which we could have made use of.'

  Anthony laughed. 'Poor Abigail,' he said, 'I don't think she fully appreciates how devious you can be— so forthright as you often seem. But she's very quickwitted. She'll learn.'

  'What of Sampson?' Cole asked. 'You didn't let him go free?'

  'He's been pressed,' Gifford replied. 'The navy now has a new landsman, able—though not entirely will-

  ing—to do his duty. As I said before, a very satisfactory conclusion to the whole business, though there are still one or two loose ends to tie up.'

  Anthony groaned. 'Leave it to Malcolm,' he begged. 'I'm sure he'll find a very neat solution to the problem.'

  'What the devil are you talking about?' Cole demanded.

  'The...gentleman...who bid against Giff for Abigail at the Blue Buck,' Anthony explained. 'He must be wealthy because he pushed the bidding so high— though, like Giff, he may not have intended to pay. But Malcolm is in a far better position than any of us to find a way, quite legally, to punish him for his insolence. If Giff calls him out, even over a spurious quarrel, it's likely to cause the very scandal we're trying to avoid.'

  Gifford sighed. 'Much as it goes against the grain, I believe you are right,' he said. 'Scandal must unquestionably be avoided. Tomorrow I shall show Abigail some of the sights of London,' he added, with a pleasant sense of anticipation.

  London. Admiral Pullen was probably here because he was an old friend of Gifford's.

  'Oh no, that won't be necessary,' Mr Tidewell looked shocked. 'I have come upon quite a different matter. At Miss Wyndham's request.'

  'Miss Wyndham?' Abigail exclaimed,' glancing instinctively towards Gifford in her surprise. 'But she's dead!'

  'Perhaps I should say I am here in fulfilment of Miss Wyndham's wishes,' Mr Tidewell clarified.

  He opened the shabby valise and withdrew some documents.

  'Miss Wyndham's last will and testament was somewhat complicated,' he vouchsafed. 'The document I read to you after the funeral only contained a portion of her final wishes.'

  'But...but...' Abigail stammered. 'You told Charles...'

  'I know.' Mr Tidewell sighed. 'This is a complex matter, and I cannot help feeling grateful he is dead,' he said heavily. 'It simplifies things tremendously. I did everything I could to ensure he wouldn't be able to contest Miss Wyndham's last wishes—but they were most unusual. There could have been difficulties. Though I'm sure you could have relied upon Sir Gifford and Mr Anderson's advice if the matter had come to court.'

  'What were Miss Wyndham's last wishes?' Gifford asked.

  'Ah.' Mr Tidewell opened the documents and looked down his nose at them. 'Briefly, I was to observe Mr Johnson's behaviour after Miss Wyndham's death—

  and during the reading of her initial wishes—to see whether he acted in a way consonant with an affectionate relative and an honourable gentleman. In particular, I was to note whether he showed concern for the welfare of Miss Wyndham's staff, and for Miss Summers herself—'

  'He clearly failed that test!' Gifford interrupted, his expression ferocious, even though the object of his anger was well beyond his reach.

  'Indeed, sir,' said Mr Tidewell drily. 'I was also to observe whether he accepted his limited bequest with a good grace...'

  'The blackguard wasn't capable of grace!' Gifford leapt from his chair and began to stride around the room. 'What the devil did the old—did Miss Wyndham mean by such a ridiculous request?'

  'Miss Wyndham was a generous, warm-hearted lady,' said Mr Tidewell coldly. 'She wanted the best for those she left behind—and she wanted to believe the best of her only surviving relative. Even though she couldn't help having doubts about his true motives for visiting her.'

  'I apologise,' Gifford said curtly. He pushed his hand through his hair. 'I did not mean to speak ill of Miss Wyndham. She chose her friends well.' His quick glance encompassed all the other occupants of the drawing room. 'She is not to blame for the sins of her relatives.'

  Mr Tidewell nodded, acknowledging Gifford's apology. 'I am still not sure of the wisdom of Miss Wyndham's requests,' he said. 'But none of us could

  have predicted how badly Johnson would react to finding he inherited nothing of consequence.'

  'Since he didn't show concern for the welfare of the staff, or behave with a good grace—what were you supposed to do next?' Gifford asked.

  'Wait until he left Bath,' Mr Tidewell replied.

  'Wait?'

  'Miss Wyndham was a trifle quixotic, but she was also a realist beneath her romantic notions,' said Mr Tidewell. 'She knew that if Johnson behaved badly during the reading of the first part of the will, he was likely to behave even worse after he'd heard the second part, and possibly have his own lawyers contest it. As I said, I made it as legally unassailable as I could—but it is really most unusual. I'm not sure it would stand up to close examination by greater legal minds than mine.'

  Abigail gripped her hands together to prevent them from trembling. 'Mr Tidewell, please could you tell us the contents of the second part of Miss Wyndham's will
,' she asked.

  The lawyer's convoluted explanations were filling her with anxiety. She'd experienced too much uncertainty over the past few days. She wanted to know what Miss Wyndham had said—not simply guess.

  'If Johnson had behaved favourably, the remainder of Miss Wyndham's estate was to be divided equally between the two of you,' Mr Tidewell said. 'Between you, Miss Summers, and Charles Johnson. If, however, he behaved badly—as he did—you were to receive the entirety. As I now present it to you.'

  He stood up as he spoke and moved to the table, carrying the valise. As Abigail watched in growing disbelief, he laid one extravagant, exquisite piece of jewellery after another on the polished surface. Diamonds. Rubies. Sapphires. Emeralds. All glittered brilliantly in the morning light. Three heavily jewelled necklaces were laid out before Abigail, with matching ear-rings. There was a diamond-studded bracelet, innumerable brooches and ear-rings, combs set with gems, finger rings, a cross on a gold chain, and two long ropes of pearls.

  Abigail pressed both hands to her mouth, unable to credit the evidence of her own eyes.

  'I have a complete list of the jewels,' Mr Tidewell said in his dry, precise voice. To Abigail it sounded as if he was a great distance away. 'Signed by Miss Wyndham and witnessed by Admiral Pullen and Mr Sudbury, JP. You may check the pieces against the list to verify nothing is missing. I am sorry I did not bring them to you in a more appropriate container. I thought they would be safer in my old valise. I must admit I am relieved I can now pass responsibility for them into your hands, sir,' he concluded, giving the list to Gifford.

  'It's a queen's ransom.' Gifford came to stand behind Abigail.

  'Miss Wyndham was much beloved,' said Mr Tidewell, his voice revealing he also was somewhat in awe of the sparkling magnificence laid out before them. 'She told me that every piece was made new for her. Especially for her. A symbol of her lover's great affection for her. She always refused to sell them, be-

  cause of what they meant to her—but she did have suggestions for how Miss Summers might make use of them.'

  'What did she say?' Gifford asked.

  'She thought it would be most practical if Miss Summers sold a few of the pieces to provide her with immediate capital—and kept the rest to wear, and as her dowry. She also hoped that Miss Summers would provide a home and employment for her household. I was in some difficulties over that request, since Miss Summers managed to make provision for the staff even before the first will was read,' Mr Tidewell confessed. 'But she certainly acted in the spirit of Miss Wyndham's wishes, even though not in exactly the way she'd envisaged.'