I turned to Higgins. “Please tell the courier that I am delighted to do the King’s bidding. I won’t be but a moment.”
Polly helped me into my claret-colored silk. Lucy oversaw my toilet, suggesting one of her bonnets and a spencer that would look well with my dress. When I was suitably attired, Lucy and I went downstairs to the entry hall where there stood a man in livery, his red jacket covered in an excessive amount of gold braid.
“Really,” I said with a smile to him, “this is most unexpected and—”
The young man bowed deeply, a motion causing the multitude of frothy ruffles around his neck to flutter like white butterflies. “A carriage awaits you.”
I gave Lucy a quick hug good-bye, and she whispered, “You’ll be fine.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I wish you were coming with me.”
She smiled. “I shall go and visit Maria Fitzherbert. I know she’ll be happy to see me.”
By the time I stepped outside onto the pavement, rain had begun in earnest. The equerry and a footman helped me into the King’s carriage, and I tried to brush off the water as we rode through the streets of London at a faster pace than strictly necessary, pulled by a pair of ivory-colored horses. Even if bystanders had not caught a glimpse of the King’s new crest, with its addition of the blue garter, they would know the conveyance was his simply by glancing at the matching horses, the Royal Hanoverian Creams. I told myself I should at least enjoy the view as we circled St. James’s Park on our way to Carlton House.
We arrived at the hexastyle portico flanked by Corinthian columns. One of the footmen ran up with an umbrella, which he held over my head as I climbed out of the carriage.
Once I was inside the front door, I was greeted curtly by a maid of honour who introduced herself as Lady Pamela Gordon. Although she could not have been more than sixteen, she acted supremely bored. She was here to learn court manners and to make a good marriage, not to think deep thoughts.
I did my utmost to pay attention and observe my new environs, as I thought it highly unlikely that I would ever be invited back. Carlton House was different from most of the finer homes in London in that the visitor entered an enormous foyer on the main floor, rather than climbing up a set of stairs from the area into the living quarters. Lady Pamela escorted me through an octagonal room with a vast winding staircase at one side. From there we proceeded into the main anterooms and turned left.
“Lady Conyngham asked to speak with you first. Then you will be taken to His Majesty.” Lady Pamela did not indicate what she thought about this diversion.
Being waylaid should not have surprised me. This was exactly the sort of control that Mr. Waverly had suggested the Marchioness held over the King. We processed into an ornate sitting room, decorated in the French style, using pale silk as a foil to ornately carved woods. An exquisite painting on the wall stopped me.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Lady Conyngham spoke from an elaborate chair near the window. “It is a Rembrandt.”
“It is masterful,” I said. I had heard much of Rembrandt’s genius, but I had never seen any work of art that matched this in conveying such a sense of intimacy with the subject.
With effort, I tore myself away from the painting and approached Lady Conyngham. I sank into a deep curtsy. This time, she did not offer to embrace me. That fulsome affection she had offered at Lady Grainger’s home was nowhere in evidence. As she had been every other time I saw her, Lady Conyngham was opulently dressed in lush fabrics, with deep ruffles of lace surrounding her face and hands, and gros de Naples under the bust of her gown. Jewels hung from her ears and peeped out from her fichu.
“Pamela? Bring us tea.”
The Marchioness remained seated in a deeply cushioned chair, and I took the straight-backed chair across from her. The calculated discomfort of my seat was not lost on me, and I marveled again at the Marchioness and her ability to knock others off their game. The maid of honour left, and Lady Conyngham stared at me, hard, letting silence drag on.
Lady Pamela returned, struggling under the weight of a heavy tea tray. The tea set was silver, but the cups and pot were fine porcelain, nearly translucent, with gold trim. The serving plate was piled high with candied ginger scones, crumpets with ripe currants, and an assortment of iced biscuits. Pots of jams, clotted cream, and butter waited to be slathered onto the pastries.
“So, let us go immediately to the heart of the matter. You are here to see the King?” asked the Marchioness.
“At his request, yes, ma’am.”
“Well, I thought this a wonderful opportunity for us to have a small tête-à-tête.” She smiled but did not bare her teeth, which Mr. Douglas had told me were as false as her friendship. “You are familiar with the word, are you not? Ah, that’s right. You were a governess, weren’t you?”
I could see where this was going.
“Yes, ma’am. I have been a schoolteacher, and I once tutored Mr. Rochester’s ward, Adèle Varens.”
“The daughter of the French opera dancer.”
“Yes.” I felt as though she was toying with me, the way my cat Mephisto does when he finds a small lizard, before he kills it. My adversary wanted me to know she was familiar with domestic aspects of my life. I wondered why she’d gone to such trouble. Several days had passed since the Marchioness and I had last spoken, and in the interim, I had largely pushed Mr. Waverly’s warning about her to one side. Now her intensity brought back all of his concerns about her tenacity of purpose—and her ruthlessness.
Perhaps I should not have come here alone.
Lady Conyngham prepared the tea, measuring into the pot three spoonfuls of fragrant leaves. A pile of cubes was heaped high in the sugar bowl with a set of tongs resting on top. Likewise, the cream pitcher was full to the brim. She poured a cup of tea for me, and I added the sugar and cream.
“So,” she said, “Lady Ingram was murdered, and the Bow Street office believes that she was killed with poison.” This was not the topic I thought she’d introduce. I had expected her to ask me about the letter.
In light of her pronouncement, I thought it needed amending. “Mr. Lerner’s experiments seem to have proven as much. At least to him.”
“Who is responsible for Lady Ingram’s death?”
“I have no idea, ma’am.”
“Well, I do. The Honorable Blanche Ingram visited me yesterday. She had the most amazing story about your husband! Oh dear, I could scarcely credit it, but she assures me it is all true and that she has proof. My, my, but Miss Ingram is very . . . shrewd.”
With both hands, I lifted my cup to cover my face and forced myself to drink more tea. I needed to play for time. At last I said, “Indeed.”
“Yes, evidently Squire Rochester paid a visit to Miss Ingram at Lady Grainger’s home before the rest of us arrived that afternoon. Miss Ingram swears to me that he slipped a toxic substance into her tin of coffee.”
“How?” I told myself that I must remain calm. That any sign of weakness would surely serve to encourage the Marchioness in her quest.
“She did not go into particulars, but she assures me that her sister can support her in this.”
I said nothing, although I fought many emotions. Fear, most of all, and dread.
“Then, too, there’s the matter of a duel. Your husband had quite a temper when he was younger.”
I continued to stay silent.
“Have you ever visited Newgate Prison, Mrs. Rochester? Or seen a felon die by hanging? Oh my. It fills the mind with nightmares that cannot be erased.” As she spoke, Lady Conyng-
ham watched me, her face glowing with self-congratulation. I did my best to keep from showing how frightened I was, but I know I wasn’t terribly successful.
“Mr. Waverly underestimates me,” she said at last.
“How so?” I managed with difficulty. Her abrupt shift of topic had caught me una
ware.
“He thinks that I don’t know what he is about.”
I drank even more tea, as I tried to sort through my options.
“He thinks I don’t know the real reason he’s been assigned to me.” She sighed. “I know very well that His Majesty has ordered Waverly to keep an eye on me. That the Bow Street Runner hopes to uncover any wrongdoings on my part and report them to the King.”
“Why would His Majesty order Mr. Waverly to do that?”
“Please, Mrs. Rochester,” she said with a smirk. “Do not act a part to which you are not well suited. You are plain and unassuming but tolerably intelligent. More so than most. You can very well guess at what his intentions are.”
“I have met the King but once, and I can assure you that I do my utmost to ignore gossip. As one who has been on the unhappy receiving end of such slander, I am eager to discount what I hear. Instead, I tend to believe what I see, and even that I temper with skepticism. Therefore, I am singularly unqualified and too uninterested to even hazard a guess at any such motives.”
She sat back, crossed her arms over one knee, and puckered her mouth at me. “Well, well, well.”
I kept a bland expression on my face.
“You don’t make this easy, do you? I might as well speak frankly with you, as one woman to another. You see, I know the King. Intimately. He is fickle, and he is manipulative, and he tires of women easily. I pamper him, I wait upon him, I coddle him, and tell him what a god among men he is. In return, he frets and stews and thinks of nothing but himself. Typical of the gender, wouldn’t you say?”
“Not of my husband.”
“Ah. Lucky you. But then your husband is half blind and crippled. That does rather take the spirit out of the stallion, doesn’t it?”
This brought the heat to my face. Then I remembered Lucy’s advice: To get a person to talk, incite anger. And every bit as quickly, I cooled off.
“Actually, my stallion still can kick out the slats in his stall. However, Edward Rochester is exceptional, and I do recognize my good fortune. I am sorry for you that His Majesty does not properly appreciate your . . . service to him.”
She chuckled. Her next words were pitched very low. “The King instructed Mr. Waverly to keep an eye on me, because he enjoys having leverage over others. When a man is weak, he enjoys the weakness of others because it makes him feel less alone. I am not weak. Miss Ingram thinks that I am easily led. In truth, I am neither. I think you know that.”
I waited.
“Miss Ingram has her own motives for suggesting that your husband is to blame for her mother’s murder, doesn’t she?”
“That’s right. She does.” Relief ran through me, and I felt the tension leave my body. I sat back a little in my chair, as I offered a prayer of thanksgiving.
Lady Conyngham smiled at me. “See? I am neither weak nor foolish. No, I have not advanced this far in life because I have let others run over me. Miss Ingram thinks she can influence me to help her. But she has nothing I want. Nothing. However, you do. I want that letter. If you do not turn it over to me, I shall have to tell Mr. Waverly what I saw.”
“What do you mean?”
“I shall have to tell him that I saw Lucy Brayton put something into Lady Ingram’s drink.”
Chapter 48
“You did not,” I said quickly. “You couldn’t have, for it never happened.”
“Really?” The Marchioness raised her eyebrows at me. “You are the one who told Mr. Waverly that Mrs. Brayton held the tin before passing it to Miss Ingram. That’s when your friend Mrs. Brayton took the opportunity to poison Lady Ingram. Not only did she have the means, Mrs. Brayton has a strong motive for killing the Dowager. Mrs. Brayton coveted Lady Grainger’s fortune for her new son. Oh yes, I have my spies. Nothing escapes me. I know all about the new will. It gives Mrs. Brayton every reason to want Lady Ingram out of the way—getting rid of Lady Ingram brings her son one step closer to a grand inheritance.”
“But there was no time for Lucy to do anything—and she had nothing on her person to add to the coffee grounds. I know because I was there. The tin passed by quickly. I saw it!”
Marchioness Conyngham smiled. “Ah, so it would be my word against yours.”
“Yes.” I felt a trickle of perspiration run along the seams of my corset. My heart hammered in my chest like a blacksmith at his anvil.
“Whose side do you guess the Ingram girls would take? Mine or yours? Especially with all that I can offer them? Even though they are in mourning, they could still attend the coronation and the celebration. After all, a royal invitation cannot be ignored. True, it wouldn’t be proper for them to dance, but they could still be in attendance. I could introduce them to powerful people. And that’s only the beginning. There are positions at court. Alliances. Marriages.” She smiled patiently at me. “When Miss Ingram railed about her changed pecuniary fortunes, she convinced me how malleable she really is. On the other hand, I can best be described as . . . intractable. So it’s really no use. I want that letter and I shall have it.”
I tried to swallow, but my mouth was dry. Even a sip of tea did me no good.
She raised one eyebrow, speculatively. “So you see, this is a lost cause. You have one course of action, and only one: Hand over the letter, or your friend will suffer the consequences. Is that what you want? Is a silly piece of paper worth destroying the life of someone dear to you?”
“No,” I said, and I meant it with all my heart. “No, it most certainly is not.”
“Too right, Mrs. Rochester. That letter is cursed! It brings sorrow to all who own it. Look at what happened to that poor Biltmore girl. Now you possess it and your friend is in a precarious position. If I were you”—she leaned forward to speak in a faux whisper—“I would waste no time getting rid of that communication. It harbors ill will. If you give it to me, there might still be time to save yourself and your friend more heartache.”
All of that was true, but she had artfully skipped over an important point: While the letter had caused nothing but grief to all involved, letting go of the papers would not insure Lucy’s safety.
“If I hand you the letter, what assurance do I have that you will not blame my friend Lucy Brayton for Lady Ingram’s death and tell the King about Edward’s duel anyway? I would be foolish to take your word as your bond.”
“True enough.” She sat back in her seat as her face took on a pensive expression.
“I believe I would need a written statement from you, Lady Conyngham. An assurance that could withstand scrutiny.”
“You surprise me, Mrs. Rochester. You push your advantage here, but I’m happy to exchange such a document for the letter you have.”
“That’s not enough,” I said, struggling to keep my voice even.
“Really? My, my. What more do you want? A peerage for your husband?”
“Nothing for myself or my husband. All that I want is for Lucy Brayton to continue to enjoy her status as part of the ten thousand. Even if you don’t accuse her, Miss Ingram has done and will do. Therefore, Mrs. Brayton is still at risk. For me to give up the letter and lose all advantage would be shortsighted if I can’t walk away with confidence that my friend is secure in her position.”
“You are annoying me, Mrs. Rochester.” Lacing together her plump fingers and resting them in her lap, she glared at me. “First you set a condition that I am willing to meet. Next you suggest that you require more. Quit playing games. I am a busy woman and a powerful one. What is it you want? Say it clearly.”
“I want you to take Mrs. Brayton and her son, Evans, under your protective wing.”
“And how do you propose I do that? It’s a bit late for me to introduce her as my own flesh and blood.”
I stared at the Marchioness and delivered my ultimatum with clarity: “I ask that you and the King serve as Evans Forrester’s godparents.”
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br /> I was fairly certain that having the King and Lady Conyngham serve as Evans’s godparents would secure Lucy’s place in society. Standing up at a baptismal font and swearing to be responsible for the moral rectitude of the child being blessed would constitute an alliance between the palace and the Brayton family. The names of the King and the Marchioness would go down in the record book of the Church for all and sundry to see, for decades and possibly centuries to come. Furthermore, their oaths would be given as part of a holy sacrament.
By the very public nature of the deed, I could rest assured that the Marchioness had done as I asked—and that she could not at some later date withdraw her patronage.
All in attendance would grasp the significance of this time-honored rite. To participate in the holy sacrament of baptism would require that the King and the Marchioness confer their unequivocal approval of the boy and his “mother.” Once they stood at the altar and pledged to safeguard the child’s immortal soul, they committed themselves to a lifelong spiritual guardianship.
I waited for the Marchioness to catch up with me, which she did in short order.
“Well played, Mrs. Rochester. Well played,” said Lady Conyngham, setting down her cup and narrowing her eyes at me. “Yes, I underestimated you. That’s a mistake I won’t make again.” She reached over and yanked the bellpull.
As we waited for the maid of honour to appear, the Marchioness said, “Once you and I have effected an exchange, I will send Mrs. Brayton a letter confirming that the King and I will take on the spiritual responsibility for her child. At the conclusion of our dealings, I would have no reason to speak to Miss Ingram or to repeat her slanderous accusations.”
Death of a Dowager Page 22
