Ottilia’s hands were shaking, and she thrust them into the folds of her dressing robe. A grunt of triumph came from his lordship and he pulled his arm back. The band was in his fingers and he drew it forth.
“But what is this?”
She hardly heard him, her startled gaze taking in the silky white article that had become attached to the fringes on the end of the tie. Lord Francis detached it and held it up. Ottilia gasped as the crumpled garment fell to its length.
“Her stocking!”
All embarrassment forgotten, she stepped forward and took it from his grasp, letting it slide through her fingers. Her mind alive with conjecture, she regarded first the stocking and then the back wall.
“Is the other there?”
Lord Francis, who had been watching her with his brows drawn together, looked first under the bed, and then rose quickly and looked over the headboard.
“Not that I can see.”
Ottilia went quickly around the bed to the other side and squinted down at the floor behind. There was nothing there. He was watching her across the divide of the bed.
“What are you thinking?”
“That there was a man there. Or perhaps not, and the stocking fell behind the bed during the activities within it. It might have been thrown aside, perhaps. It might even be an old one, lost months ago.”
“You are saying it proves nothing.”
She gazed at him, troubled by a nagging doubt. “Mary Huntshaw and I searched high and low for any sign of the stockings. And here we have one. I would give much to know what happened to the other.”
Lord Francis drew in a sharp breath and let it go. “There is nothing to be gained by conjecture at present. Let us hope we may be as lucky in my brother’s chamber.”
Ottilia had forgotten that other task. She bundled up the stocking and tucked it into the pocket of her dressing robe, preparing to follow Lord Francis, who was already moving to leave the chamber. She paused outside to lock the door behind her, but Lord Francis was already moving through the open doorway opposite. Ottilia checked on the threshold, taking in the marquis’s room.
It was a mirror of the other in shape, but a little larger, the four-poster with its plush dark curtains placed in a similar position. But here were none of the feminine curlicues that graced the marchioness’s chamber. The whole was strictly masculine, its contents solid and austere.
Lord Francis had gone directly to a chest where the second drawer was already open, and had evidently resumed his interrupted scrutiny of the articles within.
“What are we looking for?” asked Ottilia, moving into the room and looking round for a place to begin.
Lord Francis turned where he stood. “Do you not wish to know why my mother wanted to talk to me last night?”
Startled, Ottilia gazed at him. “It is none of my concern.”
“Oh, I think you will be interested.”
“Indeed?”
“Since you provoked her thoughts with a remark you made last night.” He left the chest and moved a little towards her. “She is severely exercised by the puzzle of what Randal is doing in France.”
Ottilia’s mind leapt to the conclusion she had made at dinner and so foolishly blurted aloud. Wary, she eyed Lord Francis.
“Had she any suggestions?” He hesitated, looking away and back again. Ottilia gave a light laugh. “Come, sir, you cannot be shy of mentioning it to me when you know my propensity for frankness. Let us not beat about the bush. Does Sybilla suspect your brother may have a mistress over there?”
He gave a sigh, as if of relief. “I have long suspected it. There have been too many visits, and the concern he exhibited over the welfare of the unfortunates over the Channel has made me believe the woman in question may be an aristocrat, and likely married.”
“And so he fears for her safety.”
“My mother has taken the notion into her head from something Emily’s woman said.”
Ottilia nodded. “About your brother threatening an end to Emily’s tenure as his wife.”
“Yes, and you may imagine how black it will make him look.”
“Indeed.” Ottilia looked briefly about the room. “Letters, then? Perhaps a love token of some sort?”
He grinned. “There now, I knew you would be useful to me.”
But the most thorough search through every drawer and cupboard failed to turn up anything that could point to the existence of a mistress. Lord Francis groaned with frustration.
“I shall have to go through his desk in the library, something I was hoping to avoid.”
“I imagine it is more likely to yield results.” Ottilia closed the last drawer in the dressing table she had been checking. “What a pity there is nothing here.”
“I can’t imagine the library will yield any incriminating piece of evidence, either,” said Lord Francis irritably. “I could have sworn Randal’s affections were engaged, so assiduous has he been in trying to benefit these dispossessed French.”
Arrested, Ottilia stared at him. “Where have our wits gone begging?”
“I beg your pardon?”
She waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, I don’t mean to denigrate you, sir, but I have certainly shown myself remarkably foolish.”
He was frowning. “How so?”
“Picture to yourself, my lord. You are passionately in love. Where do you secrete your keepsake?”
Lord Francis gave an eloquent lift of his shoulders. “1 have not the remotest conjecture. I have never cherished a keepsake.”
Ottilia threw him a darting look of mischief as she moved to the bed. Leaning over it, she pulled aside the coverlet and slipped her hand beneath the pillow, sweeping from one side to the other.
“You surely don’t think —”
She cut him off with an exclamation of triumph and brought her hand out again. A small oval frame was revealed. She looked at it briefly and held it up, showing Lord Francis the miniature depicted there.
“A handsome creature, I think you will agree.”
He came to take it from her, amazement writ large across his countenance. “Dear Lord, woman, you really are a genius!”
She gave a mock curtsy. “I thank you, my lord.”
“This alters things indeed,” he uttered, still staring at the lovely face shown in the tiny portrait with its cascade of fair locks. “What in the world do we do now?”
“We must find this lover of Emily’s,” answered Ottilia briskly, retrieving the miniature and tucking it back where she had found it, “and with speed. I cannot think the justices at Bow Street will be slow to seize upon the implications of this as the perfect motive for murder.”
Chapter 12
Francis was never more glad to have his friend George’s support as he entered the portals of Brooks’s. The very first pair of gentlemen he encountered in the hallway broke off their conversation to stare at him. Feeling intensely conspicuous, Francis busied himself with handing his greatcoat, hat, and cane to the porter, throwing Tretower a look designed to convey everything he felt.
“Sheer bad manners,” said George in a voice loud enough to be heard. And in a lowered tone as the two other men shuffled swiftly about, displaying their backs, “A pair of gaping fools, Fan. Don’t mind them.”
“I am minded to let Mrs. Draycott go hang, if that is a sample of what I may expect,” Francis rejoined savagely, smoothing sleeves ruffled by the exercise of removing his greatcoat.
George laughed. “Run the gauntlet, dear boy. You will rapidly become accustomed.”
“I’ve a good mind to cut and run.”
George took hold of his elbow in a companionable way. “No, you don’t. I am pledged to keep you up to scratch, you know.”
“Yes, I heard the dratted woman ask you before we left the house.”
“That ‘dratted woman’ is merely serving your purposes, Fan, as well you know.”
Francis blew out a frustrated breath. “Do you suppose I would be here if I didn’t know that?�
�
“Come, my friend. Recollect that your funereal garb will afford some degree of protection.”
True enough, Francis reflected. He had donned the severest black for this excursion, his sister having reminded him, before returning to the care of her prostrate niece, that he ought to be in mourning attire if he meant to appear in public. He straightened his shoulders and gestured towards the door that led into the Club rooms.
“So be it. Lead me to the scaffold.”
But his emotions upon entering the saloon centred less, to his surprise, on the embarrassment of his position than the oddity of being obliged to regard his erstwhile friends and acquaintances with suspicion. A number of gentlemen were present with whom he would, but a few days ago, have enjoyed a convivial evening. Today he looked from group to group, variously engaged in desultory or eager conversation, or merely reading the latest newssheet or sporting magazine, and saw only candidates for the role of Emily’s paramour. It was distinctly unsettling.
He had not failed to notice the sudden hush that fell upon each couple or group as they caught sight of him, and it was only George’s firm hand at his elbow that enabled him to retain a pose of nonchalance and appear unaware.
Only half-conscious of where he moved, he allowed Tretower to steer him to a position to one side of the large saloon. He watched his friend signal a waiter.
“Ale, Fan? Or would you prefer wine?”
“I will have coffee,” Francis said, firmly squashing a desire to demand brandy. He needed his wits about him. He looked about for a convenient chair.
“Don’t sit,” advised George, low-voiced. “It will discourage people from approaching you.”
“I don’t want them approaching me,” said Francis acidly.
George’s brows rose. “Come, Fan, is this the man of spirit renowned throughout the regiment for the iron in his backbone?”
“At this moment, my backbone feels filleted. I had rather face fifty cannon than the avid curiosity of my peers.”
His friend’s smile was sympathetic. “I don’t altogether blame you, dear boy, but needs must as I understand it. Now, what was it? Beware the effusive, ignore the gossips?”
“I can’t recall.” Francis’s eyes wandered as he spoke and caught upon a thickset man standing apart across the room. “Lord, there’s Quaife!”
“Where?”
Francis allowed his gaze to lead his friend where to look, and quickly turned away as he saw the quarry’s eyes were on him.
“He’s coming over,” George warned. “We’re off.”
Francis felt a rise of panic and struggled to suppress it. At all costs he must not exhibit any hint of suspicion or an iota of his allotted task. All too soon, the Baron Quaife had reached them. His manner was brusque to the point of rudeness.
“Fanshawe! In good time, sir. Rumour is rife about the town. Is it true?”
Considerably taken aback, Francis did not answer immediately. This was hardly the approach he had anticipated. Useless to pretend to misunderstand.
“If you mean, is it true that Lady Polbrook is dead, I am desolated to be obliged to affirm it.”
“Yes, yes, but the other. Slain? And brutally so, if the word flying around town is to be believed. Tell me it is not so!”
A vibrancy of dismay rang so true that Francis answered without thought.
“I cannot.”
Quaife looked as if he had been struck in the face. “Then it is so? Thunder and turf! But I saw her, spoke with her, only the night before. How is it possible?”
“An impossible question, sir,” cut in George, loyally sparing Francis the necessity of answering. “You may believe the shock to the family is as severe as your own.”
Quaife stared at him, a species of blankness in his eyes. Then his gaze returned to Francis. “Your brother is out of town, I gather?”
“Temporarily,” Francis said. And if the fellow thought he would elaborate, he was destined to be disappointed.
Quaife lifted a hand and ran it over his face in a gesture redolent of confusion. “I still cannot believe it.”
George took the comment. “No, sir, nor can all those intimately involved.”
This seemed to penetrate. Quaife gave an odd frown, glanced from George to Francis, and then looked as if he was suddenly enlightened. He bowed from the neck.
“My condolences, Fanshawe.” With which he turned on his heel and headed directly for the door. Francis watched him until he had left the saloon.
“He is either a very good actor or he is not our man,” suggested George quietly.
Francis shook his head. “I think it was genuine.”
There was no time for more. It seemed the baron’s approach had broken the ice. One after another, Francis received words of regret from his acquaintances. It gave him the oddest feeling of alienation to be watching each with unanswered questions in his mind. It was apparent Mrs. Draycott knew what she was talking about. The majority moved in and spoke their piece briefly and to the point. Francis found himself mentally reviewing their Christian names.
“Do you see anyone who answers to Theo or Jeremy?” he asked his friend during a lull.
“Not that I recall. But I am dubious about that altogether. The information from this previous lady’s maid appears sadly out of date.”
Impatience gnawed at Francis. “This is useless. I believe we are wasting our time. No one has so much as hinted at Randal’s involvement.”
“Except Quaife.”
“Obliquely, yes.”
He finished the last of his coffee and looked about for a waiter to ask for his cup to be replenished. Abruptly he became aware of being under scrutiny. A pair of eyes in a youthful countenance were darting towards him and away again. He nudged Tretower.
“Do you know that young fellow over by the fire?”
George glanced round. “The pretty little fop with the yellow hair standing alone?”
Francis would not have described the boy as a fop, but he was undoubtedly a devotee to fashion. His green coat was moulded so tightly to his slim form, one must suppose it required the efforts of a couple of men to remove it. His breeches clung to a pair of shapely thighs, and his boots were polished to perfection. The epithet “pretty” scarcely did justice to a face made for the sculptor’s art, though it wore just now an expression of severe anxiety.
“He looks worried to death and he’s been watching me. Not now, of course, but he was.”
While he signalled the waiter, Francis kept a surreptitious eye upon the young man, aware that George did likewise.
“What do you think of him?”
“Behaving like a cat on a hot bakestone,” said Tretower, interest in his voice. “Shifting from foot to foot and keeps clenching a hand, did you notice?”
The waiter took his request and Francis turned, giving his profile to the boy. “If we affect not to notice him, we may force him to come up to us.”
“I doubt he has the courage,” said George, “though he is making it obvious that is precisely what he wants to do.”
By the time the waiter returned with his second cup of coffee and another tankard of ale for Tretower, Francis was growing restless.
“Does the wretch mean to make his move or not?”
“Patience, my friend. He does not know either of us, which complicates matters for him.”
“I’ve a good mind to go over and ask him what he means by staring at me.”
“You will ruin all if you do.”
Francis looked at him. “Then you think it significant?”
“Don’t you?”
He sighed. “I think our minds are so full of this event that we can think of nothing else. For all I know, there may be a perfectly legitimate reason for his conduct, utterly unconnected with Emily’s decease.”
As if to confound him, at this moment the young man started across the room. Francis turned to await his approach. The boy came up, his cheeks reddening as he coughed with obvious embarrassment.
His hesitant speech, interrupted by a battery of swallowing and dipping of the head, argued an unquiet mind. Francis eyed him with acute suspicion.
“I have not the pleasure of your acquaintance, sir.”
The boy shook his head with vehemence. “No, my lord. But I — I knew her ladyship. Lady Polbrook, I mean. She was — she was excessively kind to me.”
“Indeed?” Francis felt himself bristling. Was this meant for euphemism? The fellow was half Emily’s age. Disgust roiled in his gut.
“I am but newly come to Town, my lord. Emily — Lady Polbrook — was kind enough to — to smooth my path a little.”
George was noticeably silent. Francis glanced at him and found him studying the fellow. Was he making the same assumptions? He shifted his gaze back to the young man. “You still have the advantage of me, sir.”
The boy looked perplexed. And then flushed deeply. “Oh! I beg your pardon. My name is Bowerchalke, sir. Jeremy Bowerchalke.”
Francis all but exclaimed aloud. And then confusion beset him. Six years? It could not be the same man. He broke into speech.
“You are new in Town, you said?”
Bowerchalke nodded. “These three weeks.”
“How did you meet Lady Polbrook?” asked George, entering the lists for the first time.
“Through my godfather, sir.”
“Ah. Is it possible you share the same name?”
The young man’s eyes widened at Tretower. “How did you know?”
George gave his peculiarly teasing smile. “It is a common courtesy. Who is your godfather?”
“Sir Jeremy Feverel.”
“And Sir Jeremy felt Lady Polbrook would be a useful acquaintance, I take it?”
Red chased into the boy’s cheeks once more and he stuttered cruelly in his response. “She — he — it was a matter of — of introduction. The marchioness knows everyone. She was — she was graciously pleased to — to present me. I am indebted — wholly indebted. I cannot bear to think — a hideous thing! It has utterly overset me.” He thrust a hand into the interior of his coat and brought out a pocket-handkerchief, pressing it tightly to his lips. “I must beg — excuse ...” came muffled through the cloth. And then he turned quickly, thrusting wildly through the chattering groups and out into the smaller saloon beyond.
The Lady Fan Series: Books 1-3 (Sapere Books Boxset Editions) Page 19
