The Lady Fan Series: Books 1-3 (Sapere Books Boxset Editions)

by Elizabeth Bailey

  “Otherwise I should have had to see him in the book room, I suppose.”

  “You should have let him kick his heels,” said his mother vengefully.

  Francis shook his head. “He could not have sought me so early if his business were not of some import.”

  Across the table, Mrs. Draycott set down her cup. “Perhaps he has news of your brother.”

  This had the effect of changing his mother’s tune. “If that is so, I can forgive him everything.”

  At which moment Jardine made his entrance. Francis waited while the fellow performed his punctilious greetings, noting that the severity of his countenance was, accentuated with a preoccupied frown. The butler was hovering.

  “Thank you, Cattawade, that will be all.” When the man had withdrawn, Francis turned to the lawyer. “You have news, Jardine?”

  “Information rather, my lord, which came to me by a circuitous route.”

  “Well?”

  Jardine became austere. “You did not tell me, my lord, that the Polbrook fan had gone missing.”

  Before Francis could answer, his mother emitted an impatient exclamation. “Since you had no interest in anything beyond keeping Polbrook’s whereabouts a secret, that is hardly surprising.”

  “How did you find out, Mr. Jardine?”

  Francis looked at his mother’s companion with increasing appreciation. As ever, she went straight to the point. He had no doubt it was due to her sagacity that so much had been extracted from his mother’s cronies — as wily a couple of tabbies as one could hope to know.

  “I am coming to that, ma’am,” said the lawyer. “It appears, my lord, that someone attempted to dispose of the fan through the medium of a somewhat disreputable fence.”

  Chapter 14

  Francis exchanged a startled glance with Mrs. Draycott, but his mother was sharper. “Attempted? You mean he failed? I presume it was a man?”

  Jardine permitted a slight smile to curve his lip. “Indeed he failed, my lady. And it was a man.”

  “How did the matter come to your attention?” asked Mrs. Draycott, pursuing her theme.

  “The fence in question was too fly to take the thing without enquiry. Such a valuable item, in his opinion, might well prove an untenable prize. He fobbed the man off.”

  Hope leapt up in Francis. “He kept it?”

  The lawyer looked regretful. “No, my lord. The man in possession would not give it up. But the fence described it to my informant, a jeweller of rather better moral standing.”

  “And he came to you?”

  “My informant thought he recognised the description, and he had heard of the tragedy of the marchioness.” Jardine’s nostrils twitched distastefully. “I would not have you think it was altruism. I am known in certain circles as a man who will pay for useful information.”

  Which came as no surprise to Francis. A man of Jardine’s stamp must inevitably maintain a wide network of sources. “I suppose it is too much to hope for a description of the would-be seller?”

  Jardine shifted his shoulders. “It was dark and the man was masked. The fence spoke of a man of some height, but I fear that is unreliable as a guide, for the fellow is a snivelling little weasel to whom almost anyone would appear large.”

  The dowager snorted. “A lot of help that is.”

  “Quite so, my lady.”

  “Thank you, Jardine,” said Francis. “No doubt you made provision in case the man should return a second time?”

  The lawyer’s response was forestalled. “He won’t do that.”

  Francis looked at Mrs. Draycott. “Why won’t he?”

  “Because he must fear to be recognised, despite the mask. If he attempts to sell it again, which is doubtful, he will go elsewhere.”

  Jardine was looking surprised, and Francis concealed a smile. The fellow was unacquainted with Mrs. Draycott’s acuity. She was looking at the lawyer with that intent expression that signalled a pertinent question.

  “Do you know when this attempt to sell the fan was made?”

  “Very soon after the — er — after the marchioness died, ma’am.”

  “How soon?”

  “Three or four nights ago?” The lawyer cast his eyes upwards as he considered, then brought them down with a decisive air. “Likely it was Saturday.”

  “I fail to see that it matters,” said the dowager impatiently. “It is enough that the wretch dared to try to sell the thing.”

  Mrs. Draycott said nothing, and Francis wondered what was in her mind. He recognised that look. She’d had a reason for the question and it clearly did matter.

  Having discharged his errand, Jardine was anxious to be gone and Francis made no attempt to detain him, intent as he was upon ferreting out whatever avenue Mrs. Draycott had been treading. But the opportunity was denied him, for the moment the lawyer left the dining parlour, Cattawade reentered it, bearing a silver salver.

  “This arrived by the hand of a footman, my lord. From Berkeley Square.”

  He presented the salver and Francis picked up the folded sheet reposing upon the tray. His mother looked across at it.

  “It must be from Harbisher.”

  “The footman said it was urgent, my lord,” said the butler.

  “I imagine so,” put in Mrs. Draycott. “It is not even sealed.”

  “If it is not one thing, it is another,” Francis complained, unfolding the note. He looked at the signature. “It is from Dorothea.”

  “Gracious heaven, what can have happened?”

  He hardly heard his mother, for he was mastering the contents. An exclamation escaped him. “Confound the fellow!”

  “Harbisher?”

  “He has gone after Quaife.” As if it was instinctive, Francis looked to his mother’s companion. “George said you suspected this might happen.”

  She nodded. “Particularly if he has chosen to make enquiries. After what Sybilla’s friends told us —”

  “Dorothea writes that he went to Endicott House yesterday and demanded an account of Emily’s movements from her hostess.”

  Mrs. Draycott’s brows rose. “Dear me. What a pity he should be intent upon acting alone. We might with advantage have made use of his services.”

  Francis uttered a short laugh. “Some hope.”

  “The man is mad,” stated his mother flatly.

  “Mad with grief, yes.” Mrs. Draycott’s wide ga2e fixed upon Francis. “Do you think you can track him down?”

  “I shall have to, shan’t I?” He gathered his forces. “I will send a message to George and have him meet me at Quaife’s residence. Cattawade!”

  The butler had effaced himself, but he came forward at once. “At once, my lord. I will despatch the boots.”

  “What else does Dorothea say?” asked the dowager as Cattawade left the room.

  Francis passed the sheet across to his mother. “Nothing of moment beyond that. As you see, she knows Hugh has gone in search of Quaife and she fears the outcome.”

  The dowager was running her eyes down the scribbled note. She gave a snort. “Trust Harbisher to make a friend of a man like Quaife. No doubt Emily came to know the man through him.”

  “Which must naturally add to the earl’s fury,” said Mrs. Draycott.

  “Why so?”

  “My dear ma’am, there is no enmity so inimical as that of a broken friendship. And knowing himself to have been the instrument of their coming together must be doubly galling. His guilt now is pitiful to contemplate.”

  The dowager frowned. “You mean he cannot endure it?”

  Francis rose to his feet. “Easier to shift the blame, I take it?”

  “Just so.” Mrs. Draycott’s smile encouraged him. “This intervention is like to ruin all, if you don’t stop it. Godspeed you, my lord!”

  Francis bowed slightly. “Be sure I will do my damnedest.”

  The Baron Quaife inhabited one of the myriad narrow terrace houses along Maddox Street and it did not take Francis many minutes to walk ther
e. He was obliged to waste a deal of time, however, arguing with a foolish manservant who refused to state whether or not his master was home. But when his representations were reinforced by the arrival of George Tretower, resplendent in the red coat and cream breeches of his chosen calling, the fellow was instantly overawed.

  “Thank the Lord you are come, George,” Francis muttered. “Try if you can get any sense out of this fellow, for I have done with the brute.”

  Tretower raised his brows and focused upon the offending manservant, his tone deceptively mild. “My dear fellow, what is the difficulty? We are here to see Lord Quaife. I should be much obliged if you will inform him that Lord Francis Fanshawe desires a word.”

  A feeling of grim satisfaction entered Francis’s bosom as he noted the immediate change in the man’s expression. The underlying steel in George’s voice had its effect.

  “My master is not in the house, sir.”

  “Indeed?” George eyed the man with a meditative look Francis knew well. “I wonder, are we not the first to enquire for him this morning?”

  “Why, no, sir,” the man blurted out, looking startled. “Lord Harbisher come asking for him not a half hour since.”

  “Ah. And where did you send his lordship?”

  “Brooks’s, sir.”

  Francis grunted his satisfaction. Barely tolerating the brief time it took George to dispense with the manservant’s assistance, he set off towards St. James’s Street at a cracking pace.

  “Hold hard, man,” his friend protested. “We will not fare the better for arriving out of breath.”

  “Harbisher is half an hour ahead of us, George. Lord knows what havoc he might have wrought by this time!”

  “You don’t think he may be hampered by the public nature of the venue?”

  “I think he is in a mood to ignore everything but his thirst for revenge,” returned Francis. “My only hope lies in his not being a member of Brooks’s.”

  George was moved to grin. “Ah. He’ll not easily get past the porter.”

  “He has only to wait for some willing member to accompany him inside, however.”

  His mind filling with hair-raising possibilities, all of which must increase the tide of gossip and speculation, Francis hastened his steps the more.

  When they entered the hallowed portals of Brooks’s, however, it was at once evident that Lord Harbisher’s impatience had got the better of him. The altercation was taking place in the hall, in full view of a number of members who had clearly been drawn by the commotion to come out and watch the fray.

  Quaife was facing them, his pose very much that of a creature at bay, his head down as if he wore horns readying for battle. The little that could be seen of Harbisher opposing him showed him at full growl, with his hands up, fists curled and ready.

  “Hey? What do you say, scoundrel? Answer! Else I’ll beat it out of you.”

  The other came back strongly. “You’ll get naught of me, Harbisher, threaten how you will. Lay violent hands upon me, would you? Try if you can best me, you big-bellied poltroon!”

  A roar of rage burst from the throat of Lord Harbisher, and he sprang for the man, attempting to seize him by the throat. Quaife’s hands shot up, grabbing his wrists.

  Mesmerised by the ensuing struggle, Francis only half heard Tretower’s rapped-out orders. “Don’t stand there like a set of dummies! Take hold of Quaife! Fan, with me.”

  Francis snapped his attention back to his friend and found him already taking hold of the earl’s shoulders. With a fluent curse under his breath, Francis raced to his aid, tugging at one side while George heaved upon the other.

  The watchers on the other side having laid hands on Quaife, the two men were wrenched apart and dragged back, still spitting curses at each other.

  Francis, his senses once more on full alert, addressed a goggling waiter over the top of the hubbub.

  “A private parlour, fellow. And look sharp about it!”

  Thus adjured, the man started. “Yes, sir. At once, sir.”

  He pushed through into the vestibule beyond, leading the way, and both combatants were manhandled out of the hall and through into one of the small apartments reserved for gentlemen who desired privacy.

  By the time, with a brief word of thanks, the door had been firmly shut in the faces of those who had brought the earl’s opponent, Harbisher had sufficiently recollected himself to be once more upon his dignity. Quaife, on the other hand, was in a rare fury.

  “You’ll answer to me, Harbisher. Name your friends, my lord!”

  Francis threw up a hand. “None of that, Quaife. You will neither of you go out over this affair.”

  The baron turned a snarling visage upon him. “Who are you to interfere? He’ll take my challenge and be damned.”

  Harbisher started forward. “I’ll meet you, villain, when and where you will.”

  Tretower stepped between them. “Enough, gentlemen!” He addressed the earl. “To what end, sir, will you meet him? Have you forgot whose name will suffer by such conduct? Did you not, in the very house in which your sister met a violent end, decry the tattlemongers who bandied her name? Would you now add to that chorus?”

  Francis, glancing from Harbisher to Quaife, saw how these commonsense words, delivered in measured tones designed to appeal to reason, were having an effect. Quaife’s shoulders sagged and the lines of grief that had marked his features in their earlier encounter replaced the stiffened muscles of his anger.

  “He is in the right of it.” His tone was dull and heavy. “Our differences apart, I desire no more ill words to fall upon Emily’s memory.”

  At that, the earl’s ire sparked anew. “Do you dare speak her name, villain? You, who besmirched her vows to Polbrook and betrayed my trust?”

  “Steady, man,” said George, holding him off with raised hand. Harbisher thrust it aside.

  “You need not fear. Though the scoundrel riles my breast, I have recovered my senses.”

  Francis cut in again. “As well, Harbisher. You do more harm than good, I promise you. Pray leave the discovery of Emily’s murderer in our hands.”

  “So that is it,” came forcefully from Quaife.

  Francis turned quickly and found the baron was looking not at the earl, but from George to himself. Quaife hissed a breath and grunted.

  “I am suspect. Damn your eyes! I thought nothing of Hugh’s accusations. If he’d not made me so angry, I might see reason to excuse them. But this?”

  Francis exchanged a glance with Tretower. Harbisher was now looking from one to the other of them, his brows drawn tightly together.

  “Are you telling me you seriously believe he was responsible?”

  Francis set his teeth. “I have not said so.”

  Quaife let out a fulminating oath. “You have no need to say so. What, am I held to be jealous, is that it?”

  At this, Harbisher’s nose went up, as if he scented a byway. “Jealous? Of whom, pray?”

  Francis caught a frantic message from George’s eyes, but before he could fathom the reason, Quaife was responding.

  “I’ll not sully her memory to please you, Harbisher.” George’s relief was patent and Francis at once realised he’d been fearful of the mention of Bowerchalke. He had no time to ponder this, for he found himself once more the target of Quaife’s wrath.

  “I’ll thank you to expunge my name from your damned list, Fanshawe! I’ll not deny my involvement, why should I? But I cared for Emily. We’d long parted, but we were friends. Murder? I’d no more have harmed her than I’d take my own mother’s life.”

  Again, Francis was struck by the note of sincerity. He, glanced to see how Harbisher took this and found him tightlipped and brooding. He caught Francis’s look and his cheeks suffused.

  “Ha! Then we’re back to Polbrook. I tell you, Fanshawe —”

  “Thank you, I have heard enough from you on this subject,” Francis snapped.

  “And you’ll hear more, be certain. I’ll not have done wi
th this until I see him hanged.”

  “Polbrook?” It was Quaife’s turn to frown. “Then he has not returned?”

  “Let him not do so,” said Harbisher. “Let him but set foot in the country, and I’ll have him, be sure.”

  “For the love of heaven,” said Francis, losing patience. “Are you determined to make bad worse?”

  “What of the whelp?” asked the baron suddenly. “Have you thought of him?”

  “Giles? What has he to do with it?”

  Under Harbisher’s evident puzzlement, Francis heard George mutter at Quaife, briefly setting a hand to the baron’s shoulder.

  “Hold your tongue, man!”

  “I’ve naught against the boy,” the earl was continuing. “Never been one to visit the sins of the father upon the child.” Realising he had failed to hear George’s utterance, Francis gave thanks that Harbisher had misunderstood Quaife’s allusion. The baron was frowning, his eyes on George, who was now looking at the earl.

  “May I suggest, sir, that you let these matters be? As I promised you, I will undertake to keep you apprised of any developments.”

  Harbisher glared at him. “You need not. I know who to blame.” He transferred his irate gaze to Francis, who with difficulty held his tongue upon a heated rejoinder. “Mind what I said, for I mean it. The moment Polbrook returns, I shall know it. And I shall know how to act.”

  With which he strode to the door and tugged it open too swiftly for the knot of persons gathered outside. They dispersed in a hurry, but Harbisher cursed them all soundly and stormed down the vestibule.

  “Damn the man to hell,” Francis muttered as George moved to close the door, throwing a warning glare upon the watchers beyond it.

  Tretower turned back to Quaife. “You were about to mention Bowerchalke, I take it?”

  Quaife nodded. “Wasn’t thinking. It wouldn’t do to deliver that whippersnapper up to Harbisher’s wrath.”