Ottilia, all too conscious of his distress, had for once no words of comfort. Everything that came into her head she dismissed for a platitude. She would have liked to offer her hand again, but a foolish fear of rejection held her back.
At length Francis looked up. He tried to smile, but it went awry.
“Come, Tillie, have you nothing in your armoury?”
She shook her head. “I must fail you on this occasion.”
Francis sighed. “Well, so be it.” Then he got up in a restless way, shifting into the vestibule. Compelled, Ottilia followed him.
“Say something,” he whispered urgently. “Make me laugh.” At that, Ottilia was surprised into merriment herself.
“To order? But you laugh only at what you consider my eccentricities.”
His lip quirked. “Do I so?”
The effort to overcome his lowering mood moved her even more than the mood itself. Ottilia forgot caution and held out her hands to him.
“If I cannot make you laugh, I can listen.”
Francis took the hands and held them. His dark eyes looked deep into hers.
“You are too good, Tillie. I am ashamed to think how much we have put upon you. Not once have I heard you complain.”
She controlled her voice with an effort. “I could scarcely complain when I brought it on myself. No one asked me to interfere at the first. And though I am sorry for your distress, on the whole there is still much to entertain me.”
His eyes lit and his grip tightened. “There now, I knew you had it in you to lighten my load. Entertain you, forsooth, you wretch!”
Ottilia could not prevent her happiness in the moment bubbling over into mirth. Francis let go one of her hands and reached up a finger, brushing it lightly across her mouth.
“Of all your eccentricities, I think I like that gurgling laugh of yours the most.”
“And I like —” She broke off, appalled at what she had been about to say.
Question was in his face as he prompted, “And you like — what, Tillie?”
“You, Fan.”
It was out before she could prevent it, the endearment of his nickname slipping naturally into the confession. She felt heat in her cheeks and knew she was flushing.
The dark eyes gleamed in the candlelight. Softly, so softly he spoke.
“Do you know, that is the kindest thing you have ever said to me.”
Kind? No, she had not meant to be kind. Disappointment swept over her in a wave, and Ottilia released her hand from his, shifting away.
“We are neglecting our duties.”
With shaking fingers, she hunted for her tumbler, spied it on the settle where she had unthinkingly set it, and seized it up. But when she put it to the door, there was no sound to be heard. She moved away again.
“They are silent. We will be remarked. You take the tray back and I will go to the parlour.” With which she set the tumbler on the tray and slid past him without meeting his gaze. That he did not speak, nor make any move to prevent her leaving seemed to Ottilia to bear out her conviction that she had wholly misinterpreted both his words and his actions.
The necessity to dispose of the tray and its contents afforded Francis a much-needed opportunity to compose his unquiet mind. Whether his brother’s duplicity or Ottilia’s inexplicable withdrawal rankled most, he was unable to decide.
Only when she had left him did it occur to him that he had been within an ace of kissing the woman. Without intent and wholly out of the blue. Or so it seemed. But in truth it did not take a deal of wit to trace the path that had led him thus far. Having begun with admiration, his esteem for her had imperceptibly grown until it had taken off on a sudden and plunged him into wholehearted affection.
Yes, affection. Francis balked at going further, falling into a commitment that must turn his life upside down. Besides, he was loath to dare to suppose that Tillies “liking” masked a warmer feeling. Her precipitate exit argued otherwise.
Depositing the tray on the sideboard in the dining parlour, he recalled her little subterfuge and laughed out. Whatever came, he had at least the satisfaction to know that Ottilia’s presence, quite aside from her flair for divining what had occurred, was responsible for leavening the bitter pill the family had been obliged to swallow. That he must ever regard with gratitude.
In this more settled frame of mind he reentered the parlour that had become their headquarters to find his mother seated, Randal noticeably absent, and Ottilia in the act of pulling the bell. She smiled at him, as composed as if the little scene between them had never happened.
“We are going to have in the tea tray. Sybilla is tired. And no wonder, for it has been quite a day.”
“A masterly understatement,” Francis returned.
He glanced at his mother, dismayed at the drawn look in her face. She had aged all in a moment. He longed to offer words of comfort, but remembered he was not supposed to know what had passed between her and his brother.
“Has Randal gone to bed?”
She lifted her bowed head, with an effort, it seemed to Francis. “I have no notion.” She fiddled with her fingers for a moment, and then looked up at him. “We quarrelled.”
Francis strove to sound nonchalant. “I expected no less. Did he give you any satisfactory assurances?”
“If you mean concerning the woman now residing in this house,” said his mother with something of her accustomed acid, “he gave me nothing beyond the headache which plagues me now.”
Francis could not refrain from glancing across at Ottilia, seeking either her advice or opinion, he knew not which. She met his eyes and flashed him one of her warning looks. Dangerous ground? Undoubtedly.
He was just wondering whether he should probe further or leave it until the morning when the knocker sounded at the outer door. His mother started and Ottilia looked round, as if she might see through the wall.
“A strange hour to be calling,” Francis said, and made towards the parlour door.
“It must be urgent,” Ottilia said from behind him, and he realised she, too, had risen and was following.
He reached the door, pulled it open, and found Abel already walking down the hall. Remembering Ottilia had rung the bell in the parlour, he must suppose the footman had been responding to it. Vaguely he wondered at Cattawade’s absence, but forgot it at once as the front door opened and a well-known voice spoke.
“Ah, Abel. Is Lord Francis here? I must speak with him without delay.”
“George!” Francis strode forward as his friend entered the house. Tretower saw him and came quickly up. “What’s to do?”
George seized his outstretched hand. “I will tell you directly. Let us go in. How do you do, Mrs. Draycott?”
Francis waited only to instruct the footman to bring the tea tray and followed his friend into the parlour. George was bowing over the dowager’s hand.
“What brings you here so late, colonel?”
His mother was looking as apprehensive as Francis was beginning to feel. “Out with it, man. What fresh disaster is about to befall us?”
George faced them all, his back to the fire. “I have just come from Bow Street. Justice Ingham has issued a warrant for your brother’s arrest.”
Chapter 18
Disbelief swept through Francis, and he barely heard George continue.
“Ingham intended to carry it through tonight, but I managed to persuade him that nothing was to be gained by incarcerating the marquis at such an hour. But he intends to come himself in the morning to administer the warrant and take Polbrook into custody. Meanwhile, there are Runners stationed front and back outside the house.”
His mind blank, Francis saw the colour draining out of his mother’s face. Instinctively, he looked to Ottilia, hardly aware if he expected succour from that quarter. She stood tensely, her features painful with enquiry.
“But on what grounds, Colonel Tretower? There has been no interview, no questioning. What can Justice Ingham know that justifies his taki
ng this action?”
Francis looked automatically to his friend and found Tretower setting his teeth. His heart lurched. “What is it, George?”
George drew a breath. “I don’t know how to say this, but say it I must. There has been an information laid against Lord Polbrook.”
“An information?” Francis echoed. “What sort of information?”
George shook his head. “Ingham would not tell me.”
“By whom was this information laid?”
Ottilia, as ever, asking the most pertinent question. Francis almost dreaded his friend’s answer.
“He would not tell me that, either.”
“The devil!”
In the silence that followed, Francis sought options. Who could it have been? His mother gave a sudden cry.
“Harbisher! He left here baying for justice. He must have gone directly to Bow Street.”
George’s frown intensified. “Tonight, you mean?”
“He interrupted dinner with the declared intention of smashing Randal’s face in,” supplied Francis, an edge to his voice.
“Then it cannot have been he. Whoever laid this information did so earlier. He spoke to the fellow who went after Polbrook — Grice, was it?”
Ottilia’s gaze was fixed upon George, but Francis noted that faraway look in her eyes that meant she was thinking of something else. Before he could enquire the reason, she spoke up.
“Just what did Justice Ingham tell you, Colonel Tretower?” George thought for a moment.
“That an information had been laid which gave him reason and witness to Lord Polbrook’s culpability in the crime.”
“Witness? But that must mean Bowerchalke.”
His mother’s tone expressed astonishment and Francis looked to see how Ottilia took this notion. She was frowning, but she did not speak. Francis mustered his own resources. “If it was Bowerchalke,” he said, thinking aloud, “then it would explain why he put back the jewel box. He would wish to disassociate himself from the theft.”
Both George and his mother gazed at him with blankness. He recalled there had been no opportunity to report on the find.
“Ottilia and I discovered it last night. She caught the fellow in the act, but did not see who it was in the dark.”
George glanced curiously from one to the other of them, and a gleam of amusement crept into his eyes. “You two have been busy, it seems.”
Francis brushed this hastily aside as his mother’s puzzled eyes flicked across at him. “Never mind that. We were driven by sheer necessity.”
He could only suppose his mother’s attention was concentrated upon the matter at hand, for she said nothing. “Ottilia,” he pursued, “don’t you think it possible?”
She had been lost in a brown study, but she looked at him then. “That Bowerchalke was the one who returned the jewel box? I can’t believe he stole it in the first place. Nor does it seem politic to endanger himself by laying an information.”
“Why should he endanger himself?”
Ottilia’s glance went to the dowager. “Because I am certain he was still in Emily’s bedchamber when she was murdered, concealed behind the bed-curtains.”
“Indeed? Then it would be to his disadvantage to go to Bow Street.”
“Exactly so,” Francis agreed. “I imagine the notion of persuading the justices that he had seen and heard all but had taken no hand in the proceedings would terrify Bowerchalke.”
“And he is probably the only witness,” said his mother despairingly. “I daresay, if we only knew, he could readily exonerate Randal.”
“The only witness we know of.” Francis struck his hands together in frustration. “Who the devil could have laid that information?”
“I thought of Quaife,” offered George, “but it seems unlikely.”
“For the same reason as Bowerchalke?” asked the dowager.
“No, ma’am. Because if Quaife had been involved, he would have more sense. Bowerchalke is an untried and very nervous pup. I am ready to believe any folly of him.”
A silence fell. Francis felt sorely in need of a restorative and bethought him of the tea tray. “Where in the world is that wretched footman? I told him to bring the tea an eon ago.” Ottilia’s eyes turned towards him, and Francis saw an odd look flash in them. Without thought, he moved towards her. “What is it? Why do you look like that?”
Her face cleared abruptly and she smiled. It was not the warm smile he treasured. It looked forced. “Perhaps you had best ring the bell again.”
The puzzlement did not leave him as he crossed the room to do as she suggested. “I never thought it would come to this.”
“If an information had not been laid, I don’t suppose it would have,” George said. “Without a witness there really is nothing to place Polbrook on the spot. It must be all supposition.”
“Not entirely.”
Francis caught the dry note in his mother’s voice and for a moment he forgot Ottilia’s odd conduct. “What do you mean, ma’am?”
“The servants, Fanfan. Huntshaw heard Emily and Randal quarrelling. Both Cattawade and Turville in the stables can place him still in the house at a convenient time. And there is Abel’s word, too, both on time and —”
“That cursed mysterious voice? Yes, I remember.”
Ottilia had been watching his mother during this recital, and her gaze continued upon the dowager. But Francis could swear her thoughts were otherwhere.
“Ottilia!”
She started and looked round. “Yes?”
“You say nothing to the purpose.” He gave a little smile, half hoping she would respond with a more natural one of her own. “Come, we are accustomed to have you set us all to rights.”
Her clear gaze remained on his face, disconcerting in its intensity. “You are forgetting the key to the dressing room door.”
His mind jumped. He had forgotten it. “What of it?”
“Why should any lover be in possession of that key when he had the one to the outside?”
“Well, to get into the chamber, I imagine,” George offered.
Ottilia’s glance went to him. “He would not go to the chamber when Emily was out of it. He did not need a key to get in.”
Francis was beset by a conviction that she was holding back, as if she might say more if she chose. His mother saved him from having to ask.
“Remember we have not your insight, Ottilia. What do you imply?”
She looked round at them all, and Francis saw reluctance in her face. “We must look within the house.”
George uttered a short laugh. “Now you have lost me altogether, Mrs. Draycott.”
“Yes, I am quite in the dark,” agreed the dowager.
Francis saw the discomfort under which Ottilia laboured and wondered at it. What had she in her mind that she could not reveal before them all?
“Oh, you must pardon me,” she said, as if goaded. “Until I have made further enquiry, it is best I keep my own counsel.” Francis was not surprised to see his mother’s evident displeasure.
“Why? Can you not trust us, Ottilia?”
There was now apology in both face and voice. “It is not a matter of trust. I fear to malign where it may not be deserved. If I voice my thoughts, I may cause irreparable damage.”
George’s puzzlement was plain, but he was too polite to press her. Not so the dowager.
“But I will not have this. Can there possibly be anything worse to hear than that we already know?”
Without intent, Francis leapt to Ottilia’s defence. “Leave her be, ma’am. We have no right to tangle with Ottilia’s ethical considerations. We have burdened her enough.”
He looked at Ottilia as he spoke and the warm gratitude in her eyes rewarded him. She smiled briefly — a real smile this one — and her gaze went back to his mother.
“Sybilla, forgive me. I may be wrong, quite wrong. Let me but make enquiry tomorrow, and I promise I will speak. If I am right, I will speak.”
For a m
oment, his mother eyed her, and Francis hoped she would leave it. Then she took his breath away.
“You know who did it.”
His eyes flew to Ottilia in mute question. She met them, looked again at George, who was gaping with lively astonishment, and then her gaze went back to his mother’s face.
“I think I know, yes.” She drew a breath. “But I must be certain. I have also a task for you, Francis. You and Colonel Tretower together.”
Francis had relied upon his friend to discover the whereabouts of Jeremy Bowerchalke’s lodging, but as he tooled his curricle in the direction of Pall Mall, it was Tretower who wanted clarification of their purpose.
“What is it we must discover?”
Mindful of his instructions, Francis went over what Ottilia had said.
“If she is right that the fellow was hiding behind the bed-curtains during the murder, he is the only witness. We are to extract his confession of his presence, and have him tell us precisely what occurred.”
“And if he refuses?”
Francis laughed. “We are to bully him into speech, poor fellow. Ottilia was specific on that point.”
Tretower sat back in his seat. “That explains why she wanted both of us to go. I can’t see the fellow resisting, can you? I don’t imagine much bullying will prove necessary.”
Neither did Francis. “I will own myself astonished if he does not capitulate immediately. Assuming, of course, he can be made to be coherent for the space needed to tell his story.”
“Almost I feel sorry for the fellow,” George commented. “Or I would do if we had not been obliged to witness your brother being carted off to gaol.”
Francis could not forbear a shiver of distaste. It had indeed been a harrowing moment. More for Randal’s bewilderment than anything else. His brother had clearly not believed he could seriously be accused. Ingham, it had to be admitted, had been both courteous and apologetic, but inexorable nonetheless.
Francis knew his mother had slept badly, and in truth his own rest had been fitful. Had it not been for Ottilia’s schemes for the day, he must have despaired. He knew she meant to question a member of the household, which was presumably what she meant by saying they must look inside the house, and he was determined to carry out his part.
The Lady Fan Series: Books 1-3 (Sapere Books Boxset Editions) Page 29
