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

by Elizabeth Bailey

  “No, indeed, tempting though it may be,” Ottilia agreed with a twinkle.

  Sybilla sighed again, and noting the taut curl of her own fingers, fastidiously straightened them. Then she looked across at Ottilia. “Why do you think Giles did it, if not because he is in love with the wench?”

  “I don’t think he did it at all. I imagine it was all Tamasine’s doing.”

  “Well, I can believe her capable of any impropriety, but do you suppose she asked him to marry her?”

  “Not at all. I expect she merely stated that they were to be married. It’s what she did the morning of her guardian’s death. And, given Giles’s refusal to recognise her shortcomings, I dare say he was motivated by chivalry.”

  “To accept her, you mean?”

  “Or merely to accept a fait accompli.”

  The dowager gave her a derisive look. “And nothing at all to do with the fact that he has fooled himself into thinking he is head over ears in love, I dare say.”

  “That too, of course.” Ottilia perched on the arm of her mother-in-law’s chair and took her hand. “Don’t look so distressed, ma’am. If Giles is not already regretting the event, I give you leave to call me a dunderhead. Oh, he won’t admit it,” she added, seeing a hopeful look creeping into Sybilla’s features. “I’m sure he feels bound by whatever foolish promise he may have made and will not readily be encouraged to relinquish it. And if you value my advice —”

  “Do you think me such a simpleton that I would make the attempt? It would be useless.”

  “Besides setting up his back. Not,” Ottilia added hastily, “that you care for that.”

  Sybilla let out a groan. “Yes, but I do. One should not play favourites, but the boy was ever the delight of my life. And he knows it. I hate being at outs with him.”

  “Well, you need not be.”

  “How can I help it?” She released her fingers from Ottilia’s grasp and sat up with sudden energy. “Ring the bell, Ottilia. I’m going to send for Giles and demand the truth.”

  Ottilia rose and went across to the bell-pull as requested, but nonetheless entered a mild protest. “Do you think that’s wise?”

  Her mother-in-law’s eyes were snapping again. “I will not take that young man’s word for it. I know the type. A mischief-maker if ever I saw one.”

  “Even so, would he say Giles had confirmed it, if he had not?”

  “I intend to find out,” declared Sybilla, as the door opened. “If my grandson has indeed become engaged to Tamasine Roy, he will not dare deny it to me.”

  About to speak, Ottilia hesitated as a shocked look came into the dowager’s face. She was staring at the door. Ottilia turned quickly and her veins turned to ice. Lady Phoebe Graveney was standing in the doorway, and it was evident from her expression that she had heard the fatal words.

  Numbness settled over Phoebe’s mind. She ought to feel shocked, betrayed, but the single thought repeating through her head was that she had lost. Only half aware, she allowed herself to be ushered to the sofa, her fingers caught in Lady Polbrook’s fierce clutch.

  “Ring the bell, Ottilia. She needs a drop of something to revive her.”

  In a daze, Phoebe watched Lady Francis — or no, Lady Fan was her preference, was it not? — move to the bell-pull and tug upon it. She caught the woman’s eye as she returned towards the sofa and uttered the first words that came into her head.

  “I only came to see if you had news from the inquest. Even though Robert was presiding, Papa would not permit me to attend.”

  Lady Polbrook let out a snort. “So I should hope.”

  Phoebe shifted her gaze to the elderly lady’s face. “But I wanted to. I need to know.”

  “As do we all.”

  “I shall be obliged to ask Robert myself,” Phoebe said, thinking aloud.

  “Mr Delaney, you mean? I doubt that will prove necessary, my dear.”

  Lady Fan’s calm tones were balm to Phoebe’s ears. She seemed to have a knack of maintaining just the right manner to forestall any form of hysteria. Phoebe drew a painful breath and let it out again.

  “I would very much like to scream.”

  “Pray don’t,” said the dowager. “We have had tantrums enough this day.”

  “I won’t. I have been brought up to think badly of any such public display.”

  Lady Fan let out a peculiarly musical laugh. “The perfect marchioness.”

  “Oh, pray don’t.” A twinge at her heart caused Phoebe to throw her hands over her face.

  “Ottilia, have you no tact?”

  “My dear Sybilla, this is hardly the moment for tact.”

  “How can you say so, you dreadful girl? Here is poor Phoebe —” She broke off as the younger maid entered the room.

  “My lady?”

  “Brandy, Biddy. Lady Phoebe has sustained a shock.”

  This penetrated Phoebe’s foggy mind. “Oh, no, pray. I so much dislike it.”

  “Port, then. Biddy, bring the port and three glasses.”

  Phoebe made no further demur, feeling unequal to the task of repudiating Lady Polbrook’s attempt to revive her. The moment the door shut behind the maid, the dowager broke out again.

  “You must not take it to heart, my child. If my fool of a grandson has indeed engaged himself to that mad creature, you may be sure I will speedily put a stop to such nonsense.”

  Phoebe looked at her. “If he has pledged his word, he cannot draw back.”

  At this, Lady Fan put her oar in again. “But she can, and I am sure she will before long. If there is a betrothal, I imagine it is nothing more than a game to Tamasine. Besides, if she marries anyone, which I feel to be unlikely, it will be Simeon.”

  “Simeon?”

  “Her cousin, Simeon Roy. She said he would come and he arrived today. I have no doubt at all there is a concerted plan in place, on his side at least.”

  “What, Ottilia, you think he means to marry her?”

  “Let us not forget she is the sugar princess, Sybilla, and heir, I don’t doubt, to her father’s wealth.”

  Bewildered and heart-sore, Phoebe could only stare at the woman. She was treated to a warm smile.

  “Don’t look so oppressed, my dear child. For my part, this engagement is the best thing that can have happened.”

  “Ottilia!”

  Phoebe blinked at her. “How so?”

  “From Giles’s perspective, I mean. Or from ours on his behalf.”

  A faint ache began in Phoebe’s head as she tried to follow Lady Fan’s train of thought. She was about to put a question, but Lady Polbrook was before her.

  “It is just like you to talk in riddles, Ottilia. For heaven’s sake, say what you mean!”

  “Pardon me, Sybilla. To my mind, Giles cannot have been expecting to find himself betrothed, at least at this juncture.”

  “Yes, you said you thought it was Tamasine’s doing.”

  Phoebe was conscious of a rise of hope, but she entered a caveat. “She could not be so lost to all sense of propriety as to ask a man to marry her.”

  “She is just so lost. Indeed, she has no notion of propriety at all.”

  “That at least is true,” said Lady Polbrook on an acid note.

  “But if Giles loves her, that will not weigh with him,” Phoebe objected.

  “I dare say he will try to ignore it,” Lady Fan returned. “But it cannot be long before he recognises that a girl of her stamp could not possibly be an asset to him, do you not think?”

  About to repudiate this in no uncertain terms, Phoebe hesitated. The Giles she knew and loved — or thought she knew — would never have countenanced impropriety in a female. He was such a high stickler, he refused to believe his own mother could have exceeded the bounds of polite behaviour. Phoebe had heard several ranting speeches on the subject, to which she had listened with sympathy and held her tongue on the gossip that had been rife about the neighbourhood for years. Indeed, her attachment to Giles would have been frowned on by her o
wn father had the young man not demonstrated a rectitude completely opposite to his mother’s conduct. Yet Tamasine Roy had succeeded in wrenching him from the path of virtue.

  “Even if he does realise it, which I take leave to doubt, his involvement must preclude any thought of a future with —” Phoebe broke off, startled to find herself speaking so freely.

  “With you,” finished Lady Fan, her tone dry. “Well, that is as you determine, my dear Phoebe, but I am sure he will be available should you change your mind.”

  “Change her mind? What in the world do you mean, Ottilia?”

  The question was destined to remain unanswered. The door opened to admit the maid, bearing a tray, and, close upon her heels, Lord Francis and a gentleman unknown to Phoebe. The former addressed himself at once to his wife.

  “Your powers are still needed, Tillie. The jury brought in an open verdict.”

  The young footman was outwardly compliant, yet Ottilia’s best confiding manner failed to pierce a subtle defiance. She had managed to corner him in the parlour by dint of shielding behind Patrick’s intent. While her brother went to the deceased’s bedroom to conduct a new and ostensibly authorised search, accompanied by Francis, Ottilia waylaid Hemp, who had answered the door. Fortuitously, since her principal object in coming to Willow Court this morning had been to question him.

  She had viewed the open verdict as a boon, all her suspicions revived by the jury’s inability to accept that an unexplained overdose of opium could be accidental. It seemed that the Honourable Robert Delaney had given a thorough summation of the case to the twelve men serving, his statements directing them clearly in the line of an accident. The foreman, however, polite and diffident, had painstakingly explained the jury’s findings to the presiding judge, apologising for the inconvenience.

  The jury understood, Francis reported, that it was going to cause difficulties, but insisted upon their conviction that, as the doctors were adamant about the cause of death, the deceased could not have ingested the opium without knowing he was taking it. With no evidence to prove he did have knowledge of it, the jury could not rule out the possibility that someone else introduced the opium into him by some means or other. Therefore the only recourse open to them was to return an open verdict.

  Robert Delaney, in his turn, had no alternative but to set the local constable to enquire more particularly into the case. Without naming names, he had declared an interest and said he would pass the whole affair on to one of his fellow justices.

  “Which, I might say, is just as well,” said Francis. “The wretched fellow is far too fond of Phoebe to suit me. Thank the Lord he is conscientious enough to realise he cannot act in the matter under the circumstances.”

  “Does that mean some other man will enter the fray?”

  “Not immediately. Justice Lovell is presently away, so you only have to deal with the constable, if indeed he comes in your way.”

  Ottilia had regarded him with lurking mischief. “Does this mean I have your blessing, Fan?”

  He had all but snorted. “With my idiot nephew actually engaged to that crazy girl? I should think so. The sooner you solve the thing, the better pleased I shall be.”

  Ottilia lost no time in resuming the pursuit, lighting upon Hemp as the likeliest source of further information. But the footman was not proving to be as malleable as she had hoped.

  “On the day Sir Joslin died, you carried a message to Lord Bennifield, did you not?”

  “I did, milady.”

  “Are you in the habit of taking Miss Tamasine’s messages, Hemp?”

  A faint frown marred the smooth coffee-coloured features. “Why, milady?”

  Ottilia raised her brows. “You sound suspicious.”

  “I do not understand the purpose of your question.”

  The tone was deferent but she was quick to note the hint of steel beneath it. She tried for a mild approach. “Oh, I merely wish to ascertain how much Miss Tamasine relies on you. I gather you are a favourite with her.”

  Hemp made no comment, but his eyes were wary.

  Ottilia changed tack. “Tell me, can Miss Tamasine write?”

  The dark eyes narrowed. “Milady must have realised her education is limited.”

  Which was no answer at all. She would have to be more direct. “I wondered if you wrote her letters for her, Hemp?” Surprise flickered in his face and was swiftly veiled. She pushed. “You are not going to ask me to believe your own education is limited.”

  His chin lifted a fraction and his jaw tightened. His tone was stiff. “Master Matt wanted me to learn.”

  “Was that usual?”

  He hesitated. Ottilia saw the decision form before he spoke.

  “Not usual. I was privileged.”

  Indeed. And for a good reason, if her instinct proved true. But she refrained from expressing such thoughts aloud. Time to strike hard.

  “Did you write for Tamasine to Mr Simeon Roy?”

  “Ha! Write to him? Not if she paid me!”

  There was no mistaking the disgust. Was there anger too? He recollected himself immediately, his mien returning to subservience, his eyes flicking away.

  Ottilia took instant advantage. “Then who did, Hemp? Mr Roy claims to have carried on a regular correspondence with her, but you and I both know she could not have written to him herself.”

  Hemp’s gaze came back to her. “If Miss Tam had help, she did not tell me.”

  “Pardon me, but I find that surprising. I can’t imagine there is much she would not confide to you. And I doubt she is good at keeping secrets.”

  Once again he took refuge in silence. Ottilia wanted to press him, but it was obvious she would get nowhere by so doing. Surprise, in Hemp’s case, might prove the best path to success. She gave it to him, in full measure.

  “There’s a reckoning, Hemp.” She saw the word strike home as his brows drew together. Time to attack. “What do you know about it?”

  “It is only a game.” The words were blurted out. “She plays these games.”

  “I’ve no doubt. But what is it all about, Hemp? I am persuaded you know.”

  He took in breath and let it out in a bang. His look became fierce. “You want to make her guilty. You want to say she did this thing.”

  “She told me she did.”

  “She does not know what she says. If she thought of killing, she did not understand what it meant. It is not a real thing for her, this death of Master Jos.”

  Ottilia smiled. “I believe you are right. But Mr Simeon Roy is not similarly handicapped. If he were to instruct Tamasine to do a thing, she would carry out his wishes, do you not think?”

  Sudden understanding lit the dark eyes and they flared. “That is what you thought, milady? You believe I would be party to letters between Miss Tam and this Simeon Roy, with a plot to kill Master Jos?”

  Ottilia took it head on. “I had to consider the possibility.”

  Hemp’s anger held for a moment. Then he sighed out a breath. Against all protocol, he turned his back on Ottilia and crossed to stare out of the window.

  She waited, not unhopeful. Her opinion of his intelligence and character was rising by the second. She could not help but feel sympathy with his situation, born to a life that gave him no real prospects, nor outlet for his obvious talents.

  Without turning around, he spoke, his voice rough with emotion. “Miss Tam is too innocent. She did not understand why Master Matt sent Simeon Roy away from the plantation. He is a villain, that one. He tried —” Hemp broke off, hesitated, and began again. “What he did Master Matt could not forgive. Nor I. But for Miss Tam, it was another game spoiled. She does not like us to spoil her games.” He looked round, despair in his face. “I swore to Master Matt that I will look after her. I swore on my life. But with Miss Tam it is not easy.”

  “So I should imagine.” Ottilia moved a few paces towards him, schooling her tongue to persuasion. “Was that the source of this reckoning, Hemp?”

  “So I th
ink. Miss Tam tells me only there is a reckoning, that someone must pay.”

  “You don’t know who?”

  He shook his head.

  “Nor why, for certain,” she suggested. “You suppose it to concern Simeon. Indeed, Tamasine told my nephew that she and he swore vengeance. But although her guardian is dead, she told me she was not yet done. That gives me to think, Hemp, that perhaps this reckoning may be something quite other.”

  He turned to face her, puzzlement in his tone. “What else? There is no other reason for vengeance.”

  “Yet how is one to fathom the workings of a mind like Tamasine’s?”

  She spoke almost to herself, but Hemp’s reaction startled her.

  “It is not her fault! She was born from that crazy one. Master Matt did great wrong to make a child with her. He knew so, for he confessed it to me. He believed it was his sin, and Miss Tam suffers because of it.”

  There was so much despair and pain in the man’s words that Ottilia was touched. But the mention of Florine was too good an opportunity to miss. “Did Tamasine have much contact with her mother?”

  Hemp shifted with evident discomfort. “When she was small, before the mistress had to be locked up.”

  “How small?”

  “Until four or five.”

  Ottilia hesitated, wondering how to put the question she was burning to ask. These were sensitive issues and the footman’s involvement made him cagey. But the matter could be pertinent.

  “What happened, Hemp?” Puzzlement overlaid the distress in his face. Ottilia hastened to elucidate. “Why was the mistress locked up? What had she done?”

  For a moment she thought he was not going to answer. He looked away, and back again. Again, he took the wary route. “It is ancient history.”

  She opted for truth. “It may help to unravel the present maze.”

  The dark eyes met hers, a glint in them that spoke of an old rage, long felt and burning slow. “The mistress could not be trusted with the slaves. One day she went too far.”

  “How?”

  “She interfered with a boy.”

  The words were grated. The meaning penetrated and an odd notion flicked in Ottilia’s mind. Was Hemp the boy? If so, why was the incident particularly bad? Bad enough to precipitate Mr Roy’s decision to have his wife put away permanently, it appeared. But this she could not ask. She changed tack.