A Scandalous Deception

by Lynn Messina

  sycophant…awe.

  Well, yes, there it was.

  She’d gotten so carried away with her slights, she had foolishly and inadvertently revealed a truth about herself. Of all the horrible mistakes she could have made! Mortified, she tried to think of something cutting to say and only came up with lapdog again.

  Kesgrave laughed, then asked if she was sure she would be attending the Leland ball the next day. “You are positive your aunt will not figure out some way to make you miss it?”

  Although she couldn’t imagine what one thing had to do with another, she was grateful for the change in subject and said she was certain as they turned left onto her block.

  “Very good,” he said. “We will interview Lord Duncan then.”

  Amazed, she realized her speech had worked—not the effusive barrage of insults to deflate his ego but the one accidental compliment that puffed it up.

  Rather than marvel in silence, she said, “Thank you, your grace.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  As they approached her house, Kesgrave wondered if he should bid her goodbye there, rather than in full view of the front windows, but Beatrice felt confident the precaution was not necessary.

  “Remember, if you will, Aunt Vera’s response when Mr. Skeffington suggested we were working together in the Lake District to identify Mr. Otley’s killer,” she said. “I believe she fell to her knees laughing at the implausibility. Even if she observed you in my company right now, she would dismiss it as some sort of trick of the light, for her mind would not be able to process the information in any other way. Trust me, your grace, I know my aunt’s prejudices intimately.”

  He gave her a dubious look. “Your aunt may be a little injudicious at times, but I think in this you are greatly underestimating her. She will hear your maid’s report that you spent the day with me and won’t be able to dismiss it as easily as you think.”

  Bea knew this observation to be true and once again felt annoyed by the demands of decorum. And yet, as she looked over her shoulder at Annie, she wondered if there might be a way to gain her silence. Perhaps if she paid her the respect of treating her as an equal in the subterfuge.

  “Annie, do you see the Duke of Kesgrave here?” Bea asked, her tone lilting in such a way as to make the expected answer perfectly clear.

  “No, miss, I do not,” Annie answered primly, but her eyes twinkled with amusement. “I see a hack returning us to the house after a long and exhaustive day at the British Museum.”

  “You see there?” Bea said with a pert smile. “We are covered. And tomorrow, when Aunt Vera accosts you at Lady Leland’s ball, she will introduce me to you as if we’ve barely met.”

  “Impossible,” Kesgrave said.

  “I wager a shilling she will,” Bea added confidently. “Furthermore, she will remind you of our visit to the Lake District and studiously avoid any mention of Mr. Otley’s death or even the Skeffingtons. And she will say we all had a lovely time, which will include Mr. Otley, who somehow managed to enjoy himself despite his untimely demise.”

  “You are making it impossible for you to win,” the duke pointed out. “If you had stopped at an introduction, you probably would have had a fair chance of prevailing, but now you’ve set the parameters too narrowly.”

  She smiled and said, “We will see.”

  “Indeed we will,” he agreed. Then he tipped his hat, bid her good-day and continued down the street.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Bea’s aunt realized that the evening was not going according to plan when Matilda, Countess of Abercrombie, called Lady Cowper over to meet Miss Hyde-Clare.

  “I assure you, my dear, this young lady has the most delightful sense of humor,” she said, “so you must be sure to invite her to everything this season.”

  Although the introduction was all Vera Hyde-Clare had ever wanted—validation from a high-ranking member of the ton, attention of an Almack’s patroness—she opened her mouth to offer several clarifications such as her niece’s humor was more dull than delightful and the lady wasn’t precisely young. She immediately closed it again because she wasn’t lost to reason, but it was difficult to maintain her composure during the exchange, and Bea, witnessing her struggle, reached over and squeezed her hand.

  Aunt Vera, fearing some strange, private message in the gesture, looked more frightened than ever.

  Bea’s attempt at sympathy, however, had been entirely genuine, for she herself felt an uncomfortable mix of agitation, trepidation and enjoyment. With her rough treatment of Lady Abercrombie the day before, she’d hardly thought she’d made an ally, and yet this evening, at the Leland ball, the countess had greeted her with the fervor of a cherished friend.

  The push for popularity was particularly disconcerting on this night of all nights because the Hyde-Clares had decided, in a council of war that included all relevant parties, even extended family members such as Aunt Vera’s sister, Susan, and her husband, Lawrence, that Bea would fade quietly into a corner and remain there until dinner. During the meal, she would disappear quietly into her chair and then return quietly to her previously claimed spot along the wall.

  Like any good plan, it wasn’t entirely without its opportunity for error, but with patience and vigilance, it could be relied upon to minimize trouble.

  By trouble, of course, Aunt Vera meant any situation in which her niece could be irreverent or impertinent or disrespectful or satirical or indeed open her mouth to say anything other than yes or no.

  The implementation of such extreme measures would not have been necessary if Bea had simply agreed to stay home. Her family had attempted a thoroughly persuasive argument by pointing out the patently obvious truth: The horror of finding Mr. Otley’s violently slain corpse combined with the terror of being trapped in an abandoned shed married to the devastation of Mr. Davies’s death had succeeded in corrupting her judgment.

  Pointing this out was futile, of course, for the young lady’s judgment was too corrupted to grasp patently obvious truths.

  It was Bea’s visit to the British Museum immediately following the announcement of Mr. Davies’s death that had convinced her relatives something was truly wrong with her ability to reason, for what young lady of clear intent chose to pass an entire afternoon amid its creaky halls filled with old rubble from dead civilizations? Furthermore, the destination was too much of a non sequitur for any of them to breath easily, for it bore no relation to anything Bea had ever done before. Aunt Vera could recall her niece going to the museum only once, and on that occasion she practically had to be tugged there by her sleeve. Without question, this was a woman whose behavior could not be relied upon to be either rational or beneficial to her family.

  Given Bea’s sweeping lack of success and her general discontentment at society functions, her relatives were taken aback by her refusal to sit out the ball. Her insistence that she must attend only reinforced their belief that she must not, but short of tethering her to the bed and locking her bedchamber door, they could not figure out how such an objective might be achieved. A brief discussion about which bed sheets might best be used as a restraint was halted by Uncle Horace, who lamented the high cost of linens.

  With no other option available to them, the Hyde-Clares settled on their plan to confine an unhinged Bea to a quiet corner and approached the first glittering event of the season with restrained enthusiasm. The amazing circumstances of the Earl of Fazeley’s mysterious death, for how could such a high stickler for fashion find himself undone in such an unfashionable section of town, added fizz to the evening, and Uncle Horace and Russell were eager to compare theories with cronies. Aware that her relations could have information to which she was not privy, Bea tried to discover these opinions, but her interest was deemed unnatural and seized upon as further proof she was not well.

  All seemed fine at first, for they arrived without incident and proceeded through the receiving line without calling undue attention to themselves. As they walked through the c
rowded ballroom, Uncle Horace excused himself to talk to an associate about an upcoming prizefight in Wanash, Russell went off to join a group of friends by the refreshment table, and Mr. Thorpe came to claim Flora for his dance. Aunt Vera, her arm loosely threaded through her niece’s, inspected the available corners for the greatest seclusion and settled on the one to the right, with its generous fig tree.

  Their progress across the floor was almost immediately impeded by Lady Abercrombie, who greeted Bea with familiarity. Aunt Vera was, to be sure, disconcerted to discover the two had met and wondered aloud when that felicitous event had taken place.

  “Why yesterday, of course,” her ladyship said smoothly.

  The idea of a woman so beautiful and popular spending any portion of her life in a dreary museum filled with broken pots and chipped statues was beyond anything Aunt Vera could comprehend, and she stared in amazement. Before her aunt could express her astonishment and perhaps discover the truth by accident, Bea explained to Lady Abercrombie that they were on their way to the refreshment table.

  “May we get you a glass of ratafia?” she asked.

  But her ladyship was not listening, for she had spied her dear friend Lady Cowper only a few feet away and insisted she come meet her new protégé.

  This shocking development woke Aunt Vera from her stupor, and she looked around the room as the other woman approached, a trapped expression on her face. Bea, who also hadn’t anticipated such a reception, stiffened her shoulders and worried she would lapse into muteness as soon as the exalted figure greeted her.

  No, she thought forcefully. She would not regress to sullen silence without a fight.

  Bea smiled at the elegant patroness of Almack’s, who was well-known for her kindness and charm, and felt instantly soothed by her graciousness. She managed to conduct a reasonable conversation without stuttering or mumbling or apologizing.

  After Lady Cowper was called away by her husband, the lively widow introduced Bea to Mrs. Clavering and Lady Holland and the Dowager Duchess of Padstow, who squinted her eyes and leaned in.

  “Making your first season, are you?” she asked.

  As startled as she was amused by the question, Bea considered the best way to answer it, for she wanted neither to embarrass the older woman with the truth nor mislead her with a lie. Finally, after a moment of silence, she said, “My seventh.”

  Her grace frowned sharply and stepped forward to examine Bea more closely. After a moment, she said, “No wonder. You’ve got a very plain face.”

  Far too familiar with her attributes to take offense at this observation, Bea smiled and said, “I’m quite wan as well and have absolutely no conversation.”

  The dowager nodded. “That spray of freckles across your nose does not do you any favors either.”

  “And do note the dullness of my hair, which is far too limp to be of any interest,” she said with a smile, then added, because the older woman’s honesty had charmed her, “Unlike your beautiful curls.”

  The dowager’s austere expression lightened as she said, “I wouldn’t say no conversation.”

  “You make it easy, your grace,” Bea replied, the sincerity in her tone indicating the comment was no mere frippery.

  The Dowager Duchess of Padstow simpered.

  Lady Abercrombie clapped in admiration a few minutes later while Aunt Vera chastised Bea for speaking so flagrantly about her advancing years.

  “You did not have to reveal an actual number,” she pointed out. “A simple no would have sufficed in answer to the question, or, if you want to be more effusive, then you could have said, ‘No, I’m not.’”

  “Nonsense,” Lady Abercrombie said, “pretense will get you nowhere.”

  Bea knew her ladyship’s denunciation of pretense was only a pretense, for the woman was artifice piled on top of deceit wrapped in the pretty paper of artfulness, and she couldn’t help but wonder what game she was playing with this display of support. Surely, her ladyship wasn’t genuinely interested in bringing drab Beatrice Hyde-Clare into fashion. No, she had another reason for her actions, and Bea could not decide if it was nefarious or benign. Either she was aware of Bea’s suspicions and thought to distract her from her pursuit with attention or she was amused by the challenge of making a plain-faced spinster the hit of the season.

  Both possibilities struck her as equally likely.

  Aunt Vera, who had never met a peer whose opinion she didn’t instantly adopt, rushed to agree with the beautiful countess and promptly garbled Sir Walter Scott’s maxim about tangled webs and deception.

  “Exactly,” Lady Abercrombie said with gleeful satisfaction, although the quoted lines had been so mangled it was difficult to say precisely what she was agreeing with. “Stay the course, my dear Miss Hyde-Clare, and you will be the height of fashion by Easter.”

  At this announcement, poor Aunt Vera made a strangled sound.

  Fearful that the other woman was choking, Lady Abercrombie whacked her on the back to clear the blockage and announced it was time to find her protégé a dancing partner. Bea opened her mouth to protest while her ladyship examined the candidates in the immediate vicinity, her absorption in the activity so complete she thoughtlessly continued striking Aunt Vera. Wanting to free herself but not wishing to appear rude, the latter took small, inching steps away from the countess’s hand, accidentally bumping into an impeccably dressed gentleman with a Bedford crop.

  He turned to offer his apologies just as Lady Abercrombie exclaimed in approval and urged him with undeniable persistence that he lead Miss Hyde-Clare onto the dance floor for the next set. Perceiving no way to escape, he submitted to the treatment and held out his hand, which Bea, whose demurrals had gone unheeded, accepted with mortification.

  As they crossed to the dance floor, she turned to the unfortunate gentleman, who had been cornered by the widow, and plainly owned her embarrassment, which was made especially acute by the fact that Michael Barrington, Viscount Nuneaton, was already known to her. He had made up one of their number at Lakeview Hall, as he was a cousin of their host. Buried in the country, he had seemed like a reluctant attendee, indifferent and bored by the company, an attitude she had originally found off-putting but ultimately discovered to be more affectation than conviction. By the end of their stay, Bea found that she liked him quite well.

  “I’m sorry this happened,” she said now, “but I hope you know I was as powerless as you to stop it.”

  His lordship insisted he had not been powerless at all. “Trust me, Miss Hyde-Clare, my skill at avoiding tasks in which I have no interest is well-honed. You need only apply to my father if you require confirmation.”

  As the dandy she recalled lounging in the Skeffingtons’ drawing room appeared to have no interests at all, she found this difficult to believe but thanked him anyway for his graciousness.

  “I assure you, I’m being quite sincere,” he said as they took their place in the quadrille. “I had every intention of calling on you next week.”

  Bea laughed at the idea of the languid peer calmly subjecting himself to her aunt’s energetic chatter. “Now I know you’re only being polite, my lord.”

  “One is loath is argue with a lady, but in fact I’m not,” he insisted. “As Skeffington’s cousin, I’m determined to discover all that transpired during that ghastly week, but Kesgrave will give me damnable few details about the investigation into Mr. Otley’s death. I’m hoping you will be more forthcoming.”

  “Of course,” she said smiling as the music started and the dancers began to move. “That makes more sense.”

  “I’m curious to know more, yes,” he conceded, “but that is not my sole motivation. I find you a woman of daring and intelligence and think I would enjoy your acquaintance.”

  Once again, she pictured the indolent gentleman in the Lake District determined to be bored by everything and knew herself to be the recipient of a very great compliment. “I think I would enjoy that as well,” she said honestly, for she’d had few friend
s in her life and certainly none who were male.

  Following the head couple, they danced into the center of the square and paused their discussion while performing the intricate move. When conversation was possible again, Nuneaton asked how she had passed the holidays and she entertained him with tales of her family’s attempts to discover what she would like for a Christmas gift. “And Flora was convinced I wanted a new reticule so she left magazines out opened to images of various reticules and would watch to try to gauge which one I lingered over the most. Sadly, I didn’t linger over any at all, as I am pleased with my reticule and unaware that I required a new one. In the end, she picked out the design she liked best and when I didn’t use it for two weeks, asked if she could borrow it.”

  Nuneaton chuckled in appreciation and said he would have to try that ploy with his sister, who was most urgently in need of a new pair of Hessians.

  The music ended soon after, and rather than consider himself free from the obligation Lady Abercrombie had imposed, he escorted her to the refreshment table. After he secured her a glass of lemonade, he asked what she thought of the earl’s murder.

  Bea was taken aback by the question and feared that she had somehow revealed her interest, but before she could issue a denial, he added, “Your deftness in handling Mr. Otley’s demise leads me to assume you at least have a theory as to how Lord Fazeley contrived to meet such an unfortunate end.”

  Of course it had been a general inquiry and not specific to her actions, she thought. The earl’s death was the topic on everyone’s lips. “I believe it had to be connected in some way to the book he was contracted to write,” she offered.

  “Ah, so you believe the memoir is real and not another creation devised to draw attention to himself, such as the Fazeley Flow,” he said, revealing his opinion on the matter. “I have attempted the knot for which he is famous, Miss Hyde-Clare, and I must tell you it’s a great hoax. It’s merely the Maharatta tie combined with the Trone d’Amour and employing the stiffness of the Oriental. If it does require half the kitchen staff to achieve, it’s only because Fazeley insisted on eating a joint of mutton whilst getting dressed for the evening.”