by Lynn Messina
“Naturally, I will defer to you on all matters of men’s dress,” she said somberly, although the picture he painted was highly amusing, “but, yes, I do believe the memoir is real and does contain the sort of salacious secrets one might be moved to violence to protect. If I have learned anything from my experience at Lakeview Hall it is that everyone has secrets.”
Nuneaton tilted his head curiously. “Even you?”
Recalling Mr. Davies’s brief life and unfortunate death, she laughed self-consciously and said, “Even me. But bearing in mind I’m a twenty-six-year-old ape leader, you will perceive that my secrets are far from salacious.”
“Really, my dear, you are being rather hard on yourself,” he said kindly. “You’re not quite in ape leader territory yet.”
Perhaps if his tone had not been so sympathetic, she might have been able to let the remark pass without comment, but she detected just the slightest hint of pity and that she could not bear. “I’m afraid you don’t know me well enough, my lord, to comprehend my aversion to flattery, but I truly have no use for Spanish coin,” she explained, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye, for she worried he would take umbrage at her frankness. “If we are to be friends, then you must not descend to flummery.”
He accepted this edict with a firm nod but added, “If we are to be friends, then you must learn how to accept a sincere compliment, as my comment stemmed from a genuine belief that you are not as high up on the shelf as you believe. To please you, however, I will concede you are several rungs up the ladder.”
Appreciating his contorted efforts to oblige her request, she said, “You just want me to tell you about my investigation into Mr. Otley’s death.”
“Desperately,” he said with exaggerated vehemence.
The fierceness in his voice made her laugh and she tried to assure him it was not that interesting a tale, but her mirth was too intense.
“Good evening,” said a voice sharply from behind her.
Bea, who hadn’t realized the Duke of Kesgrave was already in attendance, ceased laughing at once and turned to greet him. Her delighted smile frayed at the edges as she met his stormy expression. She was taken aback for a moment, for she had done nothing to provoke his anger, and then remembered the interview with Lord Duncan. Kesgrave had wanted to conduct it by himself the day before. He had been forced to cool his heels for a full four and twenty hours just to gratify her wishes. No wonder he was scowling.
His annoyance was such that he even took it out on poor Nuneaton, responding to his friend’s eager greeting with a clipped nod.
Unsure how to proceed, for she had little experience cajoling dukes out of their sullens, she said in a playful tone, “Lord Nuneaton was just expressing his interest in knowing more about the events at Lakeview Hall. He claims you have been stingy with the information, which surprises me, as it is at the intersection of your two chief pleasures: details and long narratives.”
Although Bea had known his delighted grin was too much to hope for, she thought her teasing would convince him to unbend at least a little bit. But he remained stiff, his shoulders rigid as he looked down at her from his superior height. All at once, she felt as she did the first time she’d met him, in the Lake District, like a pesky ant daring to intrude on his picnic.
It was not altogether shocking, of course, that he would look at her with condescension, for they were in a dazzling ballroom in London, not a hallway in a remote backwater. Here, he demanded the respect and dignity she was too irreverent to pay him.
Embarrassed to have misunderstood the situation so egregiously, she straightened her shoulders and offered an apology for teasing him. “I beg your pardon, your grace, I don’t know…”
But she trailed off when she noticed her aunt charging across the ballroom floor toward her. She turned her head to the left and saw Flora striding with equal determination. Looking to the right, she spotted Russell taking large, leaping steps forward. Aunt Vera, slightly out of breath, reached her first and, like a general issuing orders to his lieutenants, told her children with a look to stand down. At once, Flora and Russell stopped moving, spun on their heels and walked in the opposite direction.
“My lord duke,” Aunt Vera said, pressing a hand against her chest as she slowly regained her breath, “what a pleasure to see you. And Lord Nuneaton too. ’Tis a double honor, to be sure.” She tittered nervously as she looked from the two peers to her niece and then back again. Kesgrave’s glower did little to put her mind at ease, and she grimaced at Bea before recalling their company. “Of course you remember my niece, Miss Hyde-Clare. She was part of the delightful company at Lakeview Hall. You will excuse her, I trust, if she is in any way—” She broke off awkwardly rather than put ideas into their heads, for maybe Bea hadn’t been inappropriate or clever. “We are lucky she decided to join us this evening, as she has had some unpleasant news of late. Unpleasant not in the way of Mr.… That is to say, we thoroughly enjoyed out visit to Lakeview Hall, despite certain elements that…” She coughed awkwardly, then tried again. “Despite unexpected developments, I’m sure everyone had a delightful time, as we did.”
Throughout her aunt’s remarkable speech, Bea, still deeply mortified by her assumption of familiarity with the duke, kept her eyes trained on the refreshment table to the left of Nuneaton’s shoulder. It was difficult, of course, for Aunt Vera was saying almost the exact words she had predicted she would say the day before. When she stopped just short of mentioning Mr. Otley, Bea almost tilted her head in Kesgrave’s direction, but she managed to resist. A moment later, however, when her aunt insisted everyone at the house party had had a delightful time, she could not stop herself and sought Kesgrave’s gaze.
He was already looking at her—and grinning.
She smiled in return and felt her whole being lighten.
Now they could go find Lord Duncan and discover if he’d plunged the knife into his godfather’s back.
But of course they couldn’t go right then, for her aunt was there and remained determined to stay as long as necessary to ensure her niece did nothing to embarrass or shame the family. To help the situation along, she pointed out the lovely corner in the northeast section of the room and observed that the fig tree would provide gentle respite. “I think you will benefit with a rest before they announce dinner, my dear,” Aunt Vera said with anxious concern. “It has been an eventful evening so far, what with Lady Abercrombie’s attentions and your quadrille with Lord Nuneaton. Yes, I feel very strongly that a respite amid the fig leaves is exactly what you need to restore your health.”
Although Bea knew her health required no restoration, she decided it was better to appease her aunt now in order to defy her later. She was just about to observe that the fig tree did indeed look welcoming when Kesgrave spoke first and invited her to dance.
Horrified, Aunt Vera said, “Oh, no.”
Bea understood her alarm, for she felt it too. The music playing now was a waltz, and the thought of being held by the Duke of Kesgrave had a very unnerving effect on her composure. She had danced only a few waltzes in her life and had yet to develop a nonchalance about them.
Despite her apprehension, it did not occur to her to turn him down, for she knew the duke had a purpose in proposing the scheme. If he wanted to waltz, then he desired the opportunity to discuss their plan. She agreed smoothly while her aunt refused on her behalf, and Nuneaton, amused by the display and seeking to be helpful, drew the older woman’s attention by marveling at the beauty of her necklace.
Bea sent him a grateful look.
Kesgrave was quiet as he led her to the dance floor, which only increased her anxiety, and by the time he put his hand on her shoulder, her heart was racing at a dizzying pace. It was perfectly absurd, and yet she could not help sparing a glance at the fig tree in the corner. It did indeed look restful.
Realizing the silence only made it worse, she looked at the duke as they began to move across the floor and said, “You owe me a shilling.”
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He readily conceded the truth, then chastised her for placing such a cautious bet. “You knew your subject far better than I. If you had offered one hundred times the amount, I still would have taken the wager and you would have earned a small fortune.”
“I’m content with my winnings,” she said. “Vindication is its own reward. Perhaps next time you won’t be so confident you are right.”
He smiled but said nothing, and Bea, succumbing to the pleasure of his firm, steady grip, relaxed into the sensation of sweeping around the room. She closed her eyes to soak up the feeling.
And immediately opened them again as a wave of irritation washed over her. She was waltzing with the Duke of Kesgrave, yes, but they weren’t truly waltzing. They were conducting important business by way of the only means available to them.
“What do you think is our best strategy for confronting Lord Duncan?” she said. “Is he here? Have you seen him? I own that I did not look for him myself, for as soon as I arrived, Lady Abercrombie swooped down and demanded my attention.”
“He is here, yes. He entered the card room about twenty minutes ago. I propose we wait until after dinner, as we will have more success if we don’t disturb his play,” the duke said.
Bea agreed with the soundness of this plan on all its points, for she knew men did not deal with interruptions in their gambling with equanimity, at least not her uncle or Russell. “If we are looking for a quiet corner in which to hold the discussion, I can recommend one with a calming fig tree.”
Kesgrave’s laughter was deep and rich, and Bea, struck by the beauty of the sound, lost her place and stumbled. ’Twas only a misstep, and the duke’s firm grip immediately steadied her. She tilted her head to thank him for his quick response and found the words dying on her lips when she saw the way he was watching her—with an unnerving intensity that bore no resemblance to reality. Nothing could explain it. Nothing at all.
And then the last strains of the music faded and Kesgrave’s hands released her, causing an odd, sudden chill, and she realized it was the waltz. The waltz explained it.
Bea had no time to feel foolish, for Flora was immediately at her side, not, as Bea supposed, to ensure her safe passage to a quiet corner, but to giggle and gush over her dance with the duke, who left her with her cousin with only the most cursory of nods.
“How elegant you looked!” she said as soon as she could be sure Kesgrave was out of earshot. “How graceful! How regal! You made such a beautiful pair, I could have melted with envy.”
Her effusive praise made Bea laugh, for never before had her cousin used the word beautiful in reference to her. “It was all the duke’s doing. He’s a masterful dancer. I merely went where I was led.”
Flora dismissed this statement as false modesty, which was another novel experience for the two cousins. Bea, enjoying the other girl’s admiration, decided not to press the issue.
After a while, Flora was claimed for the next dance by Mr. Grevail, a birdlike young man with sharp shoulders and a narrow chin. Her cousin had no sooner vanished into the crowd of dancers than Russell appeared at her side to assure her he was there and ready to provide her with whatever support she needed.
“We have divided the rest of the evening into half-hour shifts,” he explained, “and this is my stint, so please don’t have any one of your weird freaks or starts during the next twenty-eight minutes.”
Her aunt’s solution to being unable to confine her to the corner was, in effect, to bring the corner to her. Bea appreciated her ingenuity. “Who has the next session?”
“My father.”
The image of Uncle Horace standing guard over her in the Lelands’ ballroom made her smile. “Very well. I promise to have no weird freaks and starts while you keep watch.”
Although Bea would have kept her word regardless, she did not have a chance to break it, for her attention was claimed and held by an endless stream of guests who wanted to meet the woman whom Lady Cowper had called charming and with whom the Duke of Kesgrave had waltzed. The conversation was mostly repetitive, the same general questions about her family and her interests, so she found it easy to supply answers and her mind did not go blank as it had so often in the past.
True to his word, Russell remained at her side, interjecting only occasionally and squeezing her hand in goodbye when his father appeared to serve his shift. She introduced Uncle Horace to Mrs. Everston and her sister, who both congratulated him on having a delightful niece.
He was so surprised by the comment, he said, “Really?” Then, quickly recovering, he repeated the word but changed the inflection: “Really!”
The two ladies chortled and Bea laughed and her uncle looked at her with an expression that could almost be described as fond.
No, not fond, Bea realized. Proud.
How startling to finally earn his approval after twenty years.
More startling yet was the feeling of relief and happiness that accompanied it. ’Twas almost as if she valued her uncle’s approval.
Bea was immediately distressed by the thought, for she knew this moment of popularity was fleeting and she would soon return to the corner with the fig tree.
Dinner could not come fast enough for her, and she was thrilled to hear it announced not too long after her uncle’s stint had ended and Aunt Vera’s second one began. The meal was sumptuous and delicious, but Bea hardly tasted her food because she was too distracted by the family rota. If one of her relatives was assigned to stay with her at all times, then she would not be able to sneak off to conduct a private conversation with the duke and Lord Duncan.
It consumed her thoroughly, and yet in the end it presented no problem at all, for her aunt had failed to schedule shifts for after the meal. With her niece’s fragility and the recent hardship the poor girl suffered, Aunt Vera had naturally assumed the family would be well gone by the time the dinner bell sounded.
Grateful for her aunt’s lack of faith, which seemed to be the one constant in her life, Bea slipped away from the table when she saw the duke and Lord Duncan stand up. She kept a safe distance behind them, pausing to admire a painting of Lord Leland’s grandfather when they were stopped by Nuneaton, who, noting the unlikeliness of the pairing, expressed interest in joining them for a smoke after he finished dinner. Kesgrave was agreeable and told him to find them on the south balcony. Then he turned, reversed directions and led Duncan to the north terrace.
When Bea stepped outside in the chilly early-February air, the two men were leaning against the balustrade at the far end. Nearer to the door, a group of gentlemen were discussing Lord Liverpool’s latest speech to Parliament, and a pair of ladies sitting on chaise longues argued in quiet, harsh tones. Both parties seemed wholly engrossed in their activity, which emboldened her to stride across the balcony to Lord Duncan, look the surprised young man in the eye and demand he tell her everything about his brutal slaying of his godfather.
In the golden glow of a dozen torches, Lord Duncan turned white.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Although Bea’s experience with eliciting confessions was limited to a single case in which the murderer had owned the deed openly rather than allow someone else to point the finger, she was certain the sudden paleness of Lord Duncan’s visage was tantamount to an admission of guilt.
It was obvious beyond a shred of doubt that this young man had done something wrong and was terrified that it had been discovered. His eyes, a deep shade of brown and already a little too large for his narrow face, widened like saucers and moved shiftily around the balcony, darting from Bea to Kesgrave to the gentlemen discussing Liverpool to the French doors that led inside back to Bea again.
He was considering his options, Bea knew, trying to decide if he should flee into the ballroom or brazen it out.
No, not brazen, she thought. There was nothing bold or brash or unabashed about the boy standing before her all but shivering in fear.
With none of Lady Abercrombie’s steel or insouciance, he was merely a g
rown man of twenty years cowering in terror. Bea derived no pleasure in the spectacle, for it was impossible to look at him and not feel sympathy for his plight.
And yet that plight was naught but a situation he’d created with his own actions. Nobody compelled him to raise his hand in violence and end his godfather’s life. It seemed very simple to her: If one did not want to be confronted with one’s evil deeds on a balcony during the first ball of the season, then one should abstain from committing evil deeds.
The logic was immutable, its application requiring only the barest minimum behavior in terms of human decency: Do not kill.
Although she had determined to say nothing else until Duncan addressed the charge, she began to wonder if it was a futile resolution. The longer the silence stretched, the deeper the young lord’s apprehension grew. His collapsing suddenly in a faint at her feet did not strike her as entirely impossible.
That would not do, for if he was unconscious, she would never get any useful information from him.
Very well. She would speak.
“I must insist, Lord Duncan, that you take several slow, deep breaths to calm yourself down,” she said, her tone brisk. “Your excessive panic is not helping your situation, for it only serves to convince me of your guilt. Now do get control of yourself and explain to us what happened with Lord Fazeley.”
Nodding frantically, Lord Duncan inhaled for several seconds and exhaled for just as long. With every breath, a little more of the color returned to his face.
“There you go,” Bea said soothingly. “Don’t you feel better?”
Although he was less in danger of falling to the ground from immoderate respiration, the wild motion of his bobbing head presented a new risk and she had to advise him to stop. “You’re making this harder than it needs to be, Lord Duncan,” she said impatiently.
