by Lynn Messina
The young man ceased his nodding at once and managed to utter an apology without stumbling or stuttering his words.
Finally, she thought, progress.
After another moment, he added quietly and with enviable calm, “I did not kill my godfather.”
Bea thought it was a paltry denial in light of his previous conduct, but Kesgrave nodded pensively and said, “Tell us about the dagger.”
“I knew it,” he said with a deep sigh as he rested his weight against the balustrade for support. “When I read the description in the newspaper, I knew at once the murder weapon was the jade knife Lady Abercrombie had given me. Your accusation merely confirms it.” He closed his eyes as he took another deep breath. “The knife was mine for a while, but I sold it almost immediately to my godfather. Its garishness appealed to him, and he had determined to wear it as an accessory as a direct rebuke to Brummell, who, as you know, decries anything that isn’t simple, plain and elegant.”
Although Bea knew little of the history of ornamental weaponry, she was fully aware of the rivalry between the two dandies. They espoused diametrically opposed philosophies of manner and presentation, and neither could stand to leave the other to his preference. “When did you sell it to him?”
“Last month. Lady Abercrombie”—he blushed here as he said her name—“made a gift of the piece to me for Christmas, and when I returned to town I showed it Fazeley. My intent was to sell it to an agent at an auction house, but he made an offer and I was delighted to be spared the effort.”
“Did you tell him why Lady Abercrombie gave you the dagger?” Kesgrave asked.
“Well…I, uh, yes,” he stammered as the flush in his cheeks turned a vibrant pink. “I mentioned that our relationship had…ah, deepened and grown and that she gave me the dagger as a keepsake of our deepened bond.”
As his blush intensified, Bea marveled at how young he looked. He was only a little younger than Russell—twenty, perhaps twenty-one—and yet appeared many years his junior. “You seem reluctant to talk about the love affair,” she said boldly and wondered how a man who had indulged in lascivious activities could flinch at the phrase love affair.
And yet he felt compelled to deny it. “No, of course not. I’m a man of the world and appreciate the…ah, the attentions of an older woman. It serves to…hmm…
deepen my worldview.”
Bea shook her head, for his bashfulness was too pronounced to allow for pretense. “You are, Lord Duncan, quite spectacularly reluctant. I can only imagine how you must have felt when your godfather took the very private information you had shared and used it to blackmail your paramour.”
His huge eyes grew impossibly larger at her observation, and he rose to his full height to protest quite strongly. “Now, I say, Miss…ah, Miss…”
Realizing he didn’t know her name, he trailed off.
“Hyde-Clare,” she supplied promptly. “Miss Hyde-Clare.”
He nodded and aired his objection again. “I say, Miss Hyde-Clare, you are flagrantly misrepresenting the events. What I and Tilly…that is, Lady Abercrombie and I…had was fleeting at best. To describe her as my paramour is woefully off the mark.”
Confused by the vehemence of his rebuttal of such an insignificant point, she glanced at Kesgrave to see his reaction, for she did not know enough about male affairs to judge if his lordship’s outrage was justified. He wore an expression of faint amusement.
Reassured, she returned to the point that she considered to be the more salient one. “So you were not angered when you discovered his betrayal?”
His indignation was as fleeting as his relationship with the beautiful widow, for at this question his shoulders collapsed and he pressed against the balustrade again for support. “He did not betray me. He approached Lady Abercrombie with that bargain upon my request.”
Amazed by this revelation, Bea stared at the young man, whose stuttering and blushing had led her to believe he was an innocent who had merely stumbled into a situation that was far more complicated than he could handle. His timidity in discussing his love affair with Lady Abercrombie had all but convinced her he was too fainthearted to commit murder and she had gone back to considering the countess to be the more likely culprit. But the revelation of his venality altered her perspective, for a man who would send another man to blackmail his lover with information he himself had supplied had no conscience at all.
The question then became, of course, why would Lord Duncan strike down his godfather? If he felt no compunction in sharing private information with him, the motive could not center around the exposure of a secret.
Perhaps it had something to do with money, as both Lord Duncan and the Earl of Fazeley appeared to be in need of it. Had Lady Abercrombie lied about refusing to comply with the blackmail threat? Had she handed over a large wad of cash that the earl refused to share with his godson? Could that serve as the source of their discord?
While Bea tried to organize her thoughts, Kesgrave asked Lord Duncan to explain why he’d sunk to blackmail.
Once again, the young man cringed at the accurate description of the event and Bea felt a renewed sense of irritation at his childishness. “I needed the blunt. My parents are miserly and refused to cover my gambling debts and Fazeley cheated me on the value of the knife, which turned out to be worth four times what he paid,” Lord Duncan said defensively. “He refused to give me a shilling more, for a deal was a deal, he said, and a gentleman must abide by the original terms. It was infuriating, the way he talked about it, as if the rigid code he himself had established was somehow out of his hands. But he said he would help in any other way he could. So I suggested a way that would be beneficial.”
Bea found it infuriating that the earl’s so-called rigid code applied only to gentlemen and that exhorting money from a woman was perfectly in line with his principles.
Before she could voice her anger, Kesgrave made the same observation, only with far less passion.
Lord Duncan perceived no contradiction in his godfather’s unwillingness to renegotiate terms with a gentleman and his willingness to defraud a lady. “’Twas a lark, and turning it down would have been very fainthearted indeed,” he said, his brows drawn in confusion, as if he could scarcely believe he had to explain something so basic about human existence to a man of Kesgrave’s ilk.
“She could well afford it,” he added sullenly, as if the problem was the amount, not the act. “Judging by the knife she gave me as a token, she could manage a king’s ransom without noticing. And we asked for a mere fraction, a sum so modest she could have covered it with the funds set aside for lion food alone. Refusing the pay was pure churlishness on her part.”
Heaving a sigh, Bea looked at the duke to see what he thought of his cowardly defense and was pleased to note his ducal sneer. Now Lord Duncan was the ant. She would have to be content with that, for she could not vent her spleen on Lady Leland’s balcony in view of other guests.
Calmly, she said, “Were the rumors true? Was Lord Fazeley writing a book about the ton and its foibles?”
“Oh, yes,” Lord Duncan said. “He had an arrangement with a book publishing firm, the name of which I cannot recall. He was of a literary bent, you see, and was very proud of his writing style. It was to take the form of a memoir, a comprehensive chronicle of the daily comings and goings of a popular society figure and detailing the very business of life, with all its elements, both large and small, trivial and consequential, commonplace and extraordinary. It was to be a Very Great Event in the life of the beau monde.”
Bea thought it would be a Very Great Disappointment if the earl’s book contained the same lurid pomposity his godson used to describe it. “Was he mentioning members of the ton by name in his book?”
Lord Duncan’s modesty applied only to love affairs with women old enough to be his mother and charges of murder, for, on much firmer footing now, he scoffed at her question. “A mere moment ago I said it was about the daily life of a popular society figure. Pr
ay tell me, my dear Miss…”
He trailed off, uncertain, and Bea smothered the urge to remind the contemptuous young man that she’d told him her name only mere moments ago, “Hyde-Clare,” she said.
“Do tell me, Miss Hyde-Clare,” he said, the disdain that much stronger now that he had a name to which to apply it, “how my godfather would be able to write a book about his daily life without mentioning members of the ton? So many passages and details would have to be elided as to render the work unreadable.”
She ignored the provoking condescension and focused on the part of his answer that was relevant to her interests. “Had his lordship contacted any of the subjects included in the book and offered to elide particular passages or details in exchange for payment?”
The young man inhaled sharply at the suggestion, threw his shoulders back and took one large step closer to Beatrice so that he could stand directly in front of her as he delivered his reply. “You dare suggest my godfather would act with such dishonor and disgrace! If you were a man, Miss Hyde-Clare, I would tell you to name your second.”
His anger at the injustice of the charge was so sincerely and finely honed, Bea could only stare at him in astonishment. She could not believe the hypocrisy, and yet she knew breathtaking hypocrisy of this magnitude was the base on which the whole entire world was built. Men of a certain class and breeding were free to do whatever they wanted, and everyone else had to step cautiously and apologize. It was maddening and inevitable, and she felt desperately helpless that there was nothing she could do to convince this sniveling boy who could not hear the phrase love affair without recoiling in embarrassment that he was a speck of mud on the heel of the world.
Because he wasn’t a speck. He was a young lord with a kingdom at his feet.
While Bea struggled to calm her anger, Duncan turned to Kesgrave and said, “I’m confused, your grace, why you would choose to associate with a female such as this inadequate example, with an inelegant mind and limited intelligence. A man of your talents and accomplishments can seek the company of any woman, for none are above your touch. I do not say this to be critical, for I would never presume to censure the behavior of an out-and-outer such as yourself, but I would like to comprehend your thinking.”
Bea, as well, would like to have a better understanding of the duke’s behavior, for it still seemed antithetical to his ends to allow her to investigate Lord Fazeley’s death alongside him. She was too furious, however, at the young man’s remarks to allow Kesgrave to respond. She’d been willing to end the conversation on a polite note rather than addressing the glib double-dealing of his self-serving opinions. She’d resolved to exit the balcony by way of the high road. But resisting this final provocation was simply beyond her capability.
She raised her head to look at him, a study of defiance and confusion as he tried to understand the low company of such a high stepper, and recalled the trapped little boy cowering in the corner, his head bobbing, his eyes darting. He had regained his composure, yes, but the other creature wasn’t so very far behind.
Smiling faintly, she leaned forward and said in a snappish burst, “Love affair.”
Lord Duncan jumped back.
Bea said it again, this time drawing it out mockingly. “Love affair.”
Prepared for the attack, the young man managed to hold his ground. But a pinch of color appeared on his cheeks as he figured out what she was doing and the self-conscious realization that she knew how easy it was to discomfit him discomfited him further.
She grinned at him now. “Love affair. Love affair.”
His eyes grew wide and huge as he tried to contain his reaction. The harder he fought it, the darker he became: Pink turned to fuchsia turned to red.
It was, she thought, the most satisfying feeling she had ever experienced in her life. No, she would never convince him he was a speck of mud, but for a few moments she could make him feel as if he were. “Love affair. Love affair. Love affair. Love affair. Love affair. Love aff—”
“Beatrice!”
Aunt Vera’s horrified screech tore through the night, and Bea swung around to find her entire family standing only inches behind her. Uncle Horace’s face was as red as Lord Duncan’s, and Flora’s chin might as well have scraped to the ground, her mouth was open so wide in shock. Only Russell seemed unaffected by the display, as he was too busy staring at his hero, Kesgrave, to notice what his cousin was doing.
“Aunt Vera,” Bea said, her own face now bereft of color as she imagined what the scene must have looked like to one outside of it, “you must let me—”
Her aunt bit out the word no with a viciousness Bea had never heard her use before. She rushed to explain. “But it’s not—”
“No!”
At this unexpectedly vehement denial, Lord Duncan started and, sensing an opportunity to slip away unnoticed, took several steps backward. Watching him make his escape, a scurrying little creature afraid of his own shadow, Bea sneered at the cowardly display. Any man with an iota of self-respect would have stayed firmly rooted to the spot and enjoyed his tormentor’s disgrace.
The duke, also noting Lord Duncan’s exit, turned to Aunt Vera and addressed her with his customary urbanity, which, under ordinary circumstances, rankled Beatrice. Now she was grateful for it. “My dear Mrs. Hyde-Clare, if you would allow me the opportunity to—”
But no, she could not.
Aunt Vera’s shame and horror at finding her niece spouting the words love affair over and over again like a deranged child to a peer of the realm in front of a leader of the ton was so pronounced it compelled her to do the one thing Bea had thought impossible: interrupt a duke.
A duke.
“You are very kind, your grace, to try to offer excuses for Beatrice,” Aunt Vera said evenly and with hard-won dignity. “But I must not let you debase yourself by allowing you to become embroiled further in our family drama. You cannot know the strain my niece has been under in recent days, and I fear you in your generosity have allowed her to influence your behavior in a way I’m sure you will find repugnant upon later reflection. I trust you will believe me when I say we are very grateful for your kindnesses. Good evening, my lord duke.”
Kesgrave’s shock at hearing such a speech from her aunt was exceeded only by her aunt’s at delivering it. He seemed inclined, at first, to register an objection, for his back had stiffened at the mention of his debasement. But now he merely bowed over her hand and bid her good night.
Bea watched, appalled by how quickly he had capitulated to her aunt’s wishes.
But you’re a duke, she wanted to shout. Stand up to her!
Unaware of her silent exhortation, Kesgrave walked away from the shocked little group without a glance, not even a fleeting one out of the corner of his eye at Bea. Just like Lord Duncan, she thought, as she realized what her aunt said was true. Upon later reflection—in this case mere seconds—he’d examined his own behavior and found it wanting.
She had driven him to a disgust of himself.
Bea could not say how that made her feel, for she was at once desperately sad their strange and wonderful association had come to such an ugly end and bitterly angry that his disgust could be so easily earned. He was the Duke of Kesgrave, a man who set the fashion, not followed it. If his impervious condescension conveyed anything, it was a sincere indifference to the opinions of others. And yet here he was, presented with an opportunity to use his arrogant disdain for good and he scampered away because her straitlaced aunt disapproved.
Had she really influenced his behavior?
She recalled the scene in the British Museum: Heatherton Hall, the dagger, Mr. Goddard’s contempt for females, Kesgrave descending seemingly from on high to secure her access to the archive like a deus ex machina in an ancient Greek drama. Nobody had asked him to interfere. Nobody had tapped him on the shoulder and suggested he sort the matter out. Nobody had nudged him on the back until he was suddenly in the middle of the drama.
No, he’d insert
ed himself willingly and with seeming eagerness.
Indeed, he had been the one who had continued the association after she had resolved to proceed with the investigation on her own. The only reason she had known about Lord Duncan’s involvement was the duke had brought her to his interview with Lady Abercrombie. If not for his interference, she would, at that very moment, be comfortably ensconced in the northwest corner of the ballroom next to a fig tree.
If anyone was to blame for that evening’s debacle, it was Kesgrave himself.
How dare he feel debased by her!
As outraged as she was by the sweeping unfairness, Bea knew it was futile to argue—with Kesgrave, with her family, with herself. Assigning blame to the proper party did nothing to alter the truth: She had fulfilled her family’s worst expectations of her. If their understanding of the cause was less than astute, their grasp on the outcome was accurate.
For Bea there was nothing to be done but to accept the disgrace because she had earned it and earned it well. As they crossed the ballroom, her eyes tilted down, she caught sight of Lord Duncan. His lips were curved in a repugnant grin as he correctly interpreted her situation.
Now he’s brave, she thought in contempt.
The carriage ride home felt interminable to Bea, as her aunt alternately whimpered in despair and promised her niece everything would be all right. Squeezing the girl’s hand with unexpectedly strong force, she’d assure her all she needed was a nice, long rest, then turn to the window and moan quietly, her hand still clutching and crushing.
Bea felt no small fissure of trepidation at the mention of a nice, long rest, for she couldn’t hear those words without picturing the ward for madwomen at Bethlem Royal Hospital. She didn’t truly believe her aunt would consign her to an asylum, and yet hours later, as she lay in bed trying to sleep, she couldn’t quite shake the image of women struggling to move freely in well-stained white jackets designed to confine their movement.
She knew it was merely exhaustion making the matter feel worse than it actually was, and in the morning, after only four hours of sleep, her prospects did not look quite so grim. Damage had been done to her family’s perception of her, yes, but given their already low opinion of her, the harm could not be hugely significant. It would not require much to repair the injury, she thought. A few days of agreeing with everything her aunt said, a few sessions where she talked about her sadness at Mr. Davies’s death, a promise to keep an open mind in the future. Yes, she would say, let’s visit Chancery Lane and inspect law clerks.
