A Scandalous Deception

by Lynn Messina

  It would be galling to feign emotions she did not have, but it was an improvement on Bedlam and it was certainly better than letting her aunt break all the bones in her left hand.

  Wasting no time in the implementation of her scheme, Bea called for her relatives’ attention at breakfast and apologized for her behavior. “I see now that you were all right to be worried about my frame of mind, for I seem to have been far more affected by recent events than I allowed myself to realize. Perhaps if I hadn’t been so determined to pretend everything was all right, I would have noticed my own weakness taking hold. I cannot explain my behavior last night on the balcony with Lord Duncan”—or, rather, she would not—“but I can promise you it will never happen again. The circumstances that made that moment possible no longer exist, so there can be no risk of a recurrence. I thank you all for your patience and understanding during this difficult time and promise in the future to heed your guidance. Whatever you prescribe, dear aunt, I will gladly comply without complaint. I am yours to instruct.”

  It was a fine speech, certainly a little excessive at times, with its dear aunts and guarantees of compliance, and Uncle Horace, looking up from the London Daily Gazette, said he was relieved to hear it. Then he immediately returned to his newspaper, which caused Aunt Vera to tsk-tsk in disgust as she examined her niece thoughtfully. She was not as easily swayed as her husband, but she seemed willing to consider the possibility that her niece was finally on the mend.

  Bea bit her lip to keep from smiling and announced she would spend the day in her room quietly reflecting.

  Aunt Vera applauded the plan and promised she would have Mrs. Emerson send up a light repast later in the day so she would not have to interrupt her introspection by coming down for food.

  Bea wondered if by “light repast,” she meant bread and water.

  The rest of the day was uneventful, as Bea spent a quiet afternoon finishing the biography of George Stepney and starting one about Isaac Newton. In the evening, Aunt Vera and Flora went to Mrs. Yardley’s rout and Uncle Horace visited his club. Russell, claiming disinterest in his friends’ plan to attend the theater, invited Bea to play cards in the drawing room with him and, while teaching her the particulars of vingt-et-un, proceeded to interrogate her about the Duke of Kesgrave’s interests. His idolatry, having progressed through the silent worship phase, required details so that a firmer connection could be established. Amused, Bea did her best to oblige, but she couldn’t be sure that what she had to offer was of any value.

  At breakfast the next morning, she kept her head down and did not say much, which earned her aunt’s approbation. She pronounced herself pleased with Bea’s progress, then related the important events of the night before, which consisted, among other things, of the Duke of Kesgrave’s bestowing his attention on her for a full twelve minutes.

  “We conducted a spirited conversation on the many uses of beetroot,” she said.

  At this dazzlingly intriguing tidbit, Bea’s lively mind perked up, for she at once began to speculate at the substance of the conversation on the humble vegetable. Kesgrave, with his catalogue of facts on all mundane topics, could no doubt fill a full hour with the many ways of preparing beetroot pies and beetroot jellies and beetroot juices and beetroot poultices. He would be a veritable storehouse of beetroot information: the year it was discovered, the best method for its cultivation, how medieval monks used it to change the color of their hair.

  Poor Aunt Vera, compelled into admiration for a vegetable she could hardly bring herself to swallow.

  Bea could not wait to mock the duke for his beetroot sermon, which must have been as tedious as his lecture on the Battle of the Nile. She would even look up information about the root vegetable herself so she could drop a few fusty facts into the—

  And then she remembered Kesgrave’s fainthearted retreat two nights before.

  She would have no opportunity to mock his ostentatious pedantry.

  Disconcerted by the realization, she excused herself from the table and disappeared into her room for another quiet day of penance and contemplation. She picked up the Newton biography where she left off: in the middle of his years at the King’s School in Grantham facing off against a bully. She was deeply engrossed in his building of a sundial when Flora knocked on her door to report that Lady Abercrombie was downstairs.

  Bea looked up in surprise. “Lady Abercrombie?”

  “Apparently, she is sincere in her efforts to make you fashionable, for she keeps calling you her protégé,” Flora explained as she swept into the room. “Mama doesn’t know what to do with herself. She’s beside herself with excitement at hearing a peeress describe any member of her family in such intimate terms while also terrified that your mind is too weak to handle her patronage. She is, at this very moment, trying desperately to steer her attention toward me, pointing out my dewy complexion and biddable nature, but her ladyship is deeply resistant. I’m too insipid to be worthy of her sponsorship.”

  Sunk in disgrace, Bea had not thought of Lady Abercrombie since the scene on the balcony and she now pondered the other woman’s motives for bestowing attention on her drab, uninteresting self. It was possible, yes, that the countess had slain Lord Fazeley in a desperate attempt to keep her brief love affair with her son’s friend secret, but Bea decided it was highly unlikely. Having seen true cowardice in the form of Lord Duncan, she believed her ladyship was too bold and honest for such a despicable act. She would have scorned the earl’s offer and brazened out the scandal.

  Similarly, she no longer considered Lord Duncan to be a viable candidate for her list of suspects, for she could not believe he would ever have the nerve to cold-bloodedly murder his uncle. In the heat of the moment—heart racing, anger seething—yes, she imagined he would be capable of overcoming his own cravenness, but the earl was stabbed from behind on a busy street. That circumstance did not indicate a furious reprisal in the midst of a passionate disagreement.

  It was just as well she was confined to quarters, for it appeared as though her list of suspects had dwindled to nothing. Not only had her dignity and respect for the duke ended on the balcony, but her investigation had too.

  Although Bea was inclined to feel sorry for herself over the pitiable state of affairs, she was determined not to wallow in her failures and resolved to find humor in Lady Abercrombie’s interest. Clearly, the countess needed a new project, for the limitations of making a lion cub fashionable were readily apparent, as one could not bring a wild animal into a ballroom or pressure a viscount to dance with it.

  The image of Nuneaton dancing with Henry made Bea smile, and she rushed to assure her cousin that insipid wasn’t the correct word. “The right one is quiz. You aren’t enough of a quiz to excite her interest. She’s looking for a challenge, which I present in spades. You should have heard her delight in telling people I was in my seventh season. Perhaps if you are still unmarried in six years, she will consent to take you on.”

  “You are being far too ungenerous to yourself,” Flora said as she made herself comfortable on her cousin’s bed. “You have age, yes, but also a fearlessness that must come with it, for you never used to be like this. You were always so quiet and timid, and now you are browbeating young lords with excessive repetition: love affair, love affair, love affair. I cannot imagine the circumstance that supports such an attack, but I’m convinced your behavior was entirely in line with it.”

  Bea did not expect her young cousin to be so astute and expressed sincere gratitude for the demonstration of faith.

  “Of course,” she said, then added with a sly look. “Mama, however, is thoroughly buying it.”

  Although the implication was clear, Bea chose to appear confused. “Excuse me?”

  Flora laughed. “Your humble apologies, your promises to do better, your endless mea culpas spread throughout the day. I’m finding it a bit too much, but Mama is persuaded you are sincere. Now that you’ve acknowledged the fact that discovering Mr. Otley’s body at Lakeview
Hall has had a corrosive effect on your emotional well-being, she’s confident you will return to normal and stop embarrassing the family. It has been a very impressive performance. I can only hope if I step out of line one day to achieve a display half as accomplished.”

  As flattering as the speech was, Bea could not rule out the possibility that her cousin was a spy sent to gather information behind enemy lines. “I hope I’ve given Aunt Bea some comfort, for her peace of mind increases my own. I understand your cynicism, but I assure you it’s unfounded. It wasn’t merely the horridness of Mr. Otley’s corpse that has undermined my ability to think clearly but also the shock of Mr. Davies’s unexpected demise. The two events affected me far more strongly than I’d realized, with my emotional well-being, as you put it, getting progressively worse until I accosted poor Lord Duncan on the balcony.”

  Flora’s lips twitched. “Ah, yes, poor Lord Duncan. I cannot wait to discover what he did to deserve it. You must promise me to reveal all one day.”

  Unable to make such a compact, she looked away from her cousin and examined her room for a distraction, settling, after a moment, on a pack of playing cards on her escritoire. “Russell taught me vingt-et-un last night. It’s a game of chance, but there’s also some skill involved. I feel I showed some talent for it, which, I suppose is what every gambler who cannot break himself of the habit believes. Shall we play? Just for ha’pennies, of course. I have no intention of wresting your pin money from you.”

  Realizing she would get no useful information from her cousin, Flora stood up and announced she should return to the drawing room before her mother noticed she was gone. “Lady Abercrombie is so captivating with her jewels and ebullient manners, Mama cannot turn away. Even as she was explaining my many fine points as a protégé, she had her eyes firmly fixed to the widow. I must admit, I find her a little overwhelming and am grateful she takes no interest in me.”

  Her cousin’s description of the visit made Bea desperately tempted to look in on it, and she wondered what harm could come from peering discreetly into the drawing room to observe the proceedings sight unseen.

  No harm obviously, if she didn’t get caught.

  If Aunt Vera did discover her, however, it would set Bea’s efforts to demonstrate good sense and decorum back two days. Her aunt must believe she was sincere in her displays of penance.

  Putting thoughts of Lady Abercrombie out of her mind, Bea returned to her book and read quietly for the rest of the afternoon. She had dinner with her family, who then went en masse to the opera in Covent Garden to keep their engagement with Lady Marsham, with Russell grumbling the entire way out the door that he didn’t want to see Artaxerxes again and Aunt Vera telling him over and over that he had yet to see it once.

  Amused by their antics, Bea bid them good night, then made herself comfortable before the fire in the drawing room with Newton and a cup of tea. Sir Isaac had just presented his reflecting telescope to the Royal Society when Dawson entered the room to announce a visitor. It was a surprising communication, to be sure, for the hour was a little after ten, which was, by all accounts, an unusual time for social calls. She could only imagine it was either one of her uncle’s cronies or a friend of Russell’s.

  “And have you explained to him that nobody is at home?” Bea asked reasonably.

  Dawson nodded. “But he’s here to see you.”

  Now that was a strange development, for Beatrice Hyde-Clare had had few callers in her six previous seasons—there may have been one or two when she first made her appearance in society—and certainly none at unconventional hours. Unable to imagine who it could be, she was grateful her aunt wasn’t there to either censure her for the other person’s behavior or insist she turn the guest away. “All right, Dawson, show him in, and ask Annie to come sit in the drawing room to lend the proceedings decorum. Thank you.”

  Bea marked the page of her book and laid it on the side table next to the settee. Then she stood up to greet her visitor and was amazed when the Duke of Kesgrave entered the room.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  He was dressed in evening clothes: black silk breeches, pristine white shirt, elaborate cravat, shoes polished to a high shine. His blond curls, a little longer than fashionable, swept across his forehead, and his brows were drawn in anger.

  Or was it irritation?

  Perhaps it was impatience.

  Bea, who could not understand what the Duke of Kesgrave was doing in her aunt’s drawing room at ten o’clock at night, was further confounded by the fact that he was in her aunt’s drawing room at ten o’clock at night seemingly annoyed with her.

  What had she done to cause his ire? For two days, she had been confined to her house, demonstrating solemnity and respect and repenting for the very scene on the balcony that he had deserted at the earliest opportunity. Furthermore, she had not been abroad and could not have created new resentments. What ancient grievance had he dug up to pester her about now?

  While she was still trying to reconcile the oddness of his appearance, Kesgrave stepped forward and said, “You must forgive me for interrupting.”

  Although his words were imperious, his tone was not, and Bea, more confused than ever, assured him that she did. Then she gestured to the settee and asked him to sit down. Annie, entering the drawing room, confounded her further by bestowing on her a nod and a faint smile of approval, as if endorsing the enterprise. She settled into a chair across the room by the window, close enough to provide respectability while far enough to allow for discretion.

  Bea regained her seat by the fire and wondered what activity had been disrupted by this visit, for he certainly was not dressed like a man who had been spending a quiet evening at home.

  “Would you like some tea, your grace?” she asked, determined to be as gracious as possible. Revealing her anger at his desertion would give the matter too much importance. Months ago, at Lakeview Hall, when they were discussing possible culprits in the murder of Mr. Otley, Kesgrave had suggested they were colleagues working toward a common goal. The idea appealed to her then and it had appealed to her on the night of the Lelands’ ball. But the concept was untenable, for in order to be colleagues they would have to be equals and recent history had demonstrated all too clearly that they were not.

  The duke appeared ready to turn down the offer of tea and it was hard to say who of the two was more surprised when he agreed to a cup.

  Bea put the request to Dawson, who immediately disappeared to fetch a second teacup. Then she felt the side of the pot to confirm the brew was still hot and waited for the duke to speak. He held his peace until the cup was delivered and when assured of their privacy, said, “Your cousin tells me you are being held prisoner.”

  His forthright tone was tinged with amusement, making it clear that he didn’t believe Bea had been trapped in her home against her will. But the fact that he was there seemed to indicate some concern that her situation was a little more fraught than normal.

  “If it was Flora, she was teasing you,” Bea explained. “If it was Russell, he was trying to get your attention. Both would appear to have succeeded beautifully, although perhaps Russell would deem the exercise a failure, as the attention he would seek is for himself.”

  He smiled and admitted it was Flora. “I attended the opera as well this evening and saw your family there. When I inquired after your health, as your absence was notable, your cousin said you were in fine spirits for a prisoner. Your aunt was not amused.”

  As impressed as Bea was with her cousin’s daring, she feared it would mean only harsher treatment for her, as Aunt Vera would no doubt hold her responsible for Flora’s impertinence. Having displayed it first, Bea would always be considered the model.

  “Reports of my imprisonment have been greatly exaggerated, your grace, no doubt for comic effect,” she said calmly. “I am indeed in fine spirits and am welcome to leave the house whenever I wish. That I choose to confine myself to quarters for the present is no concern of yours. You must not worry
that I’m suffering cruel consequences for my outburst the other evening. Although you were not there to see it, for you had already beat a judicious retreat”—devil it, she hadn’t meant to mention his desertion—“my family treated the matter with all the calm equanimity one would expect from a Hyde-Clare.” Realizing she lacked the self-control to stay clear of the issue, she allowed herself to wade in deeper. “I do hope your presence here isn’t an attempt to expatiate guilt, for you have nothing for which to atone. You were merely exercising your right as a man to remove himself from an awkward situation you were powerless to improve. ’Twas not as if you could have explained to my family that, although my methods certainly appeared unconventional, Lord Duncan’s behavior had warranted such a response. My aunt would never have believed you, as you are only a duke and she’s in no way in awe of dukes.”

  Although Bea wasn’t sure if the intent of her speech was to make Kesgrave feel ashamed or to simply vent her spleen, she was disappointed and insulted that he responded with laughter. “Miss Hyde-Clare, you must be in even more awe of me than I’d understood if you do not realize that my defense of you would have only made matters worse. Any explanation would have been either incomplete or so complete as to have you confined to this house for the rest of your life,” he said, his blue eyes alight with humor. “No, I did not come here to make amends or apologize. I came to give you an update on our investigation.”