Page 13 of A Gentleman of Sinister Schemes (The Lord Julian Mysteries #8)

Chapter Thirteen

“The marchioness gave orders more than a week ago that the town house was to be put in readiness.” Dalhousie assumed his pensive-gentleman pose by the window, though even half turning his back to Hyperia was rude. “My own mother, letting the whole world know to expect me in Town. The repairs on the coaches are barely completed, and she’s marching me down the pike to Mayfair.”

Hyperia poured a tot of brandy and brought it to Dalhousie. “She meant no disrespect, my lord. She meant to do her duty as your hostess and the lady in charge of your households.”

“I am in charge of my…” He looked at the brandy. “Thank you. I should be in charge of my households, but do you know, if it weren’t for Susanna, I would not even have a say over the menus? French cuisine is all the rage—sauces smothering everything from our good English beef to that inedible atrocity known as asparagus. I am rambling.”

The gift of chat running amok. I tried to steer us to the matter at hand. “The fire in your town house was deliberately set, but the arsonist’s intentions are not as easy to read.”

“Miss West, please do have a seat,” Dalhousie said, gesturing to the wing chairs by the hearth. “My manners have gone begging. I apologize.”

His wits were nearly absent without leave as well, poor man. “Let’s all sit.” I brought the chair behind the desk around to the fireplace and explained about the ambiguity of the fire-setting. Somebody of significant cunning had set out to create a filthy nuisance, or somebody of significant malevolence had set out to destroy a household.

“The evidence was inconclusive,” I said, “but in either case, the risk to you might have been significant. Smoke can kill as effectively as fire.”

“I suspected something like this.” Dalhousie tapped a manicured fingernail on the arm of his reading chair. “By damn…. Pardon my language, Miss West. I told Mama we cannot possibly go to Town with all this trouble afoot. We settle the business here, on Dalhousie land, where my enclosure project will happen— shall happen. Mama has no idea of the sort of criminals who can be had for two-a-penny a stone’s throw from Mayfair. Sabotaged carriages will be just the start, and all of Society will soon know that I’m unable to sort out my own affairs. Mama isn’t thinking clearly.”

He sipped his drink, and Hyperia raised the question I would have been loath to ask. “Your enemy clearly has the ability to make trouble for you both here and in Town,” she said. “That speaks to some means, knowledge of how London works, and the ability to penetrate your domestic defenses in either location. Might you not let it be known that the enclosure scheme is looking more costly than you’d first thought?”

Dalhousie aimed a tired stare at her. “Hesitate? Appear to hesitate? You don’t ascribe to Addison’s maxim that the person who deliberates is lost, Miss West?”

“Mr. Addison’s play, from which that line is taken, was a tragedy for the hero, who ended up falling on his sword rather than compromising his ideals. Since Lord Julian has arrived, you have suffered no threats of deadly harm. Foul play certainly and destruction of property, too, but no more bullets or poison.”

I saw where Hyperia’s reasoning led—to a point obvious in hindsight, a point I’d entirely missed. “Miss West is suggesting, Dalhousie, that your enemy grows desperate and is facing some limits. Setting the fire in your sitting room took stealth and determination—and probably the good offices of a second-story thief willing to stuff the chimney nigh full from the top—but any housekeeper knows your rooms would have been thoroughly warmed in anticipation of your arrival.”

The scheme had been doomed to failure, in other words, if the intention had been to murder Dalhousie .

The marquess glowered mulishly at the hearth. “What a consolation, that my arsonist failed because he did not grasp the comforts attendant to my station.”

“You’ve been safe in the Manor since Lord Julian arrived,” Hyperia said, the note of gentle reason still present. “Tampering with the saddle and breaking up coach wheels are the behaviors of somebody bent on harassment rather than deadly harm.”

“For now,” Dalhousie grumbled.

“Or,” I said, “the behavior of somebody willing to give you the benefit of time to reflect. His Grace of Waltham is notably unenthusiastic about enclosures. Perhaps I am being given time to talk sense into you.”

“Waltham has done me the courtesy of sharing his opinion on the topic. His arguments are sound, articulate, and entirely backward, meaning no offense. He can afford to be backward, at least for the present, but others of us must look to the future.”

“You don’t need to enclose the fen to drain it,” I said. “You don’t need to put a bill before Parliament or build humongous walls. You can increase your arable acreage year on year without stealing all of the commoners’ rights at one go.”

Dalhousie hadn’t considered half measures, hadn’t considered compromise or an incremental campaign. “I’m not keen on raising cabbages for the delectation of the local rabbits, my lord.”

“Rabbits don’t eat maize,” Hyperia said. “And yes, deer can be keen on it, so fence your deer park, hmm?”

Dalhousie had regained sufficient self-possession that he would not argue with her—wise man.

“Think about what you truly want, Dalhousie.” I rose and returned the desk chair to its proper place. “Do you want generations of resentment and vandalism, or do you want cordial relations with the neighbors because your vision of prosperity and progress included them too?”

“It’s not my fault Tom Davey has a dozen mouths to feed.”

“Thirteen,” Hyperia said, rising, “unless you expect Tom himself or possibly his wife to starve. It’s not Tom’s fault he was born into poverty on the land of a rapacious, greedy, strutting thief in fine tailoring, is it?” She smiled pleasantly and patted Dalhousie’s shoulder. “I merely quote the talk that’s doubtless floating about the inn’s common, my lord. I know you to be a gentleman to your bones.”

Her exit was exquisitely unhurried.

“I wasn’t up to her weight,” Dalhousie said, attempting to sip from his now-empty glass. “Bother.” He put the glass down. “When I escorted her about Town for those few weeks, I was tempted, Caldicott. I will not lie. I was tempted to offer her marriage, lest you mistake my meaning. She put me in mind of a more gracious version of Mama, though. A woman very much in command of herself. Painfully well-read too.”

One could not be painfully well-read. “She sensed that your intentions were merely friendly. You were never at risk for matrimony with her.”

“She told you that?”

“We are engaged to be married and in each other’s confidence. One does not approach the institution without having to offer a few explanations for past developments.” My words left me feeling both supremely blessed—I liked even saying the words engaged to be married —and a touch hypocritical.

Parts of my past remained firmly undiscussed with Hyperia, and I hoped to keep it that way. Parts of Hyperia’s past were going firmly undiscussed as well, and that was doubtless for the best too.

“You are up to her weight,” Dalhousie said. “Too many years of managing my mother’s high-handedness have left me unwilling to…”

He looked so downcast, so bewildered. “Yes?”

“Mama wears a body out,” he said. “Suze agrees, and she is the kindest of souls. We can tolerate Tamerlane’s flights of genius and folly, and we’re inured to Lady Albert’s sniping. Cousin Cressy has mostly left us in peace in recent years, but the marchioness is a stranger to compromise. Once her mind is made up…”

“She will build her enclosure, despite all common sense, sentiment, or arguments to the contrary. A genuine dilemma, I grant you.”

His brows rose in a fashion exactly reminiscent of his mother. “A hit.” He raised his empty glass to me. “A direct hit on my stores of righteous certainty, which are admittedly vast and honestly come by. Please explain to my mother what you found in Town, my lord. She will be less likely to argue with you. I am not going to Town until the whole messy business is resolved, and her ladyship had best resign herself to that fact.”

“You should be the one to tell her, Dalhousie. You should enlist her wise counsel, appeal to her protective nature. She loves you. She carried you under her heart and brought you into the world at risk to her own life. You underestimate her maternal devotion.”

I had underestimated my own dear mother in the same fashion, but let it be said, Her Grace had done some underestimating of me as well.

“Mama’s version of love comes very close to dictatorship.” Dalhousie pushed to his feet. “Right now, I could not vouch for my ability to remain civil to her if she embarked on more arguments. I am weary, my lord, and you can take the small, disagreeable task of explaining the situation to her off my plate. Please?”

I lacked charm. Harry had frequently told me as much, but perhaps what I truly lacked was a desire to manipulate people with false entreaties and displays of supplication.

Botheration. “I will speak with her ladyship and ask you to consider that her dictatorial streak bred true in her son. Nobody respects a tyrant, Dalhousie. Nobody will guard a tyrant’s back indefinitely when trouble stalks him.”

I would not desert my post at the Manor willingly, but the course of events was settling into a siege. Dalhousie would have his enclosure, come fire, flood, or celestial thunderbolts. His enemies—likely plural—would harass and thwart him until his new walls were periodically blown up, or his life was taken by miscalculation.

No wonder the marchioness was desperate for him to marry and beget some heirs, but what an unfortunate—if prosperous—legacy his children would inherit.

In Spain I had learned that hard riding was best done on a less-than-full tummy. I was thus famished, and desperate for a bath, and did not dare embark on a negotiation with the marchioness in all my dirt and peckishness.

I found the bath waiting for me in my quarters—bless you, darling Hyperia—along with a tray sporting five half sandwiches of ham and cheese.

“Atticus!”

He emerged from the dressing closet. “Aye, guv?”

“Dinner attire, please, though I know it’s early.” I untied my limp cravat and started on the buttons of my waistcoat. “Hessians instead of slippers. My errands might take me out of doors.”

I heaped my clothing on the bed and climbed into the tub. Bliss upon ecstasy upon lavender-scented heaven…

“You aren’t to fall asleep in there, guv.”

“You may eavesdrop on the Archangel Michael himself, Atticus, but do not eavesdrop on me and Miss West when we are having a private conversation.” Sleep dragged at me, promising sweet dreams and sweeter oblivion.

“I weren’t eavesdropping. Miss West told me. Said you were ready to drop, that you’ve overtaxed yourself, and next thing, you’ll be forgettin’ your name again. You rode clear out from Town since breakfast, and you ain’t no express jockey to be covering that sort of ground in a day.”

“I am tired,” I said, dipping my fingers into the soap dish. “Miss West is right about that. Take another half sandwich if you’re hungry. Grab a biscuit or two.”

“I’ll spoil me supper.”

“Not possible. If you grow any faster, we’ll hear your bones stretching. I arrived to something of a battle in progress here at the Manor, else I’d already be napping. The marchioness was exhorting Dalhousie to remove to Town and has already ordered the London residence readied for the family’s arrival.”

Atticus swiped half a sandwich and disappeared into the dressing closet. When he reappeared, the sandwich had met its fate, and proper evening attire was draped over his arm.

“Her ladyship wanted everybody to know the marquess was on the way,” Atticus said. “Part of making a grand entrance. Send the staff scurrying about, have Cook buy out half the market three days running, beat all the carpets where the neighbors can see… Better than a notice in The Times .”

“She was creating expectations, you mean.” I scrubbed sore muscles and dunked. “Dalhousie is very much a man attuned to expectations. Her strategy was sound.” Washing my hair took but a moment. Atticus assisted me to rinse, and the time came to leave the warmth and comfort of the bath.

“You should nap.” Atticus gathered up a length of linen he’d hung over the back of the reading chair to warm. “Miss West is right about your spells. They come when you’re tired.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to reply that I was always tired, and a year ago, even a few months ago, that would have been true.

I was doing better for having left the Hall. My every moment wasn’t crammed with correspondence, neighborly calls, appointments with stewards, and consultations with the stable lads. My days as a guest at the Manor started later and ended earlier, and jaunts to Town notwithstanding, I was benefiting from reduced activity.

To get some consistent, proper rest, I had needed to leave the place where I felt safest and happiest. What an extraordinary thought.

“My spells come when they come,” I said, referring to a temporary and complete lapse of memory. When in the midst of these episodes, I did not know my own name, nor the day of the week, nor the location I inhabited. I carried an explanatory card in my pocket at all times as a defense against complete terror.

The memories always came back, sometimes after an hour, sometimes after a night’s sleep. The memories came back, and to that fact, I clung with the tenacity of a man dangling on a single rope above a deep, dark abyss.

I dried off and dressed as far as shirt and breeches, then did justice to the remaining sandwiches and the tankard of cider accompanying them.

“Your hair could use a trim,” Atticus said, gathering up my dirty clothes.

“So could yours.” My hair was a tender subject. Sharp blades wielded near my person was another tender subject. At present, my locks, which fell to my shoulders, progressed from golden near my crown to white for the last few inches.

“You look like some sort of badger.” Atticus hung my dusty riding jacket on a hook on the bedpost, put my plain waistcoat over the back of the chair at the escritoire, and disappeared into the dressing closet with the rest of my small clothes.

“Badgers are fierce.” I shrugged into the formal waistcoat, a burgundy affair subtly embroidered with fleur-de-lis and roses. Dalhousie’s household dressed for dinner, but not quite formally. The rest of my ensemble was black, my cravat a spotless white, and my cravat pin a discreet ruby.

“When are we going home, guv?” Atticus asked from the depths of the dressing closet. “I miss my pony.”

“It’s time we put you up on Atlas.” Atticus was new to the art of riding, but had the natural seat most children brought to the endeavor and a tremendous sympathy for any domesticated beast.

He reappeared in the dressing closet doorway. “Truly? You want me to exercise him?”

“You do everything else for him, and you’ve sat on enough ponies to know what you’re about. If the weather obliges, we can put you up tomorrow and see how you get on.”

Atticus grew two inches taller before my eyes. “Tomorrow morning, guv. You promise?”

“If the weather allows. Spring is not quite upon us, and this is England.” I queued my hair back with a black ribbon and prepared to deal with a dragoness. “Best polish your boots, lest you make a poor impression on my steed.”

Atticus’s smile would have blinded the angels. “We’ll get on splendidly, me and Atlas. Always have. You should wear slippers with that get-up, guv, especially if you’re making your report to Lady Ophelia.”

I followed his advice, not because Godmama would take issue with my Hessians, but because the next call thereafter would be upon the marchioness, who would take issue with Saint Peter on the proper care and polishing of his halo.

“The village forays are odd,” Lady Ophelia said, her traveling desk open before her on the escritoire. “I can usually ferret out a sense of the local feeling by appealing to the ladies who set the trends—the vicar’s wife, the innkeeper’s wife, the grandmothers of greatest provenance, the prosperous merchant’s wives, the herbalist or midwife.”

“They won’t talk to you?” I asked, taking a seat opposite the desk. The chair was pretty, delicate, and only thinly padded, and my saddle-weary backside protested the lack of comfort.

“For heaven’s sake, sit on a pillow, Julian. If you must impersonate a young fool by riding the whole distance from Town, then allow yourself to also impersonate an old fool and use pillows to ameliorate the effects of your rash excesses.”

I remained where I was, because stubborn foolishness was available to any age. “Tell me about the ladies you’ve been canvassing.”

“They all speak highly of the marquess, but in the most vague and general terms. Such a gentleman, takes his responsibilities seriously, a gracious host, patient with the elderly. A paragon of superficial virtues.”

“Nobody grumbles?” At Caldicott Hall, the same litany would have been ascribed to Arthur, along with nigh-affectionate footnotes along the lines of a bit too serious is our duke , or not exactly a colorful soul, though we appreciate his many fine qualities.

Arthur was held in high regard for being an almost perfect exemplar of a duke. He was held in warm regard for having a few imperfections.

“I heard not one word against the marquess,” Lady Ophelia said, pouring sand back into a folded paper envelope. “I heard no words at all aimed at Lady Dalhousie, though Susanna is apparently as well-liked as Tamerlane.”

I liked Susanna too. Practical, adult, didn’t take herself too seriously. Seemed to genuinely value her family in all their idiosyncrasies and tensions.

“What do you make of the diplomatic silence?”

Her ladyship ran her thumb over the blade of a letter opener intended to resemble a Scottish dagger. “They know something, Julian. Those people watch the Manor as a new governess watches her only charge. They have to. The best jobs, the biggest customer, the most influence, the epicenter of the neighborhood lies at the end of the Dalhousie formal carriageway.”

“Are they merely being discreet?”

“Julian,” Lady Ophelia said gently, “I am as good in my way at reconnaissance as you were in Spain. I listen. I know when to allow silence to become innuendo. I grasp how to modify my patterns of speech to make me more approachable. I have been smiling and shopping and strolling the green for nearly a fortnight, and… nothing.”

“Are the local folk terrified?”

“No. Merely unwilling to take me into their confidence.”

“And you can find no explanation for that pattern.” I rose creakily and barely resisted the temptation to rub my backside. “What do you make of the fire in Dalhousie’s London abode?”

She set her toy dagger into the burgundy velvet-lined desk compartment made for the purpose. “As fires go, it doesn’t sound like much of an effort, the way you describe it.”

“But substantial smoke and water damage resulted, and worse could have happened. I thought about offering Dalhousie the use of Caldicott House for the Season, but…”

Her ladyship peered up at me. “But? Your gesture would be seen as gracious. Lady Dalhousie would owe you a favor, and the Caldicott House staff would have a marquess to fuss over.”

I did not tell her that when I’d abandoned the Hall more than a year ago to wallow in solitude and despair in my own London quarters, I’d made it a point to drive past Caldicott House whenever I’d gone out. In a closed carriage, I was free to gaze upon one of the family homes and recall happier times.

Going up to Town with my parents had always been an occasion for great excitement, and the dignified facade of the London dwelling housed many a boyhood memory, most of them joyous. The mere sight of the place had assured me that happier times were possible, that not all of life was torment and nightmares.

“I might want to use the town house myself later in the Season,” I said, “and bringing Dalhousie’s trouble to my own doorstep would be imprudent.”

Her gaze narrowed, and she rose. “But first you will return to the Hall, which you doubtless miss. When you are there, Julian, you mutter about mountains of mail, the demons of drainage, the fiends of foal watch, and the tribulations of tenants.”

“I do not habitually alliterate. The Hall is my responsibility at present.” To say the Hall was my home would have alliterated. “I am permitted a quotient of muttering about the tedious tasks those responsibilities entail.” Though Arthur didn’t mutter or alliterate about tedious tasks. Perhaps he muttered to Banter?

“I’m glad you miss it,” Lady Ophelia said, putting ink, quills, and seal into their assigned desk compartments. “You probably didn’t allow yourself to miss home the whole time you were in Spain and feared if you ever took leave, you’d abandon the regiment for good. I wish to God that you had.”

Sometimes so did I, a sentiment at appalling variance with the dictates of honor. “I am off to discuss the situation in London with Lady Dalhousie. Wish me luck.”

Godmama snapped the traveling desk closed. “I am missing the Season, too, you know. I can sympathize with Lady Dalhousie somewhat. You mustn’t tell her I said that.”

“I would not want to impose,” I said, though having Godmama on hand was a comfort. “You think you’ve come up with nothing of use and are thus prepared to remove to fresh terrain, but you have revealed an interesting possibility that I would not be considering but for your delicate and determined efforts.”

“I have?”

“If the local folk disdain to disparage Dalhousie, and they are not cowed by his power, and they will not overtly vilify his enclosure scheme to you even after subtle and repeated prompting, perhaps they are loyal to him.”

“They hate his enclosure scheme, but hold him in high regard personally?”

“I don’t know, but you’ve given me more to think about.” As had the traveling desk, with its assortment of writing implements and horde of epistles received. “I think it’s time I had a peek at Dalhousie’s mail.”

“You’ll go behind his back to read his private correspondence? Not done, Julian.”

“Then I will ask permission and have a look at his ledgers too. I warned him that my services can become intrusive.”

“And you do so love to read correspondence.”

“Cruel, Godmama.” I kissed her cheek. “Until supper.”

She twinkled at me, and as I made my way to Lady Dalhousie’s suite, I sent up a quiet prayer that between Godmama, Hyperia, Atticus, and myself, we could resolve Dalhousie’s situation in the immediate future.

Planting would soon be under way, and I longed to return to the Hall and resume my muttering and alliterating—longed to rather fiercely.

“We don’t know what the fire means,” I said as Lady Dalhousie plied her embroidery needle on what looked like a table runner. More roses fashioned from silk thread on cream linen, more tiny, exact stitches.

“A smoking chimney means the footman was lax,” Lady Dalhousie retorted. “One should always check the flue before lighting a fire.”

“The flue was open. He checked. He was not lax. Somebody arranged either for the chimney to catch fire or for a great deal of mess to befall the marquess’s quarters. That’s a very pretty piece you’re sewing.”

“Roses for remembrance. Messes can be cleaned up, my lord, and in the normal course should be. Dalhousie retained you to see about a mess that seems to be getting worse while you do little about it.”

Dalhousie had not, in fact, retained me. No coin had changed hands, nor would it, for pity’s sake. Her ladyship insulted me with the very notion.

“Does my lady dispute that since I’ve arrived, no further attempts have been made on Dalhousie’s life?” My riding accident might have qualified as such, barely.

She considered her stitchery. “Fire takes many lives.”

“True, but as Miss West has pointed out to me, the chances of this particular fire doing any harm to the marquess himself were practically nil. He would never be expected to content himself with rooms lacking heat. Far in advance of his arrival, the hearths would be blazing and the trouble in his suite evident—as it became evident—without him even being in London.”

“Then your quarry is a man of low birth who would not think about the domestic obligation to keep one’s titled employer warm.”

“On the contrary, a woman familiar with the management of a household would have known precisely how harmless a lot of rags stuffed up the chimney could be—to the marquess himself. She would have a great deal of experience watching a household ready itself to receive the head of the family and been well aware of the schedule upon which the chimneys were routinely cleaned.”

Her ladyship’s hands descended to her lap, hoop, fabric, and all. “Are you accusing me of arson, my lord?”

I was thinking out loud, watching her reactions. “You put the Town staff on high alert, even as Dalhousie warned you that he was reluctant to leave the Manor.”

“You think I staged this near tragedy? For what purpose?”

“I doubt you had anything to do with it, but your letter to the housekeeper would have sat out on the sideboard in the foyer, awaiting Dalhousie’s signature as franking. Anybody here at the Manor would have known that you were warning her of the family’s intention to travel.”

The marchioness ran a manicured nail over her tiny roses one by one. “Tamerlane,” she said, nodding once, vigorously. “He’d know all sorts of nefarious characters in Town. He nearly is a nefarious character, come to that. He’s stupid enough to think that a stuffed chimney would earn him the title.”

No, he was not—was he?

“We must consider all possibilities. It’s also possible that somebody wanted suspicion cast upon you, my lady.”

“To what possible end?” She set her needlework back atop her workbasket and rose. “All I want, all I have ever wanted, is my son’s happiness, his contentment in the duties it is his honor to fulfill. You make these… these allegations , you discover nothing, you solve nothing, and I have had my fill of your poking about, Lord Julian. You are not good ton , and all you have proved—if anything—is that Dalhousie faces a lot of foolishness and no real threat. He must go to Town, take a bride, and put all this nonsense behind him. See yourself out.”

I was already on my feet. “You are upset that Dalhousie did not explain the fire to you himself. He is upset that you don’t take the risk to him seriously. All he wants is to see you content, but you criticize and carp and treat him as if he cannot reason for himself. Tell him you’d like me to leave the Manor. He is so devoted to giving you your way that he will doubtless send me packing, when my presence alone seems to have de-escalated the threats from deadly to merely menacing. Until supper, my lady.”

I bowed properly and took my leave, though the interview had gone even worse than I’d predicted. The old besom was flustered, clearly, and she was right to want the succession secured. Every reminder that Dalhousie had a clever and determined enemy was a reminder that his heir was also, in the opinion of even that heir himself, unsuitable.

The solution to that conundrum was to marry and produce a son, though Dalhousie had no guarantee that his firstborn male offspring would be an improvement over dear cousin Tam.

I was sitting in Dalhousie’s chair behind his desk, sorting through stewards’ reports—the bane of any landowner’s existence, surely—when it occurred to me that Lady Dalhousie would ensure that any son of the present marquess conformed to the mold necessary for the proper care and management of the family’s holdings.

Ye gods of intrigue and mischief… She would take the boy in hand most especially if his own father was not extant to do so. I firmly ignored the ramifications of that speculation and tried with limited success to attend to the wonders of peas, beans, and turnips.