Page 4 of A Gentleman of Sinister Schemes (The Lord Julian Mysteries #8)

Chapter Four

“What is that, that creature doing here?” The question was howled by a pale, aging lady swaddled in lacy shawls and outrage. Her proportions were substantial, and her enormous shawl gave her the appearance of an amateur theatrical ghost clad in a tablecloth. “For that matter, sir, who are you and oh… you must be Lord Julian.”

Atticus, the creature in question, stood in the doorway to the dressing closet, a polished boot in his hand, a thundering scowl on his face. He withdrew silently, showing commendable discretion.

“You must be Lady Albert,” I said, bowing. “I apologize for the lack of a proper introduction. I trust you are feeling better?” She’d missed supper the previous evening, Miss Morton conveying regrets and explaining that dear Auntie had had a headache.

Lady Albert drew herself up in all her lacy glory. “I have the honor to be the relict of the late Lord Albert Dandridge. I trust you’ve been made comfortable? Dahlia delegates the drudgery of household management to my dear Susanna, and thus one can trust that the appropriate orders have been given respecting guest quarters.”

“But one is not as certain the orders have been followed?” An excuse for snooping as flimsy as the trim on her ladyship’s shawl.

“My lord is unfortunately correct. The staff is all smiles to Susanna’s face, but they take their sweet time doing as she asks. Dahlia cannot be bothered to intervene—dreadful woman, and don’t tell me to respect my betters, because in her case the admonition does not apply. If I’ve told Susanna once, I’ve told her a thousand times, we would be better off in the South of France, especially now that the Corsican has been dealt with. Tamerlane agrees with me, and he is a young man of rare discernment, though he hides it well. Has to, of course, what with Dalhousie having such a fragile sense of amour propre .”

Clearly, prattling ran in the family. Dalhousie’s good opinion of himself was about as fragile as Yorkshire granite. “Dahlia would be the marchioness?”

Lady Albert aimed a sniff in what I presumed was the direction of the marchioness’s quarters. “For now. She’ll be the dowager marchioness ere long, and if she thinks I will give up the dower house or—perish the notion!—share it with her, she is in for a rude awakening. A very rude awakening. The late Lord Dalhousie promised me when I came here as a bride that I had the life estate in that dwelling. I have spent every spare groat I possess making it habitable. No small undertaking, my lord. Enormous, in fact. The place had bats and mice, and you would not believe the dust. And me all bereaved at the time with two grieving youngsters to raise.”

Those youngsters would both have achieved their majorities four years ago. That neither of them chose to dwell with Lady Albert in the dower house was an interesting comment on the Dandridge family.

Atticus reappeared and laid a pristine white shirt on the bed, then returned to the dressing closet.

“I will leave you to change for supper,” Lady Albert said, giving the gleaming andirons and spotless windows censorious looks. “If you have need of any service, my lord, any service at all, you will apply to Susanna, and she will see that the matter is dealt with. My word on it.”

Her ladyship swept out, wanting only a lampshade on her head to add the proper touch to her exit. She was not the queen of the manor, nor was she the mother of the queen of the manor, and yet, she appropriated both roles as her right.

“What was she after?” I asked Atticus, who had returned with a burgundy waistcoat embroidered with green and lavender flowers.

“She were nose down in your jewelry box, guv. Went straight for the sparkly goods.” He laid the waistcoat beside the shirt. “Are all the nobs thieves at heart?”

Many of them were. “Did she take anything?”

“Nah, I watched her for a bit before she saw me, and she hadn’t made up her mind yet. You aren’t much for fancy jewelry.”

“The good pieces, what few I brought, are in the false bottom of my hatbox. We will leave them in hiding for now. These books are for you, with Miss West’s compliments.” I passed him Tom Jones , which he would struggle through as best he could for the sake of the racy bits, and a volume of Wordsworth, which he’d puzzle over when he had little else to do.

Atticus peered at the spine of Tom Jones. “I saw Lady Ophelia’s carriage pull up.”

Crests on display, matched grays in the traces. Godmama had made an entrance. “What have you learned from the staff?”

“The servants’ hall is the usual seethin’ cauldron of complaints and feuds. Good beer, good tucker. Dalhousie ain’t a penny pincher, though nobody said much beyond that. I gather he flits through the kitchen of a morning on his way to the stable, and Cook don’t seem to mind. The old marquess were a jolly fellow, and this lot… The servants don’t care for either of the old besoms, they do like Tamerlane, and they have little to say about Miss Morton. If you brought the ruby cravat pin, you should wear it.”

“Then Lady Albert will know she missed the best of the collection.”

“If she realizes that much, she’ll also know you outsmarted her.”

“True, but it’s too soon for tactical displays. Both Tamerlane and his mother are likely shrewder than they appear. I need to take their measures more thoroughly before I dangle bait before them.”

“Lead me not into temptation,” Atticus muttered. “That ruby is proper pretty.”

Proper valuable, too, as was the ring that matched it. “Can you take a warning to our ladies for me?”

Atticus stood a little taller. “Aye.”

“Let them know you found Lady Albert perusing my valuables and remind them to exercise all possible caution with their quarters. Lock everything that can be locked, leave a few pennies and the odd brooch in plain sight.”

“More bait?”

“Distraction and reward.” Or consolation. “If Lady Albert had pinched my sapphire cufflinks, do you think she’d come back for more?”

“She might, but she’d be pushing her luck. The better course would be to look for more pickin’s elsewhere.”

“Just so, and those who purposely appear daft often enjoy a profound instinct for self-preservation. Be off with you, and don’t wait up for me when you’ve had your supper. The ladies and I are to finish the evening with a council of war. We might be late.”

“Mind you get enough sleep, guv. You tried to put everything to rights at the Hall in less than two days, then you came galloping up here like the ghost of old Fiddy-Dippies was hot on your tail. Bad things happen when you get too tired.”

That homily gave me a moment’s pause. “Pheidippides,” I said, “if you mean the fellow who brought the Athenians news of the Persian defeat at Marathon.”

“That’s what I said, Fiddy-Dippies. Means ‘hot foot’ in Greek, according to Pringle. Old Fiddy-Foot died after all that running around, and no matter that he brought good news.”

The name meant son of Pheidippos . Pringle’s version made for better telling. “Well, skip the dying part and get thee to the ladies with all due haste. They will soon be dressing for dinner, and then you won’t be able to breach the castle walls for love nor flaming arrows. Convey the message discreetly.”

“Now you’re being insultin’. I’ll wake you when the second bell rings.”

He marched off, the oddest compendium of common sense, innocence, and mischief ever to need a haircut.

A nap was an excellent suggestion. Even a brief respite could be wonderfully restorative, and the prospect of a formal meal in honor of the ladies’ arrival meant a very long evening indeed. I hung my formal kit on the wardrobe door, stripped to the skin, ran the warmer over the sheets, and climbed in for a snooze.

I did not precisely sleep, but I dozed, and in that lovely, peaceful state, several thoughts occurred to me: Lady Albert had a splendid motive for putting period to Dalhousie’s mortal sojourn, even if—as Miss Morton insisted—Tamerlane did not.

If Tam inherited, Lady Albert’s banishment to the dower house, her apparent penury, and her complete lack of familial consequence all changed overnight. Better still, her arch-nemesis

Dahlia the Dreadful Marchioness would come smartly down in the world. More than a few self-serving crimes had been committed in the name of maternal devotion.

And yet, I wanted Tam to be the villain. Simpler, easier to explain…

The next thought made no sense, and yet, I recalled it when I left the bed: Lady Albert had let forth a howl worthy of Mrs. Siddons when she’d clapped eyes on Atticus. Nobody had come running. Not the nearest footman, not a stray maid, and certainly not a member of the Dandridge family.

When we entertained at Caldicott Hall, the guest wing was always staffed with a footman in the corridor by day and a porter or underfootman by night. If Lady Albert had truly been in danger, the puzzling lack of response at Dalhousie Manor might have meant her demise.

“Tamerlane claims his mother is prone to seeing mice,” Hyperia said as I showed her into Lady Ophelia’s sitting room. “I can believe Lady Albert is prone to being discovered where she has no business poking her nose. A handy mouse would serve as a diversion.”

“Mice,” Lady Ophelia said from the sofa, “do not frequent guest rooms, when the kitchens and pantries are two floors below and full of food. Say what we might about the marquess’s auntie, that was a fine, fine meal.”

An interminable meal. I handed Hyperia into a wing chair and took the place beside Lady Ophelia. “The Dandridge family has the gift of chat,” I said. “Even Dalhousie, when he bestirs himself, can pass time in idle conversation by the hour. I haven’t the knack.” Worse yet, I lacked the stamina to appear endlessly fascinated by the new fashion in parasols or the latest tally of the Regent’s debts.

“But you can sit at a figurative mousehole for days,” Lady Ophelia said. “Shall I ring for tea?”

I wanted my bed, preferably with Hyperia in it. We were not lovers, but we could be very affectionate sleeping companions. My manly humors had gone absent without leave to a significant extent, though I was increasingly hopeful that time would address the malady. Spring must follow winter, and all that.

“Tamerlane is either no scholar,” Hyperia said, “or he’s trying to create the impression that his scholarship is dodgy. The First Punic War lasted twenty-three years, not thirty.”

“He’s playacting,” I said. “And no tea for me. The fewer people who know we are conferring, the better.”

“You and I are engaged,” Hyperia said, blowing me a kiss. “We’re supposed to confer, and Lady Ophelia is supposed to nominally chaperone us while we do. What makes you think Tam is acting the fool, Jules?”

“Leander knows the Napoleonic battles by heart. He’s six years old. His cousin Declan, only a bit older, knows Robert the Bruce’s military exploits down to the last skirmish. Dalhousie has no brothers. Ergo, Tamerlane was educated as befit a spare. He’d know his Punic Wars, even if he can no longer recall how to form the passive pluperfect subjunctive in Latin.”

“If I had ever been permitted to forget the passive pluperfect subjunctive,” Lady Ophelia said, “I would have been shamed past all bearing. Pour us a nightcap, Julian, seeing as we’re eschewing tea. I have some history to impart, and my digestion wants settling.”

If I had ever been permitted … I would have been shamed … The passive pluperfect subjunctive in a very few words. After a short hibernation over the holidays, Godmama was back in fighting form and letting me know it.

“Whose history?” Hyperia asked, toeing off her slippers and tucking her feet up. She arranged her hems over her stockings in a gesture of natural modesty I’d seen her perform a dozen times, and each time, I wanted to uncover the silk-clad toes she’d just hidden. I dearly hoped I suffered from the same yearning for the next fifty years.

“Lady Dalhousie,” Godmama began, “born Lady Dahlia Ostertag, has a positive genius for creating enemies.”

“Lady Albert calls the marchioness dreadful,” I commented from the sideboard. I passed each of my companions a serving of brandy and resumed my place on the sofa. “Lady Albert claims Susanna does all the household management, but the servants resist Miss Morton’s authority out of loyalty to the marchioness.”

“Or fear of reprisal from the marchioness,” Hyperia said, nosing her drink. “What has a lack of charm on the marchioness’s part to do with the present problem?”

I liked watching Hyperia hide her toes. I liked watching her appreciate decent brandy. I loved watching her mind work.

“Old enemies are the worst enemies,” Lady Ophelia said. “You will hear it put about that Lady Albert and her late lord were a love match. They were not, not at first. Lady Albert was, in fact, courted by Dalhousie’s father. In the course of those encounters, the old marquess was introduced to Lady Albert’s older cousin Dahlia. Not as dewy, but ten times more determined. Ruthlessly charming.”

An oft-told tale by Mayfair standards. “Lady Dahlia stole a march on her cousin?”

“She stole a marquess. One week, we were hearing that discreet inquiries were being made by the marquess’s solicitors regarding Lady Albert’s settlements—she was plain Miss Cora MacAllister then, though the family was much respected—and the next, we’re hearing that Lady Dahlia and the marquess had set a date to marry.”

“By special license?” Hyperia asked, sipping delicately.

“Of course not. The banns were properly cried, but only just. And then the current Lord Dalhousie came squalling into the world six months later.”

“Lord Albert was Cora’s consolation prize?” I asked. “Not much of a consolation to see the titled fellow you were publicly fond of swanning about with your conniving cousin for the next thirty years.” And Miss Morton had made it a point to inform me that her auntie had made a love match.

“The previous Lord Dalhousie did not enjoy thirty more years on earth,” Lady Ophelia said. “He died of a sudden stomach ailment when his only son was about eighteen. Very sad.”

“Very suspicious,” I said. “Do you imply that poison is a woman’s weapon, and Lady Albert waited all those years to have her revenge?”

“The first part of her revenge,” Hyperia said. “The second part will be sending Dalhousie to his reward so Tam inherits. That would show a frightening degree of dedication to a deadly purpose, if Lady Albert is our culprit.”

“The timing fits,” I observed, wishing I could pull off my shoes, knowing Lady Ophelia would scold me for it. “As long as Dalhousie remains single, Tam stays next in line. The marquess’s promise to marry this year upends that scheme.”

“There’s more,” Lady Ophelia said, finishing her drink. “Lady Albert has a younger sister, Cressida. Cressy was rumored to have an understanding with an earl’s heir, but was waiting for Cora to marry first. We honored the rule about sisters marrying in age order mostly in the breach back in the day, but some families did adhere to it. If Cora, despite being a plain miss, married a marquess, then Cressy might well expect to eventually marry an earl. Heiresses tend to come up in the world, after all.”

“Cora married a courtesy lord,” I said, wishing I had paper and pencil, “who was soon bumped out of line for the title by his darling little nephew. What became of Cressy?”

“Despite settlements that would make a banker pant and drool,” Lady Ophelia said, “she married gentry. Wealthy, respected gentry that has been in Hampshire since before the Flood.”

“But gentry nonetheless,” Hyperia said, yawning behind her hand. “Dahlia’s maneuvering destroyed the dreams of two women, at least, and possibly those of several men. I do hope she’s happy with the results of her ambition.”

“One son,” I said. “No extant daughters, even. I suspect the marquess was neither a devoted nor an affectionate spouse.” He might well have been furious to find himself entrapped, his intended fobbed off on his younger brother. Echoes of my own family history resonated unhappily with this tale, though the Caldicotts, let it be said, had made peace with the past before anybody had resorted to murder.

“Is it possible,” Hyperia said slowly, “that Tam is the rightful heir? I mean, possible that Lady Dahlia got with child, not by the old marquess, but under circumstances where his lordship was the party most likely to be blamed? Then matters unfolded such that Lady Albert disports with the marquess, despite any vows spoken, Tam comes along, and here we are?”

“Convoluted but possible,” Lady Ophelia said, staring hard at the middle distance. “It’s also possible Dahlia disported with her spouse’s brother, which might make Tam the heir with the closer blood tie to the previous marquess. I would have to consult a few contemporaries to see if probable might apply.”

Exhausted was beginning to apply, to me at least. “Ladies, you are making a learned study of the matter of motive. Who is angry enough to not only wish Dalhousie dead, but also to twice make an attempt on his life? A worthy question, though I am concerned as well with means. Who knows Dalhousie loves his trifle enough to eat every bite even after a heavy meal? Who besides Tam and the marquess was on the Northbys’ shoot?”

“But that’s the point,” Lady Ophelia said. “Cressida MacAllister married Hugo Northby, and they are both still extant. That shoot was mostly on their land, and they organized it.”

“Yes,” Hyperia said levelly, “a woman could aim a fowling piece with deadly intent, particularly a woman raised in the shires and married to a hounds and horses man. I could. Lady Ophelia could. I’m sure your sisters could as well, Jules.”

“You left out Her Grace,” I said. The typical double-barreled fowling piece was about four feet long and weighed perhaps ten pounds. My mother, who was no sylph, had doubtless managed its like easily. “Except a fowling piece is an unlikely murder weapon. They fire pellets and are smooth bore. Not intended to be all that accurate because of the scattering nature of the projectile.”

But the target had not been birds on the wing, but rather, a sizable marquess…

“What are you thinking, Jules?” Hyperia asked, uncurling her legs and toeing her slippers on. “We cannot aid the direction of your thoughts if you keep them to yourself.”

“If a shooter knows what he’s about, he can wrap a piece of round shot in cloth—turn it into a patched ball, to use the infantry term—grease the whole business up, and fire that from even a fowling piece.” The result would put a tidy hole in a hat.

Or a man.

“We have an abundance of suspects,” Lady Ophelia said, rising and taking the two glasses to the sideboard. “Good work for a mere day. The means attempted so far don’t rule any of them out. More to do, my dears, and we’ll do it best if we’re well rested.”

“Lady Ophelia is right.” Hyperia rose unassisted, collected her slippers with one hand and offered me the other. “Come along, Jules, and see me to my door.”

Her door was right around the corner, as was mine. I pushed to my feet—fatigue was not my friend—and escorted Hyperia to her apartment. She bussed my cheek, pushed me across the corridor, and then disappeared into her parlor.

I waved at the closed door, let myself into my suite with a key, and had barely pulled off my shoes before I was asleep in the chair by the hearth, my evening finery still on my person. I dreamed of ladies dueling with flintlocks, lampshades on their heads, while Dalhousie and a giant mouse acted as seconds.