Page 8 of A Gentleman of Sinister Schemes (The Lord Julian Mysteries #8)
Chapter Eight
Lady Albert welcomed me with a wave of her pencil. “I am busy, my lord, but never too busy to pass the time with a charming fellow. Ring for a tray, if you please, and then sit where you won’t interfere with my light.”
She faced the window, a pot of forced violets on the table before her, and a sketchbook braced against the table edge. I dealt with the bell-pull then peered at her work.
The image was botanically precise and perfectly shaded, right down to the pattern of the lace table runner.
“You’re talented.”
“And you, dear sir, are peeking. Have you come to drag me away in chains?”
I made a show of patting my pockets. “I knew I forgot something. Left all my chains down in the dungeon. How desperate are you to see Tamerlane inherit the title?”
She kept right on sketching, adding a suggestion of the velvet curtains folded back to admit the weak sunshine.
“Desperate? My lord, I haven’t been desperate since Lord Albert fell ill, and the doctor was off tending some farmwife birthing twins. Most disobliging of her, but then, the physician would have seen poor Albert bled again, and that would have hastened his death, in my opinion.”
She sat back and surveyed her sketch. “Flowers want oils, I tell you. The hues are so vivid, and the little dears love the light. Pastels for some, but for such bold specimens as these violets, I fear I must resort to oils.”
Lady dabblers—society’s term for talented female artists—usually avoided oils, though my sisters assured me that watercolors were the more complicated medium.
I took the seat at her ladyship’s elbow. “Let me rephrase the question, which I will continue to do no matter how artfully you evade me: Have you attempted to kill Dalhousie?”
I did not expect honesty, of course, but like a beater flailing at the underbrush, I hoped something interesting would burst from the hedges if I smacked enough bushes hard enough.
“I have wished to kill Dalhousie many times. His stupid enclosure bill will set the whole shire against us, take years to show any return, and ruin some perfectly lovely landscapes. If the Almighty were to see fit to call Dalhousie to his reward, I would honestly be relieved. Do I act on my wishes? Of course not. I do hope you rang for a tray. I am positively peckish.”
“I used the bell-pull. If you are blameless, who is your pick for the role of villain?”
She peered at me over her sketchbook. “Dalhousie is not as well-liked as he once was. I do like him, more’s the pity, and he’s beyond decent to Tam and Susanna, but the marquess made a habit of toying with the affections of proper ladies, and the hostesses and matchmakers disapprove of such behavior, especially from a peer. The village despises this enclosure nonsense, and Tam tells me that in the clubs, Dalhousie doesn’t know when to talk politics and when to play cards. A bit of a bumbler, in other words.”
But did the fine denizens of St. James’s clubs place bets involving Dalhousie’s horse? “For a bumbler, his acres are in good repair—what I saw of them. His house is well managed, and his finances appear to be thriving.” To say nothing of the forgiving nature of the matchmakers when a titled bachelor made plain his intention to take a bride.
Lady Albert bent closer to her paper and added some fine lines around the base of the flowerpot, perfecting a shadow.
“If you talk to the marchioness, she will tell you that I have poisoned every well in Mayfair against her and her son. I haven’t the time or inclination to take on such a thankless task. Her own high-handed behavior and Dalhousie’s genteel roguery have painted the family in a very unflattering light. You might wonder—any man with blood in his veins would—why my dear Susanna has not married. I place the blame at Dahlia’s slippered feet. Susanna is well dowered, sensible, and comely. If anybody has been poisoning wells, it’s the marchioness.”
“All the more reason for you to see Tam inherit Dalhousie’s title.”
She set her sketchbook aside and looked past the violets to the damp, chilly day beyond. The sun was making an effort, but the effect was still wintry rather than springlike. Light without heat, gratuitous brightness, and my weak eyes did not care for it at all.
“I love my son, my lord, but I also see Tamerlane clearly. He doesn’t want the title. He wants precisely what he has—a life of ease and plenty, a devoted mama and cousin, enough social standing to be invited anywhere, not enough to attract the matchmakers’ notice. He’s happy. I’m not sure anybody else in this household can say the same.”
For all her ladyship’s rousing diatribes and stirring speeches, she wasn’t telling me much. “Who wishes Dalhousie ill to the point of attempting to take his life?”
“Why ask me?”
“Because you seem to fit the description. You are accounted capable with a gun, and you were present at the shoot. You have access to the stable. You certainly have access to the kitchen, and while Tam might be unhappy to inherit the title, the marchioness would be miserable to see that happen.”
Lady Albert smiled brilliantly. “So she would, and I would gloat endlessly, after I mourned Dalhousie properly, of course. I nonetheless tell you this in all honesty, my lord: If I sought to end Dalhousie’s life, I would have tended to the matter years ago and not waited until he’s mere weeks away from taking a bride. Why would I spend all these decades putting up with Dahlia’s spite when I could instead have been mother to the peer? Doesn’t make any sense, does it? And you do strike me as a sensible fellow. Where is that tray? Did you pull the sash twice?”
“I assuredly did.” And I was being chattered in circles.
The simplest way for Lady Albert to deal with my suspicions would be to provide an alibi for the shooting incident. If Lady Albert had been in sight of Cressida or some handy neighbors when Dalhousie’s hat had been ventilated, she would have moved several steps away from clear culpability.
She failed to exonerate herself to even that extent, and yet, I could not truly see her aiming at the back of a man’s head and pulling the trigger. Murder, as every soldier soon learned, was harder to commit than most people realized, even on the battlefield.
The tray arrived, and I declined refreshment, lest I wash away on a tide of tea. “I suppose I will have to reserve my chains for Tamerlane, then.”
Her ladyship paused with her hand halfway to the teapot. “I beg your pardon.”
“He has no alibi for any relevant occasion. He is handy with firearms—the whole family apparently is—and has access to the stable. He was present when Dalhousie was poisoned. He benefits the most from Dalhousie’s death. Therefore, he must be considered a suspect.”
She regarded me, then poured herself a cup of tea. “Susanna said this would happen. You would blame Tam, and he is very blamable. Dahlia is probably in alt to think of my son charged with attempted murder of a peer. She’s like that. Always keeping score.”
They were both like that, apparently, and how tedious for the rest of the household.
“For Tam to be convicted,” I said, marshaling my patience, “somebody would have to lay information, Northby would have to find the charges credible, and the judges presiding at the assizes would have to find Tam guilty. I cannot see Dalhousie allowing a scandal of that magnitude to becloud his bride hunt.”
She stirred both milk and honey into her tea. “But the decision will not be Dalhousie’s. Dahlia will stick her oar in and maunder on about justice, duty, standards, and whatnot, and my son—the most harmless fribble ever to tie a trone d’amour —will be consigned to the Antipodes for life.”
“If you fear that result badly enough, you will allow suspicion to hang above your own head as a counterargument to his guilt, won’t you?”
The woman who returned my stare was neither jolly nor shallow. Lady Albert fixed such a look of distaste on me that I was reminded of the marchioness’s warning, that Lady Albert was more calculating than I could possibly believe.
“If you cast undue suspicion on Tamerlane, my lord, my wrath will make the rage of angels look timid, and all of it will be directed at you. You may show yourself out.”
Plain speech from the confirmed chatterer at last. I withdrew on a nod and considered what, if anything, I had learned.
Both Lady Albert and the marchioness were concerned for their sons, and neither one was dealing with me honestly. Lady Albert had means, motive, and opportunity to harm Dalhousie, and the marchioness had ample motive to see Tamerlane cast in the role of villain.
Dear, dear, dear. Time to consult with my own oracles and see what they made of the day’s developments.
“I support a remove to Town,” Lady Ophelia said, pausing to pinch a dead bloom from a camellia. The pink petals disintegrated in her hand and fell to the bricks lining the conservatory’s main walkway. “I’d have to send for my carriage, which might mean another two days’ delay. Dalhousie isn’t safe on his own property. Witness, your mishap earlier today, Julian.”
“The marquess has been warned to avoid Town,” Hyperia pointed out.
“If I wanted to put period to the man’s existence,” Lady Ophelia countered, “I’d keep him where I could fire at him from a distance, where I knew the whole setting and the entire cast, where his habits and routines are well established. Why are conservatories so gloomy?”
“Because,” I said as we shuffled along between potted lemons and potted oranges, “we tend to frequent them at gloomy times of the year. We take ourselves out of doors in more temperate months.” Then too, a conservatory in winter smelled more rotting than fresh, more moldy than fertile. The damp added to the unpleasantness of the air, but I’d needed to move rather than sit before yet another tea tray.
“I vote we stay,” Hyperia said. “In Town, Julian will have no excuse to bide under the same roof as Dalhousie, and neither will we. We’ll be the ones put at a distance, and such inroads as we’ve made with the staff will have to begin anew with the Town employees. Dalhousie will be expected to attend every possible function, and we can’t follow him about like footmen.”
“Julian, what say you?” Lady Ophelia sank onto a wooden bench.
“We debate particulars all we please,” I replied, handing Hyperia onto the same bench, “but Dalhousie must make the decision himself, and I suspect he’s at best torn regarding a remove to London.”
“Why?” Ophelia snapped. “Town is the epicenter and apex of all culture, the best gossip, and the premier matchmaking possibilities. If Dalhousie is serious about taking a bride, he must go to Town.”
On that, she and Lady Dalhousie agreed.
“I suggest,” Hyperia said, “if he’s serious about remaining alive, he must bide at the Manor, and sort out his difficulties, with our assistance.”
For myself, either choice—city or shire—had both advantages and disadvantages. “We’d know better how to advise Dalhousie if we knew why he’s being threatened.”
Lady Ophelia harrumphed. “We’d know best how to advise him if we knew who was doing the threatening.”
“Are we bickering?” I asked, taking up a lean against a potting table. “I do believe we are, which is pointless. The decision is not ours to make. Dalhousie probably views trotting off to Town now as running from danger. Having already swallowed his pride to the extent necessary to recruit our good offices, I can’t see him tucking tail and heading for London or Paris. He’s said as much, in fact, though I know his dear mama’s opinion on the matter carries a great deal of weight with him.”
Poor fellow.
“Heading to Paris is never a matter of tucking tail,” Lady Ophelia shot back. “If you’d simply…”
I regarded her levelly. “Yes?” My aversion to French soil was deep and abiding.
“Never mind.”
Godmama in retreat was a rare and, in this case, welcome sight. “We have avenues yet to explore,” I said. “I was hoping you’d both come with me when I call on Cressida Northby. My lady, what do you know of her?”
Godmama studied the shriveled pink petals on the bricks. “Little of her recent habits. Cressida was said to be in consideration for the Pelham heir, years ago. Nice boy, and he’s a nice man. On his second wife now and up to a dozen children. In any case, when Cora—that’s Lady Albert now—lost the race for Dalhousie’s coronet and ended up with Lord Albert, Cressida accepted Northby’s suit, and that was that. She comes up to Town for fittings occasionally, but mostly bides in the country. We see more of Lady Albert in Mayfair’s ballrooms and entirely too much of Lady Dalhousie.”
“You truly dislike her?” Hyperia asked.
“Dahlia broke the rules by snatching a cousin’s beau, and now she pretends to be a high stickler. Hypocrisy is unattractive. One does not envy the bride Dalhousie will eventually bring home, not with the marchioness having a perfect excuse to avoid the dower house.”
I hadn’t thought of that. Lady Albert’s presence in the dower house ensured the marchioness could continue in her role as queen of the manor.
“A bride might banish the marchioness,” I said.
Both ladies looked at me with tolerant amusement.
“If not the bride,” I retorted, “then Dalhousie himself might banish the marchioness. He is the head of the family, after all.”
Amusement became grins. So much for my lordly perspective on that topic. “Very well, having made a complete cake of myself, I suggest we change into such attire as will make a proper but not ostentatious impression on Mrs. Northby and treat ourselves to her perspective on Dalhousie’s difficulties.”
“Lady Albert won’t give up the dower house,” Hyperia said, rising without assistance. “She reigns supreme there, as is a widow’s right. Lady Dalhousie, by contrast, is subject to her son’s wishes at the Manor, insofar as appearances go. Behind a closed door, she clearly keeps the marquess on a short leash.”
What would Dalhousie give to be left alone, free of family intrigues, done with humoring Tam and mediating feuds between the elders? No wonder he’d been reluctant to bring a bride home to the Manor.
I offered my hand to Godmama, who rose somewhat less than gracefully.
“I will leave Cressida Northby to you young people,” she said. “I was never particularly acquainted with her, and I have correspondence to tend to. Lovely to have Dalhousie on hand to frank the mail, I must say.”
She left us at the door to Hyperia’s suite, bustling off with her usual vigor.
“Winter takes a toll on her ladyship,” Hyperia said. “She does so enjoy the social whirl, and I am not much for whirling myself. I suspect your riding mishap has also unnerved her. Are we going on horseback over to North Abbey or taking a coach?”
My mishap had unnerved me, though every rider risked a tumble on even the quietest hack.
“We’ll take a coach, and not because I fear my saddle has been tampered with. The weather is changeable and chilly. We’ll be more comfortable in a coach.” And because Hyperia and I were engaged, we were permitted to share that coach over a short distance without a chaperone.
Happy, happy thought, despite the frustrations Dalhousie’s situation engendered.
“Carriage dress, then,” Hyperia said. “Give me twenty minutes. I’ll meet you out front.” She kissed my cheek and ducked through the doorway.
I stood where I was for a full minute, basking in the glorious joy of a man affianced to the love of his life. Poor Dalhousie, off to make an expedient, cordial match—assuming he lived to take a bride—when he might instead marry a woman whom he loved passionately.
He would likely pity me, though, did he know the extent of my masculine dysfunction.
I pondered his situation as I tidied up and came back again to the issue of motive. Who would want him dead? What sort of would-be murderer then turned around and sent along helpful, if menacing, notes purporting to address the victim’s safety?
That behavior made no sense. I was halfway down the main staircase before it occurred to me to again question whether the motive for Dalhousie’s misfortunes was, in fact, murder.
Hyperia awaited me at the front door, looking luscious in an ensemble of chocolate velvet trimmed in red, a wool cloak the color of gingerbread over her arm.
“Allow me.” I settled the cloak about her, smoothing the fabric gently over her shoulders. “I like these colors on you. They put me in mind of rich, warm desserts and cozy evenings.”
She patted my lapel. “Such an imagination you have. Who am I to be with Mrs. Northby? Am I the featherbrained intended? The penance you are resigned to marrying? A bluestocking whom you esteem as a genuine friend?”
I was unprepared for the question, but then, I was besotted, which could leave a fellow muddled.
“You are my dearest beloved, and it is my privilege to have your support and insight in these investigations.”
She gazed up at me with touching solemnity. “You mean that, about the support and insight.”
“About the dearest beloved part too, you goose. Also about the insights. The complexities of Lady Albert’s and Lady Dalhousie’s grudges and feints and stratagems… I would never grasp those, and they might well be relevant to Dalhousie’s problems.”
Those cherished resentments might well be at the heart of the problem, though the enclosure project deserved serious examination as well.
“How is dessert served at the Hall, Jules?”
“The whole dish is brought in by the footmen and served individually from the sideboard in whatever rank order applies. One can ask for a greater or lesser portion or decline a portion altogether that way, and Mrs. Gwinnett says we have less waste as a result.” As a youth, I’d often watched hungrily through the whole little ritual as each sister was served before me, then my older brothers.
“You do pay attention, Jules. You would have picked up on the stratagems and subtleties eventually. Feuding ladies aren’t that unusual in polite society.”
“They are in my family. They seem to be the norm in Dalhousie’s.” Even Susanna was caught up in the crossfire.
“God pity the man,” Hyperia muttered, going to the window. “Where do you suppose the coach is? They’ve had more than enough time to put a team in the traces.”
Horses could be fractious, grooms slow to act. “Hyperia, what if nobody is trying to kill Dalhousie? What if the objective is simply to harass him, to frighten him, to make him doubt himself? To reduce his desirability as a husband?”
She opened the door and stepped onto the terrace. “Firing a bullet at a man’s hat comes perilously close to murder rather than harassment.”
Well, yes, but the bullet had missed, as it might well have been intended to, and there was something else about the incident that bothered me. Something a soldier ought to notice…
But what?
I accompanied Hyperia into the inhospitable elements and closed the door behind us. “I grant you, a bullet is serious business, but depending on the poison used, giving somebody a bellyache need not risk death at all. Tampering with a saddle isn’t likely to result in an experienced equestrian’s demise either.” Though it could, and poisons were notoriously hard to dose correctly. “If we’re having trouble discerning the proper motive, maybe that’s because the goal isn’t murder after all.”
“We have plenty of motives,” Hyperia said. “Perhaps we should ride over to the Abbey. I’d have to change into a habit, but…”
The young groom who’d been scrubbing buckets jogged around the side of the house and stopped at the foot of the steps, his breath puffing white in the chilly air.
“Milord, miss.” He dragged off his cap. “Won’t be no coach coming around. Apologies from John Coachman.”
“No coach?” Hyperia said. “Is the coachman ill? We can drive ourselves if you have a phaeton or dog cart.”
The groom shook his head. “Best not, miss. Vehicle might be unsafe. Milord, you’d better come have a look. We’ve sent the stablemaster to fetch the marquess.”
“Miss West, shall you accompany us to the stable?”
Hyperia took me by the arm and all but hauled me down the steps. “Of course, and we will postpone our call on Mrs. Northby. Lead on, my good fellow, but at a walk. You will catch a lung fever charging about in this cold air.”
The groom slapped his cap back on his head and set off for the stable quick time, but without breaking into a run.