Page 12 of A Lady’s Guide to Murder

CHAPTER 11

Aiding and Abetting

The duchess responded to Theo’s apology with a scathing glare before resuming her march towards the manor house. He followed with a heavy tread.

The sudden, dreadful realisation of his despicable guilt had hit with terrible force when she’d demanded his justification. Now he knew he’d deserved every one of her hostile glares over the years. On that fateful night in her garden, he’d let personal feelings cloud his judgement, and, while he could certainly guess why he’d done so, he’d been in the wrong.

Yet caution still prevented him from fully lowering his guard. Not only did it remain highly suspicious for a duchess to skulk about the countryside in disguise, Theo hesitated to relinquish his part of their antagonism. That mutual animosity had been strangely gratifying over the years – certainly far better than her ignoring him entirely, the only alternative he could imagine. If he relinquished five years of contentious feelings towards the Duchess of Severn, what would fill the void?

Her whispered voice drew him from these reflections as they neared the house. ‘We’ll enter through there.’ She pointed to an open window on the first floor. ‘It’s the room next to Mr Beaucastle’s chamber, which I know to be an unused bedroom. The one intended for the mistress of the house.’

The plan was as ridiculous as it was suspicious. ‘Tell me, please, why we are entering through a window when knocking upon a door is the more accepted way to pay a call? Surely you are aware that breaking into this man’s house makes you appear extremely guilty?’

‘It’s not breaking if the window is open,’ she replied pertly. ‘But since you asked, I have two reasons for my actions. Firstly, I wish to use the element of surprise to my advantage when I confront James. Secondly, I can’t trust his servants not to inform on me, once it becomes known that I am on the run, for I cannot afford a new disguise.’ She cast him a triumphant grin, as if she’d made her point so effectively there was no room for further argument. ‘I suggest we scale the wall using the wisteria to support ourselves.’

The wisteria was ancient, its gnarled vines as thick as small tree branches, but Theo was doubtful. ‘It’s unlikely to support my weight.’

She studied the plant with her hands on her hips. ‘I shall climb first, fashion a rope from the linens or dustcovers in the bedchamber, and then assist you up.’

He cocked an eyebrow. ‘What a convenient way to pass off my murder as an accident, if you release your hold when I near the top.’

She waved away his concerns as if they were of little value. ‘We established that if I’d intended to kill you, you’d already be dead. Besides, you’d do no more than break an arm falling from such a piddling height.’

‘Piddling height?’ He gazed up to the window. ‘It’s near twenty feet to the ledge, if not more.’

‘The children’s bedrooms at Deancombe were higher yet, and my brothers taught me to scale the downspout when I was seven.’

Theo frowned. ‘For what possible purpose?’

‘Why, for fun , of course,’ she replied, as if his question were ridiculous, which provided unnecessary proof that their childhoods couldn’t have been more dissimilar. Theo’s young existence had been primarily focused on avoiding danger, not courting it for fun.

She grabbed the wisteria and hoisted herself, establishing her first foothold in the ground-floor window well. When she reached for a higher branch, the vine shook precariously and she hesitated. ‘Rather than standing about useless,’ she hissed at Theo. ‘You could give me a boost, or, at the very least, stand under me and catch me if I fall.’

‘How will a boost help?’ he asked, sceptical.

‘There’s a stronger branch that would be within my reach if I stood on your shoulders. Then I could pull my feet to the top of this window.’

‘Utter madness,’ he murmured with a despairing shake of his head. ‘Yet I suppose as I’m in this far with aiding and abetting you, I might as well assist further. You realise I’ll have to reach under your skirts?’

‘Under the circumstances, I have no objection,’ she answered primly.

He lifted layers of cotton petticoats and took a firm hold of her shapely calves. ‘Keep steady now.’ One leg in each hand, he bent his knees and, with the strength gained from two decades of tossing heavy bundles of newspapers, he hefted her up. Fortunately, she did her part, for though Theo couldn’t see once her petticoats covered his face, he could feel her efforts, the strain of her muscles, the relief in his own when she managed to support herself more securely. All the same, he gritted his teeth to stabilise her as she placed her feet onto his shoulders and found her balance. She wasn’t a featherweight – she was a solid and extremely well-formed woman.

‘That was beautifully done, Mr Hawke,’ she whispered down. ‘I can reach the upper ledge now.’

A second later, she kicked off and began to scurry up the wisteria. Theo remained below her, rubbing his shoulders, and was rewarded with a decidedly pleasant view of her stockinged legs, complete with a glimpse of lace-edged drawers as she swung herself over the sill.

After she vanished inside, he waited, arms crossed over his chest, but it wasn’t long before her blonde head popped over the ledge. She dropped a makeshift rope of knotted bed linens and gestured frantically for him to take it. ‘It’s quite secure,’ she said, mouthing the words clearly although she spoke quietly. ‘I tied it at this end.’

Perhaps he was a fool for trusting her, but Theo’s curiosity was piqued. He grabbed the rope and pulled himself up the wall until he was at her level.

Her eyes gleamed as she helped him over the ledge and into a dark bedchamber. ‘My brother George wants to horsewhip you, Mr Hawke. But I’d wager you’d lick him first. George has grown soft. You most certainly aren’t soft.’

Theo nearly choked, but a quick glance at her face revealed the same innocence she’d displayed when they’d ‘tussled’, so he refrained from replying that he was softer now than when she’d straddled him. Besides, soon that statement might not be true, judging by the state of matters in his breeches.

He shoved a hand in his pocket and adjusted the situation discreetly. ‘Why does Lord Deancombe want to horsewhip me? I’ve never written a negative word about him.’ The duchess’s eldest brother presented himself as a devoted husband and adoring father to his numerous offspring, and he never appeared to engage in excesses outside his tailor’s establishment, which was neither salacious nor unusual enough for Theo’s column.

She looked at him as if he were a fool. ‘My family despises you for what you did to me. Wouldn’t you, had it been your sister?’

‘Don’t have a sister,’ he replied matter-of-factly. Of course, he was widely disliked by the ton – that had never troubled him – but for some unfathomable reason, hearing that the Matlock family hated him stirred an uncomfortable feeling in his chest. For the second time that night.

‘I shall leave the rope for a quick escape if needed.’ The duchess pointed to a door. ‘James’s bedchamber is through there.’

‘How do you propose we confront him?’

She retrieved the pistol from her bodice and fitted a metal disk to what she’d called the nipple. ‘You will wait at the open door once I enter. Listen to our conversation but keep your presence secret unless I choose to reveal you. If it turns out he is the killer, and he somehow gains the advantage, don’t try to save me – not that you’d want to, anyway. Instead, escape through the window as he’s murdering me—’

Theo grimaced. ‘Good Lord – as if I would!’

She stopped fiddling with her pistol and met his gaze. ‘You’ll do as I say, Mr Hawke.’ She sounded every inch a duchess. ‘Leave him to kill me and ride back to London. Tell everyone that James Beaucastle murdered both the Duke and the Duchess of Severn. Get justice for Edmund and clear my name. I can die in peace, knowing that will happen.’

Theo started to protest, but she pressed her fingertips gently to his lips, an act so intimate it startled him into silence.

‘I won’t die.’ She aimed her pistol towards the ceiling, cocked its hammer, and grinned. ‘ Now this is loaded and dangerous.’

An ice-cold chill ran down Theo’s spine. What the devil did the duchess intend to do?

But she had opened the door and vanished into the shadows of the other room.

Henrietta tiptoed across the moonlit chamber. The open drapes admitted a cool breeze. The bedcurtains were also open, but no one slept on the bed.

She lowered her pistol. It hadn’t occurred to her James Beaucastle mightn’t be home.

‘ Henrietta ?’ A tentative voice spoke from the depths of the room. ‘Can that be you?’

It was a night for being startled and Henrietta felt her foolishness as she pivoted towards James, pistol at the ready. She’d been careless, for if he’d wanted to attack her, he would have succeeded. She must exercise greater vigilance if she intended to track down murderers without being killed herself.

He was seated in a shadowy armchair, a bottle and glass at his side.

‘Good evening, James,’ she said, steadying her aim.

James Beaucastle was a giant of a man, about five-and-forty years of age. Had not Henrietta always borne an intense (though unfair) jealousy towards him, she would have liked him for his gentle demeanour alone. He was soft-spoken and seemingly kind-hearted, handsome and well formed, with greying brown hair, intelligent eyes, and skin tanned by years spent outside.

His weathered brow furrowed. ‘Am I imagining you?’ His voice was worn and tired, his words cracking as if he wept. ‘Are you conjured by this damned brandy – the only thing that helps me pass the nights? If so, why have I envisioned you with a pistol?’

Henrietta’s heart softened. James was grieving. Of course he was. If she hadn’t been so preoccupied with Perceval’s cruelty for the last fortnight, she would have thought of that sooner. Regret washed over her for not reaching out to him immediately. She should have written, sent something of Edmund’s, such as a lock of his hair. Although James probably already had a lock of Edmund’s hair, didn’t he?

She uncocked her pistol and slipped it into her pocket. ‘I’m real, James.’ She approached with outstretched arms. ‘Forgive me for the pistol. I was confused.’

He tentatively touched her arm, then drew in a rasping breath and pulled her close, until she was beside him on the armchair, half in his lap, and wept upon her shoulder.

Henrietta comforted him. There was no fear. She knew instinctively that she was not in the presence of her husband’s killer. Her heart recognised his heart’s agony.

‘Oh, Henrietta, Henrietta,’ James was saying, his fingers in her hair, his tears on her skin. ‘The grief rips me apart, and, now, when I thought nothing could torture me more than what I’ve already experienced, today’s Examiner printed the most nightmarish drivel, and I am destroyed all over again.’

‘Not drivel.’ Hawke emerged from the shadows and James recoiled with a horrified gasp. ‘I’m extremely sorry for your loss, Mr Beaucastle. But what you read was most definitely not drivel.’

Henrietta got to her feet. ‘I told you to stay hidden, you pestilence.’

Hawke looked unconcerned. ‘Trouble is, I’m not your servant.’

‘Sir,’ James said, sounding justifiably outraged. ‘May I enquire as to your identity, given that I find you in my bedchamber in the middle of the night?’

‘He’s Theodore Hawke,’ Henrietta said. ‘Self-professed truth-seeker and the scourge of Mayfair. As you likely know, he writes that drivel in the Examiner .’

‘Not drivel,’ Hawke repeated, lifting a finger. ‘I really must insist you choose a different descriptor, as I never write drivel.’

Henrietta didn’t even attempt to repress her eye-roll. ‘Make yourself useful by lighting the candle by Mr Beaucastle’s bed, so we needn’t speak in darkness.’

This time, Hawke did as he was told.

James glanced between them. ‘Why have you brought that man to my home, Henrietta?’

She braced herself to deliver the devastating news. ‘Because some of what Mr Hawke wrote in today’s Examiner is true.’

James visibly paled in the candlelight and shook his head slowly, as if the controlled movement would negate the facts. ‘For God’s sake, no. Henrietta, don’t tell me that Edmund was … that Edmund was …’

A lump formed in her throat. She understood. A loved one’s murder was a horror nearly impossible to grasp.

Hawke replied instead. ‘Mr Beaucastle, I regret to inform you that the Duke of Severn was indeed murdered.’

James crumpled forward, burying his face in his arms and muffling ragged sobs. As Henrietta fought tears of her own, she sat in an armchair across from her husband’s lover and indicated for Hawke to do the same.

Whoever killed Edmund, it wasn’t the man before her, who wept as if his heart had been shredded. The reason Edmund’s last word had been ‘James’ was because Mr Beaucastle, not Henrietta, had been the love of his life.

Of course, she’d always known that.