Page 4 of A Lady’s Guide to Murder
CHAPTER 3
Hope for the People
After following the reformers from Westminster, Theo Hawke leant against the Hyde Park railing, notebook and pencil in hand. A streetlamp provided sufficient illumination to scribble down his thoughts as dusk turned to night. What he wrote wasn’t salacious enough for his gossip column – no one perused The Hawke’s Eye to read about commoners mourning the People’s Duke – but it would provide material for the articles he published anonymously.
He attempted to capture the appearance of the crowd. The tear-streaked faces of a cluster of women wearing black. The brave Waterloo soldiers who now leant upon makeshift crutches, their uniforms in tatters, too wounded to work. Even the young labourers singing in powerful bass tones were careworn. Their wary eyes darted to the circling Hussars, likely wondering if the cavalry would charge and slaughter them as had happened to the peaceful protesters at St Peter’s Field in Manchester. Tensions were high and hope scarce.
Indeed, what was there to give the people hope in these dark times? Certainly not the ascension of an extravagant buffoon to the throne. Nor the high unemployment, the insufficient and corrupt poor relief, or the brutal Tory Corn Laws that benefitted landowners at the cost of a starving populace. And definitely not Parliament’s recent enactment of the Six Acts, which suppressed fundamental freedoms so that people feared for their lives when they protested peaceably.
Now, on top of everything else, the loss of Severn dealt a devastating blow to hopes for parliamentary reform. The People’s Duke had been sympathetic to the reformers’ causes. He’d served as a bridge between two worlds, representing hope that the upper classes, who held all the wealth and influence, might one day genuinely address the common people’s desire for fair representation.
The people desperately need – Theo wrote – something, or someone, to rekindle their hope.
He tapped his pencil to his chin. He must wield his pen to this purpose, as he had in the past through his independently published treatises. Not that those articles found their way into many readers’ hands, but surely every bit helped at times like these … though that thought didn’t take the sting from the knowledge he could do so much more, if only he could catch the attention of a reputable newspaper. He despised his job at the Examiner – yet a nobody like Theo, who’d scrambled from birth just to stay alive, much less make anything of himself, knew better than to take any legal employment for granted.
While the mourners transitioned from Eliza King’s march into a series of dissenter hymns, Theo jotted notes. Ideas formulated rapidly and he sketched a plan for a series of articles intended to propose a path forward after the duke’s death. A strategy to align other aristocrats to the people’s causes.
His thoughts flowed as fast as he could write, but, after a time, the sounds of wailing drew his attention. He stashed his notebook and pencil in his pocket, concerned that altercations had erupted between the mourners and the cavalry, who were no doubt waiting for any pretext to break up the crowd.
Pushing back his hat, he peered over the sea of heads. Theo hadn’t named his column The Hawke’s Eye merely as a pun on his surname; he was, in fact, blessed with exceptional eyesight, a tremendous advantage in his line of work. Within a split second, he spotted the cause of the crowd’s unrest standing in the open doorway of her London residence, bathed in a rectangle of golden light.
The Duchess of Severn herself.
Young, beautiful and wearing widow’s weeds. A poignant sight even from Theo’s jaded perspective. No wonder the old women wailed.
Knowing he wouldn’t regain his train of thought about his articles while she was present, he crossed his arms over his chest and studied Henrietta Percy, wishing for the thousandth time that he could take her measure. Her true character eluded him, and, for some inexplicable reason, he found that as frustrating as the very devil.
Without doubt, her public manner was flawless. Reserved, but not timid. Beautiful, but never attention seeking. In truth, less like a living woman and more of a Greek goddess carved from marble, lovely but unapproachable, even by her own kind, as she appeared to have no friends beyond her family. Apart from the evening in the Severn gardens, Theo had never seen her without either her husband or her mother at her side, until now.
However, the memory of the night when she had rutted with that swine Marlow and then propositioned Theo in exchange for his silence was as fresh in his mind as if the interaction had transpired the week before. Then she hadn’t been made of marble; she’d been very much a living woman. A temptress – and a nearly successful one, at that. He hadn’t forgotten how close he’d come to capitulation, despite his respect for her husband. Half a decade later and he still remembered the feel of her hand on his forearm when she’d offered that kiss. In fact, the damned memory plagued him all too often, because her soft, parted, inviting lips had a way of bursting unbidden into his mind’s eye whenever he found sleep elusive.
And yet, as the duchess mingled with her husband’s mourners, Theo struggled (as he often had over the last five years) to reconcile the temptress in the Severn gardens with the lady who strode fearlessly into throngs of impoverished and desperate souls. She certainly wasn’t aloof with them. She shook labourers’ hands, she touched the cheeks of wounded soldiers, she let the weeping women kiss her fingers …
She was giving them the hope they needed.
The door to Severn House opened again and Perceval Percy emerged, flanked by liveried footmen. Theo focused his keen gaze to better assess the new duke’s expression. Percy was regarding his late cousin’s widow with undisguised abhorrence.
That piqued Theo’s curiosity. What could have instilled such animosity in Percy towards the duchess, especially now that he held the title of Duke of Severn far sooner than anyone had anticipated? Sensing the potential for something salacious, Theo readied his notebook and pencil. He needed material for his weekly column.
As Percy approached the duchess, some mourners grew agitated, and one man cupped a hand over his mouth and called out indistinguishable words. Percy ignored that. He gripped the duchess’s arm and whispered in her ear; whatever he was saying to her, he certainly didn’t want overheard. He tugged her arm … she seemed to resist him, long enough for a decided unrest to break out amongst the onlookers … and then she abruptly ceased struggling, slipped her hand into the crook of Percy’s elbow and walked into the house as obediently as a puppy.
But she was furious .
Theo doubted anyone else would realise, so subtly had she tightened the corners of her mouth and drawn her pretty brows, but he knew, because after five years of having every iteration of anger and loathing the duchess’s lovely features could produce directed firmly at him, he could read her face. Theo half smiled wistfully – oh, yes, if looks could kill, he would’ve been long dead, murdered by one of her acrimonious glares. Which might mean that she detested Perceval Percy with a similar degree of loathing.
Theo flipped to a fresh page in his notebook and hastily penned notes:
1. Investigate relationship between duchess and the new duke
2. If enemies, why?
He tapped his chin and then added another note.
3. While at it, find out more about late duke’s death
He closed the notebook over his pencil and dropped them in his pocket. Witnessing the interaction between the new duke and the widowed duchess had given rise to a bothersome sensation that something was amiss.
He intended to get to the bottom of it.
In the midst of the crowd before Severn House, Henrietta was comforting an elderly woman when her upper arm was clasped and her husband’s cousin hissed in her ear. ‘Come inside immediately . I did not grant you leave to mingle amongst these … these radicals .’
Astonished by his fierce manner, she faced Perceval. Edmund had favoured his mother’s family, so there was little resemblance between the cousins. Whereas Henrietta knew many ladies found Perceval handsome, he’d always reminded her of a spoilt boy about to throw a tantrum, with his round face, pursed lips and copious soft brown curls.
‘They are reformers, not radicals,’ she said patiently, as if he were indeed a naughty child. ‘Edmund would have wanted me to comfort them.’
Perceval stuck his nose in the air, no doubt attempting to appear imposing. ‘As the Duke of Severn, it is my duty to manage all Percy family concerns, so I insist you return indoors. Your presence here will only attract more ruffians, and these numbers are dangerous already.’
‘They are paying tribute to Edmund and so I wish to stay.’ She tried to use a respectful tone, but she stood her ground, both figuratively and literally. Her physical resistance must’ve been obvious because a disgruntled ripple ran through the crowd.
A nearby man shouted, ‘Release her, Percy, you poxy pup. You ain’t fit to lick the dust off Her Grace’s shoe.’
‘If you force me inside, there might be a riot,’ she said gently. ‘They don’t like how you’re treating Edmund’s widow.’
Perceval scowled, looking more than ever like a cross child, with cheeks as pink as a piglet. ‘If a riot breaks out, the resulting deaths will be on your hands, not mine. Come inside now .’
It went against Henrietta’s principles to abandon duty but the truth was, the crowd and the surrounding cavalry were ominously reminiscent of the Peterloo Massacre, and she didn’t want anyone injured. Besides, until she knew what provision Edmund had made specifically for her, outside her meagre marriage portion, it was only wise to appease Perceval, as much as it chafed.
So, she took the old woman’s worn hand in hers and gently pressed it in farewell before going obediently with Perceval towards Severn House, though her jaw was clenched and her cheeks flamed. Once the footman closed the door behind them, she attempted to reclaim her arm, intending to mount the grand central staircase to return to her bedchamber, but Perceval drew her aside none too gently and subjected her to more indignity. ‘You are to remain in this house unless I give you leave to depart, Henrietta. You are not to encourage the crowds in any way. It is far too dangerous.’
Perceval was behaving like an overbearing ass, yet if whip-smart Jane Babcock had accepted his hand he must have redeeming qualities. ‘They only want to show their respect. When I go amongst them, it comforts them and it comforts me . Do not forbid it – join me, instead. Edmund would wish it of us. For you, it could be a first step towards continuing his legacy. You can encourage more lords to consider reform measures.’
Inches from her own, Perceval’s eyes flashed. ‘ I am the Duke of Severn, Henrietta.’ Evidently, he enjoyed reminding her of that fact; it was the second time within five minutes he’d mentioned it. ‘The decisions I make will be my own and I don’t care a snap of my fingers for your opinions. You aren’t my duchess and you never should have been Edmund’s, which is something I shall hold against you for ever.’
She recoiled, shocked at his obvious abhorrence. Had Edmund been correct about Perceval? Was he untrustworthy? Was he perhaps even … cruel? Why otherwise would he treat her with such indignity? ‘Perceval,’ she said carefully, her voice tempered. ‘Whatever can you mean?’
He curled his lip. ‘I know what you were willing to do for him, Henrietta, and I shall call it what it was: thievery of what is mine by right! While he lived, he controlled my purse strings and I could say nothing, but I have resented you both for years.’
Henrietta’s heart leapt to her throat. ‘Perceval, I depend upon your kindness. Please recognise that I didn’t take anything that is yours—’
‘You failed, yes, but not for lack of trying. And so now I shall show you the same kindness you showed me with your conspiring. Your time here is limited. Soon, there will be a new Duchess of Severn, and your presence will be neither needed nor wanted. You will leave my protection with nothing but what you brought into your sham marriage. No Percy will speak your name. Your portraits will be removed from my residences. I shall personally verify that you return every Percy jewel in your possession. Oh, how eagerly I await the day a deserving duchess replaces the whore before me now, who was never worthy of the title my cousin bestowed upon her.’
Having delivered this cruel speech, Perceval turned his shoulder and stalked away, his footsteps reverberating in the high-ceilinged hall, leaving Henrietta trembling in the shadows of what was once her home and was now a prison. If Edmund hadn’t made irreversible provision for her in his will, her future was desolate, for not only would Perceval take her financial stability, but he would destroy both her reputation and Edmund’s if he revealed the truth of their marriage.
She would have no money. No friends. Be accepted nowhere. Her life would effectively be over. The harm done by Theodore Hawke’s column would pale in comparison to the utter destruction Perceval could wreak if he chose to do so.
And this time, there was no Edmund to protect her.