Page 15 of The Heir (Rags to Richmonds #4)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

O akley could not like the fatigue on his father’s countenance as they left Fleet Street. Lord Tipton was positively grey, and it stilled the impulse that Oakley had to immediately discuss his suspicions of who ‘the Corgi’ might be. In any case, his family had made it amply clear that they believed any and all things Beamish were not his business; they would not like to hear that he now suspected Beamish of murder.

They would think I wished to implicate Beamish merely to get him out of my way. Perhaps I do, at that.

His instinct proved correct. Lord Tipton took his dinner on a tray that evening and remained in bed the day following, assuring them all that he was quite well and only fatigued from the events of the day prior.

“Shall I sit with you?” Oakley offered. “Perhaps I might read to you?”

“Later,” Lord Tipton said. “For now, I shall do as old men do and sit quietly ruminating.”

This prompted several cries of protest from all in the room, which included Oakley, Lady Tipton, and Lord Tipton’s man. Lord Tipton waved them all off with a faint smile on his lips. “Now, now, all of you just go on. I promise not to die while you go about your days.”

That he should speak so seemed promising—surely gravely ill men did not make jokes about their own demise?—but nevertheless Oakley was determined to remain at home for the morning. He encouraged his mother to make her calls and do the things ladies did. “I shall remain in the house,” he assured her. “If he needs anything at all, I shall see that he has it.” At length she was persuaded to go out, for she had a meeting of one of her committees, but promised to return directly after.

After taking some breakfast, Oakley sat at his father’s desk, indulging himself in a dreadful habit he possessed of chewing on his pen. Both quill and nib were beyond mending already, but he could not stop himself, for he needed to devote his mental faculties to thinking of Beamish.

What did he know of the man, really? It was a great leap to go from disliking a fellow for stealing your girl to accusing him of a hanging offence. Yes, it was odd he had not been seen about town, but he was not the first man to marry and then tend to the house for a time. Was Beamish even the master of his estate? Were his father and mother still alive? Oakley had no idea. Beamish had been like a bot-fly lingering about, always on the edges, never of much significance to any of them as their family was being reunited and Oakley was making calf’s eyes at Bess.

The butler entered the study amid his ruminations. “Sir, there is a caller for Lady Tipton, but as her ladyship is out, she wondered if you might receive her.”

“Who is that?” Oakley asked over the edge of his chair.

Silently the butler came and handed him a card. Miss Bess Leighton, it said, no doubt her card from her maiden days. Oakley shot to his feet in a moment, striding across the room. “I shall see her in here,” he told the butler.

“Shall I send a maid in, sir?”

“Please do,” Oakley replied, then came to a stop and turned back. “Only…”

“Only what, my lord?”

Lowering his voice, Oakley said, with a grin, “You might not remember to do that right away, hm? Perhaps the maids are all busy at their work? In any case, the lady is a married woman, and surely we might depend upon my gentlemanly honour for a short while at least?”

The butler nodded, then added somewhat sternly, “No more than a quarter of an hour, sir. I should not like to see another scandal in the house.”

Oakley gave him a little salute and nearly ran towards the drawing room. Although he knew to expect her there, his heart still gave a pleasant little jolt to see her sitting in the drawing room, lovely in a morning gown the colour of aquamarines.

She rose when he entered and immediately put a hand over her mouth, giggling. “Oh, Oakley, what have you done to yourself?”

“What is it?”

She gestured at the area about his mouth, her eyes sparkling with mirth. He decided he did not care if he were an object of amusement, so long as it was her amusement. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he said, “Now you know my secret. I have a filthy habit of chewing on my pen while I write. Better?”

“Um, mostly, yes. There is still a little right over…there.” She gestured to the corner of his mouth and he dabbed, seeing by her look that it was not solving the problem.

“I shall likely need to go to my man and have him give me a proper scrub,” he pronounced at last.

“It is mostly gone,” she said with a little laugh. “I promise I shall not continue laughing at you.”

“You likely had no notion of coming here to find a madman who had scribbled ink all over himself.” He took a seat and offered her tea, which she declined. “In truth, I have such an appearance because I have been putting a great deal of thought into some things we lately learnt about Damian.”

“Yes, I… At the risk of seeming impudent, I was hoping to hear some of what you learnt from that.” She looked embarrassed, admitting, “I suspected Lady Tipton might be away from home. My mother is at the same meeting as she is. Of course, I could only hope that you might have remained in this morning.”

“But here I am, and delighted you have come.” His good humour faded slightly, and he added, “Would that we had every morning together! You would grow very impatient with me, I daresay, always lingering about.”

She shook her head. “No, I would not, but…we must not speak of such things. It is not right.”

He agreed with a tight nod. “But you wished to hear what we learnt in the gaol and so I shall tell you.”

In broad strokes, he told her what they had learnt from Mr Shaw, the ring of jewel thieves and Damian at the head of it all.

“I suppose—” She began in a voice that sounded high and strained. Reaching up a hand to smooth her hair, she said, “I suppose that is all over and done now? Is Lord Tipton satisfied or does he intend to make further enquiries into the matter?”

“I am not certain. He wishes above all to be sure there are no further surprises, no more scandal awaiting the family,” Oakley said, watching her carefully. She had averted her eyes from him, and it seemed to him she looked paler. “On the other hand, I cannot deny it takes a toll on my uncle, learning more about his brother’s wrongdoings. He has taken to his bed today to recuperate.”

She nodded but still did not look at him, her fingers picking anxiously at her skirts. “Likely you will encourage him to stop, then? To let matters lie?”

He had been seated in the chair near the sofa she sat upon, and now he took it upon himself to move. It was likely not wise, he told himself, to sit closer and yet he was a moth to her flame. He could not help himself.

“I confess that for myself, there were other bits that piqued my interest,” he said. “That Damian was involved in such a thing is not wholly shocking. I have come to believe my uncle believed himself entitled to anything he wished for and would resort to any means to get it. But I was shocked to learn that others had been involved, other men, possibly those whom I know, stealing from the families of the ton .”

“Accused of it,” she said immediately. “Not known for certain.”

“That is true,” he agreed, studying her carefully. She was distressed, he saw, and could not meet his eye. “Bess? You seem unduly dismayed by this news.”

“Dismayed? Oh, I suppose I am a little. Like you say, it is shocking to imagine it.”

The nonchalance of her words nowise matched her tone. Colour had risen in her cheeks, and her eyes darted about as if seeking escape. She knows something.

“At the risk of upsetting you,” he said slowly, “I must ask you something.”

“I pray you would not. In fact, I believe I am late and ought to be on my way.”

“Bess, this could be of great importance, for you and for us.”

“There is not an ‘us’, Oakley.” Now she looked at him full in the face. “No ‘us’ to concern yourself with.”

“Beamish acts like a man in hiding,” he said, the thoughts nearly tumbling from him. “Always somewhere else doing heaven knows what! A man of his description visited Damian in the gaol the day he was killed!”

“Do you accuse my husband of murder?” She gave a brief, almost hysterical laugh. “I assure you I did not marry a murderer!”

“Could he be involved in this? I do not mean to say he murdered my uncle…but might he be, or have been, involved in Damian’s scheme?”

She met his gaze, her mouth opening as if to speak and her hands, on her lap, beginning to chafe one another violently. “I…I, um… No, of course not.”

And then she burst into tears.

What began as a mere gesture of consolation, of friendship, he would try to persuade himself later, flamed into much more. His apologies became tender assurances of his devotion. Gently brushing away her tears became his lips kissing away the trails they had left. His arm, lent in comfort to her shaking shoulders, found its way around her waist, pulling her close to him as he kissed her with all the fervency of love denied.

Too quickly she wrenched herself out of his arms. Before he could even begin to apologise, she was on her feet, running towards the door. After a moment of surprise, he ran after her. “Bess! Wait!”

She ran down the hall, her skirts billowing behind her. Her bonnet and pelisse, her gloves were ignored as she yanked open the large wooden door and dashed into the street.

Nearly running headlong into Hanson.