Page 3 of The Ladies Road Guide to Utter Ruin (The Ill-Mannered Ladies #2)

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Colonel Drysan, retired, eyed Cook’s elaborately iced creation set on the low table between us and said, “Thank you, Lady Julia. Most kind, most kind. I would not say no to a slice.”

A circuitous way of saying yes, but I was quickly discovering this was how the colonel expressed himself: every thought in his head uttered, the words often circling around the subject until they met in some semblance of his true meaning. It was not what I expected from a former military man whose correspondence with me had been crisp and brief, nor from a man who I thought might be a suspect in Mr. Sanderson’s murder.

Julia cut an enormous slice—the sound of the knife chinking against the cake stand seeming to add emphasis to its size—and slid it onto a plate. She handed it to the colonel with a warm smile. We had dismissed our footman, for discretion, and Julia was doing her charming best to make our visitor feel comfortable. The colonel, however, was still sitting ramrod straight on the sofa opposite us. He had clearly been, by breadth of shoulder and chest, a burly man in his prime, but the years since retirement had settled around his middle and now strained his well-cut navy waistcoat. He had also limped into the room upon a handsome mahogany walking stick, so perhaps he had been truly afflicted with the gout, after all.

We had finally gotten through the inquiries after his health—greatly improved, it seemed, although I did glaze over during his response, so maybe not—and his thoughts upon the cold weather—not unseasonable, mind you, but rather unusual for October, so, yes, quite unseasonable—and I was impatient to move on to the first purpose of the meeting: what he remembered of the duel.

I sat forward.

“Tea?” Julia asked him.

Damn. I sat back, waiting for his response to wend its way toward positive or negative.

Apparently, he was, indeed, thirsty.

Julia poured him a cup and said, “You must be wondering why we have asked you here, Colonel.” She passed the tea across and shot a quelling glance at me, sensing my irritation. “My sister and I are hoping you will answer some questions about an event twenty years ago. The duel between Mr. Sanderson and Lord Evan Belford.”

The colonel, in the middle of settling his cup and saucer, blinked blankly at my sister. “The duel?” he said, his astonishment moving him to utter two direct words.

“Yes,” I said, sitting forward again. “By all reports you were with Mr. Sanderson at the moment of his passing. Is that correct?”

His slightly protuberant eyes swiveled to me. “Mr. Sanderson?”

“Indeed,” I said, trying to keep the impatience from my voice. “Mr. Sanderson.”

“Sanderson,” he echoed. “I have not heard that name for many a year. Sanderson.” He mused for a moment. “Sanderson.”

“Yes, Sanderson,” I agreed. “Would you be willing to relate your memories of that morning?”

“It was twenty years ago,” he said. “I do not have a clear memory of it at all.”

“Please, do try, Colonel,” Julia urged gently. “We would be most grateful.”

Few people can resist Julia’s sweetness. With a sigh, he began a somewhat rambling and patchy account of the duel that did not diverge in any important way from the reports I had already read in the Gentleman’s Magazine : Sanderson had accused Lord Evan of cheating at cards at White’s club; a challenge was issued and accepted. At the dawn meeting, Sanderson was pinked by Lord Evan across the chest and upon that injury had retreated to the tree line with the colonel, Lord Cholton, who was Lord Evan’s friend and acting as his second, and the doctor in attendance. The doctor had then begun to treat the superficial wound, but Sanderson died.

“Were you in attendance upon your friend the whole time?” I asked.

“As far as I can recall, but”—he paused—“Sanderson was not my friend, Lady Augusta. No, indeed, I would not have called him a friend at all.”

I glanced at Julia, whose face wore the bemusement I felt. “But you were his second,” she said.

We had both assumed that acting as Sanderson’s second implied some sort of friendship—a second could be called upon to settle a matter of honor if the challenged, or indeed the challenger, did not appear. Surely, only a friend would put themselves in such danger.

“Yes, yes, I was his second. But not as his friend. It was a business arrangement, you see,” the colonel said.

I did not see at all. “An arrangement?”

“Not sure I should say.” He peered first at me and then at Julia, assessing our suitability to hear his clarification. Evidently, we passed inspection, for he continued. “Well, it all happened a long time ago. Sanderson held a fistful of my vowels—a few months of mischance at the bones—and I was in danger of falling foul, so when he requested me to step up as second with the offer of ripping up the letters, I saw a chance to clear the decks.”

He nodded at this expansion and lifted his cup, taking a restorative sip of tea.

I worked my way through the masculine idioms: a fistful of vowels were IOUs, caused by a run of bad luck at playing dice. The colonel had been having trouble paying back his debt of honor and Sanderson had offered to discharge the debt if the colonel stood as his second.

Not a motive for murder in any way. In fact, more likely the opposite.

“So you did not know him well?” I asked.

He was mid-mouthful of a large bite of cake and swallowed hurriedly, dabbing at his mouth with the napkin.

“As well as I wanted to,” he finally said. “Not one to talk ill of the dead—bad form, bad form indeed—but he wasn’t up to snuff in any way.” He pondered Sanderson’s deficiencies for a second, then added, “Can’t rightly say I recall anyone who would have called him their friend.”

“What made him so objectionable?” Julia asked.

“He was genial enough on the surface, but his core”—the colonel tapped his chest—“nasty. Took pleasure in humiliating people. Saw him hit a maid once for no reason. When I asked him why, he said she wanted the attention.” He shook his head. “Belonged to a club that—” He stopped. “Well, it was bad. Tried to get me to go, but no, not for me. Not interested in that kind of thing. He probably had friends there, but I could not rightly say.”

So, not many people liked Sanderson, but did anyone dislike him enough to want him dead? I needed to talk to someone who knew more about his life. “What kind of club was it, Colonel? Does it still exist?” I asked.

We came under assessment again. He shook his head. “You do not wish to know about it, Lady Augusta. Not for the ears of ladies, or anyone decent, come to that.” He shook his head. “Bad business.”

Since the ears of this lady were not as delicate as he thought, I said, “You are not referring to the Hellfire Club, are you?”

Beside me, Julia stiffened. “Augusta!”

The Hellfire Club had been a gentlemen’s club created by Sir Francis Dashwood that was notorious for its dark rituals and orgies. I had read about it in one of my father’s journal subscriptions. Not a subject talked about in polite company, let alone the company of two spinster ladies. Nor one that my sister would want to hear about.

I glanced at Julia: Sorry, my dear, I must ask more.

Julia compressed her lips: If you must.

“As far as my knowledge goes, that club disbanded mid–last century,” I ventured. “Although I hear that Lord Byron has tried to revive it.”

“I do not refer to Dashwood’s gatherings or Lord Byron’s recent attempt,” the colonel managed to say. He was clearly disturbed by my blithe knowledge of depraved clubs but had rallied. “No, the club that Sanderson belonged to was much worse. Much worse indeed. They called themselves the Exalted Brethren of Rack and Ruin but I do not know if it still continues today. I do not wish to know.”

Rack and ruin —both slang words for cheap liquor. A juvenile name, but then there were many ridiculously named clubs in London: the Sublime Society of Beefsteaks and the Most Ancient and Most Puissant Order of the Beggar’s Benison and Merryland to name two.

“What do you mean, worse than Dashwood’s club?” my sister asked, beating me to the question. “What can be worse than black sacraments and group congress?”

The colonel and I stared at Julia. The colonel, I think, shocked by the idea that Lady Julia Colebrook had just uttered the words group congress , and I because I had not expected my sister to have any knowledge of the Hellfire Club’s activities. Perhaps she had found the same article that I had in our father’s library.

The colonel was moved to a one-word answer. “ Justine. ”

I was blank for a moment, then realized he meant the Marquis de Sade’s novel. My good friend Charlotte, Lady Davenport, had lent me her French copy when it made its way across the channel in the brief truce of 1802. It had been eye-opening to say the least, and I did not find it a wonder that Bonaparte had imprisoned its author. “Are you saying the club dealt in torture? In sexual torture?” I asked. At the periphery of my vision, I saw Julia turn to stare at me in return. I had never told her I had read the book—in her eyes, just reading it would put my soul in danger.

“I never attended,” the colonel said hurriedly, “but it was what Sanderson implied. And I could readily believe such activities would suit his tastes.”

Did this club have some sort of connection to Sanderson’s death? If he had indeed dabbled in the darkest recesses of the human heart, then perhaps he had made dark enemies along the way.

“And you have no idea of its whereabouts or if it still continues?” I asked.

He shook his head.

“Please, search your memory, it may be important,” I pressed. “Even a member’s name from twenty years ago might help.”

“I think it was near Covent Garden, behind St. Paul’s, and I know of only one other member, but his name will not help you. He is probably dead by now.”

“Even so,” I said.

The colonel shrugged. “Lord Evan Belford.”

I stared at him. “What?”

He eyed my shock. “Were you acquainted with him?”

“Only in passing,” Julia interjected, for I could not make a sound.

“I have always thought that maybe he murdered Sanderson over something to do with that club,” the colonel said, picking up his cake again. “Or maybe not. Whatever the case, justice was served. The story came to its rightful end: Belford was found guilty and transported, and I discharged my IOUs. Si finis bonus est totum bonum erit. ” He paused, the cake halfway to his mouth. “That means all is well that ends well,” he added kindly for the unlearned women before him.

“The actual translation is ‘If the end is good, all will be good,’?” I said through my teeth.

And if I had anything to say about it, we were far from reaching the end of this story.

···

As soon as the drawing room door closed behind the colonel, I rose from my chair and paced to the window, staring down at the square’s central garden. The trees were already bare of leaves, the gravel paths deserted in the cold morning.

“I do not believe it,” I said, turning from the bleak view. “Lord Evan would not belong to such a club. Nor would he withhold vital information about his dealings with Sanderson.”

Julia watched from her chair. “I agree, it does seem unlikely. Perhaps the colonel is mistaken about the club—he did say he does not recall a great deal. But even if it is true, Gus, it was twenty years ago. All of us have changed.”

I pressed my hands together, perhaps to squeeze away the tiny seed of doubt that had been sown. “To be involved in a club that—” No, I would not voice such reprehensible activities. “The colonel did seem very certain.” I turned to my twin. “Oh, Julia, what if it is true?”

She rose from her chair and joined me at the window, her hand finding mine. As ever, the warmth of her grasp brought some measure of calm. She looked me squarely in my eyes—a prelude, I knew, to an important pronouncement—but I could not help noting that the crisp autumn light accentuated the darkness under her eyes and the drawn hollows of her cheeks.

“Trust him and trust your knowledge of him,” she said. “If you do not think he would belong to such a club, then do not torment yourself with useless imaginings.”

Good advice; the man I knew would not take pleasure in causing pain. Yet even through my distress, another—somewhat more opportunistic—thought arrived. “Still, if Lord Evan does know something of the club, then he might also know more about its members. Someone who might have more information about Sanderson.”

Julia drew back, her mouth twisting wryly. “I see where this is going.”

I squeezed her hand, hoping for understanding. “We have to speak to him.” Even under the dubious circumstances, the chance to see Evan again sang in my heart.

“It is too dangerous, my dear. You said yourself Mr. Kent’s Runners may still be watching us. Besides, how do you propose to find him? We have no way of sending him a message.”

True, in both cases. Someone was watching us, and since Lord Evan was supposed to be on his way to Jamaica, we had not organized a method of contact other than by letter when he had settled on the island. I had no idea where he might be. Certainly not London, since it was too dangerous, but that left a great deal of England to search.

“I could try the White Hart again, where he used to stay. Or maybe try to track where he went from Mr. Solson’s when he bought back Leonardo.” I was not, however, convinced by either option.

Neither was Julia. “Frankly, he would be mad to go back to the White Hart, and it would be impossible to track him.” She considered the problem for a moment, then a small smile appeared. “What paper does he read?”

“ The Times , of course.” I caught up with my sister’s cleverness. “Ah, an advertisement.”

“Something that only you and he would understand.” She compressed her lips for a moment but could not quite contain her mirth. “Maybe a matrimonial advertisement: Lady of Quality seeks highwayman of good character.”

I snorted and, despite the seriousness of the situation, couldn’t resist adding, “Must be of a quiet and sympathetic nature, highly principled, and an excellent shot.”

Julia bent over, helpless with giggling, and clasped my arms for support. “Must exceed a height of six foot, dance every dance, and be accomplished in all the manly arts: fencing, riding, and stealing horses.”

“He did not steal Leonardo!” I protested.

“But he stole Sir Reginald’s horse.”

I had to concede the point. “For a good cause, though.” I gathered some mock severity. “We will come up with something more appropriate than a matrimonial advertisement, thank you very much.”

My sister’s face sobered, the laughter gone. “But would you marry him if nothing stood in your way?”

I had not expected the question. But then again, it was not the question she was asking. I took both her hands from my shoulders and held them tightly in my own. “I am not going anywhere, dearheart,” I said.

“But you may, one day, if we can clear Lord Evan’s name.”

“You know I would never leave you alone.” It was her biggest fear: to be left alone. To die, alone.

And yet, if we did somehow rehabilitate Lord Evan Belford in the eyes of society, would I truly be able to deny my love? I had done so once already—watching him ride away from me on his way to Jamaica—and I knew the cost to my heart.