Page 14 of The Wordsworth Key (Regency Secrets #3)

Chapter Eight

Levens

A s Viscount Sandys had died in the country, the family did not attempt to organise a grand funeral, but kept the invitations limited to those locals who could reach the estate in time for the burial service.

Summer was not a good time to delay, even with a cool church for the lying in state.

Arthur had already announced, in his first decision that Jacob fully agreed with, a memorial service in Westminster Abbey early in the autumn.

Such an event would allow the late viscount’s political allies and society friends to honour his memory without a scramble to the other end of England.

That suited Jacob. The funeral was not overshadowed by the attendance of the Prince Regent or Prime Minister as would happen in London.

It also meant that he had been handed the chance to question the local gentry about Sir Richard Leyburn– indeed Leyburn would’ve been one of the people who would have likely attended had he not been killed.

Jacob could not have engineered a better opportunity if he tried.

Taking a glass of wine out onto the terrace, he circulated among the guests, accepting condolences and fielding pointed questions about his recent activities.

One of his mother’s friends, a widow enjoying her freedom a little too much, was interested in his ties to the Hellfire Club.

To his relief, he spotted his godfather, a magistrate in Kendal, standing looking out over the gardens, past the treetops to the glittering sands.

Sir Barnabas Satterthwaite was a small man, his chest barely reaching the top of the wall, but he was tough– like one of the hawthorn trees you encounter standing alone on the fells, defying the elements.

His wrinkled face added extra lines as he smiled sadly at Jacob.

‘The Grim Reaper comes for us all, does he not?’

‘Indeed, sir.’

‘I’m going to miss your father. I was just thinking how we’ve been friends ever since we went down from Cambridge, back when Methuselah was a young man.’

‘You’re not so old, sir.’

‘The years before the French Revolution do feel like another era. The continent wasn’t so divided, and a man could travel freely. Your father took me on his grand tour– I would never have been able to afford one myself, did you know that?’

‘You might’ve mentioned it before.’

Barnabas chuckled. ‘That’s the problem with getting old. You keep chiming out the same notes, regardless of who’s listening.’

‘Better than running down and falling silent.’

‘I’ll try and do better– come up with a few new stories about him for you.

Let’s sit for a moment.’ He gestured for Jacob to follow him to a seat in a turret at the end of the castellated walkway.

They took places either side of the table on the stone benches, looking back at the gathering on the terrace– a soberly dressed congregation contrasting with the joyful colours of the roses in the flower beds.

‘How are you doing, my boy?’ asked Barnabas. ‘Arthur giving you any trouble?’

‘You know us so well.’ Jacob allowed his shoulders to droop. He trusted his godfather and did not have to pretend around him.

‘Lord Sandys– I mean your late father, not your brother– always said his sons were destined to pull in opposite directions. We decided that young Arthur was the horse roped to the Sandys plough, determinedly plodding along the same furrow; William was the favourite mount, a wonderful companion on the hunt; whereas you…’ Barnabas smiled.

‘I dread to hear what you both made of me. Horse bolting from the traces and causing a carriage accident?’

‘Not at all!’ Barnabas tapped Jacob’s hand in reprimand. ‘He rather thought of you as the racehorse– brilliant, spirited, not entirely reliable. But he said he’d always back you in any race.’

‘Even if I came in last?’

‘Especially then. That’s the job of the father.’

Not a bad philosophy. Had his father lived it out? ‘I wonder why he never said any of this to me– to us– directly?’

‘Did he not?’ Barnabas steepled his fingers in thought. ‘Then maybe he showed it by his actions rather than his words?’

That was something worth thinking about.

Jacob had never wanted for any material comfort, his education had been the best money and influence could buy, he had been encouraged in his interest in art– that had all been his father’s doing.

The viscount could’ve put a stop to it if he had so wished.

Would it not be better to gather all the good memories of his father and put them in the place of the words of disappointment that had so haunted him these last days?

That was another conversation he would like to have with Dora.

‘Godfather, you are aware of what I’m doing now, are you not?’

‘Which version do you want? The young viscount has already bent my ear about you, but I’ve heard quite another story from friends in London who know I always like word of you.’

‘Then you’ve heard I’ve set up an agency to investigate crimes that puzzle the usual law enforcement officers?’

‘And that you’ve thrown your lot in with a temptress– a Delilah of the stage.’ Barnabas fluttered his fingers in mock terror.

‘Good lord, that must be Arthur in his most purple prose. As you see, my locks are unshorn. Miss Dora Fitz-Pennington is an actress but she’s also a damn fine investigator able to go places I cannot.’

‘So I would imagine. You must introduce us.’

Jacob wondered how that would go. The two would either love or hate each other. Dora was not an admirer of magistrates as they had often made trouble for her acting friends. ‘Then let us look for an opportunity. I should warn you: she gets on famously with Lady Tolworth.’

This produced a paroxysm of laughter that drew everyone’s gaze.

Lady Tolworth and Jacob had once been lovers, an arrangement that society had turned a blind eye to because her husband was in his dotage and the lady at a loose end in London.

She had taken the young Jacob as her amour; they had both received an education from the other, until finally their deep political differences over the conduct of the war had driven them apart.

His godfather had always liked the Tory Termagant, as he called her.

Barnabas dabbed his eyes with a handkerchief and tried to pretend he was coughing.

‘I apologise– most disrespectful at your father’s wake. Miss Fitz-Pennington sounds a marvellous creature.’

‘I love her.’ The confession just tumbled out.

‘Oh.’ Barnabas sobered. ‘That is…’

‘Unfortunate? That’s what Arthur thinks.’

‘I can see why he might take that view, but I wouldn’t put it in those terms. I’d say rather, your situation is challenging but love is never to be taken lightly. You are blessed if you’ve found that precious thing in your life.’

‘Thank you.’ That subject had better be left there.

He’d admitted more to his godfather than he had even to Dora herself.

She always looked panicked when he mentioned love, knowing what it meant for them both, so he avoided making declarations that would make her uncomfortable.

‘Returning to the agency, our London office is investigating the death of Sir Richard Leyburn.’

‘What a terrible, terrible thing! I read about it in the newspaper only yesterday, but the news has since spread like wildfire in the locality. I imagine most of the people here today are talking about little else. He was well liked.’

‘Our man in London was called to the scene. It was no “robbery gone wrong” as the Bow Street Runners would prefer everyone to think. The killing was vicious but staged so it could be discovered.’

‘Ah, yes, I wondered about that. Discovered tethered to the dock by a Billingsgate fishwife. Why did the attacker not tumble him into the Thames and have done with it? By the time the body were found, it would’ve been hard to know if it were an accidental death or not.’

His godfather could be trusted not to spread anything that would harm their investigation. ‘Some things were left out of the newspaper reports. Forgive me for the shocking detail, but the head of a shepherd’s crook was rammed in his mouth.’

‘What?’ Barnabas reflexively touched his own throat. ‘I don’t think I understand.’

‘Post mortem. It seems like a symbol of some kind. What does it mean to you?’

‘Good God.’ Barnabas shivered then gathered himself, drumming his fingers on the table.

‘Crook– crooked? But I’ve never heard a sniff of corruption about Sir Richard.

Indeed, he was most helpful when Sir James Lowther died, demanding that outstanding debts were finally settled.

Your friends, the Wordsworths, benefited from that. ’

‘They did? I’d not heard that.’

‘Long before your time. Their father was Lonsdale’s steward but Wordsworth père died in in the early eighties.

No one expected it– he wasn’t yet fifty and his affairs were far from in order.

It transpired that he’d spent thousands of his own money in his lord’s service.

It was something of a scandal in Cockermouth– the children were practically destitute while Sir James sat on the money owing his steward.

I believe they eventually got what was owed some eight or nine years ago– too late to lighten the burden of their childhood, but better late than never, eh? ’

‘You are saying that, if Sir Richard were secretly corrupt, he wouldn’t have acted on behalf of penniless orphans who had no way of repaying him for his interest in his affairs?’

Barnabas smiled wryly. ‘He didn’t even know then he might be rewarded with a sonnet in his favour.’

‘We can conclude that corruption is low on the list of motives. Can you think of any other association?’

‘The obvious one is sheep and shepherds.’

‘A magistrate being a shepherd of the people?’

‘Sorting out the sheep from the goats when they come before us.’