“Is this about a new command?” Catherine looked from Beaseley back to the admiral again. Beaseley was studying his shoes.
“It is not about a new command.” It was Jocelyn. Startled, Catherine looked at him, but he was gazing directly at the admiral.
“It is the investigation, is it not?”
“Yes. I am very sorry, Captain Avebury.”
“What will they have me up for?”
There was a heavy pause. The admiral’s gaze did not flinch, however, and he said finally, “I will not hold anything back. You have been accused of murder. And dereliction of duty.”
“Murder,” Jocelyn repeated, the syllables thudding blandly against the upholstered furniture.
“Murder!” gasped Catherine. She half rose from her seat, but the stabbing pain in her back caused her to drop back. “Mr Beaseley, I demand to know—”
“I am sorry, my lady. Had I only had the chance to forewarn you—”
“How can this be possible?” Catherine looked at Jocelyn, but he was looking hard at the admiral, his expression unreadable. “Avebury? Have you nothing to say in your defence? They are clearly mistaken!”
“If I may interrupt, my lady,” the admiral said quietly. “I am here so that he may come with me to London for the purposes of offering that defence.”
“This was the best I could do, my lady,” Beaseley said. “They would have sent people here to arrest him.”
“Arrest him! But-but – this is absurd! This is completely ridiculous!” Catherine looked back at Jocelyn. “Avebury! Please! Tell them! Surely you must have something to say!”
For a very long moment, no one spoke. Catherine stared so hard at Jocelyn’s frozen countenance that her eyes began to fill. She dashed her tears against the back of her hand.
“Avebury,” she whispered.
He did not look at her. He said to the admiral, “I have but a few things to take with me.”
The admiral inclined his head.
“Wait,” Catherine said, rising. Her head swirled, and she clutched at the arms of the chair, the knuckles of her hands whitening as she swayed.
“The gardens, admiral, are very fine.” Beaseley rose also, nodding at the admiral. They made their way across the room, through the French doors and down the steps into the formal garden murmuring the occasional pleasantry, as if Catherine and Jocelyn did not exist.
It did not seem at all possible that the admiral was here to take Jocelyn away, that he would be arrested otherwise. It had to be an absurd nightmare. Surely, surely this was a mistake of grotesque proportions.
She felt her legs give way and fell, landing on her knees.
“Good God! Are you all right?” Jocelyn was beside her in a moment.
“Yes. Yes, quite all right – I have been having trouble walking all day. I am sure it is nothing. Most likely just—oh! Oh! Jocelyn, feel him!” She pressed his hand to her belly, suddenly joyous. They waited in silence.
“He has stopped,” Catherine said, disappointed.
“Are you sure it – he—”
“Very sure. It feels just like—oh!”
Jocelyn sprang back in alarm. He gazed stupidly at the palm of his hand, then ever so gently placed it against Catherine’s belly again. He felt the taps grow insistent, pushing through the wall of her abdomen as if the baby were furious at his imprisonment.
Catherine laughed in delight. “Can you believe how strong he is!”
Jocelyn removed his hand. “Kate.” His face was sober.
“It is a mistake, is it not? Tell me it is a mistake.” She reached for his hand again, holding it in her two small ones. It was so much larger, so calloused and sturdy, the hand of a working man, not an idle gentleman. She held it to her cheek, then her lips.
Jocelyn did not reply. He closed his eyes, his brow wrinkled as if he were in pain.
“You must say it. Say it, Jocelyn. Please.”
“Kate, I may not see you again.”
The sound of his voice chilled her. “Good God, Jocelyn, no! This will be sorted out. I will make sure of it. We have some influence in the Admiralty – I don’t know where, exactly, but when my father was alive—”
“Kate.”
“Jocelyn, do not,” she said, her voice breaking. “No.”
“You married me without knowing very much about me, Kate. I’m afraid that this is what happens when you want something so badly you ignore all else.”
“No! Jocelyn, I won’t believe it!” She dropped his hand, pulled his neck down so that her lips rested against his ear. “Tell me,” she whispered. “Tell me. They have misunderstood something, or perhaps there is a jealous captain somewhere who has slandered you. These things can be fixed—”
“Kate, beloved—”
“It isn’t possible, Jocelyn. It cannot be possible!” Her words ended on a wail.
“Listen to me, Kate.”
She opened her eyes, loosened her grip on his neck slightly. His voice was so calm that it did not seem possible he was about to be carried off to London to face the investigation of the Royal Navy. She felt a shudder go through her, then a quiet calm began to seep into her heart, deadening it with icy certainty. I am mistress of my own fate, she reminded herself. I was my own mistress before I married – and I am my own mistress still. With or without Jocelyn.
She pulled her arms away. “I am listening,” she said.
“This investigation may give me the chance to clear my name. In that case, I will return, possibly within a few short weeks.” Jocelyn picked up her hands, gripped them tightly. His cloudy blue eyes were intense. “If not, you are to remember that you are carrying a child. The St Clair heir. Do not do anything foolish. Do you understand me?”
“Jocelyn, I can help you. If only I could get to London, I could—”
He gave her a little shake. “You idiot! Did you not hear me? I do not want you travelling or otherwise endangering your health.”
Catherine felt a prickle of irritation. “What, do you think I am such an invalid that—”
He silenced her by kissing her so deeply that her breath left her and, for a moment, she felt almost naked as he ran his fingers under the curve of her chin and around the edge of her bodice. He tightened his arms around her.
“Kate, dearest,” he murmured.
“Please, Jocelyn,” she whispered. “Please. I am sure I can help.”
Jocelyn drew back a little. He gazed at her, his fingers arranging and rearranging the wisps of golden hair that had freed themselves from their pins. “Ah, Kate,” he said, his voice hollow. “You wanted an heir. Is that not enough for you?”
“No,” she said, catching his hand and pressing it to her heart. “You are the only person who has seen past my leg and my fortune – who has treated me with kindness and dignity – why should it be so odd that I love you?”
Her voice cracked at the end of her sentence. Jocelyn’s gaze fell and, for a brief moment, Catherine suddenly thought that now he might reveal the truth. There was something pent-up inside him, something so awful that he could not possibly live with it alone. She was certain of it.
But he said nothing. He rose, and she rose with him.
“Kate,” he said. “Listen to me, my dear. I know that you are strong. I know that you are able to take care of yourself and of Wansdyke, of the child. But should you ever have need of … need of a man, promise me that you will call upon Sir Lyle for assistance.”
“Sir Lyle?” Catherine gave an incredulous gasp. “But-but why?”
“He once said that if you were ever in need, he would be honoured to be of assistance.” Jocelyn gave her hands a last squeeze. “Promise me.”
“Promise you? Why, of course! I would promise you anything – but Sir Lyle … I don’t understand why he would—” Catherine stammered.
Jocelyn leant forward and dropped a gentle kiss on her forehead. “I must see to my things.” He turned and walked toward the door.
“Wait!” Catherine cried. He stopped.
“You cannot go without telling me. The murder – who was killed?”
Jocelyn did not turn around. But she saw his shoulders sag.
“It matters not, dearest Kate. It could have been anyone.”
And he left.
Chapter 27
They left without even drinking their tea. Admiral Wolcott was courteous but insistent, and Catherine was left in no doubt that her husband was now a prisoner. She tried to convince the admiral to use the new carriage with the St Clair coat of arms on the panel, but he was again politely firm; the hired coach was still at their disposal, and that would do very well for the long ride back to London. Catherine tried to press her point. She did not like the idea of Jocelyn being taken away like a criminal and conceded only when Beaseley reminded her that she might wish to have use of the carriage. She had every intention of going to London –to do whatever needed to be done to stop LaFrance, and to try to extract Jocelyn from this dreadful mistake.
Beaseley remained and apologised humbly that he had not been able to do as she had wished and improve Jocelyn’s standing with the navy.
“But truly, my lady, every approach I made on his behalf was met with uncomfortable shuffling and stammering. It was indeed perplexing until I realised that Captain Avebury was under investigation.”
“Was anyone willing to discuss the details of this investigation?”
“Yes.” Beaseley brushed crumbs of toast off his waistcoat before taking another sip of tea. “The late earl had a friend, an old school friend, whom he had not seen for many years. Lord Richard Whitford. He attended your father’s funeral and I took the opportunity to renew our acquaintance. He’s actually not a naval officer, but a diplomat and scholar. However, I suspected that he might somehow have heard of the mess, and indeed I was right. He told me everything, and said that he had seen the dispatches from Gibraltar that described the incident.”
The incident. But his lieutenant had stated only that Jocelyn had missed a rendezvous because he had stayed in Bombay to procure a cargo of opium.
“But that was not murder! Whose murder?”
“Stephen Bright. The lieutenant who made the accusation against Captain Avebury. He was found dead in his room shortly after his return from Gibraltar.”
“But wait.” Catherine shook her head in confusion. “I do not understand. Was Lieutenant Bright not a prisoner? Was he not responsible for the death of a man in a brawl?”
“Aye, my lady. But somehow, someone entered his room and murdered him. At first it was thought that he died of natural causes, but the coroner claims that an exotic poison from the port cities of the Indian Ocean was used. Without Bright’s testimony there is no case against Captain Avebury. And so Lieutenant Bright’s family claims that Captain Avebury must have been responsible for the murder.”
“But that’s impossible!” Catherine rose from her seat. “He has not left Wansdyke since we arrived, and before that we were at Albrook, and before that in Bath. He could not have murdered anyone – not unless he hired someone to do it, and where is the evidence of that? The proof?”
“My lady,” Beaseley said gently. “He is not now under arrest. He is under investigation because he went willingly with the Admiral. And if he cooperates with the investigators there is no reason to suppose that they will not believe him. He was not anywhere near Bright’s cell, and has no contact with anyone who might have been there. This is a military investigation, so some things may seem a trifle harsh to our eyes, but the truth will prevail in the end.”
Catherine gripped the arms of the chair, her knuckles whitening. “That, Mr Beaseley, is where you are wrong. Truth is completely irrelevant. It always is. Only appearances matter. And if Avebury appears to be guilty, he will be treated like a criminal.”
Beaseley seemed to be at a loss. He fiddled with his napkin and uneasily took another mouthful of tea. Catherine limped over to the door and opened it. She leant into the hall.
“It seems I will need use of the carriage after all,” she said quietly to the attending footman, her voice calm. “Please send Lydia to wait on me.”
* * *
Finding Sir Lyle proved to be tricky. He was not in his Bath apartments, nor was he at any of the several entertainments that Catherine visited. The evening was darkening when she finally thought to visit Melinda’s home, where a quiet card party was taking place.
“Sir Lyle? I expect Robin would know – he went riding with him yesterday. Let me ask him. But how are you, Catherine? I have not seen you in so long.” Melinda stepped back and surveyed her critically. Catherine flushed. She felt bloated and very large.
“I did not think to change my dress before I left,” she confessed.
“You look well,” Melinda said reassuringly. “You are not ill?”
“Sometimes. Not very. Oh, Melinda, would you ask Robin? Would you ask him now?”
“Is something wrong, Catherine?” Melinda looked over her shoulder, to the corner where her stepmama held court over a table of formidable-looking matrons. She lowered her voice. “I loathe these card parties. Perhaps we can speak in private somewhere else. If we stay, they are sure to come out and subject you to rude questions about your … your health.”
Catherine waved a polite goodbye as she followed Melinda out of the room – much to the obvious disappointment of the matrons, who were clearly having a good gossip about the Countess St Clair and her delicate condition. Grasping her friend’s arm, she limped along the hall to a less formal sitting room.
Melinda shut the door. “I apologise for their bad manners,” she said.
“You goose,” Catherine said with affection. “As if I cared about such things. Those people are nothing to me.”
Melinda smiled wryly. “You were always your own person, Catherine. I admire you for that. But you are also a wife, and soon to be a mother. You cannot be as carefree as before. How is the captain?”
Catherine looked down at her hands. “It is a long story. He is in London, on navy business.” The lie slipped easily off her tongue. It is for the child, she thought. I will not have his father shamed.
“And why do you search for Sir Lyle?”
“I am passing along a message from Avebury.” Another lie, said even more easily. Jocelyn had told her to seek assistance from Sir Lyle if she required it, and she was determined to discover why.
“He was at his farm yesterday. Robin was full of news about the horses, but I admit I was not attending.” A knock sounded at the door, and a footman appeared with a tray. Melinda sent him out again with instructions to send Robin to them.
“Have some supper, Catherine. You must be famished. I cannot believe that you have been searching for Sir Lyle since teatime. Should you not be taking better care of yourself?”
Catherine allowed her attention to drift as Melinda clucked over her and set out a supper of cold meats. Catherine had no appetite, but pecked politely at what she had been offered. She glanced impatiently at the mantelpiece clock. It was quite late.
At last, the door burst open. “Well!” Melinda’s brother Robin strode into the room. Tall and dark, like his sister, his good looks were emphasised by his sporty disregard for fashion. He favoured well-worn riding clothes, and his grip on Catherine’s hand was firm and commanding. “Countess! I am to call you Lady St Clair, I believe?”
“You will make me blush,” Catherine complained. “You have called me by my Christian name for as long as I can remember. Must you be so odiously formal?”
“Only because your noble demeanour requires it, my lady,” Robin said, bowing exaggeratedly over her hand.
“Dreadful man, your brother,” Catherine said to Melinda, who frowned at him.
“Robin, I am sure that you have a dozen buyers and sellers of horseflesh in one of the rooms upstairs, all haggling furiously. We will not keep you. Catherine is wondering if you know where Sir Lyle might be. You saw him yesterday, did you not?”
“I did. We had a good ride over his estate. But I believe he is
now in Bath.”
“He is not in Bath,” Catherine interjected.
“Ah! Well then, I know. He was talking about a ship that is due in to Dover shortly. That will be where he has gone.”
“Oh, no!” Catherine exclaimed.
“You could send him a message,” Robin offered.
“I could, I suppose.” Catherine rose from her seat. “Thank you for the supper, Melinda. And you, too, Robin.”
“Is this message very important? The one from the captain?”
Catherine looked at Melinda blankly before realising that she had invented this convenient lie herself. “Yes, very,” she said.
“Perhaps Sir Lyle will return soon,” Melinda said.
“Perhaps.” Catherine smiled. “Do not worry about it. I am sure all will be fine.”
All will be fine, she repeated to herself as Lydia’s sturdy arm helped her up into the carriage.
All will be fine, she repeated to herself as the carriage jerked away into the dark.
All will be fine.
It was beginning to rain, a miserable autumn rain that promised more damp and mist, by the time she arrived back at Wansdyke. She sat down in the library to write a note to Sir Lyle, addressed to him care of his ship in the port of Dover, and sent a messenger off with it immediately.
Then she waited.
* * *
She waited for a full week before he arrived, dirty and sweating, on horseback. She had just had a note from Jocelyn. She passed it to Sir Lyle without a word.
He took it and read it silently. Then he looked up. “I am sorry I could not come sooner. As I said in my letter, there were problems with my cargo. Still, it does sound as if the captain is being treated fairly well, all things considered.”
“Considering that he is under investigation for a murder he did not commit,” Catherine said bitterly. She motioned to Sir Lyle to sit down, which he did gingerly, trying not to get grime on the damask-covered chair. “They have no notion of justice.”
“Ah but they do.” Sir Lyle gave her a hard look. “I have spent many hours in the company of sailors this past week. I assure you that justice amongst seafaring types is harsh and swift. The fact that Avebury is being given the freedom to stay in his own quarters and the opportunity to participate in his own investigation is … well, it is extraordinary. It only shows what a good opinion they have of him. It is likely they feel a need to show Lieutenant Bright’s family they are investigating his death, but that they also have no desire to cause Avebury any grief.”
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