Artful Deception (The Clearwater Mysteries Book 6)

by Jackson Marsh

  ‘No, it isn’t!’ James drew his horse to a halt, forcing Archer to do the same. ‘You might be in a melancholy mood, My Lord, but there’s no reason to put yourself or us down. Yes, you pay the wages, and your servants work accordingly, but if you think we only care about you because you are our employer, then, not to put too fine a point on it, you’re cracked in the head. Sir.’

  James was serious, and Archer was suddenly nine years old and called before the headmaster.

  ‘Apologies, Mr Wright,’ he sighed. ‘That was not how I meant it to sound.’

  ‘Yeah, well I should hope not, you soft dope.’

  ‘You sound like Silas.’

  ‘Who loves you as much as the rest of us, only in a different way, of course. Now, shall we get you into battle dress?’

  ‘Dinner dress.’

  ‘I’m the valet. I know what you need to wear.’

  For a second it was hard to tell if James was being Jimmy or an affronted servant; either way, no other nobleman would have put up with his tone. Archer, however, delighted in its normalcy. He wished that James could be James permanently, and not have to slip into being Mr Wright at the drop of a hat or the lift of his tailcoat.

  ‘Oh, Jimmy,’ he sighed more heavily this time. ‘Will you make me a promise?’

  ‘If I can.’

  James walked on, and Archer followed at his side.

  ‘Will you promise me that one day you will leave my service and be your own man?’

  ‘Oh, so now you want rid of me?’ The South Riverside accent was apparent, as was James’ annoyance.

  ‘I want you all to do better,’ Archer clarified. ‘To have your own businesses as gentlemen, so that I don’t have to treat you and Tom as servants, and we can be like this permanently.’

  ‘Is that it?’ James asked after a pause, and Archer nodded. ‘Right, well, for a start, I couldn’t do any better than this. I mean, look at me. Not nine months ago I was running the streets delivering invitations to parties at houses like the one I’m now visiting. That’s thanks to you. As for Tom, he lives to serve you and has done since he was eight. Silas is so in love with you he would die rather than see you hurt, and Fecker… Well, even Fecker admits to respecting you. Now and then. I think. No, he does, and so do the rest of us.’

  A few seconds ago, Archer had been in front of the headmaster, now he was being shamed before the whole school, and he sank lower in his saddle, trying to think of an excuse for his melancholy.

  James, however, was not prepared to give him time.

  ‘To answer your question,’ he said. ‘The answer is no. I can’t promise I will leave your service, because I don’t feel like I am in service, but I can promise you that I’ll always be your friend. Now then, we’re nearly there, so if there’s anything else you want to get off your chest, do it now before I have to pin medals on it.’

  ‘Hell, you are brutal today, Mr Wright,’ Archer smirked.

  ‘Sorry about that, but sometimes…’

  ‘I need it, I know. It’s how my father used to treat me, but he was brutal with the cane and cricket bat, whereas you have the knack of putting me down while simultaneously raising me up. You put me back on my horse with genteel care, whereas father would have had the beast trample over me. You are right to do so, too, because if…’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Archie.’ James halted his mount and twisted sideways in his saddle. ‘What the fuck is wrong with you?’

  Archer’s eyes flashed to the house, but there was no-one to hear his valet’s outburst, and when he glanced back, James’ eyebrows were raised, and his hazel eyes were twinkling as if to say, ‘You want me to be your friend? Well, this is what you get.’

  Lost for words, the viscount could only stammer an apology which made James tut.

  ‘I get that you’re worried about Quill,’ the valet said. ‘He’s been quiet too long, and we all agree that’s suspicious, but what else is going on? Have you and Silas fallen out?’

  ‘No. It’s nothing like that.’

  ‘Money?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘Then it’s the House of Lords and the Kingsclere Amendment,’ James ventured.

  ‘It may be that,’ Archer admitted. ‘But more, I have this sense that something terrible is about to happen, and I can find no reason for it. That’s what has put me off my stroke, and once again…’

  ‘If you apologise one more time…’ James waved his riding crop with fake annoyance until Archer backed down. ‘That’s better.’

  The two men stared at each other while their horses shuffled, eager to move on, until Archer said, ‘I shall miss the gong, Mr Wright.’

  ‘I would never allow it, My Lord.’

  They trotted to the bridge and crossed in single file. Archer waited for James on the other side, studying the windows of the house and seeing no lights and no movement.

  ‘Unusual,’ he said, pointing. ‘The ladies would have been called to dress by now. Are you sure of the time?’

  James checked and said he was. They had ten minutes before the gentlemen were expected to change for dinner, and the ladies’ gong should have already been sounded, yet no gas had been lit in the bedrooms despite the gathering gloom.

  ‘Perhaps I have been lucky, the admiral has cancelled, and we can stand at ease,’ Archer said, not believing it possible.

  ‘Or perhaps your dodgy feeling is about to bite you in the arse.’ James aimed his crop ahead.

  A footman had appeared from the side of the house and was running towards them with no sense of decorum. The man was waving his arms and shouting, but Archer was unable to hear his words. Pushing their horses to a trot, Archer and James rode to meet him and discovered he was calling Archer’s name.

  ‘Lord Clearwater,’ the young man panted as they drew up, his face pale and beaded with sweat. ‘My Lord, please…’

  ‘What is it, Harvey?’ James interrupted, putting himself between Archer and the servant. ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘Begging your pardon, Mr Wright, but Lord Clearwater is wanted in the drawing room straight away.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s best you see for yourself, Sir,’ the footman panted, doing his best to appear calm but failing. ‘There is some trouble.’

  ‘I am about to dress,’ the viscount complained. He was unable to think what he could be wanted for so urgently, but the footman’s panic had heightened his sense of dread. ‘What am I needed for?’

  ‘His Lordship asked for you, Sir, and only you. The other guests are in the library. His Lordship is waiting for you. That’s all I know.’

  ‘Bloody Kingsclere,’ Archer hissed. ‘Still thinks he can order me around. Well, I’m not on his ship anymore.’ To Harvey, he said, ‘Inform His Lordship I shall call in on my way to dinner.’

  ‘With respect, Sir…’ Harvey straightened his coattails and stuck out his pointed chin. ‘His Lordship was adamant. You see…’ Faltering in his attempt to appear calm, he swallowed and looked up at James helplessly.

  ‘Yes?’ James prompted.

  ‘It’s the earl, Mr Wright,’ Harvey said before addressing the viscount. ‘Someone just tried to kill him.’

  ‘Kill him? How?’

  ‘By post, My Lord.’

  Archer laughed. ‘Don’t be absurd. Who?’

  ‘Not a who, Sir, a what.’

  ‘A what? Explain yourself.’

  ‘Please, Sir. His Lordship is in a terrible state.’

  ‘His condition is implied by the attempt at murder, Harvey, but please, what tried to kill him?’

  ‘I believe it was a painting, Sir. It came in the post.’

  When Archer saw how James was desperately trying to hold back laughter, he nearly chuckled, but the young footman’s fac
e bore too much concern, and he regained control. He had been invited to share in a mystery. That was an entertaining thought, but better still was the possibility that whatever had befallen the earl might give cause for the dinner to be cancelled.

  ‘By post?’ he mused. ‘Then we will be there directly, Harvey, thank you.’

  ‘You are to come alone, Sir.’

  ‘Because of a painting? Don’t be absurd. Besides, I am sure that Mr Wright would enjoy a humorous interlude.’

  ‘Alone, Sir.’

  Ignoring the man, Archer turned to James. ‘Mr Wright? Perhaps you could give this chap a ride back to the house, and then, Harvey, bring Mr Wright to join me in the drawing room.’

  Pulling in his reins, Archer set off at a gallop before either his valet or the wide-eyed footman could object.

  Three

  The extravagance of Larkspur Hall was nothing compared to Kingsclere House. Entering through the south hall, Archer was assaulted by a ceiling depicting classical scenes of warriors and gods in the Italian style, and murals painted by Laguerre against which hung several Gainsborough portraits of ancestors long dead and as dark and brooding as Archer’s mood. The gallery he passed through had been modified to imitate Versailles, and the squeak of his boots echoed from one gilded mirror to another left to right as he hurried through the crossfire, turning his gaze away from the ornamental French fireplaces only to have it fall on Louis XV gold chairs and marble-topped tables.

  The inner hall was no better. Stuck in the eighteenth century, it boasted one wall of Stubbs horses, another of Old Masters clustered too close together to allow any of them to impress, and the ceiling decoration was a direct copy, again by Laguerre, of a Venetian chapel. The marble staircase swept up to a gallery not unlike the one at Larkspur, but with more candelabra and ostentatious embellishments. Beneath his feet, the polished stone floor was inset with the crest of every noble family that had married into the Kingsclere line.

  A man was allowed his home, and it was the duty of every nobleman to maintain it and keep it worthy of passing to the next generation. There was no doubt the earl took pride in his house and heritage, but what wrangled Archer was the man’s hypocrisy.

  While he lavished himself with fine art, large gatherings and shooting Friday-to-Mondays that were the talk of society, and while he entertained minor royalty, politicians and the upper clergy, he was steering a bill through parliament which would remove a servant’s right to a pension.

  On leaving service, the law allowed for an employer to pay his departing staff a sum to see them through their later years, and each employer decided the amount. If the Kingsclere Amendment to the Master and Servant Bill was adopted, it would prevent men like Archer from paying any sort of annuity. Not only was that bad for the employee, but it was also bare-faced meddling in a man’s financial affairs. Archer could not imagine letting Mrs Baker or Mr Treleven retire from his estate after a lifetime of loyal service without making sure they were financially secure. It simply wasn’t moral, and he had stated so in many debates in the chamber over recent months.

  Opposing the bill, however, was not the only thing he could do, and he had also instructed his solicitor, Marks, to explore the possibility of trusts and other funds that could bypass the system should the bill become law. Kingsclere was only behind the action because he, like so many others, saw their wealth as a right and not, as Archer saw his, as a privilege to be shared with those who worked for him. If Lord Admiral Hay, for example, could benefit from a pension paid from the working man’s taxation, why shouldn’t the same working man have the right to be financially cared for by those who had taxed him?

  Last night’s dinner conversation had been that very discussion, and tonight’s would undoubtedly be the same made worse by the forthright Lord Hay. Only two people had voiced opposition to the earl’s bill over their six-course meal, Archer and the earl’s youngest daughter, Clara, who, being a woman in a man’s world, had been told she knew nothing about the subject and should remain silent.

  Although Archer tried to forget the matter as he entered the heavily decorated east wing, his mood had darkened to midnight black by the time he arrived at the drawing room to find it guarded by another footman.

  ‘His Lordship wants to see me,’ he snapped, but when he heard his words bounce back at him savagely from the marbled hall, regretted his tone. ‘Apologies, er…?’

  ‘Joseph, My Lord.’

  ‘Apologies, Joseph.’ Archer took a breath while the unsmiling footman faced the door and knocked once before entering.

  ‘Lord Clearwater of Larkspur and Riverside,’ Joseph announced as if this was a royal audience, and stood aside with his head erect.

  ‘Get in here, Clearwater.’ The earl’s strident voice rang out, piercing Archer’s ears and making the footman blink. ‘Some bugger’s trying to kill me.’

  Archer thanked Joseph, something that earnt him a look of confusion, and entered the drawing room. Unlike other rooms in the house, this one was a manageable size. The walls were panelled in oak, and the ceiling low, the architect’s intention being to lend an air of intimacy, when in fact, it only made the room claustrophobic. The furniture was from a bygone era, as was the earl, currently pacing the room with the countess looking on in fearful silence.

  ‘Your Ladyship,’ Archer bowed. ‘My Lord?’

  ‘His Lordship is perturbed,’ the countess said unnecessarily.

  ‘Hold your tongue, woman. Clearwater what do you make of that?’

  The earl, portly and greying, had not long returned from riding, his jacket was thrown over the back of a chair, his waistcoat undone, and his cravat hung limply around his neck. His face, usually red with the broken blood vessels of overindulgence, was a deeper crimson than usual, and his finger, pointing to a table beside the window, wavered as if he was shaking from the palsy.

  Archer smiled sympathetically at the countess, who looked away.

  ‘This?’ he asked, lifting a rolled-up canvas and wondering how it might be used to kill a man. If someone had told him, he might have been tempted to use it on the earl and was sure the countess would have had no objection.

  ‘Of course, that, you idiot.’

  ‘Henry,’ his wife said. ‘You asked for Lord Clearwater’s assistance…’

  ‘Don’t you have flowers to arrange or something?’ the earl grumbled. ‘I don’t need you here.’

  ‘Your health, Henry.’

  ‘Is none of your business.’

  Archer butted in to spare the countess further humiliation. ‘Perhaps you could tell me why this canvas has caused you so much alarm,’ he said, approaching the earl with it in his hand.

  ‘I will when she goes,’ the man said, turning to the window and folding his arms as petulant as a spoiled child.

  ‘We are concerned for His Lordship’s heart,’ the countess explained. ‘The doctor was most insistent he suffers no shocks. Battle trauma was the diagnosis.’

  The earl rounded on her and exploded. ‘Why don’t you get to your room, woman?’ he bellowed. ‘I don’t need fussing over. I don’t need the stench of your perfume clouding my lungs, and I certainly don’t require your interference.’

  Any other woman might have collapsed into tears at such treatment, but the countess remained poised as she swallowed her humiliation. Accustomed to the man’s behaviour, she said nothing, but bowed her head to Archer as she walked elegantly to the door, saying, ‘I shall leave you two in peace and sit with Clara until dinner.’ Reaching the door, she turned, and maintaining her outward calm, asked, ‘Shall I release the guests from their confinement, Henry? I am sure none are to blame, and all must dress.’

  ‘Do you think we should call the police, Clearwater?’ the earl asked, addressing the sunset. ‘I expect your opinion.’

  Archer could see no reason,
apart perhaps from having the man committed. ‘I agree with Her Ladyship,’ he said. ‘So far, you have shown me a rolled canvas, and I think it a stretch of the imagination that such a thing might be used to inflict harm. Have you been assaulted?’

  ‘Not physically.’

  ‘Then allow the evening to progress and me to assist as requested, and we shall decide a rational course of action.’

  The earl flashed his glare to Archer for a second, chewing his bottom lip and scowling. Deciding that the viscount knew what he was talking about, he conceded with a sharp nod. Archer passed the permission along to the countess with less animosity, adding, ‘I shall look after His Lordship.’

  Countess Kingsclere smiled gratefully and left them alone, the earl tapping his foot impatiently, and Archer controlling his anger.

  ‘Perhaps you would be good enough to answer a question or two, Your Lordship,’ he said, treating the man with more respect than he deserved. When the earl grunted his permission, Archer continued. ‘Thank you. Firstly, I am intrigued as to why you sent for me.’

  ‘That’s not a question.’

  ‘Very well. Why was I sent for?’

  ‘Because you know about his sort of thing.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘It’s art, isn’t it?’

  ‘I have yet to see. Shall we sit?’ Archer was intrigued.

  ‘I’ll stand.’ The earl eyed him suspiciously as he jerked his head towards a chair.

  ‘As you wish, Sir.’ Archer sat at the table and placed the canvas before him, still rolled. ‘May I ask why this has caused you so much dismay?’

  ‘Open it.’

  There was no way a harmless piece of material could have caused the earl to fear for his life, and Archer glanced around to see if any of the paintings were off the walls. A falling picture frame might deal a man a fatal blow, especially one of the larger ones in the hall, but he had seen none missing, there was no broken glass or wood in the drawing room, and no pictures appeared absent. The man’s panic could only have been caused by the canvas’s presence, and before he unrolled it, he wanted more information.