“Very true.”
With reluctance, Ottilia let the matter slide. It would be a waste of time to question every servant. Particularly since it was outside the interest of all to admit to foreknowledge of the theft. But she disliked the puzzle of it, which forced on her conflicting conclusions. A faint sense of desperation crept over her, and she fastened her hopes upon the result of Lord Francis’s mission.
Retelling his experience, Francis discovered, had a beneficial effect. Whether it was the calm attention with which Ottilia Draycott listened, or the fact that he was no longer the cynosure of a collection of interested eyes, he was insensibly soothed by the necessity to relate what had happened at Brooks’s. What had felt momentous at the time acquired in the retelling a lessening of significance, and Francis began to think he had read too much into the matter. Mrs. Draycott speedily disabused him.
“We must find out more about this fellow,” she said when he had finished. “If the marchioness had taken him under her wing, it must have been remarked.”
“You think he might be the lover we are looking for?”
A snort of derision came from his mother. “Lord in heaven! I thought I had known the worst of my daughter-in-law, but it seems I was mistaken. How old was this boy?”
Rather to Francis’s relief, George chose to take up the question. “No more than two and twenty, if that. He looks as if he has barely reached his majority.”
“Disgraceful! Had Emily no shame?”
Mrs. Draycott put up a finger in that way Francis was coming to recognise, when she wanted to impart a caution.
“We do not yet know that she did indeed entertain this young man with intimacy.”
“Oh, don’t we just,” muttered his mother. “What other interpretation is to be put upon the matter?”
“It may have been quite innocent,” said Mrs. Draycott in the mild tone she used when she wanted to pour oil on troubled waters. Francis felt a surge of admiration. So capable a female, and yet she possessed a capacity for empathy with everyone with whom she came in contact, or so it appeared.
His mother, he knew, was in a mood to be ready to believe the worst. The discovery of the miniature under Randal’s pillow had upset her more, he thought, than any other piece of evidence as yet uncovered. Fortuitously, she had not called into question the fact of himself and Mrs. Draycott being alone together, and Francis had been careful to omit any hint of their both having been inadequately dressed at the time. His mother’s temper had been further ruffled when Mrs. Draycott had revealed that word of the jewel box theft had somehow spread amongst the staff, a complication which she had rightly foreseen would only add to the present disorder of the household.
“What did you think of this man Quaife?”
Francis dragged his attention back to Mrs. Draycott and the matter at hand, glancing briefly at his friend. “George was more inclined than I to regard him with suspicion because he asked after Randal. I thought he was sincere. He may have been fond of Emily.”
“Well, Venner did say he had been her most favoured—er—companion.”
“Don’t be mealymouthed, Ottilia,” snapped the dowager. “We all know what was the relationship between them.”
“Yes, if we are to take Venner’s word.”
George was quick to seize on this. “You doubt her?”
Mrs. Draycott’s mischievous look appeared, and Francis felt brighter for the first time that day. “To be truthful, I think the creature is more than a little mad. She might exaggerate, perhaps.”
Francis was conscious of severe impatience. “Then who are we to believe? I had it settled in my mind that the Jeremy we looked for was this young fellow’s godfather, Sir Jeremy Feverel.”
His mother started. “That is only too likely. I remember that fellow was used to hang around Emily. We must ask Harriet. She did not run with Emily’s set, but she knows everyone.”
“Better still,” said Mrs. Draycott slowly, “we will widen our net even further.”
“How, pray?”
“I think you may readily assist, ma’am. Only think how much Lord Francis has found out by venturing forth.”
“Do you imagine I am going to show myself in public?”
His mother’s indignation did not appear to trouble Mrs. Draycott. She merely smiled, and Francis marvelled at her inexhaustible tolerance.
“You need not go so far. But perhaps you may allow some select individual to visit you. Preferably one with a long tongue.”
His mother burst into laughter, in which George readily joined.
“You are quite unscrupulous, Mrs. Draycott,” Francis told her, but he could not help smiling.
“No, why? I am merely trying to discover the answers to pertinent questions.”
“What questions precisely?”
She spread her hands. “So many. Who spoke or danced with Emily at the ball that night? Did she have the fan or not? Did anyone take it from her, or were they given it? Whom did she see? Whom did she talk to? Whom, in a word, was she consorting with in the hours before she was killed?”
There was a silence. Francis supposed the others were thinking over these queries as he was.
“With discretion,” she went on, “we may be able to discover whether this young fellow Bowerchalke was thought to be more to the marchioness than a mere protégé.”
“Fanfan!”
He turned at his mother’s sharp tone. “Have you a gossip in your head, ma’am?”
“No, but I aim to find one. Pray send someone to Bruton Street to bring back any cards that may have been left.”
“Bravo, Lady Polbrook,” approved George, laughing. “I’ll wager you will have been inundated.”
Francis was already by the bellpull and was about to give it a tug when the door fortuitously opened and the footman entered, evidently deputising for Cattawade.
“Lord and Lady Harbisher,” announced Abel.
A suspended silence greeted this announcement, and Francis watched in numb dismay as a faded lady, only too well-known to him, tripped into the room, closely followed by the portly form and plainly irate features of Emily’s elder brother.
“Ha!” he ejaculated, casting a fierce glance about the occupants of the room. “It’s true then. Polbrook is not here. By God, but I’ll see his head in a noose if it’s the last thing I do!”
Chapter 13
The tempestuous entrance of the newcomers caused a momentary hiatus in the parlour. Ottilia was not much surprised when, the footman having retired, the dowager was the first to break silence, and in no very amiable manner.
“If that is the attitude you intend to take up, Harbisher, you will find no welcome here.”
The gentleman addressed, who had trained his bulging eyes upon Lord Francis, swung round. His cheeks, already ruddy with anger, suffused the more.
“Lady Polbrook! I did not see you there.” He emitted an unconvincing cough. “Your pardon, ma’am. But you will admit I have cause to be exceptionally put out.”
“Put out?” echoed Sybilla in disbelieving accents. “I should better have sympathised in your emotions, my lord, had you exhibited transports of grief.”
At this, the little wisp of a creature who accompanied him rustled forward, slipping past Lord Harbisher and putting out fingers as delicate as the pallid features.
“Oh, but poor Hugh has been quite bowed down with woe since he received the letter, dear Sybilla.”
“So bowed down that he comes here threatening my son?”
“No, no, he only meant—”
“Be quiet, Dorothea,” ordered her lord. “If rumour does not lie, I promise you I meant precisely what I said.”
“Hugh, pray—”
The intervention was not attended to. Lord Harbisher turned on Lord Francis. “Where is Polbrook? Have steps been taken to find him?”
To Ottilia’s unqualified approval, Lord Francis maintained a cool tone, despite a tightened jaw and a martial light in his eye.
“Re
st assured we are doing all in our power to discover his whereabouts and bring him home.” He held up a hand as the other seemed about to speak. “One moment, if you please, Harbisher. Do not imagine we have not all of us been exercised by the suspicion you have not scrupled to voice, but we have not been idle and we have reason to believe that your sister did not perish at the hands of her husband.”
Ottilia, glad to have the matter of the relationship satisfactorily cleared up, was nevertheless unsurprised when the late marchioness’s brother let out a derisive snort.
“It will not serve, sir. No doubt you are bound to make the best of him, but I know, none better, how little affection he bestowed upon my poor sister; how violent was his language towards her. It comes as no surprise to me that his rages ended thus. Try if you can to convince a jury, but you will never convince me!”
“Oh, this is intolerable,” cried the dowager, pushing herself up from her chair.
Ottilia went quickly towards her. “Do not excite yourself so, ma’am. Do you not see that his lordship’s grief has overset his common sense?”
She immediately regretted her impulsiveness, for Lord Harbisher’s bile sent him streaking for this new target. Ottilia found herself pierced by the man’s irate gaze.
“Hey? Who the devil are you to be pronouncing upon my state of mind?”
Seeing the snap of the dowager’s black eyes and a hasty motion from Lord Francis, as if he would move to intercept himself between her and her attacker, Ottilia was relieved when Colonel Tretower instead stepped into the breach.
“Allow me to make you known to Mrs. Draycott, sir, companion to Lady Polbrook.” He looked at Ottilia. “The Earl and Countess of Harbisher, ma’am.”
“Companion?” Ottilia was arrested by the quavery voice of Harbisher’s lady. “But where is Teresa?”
Again the colonel responded, a soothing note in his voice. “Miss Mellis had the misfortune to break a leg, I believe, Lady Harbisher.”
The earl turned his fiery eye upon the colonel. “You have the advantage of me, sir.”
Tretower bowed. “George Tretower, sir, of the Militia. I have the pleasure of serving as an intermediary between the family and the authorities in this lamentable affair.”
Lord Harbisher’s eye brightened. “You do, do you? Then you can tell me this: Why has Bow Street not acted? If the authorities do not see fit to find that scoundrel and bring him to justice, I will send the Runners after him myself.”
“Will you have the goodness to control your tongue, sir?” Lord Francis shifted to confront the man. “I have every sympathy with your feelings, but I will not allow you to distress my mother. If you cannot speak with any moderation, I must ask you to leave this house.”
Ottilia wondered briefly if these words might send the earl off in an apoplexy, but Lady Harbisher moved to put both those trembling hands upon her husband’s arm, and clung to it.
“Hugh, pray be calm,” she begged in breathy tones. “For the sake of dear Emily’s memory. It is not becoming at such a time to continue in this strain, my dear.”
Ottilia could not imagine this pathetic appeal would serve to turn Lord Harbisher’s temper, but it proved immediately effective. The earl’s high colour began to fade a little, and he puffed out his cheeks as he let out a sighing breath, patting his wife’s hand.
“Very well, my love, you are in the right of it.” He looked across at the dowager. “I’ll beg your pardon, ma’am. Trust you’ll make allowances.”
Sybilla looked less than mollified, but she caught her son’s eye and threw out a hand in one of her typically dismissive gestures as she subsided into her chair. “We have all of us been severely overset.”
“Will you not be seated, Lady Harbisher?” Ottilia indicated the chair near the fire opposite Sybilla.
The woman darted an appraising glance at her out of the thin pointed face. “Oh! That is very kind, thank you.”
Ottilia retired to the window, not feeling it behoved her to invite the earl to be seated. Lord Francis stood back and Lord Harbisher settled on his heels. With a quick glance at his friend, the colonel once again stepped into the fray.
“If it will serve to calm your fears, my lord, I may tell you that Justice Ingham of Bow Street has indeed despatched a Runner to France.”
At this, Lord Harbisher started. “France? France? By God, the fellow has fled the country!”
“Nothing of the kind,” snapped Lord Francis, casting an anxious glance towards his mother. “It happens Polbrook had the intention of making the journey and there is no reason to suppose he did not do just that.”
“Except that he left in the small hours and my sister was found dead in the morning,” returned the earl, his voice rising again. “You may be sure I have ascertained that much.”
Lord Francis fairly glared at him. “How? How have you ascertained it? I did not write as much to you.”
“Ha! Of course you did not, Fanshawe. You did your utmost to cover up your brother’s part in this. But I took care to question Jardine, and he was very well informed.”
“That wretch?” uttered Sybilla furiously. “Traitor! I shall give him pepper for this.”
A question leapt to Ottilia’s mind, and as if he read it in her head, Lord Francis asked it.
“Jardine did not tell you about the Runner?”
For the first time, Harbisher looked taken aback. “He knew?”
“Undoubtedly he knew. Indeed, it was he brought the news and spoke of it in this very room only yesterday.”
The earl looked decidedly put out. “Fellow’s as close as be damned.”
“Yes, I think we are all acquainted with Jardine’s habit of saying just what he wishes and no more.”
A muttered exclamation from the dowager proved the truth of this assertion. Lady Harbisher’s limpid gaze turned upon her.
“You have felt it, too, Sybilla. One would suppose in such circumstances . . . but there was no moving him.”
All eyes turned in question upon the lady, and her lord harrumphed a little in his throat, evidently intent upon silencing her from speaking any further. Ottilia wondered if anyone else had taken the same leap. It was an opportunity too good to miss, with its chance of drawing Lord Harbisher’s fangs at a stroke.
“Mr. Jardine is indeed admirably discreet,” she ventured with an air of innocence. “He would not disclose the contents of the marchioness’s will even though it might serve to provide a motive for the murder.”
She received a sharp glance from Lord Francis, but the earl’s cheeks darkened and Lady Harbisher let out a gasp and went even paler. Sybilla looked from one to the other.
“So that is it. You come here blustering and hectoring like a man demented, but all you truly want is to find out—”
“Mama,” came warningly from Lord Francis, cutting her off. He turned quickly to Lord Harbisher, who looked ready to explode. “No one doubts the sincerity of your grief, sir.”
“So you say.” He turned on the dowager. “Your insinuations, ma’am, are nothing short of insulting. But since you have brought the matter up, yes, I did ask Jardine about the will. Because if your misbegotten son had been mentioned, I’d take a case against his benefiting to the highest authority in the land.”
“You would have no need to do so, sir,” cut in Colonel Tretower before the seething dowager could respond. “If your suspicions of Lord Polbrook were proven, he could not benefit in any event.”
“D’you think I care if they are proven? I’ll not have the man profit by Emily’s death whatever the outcome. He doesn’t deserve a penny of her money and I’ll see to it he won’t get it.”
Sybilla could no longer remain silent. “You mean to condemn Randal’s treatment of his wife, do you not? Well, I am far from condoning it, but the faults were on both sides, sir. Without wishing to speak ill of the dead, I am bound to point out that Emily was not precisely blameless.”
Ottilia saw Lady Harbisher’s fingers flutter to her mouth, her eyes fl
ying to her husband’s face. True to form, the earl’s temper was ruffled again.
“Ha! You mean to put it upon Emily now, do you? You’d have me think she drove him to it, I daresay.”
“Nothing of the kind,” broke in Lord Francis. “It is true there was a degree of estrangement between them, but neither party could take full responsibility for that—a common enough occurrence. Which is all my mother meant to imply.”
This had the effect of reducing Lord Harbisher’s ire, Ottilia thought. He was frustrated from making any comment, however, for the butler entered the room at this moment, with Abel at his heels bearing a tray of refreshments. The business of serving the company provided a welcome respite.
Watching the servants’ motions, Ottilia was unaware of the approach of Lord Francis and was startled when he spoke close by her ear.
“What in the world possessed you to mention the will, you wretch? I would never have believed you could be so maladroit.”
The familiar fashion in which he addressed her took the sting from the rebuke. Ottilia flashed him a look of apology.
“I’m afraid it was deliberate. I had hoped to confound and so disarm him, but I clearly mistook his motive.”
His eye teased her. “And I thought you infallible.”
“I hope not. Why, what a prig I should be.”
He tapped his ear. “I must be growing deaf. Did you say pig?”
She chuckled, hastily suppressing it as Lady Harbisher, who had moved to converse with Sybilla, glanced round. “Will you be quiet? The atmosphere is supposed to be solemn,” Ottilia said, admonishing him playfully.
Lord Francis threw up his eyes. “I am sick of solemn. Would to God I could dump all this and take ship for Italy or somewhere bright and sunny.”
“Speaking of Italy,” said Ottilia, disregarding this rider, “how long do you suppose it may be before your nephew is able to return?”
He sighed. “That’s right. Return me to reality. Have you no pity?”
“None at all,” she told him merrily. “Besides, do you forget I am delighting in this game?”
“So am I not. And I have no notion when Giles may return. Nor do I care. His presence is neither here nor there until we have discovered the truth.”
The Gilded Shroud Page 21