A Sinister Establishment

by Lynn Messina

  Although the latter would provide a plausible explanation, it seemed highly improbable, for Lady Abercrombie appeared to glow with vibrancy and health. Her eyes sparkled with satisfaction as she murmured yet again, “A beautiful bride.”

  Vera’s brows drew impossibly closer at each repetition of the sentiment, which was truly inconceivable, and Bea imagined her ascribing some very secretive, very cunning motive to her ladyship’s behavior. Clearly, the countess was playing a deeper game than anyone could imagine.

  Ah, but what could it be?

  While Vera applied herself to detangling the many strands of Lady Abercrombie’s wily scheme, Russell continued to demonstrate his extensive knowledge of Latin. Having exhausted the works of Virgil, he had moved on to Ovid—Heroides, Ars Amatoria, Epistulae ex Ponto—but his sister, whose education was more complete than anyone in her family had suspected, observed that titles of books did not count as actual phrases, let alone complete sentences. Resolutely, he dug deeper into his recollection of classical studies and emerged with Emperor Augustus’s last words, which he promptly mangled.

  “Acta est fabula, plaudite,” his father corrected impatiently.

  As Flora laughed at her brother’s humiliation, Lady Abercrombie tsked disapprovingly and insisted she would not applaud, for the play was just beginning. Uncle Horace rushed to explain that he was merely correcting his son’s Latin, not declaring the actual end of something, certainly not Bea and Kesgrave’s happiness, and Russell made another attempt at demonstrating his skill, this time misquoting Seneca’s maxim about great fortunes.

  Bea, taking advantage of the countess’s momentary distraction, extricated herself from her ladyship’s firm grip and looked at Kesgrave. “Do you see what you have wrought with your wrangling, your grace? If you had not attempted to rewrite the text of the marriage ceremony in service of your own selfish ends, we would have been wed by now and far from this madness. Indeed, we would have been back in your carriage and en route to Kesgrave House.”

  Although Bea expected him to protest this flippant characterization of his concern for her safety, he merely laughed and noted that she was overlooking one very obvious fact. “As much as I want to be all things to you, especially a pincushion when you need a target for your surliness—how did you put it to me yesterday in the carriage: you may stick me with as many needles as you require to restore your good humor—I cannot be both bridegroom and clergyman. In fact, even if I were not the bridegroom, I could still not administer the vows, for I have not taken holy orders.”

  Since Bea could not argue the validity of the point, she hastily asserted the difference between waiting patiently for the minister to appear in the calm of his grandmother’s elegant drawing room and Bedlam.

  As if to underscore the disparity, Lady Abercrombie addressed herself to the duke for the first time, noting that his attire seemed a trifle underwhelming for the occasion. “I say, Kesgrave, has love made you so addled you did not notice your tailcoat is a full decade out of style? That straight cutaway and broad lapels make you look like a bailiff collecting the village rents. Could this be your valet’s way of expressing displeasure of the match? If so, you must give him his notice at once—although not before securing an ensemble appropriate for the occasion. Do dash back to Berkeley Square to change. Give no thought to us, for we are happy to wait.”

  Aunt Vera, whose keenly discerning eye extended only to the imperfections of her family, expressed surprise at this observation and then immediately lent her support to the plan. “We can wait for his grace to change, can we not? That is to say, there is no reason why we should rush the process. Perhaps he would like the opportunity to select the new tailcoat himself, which might take a while. We would not want him to feel rushed, certainly not on our behalf, and could return to Portman Square to indicate our patience. Furthermore, we do not wish to take advantage of the dowager’s hospitality. Yes, it is probably best if we leave this matter now and reconvene at a later date. I’m sure that’s more convenient for everyone involved.”

  The hopeful note in Aunt Vera’s voice, as if this propitious plan was the one that would make the couple fall in line, was more than Bea would withstand, and a peal of laughter escaped her. Truly, she could not fathom the cause of her relative’s irrational persistence. The marriage would take place either now or in three days from now, and as her cousin Flora had pointed out recently, a ceremony performed in indecent haste would do little to overshadow her more outrageous behavior of goading a murderer to confess in the middle of Lord Stirling’s ballroom.

  The new Duchess of Kesgrave would be notorious regardless of her wedding date—and even more so when word of their newest escapade, at the Particular, began to spread, as surely it must. An august member of the peerage could not spend two days pretending to be a theater owner from Bath without causing a few dozen tongues to wag. If the actors themselves did not endlessly marvel over the dramatic revelation of a secret duke, then the Bow Street Runner who’d arrived to take custody of the villain, a confused young man who could not quite grasp the duke’s interest in the matter, would discuss it at length with his associates.

  It was because of their investigation that Kesgrave’s tailcoat was several years behind the current mode, and while he ordinarily endeavored to turn himself out as a proper Corinthian, he did not believe his garments necessitated a postponement. Nevertheless, he thanked Mrs. Hyde-Clare for her consideration.

  Naturally, the insistence that his wedding of all things did not require the first stare of fashion confounded Bea’s aunt, but her uncle appreciated the practicality and assured him his coat was nothing to frown at. Lady Abercrombie, taking exception to this statement, began to specify in earnest the many details that were not au courant. Flora, who knew why the duke was dressed in an old tailcoat but was determined not to reveal the secret, hinted wildly at his being preoccupied with concerns of much greater importance than conforming to the latest rage, and Russell, in a bid to redeem himself, announced with fastidious articulation, “Non omnia possumus omnes.”

  Bedlam, Bea thought with regret tempered by amusement, was no doubt a placid sea in comparison.

  “Ah, there he is,” Kesgrave murmured softly as he tilted his head, and Bea, assuming he meant the man who was to marry them, looked up gratefully. But it was not a minister who’d entered the room. No, it was Viscount Nuneaton, and she felt a frisson of alarm as she watched his lithe form stroll unhurriedly across the floor. His sudden appearance now too closely resembled his sudden appearance several days ago, and she trembled in panic at what struck her as an inauspicious omen.

  It was absurd, of course, to compare the two situations, for they bore no relation to each other. On what was originally meant to be her wedding day, she’d allowed herself to be swayed from a hasty marriage by nascent familial affection and Kesgrave’s evenhanded response to delay. Today, neither of those conditions prevailed. To be certain, she was fond of her family—particularly Flora, whose florid estimation of her own heroics possessed an unexpectedly endearing quality—but the affection she felt for them was but a tepid cup of tea compared with her consuming regard for Kesgrave. The duke’s tractability, as well, had undergone a dramatic alteration that could be attributed only to the well-aimed double-barreled flintlock that had bedeviled their morning.

  Even if Prinny himself arrived at Clarges Street to halt the proceedings, Kesgrave would briskly sweep him to the side like a flea-ridden mongrel.

  Truly, she had no reason to be concerned, and as her heart resumed its normal pace, she smiled at the dandy, who was as exquisite as ever in his satin breeches and elegant cravat.

  “I could not be any more delighted for you, Miss Hyde-Clare,” he said warmly as he bowed over her hand. “I have never envied another man’s situation, for I have always found my own to be quite complete, but I would be bending the truth if I denied feeling a tinge of jealousy at Kesgrave’s good fortune. You are an original, my dear.”

  Naturally, Bea co
uld not accept such a lavish compliment without demurral, and she immediately called his lordship’s sincerity into question by hinting at an ulterior motive. “Still currying my favor in hopes of discovering what happened at Lakeview Hall, I see,” she said with gleeful cynicism.

  His interest in the matter was hardly surprising, for he had also been a guest of Lord and Lady Skeffington when Mr. Otley was murdered, and he could not figure out how a plain spinster with no consequence or conversation had managed to identify the killer. Intrigued, he had made several attempts in the months since to learn the whole story, but Bea had resisted revealing all—first because she did not trust him with information potentially damaging to her reputation and then later because she enjoyed the game. In her six and twenty years, she’d had few games with anyone, let alone handsome dandies, and she was reluctant to see this one end, even now, on the verge of her wedding to Kesgrave.

  Striving for an archly satirical note, she complimented Nuneaton on his relentless determination, assuring him that all young ladies simply adored being pestered. “We consider it a very appealing trait in a gentleman.”

  Although the viscount was famous for his languorous affect, barely bestirring himself to wince at the ton’s many ill-considered sartorial choices, he laughed with full-throated appreciation and promised Bea that she would soon find him irresistible. “For I do not mean to relent until I know everything about your many investigations.”

  Bea opened her mouth to insist that five investigations did not exactly rise to the level of many—a remark that would have been unintentionally revealing, for even if the viscount suspected there was more to the Taunton affair than a simple accident with a torch, he could know nothing of her involvement in Fazeley’s brutal stabbing—but Kesgrave interrupted their conversation with a pointed cough. “As much as I enjoy watching my betrothed flirt with another man, you have a more vital reason for being here, Nuneaton. I trust you secured the item?”

  His grace spoke calmly, even languidly, and yet Bea could not help but detect a hint of annoyance in his tone, which baffled her. He’d objected previously to the viscount’s interest in her, yes, but she’d assumed he had only been teasing, a supposition bolstered by the almost comical way he commanded their attention now. Surely, a man who possessed every advantage of wealth, privilege and breeding was immune to the coarser emotions like jealousy.

  ’Twas beneath him in every way.

  If Nuneaton noticed anything amiss in his friend’s conduct, he gave no indication as he reached into his pocket and withdrew a small silk purse. “I did, yes. It was not without its challenges, for the jeweler had yet to finish repairing the clasp and had to be induced to work more quickly. If left to himself, I suspect it would have taken several more days.”

  Curiously, Bea wondered what could be so important to Kesgrave that he required its delivery to his grandmother’s drawing room only minutes—at least she hoped it was only minutes—before his nuptials, and then she saw the glint of gold followed by a flash of blue.

  Astonished, she stared at the beloved sapphire bracelet her mother had worn every day of her marriage until a murderer tore it from her wrist after snuffing out her life with a pillow. The last time she had seen the heirloom was barely more than a week ago, in Lord Wem’s study, its delicate links tethering his lordship’s watch to his waistcoat. She had paid it little heed as it shimmered in the sunlight, for she had naturally assumed it was a lovely adornment, a pretty chain with a practical purpose. But later, when she spoke to him amid the jubilant hubbub of Lord Stirling’s ball, she recalled it again, the flicker of sapphire, and perceived at once its significance.

  In the days since the ghastly encounter with Wem, she hadn’t thought of the bracelet a single time. So many things had provided distraction: first her wedding, then the postponement of her wedding, then Mrs. Norton’s missing diamond, then the murdered corpse of an unfortunate actor who had been hired to ensure her ruin.

  All these events, one after another, had kept her mind too busy to return to the bracelet, and although Bea knew it was merely an object—only gold and gems—she could not squash the devastating sensation that what she had really forgotten was her mother. Having finally discovered the truth about her parents, their lives as much as their deaths, she’d turned her attention to other matters, allowing them to fade in the distance like a ship sinking below the horizon.

  It was terrible, the remorse she felt at her callous disregard, and yet she could not regret anything that demonstrated so plainly Kesgrave’s grace and goodness.

  Incapable of speech, Bea raised her head and stared into his eyes, dazzling and blue. How could she possibly express the strange and unsettling mix of shame and pride she felt?

  It was all so much more than anything she’d ever imagined.

  She’d had fantasies, of course. Like any schoolroom miss on the precipice of her first season, she’d pictured her ideal suitor and conceived of something vague and benign: a kindly gentleman with even features, modest manners, and an interest in biographies and travelogues. The details of their life together were equally nebulous and consisted mostly of pleasant afternoons passed in companionable silence, each of them engrossed in their book whilst sitting shoulder to shoulder on the settee. Deeply contented, she would pause every so often in her reading to sigh happily over his quiet decency.

  But this breathtaking surge of admiration, this rush of emotion, wild and overwhelming, was dizzying in its intensity, and to feel it now, again, anew, on this day of all days, when he had already awed her with his insouciant unraveling of the ropes that had bound them in that pitch-dark cellar under the Particular, was truly unbearable.

  It was only luck, she knew, that placed her in the drawing room in Clarges Street with the Duke of Kesgrave, a fickle act of an indifferent god, and she felt in her bones the fragility of fate. One slight alteration in the fabric of time—if she had chosen to read the Vicar of Wakefield rather than seek out a biography in the Skeffingtons’ library on the night Otley was killed—and she would have lived her entire life without him.

  Gratitude for the capricious hand of fortune almost crushed her, and determinedly pushing it aside, she struggled to come up with the words to express her appreciation for his thoughtfulness in remembering her mother’s bracelet.

  Alas, when she opened her mouth to thank him, her composure deserted her completely and all she could manage was a low, distraught plea. “You must stop doing this!” she said desperately.

  It was not the response Kesgrave anticipated.

  Oh, no. Having been impressed by Bea’s pluck and daring from the very first, even while her refusal to abide by his authority drove him mad with frustration, he’d never imagined that the presentation of a simple band could have such a disastrous effect on her self-possession.

  Kesgrave’s confusion, so readily apparent in the way he drew his eyebrows together and pursed his lips, helped relieve some of Bea’s distress. After two decades of falling short of her aunt’s unreasonable expectations, it was still revelatory to exceed his.

  Taken aback by her discomfort, Kesgrave immediately complied with her request, promising never to repeat the event. “I could not even if I desired to,” he assured her, “for the bracelet is the only item of your mother’s in need of reclaiming.”

  It was perfect, Bea thought, the characteristic pedantry of his reply, and under ordinary circumstances, it would have elicited from her a fond mocking rejoinder. But everything about the moment felt remarkable, even the sunlight filtering through the window, bathing them in a golden glow, and she answered instead with terrifying honesty. “You must stop making me love you more, Damien. The feeling is already so overwhelming, I can scarcely breathe.”

  His features remained steady but his eyes—oh, yes, his eyes—blazed with emotion and he raised his hand as if to touch her. Mindful of their situation, however, he let it drop before he made contact, and his lips curved slightly as he shook his head to deny her request. “I fear I c
annot, Bea, no. Your brief spells of breathlessness are the only advantage I have in this relationship, and I am not prepared to relinquish it.”

  The duke spoke softly, emphatically, and Bea waited for amusement to enter his eyes, for she knew he was teasing, but his expression remained fervent. Warmed by his gaze, she longed to move closer, to draw his lips to hers, and it was only the presence of her family that kept her firmly rooted to the spot. Vaguely, she realized Nuneaton had stepped discreetly away and was now correcting Russell’s pronunciation of vixere (“It’s a W, my dear chap, not a V”). She heard Aunt Vera thank the viscount for his attention to her son, who grumbled that he knew how to speak Latin, thank you very much. Flora laughed at her brother’s embarrassment and asked Lady Abercrombie about the contents of Bea’s trousseau.

  Unaware that he could strike Bea dumb with a single, searing look—another advantage he had in their relationship, she thought wryly—Kesgrave held up the strand and said, “May I?”

  “Yes, please,” she said, offering her arm and immediately admiring the delicate band as it encircled her wrist. It was, without question, a beautiful piece of jewelry, with its heart-shaped links and marquise-cut stones, but what made it truly extraordinary was the way it traversed time and space to deliver her mother there, on her wedding day.

  Oh, how you would have loved him, Mama, she thought, her throat constricting painfully as her grace entered the room with the minister in tow.

  Briskly, as if she were hosting a second ceremony later in the afternoon and needed to move the first couple along, the dowager arranged the occupants of her drawing room in a half circle beside the fireplace and directed Beatrice and Kesgrave to stand in the center. She positioned the clergyman in front of them, just slightly to the left of the lavish bouquet that adorned the mantelpiece.

  Bea had no idea why the dowager suddenly felt compelled to rush them to the altar—less than a week before hers had been one of the many voices urging restraint and caution—but the older woman’s matter-of-fact attitude was like a balm to her heightened emotions, soothing the intensity of her feelings and allowing her to think coherently. Calmly, her gaze fixed on Kesgrave’s vibrant features, she waited as the minister opened the prayer book and began the Solemnization of Matrimony. He spoke slowly, carefully, his tone earnest and somber as he explained the ordination of marriage, and Bea, who thought his solemnity was a trifle overdone, felt her heart turn over in giddy delight when the duke rolled his eyes in impatience.