by Lynn Messina
If she accepted Kesgrave’s help in pursuing Mr. Réjane’s killer, then this misapprehension would be allowed to persist. Her contribution would be relegated to a mere supporting role, and while she did not doubt that Kesgrave was clever enough to identify a murderer on his own, the fact remained that he had not. That honor belonged to her.
Patently, she felt some regret at excluding him from the case, for it was everything an investigative couple could want: Fame! Decapitation! Croquantes!
Nevertheless, it was far more important that she earn the staff’s respect—as much as for Kesgrave’s sake as for her own. He knew how intimidated she was by the prospect of overseeing a large household and had assured her that Kesgrave House required no supervision from her. Mrs. Wallace had everything in order, and Bea was required to manage only as much or as little as she desired.
If she so preferred, she could retire to the library and read to her heart’s content.
If she so preferred!
Of course she so preferred!
Beatrice Hyde-Clare was a bluestocking through and through, and the thought of having access to the Duke of Kesgrave’s magnificent library made her positively giddy with joy. The decades she could pass in happy repose!
Alas, she wasn’t an utter peagoose and no amount of biblio-giddiness could allow her to overlook the fact that retire was merely just another word for hide. Oh, yes, she could hide in the library and read to her heart’s content.
Even cast in the ugly light of cowardice, the prospect was appealing to Bea, whose courage was not yet an established fact. She had shown flashes of fearlessness—calling an imperious duke to account in the middle of the Skeffingtons’ drawing room, confronting a murderer on the Larkwells’ terrace during a ball—but only after decades of timidity.
Years versus moments, she thought, unable to know with any reasonable certainty which was the anomaly.
But she had her suspicions, bolstered by six seasons on the fringes of society, spluttering stupidly in response to banal questions and examining her fingers with unwarranted fascination.
It would be so easy—effortless, really—to succumb to her insecurities, to simply sink into them like a rock falling to the bottom of the Thames, and it was the ease itself that terrified her.
She would not cower as a duchess the way she had cowered as a debutante.
No, she would not.
So she would establish herself with the staff in a manner that made her feel competent and capable, ensure the household ran according to her dictates and then retire to the library.
It was a simple matter of self-respect.
Kesgrave apparently thought so too because he nodded with approval.
But not only approval, Bea noted with concern. There was a hint of relief in the gesture as well.
Had she really been that transparent in her anxiety? Certainly, she had begun their engagement in a paroxysm of dread over the splendor of his position: the large house, the huge staff, the massive estate, the outsized influence, the vast sway over the fate of thousands. But in the successive week, she had made every effort to appear comfortable with it, smothering—with success, she’d believed—the moments of self-doubt that sprung up at unexpected times, such as when he mentioned with effortless offhandedness possessing a pinery.
Clearly, her efforts had been less than successful. He knew everything.
Well, not quite everything, she thought, resolving never to tell him about her propensity to flinch.
“A worthy goal,” Kesgrave said of her plan, “although I don’t believe too much exertion will be required. You already have Jenkins’s devotion, and Marlow is still too bewildered by your refusal to submit to his withering glare to resist your efforts for long.”
His assessment of the current state of affairs was only partially right. Having observed her in a series of outlandish costumes, his groom did indeed appear to favor her. But whatever gains she had made with the butler by arrogantly demanding entrance to the house a few days before had vanished. In the interval since the encounter, his confusion had hardened into dislike. Given the way she had flouted his authority, the transformation was not extraordinary.
“I’m gratified that you agree,” Bea said with a deliberately bland smile as she reached for the doorknob. “Shall I send Mr. Stephens in or just assume he knows what my foot on his ear means?”
“Presumably, my steward is lying across the threshold in your scenario because he is prostrate with awe of me?” he asked.
Although he had drawn the correct conclusion, she disavowed it with innocent confusion and insisted the position would improve Mr. Stephens’s ability to hear. “The better to respond to your summons promptly, of course,” she said.
Kesgrave was not fooled for a moment. “Take precisely that tact with Marlow and you will have him eating oats out of your hand like a newborn foal by dinner.”
Bea rather doubted that, but the mention of the evening meal made her aware of the lateness of the hour and all the detecting she had yet to do. “And what time will that be?”
“Not very late. Settling this business should take only a few more hours,” he said, glancing at the wall clock, which read one-thirty. “Perhaps six? I thought we could have an informal meal in our bedchamber—en famille, as it were.”
Her heart fluttered almost painfully, not in anticipation of the delights of intimacy—although, of course, they held infinite appeal—but in pure pleasure at the description. Not since her parents had died had she felt the lovely warmth of family.
Calmly, as if unaffected by his statement, she agreed to the schedule and stepped out into the hallway to find Mr. Stephens striding toward her with a tray of tea. Although she darted an amused glance at Kesgrave, she managed to restrain her humor enough that she was able to return the steward’s murmured greeting with a respectful one of her own. Similarly, she resisted the urge to ask him to pause so that she may press her hand against the teapot to determine how long he had been standing in the corridor waiting for her to emerge.
The door to the study closed, and Bea, slightly daunted by the next step, returned to her bedchamber to fetch a shawl. Finding one suited to the spring weather was not as difficult as she’d expected because Dolly was in her dressing room unpacking her trunks and she located the garment with unnerving efficiency. The maid appeared to know her wardrobe better than she, and Bea felt a sudden burst of gratitude to her cousin Flora, who had recently stolen into her room at Portman Square and taken the suit she typically wore on her investigations. If she had not, Russell’s brown topcoat would have joined the pile of chemises and petticoats stacked on the dresser.
Readily, Bea imagined the blank deference with which Dolly would have held out her cousin’s old pants and said, “Your breeches, your grace.”
It was pure fantasy, and yet still she flinched.
Leaving the house was also easier than she’d anticipated, for as a duchess she did not have to account for her movements to anyone. Aunt Vera was not there to cluck over the impropriety of an unmarried lady going out on her own. Flora was not a few steps behind to ask what plan was secretly afoot. There was only a single footman dressed in pristine livery who opened the door for her and abstained from asking questions.
Happily, she stepped into the brisk air and thought about the lengths she had to go previously to conduct her investigations. When she had not been outright lying to her relations about her destination, she had been sneaking out of the house through the servants’ entrance. Often, she’d adopted various roles to conduct her interviews, and as she strode up the walkway at number forty-four, she thought about how refreshing it was to carry out an investigation as Beatrice Hyde-Clare.
Well, no, not Beatrice Hyde-Clare.
Beatrice, Duchess of Kesgrave.
Was that a twitch? she wondered, feeling a disquieting spasm in her left eye. Had her flinch become an unwelcome convulsion?
Determinedly, she pushed the thought to the corner of her mind, a feat w
hose futility she realized a moment later when she was compelled to introduce herself. At once, her eyelid began to flutter and she ignored the unsettling contraction of the muscles by sheer force of will.
“Good afternoon, I am the Duchess of Kesgrave,” she said.
But the twitch was not the only thing for which she had failed to account. The magnitude of that fateful first utterance had escaped her, and she spoke with a curious breathlessness.
The footman, who could have no awareness of the moment’s significance, watched her with steady light brown eyes the same color as his closely cropped hair, waiting, it seemed, for her to say something more.
Belatedly, she realized she had neglected to identify her purpose. “I am here to see Mr. Mayhew.”
He accepted her statement with equanimity, then paused in subtle expectation for a brief moment before asking for her card.
Her card!
Good God, yes, her calling card!
What duchess went to visit the neighbors without bringing with her a little packet of embossed cards?
And not just duchesses, she thought contemptuously, any member of society. Placing one’s calling card on the salver was the standard protocol for the most basic social interactions.
How could she be so thoughtless?
Poor Aunt Vera, whose only interest in her had been to ensure she behaved with a modicum of propriety!
An uncontrollable urge to laugh threatened to overcome her as she thought about all those years her relative had spent teaching her etiquette.
Her life’s work squandered on a wastrel of a niece who was ultimately no better than she ought to be.
Bea’s amusement was further spurred by the realization that this was the first time in any of her investigations that someone questioned her identity. Of all the absurd personas she had assumed over the past few months—French maid, law clerk, museum administrator—the hardest one to believe was the only one was that was true.
The reality of her was more difficult to conceive than the fiction.
It was too much for any human being to resist, especially one with such a highly developed sense of the ridiculousness as Bea, and she giggled. Not immoderately. Not excessively. Not even noticeably. It was more like Marlow’s odd sound, a peepish squeak so slight the listener could not be sure it had actually been uttered.
But Bea felt it and the familiarity of the sensation soothed her. Her eye stopped twitching, and she smiled so brightly the expression transformed her whole face. “Yes, of course you want my calling card, and I am a dreadful creature for not being able to supply it. What an appalling lack of conduct! The trouble is, my good man,” she said, striving for an avuncular tone even though the servant looked to be a few years older than she, “I am just wed and have not had an opportunity to secure them yet. I fear the oversight presents us with quite a quandary, but I am confident that if we put our heads together, we will arrive at an equitable solution. Shall I dash back to Kesgrave House to fetch my marriage lines? I am sure it won’t take me more than a dozen minutes.”
It was an insincere offer, of course, for she had no idea where the certificate was kept and she certainly was not going to interrupt Kesgrave’s business with his steward to ask. She made the proposal only in hopes of embarrassing him with its extravagance.
No footman worthy of his position would allow a duchess to scuttle around Berkeley Square at his bidding.
As if following the script she had supplied, he assured her such lengths were not necessary. Then, however, he diverged from the play by promising to convey her esteem to Mr. Mayhew. “And the next time you pay a call, you may leave your card.”
He did not end his short oration by bidding her good day, but the finality was implied.
Contemplating how to respond to the dismissal, Bea decided there was neither need nor cause for subtlety. She could, yes, wriggle her way into the house through sly or deceptive means, but as soon as she gained a foothold, she would have to say the word decapitation or the phrase severed head, undoing all her fine machinations.
She might as well start as she meant to continue.
To that end, she said with straightforward simplicity, “Your reluctance to admit me is understandable, given the tragic events of early this morning. If you are a sensible person—and by all appearances you are—you are either worried that I am a determined scandalmonger hoping to discover salacious details about Monsieur Alphonse’s death or that my delicate sensibilities will be overcome by the horrific nature of it. Please let me ease your mind on both accounts: I find gossiping to be deeply abhorrent, and my sensibilities are of a quite hardy stock. I am here regarding the chef’s murder. I am an investigator of some note and have recently solved several murders. Perhaps you are familiar with my nom de l’enquêteur, Beatrice Hyde-Clare. I am happy to supply references if necessary. Simply ask anyone who was at Lord Stirling’s ball a week ago about my skill.”
The footman tried with admirable determination to keep his expression polite, but her remarkable speech provided too much provocation. The eyes that flickered with mild concern at her first reference to the chef’s fate were goggling in baffled astonishment by the time she offered her services.
Well, offered was understating her intentions.
Taking advantage of his momentary confusion, she turned sideways and slipped past him into the house. The entry hall was modest and pleasant, with a vase of pink roses resting next to a silver tray on a narrow table. An assortment of elegant calling cards filled the salver, and Bea was able to read the top few names before the footman stepped stiffly in front of her.
“I beg your pardon!” he said forcefully.
His meaning could not have been any clearer, for it was apparent in every rigid line of his body, but Bea chose to misunderstand him and kindly accept his apology. “Your agitation is understandable given the troubling events of this morning. Nobody can rest easily whilst there is a killer afoot, which is precisely why I am here. Now please take me to the room where Monsieur Alphonse was found. I prefer to examine the scene before conducting my interviews.”
Bea spoke with pragmatic blandness, shying away from euphemisms like “met his end,” to imbue her words with a credible expertise, as if she had a method she traditionally followed and from which she would not allow herself to be diverted.
Her settled approach did little to calm the footman, who was practically trembling at her audacity. “You cannot believe, miss, that I—”
Bea interrupted to do something she never thought she would do in her entire life. “Your grace,” she corrected.
His manner altered at once, the anger sweeping from his body with such vigor he seemed almost incapable of standing without it. He tugged his shoulders back, as if to regain his balance, and gracious civility overtook his features. With smooth deference, he said, “Your grace.”
The transformation, the heartbeat-quick change, as fleeting as lightning, from outraged to tranquil, was stunning. It would astound anyone, the unqualified affirmation in their superiority, but it had a particularly strong effect on Bea, a drab spinster, a plain wallflower, a poor relation beneath the ton’s notice. She could barely breathe from the sense of authority that pulsed through her.
Now, abruptly, unresistingly, the footman stood before her, awaiting her instruction.
It was another jolt, a startlingly sharp one, to discover she could control a person’s movements as if he were a puppet in a street performance of Punch and Judy.
No wonder Kesgrave had grown so accustomed to the sound his own voice—for years, it had been the only one he’d heard. ’Twas not just footmen who fell silent at his command but marquesses and prime ministers as well.
How heady that must be.
Here, she had got a taste, only a very small sample, of the power he had exerted his whole life, and already she could feel its influence. Why bother trying to reason someone into submission when you could simply cow them with your consequence?
It was not a p
ath strewn with rose petals but rather rose petals as far as the eye could see in every direction.
The revelation made Kesgrave even more of a remarkable anomaly, for despite the ease and genuflection that permeated every aspect of his life he had somehow acquired the ability to laugh at himself.
She recalled the moment at Lakeview Hall when her heart began its long, slow tumble to his feet. With seeming earnestness, after climbing through her bedchamber window to discuss Mr. Otley’s murder, he had drawn attention to a display of humility because he thought she did not credit him with enough modesty. Thoroughly entertained, she’d asked if he was now boasting about not boasting.
“It’s the depth to which you have driven me, Miss Hyde-Clare,” he’d declared.
And it was this response—this easygoing reply that bore no trace of resentment or offense—that actually displayed his modesty. He had been teasing her, yes, by implying that her treatment had eroded his confidence, but also acknowledging an essential truth: He had been brought low by a nonentity at a backwater house party in the Lake District, and he had no quarrel with the situation.
His vanity could withstand the demotion.
Decidedly, Bea resolved to display the same grace and humility even as she used her coronet to browbeat the poor footman who had the misfortune to answer her knock. “To be sure, the circumstance is highly irregular,” she said briskly, “but I cannot see how keeping someone of my stature waiting in the hallway will do anything to mitigate it.”
Someone of my stature? she thought in astonishment, appalled at how easily the words had come to her but also amused by their tenor, for she sounded like a villain in a Minerva Press novel.
“Do go inform your employer of my presence,” she added, with a dismissive flick of her hand. “I trust he is home?”
“Yes, your grace,” he said without equivocating.