by Lynn Messina
“I will pursue this matter without your assistance,” she said, rising from her chair as she thanked her host for his time. “I will tell the duke of your interest to dine at Kesgrave House. I am sure he will be most gratified.”
Her confidence seemed to infuriate him, and Mr. Mayhew lunged to his feet, took two swift steps toward her and grabbed her arm by the elbow. “Sit down! I am not done.”
Although one did not have to be a duchess to know that his action was a strict violation of all rules governing civility, the breach somehow seemed more striking in light of her new rank. Perhaps it was merely that as the spinsterish Miss Hyde-Clare she had learned not to expect displays of basic courtesies. Or maybe it was because it required more impudence to grab a ducal arm.
Regardless of its cause, she was genuinely shocked to see his tightened fingers grasping her bare flesh.
It is the bank, Bea thought.
Every day Mr. Mayhew went to the bank, where his name was carved in stone above the doorway, and he ordered people about, quelled dissent and had his opinions affirmed. There could be no other explanation for his inexplicable faith in his own proficiency and his inability to deal with her refusal. Only a sense of entitlement nurtured for generations could produce such overweening incompetence.
He was a fatuous man who deserved none of her attention, and as she stared up at him whilst simultaneously looking down upon him, she wondered if this feeling of exasperated contempt was how Kesgrave felt most of the time. It had to grow exhausting, people always demanding your attention, desiring your largess, attracting your interest any way they could.
Making no move to free her arm from his grasp, Bea said calmly and firmly, almost as if addressing a small child, “You will release me, Mr. Mayhew.”
The unearned confidence of privileged sons, however, ran deep. “I will not.”
“Oh, but you will,” said a voice silkily from the door.
Chapter Eight
Startled by the Duke of Kesgrave’s unexpected presence in his drawing room—why hadn’t that wretched butler or one of the footmen announced him—Mr. Mayhew convulsed his hand, momentarily tightening his grip on Bea’s elbow to a painful degree, before dropping it as if burned and taking several steps backward into his chair.
As her host struggled to regain his equilibrium, she looked at her husband and said, “We were just discussing you, Kesgrave. Mr. Mayhew would like to come to dinner.”
“Would he?” he asked with easy curiosity, but his stance was rigid and Bea wondered how long he had been standing outside the door listening. Entrances as perfect as his simply did not just happen; they were contrived.
Mr. Mayhew, perceiving a grievous faux pas, hastily clarified his position by stammering “no” several times in rapid succession.
It was a humiliating display of weakness from a man who had just gone out of his way to demonstrate his strength, Bea thought. “He is also desirous of using your box at Covent Garden. And there was some talk about a weekend stay at your estate in Cambridgeshire and… Oh, dear, there were so many items on his list of demands, I am afraid I simply cannot remember them all. Would you be so kind as to catalogue them for the duke, Mr. Mayhew?”
“No, no, no,” he said again, his smile oily as little droplets of sweat began to form at his temples. “You must have misunderstood me, your grace. I made no list of demands. Those were wants…requests…desires, rather.”
Bea nodded thoughtfully as she followed the progression. “Ah, so then Mr. Mayhew desires—”
Here, she broke off her speech to smile sweetly at the banker and ask if she got it right.
Wiping the perspiration from his forehead with a cream-colored handkerchief, he amended it slightly to devoutly wishes.
“Very good. Mr. Mayhew devoutly wishes you to move a portion of your deposits to his bank. He is not pleased with your keeping all your filthy lucre at—”
“I never said filthy,” Mr. Mayhew protested loudly with an anxious look at the duke, whose expression revealed none of his thoughts.
Bea promptly conceded the point. “I was editorializing. Forgive me. Mr. Mayhew is not pleased with your keeping all your lovely money”—another sweet smile, another glance seeking confirmation—“at Coutts. He did not state the nature of his objection, but I can only assume he is disgruntled by the higher quality of the other bank’s clientele and seeks to emulate it. More dukes, fewer army agents and Cornish businessmen?”
“We are delighted with the quality of our clientele, and I made the gentle suggestion only out of concern for his grace. Coutts is a large establishment and as such is not quite capable of providing the duke with all the attention he deserves,” Mr. Mayhew insisted, twisting the handkerchief between his fingers as his eyes darted from Kesgrave to Beatrice and then Beatrice to Kesgrave, unsure to whom he should give his answer. “Mayhew and Co. employs clerks who work around the clock and are available at any hour to attend to your needs, including Sundays and Christmas.”
If Kesgrave had thoughts on the matter, he did not express them, but Bea applauded this coldhearted approach. “A relentless taskmaster is exactly what one looks for in a banker.”
A dark flush suffused Mr. Mayhew’s cheeks, and unable to stop himself, he looked at Bea with ardent dislike. The extent of his resentment did not surprise her, for he had been thwarted in his plan to increase his social standing and he did not seem like a man accustomed to the experience of being denied something he desired.
That, too, was the consequence of having his name carved in stone on the entrance to the establishment.
Contemplating the banker’s well-developed sense of entitlement, Bea had little trouble imagining him chopping Mr. Réjane’s head off in a fit of annoyance at the prospect of the French chef leaving his employ a moment before he was ready to release him from it. Then, having made quick work of the head, he tossed the cleaver under the cabinet and toddled off to bed, confident the constable would believe whatever addle-witted story he told him and the staff would clean up the mess.
’Twas not the scheme of a Machiavellian genius, to be sure, but Mr. Mayhew did not strike her as particularly intelligent.
Smoothly, the banker transformed his glare into a smile as he transferred his gaze from Bea to Kesgrave.
“It is not relentless to provide comprehensive services to our clients,” Mr. Mayhew said with studied ease, his hands ceasing to tug on the cloth square as he grew comfortable with a subject familiar to him. “It is good business. I myself am available on the weekend for consultations and even visit my office on Sundays from one to three. Of course, I attend the morning church service and urge my clerks to do the same, for there is no material wealth without spiritual wealth. I am a devout believer in divine guidance and frequently consult a spiritual adviser. To be open on Sunday is highly irregular and frowned upon by many, but I think risking public censure to fulfill my customers’ requirements demonstrates Mayhew and Co.’s commitment to their satisfaction. And you must not worry about my clerks. They are well compensated for their diligence. They know my success depends on them and are properly grateful for the trust I place in them.”
“I find your display of business acumen quite reassuring,” Bea announced. “Your determination to coerce my assistance in securing Kesgrave’s business made me worry about the inferiority of your bank.”
Mr. Mayhew laughed awkwardly, with more vigor than sincerity, and complimented her grace on her sense of humor, which was…ah…unique. “You do enjoy teasing me, don’t you? Always making little jokes at my expense. Coerced!” he repeated, shaking his head in wonder, as if incapable of thinking of such witty sallies himself. Then he turned his attention to the duke and his voice grew grave. “But do allow me to be serious for a moment, your grace, for this house has great cause to be somber. Early this morning we suffered an unparalleled tragedy, as my chef was brutally slain. The constable was no help in the matter, as the incompetent man has convinced himself that Monsieur Alphonse accidentally
killed himself with his own kitchen device. That is why I was asking—no, imploring—the duchess to look into the matter on my behalf. An unconventional request, I know, but I heard from so many people how handily she extracted a confession from Lord Wem at the Stirling ball and thought she could perform the same service for me. She is a very capable woman, so skillful and clever, and you are to be congratulated on making an excellent choice, your grace. But my ability to think clearly must have been corrupted by shock, for I realize now how untenable the request is. If her interest in my decapitated chef became public knowledge, she would be exposed to the most vicious gossip and at such a delicate time, when the ton is still marveling at your unexpected choice. Everyone assumed you would wed Lady Victoria, whose grace and beauty are universally admired, and the last thing I want to do is draw further attention to the differences between the two ladies. It was inexcusably selfish of me to have even entertained the thought, your grace, and I do hope you will forgive me for contemplating for even one moment exposing your wife to mockery and revilement. The idea of anyone thinking your wife morbid or unnatural causes me tremendous pain.”
Bea listened to this lengthy speech in fascination, for it was a marvel of opportunism and self-interest, the way he abased himself before the duke while also trying to direct his actions. It had been shrewd to imply society’s disapprobation because it made the inevitable outcome of her behavior central to the conversation and represented an essential truth: No man wanted the ton examining his wife’s conduct and finding it wanting.
It was, she thought, the first sign of intelligence she had seen in him, for if he was indeed guilty, then removing her decisively from the investigation was the best chance he had of keeping the truth from coming to light.
But no. Barely five minutes ago he had been perfectly happy to allow her to proceed as long as he could personally benefit from it.
That opportunity had passed, and yet Mr. Mayhew was still determined to wrench something for himself from the experience. He had merely adjusted his approach, seeking to earn Kesgrave’s goodwill by presenting himself as a partner in a most cherished goal: preserving the duke’s good name.
Kesgrave, however, had no concern for the repute of his name, at least not yet, and had little patience for men trying to earn his favor. Bea rather thought the latter would be known to anyone who had made a study of him, as presumably the ambitious Mr. Mayhew had, but perhaps the bright veneer that enfolded a duchy made such things difficult to see.
Either way, the banker’s face lost all hint of color when Kesgrave murmured softly, “I am generally indifferent to the opinions of others.”
Ah, so he had heard that part.
Mr. Mayhew, despite the limitations imposed on him by generational privilege, arrived at the same conclusion with equal speed and adjusted his tact in an instant. “What a remarkable coincidence, your grace, for I had just said the very same thing to your duchess not ten minutes before. It is such an admirable trait to have. So many of us worry what society will think, and I count myself among that number. That is why your outlook is so refreshing. So…refreshing,” he repeated slowly as he came to the end of his steam of flattering prattle and realized he did not know how to proceed.
Amused, Bea watched his eyes flutter erratically as he evaluated the situation, trying to figure out where the duke stood on the matter of his wife’s strange proclivities so that he may stand there too. On the face of it, it should have been a simple calculation, for Kesgrave loathed inconvenience and allowing his wife to interfere in another man’s household would create endless nuisances.
Clearly, he should hold the line.
And yet the duke was there in Mr. Mayhew’s own drawing room—after two years of invitations!—bestirring himself on behalf of his wife’s strange proclivity.
Like a gambler trying to access the strength of another player’s hand from the expression on his face, Mr. Mayhew examined Kesgrave’s features for a long moment and, detecting nothing useful, made a wild guess.
“And so, even though I know it might present a few challenges, I would be deeply grateful to her grace if she would consent to look into the matter of Monsieur Alphonse for me,” the banker said with perhaps a little too much enthusiasm. Having made his decision, he seemed alive to the benefits of allowing a duchess to run tame in his home.
Although the request was made of Bea, the appeal itself was addressed to her husband, who displayed no inclination to reply, causing Mr. Mayhew to clutch the handkerchief so tightly his knuckles turned white. Bea allowed the awkward silence to stretch to a second past intolerable and pronounced herself delighted to offer her expertise.
“Wonderful, simply wonderful,” the banker said, his smile as disgruntled as it was relieved. “Do make yourself comfortable, my dear, while I ring for fresh tea and cakes. And for you, your grace, perhaps a glass of port,” he said, eagerly tugging the bell pull.
Almost immediately, Henry presented himself at the door, and having arranged for the comfort of his guests, Mr. Mayhew sat down in the chair opposite them on the settee. “I have not congratulated you yet on your good fortune, your grace, which is quite remiss of me. I wish you and the duchess every happiness in your union.”
As it was most certainly not a social call, Bea refused to indulge his pretense that it was and asked him what he had hoped to achieve by having le peu guillotine destroyed.
It was a simple enough question, but Mr. Mayhew professed himself utterly baffled and repeated it out loud several times with varying emphasis in an effort to improve his understanding. “What did I hope to achieve? What did I hope to achieve?”
Slowly, the implication of the query seemed to occur to him and his outrage increased by degrees until every part of him was consumed by offense. Jumping to his feet, he launched into a tirade against her extraordinary impudence. “How dare you come into my home and ask me what I hoped to achieve. I am not insensible to the insidiousness of your claim. You are implying that I had something to do with Monsieur Alphonse’s death. It is an act of inconceivable gall, inconceivable gall I tell you, to sit on my settee in my drawing room and accuse me of something so contemptible as cutting the head off my own chef. I am a gentleman, your grace. A gentleman! I do not settle arguments with kitchen implements. By God, I don’t! If violence is necessary, it is pistols at dawn! And you dare to imply that I have behaved with murderous intensity. I, the head of Mayhew & Co., a banking institution that dates back over one hundred years. You insult not only me but generations of Mayhews. Generations! I cannot conceive of your insolence.”
Pacing the floor, he vented his outrage with no concern for his guests, and Bea, little worried she would miss something important, such as an inadvertent admission of guilt, slid closer to the duke. “Another successful frank conversation,” she observed in a low voice. “I cannot thank you enough, your grace, for that helpful suggestion. I have found it to be a very effective technique for gathering information.”
As if incapable of resisting the urge to touch her, he ran his fingers lightly down her back and said softly, “I am willing to concede that I might have somewhat of an advantage in initiating frank conversations, as I’m reasonably certain I’ve never caused anyone to rail at the drapery.”
She looked across the room at Mr. Mayhew, who was demanding an explanation for Bea’s impudence from the curtains. “I believe he’s in consultation with them. Oh, no, wait, he’s raising his fist in anger. Now he is railing. I am not sure how to respond to his tantrum. Without question, the more humane reaction would be to interrupt before he collapses in apoplexy or embarrasses himself in front of the servants, for Henry will be back at any moment with the tray. And yet I cannot help but feel it is good for him to rant freely in the presence of a duke, for overcoming his awe of nobility can only improve his character.”
Kesgrave’s lips twisted cynically. “It is not awe Mayhew feels for nobility but voracity. He would consume the House of Lords whole if he could.”
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��Is that why you’ve never had him to dine?” she asked as the banker turned his attention to the escritoire.
“Not at all,” he replied, “I respect ambition and would never penalize a man for possessing it. He is tediously dull and pompous, which you no doubt discovered for yourself during your conversation. How long were you bracketed in here with him before I arrived?”
“I cannot say because I do not know when you arrived,” she pointed out logically.
“In time to hear you call me pedantic,” he replied.
She was instantly contrite. “Oh, dear. I am so very sorry.”
He assured her he took no offense. “Naturally, I am accustomed to the charge, for you lodge it against me almost daily.”
“I was not expressing sympathy for you, but for the poor tenants with leaky roofs whose repairs will be delayed so much longer because of Mr. Mayhew’s penchant for pontification,” she explained, then narrowed her eyes in confusion when the man in question began to attack the bergère next to the writing desk. “Goodness gracious, what is he doing now?”
“Overcoming his awe of chairs,” Kesgrave said.
In fact, after an extended struggle to extricate the front left leg, which had got snagged by the rug, the banker sat down at the table, extracted a sheet of paper from one of its compartments and dipped a nib in ink. “Oh, I see, he’s writing an editorial for the London Morning Gazette about the new Duchess of Kesgrave’s huge impudence,” she said wryly. “I hope you don’t mind public ridicule, your grace.”
“As long as it’s not in the form of a caricature by Rowlandson, I have no objection,” he replied.
Since their host seemed to have settled in to pen his missive, she decided to make herself comfortable as well and reached for the pot of tea, which had cooled to tepid while Mr. Mayhew was expounding on his illustrious family’s many accomplishments. “I believe that ship sailed long ago, your grace. If Rowlandson wasn’t already making my wan cheeks excessively red after the incident at Lord Stirling’s ball, he will begin as soon as our episode at the Particular becomes more widely known. Rest assured, the servants are already talking about it,” she said, pouring a cup and offering it to the duke, who accepted it with a murmured thank you. “I expect a print of me wearing a comically large pair of spectacles and examining the lint in Prinny’s pocket to appear in Hannah Humphries’s window by Thursday week, so you must resign yourself to it now or be prepared to give testimony against me in ecclesiastical court later. Concerned more about your dignity than my happiness, Aunt Vera would consider a print shop in St. James sufficient provocation and instigate the proceedings herself.”