by Lynn Messina
“You inflate your aunt’s excesses. Rather she would take the more practical route of instructing me to buy all the copies and offering to burn them herself. Divorce would shame your family too,” he said.
Affecting astonishment, Bea stared at the duke. “Good lord, Kesgrave, I don’t know what you have been about these past few weeks if you have failed to learn that my aunt would gladly tarnish her own name to burnish yours. Her awe of nobility might not be as self-serving as Mr. Mayhew’s, but it is just as tedious.”
Kesgrave, who refused to allow that anyone’s awe of nobility could be quite as tedious as Mr. Mayhew’s, glanced at the clock and noted the time. “It appears to be a long editorial.”
Bea took a sip of tea that had cooled beyond tepid to outright cold. “My impudence is very huge.”
He smiled broadly as he raised his own cup to his lips. “To my infinite delight.”
As sighing in infatuation could not be deemed an appropriate activity for the drawing room of a tiresome neighbor, she contented herself with a growl of impatience and wondered if she could finish her interview with Parsons while his employer was distracted. Mr. Mayhew was unlikely to notice her absence.
Perhaps that was the sum total of Mr. Mayhew’s plan and the reason he was writing furiously at the escritoire. He thought if he ignored the impertinent interloper long enough, she would leave of her own accord.
If that was his scheme, then it was a facile one. Having felt no compunction about elbowing her way into his home to scrutinize the floor under his kitchen cupboards, she would certainly not find a writing desk to be an insurmountable barrier.
Possibly, that was the level to which his scheming rose—simple minded and futile. She had already noted his lack of intelligence and the misplaced confidence he had in his own abilities.
“Three more minutes,” she said firmly.
Kesgrave returned his teacup to the table and agreed to her plan, for three minutes was a sufficient amount of time for Mr. Mayhew to finish his article. “Or is it a novella?”
“Then we storm the escritoire,” she said rousingly.
Responding to the slight revolutionary fervor in her tone, he owned himself ready for the battle. “Just hand me my quill.”
Bea laughed lightly at the image of the elegant Duke of Kesgrave in his pristine tailoring brandishing a pen against poor Mr. Mayhew is his clashing silks. Calmly, she inquired about his presence at number forty-forty. “I am still not clear why you left Mr. Stephens in a froth over the tenants to pay a call on a neighbor whom you dislike. Your actions defy logic, your grace.”
“My actions defy logic?” he said softly with pointed emphasis before insisting that froth overstated the steward’s condition. “Let’s call it a fizz. And, yes, Mr. Stephens was in a fizz over the tenants, but he was also understanding of a newly married man’s needs.”
“To spend time with his wife?” she asked archly, leaning forward to grasp the handle of the teacup and wishing Henry would appear soon with a plate of cakes. His delay was hardly surprising given the fact that the kitchen had just lost its chef. That said, she would happily accept a days-old version of one of Mr. Réjane’s flaky kipferl.
“To find out what his wife meant by establishing herself with the staff,” Kesgrave explained.
Bea drew her brows in confusion. “I would think such a simple concept is self-explanatory.”
“Yes, you would,” he replied, “and I was satisfied with the comment for a good hour and a half. But then as I was reviewing the figures in the accounting ledger, I paused for a moment to consider what it actually meant and felt a cold chill.”
“The temerity of Mr. Stephens, opening a window in your study without securing your permission,” she said with light outrage. “I trust he offered you his coat.”
“I felt a chill because I knew it could not be as simple as your telling Mrs. Wallace at what hour you would like your morning tray,” he said with a hint of impatience.
“Is that all it takes?” she asked mildly.
“Bea!”
“Yes?”
“You vowed,” he said vehemently.
“Actually, I did not, no,” she said with a firm shake of her head. “I tried to vow and was roundly thwarted by the clergyman you yourself selected. Perhaps if you had taken the time to interview each perspective minister and ascertain his stance on alterations to the Solemnization of Matrimony before the ceremony, then I would have vowed and your anger would be entirely justified. But you did not consider our nuptials important enough to require that modicum of effort and you cannot hold me accountable for that.”
As Beatrice had taken a similar tact during many of their previous disagreements, Kesgrave knew better than to try to dispute her individual points, many of which were purposely absurd. Instead, he pointed out that it was her intention that counted, not her success in achieving it. “If you tried to overturn Mayhew’s chair but failed to unseat him because you misjudged your own strength or underestimated his heft, he would still be irate at your attempt to dump him onto the floor. The difference between intention and action is merely a detail, as I am sure Mr. Bertram would agree.”
It was a valid argument, Bea thought, and one she herself might have employed if their situations had been reversed. But they were not, so she waved her hand dismissively and affected a pose of abject scorn. “Merely a detail. Merely a detail? All meaning lies in the details, as I am sure Mr. Bertram’s supervisor would agree. Have you not read Leviticus, your grace? ‘All flying insects that walk on all fours are to be regarded as unclean by you. There are, however, some flying insects that walk on all fours that you may eat: those that have jointed legs for hopping on the ground.’ Jointed legs,” she repeated with forceful intensity. “Now there is a superior being who comprehends the importance of details.”
It was a measure of either his affection or self-control that he did not pound his fist on the table in frustration but said with only bland vexation, “Very well, brat, and what of your promise not to investigate the horrible murders that cross your path? How are you going to wiggle off that hook?” he asked, his tone more curious than cross.
“Ah, there, we are well in the clear, your grace,” she said with reassuring confidence.
His lips twitched. “Are we?”
“Oh, yes, there will be no undignified wiggling today save for Mr. Mayhew’s squirmy fingers. I have held tightly to our compact.”
Without saying a word, Kesgrave made his differing understanding of the circumstance known by looking around the room with exaggerated interest.
“No, it is true,” she insisted earnestly. “In this case, I have crossed its path. This murder has absolutely nothing to do with me, and I am intruding with great impudence—you see, Mr. Mayhew is correct to compose a novella—on a private matter. Having said that, I must also note that the victim was the most creative and masterful practitioner of the culinary arts of this or any century and his death deprives the entire world of beauty and grace, which makes it, I would argue, the concern of every person of feeling and sensibility.”
Kesgrave’s opinion of this particularly dizzying piece of sophistry was readily apparent in his expression, which bore an unsettling resemblance to the one he had worn the day before after concluding his tour of the house in his bedchamber, and Bea, whose breath hitched in perceiving it, knew the look was not appropriate for any drawing room, even one that did not contain a banker furiously venting his spleen via pen and paper at the opposite end of the room.
Transfixed, her heart pounding slightly, she stared into his bright blue eyes and wondered why she was there, anywhere, that wasn’t alone with her husband.
Seconds passed, perhaps minutes, certainly the time limit she had imposed on Mr. Mayhew, without either of them speaking, but Bea was spared the mortification of discovering just how long she could sit there gazing insensibly at her husband by their host, who observed the tea service with approval.
“Mrs. Blewitt is a treasu
re,” he added fondly, unaware that Henry had yet to return.
Startled, Bea looked up to find a perfectly composed Mr. Mayhew smiling serenely at her. As if nothing extraordinary had happened, he regained the chair that he had summarily vacated in a distempered freak and asked Bea if she would be so kind as to pour.
She was so taken aback by the change in demeanor, she complied. The pot, however, was nearly empty and only a thin stream trickled out before dribbling into drops. She placed the partially filled cup in front of the banker, who lavishly praised her efficiency before thanking her and the duke for responding so quickly to his summons.
His summons, Bea thought, amused by the pompous attempt to impress her with his confidence. Surely, he did not think he could alter her understanding of recent events by simply claiming them to be the opposite of what they actually were.
Alas, it seemed he was going to make a sincere effort to try, for Mr. Mayhew immediately pressed upon them his very great appreciation for their assistance in the matter. “But before we can devote ourselves fully to figuring out who performed this heinous deed, we must first assuage her grace’s concerns regarding the disposal of le peu guillotine, as they appear to have distracted her from the more pressing issue. Women,” he said with fond exasperation to Kesgrave, as if there was nothing to be done but humor their strange fits and starts. “To that end, I have taken the enterprising step of cataloguing every accident involving the device in the past two years. I trust that will appease her and allow us to return at last to my investigation into Monsieur Alphonse’s murder.”
Having identified Beatrice as the problem, he did not consider her a safe caretaker of his list and handed it to Kesgrave. Then he lifted the cup, and noting the very small amount of liquid it contained, scowled in annoyance at how inadequately Bea had performed the one task he had assigned her. A snappish look appeared in his eye, but he had the sense not to chastise a duchess for failing to serve him well enough and instead smiled sweetly before asking if she or Kesgrave had any objections to his plan.
Oh, yes, Bea had objections.
Chapter Nine
Bea’s first issue concerned his estimation of her and Kesgrave’s intelligence. Did he really think so little of their mental acuity that he believed they would fall in line with his amended version of history? Was it merely that he assumed everyone was cognitively impaired in comparison to his own brilliance or was he operating under the misapprehension that they had both suffered memory-reducing head injuries in the past ten minutes?
Her second objection related to the unearned confidence of entitled bankers, as did her third and fourth, for only someone accustomed to the habitual capitulation of his underlings would attempt such a blatantly fatuous tactic. Her fifth, however, was purely pragmatic, for she would not be induced to hand over the reins of her investigation to one of its chief suspects.
Surely, even someone with Mr. Mayhew’s limited faculties understood that.
He would have to be a complete dunderhead to think his ruse had any hope of prevailing, and he could not be thoroughly without wits, for, entitled heir or not, he ran a large financial institution with reasonable success.
That was right, Bea thought suddenly, he did run a large financial institution with reasonable success. His name was over the door, to be sure, but no business of that scope was run without oversight. Mr. Mayhew had to answer to a governing body of some sort, whether it was a group of family members or an assortment of business associates. He was clever enough to earn their esteem and trust while courting new clients and managing a large staff.
Simply put, he could not be a complete dunderhead.
Some part of his brain was clearly capable of concise, cogent thought. What was less discernable was the extent of his coherence.
Could he merely be half a dunderhead?
Bea considered his sycophancy, which was at once the most repellant and comical aspect of his character. His assiduousness in seeking the duke’s approval made him appear foolish, but his behavior did not exist in isolation. No, he was a banker, which meant his livelihood depended on his proximity to power and most of the power in England was held by affluent peers. His toadying was not only the logical conclusion of a mind properly perceiving the demands of its business but also a professional necessity. Securing Kesgrave’s favor was central to his success, and if he chose to sacrifice his own self-respect to obtain wealth and security for his family, then he was only making a sound business decision. No doubt he considered it a small price to pay.
If his fawning was the product of cool calculation, perhaps his other fatuous-seeming traits were as well.
Thoughtfully, she contemplated the blundering way he tried to coerce her agreement to benefit his social standing and the bank. The attempt, so mortifyingly graceless, had accomplished the very opposite of its aim: Rather than gain his assistance, she had resolved to forego it.
Had he been more subtle in his manipulations, a little less grasping and a little more pleasing, he might have achieved his devoutly wished goal of greater familiarity with the Duke of Kesgrave.
Ah, but what if his objective had actually been different from the stated one, she wondered now as she examined the situation from the opposite point of view. If his intention had actually been to thwart an investigation into Mr. Réjane’s murder, then his heavy-handed approach had had a much better chance of succeeding. She had dismissed his attempt to negotiate access to his staff as an act of impertinence and idiocy, but it had in fact put her in an untenable situation. She could not accede to his demands, particularly on behalf of her husband, but nor could she override his wishes. If she had been the woman he thought her—a mushroomy nonentity trying to style herself as a lady Runner to make herself appear interesting to the beau monde—she would have abandoned the field at once.
But she was not, of course, and had options that far exceeded his meager resources, and when she’d exerted her privilege, he had panicked and grabbed her arm.
In that moment he’d comprehended the meaning of her confidence: that the duke might in fact take some interest in his wife.
How awful it must have been for him when, only a moment later, Kesgrave appeared in the room. Now he had two inquisitive peers with which to contend!
His solution had been to apply social pressure to convince Kesgrave to prohibit her from continuing her inquiry.
It was, she conceded, a clever tactic, for she herself had been horrified by the picture he painted of a monstrously intrusive woman. The assumption was correct, for it would indeed make a most delicious on-dit, and it was only Kesgrave’s refusal to bow to anyone’s censure that caused the effort to fail. A more dogmatic husband would have heartily agreed.
When that stratagem foundered, he had taken a moment to reorganize his thoughts under the guise of having a tantrum and settled on yet another tactic. He would make himself integral to her investigation so that he could stay abreast of its developments and manipulate its direction.
Bea did not assume that the banker’s machinations meant he was guilty. As his livelihood depended on his status in society, he was particularly vulnerable to the deleterious effects of gossip. Having his prized French chef brutally slain in his own home would set tongues wagging in a way that a precautionary tale about irresponsible device maintenance would not. The fact that he felt compelled to polish his heritage by wrongfully crediting his family with financial innovations indicated that he was not quite delighted with the luster bestowed by his ancestors and felt vulnerable to society’s judgments.
It was possible, therefore, that his manipulations stemmed from an instinct to protect his name and business. But it was equally likely they were spurred by a desire to save himself from the hangman’s noose.
And if it was the hangman’s noose, then what reason did Mr. Mayhew have to kill Mr. Réjane? Previously, she had thought it might have been the audacity of the chef’s presumption to leave his employ a moment before he was prepared to release him. But that was t
he motive of a dunderhead who acted without consideration. The banker had proved himself more thoughtful, and she knew that if he had acted lethally, then he had stronger cause.
Recalling again the victim’s strangely timed proposal to Mrs. Wallace, she felt certain Mr. Mayhew’s actions, whatever they were, related somehow to Mr. Réjane’s determination to leave. Both events had been precipitated by something.
Convinced it could only be an argument, Bea asked him what he and the chef quarreled about the day before.
He started with surprise but recovered quickly, smiling with warmth and condescension. “My dear duchess, I cannot conceive to what you are referring. If we are going to pursue Monsieur Alphonse’s killer together, I must insist that you keep to the facts. Your imagination is charming and I look forward to hearing many entertaining tales from you, perhaps over dinner at Kesgrave House, but I believe this moment calls for sober-minded consideration. Inventing quarrels will do nothing to advance our investigation. Now, regarding my decision to get rid of le peu guillotine, I think you will see I was well justified. If Monsieur Alphonse did not hurt himself fatally on it, as you contend, it was only a matter of time before one of the servants did. I am to be lauded for taking preemptive action to protect my staff.”