A Sinister Establishment

by Lynn Messina

  “You must not worry: Our forthright manner will disconcert them,” he said definitively.

  Not worry about marching into enemy territory without an assumed identity! ’Twas madness. “I cannot comprehend how you can say that with such certainty.”

  “Because all these months later I am still disconcerted by yours,” he explained, teasingly.

  “Now you are trying to flatter me,” she muttered, “but I am not as susceptible to blandishments. If you cannot do a Scottish brogue, let us try Welsh, which is perhaps a little less of a challenge, as it is phonetically similar to the English spoken in Bristol, although it is non-rhotic.”

  But rather than speak with a melodic lilt or make any attempt to lengthen his vowels, the duke slipped forward on the bench, brushed a wisp of hair gently back from her forehead and took possession of her lips. Startled, she protested briefly, then succumbed to its effects, for it was intoxicating and sweet, and made her heart thump with happiness and need.

  It ended as abruptly as it began, with Kesgrave sliding back in his seat.

  Bea curled her fingers under the cushion to ensure her balance, which felt a little unreliable, and stared blankly for a moment, taking the time to gather her wits.

  No doubt that had been precisely his intention.

  “Really, Kesgrave, you should have a little self-respect,” she said satirically, “for you are not wholly without rhetorical gifts. Before attempting to seduce me into agreement, you owe it to yourself to at least try to make a persuasive argument.”

  Naturally, he did not own the tactic, insisting the display of affection was an earnest gesture, not a calculated maneuver. “You are genuinely irresistible, brat.”

  Bea did not doubt his sincerity, for the Duke of Kesgrave had long revealed himself to be a man of unusual tastes, and as gratified as she was by his lack of resistance, she did not allow it to alter her purpose.

  Acknowledging the compliment with a brisk nod, she wondered if perhaps he would not do better with an accent from another region altogether. “What if we go farther southward and try Cornish? The language itself is derived from the Brythonic branch of Celtic, and lenition occurs in the f, s, and th sounds.”

  Aghast at the information, Kesgrave said, “How on earth did you acquire such an arcane assortment of dialectical minutia?”

  Bea was vaguely shocked by the question, for the answer should have been readily apparent to him. “Wattlesworth’s History of Languages and Their Improving Effects on Civilization from the 15th Century through the 18th Century with a Brief Sojourn to 13th-Century Salisbury.”

  “What is a Wattlesworth, I wonder,” he murmured.

  “Although I applaud the effort, your grace, your attempt to distract me will bear no fruit,” Bea said matter-of-factly, her grip on the cushion loosening as she grew more confident in her stability. “That said, a Wattlesworth is Lester J. Wattlesworth, a don of comparative philology at Oxford, and I am happy to lend you his compendium if your own library does not already contain it. Now please, if you will, demonstrate your proficiency in your preferred dialect and we shall construct our identity from there.”

  “I cannot decide if I am gratified by your assumption that my education was so comprehensive as to include lessons in thespianism or insulted that you’d think a peer of my standing would require them,” he replied.

  “Ah, so you are lacking the skill entirely,” she said with a hint of disappointment. “You must not feel bad, your grace. I did not think to ask you which accents you were capable of before we wed, and that oversight is mine. No matter. I will do the talking once we arrive. Are you content to be the Erskines from Thurso or do you have some objection?”

  Refusing to be provoked, Kesgrave announced that his family name would stand them in excellent stead, especially if Mr. Mayhew was present.

  To be sure, this was a wrinkle Bea had failed to consider, for she could not imagine any gentleman returning to his post only a day after a member of his staff had been ruthlessly decapitated. Even if he cared little for the chef’s death, having contrived it personally himself, she thought it behooved him to at least appear too distraught to take up his responsibilities.

  Pointing this fact out to the duke, Bea was irritated by his insistence that it made no difference either way to the success of their scheme and mumbling softly under her breath, lamented the vexatious assurance of overly confident men. It was, she knew, an unfair charge, for no matter how much the duke’s unshakable certainty might frustrate her, it bore no resemblance to Mr. Mayhew’s unearned entitlement.

  Unaware of the company to which she had silently consigned him, Kesgrave chuckled and promised her his confidence was always perfectly calibrated to the situation.

  At this statement, which seemed to prove her point, Bea wanted to screech, but she was denied the opportunity by their arrival at the bank.

  Blast it!

  They had still yet to settle on an approach.

  As if suddenly aware that her anxiety was genuine, the duke took her hand in his and said solemnly, “Trust me, my dear, you have no cause for concern. I have the matter firmly in hand. I have followed you into plenty of scrapes. This time you must follow me.”

  “A scrape?” she repeated, thoroughly unsettled by his understanding of their purpose. “You are leading me into a scrape? This was supposed to be a well-executed scheme, not a scrape. I wonder at your ability to inspire your followers, your grace, for that was hardly the rousing St. Crispin’s Day speech one hopes for before battle. Perhaps we should review Mr. Erskine’s history before we leave the carriage. The family seat is situated on a lovely park near the river and you come from a family of avid…”

  But Kesgrave, adopting one of Bea’s favorite maneuvers, left the carriage while she was still talking. He was at a slight disadvantage though, for rather than walk into the bank and assume she would follow, he was obligated to help her climb down from the conveyance. As soon as her feet were on the pavement, however, he continued to the entrance, and allowing her no time to admire the building’s classic architecture, held out the door for her.

  Succumbing to his determination, Bea entered the bank’s bright rotunda, with its high arching windows, and murmured to the duke, “I hope I will have no cause to regret this.”

  “Your faith in me is humbling, my love,” he replied softly, before stepping farther into the elaborately designed interior, complete with coved ceilings, plaster pediments, and an assortment of Greek goddesses in an alcove to the left. One carried a bow and quiver of arrows, and Bea wondered what Diana had to do with banking. Perhaps the Mayhews hunted down clients who stood in default.

  Bea had little time to consider it because her husband had marched up to a clerk in a forest green waistcoat and declared himself to be the Duke of Kesgrave.

  Oh, but how he said it—in stentorian tones, yes, so that everyone in the vicinity could hear, but also with pride and conceit, as if his presence should have been eagerly anticipated.

  The clerk, whose tag identified him as Mr. Squires, responded to it at once, bowing deeply as if in the presence of royalty, although surely, he had been trained better than that, and pledging to be of service.

  And the look Kesgrave gave him in response, barely moving his head at all, as if somehow flicking away a fly with his glance.

  It was magnificent, Bea thought.

  Everyone else in the establishment thought so too, for slowly a hush fell over the room, which was large and ornate, with a row of desks along the eastern end and a kiosk with a gleaming copper roof in the middle. A high wooden structure topped by glass and divided by partitions was occupied by a quartet of clerks, who ceased what they were doing to watch the owner of the company fly across the floor to welcome the duke.

  Ah, so Kesgrave had been right about that as well—despite the brutal death that darkened his home, the banker was eagerly overseeing his business as usual.

  “Your grace!” Mr. Mayhew said, his breath hitching slightly from th
e physical exertion. His delight, however, was unmarred by surprise or confusion.

  Barely acknowledging the greeting, Kesgrave said, “I am here.”

  And the timber of his voice—it conveyed so much at once: impatience, importance, boredom. It was, she thought, a dialect all its own.

  Little wonder he had no use for a Wattlesworth.

  Mr. Mayhew, perceiving the meaning of the seemingly gratuitous statement, requested with overweening obsequiousness that Kesgrave follow him to his office. Then, as if noticing Bea for the first time, he acknowledged her with an absent salutation, then returned to smiling deferentially at the duke.

  The bank owner’s office was gracious and comfortable, with deep-red walls, gold-colored fixtures, and a table between two low cabinets for the storage of files. Three chairs surrounded the table, which was topped with blotting paper and a bottle of ink, but he led them to a seating area near the bookshelves.

  “Please sit down, your grace, and make yourself comfortable,” he said with ingratiating zeal, displaying no concern or confusion over their sudden appearance as he gestured to the largest chair, which, with its boxy shape, bore an unsettling resemblance to King George’s throne.

  Forcefully, Bea smothered a giggle as Kesgrave majestically sat down. Lacking an equally extravagant option, Bea made do with a midnight-blue armchair. Mr. Mayhew, literally lowering himself before greatness, assumed a bergère that was a few inches shorter than was customary for such a seat.

  A brief moment of silence followed as Mr. Mayhew waited for the duke to speak first. When he did not, the banker jumped into the fray. “This is the greatest pleasure—”

  Kesgrave, timing it perfectly, began to speak at the exact same moment, leaving Bea to wonder how he had arranged the thing. Perhaps he had observed the inhalation of breath that denoted speech.

  Of course, Mr. Mayhew apologized at once for talking over the duke, which required him to talk further over the duke, a consequence that led to another apology and the awkward realization that he had done it yet again. Baffled, he fell silent.

  Kesgrave ignored it all and announced they were there to make amends.

  To his credit, Mr. Mayhew showed no reaction at all to this remarkable statement. His face impassive, he said with oily smoothness, “I am sure that is not necessary.”

  “You dare contradict me?” Kesgrave asked imperiously.

  Mr. Mayhew withered slightly but managed to keep his shoulders straight. “No, no, your grace.”

  “Yesterday, on the urging of the duchess, I devoted my time and energy to investigating the death of Auguste Alphonse Réjane, who you said was killed in an accident involving le peu guillotine. As my wife was insistent that something sinister had happened, I had no choice but to give the matter my full attention. I have done that now to my great discomfort and decided your original assessment of the situation was accurate,” he announced.

  The banker could not have been more surprised if Bea had tipped him out of the chair onto the rug. “It was?”

  “It was death by misadventure, an unfortunate development, which I suspected from the very beginning,” Kesgrave said.

  “You did?” Mr. Mayhew replied in wonder.

  “Nevertheless, I was compelled to make a thorough inspection of the situation out of deference to my wife,” he explained. “I am sure you know how women are, Mayhew, impetuous, irrational, histrionic and emotional. Having committed myself to one, I was obligated to allow her her lead, especially because she considers herself to be something of an expert.”

  “Some men find a confident female appealing,” Mr. Mayhew murmured generously.

  “It was, on the whole, a waste of time,” Kesgrave continued, “but I am a man in the first flush of marriage and can allow the indulgence. Your constraints, however, are not as fluid, and I wasted your time yesterday. That is why I am here to make amends. I will deposit fifty thousand pounds with your bank. Does that suffice?”

  Did it suffice?

  Did it suffice!

  The expression of utter astonishment on Mr. Mayhew’s face clearly stated that the question did not need to be asked.

  Of course it sufficed.

  A fraction would have.

  A mere tenth!

  Before Mr. Mayhew could gather his wits enough to express his approval of the plan, a knock sounded on the door and a dark-haired clerk entered with a tray. Gratefully, as if requiring a distraction, the banker jumped to his feet and accepted the tray. “Very good, Herbert. Your timing is ideal. Please place it on the small table and bring me the monthly register from the safe. Thank you.”

  Bea, whose appreciation for the duke’s acting skills had risen sharply as she listened to him convincingly dismiss both her and her sex in a single sweeping stroke, was further impressed by his ability to affect scorn for the perfectly benign tea Mr. Mayhew offered.

  “Is this an example of how you conduct your business, Mayhew, failing to consult your client on his preference?” he asked contemptuously. “Am I to find my money invested in a joint-stock company of which I’ve never heard?”

  “Of course not, your grace,” the banker said with soothing calm, as if trying to pacify a wild animal. “Your sanction is essential at Mayhew & Co. Please tell me how I may please you.”

  “Arrack,” he said.

  Some of Mr. Mayhew’s assuredness slipped. “Arrack.”

  “Yes, I would like a glass of Batavia arrack.”

  As the fermented sugarcane drink from Asia was something of an unusual request—not entirely obscure but also not commonly found in even the most well-stocked pantry of a Fleet Street bank—Mr. Mayhew wanted to suggest a more reasonable alternative such as claret or port. But he could not, for Kesgrave had boxed him in nicely.

  His shoulders sagging slightly in defeat, Mr. Mayhew opened the door and called back the clerk to make the specific request. Kesgrave, however, forestalled him with his ardent disapproval of managers who do not personally attend to matters for their most important clients. “Am I depositing fifty thousand pounds in your clerk’s bank, Mayhew, or yours?” he asked with a faint sneer. “If it is the former, then allow me to be introduced to Herbert, for he and I have much to discuss.”

  Laughing awkwardly, Mr. Mayhew insisted that Kesgrave had misunderstood. He had been inviting his colleague in to entertain the duke and his wife while he fetched the arrack.

  “Entertain me?” Kesgrave asked with vigorous disdain. “Am I a small child in need of diversion? Will he perform a puppet show?”

  “No, no, of course not,” the banker said, warding off the clerk with a frantic wave of his hand. “I was just teasing. Obviously, you will be fine on your own. I will be back in just a moment and then we may proceed with your deposit. I have a few papers for you to fill out. Or”—his features lightened as another, arrack-free option occurred him—“shall I send them directly to your steward or solicitor for perusal? In which case, you may return to Berkeley Square immediately and not linger here.”

  “Am I to understand, Mayhew, that you would rather deal with my steward than me?” Kesgrave asked superciliously.

  His face pinched with anxiety, the banker rushed to assure him he would like nothing less than to be deprived of the pleasure of attending to the duke’s needs. “I am determined to offer satisfaction. You only have to tell me how I may.”

  “Arrack,” Kesgrave said tersely.

  “Yes, your grace, directly,” Mr. Mayhew said, sweeping out of the door to locate the hard-to-find alcohol.

  But Kesgrave was not done with him yet. “And ask the duchess what she would like. I do not believe she was consulted either on her preference.”

  “The tea is delightful, thank you,” Bea said and noted the banker’s relief, which lasted only long enough for her to add that she had a particular craving for macarons.

  Having already been tormented by the duke, Mr. Mayhew knew better than to protest. “My pleasure,” he said with a stiff smile and promised to return with the item
s presently. Then he walked out of the room and left them alone in his office with all his ledgers, documents and files.

  As the door clicked shut, Kesgrave leaned back in his thronelike chair and smiled smugly. “Does Mrs. Erskine want to apologize for her lack of faith now or later? It is all the same to me.”

  Bea, who would never be so petty-minded as to deny a wronged party the satisfaction of gloating, promptly acknowledged her miscalculation and vowed not to underestimate him again. “But,” she added as she tried to open the cabinet to the left of the table and discovered it to be locked, “I could not have known that your money makes people stupid.”

  Kesgrave smiled faintly as he began to apply a small device to the cabinet’s lock. “Yes, you could.”

  As she had observed the effect his wealth and title had on people on more than one occasion, she conceded the truth of the remark. Then she tried the second cabinet and found to her relief it opened easily. Its two sections were divided by a shelf; on the top were folders filled with loose sheets of papers.

  Contracts, she wondered as she began to peruse them.

  “How long before he returns?” Bea asked, briefly lifting her gaze to observe his brows drawn in concentration. Suddenly they lightened and the door to the second cabinet gave way.

  “Ten minutes,” he said tersely, pulling out a ledger. “It could be as many as fifteen, as Herbert will have to go slightly farther afield to find a tavern that is open on Sunday. Regardless, Mayhew will feel compelled to update us on his progress, so let us assume ten. I urge you to look quickly even though I am not sure what we are looking for.”

  “Anything irregular,” she said as she flipped through one file after the other. They were all loan requests that had been denied by the bank. “I am confident we will know it when we see it. Something is off here and we will find it.”

  Kesgrave laid a book on the table and said, “Well, it is not in here. This book contains a list of all the bank’s depositors and their assets.”

  “I have loan applications,” she replied, thrusting the folders back into the cabinet and pulling out a ledger. She opened it to the first page and examined it in silence for several seconds before announcing she’d found the expense account for office supplies and sundry requirements. “He spent four pounds on paper last month, and two crowns on sugar. No, wait, that was aggregate. Each clerk had to contribute a shilling and there are…one, three…six…eight…ten…ten clerks, so he actually pays half that. Ah, and he reimburses himself the price of membership fees at Brooks and Whites, which seems a trifle corrupt.”