“Hadn’t expected what to erupt?” Gage asked as he set a glass of claret and a plate laden with food in front of me.
“Apparently Melbourne almost came to blows with some chap in the entry hall over the Reform Bill,” I explained briefly. “But your father is managing the situation.”
A pucker formed between his eyes as he turned to gaze out over the assembled guests. “All the same, I suppose I should speak with him to be sure my assistance isn’t needed.”
“After you eat.” I pressed a hand to his arm. “The matter is resolved for the moment, so there’s no sense in hurrying off. Besides, you were correct. That effigy looks in danger of tumbling over into the food at any moment.” The Guy slumped to the side, consumed by flame, and a hazard to any who dared pass around that side of the table.
“They’re removing him,” he replied. “Just as soon as the footmen return with a large tub of water to dunk him in.”
“Thank heavens.”
“Yes.” His lips were tight with disapproval. “I gather our host did not think the matter through.”
“I imagine not.” I watched as a piece of smoldering cloth dropped into the serving bowl. “I doubt anyone will be enjoying that plum pudding.”
Alfred snorted. “Not unless they’re partial to burned yarn and wool.”
The men went to fill their own plates with the splendid fare before returning to join us in our enjoyment of the feast. The earl and countess had spared no expense for the evening. Roast fowls and lamb, ragout of veal, lobster, galantine, and for dessert sweet custards, meringues, and even luscious gâteau mille-feuile. I ate my fill and lingered over another glass of claret, enjoying a pleasant hour of conversation. Not even the sharp glint I spied in Lady Felicity’s eye when I happened to catch a glimpse of her could sour my delight.
Gage and I followed the others back toward the ballroom, where the notes of a waltz could already be heard spilling forth. Ladies in opulent gowns twirled in the arms of the men in their dark evening attire beneath the glittering chandeliers. The spectacular plasterwork ceiling and white paneled walls were gilded with rococo flourishes, and the floor gleamed to a high polish. Clusters of amaryllis and hyacinths were hung between each set of wall sconces, adding a welcome dash of color, as well as their pleasant scents, to the miasma of perfumes and body odor.
This was definitely an improvement over the stench of charred ash and fabric dueling with the aromas of food and spirits in the dining room, but only just. I’d discovered being with child made my already strong sense of smell even more acute, so we lingered for a moment at the edge of the ballroom, where fresh air swept up the stairs from the entry hall below.
“Lady Darby!”
I swiveled to see our hostess, the Countess of Redditch, bustling toward me.
“My dearest lady,” she exclaimed gaily. “I was hoping to have a word with you.”
“But, of course,” I replied with a smile.
Some weeks after my return to London, I’d realized there was little point in continuing to ask those who were not close acquaintances to address me as Mrs. Gage rather than by the title accorded to me from my first marriage. For one, it was tedious, especially when the request was all but ignored. So amid society, I remained Lady Darby by courtesy, though not by right, since my late husband, Sir Anthony, outranked my second.
Judging from the bright sheen of Lady Redditch’s eyes, I suspected she’d already drunk more than a few glasses of the madeira that scented her breath, but her carriage remained erect, her speech clear. Her soft brown hair, liberally threaded with gray, had been swept up onto her head in one of the most current styles and accented with ostrich feathers.
“I must compliment you on a lovely soiree,” I told her. “It’s an absolute crush.”
“Thank you, my dear. What with recent events, it seemed we could all do with a bit of amusement.”
What exactly she was referring to, I wasn’t certain. But given the fact her husband was an outspoken opponent of the Reform Bill, I could only speculate it had something to do with the attacks that had been made on some of the members of the aristocracy, both in the press and via shouts and recriminations—and sometimes produce—hurled at their passing carriages. The warmth of my smile slipped a notch.
Positioned as we were before the doorway, we had a clear view out into the hall. So when a young man hurried up to where Lord Melbourne stood conferring with a handful of men, including Lord Gage and my brother-in-law, Philip, the Earl of Cromarty, I couldn’t help but notice. Particularly when the messenger seemed anxious as he passed the home secretary a message. The letter must convey something of urgency if it was being delivered to Melbourne during the middle of the countess’s ball.
“The Guy was certainly a festive touch,” Gage told our hostess with every sign of having enjoyed it, even though I knew he had disapproved.
She laughed. “Yes, that was Lord Redditch’s idea. And I thought it would be quite a treat.”
Whatever the missive Melbourne had been handed contained, it must be concerning, for his brow was etched with deep furrows. He passed the letter to Lord Gage at his side, who read the note swiftly, before flicking a troubled glance toward where we stood.
Gage removed his arm from where it was laced with mine, squeezing my elbow as he withdrew. “If you’ll excuse me. I believe my father wishes a word with me.”
Lady Redditch waved him away with a flick of her wrist. “Lady Darby, am I correct? Are you still painting portraits? I believe Lady Morley informed me you had accepted a commission to paint her.”
I was surprised by the eagerness of her words, but I recovered quickly. “Why, yes. I’m composing Lady Morley’s portrait now actually.”
“Excellent! We would be so honored if you would consider painting our son George’s portrait. He recently reached his majority, you know, and I do find that is an excellent time to capture their likeness. Before the depravities of age can befall them,” she jested with a trill of laughter.
Distracted as I was by the conference happening between Gage and his father in the hall, I could still sense the anxiety which belied her lighthearted tone. There was something she wasn’t saying, something which distressed her.
“I would be honored,” I replied, puzzled by her uneasiness. “Though I believe I’ve yet to make Mr. Penrose’s acquaintance. He is your second-born, is he not?”
“I shall introduce you,” she declared. “He’s likely doing his duty, dancing with all the pretty girls in attendance.” She turned to tap her eldest son, who had suddenly materialized at her side, on the shoulder with her fan. “As you should be.”
Lord Feckenham smirked. “Yes, I’m certain he’s putting on a good show. But I’ve no need to.”
Lady Redditch frowned. “Have you been introduced to my eldest son?”
“Yes, I’ve had that pleasure,” I answered, though I felt anything but. From the spark of derisive amusement in Lord Feckenham’s dark eyes, it was evident he realized what I truly thought about him. He was a crude boar with ramshackle manners who delighted in making others uncomfortable, including young debutantes. Humble in appearance and address, as far as I could tell the only thing to recommend him was his status as the heir to an old and venerable earldom, and that consideration didn’t rank high in my book.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the worried look Gage cast my way as he pulled Philip aside. Curious why the matter would cause him concern for me, I opened my mouth to make my excuses so that I might join them when Lord Feckenham spoke.
“I’ve no desire to take a skittish innocent for a spin about the floor, but I should be delighted to dance with you, my lady.” His eyebrows arched, daring me to accept as he held out his hand.
He had mistaken me if he thought I would be goaded into such an undertaking by his challenge. Especially when I suspected he’d intended to insult me. The countes
s appeared to think so, for her mouth had pinched into a tight moue.
“How kind,” I replied in as bland a tone as I could manage. “But my slippers are pinching my toes, and I must slip away to see if the problem can be remedied. I’m sure her ladyship understands,” I added, applying to her.
Being the mother of four children, her eyes lit with comprehension. “Oh, yes. Yes, my dear.” At least, in this delicate rebuttal I had not offended her. “Up the stairs and to the left.”
“Thank you,” I replied, gliding away as if to escape to the lady’s retiring room. I felt Lord Feckenham’s narrowed gaze following me but paid it little heed. Let him wonder for a time if he’d been the one slighted.
Once outside the ballroom, I glanced about me, trying to discover where Gage and Philip had gone. They were no longer in the hall or on the stairs, and I was fairly certain they hadn’t slipped past me. I turned to find my father-in-law’s disapproving stare directed my way. Though it was not as hostile as in the past—since he wanted to at least appear amicable to his son’s choice in his bride, even though he’d attempted to thwart us before our vows were spoken—I could sense the renewed animosity simmering beneath his hooded gaze.
I had hoped we’d moved beyond this, if not into friendliness—which I doubted we should ever feel—then at least into mutual regard. But something had happened in the space of the past few minutes to change that, and I suspected it was that letter.
As if to confirm this, Lord Melbourne’s eyes lifted to meet mine. At first he didn’t react as he continued to speak to the man at his elbow, but then something occurred to him that made his eyes crease at the corners. My chest constricted with uncertainty. What had that missive said to make them react this way?
I considered approaching Lord Gage to find out where his son had gone but then decided against it. Much as it pinched to realize, I knew my father-in-law was capable of great cruelty, and if he should snub me that would mean dire things for Gage’s reputation, not just my own.
So instead I climbed the grand marble staircase toward the lady’s retiring room, hoping to intercept someone who could tell me where I might find my husband. Rounding the corner, I nearly collided with my brother-in-law, Philip. His hands reached out to steady me.
“Kiera! Just who I was looking for,” he gasped in relief.
Seeing the concern in his soft brown eyes, I pressed a hand to his upper arm. “What is it? I saw you and Gage conferring . . .”
Before I could say anything more, he cut me off—an action completely unlike him. “It’s Alana. She’s suddenly feeling quite ill.”
I stiffened, alarm for my older sister sweeping through me. “Where is she?”
“Gage is with her. I’m having the carriage brought around.” His gaze flickered for a moment. “I wonder if you might be willing to accompany her home.” He must have sensed my hesitation, for he rushed on to say, “I would attend to her myself, but regrettably there’s a matter of business I must see to first.”
I stared up into his strained visage. Calm, steady Philip was not acting like his usual self, and I could tell why. He was lying. The question was, why?
Undoubtedly, he and Gage—for I didn’t for one moment believe my husband didn’t have a hand in this—were trying to remove me from the ball without creating a scene. I felt my hackles begin to rise at this bit of high-handedness. Evidently, they were worried I would argue, which indeed, I wanted to do. Then Philip’s gaze transformed to one of gentle pleading, and I realized he genuinely was concerned. But not for Alana, for me.
A trickle of unease ran down my spine. Given some of the events in my scandalous past, troubling scenarios began to form in my mind, but I shook them aside. “Of course. Take me to her.”
The expression on Gage’s face when we appeared in the entry hall, while restrained, did nothing to reassure me. I could read all too well the apprehension crinkling the fine lines at the corners of his eyes.
It was just as well that Alana had supposedly come down with some sort of complaint, for she could not hide her distress either as she reached out to clasp my hands. I gathered her close, falling in with their ruse, and allowed Gage to settle my fur-lined mantle around my shoulders. I pretended not to notice when he and Philip were also handed their hats and greatcoats.
However, once we were ensconced in the Cromarty carriage, hot bricks placed at our feet and blankets draped over our laps, and the door was shut behind us, I could no longer remain silent.
“You are doing it much too brown,” I proclaimed, crossing my arms over my chest. “Alana is not ill.” I glared at Philip and then Gage. “And you gentlemen obviously didn’t have business to attend to. So why did you hurry me out of there?”
CHAPTER TWO
“And do not for a moment think to fob me off,” I told the men as they shared a look of misgiving. “I saw the way Lord Gage and Lord Melbourne looked at me. What has happened?”
Gage hesitated a moment longer and then reached over to take my hand. “The New Police have arrested a group of bodysnatchers on suspicion of murder.”
I blinked, the horrifying implications already trickling through me.
“They stand accused of burking the victim,” he finished, making the matter plain.
Just three years earlier, the country had been shocked by the discovery that Burke and Hare, two morbidly enterprising men in Edinburgh, had smothered people from the streets near Grassmarket in order to turn a profit by selling their bodies to the local anatomy schools. They had killed sixteen people before being caught. Since then, murders of the same type had been called “burkings,” after the man who had hanged for the crime when his partner turned King’s evidence against him.
Panic had swept through the country when Burke and Hare’s murderous activities were uncovered. The populace feared that other such criminals were at work—killing those who were least likely to be missed, and earning a few quid from the sale of their bodies. An act which, in time, would destroy the evidence of their foul deed.
And now the country’s fears appeared justified, as another group of men stood accused of the same crime. This time in London.
A chill gripped me.
“They’re certain?” I couldn’t help but ask.
Not that certainty mattered in a case like this. When news of the arrests spread, the suspicions would largely be taken as fact.
Gage’s grip on my hand tightened. “They’ll be examining the corpse tomorrow. But . . . it seems fairly damning.”
I closed my eyes, resting my head back against the squabs. The others did not speak as I struggled with this revelation. Shame flooded me, bitter and astringent.
“And so it begins again,” I murmured. “The old accusations. The frightened glances and furious snubs.” I gritted my teeth against a surge of anger. “Will the past never leave me be?”
“Perhaps it will not be so bad as that,” Alana protested faintly. “Perhaps no one will remember.”
I opened my eyes to glare at her. “They never forgot.”
When my father had arranged my marriage to my first husband, the great anatomist Sir Anthony Darby, the man had not revealed the reason for his interest in me. Only when it was too late did I discover he had wed me for my artistic abilities, forcing me to sketch the dissections he conducted in his private medical theater for a comprehensive anatomical textbook he was writing. Being a pompous and closefisted individual, he’d had no wish to share the glory or profit with another man. I’d suffered three years of his bullying and mistreatment, compelled to assist him.
Sir Anthony being my husband, I had no choice but to obey him. To speak out against his cruel conduct would have done me no good. No court would have taken my part over his, and the resulting scandal would have only infuriated him so intensely as to make my life an even greater misery. So I had endured as best I could until the day he died of an apoplexy.
> I thought then that the nightmare would be over. And it would have been, had it not been for Sir Anthony’s odious friend, Dr. Mayer, a man after my late husband’s own ilk. Mayer had been bequeathed the completed portions of Sir Anthony’s anatomical manuscript and tasked with finishing it so that it could be published. However, Mayer had recognized at once that the sketches contained within were far too skilled to have been completed by Sir Anthony himself, who was an infamously poor artist. It had not taken any great leap of logic to realize I had served as my husband’s illustrator, and Mayer wasted no time in threatening me and then accusing me of desecrating a corpse and unnatural tendencies before the Bow Street Magistrates. Mayer had also been certain to mention Sir Anthony’s presumed involvement with the resurrectionists in order to procure bodies for his dissections, slyly implying I had also done business with them.
The tumult and scandal that erupted after the reading of these charges had played into the fears of a public still reeling from the Burke and Hare trial, and I had been vilified and massacred in the press. I had been labeled the Butcher’s Wife, the Sawbone’s Siren, and accused of unspeakable acts. Fortunately, Trevor and Philip—whose status as an earl had lent his word considerable weight—had convinced the magistrates to dismiss the charges. But the damage was done.
As for the aristocracy, the discovery that a gentlewoman had assisted in a human dissection, in any capacity, was too shocking to be borne. I had been ostracized and shunned, relegated to the annals of lurid tales no one was to speak of, but everyone shared in aghast whispers.
That is until I had assisted Sebastian Gage in solving one terrible murder, and then another. Though shocking in its own right, my turn as an inquiry agent had begun to restore my reputation. As had my astonishing marriage to my investigative partner, whose taste was known to be unimpeachable. When one of our most recent inquiries had been undertaken as a favor to the Duke of Wellington, my return to favor among society was all but assured.
An Artless Demise Page 2