My gaze dropped to the grimy resurrectionists’ letter where it still rested against the gleaming wood.
For the moment.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Oh, hail, bright one,” Trevor declared good-naturedly, glancing up from his perusal of the newspaper as I strolled into his library-cum-study.
I’d never stood on ceremony in what had been our family’s London residence since before either of us was born. Our father had always welcomed us in this domain, so long as we were courteous and quiet, and as a consequence the space was cozy and well loved, the chairs upholstered in softened leather and bleached from the sun shining through the tall windows.
He grinned as I plopped into the chair across from his. “I was just longing for visitors, and here you are. But what brings you to my door?”
I cast my gloves onto the table at my side. “Perhaps I simply wished to see my brother.”
His eyebrows arched skeptically as his gaze flicked from me to Gage, who’d trailed behind me at a more sedate pace. “Now I know you’re here for a particular reason.” He tipped his head toward the open windows, where outside the lovely weather continued. “Why aren’t you strolling or riding in the park on this fair afternoon?”
“We strolled here.”
“Quite an exertion.”
As the walking distance from our townhouse to his on South Street was a matter of minutes, I did not fault him his droll rejoinder.
“We missed you at services this morning,” Gage commented casually as he sank into the chair next to mine.
“Yes, I overslept.” Trevor’s brow puckered. “Please do not tell me you are here to castigate me for my failure to attend church.”
“Of course not,” I snapped. “Don’t be such a clunch.”
His bright blue eyes flashed. “Then why remark on it?”
“Just making conversation, old boy,” Gage said, attempting to defuse our family squabble. “We’d intended to invite you to dinner.”
But rather than ease Trevor’s mind, this only increased his suspicion. He sat back in his chair, narrowing his eyes. “Then you’re definitely here on some purpose.” His eyes dipped to the newspaper draped in his lap. “I see that the story you told the Observer seems to be circulating through all the papers today.”
“Yes, that was our hope.”
His brow cleared, though his eyes became guarded. “Is this about Feckenham?”
I fought the urge to squirm. “I know you probably have no wish to speak of him or . . . or to claim the connection. But we need information, and it’s come to our attention that Lord Feckenham was part of Lord Wilmot’s set. And you mentioned . . .” I faltered upon seeing the deep shame in his eyes.
“I was once part of that set as well,” he finished for me.
I nodded, hating to cause him embarrassment. Especially since part of it was my fault. If not for my scandal, he would not have needed to defend me, and consequently been shunned for his actions. I knew he didn’t blame me, but it didn’t lessen my guilt.
His jaw tightened as if he wished to speak of anything else, and then released. “What do you wish to know?”
“What do you know of him? Of his character?” Gage’s expression was carefully neutral, displaying neither sympathy nor censure.
Trevor frowned. “I’m sure you haven’t heard very complimentary things. And I daresay if much of what you’ve heard has come from his family, you should compound it by ten.”
To hear my brother state it so succinctly chilled me, affecting me far greater than the recital of any number of unsavory details.
“That bad?” Gage replied.
Trevor’s eyes dipped to the arabesque pattern of the rug. “I would not have believed any despicable or unscrupulous thing beyond his ken. He seemed incapable of empathy or fellow feeling. And he delighted in manipulating others into doing things they would never have otherwise considered doing.”
My chest tightened in dread. “Did he . . . ?”
Trevor shook his head, knowing what I was about to ask. “No. But he tried. He . . .” His mouth twisted as he seemed to reconsider his words. “I gambled and lost quite a tidy sum to him. And he offered to forgive that debt . . .” His eyes lifted to meet Gage’s. “If I introduced him to my sister.”
There was no doubt which sister he meant. I was about to ask why a simple introduction would have been so distasteful, when his smoldering gaze flicked to mine.
“Turns out I balk at the idea of selling my sister.”
My eyes widened, now understanding the implication. “But why would he want to . . . ‘meet’ me?”
“Because he is . . . he was a sick bastard, and you were an oddity. And a lovely oddity at that.” He turned away. “Plus he knew it would inflict the maximum amount of harm to me to be forced to do such a thing, especially given the fact I’d fallen into their set because I’d been defending your honor a bit too fervently.”
My conscience smarted again. “Well, thank you for not selling me.”
Trevor looked up at this in shock and then shook his head as if I’d just said the most bewildering thing possible. “I would sooner slit my throat, you funny thing. I would hope you’d know that.”
“Well, thank you for not doing that either.”
He shook his head again, and then his mouth cracked a grin. “You can’t help but confound people, can you?”
I shrugged, rising to go to him. “It’s what I’m good at.”
He gave a dry laugh at that, pushing to his feet to pull me tight to him. I pressed my face to his coat, breathing in the familiar scent of his starch and bay rum, grateful I was blessed with such an honorable brother. But what of those who were not?
As so often happened, Gage’s thoughts followed the same path. “Had he made such a bargain with other men who lost to him at the tables?” he asked as Trevor and I pulled apart and returned to our seats.
“I can’t tell you if he made that exact offer, but I do know a number of gentlemen owed him quite sizable debts.” His expression turned forbidding. “Some of which appeared to be wiped away rather quickly when it had been well known their pockets were to let.” He reached out a hand to square the position of a box on the table next to him. “He could be ruthless in getting what he wanted. Had I not paid him what I owed and left London when I did, I’m certain his first attempt to trap me under his thumb would not have been his last.”
“His father mentioned that he’d trifled with more than one debutante and nearly brought them to ruin. Was that part of his ruthlessness? Did one of their relatives defy him?”
“Trifled?” he scoffed. “That makes it sound like he coaxed them into the garden for a kiss. From what I hear, he pestered them, more like. Backed them into a corner or forced himself on them. I can only hope they were interrupted before matters went too far.”
I stared at him, horrified to learn that a “gentleman” and an earl’s heir would behave in such a manner.
Gage’s voice was hard, and the fury that rippled through his muscles made me suspect he would have done Feckenham bodily harm had the scoundrel not already been dead. “What of Miss Holt, Lord Wilmot’s new wife?”
“I’ve been wondering the same thing,” Trevor admitted. “But I can’t tell you whether the matter was arranged by Feckenham and Wilmot, or if Wilmot merely took advantage of the situation his friend created.” His brow furrowed. “I doubt Miss Holt’s guardian, Lord Paddington, was so foolish as to find himself in debt to Feckenham. But his heir might have. Yaxley is a hothead.”
“And prone to dip too deep. A terrible combination when one is determined to gamble,” Gage added with a grimace. “Had I been foolish enough to offer for Lady Felicity, I would have forever been helping her brother out of scrapes.”
“More luck to you, then, that you didn’t,” Trevor said. “For I also would have had to draw yo
ur cork for breaking my sister’s heart.”
Gage turned to me with a smile. “No risk of my doing that.”
I smiled in return but refused to be drawn off the subject at hand. “What of Feckenham’s card play?” I asked Trevor. “Did you ever find it suspicious?”
“As far as I could tell, or anyone could prove, he didn’t cheat. Though his devil’s own luck didn’t stop people from speculating about it.” He drummed his fingers intently against the arm of his chair. “For all his abominable behavior, Feckenham was no idiot. In fact, I often wondered if he might be one of the most intelligent chaps I’d ever known. He simply didn’t have any scruples about how he used it.”
“What of his brother?” Gage tilted his head in curiosity. “I’m not acquainted with George Penrose. Is he anything like Feckenham?”
Trevor shook his head. “Like chalk and cheese. They couldn’t be more different.”
“Were they on friendly terms?”
“I can’t tell you that. But I do know that if there were difficulties, it was Feckenham’s doing. Penrose is just about the most affable fellow you could meet. You’ll find few who will speak ill of him.” He dipped his head at me. “You should talk to Lord Damien Marlowe. He knows Penrose far better than I. They were up at university together and remained chums.”
Lord Damien was my brother-in-law Philip’s cousin and a more chivalrous, kindhearted young gentleman I’d yet to meet. I was extremely fond of him, despite his slight naiveté and inclination to correct the errors of those who were younger than him—both traits I suspected he would outgrow with time and maturity.
“Then we shall have to ask him to pay us a call,” I remarked. “For if we visit Hollingsworth House, his mother, the Dowager Lady Hollingsworth, will insist on being included in the conversation, and we shall get nowhere.” If she permitted my entrance at all. It was no secret Philip’s aunt did not approve of me.
Gage’s lips curled into a smile at my jest, but Trevor’s thoughts were still on the previous matter.
“I know you must look to Penrose as a suspect. He is now heir to his father’s earldom and all that entails, after all. But I must say, I think you’re following the wrong scent. Penrose isn’t the type to commit murder. Not for an earldom.”
“But what if the earldom wasn’t the motive?” Gage pointed out. “What if he was protecting or defending something or someone else?”
Trevor considered the possibility and then nodded. “It’s possible. But if that’s the case, I can’t say I blame him.” His eyes blazed with righteous ferocity. “Feckenham was rotten through and through. And I doubt you’ll find many who mourn him,” he challenged.
We couldn’t argue that. In fact, I wasn’t sure anyone truly grieved his passing. Not even his family.
* * *
• • •
We returned to Chapel Street to find a lovely yellow barouche with a folded hood pulled up to our door. On the forward-facing seat sat Lorna and Charlotte, the latter of whom called to me as we approached.
“Mrs. Gage, there you are!” She waved me forward. “Isn’t it a lovely day? We’ve come to take you for a ride with us in the park.” She smiled at Gage. “That is, if your husband can spare you?”
He chuckled and executed a bow. “Ladies, I am quite pleased to commend my dearest wife to your care, so long as you mind she doesn’t take cold.” His eyes twinkled with teasing.
“Not in this sunshine,” Lorna declared, though the rug thrown over her own lap belied these words. Warm it might be for November, but it was not July.
“We shall take the utmost care with her,” Charlotte assured him.
“You do realize I’m not a child,” I declared, interrupting this good-natured banter. I arched my chin in defiance. “I shall remove my bonnet and allow the wind to blow through my hair if I wish.” Not that I would ever do something so outrageously improper in the middle of Hyde Park, and well they knew it.
“Of course, darling,” Gage humored me by saying, but then leaned close to whisper in my ear as he assisted me up into the carriage. “But then my fingers will be jealous of the wind, and I can’t be held accountable for what mischief they will get up to later in revenge.”
I flushed at this suggestive comment. As such, my cheeks were decidedly rosy as I settled into the seat across from my friends. They grinned at me knowingly.
“You heard him. There is a bit of a nip in the air,” I said by way of explanation as we drove on.
Lorna’s mouth twisted impishly before she murmured under her breath, “I don’t think that nip was the air.”
I looked to Charlotte for reprieve, but she merely dimpled.
“I’m simply glad to see Mr. Gage is living up to his reputation.”
Lorna laughed out loud at this, and my blush burned even brighter.
“Forget my influence,” I said as soon as I could gather my words. “I blame your great-aunt. She’s obviously had a detrimental effect on you.”
Charlotte gave a gurgle of laughter. “I think she would be rather pleased to hear you say that.”
“You’re probably right.”
All of fashionable London appeared to have turned out to enjoy the fine November weather. The rows and paths were choked with carriages and riders, meandering along beneath the trees still sporting a riot of colors. In another few days, they would be nothing but a memory, but for now they were enjoying their last hurrah. In any case, we were happy to be carried along at such a sedate pace, enjoying the scent of the leaves crushed beneath the barouche’s wheels, the sun warming our skin, and the amiable company.
Without their saying so, I was well aware of my friends’ intentions for this outing. They wanted me to be seen behaving as any normal lady, and to be observed chatting with respectable and high-status members of society, hoping to sway the insipient gossip stirred by the news of failed burkings and Feckenham’s murder in my favor. Because of it, Charlotte had little need to beckon people over to our barouche. They practically flocked to it, rabid with curiosity.
My limited social skills were severely taxed by this. I’d become better at following cues and feigning interest over the past few months under Charlotte’s and Gage’s tutelage, but there were still times when I could tell I’d failed to respond properly. The more forgiving members of society accepted this as an amusing eccentricity. The rest shook their heads or turned their noses up at me, no doubt pitying Gage his choice in wife.
I did my best to ignore them, as I did those who did little to hide their disgust of me, and steer the conversation toward Feckenham himself. The reactions to his death seemed to vary from the politely reserved to almost outright pleasure at his demise. The latter came from men I’d decided must have been crossed by the scoundrel at some point, likely at the gaming tables. But they let nothing slip about him that might be helpful to our investigation.
The earl was another matter. At least two different ladies mentioned that Lord Redditch suffered from ill health, and the fact that he had such an obliging spare should be rejoiced at. For my part, I couldn’t help but wonder just how grave the earl’s illness had been, and just how obliging his second son had determined to be.
A cool wind picked up as we rounded a curve in the path, and I was about to suggest we cut our drive short, when a lady riding a magnificent bay mare with a white blaze came abreast of us. The cut of her merlot riding habit was exquisite, and the tall plumes adorning her hat quite dashing. So striking a picture did she make that it took me a moment to even notice the man riding beside her as the Earl of Wansford, a prominent man in politics who had been a leading arbiter of fashion in his younger days and still maintained a trim waist.
This must be the Duchess of Bowmont, I realized, for Lord Wansford was reported to be her most recent lover. When Lorna performed the introductions, this swept away all doubt.
We eyed each other with genuine i
nterest. I was not surprised to discover how undeniably lovely the duchess was, even at the age of almost sixty. But given all the gossip about her hard living, I was amazed by how smooth her complexion appeared, and how lively her eyes. I decided then and there that most of the rumors I’d heard were exactly that, rumors. Although those about her irreverent manner swiftly proved to be true.
“So you are the notorious Lady Darby,” she declared, having assessed me from head to toe as she rode alongside our carriage. “I saw you at the Covent Garden Theatre last week, from a distance, and I must say I’ve been impatient to meet you ever since.” Her eyes sparkled with devilry. “Anyone capable of capturing the heart of that delicious Mr. Gage and creating a scandal even bigger than my own is certainly worth one’s time.”
“I daresay my appearance is not what you expected, Your Grace,” I said, having long learned that my demure exterior often did not fit the image others had concocted of me. Had I known my friends intended to take me for a drive in the park, I might have chosen something more stylish than my reddish fawn redingote and rice straw bonnet.
“No, it’s even better. How dull it would be to find you some long-lashed Aphrodite or sharp-eyed witch.” She tilted her head. “Though I do understand now why they say your eyes are ‘witch bright.’ They are quite an envious shade of blue. Lapis lazuli, is it not?” Her lips curled into a puckish grin. “And I suspect I shall find them quite penetrating when you paint my portrait.”
“I cannot promise the experience will be comfortable,” I remarked dryly, recognizing that the duchess was the type with whom it was best to give back as good as one got.
She laughed. “No, I’m certain not.” Her head dipped to Lorna. “But my goddaughter assures me it will be skillfully rendered and accurate.” Her voice grew serious. “I trust you won’t attempt to court my vanity like all the male artists who promised to capture my true essence and delivered nothing but conceit.”
I wasn’t certain if this was some sort of test—for the duchess seemed to have few flaws that a painter would wish to correct—but it wasn’t in my nature to prevaricate. “If you are looking for vanity, I am not the artist for you. I’m afraid I find there is far more beauty in truth.” I searched for the words to explain. “That the splendor and richness in a portrait lies not with the perfection of the subject’s appearance, but in the spark of life captured by naught but such humble things as pigment and canvas.”
An Artless Demise Page 14