An Artless Demise

by Anna Lee Huber

  We climbed inside, and he settled onto the squabs facing the rear, smoothing down his ivory waistcoat crisscrossed with gold trim. I hid my amusement at his sartorial pride. It seemed Lord Damien had belatedly determined to become a fop. Under this sumptuous waistcoat, he wore a black shirt and cravat, which he paired with a pair of pale trousers with stirrups at the feet and a velveteen emerald green morning coat. I’d seen just such an ensemble in a fashion plate from one of Alana’s French magazines.

  Such clothing might easily have cast a simpler dressed man in the shade, but not Gage. Even attired in a modest deep charcoal tailcoat, camel breeches, and Hessians, each tailored to perfection, he cut a dashing figure.

  “I heard about Feckenham,” Lord Damien said, the smile fading from his face. “Are you investigating his death?”

  “Yes,” I replied.

  He nodded, his gaze straying toward the window and the Georgian façades of the homes we passed. “I suspected as much. Then you must have heard I was a particular friend of his brother, George.”

  “Trevor St. Mawr said you were up at school together,” Gage said.

  “Shared a room at Eton our first year.”

  “I suppose you had much in common,” I remarked.

  “Younger sons of noble families? True enough.” His brow furrowed. “But my brother James was always dashed more kind to me than Feckenham ever was to his brother.”

  “How do you mean?” Gage asked.

  Lord Damien eyed us both, seeming to consider his words. The good humor he generally exhibited had all but vanished, making him appear much older. I sometimes forgot he was only three years younger than me.

  “Feckenham taunted him mercilessly. He was always making one mean-spirited crack or another.”

  “About?”

  He huffed. “Whatever came to him. His appearance. His ability at sport. His manhood.”

  Gage frowned. “I’d heard George Penrose was an out-and-out rider.”

  “He is. One of the best. And he displays to advantage in the boxing ring.” He sank back, shaking his head. “I don’t know whether Penrose threw himself neck or nothing into becoming so good because of his brother’s teasing, or if he was already prime, but the truth never mattered much to Feckenham.” His face twisted in aversion. “By Jove! I guess Penrose is Lord Feckenham now.” He sighed. “He won’t like that, going by his brother’s title. But I suppose he has no choice.”

  I could empathize.

  “How did Penrose react to his brother’s taunting?” Gage asked.

  “Did his best to ignore him. Behaved like the gentleman his brother was not. Unless Feckenham turned his sharp tongue on one of his friends. Then he wasn’t above giving it back to him.” Lord Damien’s eyes gleamed in approval, but then he shrugged. “Mostly I think he tried to avoid him.”

  “But they lived in the same house?” I pointed out in puzzlement. If he wished to evade him, he could hardly do so while sharing the same roof.

  “He led me to believe that was temporary. If I’m not mistaken, he meant to leave for the continent soon.”

  Gage and I shared a look, wondering if Lord and Lady Redditch had been aware of this. They’d made no mention of it. Perhaps they hadn’t thought it had any bearing on Feckenham’s death. But that begged the question, what else had they thought had no bearing on the matter?

  “Why are you asking so many questions about Penrose?” Lord Damien asked mistrustfully. “You don’t think he has anything to do with his brother’s murder, do you? Because that’s ridiculous.”

  “He does have the most to gain from his death,” Gage reminded him. “We wouldn’t be very good investigators if we didn’t consider him a suspect.”

  “Maybe so, but I can tell you right now it’s impossible. I could readily believe Feckenham capable of murder, but not Penrose.” He shifted forward, gesturing in enthusiasm, as if he’d just remembered. “And he was with me when it happened. It was Thursday night, correct?”

  Gage straightened. “You were at White’s?”

  “Until one o’clock in the morning.” He crossed his arms in satisfaction.

  “What time did you arrive?”

  “Shortly before nine that evening. And Penrose was one of the first chaps I spoke to.”

  “Were you with him all evening, then? That is, until he was summoned home.”

  At this, Lord Damien faltered. “Well, no. But I did see him around half past ten. He was speaking to one of the porters.” He frowned. “Seemed a bit agitated. But then I saw him again just after midnight.”

  Since Feckenham had been murdered at approximately a quarter after eleven, this was not an altogether sound alibi. It was possible Penrose had left White’s, murdered his brother, and then returned. But that seemed doubtful.

  “That does seem indicative he isn’t the culprit,” Gage admitted. “But it would be helpful to speak to a few other gentlemen who were present that night. Do you recall who else was there?”

  Lord Damien rattled off a few names, and Gage thanked him just as the carriage pulled to a stop before Cromarty House.

  Before the footman could open the door, Gage asked one last question. “Who do you think killed him?”

  “From what I understand, his enemies were too numerous to name.” Lord Damien’s voice dripped with scorn. “Pick up a copy of Debrett’s and choose a page. You’ll undoubtedly find one of them on it.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “Someone must have cared for him?” I muttered as we strolled toward Alana and Philip’s drawing room, no more standing on ceremony here than at my brother’s home. “He can’t have been all evil? Such people don’t exist.”

  “They do,” Gage replied dampeningly. “But you’re right. It’s rare.”

  “Maybe a mistress?” I speculated, trying to imagine who might feel more fondness for Feckenham than the fickle affection we’d witnessed from his mother.

  Gage cast me a quelling look as we entered the room to find my sister and her family gathered en masse. Philip bounced a giggling Greer on his knee, her golden curls springing about her ears, while Philipa perched impatiently beside him, awaiting her turn. Eight-year-old Malcolm seemed as if he wanted to appear above this playfulness, standing tall before his mother and baby brother as he recited a poem learned from his tutor. He looked like he’d grown another three inches since I’d last seen him but a fortnight before.

  Upon our entrance, Philipa’s face split into a wide grin. “Aunt Kiera! Uncle Gage!” She raced to Gage’s side, already smitten with him at just six years old. “Will you play hobbyhorse? Please, please!”

  Philip panted a laugh, resting his legs. “Yes, I think that’s an excellent idea.” His eyes glinted with teasing. “After all, your uncle needs the practice.”

  Gage smiled and allowed Philipa to lead him toward the sofa, where she promptly clambered into his lap. “Where are we off to, then?”

  Philipa chattered away while her little sister grunted in protest, forcing her father to join in the race.

  I shook my head at their antics, squeezing Malcolm’s shoulders as I passed him to move closer to the fire. With Gage joining in, Malcolm’s reluctance seemed to have melted away, for he went to cheer on the men’s efforts, giggling as loud as his sisters.

  Alana passed me wee Jamie, who at eight months old was flush and chubby like a cherub. “If only the members of the House of Lords could see them now.”

  “Aren’t you a sweet one,” I crooned to Jamie as I sat in the chair across from my sister. I glanced up with a grin, returning her jest. “Their dignified reputations would be in tatters.”

  Our eyes slid to the side to watch them romp and play, and I suspected Alana’s chest felt as full and happy as mine did. I pressed a kiss to Jamie’s fuzzy head, realizing I would soon have a child of my own to love and cuddle, to watch Gage bounce so high on his knee that
they screamed with laughter. The thought made my heart swell to almost bursting.

  But then a cold lump settled in my stomach. A reminder of just how precarious my circumstances were. If the inquiry into the Italian Boy wasn’t resolved to the public’s satisfaction, if the blackmailers weren’t stopped before they could spread their lies, if we didn’t solve Feckenham’s murder and lay to rest all the rumors about burkers in Mayfair, our little family could be facing a difficult road.

  I turned to look at Alana, her bright lapis-lazuli eyes so like my own alive with laughter. She and her family would also suffer, just as they had before. And so would Trevor.

  I couldn’t let that happen. I wouldn’t.

  Jamie cooed and fumbled with the silver rattle he clutched in his pudgy little hands. I secured it for him, helping him keep hold of it as he perched on my knees.

  “Were you aware that Lord Redditch has been ill recently?” I asked my sister.

  “Yes,” she replied absently. “Something with his heart, I believe.”

  “Is it serious?”

  “I don’t know.” Her gaze returned to mine, her smile dimming slightly when she realized the import of such questions. “But I do know, for a time, there was some concern he wouldn’t recover enough to return to politics.” She flicked a glance at her husband across the room, where he tickled Greer. “Philip expressed some concern after Redditch returned to the Lords that perhaps he should have stayed away. That he wasn’t certain his heart could bear the strain.” She sighed. “But with the battle over the Reform Bill being waged so heatedly, he wasn’t surprised Redditch was determined to be there to help defeat it.”

  “Are he and Redditch well acquainted?”

  Her brow lowered. “Well enough we weren’t omitted from the guest list for their Guy Fawkes Ball.” I could sense there was more she wasn’t saying. It hovered in the air at the end of her words.

  “But . . . ?” I prodded.

  Her mouth flattened. “But Lord Redditch called Philip a . . . a bloodthirsty Jacobin.”

  My eyebrows arched in surprise. “Simply because he supported the Reform Bill?”

  “Yes.”

  I frowned, wondering why he would tar Philip in particular with this offense. “He does realize that Jacobins and Jacobites are not the same thing?” One did not equate with the other. Jacobin was largely used to deride the supporters of the French Revolution, while Jacobite referred to those who had supported the deposed Stuart king and his heirs’ rights to the British throne, and suffered for it during the subsequent failed uprisings in the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries. Many of the Jacobites had been Scottish, especially from the Highlands, as Philip was.

  Alana’s eyes glinted with wry humor. “No one has ever accused the Earl of Redditch of being of more than average intelligence, so it’s possible.”

  I nodded, having already developed a similar impression of the man.

  “Does Redditch’s health have something to do with his son’s murder?” she asked curiously.

  “Possibly. For now, I’m purely trying to understand all the variables.”

  If Lord Redditch had a weak heart, that could explain why his younger son had anticipated his father was the reason he’d been summoned home on the night of Feckenham’s murder. This assumption, coupled with his obvious concern, made it seem he’d had no idea his brother had been killed.

  Unless it had all been a clever ruse. After all, what better way to throw off suspicion? We hadn’t seen his face when he first arrived, only overheard him speaking to the butler, and the eyes were so much more telling than the voice. They often betrayed the emotions one was so desperate to hide. What would George Penrose’s eyes have revealed? Apprehension? Fear? Or elation?

  * * *

  • • •

  As so often happened of late, I found my footsteps dragging and my eyelids drooping just when I needed to prepare myself for one evening soiree or another. That night we were to attend a ball hosted by one of Lady Bearsden’s particular friends, and while I understood the reasons why it was important we put in an appearance now, more than ever, I would have rather stayed home. Preferably in bed with a book, a cup of tea, and Gage to warm my feet against.

  Instead I plopped down on the bench before my dressing table and allowed Bree to begin dressing my hair. She brushed through my long chestnut tresses in such soothing strokes that I sighed.

  Bree smiled at my reflection in the mirror. “Lady Cromarty’s maid told me yer hair would become more lustrous than ever while ye were expectin’.” She lifted my tangled ends, pulling the bristles through the snarls. “And then it’d fall oot in clumps after the bairn is born.”

  I arched my eyebrows. “Well, isn’t that a comforting thought.”

  This bit of sarcasm either went over Bree’s head, or she chose to ignore it.

  “Jenny has been offering you advice, then?” I asked, referring to my sister’s longtime maid, who had helped her through four confinements.

  “Aye.” Her brown eyes sparkled. “I think she was more excited by the news than even Mr. Gage.”

  Since Gage had reacted with an elation I’d rarely seen him display—one that had eclipsed any hope of our briefly withholding such a development from our family and closest friends—I found this assertion difficult to believe.

  “How did Anderley react?” I asked in genuine curiosity. Given the fact his acceptance of me had been guarded and slow, I could only imagine how he felt about adding a baby to his master’s household.

  “Stoic and reserved, as usual,” Bree replied. “But I could tell how pleased he was for Mr. Gage. And you, o’ course.”

  “Have you become good at reading him, then?”

  She shrugged one shoulder as she began parting my hair into sections. “Fair. He’s no’ really so difficult to follow once yer used to his ways.”

  I reached out a hand to toy with the bottles on the dressing table before me. “And how has he been recently?”

  “Quiet. Sullen. Like he’s bitten into somethin’ rancid and wants to spit it oot, but can’t.” Bree’s gaze lifted to meet mine in the mirror. “But I suspect you ken that already.”

  “It has to do with this inquest over the Italian Boy.”

  She nodded. “I think so, too.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “Nay. I ken he spent some time in London afore he was in Mr. Gage’s employ, but I dinna think he was born here.” She tilted her head. “Actually, I heard him speakin’ in some foreign language once to a fellow that came up from the mews. I dinna recognize it.”

  I contemplated this. “German maybe?” I knew he could sing in that language, for Gage had ordered him to do so once. Upon the occasion we became engaged.

  “Nay,” Bree replied in a drawn-out voice, as if searching her memory. “I dinna think so. That sounds all harsh and guttural. Like Gaelic. This was more soft and rollin’. Spanish, maybe. Or Italian.”

  I straightened, almost making her lose her grip on my hair. Our gazes met, both of us coming to the same thought.

  “Italian, you said?”

  “Aye.”

  Was that what so disturbed Anderley about the inquest? Was he Italian? He did have the same dark hair and eyes, the same bronzed complexion that many of them shared. But I’d never heard even a trace of an accent in his voice. Perhaps he was only partly Italian. Maybe a parent, or grandparent, had given him that language and heritage, but he’d been raised in England.

  There were some who sought to hide their foreign origins because of the prejudice they encountered. It was one thing to have a French lady’s maid or chef, or an Irish stable master—such nationalities were renowned for their skills in those areas, right or wrong. But many among the aristocracy preferred the rest of their servants to be of British stock.

  I hoped Anderley realized I was not so narrow-mi
nded, but I could also understand his desire for privacy. It was none of my business what the ancestry of my husband’s valet was. So long as Gage was content with them, then so should I be.

  I didn’t say anything more about the matter, and neither did Bree, perhaps sensing, as I did, that we were treading on a sensitive subject. But rather than returning to her cheerful chatter about the baby, her brow darkened. Evidently, the subject occupying her thoughts was even less pleasant than Anderley’s secrets.

  “Have you had an opportunity to speak with any of the staff from the Earl of Redditch’s household?” I asked, wondering if perhaps her shift in mood could be related to the investigation.

  “Aye, m’lady. I contrived a way to speak to two o’ the maids and a footman. They was all right talkative, despite protestin’ their butler had cautioned ’em to hold their tongues.”

  If only the newspapermen realized the best way to get information was to send a pretty, sympathetic maid to listen to the lower staff’s tales of woe. No nobleman or woman’s secrets would be safe.

  “What did they have to say?”

  Her lips pursed with displeasure as she began inserting hairpins into my coils of hair. “Well, I can tell ye none o’ ’em were sorry the earl’s heir died. The maids were terrified o’ him. Seems they tried to do everythin’ in the house in pairs. And the footmen delivered his tea and answered his summons.”

  “Then Hotchkins and the housekeeper knew. Otherwise they never would have assigned a maid’s task to a footman.”

  “Aye. The footman I spoke to said they even had a covert signal to alert everyone in the servants’ hall when Lord Feckenham returned. Said protocol changed when he was at home.”

  “Good heavens!” It was difficult to imagine living in a house where one person had such a profound and detrimental effect on everything else. They all must have been bracing themselves for the moment when Redditch died and Feckenham became master. “I’m guessing the staff must have turned over frequently.”

  “Oh, aye. ’Twas difficult to keep maids, let alone footmen. But the upper servants never begrudged them a good reference, they said.”