Crump gazed unhappily at Dulcie, who was enfolded in a shawl of English cashmere that must have measured at least six yards long. He supposed he should not have been surprised at anything the Baroness did, and in truth he found it no matter of astonishment that she had dyed her hair pink, or that beneath the shawl she wore naught but the sheerest of nightgowns; but unless the Runner was to doubt the fidelity of his own ears, Lady Bligh had wished to be robbed, which strained even his credulity. He shifted his weight uncomfortably.
“Poor Crump,” sympathized Dulcie. “You are quite worn out with fuss, fatigue and rage. We must delay you no longer with our little disagreements, having already been so inconsiderate as to drag you from your bed. Pray continue with your questions! We will do our utmost to help you nose out our would-be thief.”
The Runner saw no reason to believe any assurances offered by a lady who was in the practice of daily dissimulation, but he persevered. “Perhaps we can determine if anything was taken, though it looks as if your robber was frightened off too soon. It might be a good idea if everyone searched his room.”
“An excellent notion!” conceded Lady Bligh. “It has already been done.”
Crump was speedily becoming aware that he was out of his element. “And?” he asked.
One by one they assured him that their belongings had not been disturbed. Crump looked last at the silent maidservant, whose eyelids had once more closed. Culpepper shook the girl vigorously. Her efforts had little effect until Lady Bligh took a hand. Dulcie removed fresh-cut flowers from a vase and emptied the water over Charity’s head.
The maid’s eyes flew open, and in them was a look of utter astonishment. “Bow Street is here to make inquiries,” the Baroness said. “Is anything missing from your room?” But the maidservant was of little help, succumbing promptly to hysterics, drumming her heels on the floor and shrieking like a banshee. All but Lady Bligh stared, appalled.
“Damn me!” said Maurice, roused from his trance-like abstraction by the din. “What a caterwauling! Has someone died?”
“Someone may!” muttered Culpepper, and slapped the screaming girl. “Answer the question. Have you noticed anything missing from your room?”
Charity looked ashen, and Crump felt sorry for the homely lass. “I doubt this is necessary,” he protested. “Few lasses in her position have anything worth stealing.”
“Necessary?” repeated Dulcie. “Of course it’s necessary. Answer the question, Charity.”
“No, ma’am, nothing,” sniffled the maidservant. She looked a sodden mess, with water streaming down her face and dripping from hair so ugly that it might have been a wig. A wig? Crump frowned.
He was given no chance to pursue that errant thought: the Baroness motioned Culpepper and Charity out of the room. “Laudanum,” she explained. “We were determined that the poor girl should enjoy at least one night’s good sleep. She is remarkably restless at the best of times.” Trailing her shawl and exuding a sweet perfume, she touched the Runner’s arm. “You will wish to inspect the means of the villain’s entry. Gibbon will escort you.”
“Ah, yes. Gibbon!” Crump rocked back on his heels. “Thank you for reminding me. I’m wishful of having a word with that lad, about a certain case of breaking and entering.”
“Now, now, Crump!” his hostess interjected. “You mustn’t be worrying poor Gibbon to death. He was only acting on my orders. I will provide whatever explanations are necessary to John.”
“Why,” asked Crump, with little hope of an honest reply, “did you order your butler to engage in house-breaking?” He had even less confidence that Lady Bligh would make a clean breast of things to the Chief Magistrate.
“I have a voracious craving for knowledge!” replied the Baroness, with an enchanting smile. “Go now, the two of you, and inspect the door. Though it was unlocked you may still find some sort of evidence.”
Along with his energies, Crump’s patience was exhausted. “One more question, if you will! Have you any idea what your robber might have wished to steal?”
“Bligh House is full of treasures, dear Crump. He might have been after any number of things.” Dulcie drew the shawl more tightly around her, as if to combat a sudden chill. “I confess this night’s proceedings have been a sad disappointment! We can only hope that he will try again.”
Chapter 26
Miss Montague was in the Gallery, a handsome chamber enlivened by columns of white-and-purple-veined Derbyshire alabaster, walls covered with crimson Norwich damask, and a ceiling modeled after that in Henry VII’s chapel in Westminster Abbey. The Gallery housed collections of paintings, marbles, and bronzes that the various Barons Bligh had acquired on their Grand Tours. The mementos that the present Lord Bligh had brought back from his Grand Tour could not be displayed so publicly. Maximilian’s only addition to this room had been a vivacious portrait of Dulcie at the age of eighteen.
Mignon was as artfully arranged as her surroundings. She wore a very becoming tobacco brown velvet tunic, trimmed with pearl beads and yellow disks, over a white muslin gown. Her red hair was caught back in a fashion that accentuated her high cheekbones and drew attention to her huge green eyes. The effect was slightly spoiled, however, by her scowl.
“My aunt is not here,” she said rudely. “She has gone to confer with Sir John. And Maurice is keeping an appointment with Prinny’s dentist, having presented himself a fortnight ago and finally having been granted an audience. You have wasted your time in coming here. I suggest you go away.”
Lord Jeffries, as Miss Montague speedily discovered, was very difficult to snub. “Excellent!” he replied smoothly. “Since it was you I wished to speak with, and privately.”
Mignon risked a glance at him, and then wished she had not. The Viscount looked remarkably fine in his great coat with its deep capes and long wide sleeves, his beaver hat and black leather boots. He also looked to be in a dangerous temper. She lowered her eyes to the handsome Moorfield carpet. “I cannot see, sir, that there remains anything to discuss.”
“Then I must open your eyes.” The greatcoat and hat were deposited on a plump festooned settee. “You see, Miss Montague, Willie has been induced to confess to me who commissioned those forged banknotes.”
“Oh?” Mignon was icily polite. “You terrorized the poor man, I suppose.” She looked now at the painted glass window which bore the Bligh coat of arms, an eagle and a calgreyhound—a rare monster with the head of a wildcat—on a field of sanguine, with the motto Cave, “beware.” “What has that to do with me?”
“How well you play the innocent!” Lord Jeffries was so contemptuous that Mignon could only stare at him. “We will go on much better if you refrain from spinning me any more tales.”
Miss Montague devoutly longed for the musket that she had returned to the Armory. “I haven’t the faintest notion what you’re talking about.”
“You seem to have equally little notion of what happens to females who follow the path you currently tread. Do you fancy turning Haymarket-ware, a straw damsel to be sold to the highest bidder? Perhaps I should take you on a tour of St. Giles, one of London’s foulest rookeries, a city of vice within the Metropolis. Or introduce you to Mother Windsor, a notable procuress in King’s Place.”
Had Mignon been less stubborn, she might have informed Lord Jeffries that he was laboring under a severe misapprehension. Miss Montague might have in the past acted with less than prudence, but she was far from a Paphian girl. However, Mignon had a temper as fiery as her hair. “You forget my fortune!” she reminded him. “I am not yet at my last prayers.”
“The question is academic.” Ivor propped one well-shod foot on a delicate footstool. “You’ll be hanged before you can turn into a fubsy-faced old maid. It might behoove you, Miss Montague, to listen to the proposition I mean to make you.”
“Hanged!” Mignon searched the Viscount’s face for some sign that he engaged in a monstrous jest, but found only cold resolution there.
“I have told you
I know who paid Willie to forge those banknotes. I know who was responsible for the robberies.” His steely eyes stabbed her. “For the murders as well, though I do not suspect you of those. If I did, I would hardly propose to save your neck.”
Mignon’s hand flew to her throat. “You make serious accusations, sir. On what grounds?”
Ivor’s booted foot thudded heavily to the floor. “Your self-possession is edifying. Someone unjustly accused would hardly be so cool.”
Mignon prudently took refuge behind the plump settee. The Viscount stood firmly between her and the doorway, barring any avenue of escape. Miss Montague longed desperately for rescue. Was she to meet violence—or worse!—at the hands of a damnably handsome lunatic?
He truly looked as though he wished to strangle her. “I would never have suspected this of you, did I not have proof.”
No, reflected Mignon bitterly, he would only think her a baggage who had thrown her hat over the windmill and consequently had turned bachelor’s fare. “Proof of what, my lord?” she asked, assuming a calmness she did not feel.
“Proof that you have been involved in all these crimes, by keeping your cohorts informed of your aunt’s progress in tracking them down.” His voice was cold. “Proof that you let Leda go to prison, knowing she was innocent.”
Mignon’s head whirled. “My aunt,” she said, grasping at the only sane words she’d thus far heard. “Think you my aunt wouldn’t know of it, if what you said was true? Or do you suspect her also of complicity?”
“Of course not.” Ivor made an annoyed gesture. “Lady Bligh may very well know of your guilt, and seek to somehow extricate you. She did warn me against you, after all! Or she may be, as I very nearly was, taken in by your clever act. If so, she will suffer greatly from her misjudgment. I wonder you can reconcile it with your conscience, Miss Montague.”
“I think I must not have one. How could I, and be involved in robbery and murder? At least you do not think me capable of shooting Warwick, or bludgeoning women to death. I suppose I should thank you for having such supreme confidence in me.” Mignon’s fingernails dug into the upholstery of the settee. “What is to prevent me, now that you have found me out, from having my ‘cohorts’ dispose of you? I collect you have come to me with your suspicions instead of proceeding to Bow Street.”
The Viscount wore a stern mask. “It is you who have not considered. I am a wealthy man—wealthy enough to buy you freedom, of a sort.”
“Freedom!” Mignon’s temper strained at its tight leash. “You offer to buy me freedom when I have conspired to send your mother to Newgate. What sort of a man are you, Lord Jeffries?”
“Freedom of a sort,” corrected the Viscount. “You will pay, and dearly, for any harm you have done Leda.” Mignon’s lips parted and he motioned her to silence. “Are you thinking you may buy yourself off? You cannot. A fortune you may have, but not sufficient influence to hush up the thing so completely that it never reaches the ears of the Quality. You might contrive to escape the hangman’s noose, Miss Montague, but your reputation would be gone.”
“Ah, my fortune.” To hide the sudden trembling of her hands, Mignon folded her arms. “Just what is your proposition, Lord Jeffries? I might tell you that I care little for the opinion of the ton. Persons of the first consideration are so often very dull.”
“I am offering you,” said Ivor stiffly, “the protection of my name.”
“How prodigiously kind of you.” Mignon’s smile resembled a snarl. “In return you gain control of my fortune and an excessively obedient wife, for if I ever threaten to run counter to your wishes, you will menace me with exposure. A sad comedown for a girl who wished for herself a love match.”
“You can hardly expect declarations of devotion and adoration.” There was a distinctly feral gleam in Lord Jeffries’ brown eyes. “The truth is that I want you, and at any price.”
“I see.” What a fool she was, to have fallen in love with a man who, if he wasn’t a murderer, was undeniably mad! Mignon inched around the settee. “Since you are so desirous of settling in matrimony, Lord Jeffries, I suggest you might find a more fitting mate among the ladies of St. Giles, or the Haymarket, or King’s Place. Personally, I would rather go to Newgate than marry you.” On this Parthian shot, she scrambled out from behind the settee and bolted for freedom.
But Miss Montague, having burned her bridges behind her in a gloriously foolhardy style, was to be allowed no respite. No sooner had she gained the hallway than she ran smack into Charity. “I must speak with you,” hissed the maidservant, who’d obviously been eavesdropping outside the door.
“Very well,” replied Mignon, with a sinking heart. “In my room.” Mignon grabbed Charity’s arm, fearing that Viscount Jeffries would at any moment burst through the Gallery door.
“Whatever you say, miss.” Charity’s voice was servile, but her plain features wore a decided smirk. Once inside Mignon’s bedchamber, the maidservant closed the door.
“Frittering away your chances, aren’t you, miss?” she asked maliciously. “First Jesse, then Barrymore, and now Jeffries.”
Mignon sank down on the bed. “You go beyond the line of being pleasing, Charity. Do you wish me to report your behavior to my aunt?”
Uncowed, the maid tossed her head. “Hoity-toity!” she mocked. “You won’t tell the Baroness, being afraid I’ll tell her what I heard. I wouldn’t care if I was turned off anyway, me being used to better things.”
Miss Montague took little objection to this insolence, her thoughts being otherwise engaged. “You mentioned Jesse. I suppose you read the notes I had from him.”
“I didn’t need to.” Charity picked up one of the Persian dolls. “Knowing already what they said. You were a fool to try and play a May game with Jesse, thinking he’d let you be shabbing off and making a cake of him.”
“Dear heaven!” gasped Mignon, rather idiotically. “You know Jesse?”
“Haven’t I just said so?” Charity looked smug. “Jesse’s a gentleman, he is, and he’ll keep mum about what’s passed between you. Providing you give him a chance to apologize! You’re to meet him at his lodgings tonight.”
The return of her letters had accomplished precious little, thought Mignon gloomily. Her lost love was proving damnably tenacious. “And if I refuse?”
“Then you’ll regret it.” Charity turned the doll head over heels and inspected its underpinnings. “It makes a good story, the heiress and the actor, doesn’t it? I doubt the Baroness would like the scandal if the tale was published.” She smirked. “With suitable embellishments.”
“I can hardly visit Jesse’s lodgings without making a byword of myself!” Jesse wouldn’t deliberately do her a harm, would he? And how on earth had Jesse become acquainted with Charity?
“You’re suddenly mighty concerned for your good name.” Mignon winced as the maidservant carelessly tossed the doll aside. “All I can say is if you don’t go, it’s dead certain Jesse will lose his temper again, and you know what that means.”
Mignon watched in silence as Charity strolled from the room. It was speedily being borne in on Miss Montague that she had behaved in a skitter-witted fashion indeed.
Chapter 27
“The poor King,” remarked Lady Bligh, “is blind and mad and nearly helpless. I saw him myself recently, flitting across the terraces at Windsor in a velvet cap and dressing gown. Do you recall his Jubilee, John?” The Chief Magistrate was given no opportunity to reply. “Debtors were released, Army and Navy deserters pardoned, and an ox was roasted whole at Windsor with one and half bushels of potatoes in its belly.” She brushed dust from the sleeve of her high-collared spencer, made of rich wine-colored velvet fringed with fur and heavy with embroidery. “I suppose we should not be surprised that the King wrote to Young’s Annals of Agriculture under the name of Ralph Robinson, or kept a model farm at Windsor, or ate brown bread and boiled mutton and turnips for dinner, considering that he was suckled by a gardener’s wife. Although that doesn’t exp
lain why he liked nothing better than to make buttons in the days when he was sane.”
Sir John was a busy man, his days filled with all the minutiae of law and crime, as well as with the daily sittings which were held from 11 A.M. to 3 P.M. and again from 7 to 8; and he considered it unjust that what few moments he possessed should be taken up by people who wished to cajole or bully him. He hardly needed to be reminded of Lady Bligh’s high connections, of her influence at Court. Nor was Dulcie the first to visit him that day in regard to the Langtry case.
“So Percy finally has been moved to try and save Leda from an ignoble end.” The Baroness toyed with the wide brim of her elegant bonnet, which was turned up at the side with a lavish trimming of ribbon and lace. “I thought he might. Came you to any agreement, John?”
“No.” The Chief Magistrate recalled that encounter, during which Lord Calvert had exhibited equal parts of blustery indignation and effrontery. “You are mistaken; he came not in behalf of Leda, but of Jeffries. It seems to me that a great many people are very anxious to protect that young man.”
“So they are.” Dulcie surveyed her one-time beau with a slightly pensive look. “I think it is time I was frank with you, dear John.”
“So do I.” He leaned forward on his desk. “It is hardly the thing for a delicately nurtured English lady to go about hoodwinking representatives of the law. Crump does not appreciate being made to look the fool.”
“It would not have been necessary,” retorted Lady Bligh, “had not Crump threatened to bungle the thing so completely. To act the dupe has been an edifying experience for him, I’m sure! Don’t you wish to hear what I have to tell you?” Sir John gazed upon the wily Baroness, her captivating features caressed by the dusty rose curls that escaped from beneath the absurd bonnet, her elegant figure displayed to good advantage as she leaned against the back of the old wooden chair. “Dulcie, it is unthinkable that you should be involved in these matters. Confounding as you are, I would not wish anything to happen to you, and your meddling is dangerous. Why do you not content yourself with teas and routs and pleasure trips, and leave the pursuit of criminals to Bow Street?”
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