Stirring Up the Viscount

by Marin McGinnis

  “I think I’ll lie down for a while, if you don’t mind, Mrs. Appleton. Thank you for the tisane. You are very kind.” She sighed, regret filling her chest.

  Mrs. Appleton patted her gently on the shoulder. “Very well. But please know that your secret would be safe with me, if ever you wish to share it.”

  Theodora nodded, and as Mrs. Appleton softly closed the door behind her, she stretched out on the bed and sighed again. Her eyes filled with tears, and silently she cried herself to sleep.

  ****

  Jonathan disembarked at King’s Cross and headed straight for Fleet Street. After a night on the train, he should have gone to Longley House to freshen up, but there wasn’t time. He needed some answers. He went first to the office of The Times and asked to see copies of the newspaper from July.

  Buried on page three of the fourth paper, he found it.

  Lucien Ravensdale, a barrister at the Inner Temple, narrowly escaped with his life after a fire consumed his Christopher Street townhouse. The Ravensdales kept no servants, and only he and his wife were at home at the time. Mr. Ravensdale stated he was asleep when the fire began, and that his wife may have been in the kitchen, which investigators say is where the fire started. Mrs. Ravensdale is believed to have perished in the blaze, but her remains have not yet been found.

  Jonathan looked up from the paper and stared straight ahead. The account raised more questions than it answered. Why would a gentleman of Ravensdale’s presumed wealth not have any servants? What would a gentleman’s wife have been doing in the kitchen in the middle of the night? And why would no one have found her body? He knew nothing about such things, but surely there would have been something left. A piece of bone, or fabric from her gown?

  Jonathan scoured the newspapers from the weeks following the fire. Other than a short account a week later, which said only that the fire brigade confirmed the blaze had started in the kitchen and Mrs. Ravensdale’s remains had still not been found, he read nothing more of interest. Jonathan folded the papers and returned them to the clerk with thanks.

  He looked down at himself and realized he was covered with ink, so he headed to Longley House to deposit his valise and wash up. The butler, Mr. Longbottom, was surprised to see him, but beyond welcoming his lordship back to London, he said nothing.

  After a quick meal of cold meat, bread, and cheese, Jonathan set off again. This time he visited Christopher Street. It was not hard to find the house, as it was the only one reduced to a pile of charred rubble. Jonathan marveled that the man had made no progress in rebuilding in three months, but that was just one in a number of things about this which did not make sense.

  As he stood there staring at the remains of the house, a small boy stopped and stood next to him. Jonathan looked down, ready to shoo him away, but the boy did not have a hand out to ask for money—he was also staring at the house.

  “Did you know the people who lived here?”

  “Yes, sir.” The boy nodded but didn’t avert his gaze from the rubble. His dirty brown hair fell over one eye. “The missus was ever so nice. I did odd jobs for ’er. She always gave me a penny.”

  “What did she look like?”

  “She had dark hair, like the wings of the ravens at the Tower. You could almost see through ’er skin.”

  That sounded like his Matilda.

  “You must have been sad when you heard she had died in the fire.”

  The boy looked up at him then, his eyes wide. “Oh, but she didn’t die! She escaped. I saw ’er creeping out of the ’ouse afore the blaze took ’old. I called out to ’er, but she must not ’ave ’eard me.”

  “Have you told anyone else this?”

  The boy shrugged, clearly unconcerned he was the only one in London who knew for certain that Mrs. Ravensdale was alive. “Nah.”

  “Whyever not?”

  “No one ever asked, did they?”

  A fine point. Jonathan almost smiled. “Do you know where she went?”

  “Dunno. Mebbe up north somewhere.”

  Jonathan arched a brow. “Why do you say that?”

  “She gave me a letter to post the day before the fire. It were to a Lady Something-or-Other, somewhere north.”

  “Durham?”

  The boy shrugged again. “Mebbe.”

  “Have you ever heard of someone named Mrs. Milsom?”

  The boy thought for a minute and absently scratched his cheek. “Dunno. Mebbe.”

  Jonathan and the boy were quiet for a moment. Then Jonathan asked, “What was her husband like?”

  The boy spat on the street in front of him. “A rotter, ’e is. Looks a fancy toff, but ’e’s the sort to kick dogs on the street. I seen ’im ’it her once, too. I was walking by the ’ouse, late, and they was next to the window. ’E smacked ’er, ’ard. I could ’ear the sound through the window. Then ’e pulled the curtains closed so I couldn’t see no more.”

  Jonathan rubbed his chin thoughtfully and then reached into his pocket for some coins. “Thank you.” He held up the boy’s hand so he could drop the money into his grubby palm.

  The boy’s eyes widened. “Gor! Thank ye, sir!” He quickly scampered off, throwing a glance behind him as if he were afraid Jonathan might try to take the money back.

  Jonathan stared after him, then walked away in the opposite direction. It was clear that Theodora Ravensdale and Matilda Milsom were one and the same, and she had planned before the fire to leave her abusive husband and take on a new identity.

  But did she try to kill him?

  He pictured her in his mind, so pale, afraid of so much. But so strong and passionate. He groaned softly thinking of their almost night together. It must have taken remarkable courage to run away from her husband.

  Did she set the fire, or did she merely take advantage of an opportunity, as she had said?

  ****

  Jonathan’s next stop was his club. He couldn’t recall there being any barristers among the club’s patrons, but there might be someone who knew Ravensdale, or more likely, the man’s father-in-law.

  Jonathan strode up the stairs two at a time and handed his hat to the manager. For a split second, the man’s eyes widened. He obviously knew both who Jonathan was and that he had not set foot in London for a long time. He undoubtedly knew why, too. A good club manager knew such things, and this was precisely why he’d chosen to lick his wounds in the country.

  Jonathan went into the common room, scanning it for familiar faces he wasn’t sure he wanted to see. Letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, he was relieved to see no one of his acquaintance. He was about to sit by himself when he was hailed from behind. “Caxton! Never thought I’d see you here again.”

  Jonathan spun around to see his old friend Willoughby approaching, hand outstretched. Jonathan clasped it warmly, genuinely pleased to see him.

  “So, Jon. I must say I never thought to see you here, at least not at this time of year. I figured you’d stay away until you decided to place yourself on the marriage...” Willoughby flushed, embarrassed to have put his foot in his mouth. Jonathan cocked a brow but smiled in forgiveness.

  “Ah, never mind. So what does bring you to London?” Willoughby rubbed a hand through his dark hair, and both men sat in arm chairs by the fire. Willoughby hailed the waiter, and a short time later they were comfortable, glasses of whisky in hand.

  Jonathan used the time to consider how much he wanted to tell his friend and decided the duke could be trusted with the entire story.

  “I have a bit of a mystery on my hands, Willoughby.” Jonathan outlined the tale, or most of it, anyway. A gentleman did not kiss and tell, after all. He sat back to gauge his friend’s reaction.

  Willoughby did not disappoint. He placed his glass on the table and leaned back in his chair, looking every inch a duke of the realm. “Let me see if I have this right. Lady Longley hired a cook sight unseen, who has assumed a false identity in order to leave her abusive husband. The night after she sends a letter,
presumably the one saying she’d love to travel all the way to County Durham to work for a countess, her house just happens to burn down, with her husband in it. She is presumed dead, but no one finds her body, because, of course, said body is very much alive in Durham, cooking for you. Her husband lives, tells everyone he is going to Northumberland to see his wife’s family, who do not actually exist, and then disappears. Meanwhile, of course, you fall in love with her.”

  Jonathan’s mouth dropped open. “Wait! I never said I fell in love with her.”

  Willoughby waved his hand airily. “Of course you did. Why else would you have come to London now, after...well, after?”

  Jonathan closed his mouth and said nothing. He couldn’t deny it.

  “Besides,” Willoughby continued, a small smile playing on his lips, “I recognize the look, since I generally see it myself whenever I look in the glass. “

  “Because...” Jonathan was unable to come up with a response that didn’t sound ridiculous, because it was true. He was in love with the cook, who made sublime custard and succulent roasts, and who was the most passionate creature he had ever encountered.

  “Ah ha,” crowed Willoughby, with a knowing grin. “I knew I was right! One need only look at your face when you think of her, my friend. You are truly done in.”

  “And you are truly the most irritating fellow.” Jonathan drank deeply of the whisky in his glass, then changed the subject. “Speaking of the look in your mirror, how is Her Grace?”

  Willoughby was easily distracted with thoughts of his duchess, and his face softened. “Ah, my lovely wife is very well, thank you. She will be sad to have missed you, but she is in York with the children while I tend to parliamentary business for a few days.”

  “Please do give her my fondest regards. And my apologies for failing to visit.” He took another sip of his liquor and set the tumbler on the table. “So, since you are quite alone in London, will you help me?”

  Willoughby smirked. “Of course. It is terribly dull in Town this time of year. And I have nothing better to do.”

  “I really don’t care about your motivation,” Jonathan said wryly. “I just want to find out what happened as quickly as possible so I can get back to her.”

  Willoughby sat back in his chair and looked seriously at him. “Why didn’t you just ask her? Surely that would have been more direct?”

  Jonathan ran a hand through his hair. “She’s been lying to me for three months. I only found out she wasn’t who she said she was because...” He paused, feeling sheepish. “Never mind. I know she would have lied to me again, then she’d run away. I need to find out the truth, and then confront her with it. Only then will I be able to convince her to stay and let me help her.”

  “What makes you think she won’t flee while you’re here?”

  “She doesn’t have any reason to run, if she doesn’t know I have uncovered her real identity.”

  “Won’t she suspect, when she learns you have hied off to London, especially if she knows you so rarely come here? I doubt very much you’d fall in love with a stupid woman.”

  Jonathan blinked. He felt like an idiot. What would she think when she learned he had left for London? Especially after their night—or almost night—together.

  Willoughby chuckled, a deep rumbling sound in his chest, and Jonathan shook his head to clear the image of her which had been forming in his mind’s eye. “It’s amazing, really. I believe I can actually see the wheels turning in your head.”

  Jonathan glared at his friend. “Oh, do be quiet, Max. You always were insufferable.”

  “That’s because I’m always right.” Willoughby smirked, and Jonathan tried hard to remember how much he liked him.

  Willoughby changed the subject. “Jonathan, the one fact you seem to be ignoring in all of this is that she is a married woman, with a nasty, brutish husband who is still alive, and very likely looking for her. Didn’t you say he was headed north?”

  “Yes, that’s what the rumor is. But surely he has no reason to come to Durham. She has no connections there, at least as far as anyone knows.”

  Willoughby shrugged. “Perhaps not. But if he does find her, he is much more likely to kill her for adultery, or even assumed adultery, than to divorce her. She can’t very well divorce him. How on earth are you going to get around that?”

  Jonathan thought for a minute, tempted to cover his forehead so Max couldn’t watch him think. “Honestly, I don’t have any idea. But I am sure something will come to me.”

  Willoughby raised his dark eyebrows. “Very well. I can see you’re determined. I will make some inquiries. My solicitor might know something, but I don’t hold out much hope. Most of what we’re likely to hear will be little more than gossip.”

  “At least I’ll know more than I know now, and I hope it will be enough to get her to tell me the truth.”

  “I will send a note round to Longley House tomorrow morning. Until then, dinner? You have to keep up your strength, my friend. Best not to do your sleuthing on an empty stomach.” Willoughby rose and gestured toward the dining room. Jonathan laughed and rose as well, and followed his friend into the other room.

  ****

  “He went to London?” Theodora was astonished. He had told her that he had not been to London since before his aborted wedding.

  “Are you all right, dear?” Mrs. Appleton asked, concern apparent in her soft gaze.

  Theodora blinked. The housekeeper had come down to tell her there would be one less person for breakfast, and was clearly concerned by her increasingly odd behavior. First, she’d had the headache last night, and now she was almost ready to cry upon hearing the viscount wouldn’t be eating breakfast. What must the woman think of her?

  “Yes, of course, I’m fine. I’m just surprised, is all. I was told his lordship never went to London.” She busied herself with heating the water to poach this morning’s eggs.

  “Aye, it is unusual. Her ladyship didn’t say why he left, just that he rushed off yesterday, after dinner. She seemed quite vexed with him, too, leaving so soon after they returned. Most unlike the viscount, who is typically the most considerate of young men.” Mrs. Appleton tsked, and then bustled off to the pantry to check the inventory, leaving Theodora alone with her thoughts. Millie was cleaning out the grates upstairs, and Bess was gathering the day’s vegetables from her father.

  She wondered what had happened yesterday to prompt him to run off—other than the fact he had nearly made love to a married servant.

  Perhaps he connected the story about the barrister with her. Had he gone to London to expose her? But why? All he had to do was tell his mother, and she would be sacked.

  One of the footmen came in and distracted her from her thoughts. He nodded a greeting, then started to polish the silver Mr. Fairfax had laid out for him earlier. They worked companionably in silence for a while.

  “Jimmy?”

  “Yes, ma’am?” he asked.

  She was absurdly pleased that she’d guessed right. “Did you happen to hear any of the conversation above stairs at dinner yesterday?” She tried to keep her voice casual, as if her entire life did not depend on his response.

  He didn’t seem to think it odd that she asked such a question, but continued to polish as he replied. “Aye, they were talking about that fire in London, and about that woman who died, and her husband who disappeared. You remember, Florrie was talking about it yesterday?”

  “Yes, I remember. Were you there when his lordship said he was leaving?”

  “Aye. He just stood up, sudden-like, and said he had to go away for a few days, and rushed out of the room. Her ladyship was most annoyed, it seemed to me.”

  “How strange. Does he usually do things like that?” she asked in what she hoped passed for nonchalance.

  “Not so I’ve seen. He’s the most level-headed of the lot of them, I think.” Jimmy returned to his task, polishing the silver with enthusiasm.

  He must have an idea who she was. She hope
d she had covered her tracks well enough, or she was in very deep trouble.

  ****

  Jonathan spent only another day in London, and with every passing moment he became more desperate to get home to Matilda. Theodora. All the doubts his friend had mentioned the day before had wormed their way into his brain, and he feared she would be gone when he returned.

  The duke was as good as his word and sent a note to Longley House before Jonathan had finished his breakfast. Unfortunately, his inquiries had resulted in little information of any consequence. Lucien Ravensdale was a wealthy man and a talented lawyer, like his father and grandfather before him. He had successfully saved many a client from the gallows or the transport ship. His colleagues respected his talent but didn’t like him; he was arrogant and aloof, and had a terrible temper. He went through clerks faster than any other barrister, sacking most of them for incompetence within weeks. The rest quit nearly as quickly. Ravensdale’s bad temper was legendary, and few clerks chose to abide it for long. Jonathan’s gut clenched when he thought of Theodora, married to such a man.

  Mrs. Ravensdale’s father, according to Max’s sources, was a baron from Northumberland who had owned a prosperous shipyard. Shortly after their daughter wed, he and his wife had died in a fire which consumed their home. Jonathan did not fail to appreciate the irony in two devastating house fires. He was also not surprised to learn that Theodora did not, in fact, have a sister, and allowed himself a momentary self-congratulation. However, she did have a brother. A younger brother, who had sailed for America within days after his sister married, and had never, so far as anyone knew, returned to England. She was alone, then, and her desperation became all the more understandable the more he learned.

  Jonathan questioned some of the Ravensdales’ neighbors, in the guise of a constable. None of them had been questioned previously, and after an initial protest that it had taken so long for the police to notice them, they were only too happy to talk. Every woman he spoke to was of the opinion that Theodora Ravensdale had tried to murder her husband, and they were only sorry she had not succeeded. Lucien Ravensdale was universally disliked, although more than one woman called him “a handsome devil.” He was cold, aloof, and more apt to snarl than smile at passers-by, if he acknowledged them at all. Jonathan could not imagine what had induced Theodora to marry him.