“They have a child, did you know?”
“Who?”
“Claudia and Jamie. They have a daughter.”
He tucked her hand into the curve of his arm, and they resumed their trek. “Yes, the little girl outside the church last Sunday. Jamie told me while you and Claudia were enjoying your reunion.”
She had wondered fleetingly what they would find to talk about; apparently they’d found a great deal. “It seems rather unfair, doesn’t it? Even trying not to, they managed to have a child, whereas I, on the other hand—”
“Pray do not distress yourself, my lady—”
“No, hear me out, John! I have given it a great deal of thought, and I have come to realize that you must not be robbed of the opportunity to have children merely because I am—lacking—in that area. You are in a better position than my first husband, for where Frederick required a legitimate heir of the body, you have only to locate a willing female and—and—and you may be sure that I would love any child of yours as if it were my own,” she concluded miserably.
The silence from the man at her side was deafening, but she dared not look at him to gauge how this proposal was being received; from looking him in the eye it was only a very short step to imagining him in the arms of another woman, and there, she feared, her resolution would fail her.
“Am I to understand,” he said at last, with great deliberation, “that you are encouraging me to take a mistress?”
“Only for as long as it takes for you to get her with child,” she said hastily. “We must be very clear on that point.”
“Oh, of course,” he agreed drily.
“There are a couple of other conditions that I must insist upon as well.”
“I should love to hear them,” he said, although there was that in his voice that suggested otherwise.
“First, I should prefer that the woman have brown hair and brown eyes, as much like your own coloring as possible. That way, if the child should happen to resemble its mother, I should still see you, and not her, when I looked at it.”
“I see. And the other condition?”
“That the woman must not be Lucy,” she said, naming the Covent Garden strumpet who’d had designs on John Pickett’s virtue long before she, Julia, had ever met him. It would be too galling, to have won that particular battle only to lose the war.
“In that case, I’m afraid the deal is off, for you must know it has always been my life’s ambition to bed Lucy.” Pickett stopped in his tracks and seized his lady by the shoulders. “How is it possible for an otherwise sensible female to spout such arrant nonsense? Have I ever given you the slightest indication that I wanted children on such terms?”
“I—I didn’t mean to make you angry—”
“I am not angry!” Pickett insisted with such vehemence that two sheep looked up from grazing, no doubt filled with admiration at so calm and reasonable a demeanor. “I am wounded to the quick by the knowledge that you hold what we share so cheaply as to consider it transferable to anyone else who happens to have the right body parts!”
“No, no! Indeed, the very thought of you lying with another woman makes me ill! But recently I have been forced to recognize that in denying you the opportunity to have children I have done you a disservice.”
His eyes narrowed as a possible explanation presented itself. “Have you been talking to your mother, by any chance?”
“No, not about that,” she answered quickly. “I could not discuss such a thing with Mama! But when she told me about Papa’s trips to London, she did say that it was a wife’s duty to see that her husband’s needs were met—”
“If you were meeting them any better, I wouldn’t be able to walk,” said Pickett, with a reminiscent gleam in his eye. “My lady, I’m well aware that a fellow like me should never have a wife like you in the first place. In the usual way of things, I never should have even crossed your path, much less aspired to marry you. Yes, I always thought I would want children one day—what man does not? But if being childless is the price I pay for such a stroke of good fortune, I consider I made a very good bargain, for I want no other woman but you.”
There was only one answer she could make to such a declaration, and so she made it. “But John,” she said at last, emerging breathless and disheveled from a protracted embrace, “if anything were to happen to you, I should have nothing, no part of you, to remember you by.”
“Nothing is going to happen to me, my lady,” he assured her.
“So says the man who was coshed over the head less than a month ago!” she scoffed. “I have lost one husband to violent death already; is it so inconceivable that I should lose another?”
“I’m not a betting man, but I should think its having happened once would decrease the odds of such a thing happening again.”
“Perhaps it might, if my second husband did not insist upon going about looking for trouble,” she pointed out with some asperity. “I don’t like Lord Buckleigh, John. I didn’t like him when I was a child and he was courting Claudia, and now, knowing what I do, I like him even less.”
“I’m not fond of him myself,” Pickett said, “but as you said yourself, Lord Buckleigh holds all the cards in this particular game. He may try to discredit me, but if he were to make any attempt against my life, he would only lend credence to my suspicions. In fact, we have one another at a stalemate—and I intend to be the one to break it. And as for you having something to remember me by,” he bent to whisper in her ear, “is there any chance we might slip away upstairs immediately after dinner?”
The answer to this hopeful query proved to be a resounding “no.”
“There you are!” Lady Runyon exclaimed upon their return. “Where have you been all afternoon? Just after you left, we received an invitation to dine with Lord and Lady Buckleigh tonight. Lady Buckleigh keeps country hours—most unfashionable, but what can one expect, with such a mother?—so we will sit down to dinner at five. You’d best go upstairs and change, both of you, for Papa has ordered the carriage for four o’clock.”
The Picketts, man and wife, exchanged looks of mutual regret before heading upstairs to change their dress and prepare for whatever the evening might bring.
Chapter Fifteen
In Which John Pickett Makes His First Move
At promptly four o’clock that evening, the Runyon contingent piled into the squire’s carriage and set out for Lord Buckleigh’s elegant Palladian mansion. Pickett could have wished for more time in which to decide on just how he should approach his lordship; it was, after all, not every day that he was faced with the prospect of notifying his primary suspect of his progress in the investigation. He derived what comfort he could from the knowledge that his mother-in-law took no more pleasure in the night’s entertainment than he did himself.
“And when I think that the last time I sat at Lord Buckleigh’s table, my dear Claudia presided over it as hostess,” sighed Lady Runyon. “While as for that shockingly vulgar creature who is his mother-in-law, well, what I shall find to say to her, I’m sure I don’t know!”
“If you feel that way, Mama, I wonder you didn’t make our excuses,” Julia said.
“Oh, how I longed to do so! But it must have been considered appallingly rude. I suspect the new Lady Buckleigh feels quite inferior to her predecessor, and so for her to be on terms with the family of her husband’s first wife cannot but ease her way.” She sighed again. “I suppose we owe Lord Buckleigh too much to deny his new wife this small courtesy.”
Julia’s jaw tightened, and Pickett, catching her eye, frowned a warning. Julia obediently held her tongue, but as he handed her down from the carriage a short time later, she whispered, “Even if Lord Buckleigh did not kill Tom, I shall never forgive him for his treatment of Claudia! How am I to sit at the same table and exchange pleasantries with him, when I could tell Mama and Papa such things?”
“You will do it in just the same way you faced down your London acquaintances while they speculated behind
your back on whether or not you killed your husband,” Pickett reminded her.
“Yes, but I was certain of my own innocence,” she reminded him. “Besides, I had a devoted advocate, if you will recall.”
His hand tightened on hers. “You’ll always have that.”
“Come along, Julia, Mr. Pickett,” Lady Runyon called from the portico, where the butler stood at the front door ready to announce them. “We must not keep Lord and Lady Buckleigh waiting.”
Julia made a droll face for her husband’s benefit, then picked an infinitesimal speck of lint from his lapel, took his arm, and allowed him to escort her up the stairs in her parents’ wake. A few minutes later, they were shown into an elegantly appointed drawing room whose Grecian-inspired furnishings retained no trace of the violent scene enacted there almost thirteen years earlier. Lord Buckleigh stood near the fireplace with one hand resting on the mantel, presenting a chiseled profile to anyone entering the room. His youthful bride perched stiffly on the edge of her chair, looking like a bird ready to take flight at any moment. The red-faced, middle-aged man they’d seen at the inquest and identified as Lady Buckleigh’s father sat beside her, mopping his brow and looking woefully out of place. In fact, the only one of the Buckleigh party who looked completely at ease was Mrs. Gubbins. Once again dressed in a gown better suited to a much younger woman, she leaned back on a sofa with one leg thrown over the other to expose chunky ankles encased in pink-clad stockings.
“Well, well, here’s the squire and his family!” she announced before the butler could do so, uncrossing her legs and heaving herself to her feet. “I met your daughter and her husband in the village yesterday, you know, but as for the rest of you, I haven’t yet had the pleasure—”
“In that case, you must allow me,” his lordship put in smoothly, effectively silencing his mother-in-law. “Sir Thaddeus, Lady Runyon, Mr. and Mrs. Pickett, may I present Lady Buckleigh’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Horace Gubbins? I’m sure I need not introduce my wife, for you will remember her from the Brantleys’ dinner party.” The rather pained glance he directed at Pickett made it clear that the presentation of Lady Buckleigh was not the only memorable event of that night. “Mother Gubbins, as you have surmised, this is Sir Thaddeus and Lady Runyon, and Mr. and Mrs. John—you did say it was John, did you not?—Pickett.”
The men shook hands, and although Lady Runyon could not quite bring herself to curtsy, she dipped her head, all the while maintaining the sort of repulsed yet fascinated eye contact with Mrs. Gubbins that a rabbit might display when confronted with a cobra. The dinner itself was no better, for it was inevitable that such an ill-assorted group of people would find little to say to one another. Pickett found himself wondering about Lord Buckleigh’s courtship of his unlikely bride, and decided that if he was made uncomfortable by the obvious vulgarity of his new in-laws, it was no more than he deserved.
“And now, Mr. Pickett, I would like to know a bit more about you,” said Mrs. Gubbins, when the reliable topic of the weather had been exhausted. “I’m sure I don’t exaggerate when I say you’re an odd sort of husband for a ladyship to have—are you still a ladyship, ma’am, or a mere missus, like me?”
A missus, thought Pickett, although, thankfully, nothing like you.
“Now, Edna,” Mr. Gubbins chided his wife, “I’m sure anyone might say the same thing about our Betty marrying his lordship.”
“That’s what I mean,” insisted Mrs. Gubbins, undaunted. “You, Mr. Pickett, seem like the sort of man who might have had our Betty, if she hadn’t caught the eye of our dear Lord Buckleigh.” She simpered at her son-in-law seated at the head of the table.
“Unfortunately, a grand title don’t always make a great match,” put in Sir Thaddeus, leading Pickett to wonder how much he knew about Claudia’s marriage until the squire expounded upon this theme. “Lord Fieldhurst, you must know, ran himself to ground and got himself killed for his pains, and dam—er, dashed near took our Julia along with him. She might have gone to the gallows for his murder, had it not been for Mr. Pickett, here.”
“Is that so?” Mrs. Gubbins bent a keen gaze on Julia. “I hope you didn’t make such a poor match out of gratitude, my dear, for it rarely lasts.”
Up came Julia’s chin. “No, indeed! Mr. Pickett is widely admired for his cleverness, and has solved many a case where it appeared the miscreant would go free. Why, just recently he was rewarded by the Russian government for his efforts on behalf of the Princess Olga Fyodorovna on the night of the Drury Lane Theatre fire.”
Pickett felt himself blushing, even as he saw his chances of lulling Lord Buckleigh into complacency fading. “It sounds much less impressive when one considers that my ‘efforts’ consisted mostly of getting myself coshed on the head,” he protested.
“I’m sure you are too modest, Mr. Pickett,” Mrs. Gubbins insisted. “I daresay you see many interesting things in your line of work—more interesting than Mr. Gubbins there, for although he makes a pretty penny, the life of a linen-draper is far from exciting.”
“It’s certainly surprising, the depths to which men can sink,” Pickett agreed, seeing his opportunity. “Why, just recently I learned of a case where a man so abused his poor wife that she was forced to escape with her life. And did the man show any remorse over his ill treatment of her? Why, no! In fact, he made a bigamous marriage with another female.”
There was a moment’s shocked silence, broken by Sir Thaddeus, who asked, “Did the fellow know his first wife was still living?”
“I have wondered that myself, sir,” Pickett said.
“It is easy to judge the actions of others when we don’t know all the facts,” observed Lord Buckleigh. “Perhaps he was desperate for a son to inherit his title.”
Pickett’s eyebrows rose. “Have I said there was a title?”
“Touché, Mr. Pickett.” His lordship smiled thinly. “I suppose it is only human nature to assume that others’ situations must reflect our own. Because I am in need of an heir, I must think it a priority for any other man as well.”
“In fact, my lord, you are quite right,” acknowledged Pickett, lifting his wineglass and taking a sip. “There was a title—a barony, if I understand it correctly.”
“But how appalling for the poor second wife!” exclaimed Lady Runyon. “No doubt she believes herself to be legally wed to this baron, when in fact she must be quite ruined if the truth of her situation were known.”
“Yes, indeed,” agreed Mrs. Gubbins, unconsciously putting the squire’s lady in the surprising position of finding herself in agreement with the vulgarian. “If anyone treated a child of mine so shabbily, I should know how to deal with him!”
“I am sure no one could blame you, Mrs. Gubbins,” Pickett said, then, having made his point, judged it time to turn the subject. “But I cannot accept your suggestion that your husband’s work must be dull when compared to mine. One tends to think of brandy when the subject of smuggling arises, but I believe there are more than a few bolts of silk for sale in England that never paid a tariff, are there not, sir?”
“Aye, that there are, and for those of us trying to ply an honest trade, they wreak havoc on the prices,” said Mr. Gubbins, much gratified. He found himself wishing his daughter might have married just such a fellow as this—aye, a level-headed young man to whom he might have bequeathed his business one day, not a high-falutin lordship around whom a man couldn’t make a move without fearing he was setting his foot wrong. Not that Lord Buckleigh ever said anything, but he had a way of looking at one with that nose of his stuck in the air that said more than any words. Granted, Mrs. Gubbins didn’t seem to take any notice, and little Betty was over the moon at being a ladyship, so if his women were happy, he supposed he must be, too.
At last (and only after receiving a nudge from her mother), Lady Buckleigh gave the ladies the signal to withdraw, and the gentlemen remained at the table for post-prandial port. Conversation between the men was desultory, and Pickett had the impression that his hos
t was merely going through the motions until he could tactfully break up the little party—a suspicion that was confirmed when they rose to join the ladies.
“I should like a word with you, Mr. Pickett,” his lordship said, and the glint in his eye gave Pickett to understand that he was unlikely to enjoy the encounter. “Sir Thaddeus, Mr. Gubbins, I’m sure you will make our apologies to the ladies.”
Mr. Gubbins dared not contradict his son-in-law in anything, and Sir Thaddeus saw nothing to wonder at in his lordship’s desire for a tête-à-tête, being aware of Lord Buckleigh’s request that Pickett keep him abreast of his progress in the matter of Tom Pratt’s death. Therefore both men agreed to this arrangement, thus leaving Pickett to his fate.
“If you will join me in my study, Mr. Pickett, we may be more private,” Lord Buckleigh said, and led the way from the dining room down the corridor to a square chamber decorated according to masculine tastes in rich wood and leather, with curtains of bronze-colored velvet hanging from its tall windows. He waved Pickett toward a nail-studded armchair, then seated himself behind his long mahogany desk. Pickett felt rather like a recalcitrant schoolboy summoned before a stern tutor; indeed, it was only the realization that this was exactly what his lordship intended him to feel that allowed him to resist an uncomfortable impulse to squirm.
“You have not yet approached me to request an arrest warrant,” was Lord Buckleigh’s opening salvo. “Am I to understand by this omission that you have not yet discovered who killed Sir Thaddeus’s groom?”
Pickett paused to consider his lordship’s question for a long moment before answering. “Let us say, rather, that I have not yet uncovered sufficient evidence to prove it to a jury’s satisfaction.”
Lord Buckleigh’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “A cautious answer, Mr. Pickett, and no doubt a wise one.”
“I do have a few questions to ask you, my lord, if I may.”
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