The Devil in Beauty: A Lord Trevelin Mystery (The Lord Trevelin Mysteries Book 1)

by Ashworth, Heidi

  A Lord Trevelin Mystery

  HEIDI ASHWORTH

  Copyright 2017

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief passages embodied in critical reviews and articles. This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  Interior design by Heather Justesen

  Edited by Kim Huther

  Formatting by Heather Justesen

  Cover design by An Author’s Art

  Cover image photo credit: Christopher Bissell

  Published by Dunhaven Place Publishing

  This book is dedicated to my very own Willy and his young brother.

  Please Note:

  The events in this book take place eight years prior to those of the novella, The Lord Who Sneered, and five years prior to Ghosts in the Graveyard, both of which are found in The Lord Who Sneered and Other Tales: A Regency Holiday Anthology.

  Señyor Juliol Rey speaks the Catalan version of Spanish, which accounts for the differences in spelling and pronunciation.

  Number 50 Berkeley Square was occupied in 1811 by the former Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs George Canning and his family. The house is considered to be the most haunted in England.

  Prologue

  “Dead!” was the cry heard to ring through the air of a pale dawn. Behind it a young man made his labored way into the carriage drive of Berkeley Square. He dragged his lame foot through the mud and the knife in his hand dripped with blood. “M’brudder…he’sh dead!” he wailed. The leaves of the plane trees that lined the square barely quivered at the news.

  Chapter One

  England, October 1811

  I recall it as if it were yesterday; the moment I learned of the tragedy that changed my life. I had chosen to attend a soiree to which I was not invited…

  I scanned the room for a cordial face. The urbane smile I was in the habit of offering in exchange for icy glares did naught to solve my dilemma; I wished to dance. Recent events had taught me that a young lady was far more likely to accept my invitation if she did not first turn from me in distaste. Despite months of such encounters, they still had the power to take me aback; the scar that bites into the right corner of my mouth hasn’t the power to disturb my equanimity. In point of fact, coupled with the ice blue eyes and chestnut curls with which my Maker graced me, I feel the scar to be rather dashing. Society, however, are of a different opinion.

  If I were honest, (a perplexing conundrum, at best,) I would have willingly entertained the truth: ‘twas the months-past scandal that created the scar that prompted others to view me with distaste. Unwilling to accept my fate, I stifled a sigh and turned ‘round to take up my usual stance in the corner of the room. From this universal vantage point, I had recently observed a good deal of life’s pleasures pass beyond my nose. However, my way was barred by the presence of a young lady whose dearth of height had put her, quite literally, beneath my notice. As I gazed down at her, I could not help but be filled with curiosity at her lack of temerity in my presence.

  “I beg your pardon,” I began as I studied her face for a reaction.

  “The fault is mine entirely,” she demurred, but her eyes flashed with good humor. “I ought certainly to have learned how to afford comfort to those around me by now. As it is, I have sustained unintentional blows to the head from more than one stray elbow.”

  “Pray, say it was not I who has done such a thing!” I begged.

  “Very nearly but, as I have said, I ought to have taken better care. It is not as if this is my first season,” she murmured into the glass she brought to her lips. Having taken a sip, she squarely met my gaze. “Or my second.”

  Curious, I stepped back to get the measure of she who seemed not in the least hesitant to address me. I turned the scar away from her in the case her composure signified that she had not yet been availed of it, and studied her from the corner of my eye. She was indeed rather small, and wore a simple gown of gold silk that made the most of what little height she had. However, its deep color established her claim that she was no debutante. In fact, she looked to be close to my own age of twenty-three. I thought that if I took care not to alarm her, perhaps I would dance after all.

  “How any could overlook such an enchanting lady is a notion of which I cannot conceive.” I knew that I exaggerated more than a little, but liked the lady better for her knowledge of the same.

  “Perhaps,” she said with a tilt of her head, “but not so captivating that any has asked me to dance.”

  “I shall ask the moment someone makes us properly known to one another,” I insisted, though, I surmised I might wait forever for such a courtesy. I intended to dance with her anyway. “People appear to be a good deal occupied,” I prompted as I looked about. “Would you deem me uncivil if I were to offer my name in exchange for a set?”

  Her sudden smile produced a pair of bewitching dimples. They added an unanticipated charm to what was a somewhat plain face crowned by a coiffure of glorious golden tresses. The whole of it was arranged so artfully that it distracted one from imagining her to be not much taller than she was wide. The result was wholly pleasing and I thought her quite the most elegantly-styled lady in the room.

  “I shall take courage and assume your smile conveys your willingness,” I said with a bow. “I am Julian Silvester, the Marquis of Trevelin.”

  I fervently hoped for a positive reaction despite the actions of the Duke of Rutherford. The previous season he had successfully put a period to my reputation as good ton. Since then, I had often thought of myself as a ghost; a spook; a shade; one that flitted about in an attempt to converse with the living. Before I could congratulate myself on such a judicious comparison, I was gripped by the elbow and whirled round.

  “How dare you importune this lady?” demanded the man before me in a nearly imperceptible Spanish accent. No words accented or otherwise were needed to convey his taut anger.

  "We were merely conversing," I replied with fabricated mildness. I knew it essential to withhold my outrage, at least until I took the measure of this foreigner. As he was all of five feet tall, it was short work. "I cannot say that I have ever known it to be considered a crime," I drawled.

  "Maybe yes; maybe no," the Spaniard allowed. "It is your name that fuels my rage. You are not fit to be in the presence of such a lady."

  I swallowed my laughter, but allowed myself a sigh. "Shall we not grant the lady the courtesy to decide with whom she dances?” I longed to ascertain her feelings on the subject but I thought it prudent to keep the tight-ground fist at his side within my purview.

  "Perhaps the lady has not yet heard tell of your reputation," the man suggested.

  I quelled my disappointment; dancing with unnamed lady was now out of the question. I favored him with what I hoped to be a perfectly poised smile. "If not, I hardly think it gentlemanly to apprise her of it at my lord’s and lady's ball," I said lightly.

  “And yet you think it gentlemanly to speak to her?” The man ground his fist tighter.

  “Please," the lady in question begged as she stepped from behind me to engage her champion. "At least he has given me his name whilst I am in utter ignorance of yours, sir."

  Promptly, the man executed a deep bow. "I, Señyor Juliol Rey of Barcelona, am at your service, señyoreta."

  "And now you are as guilty of an improper introduction as Lord Treveli
n," the lady pointed out.

  Gratified, I gave her a bow of my own. "I applaud your good sense. Have I your permission, Señyor Rey, to inquire after the lady's name?" I felt my obvious scorn sufficient to convey my opinion on the matter, but in this I was mistaken.

  "No!" he began, but the lady was having none of it.

  "I have heard your name, my lord, from my parents. It was in connection to unknown but beyond-the-pale behavior, or so they would have me believe.” Her tone implied her mama and papa were awash with disapproval for their fellow men. “However, I have found that there are those who cannot afford such equivocating.” She held out her hand for my grasp. “I, Miss Desdemona Woodmansey, am such a one.”

  "No! I will not allow it!" Señyor Rey insisted as he took her hand in my stead. “You are not meant for such a man!"

  "Oh?" I looked down my nose at the Spaniard. "I suppose by that you mean she is meant for none but you?" It mattered not that Señyor Rey was struck temporarily dumb as anyone with a pair of eyes could not fail to discern the truth: Miss Woodmansey was the only female in the room whose lack of height equaled the Spaniard’s.

  "Why should I be meant for only Señyor Rey?" Miss Woodmansey asked in genuine bewilderment.

  It would seem she had little perspective from where she stood. I turned my head hastily away so as to hide my amusement.

  Señyor Rey behaved as if he had not heard her query. "This man lacks honor! It is said that he. . .he bets on the horses!"

  “As does my father,” Miss Woodmansey riposted as she removed her hand from his. “Come Señyor. You must do better than that.”

  I considered slinking away, but there was a sparkle in the lady's eye I could not help but admire. “If it shall raise me in your esteem, I shall most humbly resolve to refrain from betting on the horses," I said meekly. “That is, all but for the very fast ones.”

  Somewhat mollified, Señyor Rey continued. "He is said to go about with Mr. Rogers-Reimann, a man whose reputation is so vile it has crossed the sea."

  I gave Miss Woodmansey a sidelong glance; one which I hoped would allow the cursed scar to remain unnoticed. "It's true, he and I have been known to sally forth together; it pleases his mother, also known as my aunt." I refrained from adding that I had only just dropped all social connections with my cousin, despite our mutual grandparents. I had had quite enough of pulling his tongs from the fire.

  "I do not see that these accusations should preclude one from speaking with his lordship,” Miss Woodmansey said pleasantly enough, but it was clear that her good opinion of me had begun its decline.

  "Very well, then; there is more. The Marquis of Trevelin is said to have fought a duel over a woman; a married one. It resulted in an injury most serious."

  It was with great difficulty that I restrained a finger from making its way to the relic of said duel. Instead, I pondered my choices. Miss Woodmansey’s crestfallen demeanor indicated that it was pointless to explain. Indeed, who would have believed the truth, even if I had bothered to speak it aloud? Rutherford had seen to that. Neither was it the time or place to invite scrutiny on the subject. With a carefully crafted air of nonchalance, I did my worst. “I confess I hardly know the woman.”

  Señyor Rey's mouth fell open in horror. "You are a rapscallion and a knave! Miss Woodmansey, allow me to take you away," he insisted as he held out his hand.

  Her only response was to favor me with a canny look.

  "I do believe he is inviting you to dance, Miss Woodmansey. As for myself,” I said with a shrug, “I should have gone about it much differently."

  She bit her lip as if to quell incipient laughter, and allowed Señyor Rey to draw her away. With a sigh, I took up my place in the corner and watched as Miss Woodmansey smiled prettily at the passionate Spaniard. I knew that to approach her again was to invite a scene of the sort undeserved by my host and hostess. Determined to attend the next ball in disguise I quit the room, bound for the front door.

  It was only after I had thanked my hostess, a habit that never fails to prompt a perplexed reply, as I am rarely invited, that I overheard a startling disclosure. It would seem that a man had killed his young brother. As I waited for the butler to produce my greatcoat and hat I heard it again, but with names attached, ones most untenable. Willy Gilbert! I could hardly believe it. He could not have done such a thing. I had known the man since my school days. Hastily, I returned to the ballroom to eavesdrop on more reliable gossip-mongers. To my consternation, the news was being tossed about the room like confetti.

  "Trevelin, have you heard?" Robert Manwaring demanded exactly as if he had not given me the cut direct each of the last three times we had met. Rutherford had much for which to answer. I was heartily glad that he was not present.

  "I do believe I have, but I can hardly credit it."

  "What? Do you suppose it impossible for young Gilbert to kill?"

  I regarded the man, his dimpled chin, and the golden curls along his brow, with equal loathing. "I do not suppose it impossible for anyone to kill another, should the circumstances warrant it. However, for Willy Gilbert to have killed his young brother is inconceivable.”

  "He has not been right in the head ever since that horse threw him nearly to Scotland.” Manwaring lifted his glass to his lips and tossed back its contents. “Perhaps he feared he should be made ineligible to inherit, and thought it best to get his brother out of the way."

  "He did not do it," I said shortly. “I have known him this age, since long before his riding accident. I tell you, he is not capable of such." He had not the temperament, the character or, due to the fall on his head, the skill required of a killer.

  "It is difficult to predict what a man will do when he is desperate, eh?" Manwaring said with a wink, one that implied a wealth of insults.

  “I beg to differ.” How little surprised I should have been in that moment to learn there were those who had reason to put an end to Manwaring. "I find that it is the desperate man whose actions are most predictable.” Deceit, betrayal, treachery: had I not learned it all at the hands of desperate men?

  Manwaring narrowed his sapphire-blue eyes and turned away without a word of reprisal. No other approached me as I moved around the room, hoping for a more satisfactory version of the story. None was forthcoming. All were only too eager to condemn poor Willy. Indeed, the very air seemed to crackle as would a barn full of hay set instantly alight by a falling taper. I envisioned great plumes of smoke as they rose towards the ornate ceiling, imagined how they obscured every means of escape…felt Willy’s doom crash down upon my shoulders.

  My emotions were so like those at the first ball I attended after my own accident that it nearly undid me. Five months prior, I had not realized Society would condemn me for an injury at the hand of a cuckolded husband. In truth, I had no reason to suppose the Duke of Rutherford would attempt to dignify the sordid affair by making his revenge so public. This man who had torn into my lip with his sword took steps to ensure that I was not invited anywhere. The sole exception was the ball at which I learned my fate, so as to make Society witnesses to my shame. My stomach churned at the memory. It prompted gratitude that the Gilberts were not in attendance to hear their betters discuss the murder of their younger son at the hand of his brother.

  My melancholy was further exacerbated by a vision of Willy in a dank gaol, falsely accused, his brother dead and his mother and father bereft of both their sons. I confessed to myself (there is no better confessor) that Willy’s pain must surely surpass the heartache I experienced every day. Suddenly, I knew that I must intervene. I returned to the vestibule and once again bespoke my hat and coat. In the end, I hardly had need of either as I strode home in the heat of my growing fury.

  By the time I mounted the steps of number 50 Berkeley Square, my anger had all but burned out. Indeed, I was relieved to feel some of my usual pleasure when entering my sole oasis in a desert of disdain. My room in the house of George Canning, former Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, had
placed me in the center of family life. I never failed to delight in the company of his wife, Joan, and their three young children. Their presence always lent me a respite from the continual rejection I received due to my imprecise reputation and the oh-so-revealing scar. It also had provided a reprieve from the company of my cousin, who has been barred from the house by its owner.

  "Is that you, Trevelin?" Canning called to me from his study two doors down the hall. "You are home rather early."

  "Were you expecting someone else?" I called back as I removed my hat and greatcoat and handed them off to Hughes, the butler.

  Canning, his pate gleaming amidst its ring of light brown hair, appeared at the door of his study. "Yes; Joan. She is still out. I wish to speak with her before I retire."

  I crossed the hall to shake his hand. "You did not accompany her to whatever rout she attends this evening?"

  "I had business, and have just arrived home." I followed Canning as he returned to the study and took his seat behind his massive desk. “What of you?" he asked with a kindly smile. "You are far too young to retire at such an hour."

  As I lowered myself into the chair opposite him, I treated my landlord to a sardonic look. “If you mean that I am too wicked to sleep in the dark of night, I wonder that you have welcomed me into your home."

  Canning’s smile deepened. "You know the answer to that well enough. If it weren’t for my own unfortunate circumstances,” he mused as he rubbed the spot where Lord Castlereagh’s bullet had bit into his thigh two years prior, “I might not have taken pity on you. One day, however, you must ensconce yourself in your own residence. You shall never persuade a woman to buckle herself to your side if she is not to be mistress of her own establishment."

  "You know very well that I cannot abide Silvester House. In addition, I would thank you to refrain from speaking of my highly unlikely nuptials,” I said ruefully. “My spirits are low enough as it is.”