“That is a lie!” her husband bellowed as he jumped to his feet. “You never loved Willy as you loved your beloved John!”
She looked up at him in astonishment, the hand holding the handkerchief suspended in the air. “What are you saying? He was as much your son as mine.”
“Was he?” he asked explosively. It was clear that it was a question he had longed to ask.
Bewildered, she rose to her feet. “How can you ask me this? You are my husband. He is your son, as is William.”
Her husband sucked in his breath as if he had refrained from taking a breath for a good deal of time. I thought perhaps he held back a sob as well.
I was obliged to rise, dismayed at the mayhem I had prompted. “Mrs. Gilbert, it pains me to have your honor so questioned. It is only on account of Johnny’s death. I must leave no stone unturned. Please, let us sit. It is your husband’s turn to be questioned now.”
Slowly, she lowered herself into her chair; her expression offered no clue as to her emotional state. Mr. Gilbert demonstrated an unwillingness to reclaim his seat, but once his wife had obeyed, he did as well.
“Thank you. Now, Mr. Gilbert, in the recent past I have seen you in the company of a young woman on two occasions. It needn’t be said that it is unsuitable behavior for a man mourning his son. That, combined with your behavior on other occasions when we have met, I have wondered if perhaps John was not your natural son. I perceive that you have wondered the same.”
He nodded very slightly and stole a glance at his wife. “She has said that he was my son. I believe her.”
“But you confess that you had previously believed that he was not.”
Silent, he stared down at his knees whilst his wife looked at me, astonished.
“How dare you suggest that it is my husband who has done this to Johnny!” she said in a voice stronger than I had heard her use since Johnny’s death. “He is an honorable man! I shall explain the young lady to you since he will not. My husband’s brother died some years ago. It is his daughter, who is enjoying her coming out, whom he has been escorting. Under the circumstances, it is not at all seemly; I confess that I do not entirely like it. However, as her uncle, he has been the only father she has had for some time and he did not wish to deny her. Fortunately, a man is not required to adhere to the rules of mourning as rigorously as a woman,” she added as she smoothed the folds of her black bombazine gown.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Gilbert. And, Mrs. Gilbert, I must beg yours, also. I did not wish to believe that anyone in this house could possibly have hurt Johnny. And yet, if I am to find who did, I must ask a good deal of difficult questions. I pray that you can forgive me.”
“Find who did this to our son, and all shall be forgiven,” Mr. Gilbert said. His wife smiled and held out her hand. He folded it in both of his, brought it to his lips, and kissed it with infinite tenderness.
I felt decidedly de trop and looked quickly away whilst the beast that ate at my insides availed itself of another meal.
“My dear William!” she suddenly cried. “He must be freed! I do not know how I shall endure it if we are to lose him, too.”
At her words, a wave of determination rose from the soles of my feet and up into my chest. I could not fail her. “I shall do everything in my power to do so. He has asked me to express his deepest sorrow for the loss of his brother, and the deepest love for the two of you.” He had not said so, but it was the truth nonetheless. “He is a good man, and I am honored to call him my friend.”
Both hung their heads and wiped away tears. I deemed it time for me to take my leave and, slowly, I rose to my feet.
Mr. Gilbert looked up. “My lord, a moment; due to the circumstances, Johnny’s funeral was a private one. Please do not construe your lack of an invitation to be due to any other consideration.”
Shocked that it had happened without my knowledge, I managed to mumble a remark. “Of course. I am desperately sorry.” In deference to their grief I bowed far more deeply than necessary, and made my way to the door. As I quit the room I looked over my shoulder to see them with their hands entwined, their heads together and bent over the tears that fell as if from one set of eyes. I ought to have been happy for the Gilberts, satisfied that I had done away with the needless pain that had lain between them. I felt only desolate.
I held back tears of my own as I exited the house. I waved away the carriage and walked back to Canning House, one hand holding fast to the black band around my upper arm. It was a short journey and the day still young, but I found myself exhausted. Retiring directly to my room on the second floor, I removed my shoes and cravat which I tossed into a corner with as little ceremony as I had Willy’s filthy clothes. As I could not remove my close-fitting coat on my own, I lay myself on the bed as I was and closed my eyes. I thought at first that I might lie there with my sorrow forever, but I soon fell into a welcome oblivion.
It was dark when I was awakened by a knock on my door. “It is open,” I called, unsure of who might stand on the other side.
Canning entered and stood over the bed, his arms akimbo. “Trev, are you quite well?”
I struggled into a sitting position as the seams of my waistcoat bit into my sore ribs. “Indeed, yes. Why do you ask?”
“Only that it is unlike you to sleep at this time of day, not to mention that you are nearly fully clothed. I should be tempted to think you have only slept late save that you still wear your jacket.”
I rubbed a hand over my face. “I ought to acquire a valet of my own, but where shall you put him?” The Canning townhouse was tall and spacious but it did not have the commodious servants’ quarters found in their enormous pile in the country.
“Pray, do not take this amiss, but you might have a dozen valets if you moved back into Silvester House.”
“I shall take it under consideration,” I said, though I rather doubted that I would.
Canning gave me a knowing smile. “We are going to Covent Garden for a play. Joan thought you might enjoy a diversion.”
“I should like that, though I doubt it shall move me any closer to knowing who has killed Johnny Gilbert.”
“You might be surprised. The change might do you some good. Heaven knows you could do with some of that.”
“If you say so,” I said with a smile.
“Excellent! Dinner is at eight and then we shall proceed.” He opened the door and was about to leave when I stopped him with a question.
“Might I invite a guest?”
He looked surprised. “Of course. We should be delighted to have a friend of yours along. It is too late to inform Cook of guests, however. Perhaps you might invite him…or her...to meet us at the theater at the foot of the grand staircase in the entrance hall.”
“Yes, I think that would be best,” I replied, without satisfying his curiosity as to the identity of my intended guest.
“I shall send up a footman to deliver your invitation, shall I?”
“Yes, thank you.” Before Canning had fully shut the door behind him, I rose and went to the escritoire to pen a note to Miss Woodmansey. To abide in her company without Rey present was an opportunity I could not refuse. As she was being invited to the Cannings’ box, I felt it not in the least required to invite her overbearing mother. I wrote out my invitation with a glee that threatened my perfect penmanship, sanded the parchment, folded it, and wrote the direction on the outside. I blew on the ink to ensure it was dry before I slipped it under the door for the footman to take away.
I then turned to my wardrobe to select an ensemble that was certain to make the most of my few beauties. My black velvet breeches and long-tailed coat suited me very well. It was to be worn with a waistcoat in the same pale blue as my eyes and a sapphire stickpin. Resolved to look my best, I rang for the valet before Canning had the chance. As such, I was dressed and ready to leave my room long before eight o’clock. I repaired to the study to warm myself by the fire until the dinner gong rang. When I heard a rustling of skirts, I l
ooked up to find Canning’s wife, Joan, a lovely lady with brown eyes and hair and a soft Scottish burr.
“Ah, Julian, how good it is to see you!” she said as she came to my side.
I sprang to my feet and kissed her on the cheek. “It must be a sen’night since I’ve so much as laid eyes on you.”
“Yes, George Charles has been sickly again and I have sat up with him most nights. I confess, I am worn to a thread and only hope that I shall be able to keep my eyes open for the duration of the play. You needn’t fear; ‘tis not the Scottish one,” she said with a twinkle in her eye.
“I have no quarrel with The Tragedy of Macbeth. As for the little one, I am sorry to hear that he has been ill. He always seemed to be the halest of boys. I am persuaded he shall make a full and swift recovery.”
“I do hope that you are correct,” she said briskly as she adjusted her pearls via the mirror over the mantel. “He is such a dear, wee lad, but it seems never to fail that he comes down sick at the most inopportune moments: each and every time we arrive in London for the Season, it seems.”
“Perhaps there is something in the air that does not agree with him.”
She turned to me in wonder. “I have said the same thing, but George does not agree. Now he shall have to listen to me.”
“’There is nothing wrong with your notions,” I said gallantly. “He is merely being disagreeable.”
“You are right, of course. He still frets that he was passed over for Prime Minister in favor of Perceval. I wonder if he shall ever recover.”
I opened my mouth to offer my opinion on the matter, but her husband appeared in the doorway just as the gong rang.
“Shall we go in?” he asked, arm held out to his wife.
She went smilingly to his side and we proceeded to the dining room. As I took my seat I noticed that the table was, as always, beautifully laid and lit by copious candles. The Cannings rarely stinted on anything, especially not white wax candles. There was always a new one in my candlestick on the table by my bed each morning regardless of how little of it I had used the night prior.
“What play do we see tonight?” I asked.
“All’s Well That Ends Well,” Canning replied.
“That’s the one that takes place in that strange country,” Joan remarked. “Not Spain, not France, but…”
“Catalan,” I said, despite my tongue having turned to lead.
“Is that not from whence that fellow hails? The one who stays with Lady Vawdrey?” Canning asked.
“Yes.” I returned my fork to my plate and contemplated its contents. It seemed as if the fish was staring back at me.
“What is it, Julian?” Joan asked. “Is the cod not to your liking?”
I offered a wan smile, one that doubtless added to my sickly appearance. “It has proven to be a difficult day. I called on my friend William Gilbert, where he is held for the murder of his brother.”
“Oh, yes!” Joan breathed. “I am so very sorry. I ought to have mentioned it sooner only, in my fatigued state, I had quite forgotten about it. George has said that you are doing all that you might to absolve the poor, wee soul.”
“To put him to death would be but another murder.” I picked up my glass and replaced it again without drinking. “I have stumbled upon only one clue that might be of use in his release. It seems that the only way to prove his innocence, however, is to find who has actually done it.”
“Yes, the information in regard to his shirt is a compelling clue to his innocence,” Canning mused. “However, until that fact is verified by the constable who arrested him, we have nothing.”
The shirt! I thought how carelessly I had tossed it into the corner of Willy’s chamber and knew that I must retrieve it as soon as possible. Suddenly it was all I could think about. My delight at the prospect of spending the evening with Miss Woodmansey had vanished.
I spent the remainder of the meal as a spectator of a different play; one that centered around two people who are very much in love. Though I considered Canning to be as a father to me, he was only thirty-seven at the time, his wife even younger. Their marriage had enjoyed a sufficient number of years to deepen their affection for one another, but was still recent enough that it had not grown stale.
I attempted to imagine Miss Woodmansey and myself caught up in such delicious banter and could not; the man from Catalan was there at every turn. Bedeviled, I wondered what she might think of having been invited to a play that partially takes place in the country from which her beau hails. It was about as far from a declaration of love that one could muster.
Though I made certain to pick up my fork and bring it, laden with food, to my mouth at regular intervals, I ate very little. Despite that, I was not the least bit hungry as we boarded the carriage and started out for Covent Garden. I was fiercely glad that we were not to stop at Grosvenor Square to collect Miss Woodmansey. I required more time to put aside my melancholy.
It was not a long journey from Mayfair to Covent Garden. I might have walked it in less than a half hour. However, the roads were thick with carriages of every variety on their way to various entertainments. It was the Little Season, after all, and much of Society was in Town. We did well enough along Bruton Place and on to Regent Street, but made very slow progress from there on. I began to fidget and be anxious that Miss Woodmansey should be forced to wait for us an unconscionable amount of time.
It was with decided relief that I emerged from the carriage into the crisp, night air. I followed the Cannings into the opera house, my stomach flopping about like a live fish in a kettle. I half-hoped for, half-dreaded the moment I should see her standing at the bottom of the grand staircase. It would prove to be the pinnacle of my evening, of that I was certain.
As we made our way through the crowd, I ran my fingers along the buttons of my waistcoat, tugged at the sleeves of my jacket, and checked the seams on my opera gloves. All seemed well save the scar at the corner of my mouth; there was little I could do about that save adopt a smile much too broad for a marquis to offer all and sundry.
However, when I finally clapped eyes on her I could not keep my lips from breaking into a wide grin. She stood facing away from our approach, her golden hair piled high upon her head, her gaze fastened to the doors leading to the lowest level of the theater itself. I delighted in watching as she plied her fan to ward off the heat of the enormous chandelier over her head. She put the other hand to her hair as if to ensure every silky strand was in place. My smile grew wider.
The Cannings drew away so that I was the first to approach her. “Miss Woodmansey,” I said, prompting her to finally turn her head in my direction. “I am delighted that you accepted my invitation.” I knew that I yet smiled like a loon, but I could not persuade my lips to do otherwise.
She stared up at me, as if seeing me for the first time and best pleased by what she saw. “My lord, I must thank you for the invitation.” She held out her hand, which I took and kissed without actually brushing my lips against the white purity of her glove. “May I make you known to my good friends, Mr. and Mrs. George Canning?” I turned to him as he drew his wife forth to properly greet Miss Woodmansey.
“Mr. Canning,” she breathed, “it is my great honor to meet you. And you, Mrs. Canning,” she said with a deep curtsy for both.
I did not well endure the ensuing small talk. At long last, I was able to take Miss Woodmansey’s arm in mine and proceed up the stairs to the Cannings’ box. They took the seats at the front, leaving two slightly farther back for me and my guest. I drew her by the hand to sit in the chair next to Joan’s and sat down on the last. As we settled into our seats, I felt a thrill invade my heart. She had come!
“The theater is very crowded tonight, is it not?” Miss Woodmansey pointed out.
I looked around and noted that every box, as well as the ground floor, was overflowing with humanity. “I suppose that is what accounts for the absolute hum in the air. I wonder if we shall be able to hear the actors above this bedla
m?” I asked with a chuckle.
“I, for one, shall not mind in the least. I prefer to study the audience.” She took a pearl-handled lorgnette from her reticule and balanced it across the bridge of her nose. “It would seem that the Duke of Rutherford is in attendance.”
I felt my face flush and thanked the gods that Rey had not disclosed the name of the man who had supplied me with the scar. Very slowly I turned in the direction she indicated. I had no trouble in spotting the white-powdered wig of the duke. The fact that his wife sat beside him only made matters worse. I felt a flutter on my arm and was astonished to see that Miss Woodmansey had laid her hand upon it. She was gazing up at me with an expression so tender that the beast in my belly went utterly still.
I covered her hand with my own; to my astonishment she did not draw hers away. It had been a dreary six months since the duel and my ostracizing. And now it was as if the sun had broken through the clouds at last! Without disturbing the point of our union, I settled more deeply into my chair. For the remainder of the play, nothing proved capable of disturbing my equanimity: not the mention of Rey’s country of Catalan, not the proximity of Rutherford, nor even that of his lady wife. The exception would be the moment the performance came to an end, and I was forced to rise and contemplate the beginning of the end of our time together.
“Miss Woodmansey,” I said as I escorted her from the box, “I have not enjoyed an evening so much.”
She smiled up at me, her expression coy. “I do not believe you heard a word of what was being said.”
“How could I? The roar of the audience never ceased,” I said with a deflective laugh. I had no wish to confess to wool-gathering, but I had underestimated her clear-sightedness.
“I had thought you to be enjoying quite the reverie.”
There was no censure in her voice but I heard what I wished to hear. “Shakespeare is not my favorite.” It was a lie.
“Then why have we come here tonight?” she asked, aghast.
Whether her dismay was for my lack of taste or my lack of discretion, I could not know. “I had thought that to be most evident.” I looked down into her shining face and offered her a generous smile, one I knew looked as a smile was meant to.
The Devil in Beauty: A Lord Trevelin Mystery (The Lord Trevelin Mysteries Book 1) Page 15