Salt Hendon Omnibus 01 to 03

by Lucinda Brant

  She had hoped in the four years she had been away from London Salt would have grown weary of a singular devotion, that he would have had a new mistress or two, even a casual liaison, any dalliance would do. To arrive at Hendon to the wretched ringing of Church bells proclaiming a second son, and this infant the Earl’s third child, had made her physically ill, as had the knowledge he was the most faithful of husbands and the most devoted of fathers. She did not understand. Faithfulness. Devotion. Sentimentality. These were the characteristics ascribed to weak men, and to cowards. Her brother exhibited such tendencies, but he was a political nobody, and no Salt. It had to be witchcraft; the Earl was bewitched.

  Her stalwart companion agreed that this could be the only reason such a nobleman remained constrained from exhibiting his natural tendencies, and she was prepared to do whatever Diana bade her to see the Earl freed from sorcery. Diana congratulated herself on having recognized Bertha Smith’s sycophantic tendencies and lax moral fiber. From their first meeting, when the woman arrived at the castle to take up the position of lady’s maid, Mrs. Smith was in equal measure awed by Diana St. John’s beauty and her nobility. In less than a fortnight, the woman no longer trusted the guardian’s word; by the end of the first month, Mrs. Smith was Diana’s slave, willing to do whatever was asked of her.

  It would be a shame to lose such a devoted servant to the gallows. But someone had to pay the price for the deaths of Salt’s brats. Mrs. Smith’s niece would also be implicated. The girl was a simpleton to be sure, but even simpletons were strung up at Tyburn for their misdeeds. Surely a very public hanging at Tyburn of aunt and niece would provide Salt with some redress for the tragedy of losing his family. Not that she thought he would care who was strung up. He would be mad with grief, so stricken he would be forever grateful to her for picking up the pieces of his life and setting him back on the path to political greatness—that’s what truly mattered.

  Diana smiled her satisfaction and let the curtain fall, returning her attention to Mrs. Smith and the nursery maid; tractable and gullible servants were so hard to come by these days…

  “It’s lust. That’s all it is, Betsy,” Diana St. John heard Mrs. Smith tell her idiot niece. “The creature who has taken her ladyship’s place is a witch and she’s bewitched his lordship. If you’re not careful she’ll put a spell on you, too! I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she’s done so already. That’s why you’re being foolishly stubborn. That’s why you’re not thinking of your father locked up for debt and your brothers and sisters going about in rags, half-starved. They’re what’s important, Betsy. They’re kin.”

  Betsy whimpered. She stared at her tortured wrist. Blood oozed from three crescent shaped wounds where Diana St. John’s nails had dug deep into her flesh. Somehow seeing those wounds made the throbbing all the more painful. She was incredulous that such a fine lady could inflict such pain. Aunt Smith might be convinced this woman was the true Countess of Salt Hendon, but with the throbbing in her wrist, Betsy asked herself if perhaps it was Aunt Smith who had been bewitched by this beautiful woman who had a black heart, or no heart at all, to want to harm the innocent.

  She was young but she knew right from wrong, good from bad. She had seen enough brutality, known hunger, and watched her father be hoodwinked out of his savings by crooked business partners who had left the family destitute. The past six weeks spent in the Earl of Salt Hendon’s household were the happiest six weeks of her miserable fifteen years of life, and she was beginning to understand why his lordship had thrown off this woman in preference for his mistress. Though, Betsy wondered now about this too.

  It occurred to her that perhaps the beautiful and kind lady who lived with the Earl was indeed the real Countess. That made sense. After all, she was the one inside the house with her three children, whereas this fine lady who Aunt Smith told her was the true Countess remained on this side of the thick high garden wall. Why was that if she were indeed the Earl’s true wife? Could Aunt Smith be so gullible? And why did this lady want to do harm to babies? None of it made sense to Betsy. She couldn’t wait to return to the safety of the Grosvenor Square mansion and there she would stay. She wished with all her heart she could confide her situation to Nanny Browne, or perhaps Sam’s mamma would listen to her story…

  Diana St. John shook Sam’s silver rattle in Betsy’s face.

  “Attend me! Do you know what happens to those who steal?”

  Betsy nodded, a glance at Aunt Smith.

  “Well? What happens?”

  “You get strung up and hang from a rope until you’re dead.”

  “That’s right. You swing on a rope that chokes the life out of you until you are dead,” Diana St. John repeated with heavy sarcasm. “And that is what’s going to happen to you if Lord Salt finds out you stole this silver trinket from his house. Children are strung up for less.”

  Betsy’s mouth fell open. “But—but I only took it ’cause Aunt Smith asked me!”

  “Mrs. Smith has no recollection of telling you anything of the sort. His lordship will never believe you. You’ll be hanged and your family will starve to death.”

  “Do as you’re asked. There ain’t nothin’ simpler,” Mrs. Smith added matter-of-factly. “You don’t want to be hanged for stealing and you don’t want your family to starve, now, do you?” When Betsy shook her head, doing her best to hold back tears, she added with a smile, “Very well. Then it is time to return to your post, and take this with you.”

  Mrs. Smith held out a small flat parcel tied up with cord. When Betsy hesitated, she said with a sigh of annoyance, “It won’t bite you, girl! It’s for the infant.”

  Betsy glanced at Diana St. John who waved a hand at her impatiently to take the parcel.

  “What is it?”

  “A chemise,” Mrs. Smith told her. “Lovely it is, with scalloped edges and fine lace trim. Make sure you dress him in it the instant you’re back indoors, so it’s next to his skin, under his gown.”

  “Why?”

  “Impertinent girl! Just do as you’re told!” Diana St. John demanded.

  When Betsy tugged on the cord as if to untie the bow, both women shouted in unison for her to stop.

  “Leave it tied until you’re indoors. You don’t want to have to rewrap it, and you might be asked why you opened a parcel that’s not meant for you,” Mrs. Smith argued, and audibly sighed when Betsy let go of the cord.

  “If I discover you haven’t done as you’ve been asked, his lordship will know you for a thief!” Diana St. John hissed.

  Betsy nodded vigorously in recognition of her ladyship’s threat but she found it all very strange. In one breath her aunt and her ladyship were making light about tossing the Earl’s children into the river, and in this breath they were giving her a gift for baby Sam. She didn’t understand but she didn’t say another word. She climbed down out of the carriage, and with the package under her arm and her heart beating fast, she ran all the way to the wooden door in the garden wall without looking back.

  SIXTEEN

  ONCE IN THE CONFINES of the Earl’s Grosvenor Square estate, Betsy went straight to the nursery, though she was thirsty and needed to have her injured wrist washed and bandaged. All she cared about was being assured the baby was safe.

  She found Sam crying. One of her sister nursery maids, Sukie, was doing her best to get him to drop off to sleep, rocking his cradle, but without success. His little face was crumpled and red and his arms were stiff, so he had been in distress for some little while. Betsy forgot about her injured wrist, tossed the package on the chair, shouldered Sukie aside, and scooped Sam up into her embrace. She held him against her, hand supporting the back of his head to keep his linen cap in place. She whispered soothing words of reassurance, that his Betsy was returned and he was safe, and would always be safe. Soon Sam’s fretful sobs subsided and he snuggled into her neck and was quiet in her arms. She rocked him and sang him a lullaby as she paced before the warmth of the fire, her own heart beat slowing with eve
ry step.

  “What’s this?” Sukie demanded, holding up the discarded parcel. “Shall I untie it?”

  “Leave it,” Betsy replied, scowling, and then, seeing Sukie’s frown, added in a more conciliatory tone, “It’s nothin’ special, just another gown for Sam.”

  “Like he don’t have a dozen or more of those!” Sukie replied, no longer interested in the contents of the parcel. She dropped it back on the chair. “What’s that from?” she asked, pointing to the dots of fresh blood on the back of the soft shawl in which Sam was wrapped, revealed when Betsy shifted the infant in her arms. “They weren’t there before. I swear it!”

  Betsy lifted her arm and saw that the wound inflicted by Diana St. John’s nails had stopped bleeding but that it was still fresh. She showed her wrist to Sukie. “It’s mine. See. My blood. I scraped m’wrist on the—on the garden wall, just now.”

  Sukie smiled crookedly. The markings to Betsy’s wrist did not resemble any scrape she had ever seen. To her mind they looked like the markings left by fingernails dug deep. She knew all about those; her elder sister had done the same to her on many an occasion when she wanted her compliance. Still, she did not correct the girl.

  “You don’t want that scrape to turn nasty,” she said with a kind smile. “I’ll fetch a bandage and salve and bind it up for you, if you want?”

  Betsy smiled and nodded.

  “Here. Give me that shawl and I’ll take it to the laundry quick,” Sukie advised, over by the clothes press, “before Nanny sees them blood spots and starts askin’ all sorts of questions. You don’t want her thinkin’ they belong to the baby, do you. That would be your job gone, whatever you said to the contrary. Don’t worry. I won’t tell.”

  Betsy carefully unwrapped the shawl and handed it to Sukie, who gave her a clean shawl in which to wrap Sam up snugly.

  “I’d best get that bandage before you bleed again.”

  “Thank you, Sukie. I’ll just rock Sam to sleep…”

  Sukie nodded, regarding the younger nursery maid pensively.

  “Betsy… A word of advice: Don’t be telling untruths to Nanny Browne. She hates liars as much as she does thieves, and that would be too bad for you if you turned out to be one of them, or both…”

  With that cryptic advice, Sukie left, and Betsy turned away to give her full attention to baby Samuel. Sam blinked up at her with big blue eyes under tired heavy lids and she smiled at his efforts to stay awake, but with every gentle rock in her arms the heavier his lids became. In that moment, staring down at the infant in her arms, Betsy was not worried at losing the good opinion of Nanny Browne. Now returned to the comforting surroundings of the nursery, she felt much braver than she had in the carriage, and cared even less what Aunt Smith and her ladyship threatened. All that mattered was this little life she was cradling.

  She glanced at the discarded parcel with its cord of plain twine on the rich tapestry cushion of a wingchair. Who gave the son of an earl such a poorly-wrapped gift? It looked to have come from a poor house. She suspected her ladyship was having a laugh at her expense, or, at the very least, wanting to dress this baby in rags as a gesture of spite against his mother.

  Finally, with Sam’s eyes closed, she sat with him in the wingchair by the fireplace and stared at the parcel tied up with twine. She wondered what she should do with it…

  ~

  WHEN THE EARL and Sir Antony remained momentarily mute at the mention of Diana St. John by name, Jane went over to her husband, drew up his fingers and kissed the back of his hand before looking up into his troubled brown eyes.

  “That at least solves the riddle as to why you haven’t been sleeping,” she said quietly, so only he could hear. “Since we’ve shared a bed you’ve always slept like a man half-dead.”

  “That is not my fault, Jane.”

  She blushed and lowered her lashes, saying with a grumble, “This isn’t the occasion to fun—”

  “No, it isn’t,” he said gently, cupping her face, thumb lightly brushing her cheek. “But you are still to blame.”

  “Then I am most offended it is another woman who is keeping you awake!” Jane retorted without heat.

  The Earl laughed in spite of himself. He was not laughing when he said,

  “What woke me in the dead of night was the thought of losing you and the children, of being alone once again in the world; that perhaps these past four years—such wonderful years—were indeed but a dream.”

  “My dear man, why didn’t you confide in me? Why keep such a burden to yourself? Do not our marriage vows say ‘in sickness and in health, for better or worse’? It is the strength we find in each other that allows us to overcome any dilemma.”

  Salt smiled at her choice of the word ‘dilemma’, as if eradicating Diana St. John from their lives would be as easy as clearing pastureland overrun with brambles. Or perhaps that was just the impression she wished to give, to ease his mind and his conscience, for his conscience was heavy with guilt. He had been too complacent in thinking a castle in far-off Wales would keep Diana forever locked up. He should have had her transported to the colonies or a remote island off the Hebrides, or as far as it was possible for a ship to sail without falling off the edge of the known world. But he also realized that would not have stopped her, or stopped him from worrying.

  “You are ever the practical optimist, my darling Jane, and I love you a thousand times for that alone. Yes, we will overcome this dilemma, and for all time,” he said, resolutely. “I am determined.”

  He kissed her forehead, a glance over her dark hair at his cousin, who had wandered a little way down the book room to allow the couple their privacy.

  “No doubt Antony wishes to admonish me for not being forthcoming about his sister’s escape, though I suspect he knew of the circumstance well before Willis and I.”

  Sir Antony was sipping his tea at the undraped window with its view of the gardens, the flowerbeds bursting with color. He was deliberately not listening, but imagining the children running about the gravel paths and across the stretch of green lawn, laughing, without a care in the world, the high stonewall shutting out the noise, the commotion, and the evils of a city that never slept.

  He was thinking that a high stone wall and an army of servants wouldn’t be enough to keep his sister from interfering in the Earl’s life, when into his line of sight scuttled a slightly-built servant girl, head down, face and hair obscured by a large white cap. She was heading down a gravel path leading to the garden wall. There was something oddly familiar about her. Perhaps it was the mob cap, more particularly the large loose brim that flapped up and down as she walked. Someone had told him something about a girl with a cap just like this one. But then, in the library just now, a nondescript and unobtrusive nursery maid in a similar cap had been attending to Jane’s infant son; his godson. So that could account for the stab of familiarity…

  He liked the idea of being a godfather, and it split his face into a grin just as he heard Salt mention his name. He lost the grin and turned away from the view, teacup on its saucer and the maid forgotten.

  When the Earl repeated what he had said, Sir Antony came straight to the point.

  “No. I, like you, had no inkling she had escaped. So when it happened, I was shocked, but not surprised. I am very sure she has been planning and plotting her escape since the first day under lock and key.” He glanced at Jane before bluntly addressing his cousin. “Diana’s put it about that she’s just returned from abroad. No one doubts her story. Why would they? It’s the same story we agreed upon when she was first incarcerated. You, Tom Allenby, Rufus Willis, Arthur Ellis and I, we swore an oath never to divulge the truth of Diana’s foul deeds. I see no reason to break that pledge. None of us wants the truth known, not even by other family members. I certainly don’t want Aunt Alice and Caroline to know my only sister is a murderess. Imagine their horror and incredulity. Caroline would be as furious as a bee trapped in a bottle, and Aunt Alice has already aligned herself to Diana’s c
ause—”

  “I beg your pardon,” Salt interrupted, scowling. “What cause is that?”

  Jane and Sir Antony exchanged a knowing look, and Sir Antony allowed Jane to explain.

  “Aunt Alice has never fully recovered from St. John being taken from her when a small boy. No mother would, and so she sympathizes with Diana’s loss of Ron and Merry. Well, she does not know the true reason the children were taken from their mother, so it is only natural she would. On the face of it, she has every reason to be sympathetic to Diana’s plight.”

  When the Earl huffed his angry annoyance but said nothing, Sir Antony continued,

  “And as we don’t want Aunt Alice, Caroline and the wider world to know the truth, we must play along with Diana’s version of events—for the time being. We cannot act, we would be foolish to do so, until we know her intent—”

  “Her intent is to destroy my family!”

  “In her obsessed mind, her intent is to see you First Lord of the Treasury by whatever means necessary,” Sir Antony replied mildly to the Earl’s outburst. “All that matters to her is achieving that outcome. If that means people must be swiped out of her way, and yours, then she sees this as merely a problem to solve, nothing more. Your family is an obstruction to your rise to power. She said so herself that day in Jane’s sitting room.” He looked at the Countess then and bowed his head. “Forgive me for recalling such a painful episode, but must needs, my lady.” He returned his blue-eyed gaze to the Earl. “To achieve her goal of seeing you rise to greatness, she must first make you come to your senses. I am of the opinion she thinks you cast under a spell by your beautiful wife, that your family is a hindrance, and because she is of unsound mind and lacks a moral compass, Diana intends to destroy your family, without hesitation or conscience.”

  “Dear God,” Jane uttered, and turned her head into her husband’s chest.

  “If you know where she is hiding—”

  “Hiding?” Sir Antony gave a huff of harsh laughter. “Salt? You know Diana better than that! When has she ever slunk away from anything or anyone? She is the consummate female Machiavelli!”