A Scandalous Countess: A Novel of the Malloren World

by Jo Beverley

  Perriam glared at the obvious answer. “Devil take it. I’ll go.”

  “Where’s the sense in that? You’re the one who knows Town waters, so you’ll get to the bottom of the forgery far quicker than I. Georgia’s wishes should be respected, but not beyond reason. Tell her that I will accompany her. I won’t bother her—I won’t even speak to her if that is her wish—but I will guard her with my life. I insist on it. And if Sellerby gives me an excuse to kill him, I’ll do that too. On my honor, I will. “

  After a moment, Perriam nodded and went out.

  “No, Perry, no!”

  Georgia turned away, refusing to allow any persuasion. She wouldn’t endanger Dracy further, his life or his heart.

  “Shall I leave, milady?”

  At Jane’s voice, Georgia turned, seeing her maid in the doorway, still in cloak and hat.

  “No, Jane. I’m sorry to drag you away from your friend, but I’ve decided to visit Brookhaven. I’ve begun to pack.” She waved vaguely at the open trunk, half full of clothing and other items.

  Jane opened her mouth, then shut it again. Hardly surprising. Packing was not as easy as it seemed.

  “Very well, milady. You leave it to me. How long will we stay?”

  “I don’t know, but I leave soon, so don’t pack much. I can send for more.” Georgia looked at her brother. “Adieu, Perry.”

  He didn’t move. “Someone who knows the situation must be with you, but I’m needed here. This can’t entirely be your decision, Georgia. Dracy won’t distress you.”

  At those words, she put her hand to her mouth and turned away, fighting tears. And losing.

  “Milady?” Jane said, rising from her knees by the trunk.

  “This doesn’t concern you,” Perry snapped, and he’d never normally speak so sharply to Jane. “Georgia, you will do as I say.”

  He’d never normally give her such an order.

  She turned on him. “Damn you! You don’t know what you ask.”

  “I’m concerned for your safety. Dracy goes with you.”

  “Very well, then. He may ride escort.”

  “He’s not a practiced rider and you’ll be traveling at speed.”

  “Then he can sit on the box!”

  “You’re afraid to be alone with him?” Perry asked, and she read a host of new problems in his tone.

  “No,” she said quickly. “I don’t fear him at all.” Only my own weak folly. “Oh, very well, let him come. Let him travel in the carriage with me. Let it all be as you say. I’m sure you know best.”

  He stepped toward her as if to comfort her, and then halted.

  Very wise. She was ready to scratch him, or worse.

  He turned and left without another word.

  “What’s going on, milady?” Jane asked quietly.

  Georgia turned from her too. “I’m going to Brookhaven, and Lord Dracy will accompany me. Finish the packing, for the coach could be ready at any moment.”

  Indeed, a footman came only ten minutes later to say that her father’s traveling chariot awaited. He carried down the small trunk, and Georgia followed with Jane. She’d realized only at the last minute that she still wore the dull gown, but she wouldn’t delay to change.

  Dracy awaited in the hall, and she felt his concern press on her. A part of her longed to rush into his arms, but she passed him without a word. She didn’t deserve him, she wanted to protect him, but she was also angry at being forced to have his escort.

  At sight of the equipage, she gave a short laugh. Six horses in the traces, and four armed riders alongside. People would think royalty went by.

  She settled herself on the thickly stuffed carriage seat, and Jane sat opposite, eyes wide with curiosity. Dracy entered and sat beside Jane, and then the coach rolled down Piccadilly, on its way out of Town.

  They traveled in silence, and Georgia looked outside to avoid looking at Dracy. When she flickered a glance, he was doing the same thing. Jane was pretending to doze. Georgia knew it was pretence because her maid’s mouth always fell open if she truly slept.

  They didn’t stop for a change, for the six prime horses could do the thirty miles if handled well, and there’d not been time to send others ahead, as the family normally did when traveling.

  She’d been blessed with a life of luxury, in which everything was arranged for her comfort and pleasure, and only see what she’d done with it. One man dead and another mad, and another too devoted for his own good.

  She saw a finger-post and realized they were approaching the place where the road to Hammersmith went off. Perhaps she should go to Thretford, confess her sins to Winnie and Eloisa, and endure their smug condemnation as penance.

  No, she wasn’t saintly enough for that. She wanted sanctuary, not confessional, and she wanted Lizzie. She’d sent a message to Brookhaven as soon as she’d made the decision, so the Torrismondes would have some warning. She’d given no details, but she was sure her tone had betrayed distress and urgency.

  The first touch of evening was softening the ivy-clad house with gold when the coach slowed and Georgia saw Lizzie and her husband come out to greet them. She scrambled out of the coach and into her friend’s arms.

  “Georgia! You know you’re welcome, but what’s amiss?”

  “Everything. But I can’t speak here.”

  “Then, come inside. Come, love. I’m sure nothing can be as bad as it seems.”

  Chapter 31

  Dracy watched the two women go into the house, preparing to explain the situation to Lord Torrismonde, who was remarkably unreadable. On slight acquaintance, Dracy would have said the very ordinary viscount was easygoing and amiable, but he knew the signs. Torrismonde was assessing what danger had come to his home and his family and was ready to eviscerate the culprit.

  “As you’ll have guessed,” Dracy said, “Lady Maybury is in some trouble, and possibly in some danger. Should I have some of the Perriam men stay?”

  “Danger? You’re serious?”

  “Very serious. Most likely of abduction.”

  “Then perhaps you should. I have only the normal complement of servants.” Clearly he wished normality could be maintained.

  Dracy spoke to the armed outriders. Two were chosen to stay and sent round to the stables. Once the horses had been cared for, the rest would return to Town with the coach.

  When Dracy went back to Torrismonde, the viscount said, “Are you, too, staying? Welcome, of course,” he added without sincerity.

  “I don’t know,” Dracy said honestly. “I’d better tell you what’s going on and we can decide together.”

  Torrismonde pulled a face, but he took Dracy into the house and offered him wine, tea, coffee, whatever he would like.

  “Coffee, if you please,” Dracy said, taking a seat in the small library. “Strong and black.”

  Despite the tension of the moment, he couldn’t help liking the cozy, well-worn room lined with books that looked as if they’d been lovingly read. Because Ceddie’s only interests had been in Town, he’d left Dracy Manor untouched except for pillaging it of anything of value, but once it had had a similar well-worn comfort. Perhaps that could be restored without great cost.…

  But such thoughts led toward paths closed to him as yet.

  Once the order had been given and the servant had left, Dracy said, “I’ll be blunt. Perriam and I have reason to believe that Lord Sellerby is a deep-dyed villain, willing to go to any lengths to possess Lady Maybury.”

  “Sellerby?” Torrismonde said, staring. “He’s certainly extreme in his feelings for her, but so many are. Not for Georgia particularly,” he said with a wave of his hand, “though she’s plagued by admirers, but in matters of the heart. Florid declarations, threats of suicide, ridiculous extravagances as if they lived on a damned theater stage.”

  Dracy was amused by the assessment, for he had no doubt the phlegmatic viscount adored his wife just as passionately.

  “Lady Maybury took Sellerby’s devotion as dramatic rather
than deeply felt,” he said, “for after all, she was happily married. He felt matters more deeply, but probably didn’t see any path to his desires—”

  “Of course not,” Torrismonde interrupted, glaring.

  “Of course not,” Dracy echoed, wishing he was more skillful at handing delicate situations. “You’ve no need to assure me of Georgia Maybury’s virtue. By desires, I meant marriage, which was completely out of reach.”

  He broke off as a footman entered with the coffee tray and poured for them both.

  When the man left, Dracy had seen another way to come at the situation. “Do you remember a fatal duel involving the Marquess of Rothgar a while ago?”

  Torrismonde sipped his coffee. “Of course. It was an occasion of note. Two years ago, as I remember, and the marquess fortunate to escape without criminal proceedings.”

  “As I heard it, talk was that Curry had been paid to kill the marquess by his political enemies.”

  “Gossip, only,” Torrismonde said, but then allowed, “yet possibly true. Enemies in England and in France.”

  “That event might have sown the seeds in Sellerby’s mind. It would have taken him time to find the right man and to put the proposition to him, but I judge Sellerby to be patient, despite his madness, and in Maybury he had a man who’d be much easier to kill.”

  Torrismonde had listened impassively, but now he put down his cup and saucer. “Are you suggesting that the Earl of Sellerby hired Sir Charnley Vance to kill Lord Maybury in order to make his wife a widow, and eventually wed her?”

  Dracy truly admired such a pithy analysis.

  “Succinctly put. Yes.”

  “You have proof?”

  “No. But,” Dracy said before Torrismonde could protest, “we are on the way to proof that Sellerby had that letter forged—the one that troubled the Thretford ball—and gave it to the person most likely to use it.”

  “That’s hardly the same matter as murder, sir!”

  “I know it, but consider Vance’s lack of motive. Any talk of him seeking to win Georgia is unbelievable, as is any thought of a liaison between them.”

  “It certainly is.”

  “So why kill Maybury unless for profit? I’ve read the inquest, and it seems clear to me that he struck to kill. It was no accident.”

  Torrismonde’s lips were tight, but he didn’t argue.

  “If he was paid,” Dracy went on, “by whom? No one suspects Maybury’s heir, and Maybury had no enemies, political or personal. Who, then, would gain?”

  Torrismonde didn’t like the idea at all, but in the end he said, “Perhaps you have something there, but no proof, Dracy, no proof.”

  “I know that, but we seek it. Perhaps Vance confided in someone, though the most likely person is his second, a military man now in India. Letters have been sent, but it could be a sixmonth before we hear back. Perhaps Vance can be found.”

  “After a year? I understand that Georgia’s family has made great efforts.”

  “Yes. He seems to have managed to disappear.…” But then Dracy put down his coffee and rose. “Your pardon, Torrismonde, but may I have writing materials? I must send a message back with the coach.”

  Torrismonde’s brows rose, but he took Dracy to the desk and made sure he had what he needed. “Am I to share your enlightenment?” he asked drily.

  Dracy smiled at him. “I’m taxing your patience, I know. My apologies. I must write to Perriam because I suspect the danger may be even greater than we thought. Vance has not been found, despite, as you say, the Perriam family posting rewards and sending notifications to all British embassies and consulates, along with descriptions and even pictures. What if he’s dead?”

  “That’s certainly possible if he’s gone wandering in the lesser-known foreign parts.”

  “I mean, what if he never left England? What if Sellerby eliminated the one person who could incriminate him, also eliminating the need to pay the large sum Vance would have demanded?”

  “Gads, man, you talk of the darkest villainy! And still without a shred of evidence.”

  “If we could confirm Vance’s death, that would be evidence, wouldn’t it? His death within days, perhaps within hours of that duel.”

  Torrismonde looked almost theatrically exasperated.

  “And how are you to do that, a year after the event? If he was killed, there would have been a corpse. If there was a corpse, it would have been identified. I ask you, Dracy—where is Vance’s corpse?”

  “In a pauper’s grave,” Dracy said, dipping the pen. “By your pardon, Torrismonde, I’ll explain my thoughts in a moment.”

  He chose words that wouldn’t give away too much if read by the wrong person.

  My friend,

  We arrived safely after a smooth journey, and all is well. Lord Torrismonde has kindly offered me hospitality, and I will stay for a little while. I have a small commission for you if you would be so kind. I find myself concerned about Sir C, wondering whether he may have had a mishap before going abroad. A great deal of time has passed, but I was told that he had a feature that would probably be remembered by anyone handling his remains, even if they were beyond identification. A somewhat equine endowment. Perhaps you could make inquiries and put my mind at rest.

  I pray you take care of your own health, sir, in this chancy season, and most especially of what you consume. We spoke of the dangers of London’s waters.

  I remain obliged to you, sir,

  Dracy

  He folded and sealed the letter, hoping the last part was a strong enough warning against poison. “If you would be so kind as to alert the coachman that he’s to take a message? And then I’ll test my new suspicions on you.”

  Torrismonde opened the door and gave the order and then returned. “I do not like this, Dracy, any of it.”

  “I don’t like it either. I’m very fond of a tranquil life.”

  “More than can be said for Georgia’s brother. I’d call him a gadfly if I didn’t suspect some of his dealings were more serious.”

  That confirmed Dracy’s suspicions, and that Torrismonde was a very shrewd man.

  “You asked, where is Vance’s corpse? Why wasn’t it identified at the time? But if the body wasn’t found for some days or even weeks, his remains might not have been identified, especially if his body had been in the river.”

  Torrismonde grimaced. “True enough, and no one would have been inquiring about him, as might be the case when a person goes missing. But a year’s gone by, and any unidentified corpse will be bones by now. You’ll never prove your case.”

  “I’m not looking toward the current remains, but toward the corpse. It would have been examined for foul play and anything that would identify it, then put in the hands of an undertaker, I assume, for a pauper’s burial. I believe that anyone handling Vance’s remains would remember him. He was, if you’ll pardon the expression, hung like a horse. Unless the fishes nibbled it off, people would notice that, gossip about it, even show off the corpse to cronies. It might even have been mentioned at the inquest.”

  “This matter becomes more distasteful by the moment. I’ll have no mention of it before my wife, Dracy.”

  “Of course not,” Dracy said, though he’d tell Georgia. She had a right to know, and she might well tell her friend. “This new idea is speculation, but it feels right to me. There’s another aspect. If still alive, why hasn’t Vance returned? The inquest raised a few questions, but there was nothing in it that could lead to an accusation of murder.”

  “But how would Sellerby kill Vance? The one, effete. The other close to a brute, but quick with his fists and a sword.”

  Dracy had worked this out. “Poison. According to Perriam, Sellerby can’t take the sight of blood and even faints if faced with any amount of it, so he couldn’t have used a blade or pistol ball. He’s the type for poison—coldhearted and cunning. Therefore, it would be best to be careful about food and drink coming into Brookhaven.”

  “By God, sir! Is there
no end to it? My family is in danger?”

  “I don’t believe there’s much risk,” Dracy assured him. “Sellerby is in London and won’t want to use someone who would then become a witness. But any unexpected gifts of food and drink should be treated with caution.”

  Torrismonde paced the room, hands clasped behind his back. “A damnable affair. And I doubt this part of your tale. Sellerby could administer poison, but how then could he get a very large corpse into the river without being seen?”

  “A skeptical mind is useful. Thank you. Very well, let’s imagine that he appointed a meeting to pay Vance, and took a room at a tavern that overlooked the river. There are any number of those. Vance arrives, Sellerby proposes a toast, but only pretends to drink, then watches Vance die. He’d remove anything that might identify him, including his boots, which would have the maker’s mark, and his jacket, which would be of gentlemanly quality. He’d get him to the windowsill in some way, put stones or lead weights in his pockets, and tip him out. Quite likely he’d wait out the day until dark.”