by Olivia Drake
“Perfectly so.”
Hardly daring to hope, James carried the painting to the window and angled it to the watery sunlight. He was gazing at the portrait of a solemn young man and a smiling woman garbed in the fashion of a quarter of a century earlier. She sat on a chair, a small spaniel curled up in her lap, while her husband stood behind her with his hand on her shoulder.
James knew at once they were his cousin, George and George’s wife, Edith. This must have been painted around the time of their marriage.
He felt whisked back to his childhood. Memories washed over him, much clearer now than ever before. He’d been only a boy of ten at the time, but how well he recognized George’s thick mop of brown hair, the grave features and thin lips.
This was not the face of the man who employed him. And there was another difference. His cousin’s lanky height hadn’t been just the vague impression of a boy to whom all adults were tall. His true cousin topped by several inches the charlatan who had stolen his name.
With mingled fury and exhilaration, James scrutinized Edith as well. Her reddish curls had a golden cast that was subtly different from the present Edith’s auburn hair. The features were not quite the same, either. This Edith appeared to have brown eyes and her face was somewhat narrower.
Besides the long-eared spaniel in her lap, several more dogs tumbled and played at her feet. She had adored them, he recalled, yet the present-day Edith kept no pets.
Now he knew why. Even taking into account the aging of nearly twenty-five years, the couple in this painting couldn’t possibly be the same George and Edith who now resided in Crompton House.
“What do you think, sir?” Thornton asked, hovering close. “How do the Cromptons compare to them?”
“Both of my employers are imposters. This painting proves it beyond a shadow of a doubt.” The full force of rage struck James like a punch to his abdomen. His gaze snapped to Thornton’s. “My God! They very nearly got away with the crime. Had you not written to me, I would never have known my inheritance had been stolen.”
“It was your idea to look for the portrait,” Thornton said modestly. “I merely noticed there were anomalies when I went to see Mr. Crompton—or whoever he is—about my pension two years ago.”
“How did they do it?” James asked, as much to himself as to Thornton. “Why the devil did no one ever challenge them? Surely someone in India saw the differences in their appearance!”
“I wish I knew, sir. I wish I knew.”
His mind percolating with unanswered questions, James carefully rerolled the painting and propped it against the bookcase. As he did so, Roland came in with another cup and poured their tea, then left the parlor. Thornton added a lump of sugar to his mug and stirred it with a pewter spoon.
James was too agitated to bother with refreshments. Running his fingers through his hair, he prowled back and forth in the small room. “The key question is, what happened to my cousin and his wife? Did they die a natural death? Or were they murdered?”
“That remains to be seen,” Thornton said, his mouth set in a grim line. “I must say it was a despicable act to steal their identities no matter what the cause.”
James continued to think out loud. “How do you suppose they accomplished the switch? And when exactly did it occur?” In his mind, he saw the image of Blythe in her wide-eyed innocence. “One thing is certain. I cannot believe that any of the three daughters could have been aware of this wickedness. And that would suggest the exchange happened either before they were born or shortly thereafter.”
“I must agree. Especially in light of the old letter you found.”
James swung toward him. “Then you received my note. Were you able to locate Mrs. Bleasdale?”
“Indeed, it was no trouble at all. I remembered the woman from my tenure as estate agent to the Cromptons. She was wife to one of the tenant farmers. Now she’s an old pensioner living in a cottage near the village.”
“Thank God she’s still alive. Do you find out the identity of Mercy?”
“She was Mrs. Bleasdale’s only child.” Blowing on his tea, Thornton frowned. “I recall seeing Mercy a few times, for she worked above stairs at the manor house. When the Cromptons left all those years ago, Mercy sailed off with them as Edith’s personal maidservant. Unfortunately, some two years later, Mrs. Bleasdale received word that her daughter had died in a cholera epidemic.”
“Edith sent her a letter of condolence along with a bequest.”
“Yes, a very generous one. Mrs. Bleasdale is quite frail now, but grateful to be living out her days in comfort.”
Determined to unravel the puzzle, James continued to pace. “Edith kept the note of thanks from Mrs. Bleasdale all these years. It was stuck in her prayer book. Why would she do so? What would induce a lady to save a letter from a farmer’s wife?”
“I have a theory,” Thornton said, his voice raspy. “You see, the two-day journey back to London gave me ample time in which to ponder the matter. And also to examine my old memories.”
He stopped to take a drink of tea, and the truth struck James before the old man could continue. It seemed incredible … yet it would explain so much.
“You believe that Mrs. Bleasdale’s daughter, Mercy, isn’t dead at all,” James said slowly. “She is very much alive. And she’s now calling herself Edith Crompton.”
* * *
“Mama, what on earth are you doing?”
Having just entered the bedchamber, Blythe blinked to see her mother, elegantly dressed in a blue-and-ivory striped gown while sprawled inelegantly on the carpet. She was peering under the four-poster bed, her arm stretched out beneath as if to pat the floor.
“Did you drop something?” Blythe asked.
The blue feathers on her stylish hat bobbed as Edith Crompton turned her head to glance over her shoulder at Blythe. “I’ve lost a paper, that’s all.”
Blythe crouched down to look from the other side. Although sunlight brightened the room, she could see only shadows under the bed. “What sort of paper?”
“A letter.”
Her mother’s voice sounded terse, worried, and not at all concerned about their mid-morning appointment at the dressmaker’s. Mama was always punctual, so when she hadn’t come downstairs, Blythe had gone in search of her.
Blythe had been too anxious to sit and twiddle her thumbs, anyway. She needed a distraction from her own agitated thoughts. Only a short while ago, James had left to deliver the forged note from Prince Nicolai to Lady Davina.
He had been cool and distant ever since their encounter at the card party, but she wouldn’t let his disapproval of the ruse bother her. The scheme was in play now. The soiree had been scheduled for a few nights hence, the invitations sent out the previous day.
It was too late to turn back.
Blythe attributed her attack of nerves to impatience. If only she could move the clock ahead and have the party happen right now, this very minute, then perhaps the knot inside her stomach would unravel.
She straightened up and smoothed the wrinkles out of her lilac muslin gown. “I can help you look, Mama. When did you last see this letter?”
“It was tucked into my prayer book in the bedside table.”
Blythe stepped around her mother and peered into the opened drawer. Picking up the black-bound book, she riffled through the pages. “And you think it dropped out onto the floor?”
“Yes.”
“Who is it from?”
“Just … someone I once knew. No one of consequence.”
Blythe found it difficult to believe that her mother would go to so much trouble to find something insignificant.
Intending to see if the letter might be tucked in a back corner of the drawer, she bent down to look. Her gaze widened on a metallic gleam. She picked up a tiny muff pistol that fit into the palm of her hand. This must be the one Portia had used to shoot Colin in the arm two years ago. Blythe had overheard her sisters whispering about the incident. Lindsey had borrowed
the weapon without their mother’s permission, and their parents had never known about the episode.
Now, the very presence of the weapon puzzled Blythe. It seemed out of character for her modish, fashionable mother to own a gun.
“Why do you keep this pistol?” she asked.
Mama flashed a glare up at Blythe and then struggled to her feet, hampered somewhat by the slim-fitting gown. “Put that away at once! And do stop poking through my private things.”
Startled, Blythe replaced the gun in the drawer. Her mother was often firm, but seldom snappish. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. I was only trying to help.”
Mrs. Crompton stepped past her to peer behind the bedside table. “Never mind,” she said in a distracted tone. “Run along downstairs. I’ll join you in a few minutes.”
Blythe deemed it wise not to ask any more questions. But as she left, she couldn’t help noticing that her mother was frowning down into the drawer as if her very life depended upon it.
* * *
“You are correct, sir,” Percy Thornton affirmed. “To my best estimation, Mercy Bleasdale is now posing as Mrs. Edith Crompton. Once I worked that out, the resemblance became clear to me. I’m only sorry I didn’t put two and two together sooner.”
James strode across the tiny parlor to lay a hand on the older man’s bony shoulder. “Your work has been excellent. I couldn’t have managed without you.”
“The case is far from resolved, sir. For one, I’ve no notion whatsoever as to who is pretending to be Mr. George Crompton.”
Hands on his hips, James resumed pacing. “Perhaps Mrs. Bleasdale knows him. We must bring her to London so she can identify her daughter and give testimony at the trial.”
That was the moment James desired and dreaded in equal measure. He wanted to find out the whole truth of what had happened to his cousin. He craved to see justice done on George’s behalf. But in the doing, he would also cause unspeakable pain to Blythe and her sisters. Their lives would never be the same.…
“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” Thornton said. “She’s an old woman and far too frail. Two long days in a coach surely would be the death of her.”
“Are you certain of that? Perhaps the journey could be taken in small increments.”
Thornton pursed his lips doubtfully. “It would be a tremendous risk to her health. It wouldn’t do for your only witness to fall ill and die. Is there no way to lure the Cromptons to Lancashire? Then the confrontation could take place there.”
“In any other case, I would agree. But for obvious reasons, Lancashire is the last place on earth those two charlatans wish to go.”
James had seen that for himself at the family dinner when Blythe had expressed a desire to visit the manor. Edith Crompton had looked aghast at the notion and had cited numerous reasons why such a journey was out of the question. George had concurred in no uncertain terms.
Thornton picked up the teapot and refilled his cup. “I quite understand your point, sir. There is the social season, as well, to consider. Since they are marrying off the youngest girl, the family will wish to stay in London.”
Blythe wanted to affiance herself to the duke. If the truth came out before the wedding, Savoy would toss her aside like a piece of common rubbish. If it came out afterward, he would have grounds for divorce. Either way, her life would lie in ruins.
Yet James had little choice. It was unthinkable to allow the crimes against his cousin to go unpunished.
Frustration filled him as he prowled the tiny parlor. “If Mrs. Bleasdale cannot appear in a London court, I will need a sworn affidavit from her declaring that Mercy is masquerading as Edith Crompton. Yet it’s impossible for the woman to give one without coming face to face with Edith. The situation is quite the Gordian Knot.”
Thornton sipped his tea and then ventured, “What if Mrs. Crompton were to receive word somehow that her mother lay dying?”
James considered that a moment. Edith had kept the last letter from Mrs. Bleasdale all these years. Did that mean she harbored a fondness for her mother that could be exploited?
Thinking of the wealthy life of privilege she led now, he shook his head. “Mercy Bleasdale no longer exists. She cut off all contact when she sent a letter announcing her own death. She’d never risk losing her status, her place in society. Not even for her own mother.”
“Then what will you do, sir?”
“I don’t know yet. I’ll have to give the matter some thought.”
As James bade farewell and left the house, the seed of an idea took root in him. He rejected it at first as a despicable act unbefitting a gentleman. But the more he considered the notion, the more he became convinced it was the only way to lure Edith and George to Lancashire.
James would have to use their youngest daughter as bait.
Chapter 19
“This scheme is the height of lunacy,” Portia fretted with a shake of her head. “There are too many things that can go wrong. It will never work.”
On the evening of the party, the sisters tarried in one of the spare bedchambers at Pallister House. All three of them were dressed in their finest gowns, Portia in primrose silk, Lindsey in celestial blue crepe, and Blythe in filmy white muslin with delicate gold trim.
“It most certainly will work,” Lindsey said. “I’ve seen to the details myself. Besides, I quite relish the notion of tricking Lady Davina. She was very rude to Blythe and deserves a comeuppance.”
“Not at the expense of a scandal,” Portia retorted. “If Blythe wishes to speak to the duke alone, I shall call Lady Davina out of the room on a pretext. Then there will be no need for such an elaborate hoax.”
“Would that it were so simple,” Blythe said, annoyed that they were discussing her as if she wasn’t even present. “Ever since Davina realized that I’ve an interest in her father, she has stuck to his side like a burr. She will be drawn away by nothing less than the meeting with Prince Nicolai, and that’s that.”
“If indeed a footman can play a credible prince,” Portia said. “I shall have to see him to believe it.”
They all turned in unison to stare at the closed door to the dressing room, where James was changing into his costume. Blythe had accepted Lindsey’s offer of the borrowed garments, after all. In the end, it had seemed too pigheaded not to do so.
Now, her errant imagination supplied a picture of him in there, stripped down to his bare skin. James was built so much more powerfully than the half-clothed men she’d seen on the streets of India, and Blythe fancied herself helping him disrobe, smoothing her palms over the brawny contours of his naked body.
Feeling the rise of a blush, she strolled to a table on the pretext of picking up the porcelain figurine of a shepherdess. It would be a disaster if her sisters were to guess the direction of her wayward thoughts. They’d be aghast to know that Blythe felt such a forbidden attraction to a footman. To save her reputation, they might feel obliged to report the matter to their mother, and James would be summarily dismissed.
Blythe set down the little statue. That wouldn’t happen. She had no intention of acting on her desire for him ever again.
Once had been enough.
She had spent too long preparing for this masquerade to let matters go amiss. This morning, she had informed the head footman that James was needed to assist in serving the guests at her sister’s soiree. Godwin had attempted to offer his own services instead, but she’d refused him with a cool smile. Lady Mansfield, she’d claimed, required a footman precisely the height and size of James. No one else would do.
She also had made up an excuse to convince her parents that she needed to arrive ahead of them in order to help Lindsey with last-minute preparations for the party. Accordingly, the coachman had dropped her off early, along with James, who had gone in through the back entrance and then met her up here in this bedchamber.
Her sisters had joined her a few minutes later.
Now, she prayed that James played his part well. Ever since writ
ing the second note to Lady Davina a few days ago, he had acted distant and aloof. Blythe had the distinct impression that he was angry with her. And little wonder. She had brought her sisters in on the ruse when he had expressly asked her to keep it a secret.
Had she been wrong to do so? No, the circumstances would be much easier to control here at Lindsey’s house. There would be less chance of something going awry.
“It’s taking him too long,” Portia said, gliding to the window and glancing out at the street below. “The guests will be arriving soon.”
“When precisely did he go in there?” Lindsey asked Blythe.
Jittery with nerves, Blythe glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantel. “Perhaps fifteen minutes ago. And mind, he does not have the benefit of a valet’s assistance.”
“Wonderful,” Portia muttered. “He likely will have his shirt on backward and his cravat in a tangle.”
“If so, he will have ample time to fix it,” Lindsey said, plopping down on the blue coverlet of the bed and looking far more nonchalant than Blythe felt. “His rendezvous with Lady Davina isn’t scheduled until over an hour from now.”
The plan was that Prince Nicolai would not attend the party itself. His latest note to Davina had stated that he wanted their first meeting to be in a private place, away from the throngs of people who would be sure to swarm around visiting royalty.
“She may not have swallowed the bait,” Portia said.
“Of course she did, she accepted the invitation here,” Lindsey said. “A snooty girl like her won’t be able to resist catching a prince.”
“Meanwhile, our sister will attempt to charm the Duke of Savoy,” Portia said. “Personally, I hope this ruse will have the opposite effect. I hope she will come to her senses and realize he is not the right husband for her.”
Portia raised an eyebrow at Blythe, and Blythe stared defiantly back. She was well aware that her sisters were cooperating only because they believed that closer contact with the duke would cause her to change her mind.
They would be sorely disappointed.