Her Grace's Passion

by M C Beaton

  “This is ridiculous,” said Letitia, and then gave a cavernous yawn. “We have walked miles and miles and looked and looked.”

  They had just left Smithfield Market. “I was sure it would be one of the markets,” mourned Sir Charles. “We have tried Leadenhall.”

  “There’s Billingsgate,” volunteered Peter.

  Letitia groaned.

  “Billingsgate it is. But this time we’ll take my carriage,” said Sir Charles. “We can always leave it close by. Just let us try Billingsgate. I wish I had brought some wax for your ears, Miss Plumtree, for the porters of Billingsgate and the fishwives are foul-mouthed beyond belief.”

  They walked back to Cheapside where the groom was walking the horses up and down. It was a relief to Letitia to sink into the upholstered seat of Sir Charles’s well-sprung carriage. Her eyelids began to droop. She had long ago decided they would never find Clarisse and had only stayed in the hunt to enjoy as much of Sir Charles’s company as she could.

  They left the carriage in Lower Thames Street, some distance from the market. Letitia had to be shaken awake. Sir Charles was showing no signs of fatigue and neither was Peter. He was like a small dog on the hunt, thought Letitia. Not for one moment had he looked less than excited and alert. “Places here all right,” murmured Sir Charles as they approached the market. Stalls of all kinds. And a pie shop, all open and doing a brisk business.

  “Look!” said Peter. “There’s a lady sitting at a table by the window.”

  “I can see nothing but a black smeary blur,” said Sir Charles crossly. “Poor glass.”

  “Let me go in,” pleaded Peter. “She might recognize you.”

  “Dear boy,” murmured Sir Charles as Peter disappeared into the shop. “Such enthusiasm. He sees her everywhere. Do you remember that old crone at Smithfield? I had to forcibly restrain him from challenging her.”

  Peter came back out, his eyes gleaming in the light from the pie shop windows. “It could be her,” he said. “She’s all in black, like mourning, and she’s got a heavy veil over her face. She isn’t a fishwife or a costermonger so what’s she doing in a pie shop at this hour of the morning? If only she would raise that veil.”

  “If she wants to eat, she’ll need to raise her veil,” said Sir Charles in a bored voice. Peter darted back into the shop again. “Bless the boy,” exclaimed Sir Charles. “The fatiguing enthusiasm of youth! You are like a beautiful horse, my love. I swear you are about to sleep standing up.”

  Peter came out again. “It’s her,” he said, dancing about them on the pavement. “Shall I call the constable?”

  “It can’t be. It’s impossible.” Letitia stared at him in amazement.

  “You had better let me look,” said Sir Charles. “Your height makes you conspicuous, Miss Plumtree.” He pulled his broad-brimmed hat down over his eyes and sauntered into the shop. He bought a meat pie and waited while it was wrapped in newspaper, his eyes ranging round the small room with its few tables. Most of the customers were coster-mongers, buying pies to take out and eat at the stalls in the market. He saw the black-clad figure of a woman. She was eating greedily, holding the pie with both hands, crouched over the table. It was indeed Clarisse.

  He took the pie he had bought outside and said urgently, “It is she. Good work, Peter. Walk away a little. We must follow her and find out where she’s holed up.”

  Peter, his voice quite squeaky with disappointment, said, “But we could catch her now.”

  “I have other plans,” said Sir Charles. “You, Peter, must be the one to follow her, for the three of us would look too noticeable.”

  They waited in the shadows until they saw her emerge. She was now heavily veiled. Peter slipped away and followed her. Letitia and Sir Charles waited anxiously.

  “But what is your plan?” asked Letitia. “It is a miracle we found her. Why not call the watch or the constable or anyone? She will escape us again.”

  “I cannot tell you my plan,” said Sir Charles. “Even now it strikes me as insane. You would only protest. But do one thing for me. Tell that dowager duchess to marry the earl as soon as possible, for if my plan works and I get a confession to the murder of Lady Torridon out of Clarisse, the earl will think the duchess’s love is too weak to take him unless things are respectable. He might reject her out of pique.”

  “I will do all I can,” promised Letitia. “That is if I can manage to stay awake this day. I hope that boy comes to no harm. What if she should kill him?”

  “Arsenic is her game and she’s hardly likely to stuff it down his throat in the middle of a London street. Have some pie?”

  Letitia shuddered and waved it away. “After all this talk of arsenic, I could not eat a thing.”

  They waited anxiously while the sun came up, burning red through the forest of masts on the river.

  Then they heard a light patter of feet and Peter came running toward them.

  “Pudding Lane,” he said. “Number twenty-seven. Now can we take her?”

  “Sir Charles has some mysterious plan, Peter,” said Letitia. “I have decided to trust him and I think you should, too.”

  Sir Charles looked at the boy’s downcast face. “Have you not had enough of adventure for one night, boy?”

  “I could never have enough adventure,” said Peter. “I would be a soldier if my mistress were happily settled.”

  “She soon will be,” said Sir Charles. “I shall reward you for this night’s work, my boy. If we pull it off, I shall buy you your colors in a good regiment.”

  Overcome, Peter began to cry with gratitude. Letitia stooped and kissed Sir Charles on the cheek. “You are the best of men.”

  “I wish that boy were in Jericho right now,” muttered Sir Charles, who longed to take Letitia in his arms.

  He almost changed his mind and decided not to help Peter’s future career in the army, for the boy stuck close to them, munching the pie Sir Charles had bought at Billingsgate, right to Bolton Street, and so he was forced to limit himself to a modest kiss on Letitia’s hand.

  Letitia opened one eye and looked at the clock. Two in the afternoon! She struggled from bed and dressed with speed, then hurtled down the stairs and crashed into the drawing room. Matilda looked up in surprise. “What is the matter, dear?”

  “You,” garbled Letitia. “You must marry Lord Torridon. You must tell him as soon as possible that you will marry him.”

  “I do not want to hurt you,” said Matilda stiffly. “But I fear you are being impertinent.”

  Letitia seized her by the shoulders and shook her hard. “You silly woman!” she shouted, and then sat down and burst into tears.

  “No, don’t cry,” said Matilda. “I am not angry with you.” She patted Letitia helplessly on the shoulder. That remark of Letitia’s, that “silly woman,” had shaken Matilda to the core. For that is what she now seemed in her own eyes, a rabbit of a woman, so afraid of the gossips that she was prepared to throw away the earl’s love. “Do not feel so strongly on my behalf, Letitia. You are overwrought. The servants could not wake you. Are you ill?”

  Letitia dried her eyes and blew her nose and said, “I am tired. I have been walking the streets of the City all night long. We found Clarisse.”

  She then told the amazed Matilda all about her adventures, finishing up with the desperate plea, “So do you not see now why you must tell the earl you will marry him? For Sir Charles says if he gains this confession and then you tell the earl, he will think your love for him is so shallow that you needs must wait until all is respectable. And I must say candidly that it would look to me very like that if I were in Torridon’s shoes.”

  Letitia waited impatiently while Matilda lectured her on the folly of dressing in men’s clothes and going out all night with Sir Charles and unchaperoned. Letitia had not mentioned Peter, not wanting to get the boy into trouble. “For,” said Matilda severely, “if it ever got about, he would have to marry you.”

  “Do not tempt me,” muttered Letitia, but Ma
tilda was now too worried to hear her. Would the earl come if she sent for him? Or would he be too furious with her? Goodness! He may even have decided to go back to Scotland.

  Sir Charles strolled into the offices of the Morning Recorder in Fleet Street and asked for Mr. Hughes. He knew Mr. Hughes of old. Did not all society? Hughes was always sniffing about and had an uncanny nose for scandal. The reporter was sitting at a grubby desk wearing a pair of ink-stained linen sleeves to protect his shirt.

  “Sir Charles!” he said, backing a pace. Mr. Hughes had had visits from the Quality before, usually gentlemen carrying horsewhips.

  “Sit down, man, and listen,” said Sir Charles. “I am going to give you the story of a lifetime and lead you to catch a murderess.”

  After Sir Charles had left, Mr. Hughes carefully removed his sleeves and put on his coat and hat. He wondered whether to talk to his editor or not, but decided against it. Tricks had been played on him before by young sprigs of the nobility, and he did not want to look a fool. But if this was a trick, it was an expensive one, for Sir Charles had just given him five thousand golden guineas.

  He walked briskly along Fleet Street, up Ludgate Hill, past St. Paul’s and along Cheapside, and then to the Monument and down Pudding Lane. He stopped outside number twenty-seven. It was an old clothes shop with rooms above.

  He pushed his way into the musty shop. The owner looked as ragged and smelly as his stock.

  “Got any rooms?” asked Mr. Hughes, jerking his head at the ceiling.

  “Only one and that’s been taken by a widder.”

  “Know everyone in the City. What’s her name?”

  “Widder Brown.”

  “My stars! Not the widow Brown. Known her since I was this high. I’ll pop up and pay her a call. Get through the back of the shop, do I?”

  “No, entrance in the alley atter back.”

  Mr. Hughes walked along until he found a smelly close leading to an alley along the back off the shops. He counted his way along until he reached the back of the old clothes shop. There was a rickety stair leading up to the first floor. He took a deep breath and mounted, then hammered on the door.

  There was a long silence and then a female voice demanded, “Who is it?”

  “Come fer the rent,” said Mr. Hughes, imitating the old clothes seller’s voice to the best of his ability.

  “I paid you a month in advance.”

  “That ain’t what it says in my here book,” whined Mr. Hughes.

  The door jerked open. Clarisse saw him and tried to close it. Mr. Hughes thrust his foot in the door and then put his shoulder to it, forcing the door open and, at the same time, pushing her back into the room.

  “Who are you?” Clarisse was white to the lips.

  “A friend,” said Mr. Hughes. He pulled forward a chair and sat down on it, leaning his back against the door. “I am come to help you.”

  “How? Why?” demanded Clarisse, her eyes darting this way and that as if seeking escape.

  He held up the heavy wash leather bag full of guineas. “Name of Hughes,” he said laconically. “Journalist with the Morning Recorder. Pay you five thou’ for your story.”

  Clarisse gave a bitter laugh. “And then send me to the hangman?”

  “No, I’ll play fair. You write down how and why you killed the Countess of Torridon and I’ll get you to the stage leaving for the coast and give you the money. When I consider you are safely out of the country, I’ll publish it.”

  “I will do no such thing. I am innocent.”

  “Oh, well.” Mr. Hughes sighed. “I’ll just turn you over. You’ll hang anyway, or if you’re lucky, you’ll get burned on the hand and transported for a thief. If you take my advice, hanging’s a better death. Quicker. Better than rotting out your life on a leaky ship bound for the colonies. You won’t have any of those pretty gowns left, I tell you.”

  Clarisse looked frantically at her gowns spread out on the bed and back to Mr. Hughes. “How can I trust you?”

  “You can’t,” said Mr. Hughes cheerfully. “But for what it’s worth, you have my word. That story’s worth a fortune to me.”

  “Take a glass of wine with me,” said Clarisse.

  Mr. Hughes grinned. “No, I thank you. I have a desire to live. Go on. Look in the bag. Gold guineas. Enough to keep you on the continent till you die.”

  “What do you want me to do?” asked Clarisse after looking in the bag.

  “You tell me how you topped Torridon’s missus, I give you the money and put you on the stagecoach. We’ll look like a couple. Get you to the booking office and then it’s up to you to make sure one of the passengers doesn’t recognize you.”

  “And you will not trick me?”

  Mr. Hughes solemnly crossed his heart.

  Clarisse sat down suddenly in a battered armchair as if all the strength had gone out of her legs.

  “Very well,” she said in a tired voice. Mr. Hughes masked his elation, took out a lead pencil and a notebook, licked the end of the pencil, and began to write as, in a flat emotionless voice, Clarisse described how she had poisoned the Countess of Torridon.

  For half an hour she talked, not only of the killing, but of her early life and how she had come to London and how she had pretended to be French.… Her real name was Jackson, she said.

  When it was over, Mr. Hughes got her to sign the confession, solemnly handed her the bag of guineas, and tucked his notebook away in one of his capacious pockets.

  “Now, then,” said Mr. Hughes cheerfully, “I’ll take you to the stage and see you on your way.”

  Clarisse sat there looking white and drained.

  “I say, bustle about,” said Mr. Hughes anxiously. “Time’s passing.”

  “Await me below,” said Clarisse. “As you can see I am in my undress and I need to pack.”

  “No funny business,” warned Mr. Hughes.

  Clarisse gave him a tired smile. “You need not fear. You have my confession. I must trust you. Wait outside at the foot of the stairs. There is no other way out.”

  Mr. Hughes went down the stairs and leaned on the rickety post at the foot. He felt quite dizzy with elation. Now all he needed to do was put her on the stage and then go to Bow Street and tell the runners to pick her up at the first stop. He had promised Sir Charles his money would be retrieved and returned to him. He basked in the glory to come. Then after some time, he glanced at his watch. She was taking a very long time. What if she had escaped him? He could not dare publish that confession. He would be arrested himself for having let her escape the gallows.

  He darted up the stairs and hammered at the door. “Come along,” he called. Nothing. Silence.

  He began to panic. What if there was another way out of that room? Fear lent him strength. He ran at the door and crashed it down off its hinges.

  She was lying on the bed, dressed in a beautiful morning gown, with jewels sparkling at her ears and at her breast. Her face was dreadfully contorted. On the floor lay a glass and beside the glass, an apothecary’s box, half full of white powder.

  Poisoned herself, thought Mr. Hughes with relief. I can say I found her dead and the confession was lying beside her. Demme, no. They’ll take it away. I’ll say she posted it to me. That’s it.

  Her jewels were lying around the room. A thin necklace of diamonds and pearls caught his eye. He knew just the little lady who would appreciate such a trinket. Danced every night at the Coal Hole in The Strand. He put it in his pocket, picked up the bag of guineas, and went off whistling to tell the authorities Clarisse had been found.

  The earl arrived after receiving a note from Matilda begging him to come.

  He dared not hope she had come to her senses. He dreaded her telling him to go away forever.

  When he entered the drawing room, Letitia rose quickly, curtsied to him, and walked out. She closed the door firmly behind her and then pressed her ear to the panels.

  Matilda rose to her feet and held out both hands, smiling at the earl shyly.
He drew her against him and smiled down at her wih relief, seeing her answer in her eyes. He kissed her eyes and then her neck and then her mouth, and she wound her fingers in his black hair and strained against him. They sank down onto the sofa and he lay on top of her, crushing her mouth with his, his hands ranging over her fevered body. All their pent-up passion was driving them both mad. They had not said a word. She did not even protest when he broke the tapes of her gown and pulled it down to bare her breasts and then ripped open his own shirt, sending the buttons flying, so that he could feel her breasts against his naked chest.

  Letitia listened outside the door in an agony of worry. Matilda was supposed to tell him she loved him, not sit there in a sulky silence.

  At last Letitia could bear it no longer. I am going to give them both a piece of my mind, she thought.

  She opened the door and walked in. She stood dismayed. The room appeared to be empty. Then she heard a rustling sound coming from the sofa and walked across the room and peered over the high back.

  Letitia’s face flamed scarlet. She inched her way backward until she reached the door and then closed it with trembling fingers.

  She turned and found herself looking down at Sir Charles. He looked up at her blushing face and then back at the closed door of the drawing room. He took her hand and led her downstairs. When they had reached the hall, he said sympathetically, “Am I right in guessing they got together at last?”

  Letitia nodded dumbly.

  “I say, is there anywhere we might be alone?” asked Sir Charles.

  “There’s the library,” said Letitia. “No one uses it much. It’s such a dreary room.”

  “It’ll do. Lead me to it.”

  Letitia opened the door and they walked inside. She turned to face him. “You have news for me?”

  “It is the most wonderful news.” He told her about approaching the reporter. “Clarisse gave Hughes of the Morning Recorder her signed confession before taking arsenic herself.”