Helen’s financial resources were low, but she decided that she could afford to escape to Calvert Green. This time, however, she would plan her departure, instead of just running away. If she could not contrive to leave within the next day or two and Wraxall should appear during that time, she was sure that she was equal to affecting a violent indisposition that would keep her confined to her bed.
Helen had now solved the mystery of Mr. Darcy’s identity, but this had only opened two more tantalizing puzzles. How would Wraxall reinstall himself as Duke of Clare? And what had occasioned his disappearance in the. first place? She hoped that she would discover the answer to these questions before she was forced to flee Lady Happendale’s home.
Helen did not have far to look for the villain in the drama. Kenneth Talby was neck-deep in intrigue, and she wondered if he were not in over his head. Whatever the case, he had maintained his composure during the discussion with Lady Saltash and was certainly no easy target. The chilling thought had crossed her mind that perhaps Talby had good cause to be so unconcerned about the rumour circulating. She hoped with all her heart that Talby’s sang-froid was merely feigned.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
IN FACT, TALBY’S appearance of nonchalance was not precisely feigned; neither was it entirely genuine.
Lady Saltash was certainly not aware of Talby’s unease as he gracefully bowed her into her carriage and bestowed a parting tribute on her niece’s gloved hand. The head coachman detected nothing in his master’s demeanour that would indicate a troubled mind as the cloths were swept away from the back of His Grace’s high-bred horses and the steps were lowered to his own elegant carriage. Yet, when the door was shut on him and the postillion had swung himself into his saddle, Talby allowed a small sigh to escape his lips, and he leaned back against the leather squabs in an attitude signifying relief when the equipage moved forward.
A rather tedious—in His Grace’s opinion—drive across land mostly owned by himself ended some forty-five minutes later as heavy iron gates creaked open and the vehicle turned down an oak-lined drive. The small travelling party presently drew up to the main entrance of an imposing edifice. For centuries this sprawling structure had figured as the principal seat of generation after generation of the lords of Clare.
The duke descended from the vehicle and slowly mounted the steps to the central portion of the Hall. With his coat clasped about his shoulders and carrying his grey gloves in his hand, Talby crossed the threshold and nodded with a weary, abstracted smile to the first footman, very correct in his white powdered wig.
His Grace proceeded to mount the Grand Stairway, pausing on the half landing to look back over the ancient magnificence of his ducal home. Into the Great Hall below came a tall, slim, middle-aged man whose quiet, meticulous dress unmistakably proclaimed him to be a gentleman’s gentleman.
“Ah, Robbie!” Talby hailed the man languidly. “Do you bear me company for a moment.”
This most excellent valet, always gratified to serve His Grace’s smallest need, mounted the winged, black oak staircase. He followed his master down a long hallway to the more modern and elegant parts of the great house. Not until they had passed through a thickly carpeted picture gallery that the present duke had never particularly liked did Robbie become aware of any change in his master’s demeanour. With an inchoate feeling of alarm, he saw His Grace, who was fortunately not afflicted by odd starts and quirks, stop momentarily to gaze at the well-known likeness of his predecessor, the Sixth Duke of Clare. Then His Grace turned slightly and said in a voice that sounded oddly disembodied, “You know, Robbie, I have come to regard all of this as my own.”
His servant murmured, “Quite so, Your Grace.” His suspicion was confirmed that something was amiss.
They soon gained the duke’s private apartment. This was an elegant suite of rooms, including two sitting-rooms, a large dressing-room, and a bedchamber, which commanded one third of the newest wing. While Robbie went to adjust the curtains to let in more of the late-afternoon sunlight, Talby crossed to a secretaire which he kept, on a whim, by his bed. He hesitated before rolling back the cylinder front and lapsed into abstraction. He roused himself the next instant and said, looking up, “I wonder, Robbie, if the latest rumour has come to your ears.”
“The little affaire concerning Lady Bansborough?” Robbie asked quietly.
“Imprudent woman,” His Grace commented with a slight sneer. “It seems that she has indeed run Bansborough off his legs with her debts incurred at Basset. He is profoundly to be pitied. But no, I am speaking of a much more recent rumour.”
Robbie did not believe he had heard anything more recent, unless His Grace were referring to the dismissal of the third footman.
“Dismissed, was he?” Talby said with no display of interest. “That fascinating piece of news did not come to my ears, but then, I take pains that such things do not. No, the rumour to which I refer has a certain charm, I think, and I have no doubt that it will enjoy a lengthy and healthy life unless something can be done to, er, lay it to rest. Yes, Robbie, it seems that my dear departed cousin has been seen. In England.”
Robbie, lovingly brushing His Grace’s discarded topcoat before consigning it to the wardrobe, stopped abruptly. “Your Grace?”
Talby laughed softly. “Your suspicion is correct. I am, indeed, referring to Wraxall.”
Robbie resumed his tender ministrations. “I believe the rumour mistakes the matter.”
“Rumours so often do, do they not? However, I find this one particularly… disquieting. It would relieve my mind to know, for instance, if any, shall we say, suspicious characters have been seen in the vicinity of the Hall recently.”
“None, Your Grace.”
“Are you quite sure? We have taken on so many new retainers in the past six, almost seven years already, that I cannot be assured of everyone’s strictest allegiance.”
“You may place your complete confidence in mine, Your Grace.”
“I know that, Robbie. You are a comfort to me.”
Robbie bowed slightly. “You are most kind, Your Grace. Will Your Grace be dressing for dinner?”
“Yes. I shall wear the blue velvet tonight with the sapphires, for you have persuaded me that it becomes me. But I shall not be dressing until I have verified certain of my papers.”
“As you wish, Your Grace.”
Talby paused and looked over at his valet. “What, if anything, do you know of a Miss Denville, Robbie?”
The valet appeared to search his mind for the name. “A Miss Denville? Nothing, Your Grace, but I believe Your Grace once knew a Sir Gareth Denville.”
“Her father,” Talby informed him. “Yes, he was a rather insignificant man, as I recall, who foolishly ran through a tidy fortune, leaving his daughter apparently destitute. She has an unusual beauty—quite a taking thing, in fact—and not at all as vapid as many women of her age.”
When His Grace did not elaborate, Robbie, who was at the door of the dressing-room and desirous of making ready His Grace’s evening raiment, was prompted to say, “I do not believe that Your Grace has ever mentioned Miss Denville before.”
“That is because I had never met her before. I take hope in the fact that she must have lived in obscurity since her father’s death. Yes, I believe her to be an Unknown. It’s merely that—”
“Yes, Your Grace?”
“It’s merely that I had the feeling—so fleeting—” Talby began, but broke off again mid-sentence. He smiled and waved a thin, white hand. “I am sure that I am indulging in purest fantasy. Do not concern yourself with it.”
Robbie, perceiving that his master’s interest in Miss Denville was not amorous, bowed, and penetrated the wardrobe. When he returned, he found that his master had rolled back the top of his desk and was perusing a sheaf of letters.
“Ah! Here it is, Robbie, just as I thought,” Talby said, looking up from the crisp parchment in his hand, “although my Italian is not what it once was. One forgets the usage
s of foreign tongues with the passage of time, I fear, and it has been quite a long time since I last saw Italia mia. Ten years, in fact. It has been ten years already, has it not, Robbie?”
The valet was heard to say that it would soon make twelve years that they last ventured to Italy.
“Yes, it is as I say. One’s memory is not what it once was, but I thought I could not be mistaken on this point.” He glanced down at the letter and scanned a line or two. “Here is the passage in the last letter I received from my dear friend Alvise Pisano: Il nostro caro Giovanni è morto. I believe that states quite plainly that our dear friend Giovanni is dead, does it not?”
Robbie claimed no more than a pedestrian knowledge of this tongue, but he was able to reassure his master of the translation.
“Yes,” Talby continued, “I believe Alvise has made the matter quite clear. Giovanni is indeed …morto. It sounds so very much more palatable that way, don’t you agree? Less final, less unpleasant. One is compelled, of course, to mourn the loss of so consummate an artisan. A master forger, Giovanni! Such an eye for detail! So delicate a touch! So understanding of my requests! And yet, I confess that his passing provided me with a modicum of relief. You felt that way too at the time, did you not, Robbie?”
Robbie, that most perfect gentleman’s gentleman, felt the effect of even the slightest breeze that blew over his master. He was one with his master in mind and soul. He was his master’s servile counterpart. Robbie had felt vast relief at the news of Giovanni’s death.
“But now there is this disturbing rumour of Wraxall’s reappearance,” his master went on in his weary voice. “It is very tiresome to have to think about all this again, but I fear I am obliged to. Let us calculate. If Giovanni died last October, and we are now at the end of March, it is entirely possible that my fond cousin—I am loath to speak ill of the dead, you know—has had time in the intervening five months to—perhaps, for this is all conjecture!—fall upon some interesting information and to return to England.”
Robbie’s face remained impassive, but served to mirror Talby’s thoughts as he developed them.
“If I apprehend the matter correctly, my fond cousin has chosen to spend much time in Italy since his death. Can you think of a more charming spot to retire when one dies? I cannot. So I could not mourn his death as the others did. It seems, in fact, that he has done rather well for himself. But, as I was saying, I cannot help but wonder if there is not some connection between Giovanni’s death and the rumour of Wraxall’s, shall we say, rebirth?”
“There is such a thing as coincidence, Your Grace.”
“Is there? I wish I could be sure of that! If it is only a rumour, of course, I shall think myself quite foolish. But one gets older, and one finds that one’s plans do not always fall out the way one expects. Even after so many precautions!”
“Giovanni assured Your Grace that he would destroy the evidence when he was finished,” Robbie reminded his master gently.
“Yes, destroy it! It was quite out of the question at the time to go back to Italy and secure the originals. I was required to stay in England and secure my position, as well as provide comfort to the grieving Lady Happendale. And it seemed too risky to send back by mail the originals along with the, er, artwork.”
Robbie assured his master that he had handled the matter just as he ought.
“Indeed! Giovanni was not the padrone of the fraternità by accident. But his friends! One must think of his friends! If, at his death, one of them went through his papers and found that he had not destroyed mine—! It does not bear thinking on. Truly it does not!”
“If Your Grace pleases, there is a certain degree of improbability to the events as you describe them.”
Talby’s lips curled into an indolent smile. “Working myself up for nothing, Robbie? You undoubtedly have the right of it! I have not handled the news well, but I shall know how to go on in the future.” He sighed.
“Shall I assist Your Grace in dressing for dinner?”
Talby smiled. “You comfort me, Robbie. Positively, you comfort me.”
Despite these words, Talby was not comforted. He was unnaturally silent while dressing for dinner and displayed no appetite at the table. His only desire, once the tedious dinner hour was done, was to go to his library for the rest of the evening.
Once there, he went directly to his writing table with a branch of candles and sat down, drawing a sheet of paper towards him with great deliberation. He dipped a quill in the inkpot, raised his head for a moment and stared at nothing in particular, allowing the ink to dry on the pared tip of the feather. Noting this, he dipped his pen again and began to scratch some lines along the page. At length, he stopped and read over what he had written. He then signed his name with a flourish and dusted the paper with sand. He had folded it and was about to seal it with a blot of red wax when a hauntingly familiar voice said at his back,
“I doubt that you will ever have to post that missive, Talby.”
The Seventh Duke of Clare turned slowly around to face his uninvited visitor, who was seated, one booted leg crossed casually over the other, in a deep chair opposite. Even in the wan, yellow candlelight, Talby’s countenance could be seen to pale under his careful maquillage. He quickly recovered.
“You do not think so, Wraxall? It is you, is it not?” he said silkily.
“It is I.”
“I congratulate you, fond cousin. You are looking remarkably hale.”
“For one who has been dead for over six years, you mean. Yes, I come from depressingly healthy stock. But then, that aspect of my lineage has already occurred to you, I should suppose.”
“Whatever can you mean, dear Richard?”
“I am not averse to plain speaking, Talby,” Richard Wraxall said pleasantly. “I mean, naturally, that you could not expect to outlive me.”
“Indeed not! You can give me ten years.” Talby laughed softly.
“At least,” Wraxall replied dryly. “And it was too remote a possibility that I would meet with a fatal accident before I married and produced an heir to cut you out of the succession.”
“Ah! But there is the sticking point, dear cousin. Or should I say half cousin? I thought we had quite agreed that your claims to the position were…illegitimate,” Talby said in a bored voice.
“So you had me believe,” Wraxall commented tranquilly, “when you packed me off to the Continent.”
“Are you reproaching me?” Talby said, visibly hurt. “I thought I handled the problem very properly and most sportingly! No unpleasant scandal, no unnecessary embarrassment for your family when I discovered the dubious circumstances of your birth. No one was more shocked and dismayed than I, I assure you! I simply presented the case and the records to you—I had no choice but to set things straight—and offered to allow you to disappear discreetly from view and make a new life for yourself. I quite agreed with your conclusion at the time, dear cousin, that to continue on in England as the deposed Duke of Clare was entirely inconceivable. Not to mention what it would have done to your family and name!”
“I am sure that you will arrive at the same conclusion if ever you find yourself in my shoes,” Wraxall responded lightly.
Talby smiled a little rigidly at that, but answered easily, “Cheer up, Richard! That is unlikely! Or perhaps you have come to threaten me. Dear me, I hope not! The tone of your mind—whatever the circumstances of your birth—surely is far above that! And how can you complain? It seems that in sending you abroad, I have done you quite a nice turn. I gather that you have done very well for yourself in foreign gambling circles.”
“You guessed?” Wraxall said, pleased.
“Oh, yes! You are the famous Mr. Darcy, are you not? Oh, yes indeed, I guessed! I have followed your career with much admiration, and the reports of your triumphs have positively taken my breath away!”
“I perceive that you are bent on flattery this evening, but surely you do not intend me to believe that you knew my identity because you long
recognized my superior gaming abilities?”
“No,” Talby returned, “but I did recognize a surname of your father—let us not quibble about the relationship— which I believe has a Gallic origin. The Fifth Duke had a d’Arcy somewhere in his family tree, did he not?”
“You are apparently well aware that he did, and you are also something of an historian,” Wraxall observed, taking no offence.
Talby smiled. “I have always taken great interest in our families’ intertwined history. Yes, I fancy I have the knack of it.”
“Then perhaps you might provide me with the name of my father—the one you have claimed for me—just to round out the family history, you understand,” Wraxall said, perfectly amiably.
Talby rose, still smiling, and said as he walked a few steps across the room in the direction of the windows, “You pain me, fond cousin, for such ancient history is better left alone!”
“Do not go one step farther,” Wraxall said in a voice that instantly stopped the older man.
Talby turned to look at his adversary with well-feigned surprise. “Dear cousin, whatever are you about?”
“There is no need to alert any of the retainers to my presence, embarrassing as it must be to you,” Wraxall said coolly.
“Your wretched memory!” Talby laughed. “The bell-pull is behind you, by the door.”
“My memory is not so faulty that I do not remember the button on the floor by the window. I recall using it myself on occasion to be rid of an unwelcome visitor.”
Talby’s eyes narrowed, and the first feeling of fear seemed to prick him. He pinned a smile back on his face. “You describe yourself as an unwelcome visitor, but I cannot believe that you mean to be unpleasant. Not you! I should not call you unwelcome, however. Let us just say that you were unexpected! May I pour you a brandy while I am up?”
Julie Tetel Andresen Page 20