Behind the Shattered Glass: A Lady Emily Mystery (Lady Emily Mysteries)

by Tasha Alexander

  Lily was not pleased the others knew about Lord Flyte’s painting. Alice must have told them. Much though this chagrined her, she knew her friend would have done it out of excitement and pride rather than envy. She could never be mad with Alice. Alice was closer to her than anyone else in the world, and she knew she could trust her endlessly. If she had asked Alice to keep the painting a secret, she would have. How she wished she had done! “‘Prudence’ was how Mr. Hargreaves referred to you when I was speaking with him. I thought I would extend you the same courtesy.”

  “Putting on airs.” Pru shook her head.

  “Why have you been throwing the evil eye at me all day?” Lily asked.

  “Only because of what you told Mr. Hargreaves during your famous conversation,” Pru said.

  “I don’t understand your meaning.”

  “You told him you saw a man after the murder. How could that be?”

  “What on earth do you mean?” Lily blanched and her stomach turned. “I told him what I saw.”

  “How do you know the murderer was a man?”

  “I have no idea if the person I saw was involved in the crime.”

  “But you’re sure it was a man?”

  “Yes, I am.” Confidence came back into Lily’s voice.

  “That’s funny. Real funny.” Pru sopped up the stew in her bowl with a piece of bread. “Because I could’ve sworn I saw a woman.”

  “It might not have been the same person,” Lily said. “We don’t even know if it was the same time.”

  Pru shrugged. “Maybe you’re right. Or maybe you’re lying.”

  “Why would you say such a thing?” Lily asked.

  “Because I don’t trust you,” Pru said. “You’re striving to go above your station, and I don’t like it. Like I said, it isn’t seemly. I’m watching you, Lily, and you’d better take care.”

  “Leave her alone,” Alice said. “What did she ever do to you?”

  “I don’t have to listen to you, Alice,” Pru said.

  “You do have to listen to me.” None of them had noticed Mr. Davis standing in the doorway. “I will not tolerate strife among the staff. You will not want me to have to address you on this topic again. Pull yourselves together and get back to work.”

  Mrs. Elliott came in almost as soon as Mr. Davis had left. “Lily, I want you to help polish all of Mr. Hargreaves’s boots and shoes tonight. They will need to be done before you can go to bed.”

  That was a footman’s job. Lily was being punished. It wasn’t fair, she knew, but there was no point speaking out. Pru had soundly defeated her in this round.

  6

  I made what I thought was a neat escape from the drama unfolding between Matilda and the new marquess at Montagu Manor. How happy I was to see Anglemore’s facade looming before me! I had come to appreciate the concept of home more and more, especially since the birth of the twins. Anglemore might not be the height of fashionable elegance, but I loved it for that. I approached its off-center entrance, the sort favored by the Elizabethans, who preferred amusement to symmetry and liked guests to have to make a series of turns before entering the hall of a house. Davis opened the door before I had come all the way to it, a wire in his hand. Colin would be back in only a few hours, sooner than expected. I went down to the kitchen to give new instructions to Cook for dinner and had just settled into the library with W. M. Flinders Petrie’s The Pyramids and Temples of Giza when my peace was interrupted.

  “The Marquess of Montagu to see you, madam?” There was a hint of question in Davis’s voice.

  “The new marquess, yes,” I said. “What do you think of him?”

  “Madam, I would never comment on the appearance of a gentleman.”

  “Davis.” I raised an eyebrow.

  “He looks like I have always imagined the red savages in America do.”

  “Only slightly less red,” I said.

  Davis very nearly cracked a smile. “Only slightly.”

  “Send him in, and bring Mr. Hargreaves’s cigars.” I suspected Davis would ignore anything I said about the cigars but thought it worth a try. Our visitor might have ruffled him enough to throw him off center.

  “I must warn you, madam, that Lord Montagu has come with a large stack of luggage.”

  “Luggage?” I asked. “Oh dear. This will be an interesting evening. Tell Cook to expect another for dinner.”

  Davis did not return with Colin’s cigars, only with Lord Montagu. I gave our guest, who had not abandoned his cowboy hat, my hand to kiss and invited him to sit before he did so of his own accord. I was as yet undecided as to whether his casual enthusiasm was charming or off-putting.

  “I am a cad to descend upon you like this,” Lord Montagu said, “but I didn’t know where else to go. I do hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me. I cannot drive Boudica out of the only home she’s ever known. Any chance you might have room for a spare peer until I can get this matter settled?”

  “Of course, Lord Montagu—”

  “You really must call me Rodney. I can’t tolerate all this Lord this Lord that.”

  “Rodney, then.”

  “Thank you.”

  Simon opened the door. He was too much of a gentleman to show even a hint of curiosity as to the identity of my visitor, and, without missing a beat, he poured whisky for all three of us, dropped onto a chair, propped his legs on the nearest table, and asked Rodney how his travels had brought him to Anglemore Park.

  “What makes you think I’ve been traveling?” Rodney asked.

  “One could never get that much sun in England,” Simon said.

  “Fair point,” Rodney said. His skin was the color of chestnuts. “I’ve been abroad for some time.”

  “Rodney is an explorer,” I said.

  “An explorer?” Simon asked, his voice rich with amusement. I did my best not to meet his eyes, as I feared I might laugh. Simon had a way of drawing inappropriate reactions from me.

  “More like an amateur archaeologist,” Rodney said.

  “Or a treasure hunter,” I said.

  “What sort of treasure?” Simon asked.

  “Most recently the lost Aztec city Cortés described,” Rodney said.

  “Streets paved in gold?” Simon asked.

  “The very one.”

  “And before that?” Simon asked.

  “I spent three years in California.” Rodney did not seem eager, or prepared, to volunteer more information. I wondered if he had something to hide.

  “Looking for more gold?” I asked.

  “I would not have objected to finding any,” Rodney said, “but it never was my primary object.”

  “What was?” Simon asked.

  “I was making a study of the religious missions in the state. Fascinating architecture.”

  I was far from convinced. Gold had to hold more appeal to a man like Rodney than mission architecture.

  “So now you’re the prodigal heir returned, ready to collect his inheritance?” Simon drained his glass.

  “Something of the sort,” Rodney said. “If only I can figure out what to do about Boudica.”

  “He means Matilda,” I said.

  “Who else?” Simon smiled, tipping his empty glass back and forth in his hands.

  “I’m curious, Lord—Rodney,” I said. “Had you ever met the late Lord Montagu?”

  “Lord Montagu as in Archibald or his grandfather?”

  “Either of them.”

  “No. I never met any of that side of the family. Grew up abroad, you see. I was only nine when my parents abandoned England and settled in the south of France. They sent me back to Harrow for school, and then I studied at the Sorbonne before setting off to explore the Americas. Archibald’s path would never have crossed mine. As far as the old lord goes, he wasn’t likely to seek me out in California, was he? But I find myself quite taken with him now. I greatly admire what he accomplished with Montagu Manor.”

  “You like medieval architecture as well as mission?
” I asked.

  “Not specially,” he said, “but I admire his passion and his devotion to his ideals. He wanted to be a feudal lord, and he did everything his fortune would allow to make it so he could live like one. Most blokes would sit around their London clubs complaining that life isn’t what it used to be. Montagu took action. I respect that.”

  “I understand that you have already hired an architect to implement more changes to the estate,” I said.

  “Yes, and I am afraid the move has made me even more unpopular with Boudica. I should like to think her grandfather would have approved. My idea is to re-create a medieval village, only with better plumbing and no serfs. It would suit the manor.”

  “Will you play peasant there?” I asked, finding I could picture with little difficulty Rodney wielding a scythe in a tall field of grain.

  “I thought some of the tenants might like living there. The houses will be new and well built.”

  “So you turn to the ancient to improve your tenants’ lives?” Simon asked.

  “I hope it improves their lives.”

  “Do you plan to live at Montagu?” I asked.

  He leaned back in his chair and stretched out his legs. “All my time abroad has left me missing England, even if it is the England of a schoolboy’s memory and probably far less romantic than I imagine. But I have never lived someplace I considered a real home, and I think perhaps the time has come to change that. Assuming, of course, Boudica can’t prove I’m the illegitimate relative of heaven-knows-who.”

  “She told you her scheme?” I asked. This came as a surprise. I thought Matilda would have kept her plans close, not wanting to reveal any strategy to the gentleman she viewed as her enemy. How had Rodney wriggled it out of her? I studied his face. He was handsome enough, in a rugged sort of way, and I could see the appeal of a man bent on adventure. He cut a dashing figure. Yet surely Matilda did not see him that way?

  He nodded. “Admirable girl. Isn’t taking the news sitting down. A chap cannot fault her for that. I do hope that somehow we can come to a reasonable understanding. As I said, I have no interest in driving her from her home.”

  Davis opened the door. “Lord Montagu, your bath is ready.” Acastus and Leitus had slipped into the room and started sniffing around Rodney’s shoes. Rodney gave them each a pat, leapt to his feet, and headed out of the room, clapping Davis on the back as he passed him.

  “Thanks, old boy. It was a long and dusty trip.”

  Davis stood, unmoving, and made no reply, waiting for Rodney to leave. Once my visitor had gone, Davis turned to me.

  “I thought it best to go ahead and draw the bath, madam,” he said. “There seemed no point in arguing, and I did not think you would object.”

  “Very good, Davis.”

  “I do hope, madam, there will be no more unexpected guests demanding baths.”

  “You know as much as I do,” I said, “and generally much sooner.” I could see Simon doing his best not to laugh. “Thank you, Davis.”

  “I see I was right not to bring the cigars.”

  “This time, perhaps,” I said. “I do not, however, want this particular incident to set a precedent for the future.”

  “Of course not, madam.” He made a neat bow and left the room.

  “What do you make of Rodney Scolfield?” Simon asked.

  “I have not had time to form much of an opinion,” I said. “You?”

  “What, you think I’ve had time enough?”

  “You might be cleverer than I.”

  “I don’t trust him at all,” Simon said. “There’s something of the charlatan about him.”

  “What makes you say that?” I asked.

  “He’s too free with himself and everyone around him. In the matter of a few minutes he has insinuated himself into your household completely uninvited. He’s wild. Unkempt.”

  “It could just be from the journey.”

  “It rained all night, Emily. And he claims the trip was dusty?”

  “Metaphorically speaking, perhaps?”

  “Heavens, you aren’t suggesting you like him, are you?” Simon asked.

  “No,” I said, “but I don’t dislike him yet either. He does seem to appreciate Montagu Manor, and he’s at least trying to be sensitive to Matilda’s feelings. It’s awfully convenient, though, that he was able to arrive so quickly after learning of his inheritance. It seems a bit like a setup.”

  “Rodney Scolfield was supposedly deep in some jungle on the other side of the world, is that right?”

  “So we thought,” I said. “I do believe Rodney Scolfield is Archibald’s legitimate heir, but how do we know the man presenting himself to us is who he claims to be? He could be anyone.”

  Davis came back into the room. “Lord Montagu’s valet has arrived, madam. He is a Red Indian. Nothing slight about it.”

  “Very well, Davis,” I said. “Have you somewhere to put him in the servants’ quarters?”

  “I offered him a room upstairs. It appears he has brought with him some sort of tent and would prefer to occupy that, if you do not object.”

  “My,” I said, “how wonderfully exotic. Do tell him to make himself comfortable. Perhaps one of the gardeners could help him find a spot suitable to his accommodations?”

  “As you wish, madam.”

  Simon made no attempt to contain his laughter. “I may never leave Anglemore, Emily. Your household is too diverting.”

  “I should give anything to be below stairs right now,” I said. “Can you imagine the state in which the servants must be?”

  “Managed pandemonium, I should think,” he said. “What will Hargreaves say?”

  Colin was able to answer the question himself, as he entered the room soon thereafter. “A bit too much mirth for a murder investigation,” he said. Simon poured him a whisky, and I brought him up to date on all that had happened.

  “I’m half inclined to go back to Oxford at once,” he said. “Is it safe to remain here among all this upheaval?”

  “Was your work a success?” I asked.

  “Archibald Scolfield’s career at Oxford was not so blemish-free as we were led to believe. Yes, he was an excellent oarsman, and well liked in college, but he was embroiled in a cheating scandal during his second year that resulted in another student, Cedric Porter, being sent down from university.”

  “What was Archibald’s role?” I asked.

  “He came forward and accused Porter of stealing an essay he’d written and turning it in as his own. Trouble is, Porter insisted Montagu had stolen the essay from him. One gentleman’s word against another’s.”

  “And Montagu came out on top?” Simon asked.

  “In spades.”

  “Where is Mr. Porter now?” I asked.

  “He was forced to turn to trade and had operated a tailor’s shop in London until six weeks ago, when he relocated to a small village approximately twenty miles from Montagu Manor.”

  “Archibald’s past catches up with him,” I said. “When do we go see Mr. Porter? First thing in the morning, I hope.”

  We were interrupted again, this time by my mother, who had come down from the nursery in a fit of vapors. At first, it looked as if she might faint. She wobbled on her feet, staggered a bit, and then, remembering she ought to be graceful, lowered herself with studied elegance into Colin’s arms. He led her to a settee, where she recovered with remarkable speed and no smelling salts. She had no choice but to reconcile herself to doing without the latter, as I forbade them in my house. I never could tolerate ladies with a tendency to faint on command whenever faced with something difficult.

  “Mr. Hargreaves, I simply cannot allow you to continue to keep that child of a murderess in such close proximity to my grandbabies.”

  “Lady Bromley.” Colin’s voice was smooth and calm. “Let me assure you I would never put Henry or Richard in harm’s way. Tom is a sweet boy, and you must accept that he, too, is ours. I have just arrived home from a strenuous trip to find m
y house invaded by an unwelcome guest and am doing my best to catch a murderer whom I would prefer not to have on the loose so near my family.”

  “What unwelcome guest?” my mother asked. “Do tell me it is not one of those wretched Women’s Liberal Federation people. You must stop associating with them, Emily. It is not seemly, particularly now that you are a mother.”

  “Do try to remember, Mother, that my mother-in-law is also a member of the Women’s Liberal Federation,” I said. In fact, it was Mrs. Hargreaves who had first introduced me to the group. Our intellectual and political views were an excellent match, but she and I could not be described as close. We had clashed frightfully when we first met, and I was convinced (rightly) that she considered me a grave disappointment. Colin, who had always been the favorite of her two sons, was devoted to her, but he had made it clear that I would always take priority in his life, as a wife should. The transition was, for her, difficult, but we eventually managed to come to a tenuous understanding as to who took precedence in her eldest son’s life and now corresponded regularly, having come to appreciate each other. Over time a deep respect had grown between us. She had lived in France since her husband’s death years ago, but was now in the process of setting up a household in England, wanting to have better access to her grandchildren.

  “The new Marquess of Montagu,” I said.

  “Well!” This brought a smile to her face. “Why did you not tell me? I would have been on hand to receive him. This is an honor, Emily, that he should call so soon after arriving in the neighborhood.” She was nodding her head with such vigor I worried her neck might snap. “Where is he now? I must be introduced at once.”

  “He is not paying a call, Mother. He is staying here, as Matilda won’t tolerate him at Montagu. You can find him in the bath, if you think it would be appropriate to disturb him there in order to make an introduction.”

  “There is no need to be rude, Emily.”

  “I think, Lady Bromley, you will be most interested in Lord Montagu’s valet. He has brought him from America,” Simon said. I did adore the wicked man.

  “Is that so? How interesting. Did he steal him from the Astors, do you think?” Much as my mother despised Americans, she was fascinated by the wealth they accumulated. They might be vulgar and reprehensible, but so far as she was concerned their fortunes could not be ignored.