by Tessa Candle
The parlour had little ornamentation, and its furnishings presented a more masculine aspect than one expected in a lady’s salon. They were no doubt the artefacts of her husband’s presence and must be an odious daily reminder of him.
Yet Lady Screwe seemed to take little notice as she poured weak tea for them and asked if they were warm enough, or if she should have her woman of all work stoke up the fire.
Conscious of the extra expense this would incur, and of the fact that they were already drinking a weak infusion of what must be the very last of the lady’s tea, Eleanor was quick to say, “Oh no. I am really almost overheated in this shawl. Please do not trouble yourself.”
“No indeed.” Rosamond spoke up almost as quickly.
There was a brief lapse in the conversation as they sipped from their cups, but Lady Screwe soon spoke again, “Lady Fenimore, I have finished reading the book of verse you lent me. It was so charming that I copied out several of the poems. I must thank you again and again for sharing your collection of books.”
“I hope you will someday call upon us at Fenimore and peruse our stacks at your leisure.” Rosamond’s voice was all friendliness. It held no hint of the haughty condescension that many a lady of the ton could not resist bestowing with any offer of generosity.
Lady Screwe’s face looked anxious again. “I must apologize for my not yet returning your last visit, as is your due. I should have long since called upon you, only I remain uncertain that your husband would approve of the visit.”
“He is very protective of me. But he knows of our acquaintance and has expressly told me that, although not all of my relatives may be granted admission,” Rosamond pushed out her lips in a caricature of resignation, “any friend of mine will be welcome. But I am too freshly re-made as a lady of any kind, let alone a marchioness, to stand upon such ceremonies. Thursdays I am at home. Come if you will. I am sure you can resist my company, but you will not long stand against the allure of our library.”
The trouble lifted from Lady Screwe’s face, and Eleanor began to understand the interest Rosamond had taken in her. Screwe’s wife presented as serious and sensitive, but not without a sense of humour. She was precisely the sort of person who would most suffer in a marriage to such a man as Screwe.
Eleanor realised suddenly that she had been too silent, and must make some contribution to the talk. “You are fond of poetry, then?”
Lady Screwe nodded her head, but with a slight rightward tilt that indicated some equivocation. “Well, not all of it, of course. I am very fond of reading generally, and I like verse that seeks to elevate the spirit. Byron, for example, is at times a little overwhelming for me.”
And he is the sort of dirty dish that would remind the lady a bit too much of her husband. Eleanor did not share the thought. “I enjoy reading as well, but I am afraid I tend to peruse things that most ladies find quite dry—and most men, truth be told. I quite run the risk of being dismissed as a bluestocking.”
“Oh no!” Lady Screwe was quick to reassure Eleanor. “No one would dare. You are an accomplished lady with an improved mind. Only fools feel the need to cook up snide appellations for anyone cleverer than them.”
The woman had a definite point. “But I do not call myself clever, to be sure.”
Lady Screwe would not permit humility to cheat her out of a chance to flatter her guest. “I am sure you are, though. I have often observed that the best minds think nothing of their brilliance. Whereas every bacon-brain is enamoured of his own genius.”
This was precisely the sort of observation Eleanor might make. Her typically straight face broke, and she chuckled. “I do possess a low kind of cunning, but I am just the sort that you describe, for I substitute sarcasm for true wit and congratulate myself for being so adroit. Just ask the marchioness.” She tossed her head at Rosamond in an inelegant gesture.
Rosamond arranged her features as though she were seriously thinking over the matter. “Well, no. You do not congratulate yourself.” Her eyebrow cocked as if of its own will. “I mean, not out loud.”
As such banter continued, Eleanor contemplated how the strange circumstances of each made them come together in a more sincere way than one would ever encounter in nine tenths of social calls—Rosamond with her background as a fraudster, Lady Screwe with her deplorable criminal of a husband, and Eleanor with a mother whose memory she cherished, but who nonetheless cast a shadow upon her whole existence.
Their merry talk comforted Eleanor, and she relaxed enough to regale them with the tale of her morning walk and the relentless affronts of Lord Auchdun. They all laughed at Eleanor’s embellished and acerbic narration, but when she came to describe her hero—the cheeky workman who spoke like one of gentle birth—both Rosamond and Lady Screwe’s ears pricked up in a more serious way.
“Were his teeth alarmingly white?” asked Lady Screwe.
“Did he ask you to procure a key to the Fenimore wine cellar?” inquired Rosamond at the same time.
Eleanor tilted her head. “Are you two acquainted with this man?”
“Oh, probably not.” Rosamond waved her hand dismissively, but there was a practiced lightness to her manner which Eleanor did not quite trust. “It is just that your description of him reminds me of someone I know.” She shook her head. “But your way with words has excited my fancy—that is all—for it cannot be him.”
“He sounds exactly like a man who came here once.” Lady Screwe was more insistent. She paused thoughtfully, then added, “Indeed, I should be quite certain of it, if you told me he had teeth that almost glowed in his dark face.”
“In fact,” Eleanor confessed, “that is a very apt description. You know, one of those men that seem like a friendly predator, but a predator nonetheless. I admit, I could not quite feel at ease with him, though he appeared to wish only to assist me.” She could not add anything about the pirate cave.
“Yes, he has that way about him. I suppose I was put on my guard by—” Lady Screwe stopped herself. “That is, I got the feeling he was trying to find something, or find out something from me without directly asking. That always rubs me the wrong way.”
Eleanor nodded. She knew she should not pry, though she desperately wanted to.
Rosamond spared her the trouble. “Well, whatever did he want?”
Lady Screwe looked uncomfortable. “He seemed to be interested in any documents my—Lord Screwe might have left behind. I should have sent him packing except that he claimed to have been sent by,” she blushed slightly, “a friend of mine whom I have not seen for some time, and have been quite anxious to hear word of.”
Eleanor marvelled that the woman revealed this so freely. Surely she must be speaking of the lover she was reputed to have taken up with, even before Screwe’s disappearance. And yet, such an open reference to him suggested her innocence. Lady Screwe was quite a puzzle, but Eleanor liked her better as the time passed.
It set her curiosity ablaze, however, that this workman would be so interested in Screwe’s affairs. Before she had a chance to wheedle any more information out of Lady Screwe, the servant arrived with a letter. The poor woman’s features blanched and she trembled as she reached out to receive it.
“Whatever is the matter?” Rosamond laid a hand on Lady Screwe’s arm. “You do not fear bad news, I hope.”
The woman seemed relieved and smiled weakly as she read the address. “Ah, no. Just a little reminder from the chandler in town. Forgive me.”
Screwe had probably left his wife with all sorts of debts among the shops. Eleanor wondered what sort of dire missive Lady Screwe was expecting that, as poor as she was, she was pleased to receive a note of demand from a creditor in its stead. Was she dreading the possibility that her husband was still alive and sending letters?
But before she could find out more, or return to the topic of the mysterious man who had been asking about her husband’s affairs, Rosamond rose from her chair and announced they should return to Fenimore.
Eleano
r could not protest, as they had already stayed longer than was polite. But as they rolled away, she turned everything she had learned over in her mind, chafing in irritation at the lost opportunity to ask more about the white-toothed man. What was he really up to? What was his connection to Screwe?
When she realized that she had been silent for some time, she turned to Rosamond, eager to apologize for being such dull company. But she could see from her friend’s face that she too had been deep in thought, and her expression suggested she ruminated over something unpleasant.
“A penny for your thoughts.”
“Hah!” Rosamond came to herself. “I will take that bargain, for my thoughts are not worth a feather.”
She was sure that Rosamond’s peace had been disturbed by the same thing that had occupied Eleanor’s thoughts, the fact that someone was making enquiries after Screwe. In the very least it would bring up bad memories, but it also suggested the monster might still be alive.
Eleanor smiled encouragingly. “I admit, my thoughts were unusually broody as well. I do not know why I should be so low-spirited. It was a delightful visit and I completely understand why you have taken an interest in Lady Screwe.”
“If only she were more happily married.”
Eleanor’s voice turned dark. “Or more decidedly widowed.”
Rosamond looked at Eleanor and an understanding passed between them. Wishing someone dead was quite an unwholesome thing. Eleanor’s own theory was that he was still alive, and had simply gone into hiding to avoid being put back into gaol. But if he were dead, it would be best for all—perhaps most for Lady Screwe. If only it were a certainty. The possibility of his return hung like a loose-handled axe over everyone’s head.
Rosamond sighed and shook her head to dust off the gloom. “What do you say to coming with me to the wedding feast in town this evening? I am resolved to go, despite Frobisher’s objections. Disguise will prevent us from ruining the servants’ fun. We can steal away and be back before Frobisher returns from calling at Blackwood. He and Rutherford are as thick as thieves, and he is sure to come home late, for the time always gets away from him. The sneaking will make things even more diverting!”
Eleanor cocked a brow. “Well, here is proper evidence that you can take the swindler out of the game, but you cannot take the game out of the swindler.”
“Bah! Try to tell me you would not enjoy it!”
Eleanor weighed her options. She wanted to speak to Frobisher as soon as may be. But if he was gone to Blackwood, anyway, what harm could there be in wiling away the time dancing a couple of Scottish reels while playing at being a milkmaid, or whatever. So long as it was a pleasant distraction for Rosamond. “Very well, I accept. Only you must work your magic and disguise me properly. Who knows whether Auchdun is still lurking around?”
“It would be my pleasure.” Rosamond’s face was all mischief. “I believe I shall start with a very large wart on your nose…”
“Excellent. I have always wanted a beauty mark.”
Chapter 8
Blackwood Manor’s man-parlour—for that is what Rutherford’s wife called it—was pleasantly fitted up with heavy dark oak, leather furniture and jewel-toned fabrics in the screens and curtains. Though there were colours of all kinds, not a floral print or feminine motif was to be found anywhere. It had a good fire and, of most interest to Delville, displayed plenty of wines and brandies to choose from.
Delville helped himself to more claret and stretched his legs out by the hearth. This was much better than skulking about and sleeping rough in outbuildings and caves. Both Rutherford and Frobisher had done very well for themselves since he had known them at Oxford.
But along with the comforts came a certain tameness to life that Delville could not quite bring himself to like. A person who owned grand estates was responsible for them, after all. It was a much better existence to roll about and enjoy other peoples’ luxuries, rather than being weighed down by one’s own property and titles.
A charming chap like himself needn’t suffer deprivation. He was always a welcome addition to break up the monotony of an evening party among the usual hosts of gape-mouthed ladies and gentlemen, who sat about stupidly waiting for someone else to entertain them. Delville had gained great advantage out of being diverting company, so he would never wish away all the dull-witted plodders among the upper class who made his presence necessary, but he could not like them. At least his old friends had not become such as these.
Rutherford returned to the parlour, having fetched his pack of gangling whelps. He was mad about his dogs. Rutherford was a bit tame, perhaps, having been married the longest, but at least he had not become a bore. His vermillion neck cloth and bright gold jacket were an affront to the senses, but they were too loud to be tedious. A little domestication might be in order, if only Rutherford’s wife could train him out of these abominable colour choices.
A wet nose pressed against his dangling hand, and Delville petted the forward pup. “Look at you, lad. All legs and stomach.”
Frobisher, himself engaged with a friendly assault from one of the young dogs, laughed merrily at Delville, whose own legs threatened to topple the fireplace set on the other side of the hearth. “Then you two have much in common, it would seem.”
Delville pulled a face at Frobisher and lazily reached out his glass to receive a refill from the circulating Rutherford.
“They do eat an astounding amount of food,” confessed Rutherford, “but they bring me such joy that I cannot begrudge them their daily upkeep.”
Delville shrugged. He liked the dogs very well, but a pet was another luxury that only tied one down. Pets and children were far too much responsibility.
“So now the Devil must tell his tale.” Rutherford smirked as he finally settled himself onto a couch with Mack, his favourite bloodhound. “You left us to believe you were dead these many years, only to return with the preposterous insistence that people who have known you most of your life should call you Mr. Dee. Then before any of us could call you to account, you ran off again and went into hiding, just as though you had broken out of gaol. You owe us an explanation and it is high time you made a clean breast of it.”
Delville tried not to scowl at Rutherford. The interrogation he had been dreading was finally to begin. He already knew how much he could say, and not say, but laying it out in such a way as to curtail future enquiries was the trick. He took a long sip to stall, then sighed in resignation. “You must understand, both of you, that there is much that I simply cannot tell you. It is not my secret to share.”
He saw their disgusted looks of protest and held up a hand to stave off the interruption. “However, I can say—and indeed I should like to clear any suspicions that may be creeping about the corners of your minds—that I did not kill the man whose body was mistaken for mine.”
Frobisher coughed. “Mistaken for yours? That is a fine characterization. He was somehow wearing your clothes and your ring.”
Delville lifted his palm again. “I did not say I was completely innocent in the, um, misunderstanding that arose. I admit, I orchestrated it. But I did not kill anyone to do so. Only, it came to my attention that there was a body sufficiently decomposed to be unrecognizable and of my dimensions, or thereabouts, so I dressed it up to look like me.”
“As one does.” Rutherford could not quite pull off the sangfroid this remark required, for a slight sneer of distaste played around his lips.
“At the time it was rather expedient to be dead.”
Frobisher raised a brow. “That is not a claim one often hears.”
Rutherford’s aversion blossomed into a grimace of disgust as all the realities of the story sunk in. “But did you not have to touch it? All dark blood and yellow bile and weeping with black and blue death?” He shuddered.
“It was not pleasant. But a man who can make such colour combinations in his dress should not pretend to be so squeamish.”
Rutherford made an impolite gesture, and Frobi
sher laughed, but tried to assume a serious voice as he objected, “It was a dead body, man. How can you possibly be so cavalier?”
Delville smirked. These two made such easy targets of themselves. “I do not recall your being so fastidious when it came time to bury Mr. Hatch.”
Frobisher’s accusatory look retreated. Delville knew he would not wish to disclose the details of that adventure before Rutherford. He supposed that Rutherford knew that the funeral for the fictitious Mr. Hatch was a mere farce. Frobisher’s fraudster wife needed to cast off an old persona which had become inconvenient, so death made a handy exit for Mr. Hatch. But Delville doubted that Rutherford knew anything about the very real body in the casket. In fact, Delville knew more about it than even Frobisher did. But he was keeping that to himself.
“You mean because I assisted the men to find his body, God rest his soul.” Even Frobisher seemed to realize this was laying it on a bit thick before two men who knew there was no Mr. Hatch. He averted his eyes from the looks the other two were giving him, and his voice had little force as he changed the subject. “That was a very different matter. But I still say it was damned shoddy treatment of your two best friends to leave them believing you were dead all this time on a lark. And your mother—”
“Stepmother.” Delville did not let him complete the thought. This was a woman who waited until his father was too ill to resist and then callously married off his sister, Louisa, to a wealthy monster. It was under the burden of her husband’s evil moods and abuse that Louisa died. His stepmother was heartless. “And I doubt it hurt her feelings one jot to believe me dead. Unless we are to call it a tender maternal sensibility that she had great hopes for the advantages that would flow from her stepson someday becoming a duke, had he not been cut down in his prime.”
Frobisher was mollified slightly. “I had not known she was that bad, old chap. But could you not have told us at least?”
“I could not. And it is not a matter of trust, or affection, or any such thing. I was not then, nor am I now, at liberty to discuss all my motives and plans, which I knew you would both expect. I hope you can respect that and forgive me for what must seem like a betrayal.” This was all too solemn.