“I wish you to cultivate the habit of gossip,” the Baroness said.
“Gossip, is it?” Mary giggled. “That’ll be no hardship, ma’am.”
“I thought not.” The Baroness frowned as Mary’s glance wandered again toward the Earl. “Pay attention, minx! I want you to find out all you can about the inhabitants of Arbuthnot House.”
Mary regretfully abandoned her daydreams, which were of a most titillating variety. “Where the mad old woman lives?”
So pleased was Lady Bligh with this description of Luisa that she laughed aloud. “Precisely. Learn all you can about the mad old woman, Mary, and her immediate family, and I will be well pleased with you.”
Mary bobbed a curtsey. When she married, she would have a tidy nest egg set aside, though she had not yet determined whom her lucky bridegroom was to be.
Dulcie’s laughter faded. “There must be no indication that you have any purpose in asking questions. Your curiosity is inspired only by the atrocious crime.”
“I’m a ghoulish sort, I am,” Mary agreed. “Don’t worry, ma’am; everyone knows my tongue is loose at both ends.” She exited, almost colliding with Culpepper, Lady Bligh’s own abigail, in the doorway.
Culpepper was a stern, prim figure clad in dove gray. “I don’t know what you’re up to now,” she said, with the frankness of one privileged to serve the Baroness for thirty years, “but I want no part of it. Just think what the Baron would say.”
“What would he say?” inquired Lord Dorset. The fifth Baron was not one to mince words.
“It doesn’t signify.” Dulcie waved an impatient hand. “As I recall, I’m not speaking to the brute. Culpepper, I’ve a favor to beg. It concerns that watchman who is so besotted with you.”
An unlikely object for infatuation, Culpepper sniffed. “Encroaching little mushroom. What about him?”
“I wish for you to be conciliating.” Lady Bligh forestalled an objection by holding up one hand. “If you are not, Dickon is likely to find himself in Newgate, and that would displease me greatly.”
“I can’t say I’m surprised. I knew he’d go his length one day.” Under Culpepper’s stern regard, Lord Dorset managed to look quite engagingly abashed. She returned her attention to Dulcie. “Though I don’t see what that oafish watchman can do about it.”
“Very little, I imagine,” the Baroness agreed, “but you, dear Culpepper, can accomplish a great deal. There is an excellent tavern across from Bow Street headquarters. I expect you to develop a strong craving for beefsteak and oyster sauce, washed down with stout.”
“And to keep alert for whatever I may overhear? Very well, if I must.” She paused in the doorway. “Though I suspect it’s you who’ll be in Newgate, my lady, and at no far future date!”
Lady Bligh firmly closed the door and turned to her nephew, who was engrossed in spinning an ornate quizzing-glass. An angry scar slashed the back of his well-shaped hand. “Dickon, I expect you to conduct yourself as if nothing was amiss. You will follow your usual pursuits, but will refrain from either drinking hard or playing deep. You will, in short, do nothing to add credence to your part in this thing.”
“Did I not know you better, Aunt, I would suspect you of seeking to reform my way of life.”
“Twaddle!” retorted the Baroness. “ I’m not one to spoil sport, Dickon, nor have I any desire to interfere in your debaucheries—it is a way of life to which you are admirably suited.”
“Too,” offered Livvy, “Lord Dorset’s redemption would prove an arduous, perhaps impossible, task.”
“And a thankless one.” Dickon remained unruffled. “Dulcie, it appears that your companion does not think well of me.”
“Lavender is most discerning.” Lad Bligh’s dainty foot tapped the floor. “Her attitude, however, must speedily change.”
Livvy looked up. “It must?”
“I pray, Lavender, that you will not choose this most inopportune of moments to get on your high ropes.” Dulcie’s tone was sharp. “There are various matters in which I require your assistance.”
Livvy’s cheeks burned. Never had she been more forcibly reminded of her status. “I will, of course, do as you say.”
“Your part will be the most difficult.” Lady Bligh scrutinized her companion, clad in a modest high-waisted yellow gown that boasted only a single flounce. “But there is no one else whom I can send.”
“You’re sending me away?” Livvy’s heart sank to her toes.
“Isn’t this a trifle extreme?” The Earl raised his quizzing-glass. “She isn’t lively, or of a particularly pleasing disposition, but she seems to suit you well enough.”
“I hardly think,” said Livvy, goaded, “that your character is so exemplary that it entitles you to comment on mine.”
The Baroness moved to a rosewood sideboard, with cupboards below, lined with brass inlay with a honeysuckle motif. “Stop it, both of you, and consider our predicament. This incessant quibbling will not advance my plans. Livvy is going briefly as a servant to Arbuthnot House, where she will employ the alias of Primrose.” She raised a glass to her lips, then paused motionless. Livvy and the Earl exchanged glances.
Dulcie set down the goblet. “Listen carefully; Crump will soon be here.” Her dark eyes pinned Dickon to his chair. “I have seen fit to provide you with an alibi, and beg that you will not overset my efforts.”
“Oh?” Lord Dorset was courteous. “Where did I pass the crucial time?”
“You were trysting with Lavender.” Lady Bligh ignored her companion’s indignant gasp. “I think that I should tell you that the pair of you are about to become officially betrothed.”
* * * *
Crump paused on the threshold of the Grand Saloon. Tall windows, draped with heavily looped velvet, were thematically linked to doors with pediments and carved architraves. Married to this architectural magnificence was a gay Rococo ceiling. The marble fireplace was topped with Sicilian jasper, and embossed paper adorned the walls. Crump did not know that this was an excellent example of Palladian interior planning and an even more superb demonstration of the absent Baron’s taste, which had also run unchecked in the Monk’s Parlor, the Dome, the Crypt and the Picture Room, where folding panels revealed ever more drawings and paintings, one behind the other. He only knew that such overwhelming grandeur somehow diminished him, leaving him unusually unsure.
Crump’s reception at the Bligh residence had, today, been unexceptionable, although it had obviously galled Gibbon to be polite. Crump wondered how long this forbearance would endure.
The Baroness moved forward and extended a gracious hand. “Mr. Crump, how kind of you to call. Sir John has told me I must apologize for my previous behavior.” Her enchanting countenance was rueful. “Sometimes I am possessed by a spirit of deviltry, and I always heartily regret my pranks afterward, but then of course it is too late.”
Crump was not disarmed by this ingenuous speech; instinct warned him to tread carefully. “No apology needed, Baroness,” he said, glancing askance at her tea rose hair. “You had your little game with me, and I’m not one to begrudge a little fun.” His auditors, in their turn, were put on guard by his mildness. Livvy stared nervously at the Runner’s waistcoat, a startling striped creation of various conflicting hues.
“So this is the elusive Earl.” Crump hooked his thumbs in the waistcoat, of which he was inordinately proud. Lord Dorset’s expression was as bored as if he were observing the dancers at Almack’s, an establishment from which he was permanently barred.
The Baroness fluttered around the Runner. “Before we discuss business,” and her tone declared this of all things most tedious, “let me offer you refreshment.” She was remarkably cheerful for one whose nearest and dearest faced censure and disgrace, if not worse.
Crump allowed himself to be enthroned in a straw-colored French chair and sampled the Madeira. “Very tolerable,” he announced, unaware that Lord Bligh prided himself on the excellence of his cellars.
“I am
glad it pleases you.” The Baroness might have spent a portion of each day hobnobbing with the bourgeoisie. “How may we assist you, Mr. Crump?”
Crump was in no hurry to be on with his questioning. He thought of the dark, blind alleys of St. Giles and the East End, where families slept like rats on bundles of rags, with no hope of an honest living and no comfort except in drink. His task would have been easier if Lord Dorset was among the Bucks who gathered with thieves and cadgers in the back slums of the Holy Land, and who consequently made frequent appearances in Bow Street. Tripping up Lord Dorset was going to be a more delicate campaign, for the Earl, though profligate, was apparently no fool. Allowing the suspense to build, Crump sipped the Madeira, comparing it mentally with the rotgut gin known widely as Blue Ruin.
His audience showed no tendency to squirm, but suffered the Runner’s deliberations indulgently. Only the canary burst into nervous song, due not to Crump’s silence but to the stealthy maneuvering of the orange cat, which approached a circular table, inlaid with double rows of brass, which sat parallel to the gilded cage. Disappointed by the coolness of his hosts, Crump set down his glass and brought out his battered Occurrence Book.
“Now,” he said importantly, as his bright glance darted toward the saturnine Earl. “Let us proceed. Suppose you tell me all you know about the deceased.”
“All?” repeated Lord Dorset. “Have you so little consideration for the reputation of the deceased?”
“Dickon!” The Baroness toyed with a Sevres snuffbox. “I am sure Mr. Crump does not wish to learn the more intimate details of your affaire.”
Livvy threw herself with gusto into her role. “Mr. Crump may not,” she interjected, noting the Runner’s shocked face, “but I do. Pray continue!”
“I am disillusioned,” mourned Lord Dorset. “You told me once that such casual encounters would not weigh with you.”
“Lavender is most magnanimous,” Lady Bligh commented, with the air of one bestowing a blessing. “The perfect wife for a gazetted profligate. How could you think that I would not approve, you foolish children?”
“Darling Livvy!” The Earl crossed the room in a few strides. Crump stared in amazement as Lord Dorset dropped to one knee and clasped the widow’s hands. “There is no longer an obstacle in our way. Say you will be mine!”
Livvy struggled with an overwhelming urge to slap Dickon’s mocking face. The Baroness beamed. “It does my heart good to see such happiness,” she confided to Crump. “Lavender! You have not said yes.”
“Oh.” Livvy recollected their situation. “Of course.”
“Such maidenly reserve!” applauded Lady Bligh as the Earl rose and brushed off his knees. Crump thought the widow remarkably passionless.
He was incorrect: Livvy seethed with emotion, but not of the gentler variety. The Earl lounged gracefully against the back of her chair. “We digress,” she said. “Mr. Crump will have little interest in our personal affairs.”
Crump, who in fact was planning to strike up an acquaintance with various members of Lady Bligh’s household for just that purpose, did not correct her. “I’m sure I wish you happy, ma’am, but time is running short. Any information any of you can give me regarding Lady Arbuthnot will be most appreciated at Bow Street.” He prepared to write. Were it not for the Chief Magistrate’s insistence, Crump would not have called a second time on Lady Bligh, from whom he knew he would never learn anything that might prove detrimental to Lord Dorset. Sir John claimed that the Baroness was an avid enthusiast of justice, but Sir John was clearly deluded.
“I am afraid I can be of little assistance.” The Earl displayed regret. “While Arabella and I were, er, on intimate terms, I was not her only cavalier. In truth, I was little more than her cicisbeo.”
Crump disguised a snort with a cough. The Earl did not fit comfortably into that category of gentleman privileged to escort a married woman, paying her assiduous but chaste attention, before returning her untouched to her husband. Lord Dorset added, “Nor do I know who replaced me in her affections.”
“You might guess, Dickon,” the Baroness prompted. Crump was pleasantly surprised by this helpfulness. He retained strong doubts, however, about Sir John’s assertion that Lady Bligh possessed a superior understanding.
“Of course I might.” Lord Dorset passed a moment in thought, then named an extensive number of gentlemen who would be highly incensed by intimations of dalliance. Crump wrote rapidly. The list was long, and assured Dulcie and the Earl that the Runner’s investigation would not progress quickly.
“Arabella,” the Baroness pointed out, “did have many enemies. But have you ruled out the possibility of simple robbery?”
“Not at all,” the Runner lied. “It’s the most likely possibility, but Bow Street doesn’t like to take any chances with a case like this.” He regarded the Earl, who was gazing upon his beloved with besotted bliss. The lady did not seem to return the sentiment. Crump concluded that this was to be, on the widow’s part at least, a marriage of convenience.
“Let us begin,” he said, “with the knife. Any notion, Earl, as to how it came to be in Lady Arbuthnot’s chamber?”
Lord Dorset, among whose wide acquaintance could be found none who dared to address him so offhandedly, raised his brows. “Arabella used it as a letter opener.” The derisive mouth twitched. “On one memorable occasion, she offered to, use it on me.”
“I see.” The Earl and Lady Arbuthnot had enjoyed a most unusual relationship. “You wrote her a great many letters, did you?”
“In the first flush of passion.” Lord Dorset contemplated a gleaming boot, then treated his interrogator to a roguish grin. “You might consider those letters to be garbage left over from my salad days, and as unpalatable as leftovers usually are.”
“Shocking,” murmured Livvy. This was not her opinion of Dickon’s indiscretion, but of his metaphor.
“I cannot imagine,” the Earl continued, “why Arabella kept the wretched notes, unless as a potential source of blackmail.”
“I doubt,” interrupted the Baroness, “that even Arabella would dare publish her memoirs. Continue, Mr. Crump.”
Crump did not resent this waste of his valuable time. The details gleaned from these less than impartial informants were enlightening indeed. “Now, guv’nor, if you’d just tell me where you were on the night of the crime.”
“Mr. Crump!” Lady Bligh was aghast. “This sounds positively ominous!”
“It’s standard procedure, ma’am.” Crump thought of the Chief Magistrate’s anger were the Baroness to go off in another of her hey-go-mad humors, and sought hastily to dispel any unease. “We ask as many questions as we can of people likely to know something useful.” He brandished the little notebook. “It’s all right here: marks on the body and the clothing; statements other people made on the subject. Then we put it all together and presto!” He snapped his fingers. “The guilty party, do you see?”
“I do.” Lady Bligh was contemplative. The canary’s squawks crescendoed and Lord Dorset stretched out a careless arm to intercept Casanova in mid-pounce. As Livvy scrambled to catch the teetering flower vase, Dickon dropped the hissing cat in his aunt’s lap, where it crouched malevolently. If the Baroness noticed Crump’s instinctive withdrawal, she refrained from comment.
“On the night in question,” Livvy volunteered, a trifle grimly, “Lord Dorset was with me.” She participated in this charade not for Dickon, but for Dulcie’s sake. For all Livvy cared, the Earl might spend the remainder of his days incarcerated in some dark, dank, and, preferably, distant tower.
“Darling!” ejaculated Lord Dorset. “Your courage unmans me.”
“I trust not permanently,” the Baroness observed. “Lavender, you are a constant surprise.”
Livvy’s blush was masterful. Sometimes she even startled herself.
Bravely, she faced Crump. “Surely you see that Lord Dorset must be free of any blame.”
“He’s a fortunate man.” Crump revised his opinion of
the widow: she was pluck to the backbone.
“I am,” the Earl agreed. “I think we should send the announcement of our betrothal to the newspapers without delay.”
“Aren’t you being,” Livvy inquired faintly, “a trifle precipitate?”
“Nonsense!” The Baroness smiled serenely as Lord Dorset dropped a reassuring kiss upon his beloved’s brow. “Surely, Lavender, you don’t propose to make poor Dickon wait?”
Casanova shifted positions and Crump started nervously. The damned cat looked uncommonly ready to pounce. “Do you mind telling me exactly where this assignation took place?”
“Mr. Crump!” The Baroness looked shocked.
“It’s all right, Dulcie.” Lavender, mortified, twisted a blue-black curl. “We attended a Vauxhall masquerade.”
“Vauxhall!” Lady Bligh had recourse to her hartshorn. The pleasure gardens, with their pavilions and gardens, temples and cascades, were no fit place for a gentlewoman, particularly on masquerade nights when a thousand lamps illuminated the long avenue of trees and musicians performed in the orchestra pavilion, and the most well-brought-up of ladies might be tempted to abandon both principle and decorum.
“And I, Mr. Crump,” said the Baroness, recovering herself, “was dining with the Prince Regent on the night in question, at Carlton House. The King is unwell once again. His latest delusion is that all marriages have been dissolved. We were served with chilled champagne, and fruit from silver platters, by an attendant clad in a complete suit of ancient armor. He must have been most uncomfortable, poor man. Walter Scott was also in attendance. I am sure he will vouch for me.”
Crump imagined the consequences were he to attempt to verify her statement, and hastened to assure Lady Bligh that he did not doubt her word. Carlton House, where the Regent surrounded himself with an unusual assemblage of odd individuals who pandered to his tastes, lay at the center of the fashionable world. Crump had once received a handsome fee for guarding the Royal Prince during a spectacular fete, and had more appreciation for a public execution than for the remarkable blend of talent and wit, buffoonery and obstinacy, that was the uninhibited First Gentleman. He thought it a pity that the Regent’s appetite for music and dancing and amorous adventure was not balanced by a passion for judicious government.
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