Dulcie Bligh

by Maggie MacKeever

  But Livvy was not listening, deep in contemplation of her unsuitability for the role she played. Even if Lord Dorset overcame the disillusionment that had attended his first experience with the joys of matrimony, he would never woo an impoverished widow without claim to even a good name. He was engaging in this charade purely to save his own skin.

  It then occurred to Livvy that, were not Arabella’s murderer quickly found, Dickon’s future might be entirely hypothetical. “What will become of Smirke?” she asked.

  “Nothing good, I imagine.” Lord Dorset was concerned only with guiding his carriage through the crowded streets. “Without a recommendation, she’ll be unable to find honest work. Not being the sort of female to attract the attention of more discriminating gentlemen, she’ll probably be dead of the pox in a few years’ time, if she doesn’t starve first.”

  “I see.” Livvy wore a little smile.

  “What amuses you?” asked Dickon. “Most ladies of my acquaintance would be horrified to learn that they had spent the past hour in conversation with a whore.”

  “I was thinking of my father.” Livvy looked into the past. “He was so pious that he must now dwell among martyrs and saints. I can’t imagine what he would say to his daughter’s acquaintance with a lady of easy virtue.”

  “Does it matter?” the Earl asked, interested.

  “Not in the least! He and I disliked each other most cordially.”

  A man of better character might have been offended by this bluntly unfilial attitude, but Dickon laughed. “My adorable girl!” Livvy’s wide eyes flew to his face. “How could I ever have thought you strait-laced?”

  “I thought you an arrogant, overbearing boor.” Whatever transpired, the Earl must never suspect that Livvy’s affections were seriously engaged. “My opinion, I must add, has not altered one iota.”

  “I thought it had not, little hornet.” Dickon’s smile was wicked. “What a splendid time we shall have!”

  * * * *

  Sea-coal smoke from countless domestic hearths hung low over busy London thoroughfares. Tired of his fruitless vigil, Crump breached the walls of Tattersall’s, at Hyde Park Corner, headquarters of the Turf. Though there was no sale scheduled this day, Tattersall’s was thronged with sporting gentlemen engaged in the examination of horses’ merits or defects and the exchange of related intelligence. An excellent painting of the famed racehorse Eclipse hung over the fireplace.

  Sir William Arbuthnot’s nasal tones were raised in strident argument concerning the invaluable properties of his favorite steed. He was an eye-catching figure in a curly-brimmed beaver, drab benjamin, tightly fitting coat of superfine, sporting waistcoat, and yellow buckskins. When his red-rimmed gaze fell on Crump, he abruptly moved away from the circular counter. “What the devil,” he demanded, “are you doing here?”

  “Looking for you, guv’nor,” Crump replied genially, as he eavesdropped on the recitation of a carriage horse’s pedigree. “We need to have a little talk, you and me.”

  “Not here.” Sir William glanced about him and hustled the Runner outside. He nourished improbable aspirations to membership in the Four-in-Hand Club run by Lords Sefton and Barrymore, Colonel Berkeley, Sir John Lade and the Marquis of Worcester; and an intimate association with Bow Street would hardly advance his cause. “ ‘Tis a nice day for a walk,” Crump suggested, and led the way into the park.

  Sir William, no enthusiast of gently aimless strolls, deposited his vast bulk on a marble bench. “You’ve results at last? You’ve found the jewels?”

  Crump surveyed the florid gentleman. This was a ticklish situation, for matters of law had changed little since the previous century when almost all prosecutions were initiated by private persons and conducted in accordance with their wishes. It was Sir William who had called in Bow Street, just as it was Sir William who offered a reward; and, though Crump might dislike the fleshy fool, and doubt his ability to render monies due, he must proceed with a certain amount of tact. “Well?” Sir William demanded impatiently.

  Crump smoothed his lime green waistcoat. “No jewels yet, guv’nor. The thief is lying low.” He observed Sir William’s darkening countenance. “No need to fly into a temper, sir! We’ll find him soon enough.”

  “Is that all you have to tell me?” Sir William’s wrathful bellow attracted the interest of a nursery maid with chubby child in tow. Briefly distracted, he appraised her well-rounded figure with an appreciative eye.

  Crump cleared his throat. Sir William flushed and blustered, “I am far from satisfied with the efforts of Bow Street.”

  Nor was Crump happy with the meager facts he had thus far upturned. “It begins to look,” he offered cautiously, “that Lord Dorset may not be our man.”

  “Devil take you!” roared Sir William, startling the birds out of various nearby trees. “Dorset is guilty as bedamned, and I mean to see him dangle in the sheriff’s picture frame!” His heavy jowls quivered. “How has Dorset got around you? Did he offer you a bribe?”

  Crump experienced a sneaking sympathy for the luckless Arabella. Given a spouse like Sir William, it was not surprising she’d chosen to alleviate her boredom with Italian music masters, actors, even the corrosive Earl of Dorset. “There may be some members of Bow Street,” he replied coldly, “who can be bought off. I am not one of them.”

  Sir William rested damp his hands on one pudgy knee. “No need to take offense! You can understand a man’s natural grief, I’m sure. Just what have you learned?”

  “Not enough to invite Lord Dorset into the Palace of Newgate.” Crump had no intention of sharing his carefully gathered information with this fat clown who would immediately blab it all over the town. “Though it seems likely that he spent some time with your wife on the night she died.”

  Sir William looked more gloomy than surprised. “I could have guessed that. She was forever sneaking off to meet him, or so I’m told. If only I had known sooner, I might have avoided a nasty scandal. Damned if I know why you must dither, man! You can be certain that Dorset has the jewels.”

  “We’ve searched his home. There was no sign of them.”

  “Look again!” Sir William thought of the post-obit bills stuffed away in his desk and felt the perspiration pop out on his brow. “Dorset’s a clever rascal. We must lull his suspicions, then close in quickly for the kill.”

  Crump found this conversation distasteful, even though the Earl could hardly be considered easy prey. “Very well. It will be as you say.”

  “What have you learned of my missing papers? Or my mother’s companion?”

  “Primrose? Not a sign.” Crump took his figurative hat off to the courageous Mrs. Lytton, who was as plucky a female as he’d ever seen, even if very foolish in matters of the heart.

  “Find her!” Sir William’s venom toward the unaccommodating Primrose almost equalled his hatred of the wife-stealing Earl. “I mean to bring charges against the wench for assault.”

  Crump thought of the Chief Magistrate’s reaction were Lady Bligh’s companion dragged into court. “I’d have to advise against it. You’ve told me already that it was an accident, and nothing was stolen.”

  Sir William pouted. “She led me on, enticed me into extending confidences! You don’t know what she intended, probably to murder us all and make off with the family valuables.”

  Crump was more interested in what Livvy might have learned. Considering Sir William’s intimate acquaintance with various pawnbrokers, there was probably little enough left at Arbuthnot House to steal. “One can’t be hanged for one’s intentions. Fortunately.”

  Sir William fidgeted. “It that all? I can’t see why you dragged me out here. You have told me nothing I didn’t already know!”

  “It wasn’t my idea, guv’nor.” With some difficulty, Crump retained his composure. “I could have as easily spoken to you at Tattersall’s! There is one other little matter that I meant to mention to you.” He paused, very aware of Sir William’s discomfort. “On the night in question
you were in attendance at the Cyprians Ball, is that so?”

  “I don’t see what business that is of yours.” Sir William was flustered. “You overstep yourself!”

  “Lord love you,” replied the Runner, unmoved by this reminder of his lowly social status, “I don’t care what you do with your time.” Thus might a tiger smile before it pounced. “Except for the hour and more that you were absent from the Argyle Room.”

  Sir William gaped. “After,” Crump added, “receiving an urgent note delivered by hand.”

  “Nonsense!” bluffed Sir William. “Whoever told you such a cock-and-bull tale?”

  “A number of people.” Sir William was not a figure to slip unobserved from a gathering. “No point in trying to bamboozle me, guv’nor! I wasn’t born yesterday. Let’s have the truth without the bark on it! Where did you go?”

  “I shan’t tell you.” Sir William was petulant. “A lady is involved. I must protect her good name.”

  If Sir William’s conquests included ladies, they were of the Covent Garden variety and probably only too happy to have their names flaunted before the world. Crump said, menacingly, “Bow Street has ways of finding out such things.”

  Sir William turned belligerent. “Nodcock! Is it likely I’d call Bow Street in if I had a hand in Arabella’s death?”

  Crump was very interested in this reaction. “I didn’t make any accusations, did I?” He rocked back and forth on his heels. “Still, that’s an intriguing notion you’ve put into my head. You had more than enough time to sneak back to Arbuthnot House, kill your wife, then return to the Argyle Room.”

  “The devil fly away with you!” cried Sir William, close to apoplexy. “To infer that I would harm a hair of Arabella’s head!”

  “And then,” persisted Crump relentlessly, “to call in Bow Street to make it look like you had nothing to do with the crime.” He gazed upon the stricken man. “Brilliant strategy, if I may make so bold.”

  “Moonshine.” Sir William’s voice was faint.

  Crump was inclined to agree; this clown lacked sufficient wit to evolve such a complicated scheme. The fact remained, however, that the florid gentleman obviously had something to hide.

  Sir William fidgeted. “No need to say anything about this little matter to your superiors, Crump, no need at all! It has nothing to do with Arabella’s death, my word on it.” Encouraged by the silence, he regarded the Runner hopefully. “We’ll keep it between ourselves, eh? And I’ll make it worth your time.”

  “Ah, you’ll be pulling my leg, guv’nor. “You knowing already that I’m not one to take a bribe.” Turning on his heel, Crump strode jauntily away, leaving behind a trembling mountain of panic-stricken flesh.

  Chapter 11

  Sir John loved his London and its people, from scarlet-coated porters laden with bags, and hawkers with bandboxes on poles, to country milkmaids with yokes across their shoulders and the manure of rustic cowsheds on their feet. White-aproned bakers added cries of “Hot loaves!” to the medley of dustcart bells and newsvendors’ horns. A little ballad-singer crooned the tale of a highwayman who paid for his sins with his head; pale-faced merchants’ clerks hurried to their counting houses. On the pavements, apprentices removed shutters from bow-fronted, multi-paned windows while ragged urchins leapfrogged over posts.

  Unlike the City, the fashionable West End was not yet awake. Here were no brewers’ drays, drawn slowly by draught-horses as large as elephants; no carts with hay for the London marts or drover-driven bullocks on the way to Smithfield. The Chief Magistrate, who had already that morning sentenced several criminals to death, made his way to the Bligh mansion.

  Mary, a mob cap covering her carroty hair, perched dreamily in the upper-story window where she’d taken refuge from the battle royal raging within the walls of the Baron’s home. The strife was initiated when Pudding, the jovial cook, had let fall an unwise, and somewhat vulgar, observation concerning the progress of Culpepper’s romance with the whiskey-swilling watchman. The argument had ended in fisticuffs and tears. Mary surveyed the approaching visitor with a connoisseur’s discriminating eye, then, waving to catch his attention, gestured toward a pathway that led around the side of the house.

  Sir John found Lady Bligh in one corner of a walled garden, the perfect setting for clandestine intrigue, gazing pensively at a circular pool bordered with lilacs, tulips, jonquils, acacias, and syringas. Here the Baron’s fancy, held firmly in check by his wife, had found expression only in statuaries, the most exceptional pieces being a bronze Apollo and Daphne, and a sleeping Morpheus in plaster.

  The Baroness looked like a woodland nymph in a morning dress of cinnamon jaconet, its sleeves tightly buttoned at the wrist, and its hem embellished with a broad, embroidered flounce. Her hair was a stunning shade of palest peach. “John,” she said, holding out her hand.

  Sir John was stricken with guilt. Dulcie must be driven half-mad with worry about her nephew’s predicament; never had he seen her so melancholy. The Chief Magistrate could not know that Lady Bligh had spent a large portion of the night staring intently at a piece of parchment with a blacked-out name.

  The Baroness gestured to a great oak bench designed in the shape of a shell. “Pray be seated. How good it is of you to call.”

  Dulcie’s tantalizing scent surrounded him, a combination of frankincense, mastic, benzoin, cloves, pine-nut kernels and a half-dozen other things, and sold under the impressive banner of Imperial Water. “Why so blue-devilled, Dulcie? You are usually more cheerful.”

  “I try,” sighed the Baroness, “to be brave. Time marches on, dear John, and inexorably.” Her somber gaze rested on her guest. “Madman Mott once snatched a kiss from me in Marylebone Gardens, more than thirty-five years ago.”

  Sir John was more than a little startled at this disclosure, though it should not have surprised him that Dulcie had been embraced by, among others, a notorious free-trader. “Forgive me, but that is hardly a reason to be in the dumps.”

  “Madman Mott long ago hanged for his sins. Now even the Gardens are gone.” Lady Bligh opened her fan, vellum stretched on ivory sticks and decorated with amorini, goddesses, shepherds, fruits, flowers and leaves in wrought gold. “And I, alas, am no longer young.”

  “Twaddle!” retorted Sir John, with some justification. The Baroness looked like little more than a girl. “You are an incurable dissembler, Dulcie! What do you want from me?”

  “I want,” Dulcie said somberly, “Dickon cleared of suspicion. It is a black cloud hanging over us all.” She touched his arm. “No, I am not asking you to do anything you should not! I only want to know what I may expect if my efforts in Dickon’s behalf are in vain.”

  At least it lay within his power to offer a glimmer of hope. “Prinny is among your admirers. You could probably secure a pardon for Dickon, regardless of his guilt.” The ability to gain a pardon was recognized as a mark of importance among the rich and propertied, though this went on at the highest levels only and was kept hidden from the poor.

  “I do not care to be so deeply in Prinny’s debt.” Lady Bligh twinkled in a manner that inspired the Chief Magistrate with a burning resentment of his Regent. “You are very frank, John. How can you justify this connivance at setting a possible villain free?”

  Sir John scowled. “I am not frank, madam, but damned imprudent! I trust you know that my forbearance in this matter could make an end to my career.”

  “In that event, you will select a suitable wife and settle down to the life of a leisured gentleman. It would be the best thing in the world for you, John!” The Baroness placed her hand on his arm. “We will not discuss your foolish aversion to gaiety. I know that only Prinny’s support and your intervention have kept Dickon from jail, and I am more grateful than I can say.”

  Sir John refrained, with effort, from taking his companion in his arms and explaining how she might best express her gratitude. “There are vast inequities in our legal system,” he said. “Only last week a man who stole a pie
ce of honeycomb tripe and a cow-heel worth ninepence was jailed and sentenced to forfeit his whole property. Another man who beat a girl and threw her over a parapet was sentenced to a mere ten months of hard labor. The wench fell ten feet. She lost an eye.”

  “John!” Dulcie was horrified. “Cannot you do something?”

  “What? I am only the chief of Bow Street.” Sir John knew he was being manipulated most adroitly yet found he didn’t care. “You begin to understand, I think. I find little in Dorset to admire, but that doesn’t mean I can sit by idly while he is convicted of a crime that I am not at all certain he committed.” Truth be told, were it not for the great amount of public interest in Lady Arabella’s death, Sir John would have paid little attention to that particular crime. In an age when lonely turnpike keepers were robbed and beaten to death, gangs of smugglers and poachers engaged in constant battle with keepers and revenue officers, and that damned impudent rascal known as The Gentleman embarked upon highway robbery as blithely as if no law enforcement agency existed at all, the assassination of another willful beauty was not of much significance.

  “I admire your ethics,” said the Baroness wryly, snapping shut her fan. “I have lately come into possession of an item that may prove of interest to you.”

  Sir John stared at the diamond necklace. “Arabella’s,” Lady Bligh explained.

  Sir John’s brows beetled. “How the devil did you come by this? Dulcie, I begin to suspect you of the deepest chicanery.”

  “Of all the unfair things to say!” She rapped him with her fan. “You are only annoyed because I have been more clever than you.”

  “You haven’t answered my question.” The Chief Magistrate was victim to a gnawing worry that the inquisitive Baroness might come to harm. London teemed with traps set for the unwary. Pickpockets lurked in the doors of coaching inns, crowds of thieves swept through busy streets emptying pockets, snatching purses and whatever else came to hand. Nor was murder uncommon. Sir John gazed upon the countless amber beads that adorned his friend. Despite her intense vitality, Dulcie would be no match for a determined ruffian.