“I do not intend to explain myself to you.” Lady Bligh rose to pace restlessly. “The necklace was given to me by someone totally unconnected with the crime.”
“Who?” demanded Sir John, although with little hope.
“It is not part of the killer’s, er, loot.” The Baroness broke off a choice bloom. “I must tell you that the gems stolen from Arbuthnot House that night were worthless. Everything of value was sold off previously.”
“Paste!” The Chief Magistrate wasted no more time demanding explanations. “Not robbery, then, but made to look so. I wonder why.”
“I applaud your acumen.” Dulcie fastened the flower to Sir John’s somber coat and resumed her position at his side. “What can you tell me of a dubious character known as Slippery Jim?”
The Chief Magistrate was pleased beyond all reason by Lady Bligh’s casual intimacy. “A magsman, a professional swindler with a silver tongue. Why?”
“I am asking the questions, John!” The Baroness was stern. “You will have your turn. Continue, please!”
“I know little enough about the man; he’s too clever to come in the way of Bow Street. He knows all the tricks, from thimble-rigging to cogged dice and marked cards, but is fondest, I believe, of the E.O. stand.”
“And his current occupation?”
“I do not know.” Sir John searched his encyclopaedic memory. “I believe the rascal has dropped out of sight. Do you think to pin Lady Arabella’s murder on him? It isn’t likely. Slippery Jim has too great a regard for his own skin.” Difficult to concentrate when Dulcie sat so close that he could see the tiny laughter lines around her fine eyes.
In a confiding manner, the Baroness leaned closer still. “You might have Crump look into his movements. I believe this uncouth individual may have been Arabella’s puzzling cousin.”
“How did you know about that?” Sir John removed the flower from his coat and idly plucked off petals, one by one. “Ah, the enterprising Mrs. Lytton, alias Primrose. So Crump was correct.”
“Crump is more astute than he appears.” Lady Bligh did not approve. “We must learn more of Arabella’s relationship with her visitor. Tell me, what do you think of the notion that there may be someone else behind the crime, someone who employed minions to carry out his grand design while he remained safely in the background?”
“It is fairly common,” the Chief Magistrate admitted, “but not likely in this case. The more people involved, the less likelihood of maintaining any secrecy.”
“Hmm,” replied the Baroness, in a tone that made Sir John wish the Baron would speedily return, although there was no guarantee that even Max could curb his wife’s headstrong foolishness.
He sought to divert her. “I will tell you, though I should not, that Crump has conceived a severe dislike for Sir William Arbuthnot.”
“The fool offered Crump a bribe?” Dulcie’s foot rhythmically tapped the ground. “I suppose it was about his inexplicable absence during the Cyprians Ball.”
Sir John flung aside the remnants of his posy. “You know entirely too much! I wish I could convince you that this is a murder investigation, not a parlor game.”
“Your concern is most flattering, dear John.” Lady Bligh’s smile was warm. “It takes me back a great many years. But we digress! Your diligent Crump is also determined to prove that Dickon was with Arabella on the fatal night, and that simply will not do.”
“You may ask only so much from me,” the Chief Magistrate said stiffly. “I will see that Dickon is treated fairly, but no more.”
The Baroness was all indignation. “As if I would ask you to do anything dishonorable! You are far too proper to consider such a thing—a pity, since it would make my task much easier, but there it is.” She pressed his hand. “Never mind, I don’t hold it against you, John.”
“How good of you!” The Chief Magistrate began to understand how one might be driven to murder the object of one’s affections.
“I don’t think that’s what happened to Arabella,” Dulcie commented, with a dazzling smile. “There is much more to this thing than you have begun to suspect. I keep you from your duties, and I must not. Discover what you can learn about the elusive Slippery Jim!”
So buffeted by emotion was Sir John that he did not quarrel with this peremptory decree. He rose. “And you?”
“I must speak with my rakeshame nephew.”
The Chief Magistrate was left to find his own way back into the harsher daylight of reality. He felt as though he’d fallen prey to a skinner, a variety of villainess who lured small well-clad children into deserted corners, then stripped them of their attire. It was not terror, however, that left Sir John so bemused. Before her abrupt departure Lady Bligh had risen on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, as lightly and elusively as a butterfly.
* * * *
Livvy was a lovely sight in a violet mantle trimmed and lined with white swansdown worn over a dress of flower-strewn muslin, and a velvet bonnet trimmed with graceful ostrich plumes. “Tell me,” she demanded, “who you hold responsible for Arabella’s death. I’ve never heard you venture an opinion on the matter.”
“That’s because I don’t have one,” responded the Earl, apologetically. The Green Park, province of browsing deer and cattle, was thronged with people. So thick was the press of bodies that the white-stuccoed Ranger’s Lodge, set among sprawling shade trees, was obscured from view. “I rather fancy Humbug as the culprit, but honesty forces me to admit it an unlikely eventuality.”
“Hubert?” The Royal Parks had been thrown open to the public in a gala celebration of Wellington’s most recent victory at Waterloo. Gambling and drinking booths dotted the scene. “Why should a fashionable fribble be suspected of violence?”
“Humbug,” retorted Lord Dorset, “isn’t so negligible as he may seem. His chosen role is that of a thorn in the flesh, and he plays it over well.”
Livvy remembered Hubert’s promise of friendship. “You don’t mean to tell me what you think. Very well! I refuse to believe that you have given no thought to a matter that so directly concerns you, but I shall tease you no further.”
“Other matters have concerned me more, sweet Livvy.” The Earl guided her toward a sham castle, before which was being staged the storm of Badajoz, complete with mimic three-deckers and frigates on the Serpentine. “It’s not remarkable, surely, that a man so near the altar should have little thought to spare for anything but his beloved?”
Livvy shot his lordship a darkling glance, and sighed, wondering if there existed a magical potion to purge a misguided heart.
The crowds, orderly and good-humored, picnicked under the trees while young and more adventurous spectators perched in leafy branches. “What is your opinion?” inquired Dickon. “If you won’t have Hubert as our villain, then who?”
Livvy gazed upon the Castle of Discord, one hundred and thirty feet high. “I hesitate to point this out, but no one else had both your motive and opportunity.”
“I see.” Dickon wore his satiric look. “You play a dangerous game, do you not? Take care, my darling, lest I also decide to dispose of you.”
Livvy could cheerfully have bit off her tongue. “I spoke in jest, Dickon, and without thought. Pray forgive me. I don’t believe you were in any way connected with the thing.”
“Nor would it matter if you did, so devoted are you to my aunt.” The Earl had grown distant. “It is an excellent opportunity, also, to bring yourself to the notice of the haut ton. What is to be your reward for this service? Has Dulcie promised you gold? Or to find you a suitable husband among her various tradesmen?”
Livvy blinked back angry tears. “My motives are not yours to question. But you needn’t think it’s any fondness makes me lend myself to this absurd charade!”
“Then I shall remove my unwelcome person from your presence.” Lord Dorset turned on his heel and strode away.
Livvy stared blindly at redcoats with blackened faces creeping through the dark with glittering bayonets, and dia
bolical Frenchmen gesticulating on the battlements of the Castle of Discord. “A lovers’ quarrel, eh?” came a voice behind her. “I’ve timed our meeting well!”
“Sir William!” Livvy’s first, craven impulse to flee was frustrated when he gripped her arm.
“Think you’d seen the last of me? You left these behind. We have a number of things to say to one another, Primrose.” Sir William dangled her abandoned spectacles under her nose.
Livvy realized, with sinking heart, that the florid widower was hopelessly drunk. “I think not, Sir William. If you do not release me this instant, I shall scream!”
His fat jowls wobbled. “No, you won’t. Think of the scandal. Wouldn’t want the world to know you’d been posing as a servant, would you?” With difficulty, he focused on her ashen face. “Why did you run off, Primrose? Just when we were getting to know one another! There was no need to behave so missish just because I dropped a hint or two. We’d deal well enough together, you and me.”
“Sir, you go too far!” Here was a dilemma. Livvy wondered what to do.
“Gad, but you’re a damned fine looking piece! I’ve always had a weakness for a pretty face. Tell you what, let’s let bygones be bygones.” Livvy clenched her teeth as Sir William leaned closer. His false side-whiskers had come partially unglued. “The offer’s still open; name your price!”
“Arbuthnot! You are speaking to my future wife!” Lord Dorset’s tone was icy. Sir William released Livvy as abruptly as he might a potato hot from the fire.
It was a scene that might, at some future date, be recalled with amusement. The Earl looked as grim as a vengeful demon; Sir William ran a finger under a neckcloth suddenly grown suffocating; and Livvy glowered with equal loathing at both the gentlemen. “The minx led me on,” said Sir William, with a fine blend of contrition and cowardice. “What else was I to think but that she was for sale to the highest bidder?” He shrugged, attempting nonchalance. “No harm done.”
“There will be, and to you, if you are tempted to repeat this performance at another time.” Thus might a merciless magistrate sound. “Do I make myself clear?”
Sir William recalled his position as a wronged husband. “Who’ll care for the little lady when you’re dangling from the nubbing cheat? I can wait till then!”
Livvy stamped her foot. “Stop it, both of you! You are quarrelling over me as dogs might a bone.”
Sir William was bewildered. “I have yet to see a female who didn’t want her mind made up for her! Don’t worry, my pretty, you’ll be free of this rogue before long.” At an impatient exclamation from the Earl, discretion seemed the best course; Sir William melted into the crowd.
“Furthermore,” said Livvy, turning her temper on the Earl, “my experience with matrimony leaves me with no wish to ever reenter that reputedly hallowed state!”
“What then?” Lord Dorset refrained from violence with only great effort. “You have too much passion for a nunnery, and too much principle for a courtesan. I shall overlook your apparent lapse into intrigue with that fat idiot.”
“I care not a fig for your opinion!” Livvy snapped. “Lord, but men are an arrogant lot!”
“Are they not? Particularly Dickon. But easily enough managed if one exercises tact.” Baroness Andrassy obviously thought Livvy unlikely to ever master this art. Livvy wondered how long Gwyneth had lurked within earshot before making her presence known.
Livvy turned away, her anger with the Earl so great that she wished to tear him limb from limb. Four of the model ships were ablaze, to the shrill dismay of the Serpentine swans.
The Baroness Andrassy was in remarkable good humor for a lady who had a few hours past tried her hand disastrously at Rouge et Noir. “Have you missed me?” she inquired of Lord Dorset. Her voice was smooth as syrup, and extremely smug.
“No,” retorted Dickon. “I would prefer your absence to continue indefinitely.”
“Would that it might!” Gwyneth sighed. “I would happily never set foot on British soil again, had I sufficient funds to sustain myself abroad.”
If this was an example of Gwyneth’s tact, Livvy wasn’t impressed. She maintained a disapproving silence.
“That horse won’t run,” remarked Lord Dorset. “I’ve no interest in your financial affairs.”
“You should develop one!” Gwyneth snapped. “It is the only way you’ll be rid of me.”
This was too much; Livvy forgot her anger in astonishment. She stared at the audacious beauty, swathed in a Spanish pelisse of shot sarcenet trimmed with Egyptian crepe and embellished with antique cuffs. “Can it be,” Gwyneth added, “that I have misread your-sentiments, that you do not wish me gone?” She smiled at Livvy. “I regret that you should hear me speak so plainly, my dear, but we must be blunt. Dickon was ever a fickle lot.”
“I have not found him so.” Perversely, Livvy placed a possessive hand on Dickon’s arm. Beneath the fabric of his coat, she felt taut muscles and bone.
“Nor will you,” murmured the Earl. Quick to resume the game, Livvy thought.
“It is as well, then, that I have another string to my shaft,” said Gwyneth. “You will be interested to learn, dear Dickon, that I have spent the past few days becoming reacquainted with my son.”
It was a moment of victory never before achieved during the entire history of her long and tempestuous acquaintance with the Earl. Gwyneth gazed triumphantly upon her one-time husband, damnably elegant in his brown coat, frilled shirt, and drab kerseymere Inexpressibles, and experienced a brief regret that he was not more kindly disposed toward her. Count Andrassy might be of a sunnier disposition, but his expertise in matters of matrimonial intimacy was far inferior. “I shall take Austin with me,” she added, moving safely beyond Dickon’s reach, “when I return home. It is not what he is used to, I suppose, but I see no reason to mollycoddle the boy.”
Dickon’s expression gave even Gwyneth pause. Livvy clutched the Earl’s arm as if to anchor him firmly to the spot and thus prevent the enactment of bloody mayhem in the midst of Prinny’s victory jubilee. “I trust,” Dickon said softly, “that you jest. Every harm that you inflict upon Austin will be returned to you tenfold.”
“You will discover soon enough whether I am in earnest.” With a brittle laugh, Gwyneth’s turned to Livvy. “Do what you can to make him see reason! It will not go easy with either of you if I am forced to publish what I have learned; nor will it go easy with Austin if he must live with the Count. My husband is not fond of children.” Jauntily, she walked away.
“What a horrible woman!” Once assured that Dickon did not mean to set out in murderous pursuit, Livvy released his arm. “She has been busy, it seems. What will you do?”
“I doubt that she has in fact seen Austin, but Dulcie was right; I must bring the boy to town. I will set out immediately after I have apologized for my unforgivable treatment of you.”
“Pray do not!” Livvy’s voice was not entirely steady. “It was as much my fault as yours, a foolish misunderstanding. Let us forget it.”
Dickon captured her hands. “Hush, and listen to me. I am behaving like the rawest schoolboy—a lowering reflection, I assure you!—and you are entirely to blame. Even my dreams are haunted by censorious lavender eyes.”
“This is hardly the moment for flirtation.” Livvy tried to free herself from both Dickon’s grasp and the dizzying effect of his smile.
“My dear girl, the world will tell you I am a most polished flirt, and would be greatly amused to hear me stammer so! This is something quite different, and quite new.” His hands moved to her shoulders, with electrifying effect. “Tell me that you find me repulsive, Livvy, that you will not consider my suit, and for once in my life I will endeavor to behave like a gentleman and trouble you no more.”
“You must not say such things to me,” Livvy whispered, in a last-ditch defense.
Abruptly, she was released. “I have presumed,” said Lord Dorset ruefully. “It will teach me a lesson, I suppose.”
“D
ickon!” Livvy stared at him, dismayed.
“Why so woebegone?” inquired the devious Earl. “You have just said that you will have no more of me.”
“No! I did not!” In the midst of hot confusion, Livvy noted his growing amusement. “Damn you, Dickon!”
With a deafening explosion, brilliant fireworks streamed across the sky. Roman Candles and Girandoles, Jerbs and Gillocks exploded in a thousand dazzling lights. The canvas walls of the Castle of Discord lifted to reveal a revolving Temple of Peace lit with countless colored lamps, and water flowed from lions’ jaws into golden basins. In attendance were a choir of Vestal Virgins in transparent draperies; on the roof of the Temple, a detachment of embarrassed Foot Guards held aloft the Royal Standard and gave voice to three self-conscious cheers. The crowd gaped at the spectacular display.
Mrs. Lytton cared nothing for the Regent’s tribute to the hero Wellington. Her spectacles lay forgotten on the grass as the Earl of Dorset drew her, unresisting, into his arms.
Chapter 12
On a green plot in the middle of Cavendish Square stood a statue of the Duke of Cumberland, second son of George II, mounted on a prancing horse in the military costume of his day. The rear view of this work of art was even more eye catching than the front, for the Duke, affectionately known to his contemporaries as The Butcher, was of remarkable corpulence. Livvy smiled.
Lady Bligh had no time to stand and stare at the Duke’s great girth spread across a saddle. Resolutely, she approached a small but elegant stuccoed building with sweeping Ionic columns, situated on the south side of the square. She did not enter the house itself but walked briskly through the gardens to a building in the rear. “Once,” the Baroness remarked to her giddy companion, who was so contented that she wore a smile similar to Casanova’s after the Calypso feast, “this garden commanded an excellent view of the meat carts that passed along Oxford Street carrying condemned prisoners to the Tyburn gallows.” Livvy’s smile abruptly vanished. “Many is the time I saw them, for I often visited here as a girl.”
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