Livvy smoothed the sleeves of her merino pelisse and wondered at the extent of her employer’s perspicacity. She also wondered what the Baroness would say if her nephew’s sham betrothal became, in fact, reality, for Lord Dorset’s marriage to a penniless widow was nigh unthinkable. Livvy then chided herself for foolish dreams. A passionate kiss, no matter how satisfactory to both participants, did not necessarily betoken wedding bells.
“You’re not to worry.” Without knocking, Lady Bligh opened a door. “Though it’s best to bear these things in mind.”
Hubert was not pleased to receive visitors. “You mustn’t blame your servants” The Baroness inspected the studio, converted from the coachman’s rooms and a hayloft into a long gallery. Painter’s paraphernalia was everywhere. “I’m sure they would have told us you weren’t receiving visitors, had we not neatly circumvented them.”
Livvy was more astounded by Hubert’s appearance than by his unexpected artistry, for he was clad in a brocaded dressing gown, liberally spattered with paint, and a less-than-pristine cravat. On his feet were Turkish slippers; on his brown hair, a domed skullcap with a tassel. The effect was indescribable.
“Since you have found me out,” Hubert said gracelessly, “you might as well come in.” The studio was large and sparsely furnished, with countless windows that admitted bright sunlight. Paintings were stacked against a wall, tubes of paint and other supplies strewn across a large table.
The Baroness, resplendent in a Rutland half-robe, with striped zephyr shawl and formidable turban, settled herself upon a plain wooden chair. “How nice,” she said, dark eyes darting inquisitively from canvas to canvas, “to see in you such evidence of industry! It is hardly what one expects from a Tulip of Fashion.”
“Your approval overwhelms me.” Hubert quickly covered an easel stand, but not before Livvy had glimpsed a half-finished study of a scantily clad woman with wild black hair and a thin white scar on her cheek.
Livvy gazed about her at canvases depicting witches, devils, and other scenes equally macabre. “I’m impressed. May we see what you are currently working on?”
“Loath as I am to appear disobliging, I fear you wouldn’t approve.” Hubert placed himself in front of the easel, shielding his current masterpiece from curious eyes.
“Now that we have observed the amenities,” the Baroness interrupted, “perhaps you will be so good as to tell me what you and Arabella discussed on the night of her death.”
“You are determined to distract me, I see.” Hubert wrenched the skullcap from his head and tossed it onto the cluttered table. “I wonder if you realize, dear aunt, how fragile and elusive is the artistic mood.”
Lady Bligh’s dark eyes rested on a depiction of a voluptuously collapsed young woman to whom grotesque succubi appeared. “My good temper,” she retorted, “is equally elusive. Answer me!”
Hubert placed his fingertips together. “I have not said that I saw Arabella on the fatal night. Indeed, I spent that night at White’s, sitting up until the last gambler had gone. I wished to ascertain the truth of the rumor that Raggett sweeps the carpets himself in order to retrieve any gold carelessly scattered on the floor.”
“Is it true?” Livvy asked.
“It is, dear Livvy. Raggett is a wealthy man.”
“Don’t confuse the issue, Hubert!” Lady Bligh was not so easily sidetracked. “I do not intend to budge from these premises until you have confessed.”
Hubert circled the Baroness, who was as firmly planted as the Rock of Gibraltar. “Dulcie, there are times when I find your obstinacy a grievous trial. Very well! Arabella was in sore need of financial assistance—why, I do not know. One might fairly say that she was desperate.”
“And your reply?”
Hubert perched on the table and dangled an elegant leg. ““Alas, I was unable to oblige. I’m not the member of this family who can pay a thousand guineas for a thoroughbred.”
“Sour grapes!” commented Lady Bligh. “So you advised Arabella to apply to Dickon?”
“It seemed most logical. Why should Dickon not pay for favors received?”
“He may pay all too dearly!” Dulcie snapped. “I wonder at you, Hubert. You would stand by idly and watch your cousin drown for want of a rope.”
“Is that the fate reserved for Dickon? I rather thought he might dangle from the deadly Never-Green.” Hubert toyed with his moustache. “Imagine the spectacle! All the riffraff of London, drunk on gin and horrors, shouting themselves senseless as Jack Ketch cuts the body down. I must arrange for a front row seat.”
“You detestable beast!” Livvy all too easily imagined this horrid scene. She advanced on Hubert, clutching a palette knife, with the express intention of inflicting irreparable bodily injury.
Hubert prudently took shelter behind his aunt’s chair. “Call her off!” he begged. “My valet cannot tolerate the sight of blood.”
“Control yourself, Lavender,” advised the Baroness, without severity. “Hubert was hardly serious.” Livvy paused, but did not relinquish the weapon.
Hubert righted his robe, the sash of which was oddly mismatched. “In truth I was not, though I expect you will find that difficult to believe. Think of the scandal were one of the family to hang.”
“Hubert, you are the strangest mixture of scoundrel and perfect idiot that I have ever known.” Dulcie turned on her companion. “And you, Lavender, must strive for some control. Dickon will hardly benefit from Hubert’s mutilation, my child.”
“Not materially, perhaps.” Lord Dorset, grim-visaged, stood in the door. His coat and breeches were dust-covered, as if he’d ridden hard and far. “It would, however, afford me great spiritual satisfaction.” Livvy opened her hand and the palette knife clattered to the floor.
“How delightful!” Hubert clapped his hands. “It isn’t often that my morning hours are enlivened by a family deputation.” Livvy, wondering if the Earl’s savage countenance was in part inspired by a revulsion of feeling for her, stood rooted to the floor.
Hubert was not destined to long retain his poise; the Earl grasped his padded shoulders and lifted him straight into the air. “Tell me where Austin has been taken! Or I shall mutilate you myself and with only my bare hands.” He shook Hubert as a terrier might a rat.
“Unhand your cousin at once!” demanded the Baroness, in the unemotional tones of one who has witnessed countless similar scenes. “If Humbug knows anything of value, an unlikely event, he is hardly in a position to divulge it.”
Hubert was released abruptly. Cautiously, he picked himself up from the floor. “So Austin is gone,” mused Lady Bligh. “I anticipated as much.”
“And Humbug and Gwyneth as thick as two thieves.” No witness to this scene could doubt Lord Dorset’s capacity for violence. “You would be well advised to tell me what you know, cousin, before I am driven to silence you permanently.”
Hubert inspected himself for broken bones. “Have you taken leave of your senses? As if I’d connive to do Austin harm!”
“I’ve seen little indication that you would not.” The Earl’s contemptuous eye measured his unhappy cousin from top to toe. “Did you consider Austin easier prey than I? What share of the ransom money did Gwyneth offer you to ensure compliance with her schemes?”
“Ransom,” Hubert murmured thoughtfully. “Is that what she intends?”
“I assume so.” Lord Dorset was impatient. “Don’t pretend you don’t know!”
“Enough!” decreed the Baroness. “Suppose you tell us, Dickon, precisely what you discovered at the Hall?”
“The whole place in a panic, and Austin nowhere on the grounds.” Dickon began to pace the floor. “I finally found a servant willing to admit he’d seen a strange woman approaching the house several days before. After that, it was easy enough to piece together what had happened.” He hit the table with his fist, causing several objects to bounce into the air. Hubert winced. “Gwyneth has the boy, and God only knows what she will do to him!”
“I thought,” remarked Lady Bligh, “that Gwyneth was not to be permitted access.”
“So did I.” Lord Dorset picked up the knife and Hubert turned pale. “It seems my retainers are not impervious to bribery. It is not a matter that will recur.” His tone was such that Livvy spared a thought for those unfortunates.
“Why lock the stable when the horse is gone?” murmured Hubert, then moved again behind Dulcie’s chair as he caught Dickon’s murderous stare.
“I believe Hubert tells the truth,” the Baroness interjected, perhaps in hope of forestalling further disruption of the peace. “At least in this instance. You waste time here, Dickon. I assume you found no trace of them?”
The Earl tossed the knife onto the table and strode toward the door. “No, but I shall.” His tone promised that the meeting would not be a pleasant one.
In silence, they listened to his fading footsteps. “My hot-tempered cousin may not have murdered Arabella,” Hubert remarked conversationally, “but I wouldn’t wager a guinea on Gwyneth’s continued survival.”
Weak-kneed, Livvy dropped into a chair. “Don’t dare to berate Dickon for his temper,” she warned. “I do not think I can tolerate any more of your beastly nonsense today.”
Hubert turned to his aunt with bewilderment. “What ails the creature? Dickon’s violence was hardly unnatural in the present case!” I only wish that my cousin would refrain from engaging in a brangle with me every time he is out of sorts.” He smoothed the dressing gown.
“Popinjay,” commented the Baroness, as her least favorite nephew unknotted his odd-looking sash. “What are you up to now?”
“Forgive me, aunt, but that’s a damned silly question.” For one startled moment, Livvy wondered if Hubert meant to disrobe. “I happen to be fond of my nephew, and believe I may be of some assistance there.”
“Humbug!” Dulcie rose. “Do I behold in you a noble sentiment?”
“I must disappoint you, dear aunt.” Hubert smiled. “I am motivated merely by a wish to put Dickon’s nose out of joint. While my cousin is racketing about the countryside, endowing the rustics with admiration for as clipping a rider as ever they’ve seen, I shall take matters in hand. Imagine Dickon’s chagrin! He will not like being indebted to me for Austin’s rescue.”
“He will be more likely to murder you,” Livvy said hopefully.
“Balderdash.” Lady Bligh studied Hubert. “I wish you luck; you will have need of it! Come along, Livvy, we must leave Hubert to his efforts, no matter how unworthy their motivation. Austin’s safety must have priority.”
Livvy followed her employer outside. She recalled Gwyneth’s threats, and the disclosures made by Smirke. A woman who would mistreat her own child was capable of any wickedness.
“I do not believe she will harm him,” Dulcie said, “though her mere presence may cause severe damage. Austin is terrified of his mother.”
“And with reason,” Livvy murmured. “Dulcie, is there nothing I can do?”
“Did I not tell you?” The Baroness was contrite. “You are to go to Sapping and dig into Arabella’s past. There is a mystery there.” She paid no heed to her companion’s muttered protest. “Pray remember, Lavender, that Austin’s disappearance is not the only matter of concern! Too much hangs in the balance;
Dickon may yet wear a halter round his neck. Perhaps that is what someone intends. I fancy Gwyneth had assistance.”
Livvy, wrenched from the vision of a mute child in Gwyneth’s selfish hands to an image of Lord Dorset dangling from the gallows, meekly agreed. Sleuthing about a country village might prove distraction for her unhappy thoughts, not least among which was a sickening awareness that the Earl had awarded her no more interest than a stick of furniture, addressing to her not a single word.
* * * *
Crump had been busy, and to good effect, venturing even into Tothill Fields and Seven Dials where, by tacit agreement, neither watchman nor Runner ordinarily trespassed. There, among the thousand thieves and their female consorts who lived in tumbledown houses and narrow courts reeking with ordure, he had found a woman willing, after various dire threats, to identify Lord Dorset’s mysterious lady visitor. Crump was vindicated: he had not for a moment believed that the brown-haired woman had been Mrs. Lytton in disguise.
It was Crump’s habit, when faced with a dilemma, to idly wander the London streets with pipe in hand. Thus was he presently occupied, wondering how to tactfully inform the Chief Magistrate that Lord Dorset was as guilty as bedamned. Not only had Crump established, beyond a doubt, that Dorset had been among the last to see Lady Arabella alive, but a second search of the Earl’s lodgings had unearthed the missing gems.
Crump frowned; he was not satisfied. Easy enough for the Earl to gain access to Arbuthnot House and dispose of his paramour, but only a fool would hide stolen jewels in his own home, particularly when he was under close watch by Bow Street. Crump could not determine why anyone would bother to pilfer baubles made of paste, unless to throw hunters off the scent, nor could he fathom the mystery of the jewels’ odd reappearance. He had followed Sir William’s instructions, with faint hope of success, and had found Lady Arabella’s gems in a wall-safe that, during his previous search, had stood empty. Crump was seized by a conviction that, though the acerbic Lord Dorset might be easily guilty of murder, he was innocent of theft.
The Runner was further intrigued by the odd behavior of his suspects, who were all travelling about in the queerest way. The Countess Andrassy was in and out of town with perplexing frequency, and no one could guess where she went on her secretive jaunts; Hubert Humboldt had departed London, hours previously, in a spanking equipage; Lord Dorset had been seen, riding hell-for-leather, on the Great North Road; while his fiancée had set out only moments past in Lady Bligh’s elegant travelling carriage for an unknown destination. Crump pushed back his hat and scratched his balding head, while gazing upon the facade of a hospital for the insane, enlivened with gloomy statuary of Melancholy and Raving Madness. If this case wasn’t soon solved, Crump would be a likely candidate for admission. He envied his fellow Runners, involved in a city-wide search for that pesky highwayman, known to friend and foe alike as The Gentleman, who with great daring and increasing regularity divested the wealthy of their more portable treasures. This impudent rascal would doubtless be easier trapped than the crafty Earl. Crump leaned against a lamppost and chewed the stem of his pipe.
With a sudden flurry of hooves, a carriage drew up at a house opposite. Brightly lit windows framed nodding feathers and starry chandeliers. A tall liveried footman leaped down. Powdered gold-laced servants lined the mansion steps, while staring, starving crowds massed at the doors. Crump thought of the delicacies doubtless on display inside to tempt the jaded palates of the aristocracy: Perigord pie and truffles from France, Indian sauces and curry powder, hams from Westphalia and Portugal, Russian caviar, reindeer tongue from Lapland, Spanish olives, cheese from Parma, Bologna sausages. Gluttony was one of the many vices reserved for the Quality and denied to the pallid, emaciated poor who eked out a crowded existence amid rotting heaps of garbage.
Crump turned away from such profitless reflection. One more matter had to be dealt with this day, though he would have much preferred to while away his time sampling a quart of mulled claret and sharing the favors of a willing serving girl. Instead, he had to speak with the Countess Andrassy, whose reported activities filled him with curiosity. Unless Crump was greatly mistaken, Lord Dorset’s one-time wife was playing a deep game.
Pondering the Earl’s diverse taste in ladies, from the voluptuous and ill-tempered Lady Arabella to a well-brought-up young woman like Mrs. Lytton, the Runner made his way to a small and elegant hotel on the south side of St. James’s Street. With no eye for such marvels as walls of Norwegian marble in light greens and yellow and pinks, stately columns and Oriental rugs, he made his way to a suite of rooms on the second floor.
The Countess was not in. Not one to bypass an opportunity, Crump scanned the empty
hallway before he withdrew from his pocket a strange-looking instrument. Within seconds, he was fumbling through dark apartments in search of candles.
Gwyneth could not by any standard be considered neat. Clothing was strewn about carelessly, dangled from half-opened drawers. Crump inspected a dressing table veneered with satinwood and decorated with oval panels, silver mounts, and festooned flowers painted in natural colors. On the dusty surface were innumerable powders, oils, washes, soaps and cosmetics, among them Magnetic Rock Dew Water, guaranteed to give a youthful appearance even to ladies of the greatest antiquity.
The Runner moved on quickly to a slender writing table. Although the Chief Magistrate would not be likely to sanction his endeavors, Crump opened the tambour shutter that enclosed pigeonholes and drawers. An unfinished letter lay in plain view, crying to be read. Bow Street Runners had few scruples. Crump carried this missive to the light and squinted at spidery handwriting.
“You will know by now,” Gwyneth had written, “that I have Austin. He will be returned safely to you upon my receipt of 100,000 pounds.” Crump whistled silently; the lady was ambitious. “The money is to be handed to me at 5 o’clock in Hyde Park on Friday, two days hence. Dream not of revenge, dear Dickon, for I will not be alone.” Crump recalled the Earl’s legendary temper, and decided that Gwyneth was foolishly bold.
“Do not ignore this letter,” the Countess went on. “Consider the many unfortunate accidents to which a child may fall prey! I trust I need not say more.” The paper was splotched and smeared with ink.
Crump stared at the writing table, where an inkwell stood uncovered, his agile brain working furiously. Gwyneth had been interrupted in her labors, but by whom? And where had she gone? A thorough search of the apartments revealed no clue. The Runner’s scalp prickled. Only one place remained. He threw open the door to the ornamental wrought iron balcony.
There, at last, Crump found the Countess Andrassy. Even Magnetic Rock Dew Water would not avail her now. Gwyneth lay sprawled on the balcony floor, a brocaded sash knotted tight around her neck, her swollen tongue protruding impudently.
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