Dulcie Bligh

by Maggie MacKeever

  “I begin to think that Gwyneth was hardly worth the price of a man’s neck.” Hubert lounged against a chimneypiece representing Apollo and the Muses, copied from the sarcophagus of Homer. “It’s a pity Bow Street doesn’t award medals for the extermination of such vermin, but I suppose the law must be upheld.”

  “You showed a certain regard for the lady while she was alive.” Lord Dorset yanked the wig from his head and ran supple fingers through his disheveled hair. “Explain that, Humbug, if you can.”

  Hubert contemplated his fingernails. “It is as plain as daylight, cousin. When have I ever bypassed an opportunity to irritate you? It is my ruling pleasure and has the added felicity of costing me not one cent.”

  “Enough! We have no time for these petty squabbles.” Dulcie’s dark gaze rested appraisingly upon Hubert. “I wonder how you knew precisely where to find Austin.”

  Livvy marveled at Hubert’s composure, for he blinked not an eye. “Intuition and useful contacts, dear aunt.” He made a mocking bow. “The virtue of both which I have learned from you.”

  The Baroness was not disarmed. “Humph. Your useful contacts may well land you in the basket, my boy! However, we are not here to discuss your likely fate, but Dickon’s.” Papers rustled. “I have asked you to attend this conclave because you are so closely involved, more than you realize. You will, of course, keep secret anything you may learn.”

  “Trust me.” Hubert twirled a whitethorn cane and ostentatiously surveyed Dorset’s costume. “Not for the sake of Dickon’s blue eyes, you understand, or even because of Austin’s lamentable adventure, but because it promises to be better even than a play.”

  Livvy studied Dickon also, and had to repress an untimely giggle. Lord Dorset met her gaze and smiled ruefully.

  Dulcie plopped the register on a table and opened it to a certain page. “Arabella was married in 1804 to one James Worthington.” There was a hint of satisfaction on her face as she rang the bell.

  “So she did marry him,” Livvy mused, as Gibbon appeared. “And in the village itself. How odd! I wonder that no one knew.”

  “Send Culpepper to me,” Dulcie ordered, and Gibbon left silently. “It will all eventually come clear, Lavender. Hubert, you continue to insist that you knew nothing of this?”

  Hubert so far forgot his cultivated languor as to peer over Dulcie’s shoulder at the register. “I did not. You know I spend as little time as possible at my estate. I heard some vague rumor of Arabella’s misbehavior, true, but was never sufficiently interested to learn exactly what it was she’d done.”

  “How unlike you, Humbug!” Lord Dorset’s voice dripped sarcasm. “You ordinarily have a nose for mischief a mile away.”

  “Not,” Hubert protested, pained, “when it concerns schoolgirls, and hoydenish ones at that. You wouldn’t know, of course, but there was nothing remarkable about Arabella at that age.”

  Lady Bligh wrinkled her elegant nose. “Arabella only cultivated Hubert to gain an introduction to Dickon,” she informed Livvy. “It’s a pity Hubert wasn’t quick-witted enough to see through her scheme! We’d have been spared a great deal of trouble.” Culpepper silently entered the room. “There you are! What do you know about James Worthington?”

  Culpepper’s ability to retain odd facts gleaned from society journals, particularly those concerning the more scandalous exploits of the aristocracy, was her greatest source of pride. “Worthington,” she repeated absently. “Of good family but bad reputation—a black sheep, in short. There was some rumor of a marriage, a mésalliance, but it was quickly hushed up, and he was reported killed in action shortly thereafter.”

  “What family, Culpepper?” Lady Bligh was intent. “Give us a name.”

  “Rumford,” Culpepper replied promptly. “Younger brother, if memory serves, to the present Marquis.”

  “Excellent! The Marquis is a starched-up sort; I wonder if we should throw him into a tizzy with inquiries about brother James.” Dulcie nibbled her lower lip in a manner that presaged great discomfort for the unfortunate peer. “Yes, I believe we shall! That is all, Culpepper; you may go. It begins to make sense now.”

  “Oh?” inquired Hubert. “Damned if I see how.”

  “That is because you are not in possession of all the facts.” As Dulcie waved the parchment, Bluebeard stretched and opened an interested eye. Casanova, seeking protection, molded himself to Livvy’s thigh.

  “Do you intend to enlighten us at any time soon?” Lord Dorset was not in an equable mood. “I’m going to offer someone violence if I’m forced to skulk about much longer in this asinine attire.”

  “You must look on the bright side, darling,” Livvy said mischievously. “You may come and go as you please, and indulge in all sorts of activities unsuited to an Earl, and not one of your acquaintances will recognize you.”

  “I may also accompany you to any number of places, without either scandal or chaperone, for everyone will think me your maid.” The Earl smoothed his skirts. “Sweet Livvy, I rapidly become resigned.”

  Livvy, suddenly envisioning the Earl invading her bedchamber, offered no comment. Dulcie tsk’d. “To continue: Arabella married her Dragoon, by name James Worthington, but it availed her little. As for how she married in the village without anyone knowing, I’ll wager the thing was clandestine, and at Worthington’s insistence. The vicar’s son also comes to mind; perhaps the vicar performed the ceremony hoping that Arabella would leave town.”

  “Was it legal?” Livvy found it difficult to keep her thoughts on a properly elevated plane. She might have been pinched with hunger, and Lord Dorset a sumptuous meal. “The marriage, I mean?”

  “Perfectly.” The Baroness spread out one sheet of parchment, on it Arabella’s marriage lines. “As you can see, Arabella, in a fit of belated prudence perhaps, crossed out her husband’s name. The document, however, is perfectly legitimate. It is odd that she would keep such damning evidence as I suspect this certificate may be, but the poor thing was unblessed with wisdom, after all.”

  “Forgive me, aunt, but I fail to see why this marriage should be so guilty a secret,” Hubert said. “We have already learned that Worthington is dead. Despicable, perhaps, that a widow should pass for maiden but it wouldn’t be the first time a bridegroom was deceived by spoiled goods. Forgive me, darling Livvy! I did not mean to malign you.”

  “Wise of you,” commented the Earl, dangerously.

  Dulcie waved the second piece of parchment. “Lavender is not to be compared with Arabella in any way.”

  Livvy quietly closed the piano. She and Arabella had at least been sisters under the skin, both seduced by the ecstatic, if transient, raptures of being the Earl’s light-o’-love. Like moths to the flame, Livvy mused, and marvelled at the ineffectiveness of her strict upbringing. The road to ruin stretched out ahead and her only rational thought was that Lord Dorset would make a splendid guide.

  The Baroness rapped her knuckles on the table. “Lavender!” Livvy stared mortified at the splendid carpeting.

  “I wish I knew,” Hubert lamented, “what is going on here.”

  He was not to be enlightened. “We may conclude,” continued Lady Bligh, “that Arabella’s marriage did not prove blissful. Worthington departed quickly enough to resume his neglected military duties, leaving Arabella to fend for herself. Where she did so, or how, I cannot say, but I doubt it is of much significance.”

  “Then he was killed,” Livvy guessed, pushing her unladylike thoughts firmly aside. “Had Arabella no knowledge of his family? Why didn’t she go to them?”

  “I daresay she would have liked to, but she was offered a considerable sum to refrain from doing that very thing.” The Baroness tapped the letter. “It was the most Arabella could hope for, since Worthington was disinherited when the family learned of his marriage.”

  “So she cut her losses and came to her mother’s family, blithely neglecting to inform them of the true state of affairs,” Hubert ventured. “And soon enough married her Duke
. I had no notion that Arabella was so enterprising. Nor do I see how this helps Dickon.” He draped himself gracefully against the marble fireplace. Hubert indeed seemed a spectator at a play. Livvy wondered what, if anything, might engender an honest emotion in this mincing mannequin.

  Lord Dorset crossed his legs in a manly manner and exposed large feet encased in satin slippers. “I’ve already told you that I had no chance to speak with Gwyneth after our encounter in the Park, which Livvy was witness to. It’s true that I called at her hotel several times, but she was always out. I assume she was arranging for Austin’s kidnapping.”

  “Is it not fortunate that someone saved you the trouble of disposing of her?” Hubert inquired brightly. “I vow, you should be grateful, cousin.”

  “I might be,” the Earl retorted, “were it not for persistent visions of my head in a noose.”

  “Never mind,” soothed the Baroness. “A few hours more and Bow Street will be off on a different witch hunt.”

  “I hope you may be correct.” The Earl tugged at his bodice. “I begin to think that hanging would be a great deal more comfortable than this damned dress.”

  “No,” Livvy breathed, but he heard her and smiled.

  “Never fear, sweet Livvy, I do not mean to adorn the gallows tree. I find there remain a great many things that I have yet to do.”

  Hubert had no interest in sentimental digressions. “I must confess to a certain curiosity. How do you propose to set about Dickon’s miraculous rescue, dear aunt?”

  “Not I,” retorted the Baroness, “but you.” All eyes turned to Hubert, who stared at his aunt with startled disbelief.

  “I do not mean to contradict you,” he said cautiously, “but indeed I must protest! What could I possibly do that would have bearing on Dickon’s plight?”

  “You need do nothing at all,” Dulcie replied calmly. “It is a course of action that you follow remarkably well, although I give you all due credit for the effort that led to Austin’s rescue. Matters, in this case, are already out of our hands.”

  Hubert refrained from pointing out that a way of life that included playing faro from early evening until the candles glittered pale in dawn’s early light, and intricacies of toilette that involved the passage of several hours, not to mention time passed in the usual pursuits of a fashionable gentleman, could hardly be considered effortless. “You are developing a habit of speaking in riddles, Dulcie, and in a way that fills me with the liveliest dread. Pray enlighten me.”

  “Certainly.” Dulcie stroked Casanova in a practiced manner that caused the tomcat to roll over on his back, all four paws extended ecstatically heavenward. “I meant only that suspicion of murder is about to swing from Dickon to you.”

  “This,” announced Hubert, indignantly and with uncharacteristic forcefulness, “is the outside of enough! Family feeling is all very well in its place, but I balk at the notion of saving Dickon’s skin at the expense of my own!”

  “Never fear, Humbug,” murmured the Earl. “I shall exert fully as much effort on your behalf as you have on mine.

  “Hubert?” asked Livvy, with a heady sense of relief. “Why?”

  “Yes,” agreed that shaken individual. “Why me? I admit myself avid for your reply!”

  “If you hang, Hubert, it will be entirely through your own carelessness.” The Baroness did not appear particularly concerned. “Although I daresay I might arrange to have you merely transported instead.”

  Hubert had turned a ghastly hue. “I swear to you that I had nothing to do with either of the deaths. For God’s sake, Dulcie, why should Bow Street come after me?”

  “This faintheartedness does not suit you, nephew! I know exactly what you have and have not done. You are of interest to Bow Street because Gwyneth was strangled with the sash of your dressing gown.”

  Chapter 15

  Alone in his office, Sir John lingered over his evening meal. Once six servants had waited on him at dinner, while the housekeeper and butler hovered around the door in case he wanted for anything not provided. But Sir John did not pine for his pampered life. The bare and unpretentious Bow Street office was more homelike to him than his luxurious mansion had ever been, the street people more fascinating than all the Dukes and Duchesses in the realm. He thought of Lady Caro Lamb, last glimpsed prancing about in green pantaloons at a Watiers Club masquerade in honor of Napoleon’s defeat, and compared her unfavorably with fiery-eyed Billingsgate Moll, a guttersnipe who defended her dubious virtue furiously. Were Caro forced to live by her wits in London’s brutish streets, she wouldn’t survive a single day.

  Those outcasts of society lived by other standards, obeyed other laws. Why shouldn’t they take what they might from the indifferent rich who battened on them; who sent their children into factories and mines, there to sicken and die while the owner’s plump purses grew fuller still; who hanged a man if he dared steal a crust of bread to ease his belly’s gnawing hunger?

  Footsteps sounded on the hall’s worn floorboards. Sir John pushed away his tray and steeled himself for the encounter. While he would have liked nothing more than to beguile away an hour with the intoxicating Lady Bligh, he did not look forward to this meeting.

  She was dressed in a gown and pelisse of white muslin, with a delicious concoction of ribbon and ostrich feathers perched jauntily on multi-colored curls. With her was a gypsy clad in flaming scarlet and countless golden chains. Sir John could not imagine why or by what means Lady Bligh had persuaded the legendary Jael to set foot in Bow Street headquarters, but the gypsy’s sulky expression hinted that coercion might have been used.

  “Dear John.” The Baroness settled herself on a wooden chair. “I have decided the time has come for frankness, and am prepared to lay my cards on the table. I have learned any number of things that will prove of interest to you.”

  Sir John wondered why the gypsy eyed him so appraisingly, unless to calculate how far she might pursue her criminal activities before Bow Street intervened. He saw no reason to inform Jael that her career was likely to continue unchecked, since officers and patrolmen alike were convinced of her ability to administer the evil eye. “My primary concern at this moment is with the whereabouts of your nephews.”

  “Dear John, I have so many nephews that I cannot count them all, let alone account for their whereabouts.”

  “You might begin with Dorset,” said Sir John. “I would not like to instigate a city-wide manhunt for him.”

  “Could you?” Dulcie opened her eyes wide. “I had no notion you had such vast resources at your disposal, John. Are not the great majority of your men engaged in searching for that brazen highwayman? I hear he has most recently divested a most indignant dowager duchess of a magnificent inlay set.” Jael moved to the window, from which vantage point she commanded both an excellent view of the doorway and an excellent, if somewhat dangerous, avenue of escape.

  Sir John’s mood was not improved by this reminder of his failure to entrap The Gentleman. “I’ve no time for these games.”

  “Games, John?” Dulcie looked wounded. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. Do you wish to speak with Dickon? Merely say so and it will be arranged.”

  “Don’t play the innocent with me, Dulcie,” the Chief Magistrate retorted. “Dorset’s ex-wife and current mistress are both found murdered, and Lady Arabella’s jewels are discovered in his house. Anyone with half a grain of sense would see that his whereabouts must be of utmost interest to Bow Street.”

  “Yes, but I thought you possessed wit enough to see that Dickon could have had nothing to do with either event.” Dulcie delivered the insult gracefully. “Dickon wasn’t even in London at the time of Gwyneth’s death.”

  “I should prefer to discover that for myself,” the Chief Magistrate replied in frigid tones. “I suppose that Hubert Humboldt is no more readily accessible? Before you pitch me any more gammon, I’ll inform you that he was seen entering your home.”

  “You have my permission to search. Disrupt my house
hold, if you must, terrorize my servants. I will not stop you—indeed, I cannot! I am only a poor defenseless female with no one to protect her against such outrage.”

  “Balderdash!” Despite his resolutions, Sir John could not help but be amused by these antics. From the window, Jael watched impassively. “It is perfectly clear that neither Dorset or Humboldt is on the premises, or you would not be so willing to cooperate with the law.” His brief amusement ended. “It all comes to the same thing. We will have the murderer in the end.”

  “I trust so,” the Baroness said briskly, as she deposited a paper-wrapped parcel on his desk. “It is taking you an unconscionably long time. I truly do not know Humbug’s whereabouts, though I anticipate that we will encounter him ere long.” She resumed her seat, leaving Sir John to regard the package as one might a coiled serpent. “Hubert is not your culprit, John. I suspect him of a great number of things, few of them praiseworthy, but I sincerely doubt that murder is among his vices.”

  The Chief Magistrate gingerly unwrapped the package. “I am surprised that you defend him.”

  “Frankly,” said Lady Bligh, “so am I. It is the oddest thing, but I find myself developing a grudging affection for my provoking, nephew. Humbug may act exceedingly foolish, but he does it with style.”

  Jael spoke abruptly. “He is not so great a fool as you may think, Baroness, not by half.” Sir John regarded the gypsy with interest, but she volunteered no more.

  Under the intent gaze of both women, the Chief Magistrate examined both the parish register and the stolen documents. “Very interesting,” he said at last. “Have you considered that these may be a screever’s work?” Such individuals, who in happier times were employed as clerks and lawyers and even clergymen, eked out a fair living by drafting bogus documents.

  “Not those,” said Jael. “There’s no question but that they’re legitimate.”

  Sir John was not pleased to be told his business. “The conclusions are obvious, but hardly of monumental import.”