Dulcie Bligh

by Maggie MacKeever

  “You are far off the mark,” retorted the Baroness. “Tell me, John, what have you learned of Slippery Jim?”

  His brows lowered. “Nothing. We haven’t found a trace of the man.”

  “Infallible Bow Street!” jeered the gypsy, and moved from the window to perch impudently on the edge of Sir John’s desk. “What if I were to tell you Jimmie’s whereabouts, down to his exact address? What would be in it for me?”

  “Avaricious hussy,” remarked Lady Bligh. “You’ve already been handsomely paid.”

  “More than handsomely, and I’d take nothing more from you.” White teeth flashed. “But Bow Street has offered a reward for information, and I mean to claim it as my own.” Her chill and emotionless gaze rested on Sir John.

  As he inhaled a not unpleasant scent of musk, the Chief Magistrate wondered where Jael had received her obvious education, an unusual accomplishment for a denizen of the underworld. Tales about the gypsy were legion, and macabre; gazing upon the scarred visage, he couldn’t doubt that they were also true. “Very well, the money’s yours, providing that you earn it.”

  Jael rose to pace the floor. “Don’t fret, I shall, every ha’penny and more beside. Mind you, it’s only because of the Baroness that I tell you this and even at that, I suspect I’m made.” She scowled. “What’s it to me if a damned aristo hangs? Best hang the lot of them, I say, for a bunch of bloodsucking leeches. The Frenchies had the right idea when they lopped off noble heads with Madame Guillotine.”

  “That’ll be enough!” snapped Sir John. “Get on with it.”

  “All right then. Jimmie lives in Marylebone, in that slum district of narrow courts and mean alleys between James Street and Stratford Place.”

  Sir John knew the area, which was rife with crowded rookeries stretching as far as Orchard Street. Irish laborers filled every cellar and garret, spilling over into the labyrinth of underground passages and footways that were once tributaries of Tyburn brook.

  “Jimmie’s come into funds of late,” Jael added. “He’s been laying low, hiding from someone or something, and threatening at the least mention of Bow Street to jump right out of his skin.”

  “Very enlightening,” commented Sir John, “but what connection does this have with the other thing?”

  “I’m disappointed in you, John,” Dulcie interrupted. “It should be obvious. Continue, Jael.”

  The gypsy shrugged. “There’s little more. Save that Jimmie’s made a proper fool of himself trying to sell jewels made of paste.”

  “It would be interesting to speak with Slippery Jim,” Lady Bligh remarked as Sir John digested this interesting tidbit. “I suggest we do so without delay. Jael will escort us to him.”

  “Us?” repeated Sir John.

  “I will?” inquired the gypsy, in the same doubtful tone. “I must have windmills in my head! What do you plan for me, Baroness, when you have made it impossible for me to return to my old life? I’ll likely be strangled myself some fine night when certain people learn I’ve been cooperating with Bow Street.”

  “I would not have thought you a coward,” remarked Dulcie, earning a fierce Romany scowl. “Well, John?”

  “By all means, I must speak with the man.” The Chief Magistrate was firm. “But not until tomorrow when it is daylight and I may see who or what is at my back. Nor will you accompany me.”

  “You might recall that old adage about tomorrow being lamentably too late! We will be safe enough tonight in Jael’s company.”

  The Chief Magistrate was adamant. Beguile him as ever she would, he had no intention of escorting Dulcie into that particular part of Marylebone. “The best-laid plans of mice and men,” murmured the Baroness. “John, you are mule-headed. And, unless I am mistaken, you are about to be visited by an even greater ass.”

  “I demand to see the person in charge!” came a high-pitched, heavily accented voice, excitable in tone. The Chief Magistrate sighed, anticipating a furtherance of confusion, as Count Bela Andrassy, followed by a reluctant Crump, burst into the room.

  So splendid was the Hungarian gentleman that on initial appearance he dazzled the eye and temporarily silenced the most garrulous tongue. Of a perfection that would make even the immaculate Hubert appear a dowd, the Count was dressed in a wide-brimmed hat, high and tight cravat, superbly cut coat worn wide open to display a rose-colored waistcoat and snowy cambric shirt, and skintight pantaloons. Further adorning his person were jewels and fobs, chains, spotless gloves and boots so highly polished that they might serve as looking glasses. Count Andrassy was not unaware of the impact made by his perfection. He paused to allow his observers to absorb the full effect of his splendor, and observed them condescendingly.

  Lady Bligh did not remain mute for long. “This,” she explained kindly to Sir John, “must surely be Gwyneth’s second husband. I daresay he has come to enact us a Cheltenham tragedy.” She regarded the intruder with as little appreciation as a gardener might a particularly hardy variety of weed. “Perhaps you might leave him to me.”

  Count Andrassy drew himself up to his full stature, which was approximately five feet three, and inspected the Baroness through a gold-rimmed monocle. “Who is this pernicious creature?” he demanded, of no one in particular. “Never have I been offered such insolence! Had I anticipated that you English would prove so odious of manner, I should never have set foot off my native soil.” Crump, anticipating a rare rowdy-do, positioned himself by the door and kept one bright eye fixed warily on Jael.

  “Why did you decide to subject yourself to English odium?” inquired Lady Bligh. “Did you seek to help your wife further her avaricious schemes? Or perhaps you found it expedient to escape importunate creditors?”

  The Count was briefly discomposed, for both remarks were true. His recovery was quick. “You please to taunt me, madam, but it is insignificant. I shall not be drawn into crass argument with one so obviously inferior.” One could almost imagine a battalion of spectral ancestors standing firmly behind this last member of their ancient, if degenerate, line.

  “Popinjay!” the Baroness retorted, the light of battle in her eye.

  “Count Andrassy,” said Crump, in reluctant response to Sir John’s exasperated look, “has come to inquire about his wife. He just arrived in London and was understandably startled to be told that she is, er, dead.” The Runner had little liking for foreigners, with their finicky ways and incomprehensible speech.

  “Murdered!” The Count, thus reminded of his purpose, and staggered broken-heartedly toward a chair. “Gwyneth, my pearl beyond price, my treasure, my wife! It is unthinkable.”

  “Unthinkable indeed, Count Andrassy, but since you didn’t think it, what then brought you to London?” Sir John had no patience with histrionics.

  Count Andrassy swiveled to observe his interrogator. “How prodigiously unfeeling you English are! It was the anguish of separation that led me to follow my beloved wife to this cold, unsympathetic land. Imagine my sentiments when I arrived only to learn that my darling Gwyneth had been launched into eternity. My angel!” He ceased his lament long enough to survey Sir John with disapproval. “And no effort made to apprehend the bâtard who delivered her death blow!”

  Dulcie bestowed on Count Andrassy the full impact of her gaze. The gentleman shifted positions uncomfortably. “Did your wife have any enemies,” she asked, “anyone who would wish her harm?”

  “Only one.” The Count directed his vision heavenward. “My wife was of a disposition that made her beloved of all she knew.”

  “Fustian,” murmured Lady Bligh. Crump, recalling his brief acquaintance with the Countess, silently agreed.

  “Put a name to this unappreciative individual,” Sir John suggested. He had little doubt of the reply.

  Count Andrassy did not disappoint him. “The Earl of Dorset, my angel’s previous husband who treated her so abominably.”

  Lady Bligh addressed the emotional Hungarian with a degree of civility that seemed remarkable to Crump. “Are we to assu
me that your wife was unhappy in her previous marriage, then? In that case, is it not odd that she should return to London and seek out Lord Dorset? When he caused such sad memories? It is even odder, I think, that you should allow her to do so without your protection and support.”

  Count Andrassy had no inkling of this annoying female’s identity, but he wished her to blazes all the same, and along with her that gaudy gypsy who laughed so immoderately. “I could deny my angel nothing,” he replied sadly. “Never shall I forgive myself. Gwyneth deemed it more prudent that I remain behind, for she feared I could not restrain myself from challenging Dorset to a duel.” Soulfully he surveyed his hands. “Gwyneth was the most forgiving creature, willing to let bygones be bygones, no matter how grievously she was abused.”

  While acknowledging that Count Andrassy would have made a remarkable success at either Covent Garden or Drury Lane, Sir John wondered at the purpose of this monologue. “Why did Countess Andrassy return to London?” he asked abruptly. “Did she seek a reconciliation with Lord Dorset?”

  “Never!” The Count bristled with offense. “She had vowed to avoid everything that could remind her of him, never to mention his name again or inquire after him, and if possible never to think of him again.”

  The Baroness raised her eyebrows. “Oh? Did she break all her vows with equal ease?”

  Crump chuckled appreciatively at this facer. It was the worst of these foreigners that they talked volumes around a question and never answered it.

  “Madame!” Count Andrassy rose. The gypsy moved to stand, arms crossed like a sword-bearing bodyguard, behind the insolent woman’s chair. Her hard, scarred face inspired the Count to quickly resume his seat.

  Indignantly, he addressed Sir John. “Surely you do not intend me to tolerate such disrespect.”

  Sir John had experienced an impulse similar to the one that had inspired Jael’s unprecedented protectiveness. “I expect you to answer the question. What brought your wife back to England after an absence of so many years?”

  “Her son,” Count Andrassy replied sulkily. “She was concerned that his character might be ruined by the sort of upbringing that Dorset would provide.”

  “Wasn’t this concern a trifle belated?” Sir John’s quick question effectively forestalled the Baroness. “The boy is already some nine years of age.”

  “It was Dorset’s scandalous affaire with Lady Arabella Arbuthnot that caused my wife’s concern.” Count Andrassy had an answer for everything, it seemed. ‘A man who spends his time in pursuit of married women is hardly of proper moral fiber to satisfactorily rear a son.”

  The Chief Magistrate was rapidly coming to agree with Crump’s opinion of foreigners in general. This particular gentleman was, additionally, a damned cool specimen. “How did your wife expect to persuade Lord Dorset to give up his son?”

  “First by an appeal to reason,” the Count replied. “Then, if reason did not serve, she meant to publish his infamy to the world.” He brought out a handkerchief and dabbed at his eyes. “Forgive me! I endeavor to bear with resignation my irreparable loss, but it has been a sad blow. My darling Gwyneth lies brutally slain, and the authorities do nothing at all.”

  “On the contrary,” retorted Sir John, to whom a decent night’s sleep was an almost forgotten thing, “the authorities have already accomplished a great deal.”

  “Dorset goes free! Is this your famed English justice? I give not a fig for it!” With such a gesture might the Count’s ancestors have sentenced a head to roll. “I am prepared to offer a generous reward to the man who brings Dorset to the gallows!”

  “One wonders,” remarked Lady Bligh, “where you intend to come by such a sum. Everyone knows the Andrassys haven’t a penny to their name.”

  “Who,” demanded the Count, livid with rage, “is this abominable female?”

  “Yes,” agreed Dulcie. “Do introduce us properly, John.”

  “The Baroness Dulcie Bligh.” Sir John awaited Count Andrassy’s reaction. “Aunt to the aforementioned Earl of Dorset and great-aunt to your wife’s son.”

  Dulcie focused her razor-edged gaze on the sputtering Count. “You have treated us to a great deal of nonsense, my man, for your account has been nothing but a tissue of lies from start to finish.”

  “I must protest!” gasped the Count.

  “I suppose you must,” Crump commented, “but listen you will, along with the rest of us.”

  “Thank you, Crump!” The Baroness smiled and turned to Sir John. “I believe you’ll discover that Count Andrassy arrived in London at the same time as Gwyneth, and indeed travelled with her. His presence was kept secret since it might have hindered Gwyneth’s schemes.”

  “Utter nonsense!” The Count had turned an uncomfortable shade of pink. “What schemes were these, madam?”

  “Why, to bilk my nephew of as much of his fortune as possible.” Dulcie adjusted her bonnet with a businesslike air. “Gwyneth might have been more successful with a more astute accomplice but Hubert, though happy enough to help her annoy Dickon, would have balked at Austin’s kidnapping. Therefore, she was forced to rely on the Count, which no doubt contributed to her downfall.”

  “Infamous!” sputtered Andrassy. Crump watched with fascination as the Count’s self-assurance crumbled.

  “Yes,” agreed Lady Bligh, “it is. I perceive that Gwyneth first meant to reclaim Dickon’s affection, in which case her current husband would have been very much in the way. Have you ever considered, Count Andrassy, what would have been your lot if Gwyneth had succeeded?” The Count looked surprised, then stricken. “I thought not! But it did not serve; first Arabella, then Lavender, stood in the way.”

  “Surely you don’t mean to suggest,” Sir John protested, “that Gwyneth killed Arabella?”

  “I do not.” The Baroness frowned. “Although the notion did, at one point, cross my mind. When her plan to seduce Dickon failed, Gwyneth determined to extort money from him, first to ensure her departure from these green shores and then, when that failed, to guarantee Austin’s safe return.”

  “This is pure conjecture,” the Count protested, with more assurance than he felt. “The product of an overheated mind.” He tried to smile in a comradely manner at Sir John. “You have no proof of any of this!”

  “We shall have a confession, which is worth a great deal more.” Dulcie’s dark eyes bore into her victim. Behind her, Jael stirred. “You never meant to return Austin, of course, whether Dickon paid the money or no. You must have been shattered to learn that Gwyneth had been killed before the first ransom note had ever been delivered, and even more distraught to discover that Austin had fled his temporary hiding place.”

  “Never have I heard such a ridiculous tale!” Count Andrassy’s desperation was plain to all. “Do you suppose I meant to return to Hungary with a brattish schoolboy hanging round my neck?”

  “No.” Dulcie was deceptively calm. “I suppose it was your idea to dispose permanently of Austin, for even Gwyneth would not do that. How did you mean to set about it, Count? Did you plan to inform Gwyneth that her son was being safely conducted to his father, then to dispose of his body in a manner guaranteeing that it would not soon be found? It might have served you very well, had not Gwyneth gotten herself killed by meddling in what didn’t concern her.”

  Count Andrassy had begun to perspire copiously. “I repeat, you have no proof. Nor shall I ever admit to such infamy.”

  “You might as well. All is at an end.” Lady Bligh rose and adjusted the folds of her pelisse, as if concluding an unexceptional morning call. “You made a grave error when you spoke in Austin’s hearing, for the boy will easily recognize your voice,”

  The Count’s control snapped then, broken by the matter-of-fact way in which this damnable Englishwoman had ruined all his plans. He lunged across the room, hands outstretched as if to snap her fragile neck. Sir John and Crump stared in frozen horror, but Jael was less civilized. Count Andrassy found himself flying head over heels through the a
ir, to land most painfully atop Sir John’s desk with Jael beside him, her sharp-edged knife against his neck, her dark face looming over his own.

  “You’ll talk, my culley,” promised the gypsy, her face alive with pleasure. “You’ll sing like a bloody little bird.” Neither Sir John nor Crump felt the slightest urge to interfere with Jael’s sport, not even when her knife pressed harder against the Count’s neck, bringing forth a drop of blood. Lady Bligh moved to the window and gazed out pensively upon the deepening dusk.

  Count Andrassy was of ancient lineage and unscrupulous character, and his delicate constitution could stomach no thought of personal injury. It took only the warm wet sensation of his own trickling blood to inspire him to speech. “I’ll tell you everything!” he gasped. “I swear!”

  With a contemptuous oath, Jael released him, upon which he was promptly collared by Crump and dragged ignominiously away. Sir John released a long pent-up breath and hastily averted his eyes as Jael restored her knife to its hiding place, in the process revealing a shapely thigh. “Let me know if that one gives any more trouble,” the gypsy remarked. “I’ll slit his gizzard for you.”

  “Dear John.” The Baroness crossed the room to stand beside his chair. “You might thank me, ungrateful man! I’ve given you not one new suspect, but two.”

  Chapter 16

  Leisure was de rigueur for the monied upper class. No gentleman boasted of worthwhile accomplishment; no lady dared be caught doing what someone else could do for her. Gentlemen of fashion rose late in the morning, breakfasted largely, then strolled up St. James’s Street to loiter for an hour or two in their clubs, listening to the latest on-dits and surveying their world. Later might come a ride in the park or an afternoon call. The evening hours were amply filled with dinner parties, the Opera or theatre, perhaps a ball; then back to the club for some supper until four or five a.m.; and at last home to bed.

  Hilary, Lord Rumfoord, was a perfect example of a leisured gentleman. Accepting Brummell’s dictums on matters of fashion as unquestionable law, he eschewed perfume, but sent his linen to be washed and dried on Hampstead Heath; his impeccable attire was fashioned by Weston, the tailor whose reputation, and fortune, the Beau had made; and he had acquired the knack of being unspeakably rude in the politest possible way. The Marquis was reserved of manner, but not sufficiently cold natured to forego the companionship of the opposite sex, and so he kept under his protection a sprightly, full-bosomed high-flyer whose embraces he repaid with a house in Montpelier Square, a box at the Opera and a smart cabriolet, most recently utilized to drive down to Brighthelmstone for a week’s amorous relaxation. Now his practiced gaze rested on Livvy in an impersonal yet calculating manner that made her feel her flaws and virtues were being assessed for some future market day. “My felicitations, Dorset,” he said at last. “I believe they are in order?”