Dulcie Bligh

by Maggie MacKeever

  “Thank you,” replied the Earl. They were in Lord Rumfoord’s house in Harley Street, a large mansion of brown London brick with delicate balconies and tall sash windows. Wrought iron railings guarded the deep, narrow basement area and marched up a short flight to the solid, double front door, which was graced by a beveled fanlight. The mansion exuded a dignified air of respectable solidity, as did the Marquis.

  Indeed, thought Livvy, Lord Rumfoord, that epitome of reserved aristocratic elegance, appeared out of place in his own drawing room, which was decorated à la mode in shades of terra cotta and citron in the Egyptian style. Friezes painted with figures representing pharaohs and Egyptian deities enhanced the walls, as did hieroglyphic paper with an ibis border. Sumerian lions supported the furniture, and odd items were fashioned as pyramids and obelisks. Livvy was seated on a couch in the shape of a crocodile, an item in execrable taste that looked as though it might at any moment snap open its jaws and devour her alive.

  “I appreciate your predicament,” the Marquis said, as he settled in a square-backed armchair. “However, I fail to see how I might assist you.”

  Lord Dorset was not put off by this uncooperative attitude. “ We know that Lady Arabella Arbuthnot was once married to your brother James.”

  Lord Rumfoord gazed pensively into his fireplace. “You know, of course, that my brother is dead.” Livvy watched the Marquis closely, wondering if Dulcie had been correct when she predicted that he’d lie.

  “Don’t waste our time, Rumfoord.” Dickon was brusque. “We know perfectly well that your brother is alive.” This was a shot in the dark, undertaken at his aunt’s request.

  The Marquis regarded his interrogator with haughty disapproval. “You forget yourself, Dorset.”

  So chill a tone might have awed unruly servitors, but on the Earl it had little appreciable effect. “Hardly. You will understand that the matter is of considerable interest to me.”

  “I can see that it might be.” Lord Rumfoord looked away from Dorset to gaze upon a bookcase that had sphinxes’ heads carved on the pilasters that separated the doors. “I have no wish to be caught up in the scandal that invariably follows in your wake. Your pardon, Mrs. Lytton; I speak only the truth.”

  Dickon was unmoved by these unflattering comments on his character. “The choice is yours. You may either be frank with me now, or leave it to Bow Street to delve into the affair. I suggest you consider which method is likely to prove the least scandalous.”

  Lord Rumfoord cogitated, his eyes fixed on a lotus-bowl chandelier. “My brother,” he said at length, “was not of a strong character. He was incapable of resisting any woman that wanted him.”

  “As Arabella did.”

  “She was a woman of strong passions, who she indulged them with great latitude.” The Marquis dripped disdain. “Her consuming passion was a lust for money, and she saw in James not only a personable young man but an opportunity for fortune and social standing beyond her most ambitious dreams.”

  “But it did not serve,” Livvy prompted, as the Marquis threatened to lapse into reverie.

  “No, as she quickly learned. I’m not a pigeon to be so easily plucked! I’ll say this for the vixen: she accepted her blood money and stuck to her part of the bargain.”

  “Was that not unlike her?” Livvy inquired. “You have said Arabella was both ambitious and acquisitive.”

  “But not totally without principle,” commented Dickon, as he moved to stand behind Livvy’s couch. “Bella had a certain code of honor. She kept her promises. As a result, she was also most reluctant to give her word.”

  “She was very young,” Lord Rumfoord remarked. “I imagine she later regretted settling with me so quickly, for she must have realized I would have paid thrice the sum to insure her silence. It took her no time at all to bring her Duke up to snuff, and then she devoted all her efforts to bleeding him dry.”

  “Why,” asked Livvy, “were you so anxious to keep the marriage secret? Arabella was of respectable enough birth, if a trine wild.”

  “Respectable! The daughter of an adventurer? I had her background checked thoroughly when James first fell under her spell, and it quickly became apparent that the relationship was unthinkable.” The Marquis curled his lip. “Better the young fool had given her a carte blanche and be done with it, but no. She held out for marriage and James was so besotted that he obliged, without a thought for what was due his name.”

  Livvy stared incredulously at this tall, thin, and autocratic man who had been more concerned with family pride than with the prospective happiness of his own brother. Disbelief passed quickly, leaving her slightly depressed; it was not an uncommon view. There were many, no doubt, equally aghast at the announcement of Lord Dorset’s intended marriage to a mere commoner.

  “Arabella made no move to approach you when she came to London,” Dickon mused. “I assume you realized who she was.”

  “You presume, Dorset.” The Marquis rose to pace restlessly, pausing beneath a portrait of his wife, shown strolling in the park with spaniels snapping at the ribbons that dangled from her garden hat. Lady Rumfoord was a very forceful woman who was reported to have said that she would prefer the company of packhorses to other females. Nor did she appear to enjoy masculine companionship, since she and her husband lived happily apart.

  “Your refusal to recognize her must have been a terrible blow to Arabella’s pride.” Livvy guessed.

  “I doubt that Arabella shared your delicate sensibilities. She certainly seemed to labor under no sense of ill usage, but contrived to make constant appearances at dances and social gatherings, cheerfully making enemies wherever she went.” Annoyed at his visitors’ perseverance, Lord Rumfoord returned to his chair. “She should have known that we would not acknowledge the connection; it was no more than she deserved.”

  “Deserving a thing does not often lessen the pain of it,” Livvy retorted.

  Lord Rumfoord was unaccustomed to such impertinence. “Arabella was a brazen hussy,” he snapped, “with bold and outspoken opinions calculated to shock the prudish and the sensitive. I imagine that she would be amused at your sympathy for her.”

  “You imagine a great deal,” Dickon commented, “about a lady whom you admittedly never met. It was in your best interests, was it not, to keep her discreetly under your eye? Think of the scandal were it to become public that Lady Arabella Arbuthnot was a bigamist, her legal husband being James Worthington, scion of the venerable Rumfoord line.”

  Livvy stared. She had not previously grasped the implications of Dulcie’s theory. It would be a pretty kettle of fish if Arabella’s Dragoon was still alive.

  The Marquis flushed. “You would not dare!”

  “Frankly, Hilary,” Lord Dorset retorted, “there is very little I wouldn’t do to save my neck from the noose! Since Arabella was compelled to inform the entire world of her affaire with me, my position is not exactly comfortable.” This was an understatement; Livvy had expected them to be apprehended by the law before they reached Harley Street.

  “Here is plain-speaking!” said Lord Rumfoord, with a startled glance at Livvy. “I am surprised that you would want to admit the liaison in front of your fiancée.”

  “Dickon and I have no secrets from one another,” Livvy lied calmly, and smoothed the sleeve of her elegant satin pelisse. “My main concern must of necessity be the establishment of my lord’s innocence.”

  The Marquis was finding Lord Dorset’s betrothed worthy of his belated interest. “I wonder,” he mused, “how far you will go.”

  Dickon intervened. “In a nutshell, Rumfoord: I believe that your brother is not only alive but in London at this very moment.”

  “The deuce you say!” The Marquis was shaken by the prescience that he attributed to Lord Dorset, but which actually belonged to Lady Bligh.

  The Earl was in no mood to tolerate further delaying tactics. “The truth, Rumfoord, or I will not answer for the consequences.”

  “That sounds remarkably l
ike blackmail.” Lord Rumfoord studied Dickon’s stern face. “Very well, though I’m damned if I know how you’ve learned of a secret that I paid dearly to see well-kept! James did not die in action, but deserted, taking with him various regimental funds. He has been paid a handsome allowance to stay out of England these past many years. All in all, my brother has cost me considerably.”

  “Yet you allowed Arabella to think him dead!” Livvy was horrified.

  “James wished it as well as I.” The Marquis looked both exhausted and ill. “Don’t deceive yourself that there was a sentimental attachment. All that ever existed between my brother and Arabella was passion and a certain greed. Their union was one of expedience and, I imagine, was speedily regretted by both. James was not reluctant to abandon his blushing bride, nor did she seem loath to have him go. Arabella evinced little regret for my brother’s presumed death.”

  Dickon regarded the Marquis steadily, willing him to continue. “I will spare you the effort of further inquiries,” murmured Lord Rumfoord, in response to that watchful attitude. “In reply to the question that you are doubtless burning to ask, my brother is indeed in London.” He leaned his head on his hand. “I cannot tell you his precise address, but James follows the ancient and dishonorable profession of a Captain Sharp, battening on unsuspecting youths with too much money and not enough wit.”

  Livvy was too soft hearted for this line of work; left to herself, she would have tiptoed quietly away and subjected Lord Rumfoord to no further embarrassment. Dickon labored under no such handicap. “When did he return?”

  The Marquis raised his head. “Believe me when I tell you that I sincerely regret your interest in my affairs! However, since you will doubtless learn the truth eventually, I first became aware of James’s presence in the city over two months ago. I doubt that Arabella escaped his notice for long, given her elevated position in the world.”

  “The mysterious visitor!” whispered Livvy.

  ***

  The pavements were thronged with citizens of all varieties: men with big noses, lantern jaws and resolute mouths; loose-limbed young giants and girls in tawdry elegance; matrons with painted faces and corseted physiques. Old men with grog-blossom complexions jostled against sharp-faced, nimble-fingered children, while workmen in padded leather jackets hastened home. Ancient women sold canaries from wicker baskets on church walls. Indifferent to this cross section of humanity, the ancient carriage barreled by, its passengers oblivious to even raree-show men carrying on their backs the mysteries of their trade.

  Soon enough there were no more shop windows with silks, muslins and calico, china and glassware, jewels and silver, to tempt the passing eye. “Are we not,” inquired Lady Bligh, ignoring her companions’ ill-temper, “travelling by a circuitous route? I begin to suspect, John, that you have another object beside the apprehension of our Dragoon.”

  “I’ve granted your wish; you can ask no more.” The Chief Magistrate’s heavy brows were drawn into a straight, angry line. “Since you are so determined to accompany me, the consequences are on your head.”

  The Baroness patted his arm. “Believe me, there is need for haste. Tomorrow will be a great deal too late.”

  In a corner of the unmarked coach, which had been selected by Sir John to alleviate any suspicion that Bow Street was making an official call, Jael brooded. “Too late?” she mimicked. “Aye, if we live to see the mom! ‘Tis a dangerous place we visit, Baroness; they’ll cut out your liver for a pastime, and commit murder for pure joy. The way they look at it, you can’t hang twice, and most of their lives are already forfeit.”

  “Pooh!” said Dulcie. “I’m perfectly safe as long as I’m with you.” The gypsy muttered beneath her breath.

  Not long past, the isolated and lonely Marylebone Fields had been a regular haunt of highwaymen, as had Hounslow Heath, Barnes Common, Hampstead Heath and Epping Forest. Since 1805, when numerous men had been organized under one inspector with the objective of clearing London roads of such pestilent vermin, the menace had notably decreased, though few actual captures were made. Despite these advances, the danger of highway robbery was not totally removed. Sir John thought with disgust of the manhunt now underway. Even with the help of constables and volunteers, Bow Street men and magistrates had not apprehended The Gentleman, a fact that Sir John suspected might have to do with his officers’ respect for their own skins. He was most anxious to interview, at considerable length, that impudent knight of the road.

  “I’m not convinced,” said Lady Bligh, “that James Worthington is our murderer. Let us consider the evidence yet another time.”

  Though Sir John was fast under Dulcie’s spell, there were moments when her erraticisms inspired him with intense frustration. No sooner did she present him with a potential villain than she set out to establish the rogue’s innocence. “Then why this determination to seek him out tonight?” he asked, “It is an endeavor more wisely undertaken in the light of day.”

  “ ‘Tis the truth!” Jael eyed Sir John’s pistols with approval. “Praise be you’ve sufficient wit to bring your barking irons.” Sir John found himself savoring the novelty of being in agreement with a member of the underworld.

  “Cowards, the pair of you,” announced the Baroness. “You must take my word that it is important that we apprehend the man tonight. Now let us discuss Arabella, whom the French would undoubtedly have described as une veuve fringante, a gamesome widow. She was also a reckless fool!”

  “As are the lot of us!” muttered Jael. “I’d be happier about this night’s work could I have a bracing noggin of lightning. That’s a quartern of gin to you, Baroness.”

  “Tsk!” retorted Dulcie, as the coach rattled and jostled its passengers in a most uncomfortable way. “There is something very odd about the disappearance of those gems.”

  “That’s the devil of it.” Sir John briefly forgot his irritation with the Baroness. “Nothing was known of the robbery until the newspapers got hold of it, nor was the jewelry expected in any of the flash houses where stolen property is received and disposed of. It appears that the thief knew the gems were worthless and made no effort to rid himself of them.”

  “Keeping them instead until he had an opportunity to hide them most conspicuously.” Lady Bligh ruminated. “Have I told you, John, that an unknown tradesman gained access to Dickon’s home the day before Crump undertook his second search? He fitted the description of Slippery Jim. I think we must assume that Arabella’s jewels, the real ones, were disposed of sometime previously.” Jael, in her corner, listened attentively.

  “Have you not already determined,” Sir John asked, with a return of irritability, “that Arabella sold her jewels to pay off her blackmailer? It seems to me that we’re covering familiar ground.”

  “I’m not so sure.” The coach gave a great lurch, sending Lady Bligh into the Chief Magistrate’s lap. He caught her instinctively and then held her maybe longer than he should.

  Perhaps a little reluctantly, The Baroness righted herself. “I suspect, John, that you have several surprises yet in store for you.”

  The Chief Magistrate didn’t doubt it. “Must you be so damned mysterious?” he snapped. “It’s obvious that the murderer disposed of the jewels because we were getting too close to the truth.”

  Lady Bligh gazed reproachfully at Sir John. “ ‘We’? I beg you will recall who brought the Dragoon to your attention, who figured out his involvement with Arabella and ascertained his whereabouts! You, of course,” she added graciously, “may take full public credit for the rogue’s apprehension.”

  Unwisely, Jael laughed, drawing the Chief Magistrate’s fire. “Watch your tongue, gypsy, or you’ll find yourself charged with compounding a felony. I’ve sufficient wit to guess where Dulcie came by that diamond necklace.”

  “In which case,” Jael retorted, “you’ll be found with your neck slit from ear to ear!”

  “A truce!” demanded Dulcie. “Where was I? Ah! Arabella’s jewels were stolen only to th
row dust in our eyes. And Arabella did not die because she interrupted a robbery.” Jael and Sir John waited, their curiosity aroused, for the next revelation. “Yet someone went to great lengths to make her death appear like an interrupted robbery, even going so far as to disarrange her chambers and mutilate her portrait. There is also the matter of Arabella’s precise activities on the night of her death.”

  “She was with Dorset,” Sir John interrupted, “as you very well know.”

  “Briefly, perhaps, but not for long.” Dulcie brushed his remark aside. “Then we come to the nondescript little man whose inquiries preceded my own. I want very much to learn more about him.”

  Sir John, though he would never admit it, was equally curious about this elusive little man. “You are mighty interested in Arabella. May I remind you that Gwyneth also met an unfortunate end?”

  “Unfortunate, perhaps, but remarkably well-timed. I take it Count Andrassy continues to vehemently protest that he had nothing to do with his wife’s death?” Sir John nodded, and Dulcie continued. “Find Arabella’s murderer and you will also find Gwyneth’s. She learned too much for her own good, sought to use it to advance her own ends, and thus signed her own death warrant.” Sir John opened his mouth to argue with this bland assumption, and then fate intervened.