“I immediately suspected something odd,” Hubert continued, “from the jeweler’s description of the person who’d sold the gems to him.” He paused expectantly.
Livvy did not disappoint him. “Why? That person was Arabella, surely?” Hubert grinned maliciously.
“Enlighten us!” demanded Sir John. “Before I throw you back behind bars.”
“Tsk! Such impatience.” Hubert was sheer impudence. “But I shall tantalize you no longer. It was not Arabella who offered the necklace for sale, but her devoted spouse. Sir William Arbuthnot.”
Chapter 18
Wandering through the Bligh family art gallery, Livvy reflected dismally that there had been a time when she found pleasure in simple things. Once she would have been happy to spend a half hour wandering through a Ladies’ Bazaar, shopping for trifles, or rambling along the wide flag-stoned pavement of Oxford Street, where streetlamps were enclosed in crystal globes and elegant shops offered every variety of merchandise. Now such innocent pastimes held no allure. There was no pleasure anywhere save in Lord Dorset’s company.
Even Dulcie’s priceless treasures could not capture her attention. Every great mansion had such a gallery, which housed the collection of paintings, marbles, and bronzes that some ancestor or other had begun accumulating on his Grand Tour. Livvy moved aimlessly among these riches until she came upon a portrait of the Baroness, executed when Dulcie was eighteen years of age. Even this masterpiece had no power to raise Livvy’s flagging spirits. She felt she had aged ten years in as many days.
She was surrounded by columns of Derbyshire alabaster, white and purple veined, which supported a ceiling that resembled the one found in Henry VII’s Chapel in Westminster Abbey. Crimson Norwich damask graced the walls, and Moorfield carpets lay upon the floor. A painted glass window displayed the Bligh coat of arms. Livvy sank onto a plump festooned settee covered with blue and white striped linen, and abandoned herself to misery. She wished almost that she had never been rescued from her former existence of unrelieved drudgery. So accustomed had Livvy been to apathetic gloom that she had accepted it as her lot. And now she had heedlessly traded gloom for heart-numbing anguish that would doubtless be her lifelong punishment for loving unwisely and much too well.
Annoyed at herself for this unaccustomed descent into self-pity, Livvy rose. Her restless pacing brought her to another portrait—the Baron and Baroness with their two most noteworthy nephews when Dickon and Hubert were near Austin’s age. Hubert leaned against his aunt’s chair while Dickon stood, aloof and unsmiling, at her other side. Dulcie looked enchanting, while the Baron’s bronzed features conveyed extreme boredom. Livvy wondered briefly at Hubert’s favored position, and concluded that he must later have fallen from grace.
It was Dickon, of course, who captured Livvy’s attention, as he always did, though she had fought a bitter struggle against his fascination. He was a born intriguer of the boudoir sort, a man whose very nature was opposite to all in which Livvy had thought she believed, and she loved him madly, to distraction, and with the subsequent upheaval of all her higher principles. But Livvy was no fool. Much as she might wish to throw all caution to the winds and dance along the primrose path with the Earl, she was not yet lost to all propriety. Lord Dorset’s next Countess would not be a penniless widow of humbly respectable origin but a dazzlingly beautiful young woman who possessed both fortune and a noble name. That left for Livvy only the role of petite amie, and this she would become for no man, even if her refusal damned her to eternal regret. Far better that she had never become involved in Dulcie’s machinations, and had thus been spared a closer acquaintance with the devastating Earl. She sighed.
“So pensive, sweet Livvy.” Lord Dorset closed the gallery door behind him. “May one ask why?”
Livvy was painfully aware of looking her worst in an old, unstylish dress and with her curls uncombed. “One may not,” she retorted. “I believe you will find Dulcie consulting with Culpepper in the morning room.”
“I do not wish to find Dulcie.” The Earl crossed the wide, long room. “I wished to speak privately with you.”
“I see.” Livvy clasped her hands and attempted an unconcerned air. “Do not disturb yourself, my lord; I know why you have sought me out and I agree.”
“You relieve me.” Dickon’s lips twitched. “I had feared you might prove difficult.”
The Earl apparently was finding this conversation a source of rare amusement. Humiliated, Livvy sought defense in indignation. “I’m sure I don’t see why. We entered into this charade at Dulcie’s prompting, and its purpose is fulfilled. It is little wonder that you would wish to be freed from an obligation that is meaningless. Your name, to all purposes, is now cleared; we may dissolve our spurious betrothal without exciting undue comment.”
“So I am to be jilted.” Livvy’s eyes dropped under Dickon’s brilliant gaze. “It will serve me right, or so the world will say. No one will be the least surprised that you have had second thoughts about marrying me.”
Livvy found it difficult to breathe. “I imagine that the world will be more likely to think you have had a fortunate escape, and not just from the accusation of murder.” She turned away.
“What nonsensical notion,” inquired the Earl, firmly seizing her arm, “has got into your pretty head? What does it matter if some busybodies consider you unsuitable?”
Overwhelmed by an impulse to burst into tears, Livvy could only remain silent.
“I see what it is.” Dickon retained his hold. “You have been playing fast and loose with me, offering me false coin, throwing out lures like the most heartless lightskirt, while all the time you meant to ultimately cast me into despair.”
“I did not!” Livvy blazed, then, belatedly, resumed her air of nonchalance. “It is hardly a moment for levity, my lord. Would you prefer to be the one to cry off, or shall I?”
“Neither, my peagoose.” Dickon grasped her shoulders and Livvy’s pulse hammered loudly in her ears. “I have a most decided partiality for you, sweet Livvy, and have no intention of allowing you to slip so easily away.”
“Pray, don’t!” Livvy cried, certain that she was about to be offered a carte blanche but considerably less certain that she would have sufficient resolution to refuse. She pressed cold hands to her flaming cheeks.
“There is some mystery here.” The Earl tilted her face up to his. “I trust I am sufficiently, er, experienced to know when a female is not indifferent to me! A crude way to put it, perhaps, but I seem to have misplaced my usual eloquence. What troubles you, Livvy? Do you hesitate to entrust yourself to a man with my history?” His smile was crooked. “That’s a thing of the past, my dear.”
Livvy blinked back tears. “Say no more, I beg! I cannot deny that I have a certain regard for you, nor that I have excessively enjoyed our relationship these last weeks, but I will not become your mistress, Dickon!” So severely were Livvy’s withers wrung that she cared not even that she had betrayed herself.
Lord Dorset wore his devastating smile. “I don’t know why you should think I want you to be my ladybird. I have expressed myself badly, I fear.” He brushed an errant tear from her cheek. “My adorable Livvy, I want you to marry me.”
Gibbon had seen a great many strange sights during his service with Lady Bligh, and thus exhibited little surprise when he threw open the door of the gallery and found Livvy in Dickon’s arms. Nor did the Arbuthnot maidsevant Bertha, who had witnessed shocking displays while in Arabella’s employ, find it remarkable that Mrs. Lytton was pressing her lips to the Earl’s scarred hand.
“I beg your pardon,” Gibbon said stiffly. “This person is desirous of speaking with Mrs. Lytton.” He gazed down upon Bertha, his thin nostrils flaring with offense. Lord Dorset swore fulsomely and reluctantly released his captive, who sniffled. “Bertha,” she remarked, dazed. “ What brings you here?”
Bertha settled onto the settee, her homely features apprehensive. Gibbon, disapproval wrapped around him like a greatcoat, snif
fed and withdrew. “I’m sure I didn’t mean to burst in on you,” Bertha said, “but I’ve left Arbuthnot House and I thought you’d like to know.” She waited hopefully.
“Are you seeking another position?” inquired the Earl, his lack of interest calculated to quash all pretensions. Livvy held her breath. “You must speak with my aunt, though I doubt she can do anything for you.”
“No, sir; it was Mrs. Lytton I wished to see.” Humility did not come easily to Bertha. “On a matter of interest to both of you.”
Despite her dislike of the treacherous woman, Livvy felt Dickon was a bit too harsh. “What is it, Bertha?”
“It will cost you.” Bertha’s apprehension gave way to greed. “Since I’m out of a place, I must have the means to live.”
“First, the information.” Lord Dorset was not in the most sanguine of moods. “Then we will determine its worth.” Bertha stared narrowly at the Earl, then grinned.
“No flies on you, eh, milord? “Well, I’m game. It’s about that button of yours that caused such a to-do. It wasn’t found outside the window, like everybody said.”
“Oh?” Bemused Livvy dragged her attention away from the Earl. “Then where was it found?”
“Maybe I shouldn’t say, in front of you.” Bertha considered alternate avenues to the greatest profit. Dickon made an impatient movement and she continued quickly. “But I daresay you know what men are! I found the button, in Lady Arabella’s dressing room, several weeks before she died.” She quailed at Lord Dorset’s expression. “How was I to know it was yours? I thought it was Sir William’s and gave it to him and nothing more was said.”
“How do you know it was the same button?” asked Livvy, bewildered.
“I saw it again, after Lady Arabella died.” Bertha twisted her hands together. “We were all asked about the button, and if we’d seen it before.”
“By Bow Street, I presume?” Dickon asked coldly. “You said nothing?”
“I should think not!” Bertha was shocked. “It would’ve been as much as my job was worth.”
“Why,” inquired Livvy, “are you telling us this now? And why did you leave Sir William’s employ? Were you turned off?”
“I was not! I doubt they’ve any notion that I’m gone.” Bertha might have been sitting on a pincushion, so fidgety was she. “I’ve no wish to end up floating in the Thames!”
“Heavens!” gasped Livvy. “Do explain.”
Encouraged by this invitation to unburden herself, Bertha relaxed a little bit. “I told you, miss, that I draw the line at being cozy with a murderer.”
“Sir William a murderer?” Livvy whispered, remembering how far she had pushed the gentleman’s tolerance. “Are you sure?”
“Sure enough.” Bertha was pale. “I saw that picture in the newspaper, the sketch of the man they found drowned. He was the same person who came to Arbuthnot House claiming to be Lady Arabella’s cousin. And the Countess Andrassy came to Arbuthnot House before she died. Believe me, miss, I’m not one who can’t see what’s right in front of her nose.”
“Sir William knew of this man? The ‘cousin’?” asked Lord Dorset. Livvy, chilled, absently rubbed her arms.
“He had to. Madame Luisa saw the man and was mighty curious, especially when Lady Arabella took to carrying on.” Bertha’s reddened nose twitched as if filled with the bitter dust of crumbled dreams. “It’s not likely she wouldn’t have told Sir William about it;
Madame was always stirring up trouble between them.”
“If Sir William recognized my button,” Dickon mused, “he must have suspected Bella’s relationship with me some time before her death.”
“Suspected, maybe, but he’s not one to face up to facts. Madame made it very clear to him the day that Lady Arabella died; I heard her. She said Sir William had allowed himself to be cuckolded without raising a hand to stop it, and that it was a sorry day when she realized her son was less than a man.” Bertha repeated Luisa’s comments with awe. “A regular dragon, Madame is. Sir William was in a terrible rage. Then Lady Arabella came in and there was a flaming row.”
“Did Sir William return to the house that night after he’d left for his club?” asked Dickon. Bertha wore a sullen expression, as if she feared she’d said too much, but the jingle of gold coins in the Earl’s pocket speedily loosened her tongue. Livvy realized belatedly that she’d been granted her wish to see Dickon deal with this avaricious girl.
“He did. He doesn’t know I saw him, and I haven’t dared breathe a word.” Bertha peered about the gallery as if expecting retribution to step out from behind a statue and deal her a killing blow. “Not only was he in the house, he was with Lady Arabella in her rooms.”
“Did they quarrel?” Livvy whispered. It was all well and good to discover the murderer, but she would have preferred him to be someone she didn’t know. Faint traces of the bruises left by Sir William’s pudgy fingers still remained on her skin.
Bertha obviously wished herself elsewhere. “I couldn’t say. Madame called me and set me to doing chores. I don’t know how long he was in the house.”
“Dulcie had better be made aware of this,” the Earl instructed. “She’ll never forgive us if we deliver information of such monumental importance secondhand.” Livvy moved to the doorway, and collided there with Culpepper. Austin was hot upon her heels.
“Dulcie,” said Livvy. “Where is she?”
“Why, I’m sure I don’t know.” Culpepper was startled. “I thought she was with you!”
“I know.” Austin was pleased to claim the limelight. “I mean, I don’t know where she went, but Dulcie slipped out of the house more than an hour ago. She looked like a real quiz.” His face fell. “I forgot! I promised her I wouldn’t breathe a word.”
Livvy had experienced too many shocks in succession. Imagining the dauntless Baroness engaged in a battle of wits with a desperate criminal, she swooned.
***
St. James’s Street, Piccadilly, Bond Street and their environs were the most exclusive shopping districts in London. Here were found Berry Brothers, famous for its selection of teas and coffee, tobacco from the New World and spices from the Far East; Clark and Deben-ham of Cavendish House, where one might browse happily among a large assortment of cottage twills, stuffs, bombazines, sarcenets, and satins; and Gunther’s, the celebrated Berkeley Square confectioner’s. It was, however, not for the sake of a spendthrift orgy that Lady Bligh had eluded her retainers and friends.
The Baroness was dressed in flaming orange unsubtly embellished with countless yards of black lace, a low-cut creation that clashed hideously with her shocking red coiffure. With her rouged and powdered countenance imperfectly concealed behind a loo mask, Dulcie looked like an ambitious Jezebel. The Baroness paused for a moment to admire White’s narrow brick facade, and then entered the club—an act that, were it to become known, would cause great consternation in Polite Society, for no lady who valued her reputation dared venture unaccompanied into this eminently masculine territory. White’s bow window was empty, at this early hour, of the famed inner circle that posed and preened there in company with Brummel, the club’s special oracle.
A startled doorman was too taken aback to deny the Baroness entrance, and the hall porter suffered a similar lapse. Stopping for a moment to survey the notice board in the lobby, where ladies of pleasure often posted cards, Dulcie gazed kindly upon the turbaned Negro page who was goggling at her, and allowed him to conduct her to the Visitor’s Room.
Deep in a game of whist, Sir William was not pleased to be told that a brazen lightskirt had not only gained access to these most hallowed premises, but especially desired speech with him. He had been going down heavily, ill luck that he could scarce afford. With a vague notion that his caller might be some little demirep impressed from afar by his air of sporting elegance, Sir William entered the Visitor’s Room, prepared to send her off. At sight of Dulcie he stared open mouthed, then turned crimson as he recognized the package that she bore.
“Do stop gaping, Sir William, and close the door,” commanded the Baroness, in the authoritative tone of one who has known her subject from his salad days. Speechless, Sir William obeyed.
“Have you ever witnessed a hanging at Newgate?” Lady Bligh seated herself comfortably. “The gallows are draped in black, and the condemned faces death supported only by the executioner and a man of God. The bodies are carried to the Butcher’s Hall or to hospitals for surgical experiments. I imagine that medical science would find your corpse extremely edifying.” Clinically she examined her companion’s corpulent figure. He swallowed hard.
Sir William was of a temperament that could deal with only one crisis at a time. His frightened eyes were drawn as if by a magnet to the bulky package in Lady Bligh’s lap. “Yes,” said the Baroness, as he tapped the item. “Your missing memoirs. Very shocking they are, and I don’t believe a word, moreover. I am very disappointed in you.”
Sir William made a gurgling noise and reached for the manuscript. Dulcie slapped his hand away. “All in good time! You may reclaim this nasty piece of work only after answering my questions.”
It occurred to Sir William that a man of his standing need not be intimidated so easily. “Who are you to dare address me in this manner? May I remind you that you risk your reputation by daring to enter here?”
“You are impertinent,” the Baroness retorted coolly. “Furthermore, you know perfectly well who I am. Were you to use the wit God gave you, you might also guess why I am here. Let us return to the matter at hand! To wit, one pornographic manuscript.”
“You go too far!” Sir William blustered, angrily approaching her. “You’ve interfered in my life once too often, you and your damned family. Meddling in my affairs, introducing your spies into my home! Now I find you’ve removed my personal belongings. You’re nothing but a common thief, Dulcie Bligh, and I demand that you hand over those papers now!”
The Baroness was undisturbed. Sir William’s hot eyes glazed as he stared at the small but businesslike pistol that was pointed square at his stomach. Instinctively, he sucked in his breath, as if to present a slimmer silhouette. “You will have your manuscript back, all in good time,” said Dulcie. “We shall now return to the subject of your misdeeds. You have been caught out. You may as well confess.”
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