by M C Beaton
Behind the angry couple, Miss Tippet’s stomach gave a faint wailing sound followed by a rumble like thunder. The comte rounded on the companion. “Miss Tippet, take yourself off and have supper, have twenty suppers, but leave us alone.”
“You are not to be alone with Lady Wright this late at night,” said Miss Tippet, feeling very noble indeed, for she was ravenously hungry.
“You may retire and leave the door open when you go,” snapped the comte. “Do as you are told, woman!”
Miss Tippet gave a heavy sniff and lumbered from the room.
Emma had never stood up to her husband, but somehow this was different. She could not ever remember being quite so angry. “How dare you complain about my innocent outing with a perfectly respectable gentleman who was the soul of consideration and courtesy when you, my lord, pass your time with an overblown blonde.”
His face relaxed and his eyes began to sparkle. “Madame Beauregard,” he said. “I saw you in the park, but I did not think you had seen me. Madame Beauregard was in the Yellow Saloon at midnight with a man. I had to find out who that man was. She now says it was her husband.”
“I don’t believe a word of it,” said Emma crossly. “You were obviously doting on the creature.”
“Do not be silly. I was pretending to dote on her to get information. Madame Beauregard wishes for the restoration of Napoleon.”
“Then report her to the authorities!”
“They would only laugh at me. Did they arrest Byron or any of the others who so loudly cheered Napoleon while England was at war?”
“But there can be no connection,” said Emma. “My husband celebrated all Wellington’s victories. He did not belong to the anti-war faction. What reason could he possibly have for supporting our enemies?”
“Money,” said the comte tersely. “He loved money. He must have loved money. A respectable Member of Parliament does not risk his reputation by using marked cards unless money is the main love of his life.”
“But Napoleon is imprisoned. He cannot do any harm now!”
“Were he to escape, he could do a great deal of harm. And now we come to your beau of this evening. James Henderson was present at that ball and playing cards with your husband. And now, out of the blue, he decides to pay court to you.”
Emma turned and looked in the glass over the fireplace. She was wearing an opera gown of dull green brocade. Fine emeralds flashed at her neck and emerald earrings set in old gold hung from her ears. Her thick black hair was dressed high on her head in one of the latest Roman fashions, and one glossy black ringlet gleamed against the whiteness of her shoulder.
“Do you not think, my dear Comte, that he might simply be interested in me for myself alone?” Her voice was as teasing and mocking as the comte’s could be when he was carrying on a flirtation.
“In this case, no,” said the comte acidly. “Stop preening in front of the glass and listen to me.…”
“I am not preening. Would you not be better pursuing your French doxy instead of insulting me?” demanded Emma, her eyes flashing.
He seized her by the shoulders and looked down into her eyes. And then the anger left his own and he said softly, “Ma foi, you are so beautiful.” His hands slid down her arms to her elbows and he pulled her against him. He bent his head toward her mouth.
She began to tremble. Her experiences in the bedchamber with her husband had been highly unpleasant. Scenes crowded into her frightened mind, and she wrenched herself out of his arms.
A footman entered the room, carrying a laden tray which he set on a low table. Miss Tippet came in and sat down in front of the tray and began to eat steadily.
The comte drew Emma over to the window and said in a low voice, “I frightened you. What did I do?”
Emma shook her head dumbly and looked at the floor. The comte glanced at the companion. Miss Tippet was raising a large meat pie in both hands to her mouth. The comte put a finger under Emma’s chin and tilted her face up, seeing a gleam of tears in her eyes.
“Why! What a brute I am,” he said softly. “That husband of yours. Were he alive today, I would cheerfully shoot him myself.”
He released her and said gently, “Come and sit down and tell me what James Henderson said. Did he ask about papers, about your husband’s effects?”
“No,” said Emma, feeling almost as shaken by his kindness and intuition as she had been a moment before when she thought he was about to kiss her. “He hardly mentioned the murder at all except to say he hoped the villain would be caught. He… he… was very kind, and it was pleasant just to listen to the music.”
“Well, we’ll see what happens. But your husband’s note said meet H. in the Yellow Saloon, and here we have Henderson. It might be better not to see him again.”
“But I have promised to go driving with him tomorrow,” protested Emma.
“Then I suppose a drive will be safe enough.”
Some imp prompted Emma to say, “Despite the chaperonage of Miss Tippet, any man interested in marrying me would not like to learn that you spend your nights here.”
“But you said you would never marry again!”
“I’ve changed my mind,” said Emma in a voice which sounded dreadfully pettish to her own ears.
The comte said something that sounded like tcha and strode from the room.
“And there’s no sense in females,” he grumbled to Jolly the next day. “There I am, on hand, to help all I can, and she decides to go and get spoony over Henderson and refuses to suspect him of an ulterior motive.”
“He may not have an ulterior motive,” said Jolly lazily, knocking ash from his cheroot to fall among the oyster shells on the coffee room floor. Both men had gone to the Five Trees coffee house in St. James’s to discuss the problem of the Wright murder.
“What makes you say that?” demanded the comte.
“I was at the opera last night and saw Lady Wright. She looked more beautiful than ever before. She is also a rich widow. Now that most folk don’t think she topped her husband, they’ll be queuing at her door to marry her.”
“The deuce!”
“Want her for yourself, dear chap?”
“I simply don’t want my investigations complicated,” snapped the comte.
In a coffee house not very far away, Mr. Henderson sat with his friends, Lord Framley and Lord Fletcher.
“Paying court to the pretty widow, I hear?” jeered Lord Fletcher.
“Yes,” said James Henderson calmly, “and not another word on that subject in that tone of voice or I will have to call you out.”
“A word of caution,” said Lord Framley heavily. “I think that secretary hanged himself and the Comte Saint-Juste was on hand to tell everyone it was murder because he wants to protect Lady Wright. But just because fickle society has suddenly decided she didn’t commit murder doesn’t mean she didn’t do it.”
“That’s enough!” cried James Henderson furiously. “That comte has wound his way into her life by promising to find the murderer. Well, I shall volunteer my services instead. She would be better off with an Englishman than with some posturing mountebank of a French count! There must be something in that house that she has overlooked, some papers, something. Hey, waiter, bring pen and ink and paper! I shall send her a note and ask her to look again. You know what a secretive cove Sir Benjamin was. I bet he hid things under the floorboards or in the walls.”
Early in the afternoon, Emma received a visitor, a Miss Philby. She asked Tamworthy to send the lady up; although she had not heard of her, she assumed her visitor to be a kindly member of society come to call.
Miss Philby was a tall, statuesque brunette, not in the first flush of youth, but with a certain sad dignity.
“Lady Wright,” she said, “may I speak to you alone?”
“Of course,” said Emma. “Miss Tippet, if you would be so good…”
Miss Tippet sighed and looked at the tray in front of her which contained a large plate of sandwiches. “Call the mai
d and tell her to carry those to the saloon for you,” said Emma, and Miss Tippet visibly brightened, planning to order the maid to bring more food at the same time.
When the companion had ambled out, holding a sandwich in each hand as if afraid to be parted for a moment from food, Emma asked Miss Philby to be seated. “What do you wish to speak to me about?” she asked.
“I will come straight to the point,” said Miss Philby. She had a very beautiful voice and a fine pair of gray eyes. “I have been the mistress of Mr. James Henderson for some time. It has been understood that we will marry as soon as we find money to pay his gambling debts.”
Emma stared at her visitor, her eyes wide with shock. “Why should I believe you?” she asked.
“Would you recognize his handwriting?” asked Miss Philby.
“No… yes. I had a letter from him earlier today. I have it here.”
“Then read this.” Miss Philby took a letter from her reticule and handed it to Emma. Emma slowly opened it. “My dearest love,” she read. “When will you be mine? When will you promise to be with me for the rest of our lives?” The rest of the letter was of such an intimate nature that Emma blushed. But she steeled herself to compare the handwriting and signature with the letter Mr. Henderson had sent her. They matched exactly.
“Why are you here?” asked Emma.
“I think you know,” said Miss Philby with quiet dignity. “You were seen at the opera last night with my James.” Emma winced. “Please promise me you will never see him again.”
“That is easily done,” said Emma. “You have my promise.”
Miss Philby rose gracefully to her feet and moved to the door. She paused on the threshold. “I thank you,” she said, “and my unborn child thanks you.”
And with that final bombshell, she quietly left the room.
Chapter Six
A week had passed since Emma had learned the shocking news about Mr. Henderson, a week during which the comte had turned up at Curzon Street very late at night and had gone almost immediately to bed.
Matilda and Annabelle were once more on calling terms, cards and invitations for Emma were beginning to arrive almost daily, and life appeared to be resuming an air of normality. There was only the comte’s nightly visits to remind Emma that the murderer of her husband was still at large.
The fine weather had broken and the days were unseasonably cold. The Harveys had condescended to invite Emma to one of their breakfasts. Lady Harvey felt that if she invited Emma, the comte might attend as well and perhaps show her more of that strangely flattering interest. Lord Harvey, slightly surprised that his wife should wish to include Emma in the party—not because she had been suspected of murder, but because he considered her rank in society to be not quite of the first stare—nonetheless agreed. He found it easier to agree with his more forceful wife on all points.
Emma had not seen Mr. Henderson since the time she had refused to go driving with him, and when she arrived was dismayed to find him among the guests. But Mr. Henderson’s pride had obviously been wounded, for he treated her to a brief chilly nod and then avoided her. The breakfast, which began at three in the afternoon, was served indoors instead of in the garden as had originally been planned. Before the company took their places at the table, Emma found herself surrounded by curious people eager to know if anything else had happened that might throw light on the identity of the murderer. Henderson, Lord Framley, and Lord Fletcher were standing together; slightly behind them was Madame Beauregard with a small, sallow man who appeared to be her husband. Emma looked at all the eager faces and gave a little shrug. “I am afraid I will never find out who killed Sir Benjamin,” she said. Then she saw the comte arriving, and some imp prompted her to say, “But I am sure there must be documents or papers still in the house in a secret hiding place which might give me a clue. After all, whoever killed my husband was someone with whom he entrusted the keys to the back door of the house and his study, someone he did not want either myself or the servants to know about. He was always making notes. I am sure I shall hit on something. I plan to redecorate, and perhaps the joiners and builders can take the place apart before they begin their work—” The comte entered the room and she broke off.
She shivered slightly. It was as if the temperature had suddenly dropped. There was a creeping feeling of menace in the air, and everyone was watching her steadily.
Then the comte came forward to bow before her, impeccable in Weston’s tailoring, his cravat a miracle of intricate pleats and folds, a diamond winking at his throat, and a large diamond and sapphire ring on his finger. “How solemn you all are!” cried the comte. “Perhaps you all murdered Sir Benjamin. But me, I know why Sir Benjamin was murdered. He was a French spy.”
There was a shocked silence and then a burst of laughter. The comte was ever original. People began to rise and move through to the dining room to take their places at table, once more a carelessly unheeding group of society figures, snuffboxes snapping open and shut, scented handkerchiefs waving, fans fluttering, and jewels glittering.
“Why did you say that?” demanded Emma in a fierce undertone as the comte escorted her.
“For the same reason as you threw out that statement about getting the joiners and builders to search the house thoroughly. Oh, yes, I heard you. Your voice was loud and clear and reached me as I was handing my cloak to the butler. You, too, want to prompt some action rather than sit and wait like a tethered goat for the tiger to arrive. We are to sit together, you see, so you will now have ample time to tell me why Mr. Henderson looks at you so coldly and why you refused to go driving with him. You said you had the headache, but what is the actual truth?”
“It is no matter,” said Emma. She had remained silent, not out of loyalty to Mr. Henderson, but through concern for the poor and pregnant Miss Philby. Emma, now seated with the comte on her right, noticed Lady Harvey throw a glowing look in the comte’s direction, and felt angry and ill at ease. What did she really know of this French comte? He seemed armored in frivolity and good tailoring. At a separate table for the less distinguished guests, Miss Tippet was sitting, a knife and fork grasped in her pudgy hands and a look of eager anticipation on her face. And yet she had eaten two beefsteaks before leaving the house.
“I am glad I am rich,” said Emma, “otherwise I would find the burden of feeding Miss Tippet too great.”
“Amazing Falstaff of a woman,” murmured the comte, raising his quizzing glass and surveying the companion. “She will eat herself to death one day. Now, before the gentleman on your other side claims your attention, I must tell you I have procured a box at the playhouse for us for this evening. No, do not protest. It will do us both good. I can see by the shadows under your eyes that you have been sleeping badly and I, too, rouse at every creak and sound during the night. We will enjoy the play—it is a silly melodrama—and then we shall return and sleep and forget about murders.”
“Does Miss Tippet go with us?” asked Emma.
He sighed. “No, you are a respectable widow and there is no need for her company. She would probably start to eat the box if kept away from the kitchen too long.”
The gentleman on Emma’s other side turned out to be Lord Framley. He asked her whether she was enjoying the Season, and when she said quietly as much as could be expected, he leered at her and said she didn’t seem to be mourning her husband much. His pale eyes raked over her gown of lavender muslin edged with gray ribbon in a way that made Emma wish the gown were thicker and not cut so low at the neck. The lady on the comte’s other side was Madame Beauregard, and to Emma’s intense annoyance, the comte seemed determined to talk to her for the rest of the meal. Emma found that Lord Framley was actually making an effort to flirt with her and could only be glad when at last the long meal was over. On the one side, Lord Framley with his nudges and leers and innuendos was making her uncomfortable, and on her other side, the sheer physical presence of the comte was doing odd things to her body. She was acutely aware of him, of the hid
den strength of the arm in the well-tailored sleeve, of the strong legs under the table, of the slim waist, and the long-fingered hands that had grasped her so tightly that time he had seemed about to kiss her.
She wished Annabelle and Matilda were present and then, in the next moment, was glad they were not. She sensed that they did not approve of the comte and were secretly shocked at his nightly visits.
And what would happen to her when the murderer was found, or when the comte tired of the chase? Before his arrival, she would have thought that to be free of Sir Benjamin, and free to enjoy the company of her two friends, was all that she could possibly hope for. She would not admit to any strong feelings for the comte and would tell herself only that he was an unsettling and irritating man. Apart from the fact that well-bred ladies were not supposed to think about intimacies, Sir Benjamin’s bedroom antics had effectively put paid to any temptation that Emma might have had to indulge in daydreams of love-making.
The comte was now promenading in the chilly garden with Madame Beauregard, who appeared not to feel the cold despite the fact she was wearing damped muslin. Emma found Lord Framley again at her elbow, this time asking her if she would go for a drive with him on the following day. She mendaciously said she was not free and moved away quickly toward Miss Tippet, wishing as she did so that the lady were more companion and less human pig.
Emma had been determined to tell the comte she could not accept his invitation to the playhouse, but when she sat down beside Miss Tippet and saw the crumbs on Miss Tippet’s bosom and the chewed chicken wing nestling on top of Miss Tippet’s cameo brooch, she decided to go after all and get at least one evening away from her dreadful companion. She told Miss Tippet of the proposed visit to the playhouse and Miss Tippet began to show alarming signs of taking her duties seriously. “For it is not proper,” said Miss Tippet severely. “People will talk.”
“Society has already said a great many evil things about me,” snapped Emma. “A few more won’t matter.”