The Scandalous Lady Wright (The Regency Intrigue Series Book 4)

by M C Beaton

  Suddenly she saw a cloaked figure moving toward her and bobbed a curtsy. “Well,” said the man who approached her. “What news?”

  “I should get into ever so much trouble if I was found out,” whispered Bertha.

  “I told you, I am in love with your mistress and her welfare is my sole concern,” said the man. “Out with it.” He held out a crown piece which glittered faintly in the darkness.

  Bertha pocketed the coin. “My lady leaves for the country tomorrow.”

  “Good, she will be safe there.”

  “But afore she goes, she’s got joiners and builders coming to rip the house apart.”

  “Why?” The man’s voice was sharp with alarm.

  “Well, Mr. Tamworthy, that’s our butler, he do say that Sir Benjamin was a great one for taking notes and that my lady thinks there might be papers hidden behind the walls or paneling, for there waren’t nothing in his study.”

  Down below, the kitchen door creaked and then Mrs. Chumley’s voice could be heard calling, “Are you there, Bertha?”

  Bertha let out a startled squeak and scurried down the stairs.

  The man drew his cloak around him and hurried off down the street.

  Chapter Seven

  The comte went to call on Lady Harvey. He was all at once sure that the man in the Yellow Saloon with Madame Beauregard had not been her husband. He hoped Lord Harvey would be absent, but suddenly felt he could not wait any longer to question Lady Harvey, and he was determined to question her whether her husband was there or not.

  He was lucky. To his polite inquiry, the Harveys’ butler said that Lord Harvey was at White’s and Lady Harvey was in her boudoir. Lady Harvey was delighted to receive the comte. She had thought and dreamed of him constantly, although being a sensible woman, had no thought of setting up an affair. She merely wanted to hang on to the dream that this desirable Frenchman found her attractive.

  But when he put the all-important question to her, she pouted and turned away. “So you are still interested in Lady Wright?” she said.

  “Madame,” said the comte with his hand over his heart, “I am merely trying to track down a murderer. I beg your help.”

  Lady Harvey frowned. Had not the guilty gentleman himself called on her to beg her secrecy? She had no intention of betraying him. There was no longer anything of the lover about the comte. She was sadly disappointed in him.

  “Madame Beauregard,” pursued the comte, too worried about Emma to play the lover, “tells me that the gentleman was her husband.”

  “Well, there you have it,” said Lady Harvey lightly. “I am sure you believe every word she says.”

  “My lady, I am certain that man was someone else, and you know very well who it was.”

  “If you choose to doubt my word,” said Lady Harvey, becoming angry, “then you may take your leave!”

  In vain did the comte persist in trying to make her tell the truth. Piqued at his lack of interest in her and his obviously overwhelming concern for the welfare of Lady Wright, Lady Harvey grew petulant and sulky and he was forced to bow his way out without having found anything.

  He next tracked down Mr. Henderson and told that horrified man of Mrs. Friendly’s masquerade as his supposed mistress.

  “The deuce!” cried Mr. Henderson. “Yes, I did write her a letter; you know how one does, it means nothing. She must have kept it. Who paid her to perform such a trick?”

  “I have an idea. You sent Lady Wright a letter suggesting she tear the house apart, and shortly after that your supposed mistress visited her. Who knew you were going to tell Lady Wright to look for papers?”

  Mr. Henderson looked bewildered and then his face cleared. “No one sinister, only Framley and Fletcher.”

  “Where are they this evening?”

  “Blessed if I know,” said Mr. Henderson. “I say, you don’t suspect one of them. I mean, they haven’t the brains or the energy.”

  “Someone murdered not only Sir Benjamin, but the secretary and the companion,” said the comte.

  “What companion?” asked Mr. Henderson, his eyes wide. “You mean that fat woman?”

  “Yes, I mean that fat woman. Someone really meant to murder Lady Wright by sending her a box of poisoned sugar plums which that poor and greedy companion ate. I mean to find those two gentlemen this evening!”

  But search as he might, the comte could find neither Framley nor Fletcher.

  Annabelle, Mrs. Carruthers, was sitting hemming handkerchiefs in her small drawing room when she heard her husband’s footsteps on the stairs. She jabbed the needle nervously into her finger and looked apprehensively toward the door. Would he be drunk again? How on earth were they going to manage for money?

  The door swung open and Mr. Guy Carruthers stood on the threshold, a huge bouquet of hothouse flowers in one hand and a box of cakes in the other. His once-handsome face was smiling, and to Annabelle’s great relief he looked relatively sober.

  He came forward and kissed her on the cheek, dropped the flowers in her lap, and placed the box of cakes on her work table.

  “Great news, my sweeting,” he said, sinking down in a chair opposite her and stretching out his long legs. “All out debts are settled and we have money to spare.”

  “Oh, Guy,” said Annabelle, beginning to cry with relief. “I have been so worried.”

  “There now, puss. I am a wicked brute and a bad husband. Hey, I’ll tell you what you must do. That friend of yours, Lady Wright, having a bad time, ain’t she? Well, now we can afford to put her up. Get her to stay with you.”

  “Guy, Guy, that would be wonderful.”

  “Knew you’d like the idea,” he said with a grin. “Tell you what I did. Took the liberty of sending that lazy page of ours off with a note inviting her. Told her to come early. Come at nine in the morning and no later, that’s what I said.”

  “Oh, you nincompoop. That’s much too early for London!” cried Annabelle. “But no matter. I shall tell the maid to make up the bed in the spare room, that is if we still have a maid.”

  “You still have your Alice. Told her I’d pay her and that boy in the morning. Now, what about a celebration? Play something for me. It’s an age since we had a domestic evening.”

  Annabelle felt for the first time that she could begin to learn to love this maddening husband of hers. As her fingers rippled over the keys, she made a vow that she would do everything in her power to make this marriage work, forgetting in her newfound hope and happiness that she had made that same vow so many times before.

  Emma was delighted with the invitation and saw nothing odd in being asked to present herself at Annabelle’s at nine in the morning. Before she went to bed, she summoned Tamworthy and told him that she would be going to Mrs. Carruthers’s home for a short visit and to make sure he supervised the work of the builders and watch that they did not make too much mess and to report to her if anything was found.

  She was relieved to be leaving. Miss Tippet’s fat ghost seemed to haunt every corner. Menace lurked in every shadow, and she awoke several times during the night, thinking she heard strange noises in the house.

  Mr. Carruthers had asked her not to bring her maid, as they did not have enough room for Austin.

  “Don’t seem right you going without me,” said Austin as she dressed her mistress’s hair the following morning. “Never heard the likes before. They could have put a cot for me in their servants’ room.”

  “I think, Austin, that perhaps they are more worried about another mouth to feed than finding room for you,” said Emma. “Do not look so sour. I shall have a splendid time with Mrs. Carruthers.” A shadow crossed her face as she thought of Annabelle’s erratic husband. But surely he would, as usual, be mostly absent, and, after all, he could not object to her presence as he had invited her himself.

  She paid particular attention to her appearance, adjusting a smart new bonnet on her black curls and putting a faint dusting of rouge on her pale cheeks. Her eyes looked enormous in her
face. The strain of the murders had made her lose weight and had given her features a fine-drawn look.

  She was on the point of leaving, standing in the hall drawing on her gloves, when Tamworthy answered a knock at the door. A footman in plain livery stood on the step. “Mr. Carruthers’ compliments,” he said. “His carriage is ready and waiting for Lady Wright.”

  “My lady has her own carriage,” began Tamworthy but was interrupted by Emma. “It is all right, Tamworthy,” she said. “I will take Mr. Carruthers’s carriage. It is most thoughtful of him.”

  The footman walked to the carriage door, opened it, and let down the steps. Emma climbed in, the door was slammed behind her, and the carriage moved off through the quiet London streets.

  Emma was looking forward to seeing Annabelle immensely. She longed to talk about the comte and to resolve her fears and doubts about him.

  The carriage came to a halt. Emma looked out of the window, startled. They were not in the street where Annabelle lived, but on the edge of Berkeley Square. And then the carriage door was jerked open and Lord Fletcher climbed inside.

  “What is the meaning of this, my lord?” cried Emma as he sat down beside her after shutting the carriage door and rapping on the roof with his cane as a signal for the coachman to move on.

  He smiled at her and slowly drew a pistol from his pocket. “I am too fatigued to give you any explanations,” he said. “Be quiet and no harm will come to you.”

  “It was you all the time,” whispered Emma. “You killed Sir Benjamin.”

  “I said be quiet,” he snapped.

  Now Lord Fletcher no longer looked like an effeminate fribble. His face wore its customary mask of blanc, but his eyes were as hard as stone.

  Emma turned her head away and her hand cautiously reached for the leather strap on the door. If she could jerk down the glass and cry for help…

  “Hands on your lap. Both of them. Where I can see them,” said Lord Fletcher.

  How quiet the streets of London were at this time of day, thought Emma miserably. Would he really shoot her if she made a bid for freedom? She glanced at his set face and repressed a shudder. That look in his eyes said that he would shoot her dead without a second’s thought as clearly as if he had spoken.

  She sent up a prayer for safety and then her mind began to race. How had Lord Fletcher known about her visit to Annabelle’s? Was Annabelle part of the plot? Surely not. But Annabelle’s husband was another matter.…

  The carriage lurched to a halt and Emma, glancing out the window, recognized the sedate surroundings of Manchester Square. So she was not to be taken out to some secluded building in the country.

  “Now, my lady,” said Lord Fletcher. “I am going to put this gun in my pocket. You will alight from the carriage and go up the steps. You will not make one move to escape or I shall shoot you through the pocket of my coat and then swear blind it was done by a passing ruffian. See, there is no one about. Do as you are told… exactly as you are told.”

  Emma got down from the carriage. She looked up appealingly into the footman’s face, but he turned his eyes away from her. Conscious every step of the way of Lord Fletcher walking behind her, Emma went up the stone steps. The door of the house opened and a butler said, “Good morning my lady… my lord,” just as if they were making a formal call.

  “He is going to shoot me,” whispered Emma desperately, but the butler said, as if she had not spoken, “Be so good as to step this way.” He flung open the double doors leading to a saloon on the ground floor. Numb with fright, Emma walked inside and let out a small gasp as Madame Beauregard rose to meet her.

  “I see you’ve delivered the package,” said Madame Beauregard to Lord Fletcher over Emma’s head. “Put her in that straight-backed chair over by the fire. Groumand, tie her up.”

  “Very good, madam,” said the butler as if replying to a request to serve tea. He put a heavy hand on Emma’s shoulder and urged her forward to the chair Madame Beauregard had indicated. He snapped his fingers as Emma shakily sat down and a footman entered bearing lengths of rope. The butler stood to one side while the footman bound Emma’s wrists behind her and then bound her ankles.

  “Gag her,” said Madame Beauregard. “I do not want to listen to her. Go and find that little spy of yours, my lord, and we will await events.”

  Bertha, the little housemaid, tried to rush through her work. The fine gentleman had said he would pay her handsomely for her help. Letters he had written to a lady of royal birth were hidden somewhere in the house. If they were found, then Bertha was to tie a handkerchief to the railings outside. But how could she, Bertha, find out anything, confined as she was to the upstairs bedrooms by Mrs. Chumley?

  She hurriedly made Emma’s bed after having dusted the room and cleared out the fireplace. She was about to leave and rush downstairs toward where the workmen were tearing down the paneling in the study, when Mrs. Chumley appeared in the doorway, barring her way. “Not so fast, Bertha,” said the housekeeper severely. “You have been skimping your work of late.”

  The housekeeper went to the bed and jerked back the blankets. “Why, the linen has not been changed and what there is is all crumpled!” Bertha suppressed a groan. “Do your job properly, or I shall have to speak to Mr. Tamworthy about you,” said Mrs. Chumley, her lips compressed in a disapproving line. “Come with me to the linen cupboard and I will give you fresh sheets.”

  Just then a footman popped his head round the door. “That comte’s arrived,” he said excitedly, “and the workmen say they’ve found something.”

  Mrs. Chumley gave an exclamation and hurried off. Heart beating hard, Bertha drew a white handkerchief from the pocket of her print dress, waited a few moments, and then slid out of the room and hurried down the stairs. Lord Fletcher watched as the little housemaid appeared at the top of the area steps and began to tie the handkerchief onto the railings. He patted the pocket in which he kept his pistol, and calling to his coachman to wait, he climbed down from the carriage.

  The comte was sitting in the late Sir Benjamin’s study. Shattered paneling lay all around him, and plaster dust floated in the shafts of sunlight that streamed in through the windows.

  He had asked the workmen to retire while he studied his find. In his hands he held a thick leather-bound book locked with a brass clasp. It had been found in a cupboard in the wall which had been cleverly concealed by a secret door. He took out his penknife, broke the lock on the clasp, and opened the book.

  On the first page Sir Benjamin had written: This is my record of those who have worked with me for the escape and restoration of Napoleon. If I am caught, then it is only right that they should hang with me.

  “Mad logic,” murmured the comte, and read on.

  I have no interest in betraying my country, Sir Benjamin had written. Then followed a long essay justifying his traitorous actions which contained long sections from Thomas Paine’s Rights of Man. After several pages Sir Benjamin got to the point. He had been recruited by Madame Beauregard and her husband and paid large sums of money to pass on to them information on how well Napoleon was guarded and the names of possible sympathizers in the British government and aristocracy. Sir Benjamin was also to arrange permission for a trip to St. Helena, and there he was to seek audience with Napoleon and report back ways and means whereby arms and money might be smuggled to the fallen emperor. The reason for his fortune became obvious. The sums already paid to him had been vast. “If he is going to reveal names, where are they?” asked the comte aloud, impatiently flicking over the pages. “Ah, here they are.”

  He read, “We all have code names. I am Corbeau, Madame Beauregard is Rossignol and Lord Fletcher is Hirondelle.” The comte put down the book. Hirondelle, he thought. Fletcher’s name. So that was the H. with Madame Beauregard in the Yellow Saloon. They were both there to meet Sir Benjamin. Were they playing at lovers in case anyone entered, or were they really lovers? And did Lady Harvey’s entrance spoil the meeting? But nothing matters except that
these traitors be caught and my poor Emma’s name completely cleared.

  He had been told that Emma had left early to visit the Carruthers. He rose to his feet. He would go to her immediately and together they would take this book to the authorities.

  And then the door opened and Tamworthy announced, “Lord Fletcher to see you, my lord.”

  The comte opened his mouth to call to Tamworthy to summon the servants and seize the traitor, and then his sharp eyes noticed the way Lord Fletcher had his hand thrust in his pocket and the unmistakable shape of a pistol. His thoughts moved like lightning. No doubt Fletcher had killed Sir Benjamin, the secretary, and Miss Tippet. He would not hesitate to murder the comte and Emma’s servants.

  “Leave us,” said the comte to the butler, and then when Tamworthy had left, he said, “What brings you here, Fletcher?”

  “I will not waste time,” said Lord Fletcher. He drew the pistol from his pocket. “You have found something.”

  The comte noticed bleakly that it was a statement, not a question. So much for Emma’s “loyal” servants.

  “You will give it to me now and you will not tell anyone what you have found,” went on Lord Fletcher.

  “Do not speak such fustian,” said the comte lightly. “You cannot shoot me and get away with it, mon ami. Not in a house full of servants and builders.”

  “No, you are right,” said Lord Fletcher amiably. He put the pistol in his pocket. “I hold a much more powerful weapon.”

  Nothing of the sudden dread he felt showed on the comte’s face. “And what is that?” he asked.

  “Lady Wright. Yes, we have her. She is still alive, but one move on your part and we will kill her… slowly.”

  “I have no love for that thug, bully, and maniac, Napoleon,” said the comte. “I have great love, however, for this adopted country of mine. What is to stop me sacrificing Lady Wright to the higher cause?”