Deadly Affair: A Georgian Historical Mystery (Alec Halsey Crimance)

by Lucinda Brant

  The shock had been compounded witnessing Talgarth Vesey’s utter despair at the mutilation of his most prized portrait. Alec had attempted to go to him in the aftermath of such a public humiliation, but the crowd had surged forward to better view the painter’s personal agony and by the time Alec had shouldered his way to the front of the gawking spectators, Selina and her brother had been bundled through a servant door by the Duke and his cronies; Sir Charles Weir leading a rear guard action to prevent journalists and others from following.

  Alec wondered what role his Grace played in Selina’s life that he did not know about, as whispered by that drunkard Lord George Stanton. He’d never had cause to be jealous or suspicious, nor had he a moment’s doubt that Selina loved him, but seeing her clinging to the Duke’s silk sleeve he again felt that growing sense of unease experienced in Paris when they had parted: that a future with Selina as his wife had been taken wholly out of his control.

  “Damn it!” he growled and finished the last of the ale in his tankard without tasting it. Sensing someone behind him he turned to find Sir Charles Weir peering at him in a half embarrassed, half smiling way that prompted him to say, “I beg your pardon.”

  “I’ve interrupted your morning’s recreation,” said Sir Charles, an eye on Alec’s damp and ruffled appearance. Gingerly he touched the ornate handle of a sheathed fencing sword lying across the padded seat of a mahogany chair. “I’m out of practice myself. But I trust I never have need of it.” He smiled, patting the ornate handle of his own sword. The fact that he had not unbuckled the sash indicated he did not intend to stay long. “I fear I would fail dismally against robber or potential duelist.”

  “What may I do for you, Charles?”

  “I see that I am not forgiven.”

  Alec frowned. “I don’t waste my time storing past petty spats.”

  “When you speak in that tone you remind me of your uncle,” Sir Charles commented with a weak smile. “Not a day goes by in the Commons that Plantagenet Halsey isn’t on his feet condemning some such action put forward by the government. Even my most reasonable requests are greeted with suspicion.”

  “No doubt you give a more than adequate performance in defense of your government’s actions,” Alec replied, though it was obvious to Sir Charles that no compliment was intended. “But what has my uncle’s oratorical skills to do with this visit?”

  Sir Charles looked uneasy. “Firstly, I want you to know that the Bristol Bill will pass into law with or without your uncle’s vote. He can rant and rave all he likes but when it comes to the vote morality is the last thing on the minds of parliamentarians. Session is about to close. All anyone cares about is getting the bill up to the Lords before break. No one wants to be held over.”

  “God forbid the business of government should take precedence,” Alec quipped, but added in a more sobering tone as he stood, “What my uncle says and does is his affair. I have no influence over his opinions, nor should I. So, if you mean by coming here to have me dissuade him from attempting to hold parliament over a week or two, then I am sorry. I can’t, and even if I could, I wouldn’t interfere. So, if you don’t mind, Charles, I’m in need of my bath.”

  “Your uncle’s speech on the rights of all men, be they savages or statesmen, stirred the consciences of a few of our members. There is a whisper, nothing more, that the vote could hang on the ayes of one or two of our most northern gentlemen.”

  Alec looked pleased. “All power to them.”

  “This bill must and will pass!” Sir Charles blurted out, dropping his guard. “Its passage will be a vindication of all the Duke has worked for over the years. Those opposing us will not be able to argue differently. You see, we can’t afford to fail. Not now. Not when there are rumors—rumors that his Grace will step down as Foreign Secretary if the vote does not go as anticipated.” He gripped the chair back to bring himself under control. This did not stop the tremble in his voice. “Have you any notion what it would do to us to have the Duke resign? You must know the extent to which people rely on him, not only for their posts but for their very existence. If he falls, we all fall.”

  Sir Charles’s tone smacked of the melodramatic, but Alec conceded the man had a right to his angry desperation. His political clout, indeed his very political existence, he owed to the Duke of Cleveley. Without him he had no future. But Alec was not wholly ignorant of the latest goings-on in Parliament. He was in no doubt that the bill would pass, whether his uncle spoke against it or not. A quick read of yesterday’s newssheets put the numbers in favor of the Bristol Bill well ahead of those likely to dissent. The government had nothing to fear. And as Cleveley’s mouthpiece in the Commons, Sir Charles had to be aware of this, and the fact there was no credible reason for the Duke to resign his offices of state. Then why did Sir Charles have the air of a desperate man?

  “I don’t know much about behind-the-scenes Parliamentary machinations,” Alec said calmly. “But I do know all about the insidious use of patronage. I do not have influence over my uncle’s thoughts and deeds, but having been raised by him I do carry some of his opinions as my own. No doubt you have had to sit through his speeches on the corrupting influence the system of patronage has on the governing of the kingdom; how patronage serves those least likely to do a decent day’s work. I concede that in a minority of cases it can be beneficial in helping a talented and dedicated man, such as yourself, rise to a position where he is of use to his country. Sadly, you are in the minority. Patronage leaves a man at the whim of his patron. Never is he permitted to forget to whom he owes his allegiance; his own feelings and conscience become subordinate.”

  “You think me such a man?” Sir Charles was clearly offended.

  “I have no idea.”

  “It is commonly reported that I am Cleveley’s puppet,” Sir Charles replied sullenly. “That the speeches I make on the floor are nothing more than parrot-fashion diatribes of Cleveley’s making. Ha! It is conveniently forgotten that I was secretary to the great man for ten years. Whom do you think wrote those stirring speeches on the need for England to gain its objectives from the recent peace with France? Who spent hour upon hour until the wax melted onto the table, drafting the policies he put before Cabinet? I have no qualms; no regrets. For his Grace I would do it all again, willingly. Many do not care for his politics, for the single-minded determination he employs to achieve his ends, or for his cold arrogant manner, but above all else Cleveley is a man of deep principle and sense of duty. He believes what he is doing is for the betterment of the kingdom. I share his belief. You may think of me what you like but puppet I am not.”

  The bullish determination in his friend’s flushed face warned Alec that to answer in anything but the most sincere terms would be taken with offence, so he said politely, “Naturally no one could accuse Cleveley of being ungrateful. Your many exertions on his behalf have not gone unrewarded: A knighthood; a rotten borough seat. But if he should resign his posts you stand to lose several wealthy sinecures, sinecures you rely on for your livelihood.”

  Sir Charles smiled but it was obvious he was far from amused. “It was a great privilege to be the Duke’s secretary, and an even greater one to have earned his confidence. Whatever rewards I received for my loyalty and trust I am grateful, but I’d have gladly continued in his service without them.” He suddenly looked embarrassed and glanced down at the lace ruffles covering his hands. “Alec, it is not the loss of a couple of sinecures which concerns me. I harbor expectations of becoming engaged to the Lady Henrietta Russell. But Lord Russell won’t be much inclined to give his consent to our marriage when Cleveley resigns and I lose those sinecures, will he?”

  “But this is wonderful news, Charles. Congratulations,” said Alec and offered his hand.

  It was reluctantly taken at first, then Sir Charles brightened seeing the sincerity in which the handshake was offered.

  “You’re the first to know,” he admitted awkwardly. “And thank you for your support. Many would think me ai
ming too high, given my humble background, but I am confident that his lordship will look on my proposal in a favorable light.” Sir Charles smiled weakly. “My sources tell me that despite my unsavory connection, Earl Russell will not hold it against me.”

  Alec knew that the Russell family was not only one of the foremost political families in the kingdom it was also extremely wealthy. Lady Henrietta’s dowry would be substantial, large enough for Sir Charles not to worry about the loss of income from the sinecures bestowed upon him by his mentor. What interested Alec more was the fact that if Sir Charles did indeed secure the hand of Lady Henrietta it would be seen as a very public crossing-over into an enemy’s camp. It was no secret the Earl Russell and the Duke of Cleveley were bitter political rivals; both headed the opposing factions within the government. The wonder of it was that the Duke had consented to such a match. Then again, if Cleveley was on the point of resigning perhaps Sir Charles had not felt compelled to tell him?

  Alec was left with a nagging doubt about Cleveley’s intentions.

  “You say when Cleveley resigns, as if you know it is a certainty,” he said. “I don’t see the Duke resigning over passage of the Bristol Bill. You and I know that he has the numbers to push it through both houses. So why should he threaten to resign? Or is that rumor merely a ploy to bring the dissenters back into line? Though I think not.” Alec glanced shrewdly at his friend. “Charles, you really do believe Cleveley means to resign, don’t you? Why?”

  Sir Charles looked his old school friend straight between the eyes. “Blackmail.”

  “Blackmail?” Alec pushed a hand through his thick damp hair and gave an unsteady laugh. “Cleveley? Come on, Charles! That arctic piece of walking marble submit to a blackmailer’s threats?”

  “It seems fantastical,” admitted Sir Charles, “and I’d not have given it a second thought myself except—except…” He hesitated, seemed to weigh matters up in his mind, an eye on Alec, then said matter-of-factly, “To be honest, Cleveley’s resignation won’t come at the hands of a defeated bill. The Bristol bill will be passed. It’s Stanton. Lord George. Cleveley’s stepson. He’ll be the Duke’s downfall unless I, with your help, act before it’s too late.”

  “Stanton is blackmailing his stepfather?”

  “Stanton isn’t blackmailing the Duke. It’s Stanton who is being blackmailed.”

  “By whom?”

  “Stanton thought it was Blackwell. That is, until the vicar up and died. Then yesterday Stanton received another threatening letter, and in the same hand, so it couldn’t have been Blackwell, could it?”

  “What on earth would prompt Stanton to think he was being blackmailed by a poor old cleric?”

  Sir Charles sighed. “It’s all rather complicated. Stanton was receiving threatening letters before Blackwell came to stay with the Duke. Then they stopped. It was something Blackwell said to Stanton in an off-hand way that had him wondering if the blackmailer was the vicar, and that by threatening the Duke with Stanton’s secret he had managed to weasel his way into the Duke’s pocket.”

  “Blackwell is the last person I’d suspect a blackmailer; and the Duke is the last person who would be party to blackmail. Are you certain this business isn’t something conjured up in one of Stanton’s befuddled drunken states?”

  “It does sound rather far-fetched, doesn’t it? Except, I was shown one of the threatening letters and…” Sir Charles sighed again. “Stanton did perpetrate the crime for which he is being blackmailed.”

  “Let me understand you,” Alec enunciated. “It is because of this crime committed by his stepson that Cleveley will take the dramatic step of resigning?”

  “If it should become public: Yes.”

  Alec was astonished. “And if the crime remains secret?”

  “Then there is no reason for the Duke to step down from his posts. We can all remain as we are.”

  “Has it not occurred to you that if Stanton did commit the crime for which he is being blackmailed then he is answerable for that crime, whatever the consequences to the Duke and others?”

  Sir Charles pulled a face. “It is infinitely more important for the good of the country that the Duke remain as Foreign Secretary. Those who owe him their livelihoods may then keep their places on the Government benches. One man’s youthful indiscretion should not cause a government’s downfall.”

  Alec was revolted. “And justice…?”

  Sir Charles rolled his eyes. “My dear Alec, what a romantic you are! Another fault instilled by your eccentric uncle, no doubt. Justice? Do you call it justice when a man of Cleveley’s abilities is forced out of office for a crime he didn’t commit? Where is the justice in that?”

  “Can’t Cleveley ride out the storm; distance himself from his stepson’s youthful indiscretion?”

  “Easier said than done.”

  “You’re not going to tell me Cleveley will do all in his power to avert a family scandal, to the point of risking reputation and position, just to save face? Are—you—Charles?” When this was met with silence Alec threw up a hand impatiently and stared out the window. “I thought Cleveley a cold-blooded, calculating manipulator but I never expected his judgment would be clouded by hubris!”

  “My dear fellow, if it was that simple. His Grace cannot distance himself even if he desired it.”

  “Ah,” Alec said with dawning realization. “He’s known about Stanton’s transgression from the beginning and sought to cover it up. He hoped to get away with it, but now his stepson is being blackmailed. Cleveley, too, could be blackmailed. After all, he has aided and abetted, hasn’t he?”

  Sir Charles reluctantly agreed and came to stand by Alec at the window. “That’s why I—he—needs your help.”

  “What gives Cleveley the grand presumption I’d help save his neck?”

  Sir Charles stared into the middle-distance. “It would get you an ambassadorship…”

  Alec’s laugh was harsh. “My God, he thinks he can bribe me to help him?”

  “I would not call it bribery but a return on the favor done you.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Sir Charles turned and faced Alec in the window embrasure. “The whisper around town is that it was your godmother, the Duchess of Romney-St. Neots, who had the accusation of murder against you quashed. That it was through her efforts that you were elevated to the Marquessate Halsey because there are those in the Lords who were, and still are, against you inheriting your brother’s earldom. And before you ask it, I was not one of those who believed you capable of shooting your own brother in cold blood, not without good reason. Your brother was a repellant being. The Duke added his voice to your godmother’s efforts.” Sir Charles couldn’t help a smug smile. “It was through his efforts, not hers, that His Majesty was finally swayed to grant you letters patent.”

  Alec scowled at his school friend with a mixture of disgust and disbelief. “You think I should be grateful to the great man? You think by telling me this I will be sympathetic to his predicament—to yours? How very wrong you are!” He snatched up his frockcoat. “Tell your master to bestow his ambassadorship elsewhere!”

  Sir Charles was so taken aback that for a moment he just stood there, stunned. But in the next breath he came alive and hurried after Alec, tripping over his feet along the length of the Gallery as he tried to match Alec’s angry strides. He caught him up as he opened the door, and shuddering in breath said, “Listen—Alec!” He swallowed, chest heaving. “I grant you… You… You do not care for the Duke’s politics… And you… You care even less for the man, but I know you do care… You care very deeply for-for—Mrs. Jamison-Lewis…” He leaned his shoulders against the paneled wall and swallowed in air and breathed deeply. “Do you want to see her family disgraced? Do you want harm to come to her brother; her the center of scandal? Well? Do you?”

  Alec slowly closed over the door. “What has Mrs. Jamison-Lewis to do with Stanton?”

  Sir Charles’s breathing became more regular. “It’s he
r brother; not Cobham, her younger brother, Talgarth Vesey. He’s the blackmailer.”

  “You seem certain.”

  “I am. The letters are in his fist.”

  “Why would Talgarth Vesey, a painter of portraits, blackmail Lord George Stanton?”

  “Do you know why the Duke bundled brother and sister from that exhibition in such a hurry?”

  “I imagine the embarrassment at having unveiled a mutilated portrait, and Vesey’s subsequent break-down in full-view of a hundred people, was all too much for his Grace’s delicate sensibilities.”

  “Because he realized at once who had mutilated that portrait and why.”

  “So you think?”

  Sir Charles ignored the heavy sarcasm. “Lord George did it. He did it in a drunken rage.”

  “I suppose he told you that?”

  “He has confessed all to the Duke, although his Grace had already guessed.”

  Alec was suddenly weary. “Would you get to the point, Charles.”

  “My friend, the point is this: If you cannot or will not put a stop to Vesey exposing Lord George’s indiscretion then I’m afraid steps will be taken to make certain Vesey can never voice his threats.”

  “Is that what happened to Blackwell? Did he discover Stanton’s sordid little secret while staying in the Cleveley household, and for that he was murdered?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about. But we are not discussing the demise of one poor old vicar, are we?”

  “How brave are little men when protected by the hand of power and privilege,” Alec enunciated coldly.

  “I do not apologize,” Sir Charles replied, “Lord George cannot be allowed to bring down our Foreign Secretary, and all those who nestle within his velvet glove.” He took out his pocket watch. “Good Lord! I’ve a meeting with the party whips in an hour. I can inform his Grace you will see what you can do to help…?”