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

by Lucinda Brant

  “Yes, my lord,” Evans said with a sigh of relief. She glanced at her mistress and then back at Alec, feeling foolish for her earlier outburst. “Mrs. Jamison-Lewis is in the right. I am worn thin. I did not think… Miss Sophie was not frightened of him; of his appearance or his behavior.”

  “Please think carefully, Evans, and then answer me this: Was Sophie taken by Molyneux or did she go with him willingly? There is a difference…”

  “To be perfectly truthful, my lord, I thought this Mr. Molyneux was acting a bit too familiar with the child, trying to win her trust so he could snatch her, but thinking back on it, and now that I know that you both know who he is and that he is in the employ of the Duke of Cleveley, it does seem the little one and Mr. Molyneux were known to one another.”

  “That’s nonsense, Evans!” Selina said from the windowseat. “First you accuse poor Molyneux of being a monster, then too familiar with the child and now you think he is the child’s best friend. Which is it? Truly, Mary, you do need a good night’s sleep.”

  “And she not the only one,” Alec murmured and said audibly, “My dear Mrs. Jamison-Lewis—”

  “Oh do stop calling me that hateful name, Alec!” Selina complained with a tired sigh. “Evans is my lady’s maid not my mother!” She met his steady gaze openly. “Truth be told, Evans knows everything there is to know about me, and more than is good for her about us.”

  “It only takes a special license, a vicar and you, my love, for me to expunge that name,” Alec said quietly and mentally sighed when Selina would not hold his gaze, the only sign of her inner turmoil, her stubbornly clenched jaw and the way in which she gently tugged on the diamond drop earring.

  “How could they be known to one another?” Selina demanded, curiosity overcoming stubbornness, “when Molyneux is valet to a Duke and Sophie a four-year old child who has lived her entire life on a farm in the depths of the country?”

  “It is not only plausible but highly probable if you substitute the Duke for his valet in the equation,” Alec explained. “Molyneux as valet to Cleveley is an extension of his master. And thus all he does he does in the Duke’s name.”

  “By that logic, it is the Duke who took Sophie from the drawing room. It is the Duke who knows Sophie and she is known to him?”

  “Yes.”

  “But… No! That is not possible!”

  “It is very possible. You said so yourself that Sophie has lived her entire life on a farm. Who owns that farm?” Alec argued. “And you told me that the Duke’s pile of country stone is atop a hill and that from one of the windows where he keeps a telescope, the farm, of which he made you tenant for life, is perfectly visible.”

  Selina’s mouth dropped open with incredulity. Were the sounds emanating from the next room affecting good sense? “Are you suggesting Cleveley spent his time spying on the farm?”

  “Not spying as such, but he certainly kept a watchful eye.”

  “Why?”

  “Why position the telescope where he has the perfect view of the farm if not to watch?”

  “I should not have told you!”

  Alec frowned, not understanding her meaning until he happened to glance at Evans, whose face had ignited with color and who was regarding Selina with sympathetic understanding. She had told her lady’s maid everything, Alec thought with a wry smile.

  “This has nothing to do with His Grace’s interest in you,” he said gently, adding with an apologetic smile, “It was not you he was watching over. Though I am very sure he was pleased to have you there.”

  “Are you saying Cleveley’s interest is in Sophie?”

  Alec was about to reply when Evans filled the mutinous pause between the couple,

  “Yes, my lady, because, now I think on it, there can only be one explanation: the Duke is that little girl’s father.”

  The quiet exploded with Selina’s laughter. She so far forget herself as to fall back amongst the cushions of the windowseat, but clamped a hand to her mouth to stop her fit of the giggles continuing, not because Alec glared at her ill-mannered behavior but because she knew she was in the wrong: it was one thing to laugh at the statement itself but to laugh in company at a servant was insupportable.

  “Please continue, Evans,” Alec said smoothly.

  Evans sat up taller at Alec’s polite enquiry and explained herself.

  “At the time I disregarded Miss Sophie’s prattle because she is only four years old. She told me on more than one occasion she would soon see Papa Bumblebee. I presumed he was her imaginary playfellow as only children are want to have. She told me when I bathed her at the inn, again in the carriage and when I set her down before the fire in the drawing room downstairs.” She glanced at the now silent Selina, but said to Alec, “When Mr. Molyneux took her away in his arms, I followed him into the foyer, pleading with him to leave her be, but in a mild-mannered way because I did not want to cause the child distress. But she was far from upset! She waved at me and declared happily that she was off to see Papa Bumblebee. My French is reasonable but not exacting, my lord, and I know you to be an exceptional linguist so you can tell me if I have translated correctly Père Bourdon—that is Papa Bumblebee in English, is it not?”

  “Père Bourdon?” Selina was incredulous. “Evans? How could you possibly deduce that the Duke is this Papa Bumblebee from such a circumstance? Just because the child’s name is Bourdon? It is a mere coincidence that the French word for Bumblebee is Bourdon, and that Miranda and her daughter bear that surname.”

  “I think not.”

  Selina blinked at Alec’s statement, and with tongue firmly planted in cheek replied,

  “So you believe Miranda Bourdon, a young woman of no family and connections who has a bastard child whose father may or may not be George Stanton, and who is yet to turn twenty is Mother Bumblebee while Cleveley, this country’s premier statesman, a direct descendant of William the Conqueror, oh! and a Duke, not to mention being twice Miranda’s age, is this Papa Bumblebee; and that little Sophie, whom the Duke has accepted as his child… She is their little bumblebee?” Selina squirmed on the windowseat and squared her shoulders. “Fanciful nonsense!”

  “And so it will remain if you continue to view the matter emotively and with the prejudice of your social standing, and not with the objectivity it deserves,” Alec counseled and was not surprised when Selina’s face flushed with heat and she put up her chin to be so criticized. He pulled at the lace at his wrists and said matter-of-factly, “My uncle suffers from the same prejudice and lack of objectivity where the Duke is concerned, but for very different reasons. He, like you, views the Duke’s character as one does a shadow puppet—flat and black. There are no shades of grey and certainly no dimension to his being. To you he is this elder statesman upon a pedestal, and you are a little in awe of him. He can do no wrong in your eyes. Oh, his armor is chinked because he once overstepped the boundaries of propriety with you, but you forgive him that because, deep down you know him to be a good and decent man.”

  When Selina made no comment, but he saw her shoulders ease, he continued.

  “My uncle, however, is a humanist and believes that not everything should be left to the will of God. And because Cleveley is a Duke and a descendant of kings, he thinks he should get down off his pedestal and use his social position and political power for the good of mankind; to make this world in which we live a better place. It is precisely because the Duke puts his country’s welfare and its standing in the world first and foremost, all other personal and social considerations aside, that my uncle has branded Cleveley a heartless, consciousless politician of the worst kind.”

  “And you? How do you see his Grace of Cleveley?”

  Alec smiled crookedly. “A sennight ago I would have agreed with my uncle. I am not in accord with many of the Duke’s tenets, but as a diplomat I understand why he has doggedly pursued his policies to ensure the security and prosperity of the kingdom. His conduct towards you should surely have cemented my bad opinion of h
is character…”

  “So is the Duke your uncle’s black or my white?”

  Alec laughed and shook his head. “Darling, he is neither, and that is what I am trying to tell you, as Olivia tried to tell me at the Opera. Cleveley is defined by his class and status, but he is also a man, and like all men, he has shades of grey. He possibly did not know this himself for many years and then something happened that changed him, or at least opened his eyes to the possibility that his life could be very different from the one he was then leading. And thus we have arrived at where we are on this day of all days.”

  Selina frowned. “What happened? What opened his eyes? Not the murder of that poor vicar? Do you still believe he had any part in that?”

  “No. That is, the death of the Reverend Blackwell was not the catalyst that changed Cleveley’s life, but,” Alec added with an enigmatic smile, “the good vicar did help the Duke on his present path. It was you. You opened his eyes to possibility.”

  “Me?” Selina was nonplussed. “How so?”

  There was no hiding the note of sadness in his deep voice.

  “He told you so himself. And then you told me. You gave him hope…”

  There was long silence between them. So long that Evans felt an intruder and bowed her head to look at her hands for she knew precisely to what Alec was alluding. So did Selina, but she was not strong enough to nudge that old wound for that would lead to real pain and heartache and so she said with a frown,

  “But there is more to this than you’re telling me, particularly about the death of Reverend Blackwell.”

  “Yes. I have not told you everything,” Alec said without apology. “I intend to offer a full explanation, and be able to reveal who was responsible for Blackwell’s murder once I have had a word with Mrs. Bourdon, and the Dramatis Personae have assembled in Barr’s drawing room. I am confident that my notes of invitation have been accepted and they are gathering as we speak.”

  The prospect of a reveal was enough to divert Selina from her dark thoughts and her eyes shone as she hopped off the windowseat and shook out her crumpled petticoats. “How marvelous! I trust your uncle and I have seats at this select gathering or are only those accused permitted entry to the drawing room?”

  Alec made her a sweeping bow. “You shall have a front row seat, my lady.”

  “Wonderful! But you have not convinced me that Cleveley, of all the noblemen in this kingdom, would ever allow himself to be called by such a ludicrous pet name as Papa Bumblebee!”

  “Won’t I?” Alec replied, rising to her challenge. “You may not have noticed—Why would you—but I am sure Evans has done so, and it is something servants in great households pride themselves on, and that is their livery. The Cleveley livery has the unusually extravagant and quite unique addition to its frockcoat of an engraved bumblebee on its silver buttons. Nor is it fanciful for persons to hide behind a nom de plume if they do not wish to be found, or,” he added with a rueful smile, “use a pet name as a term of endearment with a loved one.”

  Selina’s dark eyes widened with new knowledge but then she frowned and said bluntly, “But the Duke cannot be Sophie’s father! It is a mathematical impossibility. The timing is all wrong because if you calculate the date of conception plus the four years since her birth and the fact that Cleveley and I were—”

  “Damn your mathematical mind, my darling,” Alec interrupted and drew her to him to kiss her forehead. “Have you noticed how quiet it is of a sudden…?”

  And then, as if on cue, the quiet was shattered by the welcoming and joyous sound of a baby’s first wail: a loud, long and strong protest at being violently pushed forth into the world from the warmth and security of its mother’s womb. It set Alec’s heart racing and he looked to the bedchamber door in expectation, as did Selina who stood beside him and took hold of his hand. Alec caught up their entwined fingers and kissed the back of her hand. The baby’s hearty cries drew Evans to stand behind her mistress, gaze riveted to the door; all three with smiles of expectation and celebration.

  The wailing went on, loud and lusty cries of a healthy newborn, but so did the waiting and just as all three occupants of the sitting room began to lose their smiles and feel the beats of their heart increase with anxiousness, the bedchamber door was flung open to bang against the wallpapered wall.

  It was Tam on the threshold, exhausted and utterly relieved both mother and baby had survived the ordeal of childbirth. He was full of pride that he had delivered a healthy newborn alone, without the need of a physician, and he beamed from ear to ear. He eagerly took the hand of congratulation Alec held out to him.

  “Sir! It’s a healthy—”

  I apologize for her ill-manners,” Alec said to Tam as he was ushered into the bedchamber. “Her anger at being denied access to Mrs. Bourdon is understandable. Threatening to have you drawn and quartered…” He chuckled and let the sentence hang.

  “It’s fine, sir,” Tam said good-naturedly, for nothing and nobody was going to spoil this of all days. “I’m surprised Mrs. Jamison-Lewis would be eager to see a newborn. Most females in her sad predicament convince themselves for a time they don’t care for ’em, and usually avoid mothers and infants, particularly new mothers with newborns. I guess anger’s her way of dealin’ with the loss.”

  Alec pulled up. “I beg your pardon? Loss?”

  Tam mentally cursed himself for his free and easy tongue, pretended deafness and continued across the room to the foot of the four-poster bed. He blamed a combination of tiredness and exhilaration for letting down his guard. The frown of incomprehension on his master’s face was enough to tell him that Mrs. Jamison-Lewis had not confided in his lordship about her miscarriage in Paris. Tam had found out from a loose-tongued apothecary’s lackey who had delivered a tonic to her apartment on the Rue St. Honoré at the same hour Tam was delivering his master a set of new clothes.

  “If you don’t need me, Mr. Fisher, I’ll fetch up some tea and slices of bread and butter for the mistress,” Janie said brightly, a curtsey to both but eyes remaining on Tam, for whom she had newfound respect and admiration after watching him deliver Mrs. Bourdon’s healthy baby. “And I’ll have a hot brick fetched for the bed. Will you be wantin’ some tea, too?”

  “Thank you, Janie,” said Tam, grateful for the interruption. “Coffee for his lordship—”

  “—and brandy,” Alec said come to stand beside Tam at the undraped end of the four-poster bed, the curtains drawn up along the left side to stop the draft from the open window.

  He found the bedchamber surprisingly airy, given the cloistered drama of previous hours. The curtains were tied back on the night sky and a window pushed up to allow in fresh air. A fire crackled in the grate and whatever the detritus of birth it had been removed, possibly to the small adjoining servant bedchamber. A candelabra on the bedside table cast a warm yellow glow across the bedcovers and illuminated mother and newborn, who were tucked up amongst down pillows.

  “You have done a wondrous thing today, Mr. Fisher,” Alec said quietly, inexplicably filled with pride as he gazed upon mother and newborn.

  “Thank you, my lord,” Tam beamed, eyes bright with a film of happy tears. He stood at Alec’s shoulder and he too was looking down the bed at Miranda and her baby. “He’s a fine little man.”

  “A boy? How splendid! His father will be doubly pleased with your efforts, and hers. It may get you a knighthood…”

  “Lord Halsey?”

  It was Miranda and she forced herself awake from a contented doze. She was utterly exhausted and, like Tam, could not help her smile. Her cheeks were flushed and her long black hair fell about her shoulders in messy disarray. Still, despite her painful and hard fought exertions, she was radiant, and quite possibly the loveliest female Alec had ever seen. It was a limpid beauty and when she smiled he saw that it also came from within. Not surprising then that his uncle was her fierce champion and Talgarth felt compelled to immortalize her in paints. Yet, for all her beauty, Alec was not
so enamored for he preferred females, one female in particular, with more fire and ice and there was something about the love of his life’s pale golden-red hair that warmed his blood… What did Tam mean by loss? What loss?

  Alec bowed to Miranda, face suitably blank of his thoughts. “Congratulations on the birth of a son, your Grace.”

  “Is he not the most perfect baby in all creation?”

  “His father will certainly agree with you,” Alec replied with a smile at a mother’s singular adoration. He drew up a chair but did not sit upon it. He had seen Tam sway at his salutation and look at him with wide eyes of dismay, and so he gently pushed the chair under the boy’s legs and with a hand to his shoulder pressed him down. “Sit before you pass out, my boy.”

  Tired he might be but it wasn’t that which had Tam reeling. He was in shock. He wondered if exhaustion had affected his hearing because he was sure his master had greeted Mrs. Bourdon with a salutation reserved for those of ducal rank. He stared up at Alec, who winked at him, and then at Miranda, who was smiling upon her sleeping infant, oblivious to all. He gripped the padded seat hard. “Sir, is she—”

  “—a duchess? Yes. You have successfully delivered the Duchess a son, heir to the Cleveley dukedom.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  Alec grinned. “I don’t believe even his Grace thinks of himself as God, despite my uncle’s low opinion of the Duke’s overbearing hubris. Enjoy the moment. You have certainly earned it. Have you thought of names for his little lordship?” he enquired politely of Miranda.

  “I was in two minds for a very long while. Had he been a girl she was to be named after Mr. Bourdon’s Grandmamma, but being a boy…” She sighed contentedly and was suddenly distracted when her infant son turned ever so slightly toward the warmth of her skin. She played with his tiny fingers. “But I have settled on two names I like very well indeed. Mr. Bourdon may care to choose a third and fourth, if it is necessary for such a little one to have a string.”