A Gentleman of Fortune

by Anna Dean

  Dido would dearly have loved to protest against the question – to abdicate such a heavy responsibility. But it could not be done. She may have entered too lightly upon this business of investigation; but she recognised that it would not be so lightly got out of. For there is no unknowing truths once they are discovered.

  To expose Maria: to publish all the events of that night; to destroy all her happiness – and Sir Joshua’s too – was more, a great deal more, than she felt herself capable of. And yet not to do so would leave Henry Lansdale in as much danger as ever…

  ‘I do not know,’ she said. ‘I do not know what I ought to do – except… Except that I cannot permit Mr Lansdale to bear all the blame for what happened that night. It would not be right or just.’

  Tears gathered in Maria Carrisbrook’s eyes; but she did not attempt to argue against this. Dido took a long draught of the cool, thyme-scented air from the window. There was no escaping it…‘But…’ she said quietly, ‘there may be…I think, perhaps, there may be another way of saving Mr Lansdale.’

  The hope was so frail – so fraught with difficulties – that she had hoped she need never try it. And she shrank from voicing it. But what other chance was there?

  ‘Yes?’ Maria’s voice was small and hopeful. ‘What is it?’

  She leant back in the window embrasure and closed her eyes. With a great effort she drew together the thoughts and suspicions which had been on the very edges of her mind for the last hours.

  ‘There was a fourth dose,’ she said very slowly.

  ‘A fourth dose?’

  ‘Yes. If Mr Vane was correct in his description then there were four usual doses of opium. But – as yet – we know of only three. In short, there was yet one more person who wished Mrs Lansdale to sleep that night. If we could but find out that fourth person…’

  Maria looked troubled. ‘And you would force that person to bear the guilt of all?’

  ‘No – not quite.’ Dido jumped up. Now that her mind was pressed into action her body could not remain still. ‘No,’ she said, pacing restlessly across the room. ‘I hope – that is if this last portion of blame falls where I believe it does – I hope that all those who played a part in Mrs Lansdale’s death might be…’ she hesitated, looking at Maria’s lovely, tearful face. ‘I will not say excused entirely, My Lady…but rather left to bear only that punishment which I am sure their own consciences will inflict.’

  Maria Carrisbrook had the gift – rare even among beautiful women – of crying prettily. Tears were now pouring freely down her cheeks and her lip trembled a little; but there was no sobbing or snuffling, no blowing of the nose. Dido found the performance strangely disquieting and wondered inconsequentially whether Maria had been born with the talent or whether it was an accomplishment she had acquired. She very much wished that it would stop; but the tears flowed on as Maria applied a dainty handkerchief to her eyes and looked hopefully over the top of it.

  ‘Do you really think you could arrange things so very… satisfactorily, Miss Kent?’

  ‘I think it must be attempted.’

  ‘But what will you do? Will you challenge this person? Tell him what you suspect?’

  ‘Ah! There – as someone says in one of Shakespeare’s plays – is the rub. I cannot. It would not be right. You see, if my plan is to work, then the facts must be put rather… forcefully. A kind of threat will need to be made…’ She walked around the table; stirred up the rose-petals in their bowl and breathed in their sweet, dusty scent. ‘It is not something to which I feel I am equal – I do not think any woman of ordinary delicacy would feel equal to it. It would need a man. A gentleman would have to play the part for us.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Maria eagerly, tucking away her handkerchief, ‘perhaps Mr Lansdale…’

  But Dido shook her head immediately. ‘No,’ she said. ‘That would not do at all. He must not be seen to interest himself in the business. If the magistrates were to hear of it, it would appear very bad indeed.’

  ‘Then who can we ask to act for us?’

  Dido was silent for some moments – not from not knowing the answer to the question, but rather from being reluctant to speak it. However, there was no avoiding it…

  ‘I think,’ she said, ‘that Mr William Lomax would be the most proper person for the task. He knows a great deal about the business already, and understands the workings of the law.’

  Maria looked a little sly. ‘I am sure he would be very willing to carry out any commission of yours.’

  Dido only scowled at the compliment. ‘I am sure there is no man living who I would less like to ask,’ she said. ‘For, though I cannot think his humanity will allow him to refuse the errand; I know he will blame me for devising it. However, I shall go and consult with him now.’ She dusted fragments of rose petal from her hands and turned towards the door with determination. ‘It cannot be helped. It seems that there is no choice: either I must sink even lower in his esteem – or else Mr Lansdale must be hanged!’

  Maria watched her, very puzzled; but, just as she reached the door, she called her back. ‘Miss Kent, I have not yet thanked you.’

  Dido turned back reluctantly. The thought of the interview ahead of her was unpleasant, but it was not in her nature to delay a task on which she had determined and she was very eager to have everything settled.

  ‘There is nothing to thank me for, Lady Carrisbrook. I have only returned to you what was your own.’

  ‘But you are being so very kind in trying to save me from exposure and… And you have shown great… delicacy in the questions you have asked me. And, most particularly,’ she added with a nervous smile, ‘in those questions you have not asked me.’

  Dido said nothing, but only stood holding the open door in her hand.

  ‘Forgive me, I cannot help but ask – are you not curious about my life before my marriage? The things you have discovered about my residence at Knaresborough House are such as might make the dullest of women curious. And you are certainly not the dullest of women.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘And yet you ask no questions at all about me…or about my family.’

  Dido gazed down upon the floor and looked exceedingly awkward. ‘A married woman,’ she said, ‘belongs to her husband’s family. She takes his name – his title. Who, or what, she was before ceases to be of any consequence. I see no reason to trouble you with impertinent questions, Lady Carrisbrook.’

  And with that, she turned and walked away in search of Mr Lomax.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  It was the supper hour when Dido returned into the hall. The glees were over and some of the guests were already gone into the dining room; while some were still chattering in the drawing room; and others had escaped entirely from the excessive heat of the house to walk about on the candle-lit terrace.

  And it was among this last group that she discovered Mr Lomax. He was standing a little apart, beside one of the great yew bushes that flanked the steps to the lawn. The light from a paper lantern showed his eyes downcast and his jaw thrust out in just such a way as, had he been but a child, everyone would have called a sulk. Dido smiled to herself, rather taken with the notion of sending him away to a corner of the nursery until he had ‘learnt how to conduct himself’. But, unluckily, dealing with a grown man in an ill temper could not be so simple.

  He must, somehow, be persuaded into performing her errand: that was the point of first importance. That he might also be persuaded into approving her conduct was, she acknowledged, all but impossible. Yet her spirit rose at the prospect of his disapproval. She had done nothing wrong: her own conscience acquitted her entirely. And besides, it really was rather gratifying to discover that at five and thirty she could still arouse such strong emotion in a gentleman’s breast – even if the emotion was, as it had always tended to be, exasperation rather than any softer feeling.

  She held up her head and stepped forward to meet him with a defiant smile. But his greeting was not propitious
. He bowed and hoped, rather stiffly, that ‘her business was now settled to her satisfaction.’

  ‘It is very kind of you to ask, Mr Lomax,’ she said, continuing to smile graciously. ‘My business is…going on fairly promisingly.’

  ‘Do you mean that it is not yet finished?’ he demanded. ‘You are still engaged upon this dangerous course of investigation into Mrs Lansdale’s death?’ He began to search her face with a very satisfactory anxiety. It pleased her greatly to think that some part at least of his anger was born of concern for her welfare.

  ‘You need not trouble yourself,’ she said. ‘There is no danger at all. For I find that, after all, there was no murder. There was not even any house-breaking. So, you see, there cannot be any villain waiting in the dark to exact some terrible revenge upon me for my temerity in investigating his affairs.’

  He frowned: he put his fingers together and rested his chin upon them – as was his habit whenever he was endeavouring to understand something. ‘Do I understand you correctly, Miss Kent? Are you saying that Mrs Lansdale’s death was entirely natural?’

  ‘No. I only said that she was not murdered.’ She smiled invitingly. ‘Would you like me to explain it all to you?’

  He hesitated and she was amused to see that curiosity was now contending with annoyance upon his face. Behind them the voices of their fellow guests were beginning to fade as they made their way towards the supper table. In the quiet of the terrace a moth beat against a paper lantern.

  It ended with him making no concession; he only held out his arm to her and suggested that they take a turn along the terrace. But, judging that this was all the invitation his pride would allow him to give, Dido launched into her account of Mrs Lansdale’s three doses of Black Drop. And he listened to it all without a protest.

  As they walked, passing from shadows to pools of light along the terrace, she tried to study his profile which, though it was as handsome as ever, was inscrutable. The only change that she detected as she spoke was a little more jutting of the jaw – which certainly did not bode well. And the arm, upon which her hand rested, was held stiffly away from his body.

  They walked slowly and reached the end of the terrace and the end of her narrative at about the same time.

  ‘And so you see,’ she finished, ‘I find I must now ask for your help.’

  He stopped and stared down wonderingly at her. ‘You would ask me to help you?’ he said. ‘When you are aware of what my opinion has always been. You know that I consider you…mistaken in pursuing this matter.’

  She withdrew her hand from his arm. ‘But, Mr Lomax,’ she said, ‘I cannot believe you to still hold that opinion. When you have heard all that I have discovered! Things which would still remain hidden if I had followed your advice. Come, admit it, you must have changed your mind.’

  He drew himself up stiffly. ‘I do indeed still hold that opinion Miss Kent and I will repeat it. You should not have meddled in this business.’

  She was annoyed. She had not expected him to be so very unbending. ‘Forgive me for saying so,’ she replied, her cheeks blazing, ‘but I cannot believe your position to be reasonable. When I have proved to you how very much there was to discover, it is not reasonable to say that I should have been content with ignorance!’

  ‘Your appeal to reason in this case is faulty on two counts,’ he replied, coldly. ‘Firstly, you are, I believe, basing the defence of your actions upon the good which you think they have achieved. But can you be sure that any real benefit will result from them? You have certainly discovered a great deal; but you admit yourself that the enormity of uncovering Lady Carrisbrook’s deceptions is beyond your powers. And if she is not to be exposed, then how can Mr Lansdale benefit from all your busyness?’

  ‘But if…’

  He held up his hand. ‘And secondly. Even if your investigations were to have the most beneficial results imaginable, I should still maintain that you had erred in undertaking them. For when you embarked upon your course of action the outcome was unknown and it would be very poor morality indeed if our actions were to be deemed good or bad only by hindsight. I will not – I cannot in all conscience – change my opinion of your behaviour simply because it has proved more beneficial – and less dangerous – than either of us could have predicted.’

  ‘And so you believe that it would have been more virtuous in me to wring my hands and do nothing while poor Mr Lansdale was taken away to the hangman? Upon my word, Mr Lomax, this is much worse morality – to permit our friends to be endangered for the sake of preserving ourselves from a little exertion and danger! I am very glad that your creed is not more general in this kingdom. For what would become of our commonwealth if our brave soldiers and sailors were to imbibe a little of your morality?’

  ‘Miss Kent!’ he cried, ‘you are, I believe, taking pleasure in misunderstanding me. You are neither a soldier nor a sailor: you are an unprotected woman. Morality must, of course, depend upon situation. What is right for one, may not be right for another.’

  ‘Then you will not help me?’

  ‘I cannot. It would be wrong – it would be entirely inconsistent of me to assist you in an undertaking I cannot condone.’

  She fought to overcome her anger. He really was insufferable! But, perhaps she should not have argued so strongly, or contradicted him so forcefully. Perhaps then he might have consented to help her. She might apologise and plead her cause more meekly… But she could not bring herself to form the words.

  She walked to the stone balustrade which marked the end of the terrace, leant against it and peered over into the little wilderness below. The light of the lanterns showed thick foliage and a patch of ghostly white elder blossom. Above the dark shapes of the trees a crescent moon was rising and an owl hooted long and low. All was beauty and tranquillity in nature – but within her mind there was turmoil such as she had scarcely ever known before.

  She looked back at him. He was standing beside the last lantern on the terrace, his hands clasped behind his back and his expression everything that was stubborn and unyielding. What was she to do? She must have his consent – he must be made to help her or everything would have been in vain: all her reasoning, all her discovering of secrets, and above all, the loss of his esteem, would all have been for nothing and poor Mr Lansdale would be condemned.

  But try as she might, the soft, conciliatory words would not form in her mouth.

  And suddenly it flashed into her mind that maybe there was another way. If his disapproval could not be overcome, then maybe that same disapproval could be made to operate in quite a different direction.

  ‘Very well, then,’ she said quietly. ‘If you will not help me, I suppose I must act on my own.’

  ‘Miss Kent,’ he said anxiously and came to stand beside her. ‘What is it, precisely, that you believe should be done?’

  She turned her face from him and stared out into the trees. ‘There was a fourth dose of opium,’ she said calmly.

  ‘I beg your pardon.’

  ‘Mr Vane has said that Mrs Lansdale was given four times the usual dose of sleeping draught. I have so far accounted for only three. So, who gave her the other one?’

  There was a silence. Clearly he was hoping that she would continue without prompting from him. But at last he was forced to speak. ‘There is that in your voice,’ he said, ‘which convinces me that you know – or suppose that you know – the answer to your own question.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I believe I do.’ She turned and smiled at him. ‘Poor Mrs Lansdale,’ she said, ‘she really was a very great encumbrance to everyone around her that evening. Her nephew wished to go to town; her companion had to attend to her mother – and even her physician would not do as she wished and remain in the house with her.’ She could see that she had his complete attention. ‘That is what she wished him to do, you know. She considered herself to be very unwell: she wished Mr Vane to stay with her. But he declined. He said that he would be at home all evening and that she mu
st send for him if she felt herself at all worse.’

  Mr Lomax frowned – a great deal more interested than he would have liked to confess. ‘And this you believe to have been of some consequence?’

  ‘Oh yes, for you see, Mr Vane was not at home all that evening. He went to play cards at Mrs Midgely’s house.’

  His chin was once more upon his fingertips – which must be considered a very good sign. ‘Are you suggesting that Vane himself drugged Mrs Lansdale?’

  ‘I think it is…possible. By doing so, you see, he could ingratiate himself with two wealthy widows at once – he could attend upon Mrs Midgely without Mrs Lansdale suspecting that he was neglecting her. Indeed I cannot help but think his behaviour otherwise was very strange indeed. Mrs Lansdale was his wealthiest, most important patient: was he likely to risk her waking and sending for him – and discovering that he had not done what he had promised to do. And of course, we cannot know that the dose he administered that evening was no more than her usual cordial.’

  ‘But it is he who has started the story of an unnatural death.’

  ‘Yes, because, like everyone else who wished the poor lady to sleep that night, he cannot conceive that he is guilty of doing anything wrong.’

  Lomax stood for several moments, watching her closely as he thought. ‘And you believe that the magistrates should be informed of these suspicions?’

  ‘Oh! No. Not quite. For then, you know, the whole story would have to come out, and there is no telling what the upshot of it all might be. No, Mr Lomax, what I am proposing is that Mr Vane should be informed of these suspicions.’

  ‘To what end?’

  ‘Why, so that he might be persuaded into withdrawing his accusations, of course. He should be made to understand that if he insists upon taking the matter to court there might be very unpleasant consequences for himself as well as Mr Lansdale. It should be pointed out that, if everything was brought to light, he would look as guilty as Mr Lansdale. His habit of ingratiating himself with wealthy women is, I am sure, well known…the jurymen might suspect that he had hopes of a legacy from Mrs Lansdale…’