Lord Polbrook threw a harassed look at his brother, which augured well for a better understanding between them, but agreed to present himself at the rendezvous and departed after the Frenchwoman. The moment the door closed, the dowager broke out in a fury.
“Madame Guizot! I’ll warrant the creature has scant right to such a title. How dare he! How dare he bring her here?” Lord Francis rolled his eyes at Ottilia and attempted to mitigate the onslaught. “He saved her life, Mama. Not to mention the lives of those innocent children.”
“I do not forget that, but he need not have insulted Emily’s memory by bringing them into her house. Why could he not have deposited the creatures in a hotel somewhere?”
“I daresay that is just what he would have done, had circumstances been otherwise. Recollect, ma’am, that Randal must have had this in mind when he left for France. It is not his fault that fate struck Emily down at the same moment.”
Sybilla showed no sign of softening. “Not his fault? Pray, how is it not his fault that he became entangled with this woman at the outset?”
Lord Francis sighed. “That is neither here nor there. I hope you do not mean to approach him in this spirit, Mama, for I doubt he will listen to you with any degree of patience.”
The dowager’s glare was directed upon the luckless Lord Francis. “Do you suppose I care about that?” She drew a shuddering breath, clenching her fists in her lap. “I should not mind it so much if he had shown the least vestige of remorse or sorrow. There is poor Candia, distraught, and all he can think of is this — this harlot!”
Moved, Ottilia came quickly to kneel beside the dowager’s chair. She covered those unquiet hands with her own. “Dear Sybilla, it is very upsetting for you, but do pray think a little.”
She saw she had the elder lady’s attention, the distress receding a little as the dowager’s eyes turned upon her.
“Think? Of what would you have me think, Ottilia? Try if you can offer me a modicum of mitigation, for I can see none.”
She was close to tears, and Ottilia took hold of one of her hands and held it between both her own.
“Dear ma’am, Lord Polbrook has not been here. As Lord Francis earlier pointed out, neither he nor Lord Harbisher have seen the ugly sight to which we have all been witness. It is perhaps unreal to him, even the fact of Emily’s death, let alone the brutality with which it was accomplished. Yes, his disinterest is callous, but let us rather suppose him to be thoughtless than uncaring. Had he been the one to find his wife, instead of Lord Francis, I cannot but believe that his sensibilities must have been as harrowed as your own.”
She saw that her words were having an effect. The dowager’s high colour began to die and the shallowness of her breathing lessened. Her fingers released themselves from Ottilia’s and reached out. Ottilia felt her cheek stroked with a hand that shook, and Sybilla’s voice came husky and low.
“My dear, dear friend. You will never know how great a comfort you have been to me. Without your calm good sense, we had all of us been in danger of going to pieces.” With which she put Ottilia gently aside and stood up. Her step was a trifle shaky, and Lord Francis saw it.
“Will you take my arm, Mama?”
She waved him away. “I can manage perfectly, I thank you.”
Still kneeling where the dowager had left her, Ottilia watched her walk out of the room, her back straight and determined, her control magnificent.
“Bravo, Tillie!”
Turning, Ottilia discovered Lord Francis holding out a hand. She took it and allowed him to help her to her feet. Only then did she take in that he had once more used the nickname he had bestowed upon her last night. Her heart glowed.
“By the by,” he went on lightly, “I have had no chance to congratulate you on your handling of Candia. What in the world did you tell her to make her go off with Harriet as meekly as you please?”
Ottilia let out a laugh. “And here I had expected one of your scolds.”
“No, why?”
“I thought you would have objected to my interference, especially when you had all agreed that it was best for Candia to be kept in ignorance of the whole.”
“On the contrary, I was immeasurably grateful to you. None of us knew how to do, though I confess I had qualms about how much you might feel it incumbent upon you to reveal.”
Ottilia sat down in the dowager’s vacated chair and looked up at him where he stood, leaning one arm along the mantel.
“I revealed as little as I could get away with, you may be sure. But it did seem to me to have gone past the point where the poor girl could be kept completely in the dark. She had sensed too much.”
He sighed. “I am to blame. I should have packed Harriet off with her upon the following day.”
“You could hardly have done so, my lord. She was not fit to travel, such a state as she was in.”
He grinned. “Thank you. I stand corrected and can only be glad of it. What did you tell her?”
“That her mother had died an unnatural death and that we were doing everything we could to find out who had killed her. She was horribly stricken, of course, but I think also relieved.”
“Relieved?”
“It is not so surprising, my lord, for —”
With an impatient gesture, he flung away a little from the fireplace. “If you don’t stop ‘my lording’ me, woman, I will not be answerable for the consequences. We have surely moved too far for that.”
Too far toward what? But Ottilia did not say it. She could feel her heart beating unnaturally fast. She strove for calm.
“Very well, if you desire it. In private at least, I will address you by name, but you must excuse me if I keep to formality in the presence of others.”
His dark gaze was upon her, its expression unfathomable. “Afraid of scandal, Tillie?”
Ottilia’s breath stuck in her throat. Would there might be cause! She essayed a nonchalance she was far from feeling.
“It would scarcely be seemly, as your mother’s companion, to be seen to be upon terms of — of —”
The word would not leave her tongue. Lord Francis supplied it.
“Intimacy?”
She let out a faint gasp. “I was going to say ‘friendship’.”
“Were you indeed?”
Ottilia felt her breathing to be quite as shallow as that of the dowager so recently. She controlled its passage as best she could, and firmly brought the subject to an end.
“We are wandering from the point.”
For a moment he did not answer. Then he withdrew his gaze from hers and threw himself down into the chair opposite.
“Yes. You were saying?”
As Ottilia had not the remotest recollection of what precisely she had been saying, she was nonplussed. “What was I saying?”
Lord Francis eyed her coolly. “That Candia was relieved on hearing of the murder.”
“Yes, just so,” Ottilia said quickly, feeling relief herself. “She had sensed there was more to her mother’s death than she knew and perhaps it was of benefit to her to know she had not imagined it.”
He nodded, his manner seeming more normal. “That I can appreciate. And the Runner?”
Ottilia shrugged. “There I had little choice. I had to tell her that as her father’s departure had coincided with the event, he had naturally been put under a false suspicion. I made out that it was all a mistake and would very soon be sorted out. But it provided the perfect excuse for her departure. Indeed, your sister jumped upon it, suggesting that while her father’s attention was taken up with this matter it would be less of a worry to him to know his daughter was well taken care of.”
“Oh, that was well done of Harriet! Bless her, she has not a tithe of your acumen, but she was ever quick.”
This encomium of the brother for the sister amused Ottilia. She suspected the bond between the two was greater than that felt by either for their older brother.
The thought of Lord Polbrook recalled Ottilia to the matter
at hand. She jumped up.
“Francis, what are we about? We shall miss the half of it, if we do not hurry.”
He had risen at once, but at this he frowned. “What are you talking of?”
“Your mother and Randal. I take it this room adjoins the library?”
For a moment he stared at her, and then a delighted grin split his face. “Have I not said time and again that you are an atrocious wretch? You mean to eavesdrop.”
Ottilia giggled. “Well, of course. How else are we to know just what was said. Do you forget we are pledged to prove your brother’s innocence? How can we do so if we don’t witness his statement?”
At this, Francis jerked towards the inner wall and turned, throwing out a hand. “After you.”
She went towards him and took a place at the wall, putting her ear against the wallpaper. A faint murmuring came through the intervening stucco and brick. Sighing, she shifted back.
“This will not do. A door will work better.”
Francis frowned. “You can’t stand with your ear to the door in the lobby.”
“Why not?” She was already crossing to the door. “Pray bring a candle, if you please, Francis.”
She saw him hesitate, but continued on her way. A muttered expletive reached her and Ottilia let out a laugh as Francis flung over to the escritoire in the corner and seized a candelabrum that stood there.
“I feel like a conspirator,” he said as Ottilia preceded him from the room.
Ottilia threw an amused look back at him. “Well, you are one.”
“Yes, and I can see that association with you is rapidly undermining my moral sense.” His eye gleamed. “It is well for you to giggle, woman, but there is no doubt you are a debilitating influence. Ah, here we are.”
Slipping into the vestibule, Ottilia put a finger to her lips and tiptoed into the lobby, where a short wooden settle was placed in the alcove opposite the servants’ staircase. Ottilia indicated it and lifted her brows in question.
“A convenience for persons engaged to see Randal on business,” said Francis, his voice low.
Wasting no more time, Ottilia crept up to the door and leaned in, setting her ear to the woodwork. She could hear the murmur of voices, but could not make out the words. Pulling back, she stared at the door, thinking.
“Well?”
Ottilia looked round. “Francis, I am a little thirsty.”
He frowned. “Why did you not say so before we came?”
She shrugged. “I was not thirsty then.”
“Can’t it keep?”
Ottilia smiled at him. “Would it be too much to ask you to fetch me a glass of water? A tumbler, if you will.”
He looked disconcerted. Ottilia waited.
“Are you trying to get rid of me, by any chance?”
She laughed, and quickly smothered the sound with her hand. “Of course not.”
He eyed her with suspicion, she thought. And then capitulated, turning towards the dining parlour. Then he checked and came back, speaking low. “If I return and find you gone, Tillie, I shall be very much displeased.”
“But why should I go anywhere?”
“Heaven knows! Why do you do anything mad? I don’t trust you an inch.”
But he went off to the vestibule and disappeared through the dining parlour doorway, and Ottilia once again put her ear to the door, pressing flat and covering her other ear with one hand. It was better, but not good enough.
From what she was able to hear, it was clear Sybilla was holding a tight rein on her temper, for her tones were taut and clipped. The marquis, on the other hand, sounded alternately blustering and wheedling. Striving to make out words, Ottilia mentally urged speed upon the absent Francis.
When she heard his step, she shifted back and looked round. Francis was possessed of a little silver tray, upon which reposed an empty tumbler, a small jug of water, and a glass of wine.
His brows rose as her gaze came back up to his. “If I am to act the part of a spy, I require fortification.”
“I quite understand.” Her demure tone deserted her, however, as Francis set down the tray on the settle and lifted the jug. “No, don’t pour!”
Darting to the tray, Ottilia seized the tumbler. Throwing him a look brimful of mischief, she returned to her post and set the tumbler’s open maw carefully to the door. Then, aware of Francis’s astonished gaze, she put her ear to the flat glass end.
Instantly, the voices within the room beyond became audible, albeit of an oddly echoing quality.
“At least you admit this woman is more to you than a mere acquaintance,” the dowager was saying. “Will you then have me believe that these children are not?”
“I don’t care what you believe, ma’am,” came in anger from her son.
Sybilla’s tone sharpened. “Randal, are they your children?”
There was a perceptible pause. Then a rough, long-drawn sigh. “Yes.”
Ottilia jumped, her shock tinged with satisfaction. Had she not guessed as much? She glanced towards Francis, ready to convey this intelligence, and found him shaking with suppressed laughter.
Startled, she abandoned her position. “What in the world is the matter?”
Francis’s eyes danced. “Can you ask? Unscrupulous is what you are, Tillie. But inspired! How did you think of it? And why not say so instead of pretending to be thirsty?”
He spoke in a whisper and she responded in like manner. “I thought you might refuse to fetch the glass if I said what I really wanted it for.”
“Only too likely, you wretch. How do you come to know this boys’ trick?”
She had to control a spurt of laughter. “Precisely through boys, of course. My nephews.”
He struck a couple of fingers to his forehead. “I had forgot them.”
Ottilia put out a finger. “I must listen. Your brother has just confessed the Frenchwoman’s children are his.”
“What?”
“Hush!”
He lowered his voice. “Are you sure?”
Ottilia already had her ear back in place. “Your mother asked him outright and he admitted it.”
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Francis look at the glass in his hand and then toss off the wine in one quick motion. But her attention was reclaimed by the discussion going forward on the other side of the door.
“Don’t you see, Mama? That’s why I went. I knew they were in danger, for Violette had written of the unrest in the area and her fears for their safety.”
“I understand so much, but could you not have spoken of it?”
“I had the intention of telling Emily that night. I knew I must bring Violette and the children to England. I could not see how it was to be done with the same secrecy I was able to maintain while they were in France. An establishment had to be set up, and —”
“Wait one moment. You intended to tell Emily? Distress her? For what? What was your intention, Randal?” Suspicion ran rife in the dowager’s tone.
“I have told you. I meant to fetch my family out of France.”
“Your family? And what of your legitimate family? Don’t tell me. You had it in mind to abandon them, didn’t you? Didn’t you?”
“Abandon? No!”
“What, were you going to live a double life as you have done these many years?”
“And why should I not?” The marquis’s fury erupted and Ottilia had a glimpse of what must have occurred during his quarrels with his wife. “What sort of life have I had with the woman you and my father picked out for me? Why should I continue to suffer the indignities of her faithlessness?”
“Her faithlessness?”
“I did not conduct my amour in the full light of public scorn. Yes, if you will have it, I wanted to leave her. I was going to tell her so that night.”
“Desertion! Oh, Randal, how could you?”
In the pause that ensued, Ottilia lifted her head with the intention of passing the gist of this information to Francis, but found him close beside
her, his ear glued to his wineglass, which was fastened tight to the woodwork. She could not think his glass would prove as effective as her tumbler, but the grim look in his face told her he had heard enough.
Her heart reached out to him. She wanted to cradle his hurt and croon him to comfort. Instead she applied her ear to her improvised listening device as the voices started up again.
“To think of dragging your name, your children’s names, through the mire! What had you in mind, divorce?”
“Separation rather.”
“I am sick to my stomach.”
Sybilla’s voice had sunk, and the desolation in it caused Ottilia to look quickly to Francis. That he was cut to the heart was patent. Without thinking, Ottilia reached out a hand to him. He saw it, took it, gripped it as might a drowning man. But he did not shift from his position.
“There is no need to take it so, ma’am,” the marquis was saying, his voice rough and strained.
“Is there not? I tell you, boy, if it were not for the despicable manner of poor Emily’s death, I could almost wish her joy of being spared all this. And you! You stand there, selfrighteous in your sins, without a vestige of realisation of the consequences of your deeds.”
“I know, I know,” came with impatience. “But I would risk all for Violette’s life.”
“And what of your own, my poor deluded son?”
His mother’s acid note had the effect of altering his tone. “What do you mean?”
“I am talking of your life. You appear to have little understanding of your own danger.”
“Pooh! What danger? Oh, you’re talking of that officious little Runner, are you? I’ll soon send him to the rightabout.”
“And will you send your peers to the rightabout? Will you have an answer for them when they know you meant to put aside your wife for the sake of your French mistress? You may as well have set the noose about your neck yourself!”
In the deadly silence that followed, Ottilia could almost feel the thickness of the stupor that enwrapped the marquis. She came away and looked at Francis, only then realising he had released her hand.
“He has taken in at last the danger in which he stands,” she said quietly.
Francis nodded. He shifted away from the wall and set the wineglass down on the tray. Then he slumped into the settle beside it, his shoulders hunched, his chin sinking half to his chest.
The Lady Fan Series: Books 1-3 (Sapere Books Boxset Editions) Page 28