by Regina Darcy
“Yes, certainly, his study, but I never go there unless I am summoned, and I am only summoned there when he is displeased.”
It was in his study, that private chamber where the blue velvet draperies were always drawn, the view beyond the windows never revealed inside the walls, that she had been told of her engagement to Lord Orville.
It was there, she had learned that if she did not obey her brother’s command, she would be sent to the convent in the countryside where their country estate was located.
She would be removed from society, her brother told her, if she did not elect to enter in in the manner expected of a woman. She was to be a wife or a nun. The choice was hers.
It was no choice at all and she had told him so, but the Marquess had dismissed her, leaving her no choice but to part from his company and the room. She had gone to her own bedroom and there she had released her fury and fear in tears to Carla, who had been entirely sympathetic and vocally so, whilst expressing her dismay at the Marquess who had acted so tyrannical toward his sister.
“You may rely upon my experience in matters such as these,” the Earl told her. “The information that he is hiding is in the room which no one enters except at his bidding and in his presence. I am of the same mind as you: I need facts, not speculation, not anecdotes. Your brother was always an exceedingly meticulous student during his school days; I suspect that he has not changed in the years which have followed.”
Frederica had never considered her brother with regard to his organisational traits but it was certainly true that all of his domestic accounts were completed with the most exhausting details; he kept a monthly calculation of what the different prices of meats were so that he was aware of the fluctuations in cost. She had thought it rather pinch-penny of him. But perhaps it was more than that—although he was terribly frugal and she dreaded the monthly review of the household accounts because he was suspicious of even a minuscule change in spending. Now she understood that it was just a reflection of his overall need to control every facet of life.
But he was her brother, she reminded herself. Did she not owe him some affection or regard, even if he was not one to display emotions?
He provided for her needs after all. She chewed her lower lip.
He had been disagreeable because each season had failed to end with his sister engaged to anyone, but it was not only the money spent on her wardrobe which had sparked his anger. It was her reputation as a woman who could not entice a man to marry her. And that, she realised, was not a matter of love for her, but instead stemmed from the alarm that her failure would tarnish his own reputation.
“Lady Beecham,” the Earl spoke quietly, as if they were already engaged in the most dangerous part of his proposal and at risk of being overheard. “Do you believe in justice??
“Of course I do,” she answered, not hiding her annoyance that he had felt obliged to ask such an obvious question.
“Then you wish to see a wrong righted. There is a dead man at the root of this, never forget that. Lord Dalton is dead, but not by my hand. Never forget that. If you do not do what you can to resolve this matter, others will die, myself among them. That means that wickedness will triumph over goodness and evil will supplant virtue. At the heights of power in which these activities are occurring, good and evil are matters which affect the lives of any Englishman or Englishwoman. Will you be a party to the destruction of innocence?”
“You speak as if this were a mere philosophical question to be debated,” she answered with feeling. “It is not so simple as that. He is my brother.”
“And you are his sister? Would he hesitate, if the roles were reversed and you were the one who had the lives of innocent people in your hand?”
She could not imagine such a scenario but even if the circumstances were as the Earl had posed, she knew very well that her brother would see her disposed of without a qualm. He was either devoid of emotion or else, selective in the manner in which he released it.
Was Rowland capable of killing?
She didn’t know.
Was he capable of ordering someone to be killed, hiring a person to do the deed just as he paid someone to put down a horse that was old and sick and unable to be ridden?
Yes, that was more plausible, even though the victims in this case would be human begins.
“If I find evidence of his culpability, and he is caught and sentenced, he will hang.”
“Should an innocent man hang because he is believed to be the culprit? Or should a guilty man, who originated the wrong, face his judgment? I believe that you are a woman who vehemently supports the rights of the oppressed and the innocent, are you not?”
She was such a person, but how could he know that? She had never met him until that evening in Hyde Park.
Sighing, she tucked away an errant hair-strand behind her ear. When all was said and done, the choice was an obvious one.
“You, sir, do not play fair.”
“I do not play at all, Lady Beecham,” he told her somberly. “Not when it is my life which is at stake.”
She fell silent.
George sat across from Lady Beecham, watching her intently. He could not read her countenance, which was unusual for him, as he generally found faces as revealing as printed pages in a book. He knew that she was considering his proposal, weighing the objectives and the costs and deciding what she ought to do. Perhaps she was considering the risks involved as well; he could hardly blame her for doing so. Her brother was not only her flesh and blood, but also her guardian. If there were family ties which pulled against her desire to do justice, there was also that fact that he controlled her by providing for her. She has no income on her own, no home, no relatives to turn to.
What, he wondered, would it be like to be in so dependent a state? He could not imagine it. Even as a boy, he had ferociously defended his liberty, bucking the dictates of family which seemed unnecessary or constricting. As he grew older and was enveloped in the rigidity of school and then the navy, his rebellion had become more practised but also more effective. It was no use asking Devon to obey orders simply because they were orders, his prefects and even his commanding officers discovered. He wanted to know why. And very often, the why had been flawed.
His admiral had come to depend upon George’s whimsical streak, as Great Aunt Elspeth termed it. The schoolmasters and prefects had been less tolerant, and George had been subjected to a fair number of canings for his rebellions.
The Marquess of Cumbershire, George recalled, never had an infraction. Which likely only indicated that he had never been caught, or that his misdeeds were committed against those who dared not speak and not against the general authority which ruled over him.
“Lady Beecham.”
He called her name to summon her attention.
The hour was late for an unchaperoned woman to be alone in a man’s private quarters. If Beecham learned of her late-night visit, he would be within his rights to challenge George to a duel. George expected that he would win, but he doubted that Beecham would heed the traditional rules of engagement and might well fire in advance in order to dispatch his enemy.
“I beg your pardon,” Frederica answered him, rousing herself from her ruminations about her brother.
“I need an answer. If you cannot help me, then I at least need your assurance that this conversation and all that it portends will not end up in publication from the pen of M’sieur Francois de Bois.”
If his intention was to startle Frederica, he failed. She had learned to pretend that the name of the mysterious contributor of radical articles on issues of emancipation, equality and the rights of women was entirely unknown to her.
She could not think how the Earl could possibly have discovered that the articulate gentleman of the Pen and Frederica were the same.
But she did not intend to reward Gilberton’s expert sleuthing with an answer.
“My Lord?”
George smiled. “I read M’sieur de Bois’ writings with great interest. T
here are times when the entire newspaper, excepting only those contributions, is a waste of my time. But then an article appears and I am rewarded for my patience. I wish those articles could appear more often.”
So did Frederica, but it was not easy to submit articles in the guise of a man and she did so sparingly.
Sam Duncan the footman dropped them off at the newspaper office for her, but he did so in disguise, so that the writer’s identity could not be traced through a servant.
“I must trust that this matter will remain entirely between the two of us, with no disclosures to anyone. My life is at risk and yours may be as well,” he continued.
“I assure you that I will not tell anyone.”
“Not even your maid?”
“Carla makes her own assumptions about my activities but we do not discuss her deductions. She has never spoken ill of my brother and yet I am well aware that she disapproves of his treatment of me.”
It would have to do, George thought with a sigh.
Ladies tended to confide in their maids because they spent so much time with them. It was the same for gentlemen and their valets. He would have to rely upon Lady Beecham’s instincts and her talents for survival.
“We have very little time remaining for this endeavour. Slightly more than a week. I am depending upon you to make those days productive. I have done what I can on the outside, but I cannot get inside your brother’s domain to finish the matter.”
Frederica nodded. “The servants are sometimes aware of when he will be away and when he is at home. I can ask them to tell me; it will not seem strange to them to have me ask.”
“You will keep your accustomed schedule,” he told her. “That includes the evening carriage rides with Lord Oakland, I regret to say. However, there is a benefit to Lord Oakland’s rigorous adherence to his itinerary. I know when he will be at Hyde Park, and when he and the carriage driver will leave you alone in the conveyance. We shall be able to exchange information during those times. If there are other occasions where you need to speak to me, you have only to send your servant with the card I gave you and he will find a way to reach you if I cannot. You trust your servants?”
“Implicitly. Carla is entirely faithful and Sam Duncan, the footman, is sweet on her and in addition, he enjoys an adventure.”
“The rest of the staff?”
“Many have been with us since my parents were alive. I believe them to be reliable and loyal.”
“To you or to your brother?”
“My brother does not inspire loyalty.”
“And you do?”
“I only know that they are excellent servants and I have no cause to complain of their work or their conduct. Carla and Sam, of those two I can speak more expansively because . . . well, it was through their efforts that I am able to be here tonight.”
“And you had best return with them before the night turns into the morning or all our efforts will be in vain. Thank you, Lady Beecham,” he said, rising.
Frederica rose as well. She was surprised when the Earl bent in a bow and took her hand to kiss it.
It was a slow kiss that intimated rather more than the gesture of a courtly farewell. She felt her body tremble as his lips brushed her skin and she could not help wondering what those lips would feel like if they were kissing her lips,her. . .
She withdrew her hand. It would not do to succumb to the temptation of this man’s appeal when he was the instrument by which her brother might face the hangman, even if the deeds he was accused off required that he suffer that penalty.
The Earl sent one of his servants to escort her to the carriage so that she did not walk alone. When she was back inside and Sam had set the horse to a sedate trot, Carla looked at her anxiously. “You were not mistreated?”
“No. No, not at all. The Earl is a gentleman.”
Carla sighed in relief. “God be praised for that. We hear such things of the gentry and their goings-on at night.”
It occurred to Frederica that she had not heard much in the way of gossip about the Earl of Gilberton, as if he lived a life outside of the bandying of tales upon which the beau monde fed like ravenous vultures. Perhaps it was because he was an agent of the Crown, engaged in private matters, that he kept himself aloof from the gossipmongers. Or perhaps he lived a life of moderation, which would also be in keeping with the habits of an agent who must needs refrain from the excesses of the ton in order to perform his duties with the requisite skill and circumspection.
Were those delicious kisses he rained upon her hand part of his work? Did he seduce women for the information that they could provide in order to achieve his ends?She bit her lower lip. Whatever the answer, George Devon had left her more perturbed than she had ever been.
SIX
“Upton, have you seen my reticule? I have searched everywhere but I cannot find it.”
“No, Miss, I haven’t seen it.”
“It’s so tiresome—I have left it somewhere and I cannot conceive where I last had it. I have searched in my bedchamber, in every drawer, in my writing desk, even under the bed, in the event that I dropped it somehow. I searched in the dining room and the drawing-room and the morning room but I have been unable, thus far, to find even a trace of it anywhere. ” Recollection suddenly dawned. “I know! I had it with me before I went out with Lord Oakland. I was in my brother’s office before that. I must have left it there. Upton, will you let me into his office so that I may search for it?”
Upton hesitated. Lady Beecham was a gracious young lady and it would have pleased him to say yes without further thought, but the Marquess was particular about anyone being in his office when he was not present. Even the dusting and cleaning of the room had to be accomplished at a designated time which he determined.
“Please, Upton, I must find it. If my brother finds it, he will be most vexed with me for my carelessness,” she pleaded.
That decided it. Upton was of the opinion, shared by the household staff, that the Marquess was an overbearing tyrant to his gentle-natured younger sister.
“Very well, milady, but I must have your word that you will be very careful not to leave a trace of your presence in the room. His Lordship is, as you know, very particular. Here is the key. When you are finished with it, you may return it to me and the Marquess will be none the wiser, as he is out of town.”
Frederica smiled winningly. “Upton, I am in your debt.”
Abashed, the servant shook his head. “Indeed no, milady. You go on in and take your time searching for your reticule. No one will trouble you.”
“Thank you, Upton,” Frederica said with such heartfelt sincerity that the elderly butler felt, as he told Mrs Moore, the housekeeper later that day, that the Marquess was nothing but a bounder for his treatment of his younger sister.
Frederica clutched the key in her hand. She would have to make a copy of it so that she could enter the room whenever the opportunity arose. But first, she needed to familiarise herself with her brother’s documents.
The study was a rather intimidating room, with its dark, oppressive furniture, closed draperies and lack of light. But she didn’t dare light the candle at his desk for fear that he would notice that the wick had burned down since his last stay in the room. Rowland was the kind of person who would notice such things.
The desk drawers, surprisingly, were unlocked. She wondered why; perhaps it was because this room was so entirely Rowland’s that he had no fear that anyone would trespass. She opened the drawers of his desk slowly and cautiously, but they were surprisingly innocent of contents. Quill pens, nibs, bottles of ink, sealing wax. . . nothing that would be of interest to the Earl of Gilberton.
Leaving the desk, she went to the bookshelves which were lined with tomes. The volumes looked very dull, if their spines were any indication of the contents.
Ledgers of his London expenses were arranged in chronological order; she supposed that he had the same records referencing the expenses for the country estate in his study ther
e.
She pulled out the ledger for the current year, expecting to see the household accounts for bills paid to the butcher who provided their meats, the dairy farmer who brought the milk and cheese, the dressmaker’s bills, and others of that ilk. But these accounts were recorded very differently; each page bore someone’s name. Written below in her brother’s very neat, deliberate hand, were dates and amounts. But she could make no sense of it; the names were not familiar to her. Perhaps they would be better known to the Earl.
She supposed he would find a way to meet her that evening when she went with Lord Oakland for their customary drive in Hyde Park.
She had thought that she would be grateful for her fiancé’s dogged adherence to his routine, but now she found it a source of reassurance, for it meant that the Earl would be able to meet with her when Lord Oakland, driver in tow, would halt the carriage at the guardhouse so that he could attend to the call of nature.
Lord Oakland had resolved the matter of leaving her unprotected, after her chiding, by handing her the pistol that he gave to his driver to carry while they were riding.
Frederica was amused by his decision; she thought it quite likely that M’sieur de Bois would have a humorous column to write upon the matter of arming women, once that mysterious gentleman had the time to return to his pen. In the meantime, Frederica promised that she would take great care not to discharge the pistol without cause lest she frighten the horses unnecessarily. The chestnuts, Lord Oakland reminded her once again, as he had done on innumerable successive nights, had cost a pretty penny, much more than he was accustomed to paying for horseflesh. He had done so in order for her to be able to cut a stylish figure as his future wife.
She dutifully expressed her gratitude and watched him depart in the direction of the Guard House.
“He waddles, you know.”
Frederica turned to the other door of the carriage, now open. The Earl of Gilberton was leaning into the opening, his arms resting on the roof of the carriage, his expression amused. The scar on his face somehow accentuated his amusement.