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An Infamous Betrayal

Page 11

by Lynn Messina


  The wrench of pain she felt was immediate, and fearful that she would succumb to a humiliating display after all, she frantically began to list the positive aspects of her life that had comforted her earlier: her mother, Lady Abercrombie, the list, the Lord Byron factor, Mr. Wilson in Mrs. Otley’s bed with the yellow damask curtains and his remarkably pale skin and his snuffbox and his—

  Hold on, she thought as she reviewed the scene in her head, the snuffbox.

  The snuff!

  It seemed so obvious now she could hardly believe it hadn’t occurred to her the moment she’d seen the box. Of course the poison had been added to the tobacco. The scent of the sort would cover any smell naturally emitted by the nux vomica, and the likelihood of the wrong person ingesting it was very low.

  You fool, she thought, annoyed that she had missed it.

  Impatient now with her own obliviousness, she carefully reviewed everything about the snuff and the box it came in. From this vantage point, both seemed like unjustifiable extravagances for a former steward. The price of Lord Penwortham’s mixture was very dear, she knew, for Aunt Vera frequently objected to her uncle’s insistence on using it. Could he not find another type that cost less and didn’t smell quite so much of bergamot?

  Likewise, the box itself had been of excellent quality. Although it wasn’t laden with jewels, its emerald-green cloisonné work was very fine and detailed and the enamel was inlaid with gold. It had not been bought from a stall in Spitalfields market.

  Perhaps Mrs. Otley had given it to him as a gift? Could she have stumbled across it while going through her late husband’s things and decided it made a wonderful lover’s trinket?

  Did that explanation make sense?

  No, she thought slowly, recalling Mr. Otley’s disgust of tobacco, which he had cataloged in detail in the journal he kept. The snuffbox had most certainly not been his.

  So how had the valuable object come to be in the possession of a former opium smuggler?

  Mrs. Otley mentioned that he had returned from India with several thousand pounds with which he intended to buy a farm. Would he have spent some of his precious savings on a vanity item like a snuffbox or would he—

  “Miss Hyde-Clare,” the duke said firmly, insisting on her attention, which had plainly wandered. “Despite your opinion of me, I actually do know the varied meanings of the furrowed brow, and right now yours is wrinkled in consternation. You are at once focused and distracted. I would like to know what the cause is.”

  Oh, wouldn’t you just, Bea thought cynically, well aware of how strongly he would object to the information she was privately perusing. But it was none of his business, of course, for she was nothing to him but a baffling compulsion and she had complied with the promise she’d given. The dead body of Mr. Wilson did not happen to cross her path. It had been deliberately placed in it by Mr. Skeffington. If only the duke had been clever enough to include corpses of deliberate placement in their compact.

  The fact of her investigation made her feel as though she had an advantage over the duke. He had his delightful Lady Victoria, with all her insipid perfection and preening beauty, and she had purpose, resolution and an interesting challenge.

  Giving him the attention he’d requested, she answered honestly. “Snuff.”

  If he was particularly struck by the seemingly random subject, his expression revealed none of it. “Snuff?” he asked mildly.

  “Yes, I’m thinking about snuff,” she said slowly, examining him consideringly. He was a high-flying Corinthian who knew every aspect of male society intimately and would certainly know all the snuff dealers in London. But how to word the question without raising his suspicions?

  The answer was obvious: her dear uncle.

  Yes, of course.

  “I would like to buy Uncle Horace a gift,” she explained, pleased with her quick thinking, for the idea had several advantages, not the least of which would be to gain Kesgrave’s help in the investigation without his knowledge. “It’s his birthday soon, and I’m so grateful to him and my aunt for accepting my explanation for the bruises without asking any questions. If they had just pursued the matter even a tiny bit, my story would have fallen apart, but they remained almost willfully ignorant about the whole thing. So I’d like to buy my uncle a lovely gift for his birthday. I thought perhaps snuff. He is very fond of a particular type. I believe it’s called Lord Penwortham’s mixture. Are you familiar with it?”

  “I know it,” he said amiably. “Your uncle has luxurious taste in snuff. That sort can be bought from only one dealer, on Haymarket. It’s quite extravagant. Are you sure you don’t want to buy him something more reasonably set such as a sleeping cap?”

  The idea of her buying her uncle something so drearily practical made her giggle. “A sleeping cap? He will think I’m punishing him for his interest rather than thanking him for his indifference. No, I am set on the snuff. I know the price is dear. My aunt frequently grumbles at the expense, which is what makes it the perfect gift, as it’s ultimately for both of them. You say the dealer is on Haymarket?”

  “Yes, Dupasquier and Morny. It’s an old established house at number thirty-three,” he said.

  As she committed the information to memory, she pondered what her tactic should be to discover the information she needed. If the duke’s estimation was accurate and the snuff was indeed an indulgence, then perhaps it would not have a wide distribution but rather a small group of habitual users, which would supply her with a compact catalog of suspects to consider.

  It was, she conceded, an unlikely avenue of investigation, but she felt confident it would bear fruit. It had to, for at the moment she had no other theory for how the victim ingested the poison, and she knew it wasn’t outlandish to suppose Mr. Wilson had taken the snuff soon after waking. Her uncle frequently partook first thing in the morning, and if for some reason he did not, her aunt would grumble about his crankiness. The compulsion of tobacco users worked to her advantage, for it meant that Mr. Wilson had not had the snuffbox long in his possession. He had probably gotten it yesterday or the day before. If only Mrs. Otley had been some help in accounting for his daily movements. Then she would be able to re-create his last few days and pinpoint the most likely source of the poisoned tobacco. Hopefully, searching his rooms at the Melbourne would provide some insight into how he spent his time.

  And the buyers, she thought. If Monsieurs Dupasquier and Morny could be convinced to reveal the names of their clients who had recently purchased Lord Penwortham’s mixture, she would know exactly whom to investigate next.

  But how to persuade them?

  She would need a compelling story, of course, something heart wrenching to earn their sympathy.

  “Miss Hyde-Clare,” Kesgrave said sharply.

  Yet again, she forced herself to focus on the man before her, who seemed at once annoyed and expectant. What was he expecting from her? Once she had understood the reasoning behind his request for an apology, she had given it immediately. What else could he want?

  And then she recalled that he had very helpfully provided her with important information. “Oh, yes, your grace. Thank you. I will visit Monsieurs Dupasquier and Morny posthaste to buy my uncle his gift. I very much appreciate your help.”

  A faint smile appeared on his lips as he shook his head. “You have accused me many times of having too high an opinion of myself, and I must congratulate you on discovering the most effective tactic to cut me down to size. No, brat, I was not demanding that you thank me for the information about snuff dealers. I was requesting an answer to my question: Would you do me the honor of the next dance?”

  “Dance with you?” she said, staring at him in astonishment.

  After all of Lady Abercrombie’s excellent work to keep her standing upright and her own monumental effort not to collapse into a mound of self-pity, he wanted her to now place herself in his arms? He had paraded Lady Victoria’s perfection before her, admitted with aggressive familiarity to having ways of d
ealing with the young heiress and made no indication that their expected announcement was not in fact imminent.

  Did he think she was impervious to all emotion?

  It was some consolation, she supposed, that he didn’t consider her susceptible to his charms or himself vulnerable to her schemes. She recalled the duke she’d first met at Lakeview Hall, seemingly fixated on the idea that conscienceless harpies were constantly trying to trap him into marriage. Clearly, she was in a different category, and although it was flattering to be thought of as something resembling a friend, the treatment was still what she had feared the most when she’d said goodbye after the resolution of the Fazeley investigation. To be treated like just another person in his life when he was in fact the most important person in hers was simply unbearable.

  “No, I can’t dance with you,” Bea said frankly. “It’s out of the question.”

  Despite his claim to wounded vanity, Kesgrave seemed only amused by her rejection and calmly asked her why it could not be considered.

  Since the true answer could not be given, Bea found herself at a loss to explain. Again, she took comfort in the fact that he seemed genuinely confused by her response, for it meant he had no idea of the turmoil roiling inside her. To keep it that way, she said, “My ankle.”

  He raised an eyebrow skeptically. “Your ankle?”

  “Yes, my ankle. I twisted it”—the secret to a successful lie, she reminded herself, was to keep it vague—“earlier. I’ve been limping around the ballroom quite dreadfully. It’s the reason I stayed here while Flora went to the refreshment table to get us lemonade. I’m surprised you haven’t noticed. It’s really quite embarrassing how awkwardly I’ve been lumbering around.”

  That, at least, was true, she thought. She’d been lumbering awkwardly all evening.

  “I’ve noticed only your usual grace,” he said softly.

  It was just flattery, Spanish coin tossed to a peasant, but her heart fluttered and her mind emptied of thought. While the orchestra started the first notes of a waltz, she gazed at him blankly, unable to make her usual objection to insincere praise. Apparently in no rush to find another partner, he lingered there, his eyes focused on her, amused and watchful.

  Bea thought it was likely they both would have stood there all night if Flora’s sudden appearance hadn’t disconcerted them both.

  “Good evening, your grace. I did not expect to see you talking to Bea,” she said, darting a smug glance at her cousin. Obviously, she wasn’t at all surprised to find him there and had been intentionally slow in procuring their lemonade.

  Kesgrave greeted Flora cheerfully and assured her that he could not in all good conscience abandon her cousin until she’d come back. “Not with her ankle,” he added.

  “Her what?” Flora asked, baffled.

  “Her twisted ankle, which has forced her to limp around the ballroom quite dreadfully,” the duke said seriously. “I’m sure you’ve noticed. It is, after all, the reason you went to the refreshment table on her behalf.”

  “Oh, her ankle,” Flora said with needlessly exaggerated emphasis. “I thought you said rankle, and I was confused, as I don’t believe Bea has made anyone angry this evening. As far as I can tell she’d been the perfect guest. But, yes, her ankle has been a problem. It’s a wonder she can walk at all. But I’m here to support her with”—she held up the two glasses—“lemonade and whatever else she might need.”

  As accomplished a performance as this was, the duke didn’t even pretend to be swayed. “You are delightful,” he said to Flora before making his goodbyes. He bowed over Bea’s hand. “A pleasure as always, Miss Hyde-Clare. I’m sure I will see you very soon.”

  Bea, however, very much doubted it, for now that he had Lady Victoria and she had Mr. Wilson, she intended to stay as far away from him as possible. Nevertheless, she nodded at his comment as she bid him good night.

  Satisfied, he walked away, and as soon as he was well clear of earshot, Flora turned to her cousin and chortled with delight. “Now tell me he isn’t smitten.”

  Although Bea could tell her and offer convincing evidence in support, she drank her lemonade and held her tongue. It would be only a matter of days before the Duke of Kesgrave announced his engagement to the Tavistock heiress. Then she would not have to say a thing.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The old established firm of Dupasquier and Morny had a simple, elegant shop front, with a pair of bow windows beneath the rasp and crown—the mark of a snuff dealer—and a sign declaring itself a purveyor of fine tobacco. Beatrice, who felt uncomfortable dressed as a lady’s maid, particularly because Annie’s dress was a little too tight on her, especially around the bosom, appreciated its restrained design and felt positive she would find a practical and sympathetic merchant inside.

  Well, not exactly positive, she conceded silently as she approached the door. Her mood was closer to optimistic. She would get nowhere with her ploy if the vendor turned out to be a tyrannical and apathetic businessman more concerned with protecting his clients than saving a wretched serving girl from poverty and deprivation. Then she would be at a loss as to how to proceed other than wait until nightfall and break into the shop to examine its books.

  Given how awkward she was in the bright light of day, she could only imagine how clumsy she would be in the dark gloom of night.

  Hopefully, it wouldn’t come to that.

  It had already been a difficult morning of disappointments, as her second interview with Mrs. Otley had yielded few results. The widow bristled at questions about her finances, which Bea considered vital to understanding her current situation, and professed complete ignorance of the cloisonné snuffbox. Upon discovering that her lover had been in possession of something of significant value, however, she insisted it was hers and accompanied Bea down to the dank wine cellar to assume immediate custody of it. Unwilling to give up the item without first testing its contents for poison, Bea held fast, and a minor tussle ensued. In the struggle the enamel box fell and emptied its contents onto the dirt floor. Both women reached for it at the same time, but the widow swung out with her right arm to block Bea’s progress while her left arm swooped down to grab the item, inadvertently scattering what was left of the tobacco across a wide swath of floor.

  But was it inadvertent?

  Awake to the possibility that the widow’s actions had in fact been carefully calculated to obscure the collection of information, Bea accused Mrs. Otley of intentionally thwarting her investigation. “It’s as though you don’t even want to know who killed your lover.”

  Mrs. Otley opened her eyes in surprise at the charge as she hid the snuffbox in the folds of her dress. “Can there be any doubt? I thought for sure I’d made myself clear on the matter. Very well, let me speak plainly: I didn’t care who killed Otley then, and I don’t care who killed Charles now. There seems to be no point in investigating all of these dead men other than to subject me to impertinent questions. I cannot see the point, for dead is dead is dead.”

  Swallowing a growl of frustration, Bea had bounded up the stairs and out of the house.

  Now, however, as she opened the door to the snuff shop, she wondered if the spill had been intentional. Perhaps the real reason Mrs. Otley didn’t want her to discover the name of the culprit was she already knew it. The only pause that theory gave her was the overwhelming brutality of the death. Although Bea could imagine the widow dosing her lover to remove the complication of his existence from her life with alarming ease, she could not conceive of her going about it in such a violent manner. Unless Mrs. Otley wanted him to suffer, she would have used laudanum and put him to gentle, everlasting sleep.

  What cause could she have had to want him to suffer? The servants had reported no discord, and they seemed well abreast of most household drama.

  As she stepped into the shop, Bea put these thoughts from her head and focused on the matter at hand, namely ingratiating herself with a pair of snuff dealers. She noted at once the refined interior, w
ith its wooden screen in the style of the Adams brothers dividing the front section from the back and its walls lined with oak shelves filled with canisters of tobacco.

  Although her steps were measured as she crossed the threshold, as soon as her eyes alighted on the gentleman behind the counter, she adopted a frenzied manner. The distance to where he stood was minor, but she ran across the floor as if traversing a great field. Then she pressed herself against the wood and begged him to help her in her best French accent, which was, she readily admitted, a little less than horrible.

  “Monsieur, monsieur, you must,” she said breathily. “You must ’elp me or I will be tossed on ze street like ze littlest urchin child, unloved and forsaken.”

  The man behind the counter—white-haired and dignified with a key that hung around his neck from a chain and a narrow scar above his lip—held himself rigidly still as she agitatedly drummed her fingers against his counter. “Please calm yourself, mademoiselle. This is a respectable business establishment.”

  “I know, I know, it is ze finest snuff shop in all of London,” Bea said, grateful for the dim lighting because it hid her blush. With every melodramatic word she uttered, she grew more and more mortified by her own performance. “This is why I’m here. Because this is ze business that provided this.” From her reticule she produced a small square canister that she’d borrowed from her uncle’s study and placed it on the counter with a heavy thump. “It was delivered to my mistress with a card, but I lost ze card, you see. It blew away in the wind. Flut, floot, gone! I try to chase it but it goes places I cannot, under carriages and horses’ hoofs. Then it stops and it lands in horse extract—how do you say, manure—and I cannot read ze card anymore. My mistress finds out ze card is ruined, she turns very cross. She fires me. Please, monsieur…”

 

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