An Infamous Betrayal

by Lynn Messina

  During her last investigation, she had availed herself of her cousin’s wardrobe and her uncle’s steward’s spectacles and presented herself at Lord Fazeley’s residence as an employee of the duke’s. The ruse had afforded her all the time she needed to rummage through the deceased earl’s things and had provided coverage when she insisted on interviewing the publisher of his memoir.

  It was immediately following those events that she returned home sporting two black eyes and falsely confessed to attending the funeral of her dead former beau. Her aunt, more appalled by her brazenness than the abuse she’d suffered, promptly confiscated her clothes and threw them into the trash, much to the displeasure of Russell, who recognized his shoes and thought it was grossly unfair that he be deprived of his favorite pair of pumps just because his cousin had secretly commandeered them. His mother, alas, was too irate to listen to reason.

  Although her cousin had grumblingly accepted defeat, Beatrice had snuck downstairs late at night and reclaimed the items.

  For this reason, she was able give this query a positive reply. Yes, she said, she would go as Mr. Wright. In the best possible arrangement, they would pay their visit immediately after she’d changed, but the truth was, she’d been gone from the house for too long already. Over breakfast that morning, she’d professed herself exhausted from the previous evening’s festivities and announced she would spend the day in quiet pursuits. As a bulwark against her aunt’s interest, she invited the other woman to sit with her in the parlor and read. To no one’s surprise, Aunt Vera declined the pleasure and insisted her niece find somewhere else to indulge the activity, as the drawing room might be needed at any moment to host social calls. Flora, ever her staunch defender, argued that her cousin was still young enough to respond quickly and could absent herself from the drawing room in less than a minute if it were necessary. This argument held no sway with Aunt Vera, and Bea, fighting a grin, apologized for the presumption and announced she would read in her room.

  That scene had taken place hours ago now, and sooner or later someone would knock on her door to see how she fared. When that happened, it would be better for everyone if she was at least in the house.

  But it was not just her schedule that needed to be consulted, she reminded herself as she proposed a visit to Clifford Street for the next morning. The Duke of Kesgrave was an important personage with many responsibilities, and surely the obligations that claimed his time were as restrictive of his movements as a house full of family members was of hers.

  Nevertheless, he agreed easily to an eleven o’clock visit to the Mercer Brothers and even allowed that she seemed more than capable of getting to the establishment on her own.

  Congenially, they shook hands on it, and then Kesgrave, knowing his grandmother would expect nothing less, insisted on returning Beatrice to her home. She protested, fearful that his coach might accidentally be spotted by a curious inhabitant looking out of a window, and after much wrangling, which occupied the whole of the carriage ride, settled on a compromise. Bea was dropped off at the corner of her street by a disapproving Jenkins, who, having not been consulted on the matter, felt her dress was far too revealing for such an arrangement. He escorted her to the residence and watched as she cautiously snuck into the house through the servants’ entrance.

  Bea spared him a brief wave and darted quickly through the hallways until she reached her room. She had barely closed the door behind her before Flora knocked on it to see if she felt well rested enough to join her for a pot of tea. Dashing to her bedside table, Bea grabbed the book she’d been reading the day before and rushed back to the door to open it, freezing in place with her hand on the knob as she realized she was still wearing her maid’s dress. Frantically, she made up a lie about her formerly bruised eyes paining her again and requested that a tray with tea be left by her door.

  Confused but sympathetic, her cousin agreed.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The Duke of Kesgrave was so accustomed to the deference owed his station that he did not immediately understand that his request was being denied by the proprietor of the Mercer Brothers. Given a lifetime of acquiescence that ensured his path always remained as smooth as it was straight, he naturally assumed it was Mr. Hamish who failed to comprehend the situation.

  “I would like to know the names of the customers who recently purchased Lord Penwortham’s mixture from you,” he explained for a third time, stressing a different term as he spoke, as if the emphasis he put on particular words was at the root of the problem rather than the merchant’s inviolate code of ethics.

  An anxious fellow who had bought the establishment from the elder Mr. Mercer after his younger sibling died unexpectedly, Mr. Hamish colored slightly as it became clear he was going to have to be more plainspoken in his refusal. “You must see, your grace, why it’s untenable,” he said, then immediately tried to soften his language. “I mean, I beg you to see the matter from my perspective. That is, from another perspective. I am the proprietor of this establishment, and as such I have a certain responsibility to my customers. The sanctity of the client list must remain intact. If somehow word spread that I’d shared information with you, I could stand to lose a significant portion of my business. I’ve worked very hard this past year to earn the trust of the Mercer Brothers’ clients.”

  As Mr. Hamish was so impertinent as to stand at the same height as the duke, Kesgrave was unable to peer down at him, but sneering across at him served the same function. “Do you dare to suggest that I would not keep my word to tell no one about this exchange?”

  Bea rather thought a reminder that he was the Duke of Kesgrave would not have gone amiss in the derisively asked question, but she also knew it would have been for naught. Mr. Hamish was resolute.

  Terrified, she noted, observing how Mr. Hamish’s nose, a not inconsiderable appendage, jumped up and down like a scared rabbit’s, and yet he held his ground.

  Although the apprehensive shopkeeper stood between Bea and the information she sought, she’d been the focus of Kesgrave’s contempt enough times to recognize the bravery it took to stand firm. Even as she wished he would succumb to the duke’s pressure, she wanted to leave him with his courage intact.

  As irreconcilable as the two goals seemed, Bea, spotting Mr. Hamish’s sales ledger on the counter behind him, realized it was possible to achieve both aims. All she needed was for Kesgrave to distract the proprietor long enough for her to examine the book’s pages.

  But how to apprise the duke of the change in plans?

  Mr. Hamish’s flush deepened as he rushed to assure Kesgrave that he did not mean to imply he wasn’t to be trusted. “Obviously, you’re a man of honor, and as such I implore you to understand the policy of circumspection that I must adhere to for the sake of my clients and my business. I know you would expect nothing less from Monsieurs Dupasquier and Morny, to whom you give your custom. They are quite renowned and understandably achieved their reputation through discretion and providing their clients with a superior product. I, too, provide my clients with a superior product,” he said, his nose ceasing to jump so wildly as he seemed to grow less agitated. “Indeed, I think you might find our morning blend with attar of roses to your liking. While you are here, I could give you a sample.”

  Bea, who had been trying to figure out how to arrange subtle communication with the duke, stared at Mr. Hamish with newfound respect, for he’d hardly seemed bold enough to seize the opportunity to attain an impressive new client. And yet there he was, audaciously making a bid for the duke’s custom.

  “Are you proposing a bargain? If I purchase your morning blend, you will provide me with the information I seek?” Kesgrave asked consideringly. He didn’t sound at all opposed to the idea, which made sense to Bea. Wealth, after all, was just another component of his prestige, and he would accept genuflection to his net worth as much as to his title.

  Mr. Hamish, however, turned white at the suggestion that he was receptive to bribery and began to stammer an apol
ogy, explaining through painful starts and stops that he had never meant to give the impression that he was proposing an exchange. He’d simply been making a feeble attempt to advertise his wares in a respectable fashion, which he could see, in retrospect, had been a poorly thought out decision on his part.

  On and on he rambled, and while Bea found it difficult to listen to him talk with such apparent discomfort, she was grateful for the extra time it gave her to come up with a plan to distract him. The sales ledger was so close she felt as if she could almost extend her arm just far enough to reach it. And yet it was on the other side of the counter, so any attempt to retrieve it would require leaping over the wooden barrier, an action that was sure to attract attention.

  “I don’t know how…this misunderstanding is entirely my fault,” he continued as the color slowly returned to his face. “But I must assure you…my policy of circumspection…I would never—”

  And then suddenly Bea had it, the idea she needed, and she interrupted his apology to ask where it was posted.

  Mr. Hamish, who, in his agitation, had forgotten the Duke of Kesgrave had been accompanied by his steward, looked at Bea in surprise. “Excuse me?”

  “Your policy of circumspection,” she explained in Mr. Wright’s bright tenor. “I don’t see a sign.”

  The snuff dealer stared at her as if she were mad, but Kesgrave, to his credit, merely drew his eyebrows in curiosity and waited to see what she would do next.

  “If circumspection is the store’s policy, should there not be a sign posted to that effect?” she asked sensibly. “How do I know it’s the store’s policy? Must I take your word for it?”

  “Must you take…” Mr. Hamish trailed off as he looked to the duke, uncertain if he could really be expected to answer such an absurd question.

  “If you don’t have a sign outlining your policy, then you must make one,” Bea said firmly with a speaking glance at Kesgrave. Then she tilted her head and shifted her eyes meaningfully to the book on the counter behind Mr. Hamish. She could not tell if he understood the pantomime entirely, but he grasped enough of her plan to second her statement.

  “My steward is correct,” he announced. “You should have a sign stating the store’s policy. That is, I believe, standard procedure for the best London shops. Is yours posted somewhere private where the public cannot read it? Perhaps in your office?”

  “I don’t have a sign, your grace,” Mr. Hamish admitted with a strange mix of confusion and shame.

  “Then Mr. Wright is correct. You must write one,” Kesgrave said.

  “At once,” Bea said forcefully. “You must write a sign at once explaining your store’s policy with clarity and simplicity for all your customers to see.”

  “I must write a sign that explains my store’s policy is circumspection?” Mr. Hamish asked, bewildered by the assignment.

  “Yes,” Kesgrave said. “Go fetch a sheet of paper and a pen for writing the sign. I will wait.”

  Somehow, this development was even more difficult for him to reconcile. “You, the Duke of Kesgrave, will wait here while I fetch paper and a pen to write a sign that says my store’s policy is circumspection?”

  “Yes, but do hurry,” Kesgrave said impatiently. “I don’t have all day.”

  Mr. Hamish’s whole body jerked in response to this command, and darting another perplexed look over his shoulder, he scurried toward the small office that occupied the back corner of the shop.

  As soon as the snuff dealer’s back was turned, Kesgrave took three steps to Bea, leaned over and said quietly, “The ledger?”

  “The ledger,” she affirmed. “I’ll look at it while he writes the sign. You hold his attention.”

  He barely had time to nod before the proprietor was back with a sheet of paper, pen and inkwell. He placed all three items on the counter and said to the duke. “To be clear, I’m writing a sign that says: ‘My policy is circumspection’?”

  Kesgrave picked up the sheet of paper and walked several feet away from where the ledger sat on the back shelf. “Yes, but do it here,” he said, “by the window. The light is better.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” Mr. Hamish said, skipping to the window so as not to keep his esteemed visitor waiting.

  Silently, Bea hopped onto the counter, slid across it and lowered her legs to the floor, grateful for the ease and maneuverability of her cousin’s trousers. She seized the book, and as she opened it to that day’s date, she heard Kesgrave question Mr. Hamish on the actual wording of the sign.

  “Should it say ‘my policy?” he asked.

  Mr. Hamish tittered anxiously, uncertain what the duke was implying with his query. Nevertheless, he gamely made a suggestion. “Perhaps ‘our policy’?”

  “Is that correct?” Kesgrave said. “Are there other proprietors here who share your stance on the policy?”

  The tobacco dealer admitted there were not, and after a moment of silence wondered if the policy should be positioned as one that represents the store itself. “It could say, ‘The Mercer Brothers’ policy is circumspection.’”

  “My good man, that sounds like the ideal solution,” the duke said approvingly. “Now write that, but very carefully, please, as I don’t want you to make a mess of it and have to start over.”

  While Kesgrave exhorted Mr. Hamish to write with precision, Bea searched the ledger for all references to Lord Penwortham’s mixture. The task was more difficult than she’d anticipated, thanks to the sheer number of entries on each page. When she’d first opened the book, she’d felt a fleeting moment of panic, as she’d had no idea that snuff dealing could be such a prosperous business.

  But once she’d grown accustomed to Mr. Hamish’s handwriting—his needlessly extravagant letter S that looked almost interchangeable with his G, the dots of his I’s, which were a little too far to the left—she could read the record of his sales easily and found five orders for Lord Penwortham’s mixture in the previous week. She quietly murmured the names once to commit them to memory, then flipped to an earlier date and searched for additional buyers. She went back another week and found three more names.

  Satisfied, she closed the book just as she heard Mr. Hamish assure the duke for the second time that the sign was precisely as it should be.

  “I really think it represents the policy of the Mercer Brothers,” he said, beginning to swivel his shoulders to look toward the back of his store.

  A split second from discovery, Bea stood on the wrong side of the counter, frozen in panic, her eyes meeting Kesgrave’s as he flashed a look at her. For one humming moment they stared at each other in dread.

  Then Kesgrave smiled, winked, wrapped an arm around the shopkeeper’s shoulder and said, “Ah, but where will you post it? May I suggest here?” He pointed to a spot above the front door. “Or is that too high? Perhaps your customers will not think to look up to discover your policy. Maybe next to the door would be better? Or near the window?”

  While Mr. Hamish agreed with each and every suggestion, Bea climbed over the counter and landed on the other side with a soft thud. Kesgrave swiveled his head at the sound, but the snuff dealer continued to examine the various options the duke had proposed. She nodded firmly to communicate that her mission had been a success, and he smiled again.

  “Ah, there, you see, Hamish, now that your policy is posted,” Kesgrave said amiably, “I understand it entirely. As the proprietor of the Mercer Brothers you are fully committed to circumspection in all your dealings, and you can’t possibly provide me with the names, as it would be a violation of your policy. How much easier everything is to understand when it’s written out and clearly posted. Now, if you don’t mind, I would like to purchase that morning blend you described. You said it had hints of attar of roses? It sounds charming.”

  “I do see, your grace, I do,” Mr. Hamish said eagerly. He had been well convinced of the efficacy of useful signs, and Bea imagined that after he posted the one he’d composed under the duke’s aegis, he would write half
a dozen more. If she came back in a week or a month, she felt confidant she would find the entire interior of the shop covered with signs explaining policies and codes of conduct.

  Although it was common for gentlemen to buy snuff by the quarter or half pound, Kesgrave, perhaps hoping to expunge his guilt over the needless sign, purchased an entire pound.

  “Thank you, your grace,” Mr. Hamish said as he took the order. “I will have a canister delivered to Berkeley Square by the end of the day.”

  “I do not doubt it,” Kesgrave said, “knowing your circumspection.”

  Mr. Hamish preened happily.

  Their transaction complete, Bea and the duke had no reason to linger, and thanking the proprietor once again, they left the shop.

  As soon as they were several feet away from the store, Kesgrave turned to her and said, “I do not think I can properly explain the strange sensation I feel at having impelled poor Mr. Hamish to hang the sign. There’s an odd stirring of guilt and an equally strong sense of immateriality. The sign not only does no harm but clearly and precisely states a position that is laudable. I should feel satisfaction at having helped a tradesman better articulate his business stance, and yet I feel as though I’ve undermined him.”

  Bea laughed at the confusion in his tone and rushed to assure him that overseeing the posting of one minor sign was a peccadillo at best. “Your conscience will quiet soon enough. And if it doesn’t, you can always return next week and tell Mr. Hamish you have reconsidered your position and now advise him to remove the sign. In the meantime, I found eight customers who purchased Lord Penwortham’s mixture in the past two weeks. They are: Kirkham, Erskine, Mowbray, Coleman, Summersmith, Parton, Taunton, and my uncle.”

  Kesgrave acknowledged the list with an abrupt nod and tilted his head thoughtfully. “We do not need to consider Kirkham. He’s a confirmed recluse and hasn’t left his home in Lincolnshire in over a decade. Erskine, as well, can be safely eliminated. He suffers from an infection of the lungs and has been abed these past two weeks. Additionally, I’ve had some dealings with him and have found him to be nothing but honest and forthright. I would not believe him capable of murder.”