An Infamous Betrayal

by Lynn Messina

  Although Bea appreciated his evenhanded approach, for it would not serve her interest to investigate alongside an excitable partner, she felt he was far too accepting of the explanation, especially given recent developments.

  Before she could point that out, Kesgrave said, “And I know what you are thinking, but you are wide off the mark. The countess readily admitted their groom’s maintenance was lax, something her husband despaired of weekly, and an accident of some sort was bound to happen.”

  “If that information was widely known—” she began.

  Kesgrave shook his head. “A comprehensive examination of the family’s other conveyances revealed the same slipshod treatment.”

  “Even so—”

  “Miss Hyde-Clare, I admire your ability to concoct a theory of guilt out of a ball of yarn and a misplaced kitchen spoon, but I assure you that you’re digging for a bone in the wrong graveyard. The former Mr. Robinson did not hire a confederate to compromise every vehicle Mowbray possessed from thousands of miles away in India. It is too ridiculous, and I won’t allow you to entertain the notion. You are, of course, welcome to suspect him all you want in the matter of Mr. Wilson’s murder. And, no,” he said when she opened her mouth to speak, “before you ask, I don’t think you need my permission to suspect anyone.”

  As she had indeed been about to ask that very thing, she couldn’t help but smile at his presumption. “You will concede that he has a potentially convincing motive. If Mr. Wilson was threatening to reveal the dishonesty of the new earl’s dealings in India, he might have moved to silence him permanently. You haven’t read them yet, but trust me when I tell you the letters are persuasive and could be embarrassing for a newly titled lord.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” the duke said firmly, “as the newly titled lord is still struggling to adjust to his position. Having come into a sudden, unexpectedly large sum of money, he seems determined to lose it just as quickly by gambling every night at the Red Corner House.”

  “Struggling to adjust or consumed with guilt for how he rose to such heights?” she asked thoughtfully. “No matter. We do not have to figure it all out now. We’ll simply move Mowbray to the top of the suspects list and put a little star next to his name denoting he might be responsible for four other deaths as well. In the meantime, we should finish our examination of Mr. Wilson’s rooms. It has been so fruitful already. I’m confident we will find evidence of an association with the two other buyers of Lord Penwortham’s mixture.”

  Despite her assurance, however, they found nothing to connect the victim with Coleman and Parton. The letters in the second packet, while informative, were far less interesting than the first, containing sundry business matters such as the renting of his rooms at the Melbourne and the purchase of his passage home from Madras.

  After a second perusal of the bedchamber, during which she confirmed the duke’s initial estimation that it contained nothing of interest, she announced herself ready to leave. Kesgrave, who had been standing at the door for at least five minutes, nodded gratefully and followed her into the hallway. They returned the key to the clerk in the lobby and found Jenkins waiting by the coach immediately outside the front door.

  “This has been a very productive day,” Bea said with satisfaction as the coach began to move. “Although one doesn’t want to be accused of seeking the easier path, I’m relieved to have whittled our list of suspects down to three.”

  “You believe Mrs. Otley knew about Wilson’s betrayal?” he asked, his brow furrowed as he considered the possibility.

  “I cannot dismiss it,” she replied. “I’ve been operating under the assumption that she would know nothing about obscure Indian poisons because she has never been to the country and is not literate enough to have read about it in Mrs. Barlow’s excellent Travels in India: My Journey Through a Strange, Difficult and Wonderful Land. But perhaps I am being too narrow in my opinions. She might be more clever than she lets on, and she did spend all those years with Mr. Otley. It’s entirely possible she learned things through no fault of her own. Furthermore, she has thwarted my investigation from the very beginning. I cannot find a connection, however, between her and Lord Penwortham’s mixture. If she did introduce the poison to the snuffbox, how and when did she acquire the tobacco? I also find the former Mr. Robinson to be quite an intriguing prospect. We need to arrange an interview with him as soon as possible. And Lord Taunton too, as you said.”

  “How do you propose to do that?” he asked, his tone smooth as he calmly raised a curious eyebrow. “Mowbray is often pin-brained from drink and might believe I’d make morning calls in the company of my steward. Lord Taunton, I assure you, will be harder to persuade.”

  Knowing this to be true, Bea assumed the duke’s solution was for him to conduct the interview on his own. Obviously, she would not agree to that, for she couldn’t rely on him to ask the right questions or display the appropriate amount of suspicion. He was clever, of course, and certainly had a devious mind, but he wasn’t cynical enough—to wit, he believed a freakish accident had cleared the way to an earldom.

  Additionally, this was her inquiry, not his. She had proposed their alliance as a partnership, yes, but she really considered him more of an assistant. Every great investigator needed a second in command, and it had soothed her ego to think of Lady Victoria’s dignified fiancé as her underling.

  It was, she thought, an aspect of him that the wealthy beauty would never see, let alone possess.

  ’Twas cold comfort, she knew, but comfort nonetheless.

  Working with the duke had provided other advantages as well, for his name and position opened many doors. Gaining entry to the Earl of Fazeley’s residence had been as easy as his steward—his real one, that was—requesting access from the managing agent.

  But now his ducal rank was a liability, and Bea asked herself how she would have tried to elicit answers from the Marquess of Taunton if Kesgrave were not part of her investigation. In that situation, she would have employed a ruse like the French maid persona she had adopted to wrangle the customer list from Monsieurs Dupasquier and Morny. Although that pose had not achieved any of its aims, her failure had been ensured in advance by the duke. Who knew what feats of deception she might have been able to achieve without his machinations.

  All she needed, then, was to come up with a convincing pretext, and as the carriage rolled through the streets, she considered the matter. The most likely gambit would utilize what she knew about Lord Taunton, which was, admittedly, very little. His family seat was in Norfolk, it had a seemingly excellent library, and the elder Mr. Wilson served as his father’s steward for decades. But as thin as her knowledge was, it was more than enough to concoct a believable story about a deceased man’s desire to return a pair of beloved books to the estate from which they had come. Naturally, it fell to Bea, his solicitor, to make sure that happened, and accompanying her on the important call would be…

  “My law clerk,” she said evenly.

  Kesgrave was understandably confused, as it had been almost a minute since he had spoken and the prospect of impersonating a law clerk was not one that would occur to him. “Excuse me?”

  “You asked how I propose to arrange an interview for us with Lord Taunton tomorrow,” she reminded him, “and that is my answer. I will present myself as the solicitor overseeing the affairs of the deceased Charles Wilson, whose last wish was that his father’s books be returned to the library from which they had come. And you may pose as my law clerk.”

  It was a provoking suggestion, to be sure, and Bea expected him to respond with the full force of his rank. A man who respected order so much he felt compelled to correct the sequence of warships mentioned in casual conversation—HMS Goliath, HMS Audacious, HMS Majestic—would not easily accept the idea of being anyone’s lackey, let alone an upstart spinster’s.

  Bea waited for him to stiffen his shoulders and stare down at her as if she were an ant daring to step onto his picnic blanket. It was, she knew,
the definitive Duke of Kesgrave look, full of imperial displeasure and impatience, and although it had caused her to tremble the first time she’d encountered it, now it only made her smile. Indeed, being able to draw it out of him at will felt almost like power.

  She was astonished, then, when all he did was laugh and ask if he may borrow Mr. Wright’s spectacles.

  Too surprised to think clearly, she removed the eyeglasses from her face and handed them to him with the cautionary note to treat them carefully. “They are in fact the real Mr. Wright’s, and I would like to return them in the pristine condition in which I borrowed them.”

  Surely, this addendum would elicit a glare of irritated condescension, for he certainly knew how to have a care with other people’s possessions and as the Duke of Kesgrave it was his privilege not to care at all. But he merely let out an amused chuckle.

  His response confounded Bea, and she wondered if he was mocking her with his laughter. It wouldn’t be unprecedented, as he’d taunted Mr. Skeffington with sarcastic approval after the young man had accused her of having an affair with Mr. Otley during their sojourn in the Lake District. But on that occasion Kesgrave had seethed with anger, and now his eyes seemed to twinkle with humor.

  Could he really not mind the reduction in his rank?

  Although she did not believe the matter truly to be settled, she decided to proceed as if it were and proposed they meet at Taunton’s town house, which was located in Edward Street, at eleven. Kesgrave agreed to the arrangement with one slight alteration, insisting that he accompany her to their destination rather than allow her to arrive alone in a hack. She immediately pointed out the utter ridiculousness of a lowly solicitor and his even lowlier clerk arriving in such high style, and now, finally, the duke straightened his shoulders in offense.

  “I am not a turnip wiping dew from my ears,” he said stiffly. “I will of course hire a hack to drive us there.”

  Although Bea felt the impish desire to point out that turnips were not cobs of corn to have ears, she squelched the impulse and moved on to their second suspect. “And Mowbray is always drunk, you say, and will easily be deceived by us. Shall we visit him after Taunton? That would be noon at the latest. Will he be sober then or already into his cups?”

  “Recovering from the night before, I imagine,” he said, “and in a wretched mood. He will answer our questions just so that we may leave him in peace. The timing is ideal.”

  “And his faculties will be corrupted by the aftereffects of alcohol, which is also perfect for our ends,” she said, nodding with approval. “The only thing better would be if we could interview him while he was still foxed.”

  “We cannot,” Kesgrave said sharply. “It’s a violation of the most basic civility to ply a man for information when he is a trifle disguised, let alone when he’s fully sprung. I cannot allow it.”

  Although Bea did not have contempt for all the rules governing society, she considered many to be without merit and the idea that she could not interrogate a possible killer while he was drunk because it was rude struck her as particularly worthless. Undoubtedly, the greater social ill was the ruthless taking of an innocent life.

  Nevertheless, she smiled placidly and said, “Yes, of course.”

  Kesgrave, however, did not believe her ready acceptance and immediately demanded that she promise not to visit the Red Corner House by herself. “First of all, you will not get anything sensical out of him while he is in his cups. Second, it’s a hell with a particularly unsavory reputation and is no place for a young unmarried woman, even one who makes a somewhat convincing young man.”

  As Bea would never consider such a reckless course, she promptly agreed. Obviously, she would take someone with her. The question, of course, was who. “You have my word.”

  Although he nodded with approval, he was far from satisfied. “You will also promise that you won’t visit the Red Corner House in the company of your cousin Russell.”

  Bea smiled as she imagined her cousin’s excitement if she proposed such an outing and had little doubt that his eagerness would be her undoing. Either he would unintentionally reveal the plan to his parents or say something indiscreet to Mowbray. “Again, you have my word.”

  “Thank you,” he said graciously. “You will also promise not to go with your cousin Flora.”

  It was just as easy to guess Flora’s reaction to such a proposal, and picturing the look of horror on her cousin’s pretty face made her laugh. If she was seeking a proper conspirator who would help her gain entry into the gaming hell and blend in with the company, she would do well to look elsewhere. With no compunction at all, she gave her promise.

  Kesgrave dipped his head, then added another request. “You will also promise not to go with Miss Otley or Mr. Skeffington.”

  Although she could see the latter lending some gravity to the situation with his fortune and pending title, he was too inexperienced. The person she had in mind knew every aspect of society like the back of her hand and could stare down any ogre who took an interest in them. For this reason, she easily gave her assurances that she would not go with Miss Otley or Mr. Skeffington.

  “And Nuneaton,” he added. “You must promise not to go to the Red Corner House in the company of Nuneaton either.”

  The idea of her asking a lord whom she had met only a handful of times to accompany her to a gaming hell to interrogate another lord with whom she had no association was preposterous, and she dissolved into laughter so intense she almost slid off the seat. “Why on earth would I ask Nuneaton?” she said a full minute later when she finally regained her breath.

  Kesgrave’s expression was inscrutable, but his tone was stiff. “You appear to be on quite close terms.”

  This information was news to Bea, who considered the handsome dandy with the practiced affect of ennui to be an acquaintance at best. As with Kesgrave, she had met him at the Skeffingtons’ house party in the Lake District, where he had made up one of their number. Although she had scarcely spoken to him while at Lakeview Hall, they had conversed a few times since the start of the season. The viscount was curious to know all that had transpired during their stay—the stealthy dealings that led to the stunning denouement in the drawing room—and considered her to be the most promising source of information. While resisting his entreaties, Bea had discovered him to be far more engaging than his affectations would indicate, but that was the extent of their association. If she did reveal the details of her investigation into Mr. Otley’s death, she imagined his lordship would lose all interest in her.

  “All right, then,” she said agreeably because there was no reason to cavil. “I promise not to go to the Red Corner House in the company of Nuneaton either. May I ask why you are making such a thorough catalog of whose escort I might seek? It seems needlessly piecemeal. Would not a blanket request serve your purpose more efficiently? We are rapidly approaching our destination.”

  He pressed his lips together, as if smothering a grin, and shook his head. “Ah, no, Miss Hyde-Clare, no. You will not get me that way.”

  “Get you?” she asked in confusion.

  “That is, get around me,” he clarified. “You advised me to be more precise in my restrictions the next time I tried to limit a woman’s movements. With your advice in mind, I’m methodically listing one by one every person to whom you might apply for company.”

  He was teasing her, of course, for his face was alight with amusement as he explained his intention, and yet the moment felt profoundly somber to Bea. It was not often that a man of his stature—a wealthy nobleman with every advantage of birth and breeding—actually listened to a woman’s words and made a point of remembering them. He was, she decided, a fundamentally decent man, and for the first time ever, she thought Lady Victoria did not deserve him. Yes, he was raised in a hothouse to be beautiful just like she, but somehow he had transcended the limitations of his garden.

  “To that end,” he continued, “you will promise not to go with Jenkins.”

/>   The absurdity of the demand freed her from the sudden turn her thoughts had taken. “No,” she said at once, firmly shaking her head. “He is in far too much awe of you to risk your displeasure by consenting to such a scheme, and I won’t insult him by implying otherwise. Move on to your next candidate, please. I trust my aunt and uncle are on that list. They are family, of course, and yet somehow less likely than your groom. Mrs. Otley is also implausible, but we should include her just to be thorough. I believe that’s it. Oh, wait, no, let’s throw in my maid, Annie, since we are considering servants as possible accomplices. Very well, I ardently swear not to go to the Red Corner House in the company of Aunt Vera, Uncle Horace, Mrs. Otley or Annie. I do believe that’s everyone I know. We are lucky I’m so socially awkward and unpopular or we’d be here for hours listing possible conspirators.”

  Bea had ended her speech on a purposefully self-pitying note in hopes of discomforting him so much he would find a new topic, but Kesgrave remained focused on his goal. “No, we are not done. First you must swear not to go in the company of Lady Abercrombie. Then we may be grateful for your unpopularity.”

  But Bea could not make that promise, for her ladyship was precisely the person she had in mind for the excursion. The daring widow was far too experienced to be a stranger to gaming hells, particularly ones with unsavory reputations, and she certainly relished a good lark. Why else keep a poor lion cub as a pet?

  “Well done, Kesgrave,” she said approvingly. “Very well done. You have the ability to learn from past mistakes, which is a very attractive and rare quality in a man. I believe there is hope for you yet.”

  Although she meant the comment merely as a distraction from his efforts to restrict her movements, she could not smother the admiration she felt for him, and whatever ruse he was expecting, he appeared too struck by the warmth and sincerity of her tone to recall it. Nonplussed, he stared at her for several long seconds before murmuring, “Is there? I think I might be too far gone.”