by Lynn Messina
Although Bea knew the countess to be more than a beautiful pea widgeon, she was still surprised by this level of deduction. It was a tremendous amount to piece together based on an offhand remark from a London dandy.
Noting her surprise, Lady Abercrombie laughed lightly. “Yes, my dear, I’m clever. I thought for sure you knew that by now. Your mother did not suffer fools gladly. Now, I don’t know who this Mr. Wilson is, but given your interest in his life, I can only assume he is dead. And you believe Mowbray is responsible, yes? What I can’t figure out is Kesgrave’s part in all this,” she continued thoughtfully. “You misled me there, didn’t you, allowing me to believe that you were like the dozens of foolish school misses who lose their heart to him every season. But I can see now that you’ve had encouragement—indeed, a fair amount, which is even harder for me to make sense of. You are not at all in his usual style.”
No comment was necessary, and yet Bea felt compelled to say, “I’m well aware of that.” Although she’d intended to affect the sublime indifference of Lord Nuneaton, her tone was peevish and annoyed.
In the darkness of the carriage, Lady Abercrombie smiled. “You think that’s a criticism of you, but it’s not. It’s a criticism of him. Your looks are plain, to be sure, even in that gown, which is highly flattering of your complexion, but you are lively and clever and difficult to intimidate. Kesgrave usually values only one of those qualities in a woman, and as lively as Lady Victoria is, she is oxen-like in her thinking. I feel bad saying that, for it’s not her fault. Her parents raised her to be a beautiful ninny and succeeded beyond their expectations. Despite this preference, Kesgrave has taken an interest in you. And yet he continues to further the connection with the Tavistocks. I have no idea what it means and find myself curiously unsure of what actions to advise. I’m sorry for that, for I feel positive your mother would have had something helpful to offer.”
Her regret was sincere, and Bea, feeling the unexpected desire to comfort her, laughed at the absurdity. “It is a muddle from every direction, but it is invaluable to me to hear another opinion on the matter. For weeks I’ve been unable to decide if the bond I feel with Kesgrave is real or entirely one-sided. Your observations confirm that I haven’t invented it out of whole cloth. And you do not need to advise me on the correct course of action. I know what I must do, and as soon as the mystery regarding Mr. Wilson’s tragic death is solved, I will end my association with him. I cannot spend so much time with him without hurting myself.”
The widow nodded with approval. “Brava, my dear. We shall proceed with the list, which already has several interesting names on it. I have nothing but respect for a broken heart, so I won’t say this now, but I believe Nuneaton is a genuine prospect. You made him laugh, which I know from personal experience is not easy to accomplish.”
“And I have nothing but appreciation for your willingness to help me tonight, so I won’t protest the list right now,” Bea said generously.
“You will, of course, concede in the end, but I welcome a spirited debate on the merits,” her ladyship said. “But tell me, regarding your investigations, do you take referrals?”
As Bea could only assume the countess sought to discourage her unsavory interest in murder victims, she answered evasively. “Given the extreme unlikeliness of such a thing happening, I’m not sure it’s worth the effort to address the question.”
“Oh, but it is very likely,” Lady Abercrombie said matter-of-factly, “as I’m the one who would make the referral.”
That the beautiful widow could be genuinely nonchalant about her gruesome activity struck Bea as implausible, and sensing a trick, she said, “But don’t you think it’s ghastly, what I do? Aren’t you horrified? Doesn’t the thought of my examining a corpse offend your sensibilities?”
“I assure you, my dear, I’ve entertained my own share of lifeless men,” Lady Abercrombie said wryly, causing Bea to giggle in startled amusement. “Every woman must have a hobby or expire from boredom. Why do you think my drawing room is an orgy of Oriental perfection? Is it because I like arguing with artisans over the thickness of a bamboo chair leg?” Although her tone was rhetorical, indicating the answer was so obvious it need not be stated, she smiled deprecatingly and admitted that she was somewhat motivated by the prospect of a satisfyingly vigorous quarrel with a craftsman. “But it’s the design itself that interests me, creating a vision and working to see it fulfilled. The whole town house is just as elaborate, as is my home in Essex, and when I ran out of my own rooms to decorate, I borrowed a friend’s. If you think my drawing room is excessive, you should see poor Lady Marshall’s facsimile of an African village. The only reason she agreed to let me have my way was I promised to stand the expense. Your hobby is a little more macabre than mine, to be sure, but that is probably for the best, as you don’t have the funds to support an interest in decorating.”
Shocked by Lady Abercrombie’s calm acceptance of her investigative pursuit, Bea felt the hot flush of shame creep over her cheeks. How judgmental she had been the first time they’d met! Stepping into the overdone splendor of her Oriental drawing room, Bea had dismissed the countess as silly, vain, shallow and desperate for attention. No doubt she was all of those things, but she was much more besides. She was a remarkably beautiful woman, yes, but she had cultivated other, more interesting traits.
Did she owe her an apology? Should she explain and say she was sorry?
“You did not answer my question,” Lady Abercrombie said, seemingly unaware of Bea’s embarrassment. “Do you take referrals? I’m not sure how an unmarried woman with an unpleasant fish like Vera Hyde-Clare for a guardian would find new murders to investigate. Do you seek them out or do concerned friends and family members come to you? If it’s the latter, then there’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”
Although this development was certainly unexpected, Bea had lost the ability to be surprised by anything the countess said and agreed to the consultation without a moment’s hesitation. Of course she wanted another assignment, her next assignment, all ready to go when she resolved the problem of Mr. Wilson’s death. Without a distraction, she would pine for the duke and that would be miserable.
“The investigation I’m working on now came as a referral,” Bea said. “To be completely honest, other than dressing up in a uniform and pretending to be a Bow Street Runner, I don’t know how one would find murder victims.”
“I respect the fact that you’ve given it thought and trust you’ve realized the disadvantages of the Runner scheme without my having to list them,” Lady Abercrombie observed mildly. “I admire pluck, of course, which you seem to have to the backbone, but there’s nothing commendable in being reckless. Recklessness is just stupidity pretending to be bravery. No one is fooled.”
Although Bea nodded in agreement, she thought it was a particularly strange thing for a woman who owned a lion cub as a pet to say. She could think of few things more reckless than trying to tame a wild animal. “May I ask who the victim is?”
“Let’s hold off on discussing it for the moment. You are already investigating Mr. Wilson’s death, and I don’t want to distract you with my concern,” her ladyship said. “After you have identified the culprit, we’ll talk. You will come for tea. Until then, don’t give it another thought.”
“Yes, of course,” Bea said affably as if she had immediately dismissed the matter from her mind. But if there was one thing in the world calculated to ensure that she would give something plenty of thought it was the exhortation not to think about it. Now her brain buzzed with the strangeness of Lady Abercrombie’s so-called concern, for how could she be in need of an investigator but display no urgency? Was there not a corpse slowly rotting in the wine cellars? Had nobody noticed that a particular dead person was missing? Was the victim or target not dead? Was the countess attempting to distract her from her ghoulish course by inventing a mystery because she was secretly horrified and felt she owed it to Bea’s mother to return her to the track of
marriage and domestic happiness? Would the investigation turn out to be an elaborate fiction that paired her with the gentleman Lady Abercrombie deemed most suitable? Perhaps the real reason she refused to discuss the matter was she had just devised the idea and needed time to figure out the specifics.
As if determined to validate Bea’s worst suspicions, Lady Abercrombie returned her attention to the list of suitors she had compiled and devoted the rest of the ride to Portman Square reviewing the various prospects. True to her word, she did not mention Nuneaton at all, although when she got to his name she conspicuously skipped over it while lauding herself for being so thoughtful.
Apparently, her respect for a broken heart went only so far.
Bea listened to the list silently and wondered how strenuously she should object to the countess’s plan. Viscerally, she felt a need to make it clear that she would never go along with a plot so patently desperate in its goals it could only humiliate her further. If there was any consolation in being a plain-faced spinster of six and twenty, it was that the ton barely knew she existed. If Lady Abercrombie had her way, that would change.
At the same time, it hardly seemed worth the effort to protest, for it wasn’t as if the men on the list would simply fall in line with her ladyship’s plan either. To be fair, the group she had assembled was a varied mix, with prospects from every stratum of society, including second sons and minor peers from families of modest circumstances. There were a few highfliers, of course, such as Nuneaton and Lord Davison, but by and large, it was a reasonable assortment, and Bea felt a surge of respect for Lady Abercrombie’s clear-eyed pragmatism. Nevertheless, even the most humble candidate had dozens of options available to him, and like Kesgrave, every one of the gentlemen on the countess’s list would be delighted with a lively affect and an oxen-like mind.
Given how much she enjoyed teasing the duke, Bea could not blame them for seeking the comfort of an unchallenging companion.
On and on her ladyship went, thoughtfully outlining why she had added each particular gentleman to the list and explaining her cause for optimism. Lord Davidson had been jilted by an Incomparable seeking richer quarry. Mr. Walker was studious and appreciated thoughtful responses.
Unswayed, Bea nonetheless held her tongue, for there was no reason to vex the widow with her intractability. The scheme would fail on its own merits, and the truth was, Bea wouldn’t altogether mind the distraction from her own romantic misfortunes. Unable to conceive how the other woman would implement her ambitious scheme, Bea could imagine only comedic results. Perhaps a hearty laugh was worth a little mortification.
A half hour later, she was describing for Aunt Vera and Flora an uneventful evening of playing speculation with the countess and two of her friends whose names were thankfully not sought by either of her relatives. Indeed, her aunt was far too distressed at the idea of Bea playing cards for money, even a farthing ante, to wonder about her companions and chastised her at length for succumbing to the family illness. Although Bea thought it was unfair that her uncle’s beloved pastime was described as an illness only when it pertained to her, she listened patiently as the older woman lectured on the compulsion to gamble—a tirade that was abruptly cut off as she realized her niece was wearing an unfamiliar dress.
“Good lord, never say Lady Abercrombie loaned you something so fine and elegant,” Aunt Vera exclaimed, aghast at the excellent quality of the silk. “I cannot imagine what in the world warranted such an extravagant gown. You were just playing cards with her cronies. And what must you have done to your own dress. Did you set it on fire? Do go change out of it at once before you destroy it and be sure to hang it up immediately. I’m sure we could never afford to reimburse her if you caused it damage. Go, go, go.”
Despite the urgency with which her aunt instructed her to remove the dress, she would not let Bea leave the room until she had fully impressed upon her the egregiousness of her actions.
It was a full twenty minutes before Bea was allowed to retire to her bedchamber.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The sixth Marquess of Taunton was singularly unimpressed with Mr. Wright and even more dismissive of his clerk, who, unused to being a lowly subordinate, had commanded his attention by saying, “Now, see here—” before Bea ruthlessly cut him off with an apology.
“He’s never mixed with gentry before, my lord,” Bea explained with a pointed look at the duke, who, in his outrage over being treated with contempt and disdain, hadn’t thought to disguise his voice. She was agog that the marquess hadn’t instantly recognized Kesgrave’s deep baritone. “It’s my fault, my lord. I should have prepared him better or left him at the office. Do forgive me. We won’t take up much of your time. It’s an important topic, my lord, but one easily dispensed with. We would never presume to disturb you if it wasn’t necessary. Please, my lord.”
Bea adopted her most contrite expression, perfected over years of apologizing to her aunt for her very presence. Next to her, Kesgrave, dressed in the plain gray trousers and coat of his own steward, with Mr. Wright’s spectacles perched on his nose, looked as imposing as ever. He stood at his full height, his shoulders back, as if the concept of obsequiousness did not exist for him.
Indeed, it appeared it did not.
She’d realized the moment she’d climbed into the carriage twenty minutes before that he would never be able to affect servility. On him, the humble clothes of Mr. Stephens looked oddly regal, and she’d insisted at once that he rumple himself up so as to seem properly poor and blighted. He had complied with alacrity, tousling his hair, mussing his cravat and rubbing dirt from the floor of the hack onto the hem of his trousers.
It was a valiant effort, and yet when she looked at him, his face half hidden by a monstrous false mustache a full shade darker than his blond hair, all she saw was a man born to wealth and privilege.
Now, as Lord Taunton frowned in impatience, she worried that Kesgrave’s noble bearing would ruin their chance at an interview. The duke, as if offended by the notion that he could do anything poorly, mimicked her rounded shoulders and looked down at the floor. It was an improvement, of course, but not a solution. The best thing would have been for her to have come alone.
Her concern was overblown, however, for his lordship agreed with a weary sigh, as if endlessly plagued by meetings with lowly members of the law profession. He told his butler, who had hovered in the hallway to escort them out as efficiently as he had escorted them in, that he would need five minutes. Then he waved them into his study and gestured to a pair of dark-green chairs that matched the rug. He was a tall man, well over six feet, which, Bea thought, most likely explained why he didn’t seem bothered by Kesgrave’s own height. It would have been very different if he had to look up at the impertinent clerk. “You said you were here on behalf of Charles Wilson? My father’s former steward?”
Ah, Bea thought. One suspicion confirmed.
“Thank you again, my lord. I know you are very busy and I promise this won’t take long,” she said, settling a brown case on her lap. It was filled with old receipts and pages from a book whose binding had torn. She’d felt it was essential to appear to have files if one was to pretend to be a solicitor, as much of their work consisted of the drawing up and executing of contracts. “Yes, it’s about Mr. Wilson. I’m sorry to report he has suffered a grave misfortune.”
Taunton’s brown eyes, appealingly light against his dark complexion—black hair, olive skin roughened by time—flickered with surprise. “Grave misfortune?”
“Yes,” she said solemnly, her gazed focused sharply on his. “He passed away on Tuesday.”
This information also startled him, but he was better at controlling his surprise, for this time the news barely registered on his face. “I see. It’s quite unexpected, I must say, as I had seen him just a few days before and he appeared well. I detected no signs of an ailment, and he did not mention being ill. Indeed, he was full of his plan to buy property near the city and take up farming. Was it
an accident?”
Although Bea did not think that the imposing marquess with the rigid posture would regularly associate with a former employee, it did not strike her as unusual that he would occasionally receive Mr. Wilson as a guest. If the books in the deceased’s sparsely furnished apartments indicated anything, it was that he had some attachment to his childhood home. He had clearly cherished only a few possessions.
“I’m sorry to say it wasn’t an accident but rather a digestive issue,” she replied. “It was most unfortunate.”
“A digestive issue?” he repeated, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “As I said, I saw no indication of an ailment during our visit on Sunday, but I cannot say I’m surprised. Wilson spent more than a year in that dreadful country living in what I can only assume were squalid conditions. The surprising thing is that he came back at all. I thought for sure the post would kill him.”
If her suspicions about Mowbray were correct, Bea thought, then Taunton’s prediction will have turned out to be accurate after all.
“I advised him not to go, but Charles was stubborn and always did the opposite of what you counseled,” Taunton continued. “He had a good job working on our Norfolk estate as steward, a position he assumed after his father died nine years ago. My father had a tremendous amount of respect for Mr. Wilson, which extended to his son, Charles. It was a good life, I believe, but Otley’s offer was very generous and he longed to see London. He did not anticipate that his employer would find him so valuable that he would send him to a hostile land such as India.” He sighed again and shook his head. “I’m very sorry to hear that he’s passed.”
Grateful for his unexpected talkativeness, Bea sat quietly in hopes that he would share more of Mr. Wilson’s history, for in the space of a few minutes, she’d learned more about Mr. Wilson than during an hour with Mrs. Otley. Taunton, however, had nothing more to say and looked at her impatiently, as if unable to understand why she hadn’t already explained the purpose of her call.