An Infamous Betrayal

by Lynn Messina

  Bea was itching to ask about Wilson’s visit earlier in the week, but she knew it would be beyond all things inappropriate for a solicitor to try to appease his curiosity. So she hewed closely to the script she’d prepared in advance and informed Taunton that she was the executor of Mr. Wilson’s estate and that he had left him several items. As she spoke, she withdrew a sheet of paper on which she had listed the objects. It was a fake document, a ludicrous prop she had created that morning while drinking tea in her room to make her appear more lawyerly. Posing as a steward seemed a lot less fraught than pretending to be a solicitor, and she wanted something else to rely on than just an inexpertly deepened voice and shoulders her aunt described as mannishly broad.

  “Among the items are an illustrated copy of the Faerie Queene, which your father had gifted to his father for his years of service, and A Tale of a Tub by Jonathan Swift. Mr. Wilson felt quite strongly that these cherished books should be returned to the library from which they came. He also asked that a snuffbox be returned to you, one that you had only recently given to him. It is”—here, she paused as if to confirm the description of the item but she watched for his reaction out of the corner of her eye—“of emerald-green cloisonné inlaid with gold.”

  As Bea was expecting either one of two things to happen—Taunton would either claim the snuffbox as a gift to an old family retainer or disavow all knowledge of it—she was amazed when he arrived at a third possibility.

  “Is that where my snuffbox went?” he asked in a tone of sincere exasperation. “I was wondering where it had disappeared to. In fact, I was quite sharp with my butler yesterday morning, for I was convinced he had misplaced it in his carelessness. It was brand-new, and I was particularly fond of it. I saw it in a window on Oxford Street and felt an odd compulsion to have it.”

  Flabbergasted, Bea stared at Lord Taunton, trying to understand what he was saying. The snuffbox was his, yes, but he hadn’t given it to Wilson?

  Wilson had taken the snuffbox?

  Kesgrave, who seemed to be struggling with the same surprise but was far more composed, said, “Just to be clear, then, my lord, you’re saying you did not present the snuffbox to Mr. Wilson as a gift?”

  “Gift a beautifully crafted cloisonné snuffbox to Charles?” he asked, with an incredulous laugh as he stood up, walked to the doorway and called for his butler. When the man promptly appeared, he informed him of the good news. “You can call off the hunt, Perkins. The snuffbox has been found in the possession of Wilson. He took it by mistake when he was here a few days ago. It wasn’t your carelessness after all.”

  The butler’s expression remained unresponsive as he received this news, which did not contain an apology for the misguided assumption. “Very good, my lord.”

  His lordship shook his head as he returned to the room. “I know I should be more circumspect about blaming the staff for the little things that go astray, but nine times out of ten, they are responsible,” he explained. “Anyway, to answer your question more fully, no, I did not give the snuffbox to Charles. I was fond of the fellow, to be sure, but I would never have given him a present of such shockingly high value. It would have mortified us both. He must have picked it up by accident when he collected his things at the end of the visit. That would explain why he made a point of making sure it was returned to me. He belatedly realized his mistake.”

  “His mistake,” Bea said flatly, as she struggled to reconcile this astonishing piece of information.

  Mr. Wilson had picked up the snuffbox by accident.

  By accident.

  It was not his.

  The poison hadn’t been meant for him.

  He wasn’t supposed to die.

  Bea shook her head, unable to believe it.

  Could it possibly be true?

  She looked at Lord Taunton, his face reflecting nothing but relief at the recovery of a misplaced item, and realized that it had to be true. The other option—that he had looked at the two lawyers and deduced the remarkably improbable series of events that had led Beatrice Hyde-Clare and the Duke of Kesgrave to his study—was too incredible to contemplate.

  Yes, Kesgrave had slipped up by using his ducal voice while speaking when they’d first arrived, but nothing in the marquess’s manner had indicated surprise or confusion. He’d neither paused in his contempt nor looked askance at the impertinent upstart who had questioned him. No one, not even the great Edmund Keen himself, was such an accomplished thespian that observing the high-stepping Duke of Kesgrave in his hallway pretending to be a law clerk with ludicrous facial hair would elicit no reaction at all, not even the merest whiff of recognition.

  And then there was the matter of the snuffbox itself, Bea realized. It was too elaborate. Indeed, it was so patently expensive she’d identified it as the source of the poison almost immediately. If the murderer had been clever enough to poison a man’s tobacco, then would he not have been more shrewd in his choice of snuffboxes by selecting one that did not call attention to itself? The craftsmanship on the cloisonné was so expert, it fairly yelled to the observer, “I’m suspicious. Start your investigation here.”

  That the snuffbox had not been intended for Wilson made far more sense.

  Reeling from these revelations, Bea reevaluated other aspects of her investigation and realized how foolish she’d been to think Mowbray’s drunken ramblings were the calculated digressions of a diabolical genius. Kesgrave had been right all along, and she felt the faint flush of embarrassment as she recalled the force of her certainty.

  As stunned as she was by the discovery of her own prejudices, she was staggered by the immensity of what it all meant—that the man sitting across from her was the victim of a murder attempt and didn’t know it. But for the carelessness of another man, he would be dead.

  Poor Mr. Wilson.

  Contemplating the marquess now, Bea realized she had to tell him the truth. She had little doubt how unlikely it would sound. Nevertheless, she focused her gaze steadily on his and said, “Lord Taunton, in light of this new information, I’m compelled to tell you that the digestive issue that ended Mr. Wilson’s life was not brought about by his travels in India or something he recently ate. It was the tobacco in the snuffbox.” She paused to see if his mind raced ahead to the logical conclusion, but his demeanor remained unchanged. “It was poisoned.”

  Nope. Still no light of comprehension.

  Bea struggled to clarify without stating it too bluntly. “The poison was in your snuffbox, my lord.” Another pause. “In the snuff you would take.”

  At first he thought she was teasing, for he started to laugh, but observing her deadly serious expression, he gasped and looked from Bea to the duke in astonishment. “It was meant for me?” he said. “But why would anyone…”

  His words trailed off as he grasped the enormity of the event, and he seemed to sink into himself as he tried to assimilate the fact that somebody wanted him dead. He opened his mouth several times to speak and closed it with almost comical swiftness. Watching, Bea felt the weight of the moment and longed to pledge her assistance in discovering the name of this villain. She had enough sense, however, to realize how strange it would be if a solicitor were to offer his investigative skills or volunteer to help him make a list of people who might wish him ill. It was certainly too soon to do anything now, for his lordship hardly had the presence of mind to see beyond the simple fact that his life was in danger.

  Bea would have to be patient.

  Oh, but it was very hard to sit still while the man who had attempted to kill Lord Taunton was at large and free to try again. There was something almost unbearably exciting about the prospect of investigating a murder that hadn’t happened yet.

  Immediately, she recalled poor Mr. Wilson, his body wracked with pain, his back bent to an angle so extreme Emily feared he might break himself in half, and felt ashamed of her enthusiasm. Murder itself was a grave enough insult without it being dealt on someone else’s behalf. If Mowbray had killed him to pre
serve his silence about their India deal, he would at least have had the dignity of dying for his own offense.

  “This is very troubling,” Lord Taunton said softly. “Very troubling indeed. Are you sure? Could there not be a misunderstanding?”

  “My examin…um, that is, the surgeon’s examination of Mr. Wilson and his situation was conclusive,” Bea improvised, uncertain if a surgeon would actually examine anything other than a living, breathing patient. “He was almost certainly poisoned by a substance called nux vomica, which had been applied to the snuff.”

  Although he’d had a few minutes to absorb the truth, Taunton still could not contain his surprise. “Nux vomica? I’ve never heard of a poison called nux vomica.”

  “It’s derived from the nux vomica tree in India,” Bea explained, wondering who among the marquess’s connections would be familiar with the species. With his standing in society and his responsibilities in the House of Lords, he regularly associated with dozens more people than Wilson. Many of them would have connections to the East India Company or connections to those with connections. Suddenly, the pool of suspects was massive, and Bea wondered how she would begin whittling it down. The list of buyers pilfered from the Mercer Brothers was useless, as Taunton had purchased the snuff himself. The challenge was finding the person who’d had access to Lord Penwortham’s mixture before Wilson accidentally took the snuffbox.

  Bea closed her eyes and pictured the page from Mr. Hamish’s ledger, trying to recall precisely when Taunton had purchased the snuff. It was on…the twenty-sixth. Yes, February 26. That was four days before Wilson’s visit. Not a particularly large interval, she thought, and the snuffbox was probably not in the marquess’s possession the entire time. When it was not on his person, where was it kept? In the pocket of his greatcoat? On the desk in his study? Who had access to both the snuffbox and nux vomica?

  No, she thought, not necessarily the box. The snuff might have been poisoned at the source.

  Anxiously, she sat forward in her chair and said, “You must be very careful with the remaining snuff. You must check any other boxes you have and make sure the entire canister hasn’t been contaminated.”

  “Yes, yes,” Taunton said with an assuring nod. “I’ve already thought of that. Perkins will throw away the entire batch immediately.”

  Unable to stop herself, Bea disagreed with that plan, perhaps with more force than was appropriate to the situation. “You must not dispose of it until after you’ve tested it for poison, for discovering when the snuff was poisoned will help you narrow the time—”

  But Taunton was not interested in taking direction from a solicitor and stood up, indicating the visit was at an end. “Thank you, Mr. Wright, for your call.”

  Bea had no choice but to rise as well. “Of course, my lord. Thank you for agreeing to see us. If I can be of any help to you as you search for the villain who meant you harm, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to offer him her card, but she hadn’t thought to make one for Mr. Wright, solicitor. So much for bolstering her disguise with props!

  Her oversight was of no importance, of course, for the Marquess of Taunton was not seeking assistance from a solicitor. “You will send over the items promptly,” he said as he opened the door to his study, where the butler was waiting to escort them from the premises. “The snuffbox too.”

  The dismissal was clear, and Bea, frustrated by his refusal to consider her offer, cast a look at the duke as if to urge him to intercede. She knew it was futile—he couldn’t very well tear off his mustache, straighten his hair and say, “Listen, old fellow, do let my associate investigate your potential death”—and yet she could not stop herself from making the plea. She had grown accustomed to utilizing his position to achieve her goals.

  Helpless, Bea nodded respectfully and promised to return the items at once, which was an out-and-out lie, as none of them were in her possession and she had no intention of visiting the Melbourne to retrieve the books or wresting the snuffbox from Mrs. Otley’s grasping fingers. But perhaps she could ask Kesgrave to send a footman to Wilson’s lodging to fetch the books to bring to the marquess.

  No, she thought immediately, that would not work, for why would a servant sporting the Duke of Kesgrave’s livery have custody of Wilson’s books? Causing Taunton to speculate would create an unnecessary link between Kesgrave and the law offices of Mr. Wright.

  But if a reasonable explanation could be offered to support the connection, it would provide Kesgrave with an opportunity to insert himself into the crisis as the duke, not a law clerk. Then he could convince Taunton of Mr. Wright’s proficiency in scrutinizing matters of this nature.

  That would work, wouldn’t it? Peers respected the opinion of other peers, and Kesgrave had once mentioned how collegiate the process of working together was in the House of Lords. That would certainly—

  “I cannot tell if you are disappointed the wrong man died,” the duke said as soon as they were outside, “or if you’re disappointed you’ve been denied a satisfying conclusion.”

  It was a fair question, and Bea did not take offense. Rather, she marveled at how easily Kesgrave could read her thoughts. “You will think me completely depraved if I say the latter,” she observed as he opened the carriage door of the hack he had hired. “So to preserve your good opinion, I’ll admit I find both developments to be equally disappointing. I think it’s a pity that Mr. Wilson suffered an appalling and painful death for no reason at all. But, yes, it is also incredibly frustrating to be denied the opportunity to investigate this new mystery. Taunton is an entirely different beast than Wilson, which makes it a wholly different investigation, with different motives and suspects. Essentially, I know nothing, a condition I find very uncomfortable.”

  “And you are trying to figure out how to remedy your ignorance,” he said.

  That Kesgrave knew her well enough to correctly predict her actions created an uncomfortably bittersweet sensation in Bea’s chest, for it affirmed that the connection she felt was far from one-sided, while underscoring its utter uselessness. He owed his lineage too much to let the nebulous emotion he felt for her coalesce into love. It would always remain an unnamed thing he never quite understood.

  “Considering the look you gave me earlier, I can only suppose I figure prominently in your plan,” he continued blithely, seemingly amused by the prospect of her further machinations. “As myself, of course, not a presumptuous law clerk who doesn’t know his place. In full ducal regalia I will present myself to Taunton as ready and eager to assist a fellow peer plagued by an unknown menace. I cannot conceive by what divination I will have learned of his plight, but I’m confident you will supply me with a plausible excuse. With my participation assured, I will then introduce you as”—he broke off as he considered the matter thoughtfully for a moment—“a skilled investigator whose talents are frequently employed by the Home Office and recommend that your input be sought immediately. It’s an absurd plan, with several points of impracticality, starting with the fact that Taunton and I have had fewer than a dozen exchanges in the past decade. It would be above all things strange if I were to appear on his doorstep offering to save his life.”

  Well, yes, Bea thought as he described the method by which they would infiltrate the investigation, his plan was absurd. She would never bring the Home Office into her scheme. It was foolish to aim so high when an ordinary magistrate would serve the same purpose while raising fewer eyebrows. Which one in particular she wouldn’t be able to say until she’d learned their names and identified the one most likely to indulge unusual policing methods.

  “As absurd as it is,” he added, the amusement in his tone now tinged with confusion, “I know I will go along with it. How do you do this to me, Miss Hyde-Clare? I recall what you told me while we were on the Strand, about your desire to throw food at my head early in our stay at Lakeview Hall because my air of superiority was too maddening to stand.”

  “Quenelles
of chicken with peas and fruit jelly,” she murmured with a smile. “Fish patties with olive paste, eels à la tartare, stuffed tomatoes.”

  He continued as if she had not spoken. “And I wonder if this was your plan all along—to undermine my dignity not with peas and paste but with plots and plans, to reduce me to this…this creature in a mustache. Do you have any idea how much I enjoyed donning it? My valet thought I was crackbrained when I asked him to procure a false mustache and then insisted he return to the theater to find one that was more effusive,” he said with a rueful smile, shaking his head in wonder. “The most fun I’ve ever had in my whole life was watching you climb over the counter in Mercer Brothers while instructing Mr. Hamish on how to make his sign. You have thoroughly corrupted me,” he admitted, “and like any reprobate worth his salt I’m a grateful participant in my own downfall.”

  It was a remarkable speech.

  Oh, indeed, it was remarkable, and Bea could barely breathe for the tumult it stirred in her body, from the pounding in her heart to even a slightly numb feeling in the tips of her fingers. He was so close to putting it all together. Only a minuscule distance—a hairsbreadth—remained between bewilderment and love, and yet it might as well have been a gaping canyon for all the likelihood he had of crossing it. He could say all these astonishing things, he could feel all these astounding emotions, and yet still walk the aisle of St. George’s with conscripted dignity.

  She felt the truth of that, the dagger-deep despair of that, even as she found herself overwhelmed by the possibility of things that so nearly existed. It was all so close, she would swear she could touch it.

  And then suddenly she was.