by Lynn Messina
Unsatisfied with a vague promise, the widow insisted on scheduling a particular appointment, and while she quietly reviewed the week’s engagements, Bea looked up and there he was.
Panicked, she grabbed Lady Abercrombie’s hand and squeezed it tightly. “Don’t leave me,” Bea said.
It took the countess only one second to apprise herself of the situation, and as she gently extricated her hand from her protégé’s viselike grip, she said, “I won’t, darling.” Then she turned to greet the duke as he covered the last few feet that separated him from Bea. “There you are, Kesgrave. I was just about to search you out. What is this I hear about your supporting Johnstone in his proposal to raise the tax on bamboo? You know I’m desperate to own a red panda to go with my drawing room, and red pandas love bamboo so this increase will affect me dreadfully.”
Kesgrave, his eyes focused exclusively on Beatrice, seemed almost surprised to see Lady Abercrombie standing there. He darted a look in her general direction, greeted her absently and returned his gaze to Bea, who found herself equally unable to turn away, transfixed by the determination she saw in his stunning blue eyes.
Yes, she reminded herself, determination to apologize for his lapse in judgment and shoulder responsibility for a transgression of which he was but a victim. The prospect of such an exchange was so unbearable, she finally wrested the ability to tilt her head down.
“Very clever, your grace,” the countess said with seemingly genuine appreciation. “Pretend I’m not here so you won’t have to answer for your heartlessness. I won’t be fobbed off by your ploy. I know you are perfectly aware of my aspirations, for when I mentioned the matter to you, you said, ‘Tilly, I don’t know what a red panda is, but I’m sure it’s best for everyone involved if you don’t have one.’ This happened only a few months ago so you can’t claim you don’t remember. Regardless, I want you to withdraw your support. Do say you will comply at once.”
“Tilly, you are as relentless as ever,” Kesgrave said, his tone affable and yet somehow full of impatience. “I will agree to seek out Johnstone tonight and withdraw my support if you will give me a moment to talk with Miss Hyde-Clare. I understand from her family that she has suffered a terrible cold, and I’m eager to inquire after her health.”
Bea’s heart, which was already racing at an alarming rate, hitched in her chest at these words.
“Yes, of course, you must talk to her and ensure yourself she is well,” Lady Abercrombie said, terrifying Bea with her easy agreement. Had this been her plan all along—vow to help her and then brutally abandon her to Kesgrave’s clutches? “I too was worried by the perniciousness of her cold. It reminded me of the illness my dear departed Henry caught while he was on the Peninsula. The poor love. How his nose suffered! He could never hold on to a handkerchief in London, let alone in the middle of a campaign. Do let me tell you the tale.”
Kesgrave sighed deeply. “I’m sure it’s a vastly entertaining story, but I don’t think now is the time.”
The countess agreed vehemently with his observation. “You are right, of course you are, for we are in a ballroom and you must dance with”—there was a slight pause as she surveyed her immediate surroundings and settled on a young lady in a pink dress—“Miss Philbin, whose mother expressly sought my assistance in launching her daughter.”
The girl in question looked terrified as the famous widow reached out, tugged her arm and drew her into their group.
“I can think of nothing that would more firmly establish her than a set with the Duke of Kesgrave,” Lady Abercrombie insisted. “Can you, Miss Hyde-Clare?”
In awe of the countess’s manipulations, Bea said, “No, I cannot.”
“Very well, then,” Kesgrave said mildly.
At his gracious capitulation, Bea’s eyes flew to his face and found he was watching her now with an expression of amused forbearance. Although her ladyship had successfully routed him, the extremity of her actions revealed her protégé’s desperation. She could not know why that entertained him but it did.
“Miss Philbin, it would be my honor,” he said, turning to smile charmingly at the young lady, whose terror at dancing with the most eligible parti in all of London was readily apparent on her face. “Miss Hyde-Clare, I look forward to continuing this discussion later.”
As Bea watched the couple present themselves to the dance floor, Lady Abercrombie said, “Do you think she could be a Miss Philbin? I rather think she looks like a Miss Philbin, though for all I know, she could be a Miss Cartwright or a Lady Amanda. Truly, I have no idea what her name is or who her mother is. She was merely the first young miss I spotted when I was seeking one. Do you think it matters that we don’t know her name?” she asked with a thoughtful note before shaking her head decisively. “It does not. She is far too scared of Kesgrave to correct him, and what I said is true: One dance with him will guarantee her success. Being addressed by the wrong name during the quadrille is really a small price to pay for social acceptance.”
Bea surprised herself by laughing with genuine humor. “You are a marvel, Lady Abercrombie, and I do not wonder why my mother loved you.”
“Thank you, my dear,” the countess said matter-of-factly. “I will not pretend to be unmoved by that sentiment. Now do tell me what happened between you and Kesgrave to create such a tense situation. You were both practically vibrating—you with anxiety and he with impatience.”
At her ladyship’s observation, Bea turned bright pink, which forestalled the need to answer at all.
“Ah, I see,” Lady Abercrombie said with a chuckle. “Take my advice, my dear, and have it out with him once and for all. I understand your dread and frankly share it, but it will be awful and then it will be over. Now, I am happy to protect you when I can, but it’s a large ballroom and a long night. You cannot remain glued to my side at every moment. You will have to cultivate other resources.”
Bea appreciated both her willingness to help and her perspective, and she stayed as close as she could until the widow was asked to dance by Mr. Cuthbert, whom, Bea discovered a few minutes later from her aunt, was her latest paramour.
“I cannot approve of her manners, for they are far too free and easy,” Aunt Vera said chidingly as she watched the countess twirl around the dance floor, “and given my connection with the duke, I no longer think it’s necessary for the Hyde-Clares to court her approval in order to advance our social position. You should consider ending the association.”
For a moment, Bea truly couldn’t decide which was worse—listening to her aunt’s conversation or having a private discussion with Kesgrave—but as soon as she saw the latter approaching, she made up her mind. The apprehension she felt in her stomach at his approach made it as plain as day.
Although it required some effort, she forced herself to stay where she was. Running away too soon would defeat her purpose. First, she needed her aunt to fully engage him in an exchange. Then, when they were both engrossed, she could calmly excuse herself.
Luckily, her aunt took control of the conversation immediately following Kesgrave’s greeting, and while he was politely listening to her enthuse about a paperweight Mrs. Scott brought back from Venice, Bea murmured an excuse and walked away. She was so pleased with how well she’d executed her plan, she dared to glance back to admire her achievement.
“You look satisfied,” Nuneaton said.
“I am,” she admitted, turning to greet the handsome viscount.
“I was hoping you would be here,” he said, “as I have not seen you since our strange outing to the Red Corner House. I understand you have been severely under the weather. I trust you are recovered now.”
Given her long history of social isolation, it surprised Beatrice how many people had noticed her absence. “I am, yes, and I’m still not prepared to reveal the secrets of Lakeview Hall,” she added teasingly.
He shook his head, unconcerned. “I will get the truth out of you eventually, and in the meantime, you have a much more interesting tale
to tell. And this one you are obligated to share, as I lent my assistance to the cause.”
“Am I?” she asked, amused, wondering if it would be too persnickety to point out that Lady Abercrombie had sought his help, not she.
Before she could answer, the orchestra began to play the opening strains of a waltz and Nuneaton held out his hand. “May I?”
She consented but laughed as she pointed to his ulterior motive. “You just want an opportunity to make your case.”
“Untrue!” he insisted as they took their position on the dance floor. “Your obligation precludes my having to make any effort at all.”
Although she wasn’t sure she agreed with the validity of his argument, she saw no reason to demure and told him the particulars of the investigation, altering the names of the participants by reducing them to their first letter, even Andrew Skeffington, who was in fact Nuneaton’s distant cousin. It was the first time she had considered the inquiry since sharing her findings with the Otleys and Mr. Skeffington, and even then she had provided only the broadest strokes. The events in the carriage immediately after her interrogation of Taunton had eclipsed the murder, and the fact that she would never have the satisfaction of identifying the culprit because the real victim refused to consult with her reaffirmed the uselessness in pondering it. In any event, Taunton was surviving quite well without her assistance, for she had seen him moments ago on the dance floor with the ersatz Miss Philbin.
“So it was all just an error?” Nuneaton asked at the end of her narration, appalled by the seemingly unpredictable machinations of an indifferent universe. “W died because someone was trying to kill T?”
“Yes,” she said, glancing at him as they spun. “If W had not taken the snuffbox, then he would be alive today and T would be dead.”
“Caught in the crossfire as if on a battlefield,” he said softly. “What a thing. Who could have ever anticipated such a peculiar turn of events?”
At his words, Bea stumbled, losing her step in the waltz as his words called to something deep inside her.
Who could have anticipated such a peculiar turn of events?
The handkerchief, she recalled suddenly, with the initials on it. JBW. In the dressing room of his apartment at the Melbourne. The locket from George on the shelf.
I must ask him about my ring, my talisman ring.
That was Mowbray. Mowbray had muttered those words in his drunken stupor.
“Miss Hyde-Clare,” Nuneaton said firmly, concern evident in his voice. “Are you all right? ’Twas only a slight trip, and we are steady now.”
Bea looked at him, almost surprised to find herself still in his arms on the dance floor. “Yes, yes, of course,” she said but her tone was abstracted as she considered the staggering possibility that Taunton was the murderer after all.
During their conversation, he had practically confessed.
About Wilson’s position in India, he’s said, “I thought for sure the post would kill him.… I advised him not to go, but Charles was stubborn and always did the opposite of what you counsel.”
Could it have been that simple to murder a man? Find an irresistible object you know he would steal because he had a habit of taking things that were not his, fill it with poison and let the man damn himself.
At once, Bea’s throat went dry and her heart began pounding.
It would, she thought, explain why he’d been surprised to hear the name of the poison. He had not used nux vomica but something similar that produced the same reaction. She had no idea what it could be. Something readily available in London, she decided.
Why had Taunton wanted him dead?
He’d spoken of him fondly enough, and Wilson was merely the estate’s former steward. Could it have gone back to their childhoods? Could it have been jealousy? Had young Charles usurped the old lord’s affection or did his father treat him more kindly than Taunton’s did him? Or was it a more recent resentment? How had Mr. Wilson earned such violent retribution?
Consumed by her thoughts, Bea hardly noticed that the music had stopped and she realized Nuneaton had said her name a few times before she heard it.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked, genuinely worried now. “Perhaps you are suffering a relapse of your illness.”
Bea looked at him and was touched to see anxiety in his deep brown eyes. “No, I’m sorry. I just—” Spotting Taunton out of the corner of her eye, she watched as he strode across the dance floor toward the gallery opposite. Agitated, she walked off hurriedly to follow, calling belatedly back to Nuneaton that she was fine.
She caught up to Taunton just as he reached the entrance to the balcony, and she followed him out onto the empty terrace, too agitated to notice either the unusually cold air or the significant breach in custom she was committing by addressing a superior to whom she had not been introduced.
“You knew he would take it,” she said accusingly as she crossed the terrace to where he stood along the far railing.
Smoothly, he removed a cheroot from his pocket as he said, “My dear lady, I can tell from your tone that you think I’ve committed some offense. I assure you, my conscience is clear.”
Bea took another step closer and said, “The snuffbox. You knew he would take it because he took everything. Was the Swift book given to him or did he steal that as well?”
Now he narrowed his eyes as he examined her, and finding no resemblance to any person he knew, he insisted again that she was mistaken. “I do not know to whom or to what you refer, but I find you impertinent and not at all interesting. Do remove yourself from my presence immediately.” He turned away to light the cheroot from one of the torches stationed at regular intervals along the balustrade.
“I am referring to the murder of Charles Wilson, my lord,” she announced forcefully as he carelessly took his first puff. “I’m referring to the snuffbox you left out so that your father’s light-fingered former steward would steal it. I’m referring to the poison in which you bathed the snuff so that he would inhale it and die a gruesome death. That’s what I’m referring to and you do know it very well. If it wasn’t nux vomica, what was it? That is what I cannot figure out. What poison was administered?”
Hearing the words nux vomica loosened something in his memory, and he shook his head as he realized who she was. “Good God, Mr. Wright, can that be you?” he asked, amusement mixing with surprise. “How considerably more feminine you look in that gown than your lawyering suit. It’s charming to see you in your altered state. I must concede, I’m impressed with how clever you are to have figured it out. I didn’t think anyone would.” His voice rang with what appeared to be genuine appreciation. “You are clearly a cut above the common female. What did you say your name was?”
“I did not say,” she informed him, “as I have no interest in introducing myself to a murderer.”
The charge did not unsettle him in the least, and he smiled before inhaling sharply on his cheroot. “You are very rude, but for some reason I find it appealing. As your reward, I will answer your question: The poison I used was obtained from a public house near the docks. One of my footmen procured it. It’s called strychnine, and the tavern keeper adds it to the beer he waters down to make sure it’s sufficiently bitter to fool the customers. I understand it’s quite a common practice. I trust it goes without saying that they use it in far smaller quantities or they would be losing patrons at an alarming rate.”
Strychnos nux-vomica, she thought, recalling the name of the tree in India. It must derive from the same source.
“Why?” she asked. “What had he done to you?”
“My dear, what hadn’t he done?” he said, amused by his own question. “He was a mincemeater of the highest order, always looking for a way to squeeze or sharp you. From the moment he was put in leading strings, he was bleeding the estate. Always an extra slice of pie or another comfit. The older he grew, the worse it became. First books for school, then tuition itself. My father found his constant grasping diverting
, but it bothered me to no end. It was as if he felt entitled to what was mine. Mine, not his. I almost didn’t mind the stealing because it was in some respects more honest than the incessant wheedling for more and he at least displayed a talent for it. He was a real rum diver, our Charles. But then he took a miniature of my father only a few months after he died and that was not diverting. My mother was distraught when she couldn’t find it and assumed it was her own carelessness, which somehow made it all the more devastating for her. She fell into a decline from which she has yet to entirely recover.”
“So you decided to kill him,” she said, aghast that the accumulation of small peccadillos could drive a man to such extremes.
“No, I decided to send him to India, where the elements would kill him. I’m not a ruffian, my dear. I saw Otley was looking for a steward and knew it was likely that any candidate would eventually find himself looking after his business interests in India, so I arranged the position. When that did not work as I expected, I was forced to come up with another plan. But my goal was never to kill him. It was always to see if he would kill himself. If he made a poor decision that ultimately led to an excruciating death…” He trailed off with an apathetic shrug. “The snuffbox was mine, not his, and he knew it. Nobody can blame me for his death. I did nothing.”
His confidence was infuriating, more so because Bea feared he might be correct. He had arranged for Wilson’s death in a slippery way that was at once illegally dubious and morally reprehensible, and it was only the gleeful malice in his tone that made his intentions clear. If he affected sincere distress at Wilson’s death, he might very well come across as blameless. Truly, she didn’t know.
But she was more than willing to find out.
“You think so?” she asked tauntingly. “Let’s return to the ballroom right now to share your story and discover together how innocent the ton finds you. I own I’m quite curious to see what your peers think.”