Deadly Affair: A Georgian Historical Mystery (Alec Halsey Crimance) (13 page)

Lady Sybilla could only peer anew over the pleated rim of her fan at the Duke of Cleveley and inwardly shudder for poor Henrietta. No wonder the girl looked wretched. A great match it certainly was, a great honor done Henrietta, too, but the girl was barely twenty, and despite the rumor she was soiled goods, an indiscretion or two while drunk at a ball, the Duke was on the other side of forty as to be considered a cradle snatcher. Besides, Sybilla was inclined to forgive Henrietta her drunken mistakes for she was not mentally acute and thus was easily led, and she was warm-hearted and kind; the Duke had about as much warmth as the bleakest of January days.

“Naturally, I’ve not mentioned any of this to Frances,” the Countess Russell was saying, a sidelong glance at Frances Rutherglen. “It will break her heart. Not that she won’t be happy for Henrietta; she will, given time. But one must not forget the tragic loss of her little Mimi.”

Lady Sybilla had not forgotten about Lady Rutherglen’s only child. After all, the girl had been Sybilla’s niece and a great beauty from a young age. She had died less than five years ago, and in the same week that she, Sybilla, had given birth to the Admiral’s second son. Her death had indeed been heartbreaking.

Lady Russell was all too eager to relive the tragedy.

“You remember Mimi. The poor child died of pneumonia just days short of her fifteenth birthday. Her constitution was never strong. Reason she rarely if ever left the schoolroom. Frances was so afraid for her health. The malicious gossips would have you believe it was jealousy of her daughter that kept Mimi shut away; that after one of Frances’s parental rages Mimi bolted only to catch her death for her truancy.”

Lady Sybilla could well believe it. Her sister-in-law Frances possessed a heart with the temperature of an icicle and was as plain as a bowl of cold custard; Lady Rutherglen’s sister Ellen, Duchess of Cleveley was prettier but not considered a great beauty. What beauty there was in the family had gone to the sisters’ younger brother the Admiral, Sybilla’s husband. And as much as Sybilla loved her dear Admiral she was not blind to his physical imperfections; he was no Adonis, no Alec Halsey by any stretch.

“What nonsense,” Lady Russell continued scornfully. “Mimi did not bolt. It was all the fault of her country cousin, a wafer-headed creature who had as much sense as a bee in a bottle! She led Mimi astray and what should have been a quiet stroll up the Mall ended in both girls missing for hours, improperly dressed for the inclement weather, and the poor Rutherglens out of their minds with worry fearing Mimi had been abducted. Then their relief at the news Mimi had been found safe only to be told she had collapsed and died. Poor Rutherglen had a stroke at the news and what you see before you is the result!”

Lady Sybilla glanced at Mimi’s elderly papa; spittle bubbled at the corner of his slackened mouth. She quickly returned her attention to Lady Russell.

“I seem to recall that the cousin, she did not—”

“—return? How could she? Why would she? It was her fault Mimi died. Wretched
evil
creature. No, Sybilla, you must not believe the gossipmongers. Frances was devoted to her only child. There was a pact between the sisters that Ellen’s son George and Frances’s Mimi would wed; that one day Mimi would be the next Duchess of Cleveley. Then she passed away and so their dream came to nothing.”

This was a revelation to Lady Sybilla, but she thought it typical of her sister-in-law to scheme for such an outcome. Her eyes widened as her glance took in the stocky figure of the Duke of Cleveley. Marriage to the Duke was enough of a repellent notion, being wed to the Duke’s errant corpulent stepson Lord George would be much worse. She would not have been at all surprised had poor Mimi up and died just to get out of such an atrocious arrangement; the country cousin may have done her a favor after all.

“So you see my dilemma,” Lady Russell was rattling on. “Henrietta is to gain what Mimi did not live to take.” She smiled her delight and satisfaction, gloved hands flexing about the handle of her fan. “I wish Ellen was alive to see the day.”

Lady Sybilla wanted to point out that had Ellen, Duchess of Cleveley been alive it would be impossible for the Lady Henrietta to marry the Duke of Cleveley. She was of the opinion that poor Mimi’s fate was infinitely preferable to wedding such a cold fish as
the great man
. These sympathetic musings were cut short, not by the Countess Russell, but by the rasping voice of poor dead Mimi’s mamma. Lady Sybilla found herself clutching at Lady Russell’s hand for moral support and realized the Countess was just as terrified of the old woman as she was herself and had caught up her hand first.

“I know why you’ve come calling, sister,” Lady Rutherglen hissed, annoyed the two women were sharing confidences out of her earshot. She leaned sideways on the arm of the chair, the loose flesh about her neck folding into the hollow of her shoulder. “I know all about your expected brat, Sybilla. D’you think the Admiral don’t write letters to his own dear sister? He may be your husband but he’s a most dutiful brother. Give him another son. He don’t need daughters. Waste of time and expense, daughters. Daughters cause
trouble
. Daughters
disappoint
. Daughters cause
mischief
.” She fell back against the upholstery in a fit of coughing, for the final word was spat out with such venomous wrath that it dried her throat. Her watery eyes remained fixed on her open-mouthed sister-in-law.

Lady Sybilla did not know what to say. She had never been so insulted and yet she could not bring herself to make even the mildest of protests. She hated herself for being so ineffectual. She was grateful her mother and Alec Halsey had not witnessed her cowardice. Fortunately, she was spared further anxiety.

The Lady Henrietta was suddenly on her feet and swaying, a gloved hand clutching at the folds of her silk petticoats and her brown eyes swimming with tears. She was staring at the occupants of the next box. To her amazement and that of every powdered head in attendance, the Duke of Cleveley and Lord Russell, the bitterest of political rivals, were bowing to one another with a flourish of lace worthy of any stage-managed performance. All
semblance of interest in the baritone’s performance evaporated amongst the silk clad audience. A hushed whisper of expectation of an even greater entertainment gathered momentum until it became a babble of noise that drowned out the recital on stage and set heads turning in the pit with vulgar shouts of complaint to the audience above.

The Duke and Lord Russell exchanged pleasantries. They smiled on one another. They shared a private joke! More than one jaw swung open at that. An astute journalist took out his pad and scribbled away, aware that he was witness to an historic moment that would be the talk in every drawing room by supper.

What this very public display of friendship meant for the government could only be wondered at. Those in opposition were not so speculative. Padded shoulders slumped amongst their number as it was realized that an alliance between the Duke of Cleveley and the Earl Russell posed an unbeatable force, with no expectation of a future factional split in the cabinet’s ranks to topple the government and force an early election.

But the uppermost thought occupying the nobles was what could have happened to bring about this unlikely alliance. The answer was soon apparent. The two noblemen raised their glasses in a toast to the adjoining box. Quizzing glasses and false eyelashes flashed wildly in that direction, to see to whom the toast honored. The answer brought a collective smile and sigh. Of course! Why had no one predicted such an outcome earlier?

With a jab of her fan, Lady Russell urged her daughter to curtsey prettily in response. After all, it was not every day a girl was so honored in such a public and demonstrative way with an engagement announcement to the most eligible widower in the kingdom.

“Oh, Papa... Not that one...” Lady Henrietta muttered on a shattering sob and promptly fainted at her mother’s satin-heeled feet in a billow of ballooning petticoats.

“Given the choice I suspect Cleveley would have preferred the life of gentleman-squire,” the Duchess of Romney-St. Neots was saying as she sipped claret from a crystal glass. “But of course he was never given the choice. His mother had his life chartered before he was out of leading strings. Great things are expected of an only son of a Lord High Chancellor. Spending one’s life counting sheep and tilling soil don’t figure in the equation. Of course Cleveley was brought up to believe he had a divine right to a place in the great scheme of things and acted accordingly. He was,
stillis
, an immensely proud man. When his father died and he inherited the illustrious title and grand pile of stone, he set about making his mark in politics. As for his marriage... What can I tell you? He accepted an arranged marriage with Ellen because the Conqueror’s blood ran in her veins too. Oh, I thought that would impress you,” she quipped when Alec rolled his eyes. “Ellen was pregnant to the old Duke of Stanton when she married Cleveley, a mere boy of eighteen. A messy business.”

“Odd that there was not the required period of mourning,” Alec commented dryly, thinking of his own predicament; that Selina was intent on waiting out the requisite twelve months. “Especially when she was pregnant to Stanton. Wouldn’t marriage to Cleveley before she gave birth transfer her unborn child’s legitimacy to her new husband?”

“Ellen was Stanton’s second wife; he had three grown sons by his first Duchess. But you are quite right. It was a highly unusual circumstance. As it was she had only been married to Stanton four months when he up and died of heart failure. Too much romping in bed with a much younger wife was said to be the cause of that! Then, within two months, she was married off to Cleveley, she six months pregnant. In vulgar haste, if you ask me. A clause in the Cleveley marriage contract stated that if Ellen did not give Cleveley children, that if he had no legitimate children,
sons
, in his lifetime, should Ellen predecease him, then the child she was carrying and which would be born after marriage to Cleveley, would become the Duke’s nominated heir.”

Alec frowned into his glass of claret. “Doesn’t that strike you as rather remarkable, given the bride was patently fertile and Cleveley a young man? Such an arrangement would suggest the parties who drew up the marriage contract were not in expectation of the newly married couple producing off-spring of their own.”

“You are very astute. It does, doesn’t it?”

“And?” prompted Alec.

“And what, dear boy?”

“Why would such a clause be considered necessary unless... unless it was thought Cleveley was incapable of fathering children? Or have I pressed on too far? Don’t tell me:
The great man
is
impotent
?”

“He is a fully functioning male, as many a bordello beauty can attest,” the Duchess answered with an abruptness that told Alec she was not pleased with his levity. “But around the time of his marriage to Ellen there was a very real concern he was impotent. Their marriage remained unconsummated for over two years. Then a physician performed a simple and effective, but quite painful, procedure that corrected the difficulty. I am told the Jews barbarize all their sons in this way when they come of age.”

“Circumcision? Cleveley was circumcised to correct an erectile problem? But that doesn’t explain why their marriage remained childless.”

“No, it doesn’t. And as Ellen gave birth to George, then one must suppose the fault lies with Cleveley.” The Duchess sighed. “I know one should not speak ill of the dead, but I could never embrace Ellen. She wasn’t
suited
to being a Duke’s wife, though she loved the trappings of title and wealth. She certainly was no helpmate to Cleveley’s career.”

Alec refilled their glasses. The singing below intruded on his thoughts and he glanced toward the stage in annoyance. On this particular occasion he was inclined to agree with the Duchess’s assessment of Opera. He did not much care for Gluck’s work. “I assumed the Duchess of Cleveley was universally liked.”

“Yes, she was. My feelings are tainted by the fact she had a brief affair with Romney.”

“Surely a momentary lapse on his part,” Alec replied politely.

The Duchess gave a hollow laugh, amusement in her pale eyes. “One of many, my dear boy. But one doesn’t expect the girl one presented at court to sleep with one’s husband. It’s in such bad taste, and what’s worse, she had the bad manners to get herself pregnant by him.”

“By Romney?” Alec was surprised. “Are you certain?”

“My dear boy, Romney only had to put a foot across the threshold of my bedchamber and I was with child. I was pregnant more times than I care to remember and had
sixteen
lying-ins. The man was a modern-day Ramses. Too fertile for any female’s good. I was only too pleased he went a’roamin.”

Alec stifled a laugh on a mouthful of claret.

“But what I did not appreciate was being told.”

“She told you?” Alec was surprised. “To what purpose? I assumed she would rid herself of such ill-gotten offspring, or at the very least hide the fruits of her adultery, if only to spare Cleveley the indignity of his glaring inadequacy?”