Death of a Radical (27 page)

“She's French,” my lord informed her, in a flash of his usual manner. “Said to be excellent at dressing hair but quite the wrong temperament in a crisis.”

Henrietta Lonsdale was a compassionate woman. She liked to be of use. Lord Charles appeared so pitifully harassed, she had felt it impossible to refuse him. And that is how it came to pass that Henrietta Lonsdale, spinster of marriageable age (more or less), found herself unchaperoned in a household of bachelors.

The things she had heard! She stared at the closed door as if the truth might be discovered in its wooden grain. She did not know what to believe. Of course, these noble families were bound to be different from ordinary folk, but still … She was at a loss as to what to do next. She looked up to find Lord Charles observing her.

“How is she?” he asked. His expression was conspiratorial, as if they had known each other for years.

“She's sleeping,” Miss Lonsdale replied. “I gave her a draft of Mr. Tiplady's tonic.”

“Sensible,” he said, taking her arm in a brotherly manner and steering her toward the stairs. “What's in it?” he asked conversationally. She suspected he did so to fill a gap. She was grateful.

“Tincture of laudanum, I believe. Dr. Parry has prescribed my aunt something similar. It soothes her when she is hysterical.” She checked herself. That was hardly polite. She had just implied Mrs. Adley—a stranger to her
and the marquess's relative—was hysterical. But what other word could properly describe the lady's behavior? Lord Charles had fallen silent. She slid a glance at his profile under her lashes. He held her hand in the crook of his arm, lightly covered by his own cool fingers. Apart from a faintly set look about his jaw, they might have been entering a ballroom. The staircase creaked as they descended. There must be servants about but not one was in sight. You are a respectable spinster, she told herself forcefully; Lord Charles is a gentleman and you are doing your Christian duty. They stepped off the bottom stair and she slid her hand free.

“Mr. Jarrett.” A voice sounding remarkably like her own resonated in the paneled hallway. “Is he at home?” The marquess crooked an eyebrow at her. “I-I saw him earlier,” she stammered, grateful for the blending cover of the candlelight as color flooded her face. “I was visiting Miss Lippett. Mr. Jarrett arrived with the colonel. That is how I learned the dreadful news about Mr. Adley. At Grateley Manor.” Lord Charles took a moment to react.

“What was he doing up there?” he demanded. Henrietta moistened her lips. Had Mr. Jarrett not told him? Wouldn't he think her a dreadful gossip?

“I understand that Colonel Ison believes he has identified the culprit responsible for … for last night's tragedy,” she explained, picking her words with care. “He rode up to Grateley to arrest a man in Miss Lippett's employ. He did not find him.” That was the bare truth. Lord Charles stared back at her, his expression blank. For
a foolish moment she wondered whether she should repeat herself.

“Good God!” he exclaimed. “I need a drink.” Leaving her standing, he led the way into the library.

“Did Mr. Jarrett not tell you?” she asked unnecessarily, as she followed him.

“He is keeping out of the way. I can't blame him. That woman—” Lord Charles broke off and rang the bell. “Tea?” he asked.

She was grateful for the tea when it came. The marquess seemed to have forgotten her. He stood over the mantelpiece. Leaning an arm against the marble shelf, he nursed his whisky, contemplating the flames below. Henrietta examined the room about her. The library lacked the sense of comfort that came from family use. The curtains, she noted, looked newly hung and the paintwork was fresh. A taint of turpentine and linseed touched with vinegar mixed with the taste of her tea. Apart from the yellowing perspective of the old manor, as it had been in Queen Anne's day, hanging over the fire, there was a sparseness in the decorations. There were no porcelain vases or curiosities dotted about. None of the usual hunting prints, family portraits or interesting peeps from some ancestor's tour added interest to the walls. Miss Lonsdale felt as if she trespassed. Her acquaintance with the marquess, in truth, was slight. It rested solely on the fact that they had been thrown together in an isolated neighborhood. Were they in London, or even in York, she would never have had an opportunity for such an
encounter. They belonged to such different spheres. She was out of her depth. Her interview with Mrs. Adley had troubled her deeply. She told herself that the woman was half mad and malicious with it, but she could not forget what she had heard.

“Mr. Adley's mother is dreadfully shocked,” she said. Lord Charles lifted his head.

“Has she blamed poor Raif for the boy's death?”

Henrietta was nonplussed. She had not anticipated so direct a response. “She has said many things. I did not …” Henrietta tried to find the proper compassion for a mother's grief and came up wanting. She cast about for some way to change the subject.

“Come now, what did she say?”

Henrietta resorted to a sip of the dregs of her cold tea. The marquess's mouth curved upward as if it smiled despite him. He came and sat down beside her. Gently he took the cup from her hands and set it aside. He picked up her hand and held it between his.

“Miss Lonsdale—Henrietta,” he said coaxingly. “I appreciate your delicacy but I should like to know what Mrs. Adley said.” His brown eyes were warm and generous. You do want to know the truth of it, thought Henrietta to herself. She gathered her courage.

“Mrs. Adley mentioned Mr. Jarrett. She …” Henrietta hesitated then pushed herself on, speaking in her most matter-of-fact style. “She charges him with responsibility for her son's death and she spoke of another boy.” The marquess dropped her hand.

“Little brother Ferdy.” Henrietta felt cold. Charles read her expression. “It was an accident!” he protested. “We were boys, playing on ice.” He got up and crossed to the window. Drawing a curtain aside, he looked out. The snowy landscape glimmered in the dark. “Much this time of year, as I remember. The ice broke and Ferdy fell under it. It was Raif who pulled him out. He was our hero that day.”

“Then why should Mrs. Adley … ?” Charles made an impatient sound. He let the curtain drop back into place.

“Raif pulled Ferdy out,” he repeated, “but my brother did not recover. He was taken by a fever. There was nothing to be done. Raif blamed himself—we never did.” Charles had resumed his contemplation of the fire. “Raif has a noble heart.” He spoke so quietly, his manner so abstracted, that Henrietta wondered if he remembered to whom he spoke. “He thinks it his duty to protect us. Mother calls him our centurion.” She thought of that boy with a noble heart who could not save someone he loved; and of that same boy, grown to be a man, somewhere above in this house, alone, facing this new loss. Her throat constricted.

“How old was he?” she asked.

“Who? Raif? Then? Twelve years old, or thereabouts.” The man before her straightened up. He seemed to fill out and harden. He, a marquess, turned to face her. “You, ma'am, have a way of winning confidences,” he said lightly. He crossed to the bell and rang it. “But I am remiss. I have imposed on your good nature too long. Your aunt
will be wondering what has become of you. Let me call for your carriage.”

The servant came and the carriage was brought to the door. Lord Charles escorted her to it, his polished manner marking the distance between them. At the steps, he bowed over her hand.

“I cannot thank you enough for your kindness, ma'am,” he said, his voice suddenly intimate. Henrietta took her seat, fussing with her skirts to cover her embarrassment.

“What will you do?” she asked before he could close the door. The marquess's expression softened. He answered her readily enough.

“Mrs. Adley wants to remove her son as soon as possible. Her husband is on a visit with friends in Kent. He will meet us in London.”

“And Mr. Jarrett, will he accompany you?”

“No. Raif will stay here. He will discover what happened to poor Grub,” responded Lord Charles with utter assurance. The carriage door swung closed on her with a decisive click.

The idea of his own death had never troubled him. He did not imagine there was any means to worry once you were dead. He did not believe in an afterlife. He hoped for a clean death, other than that … But this was different. Grub should have been safe.

Murder follows you!
As if death were a plague he carried from place to place.

He was almost through the bottle Charles had so
considerately left behind him. The brandy filled him with rage. Damn him! Damn Charles to hell for his interfering, well-meaning ways. If he hadn't dragged him back, this would never have happened. He listened to the old house creaking around him. It was at Charles's urging that the place had been cleared out, plastered and painted, as if it would make him a home. He thought of the library beneath him as it was the first time he set eyes on it—broken, vile and uncared for, like its previous inhabitant, the last duke's agent, who had died there. It's still the same shell that housed Crotter, he thought. Paint and plaster will not disguise that. Your kind has no home.

What are you good for?

His box cut a familiar outline against a window of stars winking in the night. His paints had always been his pleasure, a means to create form and order. He stood up, catching himself on the corner of the table. He could capture Grub's image and leave a likeness to remember him by. He needed light.

He opened the door to deeper darkness. He felt his way down the wall to the attic door. He pulled it open and yelled for light. Bare feet thudded on boards overhead. A pause and then a door opened. Light wavered round the corner, gradually filling the stairwell. At its center appeared a young footman Tiplady had engaged. He lifted the lamp. Its light fell on his master's face.

“The house is asleep, sir.” The youth's feet were bare. He wore breeches with his nightshirt half tucked into them.

“Why aren't you, then?” Jarrett put a hand on the wall to steady himself, squinting a little against the dazzle.

“You called, sir,” the youth answered patiently.

“I want light. Tip!” Jarrett roared, demonstrating the lung power of an officer in the field. “Tiplady!”

The footman was intrigued. It was the first time he had seen Mr. Jarrett proper lit. He'd only been at the manor for eight months but, like the rest of the household, he was proud of his dashing master.

“Hush sir,” he said urgently. If Mr. Jarrett carried on like this, he'd wake the old witch downstairs. “Mr. Tiplady's taken his tonic.” His master waved a hand.

“You'll do. Matthew, isn't it? Fetch me straw.”

“Straw, sir?”

“You heard me. Straw. Fetch it.” Jarrett pushed himself off the wall. “A bale from the stables.” He looked back over his shoulder. The boy had not moved. “Go on. Fetch!”

“It's the middle of the night, sir.”

“Do you think me blind?” his master inquired without heat. “I want straw—at least half a bale and that roll of wire in the tack room by the feed bin. And light. Lots of light.” He moved toward the stairs. “And brandy,” he added as an afterthought. “I'll fetch the rest,” he said and disappeared.

“What's he up to?” Jinnie the little housemaid peered over Matt's shoulder, holding a shawl tight over her nightgown.

“He's gonna burn us out! The master's gone mad!” squealed Maggie, who had followed her roommate.

“Get on with you!” scoffed Matt. Maggie was known as a worrier. Although he was barely sixteen years old, Matt had a presence about him. Girls looked up to him.

“Where you goin'?” demanded Maggie, watching Matt head toward the back stairs.

“I'm fetching t'bale and wire,” he answered. “Yous get off to bed.”

“If master's gonna burn the place down,” responded Maggie, “I'm sleeping in the kitchen by the yard door.”

“What about you?” Jinnie called softly after Matt. He looked back up at her.

“I'll get me a chair and wait out the night by the door in case he needs me.”

“You smell smoke, you come warn us,” urged Maggie and turned back up the stairs to bed.

The candles had burned out. Pink dawn light filled the room. It was almost done. The door opened behind him and he smelt coffee.

“Fine fellow you are, hiding away and leaving me alone with that wretched woman!” Charles was actually holding a tray. Jarrett blinked at the unaccustomed sight.

“What?”

His cousin put down his burden. “The boy brought it up.” Charles saw the chair and its occupant. “What the devil!”

Favian's clothes, stuffed with straw, occupied the chair where Grub once sat. The rough mannequin posed in parody of its original, one arm bent up along the back
of the chair and pantalooned legs stretched out in counterpoint. Charles advanced on the gruesome doll as if he would throw it to the ground.

“Don't! The balance is precarious.” The artist looked up from his canvas. “I needed the clothes,” he said simply.

The portrait was almost complete. Favian Adley leaned his head on his hand. His pale face glowed, delicate and translucent, but it was a blind face. The eyes were blurred as if blank. Charles stared, transfixed, as Jarrett's steady brush traced a single fine line of gray paint down the shadowed side of the nose. The artist took a step back. He flicked a rueful glance toward his companion.

“I could not bear him looking at me …”

Charles opened his mouth as if to say something. Instead, he closed it again and turned to pour two cups of coffee.

“Sky's a good color,” he commented. The window to the side of the figure framed an Italianate summer sky of pure blue highlighted with scumbles of cloud.

“It's a new tint. Field calls it Dumont's Blue.” He liked to think of Grub under a cheerful sky. “It's a touch more purple than ultramarine. Works tolerably in oil.” Picking up a fresh brush, Jarrett gave substance to the white cravat with a few sparse touches of black.