Sheri Cobb South (4 page)

“Came out where?”

Lord Rupert looked pained. “Came out in Society! Bath, to be precise, where I was obliged to economize, following a particularly unhappy night at the tables.”

“The tables?” echoed Pickett, uncertain as to whether Lord Rupert had been driven to the medicinal spa by indigestion or some more serious complaint.

“Gaming, my good man, gaming!” explained Lord Rupert, beholding his audience all at sea. “Pray, Mr. Pickett, are you by any chance acquainted with an establishment in Jermyn Street by the name of the Monastery?”

“No, I can’t say that I am.”

“Accept my felicitations! As they say, ignorance is bliss. Would that I might have remained equally, er, blissful.”

Pickett, uncomfortably aware of an insult so ambiguous in nature that he could not be certain whether it was intentional or not, forced himself to swallow his spleen and steer the conversation back to the matter at hand.

“About Lady Fieldhurst—you were saying?”

“Ah, yes. She was the belle of the Season that year. I proposed marriage to her—several times, in fact—but it soon became evident that Miss Runyon had ambitions. Alas, the mere third son of a marquess cannot hope to compete with a viscount. She married Fieldhurst, and I—” He paused to drain the last of his coffee from the cup.

“And you—?” prompted Pickett, when Lord Rupert seemed disinclined to continue.

“I waited for the bloom to fade, then renewed my attentions to the viscountess.”

“With the intention of becoming her lover,” concluded Pickett.

Lord Rupert inclined his head. “As you say. Unfortunately, she seemed unmoved by my, er, manly charms— until last night, upon which momentous occasion we arrived at the rendezvous only to discover Fieldhurst’s dead body waiting to greet us. Ironic, is it not? Even in death, he cuts me out.”

“I should think you’d be pleased. After all, with Lord Fieldhurst safely underground, you’re free to wed his widow.”

“Lest you seek to credit me with a motive for murder, Mr. Pickett, I must point out that, if I had murdered Fieldhurst with marriage in mind, I could not have served myself a worse turn. Lady Fieldhurst will now be obliged to spend the next twelvemonth mourning her husband—in letter, if not in spirit—and I will be obliged to hold my ardor in check for the duration. Why, I ask you, should I take such risks only to obtain, after a year’s delay, what the lady was already prepared to give without, as they say, benefit of clergy?”

Pickett, finding himself possessed of a sudden urge to plant Lord Rupert Latham a facer, judged it high time to take his leave. After cautioning his lordship that he might well call again, should other questions arise over the course of his investigation, he collected his hat from the dour-faced manservant and stumbled out into the street. His pride was rather stung; he could not shake the nagging conviction that he had not emerged victorious from the encounter. Still, he knew Mr. Colquhoun well enough to know that the magistrate would not have been pleased to learn he had come to blows over a suspect (least of all that particular suspect), so he was left with no choice but to depart, and that right speedily. It was none of his affair, he reminded himself sternly. Adulteress or no, murderess or no, Lady Fieldhurst was not for the likes of John Pickett.

Chapter 3

Beauty in Distress

Lady Fieldhurst awoke the next morning with a throbbing head and a vague sense of lingering nightmare. When at last she summoned sufficient resolve to open her eyes and found herself not in her own suite, but in the best guest room, she knew that the disturbing images that had so troubled her sleep had been no nightmare. Her husband was dead, stabbed in the neck with her own nail scissors. He had been lying on the floor when she returned from the Herrington ball. Lord Rupert Latham had been there, too—in her bedchamber, no less. Good heavens! Just how many glasses of champagne had she drunk? And there had been a Bow Street Runner as well—not a highly intelligent man, by the looks of him, but he’d had such nice eyes . . .

And he would no doubt be calling soon to question her. Bracing herself against the pain she knew would follow, she sat upright and swung her legs out of bed. Delaying the unpleasant tasks which lay ahead would not make them go away: arrangements must be made for transporting Frederick’s body to the family crypt at Fieldhurst Hall; mourning clothes must be obtained, and some of her old gowns dyed black to carry her through until new ones could be made up; her family must be notified, as well as that of her husband. The prospect of facing the dowager Lady Fieldhurst brought a queasy feeling to her already unsettled stomach.

She tugged on the bell pull, and a moment later Camille entered the room, a black gown draped over her arm.

“Bon jour, madame,” she said with a solemnity suited to the occasion. “I have taken the liberty of brushing madame’s black bombazine, if it would please madame to put it on.”

Lady Fieldhurst recognized the gown as one of several she’d had made during the year following the death of some distant Fieldhurst relative. “Then you have heard?”

“The news, she travels rapidement in the servants’ hall, madame.”

Lady Fieldhurst could not dispute it; nor could she deny the speed with which gossip spread from one house to another, due in large part to friendships and family connections between servants. She must send word to her husband’s cousin at once; it would never do for the heir to learn of his inheritance from his valet.

“Thomas must deliver a message to Mr. George Bertram,” she told Camille. “Pray fetch me paper and pen, and I shall write it at once.”

“Un mille pardons, madame, but the pot boy has already gone to inform Monsieur Bertram, as Thomas cannot be spared.”

The viscountess merely nodded, too overwhelmed to wonder why the kitchen boy should have been dispatched on an errand more suited to the footman, or, for that matter, why Thomas’s presence had suddenly become indispensable.

“I shall require a great deal of you today, Camille. Some of my dresses will have to be dyed—the figured muslin, I think, and the blue crape should suffice, so long as the ribbons are removed.”

“Oui, madame. It seems a pity, though. Such lovely gowns—

“Nevertheless, it must be done,” said Lady Fieldhurst in a voice that brooked no argument.

“Oui, madame,” Camille said again, then left the room.

She returned a short time later with a steaming kettle, which she emptied into the large porcelain bowl on the wash stand. Lady Fieldhurst washed her face and hands, then put on the black bombazine and allowed the maid to dress her hair before dismissing the woman. She then went down to breakfast, averting her eyes as she passed the closed door of her bedchamber on her way to the stairs. She was no more than halfway to the ground floor when Thomas the footman hurried forward to meet her.

“Beg pardon, my lady,” he said, “but Rogers has done a bunk. He’s not been seen since last night, and his bed hasn’t been slept in.”

Lady Fieldhurst dashed a hand over her eyes. Would she never awaken from this nightmare? “Thank you, Thomas, I shall look into it. In the meantime, you must take Rogers’s place.”

“Yes, my lady.” Thomas bowed, then left her to seek her morning meal in peace.

The breakfast room, which faced east to catch the morning sun, was almost obscenely bright. Squinting against the light, Lady Fieldhurst drew the curtains, then fortified herself with strong coffee. Although the smell of buttered eggs and bacon made her feel ill, she somehow managed to choke down a single slice of dry toast. Scarcely had she risen from this Spartan meal, when Thomas came forward once more.

“The dowager Lady Fieldhurst, my lady, and Mr. and Mrs. George Bertram.”

“Oh, dear!” said Lady Fieldhurst, glancing about the breakfast room as if seeking an escape route. “Put them in the—”

“Julia! My poor child!” Thomas was pushed aside by a stout woman swathed in black, who advanced upon Lady Fieldhurst with every apparent intention of clasping her in a fond embrace.

“M-Mother Fieldhurst,” stammered her daughter-in-law, submitting to her fate. “Cousin George, Cousin Caroline. How good of you to call.”

She gave Mr. Bertram her hand, and he bowed over it, clicking his heels together sharply in a gesture that, along with his drooping mustache, was one of the last vestiges of an undistinguished military career. It seemed ludicrous to think of poor, ineffectual Cousin George (who had once obeyed his commanding officer without question, and now performed that office for his wife) as the new viscount. Whatever his shortcomings as a husband, the late Lord Fieldhurst had been a political force to be reckoned with, both in Parliament and in the Foreign Office. How he had hated the idea of his cousin stepping into his shoes! Never had Julia regretted her barrenness more.

“We came as soon as we heard the news,” said the younger of the two females, a sharp-faced woman of forty whose filmy black draperies gave her the appearance of a large crow. “I was never more shocked! But we cannot talk here. We shall be much more comfortable in the drawing room.”

Exactly as though she has already taken possession of the house, thought Lady Fieldhurst resentfully, as Mrs. Bertram herded the party into the drawing room.

“I felt I must come at once to offer you a place in my home,” the dowager said, settling herself upon a sofa covered in bronze-green satin. “So distressing for you, staying here.

Why, who knows but what next time a housebreaker might murder you in your bed!”

“A—a housebreaker, ma’am?” echoed Lady Fieldhurst, still somewhat dazed by the suddenness of the invasion.

“Of course it must have been a housebreaker! Who else would have reason to do such a thing to my poor son? Really, one wonders what the watchmen are being paid to do!”

“And this house contains so many valuable things,” put in Mrs. Bertram, examining the furnishings as if calculating their worth. “There is certainly more than enough to tempt any thief.”

“We have talked it over, and it is all settled,” announced the dowager. “Caroline says that you are more than welcome to remain in this house after she and George move in—” Here Mrs. Bertram nodded her agreement in a flutter of black draperies. “—But she is convinced you would be most uncomfortable, sleeping in the very room where it took place—

“Not the very room, Aunt Lavinia,” tittered Mrs. Bertram. “I shall have that one, of course, as it adjoins the master suite. Although, Julia, you will be pleased to hear that I plan to redecorate the whole house so you would never know it for the same place. Lady Blandford has had the most cunning Egyptian furnishings from Mr. Hope, with the sofas and chairs supported by gilt sphinxes—”

“For now, my dear Julia, you may accompany us to Fieldhurst Hall for the funeral,” said Cousin George, with the air of one bestowing an unexpected favor. “Not that you ladies will be expected to attend the service, of course, although I will naturally do so. But you may watch the procession from the window, if you wish.”

“And afterwards we shall remove to the Dower House,” put in the dowager. “You will want to live very quietly during your period of mourning, of course, and I am sure I will be very glad of your company. You may take my dear little pug for long walks about the countryside, and you may read to me in the evenings. Alas, my eyesight is not what it once was—”

“And, of course, when George and I are in residence at the Hall, you must dine with us for a special treat. I confess I look forward to seeing the Hall again. I told George just this morning that I think the rose garden should be dug up and a folly situated in its place, but I cannot decide between a Grecian temple and a Gothic ruin! I should value your opinion, Julia, if you will favor me with it.”

Lady Fieldhurst, who had designed the rose garden and planted some of its more exotic species with her own hands, thought it wisest not to express her opinion on this particular subject; but she need not have worried, as she was given no opportunity to voice it in any case.

“So,” declared the dowager, “all that remains is for you to have your woman pack your bags, and we may set out early tomorrow morning.”

“Begging your pardon, ma’am, but I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

At the sound of an unfamiliar voice, the entire company turned toward the open door. The dowager and Mrs. Bertram scowled at the somewhat shabbily-dressed man framed therein, but Lady Fieldhurst welcomed the interruption much as a drowning swimmer might a rope thrown from a passing ship.

Pickett, finding himself the recipient of a smile that rivaled the sun in its brilliance, was emboldened to continue. “I’m sorry to interfere with your plans, ladies, but I must insist that Lady Fieldhurst remain here until the investigation is complete.”

Julia, recovering her composure, hastened to explain, “This is Mr. Pickett, the Bow Street Runner who will see that Frederick’s killer is brought to justice. I’m sure he has many questions for me, so if you will excuse us—”

The visitors needed no further urging. With renewed outpourings of sympathy and promises to call again upon their return to Town, they took their leave. As they passed Pickett, the ladies carefully held their black skirts aside, so as not to contaminate them through contact with so humble a personage. Once they were gone, Lady Fieldhurst turned to regard her rescuer with a rueful smile.

“Well, Mr. Pickett, I hope you are pleased with yourself. You have put me in the intolerable position of having to thank you for making me your chief suspect.”

“Not at all, your ladyship, but—if you don’t mind my asking, who were those people?”

“The dowager Lady Fieldhurst—my mother-in-law—and Mr. and Mrs. George Bertram. Mr. Bertram is my husband’s cousin and heir presumptive to his title.”

“Oh.” The thought that these dreadful creatures might be her nearest and dearest had not occurred to him. “Did you want to go with them?”

“I should rather go to Newgate!” As the unfortunate implications of this speech became clear to her, she stammered, “That is, I—I did not mean—

“I know,” he said simply, and had the felicity of seeing her wary expression yield to a cautious smile.