The Birth of Blue Satan (36 page)

His father had been right, according to the Duke. And he had fought with his father—had made it easy for his assassin to kill him—all for a mistaken love for a lady who did not deserve his loyalty.

She had repulsed him at the moment in which he had realized his terrible mistake. But that revulsion was nothing compared to the self-loathing he felt for being such a fool.

The next afternoon gave Hester her first opportunity to speak with James Henry, St. Mars’s illegitimate brother.

Her eagerness to see him had increased since her rendezvous with Philippe the night before. They had met on the first floor, outside the privy chamber nearest to Hester’s own room, where she had headed after excusing herself from cards. She had chosen that place, since anyone seeing them would assume she had simply come to use the close-stool.

But she had returned to the withdrawing room not one step closer to solving the mystery of Lord Hawkhurst’s death. Philippe had reported that, much to his regret, Harrowby bore no trace of a scar.

While Hester could not be surprised, since his lack of an injury merely confirmed what both she and St. Mars had always known about him, she had still been disappointed. She reconciled herself to his innocence, however, for she reasoned that they would never discover the real murderer until they had first eliminated other suspects.

This morning, Harrowby had finally taken the time to speak with the man who knew more about the Hawkhurst estate than any other. While a more intelligent heir would have asked to see his receiver-general immediately, Harrowby inevitably put business after pleasure. When showing Isabella and his mother-in-law about the Abbey and its grounds had begun to pall, he had sought James Henry out as a means of varying his day.

Since his days habitually started very late by country standards, the two were still closeted together when the dinner hour sounded. Harrowby gave instructions for an additional place to be laid for Mr. Henry to join them.

Hester’s first impression of St. Mars’s brother was of a younger and humbler version of the portrait she had seen of Lord Hawkhurst in the gallery. To be certain, there were clear similarities between father and son, and she could only imagine that St. Mars’s failure to see them must have been due to some overwhelming difference in the two men’s characters.

As the introductions were made, Mr. Henry included her in his sober bow. Although his manners were considerate, he appeared to lack the openness and warmth that seemed so much a part of St. Mars. He apologized for not being here to greet them, but their marriage on the way down had not been foreseen.

The dining chamber was on the first floor in Harrowby’s suite of rooms. The food invariably arrived there cold, but the hall and large parlour on the ground floor had traditionally been used for the servants’ meals.

Hester found herself next to Mr. Henry, with her aunt and Mr. Bramwell across from them, and her cousin and Harrowby seated at either end. Mr. Bramwell said grace.

As Harrowby and Mr. Henry resumed their conversation about the estate, she was surprised to detect no trace of resentment on the latter man’s part. He seemed to accept his new employer, when surely, as Lord Hawkhurst’s son, he should feel that Harrowby had an inferior claim. After listening to him speak, however, she began to understand that his contentment sprang from his stewardship of the estate.
He
  would be the one to oversee it and to preserve it for future members of the Fitzsimmons family, which was, after all, the task of the heir. He had no heirs of his own to be concerned for. And, while he performed his duties, he lived much more comfortably than most would ever live.

She understood from things that had been said that he possessed an independence—surely not too harsh a fate for an unacknowledged bastard.

She had hoped to dislike him enormously for St. Mars’s sake, and more than half expected to decide he was the murderer. But he had just enough Fitzsimmons in him—some of the very same qualities that St. Mars had—that she could not help but find him attractive.

Mrs. Mayfield did not know what to make of a servant with his status. Coming from a humbler house, herself, she had never encountered his kind before. And since Harrowby’s manner towards him varied wildly from a condescending
bonhomie
to plain uneasiness, tinged with ignorance, it was hard for her to gauge which precise sort of attitude she should take.

Never one to give an inch, however, when she might take a league, she tried in various little ways to assert her superiority over Henry. Hester could almost hear her aunt’s reasoning. She was the mother of the new countess, which made her family. On the other hand, he was independent and a man, which, strictly speaking, gave him a leg up. Since she did not have the faintest notion about his breeding, she had to assume he was the son of a gentleman. A younger son, perhaps, but equal in birth to her, as most men in his post would be.

Her dilemma was exacerbated by the reality that James Henry controlled the purse strings at the Abbey, and plainly Harrowby had no intention of assuming them himself. Hester could imagine the worry this information had caused her aunt. To have to apply to Mr. Henry for every penny that came out of the estate, and to have to justify her expenses . . . .

His presence at the table today, though, gave her an opportunity to satisfy her curiosity on certain points, and as soon as a break fell in the men’s talk, she asked him more particulars about the size of the staff and the assignment of duties to each.

They learned that the household staff, including the cook, was predominantly male. No more than a few women served as maids, although more from the surrounding farms and villages were often engaged for temporary tasks. The female housekeeper reported directly to Robert Shaw, who reported to James Henry.

“We lost our clerk of the kitchen in the last smallpox,” Mr. Henry said, “and his lordship did not see fit to engage another, considering his retirement from Court and the small demands of his family. If you, sir,” he said, “intend to host larger numbers, it would be wise to engage a new man.”

Harrowby gave him a startled look, which revealed how little prepared he was to make decisions. He looked to Isabella for help. “A clerk?”

“Yes. His duty is to supply the kitchen with meat, game, fruit, vegetables, and dairy goods. Robert Shaw has taken over these duties for the time-being, but since he is primarily responsible for supplying all your lordship’s houses with wine, groceries and coal, he has found these additional duties somewhat onerous.”

“Complained about it, has he?” said Harrowby peevishly. “I cannot abide a servant who complains. You can tell Robert Shaw that!”

Hester thought she detected a cooling from Mr. Henry. “You will find no more dedicated servant than Robert Shaw,” he said gently. “It shall be as your lordship wishes, of course, but I do not believe that one man can fill both positions if the household is to be larger. Taking on a new clerk will ensure that your comfort will never be disrupted.”

Mrs. Mayfield spoke up. “Hester could fill that duty. She’s done all my marketing this year.”

Mr. Henry gave Hester a quick glance that, while assessing her in a new capacity, was not lacking in sympathy. “I hate to differ with you, madam, but the job I speak of would not be proper for a woman. It entails a great deal of travel—much more so than in previous years. With more than forty servants to provide for on a daily basis in this house alone, the clerk must see to moving cattle from his lordship’s estates in other counties.”

Isabella gave a good-natured laugh. “I cannot imagine Hester doing that!”

“No, my lady,” Mr. Henry agreed with an indulgent smile.

It was his first of the day, and Hester found it surprisingly pleasant, though she reflected wryly that Isabella had managed to charm another Fitzsimmons.

“Oh . . . well, in that case,” Harrowby said, obviously bored with the subject, “just do whatever you think best.”

Mr. Bramwell, who had remained silent since giving his prayer, interposed, “You cannot go wrong by leaving everything to Mr. Henry, my lord. Your uncle placed all his confidence in him, and he was never disappointed.”

Mr. Henry had acknowledged Harrowby’s agreement with a nod. Hester admired how quickly he had learned to manage his new employer. She did not believe that Harrowby would ever take any direct role in managing his estate or his fortune.

“There is one more vacant post, which you may choose not to fill,” he added. “That of gentleman of the horse.”

Harrowby frowned, as if someone were trying to rob him of a treat. “How can I present a proper appearance without a gentleman of the horse?”

“I believe you will find that many of the great houses are dispensing with that position these days. And unless you mean to enlarge the kennels or to breed horses for Newcastle, I am certain your lordship’s coachmen and grooms can attend to all you need.”

“I
would
like to enter a horse at Newcastle.” Harrowby’s face lit up like a child’s. “What do you say to that, Isabella? Think I could win a King’s plate?”

She giggled, which was all the answer he required.

“And I do want a new chariot for town. I saw old Letchworth’s the other day, and I can’t have that scaly old villain making a grander show than an earl. I’d like a set of six matching bays to pull it, too, and you can’t convince me that my coachman can be counted on to find
them
, not when he didn’t have the sense to chase a highwayman down. No, a gentleman of the horse is absolutely necessary for my dignity.”

“A highwayman, my lord?” Mr. Henry asked sharply.

“Yes. Now, don’t tell me that none of the servants has seen fit to inform you of it. We were stopped on the road just before Cranbrook. There were two of them, and they took my watch and my uncle’s signet ring.”

“And don’t forget, they took Hester, too,” Isabella said ingenuously.

“Dear me!” Mr. Bramwell put down his spoon. “Did they hurt you, ma’am?”

James Henry darted a concerned look at Hester.

She attempted to look properly distressed. “No, they let me go as soon as they found I had no money. The only horrible thing was that they left me to make my way to Cranbrook alone, but a farmer took me up and restored me to my aunt.”

Mrs. Mayfield broke in, “Of course, he wanted my Isabella instead. And the only thing that saved her was that she fainted. I have never been so frightened in all my life. He was the meanest, lowest creature imaginable—quite enormous. I can only thank God for my daughter’s extreme sensibility, for he could not very well take her—could he—when she was out cold. If Hester had had the good sense to faint then instead of later, she might have been spared the inconvenience. But she has never been as delicate as my Isabella.”

Hester was grateful for her aunt’s vulgar interruption which made Mr. Henry turn away. He had opened his mouth, as if to pose more questions, but her aunt’s remarkable lack of tact diverted him at just the right moment. He quickly seemed to grasp the futility of addressing Hester when her aunt was around, for aside from another penetrating glance at her, he made no further effort to speak to her then.

It was with apparent reluctance that he turned back to ask Harrowby, “The signet ring is gone, my lord?”

“Yes, the scoundrel made off with it and with my purse! And after I had expressly asked him to leave it with me! He ought to be hanged!”

“I shall put a notice in the news-sheets in case anyone tries to sell the ring. Did you describe him to the authorities?”

“I couldn’t. The devil wore a half-mask and a hat—and the most splendid blue cloak you’ve ever seen!
Three yards
of the most extraordinary blue satin, or my name isn’t Fitzsimmons! I could scarcely take my eyes off of it, I tell you. If they
do
catch him, I shall want to get the name of the fellow who made it.”

James Henry had stiffened in his chair. “Blue satin, my lord?”

“Yes, the most dazzling sapphire blue!” Harrowby grew quite animated in describing it. “I told the constable in Cranbrook that a devil in blue had robbed us, ye know, but he had the insolence to make a joke of the whole thing. Said
I
must be blue-deviled after losing so much money, he bet! So, I changed the word to Satan. It has a better ring to it, don’t ye think—Blue Satan—goes with the blue satin, don’t ye know.”

“That doesn’t sound like the sort of thing a highwayman would wear, my lord.”

“No,” Harrowby agreed morosely. “I’ll warrant he stole it from a gentleman. Poor chap! Must be ready to blow his brains out at a loss like that. Mind you, this Satan-fellow had polish. Wouldn’t be surprised at all if he wasn’t a gentleman himself—a demmed Jacobite or some such.”

“You did not recognize him?”

Harrowby paled, then blustered, “How the deuce should I recognize a Jacobite? Or a thief, for that matter? I don’t chum around with rogues like that, I assure you.”

“No, of course not, my lord. I meant no offence. I simply wondered if—since you considered the man polished—if he might not have been the son of . . . someone important. Someone from this county, perhaps.”