The Last of Lady Lansdown (17 page)

“It won’t hurt just this once.” Beatrice’s eyelashes fluttered like an innocent debutante’s.

Jane agreed with her mother. Couldn’t Beatrice have waited until breakfast was done? No matter. She brought her plate to the table and set it down, intending to return to the sideboard for her tea, but Beatrice quickly arose from the table and gestured at Jane. “Sit down, dear. I will get your tea, since I’m getting some for myself.”

“Why thank you.” Jane stretched her lips into a smile. She hoped it looked genuine because Douglas’ warning began screaming in her head. No, it could not be happening. It just couldn’t. Since when had her selfish sister-in-law ever offered to bring her anything in the dining room? What had happened to Griggs?

Beatrice went to the sideboard. Jane stared at her back, assuming Beatrice was pouring tea from the gilt, lily-of-the-valley teapot that sat at one end of the sideboard. One thing for certain, her sister-in-law was taking an extra long time. Finally, she turned and approached the table carrying two cups and saucers. She set one in front of Jane. “There you are, my sweet.” She set the other cup down at her place and slipped into her chair. She gazed around the table. “My, my, do you suppose it will ever stop raining?”

Amidst desultory comments on the weather, Jane sat frozen, her gaze fixed on the china cup and saucer in front of her. How pretty it looked, painted with rosebuds and dainty purple violets. How all-of-a-sudden deadly it looked, too. How could she know for certain? She remembered Douglas’ words:
if you’re given a beverage that has the smell of mint, for God’s sake, don’t drink it.

She reached for the cup. Pinching the delicate handle between two fingers, she raised it halfway to her mouth, bent her head and sniffed.
Dear Lord
. The unmistakable smell of mint assaulted her nostrils. She set the cup down. Now what should she do? She pictured picking up the cup and hurling its contents into the stone fireplace behind her. Amidst a collective gasp of astonishment throughout the room, she would point an accusing finger at Beatrice and exclaim, “You tried to poison me!”

No, that would not work. Beatrice would deny it, of course, and aside from actually drinking the contents, how could she prove it?

“Is something the matter, Jane?” asked her mother. “Why are you just sitting there staring at your tea?”

“Nothing’s the matter.” She had better decide what to do, and fast. If she were her mother, she would pretend everything was fine. She would make a show of not liking the tea as an excuse for not drinking it. Anything to avoid a scene and disturb the tranquility of the household.

I am not my mother
. Her thoughts came together.
I am absolutely not my mother!
She stood abruptly. Grasping the cup firmly, she stepped to the stone fireplace and hurled the tea into the flames.

“My goodness, Jane.” Mama stared at her. “What are you doing?”

“Just getting rid of this poisoned tea.” Jane directed a contemptuous gaze at Beatrice. “It seems my dear sister-in-law has loaded it with oil of pennyroyal.”

“Bloody hell,” Granny exclaimed.

For once, Mama did not try to correct her. Instead, her mouth dropped open and she stared at Jane in amazement. “What is oil of pennyroyal?”

“It’s an abortifacient. That means if I had drunk it, I would have lost the baby. That is,
if
I were carrying a baby, which I highly doubt. I don’t care how many days late I am.” She turned to Beatrice. “How desperate can you get?”

“Now see here!” cried James from the head of the table. “You cannot accuse my wife like that.”

A babble of voices filled the room. James still bellowing, Mama and Granny both talking at once, while Millicent, close to tears, kept repeating, “Oh, Jane!”

It seemed the whole table was in an uproar, everyone talking at once. The only two people who remained calm were Percy, who sat smirking, and Beatrice, who sat listening with—hard to believe it—a little smile playing on her lips.

The chatter died down. “Poor, dear Jane.” Beatrice shook her head with pity. “It’s obvious you have not recovered from Arthur’s death. Your hysterics are perfectly natural, simply a manifestation of your deep grief. I do forgive you.” As if nothing had happened, she speared a piece of sausage with her fork. “I suggest you go lie down. You need to calm yourself.”

Jane still stood before the fireplace. Despite everything, she felt a satisfaction, call it a sense of fulfillment, for having stood up to her sister-in-law. “You can act as blasé as you please, but I know whereof I speak. You recently acquired some oil of pennyroyal, and I know you just sneaked it into my tea. I could smell it.”

“Really?” Beatrice raised an eyebrow. “That would be hard to prove, don’t you think?”

Jane directed a steady gaze at her sister-in-law. “You and I know the truth of it, don’t we? Just don’t try it again.” She caught sight of her poor mother’s face, pale and tight with concern over what to her must seem one of those
horrible scenes
. Millicent still had tears in her eyes. Percy sat with a smirk on his face, as if enjoying all the discord. Only Granny had returned to her meal, casually buttering her toast as if nothing unusual had occurred.

Jane forced a smile. “Well now, enough has been said on the subject and we’re not going to let it ruin our breakfast, are we, Beatrice?” Without waiting for an answer, she continued, “I am not going to go to my room and lie down. Instead, I shall eat my breakfast and have some tea, but this time I shall fix it myself.” She headed for the sideboard. “Granny, have you ever seen such a rain in all your life?”

For the next few minutes her grandmother regaled everyone at the table with childhood memories of Bonnie Prince Charlie and the Battle of Culloden, which took place in Scotland in 1746. Exactly what that had to do with rain, Jane didn’t know, but it didn’t matter. By the time Granny finished, the tension that had gripped the table had ebbed. The color had returned to Mama’s face, and she was happy again. Everything was right again in her tight little world.

For the rest of the day, Jane hid her distress with a smile, carefully masking the heaviness she felt in her chest. Later that evening, she went to her grandmother’s room, not only to bid her goodnight but to unburden her heart. As usual, she found Granny propped up in bed, spectacles low on her nose, reading her Bible. After seating herself by the bed, Jane frowned. “Should I have accused Beatrice like that?”

Granny peered over the rim of her glasses. “Of course you should have. I was proud of you for speaking up. If it had been your hen-hearted mother, she would have kept her mouth shut.”

“What should I do now?”

Granny snickered. “I think you should be very, very careful.” She grew serious. “I told you to throw the Eltons out.”

“How can I do that? They would not go.”

“Then make them go. Get that solicitor of Arthur’s, Sir What’s-his-name—”

“Sir Archibald.”

“Yes, whatever his name is. He’s in charge of the estate, is he not? Go see him. Tell him what occurred. If the man has a lick of sense, he’ll see it would be best all around if the Eltons leave until all is settled.”

Jane heaved a sigh. “When will it be settled? I cannot believe I’m eleven days late, but I am, and I’m starting to worry.”

“Whether or not you’re carrying a child is in God’s hands.” Granny cocked her head and regarded her with wise, old eyes. “You can do something about Beatrice, and I suggest you had better. That woman would sell her soul to become the countess. I wouldn’t put anything beyond her. That includes murder.”

“Someone else told me I should go see Sir Archibald.”

“You mean Douglas Cartland.”

Jane nodded. Of course, Granny would know. “If anyone has the power to boot out the Eltons, it is Sir Archibald.”

“Then go see him, soon as you can. Be careful. He’s kindly enough, but like most solicitors, he’s a popinjay with a poor opinion of women. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s already in cahoots with James. If I were to wager, I would say you’ll get nowhere, but it’s worth a try.”

“Then I shall go,” Jane looked toward the window, “soon as the rain stops.”

“That reminds me.” Granny laid down her Bible and frowned. “You’re not going to like this.”

“You mean there’s more bad news?”

“One of the maids, who shall remain nameless, informed me that Percy Elton has been following you about. He has even sneaked into your bedchamber. She caught him red-handed, going through your things.”

“The devil!”

Her grandmother smiled at Jane’s use of profanity, knowing she would never use it elsewhere. “Percy Elton is the worst of a bad lot.”

“I’ve heard he leads a life of debauchery in London. I heartily wish he would go back there and leave me alone.”

“I fear things could get even worse. All eight Elton children could descend upon Chatfield Court, along with their spouses and unruly brats. From what I hear, the servants are already alarmed.”

“Then we must get rid of them, Granny. We absolutely must!” Jane looked out the window and silently cursed the rain. Her heart hardened with resolve. The Eltons had to go.

Chapter 11

Next day the rain stopped. For two days thereafter, the roads remained muddy and impassable. Not until the third day was Jane able to order the coach brought around so she could travel to the town of Sheffield where Sir Archibald maintained an office.

She dressed carefully, pleasing Bruta no end by agreeing to wear full mourning regalia: black bombazine gown, long crepe hood, black gloves, black silk bonnet, black shammy leather shoes. For an extra touch, she carried a black crepe fan. When she viewed her totally mournful self in the mirror, she made a face. No matter. She would look the part of the grieving widow if it killed her.

During the long coach ride, she reminded herself that Sir Archibald did not approve of forward women. She must act as helpless and feminine as possible. Also, she must curb her tongue and say nothing derogatory about the Eltons. She had sense enough to realize that any accusations she made, even though true, would only make herself look bad. Besides, she had no proof of their shocking behavior, and they would surely deny everything.

When she wasn’t reminding herself what to say, her thoughts invariably drifted to Douglas Cartland. Over and over she relived their kiss in the drawing room, each time wondering if lust alone was what drove him to sweep her into his arms, so urgently, so hungrily. Of course, his actions were driven by lust, and only lust. Men were like that. Besides, had he not said he would never marry? She was a fool to think he really cared. Even if he did, what could she do? Countless times she commanded herself to stop thinking about him, but she could not.

Stop wanting to be in his arms.
Was she obsessed? Love sick? No, a grieving widow was not supposed to be love sick. Besides, she did not
love
Douglas Cartland. At least, she didn’t think she did.

“My dear Countess, how delightful to see you.” The ever-courteous Sir Archibald bowed her into his office, offered her tea and gestured her to a comfortable seat across from his desk. After initiating a brief discussion concerning the inclement weather, he settled back in his chair and crossed his hands over his ample stomach. “How are you feeling?”

She knew what he was asking. “Nothing has changed since your visit. Certain matters are still unsettled.”

He gave her a knowing nod. “To what do I owe this visit?”

“It’s a delicate matter, Sir Archibald.” She remembered to speak softly, lower her eyes and sigh. “A troubling matter.”

“Do go on.”

She explained her mission. All was not well. No one to blame, but a certain tension had developed in the household ... Much as she loved her dear brother—and sister-in-law, and, of course, their fine son, Percy—she felt they would be more comfortable in their London townhouse until such time as the estate was settled ...

Sir Archibald listened intently, his expression unreadable. At first she had no idea if anything she said made an impression, but as she talked on, and he hadn’t communicated one sympathetic sound or gesture, her spirits fell. When she reached the end of her appeal, she sat back, awaiting his answer with more than a little unease.

For a long moment, the solicitor sat in deep thought, tapping two fingers to his lips. “I appreciate your concerns, Countess. I realize the loss of your dear husband has caused you to be ... shall we say, overly distraught? Small problems can loom large at such a time, and though I understand your distress, I am sure it can all be worked out. You have my deepest sympathy, of course, but as for asking the Eltons to leave, my answer must be no.”

“I beg you to reconsider.” She struggled to maintain an even, conciliatory tone. “There are things you don’t know, things—”

“I have heard quite enough.” The ring of cordiality had somewhat receded from Sir Archibald’s voice. “I have made my decision.”

“You don’t understand.” Desperate, she bent forward and gripped the edge of the desk with her black-gloved hands, forgetting her chosen role as the pitiful grieving widow. “I cannot go on this way. The Eltons have made my life miserable. I want them gone. James is not the earl yet. Have you not the authority to order them to leave Chatfield Court?”

“Of course I have the authority. However, I chose not to grant your request, which, forgive me, I find to be most unreasonable.”

Desperation drove her on. “Then can you at least release the dower house to me? I shall move tomorrow. I shall—”

“Impossible. As executor of the earl’s estate, I must abide not only by the law but my conscience.” The solicitor gave her a condescending smile. “With all due respect, my dear Countess, I feel your youth and inexperience have led you to a misunderstanding of the facts. You would be well advised to submit yourself to the care and guidance of the Eltons. Finer people I have never met, and frankly, I find your diatribe against them to be most unreasonable.”

She sank back in her chair. “Then you will not—?”