Axel, page 22
part #3 of Jaded Gentlemen Series
He took a bite of scone. Axel waited in silence, as Matthew dabbed jam on both scones—rather a lot of jam.
“As to why I left the business,” Sir Dewey continued, “that will necessitate a descent into indelicacies. One can make a pretty penny by importing the trivial exotica that appeals to the monied classes—silks, paisley shawls, peacock feathers, incense, and so forth. Sir Gregory was increasingly drawn to importation of the aspects of Eastern culture that appealed to the prurient.”
“He imported erotica?” The hounds-and-horses, pipe-smoking cavalryman across the way hadn’t seemed the type. He hadn’t seemed the type to plot his wife’s murder, or to defraud an innocent young woman either.
Sir Dewey dusted his hands over the tea tray. “One must experience India to comprehend its nature. It’s at once the most spiritual and the most profane society I’ve ever seen. Much that’s ordinary is made sacred—cooking, growing flowers, cogitating. Erotic matters are similarly elevated to a form of worship, even while they are also pursued in their most crude and uninspired forms. I did not concur with Stoneleigh that profit was an adequate reason for presenting only the crude and uninspired aspects of this paradox.”
In other words, Sir Dewey did not want to be caught trafficking in naughty pictures—no sane English knight would.
“A culturally enlightened viewpoint,” Axel said. “Would Gervaise Stoneleigh know what manner of business he’s inherited?”
Sir Dewey rose, taking a tea cake with him on a perambulation about the library.
“I can’t say how successful Gregory was at developing his suppliers, so I don’t know what manner of business it had become. I know only that Gregory was confident of the demand and was determined on his course. Gregory would also have maintained an inventory of fans, feathers, shawls, carved ivory, incense, and so forth. Those items are profitable year in and year out.”
“But Gregory wasn’t an exceptional businessman, was he?” Matthew pointed out around a mouthful of scone.
Sir Dewey sniffed at the little white rose, the one Axel had positioned at Abby’s end of the sofa.
“This fragrance is… this is intoxicating. I wonder if you’d part with a specimen for my own conservatory, Professor?”
Get your nose away from Abigail’s rose, you bastard. “Of course. That one’s quite hardy though not the most robust bloomer. About Stoneleigh’s business skills?”
Sir Dewey popped the tea cake into his mouth and peered at the music stacked on the piano.
He even chewed handsomely.
“Gregory apparently did well with his imports, but he made impulsive decisions too. He’d get fixated on some fanciful scheme—importing tigers from India to populate European menageries, for example—and no amount of reason would sway him. I’d had enough of that, and of his rapacious view of provincial trade. I did not need Gregory’s coin, so the better part of friendship was to sever the business relationship.”
“Could Stoneleigh have lost money at his business?” Axel asked.
Sir Dewey circled back around to the tea tray and resumed his position on the sofa, while Matthew remained unhelpfully busy with the scones.
“Of course he’d suffer setbacks. In that sort of business, you purchase your inventory six months before your customers purchase it from you. If you acquire goods few are interested in, then you’re out of luck. A ship can go down, a war can break out and destroy your caravan, or you can pay substantial bribes to one minor raja, only to have his brother overthrow him and demand yet more in protection money.”
“Sounds exciting.” Matthew said, choosing for himself the chocolate tea cake Axel had been considering. “Perhaps the better question is how did Gregory expect to make money at it?”
“Easily,” Sir Dewey replied, taking the only other chocolate tea cake. “The business was initially old Mr. Pennington’s, and he brought Gregory into it only during Gregory’s last few years in India. Pennington had the local contacts, and out of respect for Pennington, people did business with Gregory in his stead. When Gregory left India, my job was to maintain those contacts, which function I was happy to perform, provided Gregory dealt honorably with them.”
Axel settled for a lavender cake. “You’re saying he didn’t?”
Sir Dewey’s shrug was eloquent. “Toward the end, payments supposedly went astray, goods in trade back to India were of inferior quality. I had questions.”
“So you got out,” Matthew concluded. “Seems like the prudent thing to do, and particularly well advised given how Gregory treated his wife.”
“Oh?” Sir Dewey held the last bite of tea cake before his mouth. “Do I want to hear this?”
“No,” Axel said, “but it will confirm your decision to leave the business, as Pennington had apparently all but done before you. Gregory’s marriage was based on fraud and greed.” He outlined the basis of his financial investigation thus far.
No need for Sir Dewey to know Abby had nearly died at her spouse’s hands. No actual proof for that theory either, though Axel had taken a few moments to scour the Stoneleigh herbal and larders for anything that might have served as a poison.
“Seems if anybody had a motive for killing Gregory,” Sir Dewey mused, “it would be this Pettiflower fellow. What exceedingly rotten luck, to have one’s fiancée whisked to the altar on someone else’s arm just after she inherits two fortunes.”
Exceedingly rotten for Abigail.
“I haven’t considered Pettiflower a suspect,” Axel said. “He had years to hold Stoneleigh accountable and has since plighted his troth with another young lady. Pettiflower is also quite well-fixed himself and can account for his whereabouts the night of the murder.”
“Another false start?” Sir Dewey mused, choosing an orange tea cake this time. “Well, so much for my brilliant insights.”
“Had Gregory any means of keeping papers secure that you know of?” Axel asked, because Matthew was too busy ruining his supper. “Any place on the Stoneleigh premises for storing valuables?”
“In the study where he met his end, behind the painting of the hounds, you should find a safe. Rather obvious location, if you’re looking for such a thing. I’m surprised Abigail didn’t tell you of it.” The third tea cake met its fate. “Finding the combination might be some effort if she doesn’t know where it is, but Gregory did love that monstrosity of a desk. I’m guessing if you take it apart, you’ll find a false bottom, a false back, someplace to stash what a man doesn’t dare entrust to memory. Gervaise might know of where the combination is, or Shreve.”
Clearly, Sir Dewey was overqualified as a candidate for the magistrate’s post.
“Shreve has resigned his post,” Axel said, “and will shortly depart for the family home in East Anglia. Only the one safe? Stoneleigh Manor is quite large.”
“I know of only the one, though Gregory had a suspicious streak. Englishmen who survived in India were well advised to develop a polite, distrustful nature. Gregory might have had multiple safes on the premises, or at his business locations. Too bad you can’t interview old Brandenburg.”
Matthew, affecting an innocent puzzlement worthy of Mr. Garrick, sat back in his armchair. For all the man ate nearly constantly, he never seemed to have crumbs on his cravat or jam on his chin.
Life was simply unfair in some regards.
“How is it,” Matthew asked, “you know of a safe, when the whole idea is that one secrets valuables in same? Not very secret if one’s friends and servants know of it, is it?”
“I probably wasn’t intended to know of it, but I occasionally dropped in on Gregory at the odd hour, and once came upon him before the open safe. Unless I knew the combination, knowledge of the safe’s location alone hardly breached Stoneleigh’s security, did it?”
“Suppose not,” Axel said. “Nor are you a man who needs to raid somebody else’s stash of valuables. Have you anything else to add to what we know at this point? The situation grows frustrating for Mrs. Stoneleigh. She cannot feel secure in her own home with a killer still at liberty.”
The situation was also damned frustrating for Axel.
Sir Dewey’s brows rose, the first hint of agitation Axel had seen from him.
“She is safe, she must know that. Gregory seldom let her go farther afield than the churchyard, which is hardly where a woman would develop deadly enemies.”
“When a man is killed in his own home,” Matthew said, “at an hour when others are likely to be about, such a killer is willing to take risks. A footman might have come along at any moment to tend to the fire. Stoneleigh could have rung for a second nightcap. Mrs. Stoneleigh might have stopped in to wish her husband pleasant dreams.”
Gone was the pleasant brother, and in his place sat a shrewd investigator—one who had Sir Dewey’s full attention.
“We’re not dealing with a felon who carefully planned his moment,” Matthew went on, “and if the killer needed something from that safe, then he could well come back looking for it. The security of the household is imperiled until the perpetrator of the crime is brought to justice.”
“And yet, Mrs. Stoneleigh cannot remain here at Candlewick indefinitely,” Sir Dewey said, rising and tugging down a blue waistcoat embroidered in gold paisley patterns.
Axel rose, for a host ought to when a guest prepared to take his leave—or cut short an interrogation.
“Sir Dewey, you must agree that Mrs. Stoneleigh’s well-being takes precedence over all other considerations. I have an obligation to the king to solve Stoneleigh’s murder, but nothing less than honor itself requires that a bereaved widow be kept safe.”
Sir Dewey’s gaze lingered on the nearly empty tea tray. “There’s talk at the Weasel, you know. Nothing malicious, but not the sort of talk anybody likes to hear regarding a lady.”
Matthew plucked the last lavender tea cake from the tray before getting to his feet. “Talk about Mrs. Stoneleigh?”
“She’s thriving in Mr. Belmont’s care,” Sir Dewey said, “or in Mrs. Turnbull’s. Most are of the opinion that the professor should add her to his permanent collection of hothouse fancies.”
Doubtless, that was putting the sentiment euphemistically.
“Let any man who so maligns a woman tried by grief apply to me,” Axel said, wanting to slap a glove across Sir Dewey’s elegant mouth. “I’ll instruct him most—”
“Axel,” Matthew said, a bit too heartily. “The good folk simply mean you should marry her.”
* * *
“I am almost through with Grandpapa’s journal,” Abby said, leaning in to sniff a lovely pink blossom. “I want to savor the pages remaining, though they document a man in fading health. He and Mr. Brandenburg had some grand adventures as younger men.”
Axel had been in his glass house long enough to have taken off his jacket and turned back his sleeves, likely in preparation for a long afternoon of rearranging his potted trees. His hands were dirt-stained already too.
“I’d like to read that journal, Abigail.”
He’d taken her in his arms without Abby needing to ask, and when he’d turned loose of her, Abby hadn’t clung, though she’d wanted to.
“I’ll leave it with you when I return to Stoneleigh Manor.”
Axel turned away abruptly, as if the stout, thorny bush beside him—the grafting stock he referred to as the Dragon—had whispered unexpectedly.
“I cannot guarantee your safety if you return home now, Abigail. The killer is at large, and possibly more motivated than ever to do you harm.”
They needed to have this argument, but did they need to have it now?
“I have never seen a rose with as many thorns,” she said. Great, nasty, sharp prickles studding the stems at close intervals. “You think Shreve is the killer?”
Axel took off a thorn by virtue of simply peeling it aside. “He could be. He was early on the scene, and somewhat in the colonel’s confidence. Bequeathing a valuable collection of snuff boxes to a servant doesn’t make sense to me.”
He gently peeled another thorn aside.
“Shall I help?” Abby asked. “I can work on this side while you take that one?”
“I remove only a few at a time. Each lost thorn creates a wound, and every wound is an opportunity for disease to seize hold of the plant. But for the thorns, this is a vigorous fellow, and he takes grafts magnificently.”
Abby had interrupted the work that mattered to Axel. Investigating murder was a matter of duty, but these roses were his passion.
“Tell me about grafting.” She could ask later if Sir Dewey’s second interview had yielded any insights.
“Shall we sit? Grafting is a simple process, the breeding not much more complicated. I can make you a few sketches. A devotee of the rose needs mostly patience and persistence to succeed, and a bit of luck.”
What did a magistrate need to succeed? Or a man?
They repaired to the area before the hearth, the warmest part of the glass house, also the side of the building away from both the manor house and the stables. The second glass house sheltered this exposure from view, not that anybody should be peeking.
One could not be tense in this place. The soft air, the fragrance of the plants, the quiet, the lovely foliage all conspired against worry.
One could be sad, though. Like the blooms here, Abby’s dalliance with Axel would apparently be a fleeting pleasure. Lovely beyond description, but too soon over.
“Did Sir Dewey upset you?” Axel asked as Abby took the rocking chair.
He took the seat at the table, but turned the chair, so he and Abby were nearly knee to knee.
“In a way, yes. He said I seemed to be bearing up well, which I took for a genteel acknowledgment that I’m recovering my health. He couldn’t very well say I look happy to be widowed, but he was concerned for me.”
Axel looked at his hands, the fingers of which were stained brown with dirt, though around his right thumbnail, the cuticle was green.
“His concern upset you? He was knighted for bravery, Abigail, and he’s wealthy.”
“If you try to matchmake, that will upset me more.”
The next thing Abby knew, soft lips were pressed to hers. An apology, perhaps. “You are in mourning. Did you know that the law regards any child born to a widow for a year after her husband’s death as her husband’s legitimate issue?”
The breeder of roses was making a point of some sort. “Children do not take a year to be born.” Abby knew that. Any adult woman knew that.
“They take something under ten months in the normal course. Some come in less than nine months. Lawyers do not give birth, so we can ascribe their error to ignorance. Nicholas thinks the law allows a new widow a period of sexual permissiveness without penalty, or a time when she might take measures to conceive an heir for her deceased spouse through expedient means.”
Another kiss, which only muddled Abby’s ability to follow whatever profundity the professor was preparing to launch at her.
“I don’t want Sir Dewey,” Abby said, trapping Axel near with a hand to his nape. Sir Dewey was another soldier, and Abby had been married to one of those already, with disastrous results. “I want you, and I know I should not have disturbed you here, but soon I will return to Stoneleigh Manor—I must, Sir Dewey alluded to talk—and you will take up your duties at Oxford, and all will be—”
Axel was out of his chair before Abby grasped his intent. He scooped her from the rocker and carried her to the worktable.
“Do you know why I went tearing into town yesterday, ready to wreak havoc on lying solicitors and fraudulent ghosts?”
Abby’s bum landed on the worktable, and Axel stood between her spread knees. “So you wouldn’t have to face me over breakfast, the maid bringing the fresh teapot, and all that, that… intimacy between us.”
His hands, warm and callused, traced the sides of her neck, his thumbs brushing over her cheeks.
“You are daft if you think I was avoiding you, Abigail. I had to walk past your door to leave my room. A drunk forgoes his gin, a lotus-eater his opium, more easily than I passed your door. I fixed my gaze on the newel post at the top of the stairs, the one fashioned in the form of a closed tulip blossom. This put in my mind the image of the male breeding organ happily prepared to fulfill its intended office. I marched down the corridor, one hand on the wall, my eyes closed, until I passed your door. I’m lecturing.”
Babbling, more like. Abby was so pleased with Axel’s disclosure, she urged him closer with a hand on each sleeve.
“I dreamed of you again,” she said. “Wicked, wonderful dreams.” The best dreams, some of which she suspected weren’t dreams, but rather, memories. Axel’s hands tracing over her back and shoulders, the rhythm of his breathing as she lay in his arms.
His kisses were wilder here among the lush green plants. He hauled Abby to the edge of the table as easily as if she were a potted peach tree, and wedged himself against her. Desire punched through her, a sharp prick of pleasure and longing.
“My skirts,” she muttered against his mouth.
He drew back far enough to press Abby’s forehead to his shoulder. “Now, Abigail? Here? Are you sure? One wants to be considerate, and I was less restrained previously than—”
He’d been passionate. Wonderfully, unashamedly, passionate, and so had Abby.
“You are more yourself here than anywhere else,” she said between kisses. “You’re happy, we have privacy, and the roses won’t mind.”
Axel apparently did not need convincing. Abby’s skirts were soon frothed above her knees, his falls were undone, and bliss beckoned with every stroke of his fingers over her intimate flesh.
“Can you come like this?” Axel whispered.
“Mmm.” Which meant she could. Thanks to her own curiosity, books, persistence, and a stout lock on her bedroom door.
And then she did. Axel knew exactly when to cease his caresses and instead drive two slick, blunt fingers into her heat. What he did with those fingers inspired Abby to soft moans, clinging, bucking, and to insights—when she could again think—into why the artificial phallus figured prominently in some of the erotic woodcuts that had made the least sense to her previously.
