A Brazen Curiosity, page 11
part #1 of Beatrice Hyde-Clare Series
While Bea listened to the girls’ entertaining chatter and discreetly observed Nuneaton, she studiously avoided Kesgrave’s gaze. Even without peeking under her eyelashes to confirm it, she knew he was staring at her with more interest than was appropriate to the setting. If he didn’t divert his attention elsewhere soon, the viscount would begin to wonder if his toplofty friend had lowered his standards to consider a mousy spinster, and her aunt would chastise her for browbeating the poor duke—even though she hadn’t said a word in his direction.
Affecting indifference was more challenging than she would have liked, for she could feel the prickle of his attention on the back of her neck and her body positively itched with the desire to face him head on. After her informative exchange with Emily, the advantage was hers, and the duke knew it. Moreover, he knew that she knew it. He’d warned her off investigating the murder as if he had any say over her actions, and she had openly defied him—because, despite his very great opinion of himself, he did not have say over her actions. Even her aunt, who had the most claim to the right of influence, would concede that the best she could do with Bea was point her strongly in the correct direction. A grown woman of six and twenty could not be bear-led like a child.
Bea maintained her pose of apathy for a full fifteen minutes, but when the butler announced that dinner was ready, her self-control flagged just long enough for her to turn her head toward Kesgrave. She’d expected his attention to be diverted in the bustle of transferring to the dining room, but his brilliant blue gaze remained firmly fixed on her.
Meeting it, she felt her heart tumble in her chest with anticipation, for it seemed as if some challenge had been issued and accepted. He must have sensed it too, for his head dipped as if in solemn acknowledgment and then his lips quirked with faint humor. The air hummed with awareness, and Bea, unsettled by the strange intensity of the moment, resolved not to be the one who looked away first. Kesgrave appeared to be equally reluctant to end the encounter and would probably be staring at her still if their hostess hadn’t claimed his attention. He dropped his head nearer to Lady Skeffington’s to listen more closely, and watching them together, Bea felt oddly bereft. It was a ridiculous response, of course, and all she needed to do to shake free of the unsettling sensation was recall the letter from Mr. Wilson tucked in her pocket.
Advantage Beatrice.
Dinner was a restrained affair, with Lord Skeffington directing the conversation to harmless topics such as that afternoon’s fishing expedition, and Kesgrave obligingly accepted the opportunity to lecture the company on how to tie flies, as he considered himself something of a master of the art. Sadly, the other gentlemen shared his view as well, and Bea could not decide whose gushing was designed to inflate his self-esteem more, Russell’s or Amersham’s.
“I have never seen anything like your minnow,” Amersham said. “A thing of beauty in green and white silk and a tail and fins made from feathers.”
“It’s true, your grace,” Russell insisted. “Your minnow is perfection.”
Accustomed to such flattery, for Kesgrave was a sportsman of some note, he accepted their praise with a simple nod, as he unmistakably considered it his due. Bea found his superiority so insufferable, she could not hold back her speech despite making a firm resolution before dinner to say nothing untoward that might upset her aunt during the meal. “Since the duke is such an authority, perhaps he would consider leading a seminar so that others may acquire his skill.”
The possibility of learning how to tie a fly at the knee of a master appealed to Russell so much, he said, “Oh, I say, your grace, that would be bang-up decent of you.”
Kesgrave didn’t respond right away because he was too busy aiming a look of annoyance at Bea. Before he could extricate himself from the situation, Aunt Vera, who couldn’t decide where to direct her ire—niece or son—blushed hotly and began to offer excuses.
“Don’t be silly, Russell…I mean, Bea…I mean, children,” she said, her tone hardened by embarrassment. “His grace is far too important a man to lead instruction like a…like a lowly governess. His responsibilities are manifold, and to suggest he take half a day away from them to instruct anyone on how to tie a fly is preposterous.”
Although Bea considered her aunt’s feelings to be of utmost importance, she simply could not resist goading Kesgrave. “Ah, but an expert like the duke would require no more than an hour to impart his knowledge.”
At this pronouncement, the red in Aunt Vera’s cheeks deepened into an impossibly bright shade of purple, making her face resemble an overlarge beet. She tried to laugh off her mortification, but all she could produce was a soft squeal like an injured pig.
“Mrs. Hyde-Clare is correct to express concern over how I distribute my time, as there never do seem to be enough hours in a day for me to accomplish all that I require,” Kesgrave said with a kind smile at his defender. “It’s a great comfort to know you are looking out for my best interests.”
Aunt Vera simpered at the praise. “My niece is young and naïve and does not understand what it means to be a person of your stature, your grace.”
Kesgrave’s look of amusement indicated he believed Bea to be neither young nor naïve, but he gave this observation his full approval. “I trust you will enlighten her on the matter, as it shouldn’t take above half a day for you to impart your knowledge.”
The duke’s remark was only a suggestion, with none of the obligations of an agreement or a pact, but Aunt Vera took it as if a decree from royalty and said, “Oh, yes, your grace, yes, I will do that posthaste. The session will start promptly at ten tomorrow morning. My daughter, Flora, will join us as well, for she is also young, though lacking the naiveté of her older cousin.” Ignoring her daughter’s cry of outrage at the prospect of being punished for Bea’s crimes, Aunt Vera turned to her hostess and proposed she attend as a guest lecturer as well. “Your elevated position in society offers you insights to which I’m not privy.”
Although setting up a schoolroom in the front parlor was not on the approved list of country-house-party activities, Lady Skeffington agreed to lend her authority to the proceedings and proposed an assortment of tea cakes as an appropriate refreshment.
Kesgrave applauded the addition of snacks and recommended the inclusion of biscuits as a treat. Then he complimented Aunt Vera on how quickly she’d taken charge of the situation. “I’m so inspired by you, my dear, that I’m also going to offer a session tomorrow at eleven a.m., for the gentlemen, of course, to learn how to improve their flies. As you so astutely observed, I’m too busy to lead the course myself, but Harris, my valet, shares my skill with silk and feathers and will provide instruction in my method for anyone who is interested.”
Russell and Amersham tripped over each other in their rush to accept the gracious offer while Mr. Skeffington, whose curiosity was also keen, tilted his head and said he would be delighted to look in on such an event. Even Lord Skeffington, who had been tying his own flies since in leading strings, resolved to put off his usual morning ride to attend. Only Nuneaton professed himself too enamored of leisure to try to improve himself before noon.
“Excellent,” the duke said with satisfaction before turning to Bea to preen in his triumph. “Thank you, Miss Hyde-Clare, for arranging such an enlightening and productive morning for all of us.”
His gratitude was echoed by several others at the table, including her aunt, whose earlier humiliation had been forgotten in her eagerness to lecture her niece on proper behavior.
As difficult as it was for Bea to swallow, she had to concede the round to Kesgrave, who had smoothly outmaneuvered her at her own game. Meeting his smug gaze was somewhat harder, for he fairly radiated satisfaction, but she made herself do it. Looking away implied weakness.
Besides, she reminded herself as she twisted her lips into a smile, he might have won this round, but she still had the letter.
The advantage remained hers, and when Mr. Skeffington sat down next to her in the drawing room after the gentlemen had indulged in port, she perceived an opportunity to strengthen her superior position.
Opportunity, yes, but she had no idea how to make the most of it. She couldn’t very well turn to him with a bright smile and say, “Tell me, Mr. Skeffington, have you invested in any hibiscus shrubs lately and were you handsomely rewarded for your efforts?”
He and Amersham liked to gamble at the card table, which was similar to investing in a faraway land, as both endeavors required luck and the potential to lose great sums. Perhaps she could start with a comment about piquet and deftly maneuver the conversation to India and crops.
Unable to stop herself, Bea laughed at the idea of her deftly maneuvering any conversation, for if she had the skill of polite drawing room chatter, she would have been married long ago.
“Is something amusing?” Mr. Skeffington said, turning to look at her with confusion.
Bea felt a hot flush begin to overtake her cheeks. “Not at all. I was just thinking of…of poor Mr. Otley.” No, that would never do. “I mean…that is to say, I’m very saddened by his passing and saddened that I didn’t get to know him better.” It was far from a smooth recovery but perhaps she had stumbled into the opportunity for which she had been hoping. “Not like you did, to have business dealings with him or to learn about the spice trade in India.”
As soon as she uttered the words business dealings, Mr. Skeffington stiffened, coldly excused himself and stood up.
Yes, Bea thought, watching him stride across the room, that interaction pretty much summed up her entire career on the Marriage Mart.
She was undaunted, however, for his response confirmed all that she’d surmised about his relationship with the dead man. Mr. Skeffington had invested in Mr. Otley’s hibiscus scheme and knew he had been played for a fool.
Satisfied, she looked up and found Kesgrave watching her with an amused glint in his blue eyes. He had witnessed her exchange with the young man and no doubt thought her humiliated by his eagerness to get away from her.
Not at all, she thought, nodding at the duke and grinning widely. Not at all.
CHAPTER SEVEN
As Vera Hyde-Clare had not been trained in the latest pedagogical methods, she knew little about holding her students’ attention and merely recited a seemingly endless list of social dictates while standing at the front of the room. If she had thought to engage her students using the Socratic approach, Bea would have been forced to pay attention and Flora would not have been able to embroider a frond motif on the edge of a handkerchief as a bereavement gift for Miss Otley.
While Aunt Vera explained the many guidelines governing the use of calling cards—paper quality, style of engraving, ideal hour of delivery—Bea considered everything she knew about Mr. Otley’s business ventures in India. It seemed obvious to her that his unfortunate end was related to either the swindle of his investors or to his daughter’s love affair with his associate. In order to get a better sense of the cause, she would need to gather a comprehensive list of his investors and quiz Emily on her relationship with Mr. Wilson. She’d been thwarted in her attempts at the latter the night before when Mrs. Otley insisted they both retire immediately following dinner in order to be well-rested for the challenges ahead. Having discussed the matter thoroughly with Lady Skeffington, the widow had decided they would take one more day to bask in the comfort of friends and depart the day after.
“It is such a bittersweet consolation to be among friends,” she’d said upon announcing her decision. “To be sure, there’s nothing to be gained from hiding here, but I’m in no rush to expose my husband’s disgrace to the world.”
Her reluctance made sense to everyone, as they all knew what desecration awaited the self-murderer outside the confines of the wine cellar, but only Bea felt the depth of the injustice.
“A calling card is not to be elaborately decorated, as ornamentation is considered to be in bad taste,” Aunt Vera said in a tone curiously devoid of inflection, as if reading from an unfamiliar script. “A case for carrying one’s cards is a necessity and can be made from the following materials, all of which are appropriate: sterling silver, Morocco leather, vermeil.”
As the lecture dragged on, Bea thought about Mr. Wilson—or Charles, as he had signed his letter—and wondered what kind of future he could reasonably hope to share with Emily. Although she’d imagined the young beauty chafing at the expectations of her parents, she didn’t actually believe the Incomparable, with her finely wrought plumed hats, would gamely enjoy a humble existence. How passionately she had railed against the indignity of rushlights! For such a woman, poverty would be even more restrictive than social-climbing parents. Mr. Wilson had claimed, however, to have done well while serving in the arid clime of India. Had he squirreled away enough money to satisfy Miss Otley and what hope did he have of supplementing his funds after he returned to England?
“A calling card should be engraved in a plain script, as its purpose is to present its holder in a straightforward manner. A card that is difficult to read connotes a person who is difficult to read, which is unwelcome for several reasons that I will catalog in the next section,” Aunt Vera explained. “As for the size of the script, it must be neither too large nor too small. A person who favors either extreme is a person who favors extremity, which is not a desirable trait in a caller. Indeed, extremity is the enemy of refinement.”
Bea smiled at her aunt’s pronouncement, for it seemed to sum up her relation perfectly. Aunt Vera did not like to live her life on the edge, preferring to remain in the middle, where it was comfortable. Too hot would never do but neither would too cold. It was the same with everything: not too hard, not too soft, not too wet, not too dry, not too—
At once, Bea froze as a detail from Mr. Wilson’s letter struck her as being incongruent with already established facts. Mrs. Otley had said that her husband had settled on hibiscus plants because their land was well-suited to the crop, and Kesgrave had insisted that May was monsoon season in the southern region. Taken together, those two pieces of information meant that an amiable climate for growing hibiscus was a wet one.
Yet Mr. Wilson had complained about the excessively dry conditions of his location. His letter was dated December, so it was quite possible that area could be arid in winter and soggy in spring.
But was it likely?
Bea had no idea.
Once again, she was forced to lament the oversight in her education that had left her ignorant of the weather conditions in India. What she did know, having just finished an account of Viscount Townshend and the agricultural advances he ushered in, was that most crops were very particular about their growing environment. The mineral content of the soil, the air temperature and the amount of moisture they got had to be just right.
There was only one way to rectify the gap in her knowledge, and she stood up to search the library, for a collection that immense had to contain at least one book with relevant data about the country’s climate.
At the front of the room, her aunt broke off her sentence and raised an eyebrow. “Going somewhere, my dear?”
Devil it! In her enthusiasm, she’d forgotten entirely the interminable lecture on manners her aunt was conducting.
“I…uh…thought you were done,” she stammered.
It was a terrible excuse, which her aunt pooh-poohed. “I was going to discuss the etiquette that governs dancing cards next,” she said with a moue of disapproval, “but we will digress first to the proper way for a lady to excuse herself from company, as that’s the lesson of which we are sorely in dire need.”
Bea slunk back down into her seat with a heavy sigh as her cousin grinned.
Aunt Vera spoke for another forty-five minutes before inviting Lady Skeffington to the front of the room to share her wisdom. Their host glided to the fireplace, curtsied slightly and thanked everyone for coming—to the seminar on manners or to the house party, Bea could not tell.
“During my years in society, I’ve learned that only one thing matters,” she said with a cheerful smile. “Consider the comfort of others to be of paramount importance, and everything else will fall into place.”
Her speech was so succinct and to the point, Aunt Vera could not grasp that it was over. She kept looking at Lady Skeffington with an air of expectation, and Lady Skeffington kept staring back with an air of finality.
As the impasse drew into its second minute, Beatrice stood up and said, “Thank you, my lady, for that very elucidating and profound advice. I know I will follow it all the days of my life. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to visit the”—it was on the tip of her tongue to mention the library but feared that would reveal too much—“privy. Yes, I had quite a lot of tea.”
“Bea!” her aunt exclaimed, appalled at this display of outrageous behavior. “We just talked about this. Ladies do not admit to any biological functions.”
“Yes, Bea,” Flora said, smirking. “Weren’t you listening? It was in the section on hygiene.”
“Of course, I remember,” Bea lied smoothly. “The hygiene section was a favorite. I do particularly love disavowing my own physiological processes.”
While Aunt Vera smiled appreciatively at the compliment, Bea walked toward the entrance, her steps measured and even. As soon as she crossed the threshold, she picked up her skirts and started to run down the hallway. She turned left, then right, then raced up the staircase and through another corridor until she arrived at the library. When she reached the doorway, she came to a sudden stop, surprised to find herself hesitant to return to the room where the murder had taken place.
Her reluctance was reasonable, she knew, for Mr. Otley’s death had presented a grisly sight and there was the very real possibility that the killer had still been on the scene when she’d arrived. The prospect that he had seen her clearly, that he was among the guests at Lakeview Hall, unsettled her deeply, and being back in the library somehow made those feelings stronger. But as rational as her fear was, she had no patience for it. The library was empty now and presented no threat, and she had to believe she was made of sterner stuff than to let the memory of something awful curtail her movements.
