A Brazen Curiosity, page 12
part #1 of Beatrice Hyde-Clare Series
She took two steps into the room, paused cautiously, as if to survey her immediate environs and confirm she was alone, then dashed up the stairs. Although the organization of the library was still a mystery to her, it was much easier to find the correct section in the bright light of day, and she quickly selected the two books that seemed the most promising: The Almanac of the World and Book of Fascinating Facts and Travels in India: My Journey Through a Strange, Difficult and Wonderful Land, a travelogue by the wife of the attaché to the sixth governor-general of Fort William.
With the two reference books in hand, she returned to her room, eager to find out what she could about the climate of India and the horticultural requirements of hibiscus shrubs. She had plenty of time for research, as her presence wasn’t required for another two hours, when the ladies would accompany their hostess on a stroll to a folly that sat on the southern edge of the property. She thought the proposed walk was an excellent idea, for there were few things she enjoyed more than an amble through beautiful countryside and the activity would present several opportunities for private conversation with Emily. She would learn the details of her relationship with Mr. Wilson and discover if the young lady had anything to do with the death of her father.
She would do all this while the duke, who always thought he was the cleverest person in the room, wasted the day fishing for trout.
Delighted by the prospect, she settled in to read.
Bea began with the almanac, which proved to be almost immediately helpful, for after only twenty minutes of useful consultation with its index she knew that hibiscus grew only in soil that was moist year-round. Wherever Mr. Wilson was stationed, it was certainly not in the path of the monsoons. That meant that Mr. Otley not only never had a devastating fire, he never had a hibiscus crop either. The investment scheme, from top to bottom, had been an invention. She was sure of it.
The hibiscus shrubs might never have existed, but Mr. Wilson had been overseeing some crop that was taken over by John Company.
What plants prospered in the arid regions of India?
She returned to the almanac and resumed reading.
Ah, there is it, she thought: tobacco, cotton, wheat, barley, poppy and indica.
Thinking of Mr. Wilson’s mention of China, she put down The Almanac of the World and Book of Fascinating Facts and opened the travelogue to figure out which of those crops would be of the most interest to the Chinese. Mrs. Barlow had not been thoughtful enough to include an index, but perusal of several chapters revealed China’s deep and complicated history with opium, which Jiaqing, emperor of the Qing dynasty, outlawed at the turn of the century. The East India Company, the joint-stock firm that all but owned India and ruled it with an army large enough to rival the British force, relied too heavily to give up the lucrative trade just because it was now illegal. It had worked too hard and too brutally to corner the market on poppy production to simply abandon the monopoly. Instead, it created a large and successful smuggling operation.
Although the brutality of the East India Company’s practices horrified Bea, Mrs. Barlow wrote about them with clear admiration, for she believed it was within its rights to seize the fields of local farmers and prohibit private cultivation.
It was this detail that convinced Bea that Mr. Otley’s venture, however it might have started three decades ago, was most recently steeped in opium production. It could have been the cultivation of tea, of course, or even cotton, but Mr. Wilson specifically mentioned John Company, which was the informal name of the East India Company. It was too much of a coincidence that the setback described by Emily and her lover was exactly in line with the British firm’s well-known behavior.
And yet somehow Mr. Otley, whose business dealings in the country preceded the opium ban, had managed to evade John Company’s notice for years. Inevitably, it had been only a matter of time before the company took over his field and drove him out of business. Given how well established the spice trader’s reputation was, Bea could only surmise that he used clever tactics to either elude its attention or soothe its concerns.
No wonder Mrs. Otley was so frantic when word of the seizure reached them. It was no simple thing to find another source of income, certainly not one that would support the family in the habit to which they had become accustomed. That would explain why they began to practice minor economies such as replacing expensive candles with rushlights and buying inferior-quality boots.
Mr. and Mrs. Otley must have realized quickly that these reductions in expenditures were too small to make a difference. Something drastic had to be done.
Enter hibiscus.
His sterling reputation intact, Mr. Otley probably had no trouble finding investors eager to reap his success. With the funds they provided, he had enough money to invest in reliable ventures like copper mines in Cornwall.
How much had Skeffington and Amersham lost? A few hundred pounds, perhaps? Possibly more?
Did the exact sum matter or was the true damage to their vanity?
Having discovered all she could from books, Bea consulted the clock and decided she had more than enough time left to search the young men’s rooms for evidence. It was only two, and the walk to the folly was scheduled to begin at three.
Bea looked out the window to see if Skeffington and Amersham were still fishing. Frustratingly, she couldn’t tell because the view was blocked by a large oak tree. Determined to not let the bucolic wonders of Cumbria stand in the way of justice for Mr. Otley, she opened the pane, confirmed the sturdiness of the branch outside and climbed out to get an unimpeded look at the lake.
Ah, yes, there they were, she thought, noting the figures in the distance. She counted their numbers, and feeling confident she could search the young men’s rooms without discovery, climbed back inside and exited her bedchamber.
Bea started with Amersham’s rooms because they were on her right as she entered the hallway. Mindful of the time—she still had to change into a walking dress before heading out to the folly—she rifled through his drawers quickly, carelessly tossing aside articles of clothing in her haste. She didn’t worry about making a mess because Amersham’s drawers and cabinets were already wildly disorganized, and she marveled that a man could employ a valet who so closely shared his habits. In less than ten minutes, she had searched very corner of his room and had uncovered no evidence of blood or bloody clothes.
Very well, she thought, closing the door to the dressing room, onto the next suspect.
As soon as she stepped into Mr. Skeffington’s bedchamber, Bea could see that she would have to be scrupulous in her search, for the room was meticulously neat. The surfaces were bare except for a few essential items such as a candlestick next to the bed and a box of cheroots on the clothespress.
She sighed deeply and decided to start in the dressing room, as the first thing she wanted to inspect was the laundry. Before she could take a single step in that direction, she heard a floorboard creak and her heart flipped over in her chest.
Was somebody there?
Not Skeffington, she knew for sure, because she had confirmed his whereabouts. His valet, perhaps, ironing his cravats for his dinner clothes? Or maybe the upstairs maid putting away some freshly laundered shirts?
The creak sounded again and Bea called herself a fool for even wondering who was in the dressing room. It didn’t matter who found her snooping around, only that she would be found.
Before she could scurry out of the bedchamber, she heard the door to the dressing room open and, terrified she was about to be caught in a position she couldn’t possibly explain, she dropped to her knees next to the bed, bumping the bedside table in her mad scamper and knocking over the candlestick, which landed with a ringing thud.
Mortified, Bea looked up to confront her discoverer and found herself staring into the glinting eyes of the Duke of Kesgrave.
CHAPTER EIGHT
To say that Beatrice would rather it have been the maid or valet wasn’t entirely accurate, but some part of her wished she was scrambling at that very moment to make convincing excuses to a servant rather than flinching under the duke’s withering amusement.
“Ah, Miss Hyde-Clare, as enthusiastic as ever, I see,” he said wryly. “I trust you are uncovering an incredibly vital piece of information under Mr. Skeffington’s bed.”
Knowing the mockery was well-deserved, Bea patted the letter from Mr. Wilson, which was tucked into her pocket, and reminded herself that she wasn’t wholly without her competencies. “I am uncovering incredibly vital information, yes,” she said, ignoring the hand he offered to help her to her feet. Instead she gave him the candlestick, which he returned to the bedside table.
Almost immediately after, however, he picked the implement up again, carried it over to the window, where the light was better, and examined it with intense concentration. He held it up to his nose for an even closer inspection, and Bea, who had initially found this behavior strange, grasped what he was doing.
Hoping to strike a note of being only a little bit smug, she said, “Incredibly vital information such as the whereabouts of your candlestick, which disappeared from the library the other night.”
“What?” he asked, raising his head to stare at her. “No.”
’Twas an even more unconvincing lie than whatever nonsensical story Bea would have told to the maid or valet. “Tell me, your grace, how can you be sure?”
He considered her for a moment, several seconds of extended silence during which he debated the relative merits of holding to his fiction, a consideration that amused Bea in its futility, for she would not be pawned off. He must have realized this as well, for he decided to answer her simple question with a treatise on the candlestick’s style, weight, material, design and authorship. He spoke for so many uninteresting minutes on the particular nicks and imperfections he’d noted during his limited use of the implement, she’d almost missed it when he mentioned blood on the fluting.
She stiffened in surprise and tried to grab the candlestick to get a better look, but Kesgrave held firm.
“Here, you see,” he said, bending his head close to hers as he pointed to one area in particular, “the smudge. If I had to guess, I would say the blood transferred itself from the murderer’s hand to the candlestick.”
He was right, of course. Just above the petal motif on the flared base was a dark red mark that, in the circumstance, could only be blood.
The finding would indicate that Mr. Skeffington was indeed their killer.
Bea held the thought for a moment to see how satisfying it felt to have discovered the conclusive piece of evidence sitting on the bedside table in clear sight. After a moment, she shook her head and murmured, “No, not at all.”
Kesgrave lifted his eyes, curious and blue, and Bea was suddenly aware of how very close they were too each other. She took a step back, cleared her throat self-consciously and explained, “This is meant to be clear, incontrovertible proof that Mr. Skeffington is the culprit, but it’s too simplistic to believe a guilty man of four and twenty would have left a damning piece of evidence next to his bedside. There are other suspects with more-convincing motives and perhaps one was wily enough to place it here to give the appearance of guilt.”
Slowly, the duke put down the candlestick on the clothespress and regarded Beatrice thoughtfully for long, drawn-out moments. If she’d thought standing so close to him was uncomfortable, it was nothing compared with the way he made her feel now, as if she were a butterfly under glass. She resolved not to flinch while he tried to identify her genus and species, or, as she conceded was more likely, come up with a believable lie to get her to stop investigating Mr. Otley’s death as he’d already requested.
Finally, he said, “I’ll scream.”
Now it was Bea’s turn to stare as if trying to figure out what rare and strange creature he was, for his announcement defied all reason. What benefit could he derive from bringing the house down around their ears? He was a duke, and she was a lowly orphan with a plain face and few prospects. Did he not understand the particulars of the situation? He’d previously impressed her as a clever man, but perhaps the pressure of trying to find a murderer had caused his brain to fail in a significantly debilitating way.
“Refuse to tell me everything you know about Otley’s death,” he continued in the same mild tone, “and I will scream. Everyone will come running and you will find yourself compromised beyond all hope and forced to marry me. Think of it, Miss Hyde-Clare, leg-shackled to a pedantic, know-everything duke for the rest of your life: tiresome conversation, plodding children, endless lists of British warships day and night. Surely, you have something better in mind for yourself—a cottage in the country, spirited debate with like-minded fellows, every book ever written at your fingertips and time enough to read them.”
Although the duke’s description of the future he thought she wanted for herself showed surprising insight into the way her brain worked, for, “Yes, please, fortune, do bestow all of that on me,” was the first thing that flitted through her mind, it also demonstrated a remarkable ignorance of the economic realities of the world. As an impoverished relation dependent on the generosity of her family, she couldn’t simply insist they provide her with an establishment of her own, a few reliable old retainers and a well-stocked library. Rather, she would spend the rest of her life in service either to her aunt, as a companion in her dotage, or her cousins, as a nanny for their children.
Indeed, the only way for her to achieve the situation he described was to let him scream. No doubt the coins in his purse at that very moment were enough to provide her with a modest living for the rest of her life.
The unintended irony of Kesgrave’s threat made Beatrice smile, and she decided to call his bluff just for the pleasure of watching him scramble.
“No need to put yourself out, your grace, I’m happy to scream for the both of us,” she said and inhaled deeply.
Given all she knew about Kesgrave, she expected him to turn white with fear and press a panicked hand against her mouth, but he merely smiled.
The toplofty duke was calling her bluff of calling his bluff.
Beatrice couldn’t help but admire the cool-headed response, and for the first time since meeting him five days ago, she found herself feeling grudging respect for the gentleman. Perhaps he wasn’t quite the preening bag of wind he presented to the world.
“I must congratulate you, Kesgrave, on not flinching when confronted with a fate worse than death. A lesser man would have tackled me to the ground to forestall the promised scream.”
He bowed his head in acknowledgment. “I’m delighted to discover you think there are men lesser than me, as your treatment would indicate that I’m in fact the bottom of the barrel. Tell me, Miss Hyde-Clare, why do you find my knowledge to be so objectionable? Would it be better if I pretended not to know things? Is ignorance suddenly in fashion?”
“I’m surprised you have to ask, your grace,” she said. “Isn’t ignorance always in fashion for ladies?”
Although she’d proffered the question lightly, almost teasingly, the duke took genuine offense at the charge, straightening his shoulders and asking with forceful indignation, “Do you dare imply that I expect less from women than I do from men?”
She’d indeed been implying that very thing, but taking his outrage into consideration and his consistently condescending behavior, she was forced to concede the injustice of the charge. Kesgrave thought himself superior to everyone—women, men, children, horses, strange long-necked animals on the savannah in Africa. A general disgust of the world wasn’t a character trait she usually found admirable, but somehow a duke of his standing not holding his sex in higher esteem felt like a commendably broad-minded point of view.
“I do, your grace, or, rather, I did,” she admitted honestly. “But I would like to withdraw the remark, as you’re correct to object. You expect nothing from anybody across all realms and strata, and disdain that consistent deserves my respect.”
She thought her comments would elicit another outburst, but the duke’s lips twitched and he said, “That’s all I ever wanted.”
He was being facetious, of course, for there could not be anything of less value to a duke than an orphaned spinster’s good opinion, and yet he spoke with enough sincerity to give her pause.
The pause, she realized with unsettling clarity, was regret that her respect would never be something he sought.
Hoping to diminish the feeling of foolishness such a revelation imposed, she directed her thoughts back to the information for which he had asked. Her immediate impulse was to deny the request simply because he made it, but recognizing her own perversity she held her tongue and examined her reasons in investigating Mr. Otley’s death. Originally, she had been motivated by resentment at Kesgrave’s treatment of the victim—claiming he killed himself when he had been brutally murdered. Was there anything more unjust? As soon as she figured out the duke’s purpose in telling the lie, however, that motivation had been removed. She knew he was looking into the incident and wouldn’t rest until the perpetrator was apprehended. So why did she still persist with her own investigation? Was it only to spite Kesgrave, who had pricked her ego by insisting she desist and annoyed her with his pedantry and arrogance?
If her primary goal was justice for Mr. Otley—and she sincerely believed it was—then she could not let her self-regard stand in the way. Working with the duke, rather than against him, was the only practical solution.
Taking the sensible approach, however, did not mean denying herself pleasure altogether. “May I say, your grace, how refreshing your willingness is to admit without shame or embarrassment that you’re unable to finish a task on your own. Many men of my acquaintance”—this statement was a flat-out lie, as Bea had no men in her acquaintance—“would sooner give up membership to their club for a full year than admit they need help.”
