A Brazen Curiosity, page 13
part #1 of Beatrice Hyde-Clare Series
Kesgrave ignored her attempts at incitement and remained stubbornly focused on the topic. “All that you know, Miss Hyde-Clare?”
Bea was not the sort of woman who continued to dance after the orchestra had stopped playing. “Through investigation, discernment and research, I have discovered the following things: Mr. Otley was heavily invested in poppies and most likely made his fortune smuggling opium into China. His operation was taken over late last year by the East India Company, which left him destitute and without a source of future income. The hibiscus shrubs never existed. They were merely an invention to fleece investors, including Mr. Skeffington and Amersham, who appear to be aware of the fact that they were gulled. His daughter, Emily, is conducting a love affair with his managing agent in India, a man named Charles Wilson. I found this letter”—she pulled it out of her pocket and handed it to him—“to that effect in her bedroom yesterday prior to dinner.”
Although he unfolded the letter, he did not look at it because he was too busy staring at her in astonishment, for he plainly had no idea she could manage to gather so much information in so little time. He’d known, of course, that she’d been poking around, for he himself had found her in his own rooms examining the books on his bedside table. But he hadn’t believed she’d uncovered anything of consequence through her efforts. He’d assumed she’d merely coaxed some useful gossip from a young lady only a year or two removed from the schoolroom.
As Miss Beatrice Hyde-Clare had had few occasions to impress anyone in her lifetime, save her parents, whose delight at her minor accomplishments as a five-year-old were barely a vague memory, it was an intoxicating sensation and well worth the humiliation of their meeting.
It was also deeply unsettling, for she knew how dangerous it was to desire his approval.
The Duke of Kesgrave could not be that important to her.
Unable to bear the thoughts that had emerged during the brief silence, she said, “Now it’s your turn, you grace, to share what you’ve discovered. Since we’ve already established that you consider women to be no more or less trivial than men, I trust we are equals in this investigation. To be entirely frank, I don’t believe you can solve the mystery without my input because, although I’m not as ostentatious with my knowledge as you, I’m just as clever.”
Bea wasn’t sure if she meant the boastful speech to be provoking or not, as her overriding concern in speaking was to distract herself, but now that the sentiment had been expressed, she didn’t think the duke could resist the bait.
And yet somehow he did. “I’m investigating Otley’s hibiscus scheme on behalf of Lord Gresford, a gentleman of three and seventy years who counted himself among my late father’s closest friends. He lives very modestly in Wales and can ill afford to lose the money Otley has stolen, which is why, even if I didn’t have a personal incentive for assisting him, I’d feel morally obligated. Gresford is not alone, as I’ve learned that the majority of Otley’s victims were either old fools or callow youths. As you’ve already discovered, Mr. Skeffington and Lord Amersham are investors. They each lost two thousand pounds.”
Despite the narrow confines of her life, Bea did not consider herself to be naïve or provincial. She read constantly—newspapers, journals, books—and had a strong grasp on the way the world functioned. But at the mention of this vast sum, her jaw dropped in astonishment. With coffers that deep, she could buy a small cottage in the country and supply it with books for the rest of her life.
“Their fathers do not know,” Kesgrave added.
Although Bea had concluded that from the conversation she had overheard, she had not grasped it full meaning because she hadn’t known how deep the well went. “From whence did they get such a large amount of money?”
“Money lenders,” he said.
She scoffed in disgust and began to calculate the interest accrued on such a vast sum. Even using a conservative rate of twenty percent, she estimated the figure would increase by more than half by the time they reached their majorities. “Noodle-headed nodcocks.”
“Indisputably,” the duke agreed. “But in their defense, Mr. Otley was a longtime friend of Skeffington’s parents and he had every reason to believe the investment was on the level. I don’t think even the most fly cove or leery fox would suspect a family friend was out to fleece him. Naturally, one would assume he would be too honorable to behave in such a manner.”
As judicious as he made the decision sound, Bea could not believe that that was how all rational gentlemen behaved: Her uncle? Her father? The duke? Did they all really think it was wise to send massive quantities of money thousands of miles away to places they’d never seen and would never visit? It struck her at once as sheer madness and gross negligence.
Perhaps it was just as well her pockets were to let, for she would never have the courage for investing.
Correctly reading her appalled expression, Kesgrave said, “I understand your dismay, but it’s not all just a roll of the dice. One typically researches an investment by checking previous successes and talking with associates who have had positive experiences. Every investment is a gamble, but there are many good and reliable ways to ensure that you’ve hedged your bets. The problem here is that these clodheads were so eager to double their blunt they let familiarity stand in for due diligence. If Otley had been an honorable man, he would never have accepted their money without first insisting they research the opportunity further or get the approval of their sires. But one cannot blame a scoundrel for behaving like a scoundrel.”
Bea thought holding a scoundrel accountable for his actions was precisely the way you should deal with such a creature, but since this one had already been held to account by someone else, she decided there was no point in disagreeing. “Have you confirmed that Lord Skeffington knows nothing of this transaction? If the pair of them still owe thousands of pounds to the money lenders, then disposing of Mr. Otley would not further their cause at all. It seems exceedingly self-indulgent of them to fulfill their need for revenge when the outstanding debt is without question the more-pressing matter.”
The duke laughed, and Bea, who had said the remark in all seriousness, stared at him in surprise, for the sound was far more melodic and joyful than she would have expected from one so didactic and assured.
His eyes still glimmering with delight, he shook his head and said, “Your callous pragmatism is a thing of beauty.”
It was truly impossible to know how to take such a comment, for it had the ring of sincerity and yet the words themselves were deeply unflattering. Nobody strove to be called either callous or pragmatic. Certainly, one didn’t want to be overly sentimental, for clear thinking required rigor and prudence, but nor did one want to be considered hardheaded and coldly efficient.
“Your understanding of the situation, alas, does not take into account the fragility of a young man’s ego,” he said, seemingly unaware of her confusion. “Undoubtedly, they had a better chance of recouping their losses while Otley was alive. If Lord Skeffington was made aware of the whole debacle, he would only have to threaten to tell a few well-placed people in their social circle the truth and Otley would have returned the money. The success of his scheme and no doubt future ones depended on the solidness of his reputation. Young men, however, do not want to be rescued from their mistakes by their fathers, and they don’t appreciate being played for dupes. Revenging himself against the man who took them for a fool would be enough for either one of these two gentlemen. The presence of my candlestick would seem to prove it.”
“Or perhaps the candlestick is a trick meant to make you believe that,” Bea said. “Don’t let yourself be manipulated.”
“And I would advise you not to let your imagination run away with you,” Kesgrave said with a condescending smile. “It’s easy for a young lady to imagine complex plots where only simple truths exist. Skeffington is a thoughtless young man who carried a candlestick back to his room and left it there.”
Bea recognized his comment as yet another slight against poor Mrs. Radcliffe, and insulting as it was, she was grateful to realize that his respect for her extended only so far. In every way that mattered, he still considered her beneath his consideration.
It was an important lesson for her to remember.
Rather than respond defensively, Bea passed through the doorway into the dressing room and began to search for a receptacle for used shirts and underclothes.
Kesgrave followed her and explained that he had already explored the area for revealing pieces of information.
“Did you inspect the laundry?” Bea asked and was pleased to see by his expression that he did not. “If Skeffington is the thoughtless young murderer you think him to be, then he would have thrown his shirt from the other night in with his worn items. If it didn’t occur to him to examine the candle for small splatters of blood, he wouldn’t think to examine his clothes for evidence either.”
Next to the imposing wardrobe, she found exactly what she was looking for and she stepped back with a gesture to Kesgrave. “Would you like to do the honors?”
His look of revulsion was priceless—brows shooting skyward, lips pressing together—and Bea laughed without restraint at the realization she was the first and only person in the world to suggest the Duke of Kesgrave examine another man’s dirty laundry.
It was a badge of honor she would wear proudly.
While he stood there aghast, his dignity recovering by inches, Beatrice searched through Mr. Skeffington’s used linens and found no evidence of blood on any of the items. It was not conclusive by any means, but it was another piece in an increasingly complicated puzzle.
“There was no blood in Amersham’s laundry either,” she said as she put the articles of clothing back into the large white sack.
“Of course you have already searched the earl’s rooms,” he said, his tone a mix of surprise and disapproval.
“Of course,” she echoed. “Haven’t you?”
From his annoyed expression she could see that he wanted to deny it, but he couldn’t so instead he looked down at the letter in his hands and said, “Miss Otley?”
“She is worth considering,” Bea said.
“Love is frequently a motivation for murder,” he agreed, “and I do believe her parents hoped to arrange a match with Mr. Skeffington. I can see an argument getting out of hand. But how to account for the suicide ruling?”
Beatrice, who only minutes before had pronounced herself to be as clever as he, had no idea what he was referring to and resented the sensation of complete incomprehension. “Account for it in what way?”
“If the young lady actually killed her father, then she knows the ruling of suicide to be false,” he explained. “Would she not try to dispute it in some way, for it deprived her and her mother of whatever monies Mr. Otley had left. The fact that she has meekly accepted the story would seem to remove her from suspicion.”
Beatrice conceded the logic of his argument and was silent for a few moments as she thought through her theory. “If her intention was to clear the way for her marriage to Mr. Wilson, then maybe she’s grateful for the ruling for it means she eluded suspicion.”
“Ah, but the ruling might be a new obstacle,” he pointed out. “Mr. Wilson could be more attracted to the lady’s dowry than to the lady herself.”
Given Emily’s great beauty, Bea found this concept a difficult one to digest, for she naturally assumed that anyone who looked like she did was always wanted for herself. “Perhaps, but Mr. Wilson mentions making some money during his sojourn in India. He might not need her dowry.”
Kesgrave nodded. “Very well. We will put Miss Otley on the list after Mr. Skeffington and Lord Amersham. Who else?”
Once again, she was confused. “Who else?”
“Who else should we consider as suspects,” the duke said. “I have never investigated a murder before, so I don’t know the established way to go about it, but I think a process in which we come up with theories and then identify their weak spots is the most practical method. It is how my colleagues and I in the House of Lords come up with solutions to policy issues.”
Bea could not have been more startled if Mr. Otley’s reanimated corpse had stepped out of the wardrobe to explain what Parliament was. Minutes ago Kesgrave had implied she was a ninnyhammer whose ability to think had been corrupted by Minerva Press novels and now he was treating her like a colleague.
It was an unprecedented display of respect and she felt herself flush with delight, a feeling immediately superseded by guilt at finding any pleasure in the brutal slaying of poor Mr. Otley.
And yet, she thought, he had hardly been a paragon of virtue. Unquestionably, she didn’t believe he deserved to die in such a horrid way, but he did seem to be the architect of his own misfortune. If he hadn’t fleeced the son of one of his oldest friends or pushed his own daughter into an undesirable match.…
“Miss Hyde-Clare?” the duke said, pulling her out of her thoughts. “Would you like to propose another suspect?”
Called back to attention, Bea focused on the matter of additional suspects, which she hadn’t considered before. Unlike Kesgrave, she hadn’t participated in policy debates in the House of Lords, but she was a quick thinker and she relished the freedom to speculate wildly.
She closed her eyes and came up with the most outlandish idea possible. “What about Mr. Wilson? We do not know his current whereabouts. As there is no hibiscus crop, he had no cause to remain in a country he detested. For all we know, he’s already returned to London. Perhaps he’s even in the Lake District. Perhaps he discovered from Emily her parents’ intention to rivet her to Skeffington and he came down here to make his objections known to her father. He might have even asked for her hand and been rebuffed.”
Kesgrave conceded the possibility of a former opium smuggler responding violently to rejection by his employer, but he had a difficult time imagining Miss Otley allowing herself to marry someone so beneath her touch.
“I agree it seems unlikely,” Bea said, “but it would just mean that she has hidden depth. I will try to find out more during our walk to the folly this after— Good gracious, the folly! Quickly, your grace, tell me the time.”
Kesgrave checked his watch and announced it was a quarter to three.
“Do you realize how long we’ve been here?” she asked, horrified that she had been so engrossed in their discussion she had forgotten everything else—the time, where they were, who might come upon them at any moment and discover them. Her sense of urgency was sincere as she ordered him to leave immediately.
Kesgrave’s lips twitched in amusement as he proceeded to the door at her direction. “I’m not sure why I’m the one leaving first when I don’t have to be anywhere until dinner.”
Bea growled impatiently, opened the door a crack, peered out to make sure nobody was there and gave him a healthy push. “Go,” she whispered.
The duke complied with a laugh, which frustrated her even more, for how were they to be stealthy if he persisted in making noise. Nevertheless, he exited the room without being seen, and she leaned against the wall, closed her eyes, and counted to thirty. It wouldn’t take him more than twenty seconds to return to his room, but she wanted to make absolutely sure he was gone before she stepped out into the hall. It would ruin everything if someone spotted them together.
Carefully, she opened the door again and confirmed it was safe for her to leave. She closed it softly, then ran down the hallway as quickly as she could, darting up the staircase and scurrying along the corridor until she reached her room. She’d planned to change into a more appropriate dress for the afternoon outing, but she’d lingered too long in Mr. Skeffington’s room to do anything other than tidy her hair and slip on a pair of sturdy walking boots.
Seven minutes later, she presented herself to the group of women waiting on the patio and submitted docilely to her aunt’s review of the punctuality section of her lecture while the housekeeper, Mrs. Langston, finished packing their picnic basket.
CHAPTER NINE
Bea gave Mr. Theodore Davies a scar on his face that ran from his right temple diagonally across his forehead and over his eye to his left nostril. In every other way he was classically handsome—six feet tall, bright blond hair, deep blue eyes, square jaw—but she couldn’t resist adding a dashing mark that hinted at mystery and the encompassing sadness of his past.
She wasn’t entirely sure that such a cut would not have gouged out his eye or significantly impaired his vision, but Emily, knowing less anatomy than Bea, did not question the detail. But even if her education had included an in-depth study on optical functionality, she would not have noticed the incongruence, for she was far too engrossed in the tragedy that shaped Bea’s young life.
“And you never saw him again?” Emily asked, gasping at the cruelty.
Beatrice shook her head sadly and looked over her friend’s shoulder, at the trees at the top of the hill they were climbing. “Never. His father sent him to visit his uncle in Yorkshire for a month, and when he returned, he told him I’d died of consumption in order to extinguish all hope of a reunion.”
She brushed her cheek as if wiping away a tear as it slid down, but her eyes were in fact dry. She lacked Flora’s ability to turn on the waterworks at will and had to content herself with hitching her breath dramatically every few minutes. It hardly mattered, for Emily was thoroughly persuaded by her tale of woe and star-crossed love.
“Oh, my dear, how my heart aches for you,” Emily said passionately, taking her friend’s hand.
Bea continued to look away, as if a display of sympathy for her pain was itself painful, and squeezed the hand that held hers. “Thank you, darling. Thank you. It’s my sincerest wish that you never suffer a similar misfortune. I pray you fall in love with a man of equal standing, not a clerk in a solicitor’s office who would never be accepted by your family,” she said, darting her eyes to her companion to see the effect of her words. The young lady of her standing had to be familiar enough with the rules governing maidenly confidences to now share her own. “I tried to make the sensible choice, as I knew the difficulties that lay ahead, but, alas, it was love at first sight. The heart wants what the heart wants.”
