A Brazen Curiosity, page 19
part #1 of Beatrice Hyde-Clare Series
“Because he”—now Mr. Skeffington glared balefully at the duke—“told him to. Kesgrave is protecting the girl. I don’t know why, for she has nothing to recommend her and is not his regular style, but he is. She did it, and now she’s trying to arrange matters so that it looks as if I did it.”
Only moments ago, Bea could not imagine anything worse than fighting her way out of an abandoned shack with a splintery plank while enduring a throbbing headache and yet now she suffered a distress quite unlike anything that had come before. For him to link her name with Kesgrave’s, for him to imply that the duke had behaved immorally to benefit her and to then plainly express the bafflement they must all be feeling, including his grace, was a mortification beyond bearing.
Aunt Vera called him a young fool, Miss Otley laughed with great amusement, and Lady Skeffington apologized to her guest, either Bea or the duke—it wasn’t clear which one—for the outburst.
Lord Skeffington shook his head sadly, clearly worried that his son had developed a persecution disorder that perceived threats where none existed. “But why would she do that? What possible reason could she have?”
“Because she knows I have reason to desire revenge,” he said, “as Otley swindled me out of two thousand pounds.”
To say his father turned apoplectic at this communication would be to vastly understate his level of anger. The color in his face rose to an alarming shade of magenta, his eyes opened so wide they seemed to almost lurch outside his head, and he shrieked, “What?” with equal amounts of shock and disgust.
He was not alone in his distress, for Mrs. Otley also cried out in anguish and turned immediately to Lady Skeffington. “I had no idea,” she said with vehement insistence, her hands reaching for her friend and, fearing rebuff, pulling away before they made contact. “I knew…that is, I suspected something wasn’t entirely correct about the new venture. We had a setback, a quite devastating one. Otley had to respond quickly to save our family before we were exposed and ruined, and the need for a quick response might have undercut his usual scrupulousness. I cannot say as I did not consider it my place to question him about business. But after he lost his pop…ah, crop to misfortune, we had nothing. Nothing at all and there were all those bills to pay. The milliner, the modiste, the grocer. It never stopped. And the cost of candles! How could we run up such a large bill so quickly?”
“Mama!” Miss Otley said, either appalled that her mother’s apology had devolved into a self-pitying tirade or mortified by the discovery of her father’s perfidy.
Recollecting herself, Mrs. Otley reached again for Lady Skeffington’s hands, and feeling more confident this time, grasped them. “However desperate our circumstances were, it was not an excuse for my husband to abuse the sacred trust of our relationship. Your friendship means the world to me, and I would never do anything to jeopardize it. I’m so very sorry,” she said, and then, as if struck anew by the dreadfulness of the situation, she added, “Oh, wretched, wretched man, sullying our own nest to recoup our fortune. I always knew he wasn’t particularly clever, but I assumed he was smarter than this.”
“Mama!” Miss Otley’s pitch rose as her mother continued to heap blame on her dead father’s head.
Lady Skeffington, who had remained composed throughout the entire ordeal, not flinching at any of the revelations, seemed unsure whom she should comfort first: her husband or her friend or her son or even Miss Otley, whose self-control gave way to a torrent of tears. The young lady’s weeping only served to make her fragile beauty more pronounced, and Russell presented himself at her side to offer comfort, which she was despondent enough to accept.
Russell’s gallantry—or opportunism, Bea thought cynically—relieved their hostess of one problem and she freed her hands from Mrs. Otley’s grasp to help calm her husband. In the minutes since he discovered the depths of his son’s idiocy and his friend’s villainy, Skeffington’s rage had only grown hotter. He called both men several vile names, seemingly incapable of distinguishing between their crimes, as he paced about the field in a large circle.
“He fleeced me too, you know,” Amersham said petulantly.
Bea wasn’t sure if his intent was to defend his friend or declare his own victimhood. Mrs. Otley, claiming the latter for herself, whimpered and cursed her misfortune in marrying a scoundrel, which caused her daughter to cry even harder.
Mr. Skeffington, unable to bear how wildly things had gotten off course, whistled loudly and all activity stopped. “You are all missing the point,” he said impatiently. “It doesn’t matter what Otley did. All that matters is that this woman here murdered him in cold blood and is trying to blame me. I had no choice but to trap her in the shed while I fetched—”
“You trapped her in the shed?” Aunt Vera said, stepping forward with menace in her eyes. If she had a reticule in her hand, she would have bashed him on the head with it.
He stiffened at her tone, offended by the implication that he had done anything wrong. “I had to. She murdered a man and was trying to set me up to take the blame. I had no choice but to shove her inside and lock the door.”
Aunt Vera wasn’t the only one who gasped in shock. Lord Skeffington’s expression of anger was so acute, he looked as if had he had a reticule in his hand, he would do something far worse than merely hit his son on the head with it. He marched across the field until he stood nose to nose with his heir and said, “Shove her inside? You mean to say, you’re the one who is responsible for the gaping wound on her forehead?”
Gaping wound? Bea thought in surprise. She reached up to feel her bandage and realized it had indeed slipped.
“I had no choice,” he insisted. “Yesterday she broke into my room to leave evidence that pointed to my guilt. And today she has been quizzing the servants in a most suspicious manner. She is solidifying a case against me to hide her own guilt.”
At this charge, Nuneaton stepped forward, while Beatrice looked at Kesgrave for some direction, as she had no idea what to do. Unaware of her attention, he kept his gaze on Mr. Skeffington. His expression was placid, which she took comfort in, as she knew there was little chance she would be condemned as a murderer while he stood by. As long as he was calm, she would remain so as well.
Nuneaton also considered Mr. Skeffington and said after a thoughtful pause, “That’s a grave accusation. What is your proof in making it?”
The fact that someone was finally taking him seriously was enough to soothe the young man’s agitation and he answered evenly. “If you recall, I spent yesterday morning practicing my ties with Harris—the duke’s valet, you will note—who provided an interesting diversion in the form of a tutorial on how to improve one’s flies. When I returned in the afternoon, I spotted Miss Hyde-Clare leaving my rooms. Looking around my bedchamber, I noticed immediately that the candle I had left on the night table had been moved to the clothespress. I carefully inspected the candlestick and observed it had blood on it. Naturally, I concluded that she had replaced my candlestick with a bloodied one to point to my guilt, as we all know Mr. Otley had been struck over the head with just such an instrument. Then, today, I saw her poking around where she didn’t belong. She visited the kitchens and spoke with the staff there, then pried around the stables and the coach house. I observed her approaching this abandoned shed, which hasn’t been used in years, and knew at once that she was using it for some nefarious reason. So I pushed her inside, locked the door and went to fetch my parents. As I found them having tea with Mrs. Otley and her daughter in the drawing room before they departed, I thought it prudent to invite everyone else along as well, so that we might dispense with the matter all at once.”
Beatrice hadn’t expected so much coherence from the man who had rambled feverishly about murderers and assaulted her at his whim. She realized now that his actions had been more considered than she’d credited. For two days, he’d been observing her carefully and slowly building a case against her. He’d even noted the growing association between her and Kesgrave, going so far as to imply that the duke’s valet offered instruction only as a way to remove him from his rooms and provide her with an opportunity to place the incriminating candlestick within.
His catalogue sounded damning to Bea’s ear, as did the extended silence that followed the narration. She longed to glance again at the duke to see how the list of charges affected him, but she was afraid such a move would only affirm her guilt to the others. Instead, she peeked at her aunt to see her response and was horrified to see her eyes were wide with shock.
She believes it, Bea thought.
And then Aunt Vera erupted into a gale of laughter so strong she had to steady herself on her son, lest she topple over from the force.
“Beatrice and the duke?” she said as she gasped for air. “Conspiring together? Are you mad?”
“Although she could put it a bit more delicately, my mother is right,” Flora said to the Skeffington heir, whose cheeks had turned pink at the display of contempt. “The prospect that my cousin has formed an alliance with the Duke of Kesgrave is perhaps the most ardently ridiculous thing you could possibly propose. Beatrice is lovely enough, of course, but she’s mousy and she’s forever improving her mind with texts about farming and foreign countries. What interest would a duke have in that? Truly, sir, you appear to be under a great deal of stress at the moment, and I fear it might have addled your mind.” She paused and turned to her hostess, who had been nothing but gracious to her, and apologized for speaking ill of her son. “I do not say it to be mean-spirited but out of concern. This interest he seems to have taken in my cousin is quite inexplicable. She couldn’t possibly have murdered Mr. Otley, for she had no reason in the world to wish him ill.”
“They were lovers!” Mr. Skeffington announced. “She is a woman of loose morals who dallied with a clerk in the Chancery. Everyone here knows it.”
At this very grave charge, Aunt Vera’s amusement overcame her to such an excessive degree, she had to sit down on the ground or risk falling.
Bea, however, felt her heart race in panic and fear that one of them, all of them, would recall the nonsensical story about Mr. Theodore Davies and find within it a kernel of truth to which to tether his claim about Mr. Otley. Her aunt, obviously, knew it to be pure fustian, and she didn’t doubt her cousins were laughing quietly if not rolling on the ground like their mother, but the others were almost as strangers to her. They would be within their rights to believe it. Ultimately, it would not be any more bizarre than discovering the man they had all believed guilty of suicide had actually suffered a violent and unsought death.
She knew she had to say something, for she could not continue to stand there stunned and mute as her name was sullied. Her mind could scarcely grasp the reality of what had happened—to escape from a makeshift prison, victorious and relieved, only to find oneself the target of a vile accusation. It seemed like a scene from a play. She ought to defend herself but what could she add to the conversation? All she could do was offer by-route denials, as anyone accused of such things would do. There was nothing particularly interesting about one’s protestations of innocence. Indeed, was there anything more banal?
But silence had not served her well, for into the void had fallen another charge, and it was somehow worse to be thought Mr. Otley’s lover than his killer.
She had to speak now.
Before Bea could say anything, Kesgrave moved a few steps closer to her, as if offering himself as a shield, and smiled at Mr. Skeffington with mild amusement. “Is your imagination so limited that a torrid affair is really the best you can do? You’re young, of course, and your experience with women is quite limited, but I assure you they are complex and fascinating creatures and could be spurred to do harm for a variety of reasons that have nothing to do with carnal pleasure. Your inability to come up with one demonstrates your level of desperation to ascribe a motive to Miss Hyde-Clare.”
Kesgrave’s comment had the intended effect, and the Skeffington heir bristled at the mockery. “Your protests mean nothing, as you are conspiring with her. I cannot begin to fathom what your motives are, other than you are simply bored in the country and looking for some freakish novelty to divert you.”
Although Bea knew the duke was quite capable of defending himself, she decided to step in before he ripped Mr. Skeffington to shreds. Yes, the dreadful young man had assaulted her both in spirit and in fact, but he had arrived at his abhorrent conclusions honestly. If she had discovered the bloodied candlestick by her own bedside after watching him sneak out of her room, she would have drawn the exact same conclusion.
“Mr. Skeffington is correct,” Bea said, her voice firm as she held herself stiff to control the sudden shaking of her limbs. “Mr. Otley was indeed murdered. As he has explained, the manner of death would have been impossible for a lone man to contrive. And, yes, I stole into his room to search for information because I knew about his treatment at Mr. Otley’s hand, and I did spend much of the morning talking to the staff in order to find out more information about newcomers to the estate. But he is also wrong because I did not kill Mr. Otley.” She paused to let the statement sink in with her audience. “I’m not a murderer. Now, I know we are all upset…”
Bea faltered as something fluttered on the edge of her consciousness. She batted it away and tried again. “I know we are all…” But it persisted and persisted until at once she knew exactly what her mind had intuitively grasped.
Unconcerned about who might witness the moment, she turned to the duke with apprehension and excitement flickering in her eyes. “I know,” she said simply.
She didn’t have to elaborate, for Kesgrave grasped at once her meaning and announced to the party that the poor girl was so tired she could no longer finish her sentences.
“Added to that,” he said, “she looks as if she just emerged from a coal mine. She could use a bath and a rest and someone must tend to those wounds before they become worse. I propose we adjourn for the moment and pick up this fascinating conversation in a few hours in the drawing room. We can have tea and some cakes while we talk it over.”
At the mention of food Bea realized she was desperately hungry—how many hours had it been since those eggs?—and just the thought of soaking in a hot tub made her aching body melt. Yet she still opened her mouth to protest this proposal, for, like Mr. Skeffington, she believed it was prudent to unmask a killer as soon as you deciphered his identity. Unlike that thoughtless young man, she had constructed an unassailable case against her suspect.
Kesgrave silenced her with a look, which was hardly surprising. Naturally, he wanted to hear her theory and confirm its accuracy before she leveled the charge. As the target of an erroneous accusation, she could understand his caution and complied with his unspoken request.
Nevertheless, it rankled, for she knew her deductions were correct.
She wasn’t the only one who objected.
“He’s trying to distract us,” Mr. Skeffington said. “He’s postponing the inevitable to give her time to devise an alternate plan. I told you, they are working together.”
“I am trying to be respectful of your imbecility,” Kesgrave said, his voice bathed in mild scorn, “but you’re making it very difficult. Miss Hyde-Clare is clearly exhausted, and I can perceive no harm in letting her return to the hall and rest before we resume this discussion. Pray, Mr. Skeffington, what do you think is going to happen in the interim? Do you imagine she will take to the open road with her belongings in a carpet bag? Perhaps she will liberate one of the horses from the stable and steal away while Mrs. Langston is brewing tea? I know it’s hard for you to be sensible, young man, with your flights of fancy, but do apply yourself a little.”
As furious as Lord Skeffington was with his son for handing over several thousand pounds to a charlatan, he could not let such scathing contempt for his offspring stand. “I say, Kesgrave, ease back. The boy merely misjudged the situation and will apologize accordingly. That said, I do believe he was both well-justified and persuasive in his conclusions. I myself am not convinced he is entirely off the mark.”
Aunt Vera rose to her feet to defend her niece, but the duke forestalled her angry comment with a cutting remark of his own. “I would never deny a father the opportunity to draw the same asinine conclusion as his son, as intelligence is known to be a thing that runs in a family—or not, as the case may be. However, I trust you are astute enough to recognize that having obtained his suspicions about Miss Hyde-Clare, Mr. Skeffington should have handled the matter in a way that did not include assaulting and terrifying her. Surely, we can all agree that such behavior is beyond the pale, and having suffered it with what seems to be remarkable grace, the young lady has earned the right to clean herself up and settle herself down before having to defend herself further against a murder charge.”
“Bravo,” Russell said, approval ringing loudly in his voice as he stepped away from Miss Otley to draw closer to Kesgrave. An Incomparable with delicate tears in her eyes was a sight to behold, of course, but a stinging setdown was a thing of beauty. His admiration for the duke shot up tenfold.
“I think we could all benefit from a little rest,” Lady Skeffington said with a soothing smile. “Let’s return to the hall and retire to our rooms to clear our thinking. The Otleys, of course, will delay their departure until this matter has been sorted out.”
Mr. Skeffington took umbrage at the suggestion that his thinking required clearing, but one look from his father quelled him. Surly and thwarted, he walked across the field in the company of Amersham, who couldn’t help sharing his concern that Miss Hyde-Clare had tried to make him look guilty as well.
“I didn’t find anything as startling as a bloody candlestick in my bedchamber, but I did notice my clothing wasn’t as neatly folded as it should have been,” he explained. “I assumed my valet was at fault, as his attention to detail is not as finely honed as I would like. And, to be entirely candid, I’m not quite sure he knows the difference between a Waterfall knot and the Stagecoach. Perhaps I should let him go? He is the nephew of my father’s butler, so there might be some trickiness there, but ultimately the only concern should be my comfort, as I am the employer, am I not? And yet I’m uncertain how to proceed. I assure you, it weighs on my mind quite a bit.”
