A Brazen Curiosity, page 22
part #1 of Beatrice Hyde-Clare Series
Perceiving her son’s distress, Lady Skeffington immediately assured him it was an accident. “You know I would never intentionally harm anyone. I merely struck him in the back of the head with the candlestick to get his attention, for I couldn’t believe he would have the audacity to walk away from me in the middle of an argument, and so blithely too, as if I were a bird chirping outside his window. I must have misjudged the force I used, although, to be completely candid, I suspect the problem was with his skull, which was unexpectedly soft. Are all skulls such fragile things? Once I heard the crack, I knew the damage had been quite grievous, and it seemed kinder to stay the course than to let him live with a hideous debility. I suspect the damage would have diminished his ability to think effectively.”
Although her ladyship described these events calmly, her depiction agitated her listeners, who all reacted with various degrees of horror. Aunt Vera let out a strangled cry and rushed to embrace her daughter, whom she considered too delicate to be subjected to such depictions of vicious brutality. Flora was pale but composed and directed her mother’s attention to Russell, whose face had turned startlingly white at the use of the word crack. Amersham seemed similarly unsettled by his hostess’s dispassionate account of ending a man’s life, and he leaned forward, resting his hip against the settee as if determined to hold himself upright. Even Nuneaton blanched at the depravity.
Only Skeffington greeted the report with equanimity, dipping his head in a nod of understanding at the predicament in which his wife had unexpectedly found herself. His lordship’s easy acceptance of the wildly dismaying situation horrified his son, who, finding no indication of humanity in either parent, began to cry in earnest.
Kesgrave, who had stood by so silently during the unfolding horror Bea had actually forgotten about him, now stepped forward with a speaking glance to Nuneaton. Comprehending at once, his friend walked over to the devastated young man, laid a hand on his shoulder and murmured softly in his ear. Mr. Skeffington nodded and allowed his cousin to lead him out of the room. Next, the duke looked at the Runner, who, also responding to an unspoken cue, came forward from the shadowy corner to escort Lady Skeffington to the local magistrate.
When the officer from London took out the handcuffs, Skeffington swore and said, “Damn your impertinence, Kesgrave! Not in my house.”
The duke shook his head slightly and the shackles went away. But he could not be convinced, despite his lordship’s threats, pleas and curses, to dispense with the Runner altogether.
“Mr. Otley’s life, however repellant it might have been, is not a trivial matter,” Kesgrave said soberly.
Skeffington, who had seemed indifferent to his wife’s fate only a little while ago, bristled at the idea of Kesgrave deciding it and immediately rang for the butler to get his coat. His wife would not see the magistrate without him!
“Do not worry, my dear, we’ll have this mess sorted out before dinner,” he said with a cool look at the duke, as if challenging him to disagree. “Gosport won’t refer your case to the Crown courts. I know him well and am confident he will be reasonable. If you recall, he accompanies me to my hunting box every first of October to shoot pheasant.”
Kesgrave refrained from comment and watched quietly as the Bow Street Runner escorted Lady Skeffington out of the room in the company of her husband, who was so unconcerned about their errand he was reminiscing fondly about the previous year’s triumph.
“It was four pounds,” he said proudly, “and at least forty-two inches long. I say ‘at least’ because I believe Gosport plucked a few feathers from its tail to make my accomplishment seem less impressive.”
As they turned left into the hallway, Lady Skeffington could be heard advising her husband not to mention the bird until after they had secured her release.
Long after the sound of their voices faded, the room remained silent, for nobody knew what to say. The scene they had just witnessed had the stark unreality of a play, and to discuss it at all felt too much like reviewing a theatrical performance, a prospect that seemed hideously frivolous to Bea and, presumably, the rest of the company.
But someone had to say something or they would still be sitting in the drawing room when Lord Skeffington returned with or without his wife.
The unpleasant thought occurred to Bea as her whole body ached—head pounding, cuts stinging, muscles throbbing, stomach growling—now that the pressure of identifying Mr. Otley’s murderer had passed. It seemed excessively mundane to desire food after so many unpleasant revelations, and yet there was nothing she could do about it.
And, indeed, there really was nothing she could do about it. She was a guest of the Skeffingtons, and her hosts had just left the hall to explain to the county’s magistrate why Mr. Otley’s ruthless slaying at the hands of her ladyship didn’t quite rise to the level of murder.
How very ironic, Beatrice thought without humor, that the woman who had only the day before advised her young guests to consider the comfort of others to be of paramount importance had managed to create the single most uncomfortable experience possible for her visitors. Her definition of comfort veered wildly from the standard one generally agreed upon by the populace.
“We will eat in the breakfast room,” Kesgrave announced, “something informal and simple.”
Although the duke spoke to the room in general, Bea realized when she looked up that he was talking directly to her. She nodded in gratitude.
Aunt Vera sighed, as if too tired to contemplate food, then straightened her shoulders and stood up. “An admirable plan. I will arrange it with the housekeeper right now.”
Mrs. Otley opened her mouth to volunteer as well, and immediately shut it when she saw the venomous look her friend sent her. With as much dignity as she could muster, she excused herself to go comfort her daughter.
One by one, the remaining occupants of the drawing room dispersed, eager to leave the site of so much misery. Amersham claimed he had a letter to write, and Russell, lacking the imagination of the slightly older gentleman, said the same thing a few minutes later.
“To my father,” he added. “He invited me to a prize fight in Guilford. I have been remiss in responding.”
Kesgrave excused himself next, dashing Beatrice’s hopes of getting a moment alone with him. She didn’t know what she wished to gain from such an encounter, as, with Lady Skeffington’s surprising confession, their business had officially concluded.
Their association was at an end.
And still Bea waited with unbearable anticipation for a sign that he, too, desired an opportunity to talk. She thought it might happen at dinner when she found herself sitting next to him for the simple collation of mutton and meat pies. But the conversation at the table was subdued, with Aunt Vera singlehandedly keeping up the chatter with insipid observations about the weather and the meal and the enduring popularity of pomona green.
Kesgrave, however, did not talk to her during dinner. Indeed, he spoke few words to anyone, and watching him sullenly examine his fellow guests, Bea found herself wanting to hurl a dinner roll at him just to elicit a lecture on the throwing arch of flour-based projectiles.
It was an unpleasantly familiar sensation, and she wondered if she would always be plagued by a compulsion to assault him with food.
Thurman offered the men port, but nobody was inclined to linger after the meal and by nine o’clock, the members of the sad, strange little party had retired to their rooms. A few minutes later, a knock sounded at her door, and although she knew it was impossible for her visitor to be Kesgrave, she was deeply disappointed when she opened the door and saw her cousin.
Flora, who had shown very little interest in Bea for her previous nineteen years, was suddenly full of admiration for her skills and deductive powers and ability to escape ramshackle sheds in the middle of fields.
“You are remarkable,” Flora said.
Bea had never expected to hear such words pass her cousin’s lips in reference to herself—to describe a French ruffle, yes, to be sure—and simpered at the praise. She felt genuinely torn over what to do, for as much as she wanted her cousin to stay and compliment her, she also wanted her to go and leave her in solitude to wait for Kesgrave. What if he was at that very moment peering into her room from the tree outside her window?
She glanced at the window and saw nothing but branches blowing gently in the light wind.
Flora stayed for almost half an hour, helping to change the bandages on Bea’s hands with surprising gentleness and asking all sorts of questions about the investigation with thoughtful astuteness. She expressed amazement at her cousin’s ability to keep a cool head when trapped inside the dilapidated shed and marveled at her boldness in accusing their host right there in her own drawing room.
Bea appreciated her enthusiasm but laughed uncomfortably, for she never did get around to making the accusation. Her ladyship had taken care of that part for her.
After Flora left, Bea picked up The Vicar of Wakefield and tried to finish the last few chapters. She kept turning the page as if she was making progress, but she was paying little attention to the ridiculous trials of the Primrose family. Rather, she was darting her eyes every few minutes at the window to see if the duke had appeared.
An hour later, she gave up on the book, blew out the candle and laid her head down on the pillow to go to sleep. Worn out from the day’s exertions, she tucked the blanket around her, rolled onto her side and watched the window.
Beatrice fell asleep waiting for the duke.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Typically, when Bea’s aunt announced they were leaving on a journey at an appointed time—say, nine o’clock or half past noon—her party didn’t actually depart until an hour or two later. This morning, however, she was at the door promptly at ten and impatiently tapping her foot while Bea dawdled over her luggage.
“Just another moment, please, to make sure I have everything,” she said, opening her small case and moving items around as if looking for something. “I can’t find my book about Viscount Townshend. Ordinarily I would consider it a donation to the house, but it’s from the lending library and must be returned.”
Bea shifted the same shawl from one side to the other three times without even looking. Rather, her gaze was focused on the door to his lordship’s study, behind which Kesgrave conferred with Skeffington. The pair had been in there for almost an hour, and she refused to leave until they emerged. Her aunt’s goal was in fact the opposite. She wanted to be in her coach and on the way to Welldale House before Skeffington appeared to make an awkward situation even more uncomfortable. As it was, he had lingered over a cup of coffee at breakfast while his guests stared silently at their eggs. Either indifferent to their discomfort or oblivious to it, he rattled on about how the matter would be cleared up just as soon as his friend Gosport could be made to understand the actual events. The magistrate had been confused by the story Lady Skeffington had told and had asked her to remain behind—under his aegis, of course, not in the county goal—while he deciphered the report.
A proper gentleman with a sense of decency would have sequestered himself in his study until after everyone left, Aunt Vera said. If someone must be inconsiderate in this situation, let it be the guests, who would depart without politely thanking their host for his hospitality. Should any of them feel so inclined, they could always send missives expressing their effusive appreciation later.
Speaking of discourteous behavior, Bea thought as she glared at the closed door, it was beyond rude of Kesgrave to keep his own servants waiting. His valet and his coachman had been ready to leave for more than an hour.
“Isn’t it that there?” Flora asked.
Bea, reluctantly pulling her eyes from their target, glanced at her cousin with confusion. “Excuse me?”
“The book you’re looking for,” Flora said helpfully. “Isn’t it right there?”
Sure enough, the corner of Viscount Townshend: A Life was peeking out from under her shawl. Darn it. She had moved the silk shawl around one too many times.
“Is it?” she asked, squinting her eyes as if to see it more clearly. “You’re right. It is. Thank you.”
“Very good, Flora,” her aunt said with a relieved smile. “I can see no reason to remain any longer.”
Bea thought quickly and reacted with haste. “My earrings! The pearls left to me by my mother. I think they’re on the night table.”
“They’re in your ears, silly,” Flora said.
Aunt Vera shook her head with concern. “There’s little wonder why you are so discombobulated, my dear. The ordeal you have been through in the past few days has been so overwhelming, it’s a marvel that you are even still standing. We will, of course, discuss your penchant for investigating things that should be of no concern of yours when we get into the coach. My, how lucky we are to have an entire day’s drive ahead of us to properly address the matter.”
Flora made a face and announced she’d rather read Bea’s book on crop rotation than participate in such a discussion.
“Nevertheless, it’s a lesson we could all benefit from,” her mother said.
Realizing she could procrastinate no longer, Bea sighed heavily and picked up her bag. She didn’t know what she hoped to accomplish in seeing Kesgrave one last time, anyway. The opportunity for a private conversation had long since passed. Even if he had appeared at breakfast and sat down in the chair directly next to her, he would have talked of innocuous things. He would not have praised her cleverness in figuring out Lady Skeffington was the killer or complimented her on how well she had revealed her discovery. He certainly wouldn’t have suggested they renew their acquaintance when they both returned to London for the season.
Accepting the futility, Bea sighed heavily and resolved to stop putting off the inevitable. If she was to be subjected to a multihour lecture on how to respond to a bloody corpse, she might as well embrace it as her fate. Fighting it would only make it worse in the end.
Bea bravely stood up and lifted her small suitcase. “Very well, I’m ready.”
At that moment, the door to Skeffington’s study opened.
Aunt Vera tensed and looked down the corridor toward the hall’s entrance, trying to decide, it seemed to her niece, if she could run out to the driveway before her host noticed her.
She was not so fortunate.
“Mrs. Hyde-Clare,” his lordship called as he walked toward her, “I was afraid you had left without a proper goodbye. Lady Skeffington will be desolate she missed you. Allow me to wish you a safe journey in her stead.”
“Yes, of course, thank you,” she said, coloring slightly at the mention of her friend’s name. It seemed strange to accept the glad tiding of a murderess, even in absentia. Immediately, she turned to the duke. “Thank you, your grace, for taking charge last night when everything—” Realizing she had been about to make reference to the evening’s dreadfulness, she broke off abruptly and changed course. “That is, thank you for your attentions to my niece. She is very grateful.”
Although Beatrice did not appreciate the way her aunt reached for her like a prop in a melodrama, she stepped forward with an agreeable smile and said, “Indeed, your grace, I’m especially grateful for your attention to detail. HMS Audacious, HMS Majestic, HMS Goliath.”
Taking her niece’s seemingly nonsensical answer as further proof her wits had been undermined by the taxing events of the past few days, Aunt Vera giggled nervously and apologized to the duke. “I worry that exposure to Mr. Otley’s corpse as well as the terror of escaping from the shack and the pressure of exposing a murder has permanently damaged her brain,” she said, then turned an intolerable shade of red as she realized Lord Skeffington was standing only a few feet away. “I mean, exposing a dreadful accident.”
Kesgrave’s serious expression lightened, and although Bea couldn’t tell for sure which had amused him more—her aunt’s antics or her own provocation—she was fairly certain it was the latter when he said, “HMS Goliath, HMS Audacious, HMS Majestic.”
Skeffington nodded in approval and tried to reprise their earlier discussion about the Battle of the Nile, this time overestimating the number of British ships involved by six rather than underestimating it by three. It was many days, however, and one dead body since their first discussion of the topic, and the duke had no interest in making convivial small talk with his host, a fact revealed by his insistence that the famous naval encounter was actually called the Battle of Rosetta.
His lordship, surprised and perplexed by the duke’s sudden ignorance, scampered off to get a book from the library to prove the correct name.
As soon as Skeffington was gone, Kesgrave said, “It is I who must thank Miss Hyde-Clare for allowing me to assist in her investigation of Mr. Otley’s death. I would never go so far as to say it was a pleasure, as much of the experience was horrendous, but I will not pretend there weren’t moments I enjoyed.”
Aunt Vera could not have been more delighted if the Duke of Kesgrave had led her niece out onto the dance floor at Almack’s. She blushed and stammered and simpered and finally said, “Oh, your grace, you are so very kind. I do hope when we return to London you will show Beatrice more of that kindness as I’m sure her popularity would increase with just a small show of interest on your part.”
And with that one horrifying statement, Aunt Vera managed to accomplish what a bloody corpse, a ramshackle shed and a delusional peeress could not: break Bea’s spirit.
Obviously, Bea harbored no illusions about her position in society, and she certainly understood her lowly status in relation to Kesgrave’s exalted one. And yet there was something breathtakingly brutal about the way her aunt reminded them both of her inferiority.
Bea had not forgotten it, of course, for her unimportance had been impressed upon her by providence at the tender age of five and reinforced at regular intervals by her family. But the camaraderie that had sprung up between her and the duke during their investigation had felt so genuine and sincere, she’d almost believed they were equals.
