A Brazen Curiosity, page 3
part #1 of Beatrice Hyde-Clare Series
As she was neither a leopard nor a grizzly bear at the Tower of London, she took offense at his tone. “Evidence?” she asked, tilting her head.
“I’m the Duke of Kesgrave,” he said simply.
Beatrice wanted to laugh, for the way he cited his rank as proof of his innocence was one of the most absurd things she’d ever heard. Imagine believing that your personage alone was confirmation of your fundamental decency. She didn’t indulge the impulse, however, as levity was entirely inappropriate to the situation and she knew how the duke would interpret it—as an indication that she was a weak-willed female unable to bear up under the pressure of the situation. She felt certain his opinion of her was already low and genuinely doubted that he considered any person of her sex to be genuinely rational.
“I was getting a book,” she said, providing an explanation for her presence in the darkened room. “After several hours of trying unsuccessfully to fall asleep, I came down here to find fresh reading material. I brought a novel with me, The Vicar of Wakefield, but didn’t feel quite in the mood to read it, as the struggles of a family that has come down in the world did not suit my mood. I’d settled on a biography and felt certain a library as well stocked as this one would have exactly what I was looking for.”
If the duke was annoyed that his importance wasn’t enough to clear him of suspicion, he gave no hint as he said, “I too was seeking something to read.”
The vagueness of his answer was hardly reassuring. She’d provided as many details as possible to give her account credence. “What or who in particular?”
“Sir Philip Sidney,” he said promptly.
The speed of his response was comforting, but the substance made her heart leap in terror. “Poetry is on the first level,” she said accusingly, “with novels and story collections.”
“The Defense of Poesy,” he clarified. “Literary criticism is on this level, next to law texts and horticulture.”
Beatrice wanted to take comfort in the specificity of his answer, for it was exactly what she’d been looking for, but she wasn’t familiar enough with the layout of the library to confirm the accuracy of his statement. A clever murderer would speak with confidence regardless of fact.
Perceiving her wariness, he snapped, “My dear Miss Hyde-Clare, I’ve been patient with you because you’ve had a shock and your suspicions are justified, but you push my forbearance too far. What possible motive could I have had to commit this crime? I not only had no business with an overstepping nabob from Kent but also little interest or interaction. The insinuation that I’d bestir myself to extinguish his life when all I had to do was dampen his pretentions is as ridiculous as it is insulting. I’ll thank you to acquit me of all nefarious deeds and focus on the larger matter of who is actually responsible for this monstrosity.”
It was an excellent setdown—cutting and dismissive, with the right amount of irritability to imply even issuing it was beneath his dignity—and prior to discovering Mr. Otley’s lifeless body, the prospect of being subjected to such ducal acerbity would have terrified her more than the possibility of being in the company of a murderer. But fear had made her brave, and with bravery came the revelation that she had nothing to lose. Other than life itself, she didn’t have a single thing on the line, and if the Duke of Kesgrave wanted to make her the mockery of the season, then he was welcome to try. She doubted, however, that he could do more harm than Miss Brougham had done by calling her drab.
She raised her chin and said, “I’m sorry, your grace, if displaying concern for my safety is inconvenient for you. Naturally, your comfort must come before my peace of mind.”
If Kesgrave had been taken aback to see her in the deserted library clutching the murder weapon in her hand, he was astounded to discover himself the target of such untempered sarcasm. How dare a mousy little charity case with few connections treat him with so little respect!
No, Beatrice thought, aghast at her own daring, he wouldn’t know enough about her to be aware that her parents were long dead and she lived on her aunt and uncle’s sufferance. All he would know was that he didn’t need to know anything.
“Very well, Miss Hyde-Clare,” he said with a sneer, “do tell me how I may put your mind at ease so that you no longer stare at me as if I’m moments away from wrapping my hands around your throat. I’m yours to instruct.”
Oh, she very much doubted that.
Nevertheless, she considered the request and wondered what it would take to convince her entirely of his innocence. To be fair, she acknowledged it was exceedingly unlikely that he had been driven to murder by circumstance, for he had everything a gentleman required to be satisfied with life: status, wealth, a pleasing demeanor, the respect of his peers. But just because something was improbable did not mean it was impossible. Could Mr. Otley have uncovered secret information about the duke that required Kesgrave to neutralize the threat in the most extreme manner available to him? Yes, of course. Anyone with such a pitch-perfect sneer obviously had little respect for the comforts and concerns of others. Did Beatrice really believe that might have happened? No, she did not. If anything, she could imagine the duke brazening out the scandal, whatever it was, and making Mr. Otley the victim for his ill-advised tongue wagging.
Bea sighed heavily and felt some of the fear seep out of her.
But she kept her grip firm on the candlestick as she looked down at the horrifying sight of Mr. Otley’s battered skull. No longer in terror for her own life, she felt the keen burden of sadness for the one taken in such a brutal fashion. She’d had little interaction with the man personally, save for an exchange over the tea tray the day before that was as pleasant as it was brief, but he was a beloved father and husband and respected gentleman, whose success in India was often spoken of in awed tones. He would be missed.
Aware of how deeply and profoundly his family would be affected by his loss, she decided there was no purpose in waking them up in the middle of the night to alert them to the tragedy. They would have the rest of their lives to mourn their loved one and deserved one final night of peaceful slumber.
But someone must be awoken to handle the matter in an official capacity. “I will inform our host of what has transpired while you remain here,” she announced firmly, for she had no desire to wait in a deserted library in the middle of the night with a dead body, the killer perhaps only a bookshelf or two away. Although she did not relish the prospect of wandering the empty halls of the large manor house, it seemed like the lesser evil. “I’m sure Lord Skeffington will want to send someone for the constable immediately.”
“No,” he said.
“No?” she echoed, taken aback by the force of his refusal. Did he have the same concerns about staying behind as she or was his denial motivated by more disreputable reasons? Her suspicions, so recently assuaged, rose again.
“As much as I endeavor to please you in all things, Miss Hyde-Clare”—such exquisitely turned sarcasm!—“I cannot consent to your plan. Revealing that you and I spent time together in an empty room in the middle of the night would put you beyond the pale. I will not allow that to happen.”
Aghast, Bea stared at him as if he were crazy. He seemed entirely in control of his faculties, but to spare a thought for the proprieties at a time like this indicated a mind in disarray. “What person of sense and understanding would consider our chance meeting beside a dead Mr. Otley a lovers’ tryst?”
He stiffened his shoulders at her tone, as if offended at the implication that he wasn’t a person of sense and understanding. Then he said with high-minded determination, “The situation is hardly auspicious for a budding romance, yes, but even the least accomplished gossip in London has created whole courtships out of less and I’m unwilling to subject you to that sort of speculation.”
Beatrice couldn’t believe they were debating decorum while the dead body of Mr. Otley cooled before their eyes. ’Twas pure insanity—and the Duke of Kesgrave had the temerity to call himself a rational man!
“I don’t care about that,” she said firmly.
“Well, I do,” he announced.
Although it was hardly appropriate for the setting, Bea could not contain the laugh that welled up in her throat, and she giggled with genuine amusement at the stiff-necked duke’s admission. Her instinct was to turn his attitude in on herself and take it as a measure of her own repugnance, but she recognized that it pertained to more than just plain-faced spinsters: Without ambiguity or moderation, he saw the world and all unmarried ladies within it as snares determined to entrap him.
Acutely aware of how improper her response was, she quieted her laughter and sought to quell his concerns. “I assure you, my lord duke, that short of your—how did you put it?—wrapping your hands around my throat, I can think of nothing less appealing than being leg-shackled to you for all of eternity. We would all be miserable, but most particularly your poor cook, who would never be able to keep up with the demand for edible projectiles.”
Although no offer had been made and the duke himself had stated his intention of never making one, he stiffened his back at her rejection and said, “Excuse me?”
Beatrice admired the way he managed to sound so offended when he was the one who’d offered the insult. She’d been merely trying to assure him they were in agreement. “A private joke, your grace. You wouldn’t understand. Now, let us return to the more important issue of how to proceed. To be clear, you would like me to toddle back to my room as if naught had happened and let you handle the matter from here. Do you plan on leaving the body alone whilst you seek out help or do you propose also returning to your chamber and allowing the upstairs maid to stumble across poor Mr. Otley in the morning?”
“Yes, do toddle, Miss Hyde-Clare,” he said tersely, resolutely determined to conclude their business as quickly as humanly possible. “You may consider your obligation to Mr. Otley at an end. I will take care of it. How I do so is no more concern of yours.”
Given that Beatrice had yet to determine what her obligation was to the deceased spice trader, she could not share the duke’s confidence that it was indeed at an end. She knew justice for victims was not an easy thing to come by. The parish constable whom she was so eager to contact would no doubt be the same or similar to the one they had in Bexhill Downs: an older man of indifferent temperament who would rather toil in his workshop than uphold the office to which he had been elected. She didn’t blame Mr. Smithson in the least, for being constable of the parish was a thankless job beset by acrimony and expectation, while blacksmithing provided him with solitude and a reliable income for his family. Even if he were inclined to investigate the crime, he had few resources to do so other than posting a reward for information that would lead to the apprehension of the perpetrator.
In this particular case, she actually was in possession of useful information, and withholding it from the constable seemed like an abdication of her obligation to Mr. Otley, not the fulfillment of it.
Her options, however, were limited, for Kesgrave would clearly not be swayed from his position. No matter how rational her argument, he would remain committed to preserving his reputation by insisting he had to preserve hers. She knew this because he was a man and a duke and a pedant who liked to correct his host when he misidentified the number of English ships at the Battle of the Nile, and his kind never compromised, certainly not with a woman.
No, women were merely that thing you shooed away when their presence became inconvenient, like an ant on your picnic blanket.
As unpalatable as she found his point of view, she resisted the urge to counter it with facts and reason. The Duke of Kesgrave seemed inured to any thought or opinion that was not his own. The smarter tactic, she decided, was to pander to his beliefs. If she was going to have to leave either way, she would rather do so possessing all he knew of the gruesome affair.
“You’re right, your grace, of course you are. Thank you for relieving me of this burden,” she said with sickening sycophancy. To her own ears, her excessive docility sounded faintly mocking, but the duke’s expression, which remained placid, indicated he held no such suspicion. No doubt her obsequious tone was directly in line with the way he was accustomed to being addressed. She continued, “I don’t know what I was thinking, insisting on being a part of such a horrific scene. No doubt I will have nightmares for a week. I will leave now and allow you to take care of Mr. Otley as you see fit. It’s very fortunate you were here. I would be out of my mind with fear right now if I were alone. I’m sorry if I seemed less than grateful earlier.”
Kesgrave manfully accepted her apology with a dip of his head. “Naturally, you were discombobulated by the unhappy turn of events. Nobody would expect you to remain clearheaded in the face of such tragedy.”
“I’m so glad you were able to hold on to your composure,” she simpered, head tilted down so he wouldn’t be able to read the contempt in her eyes. Only a toplofty duke with a sky-high opinion of himself would readily believe a female could be so missish. She was offended on behalf of all womankind. “It must have been terrifying for you, too, to come upon Mr. Otley’s body in the dark. It was in the dark, wasn’t it? I don’t see a candle in your hand.”
As obvious as this question seemed to Beatrice, Kesgrave noticed nothing amiss and answered with sincerity. “It was dark, of course, as it is night and a single candle does not throw much light, as I’m sure you yourself noticed. But I actually did have a candle. I put it down when I discovered Mr. Otley. I saw a body in supine position in the bright moonlight and raced over to provide help. I knew at once that I was too late, for the wound to the skull was unmistakable. Before running over, I put the candle down on one of the shelves,” he explained, looking around as if to point to the spot in question. Unable to find it, he furrowed his brow.
As he did not remark upon it further, Beatrice decided not to draw attention to the detail, but it seemed quite meaningful to her. Either he was lying about the candle, which again struck her as unlikely, or someone had removed it.
Not someone, she thought, as a sudden chill overtook her, the killer.
At once, her heart began to race as if she were running a great distance, and she ordered herself not to panic, for it was obvious what had happened. After striking Mr. Otley with the candlestick, the murderer ran forward, toward the aisle Bea had come through, dropping the candlestick in his haste to leave before Kesgrave could discover him. Then, while the duke was distracted by the body, he’d circled around the other end of the shelf to take the replacement candlestick his grace had thoughtfully supplied.
He’s gone, she assured herself. He’s long gone.
“I see my concern for your welfare was well justified, Miss Hyde-Clare, for you’re too unsettled by the ghastliness of the situation to gather your thoughts,” Kesgrave said as she stood there disturbed by the order of events. How close they had both come to being victims themselves. Just a few more seconds.… “Perhaps when you return to your room, you can request a sleeping draught to help you slumber.”
Although he managed to inject his voice with an admirable amount of concern, she knew he wasn’t genuinely worried about her welfare. He simply wanted her to be gone and was not above using whatever means were at his disposal to bring about her absence. But his attempt merely disgusted her further, for only a duke of overweening pomposity would assume one could arrange for any sort of draught, sleeping or otherwise, in another person’s home at two in the morning. She couldn’t imagine having the temerity to wake up the housekeeper and insist she bestir someone on her staff to make the potion. Nevertheless, Bea agreed readily with the duke’s suggestion because it allowed her to linger a few minutes more.
“Indeed, yes, your grace,” she said, feigning sudden breathlessness and pressing a hand against the bookshelf as if to steady herself. “I’m far more affected than I’d realized. Why, my head feels faint.” She inhaled deeply and exhaled with equal fervor. “Pray, allow me a moment to collect myself. I seem to be having a delayed reaction to the vileness of the situation. My head is spinning and my stomach feels queasy. I will endeavor to compose myself as quickly as possible.”
If he was impatient for her to be gone, his response did not reveal it, for her frailty was perfectly in line with his expectations of how a female should behave in the situation. “Of course, my dear, of course. You must take as long as you need. I would insist you sit down, but there isn’t a chair handy.”
“I will be all right in a moment,” she insisted as she continued to consider the matter of candlesticks. Kesgrave’s was gone, but Mr. Otley’s appeared to have fallen with him, for there was one about four feet away from his left hand. Did the force of the blow cause him to throw the candlestick a goodly distance or had it landed near his hand and then rolled? “Your calm is commendable. I wonder how you can sustain it, having chanced upon such a disturbing scene. Mr. Otley was dead, you say, when you found him? I can’t imagine having the strength and constitution to get close enough to him to confirm his status. Did you have to move him around to do so or is this exactly the way you found him?”
“Like you, I recognized him at once from his waistcoat, so I did not have to adjust his position to ascertain his identity. I simply checked his wrist for his pulse, which was absent,” he explained. “I was fairly certain where matters stood before doing so, but I’m nothing if not thorough.”
Beatrice nodded and filed away the information for later, although she freely admitted to herself that she had no idea what she would do with it. She was acting as if she intended to find and identify the villain who had brutally ended Mr. Otley’s life. It was a laudable goal, no doubt, but one that was as impossible as it was impractical. She was no Bow Street Runner to investigate a crime or apprehend a perpetrator. She wasn’t even an indifferent constable conscripted to discharge a public duty. She was merely an aging spinster with a sleep difficulty seeking respite in an entertaining biography. To presume to know anything about the inspective process would be pure impertinence.
