A Brazen Curiosity, page 6
part #1 of Beatrice Hyde-Clare Series
During this long discourse, Flora turned red and Russell coughed awkwardly. He might have even muttered, “I say, Bea.” But Kesgrave kept his steady gaze focused on her and twisted his mouth into a sardonic smile.
Unable to bear the humiliation, her aunt rushed through an apology on her niece’s behalf, explaining that she was a sheltered girl who hadn’t seen much of the world and was unquestionably unsettled by the morbid turn of events. “As we all are,” she added with an anxious glance around the room. “I trust it goes without saying, your grace, that nobody would like to hear your thoughts. Indeed, I can think of nothing I’d like to hear less than your thoughts on any matter.” Her satisfaction with this speech, which, Aunt Vera felt, rang with the esteem and deference she hoped to convey, lasted only as long as it took for her to replay it in her head. “I…mean…that is, your grace, I would love nothing more than to, um, hear the words you wish to speak. But I have no desire to hear the words you don’t wish to speak. Please do keep those to yourself.” Then, fearing that her last statement sounded a little too much like a command, she sputtered out an additional clarification. “But, of course, only if you wish to keep them to yourself. I leave the matter up to you, your grace, as you know best what you wish to say. Or not to say.”
The duke’s expression remained wryly amused as he dipped his head at the mortified woman in appreciation of her consideration. “Thank you, madam, for that spirited defense of free will. I agree that we should all speak only when we wish.”
To be in the presence of such graciousness—how well he deserved his elevated spot in Debrett’s!—made Aunt Vera a little light-headed, and all she could manage in response was a faint titter that sounded like something between a giggle and a hiccup. She colored slightly at the further humiliation but brazened it out with an unwaveringly bright smile.
“As for the other matter,” Kesgrave said, the newspaper still perched in front of his nose as if he meant to return to the exact place where he left off at any moment. “If I had to speculate—and to satisfy Miss Hyde-Clare, it appears I must—I would hazard a guess that the motive was financial. After all, money is the root of all evil.”
Bea wasn’t at all surprised that the duke quoted scripture to support his own purpose. That was what the devil always did. “Actually, Timothy chapter six, verse ten, says the love of money is the root of all evil.”
Aunt Vera chortled painfully. “Really, Bea, let’s do his grace the courtesy of interpreting the Bible as he sees fit. Nobody likes a pedant.”
Again, Kesgrave took the opportunity to cozy up to her relative. “Thank you, Mrs. Hyde-Clare. It’s a pleasure to be in the presence of a like-minded soul. Some people can be such sticklers for detail.”
Naturally, it was beyond all things galling to be called a stickler for detail by a man who could list by name every single English ship that had engaged in the Battle of the Nile and did not hesitate to do so, however irrelevant it was to the substance of his dinner conversation. But Beatrice held her tongue, for she knew it would be futile to antagonize the duke further. He was obviously not going to confess the truth in the Skeffingtons’ crowded drawing room, and to lay an accusation against him would be to open herself up to ridicule or worse. She wouldn’t put it past the man to claim she was unbalanced or cocked in the head if it would advance his objective. A few more lavish compliments directed at her susceptible aunt, and he could have her signing the papers to commit her dear niece to Bedlam.
No, the only way to have a frank conversation with Kesgrave was to get him alone, which in the current situation presented a significant challenge. In a crowded London ballroom, one could usually arrange a tête-à-tête with a gentleman, for it was easy to hide among the multitudes, but the feat was harder to accomplish at a small country house party. Now that the rain had stopped, the men would be off hunting, shooting or fishing for most of the day, while the women demurely sewed samplers in the parlor and gossiped over tea. Although Beatrice genuinely enjoyed working with a needle and thread, as she counted it one of her particular skills, she resented the forced inclusion. Unless she cried off with a headache, she would be obliged to participate in the activity. It left little opportunity for her to sneak off and confront Kesgrave. Dinner provided its own logistical challenges, for it was unlikely an illustrious guest such as the duke would be seated next to her, and even if he was, the two could not conduct a private conversation without everyone at the table noticing and wondering at its meaning.
Kesgrave would never consent to that. Why would he? It provided him with no advantage. The only way to achieve her goal was to force his hand.
How to do that exactly occupied her thoughts for the rest of the afternoon. Soon after the men went to the lake to try their hand at catching brown trout, the remaining Otleys appeared to accept the comfort of their friends and to discuss what was to be done next. Mrs. Otley, her skin disconcertingly red in places and deathly pale in others, felt they should depart immediately for Kent.
Lady Skeffington reached over to clutch her school friend’s hand and insisted that she not make any rash decisions on her account. “Of course, if you feel you must rush back to begin sorting through all the unpleasant details, then you must. But Skeffington and I are not eager to see you off. Indeed, we are grateful for the opportunity to provide solace during such a distressing time. The details, such as they are, will still be there in a day or two when you’re feeling stronger.”
It was, Bea thought, a lovely speech, for it was delivered with sincerity and warmth, and Mrs. Otley promptly welled up again. Her daughter, whose complexion was as pale as her mother’s but without the disagreeable splotchiness, thanked their hostess for her offer and said that they would take it under consideration.
“We are not accustomed, you see, to making decisions on our own,” she said, “without the input of my father.”
Mrs. Otley attested to this fact with a soggy nod, which surprised Bea, who had formed the opinion that it was quite the other way around. During the short time she had known the family, she’d observed Miss Otley’s mother acting as the decisive one. In contrast, Mr. Otley appeared to have cultivated an air of bemused subordination, as if not quite sure why an instruction must be followed, only confident that it should.
“Papa always knew what was best for us,” Miss Otley added softly. “That is why this situation is so difficult. The way he has chosen to deal with the latest setback does not seem to be what is best for Mama and me. Rather, it feels calculated to be the worst, which is confusing, as it makes me wonder if he gave any thought to us at all.”
Indeed, her tone reflected her confusion, for it was more baffled than distraught, as if the turn of events presented a great mystery that could never be solved. At once, Bea found herself in sympathy with the young beauty, for her perplexity was the product of the Duke of Kesgrave’s machinations, not her father’s actions.
She deserved to know the truth.
With that in mind, Bea said, “What setback?”
Miss Otley looked at her blankly while Flora drew her brows together crossly, as if annoyed that her cousin would dare presume to address the object of her adoration. Neither mother nor daughter protested the question, however, and Bea decided to press forward. “You described your father as suffering a ‘latest setback.’ What do you mean by that?”
“Oh, dear,” Aunt Vera said nervously, the recollection of the mortifying scene with Kesgrave still fresh in her memory, untempered, it seemed, by the bond she and the duke had formed over Bea’s rudeness. “As we discovered earlier, my niece’s sensibilities have been strongly undermined by Mr. Otley’s…Mr. Otley’s”—she couldn’t bring herself to use an accurate description and a figurative one eluded her—“predicament…yes, his predicament.” She all but smiled in triumph as she stumbled across the right word. “And isn’t quite herself at the moment. She needs rest. She’s tired. Flora and I woke her up from a sound sleep this morning to tell her the ne—” She abruptly halted her speech as she realized what she was about to say and changed course with an agility that surprised her niece. “To tell her the new day had arrived. Yes, we thought it was time she greeted the new day. But I see now that we did her a grave disservice, for sleep is important for one to deal with the…predicaments…life presents. Please, dear, do run upstairs now to take that much-needed nap. I promise you, your presence will not be missed.”
Flora echoed her mother’s concern for Bea’s welfare, pointing out the dark shadows under her eyes as proof of her exhaustion. “It would not be so pronounced, except your ashen complexion makes the contrast particularly stark.”
Although Bea thanked her relatives for their concern—which, to be fair, appeared to be sincere, as they could not conceive of any other explanation for why their silent relation was suddenly talking so much or so pointedly—she did not heed their advice. Instead, she addressed her question directly to the grieving widow. “Did your husband have many setbacks? And was the latest particularly egregious?”
Aunt Vera moaned as if in pain and lay her head against the back of the settee. But Mrs. Otley, who had the greater reason to protest Bea’s curiosity, answered without complaining. In fact, she seemed grateful for the opportunity to talk about something that had been causing her distress for a while. “Hibiscus shrubs. With the East India Company always expanding its influence, Mr. Otley decided to diversify our interests and invested a large portion of our capital in planting hibiscus fields. It was a sensible decision, as our land is well suited to the crop and the hibiscus tea trade with China is thriving. The locals are doing very well with it, and he felt confident the strong Chinese market indicated that the tea would soon find popularity in England. Truly, I cannot fault his logic, for it was solid. Very solid indeed. The tea is such a pretty color, I don’t know what hostess would resist serving it. I will send you a tin, Helen, and you will see.”
Lady Skeffington dipped her head in gratitude and said kindly, “I would like that very much, my dear. Thank you.”
Taking a deep breath, Mrs. Otley continued, “As sensible as my husband’s decision was, he could not account for the cruel vagaries of an indifferent universe. Alas, we received notice just a few weeks ago that a very great tragedy had destroyed our entire crop. A fire, you see. It razed everything. It’s all gone. All our hibiscus shrubs and all our money. We have been miserable.”
With each word she spoke, the widow’s composure deserted her a little more until she was openly weeping into a handkerchief on the settee. Deeply distressed, her daughter wrapped her arm around her and murmured words of solace as she, too, began to cry. Flora darted her cousin an angry look, as if Bea were the cause of her friend’s anguish, not an unfortunate lightning strike or a careless worker who failed to properly extinguish his candle and caused the conflagration.
“And you said nothing before now, Amelia?” Lady Skeffington asked in amazement as she leaned over and grabbed her friend’s hand in comfort. “How you must have suffered, my dear. I’m sure it’s always distressing to lose a significant amount of money. Fortunately, Skeffington doesn’t invest in the ’Change, but I do get violently cross when he loses large sums at the hazard table. Given Thomas’s prior successes, however, I’m sure the situation isn’t quite as dire as all that. Oh, I do wish you had said something.”
“It was such a cheerful party,” Mrs. Otley explained with a sad smile, “and I did not want to ruin the mood.”
Aunt Vera, having decided it was her niece who had ruined the mood, rather than Mr. Otley’s corpse, reiterated her demand that Bea take a nap posthaste. “You look even more tired now than you did five minutes ago. If for no other reason than concern for my peace of mind, you really must retire to your bedchamber at once or risk falling asleep during dinner.”
A protest rose to Bea’s lips but she immediately smothered it, for she could perceive no disadvantage in agreeing with her aunt. It was unlikely the other woman would allow her to press the Otleys for more information, and she did not want to sit in the drawing room and engage in meaningless chatter. It seemed her aunt was doing her a favor by giving her an excuse to leave. “You’re right, Aunt Vera,” she said, not above pandering a little, for she knew how much her aunt enjoyed having her opinions affirmed. “I’m more tired than I realized. A rest before dinner would be just the thing.”
Aunt Vera softened immediately. “You’ll feel better after a nap, I’m sure.”
Bea thanked her for her concern and took leave of the company, fully intending to spend the time quietly scheming in her room. She still needed to devise a way to get the duke alone, so she could figure out what game he was playing. He was an autocrat, to be sure, but she didn’t think he would condemn a man’s immortal soul out of whimsy and selfishness. There had to be a point to the lie, and she was determined to discover it.
As Bea climbed the steps, she noticed how quiet the top floors were. Downstairs, the servants buzzed with activity, fetching tea, changing the table linens, refreshing the flower vases. Up here, however, she felt quite alone, and as she walked down the corridor toward her bedchamber, she wondered what was the chance someone else would retire before it was time to change for dinner. It seemed unlikely, as Lady Skeffington had just ordered a fresh pot of tea and the ladies were comfortably engrossed in their sewing. If she silently slipped into the deceased man’s rooms to look around, who would notice?
She couldn’t.
Of course she couldn’t.
Poor Mr. Otley had already suffered enough indignities without her adding invasion of privacy to the list. But, she reasoned, much of that disrespect was the product of the duke’s actions. The fact that her purpose was to unravel the knot of lies Kesgrave had told and to help the victim’s family meant her looking through Otley’s things was actually an act of kindness. Her intentions were honorable and sincere.
Even as she told herself she would not do it, for the thought of being caught was so distressing it made her knees week, Beatrice approached the room she knew to be Mr. Otley’s and turned the knob. She opened the door, slipped inside, closed it swiftly and paused to marvel at her audacity. She had never done anything so bold as to sneak into a dead man’s room.
Daylight lit the chamber, making it easy for her to take stock of her surroundings, which were, for the most part, neat and organized. The bed was made, and Otley’s things were still tucked away in the clothespress. By comparison, her room was a mess, with her books stacked on the end table and her various pins and hair ribbons scattered on the vanity. Mr. Otley had only one tome next to his bed, and discreetly, as if trying to hide her movements from an unseen observer, she opened it to examine its contents. She kept the book on the table, at arm’s length, because she thought it made her actions seem more benign, then realized how ridiculous it was to pretend she wasn’t prying. Her presence alone was all the information anyone needed to condemn her.
Bea picked up the book and looked through it properly. Too small to be a ledger, it contained details about various business transactions and sundry daily dealings. There were some numbers and calculations, but it was mostly made up of notations about things he needed to arrange or matters to be settled. The comments varied. Yesterday, for example, he jotted a reminder to contact his agent in London to increase his stake in mining stocks. The day before, he observed how well Skeffington’s butler, Crawley, discharged his duties and indicated he would compensate him for his competence with a thoughtful gratuity before departing.
She flipped farther back. Six months ago, he ran through a series of calculations to figure out how much money the household could save by using rushlights instead of candles. He must have decided the economy was not worth it, for dated a few weeks later was a note in the margin: “They stink to high heaven! Worse than a cheroot! Loathsome things, both.”
Although her experience as both a sneak and an investigator was limited, she recognized the chronicle as an important source of information and debated reading the whole thing now or taking it with her. Both options had their risks, for if she lingered too long, she would almost certainly be discovered, and if she removed it from the room, his wife would most likely notice its disappearance.
The only viable option was to skim as many pages as she could as quickly as she could. Investments, lists of items for purchase, reminders about upcoming engagements, more grumbling about the unpleasantness of tobacco—the diary covered a wide variety of topics and went back almost two years.
When she was done, she carefully replaced the journal on the night table and turned her attention to the chest of drawers in the dressing room, with its neatly folded shirts, cravats and trousers. It felt particularly invasive to poke through a man’s garments, and she looked over her shoulder several times to confirm that nobody could see her.
You’re being ridiculous, she thought, sliding back the shelf of the clothespress and opening the top drawer, which was filled with more sundry items. She didn’t know what she hoped to find. Perhaps a letter tucked under a waistcoat from an enemy swearing to avenge an old injury: “My dear Mr. Otley, how dare you call my team of grays ‘adequate’? Watch your back, sir, for I promise you shall rue the day!”
Sadly, the only thing under the cerulean-blue waistcoat was a half-finished cheroot.
Smothering an annoyed sigh, she looked in the sitting room but found little of interest: a couple of newspapers, a pair of silk slippers, some stock reports on mining companies, an issue of La Belle Assemblée. Presumably, the magazine belonged to Mrs. Otley, whose room connected with her husband’s through the sitting room.
Bea stared at the door that led to the adjacent bedchamber thoughtfully for almost a full minute before deciding she did not have the effrontery to inspect the room of a grieving widow who was only a few floors below. ’Twas a gross invasion of privacy and a risky venture as well. She’d managed to pass—she glanced at the wall clock—forty-seven minutes in Otley’s rooms without anyone being the wiser, and leaving now was the smartest way to ensure that her luck held. She would return to her own room, digest the information she’d discovered that afternoon and figure out a strategy for confronting the Duke of Kesgrave.
