A Brazen Curiosity, page 8
part #1 of Beatrice Hyde-Clare Series
The duke dipped his head. “Thank you, Miss Hyde-Clare. I believe that’s the first compliment you’ve ever paid me.”
“Unmistakably, the book was already in your possession,” she pointed out, “which means you lied about why you were in the library.”
“Yet again, I must take issue with my own use of the word middling,” he said, “for your intelligence is quite above average.”
Unlike with the matter of the chairs, Bea could clearly see the trick at work, for his method was hardly subtle. “I’m not sure about that, but I’m certainly smart enough to recognize when someone is attempting to distract me from the truth with empty flattery.”
“Is that what I’m doing?” he asked thoughtfully. “I’m not quite convinced.”
“Despite what you believe, I’m not a pliable schoolgirl in the first blush of youth to have her head turned by the first handsome man to flirt with her,” she said dampeningly.
“And that’s the second,” he said.
Suspicious and irritated, she narrowed her eyes. “Second what?”
“Compliment.”
A scream of frustration rose in her throat at his seemingly endless ability to thwart serious conversation, and she ruthlessly swallowed the sound. Despite her threats, she had no more desire to be discovered than he did, and his valet was sure to come by soon to help him prepare for dinner. “Your grace, this conversation will go much faster if you stop trying to charm me. It’s a waste of my time and yours, as my susceptibility to Spanish coin is so remarkably low it might as well be nonexistent.”
“A sincere compliment is not Spanish coin,” he insisted.
“Then please do me the sincere compliment of answering my question,” she said, unswayed by the note of pained offense he’d injected into his words.
“I would be happy to, except you haven’t asked a question,” he said. “I assure you, Miss Hyde-Clare, I have a very good memory and can recall even the most minute detail of any subject.”
“You don’t have to tell me that,” she muttered under her breath as she resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “HMS Majestic, HMS Goliath, HMS Audacious.”
“HMS Goliath, HMS Audacious, HMS Majestic,” he immediately corrected with pointed emphasis. “If you’re going to list the British ships that fought in the Battle of the Nile, then you should do so in their order of appearance. It’s a sign of respect, you see, as well as maritime tradition.”
Beatrice didn’t have to observe the expression on the duke’s face to know he was teasing her again. Kesgrave had the most inappropriate sense of humor of any person she’d ever met, which was a baffling discovery to make, for there had been nothing in his preening displays of pedantry during their stay that suggested frivolity. She could not conceive what his game was now save a desire to put off her questioning indefinitely with nonsensical blather. She would not allow it to happen, of course, for the situation was far too serious for his antics.
“Duly noted. Very well, your grace, here is my query: If you weren’t in the library to get The Defense of Poesy, and we both know you weren’t, why were you there?” she asked. “That’s the topic currently under discussion, and I’ll thank you not to go off on a tangent again, as I will not leave this room until I’m satisfied with all your answers.”
“Make no mistake, Miss Hyde-Clare, your satisfaction is my single biggest concern,” he said.
His blue eyes sparkled with humor—oh, indeed, they did, bright and cheerful, with a sense of knowingness and wonder—and Beatrice decided he would make a very fine murderer. There was something about him that was intolerable, a perfection that was inhuman, and she could easily imagine such physical beauty seeking out corruption as an antidote to its own flawlessness. It was too simplistic, she thought, how one always seemed to expect an ugly person to perform ugly deeds.
“The library, your grace,” she said calmly.
“You’re correct, I did not go there to borrow a book,” he confirmed.
“Then why did you?”
He paused as if to give his answer great consideration before responding, and something about him appeared to change. It wasn’t the expression in his eyes, which remained amused, or his face, she decided. It was his bearing, as if his shoulders were straining under something unexpectedly heavy. When he spoke now, it was without levity or irreverence. “I was following Otley.”
As startling as this revelation was—and it was quite shocking to discover that Kesgrave had entered the story long before she—Beatrice kept her features still and showed no reaction. She didn’t even ask why, preferring to let the weight of the silence press for an explanation.
The silence stretched into minutes as the duke regarded her thoughtfully, which Beatrice decided was a promising development. If he intended to fob her off with more banter and half-truths, he would do so without hesitation. But making the decision to treat her like a genuine ally took time and consideration. She was willing to wait however long it took—provided it didn’t take quite so long that his valet returned and ended their interview entirely.
Was it a stalling tactic?
Naturally, she couldn’t dismiss the prospect entirely, but she thought it was unlikely, as he had already demonstrated how effectively he could delay intelligent conversation with ridiculous prattle. He didn’t need to lapse into dumbness to put her off.
No, the duke was paying her the compliment of taking her seriously.
At last, he said, “My attendance at this party is at the behest of a friend who has suffered financially in his dealings with Otley.”
Beatrice nodded and recalled Mrs. Otley’s lament in the drawing room. “The hibiscus scheme?”
If he was surprised that she knew anything about the dead man’s fiscal arrangements, he didn’t reveal it. “Yes, my friend invested heavily in Otley’s hibiscus crop in India, for Otley’s plan to sell to the Chinese market had been a sound one and my friend agreed with Otley’s belief that the tea market would soon expand to England as well. Furthermore, Otley had a sterling reputation as a successful spice trader in the region, and there was no reason to believe this enterprise would not prosper as well as his others. Naturally, my friend understood the risks involved in the investment and accepted them, as he would with any business venture.”
Appreciating his friend’s astute comprehension of the situation, Beatrice asked, “Then what appears to be the problem?”
“A fire,” he said.
“Yes,” she replied with another firm nod, “Mrs. Otley mentioned it destroyed the entire crop and quite devastated the family’s coffers.”
“That is indeed the story my friend was told,” he said with a cynical twist of the lips.
“Is it so difficult to believe?” she wondered. “If I were to invest in a hibiscus crop in India, I would expect it certainly to be destroyed by a large conflagration raging out of control. It’s the reason why I would never put my money into a hibiscus crop.”
Although his demeanor remained serious, his eyes brightened at the notion that it was an aversion to risk that kept an impoverished unmarried woman of six and twenty from investing in shares. “Precisely,” he said. “Tell me, what do you know about the weather in India?”
“Very little,” she admitted, suddenly aware of the failure of her education to include the climates of distant countries she never intended to visit. For all the narrowness of her provincial life, she had a remarkably wide breadth of knowledge about the world, from the Arctic explorations of the ancient Greeks in 325 B.C. to dog-breeding methods of the American Indians. And yet now, when the moment had finally arrived to impress someone with her vast repertoire of arcana, she had nothing to add. Her eclectic reading tastes proved not eclectic enough. “I understand from various gentlemen who have traveled there that it’s quite hot.”
“It is, yes,” he said. “According to the information my friend received, the fire that devastated the crop occurred in May. May, however, is monsoon season in the southern region, which means it rains almost constantly. You perceive the problem, I trust?”
She did, of course, for she wasn’t a daft parsnip with no understanding of the natural world. Immediately, she could see the difficulties it would present to burn down an entire field of soggy bushes. “If your friend doesn’t believe a fire ruined the crop, what does he believe happened?”
“That is not clear, which is why he asked me to look into it,” Kesgrave explained. “Since I started investigating three weeks ago, I’ve discovered two dozen other gentlemen who bought into the hibiscus scheme, as, given Otley’s prior successes, many investors were interested in supporting his next venture. Calculating the number of shares sold, I can only conclude the crop’s failure was the best possible outcome for Otley. Otherwise, he would have had to pay out more money in dividends than he’d earned in profits.”
As he explained the simple math, Bea pictured Otley’s diary, which she’d read only two hours before, with its scribbled reminder to increase his stake in a copper-mining company in Cornwall. He’d made the notation just the day before, an indication that the fire hadn’t been quite as financially devastating as his wife had indicated. Evidently, he still had enough funds to invest in reliable enterprises if he wanted to. Did Mrs. Otley not know the truth of her family’s situation, or was she keeping up the appearance of insolvency even in the aftermath of her husband’s horrible death? If it was the latter, then Beatrice’s estimation of her increased tenfold. She couldn’t imagine having the presence of mind to maintain a facade in the wake of tragedy.
Unless…
No, she assured herself, unable to complete the thought. Mrs. Otley wasn’t the one who had killed her husband. For one thing, she wasn’t tall enough to strike him on the top of the head, for he had towered over his wife by almost a foot. Even if she had a convenient stepstool to increase her height, Bea doubted the woman would be able to wield the candlestick with enough force to damage his skull so egregiously. At best, she would be capable of creating a very large bump. And why would she make his death a public spectacle when all she had to do was slip a little too much laudanum into his drink in the privacy of their own home?
“You may share what you’re thinking,” Kesgrave said.
Surprised, Beatrice drew her brows together and looked at him curiously. “Excuse me?”
“I cannot help but conclude from the look on your face that you have thoughts on Otley’s death,” he explained, his blue eyes once again wryly amused, “and I want to assure you that you may share them with me without fear of mockery or disbelief. In my experience, even the most outlandish theories have value.”
Bea needed little persuading to hold her tongue, for she couldn’t decide if the duke’s story was true or a tale meant to lead her away from the truth, but his attempt to reassure her convinced her to remain silent. Even if he did indeed have experience with outlandish theories, then she had a hard time believing he’d take a woman he barely knew into his confidence.
He was more likely playing a very deep game.
“No thoughts,” she said with a breezy smile. “Just surprise and disbelief that a man of Otley’s excellent reputation might be guilty of some devious financial dealings. It’s so difficult to know whom to trust. Your friend is lucky to have you to help him sort it out. And how very impressive that you can attend any house party in the kingdom you choose. How did you contrive an invitation to this one?”
Although she’d meant the comment to be sarcastic, for she truly found nothing less remarkable than a duke shouldering his way into any gathering he wished, Kesgrave answered sincerely. “I merely mentioned to Nuneaton how much I enjoyed fishing, and he managed the rest. As you can imagine, having a duke present lends a certain prestige to any proceeding. I’m not disinclined to take advantage of that fact when it suits my needs.”
Presumably, he intended the remark to be sardonic, as well, for he had to know how impossible it was for an observer to imagine him denying himself anything that suited his needs, a consequence that made him at once more and less likable. She respected the fact that he was honest about his methods and aware enough of himself to acknowledge them, but his sense of entitlement was infuriating. He would deny himself nothing and neither would anyone else. Examining his countenance, which wasn’t so much smug as satisfied, she felt an overwhelming urge to hurl raw vegetation at his head. Oh, to have a basket of strawberries or a parcel of apples!
Determined not to be diverted from her purpose, she pushed aside all thoughts of assailing him with fruit and focused her attention on the original issue. “If you followed Mr. Otley into the library, then you must have seen the man who attacked him.”
Kesgrave shook his head. “I did not. Contrary to what I said last night, I did in fact stay up playing cards, and when the game broke up, I tried to follow Mr. Otley. As I was leaving the drawing room, however, our host called me into his study to commend me on making the only catch of the day.”
Although the baron’s congratulations had frustrated what could have been a very simple solution to a complex problem, Bea relished the idea of Kesgrave being derailed by his own overweening skill. “Hoisted by your own gurnard.”
The duke smiled at her witticism but couldn’t resist explaining that the gurnard, which came in a variety of species, including the gray gurnard, the tub gurnard, and the red gurnard, was a fish that inhabited the Atlantic Ocean, not the lakes of Cumbria. “Here, you are likely to find char and trout.”
Although Bea wasn’t surprised by either the fact that he had the information readily at hand or felt compelled to share it, she’d expected a lecture on the more obvious point that fish, unlike a petard, typically lacked a mechanism for exploding. ’Twas far too easy to imagine him explaining with painstaking specificity the absence of gunpowder in the aquatic animals’ physical composition. “Your attention to detail is humbling, your grace. It must be difficult to know so much and have so few occasions to demonstrate it.”
She was being facetious, of course, as he spared himself no opportunity to bestow his knowledge on unsuspecting bystanders. The target of her teasing either chose to ignore the undercurrent of her observation or failed to detect it, for he accepted her praise with an appreciative nod. “By the time I extricated myself from conversation with Skeffington, who can be verbose when in his cups, Otley had disappeared. It required several discreet inquiries of the staff to fathom his whereabouts. Although I can’t know for sure if he had a planned assignation in the library, I’m inclined to think he did not, as I have discovered no evidence that he was working with an associate. My investigation indicates that he was the sole author and beneficiary of the hibiscus scheme.”
“Then he was in the library for the same reason I was—to find a book to lull him to sleep?” she asked, the prospect sounding doubtful to her own ears if not Kesgrave’s. It would be absurd to think she knew Mr. Otley well enough to make judgments about the extent of his literacy, and yet she felt certain it was limited to materials that furthered his interests. She recalled the stock reports she’d seen buried under his wife’s magazine in the sitting room. There had been no novels or treatises among the assortment.
“I presume so,” Kesgrave said, and Bea wondered what information he was withholding. Although she found his refusal to share everything frustrating, it was hardly startling. If their circumstances had been reversed, she’d be equally hesitant to reveal everything. “You know the rest, of course, for you came upon the scene a mere minute after me and I’ve already explained to you how it was. I arrived in the library to find Otley’s supine form and his head grievously wounded. I ascertained immediately that he hadn’t survived his wounds and had just resolved to look for his assailant when you appeared from behind a shelf of books and gasped in horror.”
Had she gasped in horror? Bea couldn’t remember.
“And that, Miss Hyde-Clare, is really all I know about the matter. Naturally, I do not blame you for having your qualms about me”—and yet the surliness of his tone did just that—“as the situation is quite out of the bounds of the ordinary, with many elements that one could describe as suspicious, but you are far too intelligent to indulge in wild speculation.” Ah, there was that Spanish coin again, as if all he had to do to raise himself above the muck was flatter her ego. Was anyone desperate enough for praise that they would succumb to such blatant manipulation? “If you think upon it, you will realize it’s slightly too absurd to suppose I had anything to do with Mr. Otley’s barbarous and untimely death. Now I trust you will return to your own room and allow me to dress for dinner. The hour grows late, and I’m sure your family will soon wonder where you are. It would never do for them to speculate wildly.”
Bea smothered the laugh that rose in her throat, for there was no amount of evidence one could present to any of her relatives that would persuade them that their mousy poor relation had been closeted in a bedchamber with any duke, let alone one so high in the instep as Kesgrave. It was simply too incredible a notion to believe an exalted member of the aristocracy had standards so low.
Despite her amusement, she kept her face placid and addressed the issue that had brought her to his rooms in the first place. “I will leave you to the ministrations of your valet just as soon as you explain why you convinced the constable that Otley’s barbarous and untimely death was caused by his own hand, a conclusion so contrary to fact that I can only imagine the man is a senile old fool who recently lost his spectacles.”
Kesgrave sighed, as if genuinely disappointed by her inability to simply take his essential goodness on faith. If a duke’s goodness cannot be assumed based on his standing in the social order, then what was the point of having a duchy? Bea settled in for another lecture and was only partially surprised when he redoubled his efforts to flatter away her concerns. “Come now, Miss Hyde-Clare, we both know you’re far too clever not to have known at once what I hope to achieve by issuing the false report. I’ll thank you not to insult your intelligence in my presence!”
