A Scandalous Countess: A Novel of the Malloren World (32 page)

The better way to serve her was to clear her name, and he revised his plan. He didn’t need coffeehouse gossip. He needed men who’d known Sir Charnley Vance and who might know where he was, or at least illuminate his character. That meant a haunt of sporting gentlemen. He turned his steps toward the White-Faced Nag tavern.

Chapter 19

H
e’d visited the Nag a number of times because it was popular with racing men and so he’d generally find an acquaintance. Today he spotted Lord Yately, a spare man in his thirties who owned a few thoroughbreds for amusement, and Sir George Mann, a swarthy Welshman of the same stamp. Sir Brock Billerton of the massive belly was interested only in the gambling aspect. He hailed Dracy warmly. He’d been one of the few to have bet on Cartagena, so he’d won a splendid amount and considered Dracy a friend.

Dracy called for ale and joined their table. He was introduced to two other men, one of whom had the brash honesty to ask the cause of his scars. Having explained and endured the usual praise of his bravery, he settled to mostly listening, curious as to whether any of these men had heard of the new scandal.

It wasn’t mentioned, nor was the supposed betrothal. No surprise there, for these men spun in a different orbit, and there were as many of those in London as there were planets and stars. The conversation was all about racing and horses, but then a newcomer brought Georgia’s name.

“Lady May’s back!” Jimmy Cricklade announced as he joined them. “Saw her alight from her chair not more than two hours since.”

“Tallyho!”
hooted Mann, making Dracy clench his fist.

“You’d have no chance with her,” sneered Billerton “Likes a court beau the like of Sellerby.”

“Wonder if she’ll set up her court again,” a young man asked with an eager eye.

The man next to him shoved him. “What would you want with dallying in a lady’s boudoir telling her what pin to wear in her gown?”

Clearly the young man might want that sort of thing a great deal, but he had the sense to keep his mouth shut.

The men joked about Lady Maybury’s court, and Dracy decided to risk raising Vance’s name himself.

“Was Sir Charnley Vance part of her court?”

All the men laughed.

“Not one for boudoirs, Charnley Vance!” said Yately. “His fine ladies visited his lair, not he theirs.”

“Fine ladies?” Dracy asked, surprised. What little he’d been able to learn about Vance didn’t fit that picture.

“Any number of ’em,” said Billerton. “For all their silks and airs, many a duchess—or a countess,” he said with a wink, “likes a low adventure. And I heard Vance was particularly well-endowed.”

“Gads yes,” said Mann. “Saw him take out the snake once and wave it. I suppose some women like a monster.”

He sneered and a murmur of disgust ran around the table, but Dracy knew that Vance’s action had been a boast that touched men where it mattered.

Hung like a horse and women chasing him because of it, even fine ladies.

Not Georgia, he was sure, but he now saw why the story had been so easily believed. If ladies of the beau monde were known to have adventured with Vance, why not the flighty Lady Maybury?

That made his task even harder.

“Remember another like that,” Yately said.

“Like what?” Billerton asked.

“
Well hung. Friend of Vance’s, as it happens. Man called Curry.”

“Snakes of a feather hang together?” Cricklade said and laughed at his own joke. The rest only smiled at best. “Curry!” Cricklade said to recover. “Remember him. The Marquess of Rothgar did away with him in a duel, snake and all.”

There was a flurry about the duel, and indeed, Dracy thought, it must have been an event of note when a man of Rothgar’s status was engaged in a fatal meeting.

“I heard tell,” said Mann, in a portentous manner, and then waited for attention, “that Curry might have been put up to it.”

“Put up to it?” Yately asked.

“To kill the Dark Marquess. He has enemies enough.”

“Then they chose the wrong means,” Yately said. “Devil with a sword, Rothgar is. That Curry must have been a fool to attempt it.”

“Money,” Mann said. “That’d be it.”

Dracy decided he’d heard enough about the distinctly unpleasant carryings-on in the so-called beau monde and took his leave, little the wiser in any way that was useful.

There were hours to go before dinner and he needed to find out more about the letter. He was carrying it in his pocket to keep it safe, so he took it out to refresh his memory about the address. Major Jellicoe, Fellcott’s Coffeehouse. It was common enough for men to use such places to receive their correspondence, and Fellcott’s would not be out of his way.

He went there weighing the wisdom of it, for he didn’t want the letter to be real. However, as he’d said to Georgia, it was always better to know the truth.

He insisted on speaking to Fellcott himself, but neither the man nor his servants remembered a particular letter from six months ago, not even one from abroad.

“Major Jellicoe certainly used Fellcott’s for his
correspondence, my lord,” the proprietor said, seeming eager to please.

“Do you remember the man?” Dracy asked.

“Oh, yes, sir. Remarkably well set with a booming voice. Generally well disposed, but not a man to cross, if you know what I mean.”

“I heard that he was involved in a fatal duel a while back.”

“That he was, sir, but only as a second. A nasty business. An earl dead, and Jellicoe’s principal fled for fear of the noose. Jellicoe himself stood in some danger as accessory, but the jury at the inquest decided the duel had been managed as it should be.”

“A sorry business, all the same,” Dracy said, feeling like slapping himself in the head. Inquest! There had to be a record of that somewhere. “I thank you for your help, sir.”

He left, feeling he might at last be on the trail of something solid. He had no idea where records of inquests were kept, so he returned to Hernescroft House to consult one of the earl’s people.

When the footman on duty in the hall offered him a letter, his heart somersaulted with hope that it was from Georgia. It wasn’t, but it was almost as welcome. Lady Hernescroft wrote that the family was to attend a musical evening at Lady Gannet’s, and he was invited to join them. Family must include Georgia, so he’d spend some time with her today.

He had a footman take him to Hernescroft’s Town secretary and asked Linley about reports of inquests.

“A particular inquest, my lord?” Linley asked.

Dracy had to admit it, though he’d probably seem idly curious. “The one into the death of the Earl of Maybury.”

“We have a copy, my lord. I will have it sent to your room.”

In minutes, Dracy had a bound, handwritten transcript of the inquest into the death of Richard, Earl of Maybury.

It began with the account of the duel itself, with depositions from those there. Lord Kellew had stood for Maybury, and Major Jellicoe for Vance. Sir Harry Shaldon had also been present, though it wasn’t clear if he was attached to either man or a bystander.

The three accounts were consistent. There’d been no pistols involved, so the two men had fought with swords from the first. It had been agreed from the start that the seconds would not fight.

The bout had lasted some five minutes with no blood drawn, and in his testimony, Lord Kellew had reported his hope that the matter would end with no harm done. However, Vance had delivered the fatal thrust.

Dracy read over Kellew’s exact words on that. “Vance thrust to the heart and then stepped back.”

Stepped back. Accidents happened in sword fights, and some were fatal, but in such a case, wouldn’t the culprit rush forward in remorse and attempt to help?

He read the other testimonies, but none mentioned that detail. The coroner, damn him, hadn’t pressed for more detail of Vance’s actions.

The next deposition was from the surgeon who’d pronounced Maybury dead of a sword thrust that had penetrated the heart. The coroner had then noted that Sir Charnley Vance was not present at the inquest and was reported to have left the country. If he were to return, he was obliged to present himself to give his account.

Then, right at the end, the coroner had asked the witnesses about Vance’s words and actions. All three men agreed that he’d been calm throughout, and that after killing Maybury, he had paused only briefly before turning to mount his horse and ride away.

On paper it sounded cold-blooded, but Dracy knew that shock could affect people in odd ways. He remembered one man whose closest friend was killed at his side. He’d carried on as normal for hours before completely breaking down.

Perhaps Vance had turned pale and no one had mentioned it. Perhaps his step back had been of horror at seeing what he’d done. Perhaps he’d ridden away and collapsed only when he thought himself safe from observation.

Dracy read the report through again, but the words offered nothing new.

The jury had confirmed the obvious—that the Earl of Maybury had died from a sword thrust to the heart, delivered, in the course of a duel, by Sir Charnley Vance, who had then fled the country. The coroner repeated his hope that Sir Charnley would return and give an account of himself, and that was that.

It was almost the dinner hour, so Dracy tidied himself and returned the document to the secretary.

“Was there any attempt to prosecute Vance?” he asked.

“No, my lord. The due processes of dueling appear to have been followed, and with Vance out of the country there would have been no purpose. If he ever returns, measures might be taken. But not by the family.”

No prosecution by the Perriam family because there must be no underlining of a connection between Vance and Georgia.

“I gather great efforts were made to locate Vance,” he said.

“Yes, my lord. Particularly by the Honorable Peregrine Perriam.”

The idle, Town-loving fop. Dracy had no opinion of any work he might have done.

He thanked Linley and went toward the front of the house, to the anteroom where the family and guests would gather before dinner. Georgia would soon be there, and the question rose again. Should he share his suspicion about Sellerby? She had long knowledge of the earl and could better judge the probability, but it went against the grain to accuse someone of such behavior without proof.

When he entered the room, she was already there, and his heart betrayed him with a thump.

She was talking to an elderly gentleman while her parents conversed with Lord Bathhurst and George Grenville. This was a political gathering, then, but perhaps also a way of presenting Georgia to a few people.

He studied her but saw no distress. When she noticed him she smiled, so he joined her to be introduced to Sir George Forster-Howe, a neighbor from Worcestershire and member of the Commons for a riding there.

“Navy, eh?” Sir George said. “Good man. A sorry wound, that.”

“Could be worse,” Dracy said, and the man nodded.

“True enough, true enough.”

“Did your morning go well?” Dracy asked Georgia.

“Exceedingly so, but I do apologize for my neglect.” She smiled at Sir George. “I promised to act as guide to Town for Lord Dracy but then abandoned him. I plead the Cornelys masquerade, however. So little time to assemble a costume.”

“And what are you to be, Lady Maybury?”

“Now, now, Sir George. In the best tradition, it will be a secret. Do you attend?”

“Not me, my dear. Old age and masquerades are a poor match.”

“Sir George, you’re not old! I see the youth in your eyes.”

He chuckled. “We all remain young at heart, Lady Maybury. Would that it spread to my joints.”

Dracy wondered how much of her charm was effort and how much simply her natural kindness. In either case, perhaps she could conquer the beau monde, one person at a time.