A Scandalous Countess: A Novel of the Malloren World (50 page)

When Dracy went back to Torrismonde, the viscount said, “Are you, too, staying? Welcome, of course,” he added without sincerity.

“I don’t know,” Dracy said honestly. “I’d better tell you what’s going on and we can decide together.”

Torrismonde pulled a face, but he took Dracy into the house and offered him wine, tea, coffee, whatever he would like.

“Coffee, if you please,” Dracy said, taking a seat in the small library. “Strong and black.”

Despite the tension of the moment, he couldn’t help liking the cozy, well-worn room lined with books that looked as if they’d been lovingly read. Because Ceddie’s only interests had been in Town, he’d left Dracy Manor untouched except for pillaging it of anything of value, but once it had had a similar well-worn comfort. Perhaps that could be restored without great cost.…

But such thoughts led toward paths closed to him as yet.

Once the order had been given and the servant had left, Dracy said, “I’ll be blunt. Perriam and I have reason to believe that Lord Sellerby is a deep-dyed villain, willing to go to any lengths to possess Lady Maybury.”

“Sellerby?” Torrismonde said, staring. “He’s certainly extreme in his feelings for her, but so many are. Not for Georgia particularly,” he said with a wave of his hand, “though she’s plagued by admirers, but in matters of the heart. Florid declarations, threats of suicide, ridiculous extravagances as if they lived on a damned theater stage.”

Dracy was amused by the assessment, for he had no doubt the phlegmatic viscount adored his wife just as passionately.

“Lady Maybury took Sellerby’s devotion as dramatic rather than deeply felt,” he said, “for after all, she was happily married. He felt matters more deeply, but probably didn’t see any path to his desires—”

“Of course not,” Torrismonde interrupted, glaring.

“Of course not,” Dracy echoed, wishing he was more skillful at handing delicate situations. “You’ve no need to assure me of Georgia Maybury’s virtue. By desires, I meant marriage, which was completely out of reach.”

He broke off as a footman entered with the coffee tray and poured for them both.

When the man left, Dracy had seen another way to come at the situation. “Do you remember a fatal duel involving the Marquess of Rothgar a while ago?”

Torrismonde sipped his coffee. “Of course. It was an occasion of note. Two years ago, as I remember, and the marquess fortunate to escape without criminal proceedings.”

“As I heard it, talk was that Curry had been paid to kill the marquess by his political enemies.”

“Gossip, only,” Torrismonde said, but then allowed, “yet possibly true. Enemies in England and in France.”

“That event might have sown the seeds in Sellerby’s mind. It would have taken him time to find the right man and to put the proposition to him, but I judge Sellerby to be patient, despite his madness, and in Maybury he had a man who’d be much easier to kill.”

Torrismonde had listened impassively, but now he put down his cup and saucer. “Are you suggesting that the Earl of Sellerby hired Sir Charnley Vance to kill Lord Maybury in order to make his wife a widow, and eventually wed her?”

Dracy truly admired such a pithy analysis.

“Succinctly put. Yes.”

“You have proof?”

“No. But,” Dracy said before Torrismonde could protest, “we are on the way to proof that Sellerby had that letter forged—the one that troubled the Thretford ball—and gave it to the person most likely to use it.”

“That’s hardly the same matter as murder, sir!”

“I know it, but consider Vance’s lack of motive. Any talk of him seeking to win Georgia is unbelievable, as is any thought of a liaison between them.”

“It certainly is.”

“So why kill Maybury unless for profit? I’ve read the inquest, and it seems clear to me that he struck to kill. It was no accident.”

Torrismonde’s lips were tight, but he didn’t argue.

“If he was paid,” Dracy went on, “by whom? No one suspects Maybury’s heir, and Maybury had no enemies, political or personal. Who, then, would gain?”

Torrismonde didn’t like the idea at all, but in the end he said, “Perhaps you have something there, but no proof, Dracy, no proof.”

“I know that, but we seek it. Perhaps Vance confided in someone, though the most likely person is his second, a military man now in India. Letters have been sent, but it could be a sixmonth before we hear back. Perhaps Vance can be found.”

“After a year? I understand that Georgia’s family has made great efforts.”

“Yes. He seems to have managed to disappear.…” But then Dracy put down his coffee and rose. “Your pardon, Torrismonde, but may I have writing materials? I must send a message back with the coach.”

Torrismonde’s brows rose, but he took Dracy to the desk and made sure he had what he needed. “Am I to share your enlightenment?” he asked drily.

Dracy smiled at him. “I’m taxing your patience, I know. My apologies. I must write to Perriam because I suspect the danger may be even greater than we thought. Vance has not been found, despite, as you say, the Perriam family posting rewards and sending notifications to all British embassies and consulates, along with descriptions and even pictures. What if he’s dead?”

“That’s certainly possible if he’s gone wandering in the lesser-known foreign parts.”

“I mean, what if he never left England? What if Sellerby eliminated the one person who could incriminate him, also eliminating the need to pay the large sum Vance would have demanded?”

“Gads, man, you talk of the darkest villainy! And still without a shred of evidence.”

“If we could confirm Vance’s death, that would be
evidence, wouldn’t it? His death within days, perhaps within hours of that duel.”

Torrismonde looked almost theatrically exasperated.

“And how are you to do that, a year after the event? If he was killed, there would have been a corpse. If there was a corpse, it would have been identified. I ask you, Dracy—where is Vance’s corpse?”

“In a pauper’s grave,” Dracy said, dipping the pen. “By your pardon, Torrismonde, I’ll explain my thoughts in a moment.”

He chose words that wouldn’t give away too much if read by the wrong person.

He folded and sealed the letter, hoping the last part was a strong enough warning against poison. “If you would be so kind as to alert the coachman that he’s to take a message? And then I’ll test my new suspicions on you.”

Torrismonde opened the door and gave the order and then returned. “I do not like this, Dracy, any of it.”

“I don’t like it either. I’m very fond of a tranquil life.”

“More than can be said for Georgia’s brother. I’d call him a gadfly if I didn’t suspect some of his dealings were more serious.”

That confirmed Dracy’s suspicions, and that Torrismonde was a very shrewd man.

“You asked, where is Vance’s corpse? Why wasn’t it identified at the time? But if the body wasn’t found for some days or even weeks, his remains might not have been identified, especially if his body had been in the river.”

Torrismonde grimaced. “True enough, and no one would have been inquiring about him, as might be the case when a person goes missing. But a year’s gone by, and any unidentified corpse will be bones by now. You’ll never prove your case.”

“I’m not looking toward the current remains, but toward the corpse. It would have been examined for foul play and anything that would identify it, then put in the hands of an undertaker, I assume, for a pauper’s burial. I believe that anyone handling Vance’s remains would remember him. He was, if you’ll pardon the expression, hung like a horse. Unless the fishes nibbled it off, people would notice that, gossip about it, even show off the corpse to cronies. It might even have been mentioned at the inquest.”

“This matter becomes more distasteful by the moment. I’ll have no mention of it before my wife, Dracy.”

“Of course not,” Dracy said, though he’d tell Georgia. She had a right to know, and she might well tell her friend. “This new idea is speculation, but it feels right to me. There’s another aspect. If still alive, why hasn’t Vance returned? The inquest raised a few questions, but there was nothing in it that could lead to an accusation of murder.”

“
But how would Sellerby kill Vance? The one, effete. The other close to a brute, but quick with his fists and a sword.”

Dracy had worked this out. “Poison. According to Perriam, Sellerby can’t take the sight of blood and even faints if faced with any amount of it, so he couldn’t have used a blade or pistol ball. He’s the type for poison—coldhearted and cunning. Therefore, it would be best to be careful about food and drink coming into Brookhaven.”

“By God, sir! Is there no end to it? My family is in danger?”

“I don’t believe there’s much risk,” Dracy assured him. “Sellerby is in London and won’t want to use someone who would then become a witness. But any unexpected gifts of food and drink should be treated with caution.”

Torrismonde paced the room, hands clasped behind his back. “A damnable affair. And I doubt this part of your tale. Sellerby could administer poison, but how then could he get a very large corpse into the river without being seen?”

“A skeptical mind is useful. Thank you. Very well, let’s imagine that he appointed a meeting to pay Vance, and took a room at a tavern that overlooked the river. There are any number of those. Vance arrives, Sellerby proposes a toast, but only pretends to drink, then watches Vance die. He’d remove anything that might identify him, including his boots, which would have the maker’s mark, and his jacket, which would be of gentlemanly quality. He’d get him to the windowsill in some way, put stones or lead weights in his pockets, and tip him out. Quite likely he’d wait out the day until dark.”

“In the room with his victim?” Torrismonde protested.

“I doubt he has any of the finer sensibilities, despite his exquisite airs. He’d certainly have to wait until high tide, whenever that was. I must add this to my letter.”

He sat, broke the seal, and did so.

“It’s a remarkable story,” Torrismonde said, “but I say again, you have no shred of proof.”

“But chance of some, now. We might find evidence that Vance died, and even the place of murder, with people remembering Sellerby and Vance there.”

“It still might not hang an earl.”

“That’s for later. Now, we must remember that Sellerby is a very dangerous man. If I’m right, he killed by his own hand, despite his aversion to blood. I’m even wondering about his valet. Perhaps Sellerby’s capable of bashing in a man’s skull when desperate.” He impressed his seal with force. “He must not be allowed close to Georgia on any pretext, for I fear by now his passions might teeter between adoration and hatred.”

“Damned theatricality! And beneath my own roof. I don’t hold you to blame, but by God, I do not like it.”

Dracy could only say, “Nor do I. I assure you, I’ll work as hard to protect your family as I will to protect Georgia Maybury. And that is with all I have.”

“What lies between you?” Torrismonde asked.

“I wish I knew. We’re close, but we’re also a mismatch, and now this. I neglected to tell you that this new idea has hit her hard. She holds herself responsible, and I can only hope your wife can restore some balance. Georgia didn’t want me to come here with her, in part because she sees herself as a danger to men who love her.”