Jessica (7 page)

“Do not descend to my level, Miss Durleigh, for I swear it does not suit you.”

“Please leave me alone, sir, for I would rather endure the atmosphere of this place than your company.”

His eyes suddenly went to the diamond necklace. “I mark the style of the excellent Mr. Slade,” he murmured, looking at her once more.

She felt the need to defend herself. “I knew nothing of the necklace when you asked me.”

“I did not for one moment think otherwise, madam. Come, let us set our dueling aside and enjoy a glass of champagne together. Please.” He took her hand suddenly. “Please, for I wish to make amends for my lamentable behavior hitherto. Besides, it would seem to me that we are both here against our will.”

“You? However would you be forced into coming if you wished not to?”

“Oh, let us say I wished to please Rosamund.”

“Let us say you are being untruthful, for you would not do anything merely to please any woman, Sir Nicholas. Fashionable London society taught me that much about members of the strong sex. You have another reason
—
one you obviously would prefer not to mention.”

“And you are too penetrating by far, Miss Durleigh, which amazes me when I consider how my late brother gulled you so completely.”

“Have you already forgotten your resolution to be more agreeable?”

He smiled. “But you must be beginning to wonder about Philip.” He dragged his forefinger over the diamonds at her throat. “You are no fool, Jessica.”

“I wonder only why everyone disliked him so, for I saw only good in him. I loved him dearly, and ever will.”

“I pray you will not shed tears right now, Miss Durleigh, for I would find it uncommon disturbing, especially in front of so many inquisitive eyes.”

“I shall not embarrass you, Sir Nicholas.”

“I thank heaven for it. Now, some champagne?” He did not wait for a reply but snapped his fingers at a footman who in a moment brought a bottle and two glasses which he sat on a small pedestal table close by.

She sipped it, watching him as he replaced the bottle on the table. “Miss Durleigh, about our ... er, encounter ... in Ladywood.”

“Encounter? Sir Nicholas, I cannot think what you mean.”

He smiled. “I thank you, madam, for I would greatly dislike my activities to become common knowledge.”

“What were you doing?”

“One day perhaps I shall tell you, but for now
—
a toast. To the coming year of 1818, may it prove more gentle than its predecessor.”

“To 1818.”

“Yes, and I trust it will bring an inkling of sanity to Rosamund.”

“In what way?”

“She is infatuated with Varangian.”

“And why should that be termed ‘insanity
’
? Philip gave her nothing; she has no reason to mourn his passing. Francis is a good man, kind and. . . .”

“Spare me the man’s undoubted virtues.”

“Why so contemptuous? You don’t like Francis?”

“One must like him?”

“One must like someone in this world, Sir Nicholas, and I fast come to the conclusion that you neither like nor respect anyone at all.”

“On the contrary, madam, for against all my better judgment, I both like and respect you.” He raised his glass to her.

“You mock me I think, sir.”

“No, Miss Durleigh, I am perfectly serious.”

Embarrassed by the expression in his eyes, she looked away past him to the unsteady figure of Mr. Palethorpe. The old-fashioned magistrate was quickly seizing a full glass from a passing tray before wending his way toward Nicholas.

Nicholas turned as the magistrate tweaked his arm. “My dear Palethorpe, you do appear to have enjoyed your evening thus far.” He rescued the brimming glass from the wobbling hand.

“ ‘Pon my soul, yes. Been waiting since this time last year.” He dug Nicholas in the ribs and laughed uproariously. “D’you know, Woodville, I’ve tasted the finest cognac I’ve ever sampled in my life. Here, here in Varangian. Would that my merchant stocked the same.”

“Your merchant, no doubt, does not creep through Ladywood with a train of donkeys, Palethorpe.”

“Eh?” The magistrate straightened his periwig, only managing to make his squiffy appearance all the worse. “Donkeys d’you say? Oh! Oh, yes, donkeys. Oh, well, that explains it, of course.”

“Being magistrate, I fear, excludes you from the fraternity enjoying the spoils of smuggling.”

“I’d close me eyes for the sake of a bottle or so, Woodville,” he said wistfully.

Nicholas smiled. “I see that the Widow Claybone is smiling and nodding at you so, I fear her head will shake loose from her neck. Pray go and make her evening complete.”

Mr. Palethorpe glanced surreptitiously at the lady in question. “Can’t stand crimson taffeta, d’you know; a thoroughly disreputable fabric if ever I saw one.” He took a deep breath and snatched his glass from Nicholas, draining it in one gulp, then straightening his periwig again. “An uncommon handsome woman though, eh, Woodville?”

“Uncommon indeed.”

The magistrate glanced down at his buckled shoes and carefully wiped one clean against his white hose before walking in a reasonably straight manner toward the widow Claybone who was all blushes and dimples as she curtsied to him.

Jessica’s attention was drawn back to Nicholas. “This is rumored to be a dance, Miss Durleigh, and yet we have not taken to the floor.”

“Nor have I any wish to. I feel sufficiently conspicuous already. Tell me, Sir Nicholas, is anything wrong here at Varangian?”

“Wrong? In what way?”

“Francis seems
—
well, upset.” She watched Francis as he partnered a pretty dark girl in lemon muslin.

“Something in that wayward mail bag would appear to have disturbed his equilibrium, or so Rosamund informs me. I, too, had remarked his pallor and uncertain temper.” He held out his arm. “This dance, Miss Durleigh?”

She shook her head. “No, Sir Nicholas, I thank you, but I am too fainthearted. Surely there are many excited female hearts fluttering at the thought of a measure with you.”

He inclined his head. “I am sure you would never be fainthearted, Miss Durleigh, so please do not shatter my new illusions by saying such regrettable things about yourself.” He raised her hand to his lips and then was gone, mingling with the crowd on the floor until she could no longer make him out.

She jumped as a footman bowed before her. “Miss Durleigh? Sir Francis begs to speak with you in private. If you will accompany me to the study.”

Unaccountably her heart fell, for Francis’ earlier behavior on greeting her did not bode well for any interview. She nodded to the footman and followed him from the ballroom.

The long portrait gallery was quiet after the noise of the ballroom, although strains of music Still echoed along the carpeted rooms and corridors as Jessica followed the footman toward Francis’ private apartments.

He stood by the fireplace gazing at the dark red wine in his glass, swirling it occasionally. He looked up and she saw that his face was still chill. He glanced at the footman. “The keepers are out?”

“Yes, Sir Francis, they have been out some two hours now.”

“If any poachers are sighted I am to be notified immediately. No summer ball will keep me occupied while they poach my game.”

“Yes, Sir Francis.” The footman bowed and closed the double doors behind him. Francis crossed the room to a sideboard where he poured, himself a second glass of wine, and she could not help but notice that he did not offer her any refreshment.

“Well, Jessica, you gulled me completely and no mistake. It seems my lot in life to be made a fool of by you.”

“What do you mean?” She stared, taken aback.

“Do not act the innocent now, for we are alone and may speak freely,”

“I do not know what you are talking about, and I most certainly do not like your tone.”

“Indeed? Then what tone should I employ when addressing you? One of humility? Of reverence, perhaps? Maybe even begging? You truly are a wonderful actress, Jessica, for I could almost believe the look of innocent incomprehension on your exquisite face.”

“What has happened, Francis? Why are you saying these terrible things to me?”

“I thought it was just Philip, that it could only be him. I did not for one moment believe that you could have been involved, too. When he died, I actually thought that that was at last the end of it. But no. It has begun again and there is only you now to be the instigator.”

She walked toward the door. “I think you must be in your cups, sir, and so will not remain in your company one moment longer.”

He smiled, but his eyes remained cold. “It is not a pleasant sensation to feel threatened, is it? You and Philip between you have played me like a salmon on a line these past two years, but I am not to be hooked anymore. You may like to digest that fact for a moment.”

“For heaven’s sake, Francis, I do not know what you are talking about. Believe me.”

“This is what I am talking about!” He flung an envelope on the desk beside him. “This filthy demand which has been bleeding me since. . . .” He broke off and waved his arm helplessly.

“May I see it?”

“See it? Why? You of all people must know what it contains.”

“But I don’t. I have never seen it before and I know nothing of what it contains.”

She seemed so utterly at a loss that he doubted his suspicions for the first time. “Sweet Lord, Jessica, I could willingly believe you, but I cannot. I dare not. If it was only Philip
—
and I know it was he for he told me so, he even laughed about it
—
why has this arrived now, so long after his death? You must have sent it.”

“The mail bag that was stolen. Just as Mr. Slade the jeweler received a letter from Philip only recently, so also have you received one.”

“The mail bag was recovered from Applegarth!”

“With the seal unbroken. How dare you hint that I was in any way guilty of tampering with the King’s Mail!”

“Jess, this is a matter of life and death to me now. I can no longer stand the leeching.”

“I believe that whatever it is is important, for truly, sir, you act in a most irrational way.”

“Blackmail is what we talk of, Jess. How else do you imagine your precious Philip could have provided you with trinkets like that necklace?”

She flinched. “I do not believe you. Philip would never have stooped to such a thing.” But she felt suddenly cold inside.

“Philip Woodville was a first class louse, a bloodsucking heap of filth whose every breath was a sin against mankind.” He spoke reasonably, as if commenting upon the weather.

Her eyes were huge. “I will not hear you say those things about him. I will not!”

“The time has come now for the truth to be admitted, Jess. It is the end of the tunnel and I see daylight ahead. I’ll not pay a penny. Do your worst.”

“Oh, Francis, Francis, you are so wrong about everything.”

“Read it then. Go on, read it, for its meaning is plain enough, and the writing is Philip’s.”

She took the letter from the envelope. The words were simple, and as Francis had said, their meaning was unmistakable. Francis was to deliver the sum of two thousand guineas to the writer immediately, or know the consequences. She closed her eyes, her mouth running dry suddenly. “It could be that you owed him the sum,” she whispered.

In answer he took a bundle of similar letters, from a drawer, tossing them at her feet. “Each month I received one such, sometimes for less money, sometimes for infinitely more. Do you still deny the truth?”

Miserably she looked at him, carefully folding the letter and replacing it in its envelope. She jumped as an urgent knock sounded on the door behind her. The footman spoke quickly. “It’s the poachers, Sir Francis. The keepers have sent a lad with the word.”

“This time I’ll get them. Have my horse saddled immediately.”

“Yes, Sir Francis.”

Francis gathered the letters and replaced them in the drawer which he then carefully locked. “Perhaps you truly are as shocked as would seem from your pallor, madam, or perhaps you still ape Mrs. Siddons. I know not. The consequences of this latest letter are unavoidable, however. I shall tell the world what has been done to me, and to hell with the result. I am, as they say, at the end of my tether.” He strode past her and she turned to watch him pass along the gallery.

Slowly she left the study, her slippers making no sound on the thick carpets. Francis’ ancestors stared down at her and she felt as if they, too, were accusing her. Her steps quickened as she hurried down the wide, curving staircase into the hall. The little Negro boy got to his feet from his seat on the bottom step, but she hardly saw him as she went to the main entrance. A footman bowed and she glanced at him.

“Has a post-chaise returned?”

“No, madam, there has definitely been no chaise.”

Then she must stay. She turned back into the house.

“Is something wrong, Miss Durleigh?”

“No, Sir Nicholas.” She turned to look at him, her eyes unnaturally bright.

“Forgive me, but I am assured by looking at you that there is indeed something wrong. Even to my unobservant male eye it would seem clear that you are upset and close to tears.” He took her hand and led her toward a chaise longue. “Do you wish to leave?” he asked quietly.

She nodded, her eyes still bright with unshed tears. “My chaise has not returned.”

“Rosamund had the wit to send my barouche back for me. It is, of course, entirely at your disposal.”

“Why are you kind to me, Sir Nicholas?”

“Why should I not be?”

“Any number of salient reasons spring to mind, sir.”

“You will persist in viewing me as some ogre, Miss Durleigh, when I am not. I have not approved of your conduct in the past, but my late brother was as plausible a rogue as ever lived, and he most certainly had a way with the ladies. I believe you loved him, and that he loved you. That does not excuse your behavior, but I am content that the emotion was genuine. And should a single fall from grace, albeit a somewhat prolonged one, blacken your name forevermore?”