Scandal of the Year (20 page)

For that reason, the sooner he left Crompton House for good, the better. He had searched the place top to bottom, and the only item of interest he’d found was that cryptic letter from Mrs. Hannah Bleasdale.

Perhaps today he would find out what it meant.

Striding down a narrow lane, he located the brick row house where Thornton lived. The place looked even more forlorn in the daylight than it had in the middle of the night. Up and down the street, laundry strung from the upper floors flapped in the dank breeze from the river. A slattern leaned out her window and called out an invitation to him.

James ignored her and rapped on the wooden panel. The door opened at once. Roland peered out cautiously; then his teeth flashed in a huge smile. The dark-skinned man stepped back to let James enter the tiny foyer with its peeling wallpaper and the brass birdcage sitting in front of the single window.

“Mister James! What a surprise dis be!”

“Hello, Roland.” James clapped the valet on the shoulder. “You’re looking well. I trust you’ve been taking excellent care of the house here.”

“Nothin’ else to do, suh.” Roland looked him up and down. “Now, dat be a sight to see, you in dat fancy wig. Better not open dis cage, or Amora be makin’ a nest in dere.”

The yellow finch in the cage chirped as if in agreement.

“I’m looking forward to the day when I can toss this thing into a rubbish bin.” James pulled off the hateful wig and hung it from a straight-backed chair. Combing his fingers through his hair, he asked, “Has Thornton returned from Lancashire?”

“’Deed so, after midnight. I be takin’ his tea up to him right now.” Roland picked up the tray from a nearby piecrust table. “I’ll tell him you come here.”

“Pray don’t trouble yourself,” called a voice from upstairs. “I’m on my way down.”

The elderly man appeared on the landing. Garbed in a brown coat and breeches, his fringe of gray hair still mussed from sleep, Thornton gripped the banister and hobbled down the staircase.

Upon reaching the foyer, he made a creaky bow to James. “Pardon me, sir, I’m still a bit stiff from the long ride in the mail coach. But I must say, you’re a sight for sore eyes. I was just now wondering how I’d send word to you.”

“Then I’m glad to have called,” James said. “However, there isn’t much time for me to spare. Dare I hope you met with some success on your journey?”

“I’m happy to report so, yes,” Thornton said, rubbing his age-spotted hands. “Do follow me and I’ll show you.”

The retired estate agent beckoned James into a cramped parlor off the passageway. Bookshelves lined the walls and a pair of threadbare wing chairs sat in front of the cold hearth. Roland brought in the tea tray and vanished, presumably to fetch another cup.

Thornton shuffled over to a corner, where a long, round leather map case stood propped against a pile of books. He bent down, untied the strings, and began to unroll it.

Over his shoulder, he said, “I spent a full morning looking in every room of the manor house, but found nothing. I’m afraid the place is in a state of neglect. The housekeeper is a dull-witted sort who would have been shown the door in my day. But at least she left me alone to conduct my search.”

Seeing the man struggling with the cumbersome bundle, James made haste to assist him. “Is this what I think it is?”

“Indeed, sir. You were correct to advise me to look up in the attic. The place was chock full of furniture and trunks and such. It took some doing, but I finally located this hidden behind some old boxes.”

The leather bindings fell away to reveal a large canvas.

“I removed the painting from the frame so it would be easier to transport,” Thornton added. “I do hope that was agreeable.”

“Perfectly so.”

Hardly daring to hope, James carried the painting to the window and angled it to the watery sunlight. He was gazing at the portrait of a solemn young man and a smiling woman garbed in the fashion of a quarter of a century earlier. She sat on a chair, a small spaniel curled up in her lap, while her husband stood behind her with his hand on her shoulder.

James knew at once they were his cousin, George and George’s wife, Edith. This must have been painted around the time of their marriage.

He felt whisked back to his childhood. Memories washed over him, much clearer now than ever before. He’d been only a boy of ten at the time, but how well he recognized George’s thick mop of brown hair, the grave features and thin lips.

This was not the face of the man who employed him. And there was another difference. His cousin’s lanky height hadn’t been just the vague impression of a boy to whom all adults were tall. His true cousin topped by several inches the charlatan who had stolen his name.

With mingled fury and exhilaration, James scrutinized Edith as well. Her reddish curls had a golden cast that was subtly different from the present Edith’s auburn hair. The features were not quite the same, either. This Edith appeared to have brown eyes and her face was somewhat narrower.

Besides the long-eared spaniel in her lap, several more dogs tumbled and played at her feet. She had adored them, he recalled, yet the present-day Edith kept no pets.

Now he knew why. Even taking into account the aging of nearly twenty-five years, the couple in this painting couldn’t possibly be the same George and Edith who now resided in Crompton House.

“What do you think, sir?” Thornton asked, hovering close. “How do the Cromptons compare to them?”

“Both of my employers are imposters. This painting proves it beyond a shadow of a doubt.” The full force of rage struck James like a punch to his abdomen. His gaze snapped to Thornton’s. “My God! They very nearly got away with the crime. Had you not written to me, I would never have known my inheritance had been stolen.”

“It was your idea to look for the portrait,” Thornton said modestly. “I merely noticed there were anomalies when I went to see Mr. Crompton—or whoever he is—about my pension two years ago.”

“How did they do it?” James asked, as much to himself as to Thornton. “Why the devil did no one ever challenge them? Surely
someone
in India saw the differences in their appearance!”

“I wish I knew, sir. I wish I knew.”

His mind percolating with unanswered questions, James carefully rerolled the painting and propped it against the bookcase. As he did so, Roland came in with another cup and poured their tea, then left the parlor. Thornton added a lump of sugar to his mug and stirred it with a pewter spoon.

James was too agitated to bother with refreshments. Running his fingers through his hair, he prowled back and forth in the small room. “The key question is, what happened to my cousin and his wife? Did they die a natural death? Or were they murdered?”

“That remains to be seen,” Thornton said, his mouth set in a grim line. “I must say it was a despicable act to steal their identities no matter what the cause.”

James continued to think out loud. “How do you suppose they accomplished the switch? And when exactly did it occur?” In his mind, he saw the image of Blythe in her wide-eyed innocence. “One thing is certain. I cannot believe that any of the three daughters could have been aware of this wickedness. And that would suggest the exchange happened either before they were born or shortly thereafter.”

“I must agree. Especially in light of the old letter you found.”

James swung toward him. “Then you received my note. Were you able to locate Mrs. Bleasdale?”

“Indeed, it was no trouble at all. I remembered the woman from my tenure as estate agent to the Cromptons. She was wife to one of the tenant farmers. Now she’s an old pensioner living in a cottage near the village.”

“Thank God she’s still alive. Do you find out the identity of Mercy?”

“She was Mrs. Bleasdale’s only child.” Blowing on his tea, Thornton frowned. “I recall seeing Mercy a few times, for she worked above stairs at the manor house. When the Cromptons left all those years ago, Mercy sailed off with them as Edith’s personal maidservant. Unfortunately, some two years later, Mrs. Bleasdale received word that her daughter had died in a cholera epidemic.”

“Edith sent her a letter of condolence along with a bequest.”

“Yes, a very generous one. Mrs. Bleasdale is quite frail now, but grateful to be living out her days in comfort.”

Determined to unravel the puzzle, James continued to pace. “Edith kept the note of thanks from Mrs. Bleasdale all these years. It was stuck in her prayer book. Why would she do so? What would induce a lady to save a letter from a farmer’s wife?”

“I have a theory,” Thornton said, his voice raspy. “You see, the two-day journey back to London gave me ample time in which to ponder the matter. And also to examine my old memories.”

He stopped to take a drink of tea, and the truth struck James before the old man could continue. It seemed incredible … yet it would explain so much.

“You believe that Mrs. Bleasdale’s daughter, Mercy, isn’t dead at all,” James said slowly. “She is very much alive. And she’s now calling herself Edith Crompton.”

*   *   *

“Mama, what on earth are you doing?”

Having just entered the bedchamber, Blythe blinked to see her mother, elegantly dressed in a blue-and-ivory striped gown while sprawled inelegantly on the carpet. She was peering under the four-poster bed, her arm stretched out beneath as if to pat the floor.

“Did you drop something?” Blythe asked.

The blue feathers on her stylish hat bobbed as Edith Crompton turned her head to glance over her shoulder at Blythe. “I’ve lost a paper, that’s all.”

Blythe crouched down to look from the other side. Although sunlight brightened the room, she could see only shadows under the bed. “What sort of paper?”

“A letter.”

Her mother’s voice sounded terse, worried, and not at all concerned about their mid-morning appointment at the dressmaker’s. Mama was always punctual, so when she hadn’t come downstairs, Blythe had gone in search of her.

Blythe had been too anxious to sit and twiddle her thumbs, anyway. She needed a distraction from her own agitated thoughts. Only a short while ago, James had left to deliver the forged note from Prince Nicolai to Lady Davina.

He had been cool and distant ever since their encounter at the card party, but she wouldn’t let his disapproval of the ruse bother her. The scheme was in play now. The soiree had been scheduled for a few nights hence, the invitations sent out the previous day.

It was too late to turn back.

Blythe attributed her attack of nerves to impatience. If only she could move the clock ahead and have the party happen right now, this very minute, then perhaps the knot inside her stomach would unravel.

She straightened up and smoothed the wrinkles out of her lilac muslin gown. “I can help you look, Mama. When did you last see this letter?”

“It was tucked into my prayer book in the bedside table.”

Blythe stepped around her mother and peered into the opened drawer. Picking up the black-bound book, she riffled through the pages. “And you think it dropped out onto the floor?”

“Yes.”

“Who is it from?”

“Just … someone I once knew. No one of consequence.”

Blythe found it difficult to believe that her mother would go to so much trouble to find something insignificant.

Intending to see if the letter might be tucked in a back corner of the drawer, she bent down to look. Her gaze widened on a metallic gleam. She picked up a tiny muff pistol that fit into the palm of her hand. This must be the one Portia had used to shoot Colin in the arm two years ago. Blythe had overheard her sisters whispering about the incident. Lindsey had borrowed the weapon without their mother’s permission, and their parents had never known about the episode.

Now, the very presence of the weapon puzzled Blythe. It seemed out of character for her modish, fashionable mother to own a gun.

“Why do you keep this pistol?” she asked.

Mama flashed a glare up at Blythe and then struggled to her feet, hampered somewhat by the slim-fitting gown. “Put that away at once! And do stop poking through my private things.”

Startled, Blythe replaced the gun in the drawer. Her mother was often firm, but seldom snappish. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. I was only trying to help.”

Mrs. Crompton stepped past her to peer behind the bedside table. “Never mind,” she said in a distracted tone. “Run along downstairs. I’ll join you in a few minutes.”

Blythe deemed it wise not to ask any more questions. But as she left, she couldn’t help noticing that her mother was frowning down into the drawer as if her very life depended upon it.

*   *   *

“You are correct, sir,” Percy Thornton affirmed. “To my best estimation, Mercy Bleasdale is now posing as Mrs. Edith Crompton. Once I worked that out, the resemblance became clear to me. I’m only sorry I didn’t put two and two together sooner.”

James strode across the tiny parlor to lay a hand on the older man’s bony shoulder. “Your work has been excellent. I couldn’t have managed without you.”

“The case is far from resolved, sir. For one, I’ve no notion whatsoever as to who is pretending to be Mr. George Crompton.”

Hands on his hips, James resumed pacing. “Perhaps Mrs. Bleasdale knows him. We must bring her to London so she can identify her daughter and give testimony at the trial.”

That was the moment James desired and dreaded in equal measure. He wanted to find out the whole truth of what had happened to his cousin. He craved to see justice done on George’s behalf. But in the doing, he would also cause unspeakable pain to Blythe and her sisters. Their lives would never be the same.…

“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” Thornton said. “She’s an old woman and far too frail. Two long days in a coach surely would be the death of her.”

“Are you certain of that? Perhaps the journey could be taken in small increments.”

Thornton pursed his lips doubtfully. “It would be a tremendous risk to her health. It wouldn’t do for your only witness to fall ill and die. Is there no way to lure the Cromptons to Lancashire? Then the confrontation could take place there.”

“In any other case, I would agree. But for obvious reasons, Lancashire is the last place on earth those two charlatans wish to go.”