Shady Lady (17 page)

The following afternoon, as arranged, Waldo called on Lord Brinsley in his palatial home on Piccadilly. The house itself, like many of its neighbors, was completely hidden from the street by a high brick wall that made Waldo think of a cheerless prison. He had to pass through the outer gate first, make his way across a huge courtyard that could have served as a parade ground, and up a long flight of marble steps to the front door. He counted twenty steps, and by the time he got to the last one, his lame leg was aching like blazes.

The door opened before he could use the knocker, and the butler, who was expecting him, asked him to wait for a moment while he advised his lordship that Mr. Bowman had arrived. Waldo took the opportunity to take in his surroundings. The grand entrance hall, with its elaborate coffered ceiling, took up two stories. The pictures on the walls were reputed to be priceless. The carvings on the staircases were by the famous Gibbons. The furniture was the best that money could buy. The house and its contents served to inform visitors that they had entered the domain of a proud and privileged family. And this was only the Brinsleys’ town house. The estate in Oxfordshire was far superior to this in every way.

All this wealth and the privilege that went with it would one day pass to one person: the son and heir. Much the same could be said about himself, though by the Brinsleys’ measure, his wealth would hardly make a showing.

It was an iniquitous state of affairs. His class took their wealth for granted, as though it were divinely ordained. His own family, he supposed, was better than most. His father’s tenants were well looked after; his mother and sisters worked tirelessly for the church and various charities. It would take more than that, however, to close the vast gap between rich and poor. Things had to change.

The butler returned at that moment and Waldo followed him across a vast expanse of cold marble to the earl’s library. The library was as big as a ballroom. The earl came forward and waved him to a leather armchair. The viscount was there, smiling for once. This was a big change from last night at the theater.

The earl said, “I hope the front steps did not give you too much trouble? If I’d only thought, we could have met at one of my clubs.”

The earl’s condescending smile as much as his words set Waldo’s teeth on edge. It was deliberately done, this reference to his lame leg, and meant to put him in his place. Since he wasn’t here to quarrel but to get answers, he let the aggravation pass.

“Don’t apologize,” he said. “The exercise was good for me.”

When the superficialities were dealt with, the earl said, “Last night, my mind was preoccupied. Lady Brinsley’s health continues to be a cause for concern. If I was abrupt, I apologize. Of course, Victor and I wish to help you in any way we can.” He looked to his son for confirmation.

“Naturally,” replied the viscount on cue.

“Naturally,” repeated Waldo, trying not to sound cynical. “Then you can begin by telling me how Lady Webberley appeared when she was at Brinsley Hall. Was she in good health? Did she mix with the other guests? Was anything said that appeared to upset her, any reason at all for her to quit the Hall in a hurry?”

Lord Brinsley seemed at a loss. He hadn’t paid much attention, he said finally, because it wasn’t his kind of party and he’d left early to return to town. The guests were his wife’s friends, members of the Horticultural Society, he believed. He’d hardly exchanged more than a few words with any of them. He felt more at home with the men, though it was the wrong time for a house party. No fishing and no shooting. Only conversation, cards, and billiards. An altogether boring event.

“Except that mother seemed to enjoy herself,” the viscount added. “And that was the object of the party.”

“Perhaps,” said Waldo, speaking his thoughts as they occurred to him, “I should be putting my questions to her ladyship.”

Two spots of color appeared on the earl’s cheeks. He met Waldo’s eyes with a cold stare. “Obviously,” he said, “I haven’t explained myself very well. My wife is in no condition to be questioned about anything, let alone the regrettable disappearance of one of her friends.”

The earl hesitated, apparently groping for words for something he would rather keep to himself. Finally, he said, “Her ladyship has always had a nervous disposition. She suffers from melancholia. I thought the society of a few close friends would be good for her. And it was, up to a point. But she has not been the same since she learned that Lady Webberley has not been seen since our house party. You may imagine how that affected my wife. So you see, Mr. Bowman, I cannot allow anything to disturb her peace of mind.”

This did not wash with Waldo, not entirely. Keeping his voice level and inoffensive, he said, “I’m sorry. It must be a great worry to you. I trust her ladyship will be well enough to attend your wedding, Lord Morden.”

The viscount’s eyes were bright with amusement and what might have been a challenge. “I’m sure she’ll make the attempt. It’s every mother’s dearest wish, isn’t it, to see her son married to some eligible girl? Besides, the wedding isn’t for another month. I think my mother will be well enough by then.”

Though the words were unsaid, the image of a shady lady made a vague impression on Waldo’s mind before disintegrating. Not, thought Waldo, the sort of girl the Brinsleys would approve for the son and heir. He wasn’t tempted to retaliate. He looked at the viscount and felt a fleeting twinge of pity. From the day of his birth, he’d been groomed to step into his father’s shoes when the earl died. He doubted that the viscount was allowed to choose his own breakfast, let alone the girl he would marry. It made Waldo reflect that maybe his own father wasn’t so bad after all.

The viscount went on, “In any event, my aunt will be there to assist my mother, so the wedding will go forward as planned.”

Another twinge of pity passed over Waldo, not so fleeting, more troubling. He could well believe that whatever the earl and his son planned would go forward with or without the countess’s presence. Maybe that’s why she suffered from melancholia. Her position in the family was negligible. Had it not been for her companion, she would have been isolated.

The earl leaned forward in his chair, drawing Waldo’s attention to him. “Do you have any other questions you wish to put to us, Mr. Bowman?”

“Several.”

He began with the hired chaise that was supposed to take Chloë to Stratford. At the end of twenty minutes, having learned all that he was going to learn, which was precisely nothing, he thanked them and left.

From an upstairs bedroom window, Lady Brinsley watched Waldo traverse the courtyard. When the porters closed the great iron gate after him, she shivered.

“I hate this house,” she told her companion. “It’s like living in a prison. It reminds me of the asylum.”

“Hush now, Elinor. And it isn’t an asylum. It’s a hospice. You must try to think of more pleasant things.”

The speaker was Miss Dunn, her ladyship’s companion. She was sitting at a sofa table, pouring tea.

“I
have
tried,” said her ladyship, “but it’s no use. It’s this house. I wish I was in my conservatory at the Hall.”

Miss Dunn put down the teapot and crossed to the window. With one arm around Lady Brinsley’s shoulders, she shepherded her to an upholstered chair in front of the fire. “What you need is a nice cup of tea. Things always seem better after a cup of tea.”

Her ladyship sank into the chair and accepted the proffered cup and saucer. She smiled faintly. “How long have you been with me now, Harriet?”

“You know yourself. Since before you were married.”

Her ladyship shook her head. “Before I was married. I can’t remember a time before I was married.”

“That’s because you were so young. You were only eighteen when you married the earl.”

She’d been the envy of her peers. Girls, that’s all they were, knowing nothing of men or the ambitions that drove them. Her misfortune was to have been born an heiress. She wasn’t allowed to marry where she loved. Her father had seen to that. She’d been sold to the earl. Her father considered it a fair bargain, his money for a title. His daughter would be a countess, and his grandson would be born an aristocrat.

Harriet had the good fortune to have been born poor. No man wanted to take on a wife without a dowry. They’d made a life together of sorts, she and Harriet. But she feared that she was slipping away again, into the twilight of unknowing. That mustn’t happen. She had to leave this place soon.

Her eyes darted around the room. “A drop of laudanum,” she said. “That’s all I need to settle my nerves.”

Her companion took the cup and saucer from her, set them on the table, then grasped her ladyship’s hands. She spoke gently, soothingly. “We’re trying to wean you off laudanum, Elinor, don’t you remember?”

Her ladyship blinked several times, then inhaled a slow calming breath. “I remember. It’s not over yet, is it, Harriet?”

“No. It’s not over yet. But don’t upset yourself. You know that I would never let any harm come to you or yours.”

The countess let out a long sigh. The fog in her brain lifted, and for a moment or two she saw things with blinding clarity. “I know I have to be strong. This time, I won’t fail, will I, Harriet?”

Miss Dunn smiled. “No, not this time,” she said.

C
hapter
17

V
iscount Morden felt the color drain out of his face. He couldn’t believe what he was reading. Chloë’s column was back in the
Journal
. For the last few weeks, the paper had carried an apology for its absence, informing readers that Lady Tellall was indisposed. Now she was back with a vengeance, and his name was at the top of the list.

Congratulations to Lord Morden and Lady Margaret Kintyre on their engagement. It looks as though it will be a June wedding. What is the bride to wear? More on that little secret in my next column.

But that was nothing compared to the report about Lady Webberley.

He wanted to tear the paper to shreds, but that would only draw attention to himself. He was in his club and the steward had just delivered the papers to his table along with a glass of port. He despised the
Journal
and never would have subscribed to it had he not discovered that Chloë was Lady Tellall. Even her pen name disgusted him. But she’d embarrassed him once before in her column, and he wanted to make sure that it didn’t happen again. He could not have it delivered to his house. He didn’t want his father to see it and start asking awkward questions. So he had it delivered to his club.

The print seemed to blur before his eyes. He felt sweat bead on his brow. If anyone had stopped to talk to him, he wouldn’t have been able to say a word. As long as he appeared to be reading the newspaper, however, no one would disturb him. It was one of the unwritten rules of gentlemen’s clubs.

He scanned the back page again. The report said that Lady Webberley had been seen on the ferry to Calais and speculation was rife that she was meeting someone in Paris.

How could this be?

It couldn’t be. It was impossible. Chloë was dead. He’d killed her with his own hands and afterward hidden her body and her boxes where no one would ever find them. Then he’d cleared her room of all her personal belongings to make it look as though she’d left as planned.

Now that he was over his shock, he was beginning to think clearly. He knew for a fact that Chloë was dead. That meant someone else was writing her column.

It had to be Jo Chesney.

He mustn’t lose his head. No matter what she suspected, she couldn’t prove anything. No one could. But she could make things very difficult for him.

Tiresome busybody. Something had to be done about her.

That wasn’t the only thing that worried him. If anyone ever found out that he had a subscription to the
Journal
, they might make the connection between Chloë and him. He didn’t want that to happen. He must be above suspicion. He would cancel his subscription at once.

On the other hand, he wanted to keep himself informed of what was being published in Lady Tellall’s name. There must be another way to get the paper. Bates would know what to do. He would ask Bates.

He left without touching his port and without tipping the steward.

Jo sat back in her chair and tried to think positively. No matter how she came at it, however, she was no further ahead in discovering what had happened to Chloë. A week had passed since the
Journal
came out. She was looking over letters that had been sent in response to Lady Tellall’s latest column. They’d arrived yesterday from Stratford, so this wasn’t the first time she’d read them, but there was little here to spark her interest. Several correspondents claimed to be the Shady Lady who “had taken London by storm,” to use Lady Tellall’s own words. Another correspondent confirmed seeing Lady Webberley on the ferry going to Calais, while another claimed that she had gone to live with the nuns on the isle of Iona. But there was one letter that Jo had to take seriously. It was from Lady Kintyre, whose daughter, Lady Margaret, was betrothed to Viscount Morden. Her ladyship wrote that she had not been amused by the coy reference to her daughter. The betrothal was supposed to be a secret until the night of the Brinsleys’ ball. She had ruined what should have been the happiest night of Lady Margaret’s life.

Jo didn’t feel the least bit contrite. Everybody and his wife knew that the couple were betrothed. If her ladyship wanted to take offense, she should look to herself. Lady Margaret should have her own ball to mark her betrothal. No wonder the Kintyres were one of the wealthiest families in England. They were skinflints.

The last sentence in Lady Kintyre’s letter amazed Jo.
Please cancel my subscription.
Jo knew that the
Journal
had many subscribers in London, but not of her ladyship’s standing. It made her wonder who else was on the list, and she decided to ask Mac when she sent him the next episode in the life of Lady Tellall.

That is, if she went on with it, which was by no means certain.

With elbows on the writing table, she cupped her hands over her eyes. They were now well into May and there were still no leads that would help them find Chloë. She’d come at last to accept the fact that Chloë was dead. What she couldn’t accept and what gave her no peace was the growing realization that they were never going to find Chloë’s body or her murderer.

She breathed deeply and sat up. She wasn’t ready to give up yet. Maybe something more was needed than Lady Tellall’s column. The authorities weren’t any help either. They took the stand that they couldn’t do much without a body. But what if she wrote a piece for the
Journal
, like an advertisement, asking directly for anyone having information about Lady Webberley’s whereabouts to write to the
Journal
? As an incentive, she could offer a reward.

On that thought, she cleared the letters away, found the pen cutter, and sharpened the nib of her pen. After a moment’s reflection, she put the pen down. She had to think this through. She didn’t want to be inundated with letters from curiosity seekers or, worse, cheats and swindlers. She would ask Waldo’s advice.

Jacob Fry knew that he’d never get a better chance to complete his assignment. He’d never killed a woman before, but he didn’t feel queasy, not when the fee for doing the job would set him up nicely for the next twelve months. With that kind of money, he could go to America and start a new life. The prospect was tempting.

He’d been watching the house for days and had decided now was the time to act. This was Sunday, a sleepy, sunny Sunday afternoon. There were few servants about and only one gardener, but he’d already taken care of him. The aunt and boy might be a problem, but nothing he couldn’t manage. There was no sign of Bowman or his curricle. Not that it mattered. Anyone seeing him would take him for one of the gardeners, and he wasn’t going to kill the girl with witnesses present. It would be a quick and silent kill so that he could slip away before anyone raised the alarm.

He could see her sitting at the little writing table in the room that looked out on the terrace, the room with the French doors. He wondered what she could have done to deserve the sentence of death. He didn’t think about it too long. The sooner this was over, the sooner he would be out of here.

Hunching his shoulders, with his hat pulled down over his ears, he made his way to the French doors.

Jo looked up with a start. Someone was on the terrace, outside the glass doors. Her heart subsided when she realized he must be one of the gardeners. Rising, she went to unlatch the door.

He had a potted plant in his hands, a sickly plant, one of Chloë’s precious orchis. Jo knew what he wanted before he said a word. He wanted her to tell him what to do to bring it back to health. They were all out of their depth here, she and the gardeners, even Sykes. They knew how to look after English plants, but not these delicate specimens.

He held out the plant for her to take. With a sheepish smile, he said, “Mrs. Paige asked me to take a look at it. All it wanted was a little water. Perhaps you’d be good enough to give it back to her? It should be fine now.”

Jo accepted the plant, her head tilting as she stared down at it. This plant couldn’t belong to the housekeeper. It was one of Chloë’s prize plants. She gave those as presents to a few select people—that is, to those who knew how to take care of them. She and Mrs. Paige were no gardeners, so they’d never been considered for this high honor.

She looked up with a smile and said as casually as she could manage, “Irises don’t make very good house plants, do they?”

“Not,” he said, “unless you knows wot you’re doin’.”

So he didn’t know the difference between an iris and an orchis. Where did that leave her?

Panicked. Ready to bolt or scream the house down. Not that it would do her a bit of good. There was no one nearby to help her. This was Sunday. Half the servants had gone home to be with their own families, and the other half were eating their midday meal. Aunt Daventry was having a nap, and Eric, thank the Lord, had gone off with Waldo to row down the Thames to Westminster Bridge. There was no Harper now, no extra gardeners. As time passed, they’d all become complacent.

She pulled herself up short. This was absurd. Why would anyone want to harm her? She didn’t know, but she remembered Chloë’s warning. She could be in mortal danger.

Abruptly, her panic subsided. She was still afraid, but her mind was crystal clear. She couldn’t afford to give him the benefit of the doubt, not when his strength outmatched hers. She had to even the odds.

Her pistol was primed and ready. The trouble was, she’d become complacent too, and she’d left it in the cupboard under the stairs where they kept umbrellas and other outdoor paraphernalia.

Gently, slowly, so as not to provoke him, she retreated a step. “I’ll make sure Mrs. Paige gets this.” She hardly recognized her own voice.

His eyes crinkled at the corners. “You do that, Mrs. Chesney.”

She had to turn her back on him to reach the door, but her feet refused to move. His eyes had strayed to the brass candlestick on the sideboard and she knew, sensed, what was going through his mind. He was seeing it as a weapon.

“On second thought,” she said, “you take it.”

“What?”

His hands came up automatically to take the clay pot she thrust at him, but Jo didn’t stop there. With an almighty shove, she sent him staggering back through the open glass doors and onto the terrace. In the next instant, she whirled herself around, snatched up the pen cutter that lay on the writing table, and was through the door to the hall. With a bellow of rage, he went after her.

He reached her as she swung open the door to the stair cupboard. His hand caught at her dress, dragging her back. Instinctively, she lashed out at him, using the pen cutter as a dagger. It caught him below the eye, slicing his cheek open. He let out a howl, part pain, part anger, and sent her sprawling to her knees with a blow from his fist. The pen cutter fell from her hand and went clattering over the parquet floor, coming to rest against the wall.

She didn’t take time to think. She didn’t have the breath to scream. Fueled by terror, sobbing, she rolled and came up on her knees.

Blood dripped down his face and blotted his white shirt. He stared at his bloodied hands, then he looked at her. His expression was feral as he advanced upon her. She heard a door open and close in another part of the house. When it momentarily drew his attention away from her, she saw her chance and seized it. Surging to her feet, she reached into the cupboard and snatched up her reticule.

With the pistol braced in both hands, she faced him. It wobbled alarmingly, as did her voice. “If you come one step closer, I’ll blow your brains out.” And to show him that she meant it, she leveled the pistol and pulled back the hammer.

Either he didn’t believe her or he was too enraged to be intimidated. Her finger tightened, but she could not bring herself to shoot. The thought of snuffing out someone’s life made her stomach heave. She tried to scream, to bring servants, someone, but her throat was so tight that all that came out was a harsh sob.

There was a sound of a door opening nearby. Someone called her name. Eric! She was afraid to take her eyes off her assailant. Her throat cleared. “Stay back,” she screamed. “Stay back, Eric.”

He didn’t understand. She could hear his feet as he walked toward her. “What is it, Aunt Jo? What’s wrong?”

“Go on, then,” said the man, sneering at her. “Pull the trigger. You can’t do it, can you?”

Where, oh, where was Waldo?
Had he dropped Eric at the door and then left? She glanced at Eric. That one moment of distraction cost her dearly. Fry grabbed for her arm and twisted the pistol out of her hand.

“I knew you couldn’t do it,” he said.

A voice from the door to the morning room said laconically, “No, but I can. Put the pistol down or I’ll shoot to kill. Stand away, Eric.”

It was Waldo at last.

Fry’s eyes narrowed to slits the second before he spun round. Jo screamed. Two shots exploded simultaneously. Only one found its mark. A look of surprise crossed Fry’s face. He looked down at his chest and touched his fingers to the spreading stain. He took a step toward Waldo, then slowly keeled over.

“Damn,” said Waldo, “I’d hoped to take him alive.”

Jo gave one horrified look at the shapeless heap on the floor as she ran to Eric and gathered him in her arms. Waldo pocketed his spent pistol, picked up Jo’s pistol, and laid it on the hall table before going to join them.

Eyes swimming, she looked up at him. “Thank God you were here.”

He touched his fingers to her cheek in the softest caress. His look was arrested, warm, intimate.

The house erupted into motion and noise. Servants burst through the baize door and came to a sudden halt. Mrs. Daventry appeared at the top of the stairs shrieking for Jo. Mrs. Paige cried that someone should fetch the constable. One of the upstairs maids took one look at Fry’s body and quietly fainted.

The rest of the day passed in something of a haze for Jo. Officers from Bow Street arrived and took statements. The man who attacked her, she learned, was the gardener who had cleared out after the first break-in. One of Sykes’s apprentices was found in the outside privy, badly beaten but still breathing. On the outside, she was a model of fortitude. On the inside, she was close to the breaking point.