Alyssa Everett (13 page)

My father rubbed his jaw in thought. “And if he doesn’t?”

I hadn’t really considered that possibility. As the challenged party I would have the choice of weapons, which meant I could potentially meet the old fool in the boxing ring. For a fleeting moment, I imagined the supreme satisfaction I would derive from beating him to a bloody pulp, showing him exactly what I thought of his pig-headed opinion of my family’s suitability.

But I had the unpleasant sense that if Lord Leonard really did issue a challenge, I’d be honor-bound to refuse. The man was old enough to be my father, and he actually was Barbara’s father. As misguided as he might be, he believed he was defending his daughter’s virtue. I couldn’t fight him in good conscience. Yet how could I flatly back down from a challenge?

“I don’t know,” I hedged. “I’ll simply have to avoid him, I suppose, at least until his daughter is safely married to some other poor dupe.” Bitter at the thought—already I felt a coward—I reached for the brandy decanter again.

“I’m not sure how successful you’ll be at avoiding Lord Leonard.” My father watched me with an inscrutable expression. “And perhaps you’d better go easy on that brandy. Your uncle Daventry sent a message for you while you were out. I assume you’ll want to attend the coroner’s inquest into the footman’s death. It convenes at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”

Barbara

“Get in there!” Papa shoved me into my bedchamber, his push so forceful I nearly stumbled. He’d hauled me bodily from the stairs, and even though I’d done nothing to resist, I suspected his grip had left bruises on my arm.

“Papa, if you would only listen—”

“I’ve heard all I want to hear from you, young lady.”

He was clearly past the point of civilized discussion. My arm throbbed where his fingers had dug into my flesh, and his face was an angry red. “Consider yourself confined to this room, on a diet of bread and water. You’re forbidden to set foot outside your door again without my express permission.”

“For how long?” I shot back with more defiance than wisdom. “Forever?”

“Don’t test me. You brought this on yourself, carrying on with that lout behind my back.”

“We didn’t do anything wrong!”

“Young ladies who have nothing to hide don’t entertain strange men alone in their rooms at night. They receive them in the drawing room, dressed properly and with their father’s knowledge.”

There wasn’t much I could say to that. He was right.

His eyes shot daggers at me. “Be grateful I haven’t caned you. It’s bad enough you take after your grandmother Merton in looks. I won’t have you leading the sort of disgraceful life she led, making this family the object of vulgar gossip.”

As if I wanted to be whispered about and laughed at! That caricature insinuating I’d chased after Cliburne had been enough humiliation to last me the rest of my life. Thank heavens my father hadn’t caught wind of
that.
“I’m twenty-four years old, Papa. You can’t just lock me away up here like some—”

“I can and I will.” His fury apparently beginning to exhaust itself, he surveyed me with a sigh. “You think me callous and unreasonable, I suppose? You don’t believe I could possibly have your best interests at heart. Well, just to show you there’s nothing unconsidered about this, I’ll make a bargain with you. If Beningbrough decides to do the right thing and offer for you, I’ll not only lift your punishment, I’ll get down on my knees and tender you my personal apology. What’s more, I’ll call the whole household together to witness it. But that’s not going to happen.”

I refused to dignify his offer with a reply.

Even so, something of the hurt I felt must have shown in my face, for his expression softened. “Barbara, Barbara, can’t you see I’m doing this for your own good? Beningbrough isn’t serious about you. You heard the way he talked about your sister when he came here trying to push Cliburne into crying off. And with your looks...well, it’s past time you learned that young bucks like him are only after one thing, and it isn’t marriage.”

With my looks
. I flushed at the reminder I would never be adored or chased after the way Helen was. She might attract beaux like Cliburne—sweet, softhearted boys who tripped over themselves in their rush to protect her—but a man could have only one possible use for me. “Beningbrough might want to marry me,” I insisted stubbornly. “Don’t forget the fortune Grandmama Merton left me.”

“A duke’s heir doesn’t need to marry for money.” My father shook his head, a look of pity on his face. “Don’t make a fool of yourself over the likes of Ormesby’s son. I thought you had more pride than that.”

I drew myself up with what was meant to pass for offended dignity, but inside it was beginning to sink in that my father was right. Even Ben himself had described kissing me as taking advantage. And the way he’d left here—he’d refused to look at me. I’d promised myself I wasn’t going to make the same mistake with Ben I’d made with Cliburne, but somehow I’d let it happen again.

I wanted to throw myself on my bed and weep at my own stupidity. Since it wouldn’t do to let my father see how wretchedly foolish I’d been, instead I simply tossed my head. “You talk as if I fancied myself in love with the gentleman, Papa. I told you, nothing happened between us.”

Perhaps my father believed me, perhaps his anger had spent itself, or perhaps he could simply read the humiliation on my face. Whatever the reason, he answered in a far kindlier tone than usual. “Now that’s the spirit, Barbara. A ruffian like that is not worth risking your reputation over. And don’t worry, while you’re serving out your punishment, he won’t get off scot-free. When I see him tomorrow at the inquest, I promise you I’ll—”

“Tomorrow? The inquest is tomorrow?”

But of course it was. As the owner of the house in which Sam had been killed, no doubt Papa had received a subpoena instructing him when and where to appear. Cliburne and Helen would have been summoned too.

And I was confined to my room. While the coroner’s jury decided whether or not poor Cliburne should stand trial for murder, I would be trapped here uselessly at home, locked away like a prisoner in the Tower.

Chapter Twelve

Barbara

“Barbara?” came Helen’s voice from the corridor.

I was lying on my back in bed, but having tossed and turned all night, I was already awake. “Go away,” I called wearily. “I’m not allowed to have visitors.”

“Didn’t Papa tell you Teddy’s inquest is this morning?”

It was going to be a gloomy day, I could tell. According to the clock on my mantel, it was already half past seven, but the sky outside remained a dull gray. “He might have mentioned it.”

“Then you’re coming with us, aren’t you?”

I nearly let out a sob. I wanted so much to go to the inquest. I even had evidence that could help exonerate Cliburne, the little notebook in which Sam had noted his meeting with the mysterious M. But I wasn’t allowed to go, and giving Helen the notebook when I knew how desperate she was to keep the blackmail scheme secret would be like entrusting cheese to a mouse.

I rose and went to the locked door. “I can’t. Papa’s confined me to my room.”

“Why?”

Because I lost my head over a man
,
and I deserve to be punished for my stupidity
. “He caught Lord Beningbrough with me in my nightrail.”

“What was Lord Beningbrough doing in your nightrail?”

“Helen—”

“It was a joke! I knew what you really meant. I was only trying to cheer you up.”

“I don’t much care to be cheered up right now.”

“But I want to know why Lord Beningbrough was here,” Helen persisted. “Was I right, Barbara? Is he in love with you?”

“No.” There was no trace of doubt in my mind. I leaned my forehead against the door, the wood cool against my skin. “Beningbrough doesn’t give a rap for me. Papa realized he was trifling with my affections. He locked me in my room so I can reflect on my folly.”

“But perhaps if I put in a good word for you with Papa—”

“It’s no use,” I replied with miserable finality. “He’s right. I’ll never see Lord Beningbrough again unless he comes here with his tail between his legs, asking for my hand in marriage, and I’m quite sure that will never happen. You’ll have to go to the inquest without me.”

“Barbara—”

“Just go. Please.”

Helen sighed, and several long seconds passed before her footsteps padded away.

I went back to my bed and slumped to a seat on the rumpled coverlet.

Despite my punishment, at least my father allowed my abigail to attend me and bring me my breakfast of bread and water. She was helping me to dress when I heard our family carriage brought around to the front of the house. I went to the window just in time to see Papa, Mama and Helen emerge from the entrance into the spitting rain, all three clad in somber hues. They climbed into the carriage, which immediately rattled off into the drizzle.

A gloomy quiet fell over the house then, the more pronounced once I’d dismissed my maid.

Ben

It was the kind of raw, gray, rainy morning that turned the streets to puddles and felt more like late winter than the middle of spring. Stepping through the door of the Rose and Crown, I stopped to shake the rain from my hat. Most days I didn’t trouble to wear one, but between the wet and the lump on my head, it had seemed a good idea. Besides, for Teddy’s sake I was hoping to make a creditable appearance—and it wouldn’t hurt for Barbara to see I was in fine feather too. Perhaps it would show her just how wrong her family was to consider me beneath them, and how little I cared for her opinion anyway.

Judging from the crowd, word had spread that the inquest involved persons of consequence. I’d expected an imposing courtroom, Teddy in the dock, the coroner looking down on the proceedings in sober judgment while spectators nodded raptly from rows of benches like churchgoers come to hear the word of God. Instead, the inquest was being held in the overcrowded taproom of an inn in Downing Street. An oaken table stood at the front, with one man at the head—the coroner, I presumed—and the jury seated along the far side. Witnesses and onlookers sat in plain wooden chairs lined up in crooked rows, while additional spectators were ranged against the rough plaster walls, talking back and forth. Apparently inquests were a good deal less formal than trials.

Teddy looked nervous. I wasn’t surprised, since the coroner’s jury would decide whether his self-described role in Sam Garvey’s death amounted to an accident or homicide. Still, as I shouldered my way farther into the stuffy taproom, I wished he could manage to hide his worry better. He was pale, sitting so tensely between my uncle and my cousin John he might as well have had the word
Guilty
emblazoned on his forehead.

I scanned the crowd for Barbara’s family. I soon spotted Lord Leonard sitting some distance away, leaning toward Lady Helen and her mother in a protective posture that made him look rather like a bulldog guarding a bone. My eyes continued past them, sweeping the rest of the taproom, but I searched in vain for red hair, an ivory complexion and a challenging smile.

I frowned. So Barbara hadn’t troubled to come, then. Well, that certainly put me in my place. She must have known I’d be here and chosen to stay home despite her interest in the case. The pointed snub irritated me more than it should have, at least until I reminded myself her absence meant she couldn’t point the finger of guilt at either Teddy or John.

My uncle Daventry turned his head and caught sight of me. He beckoned me over, pointing to an empty chair he’d kept reserved just behind Teddy.

Picking my way past jutting knees and over outstretched legs, I reached the vacant chair. Once seated, I leaned forward to speak confidentially with Teddy and my uncle. “Any idea how this is supposed to proceed?”

Teddy glanced back at me and shook his head. “Not really.”

Fortunately, the coroner came over to speak to him. “I’ll be calling just a few witnesses, Lord Cliburne. First the surgeon who examined the deceased, to provide the necessary medical evidence that Sam Garvey died of a blow to the head. Second, I mean to call Mr. Dawson of the Bow Street Runners, to reconstruct the scene of Garvey’s death. Third, Lord Woodford, to verify that the dead man was in his employ and residing in Berkeley Square. Fourth will be Lady Helen Jeffords, to testify that she was acquainted with the victim and that he was importuning her when you came upon them. Then you, my lord, to relate how you struggled with the victim and how he hit his head, and finally Lord Leonard, to corroborate the time and sequence of events. All cut and dried, I’m thinking.”

That certainly sounded promising. The coroner appeared to accept Teddy’s story at face value—the footman had been pestering Lady Helen, he and Teddy had scuffled, Sam had fallen and hit his head. His version of events had
accident
written all over it. Even Lady Helen’s involvement with Sam Garvey had been reduced to mere acquaintance, with no hint of suspected infidelities or clandestine rendezvous.

Sure enough, the inquest began exactly as the coroner had predicted. From his seat in the taproom, the surgeon was sworn in and described the fatal injury to Sam Garvey’s head, fortunately glossing over the precise position and angle of the blow. The jurymen listened to his testimony with sober, attentive faces. Scattered about the room, two or three newspaper reporters even jotted down notes.

Mr. Dawson came next. I recognized his round, cheerful face from the night of the murder. In a rapid and thorough monotone, he described the murder scene—though he stopped short of branding it as such.

“And were the circumstances of Sam Garvey’s death, in your professional opinion, consistent with an accidental death or with some more sinister occurrence?” the coroner asked him.

I tried not to betray my edginess as Mr. Dawson’s forehead crinkled in an expression of frowning concentration. “I can’t say with certainty. The wound suggested a blow from a blunt instrument, and the bronze statuette I mentioned would’ve made a suitable murder weapon. Then again, there wasn’t a spot of blood on any of the witnesses I interviewed that evening, and accounts agree they had no opportunity to change or wash up before my arrival.”

I let out my breath.

“That would include Lord Cliburne?” the coroner asked.

“Yes, and Lady Helen Jeffords too.”

“Thank you.”

Next, the coroner asked Lord Woodford a few questions about the deceased and how long he’d been in Woodford’s employ. That too went exactly as predicted.

As Woodford resumed his seat, the coroner glanced about the courtroom. “Lady Helen Jeffords?”

“Here.” She raised one gloved hand.

A stir went through the taproom. I have to admit she made an affecting picture, a vision of dainty blonde femininity. She was dressed in a dusky blue gown and a subdued lilac bonnet, a combination that struck just the right note of modesty and respect for the dead. She was even dabbing at her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief.

Just then I caught sight of my cousin John. He’d twisted around in his seat to get a better look at Lady Helen, and his face wore a bleak, anxious expression. I didn’t believe Barbara’s theory that John was the real killer, but at the very least he had information Lady Helen was being blackmailed. Was the look he wore simple brotherly concern for Teddy, or was it proof he knew more than he’d let on?

Lady Helen swore to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, then the coroner began his questioning with a reassuring smile. “Let’s proceed, Lady Helen. You were acquainted with the deceased?”

She nodded. “Yes, he was our next-door neighbor’s footman, as Lord Woodford has testified. I saw him sometimes, out in the street carrying packages or with Lord Woodford’s carriage.”

“And had the two of you ever spoken?”

She blushed. “Yes, on several occasions.”

“How would you describe the nature of those conversations?”

She lowered her eyes. “Well, they began as only a few words, really little more than polite commonplaces.”

“Remarks on the weather, and that sort of thing?”

“That’s right.”

“You say they began that way. Did matters change?”

She blushed again, more fiercely this time. “I didn’t wish for them to change.” She stared down at her lap, nervously pleating and unpleating her handkerchief as a single tear spilled from her wide blue eyes and rolled affectingly down one cheek. “But he had rather a teasing way about him, and little by little he became more forward, until I began to feel uncomfortable talking with him.”

“You thought he was becoming impertinent, overfamiliar?”

She bit her lip before looking up and nodding. “Yes.”

“You’re engaged to be married, Lady Helen?”

She looked over at Teddy, who was turned about in his seat, watching her attentively. My cousin John, I noticed, flushed and glanced down at the floor. “Yes, that’s right.” Lady Helen cast Teddy a small, apologetic smile. “To that gentleman in the front row there, Lord Cliburne.”

The coroner nodded. He was a bald man with a fatherly air, and he asked his next question with deliberate delicacy. “But you didn’t confide in your intended that the deceased had become impertinent in his manner toward you, is that correct?”

Lady Helen shook her head. “No, I didn’t. I didn’t want to upset Teddy—Lord Cliburne, I mean—and I hoped Sam—the deceased, I mean—would simply grow tired of trying to flirt with me, and would stop on his own.”

“You weren’t encouraging him, then?”

Her shock appeared genuine. “Oh, no!”

“And you didn’t confide in your father either, my lady?”

“No, for the same reasons I just gave. I didn’t want Sam to lose his place, I simply wanted him to stop pestering me.”

Telling the tale, she appeared far more honest and sympathetic than I’d given her credit for on the day I’d accompanied Teddy to Leonard House. I wondered for a moment if I’d done her a terrible injustice, accusing her of consorting with the footman. She was an undeniably pretty girl, albeit in a rather empty-headed way, and I could’ve sworn she was telling the truth. Was it possible the footman had been trying to take liberties through no real fault of Lady Helen’s? Might she be innocent after all?

But then I remembered her clandestine meeting in the butler’s pantry with John, and the blackmail notes, and how she’d hired Sam to deliver the hush money she’d paid her blackmailer. She might be telling the truth, but it certainly wasn’t the whole truth.

Lady Helen looked in my direction then, and our eyes met. For the brief space of two or three seconds I studied her face mistrustfully, while she gazed back at me with a steady, considering expression.

“Now we come to the day of Sam Garvey’s death, Lady Helen,” the coroner said. “Tell the jury, please, what transpired.”

“Yes, of course.” She dabbed at her eyes, gathering her thoughts before she glanced up with a faintly cagey expression. “Do you mean during dinner, or shall I start before that, with Lord Beningbrough’s arrival?”

The coroner’s face registered surprise. “Lord Beningbrough’s...?” he echoed in evident bewilderment. “Start with dinner, please, Lady Helen, if that was the first—”

Wearing an artless smile, she interrupted him. “Because I rather think Lord Beningbrough’s arrival was the first really significant and unusual thing that occurred that day.”

“I mean the first thing relevant to the footman’s death,” the coroner said.

Lady Helen looked over at me. “Well, Lord Beningbrough certainly seemed interested in Sam. He was asking some very peculiar questions about my association with him.”

I stiffened. What was she doing? The coroner had given her every opportunity to present the matter as a simple accident, yet for some reason she’d insisted on dragging my name into it. And my questions to her that day had hardly been
peculiar.

John and my uncle Daventry cast troubled glances at each other, while Teddy simply looked confused.

The coroner looked confused too. “Lord Beningbrough was asking questions about your association with Sam Garvey?”

“Yes, that’s right. Rather angry questions, I thought.”

“And Lord Beningbrough would be...?”

“That gentleman over there,” she said in a carrying voice, pointing at me. “The Duke of Ormesby’s son.”