Amberley Chronicles Boxset I: The Impostor Debutante My Last Marchioness the Sister Quest (Amberley Chronicles Boxsets Book 1) (35 page)

Chapter 33

That evening, an urgent message for Henry Beecham arrived at the Hall just before dinner. The family and guests were already assembled, waiting for the meal to be announced.

Beecham opened the missive he had received, and quickly perused it. The others clustered nearby, in case the message contained news of immediate concern.

He looked up from the letter at Celia. “This is unexpected and unhappy news, from an investigator I employed on your behalf. Your father has been attacked by unknown assailants, and lies close to death, unable to be awakened. His wife and son have abandoned him and left the house for parts unknown.”

“When did this happen?” James asked with a frown.

“Yesterday night, during the time of the ball here.”

“Every single one of us has witnesses where they were, except me,” Alphonse said. “I left London around ten in the evening, and found it slow going in the darkness. But I assure you, Celia, I would not have solved your problems in such a violent fashion.”

“I know.” Celia smiled at her fiancé, but without her usual cheerfulness. “Despite everything, I do not like to think of my father all alone, with only servants to look after him. Who can be responsible for this crime?”

“Possibly the fellows to whom he owed money five years ago,” James said. “But surely he would have paid them off, before showing his face in town again. Not to do so would be madness, considering the gambling houses and moneylenders he was involved with.”

Beecham looked at the message again. “He was attacked after midnight, but nobody would suspect you anyway, Marquis.”

“Let’s go to London tomorrow morning, and see what is going on,” Celia suggested to her uncle and Alphonse.

“What if this news is false and merely a ruse to lure you out of hiding?” Sir Mortimer worried.

Beecham shook his head. “My informant is highly reliable.”

Celia and Alphonse assured the baronet that together, they could hold their own against Conway, even in such a case; and Christian charity demanded that they go to him, if the news was accurate. “We’ll take good care of little Monique while you are gone,” Charlotte assured them. “I am also most interested in what you find out, and want to hear all about it afterwards. Good luck!”

+++

They found the Conway household at Half Moon Street in complete disarray. The butler fell on the elderly gentleman who claimed to be the master’s uncle with so much relief, that he did not even pause to ascertain who Celia and Alphonse were. “You are family? A good thing you came. The Missus is gone, with the nipper, and all their things. Bow Street has been here asking everybody, and is looking for her. I’ve never in my life been involved in a scandal, no, not once, and I don’t like it.”

“No wonder,” Sir Mortimer said diplomatically. “Can you take us to my nephew?”

The butler led them to a bedroom on the first floor, making excuses all the way, that there was nobody suitable for sick care in the household since the disappearance of his mistress.

The appearance of Celia’s father, stretched out on his bed fully clothed, dispelled any doubts – this was indeed a man close to death. Nobody had undressed him, and the fetid air made Celia gag. Before she could say anything, Alphonse threw the window open. With the added light, Celia could see that her father’s features were drawn, and there were deep dark shadows under his eyes. He looked much older than the last time she had seen him, some five years before, and there were white hairs among the original dark brown. Despite everything, the unconscious man on the bed looked handsome, even distinguished. His breathing was regular. A head wound had been inexpertly bandaged with two neck cloths.

“Hasn’t a physician been called yet?” Sir Mortimer said faintly. He was pale as he looked at his closest known relative.

“I was going to send for one, when they first brought him here, but the Missus countermanded my order,” the butler said, somewhat guiltily. “That was before she packed up and left.”

“But even so, man, you cannot simply let your master die from neglect! This is shameful!”

“How long has he been unconscious like this?” Celia asked. “He must be thirsty. Have tea and broth sent up right away, as well as boiled water. And send for the physician,
right now
.”

While she gave these orders, her uncle and Alphonse started to undress Conway, faces grim.

By the time the physician arrived, the patient had been cleaned, and was dressed in a nightshirt. He had not awoken during this procedure, though he had groaned a few times. Celia was sitting by his bed, transferring liquid into the gaunt body as best she could, by means of a small sponge. It was a slow procedure, and some of the broth had spattered onto her cambric dress.

The doctor took his time with the examination, and looked grave at the end. “The prognosis is not good,” he said frankly. “If he does not wake within the next twenty-four hours, he might never do so at all, and slowly waste away. Even if he does wake up, there might be permanent brain damage, impossible to tell at this stage. He needs constant care.”

“Could you recommend a competent nurse, or better two, to take turns?” Alphonse asked. “Money is no object.”

“It looks like a deliberate hit on the head with some heavy object like a cudgel,” the physician warned. “If he dies, it is murder, and someone will have to hang for it. I must inform the authorities.”

“I understand they are already informed,” Sir Mortimer said. “We came from a house party in Sussex when we learned of this crime, to look after my poor nephew. But it really is the duty of his wife, whose whereabouts nobody seems to know.”

“Most unusual,” the physician said, raising his brows.

“I had better talk to the magistrate myself,” Sir Mortimer said. “If his men are investigating, they might know more already.” It was arranged that he should to so together with the physician, while Celia and Alphonse stayed to look after Celia’s father until a pair of nurses could relieve them.

Finally they were left alone with the unconscious man.

“I am sorry that our engagement begins with such an unpleasant scene,” Celia said. “And despite everything, I hate seeing my father brought to this. He is not a good man, but nobody deserves to be murdered.”

“He is not dead yet,” Alphonse pointed out. “But attempted murder, at the least, was certainly done here. If he should wake, I hope he can name the culprit. Though if he was set upon by a professional, it is surprising they would not have finished the job. I am inclined to think it must have been some amateur, someone he had wronged.”

Celia looked at her father, helpless on the bed. A dutiful daughter should cry at such a sight, but her eyes remained obstinately dry. “I cannot understand him at all. He could have lived happily, by sticking to one rich wife, or to the military career, when Uncle Mortimer bought him a commission. Instead he kept running off again and again, finding new victims to swindle. It cannot have made him happy, and he left misery in his wake.
Why?
”

“Gambling,” Alphonse told her. “This might be a good time to confess that I once played dice with him, five years ago, and won several hundred pounds that he was reluctant to pay.”

“You never told me that,” Celia said.

“Because we had far more important things to talk about.”

“If you knew what he was like, had even met him, it amazes me that you would want to marry his daughter.”

Alphonse smiled. “You are not he, and your virtues by far eclipse his rather mundane vices. This gambling fever is a sickness, like drinking too much or taking laudanum. People susceptible to such a habit cannot help themselves. It is not unusual for them to destroy many other lives in the process, as your father has been doing. It happens in the best families.”

“Even so, I hope he does not die,” Celia said. Alphonse hugged her comfortingly.

To their mutual relief, a male nurse, dispatched by the physician, arrived shortly after, and took over the sickroom duties with evident competence. Celia and Alphonse went downstairs to the drawing room to await Sir Mortimer’s return.

Celia looked at the rich furnishings with curiosity. “So this is where my father lived, while I was kept in three shabby rooms in Bloomsbury. Notwithstanding all this gilt plaster on the ceilings, I do not much care for this place either.”

“Nor I,” Alphonse said. “Too fussy, and the colour scheme lacks style. The rooms are too narrow and dark. We can do much better than this.”

“I look forward to seeing your castle. Uncle Mortimer and Mme Fourrier have told me how splendid it is.”

“You can help me keep it splendid. It is not an easy task.”

They were deep in a discussion of the castle’s requirements, when he asked, “Is that your uncle at the front door?”

So it proved, and the magistrate, Sir John Billander, was with him. Celia’s uncle made the introductions, and all four sat down on the patterned pink silk sofas. The magistrate frowned at Celia. “I am not sure that this is a discussion fit for a delicate young lady,” he said reprovingly.

Alphonse took her hand in his. “My future Marchioness is directly concerned, as Conway’s daughter and closest relation. She has a right to first-hand information.”

The older man gave a shrug, as though to say,
on your head be it
, and came to the point without further ado. “We have already found out who the culprit is, but he has eluded capture so far. The quick solution of the crime was due to a witness, a maid in this household, who overheard her mistress conspiring with her lover.”

“Who would this lover be?” Alphonse said, tightening his grip on Celia’s hand. “We had no idea of his existence. In fact, none of us has even met the second Mrs. Conway face to face.”

“It would seem that Conway came back to England after several years abroad, not long after his father-in-law had died and left a considerable fortune to Mrs. Conway. He forced his wife to return to him, with threats to ruin her reputation otherwise. According to the maid, Mrs Conway had been living with another man, of not too savoury reputation, though they practised reasonable discretion.”

He bowed apologetically to Celia. “I am sorry that you have to hear such distasteful details, Miss.” He cast a reproachful look at the two gentlemen.

“Please proceed,” Celia said. “I would rather know the truth, no matter how awful.”

“This other man, by name Joshua Robertson, is a former captain turned businessman. He was furious when Mrs. Conway went back to her husband. We have found several witnesses who have overheard him making threats. He will hang without a doubt as soon as catch him, and the woman as well. The one thing I cannot fathom,” the magistrate said, “is why they took Conway’s young child with them.”

“But surely …?” Sir Mortimer began, and broke off. Celia was glad he did not expose their doubts on the child’s parentage at this moment. There was already enough bad news about her family for any one day.

“Most likely his mother is very attached to him,” Alphonse said smoothly, covering Sir Mortimer’s pause. “Do you have any idea where they went?”

“With Robertson’s connections among his former skipper friends there’s a chance they could slip out by ship, for all we know they are already at sea,” the magistrate explained. “We are doing our best, but there are only so many men available, and the number of ships in this harbour is too great to police with complete effectiveness.”

Sir Mortimer, Alphonse and Celia expressed their gratitude for the rapid solution of the crime, and, less sincerely, their complete confidence in a swift capture of the culprit. The busy official then took his leave.

Sir Mortimer mopped his brow. “Do you realize this child – Simeon Conway – is going to inherit Conway Manor, unless my brother William can be found? Two heirs of unknown location and one not even a blood relative!” He sighed. “How is Peter doing?”

“As before,” Alphonse said briefly. “How does the new situation affect our own prospects? We no longer have to marry in Scotland, I take it.”

“No, a Special License ought to do, since Peter is in no position to contest anything. But if he should die, it will be frowned upon if his daughter marries right away.”

“I have already had one marriage celebrated in emergency conditions, while
my
father was dying,” Alphonse said ruefully. “How strangely fate repeats its patterns.”

“But we are different people, and don’t have to do what others expect. Let’s see if he recovers, and if not, I will marry you anyway, in as big or small a ceremony as you like, whatever people may say.” Celia had hardly finished her little speech before Alphonse caught her in another hug and gave her a passionate kiss.

At its conclusion she looked around for her uncle, all flushed, but Sir Mortimer had discreetly slipped away.

Epilogue

July 1823

The anniversary of Alphonse and Celia’s wedding in London coincided almost exactly with the baptism of their first son, young Etienne James de Ville-Deuxtours, and her own birthday. These three events were to be jointly celebrated with the most splendid house party and ball their castle had seen since the time of the
ancien régime
.

Alphonse had protested his wife’s grandiose plans, expecting Celia to still be weak and frail four weeks after the confinement, but when the time came he had to admit that his fears were unfounded. Besides, Celia did not have to expend much physical energy. She had long since reorganised his household so that it ran with clockwork efficiency. Her slightest word was law, and instantly executed. Alphonse even fancied that some of his retainers were afraid of the red-haired English Marquise. Nothing escaped her eagle eye.

He was standing on the parapets, holding little Monique up in his arms so that she could see the first of many elegant carriages due to arrive over the next two days. Mme Fourrier was hovering close by, ready to take the child back to the nursery. His daughter was still tiny for her two years, and thin, no matter how much she ate. But she was no longer considered sickly, and had learned to talk and walk earlier than most children.

“Papa,” Monique said, “I want a horse.”

“When you are older,” Alphonse promised, trying not to worry at the prospect. “You and Etienne will be able to ride out together.”

He felt rather than heard Celia come up behind them, and turned. She held out her arms, and Monique tumbled into them, certain of being securely caught. “It is time to go receive our guests,” Celia said, kissing the little girl before handing her to Mme Fourrier. “We’ll come to the nursery later, poppet.”

As the nurse carried the child away, the Marquis and Marquise walked down the broad marble staircase side by side. Celia, accounted one of the most elegant ladies in France, was wearing a gown of shimmering blue silk that mirrored her eyes, accented the small waist, and made her red hair even more vivid than usual.

Alphonse wanted to ask if she was happy, but there was no time, and no need, really. With Celia, you always knew where you stood.

Such as now. “Minerva! Henry!” Celia cried, hugging their friends without regard to her extravagant gown. She drew back, and looked quizzically at Minerva’s waist line. “You came when you are so close to your time? I did not realize.”

“I wouldn’t miss this ball for the world,” Minerva said with a broad smile. “Once the child is here I will not travel, until he or she is old enough to come also. I promised that to my future children when George and Marianne were gone so long, last year.”

“They are arriving tomorrow,” Celia said, “with Verena. My uncle is already here, you will see him at dinner, as well as my grandmother and the dowager Marquise. The Marquise is so grateful for little Etienne’s birth, she has not said a single word of criticism since his arrival. I hope it lasts.”

“The sapphires we brought with us should help to sweeten her temper,” Beecham said with a smile. “I finally got the owner to sell them back to your family, though the price was even higher than we expected.”

“You have actually brought them? My mother will be overjoyed if she can wear them at our ball. But I haven’t yet sent you the money. I hope you did not use your own funds for the purchase, Henry.”

“They are to be a present from me to your mother,” Celia explained, “since she gave them up for your education, Alphonse, and I have reason to be grateful at the result.”

“James and Charlotte’s coach was right behind us,” Minerva said, before Alphonse could properly react to Celia’s generous gesture. Later would do – when they were private. “They should be here any moment. Your castle is wonderful, Alphonse. Like history itself, solidified in stone. But why is your family name
Deuxtours
, meaning two towers, when I counted eight?”

“The name is even older than this castle,” Alphonse said. “It comes from the family’s original place in the Swiss Alps, now just a picturesque ruin. I will show you the dungeons later on, if you like history – not all of our family’s past is particularly pleasant. Yet standing here in this place my own ancestors built so many centuries ago, despite Revolution and war, gives me a sense of hope for the future.”

“Is it true that you are building a brewery nearby?” Beecham asked Celia. “I cannot help wondering if there is enough demand for beer and ale in a region which produces some of the best wines in France.”

“Variety is the spice of life,” Celia said. “We imported some barrels by sea, and easily sold the contents at local fairs. It’s not as though the French had never made or enjoyed beer before. Enough people will like it to make the venture profitable. Besides, it provides much-needed employment.”

“And the French aristocrats and burghers do not think less of you?” Minerva asked, a little enviously.

“Oh, everyone knows that the English are eccentric. I can get away with far more as a rich foreigner, than I ever could in my own country. And if anybody cavils, well, in my position I simply do not have to care.” Celia’s eyes gleamed mischievously.

“How is your father?” Henry Beecham asked her.

“As before, unfortunately. He still does not recognize me, or dress himself. At least he can no longer gamble.” A team of experienced nurses looked after Peter Conway in a comfortable apartment in one of the castle’s bulky towers, where she could keep an eye on them. To Alphonse and Celia’s secret relief, Mrs. Conway, her lover and young son had never been found.

“And how is life as an M.P.?” Alphonse asked Henry. “I read about your anti-slavery speech. It was so impassioned even the French papers carried excerpts. That cannot have pleased Jennifer and her husband.”

“Jennifer is still not speaking to us, but I hear she has persuaded Bartholomew to switch to less reprehensible cargos,” Beecham replied. “It gives me hope that we can dissuade others as well. Social condemnation seems to work far better than moral appeals.”

“Good luck.” Alphonse decided to send a large anonymous donation to the Society for the Eradication of Slavery. After all, if fate had been less benevolent, Celia or he – or even worse, their children - might have been born into such a dire fate.

Instead, they were among fortune’s favourites, for no other reason than blind luck. He glanced over at Celia, standing at the foot of the staircase. Surely no other lady had ever graced the ancient castle as well as she did.

James, who had come in with Charlotte, tore him out of his contemplation with a hearty slap on the shoulder. “Hello - no need to ask how you are. I have never seen you look so happy, not even when we were boys.”

“We knew nothing then,” Alphonse said dismissively. “Until you find your love, and have a child to worry over, you have no notion what life is all about.”

James and Charlotte exchanged a smile. “Quite right,” Charlotte agreed. “And every new generation has to find that out anew, the poor dears.” Her eyes wandered to the twins, entering by the front door with their long-suffering nanny.

“Nothing we can do about it,” James said practically. “But it should be entertaining to see if our children can manage it better than we have.”

Alphonse felt a momentary twinge of alarm, but quickly dismissed it. This was a time for celebration. With any luck, his children’s romantic entanglements could wait for a couple of decades.

He pulled his friends towards Celia. At this moment, all was right in his world. You could not reasonably ask for more than that.

The End