Deadly Engagement: A Georgian Historical Mystery (Alec Halsey Crimance) (11 page)

Alec grinned and shook his head at her pettishness. “I’m sure Selina can’t hold a candle to you on that front.”

“She can’t,” said Lady Gervais proudly, unhooking the front of her low cut bodice. “No one can.”

“Is that so?” he said, chiding her under the chin. “Then Delvin would be a fool to give you up.”

She smiled naughtily, and in one deft movement straddled his lap, her petticoats bunched up over her knees and her breasts spilling out of the confinement of a tight bodice. She put a hand about his neck, clutching at the satin bow that held his long hair in place while the other guided his right hand to cup an ample breast. She then kissed him full on the mouth, smiling to herself in triumph that she had at last captured his interest when his thumb began to rub rhythmically against her nipple. Yet, for all that, his response was less than enthusiastic and at the sound of a knock on the outer door he turned his head away. She was all for ignoring it and had a hand again to the buttons of his breeches when he kissed her on the forehead and gently put her aside. There was another knock on the door, more persistent than the first and Alec adjusted his clothing and went in answer to it.

“Damn!” she blurted out angrily, sprawling out suggestively on the sofa. She made no effort to cover herself, hoping he would deal with the interruption and come back to finish what she had started.

Alec opened the door, a hand through his tussled hair, to find a footman moving from foot to foot. Without preamble he told Alec he was wanted immediately in the rooms occupied by Mrs. Jamison-Lewis. Then, taking a glance over Alec’s shoulder at the naked woman lying across the cushions on the sofa, the footman turned on a heel and hurried away, eyes wide and unblinking.

Selina carefully extracted a long pearl handled hairpin entangled in one of her tight curls and shook out her abundant waist-length hair. “No, Evans, I’ll brush it tonight,” she said and took the silver backed brush from her somber faced personal maid. “Open the window in the bedchamber, would you?”

Why had she given in to Olivia’s pleadings and agreed to stay the weekend? A weekend of celebrations wasn’t exactly the sort of social outing permitted new widows. But the Duchess of Romney-St. Neots had argued that as long as Selina did not dance at the Fireworks Ball no one would raise an objection to her being a house guest. The only house guest dressed in black, thought Selina with a frown. How was she going to endure a whole year dressed in widow’s weeds? But she knew the answer to that. She had arranged to spend the summer with her brother Talgarth. He lived in the remote Mendip Hills and was a painter, and he had hated George Jamison-Lewis almost as much as she had hated him. She would wear Indian muslin and bright taffeta and Talgarth would make her laugh again and no one would look twice at her there. Yet the prospect of visiting her brother had lost much of its appeal since Jack’s death.

She wondered if Talgarth had received her letter about Jack. Poor Jack. She missed him dreadfully. He had been her rock. If not for Jack she was certain she’d have ended up in Bedlam before now. For all Jack’s sweet placidity he had known exactly how to manage the ill-tempered and violent George Jamison-Lewis; and to the amazement of J-L’s servants. But Selina knew all about her cousin’s relationship with her husband. Jack had told her, and right at the beginning of her marriage. She and Jack had danced about her boudoir the day J-L was found shot dead in the wood. They had been set free. Jack’s freedom lasted less than a month.

She tossed the hairbrush on the dressing table and stared critically at her reflection. She looked tired and there was no glow to her cheeks. What was she to do with this thick tangle of apricot-colored curls? Emily’s gold hair shone in the sun. God help the poor girl, marrying such a vile toad; at least this toad was not a woman-hater. The change that had come over Alec’s features, from talking to Emily to glancing across the room at her. She could only suppose her mere presence was enough to make him feel uncomfortable. How dare he regard her with an unforgiving eye… She turned away from the looking-glass.

“Evans? I asked you to open the windows. It’s too hot in here!”

“You’ve been thinking again,” her lady’s maid said stridently. “It doesn’t do for you to think.”

“Thank you, Evans. I shall remember that next time I feel the inner cogs taking a turn. Did you put the accounts on the table by the window?” Selina asked, slipping a flowered night robe over her cotton chemise but not bothering to button it. She went through to the bedchamber and sat at the small desk under the window where two thick ledgers, a bundle of bills tied up with black ribbon and a standish with fresh ink had been carefully arranged. “I’ll need another candle.”

“You need to sleep, not fill your head with numbers,” Evans lectured, roughly plumping the pillows and turning down the coverlet. “You have a man of business to do such menial tasks. I don’t know why you brought those books here when you’re supposed to be resting.”

Selina looked over her shoulder at the older woman and smiled. “I’ve always had a head for figure work. And I especially enjoy these figures because they are now mine. Well, almost, once I finalize J-L’s outstanding debts. Then we can start afresh.” She turned back to the desk and untied the black ribbon. “That candle, Evans. If you please. Then you may go to bed.” She ignored her maid’s muffled noise of infuriation and settled down to an hour pouring over the last of her late husband’s outstanding debts.

The candle burned too quickly in the cool night air which blew in through the open window. It had almost guttered twice, leaving a pool of hot wax in the bowl of the holder before Selina realized Evans had not returned with the requested replacement candle. She knew the woman thought she was doing her a favor by making her stop her calculations but Selina wasn’t tired enough, she needed to be exhausted before she could go to bed and sleep without dreaming. She put the ledger aside, the ink notations made in the columns still drying, and was about to fetch a candle herself when she heard a soft tread behind her.

“Thank you, Evans. Late but just in time.”

The hand that squeezed her shoulder did not belong to Evans.

Tam took the main staircase up to Miss Emily’s rooms knowing he was unlikely to meet any guests at this hour. If he did, they would be types like Lady Gervais who wouldn’t care a fig what the lackeys thought of their nocturnal wanderings. There was the usual night footman at the end of the passageway leading to Miss Emily’s apartments and Tam nodded to him as he went past.

He knocked on the furthest door of the suite of rooms. It was the door to Jenny’s small bedchamber. As personal maid to Miss Emily she had the privilege of a door off the main corridor and wasn’t confined to the servant stairs to run her errands. A chambermaid answered the knock and unceremoniously closed the door in Tam’s face.

Tam knocked again and when he was bluntly told Miss Jenny was not there and to go away he waited a moment and then opened the door, startling the chambermaid who was using Jenny’s small hand mirror and comb to busily fix her hair. Only one candle burned in Jenny’s bedchamber, a room with simple furnishings, feminine wall hangings and a pretty coverlet on the narrow bed. The window was shut tight against the cold night air. Tam set the porcelain dish with its flat porcelain cover on the dressing table while the chambermaid stomped her foot and hurriedly extracted a leaf from her tangled hair.

“Here. What you got there?” she demanded

“Tea for Miss Emily. For her headache,” said Tam. “Where’s Miss Jenny?”

“’ow should I know?” the girl answered sullenly. “I’ve been down in the kitchens this past hour seein’ t’things and fixin’ Miss Emily’s milk.”

Tam nodded at the door cut into the wallpaper of the far wall that gave access to Miss Emily’s rooms. “Door locked?”

“Don’t know. Not tried it.” She frowned as Tam crossed the room. “Aye! What y’ think y’doin? You can’t come bargin’ in ’ere! Jenny’ll be as mad as a hedgehog if she catches a lackey in ’er rooms.”

“I’m not a lackey. I’m Mr. Halsey’s valet. Jenny asked me to bring her the tea.” He put an ear to the wallpapered door. “Is Miss Emily in her rooms?”

“Don’t know, do I. I ain’t been ’ere. Like I told you. I’ll have to fetch more,” she grumbled, looking at the mug of milk on the dressing table. “Missy don’t like cold milk.”

Tam bit his lip. He didn’t know why, but he felt uneasy. In all probability Jenny and Miss Emily were huddled together gossiping about the dinner party. Yet it was unusual to keep the chambermaid waiting, especially when she had been sent to fetch hot milk. Why hadn’t Jenny let her in to deliver it nice and hot?

“I’m goin’ back to the kitchens,” the girl said with a long sigh. “You’d better leave. Y’can’t wait ’ere alone.”

Tam stayed by the door. “Did you try and open it?”

“Not my place.”

“Why don’t you try the handle and see if the door’s locked?”

The chambermaid shook her head and picked up the mug of milk. “It’s cold.”

Tam gently pulled on the handle and the door silently opened inwards. It was the chambermaid who screeched and tried to pull Tam back into the room. He shrugged her off, told her to hold her tongue and stuck his head around the door. There was no light. Something was not right. Tam had a terrible feeling all was dreadfully wrong.

The servant door at the far end of the darkened room was illuminated by the full moon and swinging wide, forced open by the air rushing up the narrow winding stair. Downstairs someone must have left a door open. The curtains billowed opened letting in a gust of cold night air and the eerie glow of the full moon, giving Tam a glimpse of an overturned chair. Just as quickly the curtains were sucked back against the window frame and the room was in complete darkness again. From somewhere deep within the room there was uncontrolled sobbing. Tam slowly moved into the blackness and stumbled over the uneven carpet. He picked himself up just as the curtains billowed again and a thousand tiny lights twinkled across the carpet. He felt the crunch of glass under foot and realized just what the tiny lights were.

And then the chambermaid let out a piercing scream just as Tam reached the four-poster bed and caught a glimpse of someone tangled in the tumble of bed clothes. He pushed the girl back into Jenny’s bedchamber, “Get help!
Run
. Go!
Now
,” and dashed back to the bed where Miss Emily lay sobbing face down with her arms over her head.

Emily’s gown had been ripped from her back.

“Gypsy”
hissed a voice at Selina’s ear, the hand leaving her shoulder to brush a soft curl from her neck.

For a split second Selina thought it was J-L and braced herself for the inevitable violence that accompanied her husband’s infrequent and uninvited visits to her bedchamber. But her husband was dead and having survived his unspeakable behavior she was determined that no one would frighten or abuse her ever again. So she slapped the hand away and pushed the chair back, hoping to off-balance the intruder. She turned and came face to face with the Earl of Delvin.

He retreated to the bed and poured wine into two glasses from a bottle he had brought with him.

“Join me in a toast, Gypsy?” he asked with all the aplomb of an invited guest. He held out a wine glass. When Selina refused it he put aside the bottle and her glass and sipped at his wine with a smile. “Oh, do you think I mean to poison you?”

“No,” Selina answered calmly. “That form of murder is too subtle for you. Green Park is more your style.”

Delvin was genuinely amused and sat down on the edge of the bed. “Yes, it is, isn’t it. Poison is a woman’s way; cowardly and unpredictable.” He glanced at the table under the window. “In your counting house, Gypsy?”

Although his smile remained fixed Selina heard the edge to his voice and smiled crookedly. “Oh, I don’t think I could count all of my inheritance in one lifetime, do you?”

“Black and blue but a wealthy widow nonetheless. It’s just as well for you the magistrate found in your favor.”

“Meaning?”

“We all know George blew his brains out. It wasn’t a shooting accident. Suicides forfeit their inheritance. He should have been buried at the crossroads where cowards belong.”

“Oh? Were you in expectation of receiving a legacy? How disappointing for you,” Selina said without sympathy.

“Odd that a man who loathed and despised females bequeathed his entire fortune to the one female he hated above all others.”

“Perhaps J-L had a conscience after all?” she retorted.

Delvin snorted. “George? A conscience? That’s rich! Come on,
Gypsy
. Tell me: How did you get him to sign that scrap of a will just before he put a shotgun in his mouth?”

“You forget. Jack and Andrews were the only ones to witness J-L’s signature.”

The Earl sneered. “I’m unlikely ever to forget your insipid cousin’s influence over George, Gypsy.” His gaze wandered to the desk again. “I don’t suppose that fool Andrews has come across that IOU?”

“No. Andrews has been through J-L’s documents—and so have I,” said Selina as she closed over the ledgers from his prying eyes and stacked them neatly, an eye to the guttering candle, thankful the candles in the wall sconce by the door still burned brightly enough to cast light across this half of the bedchamber. She heard the Earl swear softly and turned to face him with a smug smile. “I’m sure a man of your substantial means can live without a simple IOU, especially now you are to marry an heiress…?”