Death in Hellfire (18 page)

“And did you want to break it?”

“Of course not. But I could have done with more attention.”

“I asked you to marry me, Coralie.”

She opened her mouth to reply but the words never came. Running down the corridor, wearing a night-rail several sizes too large for her, her feet bare and her hair down, came the Countess of Orpington.

“Where is Charles?” she said to the Apothecary pleadingly. “I’ve got to see him. I must speak with him.”

“Madam,” said John, extremely formally, “may I present to you Lady Arundel, the gentlemen in question’s wife.”

Chapter Fifteen

L
ady Orpington barely swept Coralie a curtsey, in fact she did not even look at her. John felt rather than saw the actress’s annoyance.

“I must see Charlie,” the girl babbled on. “If he is ill I must go to him.”

“How do you do, Lady Orpington,” Coralie answered icily. “I trust I find you well. I’m afraid my husband is resting at present and cannot be disturbed.”

“But he will see me,” the Countess said. Then, raising her voice, shouted, “Charlie, Charlie, forgive me. I love you. I want to see you, my darling.”

“Oh, for
heaven’s
sake,” snapped Coralie, losing her temper and her patience simultaneously, “go away, you meddlesome creature. You are welcome to have my husband at any time you wish but not when the poor devil is trying to get some sleep. Now be off with you.”

At that moment, running up the main staircase, clearly alarmed by the shouting, came Dominique. He bowed to Coralie.

“My dear madam, what is happening?”

“The Countess of Orpington is behaving very badly,” said the actress, not mincing her words. “If you could remove her, Monsieur Jean, you would be doing us all a great favour.”

“It will be my pleasure to attempt to do so, madam.” Very gently he took hold of Lady Orpington’s arm. “Would it be possible, my dear lady, to know your first name?” His voice had adopted an almost hypnotic quality, much aided by his wonderful French accent. “That is if you have no objection to telling me.”

She looked at him through tears, though whether they were being wept because of genuine sorrow for her lover or just plain frustration it was difficult to tell.

“It is Arabella,” she replied coldly.

Dominique kissed his fingertips and gave her a deep look. “How charming. What a delight.”

“But only intimate friends use it…”

“Like Charlie,” Coralie interrupted sarcastically.

Lady Orpington gave her a chilly look but made no response.

“Would it also be in order for you to accompany me downstairs,” Dominique continued blandly, “because Sir Francis Dashwood is most anxious for you to rejoin him.”

“I shall go down,” the girl replied with dignity, “because you wish me to and I have no desire to make a scene in a strange house…”

A little late for that, thought John.

“…but I shall return later and look in on the Marquess of Arundel.”

And with that she turned on her heel and stalked downstairs, Dominique following calmly behind her.

Dinner that early evening was one of the most strained occasions that John had ever attended. Little Georgiana was there, her hair flowing round her shoulders like a cascade. She sat in silence, looking at her plate, not catching the eye of any of the adults. Coralie, her mother, sat opposite her, beautiful but drawn, her face almost a mask that even John, who knew her better than any other at the table, could not penetrate. Beside him, wearing one of Lady
Dashwood’s
gowns which ill became
her,
was the young Countess of Orpington. She had got a grip on herself and was putting up a creditable performance, though Sir Francis kept shooting glances at her and winking his eye, which glistened in his rubicund face like a jewel. Dominique was also at table, looking very different from when he was arrayed for work in a smart suit of clothes, discreetly but effectively embroidered with silver thread. John could not help but wonder how poor, sick Charles Arundel, whose future looked grim indeed, could be faring.

As if reading his thoughts, Lady Dashwood said, “I shall get some soup sent up to poor Lord Arundel.”

She sat at the right of Sir Francis, trying desperately to make small talk, and the Apothecary felt his heart go out to
her.
Nobody was in the mood for conversation, except for the host who was enjoying his wine and his recent memories. But the rest sat in silence, the sound of cutlery banging on plates enhanced, the noise of the rain beating down outside like that of distant drums. John felt himself getting more and more depressed and longed to be back at the George and Dragon, recounting everything to Samuel, who would sit listening to him, large-eyed and faithful as ever. Yet he knew that to set off in these conditions would be disastrous. Then an idea struck him. He turned to Dominique.

“Is your carriage not here, my friend?”

“Alas, no. It is being repaired in the village. Today I paid regard to my health and walked here and I am rewarded by a thunderstorm.”

He rolled his eyes and looked terribly Gallic and John smiled.

At the sound of their voices the others tried to make desultory conversation and Lady Orpington said, “I was heading for Oxford,
don’t
you know, but I lost my way and ended up here. I do trust you will forgive my intrusion, Lady Dashwood.”

Sir Francis boomed a laugh. “Yes, strange how one road can look like another. Strange, too, how signposts are often turned to point in the wrong direction. I mean to say, Oxford is rather difficult to find, what?”

He exploded with mirth, a laugh in which nobody else joined at all.

“Quite so,” said his wife in her dull tones. “I think it was most unfortunate for you, my dear, to lose your direction on such a terrible day. Never mind. It will probably rain itself out overnight and you will be able to leave in the morning.”

The Countess nodded and said, “I hope so,” in a voice that utterly lacked conviction.

Coralie looked up. “So we are all to stay here overnight?”

“Indeed yes,” answered Lady Dashwood. “Mr Jean, if you would not mind having a spare bed in the servants wing.”

“Me, I sleep anywhere. Of course I do not mind.”

“And you, Mr
O’Hare,
will be in the small guest bedroom at the eastern end of the house.”

“Thank you, Lady Dashwood,” John answered solemnly. He turned to look at Georgiana, who so far had sat absolutely mute. “Well, my dear, have you had a pleasant day?”

She regarded him, her face pale and almost haggard looking. “I went riding this morning but after it started to rain I did painting in my room.”

“How interesting,” he found himself saying. “I would like to see some of your pictures.”

“I will show you,” she answered and ceased to look at him, clearly indicating that the conversation was at an end.

Yet again John wondered that such a silent child could be the product of that most vocal of women, Coralie Clive. Then he thought of
Georgiana’s
history, of the strong possibility of molestation at the hands of her father, and regretted his thoughts.

Lady Dashwood was making a move to rise. “Ladies, if you would like to follow me we will withdraw.”

Coralie got up and took her daughter firmly by the hand; the Countess of Orpington, looking terribly young, came up behind them.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Sir Francis said,
“Now,
lads, lets get down to some serious drinking.”

John could only marvel at the stamina of the man. He was no youngster yet he had ridden back from Medmenham Abbey after a night, no doubt, of total debauchery. And he had then proceeded to cope with the unexpected arrival of the Countess, the sickness of Charles Arundel, whilst simultaneously getting comfortably drunk. And here he was instructing Dominique and John to join him in serious drinking. It was Dominique who, after finishing one glass of port, stood up.

“Forgive me,
sir,
but I have worked hard today and I am feeling tired. If you would be kind enough to excuse me. I shall, of course, say goodnight to your wife.”

John made this his moment. “I, too, am exhausted, Sir Francis. Will you forgive me if I leave you also?”

“I
don’t
know what it is with you youngsters.
You’ve got
water in your veins, not blood. I’d have taken you for a drinking man,
O’Hare.”

The Apothecary winked an eye. “Forgive me, sir. I would normally have joined you but the excesses of last night are catching up with me. I really must to my bed. I, too, will bid your wife…”

But here his words were stopped for once more there came a thunderous knocking on the front door.

“God’s
wounds, whoever can that be?” exclaimed Sir Francis, signing the other two to be silent while he listened for sounds from the hall.

There was the noise of the door being opened and then a
man’s
voice said, “Is Sir Francis Dashwood at home?”

“I shall see, sir.”

“Don’t
give me that, you rogue. Out of my
way,
damn you.” There was the sound of confusion and the next minute the door of the dining room flew open and a red-faced man of aristocratic mien stood in the entrance.

“I’m
the Earl of Orpington,” he announced angrily, “and I have reason to believe that my wife is at present hiding under your roof.”

Sitting up in bed an hour later, John thought that it had been Dominique who had saved the
day.
He had risen to his feet, bowed, and said in a pronounced French accent, “Monsieur le Duc
…
” an oversight which could be forgiven in the circumstances, “…votre bonne femme est ici. Ze poor lady lost ‘er way and
‘aving
knowledge of Sir
Francis’s
house she came ‘ere for protection.”

“A likely
story,”
her husband had fumed.

He was an unattractive creature to say the very least.

Extremely red in the face with swinging, swaying jowls, he had large yellow teeth which gnashed as he spoke. His figure, too, was not of the best, skinny legs and a big stomach topped by a pair of sloping shoulders. Knowing that one should not judge people by appearances alone, John had nonetheless taken a dislike to the man on sight.

“Where is she?” the Earl had gone on. “I demand to see
her.”

“
Demand away, sir.” This from Sir Francis. “The lady has withdrawn from the table in the company of my wife and Lady Arundel.”

“Then I’ll go to her and sift
her.
She’s up to no good and I know it.”

John, eating an apple before he cleaned his teeth, reflected on what had happened next. The Earl had gone storming into the hall, closely followed by the other three men, and had tried every door until eventually he found the one to the drawing room to which the ladies had withdrawn. This he had flung open and had stood in the doorway, one trembling finger pointing at his wife.

“So, madam, I have found you at last.”

The poor girl had jumped to her feet, thoroughly startled, and had promptly erupted into a wild tempest of tears.

“Oh, Husband, I beg you don’t be angry. I was on my way to visit Aunt Dorothea in Oxford and I lost my way. Oh forgive me, do.”

The Earl had stood silently, staring at Lady Dashwood and his girl-wife, for Coralie had disappeared with the child, presumably to bed her down for the night. John imagined that while the man remained quiet he had been working out the best strategy and had decided that to make even more of a public scene would not be in his best interests.

He said gruffly, “Forgive my tone of voice, Lady Dashwood. I’ve been near apoplexy over the disappearance of my wife. You could have written to me, you little wretch.”

She started to wheedle, getting up and quite literally stroking herself round him like a cat at feeding time.

“But, my dearest, I left you a note. Did you not see it? Aunt Dorothea was taken poorly and I felt it my duty to wait upon her. Surely you must have read that?”

“One of the servants must have removed it. I saw nothing.”

“Oh, how could they be so careless?” She had by that stage been actually stropping herself round his frame. “Poor, dear Husband. No wonder you were in such a fury.”

John and Dominique had stood watching, Sir Francis a step or two in front of them, and the Apothecary had thought to himself what buffoons men were. For here was this angry old man actually being soothed by his little
wife’s
cat-like performance. John had seen at a glance how Arabella had got the old idiot eating out of her hand. But for how much longer? he wondered.

Dominique had murmured to him, “I think
I’ve
seen enough. I’m travelling back to London day after tomorrow and I need all the sleep I can get.”

“I’m
off too.
I’ve
had my fill of it.”

The Frenchman had given him a wry grin.
“There’s
no fool like an old fool, so they
say.”