Jane and the Wandering Eye (26 page)

The Colonel coloured, and made some slight remark of deprecation—the fashion being now for clean-shaven faces—himself a slave to ladies’ good opinion.

“You are on leave for the Christmas holiday, Colonel?” I enquired.

“A few days only, to my despair.” This, with a glance for Lady Desdemona. “But every minute is as gold stored up against the poverty of winter.”

She blushed, and covered her emotion in leaning down to caress her horse’s mane. “Colonel Easton has expressed a desire to visit Simon, Grandmère—and I believe I shall attend him to the gaol.”

“My lady!” Miss Wren cried out in horror, and looked all her agony at the Fortescue sisters. “It is not to be thought of!”

“Is there any small item for Kinny’s comfort you should wish me to convey, Your Grace?” Lady Desdemona continued hurriedly.

The Dowager did not answer her for the space of a heartbeat. Then she smiled. “Send Simon my dearest love, of course—and my belief in his courage. He shall not remain there long.”

“No,” Lady Desdemona said thoughtfully, “for Uncle says he is to be conveyed to Ilchester on Monday.”

“You cannot condone such a foolish notion, Your Grace,” Miss Wren protested. “I am sure you cannot! For the daughter of the Duke of Wilborough, to be seen in such a place!”

“If the
heir
to the Duke of Wilborough is already in residence, I cannot believe it makes one whit of difference,” Lady Desdemona retorted, flaring. “Besides, I shall have Miss Austen as chaperone. Shan’t I, Miss Austen?”

“But of course,” I stammered.

“And with Easton to attend us, there cannot be the slightest objection. We shall travel in his phaeton, and go entirely unremarked. I am quite determined, Wren.” She wheeled her horse with grace and dexterity. “I tarry only to stable my mount, Miss Austen!”

With a smile and a bow, the Colonel cantered off at her heels.

“Only fancy, Louisa,” Augusta Fortescue remarked. “Dash Easton dancing attendance on Mona again. And without his whiskers, too! What
will
Charles say?”

It was unfortunate, I thought, that the Earl arrived too late for such a display; but his sisters had lost not a syllable of the conversation.

Chapter 12
Accusation of a Dead Man

15 December 1804, cont.
~

T
HE
B
ATH GAOL—A SMALL AFFAIR HARDLY INTENDED FOR
the imprisonment of a criminal legion, since such were summarily dispatched to Ilchester to await the quarterly Assizes—sits within the old town walls, hard by the Pump Room and the Abbey. I am no stranger to the stricter forms of incarceration, having braved so stern an institution as Newgate itself, on behalf of my beloved Isobel; but the Bath gaol recalls more nearly the prison of Lyme, in being a white-washed hovel of a building, more fitted to the shelter of beasts than men. Colonel Easton’s chaise drew up before the gates, and we descended to a spare courtyard from which the bustle of Bath’s streets had thankfully been banished. It but remained to make ourselves known, and enquire of the constable where Simon, Lord Kinsfell, might be found.

The Colonel hastened immediately about this errand; and we were rewarded, in a very little while, with his reappearance in company with a constable—one of the two, I believe, who descended upon Laura Place the
night of the murder. He was a jaded personage addressed only as Shaw, who possessed a broken front tooth displayed to advantage in leering at the Quality. I judged him to be full sixty years of age and unastonished by any of life’s present vicissitudes; accustomed to the seizure of pickpockets, drunkards, and footpads of every description, but hardly equal to the elucidation of a murder. He was content to believe that Kinsfell had stabbed poor Richard Portal from inebriated rage.

Mr. Shaw surveyed us with a curious blend of contempt and sympathy, and urged us to reconsider our notion of conversing with so dangerous a man; but Lady Desdemona was admirably determined. She pled the duty and feelings of a sister, and when seconded by so imposing a presence as the uniformed Colonel Easton, could not be gainsaid. Presently we were conveyed to a low door in a wall, where a gaoler sat whittling a stick. The fellow jumped up at our appearance, and pulled his forelock in salutation, at which Constable Shaw cuffed him absent-mindedly and bent to his keys.

“I shall return in a quarter-hour, sir,” he said with a bow to Easton, and an unfortunate exposure of the broken tooth, “a quarter-hour and no more.”

“Very well,” the Colonel replied.

Lady Desdemona drew a shaky breath, composed her features, and entered the dimly-lit room. I followed, with the Colonel behind.

I had known these odours before—of musty hay, poor drainage, and human excrement—but was nonetheless tempted to secure my handkerchief beneath my nose in an effort to block them out. The door shut-to at our backs, and I heard the key grate in the lock.

“Kinny!” Lady Desdemona cried.

A shadow against the opposite wall struggled to its feet, and shuffled but a few steps before halting to peer at us through the gloom. The cell was lit only by a small
window cut into the wall at ceiling’s height, and so late in December the shadows outside were already long.

“Have you been riding, Mona?” Lord Kinsfell enquired easily. Upon closer observation, the gentleman was revealed as being in irons at his wrists and ankles. “I don’t suppose you thought to exercise the Defender. He must be kicking down his box door from sheer boredom. And who is that with you?”

“You remember Colonel Easton, Simon?” his sister anxiously enquired.

“How could I possibly forget? I stood second to Swithin. Your servant, sir—and no ill feelings, I hope.”

“None whatsoever,” Easton replied. “I should be a rogue, indeed, did I extend my grievance to my enemy’s friends.”

“And this is Miss Austen, Simon—an acquaintance of Uncle’s, and now a friend of mine.”

“Your humble servant, madam—particularly in my present circumstances,” Kinsfell said with a smile. He attempted to bow, but his shackles denied him something of grace; and I observed a wave of irritation to pass over his countenance, leaving it careworn and older than his five-and-twenty years. The weight of his fears—the ignorance of his fate—the enforced inactivity and misspent energy—all must eat away at his complaisance and tell upon his nerves. For I judged that like his uncle, Lord Kinsfell was a man who must be constantly doing
something.
To be confined was for him to be entombed alive.

I stepped forward and bobbed a curtsey. “We have already met, Lord Kinsfell. Indeed, we danced a half-hour in each other’s company at Her Grace’s rout.”

“The little Shepherdess! But how delightful to meet again! Though I confess I am astonished to find you here, and Mona, too,” he added, turning towards his sister. “The guv’nor will be fit to be tied, does he hear of it!”

“And what if he is? Papa has quite despaired of
me
already, I assure you, Simon. Are you well?”

“Well enough,” her brother said diffidently. “I long for an exchange from hay, however—and the victuals my gaoler is pleased to offer fairly turn my stomach! Never knew how glad I should be for a fresh pot of coffee, or a pipe if it comes to that, until they were quite beyond my reach!” He reached a hand to his tousled head, as though to make the fair locks more presentable—but the irons at his wrist turned the effort awkward and ineffectual. A muttered oath, and he dropped his arms to his sides. “But tell me if you are able—how does Uncle get on?”

“As swiftly as the most cunning mind in the kingdom may,” I assured him. “He is never idle on your behalf.”

“It gladdens my heart to hear it—for I am to be moved to Ilchester soon, and shall have precious little hope of news.” He hesitated, and looked from his sister to Colonel Easton. “At least that magistrate cove is done hanging about. He quite puts the wind up a fellow.”

“The impertinence of the Law is not to be borne,” Colonel Easton remarked, “but we cannot presume that impertinence will prevail. Have courage, Kinsfell—for I am certain matters will come right in the end.” He bowed, and moved to the door. “I should not wish to presume upon such intimacy, Lady Desdemona. I shall await you in the courtyard.”

“You are very good, Easton.”

“Perhaps I should go with the Colonel,” I remarked.

“No—stay, I beg of you,” she cried, with a hand to my arm.

Her brother did not speak until the door had closed behind the Colonel. “So Easton is dancing attendance again, Mona? And when did he arrive in Bath?”

“Only yesterday. He was so good as to call in Laura Place, and express his outrage at your cruel treatment.”

“Then all the world must know of this business, if Dash Easton has left St. James on the strength of it,” Kinsfell mused gloomily. “And did he shave his whiskers as a sign of deference to a family overset by misfortune, I wonder? Or has he learned that you prefer your
beaux
clean-shaven?”

“Never mind that, Kinny,” she retorted in exasperation, and then stopped short. “‘Dash’ Easton? However did he come by that name?”

The Marquis smiled faintly. “He won it as his right—the result of a wager. Some of the fellows at White’s said he couldn’t dash from London to Brighton in record time without changing horses, and Easton said he could.”

“And did he?” I enquired curiously.

“Oh, yes—though at the expense of the unfortunate horse. Poor brute expired not five minutes after achieving Brighton. But Easton thought it worth the toss—he had wagered a year’s pay.”

“Good Lord!” Lady Desdemona cried, though not without admiration. “But, Kinny—we did not come here to talk of Easton’s pranks. Miss Austen is entirely in Uncle’s confidence, and may hear whatever you would say.”

“I can tell you nothing, Mona,” her brother said wearily.

“You know that to be the grossest falsehood, Kinny,” Lady Desdemona retorted impatiently. “Swithin attended the inquest, and he is convinced that you labour under an affair of honour—that you mean to go to the gallows rather than betray your trust. I did not sleep a wink last night for considering of it!”

“Swithin! But I thought you despised the fellow!”

“Oh, as to that—” She paused awkwardly. “He is the most odious of men, and throws poor Easton into quite a favourable light. Do you know that Uncle suspects
Swithin of the murder? And of leaving you to bear the blame?”

“But he was not even invited to Grandmère’s rout!”

“No more he was. But Uncle has found a pin we believe to be his—a snarling tiger, with rubies for eyes—dropped and forgotten in the anteroom passageway. You know it cannot have come there honestly, Kinny. Swithin must have crept in unannounced, under cover of a mask.”

“The Devil!” Lord Kinsfell exclaimed, and then looked to myself with comic anxiety. “I beg your pardon, Miss Austen. I hope I did not offend—”

“So you see, Kinny, there is no need to protect the Earl. You must tell us what you know,” his sister persisted. Her face shone palely through the gloom, and I knew that the abandonment of her favourite was not accomplished without a struggle. “Whatever your loyalty to Swithin, you must certainly never hang for it. He does not warrant such regard.”

“I do not pretend to understand you, Mona. I have no intention of shielding Swithin.”

“Kinny—you must try to be sensible, my dear.” Lady Desdemona reached a gloved hand for his manacled one. “Did you observe him, when first you entered the room and found Portal insensible?”

Lord Kinsfell shook his head. “I saw nothing of Swithin that night.”

“But perhaps you saw a Pierrot?” I suggested. “A broad-shouldered fellow, not unlike the Earl. Throughout Her Grace’s rout, I observed a similar figure in conversation with Maria Conyngham.”

He started at this, and surveyed me narrowly. “And what should Maria Conyngham have to do with Mr. Portal’s death? You saw yourself how destroyed she was by his end.”

I shrugged. “We know her to be allied in the closest terms with Lord Swithin.”

“I fear you are mistaken, madam,” Kinsfell cried, with a conscious look for Lady Desdemona. “Lord Swithin is excessively attached to my sister!”

“Oh, Kinny,” Lady Desdemona retorted in exasperation, “how
can
you serve Miss Austen so! She speaks no more than the truth. We have all been treated to a display of Swithin’s attachment for myself—and it is nothing compared to his attentions to Miss Conyngham! He waits upon her at the Theatre Royal, and the Lower Rooms; and she meets his attentions with the most lively sensibility.”

The Marquis threw himself down on the dirty hay and put his head in his hands. “I cannot believe it of Maria.”