The Birth of Blue Satan (12 page)

“Well, I wish I could say I was sorry to see you, but the truth is I need your help. I want you to find out why Sir Joshua Tate is able to convince himself that I stabbed my own father.”

As his bitterness escaped, Tom’s hands grew very still. In a moment, they resumed their activity, but Gideon could feel Tom’s anger vibrating beneath the calmness of his words. “I told the constable that your lordship was attacked here in the street. The Frenchy and Will did, too.”

“It appears, nevertheless, that someone in this household disputes what patently occurred. See if you can find out who it is. Will you, Tom?”

But Tom had been thinking, a frown on his forehead. “Mayhap it’s that new boy, milord. That Jim we just took on. He said your lordship was in a rare heat when you came back to town. Looked like he’d tooken your lordship in dislike, if you’ll excuse the liberty. I had to speak to him sharp-like for abusing your lordship when he stabled your horse.”

Gideon considered this, but the notion that a stable boy with a grudge could sway a justice of the peace when all the other servants supported his story seemed ludicrous. There had to be more behind Sir Joshua’s accusations than this.

More angry than concerned—though a niggling fear warned him not to dismiss Sir Joshua’s bias lightly—Gideon instructed Tom to find out if the new groom had been questioned by the law.

Later that night, Tom came back to say that Jim had indeed been questioned by a constable and later by Sir Joshua himself. Tom could ruefully add that none of the other servants’ stories—his own included—had been accorded that much attention by the officers of the law.

‘Twas He had summoned to her silent bed

The morning dream that hovered o’er her head;

A Youth more glittering than a Birth-night Beau,

(That even in slumber caused her cheek to glow) . . .

O say what stranger cause, yet unexplored,

Could make a gentle Belle reject a Lord?

CHAPTER 6

The next morning, Hester was sitting at her aunt’s writing table responding to the invitations Isabella was reading out, when Mrs. Mayfield bustled into the room and hurriedly shut the door.

“Quick, Hester!” she whispered in a panicked voice. “St. Mars is below. You must hurry down to speak to him.”

Hester started to her feet. “Lord St. Mars? He has come to see
me
?”

“No, foolish girl! It is Isabella he wants to see. But I will not let her go to him.”

Isabella erupted with, “Oh, no! I do not wish to see him, Mama!”

“There, there. Nobody will make you, pet, as I’ve said. I would not have you talking to murderers, would I? But you, Hester, tell him Isabella is too unwell to receive visitors today.”

By now, Hester had composed herself, ashamed of her revealing outburst. She had worried so much over St. Mars, it had almost—ridiculously—seemed natural that he would come to her if he survived. She welcomed the news of his recovery with such a full heart that it took a moment for her aunt’s words to sink in.

“You wish me to lie to him, ma’am? Why not say yourself that you forbid Isabella to see him? For if you turn him away today, I make no doubt he will call again tomorrow.”

“I don’t forbid it, insolent girl!” With a flush, Mrs. Mayfield took a few nervous turns about the room. “I have no wish to offend his lordship. I merely wait to see which way the wind will blow.”

Hester knew how frantic her aunt had become over Isabella’s prospects. As she herself had predicted, the Duke of Bournemouth’s attentions had waned. He had not visited Isabella once since Lord Eppingham’s ball. Neither had he sent her any more verses or gifts.

Even Mr. Letchworth had stopped his daily inquiries at the house, and the pace of his missives had slowed. With St. Mars ill, Bella’s most determined suitor had disappeared, so her mother had thrown herself into the pursuit of his possible successor. Only Mrs. Mayfield’s encouragement of Sir Harrowby had kept that gentleman coming, however, for with all the matters attendant upon Lord Hawkhurst’s funeral, he had barely had a moment to call.

The result was that the house had seemed unsettlingly quiet, and Mrs. Mayfield had grown more anxious by the day. With the Duke apparently out of the running, her goal had naturally fixed upon the earldom of Hawkhurst. Yet, she could not be certain which gentleman would inherit.

Rumours continued to fly. Everyone had heard of the constables at Hawkhurst House. Sir Harrowby had grown less reticent by the day and had let some of the Crown’s information out. With Mrs. Mayfield’s encouragement, he had begun to suspect his cousin more openly. Hester had done what she could to counteract her aunt’s influence, but since Sir Harrowby’s personal interest coincided so completely with Mrs. Mayfield’s, she had had no success.

Mrs. Mayfield shooed her out of the room before Hester could protest again. “Tell him that my daughter is unwell. But do not offend him, Hester. And for Isabella’s sake, do not let on that she fears him. You will know what to say. You always do.”

Nervous, and feeling unequal to the task, Hester took a moment to compose herself at the top of the stairs. Mrs. Mayfield had slammed the bedroom door behind her and would not notice if she tidied her hair. The hallway had no glass, and she could only hope that her clothes looked neat and her colour normal. She had not been dowered with a complexion to blush.

For once, grateful for this distinctly unromantic characteristic, she hurried down to the withdrawing room and opened the door.

Inside, she found three men—two burly ones who must be constables, standing near the door with their arms crossed, and his lordship, pacing the room.

Dressed in black from head to toe, St. Mars looked extremely pale, but nearly as eager and restless as ever as he glanced up to see who had entered. Hester felt a moment of intense relief to see him so much like his former self when she had feared his death. She prepared herself to witness his disappointment, but all she saw was surprise as his mind adjusted to the sight of her instead of her cousin.

As he came forward to greet her, Hester dropped into a deep curtsey. “My lord, I am glad to see you restored to health.”

In his gallant way, he took her hand to help her up before bowing, equally low. “Thank you, Mrs. Kean. I seem to remember that I have you to thank for your solicitude the evening of the ball.”

She did blush. She could feel it. But seldom had Hester been thrown so far off guard. “My lord, I am only sorry I could do nothing to spare you the pain of that gentleman’s news. You have my deepest sympathy on the loss of your father.”

Gideon felt the sincerity behind her words, and it made him falter. It was a moment before he could respond. “Thank you, Mrs. Kean. Perhaps because of the circumstances of my father’s death, I have received fewer words of consolation than you might imagine. Everyone seems more earnestly intent on accusing me of the murder.”

He ignored her cry of protest to add, “You will have to beg Mrs. Mayfield’s forgiveness for my bringing these men into her drawing room. They insist on accompanying me wherever I go.”

He had not meant to let his bitterness show, but it had slipped into his voice. Instead of condemnation, however, he read her understanding of his mortification in her eyes.

After only a moment’s hesitation, she seemed to take some resolve. She retreated to the door and opened it. “No apology is required, my lord. Nevertheless, I see no need for these men to stand while we conduct our visit. They may descend to the kitchen, where I am certain the cook will find them something to drink. A glass of sack, perhaps?”

The constables gave an eager jump, then glanced at each other as if for permission.

Gideon had been privy to their complaints about this unusual duty away from their homes. As unpaid officers of the Crown, these petty constables had been asked to come away from their real occupations and leave their families to go up to London to act guard in a hostile household. Under the circumstances, Gideon was sure that his servants had not been the most gracious hosts to these two men, the one a butcher from Flimwell, the other an innkeeper from Cranbrook. He understood that the constable in Hawkhurst, who knew him, had refused to come on the grounds that it was a fool’s errand.

In spite of his embarrassment and the anguish he had wakened to the previous morning, he almost had to laugh at the play of emotions across their faces. Duty demanded that they watch him, but the mention of sack, when they had had nothing better than his meanest beer for the past several days, was more temptation than they could resist.

He decided to give them a push. “If you men agree that you should respect this lady’s wishes in her own house, then I for one will swear an oath not to flee until you have taken up your duties again.”

He was tempted by a light in Mrs. Kean’s eyes, to add, in a serious tone, “And, if I were to attempt to leave, I am certain that a lady of Mrs. Kean’s noble character would be prepared to sacrifice her life rather than to allow a heinous felon like me to escape.

“Is that not true, Mrs. Kean?” He directed the constables’ gazes her way, then indulged in a smile.

He could see that she would be forced to think of something dire to avoid breaking out in a laugh when both constables quickly urged her not to do anything so foolish, but to call on them for help at the slightest provocation.

“I promise not to restrain his lordship myself,” she conceded, “although I doubt it will be necessary. He has given you his word.”

“Just you leave the door open, miss, and we’ll be sure to hear.”

Gideon was astonished to witness her rather pale cheeks bloom with a sudden infusion of pink. “It is not my practice to receive men—even such perfect gentlemen as my Lord St. Mars—in a closeted room. I shall call you, however, when he goes.”

The warmer colour became her. It was amusing to see a lady as levelheaded as Mrs. Kean put out of countenance by something as harmless as these men’s ignorance. But then, he reminded himself, she was a parson’s daughter.

She ushered the constables out and handed them over to a servant.

When she returned, her face—and her colour—were once again composed. She was careful to leave the door half-open.

“Now, my lord,” she said. “Perhaps you would care to be seated?”

Gideon laughed and waited for her to take a chair before lowering himself onto a sofa. “That was well done, Mrs. Hester. I should beg you to act for me with Sir Joshua Tate. If once you could speak with him, I am certain I would be relieved of those men.”

“They must be a dreadful nuisance, my lord.” Though she kept her tone light, he could sense the sympathy underneath.

During her absence, Gideon had had the time to ponder why she had received him instead of Mrs. Mayfield or Isabella. As he studied her, he could see that she was trying to show him the same calm, friendly mien she always had, but that something was bothering her. In the silence that fell between them, she found it hard to meet his gaze.

“Are you not afraid to be alone in the room with a possible murderer, Mrs. Kean?”

She started, in embarrassment, not fear, before she frowned. “That is plainly nonsense, my lord.”

“I am glad you seem to think so. May I ask if your cousin and your aunt both share your opinion?”

He could see her reluctance to hide the truth from him.

“You must be wondering why I received you,” she said. “And I apologize for leaving you to wonder. I am afraid your companions diverted me from my errand. My aunt sent me down with her compliments, but instructed me to tell you that Isabella is too unwell to receive visitors today.”

“She is ill?”

“Not so very ill, my lord.” She reassured him with a gentle smile. “There is nothing to fear.”

He hoped his stare would encourage her to say more, but she stayed silent, her hands folded nervously in her lap.

Gideon stood her silence for as long as he could. Then he jumped up and started to pace. A glance at Mrs. Kean revealed her chagrin.

He moved to stand in front of her. “Tell me, Mrs. Kean. Would your cousin’s illness have anything to do with the fact that two constables dog my every step?”

She looked down. “I am certain that Isabella would be . . . very distressed to learn of your lordship’s troubles, if she could see how unpleasant they have become.”

“And Mrs. Mayfield? Is she too ill to receive me?”

She threw him an unhappy glance. “I am not fully aware of my aunt’s state of health, my lord.”

“Then, tell me this, Mrs. Kean. If I were to return tomorrow—or the day after, or the week after this—would Isabella be at home to me then?”

With a straightening of her spine, she looked him in the eye. “I fear not, my lord. Not until my aunt should approve your visit.”

“Ah.” He started pacing again.

He tried to master his anger, but his need to see Isabella was driving him to distraction. He had passed here before leaving on his journey to Hawkhurst because he knew he would not be able to come back until he had found his father’s killer. Last night he had been tormented by the possibility that the Duke of Bournemouth had declared himself while he had been unconscious. Fortunately, Philippe had been reading
The Daily Courant
and had not seen any announcement of that kind. He had hoped to have received some sign of regret from Isabella for his loss, but no note had been sent. If he could not speak to her soon to reassure her of his innocence, he was terribly afraid she would become engaged to someone else.

Aware of Mrs. Kean’s eyes upon him, he stopped again and tried to smile. “I suppose the only course for me, then, is to prove without a doubt that I did not kill my father, even though the notion is
ludicrous
. But Sir Joshua Tate, the magistrate—who hates my family—seems to have taken it into his head that I am the only suspect. I have no idea what he bases this theory upon, for he refuses to tell me what evidence he has, and he has the law behind him. I cannot force him to confront me with my accusers, and no one else has the courage to tell me to my face the information that has been laid.”