The Birth of Blue Satan (32 page)

“Please believe me, sir, when I say that I meant no rebuke. It is impossible for me to comprehend how she
can
have formed a preference for a man as silly and witless as your cousin, but she has.”

She was relieved to hear his chuckle. “Thank you, Mrs. Kean, for that balm to my vanity. I am glad to find that your innate good taste is as sound as ever.” As he stood before her, his smile faded and his gaze sought the ground.

She tried to help. “Knowing how much you—loved Isabella, it has pained me to see her affections directed elsewhere. But she does care for Sir Harrowby, my lord. I cannot say that she might not have come to love someone else, but my aunt gave her no time or opportunity to choose.”

His tone grew hard. “This is her doing, then?”

Hester nodded, no longer caring if her aunt’s character were exposed to him in all its ugliness. “She has been determined to make Isabella a splendid match. When the Duke of Bournemouth became engaged to another, and you disappeared, she threatened to marry Isabella to Mr. Letchworth if she did not catch your cousin. And the only thing that made Sir Harrowby acceptable in my aunt’s eyes—for, as you know, she had always discouraged him before—was his increase in fortune.”

“The Duke of Bournemouth did not offer for her?” he asked sharply.

“No, an announcement was made that the king has arranged a marriage for him—to the daughter of a German prince.”

Hester did not understand why this news seemed to excite him. She started to ask him, when he said, “And she would have married her to Letchworth. Ye gods, it doesn’t bear thinking about!”

“She was encouraging him to feel hope until your cousin proposed. I am afraid he took the news very badly, which is one of the reasons that they were married secretly last night in Sevenoaks.”

“Poor man.” He spoke absentmindedly. After a few moments, he glanced over at her and said, “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Kean. My mind was wondering.”

“You must not think of it,” she said, painfully aware that it was the thought of Isabella that had distracted him. “What is it that bothers you about his Grace, my lord?”

He shook his head dismissively. Then, seeming to think better of her interest, he stood for a moment, irresolute, before abruptly sitting beside her on the fallen tree.

With his elbows on his knees, he wearily raked his head. “I have been trying to discover who killed my father. And I have reason to believe that his Grace of Bournemouth might have done it.”

Hester’s stomach gave an uncomfortable leap. “What reason would that be, my lord?”

His hesitation reminded her that she had no right to ask. She was about to withdraw her question, when he answered, “This is something I have told to no one. Not even to Tom, my servant, even though he has sacrificed his security for me.”

He turned towards her and in an earnest voice said, “It is not a comfortable secret, Mrs. Kean. You may wish I had not told it to you, yet I’ll admit that I have more than once wished for your advice.”

He leaned closer. “Will you hear it, and will you promise never to repeat a word? I know this is much to ask, but you have been my friend before, and I have never been more in need of one than now.”

Hester was stunned that he had thought of her at all. A warmth spread from the bottom of her heart to the tips of her limbs. She answered without the slightest hesitation, “I would be honoured to assist you, my lord.”

Even in the dark, she could sense his relief, which was all the reward she asked. Then, she listened in fascination, as he told her of the Duke’s peculiar request at his father’s funeral, of the papers he had found implicating him and others in a Jacobite plot, and of his certainty that the Duke was the only man on his father’s list who had changed his allegiance to King George.

“Oh, dear.” She felt a flutter of danger in her veins. “I can see why you suspect him, my lord. What may I do to help you prove it or disprove it?”

His startled laugh took her by surprise. “My dear Mrs. Kean, I believed—no, I
knew
you would not disappoint me, but your willingness to help is a greater blessing than I would have dared to hope for.”

A blush suffused her from the pleasure in his voice.

He continued, “I have wanted to ask you if you remember what time the Duke arrived at Lord Eppington’s ball.”

She pondered. She could certainly remember when her aunt had noticed his arrival. Mrs. Mayfield had always made sure of the presence of Isabella’s suitors.

“He came later than we did, and we arrived at ten o’clock because Isabella had promised a dance to someone at that hour.” Hester instantly regretted reminding him of Isabella. She was grateful for the darkness that concealed his reaction, though his body did seem to shift. “I cannot say for certain, but he must have come near eleven o’clock.”

He turned away as if to think. “That was before I was attacked in the street. And the attack was designed to throw the blame on me. Whoever killed my father overheard our quarrel and waited until I was gone before entering the library to murder him. The argument must have given him the idea of making me his scapegoat, but he had to make it look as if I was the person who had been wounded by my father’s sword.”

He mused a few moments. “If his Grace did it, he would have had to ride to London in time to dress for the ball. But he could have sent a footman or another servant to attack me.”

“When would he have left the Abbey?” Hester asked.

“Half an hour or so after I did. My father kept country hours, and I spoke to him before breakfast. I came to town after dark, but I would have arrived at the ball much earlier if Philippe, my valet, had worked faster or if I had not been attacked.”

“Is his Grace capable at his age of making that ride in one day?”

She could tell that her question was one he had asked himself.

“He could have when younger for certain. He fought in the war with Marlborough, which would have meant long days in the saddle. And he must have a dozen horses, at least, that could handle a journey at top speed. He never misses a meet at Newmarket.”

“But, what about now? Is he still able to ride that distance and appear at a ball in the evening?”

“I don’t know. I suspect he could, but whether he could conceal his fatigue and a wound to his arm—that is what I cannot decide. How did he seem to you that night?”

Hester began apologetically, “I was not looking at him with that sort of question in mind, so I cannot be sure, but I do not think there was anything extraordinary in his appearance or his manner. The only thing I noticed was that he only stood up for one dance with Isabella, which, at the time, made me believe he had lost interest in her.”

“It might have been because he was fatigued.”

She agreed reluctantly, then added, “I know my aunt feared it was due to a loss of interest because she began to grow desperate at that point.”

She wanted to be as honest with him as he had been with her. “Her eagerness to see Isabella well married had as much to do with her troubles, you see, as it did with ambition. She has large gambling debts that must be paid.”

St. Mars gave her a sideways glance, before shaking his head ruefully. With a touch of wry humor, he said, “I thought there was nothing more you could tell me to depress me, Mrs. Kean. But now it appears that not only has Harrowby made off with my title, but I must also watch my fortune be wasted on Mrs. Mayfield’s gambling debts. At least that is one aspect of the business I don’t have to envy him.”

Hester admired his ability to laugh even in these disheartening circumstances. She wished she could reach out and stroke his hair.

Unwilling to let this feeling run away with her, she referred to something else that had been on her mind. “Has it never occurred to you, my lord, that Sir Harrowby has benefited more than anyone else from your misfortune?”

“You are asking if he could be the murderer?”

“Yes, that is what I must wonder, although I know it sounds preposterous.”

A sudden shaft of moonlight illuminated his face and she saw a quick grin, soon tinged with grief. She wondered if he had thought of his father . . . or Isabella.

“I admit, I have a hard time envisioning Harrowby as a villain. He has never been a good horseman, and you’ve seen how long it takes a carriage to make the journey here.”

“If his ambition were as large as the stakes, would he never be able to ride a horse?”

Her suggestion sobered him. “You are right. I should think of it that way.” He pondered again, then said, “I know how you can discover it for me if you will, Mrs. Kean. My valet, Philippe, is still loyal to me, and if I know anything about Harrowby, I know that he has coveted my valet. Not enough to do murder to get him, perhaps, but he will quickly overcome any scruples he has in employing my servants for himself. He will most assuredly employ Philippe.”

“You wish me to ask him if Sir Harrowby has a wound on his shoulder?”

“Yes—on his left side—although Philippe will remember. He was the one who tended me throughout my illness.”

“Could your cousin have employed someone else?”

He gave his head a shake. “It is more inconceivable to think of Harrowby’s dealing with a cutthroat, than it is to imagine him as an assassin. He would not have the courage.

“No,” he continued with a sigh, “the only reason I can even entertain the notion of Harrowby as my father’s murderer is the cowardly way in which it was done.”

He told her how his father had been stabbed, describing the bruise from the oddly-shaped hilt on Lord Hawkhurst’s back.

“I still cannot understand how my father turned his back on a man carrying a sword. It
must
have been someone he trusted.”

She could feel every hurt and every bitter thought that stoked his grief.

“Is there no one from the Abbey who might have done it?”

In his long hesitation, she read another source of pain. She could do nothing but wait.

In the end he told her of his discovery that James Henry, his father’s most trusted servant, was a half-brother he had never known he had. He described their midnight confrontation and James Henry’s suspicions of him.

Hester knew that it pained him to talk of this brother who hated him, but she felt she must ask, “Are you certain that he told you the truth, my lord? If I understand you, you have no one’s word that he is your father’s son but his.”

“When you see him, you will wonder that his face didn’t tell me long ago. But I was gone for three years, you see, and it was during my absence that he gained such an important position in my father’s household. When I came back, I was so eager to assume my own place that I had very little time to think of anyone else. My father had tried to arrange for my election to Parliament, but in those three years, Kent had gone entirely to the Whigs. His bitter disappointment when I lost—and my own wish for society, I confess—kept me in London most of the time. I was dimly aware of James Henry’s dislike for me, but I seldom saw him.”

“Do you have any suspicion that he might have killed your father? I thought he was the one who reported your quarrel to Sir Joshua.”

“Yes, he was. Although
if
, as he said, he had an affection for our father, I can see how he might have believed me guilty, particularly with his hatred for me.

“He might have done it,” St. Mars went on, “but I find it hard to see what he would have gained. My father was making him an attractive allowance, which he has now lost. If he did commit murder, it was for a reason other than money.”

“When you confronted him, did you see if he had been wounded?”

“No. I’m afraid that the shock of discovering a brother, on top of everything else, drove every useful thought from my mind.”

Hester could imagine the swarm of emotions he must have felt on making his discovery. Chagrin would have been the very least of them. Not knowing what to say, she tried to think of a way to help him determine James Henry’s innocence or guilt, but before she could, he asked her, “I would be very grateful if you would tell me your impressions of James Henry after you have met him. He will certainly wait upon my cousin, and you might find an occasion to engage him in conversation. I—I had a feeling about him. But with such animosity between us, I cannot trust my own feelings. Your opinion may be helpful in settling my own.”

“I will do my best, my lord. But where can I reach you?”

“Send a message to Mr. Brown at the Fox and Goose in Pigden. And be sure to include whatever Philippe has to say about Harrowby.”

“Will there be a difficulty in posting it?”

“It would be better if no one saw the address. If you go into Hawkhurst, you can give it to the postmaster yourself. If not, tell one of our pages, Clem, to take it in for you. He is a bright boy, but he cannot read. As long as no one else sees your letter, he will not question it.

“But no,” he said, suddenly changing his mind. “I had rather get your answers sooner than that. And you might find it hard to send a servant on an errand when you are new to the household.” He turned towards her. “Would you be willing to meet me? In a week’s time?”

“Yes, but how—and where?” She felt her heart speeding up just at the thought.

“When you get to the Abbey, you will notice the ruins just below the house. No one goes there. The servants believe they are haunted.”

“Dear me!”

He grinned. “I hope you do not believe in ghosts, Mrs. Kean?”

“No, I don’t, however, I daresay there is something vastly unpleasant about them if no one visits them at all.”

“I’m rather fond of them myself. Will you meet me there or not?”

“Of course I will meet you, my lord. You have only to say when and tell me how to go about escaping from the house of an evening, for I assume you do not mean to meet me in a haunted place during the day. I would be bound to miss the ghost, and you could be caught.”

“I shall be there among the ruins one week from tonight. That should give you time to get an answer to one of my questions at least. Do not concern yourself with the hour. I will arrive near dark and can hide myself until you come, whenever that might be.”