The Exploits & Adventures of Miss Alethea Darcy (35 page)

No, he wouldn't, Alethea said inwardly. During the companionable time they had spent in Lisbon, she had come to realise that, while Titus might not like or approve of what she had done, he had enough of the unconventional in his own make-up not to take the high moral ground over her actions. His concern was for risks she ran and the consequences of what she was doing, should it become known.

He didn't think any female should behave the way she did, that was clear, yet he had been kind to her, and she felt that he fully understood how difficult her marriage had been. She didn't think he would be startled or offended by her lack of sensibility in asking what she wanted to know; on the other hand, she had enough social sense to know that she would take a risk in asking him to call upon her, situated as she was—not without setting every tongue in London wagging. They might wag about her, already were, according to Cousin Fitzwilliam—but she was not going to give anyone cause to gossip about Titus; she owed him that, at least.

 

Titus read the note through once more. What a vile hand Alethea wrote, or perhaps it was scrawled in haste. Somehow, the flowing, lively, imperfect script brought her vividly before him, and it was with a smile on his lips that he folded the note and rang for Bootle.

“I am going out, Bootle. On foot, I feel a need to stretch my legs.”

“To the club, sir?”

“Yes, I shall be at the club later, and I shall dine there.”

He didn't tell Bootle that he would be going to the club after he had been to Melville Place. Bootle didn't need telling, however, that there was a lady in the case: otherwise why should his master have taken such unusual care about the tying of his neck cloth, or worn his new coat? Not for the club, oh no; Mr. Manningtree was far too casual in his ways for Bootle's taste, and more than happy to go to his club dressed with a carelessness that Bootle knew brought condemnation from his more dandified fellow members—condemnation of his, Bootle's, skills, not his master's lack of interest in his appearance.

The message had stressed both urgency and secrecy, which was why, Titus supposed, that he had to enter the house through the stables. Nothing with Alethea was done in the normal way; what was she up to now?

He was exact as to his time, and she was waiting for him by the kitchen door. “Mr. Watts is fast asleep,” she said in a whisper, by way of greeting, “and Mrs. Watts has gone off to visit her daughter in Sheep Lane. Not a word as we go through, however, for who knows how soundly he is asleep?”

Judging by the volume of snores, Titus thought nothing less than the last trumpet would awaken Mr. Watts from his slumbers, but he obeyed her instructions, and they passed silently through the kitchen and up into the other part of the house.

Alethea gestured to him to go through a door, and he found himself in a parlour that had seen better days. He frowned; Napier must have been a poor kind of man to let his house get so run down; it wasn't in keeping with what he had heard of the man.

“Don't look disapproving, it is shabby, I know. Napier never came here; he didn't live here, you know, after his father died. They did not get on at all together. I have a great suspicion that old Mr. Napier knew that his son was not all that he should be.”

“Fathers generally do,” said Titus drily. “Even though they are often reluctant to admit to themselves that their offspring have any faults.”

“Was that the case with your father? I am afraid my own papa has an excellent idea of all his children's failings. That is not to say he is a harsh parent, or does not delight in what we do well.”

“I am slightly acquainted with your father; everyone who knows him must admire such a man.”

He was surprised to see the pleasure his words gave her. Then she looked more serious. “It is what makes it so hard, that I can't confide in him as I should. At least not until I have things sorted out for myself.”

There she went again, determined to tackle all her problems on her own. He longed to help her, to say, Let me manage it all for you—but how could he? He was no relation, not a long-standing friend of the family; he had no position at all except what she might grant him. And he had no illusions about how little that would be. Yet she had asked him to call.

“You are not alone in the house?” he asked with sudden concern. “You have Figgins with you?”

“Yes, Figgins takes excellent care of me, and also there is my former governess. She is upstairs, writing; she is the novelist I spoke of.”

“I dare say you help her with her plots, that is, if your ideas are not too fantastical.”

She gave him a quizzical look. “Is that a criticism of what I do?”

“I assure you, it is not. I would not presume to criticise you.”

“Oh, this is very high all of a sudden; you have scolded and abused me across Europe and back, and now you say such a thing.”

“Some of your exploits may be criticised; that is not the same as passing judgement on you.”

“But you have passed judgement, frequently.”

Which was true, so how could he redeem himself? He couldn't say, Your behaviour is outrageous, but I have come to admire you more than any woman I have ever known. Let alone tell her that she meant more to him than he had imagined any woman could. So much for his grand words to Harry about being beyond the age of falling in love. He had an idea that even to say that would call down the mockery and retribution of the gods; well, it had certainly done so in this case.

“If I have done so, then I apologise. I had no right.”

She looked at him, astonished.

“Am I to meet this Miss Griffin?”

“She does not know you are here. I thought it better to keep your visit a secret. You will not want the polite world to know that you have been associating with a person whose name is in the newspapers.”

“As if I cared a damn for that.”

“You may not; I find that I do.”

He was startled, and it showed in his face.

“I may be heedless and feckless on my own account; there is no reason why I should drag others into my misfortune. My family cannot avoid the connection; you can.”

“I am at your service, please believe me.”

“I do, and that is why I sent for you. You are the very person who can answer a most important question. What is my position, in the eyes of the law, now that I am a widow? I am only eighteen, you know, so must I wait until I am twenty-one to have control of my fortune—and my life?”

“Why do you ask me? Surely your family has a legal adviser—”

“Yes, and he will merely advise me to wait until my father comes back to England, he will manage everything for me.”

“Don't you intend to return to your father's house? It is customary in these circumstances, with you being so young.”

“To Pemberley? No. It was the home of my childhood, and my childhood is gone. My marriage was an unhappy one, and it has changed me, as has my taste of freedom these last few weeks. I don't wish to set up as an eccentric, for it would upset my family, but I do wish to have my own establishment—if it is in any way possible. Figgins said you were sure to be a magistrate, and I should have thought of it myself; naturally a man in your position will have a considerable knowledge of the law.”

“I would not risk an opinion on most legal questions, but this is one that I can answer. In the eyes of the law, you are of age. You may live how and where you choose, that is, according to law. Whether your family will permit it is another thing altogether. Moral pressure can be much stronger than all the laws in the land.”

“Thank you!” she said with real gratitude. “Thank you so much for a straight answer. I knew I could trust you to deal with me in a clear and reasonable manner.”

“That is, provided you have sufficient funds at your disposal to set up on your own, and that the money is not tied up in such a way that it imposes its own restrictions upon you.”

Her face fell. “Oh, dear, if I cannot have any money free of ties, then I shall have to set about earning some.”

He felt a spurt of alarm. “Alethea, I do hope you aren't thinking of opera, for although your voice is so very good, the life is such—”

“No, though I'm happy to think that I could engage in such an occupation if I were ever driven to it. I love the music, but the stage is not for me, I knew that very quickly. One has to have a flair for performing that I do not possess. No, there must be other ways in which an indigent female can earn a living. Griffy has always done so.”

“You are a Darcy, not a governess.”

“I was a Darcy, I'm not one any longer. My name, unfortunately, is now Napier, and thanks to my husband, it is a name that carries no honour.”

“You are young, you will marry again. You are free to choose your own husband, you need ask no one's permission.”

“I chose my own husband the first time, and look what a mess that landed me in. No, I have done with matrimony, that is the one thing I am certain of.”

His heart missed a beat. She sounded so calm, so definite.

“Marriage to Napier has given me a poor opinion of the male half of mankind. They may go their way and I shall go mine.”

“We are not all such men as Napier!”

He spoke with unintended vehemence, and she looked surprised. “I dare say you are not, but then Napier didn't seem to be what he was until after we were married. No, once bitten twice shy, as the saying goes. Not even for the satisfaction of losing the name of Napier would I venture into matrimony again. Now, I do not wish to seem rude, but I cannot count on Watts snoring away for much longer, so I think you had better go.”

 

Sir Humphrey was an urbane man, but with a look of shrewd intelligence in his chilly eyes. He was, he said, when he had made his bow, acquainted with Mrs. Napier's father.

Which didn't cheer Alethea's spirits. Every time she thought of her father, and what he would have to say when she saw him again, she felt weak. Even with half the truth kept from him, there was enough in her behaviour to arouse one of his more caustic rebukes, a rebuke that would be made even more stinging by the knowledge that she had disappointed him.

“Are you alone?” Sir Humphrey asked, looking around the room.

The door opened, and Miss Griffin came in. “Figgins told me you desired me to be present,” she said with a warning look at Alethea.

Alethea had expressed no such desire; Sir Humphrey's arrival had taken her quite by surprise. She had never met the man, and had no idea why he had called. More worldly-wise Miss Griffin knew exactly who he was, and why he must be here, and she had left her manuscript pages without hesitation when Figgins came running upstairs with the news of his arrival.

Sir Humphrey was introduced to Miss Griffin. Then, once seated, he offered his condolences to Mrs. Napier on the untimely loss of her husband, and without any further preamble he told them why he had come. He was a magistrate, and Napier's death had been a murder, and the murderer must be found and brought to justice. In the circumstances, Mrs. Napier would forgive him for intruding on her grief, but it was his duty to discover if she had any information that might help them in apprehending the criminal.

Alethea was about to speak when Sir Humphrey raised a hand, and went on. “If you could simply answer some questions, I believe that is all that will be required of you.”

The few extra seconds gave Alethea time to reflect. This man was not a Fitzwilliam, partisan and not always able to see beyond his convictions and prejudices. This was not a man to be easily deceived and hoodwinked. Nor was he likely to be taken in by tears and lamentations and expressions of woe at the loss of her husband; she had a notion that he had some idea of what kind of a man Napier was. Dignified restraint, a well-bred coolness, and reserve were what was needed here, and a great deal of wariness. She nodded.

“You didn't accompany your husband to London.”

That was a statement, not a question. “No.” Don't elaborate, she told herself; just give short, definite answers.

“Was this unusual?”

“I never accompanied my husband to London. He preferred me to remain in the country.”

“On this occasion also you stayed at Tyrrwhit House?”

There was a glint in his eye, and Alethea just prevented herself from falling into what might be a trap.

“No. I chose not to.”

“You were not, in fact, at Tyrrwhit when Mr. Napier came to London. You had, I believe, gone to Paris.”

“My sister Lady Mordaunt lives there.”

“Yes. Was there some estrangement between you and your husband, Mrs. Napier? That recently married as you were, you chose to spend so much time apart?”

“I have always been close to my sisters.”

“You returned to this country when?”

Alethea decided it was time to make a venture of her own. “If you wish to know where I was on the day when my husband was killed, all I can say is that I was, throughout that week, in company with persons who can vouch for my presence.”