The Scandalous Lady Wright (The Regency Intrigue Series Book 4) Page 4

  “Monstrous!”

  “Ah, yes, but malicious gossip always is. On the other hand, dear lady, a totally sane man does not behave thus.”

  Emma twisted a handkerchief in her hands. “Sir Benjamin was incensed because I danced with you.”

  “Perhaps not because you precisely danced with me but because you had the temerity to look as if you were enjoying it, hein? But we must set to work. Lead me to this mysterious study and we will begin our search for the murderer.”

  “You are kind, milord, to concern yourself, but I am so very tired and… and I would like to be alone.”

  “Of course you would,” said the comte, “but to do what? To sit in isolation and then find escape only in sleep?”

  “Why should you wish to help me?” asked Emma wearily.

  “Because it amuses me. Courage, milady. En avant!”

  She could almost feel the force of his personality, of his energy, which seemed to charge the very air about her like one of Dr. Galvani’s electric machines. “Very well,” she said weakly.

  Tamworthy unlocked the study door, bowed, and left. Emma wondered what the butler thought of this frivolous visitor, and would have been surprised had she known that Tamworthy, after his stately progress through the green baize door at the back of the hall, leapt down the back stairs like a gazelle to tell the other servants that that Frenchie was the best medicine my lady could possibly have.

  Emma looked nervously around the study. The comte pottered about, studying the lock of the door, which had been repaired, the shutters at the windows, the clusters of bells hanging on their thin wires to deter burglars, the thick curtains, and the catches on the windows. He opened the shutters, drew back the curtains, unlocked the windows, and raised them to let fresh air into the room.

  “Now,” he said, “where was your husband when he was found?”

  “He was seated there—behind his desk,” said Emma.

  “And the fan?”

  “Lying on this side of the door.”

  “And the pistol?”

  “Lying on the floor beside it.”

  “Tiens! Have you considered that the murderer must have known your husband very well?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Was there any sign of a struggle, any sign of Sir Benjamin trying to save himself?”

  “No.”

  “And whoever it was may have known Sir Benjamin’s habits. Why did the servants not come running at the sound of the pistol shot? He was not discovered until the morning.”

  “My husband, when he was in his cups, fired off his pistol because he often thought he heard burglars. The servants had been told he was not to be disturbed. They assumed he was drunk.”

  The comte knelt down and peered up the chimney. “No one could have arrived or escaped that way.” He rose to his feet. “I must ask you this, was there a woman in his life—a mistress?”

  “Oh, no,” sighed Emma. “Sometimes I even hoped…” Her voice trailed away.

  “You hoped he would take one to give you some peace,” mocked the comte. “Now, we will be businesslike.”

  Half amused, half exasperated, Emma watched him take a notebook and lead pencil from his pocket. “What are the names of his friends?” asked the comte.

  Emma frowned in concentration. “He did not appear to have friends, only acquaintances, other Members of Parliament. Let me see, so many came to call on social occasions. He did not have one close friend.”

  “Then let us search this desk. Did he have a secretary?”

  “Yes, Mr. Tocknell. But Mr. Tocknell has an office in Westminster and hardly ever came here. My husband preferred to write his own speeches.”

  The comte began to search through the drawers of the desk. It was a large leather-topped desk with three drawers on either side. The drawers revealed bills and parts of speeches, but no diary or papers that could give one clue to the identity of Sir Benjamin’s murderer.

  The comte sat down in the chair behind the desk and sighed. “The fan!” he exclaimed, sitting up straight. “The servants must have been involved. How did your fan come to be here?”

  “I don’t know,” snapped Emma. “I had it at the French ambassador’s ball. I do not remember whether I left it there or brought it home.”

  He half closed his eyes. “Let me think. I held you in my arms. We waltzed. You were wearing diamonds and blue silk. Your gloves were white. I am holding your hand as we waltz and your other hand is holding your skirt. Do you carry your fan in your right hand or your left?”

  “The right.”

  The comte smiled with satisfaction. “Now we are getting somewhere. You were not carrying your fan when we danced, but you did have it when we were sitting together. Alors, when you rose to waltz, you must have dropped it. You did not notice, for my charm had naturally bewildered you.…”

  “You are impertinent, sir!”

  “Do not interrupt. Yes, someone must have found it. Perhaps that someone did not mean to shoot Sir Benjamin at that time but had arranged to meet him during the night. So… everyone here goes to bed and you are locked in your room. The murderer arrives at a prearranged time. Sir Benjamin lets him in. Words pass. Sir Benjamin falls dead. The murderer remembers the fan and throws it on the floor. The wife will be suspected and may hang. You did inherit your husband’s money, did you not?”

  “Yes, but I…”

  “All of it?”

  “Yes, Monsieur le Comte.”

  “Was there much of it?”

  Emma’s eyes became hard. “You go too far. I must point out that—”

  “Don’t be missish,” he said in a cool voice. “How much?”

  Emma told him.

  He let out a low whistle. “What about Sir Benjamin’s relatives. Did not they hope to inherit?”

  “He has a brother and sister, and, yes, they were most upset. His sister accused me of being a murderess. I was going to settle some money on them, but I… I… I could not bear to have any dealings with them.”

  “So if you hang for your husband’s murder, the money goes to the family.”

  “I do not think it is quite so simple. Perhaps it would go to the Crown.”

  “Aha, but let us imagine another scene. You are in prison and shortly about to hang. You receive a sympathetic visit from, say, the sister. You make your will in her favor, non? And…”

  “No,” said Emma, shaking her head. “His sister was quite genuine in her accusation. She is comfortably off. I do not think she was furious simply because I inherited all the money. I was not aware Sir Benjamin was so very rich, and now that I remember the faces of his family at the reading of the will, I am sure they did not know either.”

  “Pity. But money is the root of most murders. Does this desk have a secret drawer?”

  “I do not know,” said Emma. “It doesn’t appear to be that kind of desk. I mean, it doesn’t have pigeonholes or anything.”

  He got down on his knees and went under the desk and began tapping busily. “The only way to make sure is to saw this desk up,” he said at last, rising again to his feet and smiling at Emma.

  He rang the bell.

  “Pray do not ring for my servants without asking my permission,” said Emma stiffly.

  He did not pay any attention to her, but smiled on Tamworthy, who answered his summons, and said cheerfully, “I wish you to fetch me a saw. I am going to saw up Sir Benjamin’s desk and look for a secret drawer. What is your name?”

  “Tamworthy, my lord.”

  “Very good, Tamworthy. It is up to us to find out who murdered Sir Benjamin.”

  “His lordship’s efforts to clear my name are most commendable,” said Emma coldly, “but sawing up this desk is ridiculous.”

  Tamworthy’s shrewd eyes rested briefly on his mistress’s angry, flushed, and very alive face, and said coaxingly, “It’s a nasty old desk with bad memories, my lady. I was going to ask your permission to get rid of it. And we do have a saw, and t’would only take
a minute.”

  “Very well,” said Emma, capitulating. “But all you will have for your pains is a heap of firewood.”

  They’re like schoolboys, thought Emma as a footman and the kitchen boy set to sawing the desk apart while Tamworthy watched with interest and the comte leapt from one side to the other of them as he supervised the operation.

  “No, no, my friends,” said the comte. “You make the task too difficult. Take the drawers out first!”

  The men did as they were told and then continued to saw, and the comte whistled under his breath.

  “Look at the mess,” exclaimed Emma, “and all for nothing!”

  “Wait!” said the comte. “There is something there. Stop sawing!”

  Suddenly interested, Emma walked forward. He was poking about among shattered pieces of desk.

  “Voilà!” he said triumphantly, holding up a small, fat, leatherbound diary. There was a concealed drawer. It was cunningly hidden at the back of the bottom drawer on the left-hand side.

  “Now we shall find out what Sir Benjamin was so eager to conceal!”

  Chapter Three

  The comte sat down in a chair beside the shattered desk and opened the book. Emma stood behind him and read the entries over his shoulder. They were few and far between and in the form of cryptic reminders—meet S. at Lombard coffee house, meet J. at Brookes’s, and so on. The comte read on.

  “There is nothing of interest there,” said Emma, disappointed.

  He held up a hand for silence and continued to turn the pages. “The appointments are only during the Season,” he said at last. “And there is nothing written down for the night of the murder. I shall go back to last Season and read the entries again. There must be something.”

  Emma felt a great weariness descend on her again. She dismissed the servants and began to pace the room. The comte continued to scrutinize the pages, unconcerned.

  “Here!” he said suddenly, stabbing a long finger down one page. Emma came back to stand behind him. “You see?” he said. “Last year, May second, ‘Meet H. in Yellow Saloon at Harvey House ball, midnight.’”

  “So all that appears to be, Monsieur le Comte,” said Emma impatiently, “is another innocent reminder.”

  “Perhaps. But if we find out who H. is, then we will find out the name of one person he knew well, the one person important enough to meet at midnight. Look at it like this. If it were just an ordinary person in his life, some acquaintance with whom he wished to speak, why not just walk up to him at the ball and draw him aside? I shall ask Lord Harvey.”

  “And do you think Lord Harvey will remember who it was visited the Yellow Saloon at midnight almost a year ago?” demanded Emma.

  “Action is what you need, Lady Wright,” said the comte briskly. “Put on your bonnet and pelisse and we shall go to the Harveys’.”

  “I do not see the point in going,” said Emma. “Besides, I am in mourning, or had you forgot?”

  “It is perfectly convenable for me to escort a respectable widow. What would you do otherwise? Sit and brood? The clue to the murder lies outside this house. Unless you suspect one of the servants.”

  Emma gave a little shiver. Her mind ranged over the staff, and she shook her head.

  “Then come, Lady Wright. The sun is shining and we have a mystery to solve.”

  Emma was about to protest when Tamworthy entered again with a note in the shape of a cocked hat on a silver salver. She opened it. It was a short message from Mrs. Trumpington, asking Lady Wright to call for tea on the following day. Emma was delighted. It was at Mrs. Trumpington’s that she had first met Matilda and Annabelle. A little of the black misery at her heart began to ease. All at once it seemed better to go with the comte rather than return to her own company and her own despair.

  “I shall not be very long, Monsieur le Comte,” said Emma.

  “I am glad to see you going out and about, my lady,” said Austin, her monkeylike face crinkling up in delight.

  “I must be mad,” said Emma as Austin helped her into a black silk pelisse and placed a black straw bonnet with a wide brim on her glossy curls. “This French comte is determined to find out who killed Sir Benjamin.”

  “Well, someone has to,” exclaimed Austin.

  Downstairs, the comte surveyed Tamworthy and asked slowly, “Would you say your late master was a good man?”

  The butler look uncomfortable. “Sir Benjamin had his moods, milord. Very tetchy he could be on occasion.”

  “Yes, whipping his wife before the servants could be described as tetchy.”

  “He did not actually perform that act, milord.”

  “No, but he would have, had not some obliging person shot him dead. Now, listen, if we are to find out about Sir Benjamin’s possible enemies, we have to go about in society. By ‘we,’ I mean Lady Wright and myself. I can make inquiries on my own, but, you see, Lady Wright will go into a decline if she does not have a purpose in life. I need your help.”

  “Anything I can do, milord. But what can I or any of the other servants do?”

  “You can start by attempting to restore Lady Wright’s character. You must forget a servant’s loyalty to a late master and gossip about his tempers and his cruelty to Lady Wright. You must say that she is horrified that his murderer is left free to walk the streets, and despite Sir Benjamin’s appalling treatment of her, she is determined to see justice done. You will say that I told you that the Prince Regent himself is interested in the plight of the poor, maligned widow. Do you think you can do that?”

  A broad smile creased Tamworthy’s fat face. “I shall be delighted. The Prince Regent himself! Wait until the other servants hear that!”

  Oh, well, thought the comte ruefully, there were so many lies about the Prince Regent, one more would not matter.

  He stood up as Emma entered the room. Despite her black hat, black gown, and black pelisse, she looked very beautiful.

  As she allowed the comte to help her into his open carriage, she had a feeling that eyes were staring at her. In this she was right. Her servants were peering through chinks in the closed curtains to see her leave.

  “Bless her,” said Mrs. Chumley. “He’s a handsome man, the comte.”

  “But a foreigner,” pointed out Tamworthy severely. “He will do very well for the moment, however, to keep my lady amused. Now, Mrs. Chumley, call all the servants down to the hall. Milord has a plan to save Lady Wright’s reputation.”

  “It might be a good idea to redecorate,” said the comte as he tooled his carriage expertly through the traffic.

  “Redecorate what?” asked Emma, surprised.

  “Your town house. Mausoleum of a place, all dark walls, and paintings in need of cleaning. Enough to give anyone the megrims.”

  “I think murder is depressing me and not paint or the lack of it,” said Emma severely.

  “Surroundings are very important,” the comte pointed out. “Who was responsible for the furnishings? Sir Benjamin’s ancestors?”

  “No, he bought that house just before our marriage. I believe he bought the furnishings with the house. He did say something about it having been rented out for the Season by the previous owner.”

  “Flowers,” said the comte cheerfully. “As a start you need plenty of vases of flowers, bright, cheerful flowers. Can you not persuade some relatives to stay with you? Are your parents alive?”

  “Yes, milord. But I have brothers and sisters and my parents must stay in the country and look to their care. I… I have two very good friends in London, but their husbands have forbidden them to have anything to do with me.”

  “Perhaps things will soon change. How did your husband gain his income? He does not own much land, does he?”

  “Only a few acres let to a farmer. I believe all the money was well invested. Consuls, stocks, and bonds.”

  “Here we are.” The comte halted the carriage outside an imposing double-fronted house in Berkeley Square. He took out his card case, extracted a card, turne
d down one corner, and handed it to his tiger, who was perched on the backstrap. The servant nipped up the steps and performed a loud tattoo with the door knocker. The louder the flurry of knocks, the greater the consequence of the visitor. The comte’s tiger, a small, wizened Frenchman who looked like a retired jockey, was a master of the art.

  The door opened, the tiger presented the card and came back to hold the reins while the comte helped Emma to alight.

  Emma held back a little. “I have a feeling we are about to be most dreadfully snubbed,” she whispered. The comte’s blue eyes glinted down at her.

  “But you are with me,” he said. “And no one dares to snub me.”

  When they were ushered into a saloon on the ground floor of the Harveys’ house, and when Lord Harvey rose to meet them and his pale eyes rested for a moment on Emma’s face, Emma had a feeling that he was well and truly shocked at her appearance in his home.

  To Emma’s surprise, the comte began to chatter inanely about operas and plays, gossip and trivia. But the cold look left Lord Harvey’s eyes and he began to relax. He was a tall, thin man with the severe face of a Scottish minister which belied the fact that he hardly ever thought of anything more serious than his dogs or his debts. His dogs, King Charles spaniels all five of them, lay about the room, sleeping off a heavy meal.

  “What a rattle you are, Saint-Juste,” said Lord Harvey at last. He smoothed down the folds of his shot-silk banyan—that dressing gown beloved of the aristocracy for undress—and added, “But Lady Wright has not had a chance to say anything. My deepest sympathy on your recent bereavement.”

  Before Emma could reply, the comte said quickly, “Ah, but milady cannot begin to mourn properly while the murderer of her husband goes free.”

  “Indeed!” said Lord Harvey, and with all the direct callousness of his breed, went on. “I thought she topped our Member of Parliament herself.”

  Emma colored furiously, but the comte said easily, “Fie, for shame, Harvey. You of all people to be so behind with the gossip. Lady Wright could not have murdered her husband because she was locked in her bedchamber on her husband’s instructions. He wished to beat her before his servants in the morning. A horsewhip, I believe. Quite medieval.”