Chapter Twenty #2
His back hurt somewhere between his shoulder blades and all down his left side, and breathing hurt.
Did he have broken ribs? He could now vaguely remember going to Gentleman Jackson’s.
Had someone beaten him in the ring so badly he was in this much pain?
Unlikely as he was considered to be among the best of the gentlemen who came to Jackson’s establishment.
And surely the proprietor would have stopped a fight heading in that direction?
He tried to ease his position but that only sent pain slicing through him as though someone had stabbed him.
Not that he knew what that felt like, but surely it must be something like this.
The pain slowly centered on his right arm, his left shoulder, his ribs, his back, and his head.
He was quite relieved to discover his legs seemed to be intact and undamaged.
How had he ended up like this? His brain refused to reveal this to him no matter how hard he tried to extract the information.
And really, did it matter? He closed his one good eye again.
Was the other one was so swollen he couldn’t open it?
That did seem to fit with being at Gentleman Jack’s premises.
He yawned. What time was it? Early? Why was he feeling so sleepy this early in the morning?
He dozed, but it was a sleep tormented by dreams, possibly made worse by the laudanum he’d been given.
He was playing cards and a white-haired old gentleman was parading a string of girls in front of him in varying states of undress, offering them to him in payment of his debts.
And all of them, disturbingly, had Verity’s face.
Then he was at Luxborough and he and his father were standing at the top of the stairs, shouting at one another.
The scene changed and he was standing over a blood-soaked bed.
A woman was sobbing quietly and a baby cried.
At last, the dreams faded and, exhausted, he fell into the deeper sleep he needed.
Sylvester Wintringham had not woken up to the sort of news he was expecting on the morning after the planned attack. His flustered valet arrived at a ridiculously early hour to inform him of a disturbing turn of events.
Sylvester glared at the man who’d had the temerity to awaken him from his dreams of returning to Luxborough and claiming it as his own property at last. He did not look like the bearer of good news. “What is it, man? This is far too early.”
His man appeared to be suffering from some sort of shock, for his face was a nasty shade of gray and his whole body was trembling.
“I’m terribly sorry, sir, but something important has…
arisen.” He was clasping his hands in front of him as though trying to wring out washing.
“Mr. Stubbs told me I had to fetch you down to see.”
Sylvester groaned inwardly. What could possibly have happened to provoke his butler into sending his valet to wake him up at this unearthly hour?
Granted, it was daylight, but he liked to rise after nine and take a leisurely breakfast. If this was seven, he’d eat his hat, and dismiss his butler.
“Are you sure he said that?” He really wasn’t at his best at this hour of the morning.
“Yes, sir,” the valet said, standing his ground. “He said you would want to be wakened on account of such a thing as has happened.”
“For God’s sake,” Sylvester grumbled. “Fetch me my banyan and my slippers, then. If I have to come down, I’ll come down. But you and Stubbs are going to regret this.”
The valet hurried to do his master’s bidding.
Only a few minutes later Sylvester arrived in the front hallway of his house where Stubbs was standing by the front door, which stood slightly ajar.
“What is it then?” Sylvester snapped.
Stubbs, for answer, opened the door wider.
The body of Thomas Teesdale, minus his old cocked hat, fell into the hallway from where it had undoubtedly been propped up against the door.
Outside on the pavement a small crowd of early risers—street sellers and tradesmen mostly—had already gathered and all were staring at his front door and his early, but definitely dead, caller.
Sylvester was momentarily without words.
Not for too long though. “What on earth is someone like that doing on my doorstep?” he blustered.
“Some ruffian, no doubt.” Best not to admit to knowing the corpse’s identity.
“It’s Mr. Teesdale, sir,” Stubbs said. “The gentleman who called here a few weeks ago. I’d know him anywhere, even dressed like this.
” He paused and bent down, detaching a note from where someone had pinned it to the body.
There was blood on it. “And even if I hadn’t, this note identifies him. ”
Sylvester snatched the note from Stubbs’s hand. No need to unfold it, for whoever had pinned it to the corpse had left it open for all to read. He could only hope none of the crowd had read it. The words on it were written in large black capital letters.
THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS TO WOULD-BE ASSASSINS.
No spelling mistakes.
Sylvester swallowed. That someone knew not only that Teesdale had been involved in the assassination attempt that must have taken place on Jonathan seemed obvious. That the same someone knew he was involved also seemed obvious.
What to do with the body? And all this crowd who could testify to having seen the corpse on his own doorstep?
Too late. A constable stepped forward out of the crowd and up to the front door. “’Ello, ’ello, ’ello,” he said in the tones of a cockney born and bred. “What’s goin’ on ’ere then? Who’s this feller?”
Sylvester quaked inside, frantically groping for a way to explain away a member of the ton dressed like a footpad and who’d been dumped on his own doorstep. This was going to take some acrobatic ingenuity.
At Luxborough, Verity was already up and dressed and in the act of eating luncheon with Kitty. It was another school day for her new young friend, and Miss Bligh had joined them both in the dining room, which Verity had belatedly made the decision to have opened up for their use.
“It is rather a walk to and from the vicarage,” Miss Bligh said as she sipped her tea. “I do find it quite tiring on a hot day. This is most fortifying.”
“You really don’t need to put yourself out on hot days just for me,” Kitty said with alacrity.
“I wouldn’t want to think of you suffering from heat exhaustion, you know.
” She accompanied this last with the sweetest of smiles.
Anyone who didn’t know her might think she was thinking only of her governess’s comfort.
“No need to worry, Kitty,” Verity said. “I shall send one of the many vehicles you showed me in the carriage house to take Miss Bligh back and forth from now on. I wouldn’t want you to miss out on your education for want of a horse to pull a trap.”
Miss Bligh looked most gratified. “That is exceedingly kind of you, Lady Dunster. But please don’t send anything too splendid and put the grooms out.
A simple pony and trap will suit me well.
I have no desire to appear ostentatious to my brother’s flock.
If something more elaborate was to arrive at the vicarage, they might think I had ideas above my station in life. ”
“A pony and trap it is then. I think we have one of those in the carriage house, do we not, Kitty?”
Kitty pouted. “We do.”
Verity smiled. “And to make sure you are up and ready to start your lessons, why don’t you be in charge of taking it to the vicarage to collect Miss Bligh?”
Kitty’s face brightened as she was very fond of an outing, and Verity had gathered these were few and far between.
As the vicarage was a couple of miles distant in the middle of the village, nestled beside the church, taking the pony and trap there twice a day would be a bit of much needed independence and fun for her.
“I can do that,” she said, sounding mollified.
Of course, someone was going to have to check she’d done it or Miss Bligh could be left waiting transport that was never coming, and that someone would have to be Verity.
Kitty laid her napkin down. “I’ll go and take my constitutional now, if you’ll both excuse me.”
Verity nodded and Kitty took herself off.
This constitutional consisted of circumnavigating the house three times every morning and then again after luncheon, which was a lot further than it sounded as the house was so large and the buildings had a wide footprint.
Miss Bligh herself had introduced this to Kitty’s regime as, she’d informed Verity a few days ago, she was a proponent of plenty of exercise for young ladies.
Although of course, she herself would be getting less if Kitty fetched and carried her in the pony and trap.
Once they were alone, Verity put into action the plan she’d been formulating ever since she’d met the French dowager.
She wanted to know a lot more about Kitty’s birth, as it seemed to have had a lasting effect on the older lady.
Not that she was truly old, but, apart from her face, it was impossible to think of her in any other way, so ravaged was she by her rheumatics.
She laid her own napkin down. “I went to see Lord Dunster’s mother.”
Was she mistaken, or did Miss Bligh’s expression change at mention of the Dowager?
She smiled, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Most appropriate.”
Verity nodded. “I had been here long enough and felt it behooved on me to do my duty and introduce myself. I now quite understand why it would be impossible for Her Ladyship to have called upon me. Her condition precludes such an expedition.”
Miss Bligh nodded. “That is so. My brother visits her every week, even though she is not at all grateful, and on occasion can be quite rude as he is not a Catholic priest. He tells me she has much deteriorated in the past few years. The rheumatics is a cruel affliction.”
“It is indeed. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so badly affected at what must, I assume by her face, be a relatively young age.”
“I believe she is fifty-three.”
“Still young by many standards.” Verity glanced at the window.
If she knew Kitty, which she now did to a certain extent, those three circuits of the house would take a good half hour as she’d be stopping to talk to the gardeners and anyone else she found out there.
“I must tell you that she said something I found strange. But as she seemed most affected by it, I didn’t press her to find out what she meant. ”
Miss Bligh assumed a guarded expression. “Oh?”
“Yes. I was wondering if you might be able to shed light on what she said.”
Miss Bligh raised an eyebrow, managing to look both keen to be helpful and wary of what might be asked of her at the same time. “I could try.” She did not sound like she wanted to, though.
Verity ploughed on, determined to discover the secret. “She told me she blames Kitty for her husband’s death. Only, Kitty has already told me she was born after that unfortunate accident. How can the two be connected?”
Now Miss Bligh’s face paled, telling Verity there was indeed something to be discovered here.
The governess swallowed. “I’m very sorry, Lady Dunster. It is not something I am at liberty to reveal.”
So she knew at least some of it. “Oh. But can you at least tell me if it’s true, or if the dowager is perhaps suffering under a delusion?”
Miss Bligh opened and closed her mouth a few times in a way reminiscent of the goldfish in one of the ornate ponds at the Parc de Saint-Cloud, just outside Paris, where Verity had once walked.
Verity waited.
Miss Bligh cleared her throat, swallowed, and opened her mouth again, this time looking as though actual words might be about to emerge.
She was interrupted by the dining room door banging open and Kitty hurling herself into the room, eyes wide and wild, a look of horror on her face.
Miss Bligh shut her mouth with a snap as both she and Verity turned to stare at Kitty.
“Whatever’s wrong?” Verity asked, her heart leaping into her throat. Had something happened on the child’s walk?
“Come quick!” Kitty gasped, as though finding it hard to get enough air to speak. “You have to come quick. There’s a carriage outside. Jonnie’s in it, and I think he’s dying.”