Chapter 3 #2
I hear you are looking for me and I know what you want.
I’ll give it to you for five hundred pounds.
I know someone who’ll pay more but I’m giving you a bargain seeing as how you took care of Maddy and her boy.
Have it ready and I’ll send word next week where to bring the money.
Coins only no bank draft. A generous time for you to pawn what you need to.
I’m not well, thanks to the earl and I need that money.
L. C.
Lunetta Casale
Her efforts to find the woman had borne fruit after all.
She had no doubt that Lunetta Casale—a ridiculous stage name—was ailing. This woman, whom Archie brought to Risley Manor as a nurse, might have been made ill by Archie somehow.
A shudder went through her. After their separation, Archie had dallied in very low circles those last few years; he’d taken the cure more than once.
After the local quack and Mr. Jarrow, the magistrate and coroner, ruled that his death had been from illness, Lunetta had disappeared.
And then Blythe had held her breath, wondering if the new will would surface.
It hadn’t been in the muniment room when she’d searched before Archie died, nor in Archie’s desk after his death.
The steward, Mr. Stockwell, hadn’t found it.
The men sent by Jarrow had not uncovered it either.
None of the servants confessed to having ever seen it.
Before he was felled by an apoplexy, Mr. Jarrow had never asked Blythe about the will either. She’d carried on as if the new will had never existed.
Jarrow’s likely suspect was Newton, Archie’s valet, who’d had no love for his fellow servants, nor for Blythe. Newton had taken the two hundred pounds Archie gave him the morning he witnessed the will and left Risley Manor the next day for parts unknown. He hadn’t been found.
The magistrate had not even bothered to look for Lunetta.
Blythe locked the threatening letter in a drawer of her writing desk.
She heard the great entry door below her chamber open and close, and a man’s deep baritone and footsteps on the stairs. She shuddered, waiting long moments for someone to knock on her door and tell her Lord Vernon was calling again.
She went to the window and looked out. Grosvenor Square bustled as usual but there were no carriages stopped in front and no horses being held by urchins. Whoever was visiting had walked here.
When the bedchamber door opened, it was her maid, Radley, who entered carrying in clean laundry.
“Is there a caller?” Blythe asked.
“Yes. A gentleman for Lord Chilcombe. Must be a close friend as he had Adwick escort him up to his bedchamber.”
“Ah, well, we have time then before I meet with the earl. How quickly can you pack our trunks? We’re moving to Mivart’s Hotel.”
Graeme sent Morley on his way and then turned back to the mirror to tie his own neckcloth.
Morley had kept to his promise to call and escort him to White’s. In truth, the gossip Morely had learned had been troubling and better imparted in the privacy of Chilcombe House.
Archie’s life and death had been the subject of speculation at Bow Street; Morley learned this because he was a good friend of one of the magistrates serving there and was wangling for a position himself while he carried out investigations for hire.
As for Blythe… there were those who suspected that Archie had shared her with his gentlemen friends. There were others who thought it had not been lung fever that Archie had succumbed to; that in fact Blythe had delivered a fatal dose of opium.
The land dispute matter… little had leaked out about that. But Diddenton was a crafty dog, rich beyond belief from the opium he sold in China… as well as in the Fens and the East End.
Morley had more to tell him, but Graeme sent his friend on his way to White’s, promising to meet him there later after he’d had a chance to review the pile of post he’d told Adwick to leave in the study.
He’d talk to Blythe as well, though what he would say… It was too soon to question her. He’d seen that defensiveness flare in her eyes.
He found Adwick waiting outside his door. The butler cleared his throat. “Her ladyship asked me to assemble the staff so that you can meet them. They’re in the hall.”
A handful of servants awaited him, and it struck him that, other than Clive, they were, all of them—even the two chambermaids and the kitchen maid—on the far side of forty years old or perhaps even older.
Adwick introduced them and apologized that the housekeeper wasn’t present. The earl’s arrival was unexpected, and she’d been given leave to visit her dying sister.
Blythe was also missing.
“I should like a tour of the house one day,” Graeme said, “but for now though, show me the way to the study, please.”
A short while later, Graeme stood at the study window looking out on a riot of color in the well-ordered garden and then returned to the massive desk.
Neat stacks of correspondence and logbooks sat as if the earl’s secretary had just put them in order. Did the earl have an absent secretary?
A note on the top of the new stack proved to be an invitation to a ball, addressed to him, as were the others underneath. None of the names of the senders were familiar.
From another corner, he picked up an opened letter seeking an investment in a rail line. Notes had been scribbled for a proposed reply: ask about right-of-way leases, lines connecting, support in Parliament, names of committed backers. All erudite questions.
In his letter, the solicitor had claimed the estate was in order. What Graeme had seen so far of Chilcombe House confirmed that. All seemed to be well-maintained, the staff well-ordered.
And Blythe had had Archie’s bed carried out and burned. After the gossip conveyed by Morley, he felt strangely relieved about that.
He stepped over to a table and picked up a well-thumbed journal. Fleming’s British Farmers’ Chronicle. Underneath that was Evans and Ruffy’s Farmers’ Journal.
He knew something about agricultural trade, but about day-to-day practices he was woefully ignorant for a man who’d just inherited acres and acres of good English soil.
A wisp of floral fragrance announced a silent arrival; not even the door hinges had creaked.
Blythe sailed in, only her skirts whispering, followed by Adwick carrying another laden tray.
Morley had helped himself, but Graeme had barely touched the one delivered to his bedchamber, except for the dint he’d made in the decanter of good brandy.
The butler settled the new tray on a nearby table, bowed, and departed.
Graeme’s gaze landed on Blythe and his breath caught again.
He’d barely had a chance to thoroughly take in her appearance.
Now he took a good look. Despite the dissipated life she’d allegedly shared with his cousin, she looked as fresh as the girl he’d once pined for, her skin fair under a faint spray of freckles, her brown hair free of gray.
Her figure, under the lower waistlines and puffier sleeves of the new fashions wasn’t quite as lush as he remembered from that fateful night. ..
Tilting her head, as if reading his thoughts, her face a mask of placidity, she greeted him and stepped closer. Shallow worry lines had settled between her eyebrows, but otherwise, she’d aged little.
She was still beautiful, and despite himself, he felt drawn to her. Thirty-four to his thirty years of age was not an impossible age difference for a lover.
He shoved the tempting thought down, for now. In the years since he’d last seen her, he’d learned to look beyond the physical, and most importantly, to be discreet. Until he saw which way the political winds blew, dallying with Blythe wouldn’t help his ambitions.
She folded her hands at her waist and still said nothing.
He’d also learned to hold his tongue and let others fill up the silence.
She gestured toward the desk. “The latest business reports from the solicitor as well as the ledgers for Chilcombe House are there. Those for Risley Manor are in Hampshire, but you’ll find reports from your land steward, Mr. Stockwell.
I’ve sent off a letter to him, and I know that he will be happy to report here to spare you traveling there.
If you will inform me what time you want dinner served, and where, I shall make all the arrangements. ”
Her formal manner contrasted with all the femininity before him. She sounded like one of the subalterns assigned as his secretary at one of his postings.
Or like his own younger self, reporting to Wellington in Paris.
“Whatever time and place you’ve set for dinner will be fine with me.” He pointed toward the tray. “Won’t you join me now?”
She pursed her mouth, blinked, and said, “Certainly,” and set about pouring tea into the cup—the single cup provided—murmuring questions about sugar and milk.
A single cup. There was a message in that arrangement.
He smiled and said, “You must have that one, my dear.”
Gratified by the way she bristled at the added endearment, he pulled the bell himself, and sent the servant to bring a second cup.
When it arrived, she placidly filled it. “Cook has sent up a simple nuncheon on that covered dish. Adwick will convey your instructions to the kitchen if you’d prefer something different.”
This… this air of formality was not what he’d expected.
He remembered Blythe as friendly and jolly, the sort of girl who’d make an affectionate wife, and the rumors portrayed her as vulgarly accommodating with Archie’s friends.
This Blythe appeared polite and distant, but he recognized the animosity simmering under the facade of courtesy in what was now his home.
His home, and hers. What was he to do with her? What would she allow him to do with her?
For now, he would probe her a little and see what he could find under the composed surface.
“You were surprised to see me.” He studied her over the rim of his cup.
She lifted her eyes, the first true meeting of their gazes since the drawing room. Vulnerability flashed and was quickly shuttered. Her back stiffened, her chin rose infinitesimally.
“Certainly,” she said, “had I known you were arriving today, I would not have been entertaining callers in your drawing room.”
“A drawing room filled with gentlemen, I noticed.”
“Did you not see Mrs. Netley and her daughter?”
Perhaps he had, but he only remembered the coxcomb in a green waistcoat and collars so high they touched his ears, seated so close to Blythe that his leg touched hers.
“Ah, well, she was indeed there,” she said, her tone mild, “and I give you fair warning. She is the greatest gossip of the ton, second only to Lord Vernon, the man who was seated next to me.”
“Lord Vernon,” he mused. Morley had mentioned Lord Vernon.
“Lord Vernon Falfield. He was a friend of the late earl. A frequent visitor to Risley Manor. No doubt he will call on you.”
“I trust you will entertain him for me?”
Again, she lifted her gaze from the teacup and said nothing.
Morley’s gossip about Lord Vernon had included rumors about Archie and Blythe’s entertainments. It was hard to believe this composed lady could have been the tart depicted in the old caricatures Morley described.
Though rumors, he reminded himself, often held a grain of truth.
The silence grew uncomfortable. “I suppose the social niceties require me to convey my condolences to you on the death of your husband.”
“Yes, well. And you have lost your cousin. Though the inheritance is a boon to you.” She frowned into her cup. “And, I hope, you will be a boon to the people who are depending on you. Archie was not much engaged in…” The worry lines deepened. “In estate matters.”
Would she tell him now what Archie was interested in?
“He was fortunate to have competent administrators,” she said. “Mr. Fleming and the land steward are both men of sterling character.”
Were they indeed? Or were they two more of Lady Chilcombe’s lovers?
A churlish thought. He shook it off.
“I hope that is true as I don’t intend to stay in England any longer than I must. But tell me, how do you know they are men of sterling character?”
Her chin came up. “Results, my lord. And regular audits of the books by, er, a third party.” She stood. “Look at the time. I must go.”
The clock was on a sideboard behind her and she hadn’t swiveled her head an inch.
He followed her to the door and touched her elbow. A shiver went through her, and he felt the trembling move up his own arm. “Where are you off to?”
“I beg your pardon?” She glanced pointedly at his hand, a wash of color creeping up her neck. “I have business to attend to.”
The tight blue muslin of her lower sleeve encased a firm shapely arm. His hand itched to explore more. It was no wonder she had attracted bloody lovers.
“Business more important than my arrival?” he asked, releasing her. “Are you off to order a new bonnet before I have a look at the accounts?”
Her bosom rose and fell as she contemplated the question.
“You will of course want the solicitor to explain the financial arrangements. I shall not be a bother to you, my lord. Financially or otherwise.”
“Otherwise? You won’t try to pester me with social engagements?”
He thought of the pile of invitations. Her input there might be needed. Not that he would follow her advice until he knew just how scandalous her friends were. After all, he had a diplomatic post to pursue.
“Or, my lady, do you mean a bother to my reputation?”
“Your reputation?” Her eyebrows lifted. “You were quite a proper young man when you left England, and I had thought your character fixed. But if you’ve acquired skeletons, my lord, I’m not likely to discover them. If I did, I’d keep them hidden from the wags and gossips. I have years of practice.”
She left, pulling the door closed behind her.