Chapter Forty-nine
Sylvie smiled up at Betsy through the mirror as she watched her brushing her hair. “Don’t look so worried, I am perfectly fine, I promise. I have shaken off the dismals and resolved to make the most of my new life. With so many new distractions, his lordship barely enters my thoughts.”
“Really,” murmured Betsy dryly, “yet you have been quizzing the staff since our arrival… on all things Westland.”
“Oh, Betsy,” resigned Sylvie as she shook her head. “I can’t help it. There’s this this niggling feeling I can’t shake. Like an itch one can’t quite reach. Something doesn’t make any sense.”
“What doesn’t?” asked Betsy cautiously.
“Now, don’t be cross,” Sylvie began a little sheepishly. “But I may have, um… called on Mrs Manning yesterday. The old housekeeper.”
“Oh, Sylvie,” groaned Betsy sadly. “I’m not cross… just worried you’re pinning your hopes on something that isn’t there, just to be heartbroken all over again.”
“I know. I know I promised I would let it rest, but…” said Sylvie, her eyes now bright with excitement, “… but she didn’t have a single bad word to say about the former marquee, Charles, Angus’s father.
According to her, he was a wonderful man.
Loved his wife. Adored his son. It’s completely at odds with the picture painted of a murderous madman. ”
A little worry line appeared on Betsy’s brow. “And you don’t think she was just telling you what you want to hear?”
“Golly no. Not at all. She spoke with genuine warmth, and when I asked her about the day they died, well….”
“Well, what?” asked Betsy, moving from cautious to curious.
“Well,” said Sylvie, leaning forward conspiratorially, “the first they knew of the calamity was when a young groom staggered in… covered in blood… clutching Angus’s little body to his chest. White with shock and trembling uncontrollably.
He said there had been an accident. All he remembered was being thrown from the carriage as it toppled from the road, and when he came to, he found Angus lying beside him, unconscious and barely breathing. So he ran for help.”
Betsy gasped. “Why was he covered in blood? Did he… Did the groom murder…?”
“What!” Blinking back at her maid, she half shook her head in exasperation.
“No! He had a gash on his head and torn his arm open in the fall. Mrs Manning said the poor boy was so distraught when he heard Charles and Isabelle were dead, he packed his things and said he must go home to his family for a few days… and was never seen again.”
“Right? So?”
“Don’t you see,” exclaimed Sylvie, “Peter Sheers was there! Peter was the groom.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Mrs Sheers was telling the truth! Her husband Peter was there that day… and if she is right about that… then maybe she’s right about Angus’s Aunt being there. Lady McDonald.”
Betsy folded her arms. “And what of it?”
“Well, if she was there, she must know what really happened… and… why wouldn’t she want anyone to know she was there? And why give Peter the sapphire?”
Betsy sighed, the voice of reason battling a losing war. “Ifs, Sylvie. It’s all ifs. If she was there, if she gave this Peter the sapphire… and really, would it make any difference?”
“To me it would.” Sylvie lifted her chin slightly, that spark of determination returning. “And before you get cross, I’ve already written to Papa.”
Betsy’s eyes narrowed. “Written to tell him what?”
“That I’m going to visit Lady McDonald next week. To return something.”
“Something?”
“Yes, the sapphire of course. Though I didn’t tell him that part.”
“Oh, heavens,” moaned Betsy. “I don’t like this. I don’t like this one little bit.”
* * *
“Lord Mason,” murmured Southerby from the doorway. “Forgive the intrusion, but I believe you wanted a word.”
Startled, Mason looked up from his desk. “Lord Southerby! You understand I am an old man, and such shocks might stop an old heart.” He smiled faintly. “Still, I thank you for coming so quickly.”
“You may be some years my senior,” said Southerby, stepping inside, “but old you are not, and your heart is as steady as an ox. And, you wrote that it was urgent.”
“Indeed.” Mason rose and waved his visitor to one of the chairs by the fire, pouring two drinks as he spoke. “I received a letter this morning, and given our last discussion and the subsequent goings on, I thought you should read it.”
“Oh?”
“Mmm,” he mused as he handed over a drink.
“Mayhap I’m simply an overprotective father who dislikes the notion of his daughter gallivanting from one end of the kingdom to the other, but this…
“ he said, drawing a folded sheet from his pocket, ”…
this doesn’t sit well with me, Valentine. Not well at all.”
Placing his drink gently on the side table, Southerby gave a solemn nod as he took the offering.
As his eyes scanned the page, his pulse quickened.
His mind swiftly sorting through the vast catalogue of details — letters, conversations, fragments of — suddenly halting as one phrase rose unbidden to his lips.
“What was not there, yet should have been…”
He looked up slowly.
Mason was perched forward in his chair, watching, waiting, a furrow of concern etching his brow. “Well?”
“Well,” echoed Southerby, closing his eyes for a moment as he rubbed his right temple in thought.
He inhaled deeply as he reopened his eyes.
“It seems I am to depart at once if I am to catch your daughter before she sets forth for Scotland. Tell me… do you know what it is she intends to return to Lady McDonald?”
“No, why? What are you thinking?”
“Mm, it’s just something Louis said…”
“Louis?”
Southerby waved a dismissive hand. “Details, pieces… a bloody duck.”
“I beg your pardon,” spluttered Mason, “a duck?”
Southerby blinked, then gave a dry smile. “One of Louis’s riddles. Pay it no mind. But if Augusta McDonald truly was there that day, as Sylvie believes, she’ll never confess it — nor explain why she’s lied for all these years — unless we can prove it.”
He drained his glass in a single swallow. “Right… I’d best be off. Do not worry, Mason, I’ll see your daughter is safe.”
“You, you have a plan?”
“Better than that.” Southerby’s eyes gleamed. “I believe we have the key.”
Mason shook his head, exasperated. “Now it is you, who is speaking in riddles.”
Walking towards the door, Southerby suddenly stopped and turned, “One more thing. You once mentioned feeling uneasy about the late marquess’s pistol. I thought little of it at the time, but….”
“The pistol?” Mason frowned. “Yes, one of the commemorative duelling pair. They were displayed in a glass cabinet, more decorative than functional. They fired, certainly, but poorly. We took them out once, as a bit of a lark, for target practice. Inaccurate things, misfired once or twice. Certainly not something one would carry about.”
Southerby regarded Mason for several moments before he nodded. “I see, thank you.”
“You think it’s important?”
“I think every detail is important.” He turned for the door, the weight of purpose settling across his shoulders. “I’ll send word when I know more.”
* * *
Still in Cheshire, Sebastian Humber sat contentedly at the breakfast table, munching on toast thick with plum jam as he half-heartedly scanned the paper.
“I’ll get started on the London property today,” he said between bites. “The household budgets for the three estates are all but complete, you just need to have a quick look through them. But before we get buried in ledgers, let’s see what Lady Quill has to say.”
“Not you as well?” scoffed Angus.
“Absolutely,” laughed Humber. “One must keep abreast of society gossip, especially while one is absent… oh!” He looked up sharply. “Madeline Hayford is back!”
“I know. I’ve seen her.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“Is she still as lovely as ever? You know, I half fancied myself in love with her when I was a young buck.”
“Hm,” Angus replied with a slight grin. “I think we all did. And yes… she’s as lovely as ever.”
“Then I look forward to being reacquainted,” said Humber, returning to the paper. “Though I cannot say the same about her son. Seems he’s been causing quite a stir.”
Angus’s attention sharpened. “He’s back in society?”
“So, it seems.”
“And how do you feel about that?”
Humber lowered his paper and paused, considering for a moment before he shrugged.
“I’d rather it wasn’t the case, but we all knew his return was inevitable.
I despise the man for Sissy’s death, for using Eleonore as a pawn, and for all the other nasty games he’s played over the years.
But if I let hatred consume me, then he wins…
and that, I will not allow. If he behaves himself, I believe London is big enough for both of us to coexist without coming to fatal blows.
Though I’m not sure Blackmoor will feel the same way. ”
“No,” sighed Angus. “I fear you are right.”
“And you?” asked Humber cautiously.
“Me?” Angus’s tone darkened. “I could wring his bloody neck for filling Sylvie’s head with nonsense. But I’ve got too many other things to worry about at present without getting drawn into his games.”
“Mm.”
“Yet Valentine’s defence of him has me somewhat concerned,” Angus added.
“I grant, ’twas certainly odd behaviour, even for Valentine,” mused Humber, then with a slight shake of his head, added, “but I assume he knows something we do not, though why he wouldn’t share it is a bit puzzling. Still, he’ll have his reasons. He always does.”
“Hmph. Or Louis has something over Valentine and is pulling his strings.”
Humber considered the comment for a moment, then shook his head. “No, highly improbable. Valentine is meticulous in his dealings.”
“Is he? His recent dealings with Mason led Sylvie straight into Louis’s grasp — and now, she’s unwittingly become a pawn in one of his games. It wouldn’t be the first time Southerby has orchestrated events by carefully divulging information, or fabricating details, for an audience to overhear.”
Humber’s brow shadowed with concern. “Oh, my friend, you don’t honestly believe Valentine would do such a thing?”
Angus looked across at him over the rim of his coffee cup, his expression unusually patronising. “What, meddle in other people’s affairs for his own benefit?”
“Well, of course he meddles… it’s how he works. He trades in secrets, influences decisions, manipulates outcomes,” retorted Humber, waving a dismissive hand. Then, leaning closer, his voice was low and firm. “But not yours, Angus. Never yours.”
“Yet, he already has.”
Humber shook his head in exasperation, “Yes, to help you… not to harm you.”
Angus exhaled sharply. “He betrayed my trust, Sebastian. He consorted with the enemy.”
“Consorted with the enemy!” spluttered Humber.
“Valentine simply passed on a letter that he believed might help. Look, I despise Louis as much as you do, distrust him with every fibre, but, I do trust Valentine. Come on, old chap, you know he’s never stopped searching for something that will convince you, you are not going to fall foul of some hereditary illness…
even if that something had to come through Louis. ”
Angus, readying to object, regarded Humber for a moment, then sighed in defeat.
“I know. I’m just… just trying to make sense of it all.
To come to terms with…” He trailed off. “Anyway. It’s over now.
Louis has had his fun. Sylvie is safely tucked away in Wales, and I’m… I’m here, where I shall remain until…”
A discreet cough interrupted him as the butler approached. “A letter for you, my lord.”
Humber blinked up. “Oh… for me?”
“Yes, my lord. Urgent, I believe.”
Immediately recognising the writing, Humber rolled his eyes, “It usually is. Thank you.”
As the butler withdrew, Humber broke the seal. “His ears must have been burning. It’s from Valentine… no doubt in need of a…” his voice instantly trailed off as he scanned the page.
Angus’s head tilted slightly as he watched the expression on his friend’s face change. “What is it?”
Looking up with something akin to disbelief illuminating his bright blue eyes, he half shook his head and swallowed hard.
“Well?” prompted Angus.
“He’s on his way to Wales. To… accompany Sylvie…”
“Accompany her where?” burst Angus.
“Um, Scotland… to visit your aunt. Lady McDonald.”
“The devil he is!” roared Angus, already pushing back his chair. He was already halfway to the door before Humber could rise. “And you still think I should trust him?” he thundered. “Ha!”