Twenty-two
Arnaud
Arnaud fought back a laugh as his beautiful betrothed brought a roomful of angry gentlemen to détente.
With her eyes leaping blue sparks, Thea appeared more than a bit harassé.
He hoped his proposal had not done that to her.
He knew how much she worried about her family.
He had allowed her to suffer for too long, all for the sake of wealth.
He hated that he brought her down to his level, but from now on, he meant to take the impact of any blows.
Somehow, he would provide, even if it meant the end of his cherished solitude.
Apparently more ready to eat than discuss murder, Arnaud, the curate, and Fort obediently followed Thea to the salon, where Lavender was setting out bowls. By now, the empty chamber had acquired table and chairs as well as soup.
The patient, tired of his bed throne and wearing Arnaud’s ancient dressing gown, joined them.
The laundry and sewing rooms had done their best to repair Weston’s damaged attire but the coat would never be the same.
And while Arnaud’s coat might fit, it was shabby in comparison to the earl’s usual elegance.
Weston still looked pale, but his legs worked, and his good arm could manage a soup spoon—if only officious commands didn’t keep spilling from his mouth. “You cannot return that notebook to those seditious scoundrels. It is criminal evidence.”
They’d left two of the better chairs for Thea and Lavender, thankfully.
The cushions made it too difficult for Thea to scramble back to her feet and dump her bowl of soup over the earl’s arrogant head.
Normally, she was even-tempered and took obstacles in stride.
Arnaud thought they might be pushing her beyond some limit.
That she’d thought to run away and murder her father was rather a conspicuous signal.
“We have been over this, Weston,” Fort insisted, walking about the room with his soup since there weren’t enough chairs.
“The notebook belongs to Calendar’s heirs or employers.
You’ve seen what it contains—meaningless scribblings of ideas for turning the Priory into a pleasure palace.
The man who wrote them is dead and cannot verify their authenticity.
Even if they break the code, it is of no value to anyone. ”
The curate intervened before the argument could begin again. “Someone must pay for Mr. Calendar’s funeral. We buried their poor servant in a pauper’s grave when Humphries did not come forward to claim him, but we cannot justifiably do the same with a respectable citizen employed by these. . .”
“Swine,” Lavender added helpfully. “Anyone who will not pay to bury his servant occupies too much space in this world.”
Arnaud raised his eyebrows. The little seamstress seldom commented on anything except her work. Tempers were definitely fraying.
Upton appeared amused and continued, “We should release the body—and the notebook—only if someone claims Mr. Calendar and pays for his burial.”
Arnaud thought that sensible and forestalled the earl’s objections. “As the manor’s current authority, I can demand that. Should we arrest one of them later, and he has the notebook in his pocket, might it be considered incriminating?”
“Most likely not. They may want it in case it contains evidence, but unless they break the code, they are likely to burn it. And one assumes they’re none too worried if they’re sending a minion to retrieve it.” The tutor appeared unhappy with the whole argument.
Fort had been in a temper since he’d returned from the inn.
Arnaud had known the earl meant trouble for the manor’s inhabitants.
Men accustomed to having everything their way always were.
Arnaud was starting to understand why the usually pleasant tutor had fled the nest. A household of selfish dictators required killing or escape.
“What do his notes say?” Lavender looked anxiously to the steaming lordling, drawing his attention from his brother.
Interesting. The modiste seldom acknowledged any man, although any man with eyes in his head would certainly notice her.
Now that he had the right to molest Thea in public, Arnaud squeezed her shoulder and indicated the young couple with a lifted finger. Thea didn’t need more communication than that. She watched their exchange with a nod of understanding. No one wanted young Lavender hurt by a duke’s deceitful son.
The tutor quit pacing and replied with a respectful bow, as if he’d forgotten Lavender was there.
“They are notes on what types of rooms Humphries is demanding. They debate a gambling casino in the ballroom, a possible assembly room in the Great Hall, and. . .” Fort winced and waved away what he meant to say and amended, “Ladies’ bedchambers in this wing. ”
A brothel in the east wing was the interpretation the tutor had left out.
Thankfully, the code hadn’t spelled it out or they would have had a lot of explaining to do to the boys.
The tutor had good reason to be furious.
They all did. Swine didn’t cover the immensity of their immorality. Swine weren’t evil.
“Me, I thought Humphries meant to buy a title. I shouldn’t think a gaming hell would aid that quest.” Arnaud had not wasted a great deal of time learning England’s archaic laws.
His own country had proved how worthless the law could be.
It only took a few ambitious men seizing power to destroy an entire civilization.
“That is where the sedition comes in,” Weston roared, confirming Arnaud’s fears.
“They will involve Prinny. The gaudy decadence and unprincipled behavior of a private gaming hell is just the sort of thing he loves most. Once he’s in their snares, they’ll connive a favor here, a title there, place their toadies in positions of authority.
. . There will be no stopping their extortion.
After a while, they won’t even need Prinny to steer the government in ways that favor their affairs over that of the country. ”
Had he not seen it happen over and over, Arnaud would laugh at the far-fetched fantasy.
But Weston was quite conceivably right. The fate of a kingdom might rest on what happened here.
Dissolute authorities were easily extorted and swayed to protect their own interests rather than that of the people they purportedly represented.
He shifted uneasily as the others belittled the earl’s fantastical theory. Weston might stand up in Parliament and warn of approaching evil but few would listen. It took looking beyond one’s self to see the whole picture.
He might not like Weston, but Arnaud appreciated his grasp of human nature.
Out in the hall, the boys shouted about a knock on the service door.
Thea and Lavender departed to fetch dinner trays.
When Weston and his brother returned to shouting over pages of childish code-breaking, Arnaud decided the senseless argument had run its course.
He followed the ladies to help carry trays.
At his arrival, Thea gestured in the direction of the main manor. “Footman says a Mr. Bobbert has come to claim the body.”
Well, he either asserted his authority now or let the obnoxious earl take command.
Having abdicated his titles and responsibilities long ago, Arnaud wasn’t in any particular rush to take them up again, but apparently old habits were ingrained.
“Send Upton out, will you, please?” Priests should discuss funerals.
The curate cheerfully followed him down the wide corridor to the front of the manor, where a footman had kept the builder waiting under the portico. If Fort’s report from this afternoon was correct, the man had taken his time showing up.
“I come for them things what Mr. Calendar had in his pockets.” The stocky builder shifted nervously from foot to foot.
“Have you come to claim the body?” the curate asked. “We will release it to whoever pays funeral expenses and authorizes the death certificate.”
Arnaud thought that sounded official enough. He crossed his arms and glowered to good effect. The worm cringed.
“I’m just his helper. I need his notes. I ain’t got the blunt to bury nobody. Didn’t he have enough in his purse?” Bobbert asked worriedly. “There were a right number of yellow Georges in there, if you lot didn’t steal them.”
English slang evaded Arnaud, especially when related to coins he didn’t possess, but he assumed Yellow Georges meant blunt of some sort. A purse was news. When Upton turned questioningly to Arnaud, he shrugged. “He had no coins when we found him. Are you saying a thief robbed and killed him?”
Bobbert cringed even more. “I can’t rightly say. I don’t know about these things. I just do plaster and brick work and such. I need his notebook to see what to do next.”
Arnaud doubted the man could read at all, much less in code. “Perhaps one of Mr. Calendar’s friends know what happened to the coins. Come back when someone is prepared to claim the poor fellow and bury him.”
The footman shut the protesting Bobbert out. Arnaud lingered in the hall, processing all they’d learned.
“You think he was murdered for gold?” Upton asked in concern.
Arnaud waited until Bobbert had time to head down the hill, then stepped out to the dark path leading around the manor. Upton followed.
“We looked in Calendar’s pockets. He had not the purse—unless it was concealed. We best look. Is that what a yellow George is, gold?” He supposed that made sense.
“A yellow George is a guinea. A purse full of them. . .”
“Gives the killer a fair start on the Continent.” Arnaud grimaced as they reached the tower stairs to the crypt. Had the grim priests’ mausoleum not so closely resembled the prison he’d rotted in for a year, he’d consider it an ideal setting for a gruesome All Hallows’ Eve gathering.
He and the curate had both seen enough corpses to know what to expect, but Arnaud still hated rummaging through the dead architect’s clothes like a filthy grave robber.