A Stroke of Malice Page 10

  As we passed through the long library, we could already hear the voices of two men arguing behind the closed door to the study. One of them, I was surprised to hear, belonged to the duke. Not because I didn’t believe the genial and blithe nobleman was incapable of speaking with such icy disdain, but that he’d roused himself enough to do so.

  The other, we quickly learned as the door was opened upon Gage’s rapping, belonged to Peter Rodgers, the procurator fiscal from Selkirk. His small, rather close-set eyes glowered at us as the duke ushered us forward.

  “Ah, here you are,” he declared as he sank deeper into the chair behind his desk. “These are the inquiry agents I was telling you about, Rodgers. Allow me to present . . .”

  “I ken who they are,” Mr. Rodgers snapped. Though he only gave Gage a cursory glance, the manner in which he scoured me from head to toe, eyeing me like some bit of refuse he’d like to scrape from the bottom of his shoe, made it clear his opinion of me. He wasn’t the first person to look at me thusly, and he had sorely underestimated me if he thought such contempt would make me cower.

  In the past, I would have chosen to outwardly ignore such disdain while inside I struggled to stifle my anger, frustration, and shame. But I was through with letting those who neither knew me nor had tried to empathize with my situation influence my emotions. I didn’t have time for their petty judgment, but at the same time I was also tired of meekly standing by while they belittled me. So when he cast his scornful gaze over me a second time, I didn’t even attempt to resist the urge to arch a single eyebrow back at him in mockery.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the duchess suppressing a smile, even as Mr. Rodgers’s feathers seemed to ruffle up behind him and his neck seemed to jut forward like an offended peacock.

  “I suppose I shouldna be surprised that a man o’ yer reputation consorts wi’ people o’ such an unsavory ilk,” he sneered to the duke.

  The duke’s already ruddy cheeks reddened further as he opened his mouth to respond, but Gage beat him to it, speaking with an icy civility that thinly veiled the anger flashing in his eyes.

  “Given the fact my father is friends with not only the king, but also most of this country’s highest-ranking men and holders of office, I suggest you rephrase your last comment and speak with a great deal more respect.”

  The glare he turned on my husband clearly said it would be a cold day in hell before he did either.

  “Gentlemen,” the duchess intervened, recognizing as I did that we were not going to get anywhere if we allowed the men to control the reins of the conversation. The duke and Mr. Rodgers were both obviously in ill humors, due at least in part to their overindulgences the night before, and Gage, with his protective nature, had taken umbrage at the procurator fiscal’s insolent demeanor toward me. “Can we please set aside our prides and focus on the matter at hand? There is a dead body in my cellar, and I would like to know who it is and why it ended up there.” Her withering tone seemed to have some effect on the men, for at least they did not object.

  When she turned to me, her voice became warmer. “Mr. and Mrs. Gage, please have a seat.” She gestured to the canapé sofa beside her, skillfully aligning us in a united front as I sank down beside her. “Now, as I’ve already informed the duke, I have asked the Gages to conduct an investigation into the matter. I’m sure they’re more than capable. So you needn’t take more than a cursory involvement until the facts have been ascertained,” she explained to Mr. Rodgers.

  He leaned back in his chair with his substantial frame, which seemed to be as large as he imagined his consequence, and raked us again from head to toe. Though this time, I noted, he took at least a little care to restrain his thoughts. I realized this must be a tactic he often used in his duties as the county’s prosecutor. One that was calculated both to allow time for him to think and to unsettle the subject of his stare, hoping to induce them to speak, and possibly incriminate themselves. Gage utilized a similar method, aware that people were often uncomfortable with silence and so rushed to fill it. However, contrary to Mr. Rodgers—whose eyes seemed to gleam with satisfaction—he was careful not to let his intentions show.

  “I suppose yer results are undeniable. Though I question the methods ye employ to get them.” His gaze landed squarely on me with this comment, and I was hard-pressed not to roll my eyes, for I was now on to his game. “But if this is what the duke wishes, then I shall no’ refute it.” He rolled his shoulders backward as if he had just made a magnanimous gesture. Except we would have to be dolts not to recognize this was a development that pleased him. Not only would he not have to lift a finger, but he could also take credit for the wisdom of engaging us to identify the body and solve whatever crime had been committed. And if we failed to do so, he could blame us for the miscarriage of justice, while avoiding any scrutiny and suspicion of partiality. By granting the duchess’s wish for us to investigate, he was both pleasing the duke and avoiding any appearance of being in the duke’s pocket.

  Which he confirmed with his next statement. “However, I willna be held accountable should ye fail to get results. And I expect to be kept apprised o’ the status o’ yer inquiry. I can postpone the coroner’s inquest for a few days, but I canna do so indefinitely.”

  “Understood,” Gage replied tersely.

  Mr. Rodgers nodded, using his arms to leverage his girth forward in his chair. “Then I’ll leave you to it.” He sketched a hasty bow to the duke and the duchess and then ambled through the opposite door from which Gage and I had entered. Tait stood on the other side waiting for him, apparently anticipating that the procurator fiscal’s visit would not be a long one.

  “Pompous old windbag,” the duke muttered as the door closed behind him.

  “Now, Bowmont, you know Rodgers is no older than you are,” the duchess retorted as she crossed the room to pull a tasseled cord that would summon one of the servants.

  The duke scowled.

  “In any case, you can’t be surprised that most of the gentry in this area disapprove of our morals, even if few would be so bold as to say so to our faces.” She passed behind his chair, laying a restraining hand on his shoulder when he would have argued. “I think you can afford to overlook Mr. Rodgers’s pomposity. After all, beneath his huff and puff, he granted us what we wished.”

  There was a rap on the door, and she turned to ask the footman who had answered the summons to bring tea.

  She returned to the sofa as he departed, meeting my gaze. “You look like you could use some fortification.” Spreading her goldenrod skirts with diamond ruching around the hem as she sank down onto the cushion, she sighed and adjusted the cornette cap covering her white hair. “We all could.”

  “What have you uncovered, then?” the duke blustered, apparently not content to wait for tea to arrive before we launched into the matter. “Is the poor sod Helmswick or is it not?”

  “That, I’m afraid, we cannot definitively say,” Gage replied, his gaze flicking to the duchess as he searched for the most delicate way to say what he must. “The . . . damage . . . to the distinguishing features of the corpse was too great.”

  However, it was not the duchess who cringed, but the duke. He wrinkled his nose as if he’d smelled something revolting.

  “We can say he was dressed in the clothes of a gentleman, and finely tailored garments at that. And there was something about the body that reminded Lord Edward almost immediately of his brother-in-law. That is where the suspicions began.”

  “That’s all?” The duke scoffed. “There must be dozens of gentlemen who appear similar to Helmswick. He was rather average in appearance. Average height, average weight, average brown hair.”

  “I would have called it more of a light sandy brown,” the duchess interjected serenely.

  The duke waved this away as if it was of no consequence. “Still quite average.” His brow lowered thunderously. “I wouldn’t be
surprised if Ned thought of his brother-in-law just to stir up some sort of hornet’s nest. He always was the most likely to ruffle everyone’s feathers and create trouble.”

  “That’s hardly fair,” the duchess objected, only to have her defense cut off by the arrival of the tea tray.

  I sensed this was a familiar argument between the duke and duchess, and I couldn’t help but wonder if it had to do with a matter the duchess had alluded to me about months before in London. She had hinted at the fact that her third son preferred the company of men to that of women, though of course she had not stated so outright. Such a thing was simply not done, and in any case, was far too dangerous to admit openly. After all, the act of sodomy was a capital crime. A fact I was troubled by, feeling such things were a private matter rather than a criminal one.

  Whatever the truth of the matter, I didn’t believe Lord Edward’s identifying Helmswick as possibly being the victim had been any sort of ploy or prank. He had clearly been distressed by the matter, and reluctant to voice his observations. So I discarded the duke’s suggestion immediately. In any case, his words were not the lone reason our interest had been aroused in that direction.

  Gage waited until the duchess had finished pouring the tea before offering up any further evidence. “The corpse was also wearing a pair of Hoby boots.”

  “As do half the noblemen in the House of Lords,” the duke argued, which was only a slight exaggeration.

  “Yes, but these Wellingtons had rather distinctive stitching along the back of the calf.”

  The duchess paused in bringing her cup to her lips. Then, as if realizing how much she had betrayed, continued as if she’d never hesitated. Though the fact that she would not meet my gaze said more than enough.

  The duke, on the other hand, scowled, evidently having no idea what we were talking about. But then, not every gentleman was sartorial-minded. In general, gentlewomen paid more attention to the details of other’s clothing. After all, it was one of but a few acceptable hobbies and interests open to them.

  “If you say so,” the duke retorted. “But how distinctive could they really be? Hoby probably sold the design to dozens of his clients.”

  “Perhaps, but if not Helmswick, what other gentleman has visited your estate in recent weeks wearing a special pair of Hoby boots?” Gage countered. “And have any of them gone missing?”

  This silenced the duke, for he could not refute such an implication. A dead body had been found in his crypt, and it was wearing the clothing of a gentleman. If not Helmswick, then who was he?

  “I still think it could have been one of those tramps or walkers who go roving off through the Ettrick Forest, searching for beauty or inspiration or whatever it is they seek,” the duchess declared primly. “We don’t forbid them from using the old byways through our property, and from time to time they even venture into the abbey ruins to sketch or compose or stare around them. Some of them are gentlemen.”

  The duke gestured toward his wife in silent agreement.

  “Perhaps,” Gage hedged. His jaw had grown tight, suggesting he was struggling to keep his patience. “But most walkers would wear more sensible clothing for such exploring. Even gentlemen.”

  “You recognized the stitching my husband was speaking of, didn’t you?” I asked the duchess before the conversation became fixed on their theory about tramps and walkers.

  A tiny furrow formed between her eyes, letting me know she was unhappy I’d noticed her reaction, and perhaps displeased I’d pressed her about it when she’d not spoken up herself. I wondered for a moment if she would lie. “They do sound vaguely familiar,” she finally admitted. “But Eleanor is the one you should be asking. She would know far better than I.”

  I nodded slowly. So that was her game. She intended to follow her daughter’s lead, whatever it might be. Even if it meant denying the truth I saw reflected in her eyes.

  Part of me was annoyed by this willful deceit, but I also couldn’t help but respect her loyalty to her daughter. Nonetheless, respect it though I might, that would not solve this murder. And if the duchess was willing to mislead or lie about something as slight as the stitching on a boot, then what else would she attempt to conceal?

  As such, I decided it was pointless to ask her about the chipped tooth or Helmswick’s drinking. She would only offer me the same answer.

  I passed my teacup to Gage for him to set on the low table before me, as the growing mound of my belly made it awkward for me to do so gracefully. “Then I suppose I should speak with her next.” Before the duchess could warn her. “Will she still be in her chamber?”

  “I suspect so,” she replied, surprising me when she made no move to rise or insist on joining me. Perhaps I had misjudged her.

  Gage took my elbow, helping me to my feet.

  “Then if you’ll direct me where to go, I shall pay her a visit.” I glanced up at my husband, seeing in his watchful gaze that he already understood my intentions for him to fetch the boots and bring them to Lady Helmswick’s chamber.

  “Of course, my dear. Tait will show you the way.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Lady Helmswick’s chamber was most easily accessed from a circular staircase at the far end of the ballroom. In the stark light of day, the ballroom appeared quite different than the evening before. It seemed worn and almost hollow stripped of its flowers and garland. The sounds of our footsteps echoed in the lofty space. A line of maids knelt across one side of the room, hand-polishing the oak floor. They flicked glances at us as we passed, and I stepped carefully, fearful of scuffing their hard work with my kid-leather half boots.

  At the base of the stairs, Tait paused, glancing back into the room behind us with a frown. Evidently, something about their efforts was not to his satisfaction. “Lady Helmswick’s rooms are on the floor above, through the door on the left,” he instructed me.

  Somewhat relieved to be rid of the imposing butler, I climbed the stairs as quickly as my current condition would allow me, and was surprised to discover that the stairs opened onto a landing which held only two doors. I’d already realized that the castle’s layout was something of a labyrinth. Staircases led to some floors but not others. Corridors ended in blind walls. Certain chambers were solely accessed through other ones. It was disorienting, but not incongruous to the way most old castles were expanded upon.

  I rapped on the door on the left, wondering if the chamber on the right was used by Lord Helmswick when he stayed at the castle, and whether it was kept empty in his absence or another guest was sleeping there.

  Lady Helmswick herself opened the door, a coy smile stretching her lips. “Did you forget . . . oh!” She stammered to a stop. “Lady Darby, it’s you.” She hesitated, her eyes searching mine. “Won’t you come in?”

  I stepped through the door into a sitting room decorated to appear like a garden cottage. Dainty furniture with cabriolet legs and wheat-colored upholstery or rush seats were covered in pillows with cheerful floral patterns or topped with vases bursting with flowers. Even the bare stone walls of the castle had not been plastered over, as if to imitate the walls of a courtyard spilling over with ivy. Between these sprays of greenery hung a number of wide mirrors and landscapes depicting the southern provinces of France. While above, the ceiling was painted a pale robin-egg blue.

  I had to admit it was a charming effect. Though it lost some of its appeal when I saw her brother, Lord John, seated on one of the chairs. I held nothing against Lord John. In truth, I rather liked him. But I had hoped to speak with Lady Helmswick on her own.

  Had the duchess known her son—one of them, in any case—would be here with Lady Helmswick? Was that why she had allowed me to visit her alone? Or was I being unreasonably suspicious?

  If Lady Helmswick hadn’t been precisely happy to see me, Lord John seemed almost dyspeptic. He pushed to his feet, tugging at his mulberry-hued frock coat, while his features
flickered between a tight smile and a pained grimace as he greeted me. It was a feeling I knew well, for I suspected my face had sported the same expressions on innumerable social occasions when I had wished to be anywhere else.

  “Sit, please,” Lady Helmswick exclaimed, gesturing with her hands as she plunked down onto the pale green upholstered settee. Her gaze flickered over my rather plain blue-green morning dress with its simple scalloped lace trim. It was a stark contrast to her pine-needle green gown with buttons marching down the front bordered by a diamond pattern, a high collar, and enormous gigot sleeves. “Is there . . . news?” she asked, recognizing the significance of my visit.

  “Yes, and no,” I began hesitantly, trying to decipher from her demeanor what would be the best way to proceed. “I don’t wish to alarm you unnecessarily, and we don’t want to make any claims that are unsubstantiated. At least, as much as they can be.” I glanced between the brother and sister. Their eyes both displayed varying degrees of anxiety. “But we have not found any evidence that suggests the body found in the crypt could not be Lord Helmswick.”

  She blinked at me for a moment and then inhaled sharply, almost as if she’d forgotten to breathe. “Does that mean you’ve found evidence that suggests it might be?”

  Lord John’s hands tightened where they rested on the dark trousers covering his thighs.

  “The man’s boots. They are rather distinctive. Mr. Gage will be joining us shortly with them, and you will be able to tell us for yourself whether you recognize them.”

  She nodded.

  “Also, his clothing was obviously that of a gentleman. A deep blue coat of superfine, smoke gray waistcoat, and dark trousers. Does that sound like something your husband would wear?”

  She lifted a hand to her forehead, but then lowered it again, as if she didn’t know what to do with it. “Yes, it does. But it is a rather common ensemble, is it not?”