An Artless Demise Page 17

  I frowned, the idea that had been forming in my mind dissolving. “So they wouldn’t have had any difficulty finding other work after they departed. Particularly with a reference from an earl’s butler or housekeeper.”

  “Aye.”

  But there was something in her voice, some note of disquiet that made me stare at her reflection in the mirror, waiting for her to speak again. She slid the last hairpin into place and then stood back to examine her handiwork. She crossed her arms in front of her, clutching the opposite elbow in each of her hands as if to ward off some troubling thought, and I didn’t think it had anything to do with my appearance.

  I swiveled to face her, gazing up at her in encouragement.

  “There was one more thing one o’ the maids told me, and it’s been gnawin’ at me ever since.” She eyed me warily, her mouth twisting before she relented and spoke the words. “She said Lord Feckenham had to be kept away from his sisters.”

  My head reared back in shock.

  “Said that’s why the oldest girl hadna come oot yet, even though she’s o’ age. That the earl and countess kept ’em at their country estate just so Feckenham wasna near ’em.”

  The sickening darkness that lurked under those words threatened to turn my stomach. “Did she seem to be in a position to know?” I murmured in a low voice, matching her tone.

  “I dinna ken, m’lady. It could be vicious rumors stirred up by the staff. But if the rest is true . . .”

  “And it seems to be,” I agreed, given the actions of the upper servants.

  Her eyes were wide in her pale face. “Then I dinna find it so hard to believe this is true, too.”

  I sank back, overwhelmed by all the implications. If Feckenham had been kept away from his sisters, then there was a reason. Something had happened in the past. Something I didn’t even want to entertain was possible. And yet there it was. It couldn’t be turned away from.

  If Feckenham truly had been culpable of all he’d been charged with, then it was a wonder he hadn’t been murdered long ago. Despite my strong compulsion to discover the truth, I found it increasingly difficult to care whether his killer was ever caught. I knew Gage would argue that no one should be allowed to take the rule of the law into their own hands, but I was less convinced of this. Not when doing so would cause the victim irreparable harm, or the crime committed could not be punished by the courts.

  However, the fact that the culprit had attempted to mask the murder as a burking changed things. We could not ignore that fact. And until we knew who had done it and why, we could not turn away from the truth. No matter how troubling.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The Duke of Bowmont possessed an opulent mansion on Grosvenor Square. One I was surprised to discover he still shared with his duchess. The tales of their notorious infidelity had led me to believe they would live separately, regardless of how amicable their relationship appeared to be.

  Not that they would have ever needed to see one another living in such an immense house. The duchess could inhabit one floor, and the duke another, and they never need cross paths, or, indeed, hear one another’s footsteps.

  After removing my snow-dusted coat, the formidable butler led me through a series of rooms and hallways, each one more luxurious than the last. We sped past gilded trim, rich fabrics, priceless ornaments, and over sumptuous carpets, much of which I barely noticed, for my eyes were riveted to the artwork. David, Caravaggio, Titian, Turner. I was completely agog at the remarkable paintings hung on what seemed to be every wall, trying to take them all in as the butler hurried me past. By the time we reached the parlor where the duchess was seated on a blue velvet settee with a tiny white dog perched on her lap, I must have looked thunderstruck. I certainly felt it.

  “Boodles, you’ve winded Lady Darby,” the duchess admonished her butler, confirming my suspicions. “She’s in the family way, you know. You can’t go bustling her about like she’s one of my young roués. What would her husband say should he learn of such treatment?”

  “My apologies, Your Grace,” he intoned in such a manner that made it difficult to believe he felt any regret.

  The duchess shook her head, though her twinkling eyes belied any real disapproval. “Tea, Boodles. And something of sustenance for her ladyship.”

  “Oh, I am not hungry,” I demurred.

  She eyed me up and down in skepticism. “Really? Lucky for you. I was incessantly famished when I was increasing. But I shall eat, even if you do not.” She waved Boodles away with a flick of her wrist. “Good butlers are always quite impervious to censure,” she turned to inform me with a little sigh. “But tell me, shall this gown do, or should I choose something else?”

  Contrary to the current popularity of white dresses in portraits, the duchess had chosen a dress of rich midnight blue with silver braid. Her decision not to wear an extravagant necklace struck me as odd, but then I realized this accentuated how creamy and smooth her neck and shoulders were. Her white hair was swept into curls, and a silver diadem with a floret emblem rested on her forehead.

  She waited as I gave all of this careful consideration and then nodded. “Yes. Very well.” My fingers already itched to hold a paintbrush. Then my gaze fell to the dog, who studied me with equal interest. “Did you wish me to include your dog?”

  It was not that I disliked animals, but they were the very devil to capture on canvas. They often refused to sit still or cooperate, despite their owners’ assurances that they were the sweetest creatures in all of Christendom.

  As if the duchess sensed this, she gave a little gurgle of laughter. “No, I shall pass her off to my maid.” This she promptly did before crossing the room toward a window looking out on the soft flurry of snow. A crimson drape had been pulled across the aperture at an angle, and a mahogany long stool with sable-colored velvet was positioned before it.

  I opened my bag on the table provided for me and pulled out my charcoal and sketchbook while she twitched the swathed fabric slightly to the right. Then I stood to assess the alignment of the setting, shifting left and right, forward and back, until I found the most attractive angle.

  “Is there a chair I might use?” I asked.

  The duchess nodded to her maid, who moved a walnut side chair so that it sat just behind me.

  “I always begin my portraits with a number of sketches,” I explained as I settled into the chair. “To become familiar with your features and those of the room, to find the pose most flattering and comfortable for you, and to adjust any details I find displeasing. How do you wish to be positioned? We shall begin with that.”

  She sank regally onto the bench, and her maid hurried forward to adjust her skirts.

  “The draping doesn’t have to be exact,” I informed them as the servant continued to tuck and smooth. “Just on the day I intend to paint the details of the folds in the skirt.”

  The maid glanced up in surprise. I presumed the artists who had painted the duchess in the past had not informed her of this. They had probably paid her efforts little attention.

  She stepped aside, and I began to draw in broad strokes, periodically rising to my feet to verify the positioning, as I would be standing when I painted. The duchess accepted a cup of tea, aware she needn’t sit perfectly still, though she limited her movements. I nodded my thanks to the maid, who set a cup beside my elbow, along with a plate filled with tempting little sandwiches.

  “The first snow of the season is quite lovely, is it not?” the duchess remarked, her head turned toward the window, which looked out on the garden. “No matter where you are. Though I find I infinitely prefer such weather in the country. London turns it to muck too quickly. But there’s much to be said for a snowy winter scene outside one’s window when one is tucked up cozily inside.” She smiled. “It’s no wonder four of my children were born in the autumn.”

  I blinked at my sketchbook, trying not to react t
o this reference to the boudoir that some ladies wouldn’t even broach with their friends, let alone a slim acquaintance. But then again, this was the Duchess of Bowmont.

  “But summer in the country is lovely as well.” She cast me an arch look. “Especially when one is newly wed.”

  “Yes, I find I generally prefer the country to London,” I replied, refusing to rise to this bait.

  “Oh, pooh. You won’t share any details about your delightful husband?”

  “I prefer to keep his delightfulness to myself.”

  She smiled. “Fair enough. But don’t imagine I’m discouraged. I’m a terrible influence, you know. Absolutely incorrigible.”

  That she felt no remorse for this fact was quite evident. My lips curled upward at the corners of their own volition, unable to resist her charm, but I remained stubbornly absorbed in my sketching.

  Far from frustrated by my silence, she set her teacup aside and turned the conversation to another matter. “What of this murder of Redditch’s heir, then? You and your husband are investigating, are you not?”

  “We are.”

  “Well, who do you think did it? Was it really a gang of burkers?”

  I lifted my gaze to glare at her. Just because she was doing her goddaughter a favor by commissioning me to paint her did not mean I was going to allow her to malign me. But I saw only avid interest stamped across her features, nothing to indicate her question had been a subtle taunt. In any case, I doubted the duchess’s insults were anything but direct. Given her status, she had no need to veil them.

  “It wasn’t a burking,” I stated decisively, returning to my drawing. “As for the rest, I’m afraid I can’t share the details of an ongoing investigation.”

  “Of course you can,” she replied with amazing aplomb. “I know how to keep my own counsel. Perhaps not as well as you. But I’m no tale-teller. You’d be surprised the secrets I’ve never breathed to a soul. Men have a terrible propensity to chatter after intimate moments, you know. I find nothing loosens their tongue more. And the more secrets a man has to keep, the looser his lips.”

  I was vexed to feel myself once again coloring at her blithe reference to matters of the bedchamber. Had it not been for the airy, carefree nature of her comments, I would have suspected she was deliberately trying to make me uncomfortable, but it seemed, in fact, she was right. She was absolutely incorrigible.

  It made me wonder briefly what it would be like to be so incautious with my words and demeanor. But, of course, I wasn’t a duchess. And my scandal was of a far more horrifying nature than merely taking a lover. Or ten.

  “I assume the family are all suspects,” she remarked, determinedly sticking to this topic. “But, of course, Lord and Lady Redditch were at the theater. Several people have told me so. So I suppose that rules them out.” She tapped her chin. “Unless they hired someone else to do it. That’s the way the earl would go about it. He never was one to get his hands dirty.”

  At some point during this litany of speculation, my charcoal had come to a stop as I stared across at the duchess. When she noticed this, she arched her eyebrows in expectation.

  “We’re considering all possibilities,” I told her, lowering charcoal to paper once again.

  A pucker formed between her brows. “Then you must also be considering the second son, given the fact he now stands to inherit an earldom.” Her eyes strayed toward the wintry scene outside, their crystalline quality shadowed.

  Much as I had not wished to be drawn into such a conversation, I could tell she knew something. Each second she remained silent only confirmed that.

  “Are you acquainted with Mr. Penrose?”

  “Hmm . . . vaguely.”

  I waited, knowing there must be more.

  She looked up. “But I’ve heard things about him. From my third son.”

  That this should mean something to me was evident, but I had no idea why.

  “I’m afraid I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting your third son.” I frowned, wondering if my memory was faulty. “That I can recall. Just your firstborn and youngest.”

  Her head tilted to the side. “I forget you have only recently returned to London.” She brushed a hand down her skirt to remove some lint or dog hair. “And such rumors as would surround him would undoubtedly be thought inappropriate for a young lady’s ears.”

  My brow furrowed in confusion, wondering why this, of all things, she did not speak plainly about.

  She shook her head. “I will say no more about my son or Mr. Penrose. Their secrets are their own to tell. Except to say, I’m quite certain Mr. Penrose hadn’t the least desire to inherit his father’s earldom. In fact, I would wager he’s quite distressed by it.”

  I opened my mouth to ask her how she could possibly know that, but she had already turned away. Sensing she spoke the truth—I would get no more from her on that subject—I resumed my sketching.

  But I was still contemplating it two hours later when I returned to our townhouse. I’d decided I would ask Gage if he knew what the duchess had meant, and so inquired of Jeffers where I could find him.

  “He’s not home at present, my lady,” he replied. “But the Dowager Lady Stratford is awaiting you in the drawing room.”

  “Oh, how wonderful.” I hastened forward, thinking she might be able to explain the matter to me.

  However, one look at her harried expression as she paced before the hearth told me this was not to be a happy visit. She glanced up as I entered, and the way her eyes flared wide made me hesitate in taking my next step. For Charlotte to be so unnerved must mean something was very wrong indeed.

  “Charlotte, whatever is the matter?” I demanded, moving to stand beside her before the warm fire. I wriggled my fingers, which were numb with cold and hours of wielding charcoal. The snow had ceased, but the air was still damp and biting, and I was grateful for the heat.

  “Kiera, I learned something today. Something I thought you should know immediately.” She halted abruptly before saying more and cast a glance at the sofa nearest the hearth. “Perhaps you should sit.”

  I stared at her in astonishment. “Charlotte, you’re scaring me.”

  “I . . . I didn’t intend to. But what I have to say I know will be rather . . . alarming.”

  All I could think of was the blackmail letter I’d received. Had the senders already followed through on their threat?

  No, that didn’t make sense. The point of blackmail was to force the recipient to do your bidding. If you revealed their secrets before they did so, then you no longer held any leverage. Besides, it had been but four days. Surely they would not take action so quickly.

  “I assure you, I’m not so fragile,” I replied, not wanting to relinquish my place before the warm hearth. “Tell me.”

  She swallowed. “Are you acquainted with a Dr. Mayer?”

  “Yes,” I said warily.

  “There are reports—verifiable ones—that he intends to publish your first husband’s journals.”

  I blinked at her several times, unable to comprehend this. “His journals?”

  She nodded.

  “His medical journals?”

  “I . . . I don’t know precisely what is included in them. But they are rumored to be his private journals, his diaries.”

  I stumbled back a step, and Charlotte clasped my elbow, leading me over to the sofa, where I sank down heavily. “I . . . I didn’t know he’d kept a journal,” I murmured somewhat inanely, struggling to accept their existence.

  I knew Sir Anthony had kept detailed notes for the anatomy textbook he was writing, for these had been passed along to Dr. Mayer along with the completed portions of the manuscript, including my beautifully rendered anatomical illustrations. Sir Anthony’s will had specified that his friend and colleague was to finish his work and have his book published for him posthumously. If I’d had an
y inkling what was to come later, I would have hidden those drawings or burned them, even if it smarted to destroy something I’d labored over so keenly and suffered so much to complete. But the opportunity to do anything had passed. His nephew, the executor of his will, had arrived within hours after Sir Anthony’s death and taken them into his possession, along with all his other papers.

  Which, if the rumors proved true, must also have included his private journals. I wanted to deny the possibility, but I knew Charlotte. She would not be so alarmed if she did not believe them to be true, nor would she have relayed the gossip to me in such a manner.

  Still, I couldn’t help but question her halfheartedly. “You’re certain?”

  She clutched my hands in hers, chafing them. “As certain as I can be, though I wish it wasn’t so.”

  I forced a deep breath into my lungs. “What of the anatomy textbook? Is Dr. Mayer publishing that, too?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. All I heard of was the journals.”

  That Dr. Mayer had chosen not to finish Sir Anthony’s book or pursue publication was not a great surprise to me. I’d always sensed he was a jealous, bitter man. I was certain he was only too glad to use my role as the book’s illustrator as an excuse not to execute the matter charged to him. So his sudden decision to publish Sir Anthony’s private journals was justifiably upsetting and suspicious.

  Charlotte interrupted the fraught silence that had descended. “You say you didn’t know of their existence, but have you any idea what these journals might contain?”

  I shrugged helplessly. “How can I know what he chose to record?” I pressed a hand to my temple, closing my eyes. “But . . . if Dr. Mayer is pursuing publication, I must suppose they include information far more interesting than the weather and his dietary intake. Notes on his clients, maybe. His interactions with bodysnatchers.” I opened my eyes to stare at the crackling fire. “And I can only surmise I do not feature well in these writings, for the loathsome man never liked me.”