A Grave Matter Read online

  “Oh, pssh!” she said, waving off my words with her fan. “I’m too old for that.”

  I smiled at her, suspecting the lady’s reluctance had more to do with the assemblage than her age. I certainly planned to continue dancing until my bones simply wouldn’t support it anymore. Though I might decide it was best pursued in a smaller gathering as well.

  I slid into the seat beside her. “I’m Lady Darby,” I told her, gambling that the woman would not be offended by my forwardness.

  “The Dowager Marchioness of Bute,” she replied, offering me her hand, which I squeezed with my own.

  She studied me with interest, and I assumed my reputation had preceded me once again. But this time, it didn’t seem to offend.

  “I haven’t seen you here before,” she said, nodding to encompass the Assembly Rooms, I assumed. “Your sister is Lady Cromarty, is she not?”

  “Yes.”

  She joined me in watching the dancers performing the quadrille. “Did she help you choose your gown? I noticed she has impeccable taste, and it seemed like something she would favor. Particularly the color. You both have the same color eyes. Though . . .” she turned to look at me again “. . . I think yours may be a touch more purple.”

  My smile tightened. “Yes. My sister has quite an eye for fashion.”

  Her gaze traveled over the fabric of my gown again. “Now, of course, everyone will want to copy it. I noticed them watching you earlier when you were speaking with that handsome young man and Count Roehenstart.”

  I was momentarily speechless, having never worn a dress that anyone would admire, let alone covet. Surely she was mistaken. But then her second comment penetrated my brain. “Who?”

  She turned to me in surprise. “Didn’t you know the young man’s name who you were conversing with? I saw you come in on his arm.”

  “Er, yes. Of course. That’s Mr. Gage. But I’m not certain I know any counts. Do you by chance mean Mr. Stuart?”

  She nodded her head, her feathers bobbing. “One of his many eccentricities. The man has several titles, has gone by many names, and yet now he most often chooses to be addressed as a simple mister. I suppose out of respect for his grandfather.” She leaned closer, flapping her fan in front of her so that the feathers waved in the breeze it created, and her musky French perfume wafted under my nose. “You know, of course, that his grandfather was Bonnie Prince Charlie himself.”

  “I’ve heard rumors,” I replied carefully.

  “Oh, I assure you, it’s not just a rumor.”

  I met her gaze. “What do you mean?”

  Her fan snapped shut. “My dear, I’m well acquainted with the family. His grandmother acted as chaperone to my sisters and me when we were in Paris. Before the revolution, of course.” She turned back to the dancers, opened her fan, and resumed fanning herself. “And my father acted as something of a financial advisor to the young count when his grandmother passed away.”

  “So you were childhood friends?”

  Lady Bute laughed. “Oh, no. I didn’t meet the count until many years later. He came to Switzerland to collect some of his family’s old documents and letters. My father had been keeping them safe for him.”

  “And your father would not have handed them over to him if he wasn’t certain he was who he said he was.”

  She gestured toward me with her fan. “Precisely.”

  I contemplated the implications of a direct descendant, particularly a male, of the Stuart royal line being alive, and in Scotland. His grandfather’s bid to reclaim the Scottish and English thrones during the Jacobite Rising of 1745–46 ended in disaster. Did Mr. Stuart have similar designs?

  Surely not. Not only did people whisper about his claimed heritage as if it were a joke, but the man himself did not seem to be making any real effort to gain support for his cause. However, I knew from experience that some men were craftier than others. Though, I would have thought that with Philip’s position, he would have at least heard rumblings. It would be impossible to keep such a thing completely quiet.

  “Most people seem to think his claimed ancestry is fabricated,” I couldn’t resist pointing out. “And Mr. Stuart doesn’t seem to care to correct them.”

  She sighed. “I know. It’s rather sad, really. But rest assured, he is of Stuart royal blood. Even our government has admitted so.”

  I turned to her in surprise. “They have.”

  She nodded firmly. “Why else do you think they went so far as to accuse him of high treason, with their evidence contrived by British agents and even Scottish gentlemen? Fortunately, he was in Paris at the time, and with the help of his friends and the French police, he was able to prove the charges were nothing but outright lies and ridiculous exaggeration.” She narrowed her eyes. “Oh, yes. They know exactly who he is. They would hardly have gone to all the trouble otherwise.”

  A shadow of suspicion was stirring in my mind. “When was this?”

  “Twelve, thirteen years ago.” She waved her fan as if it were no consequence.

  Perhaps before Ian Tyler of Woodslea died? I turned to ask her if she knew who the Scottish noblemen had been, but she was already rising from her chair. I joined her.

  “Lovely to meet you, Lady Darby,” she proclaimed, before sweeping across the floor toward a pair of older gentlemen standing in the doorway to our right.

  I watched her go and then sank back in my chair.

  Bonnie Brock had claimed that the victims weren’t saints, and that they weren’t true friends to Scotland. Was he a Jacobite? Did he believe the Stuarts to be the rightful kings? I would have thought the criminal would care little who was on the British throne, but maybe I was wrong.

  So if Buchan and Tyler and Casselbeck were the Scottish gentlemen who conspired to see Mr. Stuart accused of high treason, then perhaps Mr. Stuart wanted revenge.

  I frowned. But snatching their bodies for ransom after they were dead seemed an awfully strange way to go about it.

  “If I didn’t know you better, I would think you were trying to scare people away.”

  I blinked up at Gage. “What?”

  He grinned and pulled me to my feet. “You’re scowling. Rather fiercely, I might add.”

  I glared at him. “No, I’m not.”

  He arched his eyebrows in skepticism, and I tried to relax my face.

  “I was thinking.”

  “About something unpleasant obviously.”

  Now it was my turn to arch my eyebrows.

  He swiveled so that we were standing almost side by side, both of us looking out over the dancers. “Well, think on this. Mr. Fergusson was betting rather heavily at the tables tonight, and Lord Shellingham was definitely not happy about it.”

  “Looking out for his friend?”

  “Or irritated the man was making such a spectacle of himself and his newly plump bank account.”

  “Did you try to talk to either of them?”

  “No. But Lord Shellingham was drinking whiskey in rather copious amounts. I’m going to give it a little bit longer to loosen his tongue and then try.”

  “Well, don’t wait too long,” I cautioned him. “He got foxed at my uncle and aunt’s Hogmanay Ball and was barely coherent even the next morning.”

  Gage nodded.

  I opened my mouth to tell him what I’d learned from Lady Bute, when a young lady’s voice called out his name. We turned to watch her approach in a gown of cream and sage. Her dark hair was swept up very high on her head, and I couldn’t help but wonder how close it came to grazing the top of the doorways. She was very pretty, and also quite young, perhaps just out of the schoolroom, but her fresh-faced good looks belied her razor-sharp interior.

  She smiled beatifically at Gage, only sparing a moment to shoot a venomous glance my way. I was under no illusions that this debutante wished me well.

  “I didn’t know you were still in Edinburgh,” she exclaimed, offering him her hand. “I thought you’d returned to London.”

  “Yes, well, b
usiness has kept me in Scotland,” Gage replied rather tautly. “But you are looking quite fine this evening.”

  She preened. “Thank you.”

  Gage turned toward me, to offer an introduction, but she cut him off.

  “But how disappointing for Lady Felicity. I know she’s been eagerly awaiting your return.” The chit’s eyes darted my way again, just for a fraction of a second, as if to gauge my reaction.

  I willed myself to remain calm and emotionless, though my stomach was suddenly clenching in dread. I had heard Lady Felicity’s name before, during Miss Witherington’s conversation with Gage at my aunt and uncle’s dinner table, but she had only been baiting him for information. This girl seemed to know much more.

  “Has she?” Gage replied indifferently, but I could tell he was far from disinterested. The muscles in his arm had tensed where it brushed against mine, and his voice was a shade higher in pitch than normal.

  “But, of course she is. And you know it.” She tilted her head coyly. “She’s been waiting for months to announce your engagement.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  And there it was. The news the chit had been so eager to share. I had been preparing myself for something dreadful, but this surpassed even that.

  I couldn’t prevent myself from stiffening, even though I knew it would only give the girl pleasure. Her lips curled into a satisfied smile while my heart clenched so tightly in my chest I thought it might burst under the strain.

  “I’m afraid you must be mistaken,” Gage replied. He was trying to sound authoritative, but the strain in his voice was anything but reassuring.

  The girl laughed. “Oh, there’s no need to be secretive. Lady Felicity tells me everything. I know your fathers have already had the marriage contracts drawn up. All that’s left is for you to sign them and post the announcement in The Times.”

  I wanted to turn away, to move as swiftly and as far away from this as I could. But where would I go? We were in the middle of a ballroom—buzzing with gossiping voices, pierced by prying eyes—and few of them were truly friendly to me. The moment I turned to run, Gage would stop me, and everyone’s attention would be on us.

  I forced a deep breath into my lungs, trying to control the sudden urge to vomit. Tears stung my eyes, but I blinked them back and swallowed hard, trying to choke down that dark ball of emotion that seemed to be ever present lately.

  “I’m afraid there’s more to it than that,” I heard Gage telling the girl, while his eyes kept darting to me. I refused to look at him, refused to acknowledge him. Gritting my teeth, I welcomed the swell of rage I felt building in my breast. Anything to block out this pain.

  And then, blessedly, seemingly out of nowhere, Mr. Stuart appeared by my side. “Lady Darby,” he declared cheerfully. “I’ve come to claim you for our waltz.”

  I had been so consumed by the scene before me that I was barely conscious of the lull in the music or the dancers drifting off the floor.

  I offered him a tight smile and accepted his proffered arm. “Of course.”

  Gage lifted his arm as if to stop me, but then he must have realized how rude that would be, for it never touched mine. I didn’t spare the girl even a glance, but did spend a spiteful moment wishing her ridiculous hairstyle would get caught in a door or catch fire from a low-hanging chandelier.

  Mr. Stuart swung me into the steps of the waltz as I did my best to compose the riot of emotions swirling about inside me. There was no reason to take out my anger on him.

  He seemed conscious of it anyway, remarking in his slight French accent, “If I am not being too impertinent to say, but that conversation seemed fraught with tension.”

  “It was,” I admitted, deciding it would be silly to deny it. “I’m actually rather glad you appeared when you did.”

  “Ah, I am your knight in shining armor then.”

  I couldn’t help but crack a smile at the pleasure he seemed to take from that. “Yes. In a way.”

  “Then may I request a token from the fair lady?”

  I arched my eyebrows at his flirtation. “That depends on the token you are requesting.”

  He clucked his tongue in mock indignation. “No, no, no. Nothing so impudent. What you must think of me?”

  “I think you’re a flirt.”

  “Ah, well, guilty as charged. But, I promise, it is nothing so forward. I merely wish to claim your handkerchief, as the knights of old might have done.”

  “My handkerchief?” I asked doubtfully.

  “Yes.” He seemed perfectly serious.

  “All right,” I agreed, deciding there could be no harm in it. “After the dance.”

  He nodded.

  “And on one condition,” I added at the last.

  His head perked up, waiting for me to explain.

  “That you answer a question for me.”

  “Of course,” he replied without hesitation.

  I almost felt guilty for using his chivalry against him, but then I decided the investigation demanded it. Especially the justice I sought for Dodd.

  “I had the pleasure of meeting Lady Bute just a short while ago. She told me you are well acquainted.”

  He smiled. “Yes. For many years.”

  “She also told me how the British government contrived to have you charged with high treason.” I watched his expression carefully, but so far he barely flicked an eyelash, though I must have brought up a painful moment in his history. “Did you know the Scottish gentlemen who accused you?”

  It was a gamble to approach him this way, and I hoped he didn’t close down completely or push me aside in the middle of the dance floor. I prayed that his good manners would at least prevent him from doing the latter.

  His smile turned more resigned. “Yes.” He swung me into a sharp turn to avoid another couple and then corrected our course. “But what I think you really wish to know is who those men were.”

  I blushed in discomfort, but didn’t reply, hoping my silence would convince him to speak more than any awkwardly worded response.

  Mr. Stuart’s gaze turned compassionate. “I am not upset, Lady Darby. I know you and Mr. Gage are investigating the unpleasantness at Dryburgh Abbey. You must ask these types of questions, yes?” I nodded.

  “It is true, one of the men was Lord Buchan. Is that what you wondered?”

  “And the others?” I pressed even as I hated doing so.

  He tilted his head, observing me. “Lord Demming and Sir Colum Casselbeck. Those are the only names I am aware of.”

  Two of the men whose bodies were snatched for ransom, but not the third. Though maybe he had purposely omitted Ian Tyler of Woodslea’s name, knowing what I was hinting at. I was not familiar with Lord Demming, but perhaps his family was the next we should contact.

  “If you speak with someone in the government, they should be able to confirm the facts. But truly, as horrifying and embarrassing as the accusations and the trumped-up evidence were, that was more than thirteen years ago. And I was cleared of all charges. What reason would I have to disturb Lord Buchan’s grave and harm his gardener?”

  I studied his features—his expression seemed open and honest, if not a bit defensive. But one could hardly blame the man. I was accusing him of some rather heinous things in a roundabout way. He’d made no mention of the other two men’s disturbed graves, so either he was very careful or he didn’t know about them. And beyond that, I liked the man. I didn’t want to believe he was responsible for these awful crimes, and without any further evidence than what he’d given me himself, I had no reason to suspect him.

  So I thanked him for his candor and allowed the matter to drop. Philip or Lord Strathblane would be able to look into the incident for me and confirm the details. If we discovered he’d lied, we could pursue the matter then.

  I did my best to enjoy the remainder of the waltz, but much of the joy I normally felt in dancing had been spoiled by our strained conversation and my discovery of Gage’s deceit before the song had even be
gun. By the end, I could tell we were both pleased to escape the dance floor. I asked Mr. Stuart to return me to the side of the room farthest from Gage, and then gave him my handkerchief from my reticule, as I’d promised. He bowed at the waist with a flourish and then was gone, presumably off to find his next partner.

  As soon as his back was to me, I turned and fled the room, praying no one would stop me, least of all Gage. I smiled tightly at a couple ascending the stairs as I hurried down them. It took the footman longer than I would have liked to find my wrap, but chilly as it was, I knew I could not leave without it. I pulled it around my shoulders and escaped through the doors into the night.

  I was certain the footmen huddled outside waiting to help the guests in and out of their carriages looked at me oddly as I walked past them and then turned down George Street alone, but they could hardly say anything. Not to me anyway.

  The air was so bitter cold it almost burned as it entered my lungs, but I welcomed the discomfort. Anything to distract me from the hurt and anger roiling up inside me, threatening to choke me.

  I lengthened my stride as I crossed the intersection at Frederick Street. The farther I walked away from the Assembly Rooms, the quieter the night became, and fewer carriages were parked along the curbs. The streetlamps illuminated the sidewalks in this part of town quite adequately, but even they could not pierce the gloom completely.

  So when a man pulled away from the shadows clinging to the buildings and fell into step beside me, I was not anticipating it. I made a startled side step, even as I continued to walk, but when I realized it was Bonnie Brock, I merely scowled, too irate to feel any genuine fear.

  “Don’t even think about forcing me into another carriage,” I told him, staring fiercely ahead of me. The ground was hard and cold beneath the material of my thin slippers, but I refused to shorten my stride.

  In any case, my fast pace didn’t seem to bother the long-legged rogue. His hands were tucked in his pockets as if we were out for a leisurely stroll. “I wouldna dream o’ it,” he replied. “Just thought I’d join ye on your evenin’ constitutional.”

  I turned to glare at him, catching the flash of his teeth as he smiled. They were remarkably clean and straight for a man who’d grown up on the streets of Edinburgh and lived his life among the rough-and-tumble existence of the lower denizens of Old Town. But then, I really knew nothing of the man’s history. Maybe he hadn’t grown up on the streets? Maybe he wasn’t even originally from Edinburgh?