An Artless Demise Page 26

  I forced a breath past the tightness in my chest, rife with the sweet lingering scent of his cheroot and the musk of decaying leaves. I didn’t wish to return to the argument of the previous morning, so I merely nodded.

  Neither did Gage, it seemed. “Where did you venture off to?” he remarked casually.

  I told him of my visit to Lord Barbreck, and Marsdale’s presence, as well as my notion that perhaps the motive for the Mayfair murders had been political.

  He listened quietly, squaring his glass with the tile pattern of the tabletop before replying. “I considered that.”

  I stiffened. “You did?”

  “I spoke to a large number of Tories at White’s the other night. I would have to be very muttonheaded not to have thought of it.”

  “Then why didn’t you mention it?”

  “Because it’s too ill defined. Those lords who are resistant to reform have made themselves the enemy of a large swath of the populace, but these murders are not the work of ruffians. They’ve been carefully planned by someone who knows the streets of Mayfair. The fact that the assailant has no apparent experience with knives or combat, as evidenced by his poorly aimed stabs, only confirms the fact we’re looking for an unlikely murderer.”

  “That doesn’t mean his grievance isn’t against Redditch and Newbury, or that it’s not political in nature,” I pointed out crossly.

  He scraped a hand down his face wearily. “You’re right. I apologize. I should have remarked on it.”

  I dipped my head, accepting his expression of regret without further comment. If I was honest with myself, I wasn’t sure whether I was more irked because I hadn’t thought of the possibility first rather than because he’d failed to share it with me. I rose to my feet to cross toward the hanging baskets of trailing violas that the gardener had taken inside during the days of snow and hard frost, fingering one of the blooms.

  Gage shifted in his chair behind me, lowering the foot he’d crossed over his knee to the ground. “Did Barbreck or Marsdale say something that helped you think of it?”

  “Barbreck mentioned how David Newbury was rumored to have leanings toward the Whigs, and that devolved into a discussion of the Tories.”

  “And let me guess, Marsdale sat back yawning and mocking?”

  “Actually, he seemed quite knowledgeable. More so than I expected.” I tilted my head in contemplation. “I think he’s quit drinking so heavily. He was quite sober at the ball Friday night, and today as well. I must say, he appears much better for it. I’ve never seen him in such fine health and looks. Do you think he could . . .”

  Gage grabbed my hand from behind and pulled me back onto his lap, capturing my lips before I could even finish my statement. I was frightfully susceptible to his persuasive maneuvers, particularly at this stage of my condition. Several minutes more of his attentions, and I suspect I would have allowed him to carry me out into the garden and bare me to the sky, so long as he didn’t stop. But he pulled back, gazing down at me with a gleam of very masculine pride.

  “What was that for?” I asked, not bothering to disguise how breathless I felt.

  “Just to remind you who your husband is.”

  I blinked up at him in confusion, trying to recall what we were even discussing before. Then realization dawned. “I didn’t say I was attracted to him. It is Marsdale, for heaven’s sake.”

  “Regardless,” he replied without remorse.

  I glowered at him, unaccustomed to such displays of jealousy. Reconsidering my words, I pondered how I would have felt if Gage had said something similar about another woman, irrespective of what he really meant by it. “I suppose my comment wasn’t very appropriate,” I conceded.

  His face lit with a smile that cast all others in the shade. “That you even had to puzzle that out tells me all I need to know.” He shook his head. “Poor Marsdale.”

  I leaned closer, so that our mouths were only a hairsbreadth apart. “Why are we still talking about him?”

  His eyes flickered with heat before he kissed me again.

  The sound of rapping alerted us to the fact that we were no longer alone. I pulled back, and would have risen from Gage’s lap, but he held me fast.

  “What is it, Jeffers?” he said, never removing his gaze from mine.

  “My apologies for disturbing you, sir.” His voice was as unruffled as ever, though he carefully averted his eyes from our intimate seating position. “Lord Gage is here, and he insists on speaking with you. Samuel is attending to him in the drawing room.”

  The corner of Gage’s lip curled in enjoyment, recognizing as I did that this meant our footman was keeping Lord Gage from marching through the house to intrude upon us. A move that was certain to vex him.

  “Good man,” Gage told the butler. “We’ll join him shortly.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  I rested my head against his shoulder as Jeffers departed. “Couldn’t we just send him away?” I murmured, unsure if I could endure my father-in-law’s vitriol at the moment.

  His fingers brushed over the hair at the base of my scalp. “If not for these ongoing inquiries, I would happily tell him to go to the devil for you.” He sighed heavily. “But as neither seems close to a satisfactory ending, I’m afraid I can’t. You needn’t accompany me, though. I can face the dragon alone.”

  I sat up to look him in the eye, grateful for the offer. But I didn’t want Lord Gage to believe he’d gotten the better of me. Not after the way our last encounter had ended. My pride couldn’t stand it. Perhaps he now suspected more of the truth about my marriage to Sir Anthony than I wished; cowering from him because of it would only make it worse. In any case, I had no reason to feel shame. Sir Anthony had been the monster. It was past time I showed him that.

  “No, I’ll come,” I told Gage, rising to my feet to shake out the cerulean blue skirts of my dress.

  He took hold of my hand and didn’t release it. Not even when we strolled into the drawing room to greet his father. Samuel stood to the side of the door, just where Jeffers had told him to, and Gage nodded to dismiss him as we entered.

  “Father, to what do we owe the pleasure?” Gage remarked dryly.

  Lord Gage rose to his feet, his face tight with some suppressed emotion. “I’m afraid I have some unpleasant news.”

  “Oh?”

  He waited until we all were seated before speaking again. “I’ve just learned that a Dr. Mayer is in possession of a number of personal journals written by Sir Anthony Darby, and that he plans to publish them.” He had been watching us closely as he divulged this information, and although my stomach quavered at the discovery he now knew about the journals, neither of us reacted in any other way. His eyes narrowed. “You knew.”

  Gage’s brow furrowed. “Yes. We learned of the matter several days ago from a close friend. But how did you find out?”

  “A close friend,” Lord Gage sneered, apparently no more willing to share his source than we were.

  “So it’s not widely known yet?”

  “No. But it will be soon. What have you done to remedy the situation?”

  For a moment, I thought Gage was going to refuse to answer, in spite of his father’s imperious expression.

  “I’ve been attempting to purchase them anonymously. I thought that might be the simplest solution. And if such a bid is unsuccessful, then . . .”

  “Fool!”

  Gage’s already straight back turned rigid.

  “He’ll know it’s you.” Lord Gage thumped his hand on the arm of his chair. “And if such a fact should become known, how will that look? As if you’re attempting to conceal your wife’s crimes.”

  “I’ve committed no crimes,” I snapped.

  His gaze skewered me. “The truth will be of no consequence. Only the appearance of it. And attempting to secretly purchase those journals makes you look
guilty.”

  I scowled. He might speak the truth, but he didn’t have to do so in such a way that belittled me.

  “I’ll handle the matter,” he declared decisively. “There is no way I’m going to allow those journals to be published.”

  I turned to Gage in alarm.

  “We have no need for you to interfere,” he told his father firmly. “If you had let me finish speaking, I was about to say that if he refuses to sell, I was going to approach the publisher to see if, given the number of high-ranking patients Sir Anthony treated and the scandals and resulting lawsuits that were certain to ensue from the publication of such sensitive information, I could dissuade them from publishing.”

  Lord Gage scoffed. “That won’t dissuade them. Publishers love a good scandal. It sells books.”

  Gage continued through gritted teeth. “And if that didn’t work, I hoped royal pressure might be brought to bear.”

  His father sat upright at this suggestion. “Yes. Sir Anthony was sergeant surgeon to old George, wasn’t he? Then I’m sure he knew a number of unseemly details His Majesty won’t want revealed about his brother.” His lips tightened as if recalling some of those unseemly details; then his gaze returned to his son. “If you mean to request royal interference, then I’m the one to do it. The King owes me a favor or two, and given the fact he’ll mutually benefit from this request, I know he won’t refuse.”

  When Gage didn’t reject this offer, I squeezed his hand where it still gripped mine. I did not want those journals falling into the hands of my father-in-law, whatever they contained about me.

  “We appreciate your offer, but I would like to discover if Dr. Mayer is willing to be reasonable first. If he refuses to sell them, then we’ll keep your proposition in mind. But I do not want you interfering until I ask you to do so.”

  Lord Gage’s face reddened with resentment. “Why must you be so bloody stubborn?”

  “‘The raven chides blackness,’” he replied, quoting Shakespeare.

  Rather than growling back at him or striding from the room, his father’s lip reluctantly curled. “True enough. I admit I’m stubborn.” His gaze flicked to me and back. “Your mother would have said so, too.”

  I had rarely heard him mention his long-dead wife, and it seemed neither had Gage, for he stilled beside me. His eyes riveted on his father’s face, almost as if he was hungry for him to say her name. But the moment passed all too swiftly.

  “I’ll do nothing until you ask me to,” Lord Gage conceded before rising to his feet. “Just don’t wait overlong, or it might be too late.”

  * * *

  • • •

  The following two days, much of Gage’s time was occupied with matters regarding the inquest into the death of the Italian Boy, whose identity was now being reported everywhere as Carlo Ferrari. Superintendent Thomas had made much of the bundle of women’s clothing the police found in the privy at Cottage Number 2 in Nova Scotia Gardens on Tuesday morning, even though Gage had suggested they search it on Saturday. The fact that Williams had lived at Number 2 for a short time before marrying Bishop’s daughter and moving in with the Bishop family at Number 3 just five weeks before Ferrari’s murder made a search of the neighboring premises an obvious move to Gage. However, Thomas had resisted. And when his men found the violently torn clothing in the privy, as well as a shawl wrapped around a large stone at the bottom of the well, he’d been happy to take the credit. Gage shrugged it off in annoyance, but I was infuriated on his behalf. It was no wonder Thomas had a reputation as being difficult to work with.

  Squabbles over recognition aside, the mounting evidence at Nova Scotia Gardens was making it difficult to believe that what had been going on there wasn’t just the handling of unearthed corpses—removing their clothing, teeth, and hair to sell separately—but cold-blooded, methodical murder. Other people had been reported missing from the area, including several women from Bethnal Green and Shoreditch, and a number of children. Could some of them have fallen victim to Bishop, Williams, and May as well?

  Gage had roundly approved of Thomas’s resolve to inquire at the anatomical schools of London again and find out just how many bodies the prisoners had sold to them in the past few months, as well as what type of corpses and the state they were in. The bodies might not have shown obvious marks of foul murder, but the porters would have noticed if the corpses hadn’t been buried or begun to show signs of decay. Perhaps that would give the police some idea of the potential number of victims they were looking at.

  Meanwhile, I spent my mornings with the Duchess of Bowmont, working on her portrait while she entertained me with stories of her own foibles, as well as that of the rest of the ton. She was old enough that she remembered when King George IV had still been quite handsome, and told me several tales of how he’d cut a dash through society and broken many hearts.

  A number of times, she attempted to discuss the murders with me. Though I could tell she was merely curious and perhaps interested out of boredom, still I resisted sharing any details with her. I simply couldn’t risk it, despite her quick mind.

  I spent the rest of my time paying calls on those who would speak with me—known friends or relatives of the victims, anyone I thought might possess information that might be helpful to us, whether they knew it or not. I soldiered on through the driving rain and withering gossip, hoping to learn something that might help us figure out who had killed Feckenham and Newbury. By the end of the second afternoon, I was weary and damp, and desperately in need of a friendly face.

  I ordered the carriage to Brook Street and was relieved to find my sister at home. Alana took one look at me and ordered me into the chair by the fire, propping my feet up and placing a blanket over my lap before she plied me with sweetened tea. For once, I was happy to let my older sister order me about and mother me. There had been a time, after Sir Anthony’s death and the scandal that followed, when I had willingly complied with all her dictates, not caring enough to argue or assert my opinion. While my life had changed greatly in the last year, I still needed her soft lap to land in from time to time, and her stern voice of reason as well.

  Once I was settled, she plopped down in the closest chair and pointed an accusing finger at me. “You are exhausting yourself. You know you cannot do that in your expectant state.”

  “I’m fine as a fiddle,” I protested, and then softened my response when faced with Alana’s gimlet stare. “But I admit, I may have overdone it a bit today, especially in this dreadful rain.”

  “Where is your husband? I can’t believe he would be pleased to find you have been traipsing all over town.”

  “He’s busy with matters regarding the inquest into the Italian Boy.” I became absorbed with centering my teacup on its saucer so I wouldn’t have to look my sister in the eye. “He doesn’t precisely know what I’ve been doing.”

  She scowled. “But I’d wager he wouldn’t be surprised.”

  I shrugged. “Well, you both do know me best.”

  “Yes. That you would never sit idly by while there’s a murder to be solved.” She stated this as if it was a great fault in my character, but I felt quite to the contrary.

  I was saved from making a response by the butt of a head against my leg. A second later, a round lump of fur hopped up onto the ottoman and then crawled up my legs to sit on my lap, heedless of the slight rounding of my belly. I shifted my teacup lest the fat feline knock it from my grip, and reached down to pet his soft gray head. “What have your children been feeding him?” I laughed. “I do believe he’s even larger than the last time I saw him.”

  Earl Grey slitted an eye open at me at this insult and then settled back into the nest of my skirts, contentedly purring.

  “They sneak him all sorts of tidbits. The nursery maids and I have despaired of ever stopping them.” She frowned at the cat’s back. “He’s a canny one. He’s been whining all day. I thoug
ht perhaps he had a stomachache from something he ate. Nothing would satisfy him. But apparently he was simply waiting for you.”

  I glanced up at this and then back at the happy feline. Until a year ago, he had lived as a mouser at my childhood home. But during my stay there last winter, he had attached himself to me, refusing to be kept away, despite locked doors and stern reprimands. Slowly he’d wormed his way into my affections, offering me silent companionship when I needed it most. I’d elected to leave him in the care of my nieces and nephews when Gage and I departed on our honeymoon, and he’d remained with them since. I hadn’t the heart to take their adored pet from them.

  “So you and Gage are involved with the Italian Boy inquest, as well as these murders in Mayfair.” Alana shook her head. “I suspected as much.”

  “Well, you didn’t expect us not to assist if there was something we could do, did you?”

  “No.” She glanced to the side at a newspaper still resting on the low table. “And to tell you the truth, I’m glad you are, even if I disagree with your dashing about Mayfair.” Her expression was stricken. “These poor missing children. Have you seen the letters some gentlemen have begun writing to the newspapers on behalf of their families?”

  I nodded.

  “To think, dozens, maybe hundreds, of children have gone missing, and we knew nothing of it.” Her voice was horrified. “Whether some of them have actually fallen victim to these resurrectionist men or they’ve fallen prey to some other frightening fate, it’s still all so terrible. I think a great deal of polite society have been shaken out of their selfish preoccupation by these events and the discoveries that have followed. I only wish it hadn’t taken something as dreadful as this for us to take notice. It’s disgraceful. They’re children, for heaven’s sake. We should have noticed.”

  I couldn’t have agreed more. We were all too complacent, too blind to those around us, oblivious of the depravities so many faced. The upper classes were content to wrap themselves in a cocoon of riches, pretending those who had not had the luck to be born into such privilege were not struggling. We had failed those children as much as anyone else, for we had the means and influence to change the system, and yet we’d preferred ignorance. If one good thing had emerged from this terrible event, it was the fact that many finally had the wool pulled from their eyes.