An Artless Demise Read online

  Until now.

  I wanted to rail at the injustice, the unfairness, but I’d learned long ago how useless that was. Among society, it was not so much the truth of the matter, but the appearance of it. And my participation in Sir Anthony’s dissections and everything they involved, forced though it might have been, would always be a black mark against me.

  “Thank you for whisking me away to tell me,” I said, grateful for their discretion. Had word of the bodysnatchers’ arrest spread through the ball, it could have led to a shocking scene. One I might not have been prepared for. I searched their faces. In addition to my brother, they were the people I most loved in the world. “What is to be done now? Should . . . should I go into hiding?”

  I had hesitated to ask it, my entire being rebelling against the notion of suffering such an ignominious fate yet again. I had run away two and a half years earlier when the scandal over my involvement with Sir Anthony’s work had first broke, too beaten and scared to fight. But I was stronger now, more resilient than I’d ever been. And I was no coward.

  Nevertheless, I had more people to think of than just myself. My family had all been hurt by my earlier disgrace, though I knew none of them blamed me for it. Or at least, most of them. I couldn’t speak for all my aunts, uncles, and cousins on my father’s side of the family. But that was not of the moment.

  “I think that’s the worst thing you could do,” Gage replied.

  Philip nodded in agreement. “It would only make you look guilty, like you have some reason to feel ashamed. Which you do not,” he added sternly.

  I warmed at his show of support. As my brother-in-law, he had every right to resent the discredit I’d brought to his wife’s family, and to him by association, but he had never made me feel less than a cherished sister.

  “We shall not pay the least bit of attention to what any of society’s vicious gossips might say,” Alana declared, having always been my staunchest defender. Her eyes narrowed to slits. “Including Lady Felicity Spencer.”

  Gage stiffened.

  She shook her finger at me. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed she’s been stirring up all sorts of trouble behind your back. I’ve seen the daggers she sends your way, veiled though they may be by those coquettish glances of hers. She can’t abide to see you looking radiant and happy.” She arched her chin proudly. “Your expectant state becomes you. Especially now that you’re beginning to show a bit of welcome rounding to your figure. And that’s a relief, for we all know it never suited me so well.”

  Given the fact that her last two confinements had been difficult and the deliveries fraught with danger, none of us would refute that statement.

  Her gaze slid toward where Gage sat with a furrowed brow. “There’s no use in expecting you to have realized what your father’s chosen paragon has been doing. Gentlemen never notice such things.”

  I was torn between astonishment and amusement at this declaration. I should have known better than to think Alana wasn’t aware of all of Lord Gage’s machinations, try as I had to keep them from her.

  “Be stouthearted, Kiera, and let’s wait and see how matters unfold,” Philip counseled. “Perhaps the newspapers will not make much of these burkers.”

  All of our expressions, including Philip’s, showed none of us had much hope of that.

  “Do you have any social engagements planned for tomorrow?” he asked.

  “Morning service,” Gage replied, as it would be a Sunday. “But nothing further.” He glanced at me in question. “And nothing Monday either, I believe.”

  “Nothing but my portrait session with Lady Morley that morning.”

  Philip nodded. “Then let us see what the next few days bring.”

  I suspected I already knew, but I bowed to his wisdom. After all, there was no use borrowing trouble when it might not occur.

  * * *

  • • •

  But when Gage joined me in our bedchamber a short time later, he found my spirits already sunken low. Though unfashionable among the wealthy, we had followed the happy example of Alana and Philip’s marriage and shared a single bedroom since the day we wed. Pale blue and soft gray diamond printed wallpaper covered the walls, a pleasing background to the lovely satinwood Sheraton furniture and damask drapes. I sat propped against the pillows on our bed, glaring at the cornflower blue counterpane while I rubbed a hand absently over the gentle swell of my abdomen. My expectant condition had only just begun to show.

  A fact Lord Gage had not failed to allude to a week before. Given the fact I’d allowed him to believe I was already heavy with his son’s child when we wed in April, I’d been expecting just such a terse comment. Since he’d been the one to assume such an uncomplimentary thing about my character, and I’d merely been using his prejudice to my husband’s advantage, I felt not one iota of guilt at misleading him. Even if my cheeks had burned at his obliquely referring to it.

  Regardless, I probably should have withheld my flippant response. The consequence being, I had already rekindled his rancor toward me. And now he had this new sin to lay at my door.

  I sighed. As if he needed another excuse to object to his son’s choice in a bride.

  “Is the baby well?”

  I shrugged. “I suppose. I can’t feel her, or him, yet.”

  When Gage didn’t respond, I looked up to see worry etching his brow.

  “There’s no cause for concern,” I assured him. “I’m healthy, and Alana tells me it will be a few weeks longer before I feel the wee one move.”

  He nodded, wearing the expression all men, particularly those inexperienced with fatherhood, seemed to exhibit when confronted with the mysteries of gestation.

  I smiled and held out my hand to beckon him closer.

  He rounded the bed to sit beside me. “Is that a new wrapper? And nightdress?” he added, allowing his eyes to trail over the lace-trimmed neckline revealed beneath my indigo dressing gown. “It’s quite fetching.”

  I brushed my hand over the silken fabric. “Yes, well, I decided it was time to purchase some new nightclothes.” My lips quirked. “Before I outgrow the others.”

  Gage’s pale blue eyes glowed with gentle humor. “Now that doesn’t truly bother you, does it?”

  “No,” I admitted. “Though I daresay it will feel strange. Alana always looked dashed uncomfortable when she was increasing.” I tilted my head in thought. “Granted, that might have been more the fault of her continual queasiness. Thank heavens I haven’t been plagued with that.”

  “Well, all in all, I must say I heartily agree with your sister.”

  I glanced up as his fingers touched my face.

  “Being with child does become you.”

  I flushed under his regard, pleased by his words. But I couldn’t stop a pang of my ever-present anxiety from fluttering in the pit of my stomach. I supposed all new mothers must have doubts, but I had been wrestling with mine perhaps more than others.

  I feared what sort of mother I would make—dashing off to murderous inquiries, becoming absorbed in my artwork to the exclusion of all else, often struggling in social situations with things that seemed so natural to others. I hardly seemed the ideal candidate for such a role, and I wondered how I would manage it all. We would undoubtedly hire a nanny to help with the day-to-day matters, but I would be the child’s mother. What if I wasn’t a very good one?

  And now, as if I hadn’t enough misgivings, there was a new potential threat to my reputation.

  Missing nothing, Gage’s gaze softened with sympathy. “You’re thinking of those arrested resurrectionists.”

  “How can I not? I hate that I’ve embroiled my family, and you . . .” I pressed a hand to the merlot red fabric of his dressing gown where it draped over his chest “. . . in this mess yet again.”

  He clasped my fingers, holding my hand over his heart. “First of all, there i
s no mess. Not yet. Remember, you promised not to put the cart before the horse. And second, we are all well aware that any unsavory remembrances of the scandal that might be dredged through the gossip mill again are not your fault. You haven’t embroiled us in anything.”

  Much as I appreciated his fervent effort to reassure me, his arguments were refutable. Perhaps no imbroglio had yet erupted, but we had been forced to contemplate it. And as much as he might deny my fault in any of it, the fact that I was linked to it, and that they were linked to me, entangled them in my trouble.

  But I let the matter pass, offering him a tight smile. “What are the facts of the matter? Do you know?”

  He hesitated to speak, though I could tell he knew something.

  “Is it distasteful?” I guessed.

  “No. But . . .” He raked a hand back through his golden hair as he heaved a sigh. “I was about to say the investigation doesn’t concern us. But I suppose it does.” One corner of his lip curled upward in chagrin.

  He leaned his head back against the headboard, frowning at the bed curtain. “From what I could glean from my father, the men arrested were attempting to sell the body at King’s College when either the dissecting-room porter or the demonstrator . . .” He looked to me in question.

  “A demonstrator is a lecturer for the anatomy school, and he, well, demonstrates for the students.” I didn’t think I needed to be any more specific than that. “He would be a junior colleague to the professor of anatomy at the head of the school.”

  “Well, one of them recognized that the body appeared suspiciously fresh, and the other concurred. So they contrived to keep the resurrectionists waiting for payment while they sent for the police, who took them and the body into custody.”

  I tapped my lip. “That would be the Covent Garden branch, wouldn’t it?”

  He nodded. “I’ve dealt with the branch’s superintendent a few times since the Metro Police were formed, and before when he was but a parish constable, and I have to say while he’s capable enough in his own way, I have serious doubts about his competency in matters of murder. Especially one as thorny as this may prove to be.” He stretched his long legs out toward the end of the bed, crossing one over the other. “But then again, any intensive investigating that needs to be done will likely be undertaken by the Bow Street Runners.”

  I couldn’t tell by his tone of voice whether he held much faith in their abilities either.

  The Metropolitan Police Act had passed Parliament and taken effect only two years prior. Spearheaded by Sir Robert Peel, it had formed a single unified police force for London. Before that, the city had been patrolled by a higgledy-piggledy mixture of parish constables, day and night patrols, horse patrols, the river police, the Bow Street Runners, and the elderly and much-mocked watchmen called Charleys. A new manner of policing the capital had been needed, despite popular opposition to placing the central British government in control instead of the individual parishes. Many Londoners were hostile to what they claimed to be state surveillance.

  As such, a bargain had been struck, excluding The City—the “square mile” administrative enclave at the center, which comprised the Bank of England, St. Paul’s Cathedral, Fleet Street, and the Barbican—from the Metropolitan Police Act. This created another kind of confusion, as criminals would dash back and forth across the City border to escape apprehension. Or, if the rumors were true, were driven across at the instigation of City aldermen for the New Police to contend with.

  However, the New Police were not meant to be an investigative force. Their task was to prevent crime from happening. Any mysteries were still to be solved by the Bow Street Runners, a small plainclothes force which had been at work in London for more than eighty years. This was not an ideal arrangement, for while the Runners received a retaining fee, they relied on the rewards earned for solving crimes to net most of their income. This had led to some notable cases of corruption and cooperation with the very criminals they were supposed to be apprehending.

  The entire system—the New Police, the City constables, and the Bow Street Runners—relied heavily on informants, some of whom were paid before testifying, while others were compensated after for a successful prosecution. Analysis and detection had little to do with it. So it was no wonder that the upper class chose to hire gentlemen inquiry agents, like Gage and his father, to solve any crimes perpetrated in their homes or upon their person, rather than call the police or Runners.

  I sank deeper into the bed, resting my head on his shoulder. “Do you think they’ll ask your father to assist?” Such a crime seemed far outside of Lord Gage’s normal purview of stolen gems and blackmail. Gage was usually tasked with the more unsavory cases of misconduct, though even those didn’t often involve the murder of a member of the lower classes.

  He draped his arm around me. “It depends. It was natural that Melbourne should have been informed of the matter so urgently by the commissioners. He is home secretary, after all, and the New Police falls under his aegis.” He shook his head. “But he’s not like his predecessor. He has no great interest in the lower classes or criminality. Under normal circumstances, he would monitor the matter from a distance, if at all.”

  His chest rose and fell on a deep breath. “But given the general unrest over the House of Lords throwing out that second attempt at a Reform Bill, and the troubling similarity of this crime to those committed by Burke and Hare, Melbourne would be a fool not to recognize how critical the matter is. And though I’ve often found him to be apathetic and indecisive, he is not a fool.” His voice was grim. “The city is sitting on a potential powder keg.”

  “I hope that wasn’t meant to be an abominable pun given tonight’s history,” I remarked, lifting my head to gaze at him in chiding.

  It took a moment for him to make the connection, and when he did, his face lit with humor. “Guy Fawkes? No. But I suppose I have gunpowder, plot, and treason on the brain.” His eyes searched my face. “Speaking of which, has Lady Felicity truly been giving you trouble?”

  I gave a shout of laughter. “How on earth does that relate to gunpowder, plot, and treason?”

  Gage’s eyes danced with mischief. “If you’d seen the way she plots her way through an evening at Almack’s, you wouldn’t wonder.”

  I collapsed back against my pillow, shaking with mirth.

  He rolled over to smile down at me, pleased to have caused me such amusement. “In all seriousness, she is the most calculating female I’ve known. And that’s saying something,” he muttered drolly. “So when your sister says she’s slyly stirring up gossip about you, I believe her.” He scowled. “I’m only angry I didn’t notice it myself.”

  I pressed a hand to his jaw, the evening’s growth of his facial hair rasping against my fingertips. “Darling, she’s been very careful. As you said, she’s sly. If she’s too overt, then she risks being seen as envious and bitter, and disproving the ‘official’ story that she rejected you, not the other way around.” I brushed my thumb over his bottom lip. “Besides, what could you have done? Confronting her would only compound the problem. As would speaking to her father.” I shrugged a single shoulder. “Best to ignore it, to ignore her.”

  “Yes, you’re probably right.” His brow furrowed. “But I still wish I hadn’t been such a dolt. I could have at least been more attentive to you.”

  I arched a single eyebrow. “If you’d been any more attentive, I would have locked you in a closet for a few hours so I could escape it.”

  His gaze softened, just as I’d intended. “Smothering you, am I?”

  “No. But you’ve been quite solicitous.” I glanced down at his mouth as I pressed my thumb against his bottom lip again. “Although, I could use some of your thorough attention now.”

  His eyes darkened. “Could you?”

  “Mmm.”

  “Thorough, you say?”

  “Yes.”

&n
bsp; A wicked smile crooked his lips as he inched closer. “Exhaustive?”

  My breathing hitched. “But, of course.”

  “Well, I certainly wouldn’t wish to disappoint,” he murmured before his lips captured mine.

  And he most certainly didn’t.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Gray clouds had plagued London for almost a week, so the following morning when we emerged from the South Audley Street Chapel to find the sun shining, I elected to put the light to good use. After our wedding, Gage had sent our ever-efficient butler, Jeffers, ahead of us to London and ordered him to oversee the conversion of the small conservatory at the back of his Chapel Street townhouse into an art studio. So that when we arrived in the city in late August following our honeymoon—and the numerous delays imposed upon us by a pair of inquiries we had felt compelled to undertake—he could surprise me with the result.

  I was thrilled with it. Not only did the conservatory’s three glass walls and ceiling provide ample natural light, but it also faced the sunny south. Plus, the townhouse’s deep garden, and those of our neighbors—a rare thing in fashionable Mayfair—meant there were no obstructions to that light. It was also sheltered from the wind, making it possible for me to paint in just a long-sleeved dress and apron even on this chilly November day.

  Though I’d only been using the studio for a little over two months, I’d already adapted the space to my needs. Jars of pigments and bottles of linseed oil, turpentine, and gesso lined the custom shelves Gage had constructed for me, and rolls of canvas and stacks of wooden frames stood in one corner. Several easels dotted the space, each displaying one of my portraits in various stages of completion.

  Other finished works were draped carefully in a shadowy corner, protecting them from the sunlight. Two of the dozen or so paintings were commissioned portraits, while the others were intended for the ambitious Faces of Ireland exhibit I’d embarked upon since we returned from our trip to Ireland in July and the fraught inquiry we conducted there. We had both been greatly affected by the plight of the Irish and set out to do what we could to help the situation.