The Late Heiress: The Amberley Chronicles Read online

  “You never learned to appreciate town,” Colville sneered. “We shall be leaving for the country soon enough.”

  Lady Colville made no reply, understandably enough given his cutting tone.

  “I must be off,” Lord Meckles said uncomfortably, and quickly took his leave. No wonder. There was nothing more awkward than a couple displaying their disharmony in public.

  Roger turned and bowed to Lady Colville, as though coming across her by pure chance. “My lady,” he said, “you look to be in good health.”

  “And you, ah,” she hemmed a little, at a loss for his name. Since they had only met once before, three years ago, this was unsurprising. Without her husband by her side, Roger would not have known the woman from Adam.

  “Ellsworthy,” Colville said curtly, relieving his wife’s uncertainty. “Not the kind of event you tend to frequent, is it?”

  “The relief of soldiers’ widows must be a concern to any right-thinking Englishman,” Roger declared.

  “Indeed so,” Lady Colville agreed. “These poor women and orphans cannot possibly subsist on the pittance they receive.”

  “You never thought of buying a commission yourself, Ellsworthy?” Colville asked a little derisively.

  Roger shook his head. “It is not as though we had a big war threatening our shores, as in my parents’ generation. I leave that sort of thing to men who feel a passion for uniforms and parades. But I must say, Lady Colville, it is admirable that your devotion to the cause made you attend this event, so very soon after the tragic bereavement suffered by your family. Were you close to your late niece?”

  The Earl and his Countess exchanged a quick, indecipherable glance.

  “No,” Lady Colville said briefly. “In fact –,”

  “She was living very retired, as an invalid from early childhood,” Lord Colville interrupted whatever his wife had been about to add. “Is there any particular reason for your interest, Ellsworthy?”

  “Just sentimentality, – I was reflecting that Lady Marian was younger than I, but of an age where we should have met and danced at London’s balls. How sad that her infirmity made that impossible. Yet she was able to travel to a seaside village without any family in attendance?”

  Lord Colville frowned in irritation. “What are you implying?”

  “Why, nothing at all. I am sure that as the poor lady’s guardian you must have done everything in your power to ease her situation, and relieve her loneliness and health problems. Was it difficult to get doctors to travel to your estate in Lincolnshire? You did hire the best specialists, I am sure?”

  Lady Colville looked a little sick, while her lord’s colour was rising at these solicitous questions. Coming from a young man over ten years his junior, they were undoubtedly impertinent, Roger reflected without the smallest remorse. He added more oil to the fire. “I hope you dismissed the incompetent attendants who allowed the accident to occur? I wonder if they should not be indicted for gross negligence?”

  Lady Colville gasped.

  Lord Colville’s hand clenched into a fist, and relaxed only with a visible effort. “See here, Ellsworthy, since you never knew my poor niece, and barely know my family, I will thank you not to go delving into matters that do not remotely concern you.”

  Roger put an ingenious look on his face. “Sorry, old chap; didn’t know you would be so touchy on the subject.”

  He was not surprised when Colville made no further reply, but grasped his wife by the arm and pulled her away.

  “What did you say to the Earl that made him so testy?” Lady Perkins, the affable widow of a knighted banker, addressed him as soon as the couple had left. “I was too far to hear, but Lord Colville looked fit to be tied.”

  “A pleasure to meet you again, Ma’am. Yes, that reaction puzzled me,” Roger said. “All I did was to proffer my condolences on the death of his niece, the previous Earl’s heiress. I did not even ask why they were not in black armbands. There is something odd there.”

  “You think?” The elderly lady considered. “I heard of the accident, of course, but I have never met Lady Marian, or anyone else who knew her personally.”

  “Don’t you find that strange?”

  “Now that you mention it, yes. One would think that even if they were not close to the girl, as she was Colville’s ward and they stand to gain a large fortune from her accident, the least they could do was keep up appearances, and pretend to mourn her.“

  “Lord Colville said she was an invalid, but if his niece was able to travel to the seaside and drown, she must have been mobile at least,” Roger said casually. “Whatever her ailments, her guardian must have brought her to London at some point to consult the best specialists.”

  “Maybe he did,” Lady Perkins said. “If she did not go out in society, we would not know anything about it. What kind of infirmity did she suffer from?”

  “I have no idea. Colville never said.”

  “Of course,” Lady Perkins said thoughtfully, “we only have his word for it, that she was an invalid at all. Very convenient for him, as her heir.”

  “What are you discussing with such animation?” Mrs. Peter Ricklesby joined them with a kindly smile at Roger. He was not taken in; here was one of the foremost gossips in London. Lady Perkins quickly put her in possession of their speculations.

  “It is strange,” Mrs. Ricklesby agreed, “that I have never heard what exactly the heiress was suffering from.” She seemed to regard this circumstance as an unacceptable lacuna. “But if that convenient drowning was engineered, surely the Earl would have the elementary sense to wear mourning, and make his Countess do likewise? Not to do so looks odd, and practically invites questions. I am inclined to regard it as a sign of innocence, rather than otherwise.”

  “I am not sure the Countess ever met his niece,” Roger said. “She has been living in Bristol before he inherited, and in London ever since. She may not feel it right to mourn a person she has never set eyes upon.”

  “That has nothing at all to do with the matter,” Lady Perkins said severely. “I was in blacks for my father-in-law for a year, though I had not seen him since my wedding ten years before.”

  “Maybe some other lady is better informed on the life and sufferings of Lady Marian?” Roger said. “I am thinking of writing an Ode in her memory.”

  This assertion, which slipped out of his mouth without forethought, caused both ladies to regard him with wide-open eyes.

  Mrs. Ricklesby tipped her head to her side, like a bird. “I had no idea you were a poet, Ellsworthy! Are your parents and your uncle Amberley aware of this penchant?”

  “Not yet,” he said. “Pray don’t mention the fact in public. I know I can rely on your discretion for my slip of the tongue.”

  “Certainly,” Mrs. Ricklesby assured him, her eyes already alight with the joy of spreading this tidbit amongst her wide acquaintance.

  Having already made a fool of himself, he might as well go all in. “I have a premonition that Lady Marian may have been fated to be my bride, if that cruel accident had not forever separated us,” he said in a low, dramatic voice, as the ladies regarded him with the kind of fascination one accords a strange animal. “Alas, the only thing I can do for her now is to write that Ode and hope that it will keep her memory alive in a small way. Whatever additional facts on her fate you can provide, to help my literary labours, Lady Perkins, Mrs. Ricklesby, would be most appreciated.”

  The two ladies looked at each other.

  “That should not be difficult,” Lady Perkins said, and her friend nodded agreement. “Somebody in London must have known her.”

  They parted in excellent accord. Roger went on to a more youthful party, where he danced with various ladies until the small hours of the morning, aware that he had successfully put the cat among the pigeons. If there were any secrets to flush out of the Colville pigeon loft, they would not remain there for long.

  He felt a slight compunction when he thought of the downtrodden Lady Colville; b
ut her husband was a boor and deserved whatever gossip was about to be unleashed on his head.

  Chapter 6

  Over a late breakfast, Thomas ascertained the local coroner’s name and direction from his landlady. As soon as he had finished fortifying himself, he would seek out Mr. Joseph Binkton.

  He had not slept well. Visions of Mrs. Smith in various unlikely situations and positions had haunted his dreams. There she had not worn her mourning dress or veils, at least not for long. His brain was developing this weird obsession at a most inconvenient time. He had read of such cases, but never experienced one at first hand. It was humbling that he, Thomas Seymour, who had received a First in Classics at Oxford not that long ago, should be at the mercy of his passions; but there it was. He must be very careful not to give any outward sign of his affliction.

  Maybe spending more time in Mrs. Smith’s company would show some defect – some grave incompatibility of outlook or values – that would allow him to forget her more easily.

  Who was he trying to fool?

  As he downed the last sip of the over-steeped, bitter tea, a message was delivered by the boot-boy. The brief text was signed only with initials.

  Mr. Thomas, I am in urgent need of assistance. For reasons I cannot explain in writing, I am unable to leave my current abode, but need to depart right away, and discreetly. I shall be in the back garden. Your help would be greatly appreciated. H. S.

  P.S. I have additional information, but I am not sure what it means.

  So her first name began with H. Hilda? Hortense? Harriet? None of these suited her.

  Focus on the task at hand. Right. Mrs. Smith was in trouble and needed help, discreetly. Was it possible she could not pay her bill? But no: the Chatterham boarding houses collected the first week’s rent and board in advance, and she had not been here that long. The note sounded more ominous than that.

  Thomas sauntered outside with an insect net and a couple of collecting jars, whistling in a carefree manner, under the interested gaze of three fellow boarders and the parlour maid. After a short detour he passed the Rose Inn, turned a corner, and soon found himself outside the Rose Inn’s back garden, separated from the deserted lane by a dilapidated wooden fence. Conveniently for his purposes, there was an unlatched gate.

  The garden was shaded by a number of fruit trees; the uneven grass underneath ought to be cut sooner rather than later. But he only had a cursory glance to spare for the plants. His attention immediately focused on the lady seated on a wrought-iron bench under a cherry tree, reading a book. Her dull black dress and veils did not fit into this pastoral space. How could she even read through that veil?

  He approached and bowed. “Your servant, Mrs. Smith.”

  “Thank you for coming so quickly.” Mrs. Smith put the book down and reached up to put the veil aside. Her back was turned towards the fence, and the cherry tree shielded them from the inn’s windows. Deuced irregular to be here together in such solitude, but Thomas did not care. In the clear light of a June day, the young woman’s fair complexion and kissable lips were sheer perfection, not to mention the slim waist and the gentle swell of her bosom, decorously covered by black cloth.

  He forgot all those details the moment he met her luminous eyes, brimming with character and intelligence. She was even more enthralling than he remembered, worse luck.

  “What is the problem, and how can I help, Ma’am?

  “After our discussion yesterday, I decided to talk to the local coroner.”

  He started, but really should not be surprised. He had already noted that their minds ran in similar grooves. “Mr. Binkton?”

  “Yes. I went to call at his house right after breakfast, about half-past eight. Here in the country people keep early hours. I reasoned that if anyone could give a detailed description of the body, it would be Binkton.”

  “But how would you have explained your interest? It is an indelicate subject for a lady to bring up, and that you were a childhood friend of the deceased would hardly impress him.”

  “Nevertheless, I was going to try and appeal to the man to ease my doubts. Despite the early hour he had already gone out on some errand. Mrs. Binkton served me tea and told me all about his hard work and her four children as we waited for his return.” A shadow passed over her expressive face. “Unfortunately when the coroner returned some twenty minutes later, he was not alone. I only heard a few words from the other person who entered the house with him, but I recognized the voice. I cannot risk that man seeing me face to face, or even learning of my presence here.”

  Was Mrs. Smith suffering from a nervous complaint or persecution mania? Her tale sounded most unlikely. Just how much of what she had told him earlier was the truth? It would serve no purpose to betray his doubts. “What can you mean? Whose voice was it?”

  “It was Mr. Robles, Lord Colville’s solicitor. All he said was “What’s that, Binkton?” and Binkton, at least I assume it was he, replied, “Mr. Denning, Sir, I have done exactly as you asked”– then a door closed and I heard no more. Robles must have been using the name Denning. I never saw him, or he me. As quickly as I could I lowered my veils and pretended to Mrs. Binkton that I was feeling faint, and in need of fresh air; I said I had changed my mind, and no longer needed to take up her husband’s time. But who knows if she informed him of my visit, in which case Robles too may already have heard of it.”

  Thomas did not know what to think. “I have met this man Denning; he is staying at Mrs. Dorchester’s Boarding House. What does Robles look like?”

  “Middle-aged, medium size, pale; he has cold blue eyes and looks more harmless than he is.”

  The description certainly sounded like Denning. Yet something did not add up. “When you said he was Lord Colville’s solicitor, did you mean the previous or the current Lord Colville? From what you told me you had left Colville Hall before the current Earl inherited. Or did this fellow serve both of them?”

  She was silent for two heartbeats. “He is the current Lord Colville’s man,” she said after a moment. “I did not tell you quite the whole story earlier.”

  Well, neither had he – he had lied to her, which was worse. Even so he felt an irrational pang of disappointment.

  “I know we have only just met, Mrs. Smith, but you can trust me. Please explain how I may serve you now. Why must you hide from Robles, or Denning?”

  “It is a long story … I know things dangerous for me to know. I need to leave right away, but I do not have a horse or riding habit or carriage at hand, and this spot is so isolated. The moment I leave my inn, I risk running into that solicitor. If he learns there is a young widow staying here, who covers her face with veils, he may already suspect me. I cannot risk a meeting.”

  “When I received your note, I thought it might be a question of funds –,”

  “Certainly not! What do you take me for, that I would accept money from a strange man?”

  “I hope we are not be destined to remain strangers,” he said, “but friends, at some future date. For instance, ever since I received your note, I have wondered what the H. stands for.”

  “Helen, though my friends call me Nell. I know your first name begins with S., as you signed the guest book as S. Thomas.”

  And she had been interested in this fact. He smiled briefly, but this was not the time to confess that he had reversed his first and last names.

  Thomas considered quickly. His best chance of learning more lay in playing along, as was also his inclination. If she was truly in danger, he wanted to help her – if not, he needed to find out what she was up to. In either case, his immediate course of action was the same.

  “I am beginning to think I have also had enough of this bracing sea air. I brought a curricle and team with me, what would be more natural than to take it out on a sunny day like this? I can pick you up from this garden in an hour. But you must promise in return to tell me truthfully why you are so eager to avoid this man.”

  She breathed out in relief. “You do
not suspect that I am a dangerous criminal evading justice? You will take me away, just like that?”

  “I am a good judge of character,” Thomas claimed, wondering if he was making the blunder of a lifetime. But if she needed help, he was her man. Surely that limpid gaze, those lovely eyes could not hide any terrible secrets. “Take care – I shall return as quickly as I can.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Thomas. You are the kind of knight any girl hopes to meet when in trouble. And trouble has a way of dogging me."

  “No longer, if you put yourself in my hands,” he vowed.

  As he searched out the village’s small livery stable and ordered the curricle and horses to be readied, Thomas wondered at himself. He was supposed to work on the puzzle offered by the Undersecretary. Yet was he not doing just that? Mrs. Smith clearly knew even more than she had already divulged. Unless she was completely deluded and fabricating her stories, Mrs. Smith offered the best path to clearing up the mystery of Lady Marian’s fate.

  Yet what would he do if his promise to Lord Ormesby required breaking or betraying Mrs. Smith’s confidence? It was a distinct possibility. What if helping her conflicted with his hope of a career in the Home Office?

  He would cross that bridge when he came to it. Fate had thrown him and Mrs. Smith – Helen – Nell – together, and together they would discover what had really happened to Lady Marian. He would keep her close, to make sure no harm came to her. Though maybe it would be safer to hide her in some place nobody would ever look?

  Why did she have to hide at all? A woman could not spend all her life in hiding. Confronting whatever menaced her might be the wiser course. If she needed assistance, he would help her – he had influential and experienced relatives to draw upon, if necessary.

  Thomas packed quickly, glad that he had paid for the week, and found he had little to leave behind. Not enough to warrant giving his permanent address; the inn might dispose of the used shirts and Roger’s insect net and jars with his good-will.

  His mind was not on the packing, but on the puzzle of Mrs. Smith. Who was she really? What did she fear? This was England, a civilised, safe country under the rule of Queen Victoria, and not some remote foreign island redolent of melodrama and danger. Was he being drawn in by a young woman’s delusions?