No true gentleman, p.31
No True Gentleman, page 31
What, she wondered, had he been like as a boy of sixteen? How had he felt when he’d been forced to flee his country, his father taken from him so brutally, the ashes of his home still smoldering? And what must it feel like to know that some would always believe your father a traitor for having committed the egregious sin of trying to better the lives of those less fortunate? A caring and vulnerable young man would have been deeply scarred by it, Catherine decided. And he was, she knew, still far more caring and vulnerable than he wished anyone—even her—to see. Unable to resist the moment of tenderness, Catherine leaned down to press her lips to his forehead, then turned to blow out the lamp.
On Monday morning, Genevieve Durrett swept into Lord Sands’s drawing room, her carriage the very picture of French grace. She was, Max had to admit, a fetching little thing, if a man liked his women small, voluptuous, and blond. He could see how easily she might entice a fellow like Harry into her bed.
But, despite her grace and beauty, Miss Durrett’s poise nearly faltered when she saw the two men who awaited her. “Monsieur Sisk!” She dropped at once into a curtsey. “Bonjour.” She rose and turned to face Max, her eyes flitting anxiously over his face. Only then did he recognize her as the servant he’d seen sobbing so pitifully on the morning Julia’s body had been discovered. Max introduced himself and withdrew to one corner of the room to observe discreetly. Sisk settled into a chair and began thumbing through the pages of his notebook.
But, clearly, Genevieve Durrett had grown wary of the constable. She perched on the edge of her chair, her gaze focused squarely on the buttons of Sisk’s uniform. Methodically, Sisk questioned her, going over and over the questions he and Max had agreed to. Genevieve admitted to having often accompanied her mistress shopping. And, yes, her mistress had had a fondness for visiting jewelers. But the servant vehemently denied knowing anything more.
When pressed, she said she knew nothing of counterfeit jewelry and even less about the names of her mistress’s lovers. Relentlessly, Sisk continued to harangue her, and soon Genevieve’s aplomb had vanished along with her color. Her posture grew increasingly rigid, her fingers went white as they grasped the arms of her chair. And still, she would admit to nothing. Sisk was getting nowhere, Max realized, for underneath all her hauteur, Genevieve Durrett was terrified.
Soon the sounds of her sobbing protests echoed through the town house, and, although the drawing-room doors had been pulled shut, Max could imagine the servants hovering in the corridor beyond. When Sisk nailed Genevieve with the question of her affair with Harry, the lady’s maid completely collapsed. “Mais non, mais non,” she cried, violently wringing her hands. “Lies, et ez all lies! I have nothing to do weeth this miserable beezness. I know nothing of them, these English. I wish to leave. To go home. Please, monsieur, this you must believe!”
She looked so young, so vulnerable, and suddenly, something in her voice caught at Max’s hardened heart. Perhaps it was the air of desperation. Genevieve Durrett was alone in a foreign land, confused and uncertain, at the mercy of strangers more powerful than she. That was a feeling he understood all too well. And Sisk had been haranguing her for a half-hour now.
At last, Max strode across the room to sit down beside Sisk, the blinding shaft of pain in his ribs a sharp reminder of why he’d been standing. Max gritted his teeth and smiled. “Miss Durrett,” he said patiently. “Perhaps you do not understand that Lord Sands has already explained that the two of you were together that night. If necessary, he will swear to it in court—”
She cut him off with a sharp cry, her eyes flaring wide with terror. “Non!”
“—which is the last thing any of us wishes,” Max finished, dropping his voice to a low, reassuring tone. “Now, perhaps I should tell you what I think? Would that be easier? I think you went to his lordship’s bed under instructions from your mistress. Genevieve, is that so?”
He stared at her relentlessly, focusing all his persuasive energy on the woman who sat trembling before him. She held his gaze for a long, silent moment. “Oui!” she finally cried, bursting again into tears. “Sh-she paid me. She made a-a prostituée—a whore—of me, and for what? To be herself killed? I tell you, monsieur, I knew nothing of this. Nothing.”
Gingerly, Max slid forward and touched the girl lightly on the shoulder. “Calm yourself, Miss Durrett,” he said. “She was your employer. Perhaps you felt you had little choice?”
Genevieve had begun to snuffle pathetically. “Mais oui, monsieur,” she whispered, dabbing at her nose with a handkerchief. “It was just that way. Madame, she was—oh, how you say—difficile, oui?”
Gently, Max tried to steer her. “Think carefully, Miss Durrett, and tell us just what she said. What did she promise?”
Bravely, the lady’s maid choked back another sob. “Madame told me I was to seduce milord as soon as he returned home,” she answered, straightening in her chair and pushing back her shoulders. “Madame laughed and said there might be noise—un peu— in her chambre. But I must not let milord leave his bed. I must distract him, and for this thing, she promise me twenty pounds and passage back to Calais. Just this last thing I must do, she promised, and then I could go home.”
Max leaned intently forward. “And why did she wish you to do this? Did she explain?”
Miserably, Genevieve nodded. “Oui, monsieur, she meant to entertain her lover.”
“Which one?” Sisk gruffly interjected.
Genevieve’s eyes widened innocently. “Her only one, monsieur,” she responded. “There were dalliances, oui, but this man she kept for the three years I have been weeth Madame. He came to her, this man, at the house in secret. Sometimes through the window.”
Sisk gave a dubious grunt, but Max cut him off with a silencing look. “And do you know him? Do you know his name?”
“Monsieur Lumpkin,” she swiftly answered. “Tony, Madame called him.”
“Lumpkin?” Sisk lifted his pencil from the notebook and looked up. “Could you identify him?”
The lady’s maid shook her head. “No, monsieur, I never see him. Long ago, she fixed the window, so that he might come to her in secret. But their affaire, it was not so secret. She often remarked that he was to meet her at this thing or that—balls, dinner parties.”
Lumpkin. The name was vaguely familiar. Suddenly, a thought struck Max. “Lady Sands must have been quite devoted to this man, to risk permitting him into the house. But on this particular night, she did something even more unusual. She asked you to—er—to occupy his lordship. Do you know why?”
Genevieve looked uncomfortable. “I do not think Madame was devoted to him,” she said uncertainly. “When she was to see him, she was sometimes . . . tourmenté. Fretful. I do not think she encouraged him but pretended to like him.”
Max lifted one brow. “Why do you think this?”
The lady’s maid gave a Gallic shrug. “I am French, monsieur,” she said evenly. “She loved the men, oui, but this one, he troubled her. And this night, I think—I think she meant to end it. Perhaps she feared that they might quarrel loudly. She did say that after this night, he would no longer come to her bed. And that soon the stocking would be on the other foot. This I did not understand, but she was very pleased. Very satisfied. She even sent me to the butler for champagne.”
Max watched her carefully. “How many goblets? And did Mr. Overturf open the bottle?”
She nodded with alacrity. “I watched him, monsieur. And I took but one goblet upstairs. But I broke it the next morning when I saw . . .”
Sisk exchanged a telling glance with Max. Clearly, they both sensed she was being truthful. “And was there any sort o’ racket that night, Miss Durrett?” the police constable asked. “Anything which might have given ’is lordship concern?”
Again, she shook her head. “No, monsieur, nothing.”
“Hmph,” said Sisk. “Did Lord Sands stir from his bed?”
Lips tightly pursed, the maid shook her head. “Non.”
“Could he have done so without your knowledge?” interjected Max.
She paused as if to consider. “Non, monsieur. I sleep lightly.”
Max relaxed against the back of his chair. It seemed Harry and Genevieve were almost in the clear. If the maid were guilty, she would have seized the opportunity to blame Harry. Moreover, her strange story of Lady Sands’s mystery lover rang oddly true. “Lumpkin,” he mused. “Perhaps Sands will recognize the name. I will ask him to join us.”
“But this ez not possible, monsieur,” protested Genevieve softly. “Milord, he has left this very morning, at daybreak, weeth his sister the viscountess.”
“Where did they go?” he demanded. But he feared he already knew.
Genevieve winced at his sharp tone. “To Milord Delacourt’s estate, monsieur,” she answered. “I believe et ez in Derbyshire, oui?”
Max cursed softly, recalling his instructions to Harry. “Let’s go, Sisk.”
In the morning parlor at Mortimer Street, Catherine sat curled in Cam’s huge leather armchair, her feet tucked up beneath her skirts. She wore her oldest, most comfortable muslin gown, and her hair was barely dressed, caught up haphazardly in a few pins. She was tired. Oh, so tired. This morning, she’d literally dragged herself from the warmth of the bed. Now, beyond the big bay window, the day was growing warm, but Catherine still felt oddly cold inside. She had toed off her slippers and pulled the mahogany tea table nearer, and now, Lady Sands’s little rosewood desk lay folded open, carefully balanced across it.
Methodically, Catherine had been making a list of everyone Lady Sands had seen and every place she had gone in the last two years. It was a monumental task, and a fruitless one, too. Try as she might, Catherine could discover no pattern in the dead woman’s life, and now, her penciled notes seemed to be swimming before her eyes. In truth, Catherine did not feel well at all. Her morning meal still sat on the small breakfast table in the corner. She’d been unable to eat it, and now she was heartily sick of smelling it, too. Impulsively, she rang the bell.
“I fear my appetite has failed me, Delilah,” Catherine said when the housemaid entered. “You may clear now.”
Delilah bobbed a quick curtsey. “Yes, ma’am. Will that be all?”
Catherine set down her pencil and pressed one hand to her abdomen. “Have we any soda water, Delilah?” she asked musingly. “I fancy I should like a glass.”
“To be sure, ma’am. Just soda water?”
“With a pinch of ginger, please.” Catherine turned back to her notes as Delilah quickly gathered up the breakfast dishes. But her stomach gave another faint flip-flop, and Catherine let her gaze drift from the page to the window which overlooked the tidy rear garden. With a vague sense of unease, she stared into the brilliant sunshine of a perfect May morning and watched as a house wren squatted beneath the fountain to pluck a fat worm from a freshly tilled flowerbed. Tossing back his head, he gobbled it down. At the sight, true nausea roiled in her stomach, almost into her throat. Catherine managed to choke it back, her hand flying to her mouth, her eyes squeezing shut. Good heavens! It was most disconcerting, this dreadful sensation. Catherine had never been sick a day in her life, but now she could feel the color draining from her face.
There was something else, too. Something a little more disconcerting. Her courses were two days late. A case of disordered nerves, no doubt. It had happened once before when her niece, Ariane, had disappeared. But Ariane had been safely returned to the bosom of her family, and Catherine’s normal rhythms had soon resumed, dashing her hopes. Besides, it took weeks to realize such things, did it not? And that first time, Max had been so very careful . . .
But had he been careful enough? Catherine let her face fall forward into her hands. After eight barren years? It could not be! But good Lord, she should have taken one look at the man and realized the risk. Max was all male. Virile was probably his middle name. Oh, no. It was ridiculous. Impossible. No man was that potent. But suddenly, Catherine had a startlingly clear vision of Signora Castelli’s frail hand lingering almost lovingly over that card—what had she called it? The Queen of Pentacles. “And above all, she brings great fertility,” the old woman had gleefully cackled.
“Agggh!” Catherine cried aloud. “She has cursed me!”
Suddenly, Catherine was torn between hope and panic. She did not want Max forced into a marriage he was so clearly uncomfortable with. It was just bad milk. Spoilt fish. Frazzled nerves. Yes, one of those things. Slowly, the nausea lessened, and she turned her attention back to her work. Soon, Delilah returned bearing a small, silver tray. “I’ve brought a bit of bread and butter as well, my lady,” she said, moving as if to scoot the tray onto the tea table beside the open lap desk.
But Catherine wanted the water rather desperately, and reached for it with an awkward gesture. Somehow, she jostled the tray, forcing Delilah to seize the glass. Catherine jerked back, and her elbow struck Lady Sands’s desk, sending it sliding off the little table. With an awful crash, the wooden box landed on its hinges, almost snapping shut, and then rolled facedown, spilling out its contents. Delilah gave a little cry and dropped to her knees. “Oh, my lady!” she squawked, righting the little box and tucking the inkwells back into their compartments. “Beg your pardon!”
Catherine was on the floor beside her now, gathering up the scattered papers. “My fault, Delilah,” she soothed. “I was awkward, and I fear I—”
They both noticed the damage simultaneously. A thin piece of wood, not much larger than a sheet of foolscap, lay beneath the scattered papers. Delilah met her gaze uneasily. “Oh, ma’am! I’ve broken it!”
Puzzled, Catherine picked up the slat. Beneath was a sheaf of papers, papers she’d not noticed before. Delilah rolled the desk onto its back in the open position, and Catherine laid the slat back inside, fitting it neatly into the deeper portion at the rear of the box.
Delilah gasped. “Lord, would you look at that!” she whispered. “A false bottom!”
Catherine tried to remove it again, but the slat would not budge. Delilah picked up a butter knife from the serving tray and slid it neatly along one edge until it slipped into a small groove, about a quarter-inch deep. Uncertainly, she lifted her gaze to meet Catherine’s.
Catherine nodded with alacrity. “Try it.”
With a deft snap of her wrist, Delilah popped the slat back out. “Ooh, what a clever little trick, ma’am!” she said breathlessly. “And just enough space beneath to hide those papers!”
But Catherine had already scooped them up and returned to her chair, her expression drawn into a tight, puzzled frown. The first item was a large, folded playbill, stiff with age, its corners yellowing. Gingerly, she opened it. The sketches inside were faded, but the words were as clear as they were insignificant:
Limited Engagement Only!
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER
– or –
The Mistakes of a Night
A Work of Comedy
by Mr. Oliver Goldsmith
- at -
The Imperial Playhouse
Lower Washington Street, Boston
Catherine tossed it aside. Clearly, it was nothing but sentimental memorabilia of Lady Sands’s girlhood in America. But the remaining papers looked to be letters. Impatiently, Catherine spread them out, and at once, an unusually short note caught her eye. She picked it up and held it carefully toward the light.
“My dear, dear, girl,” it began, the penmanship a dark, untidy scrawl. “One can scarce imagine my amazement at finding you alive and well after so many years. Of course, I know that despite appearances, you could never forget your vows. And now it seems that you are richer, and I am poorer. Faith, my dear, for you will see me soon, perhaps when you least expect it . . .”
Chapter Eighteen
If you cannot command your present humour and
disposition, single out those who happen to be in the
humour nearest your own.
—LORD CHESTERFIELD, 1776,
The Fine Gentleman’s Etiquette
After leaving Harry’s town house, Max and Lucifer accompanied Sisk on the short trip back to Queen Square. It hurt to walk, and yet it felt as necessary as air to Max’s body. In Westminster, the day was a busy one, though neither man heeded the clattering traffic or the hawking vendors. Nor did they speak. Genevieve’s story had left Max feeling confused, thwarted, and thoroughly ill tempered. Sisk, trudging along the street with his eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed, looked even less cheerful.
Suddenly, the constable slowed, and Max looked up to see they had reached the entrance which led to the Magistrate’s Court. Max paused on the pavement, ignoring the passers-by who pushed impatiently around them. “I’d best come in,” he said gruffly, leaning his weight on his walking stick.
Sisk eyed him up and down. “From the way yer carryin’ yer ribs, wot yer’d best do is go home and crawl back in bed.”
Max ignored him and started up the steps, Lucifer on his heels. “Tell Eversole to fetch all the statements,” he demanded just as a huge coach and four clattered past, nearly drowning out his words. “Like it or not, we’re going through this bloody case one more time.”
Sisk gave his usual grunt, but just then, the coach turned round the corner, and a clear, sharp voice could be heard ringing through the air. Max swiveled about to see an immaculately dressed gentleman swishing through the crowd, making his way down the pavement. “Oh, I just couldn’t wait!” sang Kemble, waving madly as he neared them. Then he jerked to a halt, the hand freezing in mid-waggle. “Christ, de Rohan! What happened to you?”
When Max just glared at him, Kemble let his assessing gaze drift boldly over Max’s bruises. “Dear me!” he murmured as Lucifer began to whuff suspiciously at his footwear. “Has that pretty country miss a jealous husband somewhere?” Then his expression shifted mercurially. “Oh, but never mind that! Get a grip on that hell-hound before he pisses on my boots.”
“What do you want, Kem?” grumbled Max, snapping his fingers to bring the mastiff to heel. With a parting snarl at Kemble, Lucifer obeyed.
