Justice Done Page 10
Sitting there over port, blowing a cloud with his lordship, I sought an excuse for an early departure. But as if reading my mind, his lordship said, “Must forgive us, Rossiter. Her ladyship and I are not much in company, as you must know. You are outraged, as any good man would be.” He paused, and looking at Dallingham, said in a low voice, “Unlike yon jackanapes! Were I twenty years younger, I’d darken his daylights! But here . . . well, we keep the ladies waiting. I only mean to ask you—nay, beg you—and I’m not a man who often begs!—beg you to see your way clear to remain with us another day or two.”
“My dear Lord Bingsley—” I began, but in what was becoming a habit in him, he interrupted.
“For Amelia’s sake!” he whispered, then added, in a normal speaking voice, “You’ll grow used to our havey-cavey ways, I’m sure.”
I bowed to a man who—as I was to learn—was a masterful persuader.
Two stout footmen carried the jug-bitten Lord Dallingham to his chambers that night. That his wife slept apart from him did not surprise me in the least—I only hoped that she had locked the door against him.
He did not appear at breakfast, when Lord Bingsley asked if I would be so good as to accompany his niece, who wished to ride her mare about the estate. “Going to miss Bingsley Hall, she tells me. By God, Bingsley Hall shall miss her!”
“Perhaps Lord Dallingham would like to join us,” I suggested.
“Daresay he would,” Lord Bingsley said, “if he hadn’t eaten Hull cheese! My valet informs me he shot the cat! Too blind to find the basin like a decent fellow, damn him. Wonder if he’ll be so fond of that carpet now!”
“I—I believe I shall find Miss—Lady Dallingham,” I said, feeling a bit queasy myself.
He offered to accompany me to the stables. We delayed some moments on the steps to exchange pleasantries with Lady Bingsley, who was to call upon an ailing tenant that morning. His lordship, determinining that there was some slight chill in the air, begged her to wait while her maid should fetch a shawl, and once this item was retrieved, solicitously placed it about his lady’s shoulders. He handed her up into the carriage, and her little dog as well, and then a large hamper of food for the tenant’s family, and, after receiving assurances from the coachman that he would not drive too fast over the country lanes, stood watching the carriage as it pulled away.
At the stables, he saw to it that I was very handsomely mounted on a fine gelding. I assisted his niece—who wore a delightful blue velvet riding habit—with her mare, and in the company of a groom who stayed some distance behind us, we rode out.
Lord Bingsley’s lands were in good heart, and if I had been Dallingham, no doubt I would have been estimating their yields. But my mind was wholly taken up with the thought that I had forever lost the opportunity to ask the woman beside me to become Lady Rossiter.
“How do you fare this morning, Lady Dallingham?” I asked, trying to accept that fact.
“Oh, please do not address me by that hateful name!”
“Hateful? But—”
“May I count you my friend, sir?”
“Most certainly! If there is any service I may render—”
“I am afraid, Lord Rossiter, that I have been duped.”
“By me?” I asked, aghast.
“Oh, no, Lord Rossiter! Never by you!”
“I don’ understand, Lady . . . er, beg pardon, but I don’t know quite how one should address—”
“Amelia,” she said. “I should like it above all things if you would call me Amelia.”
“Very well, Amelia, and you shall please call me Christopher—no, dash it! Call me Kit.”
“Do your friends call you Kit?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then, Kit,” she said—and by the saints and angels, Charles, she could have asked for the world from that moment on. She didn’t.
“I am so sorry that a man of your sensibilities was forced to . . . to accustom himself to the odd behavior of my aunt and uncle,” she said. “They mean well, but—”
“Mean well! Talking of poison and setting traps with old armor or contriving to make a fellow walk beneath loose roof tiles!”
“Oh, Kit, no! They are trying to get me to show a little—I believe Uncle calls it ‘rumgumption.’ ”
“I beg pardon?” I said, all at sea.
“Oh, I know I shouldn’t use cant—”
“No, no, I mean—I don’t mind it—the cant, I mean—but what the blazes have you to do with their plans to do one another a mischief?”
“One another? Oh no, Kit—”
“Discussing—over the syllabub, mind you—how they’re going to put a period to the other’s existence!”
“But that is not what they are about, Kit! I am sure . . . that is, I begin to wonder . . . well, the thing of it is, perhaps I should murder Harry!”
“What!”
“Oh, yes. It’s the only way out of this tangle I’m in.”
“My dear Amelia! Surely—”
“You see,” she said, exhibiting an inherited tendency to stop a fellow from saying what he ought to say, “Peter—he’s my half-brother, you know—Peter told me that Harry had some—some rather displeasing information about my dear aunt, and that Harry would make it public, if I didn’t marry him straight away. Only now I find out that my aunt doesn’t care a fig about any of it, that it was some old scandal from long ago, and Uncle Bingsley called me a goosecap, and said that Peter and Harry had arranged it all between them, because according to my parents’ will, a certain sum of money came to Peter on my marriage, which is why he wanted me to have a London season in the first place, which I wouldn’t have cared for at all, because really it’s quite exhausting and gives one the headache, except that it afforded me the chance to—to meet a few admirable persons, although he—they—seemed to take little interest in me, for which they can hardly be blamed, and so—and so I married Harry.”
I was much struck by this speech, once I had sorted it out, and said, “The dastards! When I think what Dallingham and your half-brother have conspired to do! Why—why, I shall thrash the two of them! This is positively gothic!”
“Oh, no, Kit, do not! I have made a great mistake, and I’ve been a sad featherbrain, as my uncle says—”
“But surely the marriage can be set aside!”
She turned very red.
“Beg pardon!” I murmured, a little crimson myself. “Don’t know what possessed me to—”
“No, no! It is just—I was so very foolish! But to have a man with Lord Dallingham’s looks and address tell me that only his desperate love for me drove him to such measures to bring me to the altar—well, I realize now that he was merely ensuring that our marriage could not be annulled. As for my giving into such nonsense—it is all vanity, I’m afraid. My head was turned. ‘Perhaps he cares for me after all!’ I thought. So silly of me. My aunt says it comes of reading too many novels. But she’s mistaken, of course. It is because am a plain woman, and—”
“Never say so again!” I protested.
She was silent for a time, then said, “You are kind. Perhaps you cannot know what it is like to be flattered in that way.”
“Oh yes, I can,” I said.
“You? Oh, it isn’t possible.”
I laughed. “My dear, I have learned it was not only possible but probable, as it must be for every unmarried person of fortune.”
She made no reply.
After a moment, I asked, “How came you to bring him here?”
“My uncle had come to Town, because Peter had sent word to him that he was owed money—on the event of my being wed. I had thought Uncle would be in a rage, but he was all that was civil, and merely told Dallingham that perhaps he should like to come to Bingsley Hall for a fortnight, and saying that one day all his own wealth and property would come to me, so Harry may as we
ll become acquainted with the place.”
“And Dallingham couldn’t wait.”
“No.” She sighed. “But I won’t cry craven—I shall contrive to live with Lord Dallingham. I only wanted you to know—well, I was so surprised to see you with him, and so grateful. It has done my nerves a deal of good to know you are at hand, although undoubtedly you’ve found this visit quite dreadful!”
That evening, Charles, as we sat down to dine, I found my attitude toward murderous speech had undergone a sea change. I listened to my lord’s and ladyship’s schemes with rapt attention. And when Lady Bingsley was so good as to teach me the names and properties of certain plants in the nearby woods, I was an apt pupil.
Now, none of this has any bearing, of course, on the sudden death of Lord Dallingham. He died, as was ascertained by the magistrate, of an apoplexy brought on by an unsuspected condition of the heart. He had been drinking steadily throughout his visit to Bingsley Hall—Dallingham, not the magistrate, I mean—and an empty bottle of very fine port was found near his bed. This life of dissipation, the magistrate believes, led to the gentleman’s untimely demise.
Like other gentlemen of the law in centuries before him, the magistrate did not observe the exit to the priest’s hole. It is a very small hiding place indeed—as I discovered by viewing it from the entrance, which was in my own chambers.
Amelia puts off her black gloves in another week, when you may expect an announcement of our betrothal in the Times.
One other thing I must mention, though, Charles. More than once—rattlepate that I am—it has occurred to me that now that the late Lord Dallingham has passed on to his reward without an heir, you are in line for the title. It has also occurred to me that you had never before allowed the late Harry the use of so much as one of your tenant’s wheelbarrows, let alone your own new phaeton. I say, old friend—thank goodness you weren’t in it when that wheel came loose!
However, should you ever feel the urge to loan another phaeton to someone, Amelia’s half-brother may be glad to make use of your generosity.
How very good to be able to confide in you, my dear, dear Charles!
Your most Obedient & etc.
—Kit
About the Author
National bestseller Jan Burke is the author of a dozen novels and a collection of short stories. Among the awards her work has garnered are Mystery Writers of America’s Edgar® for Best Novel, Malice Domestic’s Agatha Award, Mystery Readers International’s Macavity, and the RT Book Club’s Best Contemporary Mystery. She is the founder of the Crime Lab Project (CrimeLabProject.com) and is a member of the board of the California Forensic Science Institute. She lives in Southern California with her husband and two dogs. Learn more about her at JanBurke.com.
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2014 by Jan Burke
“Miscalculation,” “Two Bits,” and “An Unsuspected Condition of the Heart” were previously published in Eighteen © 2002 by Jan Burke
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First Pocket Star Books ebook edition September 2014
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ISBN 978-1-4767-4917-4