Читать книгу The Dubious Miss Dalrymple - Kasey Michaels, Кейси Майклс, Kasey Michaels - Страница 7

THE KENTISH COAST had long been considered the gateway to England, an island empire whose six thousand miles of coastline were its best defense as well as its greatest weakness.

The Romans had landed along the Kentish coast, followed by the Germanic tribes that were united under Egbert, the “First King of the English.” Alfred the Great, England’s first great patron of learning, was sandwiched somewhere between Egbert and William the Conqueror, followed by the Plantagenets, the Tudors, the Stuarts, the terrible, tiresome, homegrown Cromwell, and finally, the House of Hanover and its current monarch, George III.

The king, blind and most decidedly mad, was not aware that his profligate, pleasure-seeking son had been named Regent, which was probably a good thing, for the knowledge just might have proven to be the death of poor “Farmer George”—but that is another story. More important was the fact that another adventurous soul was once again contemplating the Kentish coast with hungry eyes.

Napoleon Bonaparte, ruler of all Europe, had amassed the Grande Armée, his forces surpassing the ancient armies of Alexander, Caesar, Darius, and even Attila. He had set his greedy sights on England early in his campaign to conquer the world, although pressing matters on the Peninsula and to the east (where the Russians and their beastly winter had proved disastrous to the Little Colonel) had kept him tolerably busy and unable to launch his ships across the Channel. This did not mean that the English became complacent, believing themselves invincible to attack from the French coast.

Quite the contrary.

Martello Towers, an ambitious string of lookout posts built on high ground from Hythe to Eastbourne, were still kept munitioned and manned by vigilant soldiers of His Majesty’s forces. Dressed in their fine red jackets, the soldiers stood at the high, slitted windows of the grey stone cylindrical towers, their glasses trained on the sea twenty-four stupefying hours a day. In their zeal to protect their shores, the English had even dug the Royal Military Canal between Rye and Appledore, optimistically believing that it would give them an extra line of defense from the Froggies.

Five great seaports—called the Cinque Ports—lined the southeast coast, at Hastings, Dover, Sandwich, Romney, and Hythe, with the towns of Rye and Winchelsea vying with them for prominence, and these too had garrisons of soldiers at the ready.

All this vigilance, all this preparedness, the Peninsula Campaign, and the Russian winter—added to the fact that the Strait of Dover, also referred to as “England’s Moat,” was not known for its easy navigability—had proved sufficient in keeping Bonaparte from launching his soldiers from Boulogne or Calais.

It was not, alas, sufficient in preventing inventive English smugglers from accumulating small fortunes plying their trade from Margate to Bournemouth, almost without intervention.

Using long-forgotten sea lanes, the smugglers, known as the “Gentlemen,” did a roaring trade in untaxed medicine, rope, spices, brass nails, bridal ribbons, brandy, silk—even tennis balls. So widespread was the smuggling, and so accomplished were the Gentlemen, that even the Comptroller of the Foreign Post Office sanctioned the practice, as it brought French newspapers and war intelligence reports to the island with greater speed and reliability than any other, more conventional methods.

But, the Comptroller’s protestations to one side, there were the Customs House officers to be considered. The smugglers may have been helping the war effort in some backhanded way, but they were also making the customs and revenue officers a redundant laughingstock, as the flow of contraband into England was fast outstripping the amount of legal, taxable cargo landed on the docks.

Many customs officers, loyal and hardworking, employed the King’s men in forays against the smugglers. Many more did not. A few slit throats, a few bludgeoned heads—these were ample inducement for most customs officers to keep their noses tucked safely in their ale mugs on moonless nights, when the Gentlemen were apt to be out and about. Besides enhancing the possibility of living to a ripe old age, turning one’s head was a good way for customs officers to increase their meager salaries, for the smugglers were known to be extremely generous to those who were good to them.

Popular sentiment as well was on the side of the Gentlemen, whose daring at sea demanded admiration—and supplied the locals with a wide variety of necessities and luxuries without the bother of the recipients having to pay tax on the goods.

As late as July of 1805, Lord Holland, during a Parliamentary Debate, conceded that: “It is impossible to prevent smuggling…. All that the Legislature can do is to compromise with a crime which, whatever laws may be made to constitute it a high offence, the mind of man can never conceive as at all equalling in turpitude those acts which are breaches of clear, moral virtues.”

All in all, it would be easy to believe that a, for the most part, comfortable bargain had been struck between the Gentlemen and the rest of the populate, but that was not the case. As the war dragged along, the unpaid taxes on contraband goods were, by their very absence, depleting the national treasury and war coffers, making the customs officers the butt of scathing lectures from their superiors in London.

The coastal forces, made up mostly of young men who had joined the military for the fun—the “dash” of the thing—only to be denied the clash of battle with the French, were itching to do battle with anyone. The Gentlemen and their nocturnal escapades were just the thing to liven up the soldiers’ humdrum existence.

But most important, the Gentlemen, who were extremely profit-oriented, were lamentably not the most loyal of the King’s subjects. Contraband was contraband, and money was money, no matter whose hand had held it last. Along with the spices and brandy and silk, there was many a French spy transported across England’s Moat, carrying secrets that could conceivably bring down the empire.

All this had served to complicate the Gentlemen’s position, and by 1813 the many small dabblers in the art of smuggling had called it a day, and the majority of the contraband was brought to the shores by highly organized, extremely unlovely gangs of cutthroats, villains, and sundry other souls not averse to committing crimes “equalling in turpitude those acts which are breaches of clear, moral virtues.”

THERE WAS A LONG, uncomfortable silence in the main drawing room of Seashadow, broken only by the light snoring of the napping Mrs. Biggs, whose impressed services as vigilant chaperone of Elinor Dalrymple’s reputation left much to be desired.

“That was a most edifying dissertation, Lieutenant Fishbourne—even if the bits about Cromwell and the Regent did not necessarily relate to the Kentish coast. But it begs me now that you have concluded—you have concluded, haven’t you?—to ask how all this pertains to me,” Elinor Dalrymple inquired wearily as she poured the young man a second cup of tea—for his lengthy, dry-as-dust dissertation on the history of England and smuggling must surely have caused him to become quite parched. “Or should I say—how does all of this pertain to Seashadow? Surely you haven’t had reports of smuggling or spying along our beaches?”

Lieutenant Jason Fishbourne, attached to the Preventive Service by the Admiralty and stationed these past eighteen months in the port of Hythe, leaned forward across the low serving table to utter confidentially, “Have you ever heard of the Hawkhurst Gang, Miss Dalrymple?”

Elly’s voice lowered as well, one slim white hand going to her throat protectively, as if she expected it to be sliced from ear to ear at any moment. “The Hawkhurst Gang? But they are located near Rye, aren’t they—if, indeed, that terrible gang is still in existence.”

The Lieutenant sat back, smiling, as he was convinced he had made his point. “There are many gangs about, Miss Dalrymple,” he intoned gravely. “Each one more bloodthirsty and ruthless than the next, I’m afraid. And yes, madam, I do suspect that one of them is operating in this area—very much so in this area.”

Elly swallowed hard. Smugglers operating near Seashadow? Spies? And she had been walking the beach every day—sometimes even at dusk. Why, she could have stumbled upon a clutch of them at any time!

“What—what do you wish for us to do?” she asked the Lieutenant, who now commanded her complete attention. “We have only been here a few weeks, since just before the memorial service for the late Earl, as a matter of fact, but we intend to be contributing members of the community. I, in fact, have been searching for a project to occupy my time. Could I serve as a lookout of sorts, do you suppose?”

“Indeed, no, madam, I should not dream of putting you in any danger.” Lieutenant Fishbourne rose to his not inconsiderable height, smoothing down his uniform over his trim, fit body before donning his gloves. “I ask nothing of you—your King asks nothing of you—save that you report any strangers to the area and any goings on that appear peculiar. You and the Earl are not to involve yourselves directly in any way, of course. I only felt it fair to warn you about the shore, so that neither of you is inadvertently taken as one of the Gentlemen by my men, who on occasion will be, with your kind permission, patrolling the area at night.”

“I would not think to take on the daunting project of trying to capture an entire band of smugglers, Lieutenant. But if, as you suggest, there could be a spy—or even spies—operating near Seashadow, it would be my duty to do my utmost to capture him—or them!”

“Miss Dalrymple,” the Lieutenant reiterated, “we have everything well in hand. Please, ma’am, do not involve yourself. If anything should happen to you because of my visit, I should never forgive myself. If you see anyone acting suspiciously, just have one of your servants summon me.”

Reluctantly nodding her agreement, Elly escorted the Lieutenant to the door, past Lily, who was making a great fuss out of dusting a gleaming brass candlestick as she watched the handsome tall, blonde officer.

Before the man could retrieve his hat from the table, the young girl had snatched it up, dusting it thoroughly before handing it to him with a smile and a wink. “There you go, you lovely man,” Lily cooed sweetly. “Oh, you are a tall one, aren’t you? Drop in any time,” she added with a wink before Elly pointedly cleared her throat and the young girl scooted for the safety of the kitchens.

“She belonged to the late Earl,” Elly explained, only to amend hastily, “That is, she was a servant in the household when my brother and I came to Seashadow. She’s been given her head too much, I daresay, and I have not as yet had time to instruct her in the proper behavior of staff.”

The Lieutenant shook his head. “There’s no need to explain, madam. I’ve heard the late Earl was a bit of a runabout, but I’m sure you and the current Earl will set it all to rights.” He looked around the large foyer, his faded green eyes taking on a hint that could almost be termed envy. “This is a lovely establishment. It would be a grievous sin to have it less than perfect.” He brightened, smiling down at Elly. “But if your brother the Earl is anything like his gracious sister, I’m sure there is no worry of Seashadow succumbing to the vagaries of poor husbandry.”

Knowing that her younger brother was at that moment in the west wing billiard room, blocking out a mural depicting the evolution of an apple from first juicy bite to bared core, Elly smiled enigmatically, allowing the Lieutenant to comfort himself with his own visions of the new Earl, and waved the man on his way.

Once the door was closed behind him, Elly stood staring sightlessly at the heavy crystal chandelier that hung over the flower arrangement atop the large round table in the middle of the spacious foyer. “Smugglers and spies,” she intoned gravely, her curiously slanted brown eyes narrowing. “Carrying intelligence to Bonaparte so that he can kill more of our young men. Young men like my poor love, Robert—cut down before they’ve had a chance to live, to marry, to have sons.” She raised her chin in determination. “Well, they won’t be doing it from Seashadow. Not if I have anything to say about it!”

ALASTAIR LOWELL stood lost in a pleasant daydream on the small hill, gazing across the rocks and sand toward his ancestral home, watching as the sun danced on the mellow pink brick and reflected against the mullioned windows.

Seashadow was particularly lovely in the spring of the year. It was almost as lovely as it was in the summer, or the fall, or the winter. “Face it, man, you’re in danger of becoming dotty about the place. Being near to death—not to mention the weeks spent in friend Hugo’s airless hovel—have given you a new appreciation for those things you have taken for granted much too long.”

He turned toward the water, smiling indulgently as he watched Hugo at play on the shore, chasing a painted lady—one of the thousands of butterflies that spanned the Mediterranean to cross the Channel each spring and make landfall on the edge of Kent. Dear Hugo. Whatever would he have done without him?

“I would have been breakfast for some sea creature, that’s what I would have done,” he reminded himself, his grey eyes narrowed and taking on hints of polished steel. “I mustn’t allow my joy in being alive to distract me from the reason behind that joy—my near murder.”

He turned back toward Seashadow, rubbing a hand reflectively across his bearded chin. He still found it difficult to believe that a new Earl had been installed in his family home, a fact he had discovered during his first clandestine meeting with Billie Biggs—once that devoted woman had finished thoroughly dampening his shirtfront with tears of joy over his lucky escape from drowning. His eyes narrowed. “So now I have a logical suspect. I hope you’re enjoying yourself, Leslie Dalrymple, Earl of Hythe, eating my food and drinking my wine—for if Wiggins’s and my plan goes well, you are very soon going to be booted out of my house and then hung up by your murdering neck!”

“Eeeeek!”

“Aaaarrgh!”

What a commotion! What a to-do! What high-pitched, unbridled hysteria!

“What in bloody hell? Hugo!” It all happened so quickly that Alastair was taken off guard, his hand automatically moving to his waist, and the sword that wasn’t there. All he had was his cane, and he raised the thing over his head menacingly, vowing to do his best with the tools at hand, for obviously there was murder taking place just out of sight along the beach.

Cursing under his breath, he began to run down the hill toward the shore, the shifting sands beneath his feet nearly bringing him to grief more than once before he cannoned into Hugo—who had been running toward him at full tilt—and was thrown violently backward against the ground, his wind knocked out of him, his senses rattled.

Air returned painfully to his starving lungs and he took it in in deep, hurtful gulps. There were several painted ladies hovering over him, swirling about in circles like bright yellow stars. No, they were stars, brilliant five-pointed objects that hurt his eyes. But that was impossible, for it was just past noon. There couldn’t be any stars.

He shook his head, trying to clear it, slowly becoming aware of a shadow that had fallen over the land. Hugo. The man’s enormous head blocked out the sun, the butterflies, and the circling stars.

“Aaarrgh,” Hugo moaned, his hamlike hands inspecting Alastair from head to foot for signs of damage.

Suddenly a parasol, built more for beauty than for combat, came crashing down on Hugo’s back, once, twice, three times, before splintering into a mass of painted sticks, pink satin, and lace.

“Unhand that man, you brute!” a woman’s raised voice demanded imperiously. “Isn’t it enough that you accost helpless females—must you now compound your villainy by trying to pick this poor fellow’s pockets? Away with you, you cad, or it will be much the worst for you!”

Alastair struggled to sit up, trying his best not to succumb to the near fit of hilarity brought on by both Hugo’s frantic expression and the outrageousness of the unknown female’s accusations. This proved extremely difficult, as Hugo, who was obviously thoroughly cowed, had buried his face against the Earl’s chest, seeking sanctuary. “I say, Hugo, leave off, do, else you’re going to crush the life out of me,” Alastair pleaded, trying to push the man to one side.

“You—you know this brute?” the woman asked, dropping the ruined parasol onto the sand, clearly astonished. “I came upon him as I rounded the small cliff over there. I thought he was a smuggler going to…but he must actually have been afraid of me…which is above everything silly, for he is four times my size…and then I took him for a robber when he was only trying to help you? This is all most confusing. I don’t understand.”

“That makes the two of us a matched set, madam, for I am likewise confused,” Alastair replied, prudently reaching for his cane before attempting to rise and get his first good look at the woman who had so daringly defended him against Hugo.

She was a young woman of medium height, slightly built in her rather spinsterish grey gown, her fair hair scraped back ruthlessly beneath her bonnet so that she looked, to his eyes, like drawings he’d seen of recently scalped colonials. Her huge brown eyes were curiously slanted—probably a result of her skin-stretching hair-style. She looked, and acted, like somebody’s keeper, and he immediately pitied her “keepee.”

“When last I saw friend Hugo here, for that is his name,” Alastair continued, “he was amusing himself chasing a painted lady.”

“I beg your pardon,” the female said crushingly. “I have not insulted you, sirrah! Just because I am on the beach without a chaperone is no reason to—”

Alastair hastened to correct her misinterpretation. “A painted lady is but another name for a butterfly, madam—the two-winged variety, that is,” he said, rising to his knees as Hugo put a hand under each of his arms and hauled his master ungainly to his feet. “Ah, there we are, almost as good as new. Thank you, Hugo,” he said, having been righted satisfactorily. “Now, perhaps we might try to make some sense out of these past few minutes.”

“I knew that,” the woman said in a small voice.

“You knew what?” he asked, bemused by the slight blush that had crept, unwanted, onto her cheeks.

“I knew about painted ladies—that is, about butterflies,” she stammered, looking at him as if she had never seen a man up close before. “Are you sure you are quite all right? That was quite a blow you took.” Her voice trailed off as a humanizing grin softened her features. “You—you must have bounced at least three times,” she added, belatedly trying to disguise the grin with one gloved hand. “Oh, I’m sorry! I shouldn’t see any levity in this, should I?”

Alastair made to push the kneeling, still-quavering Hugo—who reminded him of an elephant cowering in fear of a mouse—away from his leg. “Oh, I don’t know, madam. If we can’t discover the levity in this scene, I should think we are beyond redemption.” He held out his hand. “I am John Bates, by the way.”

She looked at his outstretched hand, then pointedly ignored it, all her starch back in her posture. “I am Elinor Dalrymple, sister of Leslie Dalrymple, Earl of Hythe—on whose lands you, Mr. Bates, are trespassing. May I ask your business at Seashadow?”

“Aargg, ummff, aaah!”

“Yes, yes, Hugo, I quite agree with you. I shall tell the lady. Don’t excite yourself,” Alastair soothed, patting the giant’s head as he tried desperately to gather his thoughts, and control his anger. Who was this unlovely chit to dare ask his business upon his own land?

Why, the only reason she was still here rather than rotting in some damp jail—her and her miserable, conniving brother—was due to his charity in not demanding they be arrested the moment he’d first learned of their usurpation of his lands and title. No, he corrected himself, that wasn’t quite true. It had been Geoffrey Wiggins’s idea (conveyed in a hurried meeting between the two men) to continue the deception Alastair had first planned while still recuperating in Hugo’s hovel—and the romance of the thing was fast losing its allure.

“You know what he’s saying?” Elly asked, clearly surprised, as she peeped around Alastair to get a better look at Hugo.

“By and large, Miss Dalrymple, by and large. Hugo doesn’t plague one with a lot of idle chitchat, having lost his tongue in some way too terrible to tell. However, if you should wish for him to show you the wound, I’m sure he would be delighted to satisfy your—”

“That won’t be necessary,” Elly cut in quickly. “But you—you understand him, poor fellow?”

“Now who are you calling a poor fellow, I wonder? But never mind. I shall answer your question the best I can. Yes, Hugo and I have, by way of his most articulate grunts and some acting out of intent, learned some basic communication. For instance, I am sure Hugo is devastated at having frightened you—nearly as devastated as he is by his fear of you. Please wave and smile to him, if you will. I should like for him to feel secure enough to leave go his death grip on my leg, for it is just regaining its strength from the wound it lately suffered on the Peninsula.”

“You were on the Peninsula?” Elly asked, dutifully smiling and waving to Hugo before returning her gaze to Alastair. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

“And how should you, madam?” Alastair asked, intrigued by her quick about-face. She seemed almost caring. “Tell me, is your brother the Earl in residence? I wished to thank him for renting me the cottage, but all I have seen thus far, other than your delightful presence, of course, was a slightly vacuous-looking youth walking the beach earlier, collecting seaweed for only the good Lord knows what purpose.”

He watched as Miss Dalrymple blushed yet again, and had the uncomfortable feeling that he had just struck a nerve. “That vacuous-looking youth, as you termed him, Mr. Bates” —she shot at him in some heat— “is the Earl of Hythe—and I should thank you to have the goodness to keep your boorish opinions to yourself.” So saying, she turned on her heels, about to flounce off, he was sure, in high dudgeon.

She had taken only three steps when—again, as he was sure she would—she turned back, her slightly pointed chin thrust out, to exclaim, “What do you mean, sir—you wish to thank my brother for the use of the cottage? What cottage? Where?”

As Hugo had been distracted by another gaily colored painted lady and was lumbering down the beach in pursuit of the gracefully gliding butterfly, Alastair felt free to spew the remainder of his lies just as he and Wiggins had practiced them. “Why, madam, I thought you knew. After all, it was your brother who agreed to lend me the cottage on the estate while I recuperate from my wounds. It’s the cottage just to the east of here—slightly inland, and with a lovely thatched roof. Hugo and I have been quite comfortable there for over a month now, although this is my first venture so far from my bed. But you still appear confused, Miss Dalrymple—and you shouldn’t frown so, it will cause lines in your forehead.”

“Never mind my forehead, if you please!” Elly shot back, bending down to retrieve her ruined parasol. “Wait a minute!” she said as she straightened. “Over a month ago, you say? Why, that must have been the late Earl. Of course! You rented the cottage from the late Earl! That’s why Leslie and I weren’t aware of it.”

“The Earl is dead? I have been out of touch, haven’t I?” Alastair bowed deeply from the waist. “My condolences on your loss, madam.”

“None are required, Mr. Bates,” Elly answered distractedly, clearly still trying to absorb his news. “I never knew the horrible man, I’m happy to say.”

Alastair longed to take Elinor Dalrymple’s slim throat in his hands and crush the life out of her. Smiling through gritted teeth, he responded, “Then may I offer my congratulations to your brother and yourself, for surely the two of you have fallen into one of the deepest gravy boats in all England. The late Earl was known, after all, for his great wealth.”

“That’s not all the late Earl was known for,” Elly said, sniffing. “He was a profligate, useless drain on society, if half the stories I have heard are to be believed. If you wish to talk about painted ladies, you should have been here for his memorial service. There were more butterflies at Seashadow that day than this, if you take my meaning.”

This time Alastair could not suppress a grin. “Lots of weeping and gnashing of teeth, was there? There’s many a man who would relish such a send-off. Was there a redhead among them? I’d heard the late Earl had quite a ravishing redhead in keeping.”

Elly’s spine stiffened once more, most probably, Alastair supposed, more in self-censure at her own loose tongue than at his daring response to her indiscreet chatter. “Be that as it may be, if he leased a returning veteran a cottage in which to recuperate, he did at least one good deed in his wasted lifetime, and I shall not take this one vestige of goodness from his memory by refusing to honor his wishes.”

“You are kindness itself, Miss Dalrymple,” Alastair cooed, longing to throttle her.

“The sea air will doubtless be salutary to your wounds,” she continued. “As a matter of fact—as a small way of showing you Seashadow’s hospitality—may I tell my brother that you are to join us this evening for dinner?”

Alastair smiled, succeeding in splitting the three-week growth of beard so that his even white teeth sparkled in the sunlight. “Madam,” he said sincerely, “I should be delighted!”

THE EVENING WAS comfortably cool, with a slight breeze coming off the sea as Elly stood just outside the French doors watching the sea birds as they circled the beach. Raising a hand to her throat, she adjusted the cameo that hung from a thin ivory ribbon, wondering if jewelry—even such simple jewelry—was proper during her supposed time of mourning for her cousin, the late Earl.

“Oh, pooh,” she said, allowing her hand to drop to her side, where it found occupation smoothing the skirt of her silver-grey gown. “What does it matter anyway, now that you’ve been so stupid as to express your true feelings about the man to a relative stranger—a relative stranger you have invited to dinner, and then dressed yourself up like some man-hungry spinster at her last prayers?”

She should have invited Lieutenant Fishbourne to join them as well, considering the fact that his warning to her was the main reason she had invited John Bates to dine. “Report any strangers to the area and any goings-on that appear peculiar,” the Lieutenant had cautioned her, and Elly had every intention of reporting John Bates and Hugo to the Lieutenant just as soon as she was sure if they were smugglers or spies. She only needed to squeeze a bit more pertinent information from Mr. John Bates so that she wouldn’t disgrace herself by turning in an innocent man.

“John Bates couldn’t be innocent,” she told herself reassuringly, hearing the brass door knocker bang loudly in the foyer, announcing her dinner guest’s arrival. “Nobody that handsome—or forward—could possibly be innocent.”

Stepping into the drawing room, she looked around to see that Leslie, who had been dutifully sitting in the blue satin striped chair when she had left the room, was nowhere to be found. “Leslie?” she hissed, looking about desperately as she heard footsteps approaching the room. “Leslie! You promised! Where are you?”

“Lose something?” a voice inquired from behind her just as she was peeking through the fronds of a towering fern in hopes of discovering her brother hiding behind it.

Straightening, Elly pasted on a deliberate smile and turned to greet her guest. “Lose something?” she repeated blankly. “Why, yes, I seem to have misplaced, um, my knitting. Mrs. Biggs, our housekeeper, appears to delight in hiding it from me.”

“You don’t knit, Elly. Never could, without making a botch of the thing.”

Elly swung about, to see Leslie down on all fours behind the settee. “Leslie!” she gritted under her breath. “Get up at once. What are you doing down there?”

Leslie Dalrymple, Earl of Hythe, rose clumsily to his feet, his pale blonde hair falling forward over his high forehead, his knees and hands dusty. “I was sitting quite nicely, just as you instructed, Elly, when a breeze from the doorway sent the loveliest dust bunny scurrying across the floor. See!” he demanded, holding up a greyish round ball of dust. “I think it’s just the thing to complete my arrangement of Everyday Things, don’t you?”

Elly didn’t know whether to hit her brother or hug him. He looked so dear, standing there holding his dust bunny as if it were the greatest treasure on God’s green earth, yet he was making the worst possible impression on John Bates. John Bates! Elly whirled to face her handsome guest, daring him with her eyes to say one word—one single, solitary word against her beloved brother.

Her fears, at least for the moment, proved groundless. John Bates, who had indeed witnessed all that had just transpired, only advanced across the width of the Aubusson carpet, his golden hair and beard glinting in the candlelight, his cane in his left hand as he favored his left leg, his right hand outstretched in greeting.

“My Lord Hythe, it is a distinct pleasure to meet you,” he said, his tone earnest even to Elly’s doubting ears. “I wish to thank you for agreeing to honor the rental arrangement made between the late Earl and myself. And, oh yes, please allow me to offer you condolences on your loss.”

Leslie looked down on the dust bunny. “But I didn’t lose it. See, I have it right here.”

“Mr. Bates is referring to our libertine cousin Alastair’s untimely death,” Elly corrected sweetly even as she glared at John Bates. He already knew how she felt about her late cousin. Why was he persisting in bringing it up again and again? Anyone would think they had killed the stupid man, for pity’s sake!

The dust bunny disappeared into Leslie’s coat pocket as he took John’s hand, wincing at the older man’s firm grip. “A strong one, aren’t you? Oh, you meant m’cousin, of course. Please excuse Elly. M’sister’s taken a pet against him for some reason, ever since his mourners wouldn’t stay to tea after the service, as a matter of fact. Rather poor sporting of her to my way of thinking, as the fellow’s dead, ain’t he—leaving the two of us as rich as Croesus into the bargain.”

“Leslie, please,” Elly begged quietly, steering the two men toward the settee and seating herself in the blue satin chair.

But Leslie was oblivious to his sister’s pleading. Seating himself comfortably, one long, skinny leg crossed over the other, he informed his guest, “I have been considering composing a picture to honor the late Earl and his accomplishments—only, I can’t seem to find that he actually accomplished anything, except a few things best not remembered. I’m an artist, you understand.”

“You wish to do a portrait?” Alastair asked, to Elly’s mind, a bit intensely.

Leslie waved his thin, artistic hands dismissingly. “No, no. Never a portrait. That’s so mundane—so ordinary. No, I wish to execute a chronicle of Alastair’s life, with symbols. For instance,” he expanded, thrilled to have found a new audience for his ideas, “if I were to do Henry the Eighth, I should include a bloody ax, a joint of meat, weeping angels, a view of the Tower—you understand?”

“What a unique concept, my lord,” Alastair complimented, his eyes shifting so that he was looking straight at Elly, who shivered under his penetrating, assessing grey gaze.

What was he looking at? she wondered. And why did she have the uncomfortable feeling that John Bates could prove to be a very dangerous man?