Rosemary Stevens (23 page)

Silence fell over the room.

The doctor broke it. “Are you saying that Mrs. Hargrove killed Mr. Jacombe? Your brainbox has suffered a trauma which has left you deficient in reasoning, Mr. Brummell!”

Mrs. Jacombe groaned.

“Has it, Doctor Trusdale? But then, you would defend Mrs. Hargrove, would you not? After all, I would be willing to wager that it was you who delivered Mrs. Hargrove’s baby all those years ago. You kept the secret of who the baby’s father was, too.”

“That is enough,” Mrs. Hargrove said hotly, showing her temper for the very first time. “I was right here the night Mr. Jacombe was killed, right here in this house. You cannot possibly have any evidence to the contrary.”

Mrs. Jacombe looked at me. “Mrs. Hargrove is a trusted servant, Mr. Brummell. You are mistaken in thinking she has done anything wrong.”

“Am I? I feel you should know the baby’s father—”

“Quiet!” Doctor Trusdale commanded. He stood directly behind where Mrs. Jacombe reclined on the sofa. His eyes shot fire at me. He clearly did not want Mrs. Jacombe to know that her husband had sired Mrs. Hargrove’s child.

I stood up so the physician and I would be on equal footing. It seemed the plan was working. “If you do not wish me to continue on in the same vein, Doctor Trusdale, then perhaps you would like to tell us where you were the night Mr. Jacombe was killed.”

“Oh, please, do not go on,” Mrs. Jacombe begged. “Please, I can’t stand it any longer.”

The physician’s stern features told me how much he hated me at that moment. Our gazes locked. “I was at home, above my office.”

“Do you have any witnesses to corroborate your story?”

“It is not a story, it is the truth.”

“Is it? I rather think not. I think you were at Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens that night. I think you had plenty of reasons to want to see Mr. Jacombe dead.”

Mrs. Jacombe gasped.

“George,” Freddie said. “Is this necessary?”

“Yes, it is necessary, your Royal Highness. A young man has falsely confessed to a crime he did not commit. Tomorrow he will be held accountable during a trial. A trial in which he will most certainly be sentenced to hang. By this time on Saturday, he will be dead.” I turned back to the doctor. “Do you want his blood on your hands as well as Mr. Jacombe’s?”

“Stop this! Stop it, please!” Mrs. Jacombe cried. Her brown eyes reflected her frenzy. “Doctor Trusdale would have no reason to kill my husband. None.”

“On the contrary. He had the most powerful reason of all. Love.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out the silver box which contained the lock of Mrs. Jacombe’s hair.

Never taking my eyes from Doctor Trusdale, I held it high for the company to see. “Do you care to tell us why you keep this, Doctor Trusdale?”

His face a mask a fury, the doctor said, “How did you get that?”

“Is it really important how I got it? Tell us,” I said, opening the box and pulling out the lock of hair, “whose hair is this you keep?”

Doctor Trusdale darted around the sofa to stand in front of me. “Give me that this instant.”

“Not until you have answered the question.”

Doctor Trusdale lunged forward and grabbed the hair from my hands. He thrust it into his pocket. “I think you must leave now, Mr. Brummell.”

“You love Mrs. Jacombe. That is her hair,” I said.

“Get out,” the physician repeated.

“You love her so much you could not stand to see how her husband treated her.”

“Leave before I summon a constable!”

“You knew that with him out of the way you might finally have a chance to make her yours after all these years. What has it been—eighteen, nineteen years since you first fell in love with her?”

“You are mad!” Doctor Trusdale yelled.

“You have a shrine to her in your room, her hair, her miniature, her letters.”

“I shall have you arrested,” the doctor’s voice was shrill.

“You love her so much you went to Vauxhall that night. You sent a note to Mr. Jacombe saying that you must speak to him privately about his wife’s condition. When he walked around the back of the Cascade to meet you, you pulled out a pistol and shot him dead.”

“No!” screamed Mrs. Jacombe.

All eyes turned to the widow. She sat bolt upright on the sofa, her chest heaving as if she had been running.

Doctor Trusdale rushed to her side. “Venetia—”

“No more, Doctor Trusdale! I will not have any more of this,” Mrs. Jacombe said. “No more lying.”

“Venetia, please!” the doctor beseeched.

The invalid’s voice was strong and sure. “I killed my husband,” Mrs. Jacombe said. “I killed him because I found out I had been living with a man I did not know for eighteen years. I had been blind, blind to the man he really was.”

“Venetia, hush now, I shall send these people away. You need rest. You do not know what you are saying,” Doctor Trusdale pleaded.

Mrs. Jacombe shook her head, tear falling down her cheeks. “No, it is time for you to stop protecting me, my dear friend. You wrote the letters to Mr. Brummell for me, and I know it must have been a terrible burden for you these last ten days, knowing what I have done. But it is time now for the truth. If only that poor soldier had not picked up the pistol. I should never have dropped it like that.”

I could not believe my ears.

Miss Lavender’s face had drained of all colour.

Freddie sat open-mouthed.

Mrs. Jacombe looked at us all, her large eyes beseeching us to understand. “You see, all these years, I thought my husband was a good man. Oh, there were little indications here and there that he was not perfect. But what man is? I depended upon him, you know. I have never been strong enough, and he let me believe that I could not go on without him, that he took the best of care of me and was a loyal, loving husband. Then, the day before the Vauxhall gala, it was a Sunday, I remember, I went walking in Hyde Park. Doctor Trusdale has always said the fresh air is beneficial.”

I nodded. “Go on,” I said gently.

“A woman approached me. Mrs. Roucliffe was her name. She told me how Theobald had tried to set her up as his mistress. At first, I refused to believe her, but she described him physically with such accuracy that I had no choice but to believe that she had lain with him. After that, I started wondering about a lot of things. For example, his staunch support of Mrs. Hargrove when she became pregnant. The baby was his, was it not, Mrs. Hargrove?”

“Yes,” the housekeeper replied in a soft voice.

“I thought so. There were others, I have no doubt.”

If I could have moved at that moment, I would have stood next to Miss Lavender, but Mrs. Jacombe’s words held me fixed in my place.

“I had been living the proverbial lie for all these years, not seeing the truth that was right in front of me. God only knows what else Theobald was guilty of.”

Plenty, I thought.

“When I heard about the duel, I knew Theobald probably had been cheating at cards and would kill that young man. Somehow my husband would manage to come out of it with his reputation intact. He had a marvelous talent for making people believe he was the epitome of the honest man, a man to respect and honour. It was all too clear to me now and too much for me to bear. I could not let him kill that boy. I slipped out of the house that night without even Mrs. Hargrove knowing. Heavily veiled, I went and found a boy to deliver a note to Theobald. In it, I told him I had followed him to the Pleasure Gardens and must speak with him immediately. I never even stopped to think he might tell someone his wife was there. I was out of my mind with humiliation, shame, hurt, and anger. As soon as he got close enough to me, I only uttered one word, ‘liar’ before I shot him dead.”

“Oh, God, Venetia,” Doctor Trusdale groaned.

“I would have come forward before, truly, but I had not the courage. I’d like to think that I would not have let that young man hang for my crime. Mr. Brummell, I am glad you came here tonight. I am sorry you had to.”

So was I, I thought sadly.

Friday afternoon, I stood in the kitchen at the Haven of Hope, the remnants of a small celebration around me. Molly had spent the morning making cakes, and the other girls helped prepare a sumptuous repast for Lieutenant Nevill to enjoy his first day out of prison.

He sat back in his chair, positioned close to Molly. The two had eyes only for each other.

“What will you do now?” Miss Lavender asked the lieutenant.

“Molly and I shall marry as soon as possible. With the money Grandfather left me, we can purchase a place in the country. Neither of us finds Town life appealing.”

“The country!” Lionel exclaimed. “Who’d want to live there when they could live in London?”

Miss Lavender smiled at the boy.

“You plan to give up your position in the army then?” I asked Nevill.

“Yes. Molly and I want a large family. A soldier’s life would hardly be suited to that.”

“Nicky and I will be quite content being a country couple,” Molly said.

I was happy for them. The lieutenant had finally been released that morning after Mrs. Jacombe came forward. Though I was very happy the lieutenant was free, I could not help but feel sorry for Mrs. Jacombe.

Mr. Lavender stood on the fringe of the gathering, feeling a bit guilty, I expect. I walked over to him.

“What will happen to Mrs. Jacombe?” I asked.

He rolled a toothpick around in between his lips. “They’ll be sympathetic. She’ll likely be judged insane. That physician friend of hers will see that she gets humane treatment under private care.”

“No common madhouse then?”

“Of course not. She has money and position and people who care about her.”

Miss Lavender walked over to join us. “The two of you are not arguing, are you?”

I smiled. “No, our conversation has been quite civil.”

The Bow Street man looked at me askance. “I’m waiting for you to say you told me I had the wrong man in gaol.”

“Oh, now, when have you ever known me to gloat?”

Mr. Lavender snorted.

The party was breaking up. I wanted to see Miss Lavender alone. “Miss Lavender, the day is very fine. I wonder if you might walk with me by the Serpentine.”

“Lydia has to help the girls clean up,” Mr. Lavender said, scowling at me.

An imp of mischief appeared in Miss Lavender’s green eyes. “Actually, I think just this once I’ll let the girls handle things themselves. The day is fine, as Mr. Brummell said.”

Under her father’s disapproving eye, I hailed a hackney-coach to take us to Hyde Park. Miss Lavender wore a pretty rose-coloured gown which, oddly enough, only complimented her dark red hair.

When we reached the Park, we strolled amiably in silence until we reached the waters of the Serpentine. I felt good just having her hand tucked in the crook of my arm.

We came to a place at the water’s edge and stopped. A light breeze came across the water, rustling Miss Lavender’s curls.

“Are you glad it is all over?” I asked in a low voice.

“Of course.”

“Is it
all
over?” I asked, turning to look into her eyes. I knew she realised I meant her feelings about Mr. Jacombe.

She looked down for a moment, the toe of her shoe scuffing the ground. It seemed an eternity until she looked into my eyes. “Yes, I think it is.”

I reached into my pocket and withdrew a small jewellery box. Suddenly, I felt like a boy of six-and-ten summers. “Here, I, er, got this for you.”

Miss Lavender looked at me in some surprise. “You bought me a present?”

“Well, I, ahem. Present is a strong word, eh? Why not open it, and perchance you will see why I thought of you when I saw it.”

She opened the box. The gold heart lay nestled in white satin. “Oh, how perfectly lovely,” she said, her lips curving.

“I thought, that is, with everything dreadful you have been through, that, well, that . . ..” For once my well-known cool composure failed me.

“Yes, Mr. Brummell, I believe I know what you mean. I have felt these past days that the weight of the years and my horrid experience with Mr. Jacombe has slowly begun to lift from my shoulders and from my heart.”

“That is all for the best.”

She reached up and touched the gold chain around her neck, the one that contained the key to the box with the scraps of that dress. The one she had worn when Mr. Jacombe has so cruelly taken her innocence.

“Will you hold this for me for a moment?” Miss Lavender said, handing me the box containing the gold heart.

“Of course.”

Miss Lavender raised her hands slowly and removed the chain with the key from about her neck. “I’ve worn this for almost seven years,” she said.

She looked at the silver key for a long moment, then with a fluid movement, she flung the key on its necklace high into the air and above the river. It glinted in the sunlight before it fell with a tiny splash into the water.

Miss Lavender looked at me, her eyes suspiciously bright. I hoped she would not cry. Crying females are not my specialty, you must know.

Thankfully, she merely asked if I would help her put on the new necklace. There followed a bit of fumbling on my part, as my fingers touched the warm skin of Miss Lavender’s neck while I fastened the clasp.

When I was done, she reached up and touched the gold heart. “I know it looks lovely, even though I don’t have a glass to see.”

“I assure you, it is even lovelier now, lying against your skin.”

She smiled then and slipped her hand into mine.

* * * *

Later that night, I was feeling quite relaxed as Robinson helped me prepare for bed.

“So Mrs. Ed departed this afternoon?” I inquired.

“Yes, sir. She said Winifred, the piglet’s, rash must be a
London
rash, and she must return to the country.”

“Ned and Ted must be sorry she left.”

“Yes,” Robinson replied with a hint of a smile.

Chakkri chose that moment to spring silently onto the coverlet. “Ah, Chakkri, how nice of you to grace me with your presence,” I said.

“Reow.”

Robinson’s lips pursed.

I noted that Chakkri stared at me with his deep blue eyes and waited to be petted. I obliged him.