What the Marquess Sees (7 page)

“Done.”

“What?” barked Dansbury; looking at his friend as if he’d lost his mind.

Stonebridge looked back at Dansbury. “I said done. You’ll take her. You’ll protect her. But until the arrangements are made, she’ll stay here.” He turned back to her. “Now, tell us what we want to know.”

“Fine. But will you please untie me from this chair first? I cannot feel my arms anymore.”

“Women are made to be loved, not understood.”

― Oscar Wilde

3:00 AM…

Technically, Day Four of Torture…

“Stonebridge, you must help me. Take me. I beg you. He’ll kill me if you don’t. Please. Please. Please. I’ll tell you everything. I swear I will…just don’t let him kill…”

Those were the last words Earl Swindon, Lady Beatryce’s father, ever uttered. He was dead before he hit the floor, killed by a cloaked assassin while he and Ambrose attempted to confront him with his treasonous activities.

Now, it was up to Dansbury to inform Lady Beatryce of her father’s demise, a task he was loath to do. Alas, needs must.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

He knocked on her bedroom door. The sound echoed loudly in the early hours of the morning. “Lady Beatryce. It is Dansbury. I have news to impart.”

He was surprised Lady Beatryce hadn’t waited downstairs for their return, anxious to hear what transpired. He would never understand this woman.

“Come in,” came her muffled reply.

He entered the room and was amazed to see her sitting by the fire with an open book in her lap, attending to her fingernails. She appeared relaxed and comfortable. As if she hadn’t a care in the world. She didn’t even look up at his approach.

He crossed the room and stood before her chair, uncomfortably aware of her disregard. He waited for her to invite him to sit in the unoccupied chair next to hers or to at least acknowledge his presence so he could convey his news. It was the way a gentleman behaved in the presence of a lady, even if they were in her boudoir. Even if said lady wasn’t much of a lady at all.

He’d forgotten she often didn’t act the part. At times, even a doxy behaved with better refinement and manners.

She ignored him and continued to file her nails, the sound grating across his nerves. It was late. He was tired. He didn’t have time for this.

Finally, without looking up, she said, “Well, are you going to impart your news?”

He ground his teeth and reminded himself he was about to inform her that her father was murdered. But, still, he refused to speak to the top of her head. “Would you do me the courtesy of looking at me while we converse?”

She paused her manicure and looked at him. Her hands remained aloft as if she intended to resume attending to them the minute he began speaking.

He raised one brow and looked pointedly at her hands. “I can stand here all night.”

“Suit yourself,” she said and resumed the task of smoothing the ends of her nails.

He reached over, grabbed her manicure set, and threw it into the fire.

When he turned back around, she was sitting as primly as a debutante, her shoulders back and hands folded in her lap. As if nothing was amiss. As if he hadn’t just thrown her manicure set into the fire.

He was so angry at her antics he no longer cared to blunt his words. “Your father was murdered this evening.”

She didn’t even flinch. In fact, she showed no emotional response at all. “Oh. Is that all? You tossed my manicure tools in the fire just to tell me that? That set was made of bone and silver, and was the only thing in my reticule besides a couple of stray pins and a knife. The sum total of all I own in this world. Now.”

For a moment words failed him. That was not the response he expected. And a knife? “Is that all you have to say? I just told you your father was murdered.”

She just stared at him a moment before waving her hands and saying, “Well, it is not a complete surprise, now, is it? With the men he tangled with, it was bound to happen eventually. Did you happen to catch the culprit?”

“No.”

She shook her head. “Tsk. Tsk. Do you at least have a description of the bandit? A way of tracking down who he is?”

If he weren’t so confident in himself, she’d have made him feel inadequate with her questions. Perhaps that was her intent? Regardless, he answered honestly, “He was cloaked. We didn’t see his face.”

For a moment, her eyes widened in fear. It was brief, but he didn’t miss it. “My description of the assassin doesn’t surprise you. Tell me, Lady Beatryce, do you know this man?”

“No. I don’t. I’ve just seen a cloaked man watching the house many times in the past; his presence always seemed to disturb my father’s peace of mind. Especially the last time…”

“I can see why.”

“I daresay. The man used to stand in the street, bold as brass, and stare up at the house. No one ever stopped him. No runners ever asked of him…no one ever asked of him. I find it difficult to believe that the neighbors hadn’t noticed his presence, yet no one ever mentioned it.”

She sounded so practical and matter of fact. And though he knew her father was not a good man, he was still her father. Shouldn’t she show some level of remorse? Not talk practically about strange cloaked men and assassins?

“What, Dansbury? Are you expecting me to burst in to tears? To wail and gnash my teeth in sorrow? I’m not that kind of woman.”

“No, I didn’t expect that, but some show of emotion is certainly expected. He was your father, after all.”

She shook her head. “No one knows that better than me. La, I’m sure once the reality of his death really sets in I’ll be reacting…”

She’s in shock then.

“…by dancing around the room like a banshee…with wild abandon and an overabundance of gaiety.”

Or not.

“I see.” He clasped his hands behind his back, lest he fidget in frustration. “Don’t you want to know about your siblings? Your stepmother?”

“What about them?” She met his eyes then, hers were quite serious. “I’m sure they’re fine.”

“What about Adelaide? She’s only six. She needs someone strong in her life.”

“And you think I’m the person to fill that role?” She laughed as if he jest.

“Well, you are many things, Lady Beatryce,” he would not enumerate that long list, “but weak is not one of them.”

“A compliment, Dansbury? I’m surprised.” She shook her head. “Adelaide will be fine.”

“But…”

“Dansbury, she is better off without me.”

“Better? Lady B…”

“Look. I will not argue the point with you. They will be fine.” She raised her chin a notch. “The subject is closed.”

“I find myself surprised, Lady Beatryce,” he blurted out. She’d not interrupt him again. “I had not realized you were this cold-hearted, so much so as to not even concern yourself with the welfare of your family…” He didn’t know what else to add to that. What more was there to say?

She crossed her arms. “Are you quite finished?”

Should he tell her that her stepmother had been laughing hysterically, like a madwoman, when he left? Lady Beatryce just didn’t react the way he expected; he was somewhat at a loss with how to handle her.

“I suppose so.” This was the most bizarre conversation he’d ever had. He briefly wondered if there would ever come a time where something she did or said would ever not surprise him.

For tonight, though, he was finished with her. He cleared his throat. “Well, then. I’ll leave you to your…dancing,” he said and walked away.

“When are we leaving?”

Oh, this woman was cold-hearted, and self-centered. She would finally have a question, but it was about her and her departure from Town.

“We leave in two days.”

He did not look back when he answered her. And he left without another word, all but shaking his head in utter exasperation. For sure, he would never understand this woman.

“Secrets, silent, stony sit in the dark palaces of both our hearts: secrets weary of their tyranny: tyrants willing to be dethroned.”

― James Joyce, Ulysses

Later That Morning…

At a Far More Reasonable Hour…

From her bedroom window, Lady Beatryce Beckett watched fleeting pedestrians as they passed by on the pavement outside. Rain showered down upon the city as thick as the velvet drapery surrounding her window.

The gentry marched by with a determined stride, their black umbrellas open to impede the steady downpour. The servants and laboring classes, who had to attend to their duties regardless of the weather, scurried impatiently behind them, not daring to pass yet resigned to becoming drenched with water; it was probably the first bath they’d had in a week, perhaps longer.

She couldn’t imagine living that way herself…filthy as a soiled rag and as smelly as a costermonger’s cart full of rotted vegetables. Was it any wonder they were never able to better their lot in life?

She might have felt a pang of remorse for her unkind thoughts, but swept it aside. Beatryce watched it all…life…advance before her with a somewhat detached air, her mind turned inward.

Why wasn’t she dancing about her room and laughing with great relief? Her father was dead and could hurt her no more. Perhaps she had yet to really believe it? In a way, the news of his demise still seemed too good to be true…was she finally, after all these years, actually rid of her father? Forever?

She’d always thought she’d instantly feel…transformed and relieved. Perhaps lighter…Alive.

Instead she felt the same, trapped and hardened…and experienced in a way she would never wish on any other, even maids and thieves and whores. In fact, she even felt a tad glum if one could believe it.

She touched her head to the window, the glass cool and damp against her forehead, and fingered the nearest glazing bar separating the broad, yet intricately shaped panes making up her bedroom window. The craftsmanship was of the highest standard; Stonebridge must pay an exorbitant amount in excises for the windows in his home.

She laughed at the errant thought. Such was her way…to find herself dodging persistent yet random thoughts even at the most unlikely of times.

Beatryce dropped her hand and looked to the right, further up the cobbled road. Plenty of carriages tumbled past, pulling unknown occupants to their various destinations amid the gray of dreary rain.

Life carried on as usual. Father’s death didn’t affect them either.

A break in the river of umbrellas flowing up the pavement across the street revealed a man standing still and shrouded in a cloak and facing the house. Right at the window she presently occupied.

Her heart began pounding in fear. She swallowed the lump that swelled in her throat.

It couldn’t be; it just couldn’t.

Yet she feared it could…and had. Yet how had the cloaked man known she was here?

A mass of carriages and a wave of fresh umbrellas arrived, blocking her view of the man as if swallowing him whole. No interruption in the flow signaled a lone person standing still against the tide.

Beatryce stood on the tips of her toes. She looked left, then right. She stretched up, then down and tried in vain to see through the sea of black, to no avail. Twice her sawing breath fogged the window. Twice she rubbed it clear with her sleeve.

At another break in the flow, she searched the pavement opposite with renewed fervor, but he wasn’t there. As if he’d never even been.

Was she going mad? Now, of all times, when she was finally free?

* * * *

That Night, After Dinner…

The First Floor Drawing Room…

“Ah, Grace, you should have seen Dansbury. There he sat, muddied and bedraggled…his jacket torn and his hair soiled and disheveled. But the cat that was curled in his arms…was altogether tidy and clean.” They all laughed, then Stonebridge continued, “…but as he reached with his hand to pet the beast he’d just rescued, it turned round, latched onto his hand, and bit him, leaving scars that are still visible today.”

Dansbury shook his head. “Yes, it was my first experience with a cat’s claws. I daresay, I never forgot the lesson.” He looked at Beatryce as he said this.

Was he implying something with that remark?

They all laughed again, or at least Grace, Stonebridge, and Dansbury did. Beatryce did not. Oh yes, Dansbury was kind. And charming. They were hearing about it all; Stonebridge was regaling them with tales from their youth, particularly of Dansbury. Oh, what a saint.

And she was bosom bows with sarcasm.

“Ambrose, do you remember Head Master Smythe?” asked Dansbury.

“Oh, how could I forget? He was callous and cruel.”

“And smelly…”

“He looked like death…”

“Yes. And hated children…” Dansbury looked at Grace. “He was our Head Master at Eton when we were thirteen…our first year there. He’d been there for thirty years before that.” Dansbury looked back at Stonebridge. “…Though he looked like he’d stopped aging at about thirty-five…”

“…because he wore his hair so tightly bound, it smoothed his face…” They said it at the same time, and laughed through it all.

“You played so many pranks on that man, Cliff, I cannot believe you managed to pass your year.”

“That is because I never got caught. And they were harmless pranks. But funny. And he deserved it.”

“True. All true.”

“So he was only there for one year with you? Sounds like you were fortunate.” Grace asked.

“Ah, yes, well…he died from a heart attack while beating a student, or we might have had to endure him for much longer than a year. We all swore he was already preserved; he was going to outlive us all.”

A knock on the door interrupted their remembrances. The butler entered, bearing a missive. The sounds and sighs of laughter died slowly as the butler made his way towards them.

“Your Grace, a message has arrived…”

“Ah, thank you, Ledbetter.” The duke stood and approached his butler.

“Ah, but your grace, this message is not for you.” The butler turned to Beatryce. “It is addressed to Lady Beatryce Beckett…”