Inspections were tiresome things, but Tavington would not have anyone say he shirked his duty. Then, too, he was glad for any opportunity for exercise on horseback. It was no bad thing to be a Colonel, astride a perfectly proportioned thoroughbred, dressed in the splendor of the Dragoon Guards.
There was a promise of spring on this day in early March. After the rain, hints of green flecked the dead grass, and the trees lifted leafless branches hopefully toward the sun.. More people than usual were strolling in St. James Park. Loiterers admired the dragoons and their horses, and small children gathered to see them at their work, squealing appreciatively when the sabres flashed out for the sword drill. Tavington noticed a particularly pretty little girl, all golden hair and enormous eyes, watching them in delight. Her ragged, meager clothes and pale face suggested that this free entertainment was her only entertainment. Tavington gave the child a smile when he sheathed his blade. Little girls were endearing creatures. All the women at home had taken to John's little Fanny. Perhaps, someday, he and Jane—
A servant in his own livery was running toward them, waving a paper in his hand. It was Matthew, one of their footmen. Instantly concerned that something might be wrong at home, Tavington turned the men over to St. Leger with a brusque gesture, and cantered over to meet the messenger.
"Here—let me have it, man." He snatched at the note and read it, growing more appalled at every word.
"Dear Will—
Miss James just burst into the house with the news that Lord Fanshawe has taken ill and that Lady Fanshawe was being mistreated by his lordship's son. Apparently that horrid Doctor Malahyde has been called in to attend her against her will. Jane has gone to Fanshawe House to see her sister. Oh, Will, she is so angry and she has taken your pistols. Mr. Bellini is with her. She said you were to meet her at Fanshawe House directly. We have sent a note to John to fetch a magistrate friend. Do go—I am so frightened that something terrible might happen—
Caro"
"Bloody hell!" he swore. To the anxious servant, he shouted, "When did this happen?"
"Not more than half an hour ago!" the footman assured him. "The mistress called the carriage and she and the Italian fellow left just as the ladies gave us our messages. I ran near all the way, sir!"
"Go home and tell my sisters you delivered the message." He shouted to his lieutenant-colonel, "I must go at once!"
Spurring his horse, he galloped away through the middle of his astonished dragoons. The park was free of any obstacles, for only the royal family and their guards regiments were allowed to ride there. Tavington thundered past the curious stares of the bystanders, the tails of the horse hair crest adorning his helmet streaming behind him on the wind. There was a bit of fencing toward Horse Guards Road, and the lovely stallion gathered himself up, jumping it effortlessly. Tavington raced his mount up the street, and then through a tangle of alleys he knew, and within a few minutes was crossing Pall Mall, with St. James Square in sight.
There on King Street was his own carriage. Tavington nodded shortly, as people he knew bowed to him. He slowed only a little when he saw Scoggins in the coachman's box, and Peter loitering in the street. They looked up and saw him, and almost immediately, he reined in and jumped from the horse.
He threw the reins to Peter and rushed to the carriage. To his disappointment, it was empty. "Where is Mrs. Tavington?" he demanded.
Scoggins told him the bad news. "Already gone to her ladyship's house with the Italian gentleman. In a right state, she was. The Italian gentleman told us to wait here. Reckon he didn't want the people at the house to know it was her right away."
"Good thinking," Tavington answered shortly. "Peter, walk the horse out a bit. He's had a gallop. Stay here, you two. My brother may be along shortly. If you see him, tell him I am here."
He set off around the corner at a quick pace. There was no one in front of Fanshawe House, so somehow Jane must have gotten inside. The prospect did not cheer him, and he hoped Jane would not shoot someone and need to flee the country tonight. He would have to flee with her, and what with the children it would be quite a ridiculously large party attempting a clandestine escape. He snorted a laugh. Jane was a sensible girl, but she was not entirely sensible about Letty. What was the matter with Fanshawe, that he had allowed things to come to this pass?
He rang the bell, and waited impatiently. To his exasperation, minutes went by, and no one answered. He rang again, with no better result, and rapped hard with his sword hilt. Perhaps the bell rope was broken.
Someone emerged from the servants' entrance below, looking up through the iron fencing around the area. A woman—perhaps one of the cooks. Tavington called to her, "Why the devil is no one answering the door?"
The woman ducked back into the house, leaving Tavington angrier than ever. He smashed the hilt of his sword against the front door once more, and roared, "Open the door this instant!"
People in the street were looking at him. Enraged, Tavington vaulted the area fencing, and ran down the few steps. He pounded on the door there.
The door was opened, very hesitantly, and a manservant peered out, with two older women huddled behind him. They were taken aback at the sight of a soldier come to the servant's entrance, and the man attempted to shut the door.
Not having any of this, Tavington snarled and shoved the door hard, spilling the man onto the floor. He stalked in and slammed it behind him, shouting at the luckless servants, "What the devil is going on here? Why is no one answering the door? Where is Lord Fanshawe? Where is my wife?"
The de Vere's lanky footman came into the entryway, cramming his mouth full of a last bite of pork pie. He stared at Tavington. "Who're you?"
"How dare you speak to me in that way, fellow!" growled Tavington. "I demand to see Lord Fanshawe at once!" He grabbed the man by the collar and gave him a shake.
The other manservant called out, "Here, now! You can't come in and treat him like that! We'll have the law on you!"
"No need!" Tavington's blood was up. "The magistrates are already on their way! Now you—" he grunted, shoving the man he had grabbed in front of him, "take me to Lord Fanshawe, and I will find out what is bloody well going on!"
More faces appeared as they passed the servants' hall. There were whispers, and Tavington knew he had been recognized. There was some shifting and some fidgeting, but no one made to oppose him. He paused and asked, more civilly, "Has anyone seen Lady Fanshawe? My wife is extremely concerned about her. Is she ill?"
"Don't know, sir" a woman answered, bobbing humbly. "Mr. Dunner should be at the door. He's the man to talk to."
A young girl spoke up. "They say she's sick in bed. I wasn't let in to do up her room today." A few servants jostled the girl, whispering furiously in her ear, but she shook her head at them.
Tavington pressed his advantage. "Let her alone! What about her maids? What did they say?"
"Haven't seen them, sir. They didn't come down to eat and nobody sent a tray up to them." She pushed another maid away, and muttered, "Stop it!" To Tavington she said, "Her ladyship were fine yesterday. This morning we heard Lord Fanshawe took sick in the night, and later they said a doctor was come for him and for her ladyship and no one was to go into their rooms."
"Have any of you seen either Lord or Lady Fanshawe since last night?"
An older, better-dressed manservant, pointed at the man Tavington still had by the coat. "I believe he might have, monsieur," he said with a strong French accent. "He is not of this household, but one of the servants of Milord Fanshawe's son. Milord's son would not permit any but his own people to tend to my master. It was a great insult!"
"And you are--?"
"Collinet, monsieur—Jean-Philippe Collinet, à votre service. I am Milord's valet. I have served him more than twenty years, and now I am cast aside by these—"
"Enough! I am not staying down here, waiting for a butler! You, Collinet--you will come with us, and see to your master. I shall speak to Lord Fanshawe and ascertain his condition and that of Lady Fanshawe. I must also speak to my wife."
The servants looked at each other, bewildered. Tavington became impatient. "I know she is here! Where is she?" Getting no answer, he gave the de Vere's servant another push and said, "Come along. I won't have you running off to your master—"
The footman jerked free, and broke away, heading for the stairs. Tavington swore again and ran after him, catching him by the coattails of his livery and yanking him roughly back down the steps. He gave the groaning man a kick, and drew his sword.
"Do not dare run from me again, or by God, I'll run you through. Collinet, lead on, and take us to Lord Fanshawe's chamber!"
-----
"It occurs to me, my love," said James de Vere to his lady, as they sat cozily together in the Painted Parlor, "that we ought to have a look-in on poor Lady Fanshawe. If something were to happen to her, it would be a sad thing if we were not there by her side."
"Oh, my dearest," the lady agreed. "The same thought came to me just now. It is very wrong to leave the sick with only a physician. Family must be there to bear witness. I would have spoken sooner, but I can hardly tear myself from this room. Such a charming place. I shall spend a great deal of time here in future, I believe."
"I hope you do. Imagine my father giving access to that Colonial nobody and that bastard of his. It was an insult to my poor sister's memory, to have her portrait looking down on those so entirely beneath her."
"Very true. It is a mercy that those women have altered nothing. The room will be just as it should be. I adore that inkstand. We shall be so happy here, my dearest."
"Indeed we shall. Come, take my arm, and we shall go to Lady Fanshawe."
They strolled through the room at their leisure, admiring and commenting as they passed. Mrs. de Vere gave her husband a quick, affectionate smile as they walked out into the grandeur of the marble entry hall and made their way to the wide staircase.
-----
Malahyde would have shouted for help, had not Bellini stuffed a wad of linen bandages into his mouth. He was too outraged, too indignant to heed Jane's pistol. Bellini dragged him away into a corner and set about binding him to a chair. Malahyde kicked out in desperation, and Bellini clouted him again.
Jane had eyes for no one but Letty. As soon as Malahyde had dropped Letty's limp arm, Jane had rushed to her sister and bandaged the bloody wounds made by the lancet. Letty's eyes were shut and her breathing quick and shallow. Letty was tied to the bed by her left wrist. Jane loosed the knot, and ran to find water and a clean cloth for a compress. The two maids followed her very slowly, their limbs stiff and cramped from hours in their bonds. Julie snatched up the water jug just as Jane set it down and drank thirstily. Clutching it, she staggered to her sister and held it for her, since Véronique was not yet able to use her hands effectively. Their thirst slaked, the two Frenchwomen slid to the floor, rubbing their wrist and ankles.
After the first, worst pain was over, they struggled over to Letty's bed.
"Madame is not dead?" Julie asked anxiously.
"No," Jane said shortly, sorry for the maids' sufferings, but too busy with her sister to help them. "She is not, but she seems very weak. I think she needs water, too. Is there any left in the jug?"
"A little," moaned Véronique, reaching out feebly to feel Letty's pulse. "Her heart beats quickly. Yes, water, and then broth."
"We shall have to make do with water for now," growled Jane. "I'm not sure I would trust anything from the kitchen of this house." She wiped the stray locks from her sister's face, and whispered, "Letty! Wake up! It is I, Jane! You are safe!"
Letty's eyes fluttered open. "Miss Jane? Where is Mama?"
Jane's heart clenched with anguish. "Letty! We are in London—in your house—don't you remember?"
Letty's eyes focused and then cleared. They widened in fright. "Oh! Run! Doctor Malahyde is coming!"
"No! Look over there, darling Letty. See- Mr. Bellini has tied him up. He cannot hurt you again. If he tries, I shall shoot him. I have my pistol, and no one is going to bleed you any more."
Bellini smiled tenderly as Letty's eyes traveled to him. He bowed. "Milady. I shall defend you to the death. Fear nothing!" He smiled again, glowing with painful joy at the gratitude and hope in Letty's face.
She was pale, however, and very weak. "Thirsty," she murmured.
Jane helped her drink, first a few sips, and then a good swallow. "Drink as much as you can. That scoundrel has almost bled you dry."
"Yes—I feel that he has. I am so light-headed." She swallowed again. She took in the sight of the two Maupin sisters, very bruised and rumpled. "Oh, Véronique! Are you hurt? What did they do to you?"
"Do not concern yourself with us, Madame," Julie commanded firmly. "We were bound to keep us from going for help, but we shall be ourselves very soon. It is you we are concerned with." She lowered her voice, and murmured to Jane. "Véronique and I must go and change our clothing, Madame. It is disgusting. We shall be quick."
"Of course." It had not before occurred to Jane that the poor women might have soiled their clothing, lying bound on the floor all day. They limped away into the dressing room, and Jane could hear their soft, pained whispers as they helped each other. She sighed and turned to Bellini with a grim look. "I suppose we shall have to consider ourselves besieged until the Colonel arrives. Perhaps we should lock the outer door and barricade it."
"I go, Signora."
Jane expected to hear thuds and scrapings, but Bellini was lifting the furniture, rearranging it almost soundlessly. It was a great advantage, she decided, to have a very large, very strong man along when one was going into battle. She applied herself to taking care of Letty, giving her another drink, washing her sister's wounded arms, and brushing out her tangled hair. To her horror, she discovered that Letty was tied to the bed by her ankles as well. Quickly,she fought through the tight knots and cast the bonds aside. Letty's eyes shut again and she seemed to be dozing.
At least no one can walk through the door to the apartments and discover us, but--Jane straightened, and gasped. "Lord Fanshawe! Someone might be in his rooms!"
Letty's boudoir connected with Lord Fanshawe's dressing room, she remembered. She snatched up her pistol and glared at the unfortunate Malahyde, mumbling under his gag, struggling against the bandages that held him fast. Julie appeared at the door, looking considerably better.
"My sister comes in a moment. She was tied more tightly, and her hands—"
Jane nodded. "Take care of my sister, and keep watch over that horrible man. I must speak to Mr Bellini." The maid nodded, and Jane hurried away. A heavy cupboard had been pulled in front of the door. Bellini looked up sharply as she appeared in the outer chamber, but she lifted a finger for silence. "I am going to see if Lord Fanshawe is all right," she whispered. "That door connects with his apartments."
"Do not go, Signora," Bellini advised her. "If that is the door to Milord Fanshawe's rooms, I will block it up, too. We do not know who is near."
Jane shook her head. "I cannot believe that Lord Fanshawe would permit his wife to be used so, if he knew of it. Let's at least have a listen, and find out what is next to us."
"Ah! That is reasonable," he agreed. He fetched a glass from a side table, and held it to the door. Next, he pressed his ear to it. Jane watched, curious and impressed. "Nothing," he whispered. "I hear nothing." He cracked the door a little wider, and peered in. "Nessuno," he told her. "No one. All is dark."
"Then let us at least listen at Lord Fanshawe's door," Jane urged softly.
Very cautiously, they slipped through the empty dressing room. Jane started, thinking a man was there. It was only an elegant wig on a stand. Fanshawe's magnificent appurtenances crowded all about: silk coats and embroidered waistcoats, hanging neatly, ready for the master's choice. A long looking-glass revealed only the two of them, mere shadows amid the opulence of Fanshawe's taste. Walking-sticks, hats, more wigs, a dressing table with an array of cosmetics and scents. It seemed to Jane that this must be what a theatre backstage must be like: costumes and paints and props, all awaiting the great actor's appearance. Jane longed to ask Bellini if his own dressing rooms at the opera were like this, but did not dare speak. The silence pressed closely about them, and her heart beat wildly, wondering if any moment the door would open and their presence be discovered.
Bellini's long strides had left her behind. He was already listening at the door, frowning. Jane looked at him beseechingly, not daring to ask aloud if her heard anything. He set aside the glass and shook his head at her, shrugging.
"Nothing?" she mouthed at him. "Nothing at all?"
He shrugged again, and shook his head.
"I want to look!" she mouthed again.
"No!" he whispered urgently, just in her ear.
Impatiently, she slid past him, and slowly turned the doorknob. Bellini winced, and hissed in exasperation, but the impetuous young woman could not be stopped without making a great deal of noise. The door cracked open—
--Into darkness. The windows were shuttered, and the draperies drawn against the unwelcome sun. In the midst of the chamber loomed a great tester bed. Its draperies, too, were drawn.
Whatever they had expected, it was not this. A sickroom should be a busy place, but this one was shadowed and silent.
"Is he not here?" whispered Jane, bewildered.
Bellini grimaced, and lay his hand on her shoulder, willing her to stay behind. He strode, cat-footed, over the bed and parted the curtain. He looked at what lay within, his head cocked to the side, considering.
Jane could not bear it. She followed him, the rustling of her silken skirts like the rushing of a great wind in all the stillness. She darted under Bellini's outstretched arm, and craned her neck around the edge of the curtain, trying to see.
Lord Fanshawe was not asleep. She knew that at once. Had he been, his face would not have been covered by the sheet that Bellini had just now pulled away. He was not the debonair man about town she had known. Without an elaborate wig, his own short-cropped white hair made him look more like the image of an ancient Roman than an English gentlemen. One blue eye was slightly open, as if he were winking at them. Jane took a little breath.
"Oh!"
The door banged open, letting in a yellow shaft of light. Jane whirled, pistol at the ready.
"Jane!" cried Tavington. He laughed. "Good God, don't shoot me!"
"William!" She ran to him, eyes enormous. "Lord Fanshawe is lying there dead! He must have been dead for hours! Those horrible people were trying to kill Letty! We must get her out of this dreadful place and take her home!"
Collinet, at Tavington's side, brushed by. "Dead? Milord is dead! And alone! Infamous!" He stood at the bedside, head bowed. "I shall never again have such a master!" And with that, he broke into noisy sobs.
Bellini rolled his eyes, and put a huge, comforting hand on the valet's shoulder. "Come, my friend," he said. "It is well you are here. They have hidden him away, and not prepared him as is his due. See—not even a wig. He is thrown aside, like a peasant. When you are able, it would be a charitable act to prepare him for the eyes of his friends as he would like to be seen."
"Oui, vous avez raison, mon ami," sniffled the valet. "I shall contain my sorrow, and attend to my noble master." He blew his nose, and busied himself, pushing open the bed draperies, and considering how Lord Fanshawe might best be dressed to face Eternity. "I must clothe him soon, or he shall be stiff, and then what a time I shall have!"
"And who is this?" Jane asked of Tavington, eyeing the cringing servant.
"One of the de Vere's lackeys," Tavington said carelessly. "See that, you rascal? If I do not run you through, Mrs. Tavington would be delighted to shoot you. Go help Collinet." He saw Bellini, and bowed. "Your servant, Bellini. I thank you for escorting my wife."
Bellini returned the bow, saying. "It is indeed true. The old lord is dead—since last night, I would think, but it is cold in the room, and difficult to tell. The lady has been bled almost to the point of extinction, but she speaks. With care, I am certain she will be well." He threw Tavington a serious look over Jane's head. "But perhaps it would be best if she were removed from the care of those in this house."
"Let me see her," Tavington said. "Bellini, keep a watch on that fellow, and make sure he doesn't try to break away."
Jane led him swiftly to her sister. "They tied up the maids and threatened to spirit them away to foreign parts. They tied Letty to her own bed and cut her, trying to make it look as if she were being treated for an illness!"
The maids looked up, frightened, but relaxed when they saw who had come in. Tavington nodded to them, and took in the bedroom in a disgusted glance: the basins of blood littering the floor, the smell of drugs and purges and potions. He paused at the sight of a little raised dais on the other side of the room, with a black velvet backdrop. What the devil is that? A stage for amateur theatricals? He hurried to the bed, appalled at how ill and listless Jane's sister appeared.
"My dear Letty! We shall soon have you out of here!" To his relief, the young woman's eyes opened, and she was able to speak.
"Colonel," she murmured. "Lord Fanshawe is dead, isn't he? I knew he was, but they all said I was wrong—"
"Yes, my dear, he's dead. I am sorry."
"Why?" Her eyes shut again.
Tavington whispered to Jane. "What about the child?"
"I don't know," she answered. "Perhaps it will be all right. She needs more water, and strengthening food—"
There was a muffled grunt of protest from the corner. The Tavingtons turned to study Doctor Malahyde, who was shaking his head in dismayed denial.
Jane hissed fiercely, "Look at him, the murderer!" She stalked over to Malahyde, and waved her pistol in his face. "You should be shot, you horrible man!"
Tavington pulled her away. "Yes, yes, my dear—of course he should. Let's get him out of this room so your sister does not have to look at him." He grabbed the back of the chair, and dragged it, occupant and all, into the outer boudoir, setting him down with a thump. "Don't try to get away, or I'll kill you."
The doorknob rattled. Outside were raised voices. "Where is Alcock? Why the devil is the door locked?" There was the sound of a key in the lock. At the noise, Jane rushed out in the room to stand beside her husband.
Tavington took the pistol from her. "Give me that. If there's any shooting to be done, I'll do it." He smirked at her resentful glare, and smirked again, as the door banged against the cupboard in the way.
James de Vere grumbled, "There's something in the way. Here! Malahyde! Open the door!"
His wife, high and fluting, complained, "What is it? Why does it not open?"
"Perhaps those wretched women got loose," de Vere considered. "Here, my dear, go and ring for our servants. I shall go through my father's room."
Jane snarled at the sound, but Tavington threw her a grin. "Stay here," he whispered. "I'll deal with the man."
"Certainly not!" she whispered back. "Give me back my pistol! Bellini has yours in his pockets."
Tavington was astounded. "You gave the man my pistols?"
"You weren't there!"
With a snort, he walked back to Fanshawe's bedchamber, his wife trotting irrepressibly behind him. "Bellini," he said quietly. "Give me one of the pistols. De Vere is coming round to this room."
"Shall we let him in, or keep him out?"
"Oh, let's welcome him, by all means. Keep your eye on his manservant. No—better--take all those servants into the dressing room."
Bellini nodded, handed Tavington one of the pistols, and hefted the other one. He pulled the luckles Alcock along, and told Dunner and Collinet to come with them. Jane tugged at her husband's sleeve, gesturing for him to give her back her little pocket pistol. He shook his head, grinning. He stepped back against the wall and Jane pressed close beside him.
The door opened. De Vere stopped, surprised at the open curtains. Tavington was poised to strike, but wanted him well inside the doorway first. There was the scraping of one hesitant step, and then another. Instantly, Tavington was behind him, pressing the pistol into his back.
"Don't move. Don't shout. I will shoot you."
Quietly furious, de Vere snarled, "Who are you?"
"Don't you remember me, de Vere? I remember you from the ball at Spencer House in '75."
"Tavington!" de Vere spat out the name. "What are you doing here?"
"Rescuing my sister-in-law, it appears. Murdering a lady is so ill-bred."
"I'll have you in the dock for breaking and entering!"
"I doubt it. Did you murder your father, too? You'd certainly hang for that!"
Impatiently, Jane stepped out of the corner and hissed, "You and your horrible accomplice!"
De Vere looked at her coldly, "This must be your Colonial bride. Really, Tavington, your taste—"
Casually, Tavington slammed the barrel of the dueling pistol against the side of the man's head. A thud, and De Vere staggered, groaning, clutching at his bleeding ear.
"I really, really think you would be wise to be silent, de Vere. You have concealed your father's death, and have plotted to put Lady Fanshawe out of the way. For a paltry fifty thousand pounds! Really, de Vere, your greed—"
There were footsteps and voices, and Mrs. de Vere appeared on the threshold. Her mouth opened at the sight of her husband with one pistol aimed at his back and another at his head.
"Mr. de Vere!" she screamed. "Quick, quick, you men! Save Mr. de Vere!"
"Back!" roared Tavington. "Get back, or I'll shoot! The magistrates are on the way! They know all about your plot to kill Lady Fanshawe! You'll be lucky to escape hanging as accomplices to Lord Fanshawe's murder!"
There was a pause, and a shuffling, and two of the men instantly turned and ran. Good, thought Tavington, only three men and a harpy. That rather evens the odds.
The sound of a scuffle came from the dressing room. A heavy blow and then a silence. Bellini emerged. "The fool tried to fight. Collinet will see that he does not trouble us." He bowed to Mrs. de Vere. "Perhaps, Madame, you might do well to retire to your chamber. None of us wishes to harm a lady."
"I don't know about that," growled Jane, feeling mutinous. "I wouldn't mind harming her. She had no mercy on Letty!"
A crash below, and shouts. There was a bellow demanding that the door be opened in the name of the Crown. A crash and booted feet were on the stairs, running. Tavington smiled. "And there is John—just in time. Yes, Mrs. de Vere, perhaps you should withdraw."
The woman hesitated, but stayed, glaring poisonously at all her enemies. "You'll regret this!" she shrilled. "You won't get away with this outrage!"
"What is all this?" boomed a deep voice. A strange gentleman, broad-shouldered and well-dressed, had come to the door, and was watching the scene in stern wonder. A handful his men stood behind him. Sir John Tavington pushed through them and looked with quizzical amusement at his brother.
"You can lower the pistols now, Will," John told his brother very calmly. "We've come to the rescue. Is Lord Fanshawe receiving?"
Tavington snorted, "Only heavenly messengers, at this point. The man's been dead since last night. The de Veres were concealing it, for mercenary reasons of their own."
John had not only brought the magistrate, he had brought William Pitt, with whom he had been chatting when Penelope's note had arrived. Pitt had been concerned about harm to such a beautiful young woman as Lady Fanshawe, and such an intelligent and charming woman as Mrs. Tavington. He had offered his services at once, and John thought it was a good idea to have another witness. They had raced to Fanshawe House as quickly as possible, and had been met by a civil war amongst the servants, who were divided into Fanshawe supporters and, as John put it, Vere-ites. Once they found the principals in the struggle, they discovered that sorting out the wrongs of the case was going to make for a long afternoon.
Tavington sent Jane to care for Letty, and gradually the sequence of events was made clear. The body of Lord Fanshawe was examined, and it was agreed that he had been dead for at least twelve hours, probably of natural causes. Mrs. de Vere was escorted to her chamber and told to stay there. Questions were asked of the de Vere's servants, and of de Vere himself, who resolutely maintained that his father had been alive the last time he saw him. If he was dead now, it must be the fault of Mrs. Tavington and her Italian assassin. This statement did him no good with anyone present. The magistrate and Sir John were brought to Lady Fanshawe's room and they questioned her very gently, appalled at the blood in the room, and horrified at the maids' testimony.
Malahyde was taken aside for interrogation, but dealing with him was most unsatisfactory. He was utterly convinced that his care was vital to Lady Fanshawe's health. He was misunderstood. He must have complete freedom to test his theories. Lady Fanshawe had been so much calmer—more serene—more submissive after a series of prolonged bleedings. Ignorant people always feared what they could not understand. If he was removed from the case, he could not be responsible for the outcome.
Tired of his gabble, the magistrate ordered him taken away. About James de Vere, he was more uneasy. The man was the new Lord Fanshawe, after all. It would be difficult to make a case for attempted murder. It would appear that there had been a misguided attempt at medical treatment. The servants' testimony might be twisted and dismissed. The magistrate could not refuse his lordship's demand that the family lawyer be summoned. Finally, at the Tavingtons brothers' vehement insistence, the new peer was arrested, and led downstairs by very respectful constables.
"And what about Lady Fanshawe?" asked Sir John of Jane. "She cannot wish to stay here—it is too appalling. Can she be moved?"
"I am not sure," Jane answered. She went back into the bedroom, and found Letty awake, and her maids preparing to change her into clean clothing. "Letty," she began hesitantly, "We were wondering—I am so reluctant to let you remain in this house—"
"Remain!" Letty was horrified. Weakly, she protested. "Oh, please don't make me stay in this house! I'm all right," she claimed, trying to sit up in bed, and falling back. "No, really I am. I can't bear to stay. Please, take me with you. It will only be for a little while, for—" she smiled slowly, remembering, "—for I have my own house! I have a house to go to—and I have my own carriage—"
Jane thought these happy ideas a very good thing for Letty, but could not agree to everything. "Not while you are so weak, dearest. I shall take you home with me to Mortimer Square until you are strong again. We shall pack up all your things and leave within the hour!" She saw the anxious faces of the Maupin sisters, and added, "And of course your servants must come as well."
The mood in the room brightened somewhat, and then Letty asked, "But what of Harmonia? Is she all right? She must be in her room, wondering what is happening."
"Oh, no! Harmonia escaped from her room and came all the way to Mortimer Square to tell me what was happening. That is why I am here."
"Harmonia? Harmonia told you? Well," Letty lay back on the pillows, thinking. "Well, then I owe her a debt of gratitude. Mrs. de Vere will never let her back in the house, I'm sure, so I suppose…" she thought a little longer, and gave a weak laugh. "Then I must take her in. Lord Fanshawe intended for her to be my companion, and that she must be. Julie, ring for Annie. She should pack up everything in Miss James' room. Oh, and I left some things in the Painted Parlor—I shall never go there again…"
Jane saw Letty looking sad again, and comforted her. "I shall go down myself and find all of your things, and Harmonia's too. Where might they be?"
There was a little talk while all four women considered what would need to be taken. Letty did not want to leave anything she owned at Fanshawe House, and became upset at the very idea. Jane left Julie and Veronique to their work and went to find her husband.
The gentlemen stood together, talking the matter over in low voices. It was confusing to hear the magistrate speaking of James de Vere as "his lordship." They saw her coming, and waited politely to hear her out.
"My sister is very unwell, but she cannot bear to remain in a place where she has been in such danger. I promised her that I would take her home with me, along with her servants. I have set the maids to pack."
"Are you sure, Mrs. Tavington?" the magistrate asked. "She seems very weak. Perhaps the carriage ride would be too much for her."
"No, I can well understand her," Pitt declared. "This place must seem like a den of the Inquisition to her. Don't forget, Montague," he said to the magistrate, "to note down those four basin full of blood in the lady's chamber! Absolute madness!"
"Very well, Jane," Tavington agreed. "I am perfectly glad to take her, if you think it safe. It would certainly be awkward to share a roof with de Vere's wife! I shall have our carriage brought to the front of the house. Letty can travel with you, well-wrapped up. Is she able to dress?"
"Not entirely. We shall just have to make do. If it does not distress either of you, she could be settled in Lady Cecily's old apartments."
The two brothers exchanged a quick, inscrutable glance. Tavington grimaced, a little uncomfortable at the idea of another woman in his mother's rooms, but John shrugged. "Why not? Plenty of room for her and her maids."
"It will not be forever," Jane added, uncomfortably aware that William did not yet know that Miss James would be joining them. "For she has her own house, remember, settled on her by Lord Fanshawe."
"By Jove, yes!" exclaimed John. "You said he had given her a little jewel box of a place on Half Moon Street! Ha! I'll wager Fanshawe had no idea how soon it would come her way!"
"—And she has her own carriage, too," Jane reminded them. "Please have someone bring that round, too, for all the luggage."
The gentlemen were all good enough to undertake small tasks to expedite the business. Dunner, the butler, did his part, now that the move was a settled thing, and then timidly approached Jane. "Excuse me, Madam. If I may have a word—"
"What is it, Dunner?"
"If her ladyship is to have a new establishment, then she will need someone to assist her. The house on Half Moon Street is closed and locked. Perhaps if someone were to start preparing it for habitation—"
"Are you applying to be Lady Fanshawe's butler?" Jane asked bluntly.
"It would be a great honor—"
"I imagine it would. Let me ask her." Jane went into her sister's bedroom and told her of the conversation. "Dunner has asked to be taken on as butler in your new house. Do you trust him? I had to threaten him with a pistol to be let into the house, and he was very unhelpful the day Lord Fanshawe threw me out."
"Oh! Yes, I trust him. He was only being loyal, after all. He has always been very nice to me. He is very efficient. Yes, tell him that he can remain with me. He will have to come with us to Mortimer Square in the meantime, until the lawyer gets me the key to the house. Maybe Annie would like to work for me, too," she considered. "She has such a nice, quiet way about her when she comes to do up my room—"
"Later, Letty. First we must get you safely home."
In the end, all the housemaids were put to work, and the trunks and bags and boxes were packed and organized and ready to be loaded into Letty's barouche. Jane scoured the Painted Parlor for anything that seemed to belong to her sister or to Harmonia James. Letty's coachman and her new butler were to travel in the barouche. Jane, Letty, and the maids would go in the Tavington's closed carriage, where Letty would be warmer. Tavington would accompany them on horseback, and John, Pitt, and their magistrate friend would take charge of the prisoners.
Tavington glanced back into Lord Fanshawe's room. The old peer lay on the bed, faultlessly attired in a magnificent suit of blue silk damask, his orders and honours hung about his neck and pinned to his breast. His finest wig covered his head in perfect style The room was silent, utterly deserted but for the faithful Collinet, who was sitting by the window, his work accomplished, his head in his hands.How strange. It seems that this man was indeed a hero to his valet. At least the great Lord Fanshawe is mourned by someone. He left the room, and shut the door.
It was a great procession that marked the departure of Laeticia de Vere, the dowager Viscountess Fanshawe, from the little palace where she had briefly reigned. Servants laden with her belongings trailed down the grand staircase, a parade of comforts and luxuries. Harmonia was not forgotten, and all her worldly goods were removed from the pretty primrose room. Finally, Letty and her servants were to depart. Tavington thought he would carry her, but he moved forward too late. Orazio Bellini swept the lady up in his strong arms, and proudly bore her down the stairs, like a worshipper with the image of a saint.
The spectacle was observed by the rest of the servants in respectful silence, and by the collection of gapers in the street with heartless curiosity. One who watched and who was not favorably impressed was Mrs. de Vere, now the new Lady Fanshawe, who had come out her room, and stood at the head of the stairs looking down in disdain.
"Good riddance to you!" she called out. "No doubt Lord Fanshawe died because of your arts and enticements! Be off with you and take your plunder with you!"
Letty, remembering how Lord Fanshawe had died, began to sob into Bellini's throat. Jane whirled on her sister's tormentor, and ran up the stairs in a swirl and crackle of black taffeta. Before the woman could run for the safety of her room, Jane had given her a hard shove into the wall.
"Plunder! How dare you! I'll show you plunder, you evil hag!" She grasped the woman hard by her upper arm and snarled, "Go hide in a hole somewhere, you murderess! England cannot hold both you and me. If I see you again, I'll kill you, and I'll kill your husband, and I'll burn your house down!"
Mrs. de Vere's mouth was working, and she stared at Jane in frozen disbelief.
Jane shouted in her face! "Don't speak! Don't dare to speak! You—you—Lady Macbeth in a powdered wig!" With that, Jane snatched the woman's wig from her head and threw it over the balustrade. Mrs. de Vere shrieked and cowered away, hands pressed in shock and humiliation to her scant, greying locks. She fled to her room. The door banged and the lock clicked.
"And stay there!" Jane called derisively. She turned and marched down the stairs, heart swelling in satisfaction. William was waiting for her, half way up the stairs, looking astonished and amused. He offered his arm, and she took it complacently, as they followed in Lady Fanshawe's magnificent train.
"Perhaps you'd like to keep the wig," he suggested mildly. "Like a Mohawk taking a scalp. You could have it mounted above the library mantel as a trophy of arms."
"Mrs. de Vere will wish me satisfied with taking only her scalp if she ever crosses my path again!"
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Note: Memento Mori: "Remember that you are mortal," or "Remember that you must die."
Thanks to all my reviewers. I am trying to keep up the momentum to finish this story, and your support is a great help!
Next: An Earnest of Their Intentions