CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

A House of Mourning

“I conclude, therefore, she knows more than is wished.”

 

Bury, Charlotte, The Diary of a Lady-in-Waiting

For the second time in as many days, Rosalind found herself sitting in a hired cab outside the Pooles’ residence, waiting for Adam. She tried to suppress her reflexive calculations of how much the cab and the extra tip for making the driver wait would come to. But years of habit were proving difficult to shift.

If she was honest with herself, it was a relief to have her mind distracted by thoughts of shillings and pence. It offered a respite from turning over the countess’s threats and warnings.

A fact that would no doubt amuse her grace no end.

Rosalind shook her head at herself and raised her hand to push the window curtain back just a little farther. As she did, the front door to the Pooles’ house flew open and a dark-haired man in a scarlet coat came bounding down the area stairs. He pushed roughly between a pair of maids walking with their baskets, and she heard their outraged exclamations as he disappeared around the corner.

What on earth . . . ?

Her thought got no further. Adam strode around the opposite corner and started up the street. Rosalind rapped on the cab’s roof to signal the driver, who climbed down to open the door, help her out, and take his fee.

Adam, of course, spotted her at once and made his way across the busy cobbles to join her. He bowed, and she curtsied. She wanted badly to kiss him and feel his arms around her, but that was, of course, impossible. A look and a smile would have to do.

Adam’s answering smile was understanding and a little sardonic. He shifted the leather portfolio he carried, so he could offer her his right arm. Rosalind accepted gladly. “Were you able to meet Amelia this morning?” he asked.

“We were, and she told us that Minney Seymore is secretly meeting a young man, most likely one Captain George Dawson, a cavalry officer and hero of Waterloo, who has unfortunate tendencies to drink and debt.”

Adam sucked in a soft breath.

Rosalind nodded. “He was seen meeting her in Mrs. Fitzherbert’s garden last night.”

“I shall have to have a talk with my men, I think,” Adam muttered.

“I think you might,” said Rosalind. “It seems that there’s a footman who is aiding and abetting Miss Seymore’s affairs, and they may have let themselves get distracted.”

“Which footman?” asked Adam.

“Thomas Faller.”

“Have you said anything about this to Mrs. Fitzherbert yet?”

“No,” said Rosalind. “Nor do I wish to without more facts in hand. I don’t believe it does us any good to expose Amelia or Faller just yet.”

Adam nodded, but she felt his arm stiffen just a little beneath her hand.

“You do not agree?” she asked.

“I don’t know. A great deal will depend on what we hear from the Pooles.”

Rosalind nodded in acknowledgment. “I did dispatch Alice to the White Swan to see if Captain Dawson’s name has been discovered in any of Mr. Poole’s papers. But there is something more,” she said. “When I was waiting for you, I saw a man in a scarlet coat coming out of the Pooles’ house in an enormous hurry.”

“The cavalry uniform is a scarlet coat.”

“So is Mrs. Fitzherbert’s household livery.”

Adam blew out a soundless whistle. “And what of your appointment with Countess Lieven? What did she have to say?”

Rosalind squeezed his arm and gently steered them both away from the curb, and the possibility of being splashed by the passing traffic, and, not incidentally, out of sight of the Pooles’ front windows. “She said a great deal, but as this is the countess, I am not certain how much of it is strictly true. She implied the queen’s life might be in danger from the king’s men.”

Adam’s brows shot up.

Rosalind nodded. “It seems outrageous, I know, but she was most sincere. She also threatened me, and you, incidentally.”

“I would have thought I am beneath her notice.” Adam’s tone was studiously bland, but Rosalind was fully aware of the anger deep beneath that calm. Not for himself as much as for her. “What was the threat?”

“That a rumor might begin spreading which says our visit to Mrs. Fitzherbert was part of a wider plan to bring herself back into the king’s life once he is divorced.”

“Or a widower?” inquired Adam with that same studied calm.

Rosalind nodded.

Adam was silent for a long moment, but in his distant gaze, Rosalind saw him remembering the attack on their carriage, and the king at Mrs. Fitzherbert’s door. He knew as well as she did the power that someone like the countess wielded. If she picked whom she whispered to carefully, and if her words were repeated . . .

Mrs. Fitzherbert’s reputation would be destroyed, and so would her daughters’. They would all have to leave London.

So would Rosalind.

She took a deep breath and pushed that fear aside. She would deal with it later.

“What of Mr. Townsend and Mr. Stafford?” Rosalind asked Adam. “What did you learn from them?”

“Somewhat to my surprise, it seems that Mr. Stafford was telling the truth,” said Adam. “Mr. Townsend appears to have been instrumental in organizing the certificate’s theft. But Mr. Townsend had no opportunity to kill Poole. Neither, it appears, did Mr. Stafford. We must look elsewhere.”

“That, I think, should come as a relief.”

“It does.” There was a note of mild surprise in Adam’s voice. “I don’t like Townsend, but I would not have wanted to see him fall so far.”

“And Mr. Stafford?” she asked.

“Has stated openly he wants my goodwill.”

“That seems like it could be a double-edged sword.”

“Very much so.”

“And it has led us nowhere.”

“Yes and no,” said Adam. “We can now be certain why the certificate was taken and what the plan was for it. That is something.” He looked at the Pooles’ house. “Shall we go in? I still need to gather the statements from Poole’s family about the morning of his death.” He gestured with the portfolio he carried. “Particularly from Mrs. Poole.”

“While we are talking with the family, we would do well to talk with the maid, Judith, also.”

“I agree. So.” Adam squared his shoulders. “Shall we see what kind of reception waits for us?”

“I cannot believe it will be a warm one,” said Rosalind.

“Neither can I.”

* * *

The Pooles’ home had been dressed for mourning. Yards of black crepe had been hung about the rooms. The servants wore black armbands. The mirrors had been covered or taken away, and all the curtains closed. In the front parlor wax candles flickered at the head and feet of Josiah Poole’s black casket.

Rosalind did not recognize the silent maid who ushered them inside. Still, she assumed they would find Mrs. Poole waiting for them in the library. Their hostess, however, was nowhere to be seen. Instead, William Considen, drawn and pale, sat beside the empty hearth. He had his walking stick laid across his knees. His thin hands rolled it restlessly back and forth as he stared into the flames.

“Mr. Harkness to see you, sir,” whispered the maid. “And Miss Thorne.”

At first, he did not seem to hear her. But slowly, Mr. Considen turned his head. Even more slowly, he planted his stick on the floor and leaned on it heavily so he could rise.

“Mr. Harkness.” Mr. Considen bowed to Adam. Then his gaze slid reluctantly toward Rosalind. “Miss Thorne.”

“Mr. Considen . . .” Adam made his bow. “I was hoping we might speak with Mrs. Poole. I have a letter for her from Sir David Royce.”

“My sister is indisposed. You may give the letter to me. I’ll see she gets it.” Mr. Considen extended his thin hand.

Adam didn’t move. “I need to take her statement for the inquest, and yours, as well,” he added. “Sir David requires an account of Mr. Poole’s movements on the morning of his death.”

The hand holding Mr. Considen’s stick shook, and the knuckles turned white. But it was not from weakness. It was fury. The heat of it rolled off him like a fever.

“Well, then, Mr. Harkness, you will have to come back later,” Mr. Considen said through gritted teeth. “Melora is indisposed and in no condition to give any statement to anyone.”

“Mr. Considen, I appreciate your desire to protect your sister,” said Adam. “However, the inquest will be scheduled shortly, and we must have all statements in hand before the jury sits.”

“Surely Mrs. Poole wishes to do everything in her power to resolve the question of her husband’s death,” added Rosalind.

Mr. Considen glowered at her. He might be laboring under an illness, but his gaze remained sharp and piercing. “Do you have any understanding in you, Miss Thorne?”

“I understand that your sister has lost her husband and that you wish to protect her from any further suffering,” she replied. “I understand the marriage was troubled, and that Mr. Poole’s death may have brought fresh difficulties upon the remaining family. I understand that you have reason to doubt that you will have the strength to help your sister through her distress, so you must do what you can now.”

Considen stared at her; then, slowly and carefully, he bent his knees and sank back into his chair.

“Do you know how my sister came to be married to Josiah Poole?” he asked as he laid his stick back across his knees. “Poole purchased her. Lock, stock, and barrel. And she let him. Because of me.” He rested both hands on the stick. They were scarred, Rosalind noted. Pale lines crisscrossed the mottled skin and shadows of blue veins. “She married him because of my damned endless illness. Because she would not permit me to die in the poorhouse.” He cocked a bright eye toward them. Now that she was searching for them, she saw another scar had turned his right brow into a dotted line and another had wrinkled the skin on his throat. An accident? she wondered. Or had Mr. Considen led a more active and dangerous life before illness sapped his strength?

“She had no money to support me, you see,” he went on. “Her first marriage disappointed our parents, and they cut her off entirely.”

“Did she disappoint you?” Adam inquired.

He coughed hard, his pale face flushing a dangerous shade of red. “No. I tried to defend her, and to talk our parents into forgiving her. But . . . well, as it turned out, she would not have been much better off had she remained in the bosom of the family. My father let himself be talked into a stock-jobbing scheme, and when it collapsed, he was finished. We’d no title or land or any such to fall back on. Nothing to do but keep up appearances as long as possible. I was already ill, and Melora . . . well, Melora was determined not to leave us—me—in distress while there was something she could do.”

“And what she could do was marry Mr. Poole?” asked Rosalind.

Mr. Considen nodded. “He offered to support the family in exchange for her coming to be his hostess and elevate him in the eyes of society. So, yes, Mr. Harkness, Miss Thorne, I am trying to do what I can to protect her, because I am painfully aware how she sacrificed herself to try to protect me.” He spoke these last words softly, almost as if he could not bear to hear them himself.

“What of your parents?” asked Rosalind.

“Dead, both of ’em.” Anger sparked in his sharp eyes. “Father first, mother a few months after that. Mother’s last words were to berate Melly for all the trouble she had caused.”

Rosalind dropped her gaze. This was an all-too-common tale. Families frequently regarded their daughters solely as a means for generating income and enhancing connections. It was why the myriad events of the social season were collectively referred to as “the marriage mart.”

“What of Miss Poole?” asked Rosalind. “How is she doing?”

“Eh? Letitia?” Mr. Considen tried to push himself up but failed. “Don’t tell me your superior’s planning on dragging the poor girl into court?”

“I don’t believe so,” said Adam. “But if Miss Poole was at home on the morning her father died, she will need to give a statement.”

“She was home. We all were,” said Mr. Considen. “But, you see, Poole wasn’t.”

This was unexpected. No one had told them. Rosalind found herself wondering why it had not been mentioned on their previous visit.

“Do you know where he was?” Adam asked.

“Not with certainty,” said Mr. Considen. “But I assumed he was sleeping at the White Swan. It was his habit when he had particular business or clients that he didn’t want coming round the house, which was most of the time.” He attempted a wry grin, but his face did not fully obey, and the expression became a grimace. “So you see, there is nothing Melly can tell you about what Poole might have been up to that morning.”

“Even so, it will be important for the coroner to hear as much,” replied Adam. “And I must have her, and you, swear to it.”

Silent, stubbornly angry, Mr. Considen glowered at them. But he also seemed to realize that they would not be warned away. With a muttered curse, he pulled the bell rope. A scant heartbeat later, the door opened, and the silent maid entered the room.

“Go fetch Mrs. Poole,” ordered Mr. Considen. The maid curtsied and left them.

“Is Judith still with you?” asked Rosalind.

“Eh?” He squinted at her. “Judith? No. The girl’s stubbornness and stupidity finally got to be too much even for Melly. She was let go today. Why?” he said bitterly. “Did Mr. Harkness want her to swear to something, as well?”

“I wanted the return of some property,” said Rosalind. “I loaned her a handkerchief, and I was hoping to have it back.”

Mr. Considen shrugged but said nothing.

“Is she by chance still in the house?” asked Rosalind.

“How the devil should I know?” snapped Mr. Considen. “The servants are Melly’s business.”

“William!”

Mrs. Poole strode into the room. Letitia trailed behind her, her expression openly mutinous. The new maid followed them both, a silent, timid shadow. But at the moment at least, Mrs. Poole ignored them both equally. All her attention was on her brother.

“You should be resting!” She plucked the walking stick off his knees. “Lizzie! Help Mr. Considen upstairs!”

“I can walk perfectly well!” he snapped. “And I’ll not leave while these . . . persons are here harassing you!”

“I am as capable of taking care of myself as you are of walking,” she retorted.

“No.”

“Mr. Considen—” began Adam.

“I said no!” he barked. “This is my house.” He thumped his cane against the floor. “Now that my sister’s widowed, I am her nearest relative, and I say you and this . . . person”—he waved a trembling hand at Rosalind—“have no right to harangue my sister, her stepdaughter, or our servants! Your master, Sir David, may have the right to compel testimony at his inquest, but you, sir, do not have the right to demand it in my house! You can take your . . . this . . . You can both leave us and not return.”

Rosalind turned to Mrs. Poole. As she did, she could not help but see how Letitia had faded into the corner, as if deliberately letting herself be forgotten.

“Do not look to her!” snapped Mr. Considen. “I am master here!”

But he was not, and they all knew it.

Mrs. Poole lifted her chin. “William, you are overtired.”

“You mean to say I am useless to you!” Mr. Considen’s voice broke beneath the strain of his emotions. “Even now, I am a burden!”

Mrs. Poole gripped her brother’s arm. “I would never say that,” she told him. “But please, William. Do not make this any worse.”

Rosalind could tell he wanted to do exactly that. He wanted to heave himself to his feet and stand face-to-face with his sister, with all of them. He wanted to rail at them all, to lash out with his scarred hands. As it was, his fist curled around nothing but air.

“Yes, yes,” he croaked. “All right.”

With an air of long practice, Mrs. Poole helped him get to his feet. Rosalind once again noted that although he moved like an old man, Mr. Considen was still young. Indeed, she would guess he was not that much older than his sister.

Mrs. Poole handed her brother his walking stick, and he let the maid, Lizzie, support him out of the room.

Only once they had vanished into the hallway did Mrs. Poole turn to Adam. “What is it you need?”

“May we speak privately, Mrs. Poole?”

Mrs. Poole glanced at Letitia, who took a step forward, returning to the conversation as if materializing like a restless spirit. Rosalind wondered how much practice the young woman had had at making herself unseen, and how much that allowed her to overhear.

“Go and do what you must, Melora,” Letitia said. “I will . . . entertain Miss Thorne.”

Uncertainty creased Mrs. Poole’s countenance, but she clearly could not find any reasonable objection. It would not do to leave Rosalind sitting alone.

“We can use my husband’s bookroom,” Mrs. Poole said to Adam.

Adam bowed and stood back so she could leave the room first. He gave Rosalind a quick, reassuring glance and then followed their hostess out. Letitia moved quickly to close the door behind them both. She turned around to face Rosalind.

“Now, you must tell me, Miss Thorne. Does Mr. Harkness believe Melora killed my father?”