Passing Mrs. Strand’s cloak to the footman, Powers relayed the news that her family had been delayed due to the weather and was not yet returned from Park Parapine. “Meanwhile, Miss Lis—ah, madam,” he intoned, “we are so fortunate as to entertain my lady.”
Lisette was ill-prepared to cope with Beatrice, and, her heart sinking, could not restrain a dismayed, “Oh, dear!”
“Wicked, wicked girl!” snarled an irate voice. “How I wish I might box your ears!”
Turning joyously, Lisette cried, “Grandmama!” And ran to kiss that vexed grande dame and say fondly, “Oh, but how famous to find you here! Do you stay with my parents? Please say you do not mean to rush away.”
Mollified, Lady Bayes-Copeland allowed herself to be ushered tenderly to the drawing room, settled into a chair by the fireside, and begged to wait while her granddaughter hastened upstairs to change her gown and tidy her hair. Returning very soon to the old lady, Lisette drew a chair closer, expressing her concern that her grandmother should have journeyed to Town in such weather.
“Is a new form of madness,” declared my lady, sourly. “No sooner does heaven visit a second Flood upon us than everyone takes to the roads! Beatrice, yourself, Jeremy Bolster, my new grandson and, most unwilling and innocent of victims, myself!”
Surprised, Lisette asked, “You have seen Strand? And Bolster? Here?”
“I have seen neither. Only arrived half an hour before you. I was at Brighton. My footman brought the post down to me, and there was a letter from Strand which disturbed me. On my way back to Town, I detoured, suffering my poor old bones to be jolted over more miles of cart ruts for his sake, only to reach the hall and find him gone!”
“I am so sorry, dearest. Justin is at Silverings, working on the yacht.”
“Ain’t. According to Fisher and your housekeeper, that skitterpate Jeremy Bolster rid in, was closeted with Beatrice, and went off uttering some fustian about being called to Oxford. Oxford! From what his mama told me of his undergraduate years there, the town would throw up barricades to keep his disastrous person from the environs!”
Trying not to dwell on what Beatrice might have said to alarm Bolster, Lisette probed, “And—my husband, ma’am?”
“Galloped in as though the devil capered on his shoulder, to hear Fisher tell it. Threw some necessaries into a valise, ordered up his chaise, and drove off again!” She rapped her cane on the floor, then shook it at her bewildered granddaughter. “Well you may stare, miss! The man’s betwattled, just as I always held! You should never have married him, and you’d best not set up your nursery, for it will surely be inhabited by caper wits!”
Lisette was silent and, her heart touched by those great frightened eyes, the old lady said in a gentler tone, “Now, for Lord’s sake, child, never look so scared. I did not mean it. Is a fine boy, else I’d not have gone to such lengths to find him. For that is why I came here. Truth to tell, I feared you had—er—bolted, and that he’d followed you.”
Lisette flushed. Evading her grandmother’s shrewd gaze, she explained that she had become bored in Sussex and decided to visit Rachel and Charity for a few days. “But the roads were dreadful,” she appended, and to forestall the comment she dreaded, went on hurriedly, “Indeed, I find it most unkind that Justin would ask you to come to us in such a storm.”
“Well, he did not. Matter of fact, he wrote asking if he might visit me. But—well, here. Read it for yourself.” Lady Bayes-Copeland drew a crumpled sheet of paper from her pocket and offered it with an impatient jerking of her frail hand.
Lisette unfolded the page and read:
“Dear Grandmother B.C.—”
“D’ye see the way he names me, the saucy rogue?” demanded the old lady, stabbing a finger at the letter. “B.C. indeed!” She cackled mirthfully. “I’ll B.C. him! Well, never sit there like a lump! Read the thing, girl!”
“Dear Grandmother B.C.—
You once told me that I know nothing of how to treat a lady. You were perfectly right, and I stand in need of help.
May I come and see you? If I do not hear to the contrary, I shall drive down on the morning of the twelfth inst., and call upon you. I am desperate, ma’am, else I would not beg that you please receive me. Pray forgive this invasion of your privacy.
Your devoted admirer,
Strand”
Lisette lowered the page slowly. Retrieving it, my lady sniffed, “Now tell me what has gone amiss. Have you quarrelled because he spanked you?”
Startled, Lisette gasped, “You knew about that?”
“My spies are everywhere! Did Strand believe the tales Beatrice set about he was well justified, but I doubt he beat you half as hard as you deserved!”
“Deserved! I had done nothing! Nothing!”
“Save tilt your haughty nose in the air because you fancied him beneath you, which he ain’t! Child, oh, child!” The old lady leaned to place one hand on her granddaughter’s wrist. “Never be so foolish as to throw away the love of a good man for the smooth words of a pretty scoundrel like Garvey!”
Sudden tears stinging her eyes, Lisette answered huskily, “I am not that big a fool, Grandmama. But Strand has an odd way showing his love. On our wedding night, he—”
“I know all about that and am sworn to say not a word.” My lady leaned back in her chair, both hands clasped atop her cane, waiting with smug anticipation. She had not long to wait.
“You—you know?” stammered Lisette. “Oh, Grandmama! I implore you to tell me. Who is she? Have I met her? Is—is she very beautiful?”
The twinkle in the old lady’s faded eyes brightened. “A surprising degree of concern from a girl who cares naught for her husband!”
Lisette drew back, turning her face aside, and, after a contemplative moment, my lady murmured, “She is young. And of a very kind and gentle disposition, and—”
“Not a spoiled little shrew—like me!” Lisette interpolated through suddenly clenched teeth.
Lady Bayes-Copeland scanned her thoughtfully. “No. Not at all like you, my dear.” She noted the way the white hands gripped the sides of the chair, and how the sweetly curved lower lip trembled, and went on, “But he loves her very deeply. She has something better than mere looks, you see. A compassionate soul; a warm and tender heart.” Lisette’s proud head bowed low, and the old lady added slyly, “But that does not concern you, since you have interests elsewhere.”
“Much chance I shall have of—of finding another interest,” said Lisette, blinking rapidly. “If Strand served me so brutally over a silly rumour, heaven knows what he might do did I take a lover!” Flashing a glance at her grandmother, she surprised a grin on that wise countenance and cried indignantly, “Well you may laugh, ma’am! Had you ever known how it feels to be beaten, you…” The mirth on the old lady’s face faded into nostalgia, and Lisette interrupted herself to breathe an awed, “Grandmama…? My grandfather—he did not—you were not…?
“Ah, but I was, child. Such a gentle soul was my Donald. And I, the rage of London—and Paris! I was promised to him in my cradle, but despised his quiet ways, and he so patient through all my tantrums. I thought I could do as I chose, but he showed me my error.…” My lady sighed, her eyes very soft by reason of that distant memory.
Leaning to her, Lisette breathed, “And did he strike you very hard?”
“No.” Her grandmother chuckled. “Not really. It was the humiliation hurt the most, and the knowledge I had indeed been most naughty. But never had I admired him more, though I did not let him see that, of course, and wept so that he was horrified by what he had done and—oh, so sweetly repentant.”
“And—and so you forgave him?”
“Of course.” My lady cackled and gave Lisette a conspiratorial dig in the ribs. “But not before I had made him promise never to raise his hand to me again. He never did, and although we had our squabbles and differences from time to time, I gave him no cause to doubt me, and I always held him in respect—to the day he died, God rest his dear soul.…” With another sigh for yesterdays, she put her snowy head back against her chair and closed her eyes for a moment. Strand’s letter slipped from her hand, and taking it up to fold it absently, Lisette said, “But I thought you had many lovers!”
“So I did!” The fierce eyes snapped open again. “Cicisbeos merely, but I’d the largest court of any woman in London, I’ll have you know. In fact—” The door burst open. Irked, she swung her head around and began, “How dare—”
Amanda Hersh rushed in, dropped the old lady a hurried curtsey, and turned a distraught countenance to her friend. “Thank heaven I found you Lisette! You must stop him you must!”
Standing to greet her, Lisette was struck by foreboding. “What is it? Has something happened to Lord Bolster?”
“I pray not!” cried Amanda, wringing her hands. “I do not know the cause but Strand struck Jeremy in the face with his whip!”
Lisette gasped, “He—what? Oh, your pardon, but you must be mistaken. They are the very best of friends.”
“They were! No longer. Strand must be all about in his head but he struck him I tell you!”
“The devil he did!” Lady Bayes-Copeland rose with unusual alacrity and, proceeding straight to the heart of the matter, said, “They’ll go out, then?”
“This—this afternoon!” wailed Amanda.
Too stricken to utter a word, Lisette stared at her.
“Where?” barked the old lady. “When?”
“Alas I do not know ma’am I can discover naught of it I am sure Mr. Devenish knows but he would not tell me.” Amanda moved to clasp Lisette’s arm imploringly. “I cannot understand it but they are to fight with pistols that much I did learn and it means—that— Oh, Lisette help me! For pity’s sake help me!”
Lisette raised a trembling hand to her brow. “Yes, but what—whatever are we to do? This afternoon! My God! Why ever must it be so soon?”
“Because men are incredible ninnies!” raged my lady, rapping her cane on the floor in frustration. “And this is no time to stand on ceremony. Come!”
Two terrified pairs of eyes turned to her. “Where?” asked Lisette.
“To the servants’ hall.” My lady began to march to the door, her step surprisingly brisk. “’Tis the one sure source of information. But if those two idiots kill one another before we can stop them, I shall never speak to either of ’em again! And so I warn you!”
* * *
The drizzle had stopped by the time the carriage halted, and pale rays of sunlight were beginning to slant through the warm, misty air. Strand drew the collar of his greatcoat higher about his throat and, shivering, started off with his usual rapid stride, only to check as a shattering howl blasted the damp silence. “That damnable hound will raise every constable for miles around does he keep that up!” he gritted.
Marcus Clay nodded and, praying that Leith would receive his message, offered to go back and let Brutus out of the carriage.
“Lord, no! He would hang on everyone’s neck, blast him!”
Walking on, Clay asked, “Why did you bring him if he’s such a nuisance?”
“I didn’t invite him! The brute jumped in just as my groom was putting up the steps and raised such a fuss when we tried to drag him out that two old ladies who chanced to be passing threatened to have me arrested for cruelty to animals! It seemed less trouble to haul him along, but that is why I’m late.” He scowled to see Bolster’s chaise drawn up beside some trees. “Damn it! I knew he’d be punctual!”
Clay muttered that he’d best consult with Devenish and wandered over to the small group awaiting them. The surgeon, a cold-eyed man with a military bearing, vouchsafed the information that he’d not been in attendance at a duel since “poor young Hedges” was killed in May. Clay and Devenish exchanged grim glances and went off to measure the distance.
“Any word?” Devenish asked, low-voiced.
“None. Even if my man finds Leith, I doubt anything can be done. What a damnable coil this is! Poor Bolster’s face looks dreadful. How’s he taking this?”
“A sight calmer than I would do. But there’s an air of resignation about him. I’ve an idea he means to delope.”
“Good God! He must be mad! But if he does fire in the air, I give you my word Strand won’t! He’s like a man possessed. Have you learned what set it off?”
“Something about Lisette, which I cannot fathom, because Bolster’s crazy for his Amanda. This spot’s level, eh? Strand’s— Jupiter! What was that?”
The long-drawn-out howl echoed eerily through the swirling vapours. Glancing in some amusement at Devenish, Clay saw the fine young face was pale and scared—a most uncharacteristic reaction from this fire-eater. “It’s only Brutus,” he said reassuringly. “He stowed away in Justin’s chaise. Something bothering you, Dev?”
Devenish snorted. “Oh, no! Only that two of my good friends are about to slaughter one another!” He then offered an apologetic, “Sorry, Marcus. Nerves a bit tight. I’d have sworn we were followed here. You didn’t see a black brougham lurking about, by any chance?”
Before Clay could respond, Strand marched up to ask with some ire what was causing the delays. “I’ve an—an appointment,” he said curtly.
“If you will move out of the way, we’ll finish here,” Clay answered.
Strand stamped off. Devenish and Clay marked the distance, then went to inspect the pistols. There was some further delay when Devenish affected to mislike the balance of his principal’s weapon, but Strand, managing somehow to avoid looking at Bolster’s calm but cruelly bruised countenance, snarled that he would take the offending pistol, and moments later the protagonists faced one another across twenty yards of mist-wreathed turf.
Strand stood very straight, the gleaming pistol held at his side. It all seemed quite unreal, but that, he knew, was because the chill he had taken on the boat was tightening its hold on him. His head felt wooden and stupid, he knew he was feverish, and his hand was none too steady. Still, it was done. The seconds had conferred and argued and procrastinated for as long as they possibly could. The final instructions had been given by Clay, his pleasant features very grave. The only thing remaining now was the count—and these last moments of grief and farewell. He recalled Lisette’s face as he first had seen it, angelically lovely, framed by the dark window of her coach. How little he had dreamed then that his foolish heart, so instantly and irrevocably given, would lead him to this bitter moment. She’d never cared, of course. He was no Don Juan, not like that blasted Leith! Yet what a blessing he did not face Leith today. Poor Rachel would have been—
“One…” Devenish’s voice echoed across the quiet meadow.
Scarcely hearing, Strand frowned. Why was he thinking of Leith? He did not face that tall, dark Adonis. The yellow hair that gleamed in the diffused light of this mist-shrouded afternoon belong to Jeremy Bolster.… It was Bolster who had betrayed him, who evidently, having lost his own love, had decided to trifle with another lady. The wife of his good friend! Bolster! Had it been Garvey, now, that would have been logical enough. It would have fit. He’d thought it would be Garvey, and never dreamed—
“Two…!”
That ominous call came slightly muted through the trees, and the man who moved so stealthily forward stopped, then sighted carefully along the barrel of his fine Manton. To anyone observing the actions of Mr. James Garvey, it must have seemed that he directed the pistol at Lord Bolster’s broad back, but actually, he aimed past Bolster, his target the heart of Justin Strand. Even with his hated rival at last in his sights, however, Mr. Garvey, that pink of the ton, was not a happy man. He had fashioned a very neat little scheme whereby Strand, having read the letter cunningly misdelivered to him, would be maddened with jealousy. By rights, he should have returned home to find Lisette gone, pursued her to Cloudhills and discovered her with Leith, who had also been deftly tricked into returning to his estate. Very neat, Garvey had thought, and the inevitable duel would have resulted in both men (one way or another) being killed. So tidy and convenient. Leith’s death would have pleased the Frenchman; Strand’s death would have wiped out the insult against himself and paved the way for his courtship of, and eventual marriage to, the beautiful and by that time extremely wealthy widow. A delicious touch would be that there was nothing to link him with the matter. He could scarcely be held responsible for the deaths of two men who faced one another in an affair of honour. It was most regrettable that things had not progressed according to plan. Bolster’s curst intervention had been as disastrous as it was quixotic. Firstly, it had removed Leith, and thus one could not count on the reaction of the Frenchman. Secondly, Bolster was not nearly so reliable a shot as the intrepid Colonel, and anyone willing to incur the wrath of a jealous and justifiably incensed husband might also be so addlebrained as to delope—especially a marplot who had cried friends with Strand since childhood!
Nourishing feelings of betrayal, Garvey had embarked on his present course with considerable reluctance. It was risky. He had at first intended to follow Claude Sanquinet’s advice and hire a professional assassin to ensure Strand’s demise, but the threat of blackmail at some later date had deterred him. Besides, his own marksmanship was second to none, and this shot must not be missed. He was quite sure that even if Bolster did fire, it would be with the intent to inflict some superficial wound. There was the possibility that his lordship would aim wide, which would be obliging. One could not take chances, however. Two wounds on Strand’s lifeless body could prove embarrassing, and to ensure his swift departure from the scene, Mr. Garvey had brought his hired brougham up as close as he dared. His tiger was holding the nostrils of the horses at this very moment, to ensure they did not whinny and betray his presence. There was, at least, no cause to doubt the discretion of his tiger. That young villain had committed many indiscretions, any one of which would be sufficient to ensure his transportation, to say the least!
“Three…!”
The fatal word resounded through the stillness. Two hands gripping the deadly, long-barreled pistols were flung up simultaneously. Garvey, his pistol already in position, timed his shot exactly. But again, the unexpected occurred. Having succeeded in coercing a groom to open the carriage door so as to quiet him, Brutus leapt forth with the full power of his muscular body, toppled the groom, and raced off in search of his master. His path was chosen for directness rather than good manners, and took him straight between Garvey’s team, who at once reared, screaming their terror. Jolted by the sudden outburst at that crucial instant, Garvey’s hand jerked.
Three shots rang out, the third sounding merely an echo of the first two.
Bolster fired into the air. He heard a scream from somewhere close by. In the same instant, he was dealt a sledgehammer blow which sent him sprawling.
Strand, the smoking pistol falling from his hand, stared numbly at Bolster’s motionless form. He had aimed for the arm, but must have erred. What a ghastly error! But God knows he’d not meant to kill Bolster! He’d not! Shattered, he stumbled away; Brutus, who had been petrified by the shots, creeping out from beneath a bush to slink after him.
Clay, Devenish, and the surgeon were running to the downed man. Tristram Leith suddenly burst through the trees, flashed a grim glance at Strand, then raced to Bolster. Lisette and Amanda followed, and Strand checked and stood rigidly as they halted before him. Amanda’s horrified gaze darted to the quiet little group hovering above someone who lay very still on the ground. With a strangled moan, she crumpled in a faint. At once dropping to her knees, Lisette took up one of Amanda’s limp hands and began to chafe it. Looking up at her husband, she demanded, “What in heaven’s name were you thinking of? Must you al—”
Strand stepped back, an expression of such agony on his pale face that she was struck to silence. “Do you not know what has brought me to this pass?” he cried in distraught fashion. “My closest friend lies there—dead belike! And by my hand! Go, wanton! Go and look upon your handiwork!” And with a wild, despairing gesture, he turned and strode rapidly away.
Bolster, however, was very soon struggling to sit up. “Where’s S-Strand?” he muttered, but encountering the firm hands of the surgeon, he winced and sank back again.
Alain Devenish straightened, drew a deep breath of relief and, meeting Clay’s equally relieved gaze, said a thankful, “Jove! I thought for a minute…!”
“So did I,” Clay nodded. “And I perfectly loathe funerals!”
“W-well, you may have to go to one, at all events,” asserted his lordship, faint but persisting. “Of all the filthy tricks! I am so n-noble as to delope, and Strand d-damned well shoots me in the back!”
Bending over him again, Devenish smiled. “A neat trick, I grant you, Jerry, old fellow. But hardly possible, you know. It may have seemed that way, but—”
“D-devil take you, Alain! You ain’t the one lying here! I tell you, I was hit from behind! Ask the sawbones.”
Clay glanced enquiringly at the doctor, who condescended to remark that he preferred to be addressed as Dr. Cholmondeley, and that the ball had scored Bolster’s side and may have broken a rib, but did not appear to have penetrated the lung.
“Could the shot have come from behind him?” asked Clay, humouring his incensed friend. “I heard Strand’s horses going wild about something or other.”
“Brutus,” said Devenish succinctly. “He all but turned inside out when he heard the shots.”
“His lordship did appear to fall forward,” vouchsafed Cholmondeley, working deftly. “Shock, however, effects odd reactions at times, and I scarcely think that—” He glanced up. “Hello, Colonel. Are you a party to this?”
Devenish started and turning, said, “Jove, Tris! I wish you’d come a sight earlier!” His gaze shifting, he added a shocked, “Gad! Is that Miss Hersh? Poor girl. Looks like you’ve another patient, Cholmondeley.”
“What?” Bolster hove himself upwards.
“Lie back, you idiot!” said Leith. “No, Cholmondeley, I am not a party to this insanity! Mandy is better now, Jerry. There, she’s already starting to get up. Play your cards properly and we may yet turn this tragedy to good account.”
Struggling, Bolster gasped out, “D-d da-da- now blast you, Tris! Mandy swooned! Let m-me—”
Noting Amanda’s wavering approach from the corner of his eye, Leith swore under his breath. “Will you lie still?”
Bolster, however, had one thought in mind, and that to catch a glimpse of his beloved. He glimpsed instead a flying fist which, connecting with his jaw, obliterated all thought for a time.
“The devil, sir!” exploded the physician, outraged.
“By God, Leith!” Clay protested.
“Quiet!” hissed Devenish, as Amanda tottered to them, Lisette standing back so as to be out of the way.
The Colonel said gravely, “Do not lose hope, Mandy. Poor old Jeremy just might pull through.”
Amanda viewed the limp and bloody form of her love and, dropping to her knees beside him, wept, “Oh, Jeremy … my dearest one do not die I implore you else I must die too.”
Opening dazed eyes, Bolster saw the adored face above him. “Mandy…” he uttered faintly. “You c-came! D-don’t leave me—please, Mandy.”
“Oh, I won’t. I won’t!”
With this, he was happily content until a hard and most unkind pinch in his left arm drew a yelp of shock and pain. Looking up, he met Leith’s eyes and an imperative grimace. For a moment baffled, he suddenly comprehended. He sighed gustily and closed his eyes.
Amanda clutched at one unresponsive hand and gasped, “Doctor! Is he—”
Dr. Cholmondeley had been securing the temporary dressing about Bolster’s hurt, while benefitting from a tersely whispered explanation from Devenish, and save for a grim shake of the head, made no response.
Bolster was in not a little pain, but he was so overjoyed by the close proximity of his love, that he performed quite creditably, saying as one at the gates of death that he could have gone with less regret had he only known his Amanda might have borne his name. And callously disposing of the several relatives who would most willingly move closer to the title in that unhappy event, added, “It d-dies with me … you know…”
Amanda gave a stifled wail, and Leith bent to her and whispered, “Offer him some encouragement if you can, Mandy. Old Jerry’s too good of a fellow to go without hope.”
“Oh!” sobbed Amanda, nursing Bolster’s hand to her cheek. “I love you, my dearest one. Only get better and I will prove how much!”
Bolster was so encouraged that he gave every indication of being about to spring up and smother her with kisses, wherefore it was necessary for Devenish to pinch him again, which he did so heartily that Bolster was hard put to it to refrain from cursing him. Fortunately, he bit back that impromptu utterance. Misinterpreting the set of his jaw, Amanda supposed him to be restraining his groans, and deposited several damp and sympathetic kisses in his palm. “As soon,” she gulped, “as you are better I will marry you and—”
“You will?” beamed the ecstatic Bolster. “Did you hear that, you fellows? I am betrothed! If th-that don’t beat the—”
With rare tact, Dr. Cholmondeley chose that instant to tighten his bandage, otherwise his lordship might have ruined the entire thing.
* * *
“Thank heaven you are come home!” Hurrying into the entrance hall, only slightly leaning upon her cane, Lady Bayes-Copeland stretched her thin hand to her granddaughter, and demanded, “Tell me quickly. Is someone killed?”
“No, ma’am.” Lisette was cold and felt drained and bereft of all hope. “Lord Bolster was shot, but he is alive. Amanda is with him now, and—”
“And where is my grandson?”
“Why, I suppose Norman is—”
“Is here!” Shaking her cane impatiently, and hindering Powers by assisting in the removal of Lisette’s cloak, her ladyship barked, “You know very well to whom I refer. Don’t be missish! Ain’t the time!”
Lisette submitted to being hurried to the stairs. “If you mean Strand, ma’am, I neither know nor care! As usual, he blamed me for this, as though—”
“Stuff! The poor lad had good reason, I suspect. Beatrice is here!”
Lisette’s lips tightened. The perfect end of a perfect day! “How nice,” she said dryly.
“It ain’t. At all. Good gad, how these stairs tire my poor old limbs. Your arm, Madam Hauteur! Now, when we meet your sister, you will be so kind as to follow my lead!”
Gently aiding this frail old tyrant into the drawing room, Lisette checked momentarily. Beatrice sat huddled on the sofa and was in the act of accepting the glass of wine Norman offered. Much shocked, Lisette thought her sister looked to have aged ten years. Her usually elegant coiffure was tumbled and untidy, with wisps hanging at all angles. Her dress was creased, her half-boots muddied, and she looked positively shrunken. But worst of all was the expression on her ashen features, an expression that went beyond grief to a dulled resignation that was appalling.
Forgetting everything except that this was her sister, Lisette started forward with a little instinctive cry of sympathy. She was restrained by a claw of a hand.
Norman turned to them and gave a gesture of helplessness, then put down the wine and came to give Lisette a kiss, and whisper, “Another bumble broth! Gad! What a family! Is poor Bolster killed?”
Lisette shook her head, but before she could speak, the old lady said harshly, “Well, madam?”
Beatrice raised haggard eyes, then cowered back against the sofa.
“Your machinations, Lady William,” my lady said in that same acid tone, “near cost Jeremy Bolster his life, which would likely have resulted in that ninny Amanda Hersh grieving herself into an early grave.” Tears brimming in her dark eyes, Beatrice began a plaintive response that was ruthlessly overriden. “To those two lives,” observed the old lady grimly, “we may well add Justin Strand, of whom I—at least—am extremely fond. On top of that, you have very likely broken the heart of your husband, who is so foolish as to love you!”
The effect of this indictment was shattering. Norman, who had retreated to the side of the room, quailed in horror as Beatrice burst into a storm of sobs, and began to sway back and forth in a frenzy of grief.
Unmoved, the old lady snorted, “A pretty display! And one that will avail you nothing. You had best make your peace with your sister, madam!” The only effect this had was to increase the volume of the lamentations, whereupon my lady barked, “Norman! Run and get a pitcher of cold water!”
Only too glad to escape, he shot for the door.
“No-no…” Beatrice raised a wet face and reddened eyes. “I know what—what I must do…”
At the door, Norman looked back, pleadingly. Lady Bayes-Copeland nodded, and he fled, closing the door quietly behind him. The old lady settled herself on the edge of a loveseat, but Lisette, chilled by apprehension, remained standing.
“I—I will confess,” Beatrice announced between sniffs. “Though—though I am not the first lady ever … to take a lover, I suppose.”
“To take a lover if one has an inattentive, repulsive, or unfaithful husband is one thing,” said my lady tartly. “In your case there was neither excuse nor justification. And to plot with that lover to the jeopardy of another member of your own family is despicable!” Her cane rapped on the floor to emphasize that terrible denunciation and she repeated it in her harsh, cracked old voice, “Despicable, I say!”
Her head down-bent, Beatrice said tremulously, “Yes. Only—only I thought James loved me. He said—”
“James?” echoed Lisette, astounded. “Garvey?”
Beatrice nodded. “He said he had a score to settle, and—and so I told him what Charity said about—about Strand leaving you on your wedding night. And about him staying away a week or more. It was James circulated the rumours that you had deliberately repulsed your bridegroom. When Strand confronted him in The Madrigal, James said that you had told him you were a wife in name only and that you were in love with James.”
One hand flying to her throat, Lisette exclaimed, “Oh, my God! No wonder Strand challenged him! How I wish he had told me the whole and I’d not have—” A bony finger jabbed into her ribs. She cast her grandmother an irked glance, but said no more.
“James was like a madman after their quarrel in The Madrigal,” Beatrice continued, staring blindly at the rug. “I tried to comfort him, but all he could say was that his honour must be satisfied. He begged me to—to convey to him anything I learned about you. He said…” She closed her eyes briefly, her hands beginning to tear at her handkerchief. “He said that if he could just wipe out that stain on his honour, he would—would take me away. That William could obtain a divorce and James would wed me. Lord help me! How little I guessed…”
She began to weep wretchedly, but Lisette was appalled and made no move to go to her.
“When you arrived at Strand Hall and discovered Lisette meant to visit her sisters-in-law,” rasped my lady grimly, “you knew that Rachel and Charity were not at Cloudhills. You did not apprise her of that circumstance, but instead sent word to your scheming lover. Correct?”
Lisette gasped out a disbelieving, “Oh, no! You never did?”
Hanging her head, Beatrice whispered, “Yes. It—it was wicked in me, I know. But … I loved him so, and I thought— Oh well, never mind about that. I sent a note to James by my groom that very night. When he received it, he writ a letter to you, Lisette, begging that you not run away to Tristram Leith. And he had the letter taken to Strand at Silverings—as if in error.”
“How vile!” uttered my lady in accents of loathing.
Very white, Lisette muttered, “Strand already suspected that I cared for Leith. If he—if he read that…”
“He did, of course,” my lady interpolated dryly. “He’d have to be a ninny or a saint not to! And so he set off at the gallop to intercept you.”
Lisette threw both hands to her cheeks, but after a moment’s puzzling said, “But if Strand learnt I spent the night at Cloudhills, alone with Leith, why did he call out Bolster?”
Lady Bayes-Copeland directed a chill stare at Beatrice. “Ask our traitor.”
Wincing, Beatrice explained, “He did not discover that. But Bolster did.”
“And was so gallant as to attempt to spare you—all of us—the stark tragedy of having your husband shoot down your brother-in-law!” said my lady.
“But—but…” stammered Lisette, “surely he knew that Justin would call him out?”
“That simpleton?” The old lady gave a scornful bark of derision. “He is brave as he can stare, I grant you, but not one for deep thinking. Nor imagine I think the less of him, for he is a fine boy. Do not forget, my dear, that he and your husband have been friends all their lives. I suspect our quixotic peer traded on that friendship. He probably had no notion Strand would really believe him to have been your secret lover, and hoped merely to confuse Strand into delays, thus providing time in which to reason him from his rage. Instead, Strand called him out and then shot him. Utter folly!”
Beatrice’s head sank even lower. Almost inaudibly, she whispered, “N-no.”
“What the deuce d’you mean, no?” demanded her grandmother fiercely. “Do you add an admiration of duelling to your incalculable idiocies, madam?”
Beatrice wet dry lips. “Strand d-did not shoot Bolster, Grandmama. James was there. He followed Devenish and then hid behind a tree, intending to shoot Strand in case Jeremy should delope.” She heard a startled exclamation and, flashing a frightened glance upwards, saw that her grandmother had come to her feet and that the two women stood there, like some familial tribunal, watching her in horror. Cringing, she faltered, “Only B-Brutus upset James’s team, and James missed his shot and—and wounded Bolster by accident.”
There was a brief, stunned silence, even the unquenchable Lady Bayes-Copeland rendered speechless by this shocking disclosure. Then, “Now … now here’s shameful treachery, indeed!” she breathed. “Which I shall ensure is well circulated among the ton! Must I name you a party to this dastardly plot, wretched girl?”
“No! Oh, no!” Clasping her hands together prayerfully as she blinked up at them, Beatrice sobbed, “I beg—I pray you believe me! I thought James would manoeuvre Strand into a duel and—and wound him—just a little … perhaps. But I never dreamt he meant murder! I was waiting at his lodgings when he came home.” She saw her grandmother’s lip curl contemptuously, and rushed on, “He was like a man possessed, and took a—a sort of cruel delight in telling me what he had tried to do. I was—absolutely appalled. I taxed him with having deceived me, and he laughed. I was so frightened! I begged that we run away, and be married in Italy when William gave me the divorce.”
“Little fool!” snorted her grandmother. “Garvey never loved you! It is Lisette he wants.”
“Yes,” Beatrice wept, covering her face once more. “So he admitted, at last. And taunted me so—so savagely. It had all been lies from the very beginning. Strand had never boasted of having ‘bought’ Lisette, as James told me. He said he had at first intended to kill Strand, but then realized that if he waited until after they were wed, Lisette would be a—a very wealthy widow—”
“Foul!” screeched my lady, her cane striking the floor in a staccato outburst of indignation. “And you could listen to such—such wicked infamy, and not come to me—or your papa—with it all? Oh, for shame!”
“I dare not come to you,” choked Beatrice. “James said if I told one word of what had happened, he would say I planned it all with him! And he boasted that he would s-soon wed the lady he—he really loved, and be a rich man besides. Oh…! When I think what I have done! And—and my poor, good, grieving William! Oh, how I wish I was dead! I wish I was dead!”
“Very Drury Lane-ish,” sneered her grandmother, giving the bell pull a tug. She glanced at Lisette, who stood in white-faced silence, staring down at her sister. “What is in your mind, love? That we must warn Strand?”
“Yes,” Lisette answered numbly. “And that I once was so unpardonably foolish as to wish I could wed James Garvey—instead of Justin!”