The Opium Purge (Lady Fan Mystery Book 3) Read online

  THE OPIUM PURGE

  Lady Fan Mysteries

  Book Three

  Elizabeth Bailey

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  A NOTE TO THE READER

  ALSO BY ELIZABETH BAILEY

  CHAPTER ONE

  The cloak splashed red against the pristine snow. Arms uplifted to the heavens, bare fingers catching at fresh flakes, the girl twirled on the vanished lawn of the Dower House, her countenance alight with pleasure.

  Watching from an upper window, barefoot and inadequately clad for early January, Ottilia Fanshawe was struck by the ethereal beauty of this dawn trespasser. Who she might be was a mystery, for Ottilia’s mother-in-law had made no mention of a stranger so worthy of notice. Although this was no surprise, with the Dowager Marchioness of Polbrook’s concentration centred upon the perfidy of her elder son.

  The tirades, endured with ill-concealed chagrin by Ottilia’s long-suffering spouse for the duration of their stay, showed no sign of letting up. The sheer delight of the scarlet-clad girl in the garden was thus refreshing to Ottilia’s jaded patience.

  If one were to imagine a fairy princess, this creature embodied the vision to perfection. The hood of her cloak had fallen to her shoulders, revealing a cluster of fair curls framing a glowing face fit to set a painter groping for his brushes. A row of pearly teeth showed within the luscious open mouth and a pair of sparkling eyes were just visible.

  Yet even as she enjoyed the sight, Ottilia’s innate common sense could not help but deprecate the lack of gloves and the foolhardy excursion into the cold of a winter’s day without proper protection. She doubted the billowing cloak offered much by way of warmth, especially since the girl had apparently donned a diaphanous gown more suited to an evening party. Its folds twinkled in the light, suggesting a spangled confection nestling beneath the concealing cloak.

  All at once it was borne in upon Ottilia that the girl had ceased her twirling dance in the snow, and had discovered herself to be observed. She was looking directly up at the window, with an intent stare that was oddly disturbing.

  Obeying a half-formed impulse, Ottilia lifted a hand and waved. The girl’s features exploded into life, opening into a huge smile that could not but draw an answering one from Ottilia. Two bare hands came up, and the fingers waggled in a fashion that reminded her irresistibly of a toddler’s attempt at waving.

  Laughing aloud, Ottilia watched as the girl abruptly turned and darted away. She was quickly lost to sight around the corner of the house, and Ottilia found herself leaning into the glass in an effort to catch a last glimpse.

  “What in the world are you about, Tillie?”

  Lord Francis Fanshawe’s sleepy voice caught Ottilia’s attention and she straightened, turning her head. Her husband had partly emerged from between the bed-curtains on her side, which Ottilia had left closed. She threw him a darting look of mischief.

  “I’ve been watching a fairy dancing in the snow.”

  “At this hour?” And then her words seemed to sink in. “A fairy?”

  “A girl. A stranger, I think. She seemed a childlike creature, but very beautiful.”

  Francis swung his legs out of the bed, and a frown creased his brow as his gaze dropped. “You’ll catch your death, standing there in your nightgown.”

  Ottilia shivered, belatedly becoming aware of the cold in her limbs. She looked about for her shawl, but her spouse was already on his feet and moving to seize it off the back of the daybed where she had left it last night. He crossed to the window and draped it about her shoulders, his arms enwrapping her from behind over the top of its woollen folds.

  “There. Though I’d prefer you to snuggle between the sheets with me. Even if we are pledged to be circumspect for a space.”

  Ottilia sank into the warmth of his embrace, but she could not withstand a spurt of irritation. “An old wives’ tale, Fan.”

  One of Francis’s hands slipped down to cradle the swell at her abdomen, slight as yet. “When Patrick gave much the same warning?”

  “I shall have something to say to my brother when he arrives,” Ottilia said on a slightly acid note. “Between you and him, I shall be driven demented before ever I get through the next six months.”

  Francis held her tighter and she felt his lips caress her cheek as he mouthed tender endearments that could not but damp her rising annoyance. She sighed a little, aware of the unaccustomed emotional turmoil that seemed to attack her more as her pregnancy advanced. Her usual calm had deserted her, and although she was no longer nauseous, she was apt to be snappy and prone to unwarranted distresses. Ottilia was becoming wearied with apologising already, and the weeks ahead of her seemed to stretch into eternity.

  Francis relaxed his hold. “Tell me about your fairy.”

  “Oh, the girl in the snow!”

  The memory sprang back into Ottilia’s mind, and she at once realised that the girl’s joyous appearance of freedom had spoken to the deeps within her, where frustration was king and life had lost something of its savour.

  “She’s exquisite. A picture book doll; or a princess. I wonder who she is.” She turned a little, surveying her husband’s strong-featured countenance, with the untied lush brown hair falling attractively about his lean cheeks. “Sybilla has not spoken to you of any odd neighbours, has she?”

  “What, with every second word that comes out of her mouth a fresh curse for Randal? I doubt she has room to notice.” Francis released her, moving to locate his dressing-gown. “The only girl I know of that lives around here is young Phoebe.”

  “You mean the girl Giles is supposed to marry? Lady Phoebe Graveney, is it not?”

  Her husband shrugged on his robe and tied it. “That’s the one. Hemington’s daughter. The family was away over Christmas, I believe, but I daresay she’ll be in evidence shortly.”

  “What does she look like?”

  “She’s well enough, as I recall.”

  Ottilia clicked her tongue. “A trifle more detail, if you please, Fan. Is she blonde?”

  He frowned in concentration. “Dark, I think.”

  “Then it cannot have been she.” Ottilia glanced out of the window, her mind’s eye supplying the missing image of the girl she had seen. “Besides, I can hardly suppose a girl foolish enough to run around in the snow in a spangled evening gown is likely to be the future Lady Polbrook.”

  “Lady Bennifield, to begin with,” corrected Francis, adding feelingly, “And I wish you would not mention that name, Tillie.”

  Ottilia had to laugh. “Yes, it hardly bears repetition after the manner of your Mama’s saying it.”

  The dowager had formed the habit of laying savage emphasis on the title now borne by her new daughter-in-law, which had made a marchioness of her son’s erstwhile French mistress. Randal had married the moment his year of mourning for his unfortunate first wife had come to an end, in secrecy and without reference to his afflicted family.

  Upon being apprised of the deed, his mother had vented her scorching fury in a letter to her younger son. Francis had sworn there were flames coming off the paper. The let
ter had ended with a peremptory summons for Ottilia and Francis to spend Christmas at the Dower House, Sybilla declaring that nothing would induce her to share Polbrook’s board for the festivities.

  In the event, Ottilia had succeeded in persuading her mother-in-law at least to attend an invitation for dinner on the twenty-fifth, if only for the sake of her grandchildren, who had both been present.

  “Giles at least appears to have become reconciled.” Ottilia moved to join Francis, who had flung aside the bed-curtains and was sitting on the edge of the bed. “We have not seen him since New Year’s Eve.”

  “Reconciled? Don’t you believe it! I suspect it will be long before he forgives his father. As for being saddled with a French half-sister and brother —”

  “Half-French.”

  “Don’t quibble, Tillie.”

  “And they are scarcely to blame, poor things.”

  “No one is blaming them, but Giles’s objections are perfectly understandable.”

  “Until your brother has legitimised them,” she pursued, unheeding, “they had as well be orphaned waifs.”

  “You may be sure Randal has had the matter in hand for months.” His tone was hard. “I imagine Jardine was instructed long since.”

  The family’s man of business had been instrumental in locating the marquis when he had gone missing in France after his wife was brutally murdered in the autumn of ’89. The ensuing scandal had rocked the family to its foundations, compounded by Lord Polbrook’s reappearance in company with Madame Guizot and her two children, whom he had rescued from the vengeance of a populace gone mad. Francis, left to pick up the pieces during his brother’s absence, had been sorely beset.

  Ottilia reached to set her hand over his where it rested on his knee, lacing their fingers. “You have not forgiven him, have you?”

  Her spouse shifted his shoulders in that way he had when confronted with uncomfortable truths. “I think he might have waited.”

  “Well, you know why he did not, for he told you so.”

  Francis snorted. “Yes, he wanted to secure his precious Violette’s future. It does not appear to have occurred to him to think of the effect upon his son and daughter. Or that Harriet had to postpone Candia’s come-out again until the scandal dies down. I know he does not give a fig for Mama’s disapproval, provided he is not obliged to listen to her complaints.”

  The deep discontent in her spouse’s tone moved Ottilia to slip an arm about his back and lean her head on his shoulder. “My poor darling. There is no question but you have borne the brunt of it.”

  For answer, Francis drew her closer in a convulsive hug and pressed a kiss against her forehead. Then he sighed a little. “I could wish Patrick and his family could have come here sooner.”

  “Indeed, so do I, for I’m afraid the snow may prevent them coming altogether.”

  “My God, I hope not!’

  Ottilia laughed. “Well, let us be sanguine for your sake. Their presence must at least stop Sybilla’s tongue temporarily. And I defy even your mother to rival Sophie’s ability to prolong a recital of her sufferings.”

  Francis cast up his eyes and Ottilia remembered how vocal he had been on the subject of Patrick Hathaway’s wife, after the few days spent at her brother’s house from where they had been married in June last year.

  “If you will tell me how Patrick is able to tolerate her whining, I may take a leaf out of his book with Mama. Has he some secret herb he uses? A potion to render one deaf for a space?”

  Ottilia’s mirth bubbled over. “He merely retires to his surgery. Or invents a patient he must instantly visit. At least, I assume he invents it, by the number of times a message has arrived opportunely.”

  “Well, I can’t use that excuse here. I could almost wish you might stumble upon another adventure, if it could divert my mother’s attention.”

  This remark served to remind Ottilia of the strange girl she had seen. She got up abruptly. “I’ll ask Sybilla about my fairy. That may give her thoughts another direction.”

  Francis caught her hand. “Now? Aren’t you coming back to bed?”

  Ottilia sagged. “I cannot, Fan. I shall go mad if I have to lie there doing nothing.”

  “Still so restless?”

  “Yes! I shall dress and go for a walk, I think.” Francis let her go and made to rise, but she quickly set a hand to his shoulder. “I’ll be all right on my own, Fan. You need have no apprehension. I promise I will take the greatest care.”

  He squinted up at her. “Very well.”

  Ottilia knew that look. “You mean to dress in any event and follow me, do you not?”

  Francis quirked an eyebrow. “I won’t sleep again now. But I’ll have to shave, so I’ve no doubt you’ll be well ahead of me.”

  Despite a cheerful fire in the grate, the front parlour gave off a chill as Ottilia entered the room. She had barely taken in the fact when she was brought up short by the sight of the stranger in the scarlet cloak standing bang in the middle of the room.

  “Lord above!” Ottilia stared blankly at the creature, whose china blue eyes turned swiftly towards her.

  “There you are!”

  “Yes,” agreed Ottilia, moving into the room. “But how in the world did you get in?”

  It was then borne in upon her that the Dowager Lady Polbrook’s companion was also present. Teresa Mellis was standing a little to one side, evidently struck dumb by the appearance of the unknown visitor.

  “Miss Mellis?”

  The woman turned towards her, a countenance edged with tension. This was not unusual with her, as Ottilia knew, for the companion was possessed of a nervous disposition, apt to be thrown into play by trifles. For answer, she pointed towards the French window, which Ottilia realised was open.

  “No wonder it is cold.” She moved across with the intention of remedying the matter.

  Miss Mellis intercepted her. “Wait!” Once more she pointed. “Look.”

  Ottilia glanced briefly at the girl, who had not again spoken, but whose oddly fixed stare was following Ottilia as she moved. Miss Mellis took a couple of steps in the direction of the window, her finger stretched out towards it. An oddity in the glass pane imprinted itself upon Ottilia’s vision. It was splintered, with a jagged hole that had scattered shards upon the carpet underneath. A startled question leaped into her mind, and she turned back to the girl even as Miss Mellis’s low-toned warning sounded.

  “You may well stare. See her hand? She broke the glass.”

  By now Ottilia had caught sight of the girl’s bloodied fingers. Without thought, she went up to her and seized her wrist, lifting the hand for inspection.

  “Heavens, child, how in the world did you come to do such a thing?”

  The stranger’s gaze, still fixed on Ottilia’s face, shifted to take in her own hand. A pair of fine brows rose. “How did I do that? I don’t remember cutting myself.”

  Behind her, Ottilia heard Miss Mellis let out a protesting whimper. Ottilia looked round, taking in the fright in the pallid face. On the shady side of fifty, Teresa Mellis was prematurely lined due to the possession of delicate skin with a tendency to dryness, and every distress, of which there were many as Ottilia had noted, showed in her thin features. She spoke little unless spoken to, and was in the habit of making terse pronouncements if called upon to answer.

  “She punched her fist through the glass.”

  The girl made no comment, but merely watched the interplay as Ottilia looked from her and then back to Miss Mellis. “Did you see it?”

  The companion shook her head. “I saw her put her hand through to unlatch the door.”

  “To the detriment of your poor hand, young lady.” Ottilia turned back to the girl with a smile. “I think our first task must be to wash your wounds and make sure you have no pieces of glass embedded in your flesh.”

  The girl’s pretty mouth opened and a tinkle of high-pitched laughter came out. “Like a pin cushion.”

  From the corner of her
eye Ottilia noticed the shiver that shook Miss Mellis, and privately could not blame her. The stranger was decidedly odd. But first things first. Releasing the girl’s wrist, she went to close the door and pull the curtains across to cover the hole.

  “Let us at least try to keep in the warm.” Turning again, she addressed the companion as she moved to the bell-pull and tugged upon it. “Would you be so kind, Miss Mellis, as to find lint and bandages? A pair of tweezers too, if you will, and perhaps a magnifying glass. Do you have one?”

  Miss Mellis let her breath go in a shaky sigh. “I will get them.”

  Watching her limp from the room as fast as she was able, Ottilia suspected Miss Mellis was glad to remove herself from the girl’s presence. Her acquaintance with the woman was slight, but sympathy prompted her to make a particular effort to understand the companion, for Ottilia’s introduction to the family had been as the creature’s temporary replacement when the woman had sustained a broken leg over a year before. She would never admit as much, Ottilia guessed, but it was obvious the winter cold was creating problems with her lingering disability.

  Returning her attention to the unexpected visitor, Ottilia summoned a smile and kept her tone even. “Won’t you sit down? I will have one of the servants bring a basin of water and a towel, and then we may see what can be done.”

  The girl made no move to sit, nor to look for a chair, but remained just where she was, her eyes playing over Ottilia’s features.

  “You are not beautiful.”

  Ottilia laughed out. “But you are.”

  “Yes.”

  There was no pride or conceit in the one word. It was merely agreement, Ottilia decided. She set a hand to the girl’s back and moved her gently towards a long sofa upholstered in blue-striped brocade, which was set to one side of the fireplace. She obliged the girl to sit.

  “What is your name?”

  “Tamasine.”

  “How pretty. Do you live near here, Tamasine?”

  The visitor made no reply to this, but continued to watch Ottilia as she removed the warm, hooded cloak she had donned for the purpose of taking her walk and set it aside on a convenient chair. She then placed herself next to the visitor.