The Lady Fan Series: Books 1-3 (Sapere Books Boxset Editions) Page 2

  “You have realised, I hope, Mrs. Draycott, that the position is merely temporary?”

  Ottilia nodded. “It was made quite clear to me, ma’am, by Mr. Jardine, when he offered me the appointment.”

  “If only Teresa had not so foolishly broken a limb, I need not have set Jardine to find me a replacement,” grumbled the dowager, as she had already done several times since Ottilia’s late arrival the night before.

  To her surprise, she had found the elderly dame still up, though attired in her nightgown, covered with a handsome, embroidered silk dressing robe and what appeared a quantity of shawls draped over her shoulders. Her personal maid in attendance, she had waited, despite the advanced hour, ensconced in a cosy parlour with the fire burning and all the candles alight, fortified by a glass of port and the third volume of a work of fiction by the noted authoress Fanny Burney.

  “Why in the world should I not sit up?” the dowager had demanded in response to Ottilia’s mild protest. “I might as well be reading here as in my bed.”

  “I am truly sorry to have kept you from it,” Ottilia had said. “We were severely delayed by the state of the roads after so much rain. I would have put up at an inn, but we were so very close to the metropolis by nightfall, I had supposed it would be only a couple of hours to reach you.”

  “Well, it makes no matter. Now you are here — which you need not have been if that silly creature had been more careful — I may go to bed with a quiet mind. You look sensible enough, if a trifle pasty. But I daresay that may be due to fatigue. Good night.” With which the dowager had departed, leaving Ottilia prey to lurking merriment and reliant upon the lady’s maid to direct her to her quarters.

  Defying expectation, the Dowager Lady Polbrook had appeared at the breakfast table betimes, none the worse for her late night and clearly determined to extract the last ounce of discontent from the situation. “Teresa is your usual companion?” Ottilia asked.

  “Teresa Mellis. Miss Teresa Mellis. Never caught a husband, the ninny, though she might have married the curate if she hadn’t been so nice. She’s a relative of sorts. Been with the family for years and years. My late husband took her in, and when he died, she came with me to the Dower House.”

  “How did she come to break a limb? Was it her arm?”

  “Her leg, more’s the pity. It may be weeks before she is able to get about again.”

  Conscious of her kinship with the unfortunate Miss Mellis, who was clearly condemned to a life of dependence upon the charity of her relatives, Ottilia ventured to turn the dowager’s mind on the subject. “She is the more to be pitied, surely? Is she laid up in this house? May I perhaps be of service to her?”

  The dowager gave a snort. “Of service to Teresa? I hardly think so when you are here for my benefit. But you need not fret. I am sure she is well served by her sister, to whom I had released the wretch for a spell.” She looked down her Roman nose at Ottilia. “And there you have Teresa Mellis in a nutshell. She goes, if you please, to care for her widowed sister in her recent bereavement, and she can think of nothing better to do than to fall while alighting from the coach and break her leg. If I’d thought about it, I might have predicted some such contingency. It is perfectly in accord with her nature.”

  The indignation in her tone severely tried Ottilia’s control. Suppressing the bubbling mirth, she again tried to look for the bright side. “It is most unfortunate, but perhaps one may look upon it as a blessing in disguise?”

  A pair of delicate brows was raised at her. “How, pray?”

  “Will it not give her widowed sister’s thoughts a different direction in being obliged to care for Miss Mellis? There is nothing like engaging in bustling activity for the purpose of dissipating melancholy, or so I have always found.”

  The dowager looked struck. “You’re more intelligent than you look.”

  Ottilia burst into laughter. “I thank you, ma’am. A most acceptable encomium.”

  “Is it? How so?”

  “We females strive for beauty, do we not, rather than brains? If I do not look intelligent, ma’am, it is safe to assume I am not wholly devoid of countenance.” Then she rather regretted having spoken, for the dowager’s keen black eyes appraised her, running over her features one by one. Ottilia bore the scrutiny without comment, but was chagrined to feel warmth rising in her cheeks. It was a long time since anyone had troubled about her appearance.

  “Well, you’re no beauty,” pronounced her employer at last, “but you’ve got good bone structure and bone structure is everything. Can’t abide the pudding-faced creatures with pug noses and mouths like a bow that pass for beauties these days. Cheekbones are most necessary if a face is to have any character at all. That and eyes. You can discover a great deal from eyes.”

  Ottilia inclined her head. “Then I am flattered you do not find me deficient in these particulars.”

  “No, and you’re not deficient in brass, young woman!”

  Ottilia was obliged to laugh. “Oh, pardon me, Lady Polbrook, but not ‘young.’ At close on thirty, I am entitled to a modicum of maturity, surely?”

  “Thirty is young to me, Mrs. Draycott. And as for maturity, age has nothing to do with it. Teresa is close on five and fifty, but she had as well be nineteen for all the common sense she displays. Break a leg, indeed.”

  At this point they suffered an interruption, for which Ottilia could only be thankful. The door to the breakfast parlour opened and a gentleman hastily entered the room unannounced.

  “Forgive my bursting in on you at the breakfast table, ma’am, but —” He broke off, his eyes falling on Ottilia. “Ah. You are not alone.”

  The fact appeared to Ottilia to afford him no little dissatisfaction. In light of the current trend of her conversation with the dowager, she was led to take note of the gentleman’s personable appearance. A lean figure looked to advantage in the prevailing mode of well-fitting cloth coat and breeches. He was not precisely handsome, but there was a lively mobility in the strong-featured face, framed by hair of rich brown tied at the nape. Although he bore a slight resemblance to her employer, his nose was more aquiline than Roman, his lips more full, but he had the same delicate brows over deep dark eyes and the same stubborn tilt at his chin. Ottilia’s gaze swept his cheeks, noting at once the high cheekbones that caused the planes to appear lean — taut even, at this moment, when she judged his whole appearance to be overlaid with anxiety. And distress?

  “It’s only my new companion,” said the dowager, with a gesture Ottilia could not but find dismissive.

  The gentleman came fully into the room and shut the door, his frowning gaze shifting from Ottilia’s face to the dowager’s. “Where is Teresa?”

  The dowager’s brows shot up. “Great heavens, Francis, can you have forgot that I gave her leave to visit her sister?”

  “But I thought she was to return within a week or two.”

  Ottilia inwardly groaned as the dowager once more launched into a recital of her perceived wrongs.

  “I was obliged to direct Jardine to find me someone else,” finished her ladyship, “and this is she.”

  The gentleman struck a hand to his forehead. “Jardine! I should have sent for him at once. Confound it, there is no end to the business!”

  Ottilia gazed at him with growing concern. That some misfortune had occurred could not be doubted. She saw that the dowager was looking astonished, having at last taken in the condition of the gentleman, whom she must guess to be her ladyship’s son. Impulsively, Ottilia stood up. “Pardon me, sir, but I think you are come to convey news of some import to her ladyship. Would you prefer me to withdraw?”

  Taken aback, Francis looked at the woman properly for the first time since his entry into the room. She was a good deal younger than Teresa, although her style of dress suggested otherwise. She looked the part, dowdy and dull in a plain gown of some dark stuff, relieved only by a lace ruffle at the neck. But her features, framed by a cap that showed a mere glimpse of neatly ba
nded hair, were pleasing, if unremarkable. Except for the eyes, which caught his gaze, a look in them of such clear understanding that Francis was startled.

  “You read me aright, ma’am,” he said, summoning the ghost of a smile. “But it makes no matter. The news will undoubtedly be all over town by nightfall, so there is little point in keeping it from you. Besides, you may be of use to my mother.”

  He was interrupted. “What in the world is to do, boy? You look as if all the devils of hell were after you.”

  Francis gave a dry laugh. “They are, ma’am.”

  “Out with it, then. Don’t keep me in suspense.”

  He drew a tight breath. Of all the tasks that had held his attention this morning, this was the one he dreaded most. He was aware of having put it off for as long as possible, but his friend Tretower had more or less taken charge, leaving him free to accomplish it. This companion of his soldiering years had sold out to take up his inheritance but, finding civilian life sadly flat, had raised a local platoon of militia, which made him just the man to be brought in under the present eventuality. Tretower had authority, and Francis trusted him absolutely to do all in his power to hold off officialdom until Randal could be found. Although he could not prevent the coroner’s being called in, particularly since Doctor Pellew had stated his inability to sign the death certificate without this necessity. In a word, the complications were mounting already, but they were as nothing to the awful necessity of apprising his mother of the circumstances.

  Wishing he had fortified himself with another dose of the brandy with which Diplock had thoughtfully provided him, Francis crossed to the table and lifted his mother’s hand, holding it between both his own.

  “I am more distressed than I can say, Mama, to be the bearer of such dreadful tidings.”

  To his dismay, the dowager’s face blanched, and he read the instant fright in her eyes. His grip tightened.

  “Oh, what is it?” Her voice had hoarsened. “Tell me at once. I can bear anything but the horrid thoughts now teeming in my head.”

  There was nothing for it. Francis brought it out flat. “Emily is dead.”

  He heard the sharp intake of breath, saw the quiver cross her face. “No. Oh, poor children. Poor Randal.”

  This was the least of it, and Francis felt acutely the horrid necessity to elaborate on his story. His eyes were fixed on his mother, but in the periphery of his vision he saw the new companion rise and shift around to stand close beside the dowager’s chair. One slim hand went down to his mother’s shoulder. Francis glanced up.

  “Pray prepare yourself, for I am afraid the rest may utterly discompose her.”

  The woman nodded gravely, her gaze moving from his to the dowager again. His mother’s black eyes bored into his.

  “The rest?”

  He drew breath again, steeling himself. “There is no easy way to say this, so I will not attempt to varnish the dreadful truth. Emily was murdered, Mama. Strangled to death. And Randal —” Here he was obliged to pause, a restriction in his throat making it hard to breathe, let alone speak.

  “What about Randal?” A harsh whisper. “Tell me, Fanfan, quickly.”

  Francis cleared his throat, keeping his tone as even as he could. “Randal left the house in the early hours of this morning. He called for his travelling chariot. No one knows where he has gone.”

  For the space of several seconds, the black eyes stared fixedly into his, their expression unreadable. Then his mother withdrew her hand from his protective ones, set her fingers on the tablecloth, and looked blindly at the coffee pot.

  “I don’t believe it.” The harshness was still there, but her voice had strengthened. “I don’t believe it for one moment.”

  Chapter 2

  There was a silence. Francis knew not what to say. He was perfectly aware his mother was referring to the possibility of his brother having murdered his wife. He wished he might share her conviction, but his own faith was severely shaken. The second, more prolonged examination he had made before locking the fatal room and going to his chamber to dress had served to cast doubt in his mind. Emily’s wounds were such as to suggest the application of brute force. Someone, and a man without doubt, for a woman’s fingers could not have inflicted such damage, had gripped her around the neck and held the grip until the life was forced out of her. There had been intent behind the act, that much was certain.

  Francis could not be blind to the tension of his brother’s marriage. There had been disputes for years, more so lately. He had remarked it particularly since the family’s return to Town for the October sessions. And now Randal was gone without a trace. Was one expected to take his departure as merely coincident with the murder of his wife? God knew he did not want to believe his brother capable of such an act! But the facts could not but point in that direction.

  Movement behind his mother’s chair drew his eyes. The companion took up the coffee pot and shook it. Absently, as if her motions offered some distraction from the painful realities of the day, Francis watched her cross to the bellpull and tug upon it. When she turned, she caught his gaze, and smiled.

  “I think we shall all be the better for a fresh pot of coffee.” Ottilia held out her hand as she returned toward the table. “We might as well observe the civilities, do you not think? I am Mrs. Draycott, Ottilia Draycott.”

  The gentleman looked bemused, but he took her hand. “Yes, forgive me. I should have presented myself long since.”

  “My dear sir, pray don’t disturb yourself on my account. You have far too much on your plate to be thinking of inconsequential things. But do let me know how I should address you. I cannot be calling you Francis.”

  A faint smile briefly lightened the worry in his face. “It would not trouble me if you did.” He gave a little bow. “Lord Francis Fanshawe, ma’am, entirely at your service.”

  “Thank you, my lord, but I am sure you are fully occupied elsewhere, and I shall do very well without any service.”

  He laughed at that, and Ottilia was pleasantly surprised to see the change in him engendered by even this tiny lift of spirits. His whole countenance lit, and a smile in the dark brown eyes struck a chord in her she had long believed had ceased to exist. The realisation made her look quickly away, and seeing the dowager still sitting in an attitude of silent distress, she recalled her duty with a twinge of conscience.

  The door opened to admit the housemaid, and Ottilia put in her request for fresh coffee. When the girl had departed with the pot, she resumed her seat and gestured to Lord Francis to take the one next to his mother on the other side of the table. He did so, and Ottilia saw his attention had returned to the dowager.

  “Forgive me, Mama. I had no choice but to tell you.”

  Lady Polbrook made a faint motion of her head. “You did right.”

  There was a tremor in her tone and Ottilia noted her fingers tighten, the knuckles going white. She reached over and laid a hand on the dowager’s nearest one.

  “The first shock is always numbing,” she said gently. “You will find you can think clearly again presently.”

  A pair of wan black eyes shifted to find Ottilia’s. “I can think clearly now, and I don’t like anything I am thinking.”

  “I don’t blame you,” Ottilia agreed. She glanced across at Lord Francis. “Painful though it may be, I daresay it may help to tell your mother everything you know. One’s imagination is apt to supply far worse than the truth, don’t you find?” From his expression, the suggestion appeared to horrify Lord Francis.

  “I should think the bare facts are quite sufficient at this juncture.”

  The tone was decidedly acid, and Ottilia eyed him with interest. “Dear me, sir, am I to take that for a reproof?”

  He flushed darkly, a frown appearing between his brows. “I beg your pardon, but if you are suggesting I should distress my mother further with a description of —”

  “Tell me it all.” The dowager’s voice had strengthened and her countenance showed deter
mination as she turned to face her son.

  The look he flashed Ottilia must have crushed her, had she been of a less hardy disposition. She met it with as bland an expression as she could contrive, merely raising her brows in mute question. His jaw tightened, and Ottilia guessed he was keeping his temper with an effort. She ventured a tiny sympathetic smile. “You are having a trying day, are you not?”

  Something very like a snort escaped Lord Francis. “An understatement, ma’am.”

  “You will feel a great deal better for getting it off your chest.”

  At that, he gave vent to a muttered oath. “How old do you take me for?”

  Ottilia laughed. “Did I sound like a governess? You must pardon me, sir, for I have only lately begun to learn how to address myself to adults. But the principle holds nevertheless. It never does to keep one’s feelings bottled up.”

  At this point, the dowager entered the lists. “I wish to hear no more of this. If we are to talk of age, let me remind you, boy, I have lived far more years than either of you and I can stand a knock or two. Do you suppose me to be made of sugar?”

  Lord Francis sighed out a defeated breath. “I am outnumbered. Since you will have it so, I will relate all there is to tell. Lord knows it is little enough!”

  “Before you begin, sir,” Ottilia cut in, “let me be quite clear, if I may. Have I understood correctly that Emily is — or rather was — the current Marchioness of Polbrook?”

  “Was,” he repeated dully. “What a hideous word that is.”

  “Only in that particular connection. One must strive not to place significance upon such things.” His eyes narrowed, as if he did not relish her comment, but he refrained from responding to it. “And Randal, I take it,” she pursued, “is the marquis?”