Carrie Bebris - The Deception At Lyme

“Except it now has no master,” St. Clair said. “And somehow I do not think he is going to hire me for the post.”

“Aye, there will be no more sailing under false colors for you,” the admiral said. “But I also hope there is no need.” His pacing had brought him to a shelf upon which Wentworth’s compass rested. He picked it up, contemplating it a moment before turning to face them.

“We are navigating by guess and by God,” he said. “I wish we had more evidence before engaging the enemy—it is St. Clair’s word against the baronet’s as to what occurred in Captain Tourner’s cabin, and Sir Laurence has powerful friends. But we are out of time. I believe that we have enough to arrest Sir Laurence and Mr. Elliot, and to detain them long enough to execute search warrants on their houses. We had just better pray that we find what we expect.”

The admiral set the compass back on the shelf. “If we are mistaken, the investigation is sunk.”

Admiral Croft departed to coordinate with the customs collector and other local authorities the simultaneous arrest of Sir Laurence, Mr. Elliot, and lesser conspirators who could be found in Lyme. Once the ringleaders were apprehended, a telegraphic dispatch would be sent to the Admiralty from the signal house at Lambert’s Castle to initiate the arrests of corrupt officers and conspirators in other ports.

Though Captain St. Clair wanted to accompany him, upon the admiral’s order, he remained at the Wentworths’ home. “We cannot risk your being seen by Sir Laurence or his accomplices,” the admiral told him as they stood in the study doorway. “Your liberty in the wake of Captain Tourner’s murder is as good as a signal flag. Once all is in place, I will come collect you before the warrants are executed. I assure you, Captain—I would not deny you the satisfaction of being present when at last we deliver our broadside.”

Georgiana, meanwhile, rose and went back to the window on the opposite side of the room. Elizabeth followed. She attempted to read her sister-in-law’s expression as she gazed upon the sea, but Georgiana’s face was inscrutable.

“Georgiana?”

Georgiana attempted to draw a deep breath, but it came in the short tugs of one trying to maintain composure. She released it—an equally shaky effort—but managed to hold herself together. “I am the most extraordinary fool.”

“Do not berate yourself so. Sir Laurence deceived everyone, myself and your brother included.”

“But I spent more time with him and Miss Ashford than did anybody else. Of us all, I should have suspected that something about him was not as it seemed.”

“You are not by nature a suspicious person.”

“Perhaps I should be.” She turned from the window, her expression rueful. “At least, when I am near the sea—that is where Mr. Wickham duped me, too.”

“I do not think the sea is to blame. In fact, it seems rather to reveal character—it did in the case of Captain St. Clair.”

Georgiana had not looked at St. Clair since their discussion broke up, but now hazarded a glance in his direction. The admiral having departed, he was talking to Darcy, but both men had half an eye on Georgiana. Upon being caught observing her, St. Clair immediately averted his gaze; Darcy questioned Elizabeth with his. He wanted to know his sister’s state, which Elizabeth silently assured him was sound. Or would be. Captain St. Clair’s expression had also shown concern, though of a less brotherly sort.

“I underestimated Captain St. Clair, as well,” Georgiana said. “All in all, I have not proved myself a very good judge of men.”

“Neither have we. Darcy and I were fairly convinced that St. Clair was involved with Lieutenant Fitzwilliam’s death.”

“But see—you knew there was more beneath the surface. He was involved with Gerard’s death; he has spent years trying to bring the conspirators to justice—while I was daydreaming about a marriage offer from Gerard’s killer.” She shuddered. “Had my wish been granted, I dare not contemplate what my life would have been as Lady Ashford. Captain St. Clair delivered me from more than the sea.”

That gentleman and Darcy were at that moment also discussing the subject of Lieutenant Fitzwilliam’s death.

“As you said earlier, there was more than one future baronet aboard the Magna Carta at the time my cousin died,” Darcy said, “but you never definitively stated which one shot him. Was it Sir Laurence?”

“I wish I could tell you with certainty,” St. Clair replied. “My instincts say it was Sir Laurence, but it could have been either of them. In preparation for battle, the pistol cases were opened, and every man was armed. And as I explained to you before, in the chaos of a boarding action, it is challenge enough to remain aware of all that is happening in one’s immediate surrounds. We are fortunate Lieutenant Fitzwilliam’s death was witnessed by anyone at all.”

Anne Wentworth quit the study, her mission threefold: to ascertain whether Mrs. Smith had yet returned from the Cobb, to order refreshments for her guests, and to check on Alfred. Captain Wentworth asked her to send Mrs. Smith to them if she were indeed home. He then crossed to a tall bookcase and lifted down from a shelf an inlaid box.

“This contains all of Mr. Smith’s papers that his widow turned over to me.”

He brought the box to the table. Captain St. Clair, Darcy, and Elizabeth came over. As Darcy rolled up the map and put it aside, Wentworth opened the box and withdrew the papers. They each took a handful and commenced reading. Georgiana remained by the window, her thoughts too full to read anything closely, and unlikely to become more settled by closer proximity to Captain St. Clair.

Elizabeth read through several letters, including a few from Mr. Elliot. The pile held correspondence from other individuals, as well. One sloppily folded letter—apparently from Mr. Smith’s mother—had at some time come into unfortunate contact with a sticky substance of indeterminate origin. After skimming three full pages of trivial family news—no wonder the Smiths had suffered financial woes, if his mother’s letters were always so voluminous—Elizabeth found stuck to the back of the fourth page a torn fragment from a note in a different hand.

Such proof is regrettable, but there is nothing to be done about it. Fortunately, her spouse is determined not to notice, and yours too naïve to suspect. If it comes to it, she can claim her grandfather or some other long-dead relation had red hair.

Elizabeth reread the lines, then shuffled through the remaining papers in her pile. Darcy interrupted his own reading to question her with a glance.

“I am looking for the other pieces of a torn note,” she explained. “Have you any fragments in your stack?”

Darcy set down the letter he had been perusing and started to riffle through the other papers in front of him. He had not gotten far, however, when Anne Wentworth returned to the study.

“Frederick.” Anne’s face was pale, her voice unsteady. “Alfred is missing.”

Mrs. Logan was in tears.

“I fed him and put him down to sleep. Then I went out—I needed to go to the market, and I thought to perform the errand while he napped. You were all in the study—it seemed like such an important meeting; I did not want to disturb you—I told Mrs. Smith I was going. I expected to return before her chair arrived, but I was delayed—so many people about on market day. When I got back, I went upstairs immediately to check on Alfred—he was not in his cradle—”