Tasha Alexander - A Fatal Waltz

“You can beg anything you’d like,” she said.

I told her, as succinctly as possible, about Mr. Harrison’s threats towards Colin. “Lord Fortescue was able to keep him in check. Can you do the same? You don’t have to tell me how, just please, please stop him.”

She shook her head, her eyes lowered. “He never showed me what he had on Harrison. It was too sensitive even for my eyes. I’m sorry. You’ll have to hope your fiancé is capable of avoiding the worst. I know Harrison’s methods well enough to be afraid for you.”

“I never suspected you ladies of being so debauched,” Jeremy said. “Drinking port in the middle of the afternoon? Hedonistic.”

Margaret and I had returned from Windsor, and we were all in my library at Berkeley Square. Davis had decanted a port for us, and I’d insisted that he returned Philip’s cigars to the room so Margaret could smoke them. He did this not so much because I ordered him to, but because Odette was back in the house. It could never be said that Davis was giddy, but there was an extra crispness in his efficiency today, and I had no doubt what emotion was fueling it.

“It’s never too early for port,” Margaret said.

“You must tell us what you learned in Windsor,” Ivy said. “I can’t say that I’m much fond of Mrs. Reynold-Plympton.”

“Well, I certainly don’t trust her,” Margaret said.

“Nor do I,” I said. “I can’t help but wonder whether Lord Fortescue ever disappointed her. He was quite devoted to her for years and years.”

“And what did his wife think of this?” Cécile asked.

“Which one?” Margaret asked, choosing a cigar from the box. “Not that it matters. I don’t think any of their feelings much concerned him.”

“He wouldn’t have cared, but regardless, she—his second wife, that is—never seemed to mind it in the least,” I said. “After all, the more time he spent with his mistress, the less his wife had to deal with him. As I remember it, theirs was a marriage completely devoid of emotion.”

“A happily matched couple, then?” Margaret asked.

“Apparently.” I held up my glass towards the fire. The tawny liquid glowed in front of it.

“I never would have guessed ladies could be so cynical,” Jeremy said, lighting a cigar. “I’m astonished. I feel like I’m in possession of an invaluable secret.”

“You are,” Margaret said. “And if you ever disclose it, we’ll murder you.”

“What of Fortescue’s current wife?” Cécile asked.

“Widow. I don’t know her well at all, but she seemed content enough,” I said.

“They’d been married less than a year,” Ivy said. “Certainly she’s grateful to have been returned to her family’s estate, but beyond that, I’ve no idea what her feelings are.” There was no hint of her usual rosy hue left in my friend’s complexion. “I did think it was odd, though, that Mrs. Reynold-Plympton was not at the party. Lord Fortescue always used to make a point of insisting on her presence. Would refuse invitations if she weren’t invited.”

“He was clearly carrying on with Flora Clavell at Beaumont Towers,” I said. “I wonder if Mrs. Reynold-Plympton knows what was going on between them?”

“Oh, I can’t imagine!” Ivy said.

“Of course she knew,” Margaret said. “She would have made it her business to.”

“Margaret is right,” Cécile said.

“You don’t think she was involved in the murder?” Ivy asked.

“She was at the party at Highwater with me,” Jeremy said. “She could have come to Beaumont Towers as easily as I did.”

“I can’t believe she would have harmed him,” Ivy said. “Despite their…immorality…she loved him.”

“Ivy, you are too good,” I said, glancing up at the clock. “I’m off to the Treasury to see Mr. Hamilton.”

“Want me to come with you?” Jeremy asked. “I rather miss skulking about with you on nefarious errands.”

“And I very much enjoyed having you with me, my dear, but it won’t be necessary today,” I said. “Perhaps another time.”

Ivy snapped to attention. “Hamilton! Of course. That’s why it seemed familiar. Isn’t his mother Mr. Reynold-Plympton’s mistress?”

“I thought he was ancient,” Margaret said.

“He is. But you’re right, Ivy. My mother told me that they were childhood sweethearts and weren’t allowed to marry,” I said. “She’s been taking care of him in his old age.”

“Rather sweet, really,” Ivy said. Margaret rolled her eyes.

“Does it matter?” Cécile asked. “Apart from Monsieur Reynold-Plympton being pleased that someone’s tending to his needs as he reaches the age of infirmity? I don’t see how any of it’s relevant to Lord Fortescue’s murder.”

“Perhaps it’s not. Mrs. Reynold-Plympton was awfully quick to give up his name despite her initial refusal,” I said.

“And here I thought it was simply a matter of you cleverly convincing her to trust you,” Margaret said. “I’m crushed.”

“I wasn’t even there, and I’m devastated,” Jeremy said.

“You know I adore your confidence.” I finished my port. “But she set it up beautifully, didn’t she? Made us think that she was telling us something valuable.”

“So you think Hamilton is useless?” Margaret asked.

“I think Mrs. Reynold-Plympton is as capable as anyone of overlooking a significant detail.”

Of course I was distressed more than you can imagine when I heard about Brandon.” Mr. Hamilton’s office in the Treasury was a comfortable one, full of furniture so elegant I would have expected to find it in the chancellor’s room, not a junior minister’s. “We were at university together, you know.”

“I’m more interested in the time you spent together in Vienna,” I said.

“It was so long ago I hardly remember. We toured the Continent after we’d left Oxford—the usual sort of Grand Tour. I suppose Vienna was one of our stops.”

“I’d think the visit would be rather more permanently fixed in your brain. Or have you so frequently witnessed fatal duels that you’re blasé about such things?”

“H-how do you know about that?” Gone was the lazy Oxonian drawl. His voice became rough and lost its confident tone. He picked up a pen and began tapping it on the edge of his desk.

“I’ve just come from Vienna, where I made the acquaintance of a man called Gustav Schröder.” Mentioning his name immediately conjured up the image of his body in the Stephansdom. It was all I could do not to shudder. “His brother was the one killed in the duel.”

“Yes, well, it was a terrible business. Brandon never intended to kill the poor chap.”

“Then perhaps he ought not to have shot him.”

“Of course not. But he was young and hotheaded, and Schröder had insulted a woman of whom he was fond.”

I could not picture Robert Brandon as hotheaded. “He wasn’t arrested, though?”

“No, we fled the country at once. What choice did we have?” Now he was twirling the pen in his hand. “Not an honorable decision, I suppose, but Brandon had his whole life ahead of him. I told him he’d be a fool to stay and face charges. Duels may be illegal, but the fact is, no one’s much concerned with them. He would’ve received little more than a slap on the hand, but that would have been enough to keep him out of public life.”

“So did Lord Fortescue hold your involvement in all this over you?”

“I’m not sure what you mean, Lady Ashton.” He pulled his brows close together and returned the pen to an elaborately carved cup on his desk. “What has Lord Fortescue to do with any of this?”

“He was blackmailing Mr. Brandon over the duel, a fact that will undoubtedly come into play during his trial,” I said. “I wonder if perhaps you, too, were being blackmailed.”