Amanda Scott (19 page)

“I should have thought he would want to avoid such gossip quite as much as you would,” Manningford said.

“But his attitude was protective, you see, even avuncular, so the pressure would have been applied to me rather than to him. People tend to take him at his own valuation of himself, you see, and since no one at home perfectly understands what happened, or why my father took his life, they would be likely to think Jarvis rather noble for taking it upon himself to look after Highgate and me until Nigel returns. They might also think he was being rather big about it into the bargain—for you can be sure the wager and its result are well known in our county.”

“Had you no one to support you?”

“No. Some of our neighbors have been very kind, of course, but there was no one to whom I could turn but Aunt Flavia.”

“Well, the man appears to be an encroaching knave,” Manningford said, relaxing a little, “but there is nothing in what you have said to prove wickedness or evil. Certainly not on a level with your duke,” he added with a teasing smile.

She blushed. “I concede that the duke bears a slight resemblance to Jarvis. I gave him similar characteristics, which I have since, on my great-aunt’s advice, attempted to disguise a little, but I must tell you, sir, that though I do not really believe Jarvis murdered his own father or mine, I do believe he is responsible for Papa’s death and for Nigel’s exile, and nothing that anyone can say will make me believe differently.”

“Then we must set about proving it,” Manningford said.

Her eyes opened wide. “Proving it?”

“Yes, of course.”

Mr. Lasenby agreed. “Nothing else to do, ma’am. Can’t expect a magistrate to know what the fellow’s done if we can’t show him, now can we?”

“No, of course not, but I cannot think for a moment how we might prove such a thing. You may be sure that he has covered his tracks, if indeed there were any to cover.”

Manningford said thoughtfully, “I think Bygrave might be considered to have been a track, you know, and he is now covered by six feet of good English soil.”

Nell stared at him. “Mr. Bygrave?”

He nodded. “You say you are certain that your brother would not have fired his pistol before time.”

“Never.”

“Then the only alternative is that someone else fired that shot. It would have been a relatively simple matter, you know, for everyone, as you say, was either three parts drunk or asleep, and, moreover, was expecting to hear a shot and to see someone fall. Half the difficulty of setting up a lark is to make people believe what you want them to believe. If they are predisposed to believe most of it before you begin, the rest is easy.”

“But would not a second shot have been heard, even if people did not know precisely what had happened?”

“Good Lord, no,” he said. “In closed quarters like a clubroom, reverberations of one shot might have sounded like half a dozen, and there is no saying but that both your brother’s pistol and Bygrave’s might have discharged when that first shot was fired. Reflex, you know, from just being startled. In fact, your brother’s must have done so. Anyone, even ape-drunk, would have been bound to notice if his gun hadn’t been fired at all. At all events, there would have been a vast amount of confusion.”

“You sound as though you have had firsthand experience.”

“He has,” Mr. Lasenby informed her with a grin. “Never was used to be able to hit the broad side of a barn, don’t you know, but that never stopped him, particularly. And in the past five or ten years, he’s become a crack shot. A friend of his—”

“Sydney Saint-Denis,” Manningford said gently. “Always told me that if I was going to learn to do a thing at all, I ought to learn it thoroughly. People take Sydney for a fop, but there’s a deal more to the man than meets the eye. He’s damned competent with a pistol, for one thing, and he’s got a few other tricks he learned the two years he lived in China that would curl your hair. He’s taught me one or two of them, but I don’t flatter myself that I’m anywhere near as clever as old Sydney is.”

“Can shoot, though,” Mr. Lasenby said loyally. “Sure as I stand here, Miss Bradbourne—well, sit here,” he amended, “Bran can shoot the pips out of any playing card you’d care to name. Been challenged to two duels, too. In the first, he nicked a silver button off his opponent’s coat. Poor fellow promptly deloped. Never occurred to him Bran hadn’t meant to do it.”

“And the second?” Nell prompted, darting a glance at Manningford who appeared to have fallen into a brown study.

“Well, that wasn’t so impressive,” Mr. Lasenby admitted. “Fact was that Bran had stayed up all the night before, playing cards, and when he got to the ground before his opponent did, he just laid down under a tree and went to sleep. Fellow showed up, declared that if Bran was so calm about the whole thing that he could just doze off, waiting, he’d be damned if he’d fight him, so he woke him up and apologized for the whole.”

Nell chuckled, but Manningford did not appear to notice, so at last, she said, “Have you fallen asleep again, sir?”

He started, looking surprised. “Fallen asleep? Of course not. I have been thinking what we must do next. Sep and I can look into that business at the Bees-waxers’, but we must also arrange to meet this precious cousin of yours, and I haven’t a notion how to do that without setting him to thinking. Is he a member of the club? Very often a man does join his father’s clubs, and you said he was there the night in question.”

She frowned. “I have not the least notion. He is as much a gamester as his father was, for I remember that Papa and Nigel were used to wonder where either of them came by the amounts they claimed to have lost at the tables. We could only suppose that the rents at Crosshill were greater than one would suspect and that Reginald’s steward there was something of a magician. But he was in Bath that night only because he accompanied Nigel to look at the betting book and talk to Bygrave. He rarely visits here, I think, for he prefers London and though he says he is here now on business, anything relating to Crosshill or Highgate would be done in Salisbury or Trowbridge, so that must be a fudge, and he is here only to plague me.”

“Then you must introduce us,” Manningford said. “I can judge better how to bring him into the open if I know him than if I must go by guess.”

“Well,” Nell said thoughtfully, “if we are to attend a concert or some such thing in a party, I can arrange for Jarvis to accompany Aunt Flavia and me and you can ask your friend Mr. Saint-Denis and his wife. That way I can see the sights and you can meet Jarvis. I don’t much care for encouraging his attention in such a way, but will that not answer, sir?”

“A casual meeting would be better,” he said, smiling at her, “but we cannot expect him to cooperate, I suppose.”

They might have discussed the point longer had Lady Flavia not entered the room just then, having returned from paying her calls. Delighted to see the gentlemen, she demanded to know what Manningford thought of Nell’s latest work, and it was not long after that before she was in possession of all the facts of their recent discussion, and Nell found herself with an ally.

“It will not do for her to invite Jarvis to make one of a party,” Lady Flavia said firmly, “and you must not think you will get to know him in only one meeting. If I know anything about him, he will be all pomp and ceremony, too concerned with making a good impression to let his true character show.” She thought for a moment. “I believe you ought to set yourselves to show Nell about a bit. Seeing more of town life, even in Bath, will help her finish that novel, and it will encourage Jarvis to make a nuisance of himself at the same time. He will do so, mark my words, particularly if he comes to believe—as he surely will—that one of you is making Nell the object of your attention. I promise you, he won’t like that notion at all.”

Nell was not altogether certain how she felt about it, either, for it was all too obvious that her great-aunt expected more to come of her plan than a simple chance to introduce the gentlemen to each other.

T
HEY PUT THEIR PLAN
into action at once when it was discovered that a concert was to be held that very night at the upper Assembly Rooms. These rooms were considered to be the finest in all Europe, and when they arrived, Nell found it easy to imagine the magnificent, hundred-foot-long ballroom filled with dancers in place of the benches set out for the concert.

The performance itself was mediocre, and there had been no time to arrange a party, so neither she nor Lady Flavia objected when the two gentlemen suggested a walk to look at the two card rooms and the tea room. Having fortified themselves in the latter with tea and sweet biscuits, they strolled on through the “corridors of scandal,” those long halls surrounding the main suite of rooms, where ladies of an earlier era had retired from the ballroom to exchange tales and tattle. There were no such persons there now, only a few stragglers like themselves, and one latecomer emerging from a chair that had been carried inside.

They did not see Jarvis at the concert, but upon returning to Laura Place, they were informed by Sudbury that he had called and had expressed disappointment at finding the ladies from home.

The following day, Nell’s interview with Sir Mortimer went more easily than she had expected. Instead of being angry that she had altered his book, as she had thought he might be, he actually seemed grateful that she had attempted to improve it. His appearance appalled her, however, for since she last had seen him, his condition had deteriorated so much that despite Manningford’s having warned her what to expect, she had all she could do not to express her dismay at seeing his complexion so gray, his eyes so sunken, his face gaunt and drawn.

She greeted him as cheerfully as she was able, and as she removed the manuscript pages from her satchel, she added for lack of anything else to say, “I am told that your daughter is coming to visit you, sir. You will be pleased to have her home again.”

His reply being no more than a grunt, she looked up to see that his gaze was fixed upon the pages in her hand. She sighed. “You want me to get on with reading, I suppose, but I must tell you, sir, I am terrified to hear what you will say. Pray do not let me read on and on if you detest what I have done, and I shall try not to be offended by any criticism you offer.” She glanced at Borland, who had taken his customary place near the window and was glad when he nodded and smiled at her encouragingly.

Sitting down at once, she began to read. She had a good reading voice and generally enjoyed reading aloud, but her throat felt tight and her voice had a tendency to quaver. When she had read for some minutes undisturbed, she looked up to see that Sir Mortimer was leaning back against his pillows with his eyes shut. Fearing that he had dozed off, she faltered, but when his eyes quickly opened again, she went on reading more confidently.

Not until she reached the part about the gentlemen’s club did he attempt to interrupt her, groaning his protest, but by then she was able to look up and smile at him. “I know, sir. Mr. Manningford has already informed me that even an idiot would guess that I have never set foot in such a club; however, he has promised to describe one to me—the Bees-Waxers’ here in Bath, as a matter of fact—so that I can make the necessary alterations. We cannot call it the Bees-Waxers’ in your book, of course, but if we can discover how that name came to be, perhaps we can make up another name in a similar fashion. We could call it the Old Bores’ Club, of course, though since you were used to be a member, I daresay you would not agree to that.”

Sir Mortimer made some gravelly noises in his throat, and his shoulders began to shake, and although neither his mouth nor voice seemed to wish to obey him, she realized he was laughing, and grinned at him. “I hope you are not laughing at me, sir, although I expect it is no such thing and you are only congratulating yourself on having had the good sense to avoid a club with such an infelicitous reputation.”

His eyes atwinkle, he nodded. Then, after a long moment and a visible struggle with his disability, he mumbled, “’Ees.”

“Yes,” Nell said gently. “The Bees’ Hive, or just the Bees is the true name, Mr. Manningford told me. Very odd, I thought.”

“’Nitials.” Frustration clouded his face when he saw that she did not at once comprehend what he was attempting to tell her. He shifted awkwardly on the pillows and turned his head a little, then drew a heavy breath and repeated, “’Nitials.”

“I …” Nell looked at Borland. “I do not understand him, Borland. Do you?”

“I believe he is attempting to inform you that the club you mention was not originally intended to be mistaken for an apiary, miss.” When his master relaxed against the pillows again, he went on, “As I recall it, the place—more than twenty-five years ago, this would be—was known as the Avon Club, for the street it was on as well as for the river. But then the lower part of Avon Street became notorious as a back slum, and there was a scandal when it was found that the club was being run as a gaming hell, so the new owners—several of them, I believe there were—decided to change the name. As I recall it, there was dissension of some sort, and in the end they resorted to their initials. Perhaps the dispute had grown out of which name to put first, or perhaps they thought it better that their names not be widely known.”

“Who were they?” Nell asked curiously.

“Now, that I cannot tell you,” Borland said, “Members, possibly, for ’tis not unheard of for one or two to buy into such a club, though still not considered quite the thing, you know. And, of course, several of the names, at least, must have begun with the letter B. Many names begin so, of course—my own in fact,” he added with a glint of humor, “though I assure you, miss, I should not lower myself to such a pitch. But it all happened so long ago, you see, and my memory, though competent, is not what it was used to be. The master might remember more. A right wonderful memory he’s got.”

Sir Mortimer was watching Nell, and when she looked at him, he shook his head, but she did not care just then whether he could recall the names in question, for a notion had entered her mind the moment Borland had begun to explain the matter, and her imagination had begun to spin. A villain, she decided, might accomplish much if, with regard to some of his ventures at least, he were known only by his initials.