Barbara Metzger (15 page)

It was too chancy for Graydon to be smuggling Uncle Albert into the baron’s own town house by the light of day, or even after dark if any neighbors were about. The major might have done it sooner, carried the baron home as though he’d found him drunk somewhere. No one would question such a common event in Uncle Albert’s life. But not even Gray could get away with such a thing now, and even if he did, no one would believe the baron had died a natural death, finding him in a barrel. Or bent over double. Ohlman was of the opinion that Uncle Albert might not straighten out again for three or four days, if ever. The very last thing they needed was a murder inquiry.

“So what now?” Daphne asked. “It’s too bad we can’t toss him overboard like a burial at sea. But we cannot just dump him on the side of the road. Miles would have a fit.”

“And it matters what Miles thinks?” Graydon wasn’t teasing anymore, but Daphne ignored his lowered brow. He had no right to ask such a personal question, and she did not want to think about her answer.

“It matters if Miles finds Uncle Albert under a bush somewhere. Besides, it would be wrong. I mean, hiding him for a while is one thing; never getting him into the family plot is another. Oh, I wish we’d never got into this!”

“What about the wedding, then? I thought you believed your mother’s happiness depended on delaying the baron’s official demise.”

Daphne swallowed her fears. “I did. I do.”

Ohlman nodded approvingly and opened the icehouse door.

While Graydon and Ohlman struggled with the cask, his lordship went on: “Besides, you make it sound like we’ve sunk into a life of crime. You’ve been listening to Prosy Pomeroy too long, my girl. Buck up, I have a better idea.”

Ohlman allowed as how Major Howell’s strategy might work. Daphne thought Gray was so brilliant, he should be running the war effort instead of Wellington. She almost threw her arms around him in excitement and relief, but she caught herself before she embarrassed both of them. They were not on such familiar terms, not by half, and she had to keep it that way. He was doing this for his father’s benefit, Daphne reminded herself. And he was still an unprincipled libertine. Uncle Albert secured to the back, Gray stole a quick kiss before he climbed into his curricle, proving her point. She wished him a sincere Godspeed anyway.

After the major left, Daphne waited for her mother to come down, feeling that she really had to discuss recent events with Mama. Lady Whilton ought to be informed about Uncle Albert and their plans for him—especially since the plans couldn’t be changed now whether she approved or not. Otherwise Daphne was as guilty as Lord Hollister of going behind Mama’s back, even if Lady Whilton had been flat on that same back in bed, in her laudanum-induced stupor.

When her mother did not come down, Daphne went up to her mother’s room. They were going to be late for church soon, and then she’d have to wait for later to have a private conversation, after Miles had come and gone.

Before she reached Mama’s room, she saw Lord Hollister coming out of that selfsame door, in a burgundy velvet robe and slippers. Daphne ducked quickly back to her own room before he spotted her, spotting him. No, she could never make her home with those two. At least Lord Hollister’s presence in the family wing resolved one question: the wedding was on, the banns were going to be called, whether Mama was ready or not.

Daphne didn’t suppose Mama was ready to discuss her unlamented and uninterred brother-in-law either.

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” Ah, Daphne thought, if the vicar only knew…

*

Miles came for lunch after church, as he usually did. Graydon’s innuendos taking effect, Daphne started thinking how Miles most often appeared at mealtime. Yes, he was a trifle pouchy near the jowls, but he was fit, not flabby, although he did have to loosen a waistcoat button after Cook’s excellent vol-au-vents.

Miles was just a good trencherman, Daphne told herself, and he was older than Gray. That made it harder to keep trim, she understood, no matter how active the man was. Furthermore, Miles was too busy for the idle exercises of the town bucks, boxing and such. She shook herself to stop making excuses for her country neighbor. Miles was an upstanding man, a conscientious landlord, a suitor to be proud of even if he was no Bond Street beau. And he was understanding, too. He’d better be, because she had to tell him about Uncle Albert so he’d call off the search.

Chapter Fifteen

Sometimes a good meal can make bad news more palatable. Not this time. Daphne’s confession that, not only had they recovered Uncle Albert without notifying the local magistrate, but they’d already removed the evidence, did not sit well atop mulligatawny soup, eels in aspic, fricassee of lamb, and custard pudding.

She had no trouble getting Miles alone after the meal, the two older ladies retiring for naps, and Mama and the earl retiring for heaven knew what. Mama was so distracted, she didn’t even question her daughter’s unchaperoned state. Of course, Daphne was no schoolroom miss, and Miles was too decent to take advantage; everyone knew that. Not even proper Ohlman blinked twice when Daphne suggested a walk in the gardens after luncheon.

Daphne hated to do it, cut up this good man’s peace in such a way, but she saw no alternative. He couldn’t be permitted to waste his days searching haystacks for a needle that was safely found
.
Waiting to tell Miles until after Graydon was long gone seemed even worse, more devious than the act of moving Uncle Albert in the first place. At least she felt more guilty about using Miles in this shady way. It did not bode well for the open, trusting, mutually respectful relationship she craved. Instead it smacked of manipulation, of managing him for her own ends rather than considering his wishes.

Right now Miles was wishing for his usual midday nap. He was also wishing he’d never laid his eyes and his hopes on Miss Daphne Whilton. She was a fetching piece, all right, in peach muslin with trailing ribbons, and her dowry was considerable and her connections were impeccable. Married to a baron’s daughter, b’gosh. He never thought to rise so high. And if this proposed wedding came off, he could be the next thing to son-in-law to an earl.

On the other hand, he might be caught up in a horrid scandal, forced to resign his cherished post as magistrate, humiliated before his friends and neighbors. His father would suffer a relapse; his mother would go into a decline. Miles looked at Daphne and saw, not the poised and polished lady who captivated half of London, but the hobbledehoy urchin who used to follow Graydon Howell around, falling into one scrape after another. Now she was dragging him into her mingle-mangles, too.

Miles prized his reputation and his position, especially since he lived in a neighborhood of wealthy aristocrats. Usually the office of justice of the peace went to the richest landlord, the highest title. The Earl of Hollister could have been magistrate for the asking, but he preferred city life and national politics. Daphne’s father had in fact held the local laws in his capable hands before Miles’s father the squire took over at his death. Thank heavens the recent baron had shown no interest in presiding at shire affairs.

Miles did, and he did the job well. His even-handedness was well known, his diligence was commended by peer and peasant alike. His precinct was almost devoid of crime until this recent spate of chickens missing from yards, hams pilfered from smokehouses—and dead bodies. Now his honor, his impartiality, was severely compromised.

He didn’t see the glorious spring day or the budding flowers; he saw his consequence crumbling into dust.

“You have placed me in a deucedly awkward position, Miss Whilton.”

“Yes, sir, I realize that, and I truly would not have had there been any choice. I felt that keeping you in the dark was somehow worse.”

Sometimes the darkness was a comforting place. “Worse? What could be worse than obstructing justice? Don’t you realize that all of you could be clapped in gaol for this ill-advised prank?”

“Prank? I assure you, sir, this was no prank. And I do not believe any crime was committed, whose solution could be obstructed.” Daphne was getting annoyed now, that Miles was being so unrelentingly stiff. Uncle Albert wasn’t this rigid. She marched back and forth in front of Miles, as if her agitation could make him understand. “We merely removed my uncle’s remains to prepare them for burial.”

“You purposely hid a dead body, for heaven’s sake!” Miles found himself shouting. He could envision his hopeful future with Miss Whilton and her dowry going the way of his reputation, so he tried to moderate his tones and his temper. “That is, you thought you were acting for the best, I’m sure.”

Daphne stopped her pacing and sank down on a bench under a lilac bush. “No one was hurt, Miles, and it’s done. Give over, do. You are not to blame; you knew nothing about it. And the only one who could possibly care is that weasel Terwent.”

Miles was trying to let himself be convinced, he really was. He sat beside her on the bench, blinking. “I suppose a family does have the right to select a mortician. But London?”

“No one does cremations in the country.”

He groaned. “And why the deuce did the baron have to be cremated if there was nothing to hide, like a bullet wound or a broken neck? The gossip-mongers will surely have a party over that one.”

Daphne was well primed. “He was cremated because we were afraid of disease. My uncle was ailing, you know. The doctors were not certain of the cause. Cremation is the safest precaution in these cases.”

“Fine, but why are you not telling anyone else, if this is all so aboveboard?”

“Because we don’t want the boys to hear about their father’s death secondhand,” she replied promptly.

“The boys? Your cousins?” Miles was incredulous. “You’re the only one who remembers that Albert was their father. I doubt they care one way or the other, if they even recognize him.”

“Still, it’s only proper they be notified first. Eldart will be baron now. That has to be monumental, and we do not wish him to be besieged by hangers-on until his guardianship is legalized.”

Miles took time to wonder about that guardianship. A minor baron with vast resources…and Daphne his closest relative if one discounted her mother, who’d be in London with the earl. “I suppose that might wash, excusing the delay, that is. When do you propose telling the heir?”

“As soon as the boys get here next week. They’ve already left school with their tutor, en route home for the wedding, you see, so we decided there was no rush. Cremation cannot be done overnight, you know.”

He didn’t. He didn’t suppose cremating a body would take the two weeks until that wedding either, but somehow suspected it would, with Howell pulling the strings. “That’s all well and good to tell the children, but what about Terwent? The fellow is dashed persistent.”

“If he calls again, I’ll direct him to London. I’m sure Uncle Albert is there by now.”

“And when he doesn’t find his employer there, he’ll go straight to Bow Street. Those chaps aren’t going to be nearly as easy to convince as I am.”

Miles hadn’t been easy at all. Daphne could feel a damp spot on the back of her gown. She turned to pick a stem of lilacs. She took a deep, calming breath of the fragrance. She hoped they’d last until the wedding. “Bow Street will understand that the baron’s family did not see the need to consult a servant about the disposition of his body.”

“But there wasn’t any body,” Miles persisted. “How are you going to explain how the baron got to London, Miss Whilton, and how come that jackanapes Howell delivered him to the mortician?”

Gray might be a jackanapes, but Daphne reserved the right to call him that for herself. “Graydon Howell has been a friend of the family forever, sir, and I’ll beg you to remember that. If he heard rumors while he was in London on business that the baron had been taken ill somewhere, of course he would lend what assistance he could. As for how and when and where and why, that is no one’s business.” Daphne was proud. Cousin Harriet couldn’t have done better in depressing pretensions. Of course, Miles was correct—he usually was, in his prosy way—there could be embarrassing questions. Gray had given his assurance that he’d take care of everything, so she could only pray he was right. He usually was, too, as in his pointing out that Miles was developing considerable
embonpoint.
Unless her starchy suitor was wearing two sets of clothes, he was gaining weight. “And isn’t it time you stopped calling me Miss Whilton, Miles?”

Not when she stuck her nose in the air like a duchess, it wasn’t. If Daphne wasn’t happy with her suitor at this moment, he wasn’t happy with her, either. “It wouldn’t be proper,” was all he said, as if they hadn’t been having the most wildly improper and implausible discussion of his life. “I cannot sign the death certificate, you know, if I have not examined the body.”

“Of course not, Miles. I would not ask you to.” She ignored his sigh of relief to go on: “All I’m asking is that you not tell anyone that Uncle Albert is dead. You could just say you are investigating, which you are. After all, as you say, you’ve not seen him since you brought him here, and without proof…”

Miles was happy enough to jump on that suggestion. The whole thing was too smoky by half, and the least said, the better. Besides, no rational person would believe the story anyway, disappearing bodies and such. Which reminded him, “That still leaves the question of who removed the baron from the icehouse.”

“But they brought him right back. Likely it was some of the servants—we’ve taken new ones on, you know, for the company—who thought it was a barrel of ale. They returned the barrel as soon as they realized the mistake. It wasn’t your dire chicken thieves, Miles.”

*

The chicken made a nice change from rabbit stew. Handy threw in a handful of the herbs and stuff he’d pulled from someone’s kitchen garden. He and Sailor and Sal had visited a farmhouse last night after bringing back the body in the barrel. Sal got the chickens, Handy got the vegetables, and Sailor made away with a shovel and pitchfork, the only things he could find lying around.