Death on a Silver Tray (5 page)

Miss Ashton seemed to shrink at the threat.

The dowager countess appeared on the brink of apoplexy. “And after I took both of you in! She was without skills, so I had to train her! And you had no place to go after that wastrel you called ‘father’ died!”

“Please, my lady,” Miss Ashton begged, obviously humiliated, but maintaining her dignity. “Calm yourself. Let us go home and speak of this. I know you will make a compassionate decision once you have had time to reflect—”

“Reflect!” Lady Wrayburn shrieked. “The only thing I shall be reflecting on is what a fool I was to trust either of you! And who will do my hair now that Lizzie is in disgrace?”

What a vulgar scene. Drawn by the way Miss Ashton fought to maintain her composure while clearly frightened of her employer, I could not stop myself from intervening and moved to stand in front of the countess. “Lady Wrayburn, may I help you to your coach? You seem to be unwell.” Indeed, a severe case of cruelty afflicted her.

“What? Is that you, Brummell? Still leading the Polite World about with your beef-witted ideas on bathing and clean linen? I don’t need any assistance from you. I’m perfectly capable myself. Have to be. I’m surrounded by fools and betrayers!” In a fit of fury, she seized the Madonna and Child sculpture and banged it down on its pedestal.

Mr. Talbot rushed to protect the valuable piece of art.

The dowager countess stamped out of the gallery, cursing her companion and her lady’s maid the entire way.

I stood by watching in frustration. Miss Ashton cast me a swift look of gratitude before following her employer out the door.

“How gothic,” Lord Petersham drawled. “I need a drink. Maybe even a bottle or two. What say you, Brummell? Will you join me at White’s?”

“Yes,” I replied absently.

I do not know why I was so affected by what had happened. Servants are commonly mistreated in London, but Miss Ashton had seemed a gently bred girl. And her azure-colored eyes were divine.

Lord Perry announced his intention of going home and telling Lady Perry about the lute, so it was left to Petersham and me to join our friends at White’s. In the coach on the way over, Petersham kept up a stream of conversation about Lord Sidwell and his collection. I listened and answered appropriately, but my mind was on the scene we had just been treated to.

I could well imagine the sort of life Miss Ashton had to endure at Lady Wrayburn’s hand, considering that the older woman thought nothing of berating the girl in a public place. Even if Lady Wrayburn decided to keep the young miss, her future did not bode well. In time, Miss Ashton’s air of distinction might be crushed. In its place would be a dull, spiritless view of life. I hated to think of beauty being spoiled that way.

What was worse, though, was the more likely result of Miss Ashton being tossed out without a reference. What future would she have then? One on the streets, no doubt. With her looks, she was sure to find a man willing to set her up as his mistress.
If
she would to accept such a fate. The proud set of her shoulders told me she might prefer a final, but high-minded, stroll into the Serpentine River.

And what of the pregnant lady’s maid? Her plight was even more desperate.

The entire episode left me indignant. I wished I could think of a way to help the two women, but a solution failed me. Were there not innumerable females reduced to poverty across England? I could not play knight in shining armor to them all.

Once at White’s we were joined by young Scrope Davies, who should have been hard at his studies at Cambridge but rarely was to be found anywhere near that university. The party grew merry in time, with Scrope relating the details of a horse race he had won a large sum on, but I was restless.

I was not looking forward to tomorrow’s two-hour ride out to Sidwell’s estate either, but there was a posting house on the road which could be counted on to supply me with an excellent meal. That would make my trip more tolerable.

Still, I tossed and turned later during the night and was unusually impatient the next morning when dressing. After struggling with my cravat for almost a quarter of an hour, I dispensed with Robinson’s assistance, much to that man’s mortification.

I heard the knocker sound downstairs and decided that whoever it was would have to be told I was not at home. I must be on my way to Sidwell’s if I wished to return to London by the time of the auction.

Satisfied with my Venice-blue coat, buckskin breeches, and gleaming Hessian boots, I picked up my hat, selected a carved ebony cane from my collection, and closed the door to my bedchamber behind me.

I had almost reached the stairs when Robinson stopped me.

“Sir, one moment, please.”

I held up a restraining hand. “I am not at home to anyone who has had the misfortune to call.” I put my foot on the first step.

“Sir!”

“What is it?” I demanded impatiently, swinging around to face him. “The hired coach is waiting out front.”

Robinson assumed an injured air. “I am sorry to delay you, but thought you might wish to know that her Royal Highness the Duchess of York is in the drawing room.”

I stood thunderstruck. “Good God, man, what is she doing in Town? She rarely leaves Oatlands.” I felt my chest tighten in alarm.

I gave Robinson no chance to reply. I hastened past him and threw open the double doors to the drawing room. There was Frederica, the Royal Duchess herself, seated in a chair. My heart raced.

“Freddie! What in heaven’s name are you doing here? Not that I am anything less than delighted to see you.” I paused only long enough to deposit my hat and stick on a nearby table, then rapidly crossed to her side and bowed.

She rose to clasp both of my outstretched hands. We stood like that for a moment looking at one another. She is a small, dignified lady in her thirties. Her brown curly hair was held back from her face with a pale green silk bandeau which matched her gown. A few tendrils of hair framed her face, the rest fell to her shoulders. Her normally serene countenance was marred by worry.

“Oh, George,” she said in her sweet, light voice. “I am much distressed.”

“Please sit down,” I said, indicating a chintz-covered sofa. I took the place next to her, apprehension filling me at this unprecedented visit. I often spend weekends at Freddie’s country estate, Oatlands, but she has never come to my rooms. This is, after all, a bachelor’s residence. And I had just had her letter telling me of the new puppies and her prediction that she would be a busy lady this week. “Tell me what is wrong, Freddie.”

“Forgive my manners, George. I know I should be complimenting you on this enchanting room—”

“Never mind that now!” I blurted. “Are you ill? No, I can see you are the picture of beauty and health.”

That brought a tremulous smile. “You are always the perfect gentleman.”

“Do you need tea? A glass of sherry, perhaps?”

“No, thank you, dear. I shall tell you the news straightaway. Lady Wrayburn is dead!”

I am uncertain what I had expected, but it was not this. Confusion was my first emotion. “I am afraid I do not understand, Freddie. I saw the lady yesterday, and she had plenty of life in her, let me tell you. Was it her heart?”

Before the Royal Duchess could reply, I muttered, “Forget that. The woman had no heart. Recollect the time you rescued that old hound she ordered shot because his bad hip made him limp?”

“I remember it well, but listen to me, George. The countess was murdered!”

My eyebrows rose incredulously. “Murdered? By whom?”

“That is the problem. The police office at Bow Street think Miss Ashton, her companion, poisoned her. But I know, George, I simply
know
that cannot be true. You see,” she ended on a soft wail, “I recommended Miss Ashton for her position with the countess, because I knew her father.”

“Good God, Freddie,” I managed to utter.

“People will talk about how I gave my approval to her character, and there could be a scandal. But more importantly, what will happen to Miss Ashton? I cannot stand by and do nothing. That is why you must help me ... and Miss Ashton.”

“Freddie, I am Beau
Brummell
, not Bow
Street
. What can I do?”

“There is only one thing to be done, George. Find out who really killed Lady Wrayburn.” Her Royal Highness turned the full force of her compelling blue eyes on me.

Alas, I never have been able to deny her anything.

Chapter Four

“Freddie, how can you be sure Miss Ashton did not murder Lady Wrayburn?”

“George!” the Royal Duchess cried, drawing her head back and looking at me askance. Sitting next to her, I could feel the outrage emitting from her.

Thankfully, at that moment Robinson entered the room bearing a tea tray. Excellent timing, I thought. Another minute and Freddie might have left in high dudgeon, never to see me or write to me again. A fate I could not endure.

As it was, several moments passed while Robinson carefully placed a plate of tiny cakes within Freddie’s easy reach, and she poured the tea. The entire time he was in the room, Robinson smiled at her. He did not make as if to leave until he was certain her every comfort had been seen to. I nodded to him gratefully, and he so unbent from his pique at my earlier curt treatment of him that he spared a strained smile for me.

After Robinson left, I said, “Now, pray do not fly up into the boughs, my princess. My asking about Miss Ashton’s possible guilt was a necessary question.”

Freddie sat in composed silence, her cup and saucer untouched on her lap, a look of frozen hauteur on her face. Not even the use of my pet name for her induced her to thaw.

I placed my teacup on the table and flung out my hands in a helpless gesture. “Very well then. If you must know, when I saw the two of them yesterday at Talbot’s Art Gallery, Lady Wrayburn treated those present to quite a scene. Miss Ashton apparently kept a secret from her mistress about one of the other servants. The lady’s maid is—how shall I say this delicately?—in a family way.”

“No,” Freddie gasped, her teacup rattling as she set it down.

“Yes. Lady Wrayburn threatened to throw both women out of the house. Her tongue was sharp enough to slice a marble statue. But I suppose you would have me believe she died of a disorder of the digestive organs.”

Freddie stood, and I immediately followed suit.

“George,” she said, her tone admonitory. “I know what kind of woman the countess was. But I assure you Miss Rebecca Ashton could not possibly have murdered Lady Wrayburn. You see, Miss Ashton is the daughter of a viscount. She would never forget her breeding and manners to such an extent that she would be involved in something as vulgar as murder.”

Freddie can be very much the
grande dame
when she chooses.

“Ah, a viscount’s daughter. I did not know. Of course you are right then. Miss Ashton could not have been involved,” I assured her, and we resumed our places on the sofa. Freddie apparently missed my tone of irony and appeared mollified by my sensibility to Miss Ashton’s upbringing.

But privately I remembered the ugly scene at the gallery. Could anyone who witnessed the cruel way Lady Wrayburn had treated her companion, and the threats she had made to toss the girl out on the street, doubt that Miss Ashton, or anyone in her circumstances, could be driven to murder, aristocratic background or no? I hoped Freddie’s assessment of Miss Ashton’s character would prove correct.

“Now that we have established Miss Ashton’s innocence,” Freddie said, her voice once again its normal sweet, light tone, “I can tell you it was Lady Wrayburn’s evening glass of milk which was somehow poisoned and subsequently caused her death.”

Dash it! Worse and worse! I raised a hand to my brow. “Did Miss Ashton personally give her the milk?”

Freddie heaved a sigh. “I suppose she did, George. She was Lady Wrayburn’s companion and it was most likely her duty. Although it is possible the lady’s maid brought it up to her. I have not spoken with Miss Ashton yet, you see, because I came here first to enlist your help.”

The skeptical expression on Freddie’s lovely face clearly implied she doubted her judgment in doing so. It caused me to feel a pang of guilt. “You had best tell me everything you know. To begin with, how did you find out about the murder?”

Freddie reached into the pale green silk reticule which hung by a satin cord from her wrist. She pulled out a folded sheet of parchment and handed it to me. “A messenger brought this to Oatlands.”

The letter was written in a precise hand and dated in the small hours of the morning.

May it please Your Royal Highness, I write this letter on behalf of my friend, Miss Ashton. It grieves me to be the bearer of bad tidings, but Miss Ashton’s employer, Lady Wrayburn, has been called home to her Maker this very night. Miss Ashton sent word to me, not only for spiritual comfort for herself, but also because I am the rector of Lady Wrayburn’s parish.

Unfortunately, the doctor tells us the older lady was helped on her journey by some sort of poison added to her evening glass of milk. An investigator from the Bow Street police office arrived at Wrayburn House and questioned everyone in a most dreadful manner. Dear Miss Ashton is quite overset. Not only has she lost her employer, but she fears the investigator thinks her the most likely perpetrator of the crime. I am sure you will agree, Miss Ashton could never be guilty of such a sin against God.

I know you have stood Miss Ashton’s friend in the past, and beg that you will come to her aid now in her hour of need.

Most humbly your servant,

Cecil Dawlish

My eyebrows rose in surprise. “Why, I know Mr. Dawlish, Freddie. We met the other evening at Lord Perry’s musical party. The rector has a weakness for music.”

“Well, I am grateful Mr. Dawlish had the foresight to write to me before the situation grows worse. As I said, I knew Miss Ashton’s father. Lord Kirgo came to many of my weekend parties at Oatlands. Perhaps you remember him.”

“Yes, in fact I do. Bit of a fribble, was he not?” More than a bit, I recalled. The man was rarely seen without a bottle, flask, or glass of spirits in his hand.