If Wishes Were Earls (29 page)

Hotchkin returned moments later. “The butler, housekeeper and maid were locked in the cellar. Miss Murray forced them inside at gunpoint.”

“How long ago?”

“An hour, maybe two,” Hotchkin told him.

Roxley cursed again. “Wretched demmed diamonds. I wish my father had never—”

“You wouldn’t say that if you could have seen them that night,” the older man admonished. “The most dazzling pile of gems one could imagine.”

Roxley froze. “
Who are you?
”

“Galton,” the man said, as if they were being introduced for the first time. “My friends call me Moss.”

L
ord Galton glanced at the two men before him and sighed.

It was time.

“You were there,” the younger man gasped.

He nodded to the fellow. Hotchkin, he thought his name was. Something to do with the Home Office. An honest enough looking chap. Good. They’d need him in short order. “Yes, I was there.”

Roxley took a step back. “I don’t believe this.”

“I rather don’t care either way. But you must listen to me if you are to get my Eleanor back. And your Miss Hathaway.”

The earl sank into a chair, his eyes narrow and wary.

As they should be, but Galton was in no mood to spin a gambler’s tale, it was time for the truth. “You know about the card game?”

Roxley gave him a tight nod.

Hotchkin, on the other hand, was rather like an overly excited puppy, giving an enthusiastic bob of his head.

“Yes, well, your father won that night—fair and square,” he told the earl before he smiled at the memory. “He was all but rolled up, like all of us were that night, but when that Frenchie started adding those stones to the pot, well, after that, the earl couldn’t lose. He kept winning. And winning, and the comte continued to wager—recklessly, cursing his luck and tossing more and more diamonds into the pot—desperate to get his treasures back.” The man grinned. “But to no avail.”

“So Lord Roxley did win the Queen’s Necklace,” Hotchkin said, as if in vindication.

Moss nodded. “Well, half of the stones as well as we can figure.”

“We?” Roxley quickly asked.

Galton smiled. And Lady E was always going on about what a flighty, ruinous mess her nephew was. Nothing could be further from the truth.

“Yes,
we
,” he said. “My fellow gamblers and I. The next morning, your parents had left in the company of the one man who hadn’t played that night.”

“The Englishman,” Hotchkin said a low voice.

Moss shot a quick glance at him. “Yes.”

“Do you know who he was?” the younger man asked, once again all eagerness.

But it was to Roxley that he replied. “No, but I believe you do know.”

Not even a flicker passed over the earl’s expression.

Just like his father . . . not a tell to be had.

Moss rubbed his aching head. “Yes, well, I imagine we’ll find him at the end of Miss Murray’s lead.” He looked again over at Roxley, studying him for a moment. “You look like your father, but you have your mother’s sharpness about you. I remember her the most. A stunning beauty, Lady Roxley. The memory of her chestnut hair and glorious eyes has long buoyed my resolve to aid you.”

Roxley shook his head slightly. “Help me?”

The old gambler nodded. “After your parents left in the company of that dastardly fellow, we knew they were in danger.”

“You mean to say, you, Corney and Batty,” Hotchkin nudged, hoping to get more information.

Moss shot the fellow another glance, but this time there was a bit of a twinkle in his eye that said he appreciated a sharp mind. “Yes, they’ve been my compatriots for years. A league of sorts. Even back then, young as we were, between the three of us, we’d seen enough of the world to know someone who couldn’t be trusted—who should be feared. Knew the moment that fellow settled into that chair by the fire that he was one to keep an eye on.”

He paused for a moment, lost in the memory. To Moss it seemed like yesterday. The sour smell of Berti’s. The delight of playing. That sound the cards made as they were shuffled.

Pfffft.

“Why didn’t you warn my parents before it was too late?” Roxley asked, prodding at his reverie.

He looked up slowly. “Because they sailed out before dawn. And since your father had lightened our purses as well, it took us the rest of the day to scare up the necessary blunt to pay for our crossing.” Moss sighed, his head bent. “By then it was too late.”

“How can you be certain it was this Englishman from the game who killed Lord and Lady Roxley?” Hotchkin pressed.

“He wore a very distinctive beryl stone ring,” he said, once again looking to see if Roxley gave any indication he knew their adversary. And to Moss’s chagrin the man gave nothing away. “Moreover,” he continued, “when we got to Dover we discovered Lord Roxley had hired a barouche and was seen in the company of his wife and a man who fit the description of the Englishman they’d left Calais with. The man who had watched the earl win that fortune. They left Dover together—the three of them.”

“And yet when my parents were found—” Roxley couldn’t manage the rest of the words.

“Exactly, my good man,” Moss acknowledged. “Your parents and the driver were found shot to death, but there was no sign of the stranger.”

Roxley had been pacing for some time, but at this he stopped. “You were there.”

Moss nodded. For this was a memory that haunted him. “We were too late. We followed on horseback, but by the time we arrived, all was lost.” He looked over at the earl. “I’m ever so sorry.”

“It was not your doing.”

The words were truly meant, but they hardly erased the guilt. If he or Batty or Corney had won, it would have been one of them dead on the side of that road.

Lady Luck.
Always so demmed fickle.

As if reading from a report, Hotchkin argued the point. “A posting lad was first upon the scene.”

Moss shook his head. “No, we were. But then we left since we feared being accused of the deed.”

Hotchkin persisted. “The lad said it looked as if someone had spent some time tearing apart everything in the carriage—everything—and yet stole nothing.”

“Yes, indeed,” Moss said. “They had searched everything. The only thing that wasn’t slashed open or smashed was that ridiculous china figurine—I found it next to your mother, half hidden by her skirt.”

“Pug,” Roxley whispered.

“Yes, so I learned later. And all her treasures dumped beside her . . .” His voice caught, for the sight of Lady Roxley, only days before so vivid and lovely, now lost, had torn his heart out. “She was still wearing her wedding ring and earbobs. So we knew it was him. He’d gotten the diamonds and fled. Or so we believed.”

“Did you search for the stranger?” Hotchkin prompted.

Galton nodded wearily. “But he had, like the diamonds, disappeared.”

Roxley’s chest contracted. “So the diamonds
are
lost.”

“That is what we thought—at first. Then we returned to London—imagine our shock when we discovered the true origins of those stones, just who exactly our comte was and who that necklace had been intended for.” He shuddered. “Marie Antoinette! They might have hung us!”

Quiet for a moment, he was prodded into continuing by Hotchkin. “But only half the diamonds were sold—”

“Yes, yes, right you are. And so they were. Corney was able to learn that from a London dealer—that the comte had only possessed half the stones.”

“And the other half? The half Roxley’s father won?” Hotchkin asked.

“Never seen again.” Moss waved his hand like a magician making a coin disappear. “We knew if those gems had gone the way we supposed—that the stranger had killed your parents and made off with your father’s winnings—the diamonds would start making their appearance in London. It is the only place to sell gems of that quality.”

“Why not take them to the Continent?” Roxley posed.

Galton shook his head. “If he had, they would have been spotted and identified immediately.”

“Why not sell them outside of London? In York or Edinburgh?” Hotchkin posed.

Again Galton waved them off. “Even if you sell them in the country, they will eventually find their way to London. And since these were quality stones—the sort a trader would never forget—we left word that we would pay handsomely for any hint of their reappearance.”

“But they didn’t—” Roxley looked as if he’d just walked through the ruin of his parents’ murder himself.

“No. They never showed up,” Moss said.

“Yet, you never reported any of this,” Hotchkin pressed. More like chided.

Galton smiled at the eager young man. “And how were we to do that? We knew it was him who had shot them, but we didn’t know his name. And we could hardly go to Bow Street and claim an unknown fellow had killed the Earl and Countess of Roxley, without revealing all we knew.” He shrugged, for certainly there was no changing the past. But the present . . . He glanced up at Roxley. “Then something came to me . . . about your mother. She had a way about her—she could move a coin through her fingers like a pickpocket—no offense meant, my lord.”

Roxley nodded, smiling for a second, as if he too held the same memory.

“She struck me as a bit of a conjurer. At the time I was relieved to be playing against your father and not her—even if your father held all the luck that night. But still, I began to wonder if she might have hidden them where they wouldn’t be easily found, disguised them as well as she did her own abilities.” Moss straightened. “We knew if we hadn’t forgotten, if we suspected as much—that she’d hidden them somewhere no one would discover easily—so would he. And that he’d keep looking. Keep waiting. So we swore a vow to find them first—for you, and your aunts—an obligation we failed when it came to your parents.”

He got to his feet shakily. “And now the time has arrived to lure that devil out into the open.”

“T
his is madness, my lord,” Hotchkin argued an hour later, as Roxley and Galton stood waiting for the baron’s carriage with the new set of horses they’d ordered. “Madness.”

That was the seventh time he’d protested thusly.

Roxley shrugged, as he had each and every time. Part of him agreed. It was madness to trust Galton when he barely knew the man, but . . . “Sometimes it isn’t about superior planning, Mr. Hotchkin, or great cunning, but a bit of demmed luck.”

Hotchkin blanched at the word.

Luck
. It was far too fickle and mercurial a thing to trust one’s life to it.

Especially when those lives included Lady Eleanor and Miss Hathaway.

But on this Roxley was certain, going up against who they were,
luck
was their best chance.

The carriage came shuddering around the corner. It wasn’t the fanciest conveyance, but the horses looked fast, just as Galton had promised.

It seemed one of the hostelers in Bath owed the old gambler a bit of blunt and they had managed to work a trade.

“Off to London with you,” Roxley told Hotchkin, nodding at the extra horse the posting lad led. “Don’t give that report to anyone but Chaunce.”

Hotchkin looked ready to make one more protest, but it was at that moment the carriage door opened and a well-appointed man in a bright waistcoat and an overabundance of lace climbed down.

“Moss, you pontificating fool!” he called out in greeting. “Whatever have you dragged me out of bed at this outrageous hour for?” The man blinked a few times in the lamplight and then his gaze focused on Roxley. “Oh, my. ’Tis you.”

Lord Galton smiled. “Batty, we must act. Did you bring them?”

“Aye, I’ve got them,” he said, digging into his coat and pulling out a large pouch that jingled with the sound of stones. “Thought you were larking about when your man said to bring these.”

“I never lark,” Galton replied with his usual dignity.

“This won’t do,” Hotchkin muttered as he climbed onto his horse, turning toward the London road.

Roxley could only hope that for once, the usually bang-on and unerring Mr. Hotchkin could be proven wrong.

Chapter 13

A life of deceit and lies can only end in the same manner.

Prince Sanjit to Miss Darby

from Miss Darby’s Terrible Temptation

T
he pace set by Miss Murray and Madame Sybille was unrelenting. They drove through the night and into the morning, stopping only to change the horses.

Miss Murray had admonished both Harriet and Lady Eleanor that if either of them called out or caused a commotion, the other would die.

So Harriet thought it best to let this entire scenario play out.

And wait for her chance to act.

What had Roxley called it? A long game.

She’d play as long as she must to keep Lady Eleanor safe and ensure the Queen’s Necklace stayed out of Miss Murray’s greedy grasp.

Roxley, I need you
, she’d whispered more than once into the passing countryside, hoping her words were like breadcrumbs and would guide him to her side.

With all her heart she knew he would follow. Hell-bent and furious, she imagined, just as he’d looked when he’d come upon her and Fieldgate.

Murderous
.

She only hoped he was sensible enough to send Mr. Hotchkin for help and not bring the young man along.

He was a smart enough fellow, but had no instincts for fieldwork, something she would inform her brother Chaunce at the first opportunity.

If I get the chance
, she mused as she glanced up and found Miss Murray watching her like a feral cat.

S
ometime late the next afternoon, they arrived at Marshom Court, the sight of which brought a smile to Harriet’s face.

She’d heard Roxley describe it in many terms—the interminable pile of stones, the Cottage, that wretched tumble.

It was none of those things and all of them.

The Marshoms, as it turned out, loved their family seat deeply—one could see it in the three wings that made up the house—wings built when they were flush with money, and cared for as best as they could when they weren’t.

It reminded her of the Pottage—though on a much grander scale.

Lady Eleanor glanced out the window and for a second there was a flicker in her eyes—a light of recognition, a sense of place. But she was too regal to be overly sentimental for too long.

They pulled up the drive and to the front of the house, and the carriage stopped.

For a moment, they all waited—for a footman to come hurrying down the steps, for the butler to come forth—someone, anyone to open the grand doors, but no one did.

“Oriel must be home at present,” Lady Eleanor remarked. “She isn’t overly fond of company.”

“She will make an exception for us,” Madame Sybille declared, nodding for Harriet to get out.

As she began to alight, Miss Murray wagged the pistol at her. “One false move and she dies.”

Harriet shook her head slightly. “Yes, yes, I heard you the first time and every time since. I do anything, she dies. Yes, I am quite clear on this.”

Lady Eleanor pinched her lips together, for she looked about to laugh at Harriet’s disgruntled outburst.

“Get out,” Miss Murray ordered.

Harriet did so, and then turned and helped Lady Eleanor down.

“Something is wrong,” the lady whispered as she glanced up at the house. “Terribly wrong.”

“Stay close,” Harriet replied softly before she was prodded in the back by Miss Murray.

Up the stairs they went, and Harriet paused before the closed doors.

“Go ahead, open them,” Miss Murray prompted.

And so Harriet did, going inside slowly, where a large open foyer greeted them. To the right led into the heavy stone portion of the house that had once been a keep, with the usual decorations of ancient armor and pikes and shields upon the walls, while the left side gave way to a classical wing that had been built in the last two hundred years, with its graceful statues and art that spoke of former continental tours.

All four of them stood in the grand foyer and Lady Eleanor huffed a large sigh of aggravation as she looked around. “Wherever is Shingleton? He should be here. At the very least, where is my sister?”

And then like an ethereal sort of sprite, Lady Oriel arrived, coming out of the classical wing, wearing little more than a wrapper over a diaphanous gown that made her look like a Greek statue come to life. Her gray hair fell in a simple loosely bound braid down one shoulder, a few strands curling loose from the pale blue ribbon that had been woven in along with her hair.

“Eleanor?” the woman exclaimed, her expression all puzzlement. “Is that truly you?”

“Oriel,” Lady Eleanor replied in greeting. “Dear sister.”

Lady Oriel floated down the trio of steps that separated them and held out her hands for Eleanor. “Whatever are you doing here? Has some evil befallen Bath?” She paused and glanced at the others, then dismissed them in a blink. She leaned forward. “You didn’t let Lord Tarvis lure you into some tawdry card game for the lease, did you?”

“Nothing like that, my dear,” Lady Eleanor assured her. She glanced uneasily over her shoulder at Miss Murray and Madame Sybille and continued, choosing her words carefully. “I have some distressing news—”

“It isn’t Tiberius, is it?” Lady Oriel paled and then as quickly recovered. “But it couldn’t be—why he’s sent an artist to paint me—the boy is ever so thoughtful.” She smiled at the others. “Eleanor, do you think we could entice Essex to return and then we could be painted together as before—the Three Graces—once again.” She smiled over her shoulder at a grand painting in the alcove beyond that indeed did depict the Three Graces, all of them nude, dancing in a circle.

Harriet blinked and looked again. “Good heavens!” she gasped, unable to stop herself. The one on the right couldn’t be  . . . “Lady Essex?”

“Yes, that is Essex. She’s Grace, and the one on the left is me, Beauty.” Lady Oriel preened a bit. For her part, Lady Eleanor put her back to the painting and looked as if she wished it had never existed.

“Yes, yes, this is all wonderful,” Miss Murray said, “But I want the diamonds. And I shall have them now.”

Lady Oriel blinked at the girl several times, then turned back to her sister. “Whoever is this, Eleanor?”

“I’ll explain later, dearest,” Lady Eleanor told her, and then carefully placed herself between Miss Murray and her younger sibling.

“She is as unpleasant as the artist Tiberius sent to paint me,” Lady Oriel whispered loudly. “He’s been ever-so-difficult since he arrived this morning.”

“Who else is here in the house?” Madame Sybille demanded.

“Just me,” came a deep voice, and obviously a familiar one to their captors, for they jumped at the first sound.

“Milord!” Madame Sybille gasped. “Whatever are you doing here?”

There was a hiss of recognition from Lady Eleanor. “You! Lord Mereworth!” The lady appeared shocked and furious at the same time. As if she’d just discovered a snake in the house.

He spared a shocked glance over at Roxley’s aunt, but his attention and sharp focus returned in a snap back to Madame Sybille and Miss Murray.

Mereworth?
Harriet watched this looming man come down the steps. So this was Roxley and Chaunce’s mentor, the one of whom she’d heard so much about over the years?

And if he was here—she looked around—Roxley couldn’t be too far away. Lady Eleanor should look relieved. Harriet was. He was here to help.

But when she looked at Lady Eleanor’s fearful expression, she wasn’t as certain.

“Mereworth, is it?” Miss Murray said, stalking forward, pistol in hand. “Now that we know who you are, we’ll know where to send your body.”

Her hand came up, the pistol at the ready, but Mereworth was faster.

How, Harriet didn’t know, but his arm shot out and a pistol blazed to life.

One shot, the report like a canon inside the marble foyer, echoing and jarring them all.

And what followed was just as piercing—the wild keening shriek of Madame Sybille as she rushed to Miss Murray, who was even now slumping to the floor, a look of shock on her face.

Harriet tried to breathe—for she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing. The girl’s eyes widened and then it was as if her spirit, that bit of fluttering life inside everyone, lifted off like a butterfly and flitted away.

This moment of great violence, and then a sudden quiet, a stillness that was death.

Harriet reached out and caught Lady Eleanor’s arm—knowing not if she steadied the lady or herself.

Madame Sybille knelt beside her fallen partner for a moment, a sound so guttural bubbling up from inside her. “You—” she breathed out, the fire of vengeance ablaze. “You bastard—”

Mereworth strolled forward, his face coolly composed. Reaching down, he picked up the pistol that had fallen from Miss Murray’s grasp and pointed it anew. “Didn’t see that one coming, did you, dear, dear Madame Sybille?”

Sybille stilled.

“Yes, well, you are much wiser than your sister. And I will have need of you.” He turned and smiled with the same cool malice at Harriet and the Marshom sisters. “All of you.”

“Eleanor,” Lady Oriel whispered, as they followed his directions. “I don’t believe this fellow is an artist at all.”

M
ereworth herded them down into the wine cellar, where they found the rest of the small household staff huddled in one corner. The large cavern was lit by a few candles, and all around them were casks and bottles of wine, filling the air with a dry, musky odor.

Harriet thought this might have been a dungeon once, and then converted in more peaceful times for wines rather than prisoners.

“Shingleton, there you are!” Lady Oriel scolded. “I will write Tiberius and tell him you are neglecting your duties—woefully.” She sat down on a cask with a huff.

“Yes, my lady,” the butler agreed, then his weary gaze alighted on the rest of them. “Lady Eleanor?”

“Yes, Shingles, ’tis me.” Lady Eleanor held out her hands to the elderly man and he took them, smiling.

“I am heartily restored to see you here, my lady,” the butler told her. Then he lowered his voice. “But I fear the situation is grievous. That fellow is mad.”

There was another huff from Lady Oriel.

“Indeed, Shingles, he is that and more,” Lady Eleanor agreed.

Shingleton continued. “He arrived early this morning with some story about being an artist sent by His Lordship. Then he began locking us all away until it was only him and Lady Oriel above stairs. I’ve been half out of my mind with worry.”

“Yes, well, Tiberius will be here soon,” Lady Eleanor assured him. “All will be well.”

At this, Madame Sybille who sat off to one side by herself, lost in her grief, made a grand
harrumph
, and then began a long, loud soliloquy in French, ranting and raging for some time, before she even realized she was speaking French.

“My goodness, I don’t believe we were taught half of those words, Eleanor,” Lady Oriel remarked. “Whatever is all this fuss about?”

“The diamonds, Oriel,” Lady Eleanor told her, a note of resignation in her voice.

“The diamonds?” Oriel shook her head. “I told that horrible fellow that the Three Graces would never be painted in diamonds. Would ruin the pastoral theme of the painting.” She huffed again and went back to staring off into space.

“Those diamonds are mine,” Madame Sybille hissed. “Mine.”

“Yours?” Lady Eleanor inquired with all the imperious airs of a queen. “How is that?”

And so Madame Sybille told them.

R
oxley had ridden much as Harriet and her party had, hard and fast for Marshom Court, with Moss and Batty clinging to their seats across from him.

Oh, Harry, I should never have let you come along.
He’d never forgive himself if anything happened to her. He hadn’t even had a chance to apologize to her for not rescuing her earlier from Fieldgate—and then he’d all but exploded at her, sent her off in fury.

Only because he’d been mad at himself and how close he’d come to losing her.

To distract himself, he began to explain the layout of the house, but Galton’s boon companion, Batty, waved him off. “I know Marshom Court well. My dear boy, I’ve been watching over it and your aunt nigh on twenty years now. Ever since you went off to Eton.”

Roxley paused and all of a sudden made the connection that had been eluding him since Poggs had cornered him at Lady Knolles’s soirée.

Sir Bartholomew Keswick. Aunt Oriel’s suitor.

“Batty,” he whispered. “I know who you are.”
Now.

“Yes, at your service,” he said with a flamboyant wave of his hand and tip of his hat.

It seemed Roxley owed his Aunt Oriel an apology. “I thought my aunt had made you up.” All these years he’d just assumed her Sir Bartholomew was nothing more than a figment of her very fertile imagination, like so many of the fabrications of her fractured sensibilities.

“No, no, I am real,” he advised. “Oriel’s Sir Bartholomew, and Ophelia’s dear Batty. Magnificent ladies, your aunts. Both of them.”

Roxley had heard Aunt Oriel called many things, most often “mad,” “cursed,” and “nicked in the nob,” but magnificent in her madness was not one of them.