Jane and His Lordship's Legacy (23 page)

“My lord,” Charles Spence stammered. “This is most unexpected. I had understood you to be posting to London.”

“What—and have the remains sent up to Town, and August almost upon us? No, no, my dear chap; Imogen must be interred here in the family tomb. I am persuaded it is what the girl would herself have wished. We can ask the Steventon clergyman to say the Holy Office—I believe he also serves at William Chute’s pleasure. What’s his name? You know, the thin, reedy, prosy fellow who fancies himself such a punishing rider to hounds.”

“Mr. James Austen.”

“That’s the ticket!” the Earl replied, brightening. “But no, dash it all, Spence—Austen was the name of the banker chap. One who came to Brighton.”

“We are a numerous family, my lord.” I curtseyed to the Earl.

“Miss Jane Austen, sir,” Spence supplied in a colourless tone. “She and her brother were present when Lady Imogen was thrown. Mr. Henry Austen then rode with despatch to Brighton. We are all in the Austens’ debt.”

“Holbrook,” the Earl said with a bow, “tho’ my friends call me Freddy.”

“I believe we have an acquaintance in common, my lord—the late Lord Harold Trowbridge.”

“Harry!” Holbrook cried. “Best friend in a tight spot a man ever had! Pity he had to be killed in that way, by his manservant. Foreign fella—snake in the bosom. Rather like young Julian—dashed odd, my opinion, that he should murder Immy like that. I’d only just carried him into Carlton House, you know. Put him up for the best clubs. Good
ton.
Whole world before him.”

“Pray accept my deepest sympathies, sir, on the untimely loss of your daughter,” I returned, deliberately avoiding Charles Spence’s eye. The steward, I thought, would have seen me out the door before I had exchanged two words with the Earl. “She was all that was charming and lovely—and her passing must be deeply felt.”

“By her creditors, above all,” Holbrook observed wisely. “Immy owed a fortune among the tradesmen in Town; they have been offering odds on her expectations, and the likely purchase of my life, a twelvemonth or more. Detestable creatures—I shall have to settle with them, I suppose. Or perhaps Spence may do it when I am gone.”

I did not immediately apprehend the meaning of his chance remark, but I observed the Major’s pallor to heighten.

“Indeed, my lord?” a cool voice enquired. “And why should Spence have the settling of an earldom’s debts?”

I turned, and espied Rangle waiting in the hall with my brother Edward behind him. Neddie’s dark hair was damp with rain, but neither he nor the butler had eyes for anyone but the Earl. They had certainly overlistened the whole of our conversation.

“Why, dash it,” Holbrook replied with an air of impatience, “Spence is my cousin twice removed on the distaff side. With Immy dead and Julian bound for the gallows—the Major is now my heir.”

Chapter 24

History of an Heir

10 July 1809, cont.
~

T
HERE WAS AN INSTANT
’
S HEAVY SILENCE, AS SEVERAL OF
the party assembled in the library passage contemplated Holbrook’s communication.

“I would give an earldom entire,” Charles Spence said with difficulty, “to see Lady Imogen returned to us in health and beauty! And now I believe, my lord, that you must long have been wishing me to conduct you to your daughter. The office may no longer be delayed. If you will excuse me, Miss Austen—and Mr. Edward Austen, with whom the Earl is as yet unacquainted . . .”

“I must beg leave to present yet another of my brothers, Lord Holbrook,” I supplied. “Mr. Edward Austen, of Chawton Great House and Godmersham Park, Kent.”

Neddie bowed correctly to the Earl, but his eyes were for the Major alone. “
An earldom entire.
Is that what you would give, Spence, to restore Lord Holbrook’s daughter? Or was it an earldom you thought to gain, by running a thorn deep into the lady’s saddle some hours before she undertook to ride?”

“That is a lie.” Spence drew himself up to his full height. He appeared every inch the cavalry officer; every inch the heir to a noble house. “Rangle, show this gentleman out. He and his sister have trespassed on our patience already too long.”

“Now, Spence,” said the Earl unexpectedly, “that is decidedly unhandsome. The Austens would pay their respects to Immy before they go. And you have not offered them the least refreshment! I should like a glass of strong ale myself after that journey—pray go and fetch it, Rangle. Twelve hours I have been on the road from Brighton, if you will credit it!—and hard going, too, what with all the mud. Thrice we were forced to change horses. Come into the library, Mr. Austen, if you will—and explain what you mean about thorns and saddles.”

“Thank you, my lord—I will.”

Charles Spence remained fixed, however, by the library door, and appeared disinclined to open it. The Major’s looks now were dreadful. “Nothing can be served by canvassing the manner of Lady Imogen’s death,” he said coldly. “It is enough to know that she was brutally cut down in the prime of her youth—and all for gain. Thrace will hang for it, once he is found; I pledge my life on it.”

“I rather think you
do
pledge your life on it,” my brother agreed. “The Earl has commanded us to sit down, Spence. Will you move away from the door?”

The steward hesitated, then complied. With a smile, Neddie indicated I must precede him into the room, and waited in deference for Lord Holbrook.

“Pray accept my sincere condolences on the death of your daughter, my lord,” he said with a correct bow. “Her murder cries out for justice.”

“Where is that ale?” the peer demanded irritably. “Mr. Austen is soaked to the skin, and this demmed house is so vast and draughty, it requires a legion to staff it. Still they cannot make their way from kitchen to parlour in under a quarter-hour. I should not live in this wreck for worlds. It ought to be pulled down—and so it shall be, now Immy can no longer live in it.”

“My lord,” Spence interposed abruptly, and then halted in mid-speech, with an eye for my brother. “I do not think you perfectly understand the beauties of this place.”

“Don’t preach fustian,” the Earl retorted. “I was raised in this barracks, boy and man. Beauties! It is stifling in summer and freezing in winter; and the bill for coal is extortionate. Do not be prating to me of
beauties.
Now then, Austen—what is this you would say of Charles and the thorn? Speak, man!”

“I think it is rather my sister who should answer you,” Neddie replied, “as she is more fully acquainted with the particulars.”

Being as a stranger to the Earl, I might have hesitated to lay before him so hideous a charge as had formed itself in my brain, for indeed I had no proof—merely a subtle association of ideas, that had wanted only the truth of Major Spence’s relation to Lord Holbrook to harden into conviction. For an instant I nearly demurred. But some thought of that lovely young life so brutally destroyed—and of the man even now being hunted the length and breadth of England—quelled my last doubt. With my eyes fixed on the Earl’s countenance, I began.

“It was Lady Imogen who observed on the day of her death,
I believe Charles loves this place better than all of us.
I did not know then that her steward could be tempted with the prospect of inheriting the place he had lately seen restored to its former beauty; but I may own that I understand the immensity of that temptation. I, too, have been rootless most of my life, and shifted from lodging to lodging. I have seen my relations established in a security that must appear paradisiacal in comparison with my own. I have known envy, Major Spence, as well as want—but have never been offered the opportunity to amend my condition. I perceive, now, that this has been your downfall.”

“My lord,” Spence said without the slightest suggestion of having heard me, “if you wish to see Lady Imogen interred at Stonings, there is much to do. I cannot like this delay. There will be time to philosophize on life and death once the funeral rites are observed, and Thrace is in the hands of the constabulary.”

“I have an idea,” I persisted, “that you first conceived of your plan during the winter months, as you grew in intimacy with Lady Imogen’s ways. She was charming, and profligate, and on any trip up to Town you might observe her dalliance with a host of suitors intent upon securing her fortune before she should gamble it away. The title and the earldom were entailed upon yourself, a fact you knew; but there was always the danger that the funds to support Lord Holbrook’s estates should be spent before you obtained them, if Lady Imogen was allowed to pursue her ruinous course. Why not marry the chit, and command her purse strings in a tidier fashion? You offered her marriage; she deliberated on her answer. Lady Imogen, perhaps, had doubts as to your character.
Major Spence should never be parted from his treasure so easily,
she said once; and
I know you for a blackguard of old.

“And then, around February when your flirtation with her ladyship had reached a desperate point, Thrace arrived to take the
ton
by storm. Did you apprehend immediately, Major, that you should be left with only the lady and her debts, did Thrace’s claim to paternity prevail?”

Charles Spence walked deliberately to a table near the window where a decanter of brandy was placed. He poured himself a drink, then turned with courtesy to the Earl, whose affable countenance had acquired an expression of fixed attentiveness. “My lord?” the Major enquired.

“I should like to wait for the ale,” he returned with a dismissive wave. “Pray continue, Miss Austen. I am devilish fond of stories, particularly when they concern people I know. I should like to hear how this one turns out.”

I inclined my head. “Mr. Thrace was poised to deprive Major Spence of all expectations. Poised, as well, to strip Lady Imogen of property vital to her survival—the jointure of Stonings. Rather than commanding the full power of an earldom and the lady’s income upon your marriage, Major, you were now forced to fight for the right to remain the Earl’s steward—until such time as Thrace should appoint his own. Outright hostility to the prospective heir could only harm your chances. And so you played a deep game—preserving the appearance of dedication to Lady Imogen; establishing the right to call Thrace your friend, and consort with him on terms of easy intimacy; and fomenting, whenever possible, the discord and rivalry between the half-brother and sister.”

Spence tossed off his brandy and grimaced as it coursed down his throat. “Like all ladies’ stories, I fear this one is a horrid romance,” he observed calmly. “We shall presently be treated to a skeleton in a tower and a tomb behind a veil. Cannot I lead you to your beloved daughter, my lord, and continue this entertainment at a moment better suited for the Gothick?”

“It was from Lady Imogen, I collect, that you first learned of Lord Harold’s papers,” I said.

“Harry’s papers?” The Earl glanced at me in a startled fashion. “Thought he left them to some light o’ love by way of payment for services rendered. Heard it from Wilborough myself. Poor old fellow expects to be petitioned with blackmail at every moment. Dashed odd of Harry, my opinion! Must have been devilish smitten with the gel.”

“Lord Harold left all his papers to me,” I replied with what I thought was commendable command of countenance. The Earl’s expression of shock was so blatant as to border on the insulting. “Lady Imogen had learned so much from the gossip of the
ton
in the months following Lord Harold’s death. She knew that his lordship had long been intimate with you, my lord—that the two of you had endured several years’ exile on the Subcontinent together, at about the time Julian Thrace was born. I imagine that is when your daughter conceived of her plan to steal the documents, with the hope that she might find in them the truth of Thrace’s parentage. And she recruited you, Major Spence, as her champion.”

“I would that she had,” he returned evenly. “I might have spared her a brutal and senseless death.”

“Nothing Lady Imogen could say or do would spare her
that,
” I observed, “for you had already concluded it to be necessary. When she came to you here at Stonings, and proposed a dangerous gamble—the theft of the papers on the very day of their arrival in Chawton—she came to a man she had long known for a renegade. The sort who should
never be parted from his treasure without a fight.
And you agreed to help her. You had already determined to use the papers to throw guilt upon Julian Thrace—and thus be rid of all your enemies at a single blow.”

Spence threw back his head and laughed. It was not a pleasant sound; and from the corner of my eye, I observed Edward to move quietly between myself and the steward, his gaze watchful.

I continued. “I imagine it was while you conversed with Lady Imogen—perhaps in this very room—that you were overheard in your plans by Shafto French. He was at work in some part of the building that afforded an opportunity to eavesdrop, perhaps; the gallery that runs along the front part of this room, or one of the neighbouring apartments. French must have taxed you with his knowledge, and was satisfied with promise of payment; he told his wife that he expected to come into blood money, and that it was
the heir as would pay.
I thought, quite naturally, that it was Thrace he implied; and that mistake could only strengthen your case against the gentleman, once you had covered him in guilt for Lady Imogen’s murder. But I run ahead of myself—I beg your pardon, my lord.”

Holbrook waved his hand distractedly; a soft knock on the door announced Rangle’s appearance with the desired tankard of ale. He waited while the Earl drank the entire draught in a single gulp, bowed as tho’ unconscious of any strain in the atmosphere, and retired once more.

“Ah!” Holbrook said brightly. “That’s better! All the mud of England might have been caught in my throat! And so Charles arranged to pay off the man who would have split on him, I collect, and proceeded to murder my Immy?”

“Exactly so. You are admirably succinct, my lord. I perceive now why such a depth of friendship obtained between yourself and Lord Harold. The Major arranged to meet Shafto French near Chawton Pond on the very evening Julian Thrace was expected to dine at Chawton Great House. I recollect that Spence was said, by Thrace’s own admission, to have been otherwise engaged that evening. Having ridden on horseback from Sherborne St. John to Chawton alone, and back again, Thrace could bring no witness as to his actions along the route. He might protest his innocence when charged with French’s murder all he liked; he could offer no evidence that he had
not
killed the man.”

At this point, my brother interrupted. “You must have been greatly discomfited when French’s body was not found, Spence.”

“I am sure I should have been,” the steward replied acidly, “had I killed him.”

“What motive did you intend to offer for Thrace’s violence? Were Lord Harold’s documents—which you thought to secure in my brother’s banking branch in Alton on the Monday—to be found among Thrace’s things? In the event, you had neither a body nor a wooden chest to show for all your efforts; and so we proceed to the second chapter of our story.”

“Good God!” Spence cried. “I pray it does not run to a third! Is this not tedium enough, my lord, for one morning? You have had your refreshment; pray let me carry you to your daughter’s chamber.”

“I collect that French’s body was found, however,” the Earl said testily, “or you should not have known to suspect Spence in his murder.”

“I discovered his corpse myself; but that is another story. For the nonce, it is enough to know that the poor man was drowned while Thrace was in Chawton. The Thursday following, one of French’s mates forced an entry to my cottage, and stole Lord Harold’s papers—which have still not been recovered. We believe the man to have had a confederate: one Old Philmore, who has also disappeared.”