Solemn Vows (13 page)

“No, I don’t. An outraged husband or jealous lover would have done the deed himself or else arranged for it to be done
in a less public place. You are wasting your precious time and energy pursuing that line of inquiry.”

“So you know a lot about love and lovers?” Marc teased.

Eliza frowned briefly, and Marc instantly regretted the remark. “Oh, it’s nothing,” she said. “I did love someone deeply, and lost him. But don’t you think that sort of experience makes one appreciate the troublesome joys of love itself, that one can become the stronger for it? And more capable of genuine affection?”

Marc was about to agree wholeheartedly but was forestalled by the suddenness of the kiss that neither of them could recall initiating. Marc put his arms around her, and the softness of her breasts pressed against him. He let his face drift into her hair as she gripped his back with clenching fingers.

The hall door banged shut.

They sprang apart. Eliza straightened her hair, patted her dress smooth, and leapt to the dining- room door in time to greet her uncle with a cheery hello.

Then she said with genuine concern, “But you’re back early, Uncle. It’s only nine-thirty.”

“Gastric complaint, my dear. I’ll take some salts and go right to—” Uncle Sebastian stopped in mid- sentence, all thought of his balky stomach forgotten. “Young man, what are you doing here at this hour with my niece—unchaperoned?”

U
NCLE
S
EBASTIAN TIPPED FORWARD
in his padded chair, pushed his bewhiskered face over his plump and aching belly, and glared at Marc. “What I want to know, Lieutenant—and I wish the candid answer of a true gentleman—is this: What are your intentions towards my niece?”

It was a fair question, and one Marc had asked himself several times before this evening and a dozen times on the slow walk behind Uncle Sebastian as they made their way in stiff silence to his office.

“I am not sure how I would characterize my intentions, sir. If I knew for certain, I would have approached you before this.”

“Are you in love with Eliza, sir? I cannot put it more bluntly than that.”

“I may well be—”

“What blather and circumlocution! You should be ashamed of yourself. You’ve been skulking around here un-invited for the past six weeks, stirring up gossip along Yonge Street from the bay to Lake Simcoe! You had the impudence to linger here on Monday evening while I was attending to my ledgers and then again tonight when I expressly indicated I wished you to leave, as a proper gentleman would have done without having to be reminded. If you do not love her and have no intention of asking for her hand, then, sir, you are a blackguard and I am much deceived.”

His jowls shook with anger and chagrin, but there was a kind of pleading in his eyes as he stared steadily at Marc.

“You are not deceived, sir. I am truly fond of your niece, and I am in the process of falling in love. That is the truth, upon my word as an officer.”

“Then you are considering a proposal sometime soon?”

“Marc hesitated—not too long, he hoped—before saying, “I am.”

Uncle Sebastian sat back, winced at his rebellious stomach, and attempted to relax. “Do you wish a brandy? Chalmers, bless him, is still afoot.”

“No, thank you. I am exhausted from a—”

“Not too tired, I trust, to be asked a few pertinent questions regarding your suitability as a suitor for Eliza’s hand.”

My God, Marc thought, I must be having a bad dream.

“I must ask you about your parentage and prospects, Lieutenant, because, whether you know it or not, Eliza is the sole living heir of her generation in the Dewart- Smythe family. She stands someday to become a very wealthy woman.”

“I did not know that. We talk of many things, but not money.”

Uncle Sebastian gave a skeptical cough but carried on. “Money must be talked of or it will speak for itself. Now I understand that you are the adopted son of a reasonably prosperous country squire named Jabez Edwards—whom you affectionately refer to as ‘Uncle.’”

Marc wondered where this was leading. “That is right. Apparently I called him that before—”

“And who, then, were your real parents?”

“Thomas and Margaret Evans. My father was the game-keeper on the estate. They both died of cholera when I was five.”

“But you were officially adopted and raised up as Jabez Edwards’s own in the County of Kent?”

“I was.”

“Adjacent to the lands of Sir Joseph Trelawny?”

“That is so.”

“And you are the sole heir to the Edwards estate?”

Marc smiled inwardly. His parentage would have disqualified him as Eliza’s suitor except for the fact that he had been given a reputable surname, seemed likely to inherit a minor estate, and had rubbed shoulders with the petty aristocracy next door. “Not quite,” Marc said slowly.

“What do you mean, not quite? You either inherit or you don’t.”

“The land is entailed to full-blooded Edwards’ heirs, the sons of his younger brother, Frederick, who lives in France. There was a younger sister, Mary, who would have been my aunt, but she died before I was born.”

“So you inherit nothing?”

“Not quite. Uncle Jabez invested his own money wisely in stocks, and I am promised whatever they have yielded, at his death.”

“No land, then, and an indeterminate sum of money?”

“That is the case. But you must rest assured that any motive I might have for asking Eliza to marry me—were I
to do so in the near future—would not include seeking her fortune.”

“Well, we shall see, shan’t we?”

“Are you forbidding me to see her, sir?”

“Not at all. But I must insist that you call on her only when invited and then only in the afternoons. There will be no more late- evening tête- à- têtes. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.” Marc realized that the old tyrant was serious about all this, and that, as a lifelong bachelor, keeping watch on a beautiful and vulnerable heiress (and one he obviously adored) was not easy.

“Now, which of us is going to tell Eliza?” the old man said.

W
HEN
M
ARC DRAGGED HIS EXHAUSTED BODY
up the three steps onto Mrs. Standish’s veranda, he was greeted by Colin Willoughby peering out the doorway.

“Christ, but you look like a fox who’s spent a day in the kennels,” Colin said. He was dressed only in his nightshirt, with an expression of immense satisfaction—almost a smugness—masking evident fatigue and strain.

Marc was so tired he could muster only a noncommittal grunt in response.

“Don’t shoot the messenger, old boy, but I was instructed by the governor to command your presence at Government House the moment you returned.”

“Tell him I’m dead,” Marc moaned.

“Now, who’d want you dead?” Colin forced a laugh.

The uncle of a girl I know, Marc smiled grimly to himself.

S
IR
F
RANCIS WAS ALMOST AS EXHAUSTED
as Marc, but each went bravely through the motions of doing his duty. Marc gave the governor a synopsis of his activities at Maxwell’s, Mackenzie’s, and the Crooked Anchor.

“This Cobb sounds like a crude but cunning devil,” Sir Francis said with a nice balance of admiration and revulsion. “Chief Constable Sturges assured me that he was his best man, but then that is a relative statement, eh?”

“I feel that almost everything depends upon his apprehension of Philo Rumsey,” Marc sighed. “It seems most probable at this point that Councillor Moncreiff was shot by a hired assassin in order to make a political point of some kind. I believe we can rule out any personal motive whatsoever. Which means, I am afraid, that until we get hold of Rumsey alive, we have no way of discovering who engaged him and for what reason—short of interviewing every malcontent and opponent of the government in Upper Canada.”

“Perhaps this Constable Cobb will be able to trace Rumsey’s recent movements and link him with the sponsor of this crime.”

“From all accounts, sir, Rumsey was a loner, a man who disappeared at will into the bush to hunt—or whatever.”

“And you would rule out any direct involvement of the radical left?”

“Yes, sir, I would. Mackenzie convinced me that it would be suicidal for Reformers to have been involved. They may be fanatic, but they are a long ways from being stupid.”

Sir Francis suppressed a yawn and turned the gesture into a nod of assent. “While you were there, Lieutenant, did you have a chance to inquire about the identity of Farmer’s Friend?”

“I did, and Mackenzie refused to tell me.”

“I thought as much.”

“But he did say that the writer is a real person with an intimate knowledge of his subject.”

“That’s precisely the problem, alas.” This time Sir Francis let the yawn take its full course. “Come to see me tomorrow afternoon, and I’ll explain more about Farmer’s Friend. In the meantime, if you see Cobb, you might assign him to make discreet inquiries about the matter. I understand these new constables keep an ear close to the boardwalk.”

“Or the bar,” Marc said. “I think that’s a good idea, sir, provided it doesn’t interfere with his duties in the Moncreiff investigation.”

“That is understood, of course.”

At the door of the office, Marc said casually, “How did Colin get on with his new assignment?”

Sir Francis smiled through his fatigue. “Considering he had the granddaddy of all hangovers, splendidly. He took
the bit in his teeth and began planning the security arrangements for our proposed swing through the London district next week and, with Major Burns’s heroic assistance, got through a mountain of correspondence before dark. Which left me free to deal with the incredible fuss over the assassination. The funeral is to be held on Friday.”

“Military?” Marc said with apparent disinterest.

“As a matter of fact, it is,” the governor said. “The family insisted.”

“Well, I’m delighted to hear that Colin is doing well.”

“We may bring him back into the fold yet,” Sir Francis said. “If so, his father will be the happiest man in England. And I shall be sure to let him know just who did the most to help his son.”

“I’m just trying to be a good friend,” Marc said with no attempt to be immodest.

“Something we all need,” Sir Francis said.

M
arc spent an anxious Thursday morning sweating in his tiny office at Government House, while the place hummed with activity he could take no part in. By eleven o’clock more than a dozen dignitaries—including Chief Justice Robinson, the attorney general, the solicitor general, and the bankers, merchants, and barristers who made up the appointed Legislative Council and the six- member Executive—had paraded into the governor’s suite to report on the state of the State, offer unsolicited advice, and propound exotic theories as to the motive for the crime. On several occasions he noticed Colin Willoughby either rushing past
him or else locked in earnest colloquy with Hilliard in the vestibule. It was just before twelve when word came to him to meet with Cobb within the hour—this time at the Blue Ox.

Marc decided to ride down to the rendezvous, as the Blue Ox was a low- life tavern, frequented by sailors and their colleagues, at the east end of Front Street (still called Palace by some) beyond the Market Square at Frederick. He could leave his horse safely at one of the market stalls and proceed the last block and a half on foot.

As soon as he had stepped into the maelstrom of pipe smoke, boozy breath, and raucous chatter, the barkeep caught his eye and pointed to a curtained-off table in the corner most distant from the light of day. Marc made his way through the gloom, drew aside a curtain, and sat down opposite Cobb, who was puffing asthmatically on a short- stemmed clay pipe.

“Too early for ale, Constable?”

“A tad, Major. But I had enough last night to last me fer a while.”

“But you were on duty last night,” Marc said sternly.

“As I recollect, Major, the purpose of my visit to Danby’s saloon was to give the appearance of a drunken peddler too tanked to make it home.”