A Lady in the Smoke (19 page)

Not for the first time, I thought that Shadwell Manor was a beautiful dwelling, patrician and sedate, rather sharply at odds with the source of their wealth. The Shaws had made their entire fortune in the slave trade back in the 1700s—an ugly blot in their history that they disavowed as best they could. Built of Portland limestone, the house stood three graceful stories, with round turrets and a pair of curved staircases ascending to the front door.

Involuntarily I slowed as I drove up. A mixture of anxiety and guilt was twisting my stomach into a knot, and I felt my hands dampen inside my gloves. Common courtesy would require that the butler open the door and take my card; but Lord Shaw might very well send back word that he “wasn't home” for me. That would be somewhat embarrassing but not damaging. But if he deigned to meet me? He might—quite justifiably—hate the very sight of me and relish the private opportunity to hurl my father's misdeeds in my face. And if this went badly, our occasional meetings in society could be very unpleasant. But so long as there was a chance that Lord Shaw might let slip anything about the problems with the takeover, I had to try. I took some courage from the fact that I had two cards up my sleeve. First, he would probably be curious about why I was here and would see me, if only for a few minutes. Second, he had no idea what I knew about my father and his wife. I could simply pretend that I knew nothing about any past animosity, and ordinary civility would demand that he'd share in the deception.

Wouldn't it?

I dismounted and gave my reins to the boy who appeared from the side of the house. As I climbed the stairs, I rehearsed what I might say, and how I must draw an impervious line in my mind between what I could safely reveal and what I must hold back.

The door opened.

The butler was a stout, elderly man with a pasty face, an impeccable waistcoat, and a fringe of gray hair around his ears. He had no doubt been trained to remain expressionless, but his eyes widened slightly to see a young woman he didn't recognize, unaccompanied no less, asking for Lord Shaw. I could see him searching his memory; I put an end to the poor man's chagrin by handing him my card.

His eye flickered uncertainly to me and back to the bit of pasteboard before he bowed. “Ah, Lady Elizabeth Fraser. I will see if Lord Shaw is at home.”

“Thank you.”

He returned a few moments later and offered to lead me to the parlor. I stifled my sigh of relief and followed him.

The room was decorated in a style that felt gloomily masculine to me, and I wondered whether it had always been so or had been altered after Lady Shaw died. The windows were curtained by thick olive panels with a valance that dropped low; there was a great deal of over-sized, club-footed furniture, and too few lamps for reading or embroidery. Over the fireplace hung a Landseer painting, just like in my father's study, though this one wasn't a hunting scene with dogs, but a regal buck surveying the forest with lifted head.

So Lady Hester hadn't been the only taste my father and Lord Shaw had in common.

A quarter of an hour passed, and I remained poised on the edge of one of the brocaded chairs that faced the door. Whether Lord Shaw intended to increase my discomfort or not, with each passing minute, I felt more nervous and less certain that I could keep my thoughts fixed where they needed to be.

Finally the curved brass door-handle turned, and I rose as the master of the house stepped into the room.

He was too well bred to stare, but after he closed the door, he made his way slowly toward me, giving each of us time to observe the other. I believe it was the first time I had seen him in at least a year; it was certainly the first time I observed him with any particular interest.

He appeared closer to sixty than fifty, so a good decade older than my father had been; he was of medium height, clean-shaven, and dressed in a dove-colored coat that had been skillfully cut to conceal a waist that was running slightly to fat. His face was round, with beetling eyebrows above gray eyes and a bulbous nose; his silvery hair was receding from his temples. His movements were deliberate, and my impression was that he was intelligent and watchful; that he had learned from his life experiences to keep his own counsel; that he would do nothing impulsively. As he drew near, I observed his expression. There was wariness, to be sure, but nothing vitriolic, and certainly nothing to suggest that he was concealing years of fury behind his polite smile.

I gave myself a mental shake.
For god's sake, he wasn't a villain in a Wilkie Collins novel.

He inclined his head in a way that was almost courtly. “Lady Elizabeth. I'm sorry to have kept you waiting. Please sit down.” He gestured to the chair behind me and took one opposite. He held himself stiffly, and I realized he was probably just as uncomfortable as I was.

The thought dissipated some of my nervousness, and I tried to bring some warmth to my voice. “Lord Shaw, it's very good of you to see me without an appointment. I imagine you're somewhat surprised.”

“Surprised, yes, but not displeased, certainly, at a visit from a neighbor,” he replied. “I'm glad to see you looking well. I heard you were in the accident. How is your mother?”

The words were what anyone might say, but there was something about his manner that seemed painfully unnatural. Still, he was being quite civil, which was—I reminded myself—more than I had a right to expect. “I'm perfectly well, thank you,” I answered. “Mama is still feeling the effects, but the doctor says she should be better soon.”

“Very good.” He nodded.

There was an uncomfortable pause during which I felt myself flush. But I took a deep breath and resolutely plunged ahead:

“Lord Shaw, I must confess, I've come to ask a favor.”

His expression became guarded. However, he kept his voice expressionless. “Anything I can do to help you.”

“I know that you were on the board of the London-Redfield back in 1862, before it was purchased by the Great Southeastern. My father was on the board as well, if you recall.”

His body went rigid, and in his face I saw a flash of feeling that made my nervousness return, but I rushed on: “I've heard that the takeover was somewhat difficult and fraught with questions. I was wondering if you might tell me any of the particulars that you remember about those discussions.”

He blinked several times. “May I ask why you want to know?”

I gave him the reason I'd prepared: “I suppose it might sound strange and even a bit morbid, but after the accident, I've found myself wondering if my father had anything to do with placing the tracks by the banks of the river.” I lowered my gaze to my gloved hands and added softly, “I suppose I am hoping he would have tried to prevent it.”

“I see.” His voice held a peculiar note, and I looked up to find him watching me curiously. I remained very still, my eyes never leaving his, and after a moment he gave a small grimace. “I'm very sorry, but I'm not sure I can help you. I don't remember your father's views in particular. I left the board, you see, before the takeover took place.”

“You left?” I echoed, as if in surprise. “May I ask why?”

“Well, there was a vote, as is usual in these cases.” He held his hands as if they were scales, to suggest a sort of justice about the process. “Afterward, several of us were asked to step down. Frankly, it was probably for the best.” His tone was sanguine. “I don't know much about railways, and it gave me more time to focus on other things—things that, ultimately, were more profitable.”

Had my father been one of those who had voted to remove him? And was Lord Shaw really as indifferent as he appeared?

“Who else was asked to step down?” I asked. “Do you remember?”

His expression was apologetic. “I'm afraid I don't. No one I knew particularly well.” He gave a quick glance at the clock and then turned back to me.

I sensed we were approaching the end of my visit.

“Do you recall any of the discussions about where track would be laid?” I asked. “Or any other significant issues?”

“Oh, my.” He frowned. “This was so long ago.” The fingers of his right hand tapped on the chair arm, and his eyes narrowed as he thought. “I recall there were some surveyors hired, which was quite usual, to plan the line. And I do remember the railway decided not to buy some marshland to the southwest. You see,” he said helpfully, “marshland can be built upon, but you have to fill it in first. The general consensus was that it would have been too expensive.”

I filed away the bit about the marshland to tell Mr. Flynn and thought I might press just a bit further. “Can you think of anyone who was particularly angry about decisions the board made? Someone who might still be harboring a grudge, perhaps?”

“A grudge against the railway?” His eyebrows rose, and he gave a genuine laugh. “The railway is a business, not a person, my dear. It's quite simple, actually; everything is a matter of profits. But really…” His voice dwindled. He tipped his head and looked at me in some perplexity. “What has put you on this—er, train of thought, as it were?”

I smiled at his gibe and thought quickly. I could truthfully mix together public knowledge and personal confidence. “After the accident, Mama and I were taken to the Travers Inn, where we stayed for several days because Mama had a badly sprained ankle. While we were there, everyone was talking about the accident, and I overheard someone—a newspaperman, I believe—saying that Parliament had created a committee to look into it. He said their investigation might go all the way back to the takeover of the London-Redfield”—I observed him especially as I concluded—“and that this accident might have greater implications for the Great Southeastern and railway safety more generally.”

His expression remained bland. “Ah, I see. Well, I'm afraid I don't pay much attention to the railway question these days—although, to be sure,” he added, “Parliament should do everything they can to prevent further accidents. They're becoming so common.” He glanced at the clock again and stood. “I do beg your pardon, but I have an appointment shortly.”

“Of course.” I gathered my gloves and purse. “Thank you for seeing me, and for answering my questions. I appreciate it.”

“It was my pleasure,” he replied cordially and walked me to the front door himself. “Please give my best to your mother.” His manner had thawed remarkably, and his smile and bow were quite natural.

Perhaps he was only awkward and shy.

The door shut, and I took several deep breaths as I made my way down the steps and into the gig.

He'd given me very little new information about the railway except the bit about the surveyor and marshland; but he didn't seem at all resentful over being asked to leave the railway board. And unless he was very good at dissembling, it seemed he harbored no ill will toward my family. It seemed impossible that he could have had any idea about the illicit relations between my father and his wife.

It was an enormous relief.

Yet as I drove home, turning the conversation over in my mind, I felt twinges of discomfort as I tried to reconcile the animosity that I thought had existed between Lord Shaw and my father with Lord Shaw's apparent placidity. Was it a façade, expertly managed? Or were my childhood impressions mistaken? Or had the animosity existed only on my father's side? I couldn't quite make the pieces fit, and underneath it all was a nagging unease. It took the remainder of the drive before I could pinpoint why: I knew more about a man's dead wife than he did.

The next morning was Wednesday, the day Mr. Wilcox said he might check on Mama. So when Sally told me, as she was helping me dress, that I'd find an early bird in the breakfast room, I turned so hastily that her hands lost their place on the buttons. “Mr. Wilcox is here already?”

“Mr. Wilcox?” Sally looked bewildered.

“The surgeon from Travers,” I reminded her. “He said he might come back today.”

Sally gave me an odd look. “I meant Mr. James, m'lady. He took the express train up late last night. Arrived just after midnight, but you know him. He's been up since six.”

My heart sank. Stupid of me, I thought. Of course Paul wouldn't be here at this hour. Besides, he would probably send the medicine by messenger, or leave it at the train station for us to retrieve. After all, he'd said there was nothing he could do that Jane couldn't manage just as well. Why would he come back?

I entered the breakfast room to find my cousin drinking his tea and studying one of the London papers through his spectacles.

“Hello, James.” I took a seat and unfolded my napkin.

He looked up with a smile. “Good morning.” His eyes went to my forehead. “The plaster is smaller.”

I nodded. “Did you come to see your mother? She sits with Mama in the mornings.”

He folded his newspaper into a tidy rectangle. “Well, I do have things to discuss with her—but I came mostly to see you.”

My breath caught. “You heard from Mr. Turleigh?”

“I had a visit from him, actually, yesterday afternoon.” James poured himself some tea and then pushed the pot toward me. “He apologized for the delay, but he was in Bath visiting relations. He was quite eager to talk with me, though. You know how his white beard begins to bob, and his voice sounds like a bleat when he's at all excited.”

I gave a small laugh. “I know. Anthony always says he reminds him of a billy goat.”

James grinned wryly. “An apt comparison.”

I leaned forward. “Well?”

“Well.” He sat back in his chair. “I found out some rather interesting things about provisions for you—things I'd never heard before.” He ran his fingertips along the table's edge. “First of all, your uncle Charles left you three hundred and fifty pounds in a special trust in his will. Did you know that?”

I felt my eyes widen. “I didn't think he had anything but debts when he died.”

“Well, apparently he had three hundred and fifty pounds, and he left them to you.”

“That's—odd.” I couldn't tell James what was truly odd—the fact that this was the second time in one week that Uncle Charles was making a significant appearance in my life.

“Not to mention that he left it to you free and clear, without conditions.” He looked at me meaningfully. “No one else can touch it. Not your future husband, not your mother, not your cousin Colin. No marriage is required, and you need not be in England to claim it. The will states very explicitly that you may take the money anywhere you wish and spend it any way you like.”

I was almost absurdly touched by my uncle's gesture. Not that three hundred and fifty pounds would solve all my problems—I certainly couldn't live on it forever—but it was kind of him to think of me, and remarkably liberal to bequeath it with no restrictions. “Did he leave you and Anthony anything?”

“No. Apparently you're the favored child.” He gave a brief smile. “Then again, Anthony and I aren't blood relations.”

I poured myself a cup of tea. “What else did Mr. Turleigh tell you?”

“There's an interesting bit about your dowry. You know that it becomes the property of your husband, of course, if you marry; that's ordinary. But it comes to
you,
if you are unmarried upon your mother's death.” He tipped his head and looked at me curiously. “Had you any idea?”

I sank back in my chair, quite stunned.

“It's a very unconventional provision,” James continued, “and what's more, it wasn't part of the original will. Your father drafted the codicil after Henry's death because it was clear Kellham Park would go to your cousin Colin. It is, however, still subject to the same provision: it's yours only so long as you remain a loyal British subject.”

My mind was trying to grasp all of this. “Does my mother know?”

“I'm not sure.”

“But is the dowry worth anything?”

“It depends.” He took off his spectacles and laid them on the table deliberately, a gesture that made my heart sink even before he said a word. “First, let me be clear. Kellham Park and your dowry are completely separate legal entities. Nothing may be moved from one to the other. The estate is solvent, being funded primarily by the rents and the five-percents, which are steady as always, and only secondarily by shares of stock.” He paused. “However, your dowry consists almost entirely of shares—and their value is much more volatile.”

“I see,” I said faintly. “I'm guessing that some of the shares are in the Great Southeastern.”

He looked surprised. “Yes, nearly half. How did you know?”

“Never mind. What about the rest?”

“The rest are in silver and gold mines in South America. Your father took about ten percent of the money your mother brought to the marriage and purchased those shares when the mines were first discovered. Fifteen or twenty years ago, they were a very profitable investment.”

“But wasn't it foolish to have invested so narrowly?”

James shrugged. “Plenty of people did the same thing and made substantial fortunes because they sold before the mines went dry. Had your father lived, I'm sure he would have done the same, and it all would have worked out beautifully. But Mr. Turleigh has received no directives about selling. Apparently, he tried several times to discuss it with your mother, but she wasn't willing to alter anything your father had set in place, and over the past few years, the mines have begun to lose money. It isn't official yet—but there's a quarterly report coming out in August that will make the failure of the mines public,” he finished. “I'm afraid those shares have gone to almost nothing.”

I had braced myself for this, but hearing the words still made a knot form in my stomach. “And the railway shares?”

“Those could potentially recover, although they've dipped substantially in value this past year. Your father had something close to twelve hundred shares in the London-Redfield, to which were added another two thousand when the Great Southeastern took it over. They should bounce back to at least half their former value when the railway is up and running again. That would put your dowry somewhere around two thousand pounds per annum, possibly more if the dividends are good.”

I twisted the napkin in my lap. “But what if Parliament closes the railway?”

James gave me a quizzical look. “Why would that happen? Accidents occur all the time without a railway closing down.”

I stirred sugar into my tea while I debated telling James some of what I knew.

“Elizabeth? What is it?”

I set down the spoon on the saucer with a clink. “You can't tell anyone what I'm about to share with you, James. Do you promise?”

His eyebrows lifted at my seriousness. “I promise.”

“When I was in Travers, I found out that the train wreck might not have been an accident. It
looked
like it was, because land near a river is prone to erosion, and that's where the tracks were; but apparently there's another area near Malverton, where the track is similarly close to the river—and the line there was sabotaged.”

He looked incredulous. “Sabotaged?”

“The ground under the track had been dug up, and several bolts were cut out of the fishplates.”

He gave a short laugh. “That's absurd. Who told you this?”

“A newspaperman who works for the
Falcon,
” I said.

“The
Falcon
is a liberal rag that has inveighed against the railway interest for years.”

“Liberal rag or not, James, I saw the cut bolts,” I said earnestly. “Mr. Flynn—the newspaperman—brought them back from Malverton, and I held them in my hand.” His face sobered, and I continued, “And a photographer took pictures to present to Parliament. It was enough to convince them—this past Friday, in a closed session—to shut down the line for three weeks for an extended investigation.”

His eyes narrowed. “So this newspaperman thinks that someone is sabotaging the railway. To what end?”

“The most likely reason is to make money by manipulating the share price,” I said, thinking about what Paul had told me.

He fiddled with his spoon, turning it over and back. “What sort of man is he, this Flynn?”

It was heartening that James was no longer dismissing the theory out of hand. “He seems all right. It was he who first told me that we owned shares of the stock, from back when Father was on the board of the London-Redfield.”

James's expression became instantly suspicious. “Why would he know about your father's shares? Why is he looking into our family?”

“He isn't,” I protested. “He's only trying to figure out who is behind this railway scheme.”

“Surely he doesn't suspect your father!”

“No. But he says that the purchase of the London-Redfield in 1862 involved a good deal of fighting among the board members. He wonders if some of those old quarrels have something to do with the sabotage.”

“Hmph. And he came to find you and ask questions?”

“Not at all,” I said patiently. “He's a friend of Mr. Wilcox's. We really only met by coincidence. Anyway, James, that's not what's important. Parliament will make its final decision about the Great Southeastern in just over a fortnight. If Mr. Flynn can discover the people behind the scheme and prove beyond a doubt that the sabotage was part of it, there's a good chance Parliament will reopen the line after repairs. But if not, they may shut it down entirely. And then
all
of the shares in my dowry will be worth nothing. This is why Mr. Flynn asked me if I knew anything about the railway, back when I was in Travers. He knows I have a stake in the outcome.”

“But you didn't tell him anything,” he said quickly. It was more a statement than a question.

I took a sip of my tea to swallow the bit of guilt over passing along Lord Shaw's name. “I didn't know anything to tell him.”

James rubbed at his chin. “So Flynn thinks the Holmsted accident was the result of sabotage as well. Does he have any proof?”

“Not really,” I said. “But one of the inspectors who filed a report months ago about Holmsted was killed the week before he was supposed to testify about the railway in Parliament. It was made to look like he fell off a train accidentally, but he'd been beaten first. And the other inspector who was going to testify about Holmsted has gone missing.”

James's eyebrows rose. “Flynn told you all this?”

I nodded.

He sat for a long moment, thinking. Finally, he shook his head. “Whatever he's looking for, I don't want you talking to him again.”

What would you think if you knew I'd sent him a telegram yesterday afternoon?

“Why are you crumbling your toast?” he asked abruptly.

I kept my eyes on the dark brown bits. “I don't like the burnt part.”

“Elizabeth, I'm quite serious. You mustn't get involved.”

I met his gaze levelly. “But I
am
involved. It's my dowry. If I could find something that would help keep the Great Southeastern open, why shouldn't I pass it along?”

His voice sharpened. “I can think of several very good reasons why not. First—and foremost—is that, if indeed there is a scheme involving sabotage, the people who are behind it are dangerous.”

“Mr. Flynn would hardly reveal that
I
told him—”

“Second, I'm not sure how Flynn might use whatever you told him. Depending on whom he told, it might cause the share price to drop still further.” He spread his hands. “And last, I don't want to have our lives splashed all over the pages of the
Falcon.
What happened to the Reynolds family was atrocious.”

I sat up. “But this isn't the same sort of thing at all!”

“Just promise me.”

“Promise what?” Aunt Catherine's voice startled us both, and I turned to see her standing in the doorway.

“Oh, nothing,” James said smoothly, standing up to kiss her on the cheek. “Good morning, Mother. You look pleased about something.”

“I am.” She turned to me. “Your mother is better today. She still hasn't spoken, but she slept through the night, and she just took some toast. The new medicine the doctor gave her seems to be helping.”

I gave a sigh of relief. “I'm so glad.”

My aunt sat down and laid her napkin in her lap. “So what is Elizabeth promising?”

“Apparently a newspaperman approached her at the hotel in Travers,” James said. “I've just asked her not to speak to him.”

“Lord, no,” my aunt replied with a frown. “Newspapermen aren't to be trusted—they make everything sound tawdry just to sell papers.”

I could feel James's eyes on me, intent, wanting my promise.

I merely smiled and took the second-to-last piece of toast from the silver rack. “Pass the marmalade, would you, James?”