Authors: True Colours
However, the gentleman of the law who was currently standing on the doorstep had been most insistent that he should see the Marquis, and while they had been arguing the Earl of Kilgaren had also arrived, demanding entry. Deverson could not withstand the combined onslaught, but it was with a great deal of trepidation that he pulled back the bed curtains now and cleared his throat apologetically.
He addressed the heaped pile of sheets and blankets somewhat nervously.
‘There is a gentleman to see you, my lord, by the name of Dundry.’ He paused, then said in the tone of someone relating information in questionable taste,’ I understand that he is a Bow Street Runner.’
James groaned as he turned over and the light struck his eyes. ‘For God’s sake, Deverson, what time is it?’
‘Ten o’clock, my lord.’ Deverson was quite expressionless. ‘The Earl of Kilgaren is also here to see you, sir. I have shown him into the drawing-room.’
James struggled to sit up and winced as his head swam. ‘Quite a host of early morning callers,’ he observed crossly. ‘What the devil can they want at this hour of the day? Tell them I will join them shortly, Deverson, and bring me some hot water. And an ice bag might help matters, too!’
‘Very good, my lord.’ Deverson backed hastily from the room as James, still clutching his head, attempted to swing his legs over the side of the bed and stand up.
When James entered the drawing-room a little while later, he found Marcus Kilgaren at his ease reading the
Gazette
, and Mr Dundry of Bow Street still on his feet, looking very uncomfortable. He was twisting his round hat by the brim and his equally round face was a florid red colour. On seeing James he immediately burst into speech.
‘Begging your pardon for disturbing your lordship at such an hour, but you did say that if it was urgent—’
James winced as his head gave him a fresh spasm of pain. ‘You did quite right, Dundry,’ he interrupted abruptly, unable to cope with too many profuse apologies. He looked at Marcus, who was calmly folding
up the paper. ‘What can I do for you, Marcus? I hardly expected to see you so early.’
‘Caro has sent me,’ Marcus said, unruffled. ‘She had a message from Alicia this morning which I thought to convey to you, to the effect that she has left Town for Somerset. But perhaps you should hear what Dundry has to say first? I collect that his is the more urgent business?’
‘Caro must have the constitution of an ox to be up so early in the morning,’ James grumbled, eyeing the entry of Deverson and the ice with disfavour. ‘Well, you’d better start, then, Dundry.’
Mr Dundry cleared his throat awkwardly. ‘It’s like this, your honours,’ he began. Then he frowned. ‘Perhaps I should say at this point—as background, like—that we have been pursuant on our enquiries concerning the death of a certain Josiah Broseley ever since your lordship came to us with a request for information.’ He nodded respectfully in James’s direction.
Marcus, who had not previously had the pleasure of meeting Mr Dundry, began to perceive that the explanation might be a long one. James, however, had other ideas. His head was not up to taking any circumlocution.
‘Any luck?’ he asked directly, slumping in an armchair and applying the ice bag to his head.
Dundry looked scandalised at being hurried along in this manner. ‘Yes, my lord,’ he admitted, ‘which is as why I’m calling.’ He paused for thought.
‘Mr Josiah died of drowning,’ he said sententiously. ‘That wouldn’t be so rare in a man supposed to be a drunkard, but word is that before he died there were those out looking for him.’
Both Marcus and James were now listening intently. ‘And do you think they found him?’ James asked quietly.
Dundry permitted himself a small, grim smile. ‘Aye, sir. A man—tall, fair, well-spoken and well-dressed—was seen talking to Josiah Broseley the night he died. The same man went to identify the body and claimed Broseley’s effects.’
‘It’s not much of a description.’ Marcus observed. ‘Why, it could have been me!’
‘You’re pleased to jest, sir!’ Dundry gave another small smile. ‘I’ll not deny it was difficult to put a name to the cove, but in the end we got him!’ His tone conveyed his satisfaction. ‘Name of Westwood, as is great-nephew to the old Countess of Stansfield.’
The effect on his audience was electric. James sat up a little straighter,
his eyes narrowing. Dundry, gratified by this rapt attention, continued. ‘Seems Mr Westwood, like Josiah Broseley, also owes a lot of money,’ he commented thoughtfully. ‘To money-lenders, to his tailor, and most of all to a certain Mr Bertram Broseley, who bought up his debts going back a long way. In fact, Westwood’s done some work for Bertram Broseley, by way of payment, like.’
There was complete silence in the room. Marcus Kilgaren, who had guessed nothing of this, was looking incredulous.
‘Westwood and Bertram Broseley? Why, I was not even aware they knew each other!’
‘Why should we have known?’ James said intently. He had abandoned the ice bag, Dundry’s news having cleared his head more effectively than any other treatment could have done. ‘I dislike the sound of this, Dundry. What sort of work does Westwood do for Broseley?’
‘We’re still making our enquiries, sir,’ the Runner said, ‘but I understand that it covers a little extortion here, a bit of blackmail there…Bertram Broseley is as nasty a piece of work as you’ll find, sir, but word is that his business is failing and he needs money fast. Which brings me to the other aspect of Mr Westwood’s plans which I think is germane to your interest.’
A brief spasm of pain crossed Marcus’s face at the effort of following Dundry’s parentheses. James, however, had completely shaken off his headache and was watching Dundry with a look that was grimly alert.
‘I think that I can hazard a guess—Westwood has resolved to marry money,’ he said levelly, the quiet tone belied by the keenness of his gaze.
‘Just so, sir.’ Dundry looked gratified at such quick deduction. ‘Some time ago he apparently devised a plan to marry Broseley’s widowed daughter—with Mr Broseley’s connivance.’
‘He needed no subterfuge,’ James said, with bleak bitterness. ‘She told me herself that they were betrothed. My God, if only she knew—’ He broke off, for Dundry was frowning heavily.
‘Oh, no, sir, pardon the liberty, but that can’t be right! My sources told me that the lady had turned him down two months ago! Which is why,’ he said with a triumphant flourish, ‘Mr Westwood decided to abduct her—the lady being not willing!’
Both men looked at him incredulously. ‘Are you mad, man?’ James demanded. ‘Lady Carberry told me quite clearly that she had accepted Westwood’s suit! He had no need to carry her off!’
Dundry looked offended, but it was Marcus who interposed quietly;
‘Just a moment, James. That may have been what Alicia told you, but was it true? Caro told me at least a month ago that Westwood had proposed and Alicia had rejected him! And even if Alicia told you at the ball that she would marry Westwood I would venture to suggest that it was mere bravado!’
‘That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,’ Dundry said eagerly. ‘Her ladyship rejected Mr Westwood’s offer, so he has abducted her!’
James clutched his head before the conundrum could revive the pain. ‘This makes no sense,’ he complained. ‘Wait, let me think. Broseley and Westwood have been in business together for some time. Both are desperately short of cash. Westwood proposes to Lady Carberry but is rejected.’ His gaze sharpened on Dundry. ‘Are you saying that both Broseley and Westwood together are after her money? And that Westwood has carried her off to force her into marriage?’
Mr Dundry drew himself up with full, offended dignity. ‘I’ve been trying to explain to your lordships! Lady Carberry decided two days ago to go back to Somerset and Mr Westwood offered his escort when he heard of her plans. All was falling out very conveniently for him! Now do you see, my lord? Mr Westwood has taken his chance to abduct her!’
T
wo hours later the tension was beginning to tell on James. He had ordered some strong coffee and sat drinking it moodily, having been restrained from setting off immediately to the West Country. Marcus had pointed out quite reasonably that they needed to check first that Westwood had not re-routed the carriage from the start—even now he could be heading up the Great North Road. James had chafed at the delay, but had had to acknowledge the logic of this.
Other than having his curricle put to, there was little he could do at this stage. Dundry had gone off to check with the coaching inns on all the major routes out of London, and Marcus had sent a message to Kilgaren House to alert Caroline. He had insisted that they would follow James once they knew which direction Westwood had taken, and, bearing in mind that Alicia might need Caroline’s comfort, James had not demurred.
It was a bare few minutes later that Dundry returned, remarkably succinct now that immediate action was required.
‘They’re on the Bath Road, my lord!’
‘How many?’ James questioned swiftly.
‘Two ladies and a gentleman, sir. They passed that way yesterday, and I make no doubt that we should be able to trace them along the road quite easily. I have a good description of the carriage. The innkeeper said that all three seemed quite amicable, but I imagine that is because Lady Carberry thought that she was going home, rather than—’ He broke off at the expression on James’s face. ‘It’s definitely our party, for the landlord described Lady Carberry.’ He smiled reminiscently. ‘No one is likely to forget that lady, sir!’
‘I’m going after them now,’ James said decisively. ‘We won’t be
able to catch up with them, but we might be able to track them down in the end. I just pray we will not be too late, but if so—’ He stopped, his face set.
‘If only we knew where Westwood was intending to go,’ Marcus said thoughtfully as James opened the door and shouted for his groom. ‘It won’t be Chartley Chase, for sure.’
‘There’s Broseley’s place at Taunton,’ Dundry suggested, a little diffidently. ‘If the two of them have planned this together…’
‘Good man.’ James clapped him on the shoulder. ‘It’s worth a try at any rate! You’d better come with me, Dundry. Marcus, I take it you and Caroline won’t be far behind?’
‘Try and stop us!’ Marcus replied cheerfully. ‘Don’t break your neck,’ he added as James shrugged himself into his caped driving coat. ‘That would be no use to Alicia at all—or Miss Frensham. I wonder what Westwood intends to do with Miss Frensham?’ he added as an afterthought.
James swore. He had very little concern for Miss Frensham’s welfare at that moment, but the vision of Alicia trying to defend herself against Westwood’s advances was with him constantly.
‘Leave us messages at the posting houses,’ Marcus was saying urgently to Dundry. ‘We might even catch up with you, given the speed at which Caroline likes to travel! And don’t let him do anything too rash.’ He looked at James thoughtfully. ‘Damn it, he’s been wanting an excuse to call Westwood out for months!’
For Alicia, the journey down to Somerset was assuming nightmarish proportions. When she had left Cardace House on the night of the ball, her only thought had been to escape from London and all future contact with James Mullineaux. She did not understand how everything had gone so irretrievably wrong between them; every true feeling was twisted and spoiled beyond recognition. All she could do was instinctively head for the place where she had been happiest, and that was Chartley Chase.
A long-suffering Miss Frensham had set about packing up in preparation for their departure the following day and they had left Fordyce impassively arranging to close the house in Upper Grosvenor Street indefinitely. Lady Stansfield had not spared her granddaughter’s feelings, accusing her of rash, impulsive action, and Alicia had been vaguely surprised that Christopher Westwood had actually supported her to the extent of offering his escort for the journey.
She had not questioned his actions particularly, for her mind was obsessed with thoughts of James and she seemed incapable of making
much sense of anything else. She had completely forgotten about Josiah’s death and the fact that she had asked James for his help in finding out what had happened to him.
Now, as they neared Bath and the end of their journey, Alicia was beginning to regret her hurried departure. They had stayed overnight in a busy coaching inn where she had lain awake listening to the carriages coming and going, trying not to dwell on every encounter she had ever had with James. She had not been very successful. It was rather like a replaying of the dreadful time when she had first lost him, when every waking and sleeping moment had seemed to be haunted by his presence.
Her head ached from lack of sleep and her heart ached even more. The enforced inactivity of the journey gave her too much time to think, to try to retrace the progress of their relationship up to this miserable point. The rumble of the carriage wheels was making her head ache even more. She leant back against the cushions and allowed her eyes to close. Suddenly she felt very tired. Well, if there was nothing else she could do, she could at least sleep. The noise of the journey blurred and faded away, and Alicia was dead to the world.
When she woke up she knew instinctively that it was a very long time later. She was very cold and she felt horribly sick. Other sensations returned to her slowly. She lay still, listening half-consciously to the faint, plaintive call of birds outside. There was also an almost imperceptible smell…sandalwood…spices…which jogged a very faint memory deep in her unconscious, reminding her of her childhood…With an effort Alicia pulled herself awake, opened her eyes and flinched as the dim light caused her head to ache abominably.
She closed her eyes again immediately. The nausea ebbed a little and she tried to think. What had happened to her? She seemed to be lying on a lumpy sort of mattress and could feel the coarse material of a blanket rough beneath her fingers. Surely this could not be another inn? She moved her hand slightly and discovered to her relief that she was not physically restrained in any way. Not that she could move much in her present state. She felt as though any attempt at movement would result in violent sickness. What on earth was going on? Try as she might, she could not remember anything beyond falling asleep in the carriage.
The second time that she opened her eyes it was marginally easier to keep them open. She moved her head cautiously. She seemed to be lying on her back looking up at a high, shadowed ceiling. Meagre light was coming from a dirty window in the wall to her left, and she could make out rough plaster walls and bare boards on the floor, deep in dust. The iron bedstead on which she was lying was one of the few pieces
of furniture in the large, empty room. The scent of spice was still there, faint but discernible, and the sound of the birds drifted into the room with no other noise but the lowing of cattle as a backdrop. It was all rather pleasant, and Alicia was tempted to allow herself to float back into unconsciousness and worry no more about anything.
However, it was too late. As she turned her head slightly to look about her there was a movement about the bed and someone spoke.
‘So you are round again, my dear. How very fortuitous. I was afraid that I had completely overdone the dose and you would die. Even the Reverend Mr Skittle might draw the line at joining me in holy matrimony with a corpse!’
It was unquestionably Christopher Westwood’s voice, and Westwood’s face which hung over her. His words made no sense to Alicia at that moment, for she had more pressing preoccupations.
‘I am going to be sick,’ Alicia said, as distinctly as possible, and was gratified when a bucket appeared underneath her nose within a moment. Although unpleasant, the interlude made her feel much better. The nausea receded and her headache dimmed a little.
Westwood had removed the bucket with an expression of distaste on his face. Now he relocked the door and came back towards her. The first thing Alicia noticed about him was that he was very drunk. There was a hectic flush to his cheeks and a feverish glitter in his eyes, and, if further testimony were needed, a three quarters empty brandy bottle stood on the nearby table.
‘Not quite your elegant style, is it, my dear, being sick in a bucket?’ he jeered. ‘But then, I suspect you will need to become accustomed to a few changes!’
There was a sneering tone in his voice which Alicia had never heard before. It was the voice of a bully, one who was very confident of himself. She tried to sit up but pain shot through her head and she sank back on the dirty pillow with a groan.
‘I don’t understand.’ There was a quiver in her voice which was all too real. ‘What’s going on? Where am I? And where is Miss Frensham?’
Westwood stood looking down at her with odious complacency. ‘Calm yourself, my dear. Miss Frensham is quite well, though no doubt a little distraught by now!’ He giggled unpleasantly. ‘I abandoned her at an inn near Bath, having encouraged her to step down to partake of some refreshment. You were asleep and nothing could have been easier than to trick her. I helped her down and said I would go back to wake you, but, of course, I simply gave the order to drive on and left her in
the inn yard!’ He giggled again with evident enjoyment. ‘I can still see the look on her face as the carriage sped away!’
Alicia remained silent. It seemed the most sensible course of action until her head improved and she could think straight. At least the debilitating sickness had retreated, but she felt very weak and all the dust of the journey appeared to be clinging to her skin. Once again she attempted to sit up and this time she was successful. Propping herself against the iron bedpost, she cleared her throat painfully.
‘Could I have a glass of water, please, Christopher? I feel very unwell.’
‘Hardly surprising, I feel, with the dose of laudanum I gave you.’ Westwood sounded pleased with himself rather than anything else. ‘I think I must have overestimated the amount, but I did not want to run the risk of you waking too soon. As it is, you have slept the clock round, and very inconvenient it has been, too!’ He sounded as though he expected her to apologise for her lack of consideration.
He passed her a rough beaker of water, which was brackish and warm, but tasted wonderful to Alicia. So this had been the reason why he had supported her when she had announced she was leaving London—and why he had offered the use of his own carriage. Alicia thought she already guessed why, but would make no assumptions.
‘Why have you brought me here?’ she asked, hitting just the right plaintive note. Westwood had seemed to appreciate her meek approach, so she decided she would try to maintain it, although it went rather against the grain. It would be foolish to provoke him when she appeared to be so thoroughly at his mercy—there was a lot she needed to learn.
Westwood drew his chair up beside the bed and gave Alicia a rather unpleasant grin. It was obvious that he was enjoying himself hugely.
‘Why, to marry you, my dear!’ He stretched out his legs before him and admired the high gloss of his boots. ‘I asked you once before—do you remember?—but you refused me. This time I was taking no risks.’
So she had been right, Alicia thought. He was determined to marry her, and not because he was suffering from unrequited love either! His attitude towards her could scarcely have been more contemptuous.
‘But you don’t really care for me, do you, Christopher?’ she asked, trying to sound piqued by his indifference.
Westwood gave a crack of laughter and swung backwards on the chair. ‘Does it hurt your feelings that I don’t bother to pretend any more? But then you ain’t my type, Alicia! You’re as cold as ice and I prefer my bedmates to have a little more spirit!’ He tilted the brandy bottle to his lips. ‘No, you hold no attraction for me, but your money…well, that’s another matter!’
‘Money? You mean Carberry’s money?’
Westwood wiped his sleeve across his mouth and looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Well, certainly that’s part of it, of course.’ How heartless he sounded. ‘But I know Carberry’s money is tied up in your do-good trusts, and it will take me a little time to break those. No, what I really need is ready cash and the promise of more. Your expectations as your grandmother’s heiress are enough for now!’ His tone changed from smug self-congratulation to bitterness.
‘The old witch always meant to leave her fortune to me—I’d been living on the expectation of it for years, borrowing money to maintain the style of living I was entitled to! Then you had to come along and spoil sport! I thought she could at least be relied upon to disinherit you after you married Carberry, but the two of you always were so close she wouldn’t even abandon you then!’ He glared at her. ‘So I had to spend the next seven years kowtowing to the old besom for the pittance of an allowance she granted me!’
Alicia marvelled at the casual cruelty of his words. Apart from his insensitivity over Josiah’s death, none of this corrosive spite had ever spilled over onto the surface before. Westwood had always charmed Lady Stansfield with his attentiveness and anxiety to please, a consummate actor bent on gaining a fortune at any price. Alicia shivered.
‘And if I refuse you again?’ She tried not to sound aggressive, simply curious. Westwood laughed again, without mirth.
‘You ain’t in any position to refuse, my dear! In the first place you’re hopelessly compromised and I doubt if even your grandmother would stand by you now! Besides, the shock might kill her if you claim to have been forced into marriage for a second time! She is not as strong as she was. It would create yet another monstrous scandal and you would be obliged to live retired.