“Here—take these stairs,” he said rapidly. “Say nothing. You did not see Letchworth. You must be as shocked as everyone else by his death.”
“But—” Before she could protest, he opened the door and pushed her gently through it. The last thing she saw of him was a swirl of blue satin as he closed the door.
Hester took a stunned minute to recover before turning and making her way up the spiral stairs to Lord Hawkhurst’s library. Shuddering to think that the murderer had come this way, she nearly ran out of the library to Isabella’s dressing room where she had left her with the letter.
Outside it, she paused to smooth her hair and gown, wiping the worry off her face, before she knocked on the door.
“Come in.”
The sound of Mrs. Mayfield’s voice caused her heart to give a queer leap. Then she entered the room where she found both her aunt and Isabella sitting.
They seemed to be waiting for her. Both sat erect in their cane-backed chairs, pulled up to the fire. No work was in their hands. Nor did they seem to have been chatting. The look in Mrs. Mayfield’s eyes when they fell on her held more viciousness than Hester had ever seen.
“Where have you been?” She started in on her directly. “I understand you left this house without my permission.”
Hester’s glance flew to her cousin’s face. Isabella looked afraid, but there was also a hint of guilt in her countenance. Hester knew at once that she had told her mother about Mr. Letchworth’s letter.
She could do no worse than try to brazen it out. She answered casually as she crossed the room to Isabella’s dressing table, “I had intended to send a message, but the sky grew so dark before I could reach the village, I had to turn back. It was an eclipse. You ought to have come outdoors to see it. It was quite remarkable.”
“Send a message to who?” Her aunt ignored her other statements.
Hester had reached the table. With a trembling hand, she pulled open the drawer.
No letter was there. The drawer contained nothing but Isabella’s brushes and combs.
Turning rapidly, she saw the triumph in Mrs. Mayfield’s face, and the tearful shame on Isabella’s.
“I put a letter in here. An important paper, Aunt. I would like to be told what has become of it.” Indignation and fury burned like torches inside her.
“If you mean Mr. Letchworth’s note to Isabella, then you might as well forget it. It is no longer here.”
“I need that letter. We must show it to Sir Joshua Tate. It proves that Mr. Letchworth was the man who killed my Lord Hawkhurst. He did it to cast blame on Lord St. Mars in order to remove him from your list of suitors, Bella.” She cast her cousin a pleading look.
“That is nonsense!” Mrs. Mayfield bit out. “And so I shall tell Sir Joshua if you dare to mention anything of the sort to him. What are you trying to do, Hester, ruin us? Your cousin has made a splendid match. She is a countess now—a very rich lady. And you and I shall live much the better for it. I expect you to keep your mouth closed!”
“We cannot take Lord St. Mars’s money. That is stealing. He was falsely accused, and we have the proof.”
She drew herself up. “Where is that letter, Aunt?”
“Somewhere where you will never find it. As far as you are concerned, I might have thrown it in the fire.”
Hester darted her gaze at the coals. They burned a clean, vivid red. If her aunt had thrown the letter into the fire, it would be nothing but ashes now.
Fighting a sick feeling, she spoke as calmly as she could. “But we all saw it. We can still tell Sir Joshua that Mr. Letchworth threatened to kill anyone who came between him and Isabella. We can tell him that he threatened Sir Harrowby.”
She could not let them know that he had been killed—here—right outside, on his way to fulfill that threat. She hoped to use their ignorance against them. “Mr. Letchworth must be stopped before he tries to murder Isabella’s husband. You wouldn’t want that, Bella, would you?”
“Mama?” Isabella turned big, anxious eyes on her mother. “I know you said we mustn’t make the letter public, but—”
“Hush! I’ve already told you that his ravings are nothing more than the words of a man who’s violently in love. I am certain I received many a letter with exactly that sort of language both before and after I married your papa, yet nobody murdered anybody for all I know. If they wanted to fight a duel over me, there was nothing I could do to stop them, was there? And if Mr. Letchworth challenges your husband . . . well, then, Harrowby will just have to beat him, won’t he? A lady is helpless to stop these passions gentlemen have. They just love a fight. So don’t you worry about it, my precious. Just let your husband take care of himself.”
“But you,” she said to Hester, rising out of her chair to turn a withering look upon her niece, “you have gone too far. I cannot be expected to house a traitor to the family. You may have two weeks to find yourself another post, and do not expect me to do it for you. I have done enough to help you already, and if you have no other relations to beg from, then that is not my fault.”
Hester couldn’t speak for the fear that struck her. She had never wanted to live with her aunt, but with no other home to claim, she had no choice.
Pride kept her from begging to stay. She would find something—anything rather than that. A position as a housekeeper, perhaps.
But no sooner had these thoughts sped through her mind than Isabella cried out, “No! You cannot throw Hester out, Mama. She didn’t mean any harm. She doesn’t want us to be penniless. She just made a mistake. Didn’t you, Hester?”
Hester was touched by her cousin’s defence, even though Bella was the one who was mistaken. She had a generous heart when it did not interfere with her mother’s will, her own limited grasp, or the wishes she had for herself. Still, Hester could not lie to her, if it meant betraying St. Mars.
She moved to take Isabella’s hands in hers. “Thank you, Bella. I hope you know that I love you, and I would never do anything willingly to harm you. But, unfortunately, in this case, I have to tell the truth.
“I know that Mr. Letchworth killed Lord Hawkhurst. If I do not tell Sir Joshua, then I will be letting us take the things that rightfully belong to St. Mars.”
Tears filled her cousin’s eyes. “But Harrowby is the earl now, and he wants to be an earl. And I want to be a countess. How can you be so certain, Hester? You cannot possibly know.”
Hester hesitated. St. Mars had instructed her to pretend no knowledge of Mr. Letchworth’s death, or of his attempt to enter the Abbey. Without that information, how could she say that she was sure?
A sudden commotion came to them through the door, muffled shouts, running feet. A door slammed.
“What on earth is that?” Mrs. Mayfield turned to open the door and vanished through it. In a second, Hester heard her voice calling down the stairs.
Curious, Isabella dropped her cousin’s hands to follow her mother out of the room.
Left all alone, Hester surmised that someone had found Mr. Letchworth’s body. She prayed they had not captured St. Mars, and she was comforted by the recollection that his horse had stood nearby. She remembered how swift Penny was.
Afraid, for him—and for herself, for it appeared she was to be thrown on the mercy of strangers—still she searched the dressing chamber thoroughly for any sign of the letter. She did not think her aunt would have destroyed it. She knew how little use it was as evidence, but she also knew its value. There might come a day when a person more sympathetic to St. Mars’s cause would be in a position to restore him to his rights.
The letter was nowhere to be found. Still, she believed her aunt had kept it. If nothing else, the threat of making it public could give Mrs. Mayfield control over Harrowby. And Hester knew her aunt too well to imagine that she would not have thought of that possibility. She would never burn her advantage over another human being.
Defeated, Hester left the room and all of its secrets behind her to descend the stairs and play the role St. Mars had asked her to play.
Oh! if to dance all night, and dress all day,
Charmed the smallpox, or chased old age away;
Who would not scorn what housewife’s cares produce,
Or who would learn one earthly thing of use?
To patch, nay ogle, might become a Saint,
Nor could it sure be such a sin to paint.
But since, alas! frail beauty must decay,
Curled or uncurled, since Locks will turn to grey;
Since painted, or not painted, all shall fade,
And she who scorns a man, must die a maid;
What then remains but well our power to use,
And keep good humour still whate’er we lose?
And trust me, dear! good humour can prevail,
When airs, and flights, and screams, and scolding fail.
Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll;
Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul.”
CHAPTER 21
Late, on the following night, near midnight, when Hester returned to her room to sleep, she took a moment to pet the greyhound dog that had taken up his abode outside her door. Then she entered, and throwing off her air of composure, she turned to lean her forehead against the solid oak, scarcely aware of the candle in her hand.
It had taken nearly all her strength to pretend ignorance. Unable to say what she knew, she had struggled under the burden of lies, forbidden to divulge Mr. Letchworth’s motive for the murder to help St. Mars.
A gardener had spied the two masked men with their horses, looming over the body. He had not recognized them, nor had he been aware of the lady concealed by one of the men’s bodies. Hester supposed she should be grateful he missed her, but he had spread the word that a villain in a long, blue cloak had murdered a gentleman just outside the Abbey.
A hue and cry had been raised for the highwayman, Blue Satan, whose description Harrowby had recognized instantly. In the shock and bustle of dealing with Mr. Letchworth’s corpse, sending for Sir Joshua, and answering his questions, no one had bothered to ask
why
Mr. Letchworth had been found outside the door that Lord Hawkhurst’s murderer had used to gain entrance to the Abbey.
Hester had glimpsed an occasional flicker of speculation in the gentlemen’s eyes—Harrowby’s, Sir Joshua’s, and more particularly James Henry’s. Still, no one had voiced his suspicions. Hester’s aunt had made certain that she was given no chance to speak, and since it was presumed she had been inside and seen nothing, no one had asked her for her version of the events.
Hours later, when Sir Joshua had gone, Mrs. Mayfield threatened her again. Mr. Letchworth’s appearance at the Abbey had convinced her of his guilt, Hester believed, but his death had released her from any worry she might have felt for Harrowby. She only wanted to be rid of the one person who might try to convince the magistrate of the truth and all would be perfect in her eyes.
But to all their amazements, Isabella had firmly put her foot down.
“No, Mama,” she had said again, in a defiant tone. “I don’t want you to send Hester away. And you cannot, for I won’t let you.
I
am the countess and this is
my
house now, so I can say who stays, not you. Hester can be my waiting woman instead of yours. I want her to be with me, and she will be with me, so that’s that.”
Then, hugging her, Isabella had pleaded with Hester to stay, sensing the struggle she had with her conscience, even if she could not understand her reasons.
Hester had found herself embracing her cousin in tears, the only salve to her conscience being that in remaining, she could continue to search for the letter and provide St. Mars with another ally in his house.
If
she ever saw him again, which was not very likely, she told herself, as she pushed her head away from the door. She walked to the small commode that served as her nightstand and set her candle down. She turned to look at herself in the mirror, noting the droop of her shoulders and her down-turned mouth. The only news she had to comfort her was that, so far, Blue Satan had not been found.
She looked down to locate the hooks to her bodice. She had unhooked two, when a deep voice sounded behind her.
“I shouldn’t finish that, if I were you.”
She turned and gasped, “St. Mars!”
He appeared from behind the heavy curtains to her bed, stepping around from the other side to stand just a few feet from her. He stood near the foot of the bed, his black tricorn in his hand, his fair hair tied back with a black ribbon. He wore the blue satin cloak over a billowing white shirt.
On his face was a mixture of amusement and apology.
“I hope you will pardon the intrusion, Mrs. Kean. I did not mean to startle you.”
“No! I mean, of course, my lord, you are excused. I am very pleased to see you. But how did you come in here?”
“I have a way, which I will show you. But first, I should like to know what caused you to rest your head against the door? I would have spoken sooner, but I was afraid to disturb you when it seemed you needed a moment to yourself. In any event, I should have said something before you started to undress.”
His gaze dropped to the opening at her breast.
Hester felt herself roasting from her chin down to her toes. She covered the small opening hastily with one hand. With fluttering eyelids and a queer beat in her heart, she said, “It is of no importance, my lord. You spoke in time.”
She ventured to peek at him from beneath her lashes. He seemed unnaturally still as he watched her silently from across the room. They stood that way for a matter of seconds, not speaking, with the bed between them.
St. Mars cleared his throat. “Yes . . . I did.” He retreated to the window seat. Hester watched him move towards it, his cloak swirling about his legs when, with a natural grace, he turned and swept it behind him. “I hope you don’t mind if I sit a while, Mrs. Kean. I shall not stay long, but the ride before me is.”
“You must sit, of course.” When he did, propping one boot up on the bench and hooking an elbow on his knee, she asked, “Are you going away?” She hoped that her tone did not betray her dismay.