The Pursuit of Pleasure (27 page)

“I ask, Mrs. Marlowe, not because I care either way, but because if I know all the circumstances, then I am prepared and can argue a stronger case. I do not like to be surprised by inconvenient facts.”

“Well then, my lord, you may be astonished to know you are the first person in this entire benighted, corrupt exercise who is even remotely interested in the facts. And I have some facts of my own to seek. How was it that I was charged with conspiring to murder in the first place?”

Lord deHavilland’s nostrils tightened as if he had encountered a very unpleasant odor. Doubtless it was her, but she had to give him points for gentlemanly stoicism.

“The misunderstanding seems to rest with the magistrate.”

“Sir Ralston?”

“Indeed. He indicates that a person, a gentleman, gave evidence against you. We are not entitled to know who that gentleman is, nor what evidence he gave. However, when your apparently well-known views on the marriage were made known, well… You became suspect.”

“A gentleman? This would mean someone influential.”

“Yes.”

“It seems I have a made a very powerful enemy.”

“Indeed, ma’am. But I am sure this can be laid to some minor property dispute. Such vindictive actions always turn out to have so little basis in fact. People out to make some money.”

She hadn’t thought of that—this whole misunderstanding might have come from her plans for Glass Cottage and the Redlap farm estate. In her quest to make changes and improvements, she might have stepped on someone’s toes. But her plans for the Redlap estate stepped on the free traders’ toes as well. And perhaps even the very long toes of the Admiralty. And then there was Jamie. Such a lot of injured feet from which to choose.

“And as to my first question, madam?”

“My lord, you should know I definitely did not kill, nor did I conspire to kill, my husband, for the simple reason and inconvenient fact that he is still very much alive.”

Lord deHavilland cut his eyes swiftly to Mr. Benchley, who shook his head sadly.

“Mrs. Marlowe has not lately been herself, sir. The effects of her incarceration, you understand. Captain Marlowe’s body was brought home and buried by his own father, the Reverend Doctor Marlowe, in the churchyard on May the twenty-fourth.”

“Is she mad?” The Serjeant returned his sharp gaze to Lizzie as if she were a scientific specimen, but something in his dry tone gave Lizzie pause.

“I’m not mad,” she articulated very clearly, “I’m livid.”

“Mrs. Marlowe, please …,” the solicitor began to cajole.

“No. I am not mad. I know my husband,” she spat the word out, “is not dead because he came here, to this room, in this prison not three days past. He was not a figment of my imagination. He came here disguised as a priest, and there must be a record of his passing through the gates. There must be, and if he bribed them to have his name omitted, then you can bribe them into revealing it. And you will find that no parish or church in the district sent out a priest to the prison to comfort and succor me, because it was in fact not a priest, but my husband, who is alive and very clearly up to no good. And I want some answers from him, or barring him, the Admiralty, who are the ones who told me he was dead.”

DeHavilland let the echoes of Lizzie’s raised voice subside off the walls before he spoke.

“That is an extraordinary story, Mrs. Marlowe.”

“The truth often is quite extraordinary, my lord.”

DeHavilland looked at her for a very long while before he spoke. “Call the warden.” He instructed the solicitor. “And you,” he ordered Lizzie, “will stand there, next to the window, quietly. Amuse yourself with this little glimpse of the outside. I believe the dogwood tree is in bloom.”

The warden came and the question was put to him. He professed his ignorance on the subject and, in turn, called the greasy turnkey.

“Aye, sirs. He come Tuesday last. Said he come to hear her confession, her being a papist and all.

“What a bouncer. I am not a papist.”

“Mrs. Marlowe, you will refrain from interjecting, please.” Lord deHavilland readdressed the turnkey. “What was this priest’s name?”

“Dunno.”

The barrister spoke with the patience of a panther. “Have you no record?”

The book from the front gate was finally brought in and consulted. Impatience and rage roiled around inside her while they looked. And looked.

Finally they decided—there was no signature. No name. No record.

And strangely, Lord deHavilland did not seem at all surprised. How damnably, bloody curious.

Lord deHavilland dismissed the men and turned back to Lizzie.

“Let us assume, Mrs. Marlowe, for the sake of argument, as there is no evidence to the contrary, that your supposition is true. That Captain Marlowe is alive. How do you think I might prove the existence of a man who clearly wants to leave no record, and who, if I may make another assumption, is patently not willing to have his identity revealed in order to free you?”

Lizzie swallowed the bitter tonic of humiliation. “Your assumption, my lord, is correct. Which is why I would start with the body.”

“You have a very agile mind, Mrs. Marlowe,” he said by way of a compliment. “Mr. Benchley indicated the body of your late husband was buried in the local churchyard?”

“Saint Savior’s, milord.”

“Thank you, Benchley.” He leveled his dark stare at Lizzie. “You yourself were there, I understand.”

“Yes, but if he had really died at sea, the way they told me in that letter, they never would have sent a body. They would have pitched him over the side as he deserved.”

“Mrs. Marlowe! Such unguarded words can only hurt your case.” The solicitor was shocked.

She waved his niceness away with a flick of her hand. “My point being, whoever is in that grave is not my husband, and I want you to prove it. If I were a Serjeant of King’s Bench, I should start asking questions of the Admiralty.”

They came back at dawn. Lizzie was awake. She was always awake well before dawn, staring up through the darkness, waiting for the first glimpses of daylight to filter through the tiny, bar-covered window set high in the wall above her head.

The barrister, Lord deHavilland, came with his servant.

“Come along then, Mrs. Marlowe.”

“Where are we going?”

“Out of here, to begin with. You’ve been set free.”

Lizzie stumbled on the smooth stone floor. How could it have been that easy? “Free? From gaol?”

“Yes. Here, put this on.” He took a dark woolen cloak from the servant and passed it to her. “There’s a chill fog this morning.”

And then they were outside, in the damp air and walking through the high iron gates and across the empty stone courtyard to an unmarked carriage. Lizzie had to resist the urge to run, in case there was some mistake, in case they should try to force her back, but the yard remained deserted. They were completely alone. No one, not her parents or even Mr. and Mrs. Tupper, awaited her release.

Well, she could hardly blame Mrs. Tupper. Not after the way Lizzie had refused to see her in the wake of Jamie’s visit. She oughtn’t have done so. Mrs. Tupper was the one person who had been entirely steadfast and loyal, and Lizzie had spurned her help. She ought to be grateful Lord deHavilland had come at all. And she was grateful, immensely so, but her overwhelming emotion was a sort of numb relief.

But she was wrong. The carriage door was opened by one of Lord deHavilland’s impeccable servants, and there was Mama, drawing Lizzie into her lily-of-the-valley-scented embrace.

“Oh, my child.”

It was heaven to release herself from thought for just one fleeting moment and give herself over to her mother’s care as she if she still were a child. But Lizzie would not give herself more than a moment. Any more and she might give her mother lice.

“Oh, goodness, just look at you.” Mama peered at Lizzie’s borrowed cloak and bedraggled clothing, and fluttered a lace handkerchief up to her nose. “You poor thing. We’ll have a bath prepared, straightaway.”

Lord deHavilland joined them and they pulled away just as a light drizzle began to fall, muffling the sounds of the city and wrapping them in a sort of benign anonymity. The carriage was a comfortable, well-appointed barouche with glass windows in front. It was light and airy, and for the first time, Lizzie did not seem to mind the closed carriage. After the weeks without sunlight, it seemed positively expansive.

But there were still unanswered questions. Lizzie hoped that deHavilland would finally have some answers. “How did this all come about?”

“A simple visit to the Admiralty offices at Portsmouth. The report was there for anyone to see. Killed by a falling sparwhilst aboard his ship. His head hit the deck, and that was an end to it. Witnessed by several officers and seamen. All very aboveboard.”

Exactly as she had expected, but still a lie. “And the coffin they sent to Saint Savior’s?”

“A simple mixup, I’m afraid. The Admiralty wished to offer their most humble apologies for the unfortunate error. And they… well I’m afraid they don’t know where the body is. Officer in charge, Lieutenant …” He consulted his notes. “Here it is, Lieutenant McAlden’s correspondence indicated they’re not used to having bodies brought ashore. Common practice is to bury their dead at sea, so they’ve little practice in sending bodies home for burial. A simple error.”

“Lieutenant McAlden?” Here was something that could not be coincidence. “Did you meet him in person? Tall, ruddy-faced blond man. Blue eyes, handsome?”

“I did not meet him. We communicated through correspondence. Are you acquainted?”

“Lieutenant Hugh McAlden? Is he currently with the navy?” Her mind boggled. The lies—they were all around her, everywhere she turned. No one could be trusted. She looked again at deHavilland as he consulted some paper from his valise. How much did
he
know, with all his correspondence with the Admiralty? It was bound to be more than he was letting on.

“I believe that’s correct. And are you acquainted?”

“Oh, yes. Lieutenant McAlden and I are well acquainted. It was very good of him to assist in this way. I shall have to thank him personally.” The audacity of Jamie and his men was astounding. Bloody lying, conniving bastards. But it was at least a beginning, to understand the Admiralty was complicit in this entire mess.

Her suspicions must have shown on her face.

“Now, I must ask you, Mrs. Marlowe, for the sake of your health, not to persist in this dangerous belief that your husband still lives.”

“My Lord, I
know
…”

“Please, Mrs. Marlowe. I beg you, no more.” He passed a blue-veined hand over his face. “I have seen you freed from gaol, with all charges withdrawn. You are restored to your family. What more could a sensible woman want?”

Answers, damn his aristocratic nose. And no one had ever been foolish enough to call her sensible.

“Lizzie, darling, let it be.”

“I daresay you are right.” For now. Questioning Lord de-Havilland further, after all her had done to secure her release, would appear churlish. The carriage turned up the hill. “Where are we going?”

“I thought it best to take you home.”

Lizzie peered through the rain. They weren’t headed home. They were headed to Hightop Manor. When the carriage rolled to a stop in front of the portico, Lizzie was shaken by the remembrance of the last such carriage ride she had taken, to Mr. Harris’s offices, with Jamie.

That bastard.

And just as Jamie had made to see her to the door, so too did Lord deHavilland.

“No, please, don’t get up. Thank you, my lord, for all your assistance.” She offered him her hand to shake. “I can’t thank you enough. I’ll see that the cloak is returned to you.”

It must have been a foolish statement, for he gave her the first smile she had seen from him. “Oh, no, I insist.”

Of course. Why would anyone want a cloak back from a vermin-infested woman? “Thank you again.”

The butler, Cushing, having seen Lady Theodora inside, awaited Lizzie with his ubiquitous black taffeta umbrella.

“Miss Lizzie.”

“Hello, Cushie. Thank you.” She ducked up under the cover and then into the house.

“May I say, I’m pleased to see you, miss.”

“Thanks, Cushie, you’re a brick. Tell me, how bad is it? The smell?”

“Hardly noticeable, Miss Lizzie. We’ll have you to rights in no time.” Cushing’s nostrils were pinched flat against his nose, though he strove manfully not to show it as he escorted her in through the door.

“That bad? Then don’t stand too close. I’m sure I’ve bugs.”

Cushing paused outside the drawing room. “Would you care to refresh yourself first?

“No, Cushie, I thank you. I’m afraid I’ve some business that can no longer be postponed. I can’t stay.”

“But, miss, we’ve had a bath prepared …”

“Lizzie, darling, what are you thinking? You cannot leave. You must stay. I told your father so. You must. People have been saying the most dreadful things.”

“We know none of them are true, Mama. That’s why I’ve been released, because I’m innocent. But you do understand it hardly matters whether I’m innocent. I’m sure my reputation has been ruined.”

“Don’t say that. I won’t have it.”

“I am sorry, Mama. But I think it best, for all of us, for your reputation as well as mine, that I leave.” Lizzie kissed her mother’s soft, scented cheek and turned to walk toward the back of the house.

“Darling, where are you going? Elizabeth?”

“To the stables.”

“Yes, but where will you go?”

“To Glass Cottage. I’m going home.”

There was, however, one other place she needed to visit. She needed to know how bad it really was. If she could even expect to be let into Glass Cottage. If she had a
right
to.

The cozy offices of Harris, Harris, and Harris enfolded her with all the warmth the brokerage could manage. Probably frightened she’d collapse in a fit of sobs again.

“Mrs. Marlowe. You honor me.” Mr. Harris greeted her himself, and brought her in close to the fire laid in his private office. “I did not expect you so soon. What a delightful surprise.”