The Swordmaster's Mistress: Dangerous Deceptions Book Two Read online

  The hackney turned a corner sharply, jerking her off balance as she sat there so stiffly. Guin put out a hand, jarred it against the door frame and felt the thin kid of her glove tear across the palm. Life was so fragile. Just like that glove.

  A few minutes later in the sanctuary of her room she sat at the dressing table and stared at her hand.

  ‘My lady? Have you hurt yourself?’

  It took her a moment to realise Faith was in the room. Guin held out her hand and let the maid peel off the ruined glove. ‘No, I had to catch hold of something when the carriage jolted, that is all.’

  That jolt had done more than tear her glove, it was as though she had been shaken out of the endless treadmill of thoughts about Augustus’s murder, Francis’s death, and made to think about what she had just done. I cannot pretend it did not happen. I did proposition a man, as good as ask him to be my lover. She had wanted more than that taut, elegant, swordsman’s body, the protection of those strong shoulders and the lethal blade. She had wanted Jared’s friendship, she had wanted to laugh with him, talk with him about something, anything, other than death.

  It seemed a long time since she had laughed freely, without inhibition. It seemed forever since she had a friend to whom she could talk about anything, anything at all. And she had never lain with a man of integrity and courage.

  The summons to appear at the inquest arrived the next morning, along with a note from Doctor Felbrigg confirming that Augustus had died of poisoning, that the source had been the sweetmeats but that in all probability cyanide had not been involved despite the presence of almonds, nor could he eliminate other poisons such as a strong medicinal drug in overdose.

  Fainting was no help, Guin told herself and smoothed out the paper that her clenched fist had crumpled. Tonkin, the valet was summonsed, as first finder. Faith and Twite and all of the footmen had been called and Mrs Cutler the housekeeper. And she must attend herself, of course. The inquest would be held the next day at the White Horse tavern, the nearest place with adequate room.

  It was time she picked herself up and started to fight. There would be time to grieve and time for anger later. Guin rang for her butler. ‘Twite, please assemble the staff in the drawing room. Everyone.’

  They shuffled in, subdued and uneasy, right down to the scullery maid and Sammy the pot boy, and waited in silence for her to speak. ‘Some of you have been summonsed to the inquest. All I would say to you is that you must tell exactly what you know, whatever that is. We must get to the truth and I ask you to be brave about this for Lord Northam’s sake and in his memory. If anyone has not been summonsed but thinks they know something that may be relevant, please attend and ask to speak. Has anyone any questions? No? Then thank you. Mrs Cutler, Twite, I would like a word, if you will remain behind.’

  They waited, upright and dignified, while the rest of the staff filed out. ‘Please sit down. Doctor Felbrigg says that my husband was poisoned. I would like you both to think very carefully about what poisons and medicines we have in the house, make a list and then take an inventory. Is anything missing, has anything been disturbed? I expect the Coroner will ask you for that information and it will help if you can give it promptly and accurately. Twite, who took in the box of sweetmeats from Parmentier’s?’

  ‘Thomas did. I was below stairs at the time. The usual delivery boy came, handed them over, Thomas showed them to me and then took them up to your sitting room at my direction, my lady.’

  ‘Very well, thank you.’ Damnation, the usual boy. She had been hoping for a stranger, someone who might have intercepted the delivery, but now that hope had gone. ‘That will be all.’

  When she was alone Guin sat down and penned a very careful note to Jared. In the most stilted terms she informed him about the doctor’s findings and who of the household had been summonsed to the inquest, explained about her inventory of poisons and the arrival of the box of sweets and signed it Guinevere, Countess of Northam, with all due formality.

  Then she rang for Faith and set about assembling an outfit for the next day that combined the elegance due to her station – and to Augustus’s rank – with modesty and restraint.

  ‘Jewellery, my lady?’

  ‘Just the jet. No – let us remind them who I am, but subtly. The diamonds do you think? No, pearls, the earrings with the jet set in the centre and the single strand necklace.’ Somehow she had to project assurance and yet not arrogance, dignity but not coldness. And she felt so very lonely. So very, very lonely. Poor, dear, Augustus.

  There was a tap at the door and Twite came in with a letter on a salver. ‘This has just been delivered by Mr Hunt’s man, my lady.’

  The note was as formal as hers to him had been. Jared thanked her for the information about the household’s summonses, agreed that a poisons inventory was prudent and confirmed that he too had been told to attend at the White Horse.

  I am your most respectful servant, J Hunt it was signed. Guin sighed.

  Then, as she refolded the letter, a separate slip fluttered out. There were no words on it, simply a quick sketch of a rapier and, impaled upon it, an apple. An apple with a small bite taken out.

  Oh, you wicked man. You wicked, wicked man. So, she had tempted the Adam in her Garden of Eden, had she? Then Guin shivered, hearing in her mind the rustle of scales, the whisper of a slither over leaves. Where was the serpent?

  The inquest was as unpleasant as Guin had expected. Obviously repetition did not make them any easier. Escorted by almost half her household she had no trouble making her way through the gawping crowd who had gathered around the White Horse to stare and speculate. The inquest was being held in the room normally used for local working men’s gatherings such as the glee club and the pigeon fanciers and had the air of having received an urgent, and unfamiliar, scrubbing.

  She was given a seat in the front row facing the table at which the Coroner and his clerk would sit, with the benches for the jury to her left opposite a chair for the witnesses. The jury, as was usual procedure, were with the Coroner inspecting the body. It had seemed a strange requirement, but it had been explained to her before the inquest on Francis that the purpose of an inquest was to establish legal identity as well as the cause of death and, if that was by human agency, to indicate who the jurors thought responsible. Viewing the body was, she supposed, a precaution against fraud.

  Doctor Felbrigg would identify the body formally. It was easier to think of the body, not of Augustus. The room was hazy through her veil and she was glad of the air of unreality it gave. She asked Twite to sit on one side of her and Mrs Cutler on the other and the rest of the staff ranged themselves behind.

  It all seemed to take a long time and when it was all over she was certain they would be no further forward. Someone had killed a dear elderly man with malice and deliberation. There was nothing she could do for Augustus now except bury him with dignity, treasure his memory and find out who killed him. Then see justice done. The way she felt about that person now, she would be happy to see that justice arrive at the point of Jared’s rapier.

  Where was Jared? She did not dare turn around – besides anything else she would see the people jammed into the room behind her if she did that. Then there was the sound of more arrivals, of much shuffling and whispering and the confident, clear tones of the Duke of Calderbrook.

  ‘A chair for the Duchess, if you please. The front row? Excellent, thank you. And chairs for myself and Mr Hunt. So much obliged, sir.’

  Whoever sir was, they scurried to oblige. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a sweep of deep blue skirts and then long legs in biscuit-coloured pantaloons and Hessians passed down the central space between the two ranks of chairs, followed by an equally elegant pair in black.

  When they had all settled the man nearest her leaned across the aisle. ‘Good morning, Lady Northam.’

  Now, at last, she could turn. ‘Good morning, Your Grace. Your Grace,’ she exchanged a seated bow with Sophie. ‘Good morning, Mr Hunt.’
r />   ‘Ma’am.’ Jared looked utterly relaxed, as though attending inquests was a rather tiresome daily ritual for him, but the dark eyes were sharp and focused. After a polite, unsmiling, inclination of the head he turned to look forwards.

  The smell of a large number of people, many sketchily washed and crowded into a hot chamber, began to make itself unpleasantly apparent. After ten minutes the jury came in, whispering together as they shuffled along the benches and got settled. One or two looked excited, several others were decidedly pale after what was probably their first close view of a dead body. The Coroner sat down, his clerk beside him, and rapped on the table with a gavel.

  ‘Silence! This inquest into the death of Augustus Quenten, Viscount Northam, is now convened by me, Edward Runcorn, Coroner for Westminster. The jury having been sworn in and Nicholas Williams appointed foreman they have viewed the body and have heard it identified by Doctor William Felbrigg as Augustus, Viscount Northam. I call Miles Tonkin, the first finder, to the stand.’

  Tonkin took his place in the chair set facing the jury, was sworn in and turned composedly to look at the Coroner who took him through his evidence of trying to wake his master and what he had done when he realised that he was dead. The clerk scribbled busily.

  Twite was called, his evidence sparse and straightforward, then, ‘Lady Northam, will you kindly come forward.’

  Guin moved to the witness chair, put back her veil, placed her hand on the Testament and repeated the oath. There was a murmuring from the jurors and the sound of people moving, craning forward, from the audience. The Coroner glowered and they settled down.

  Guin answered quietly, her gaze fixed on Mr Runcorn’s face. She recounted how she had been informed of her husband’s death and what she had done that morning. She agreed that she had been a widow when she married Lord Northam and that yes, there had been a substantial age difference between them.

  ‘And was it a happy marriage?’ Mr Runcorn asked.

  ‘I believe so. It certainly was on my part. Lord Northam was a kind, considerate and generous husband. As for him, he told me that his motive in marrying again was to secure companionship. I hope I was able to give him that and a comfortable domestic life.’

  ‘And your first marriage was a short one?’

  ‘Tragically, yes. My first husband suffered a fall from a window. I regret to say that drink had been taken.’

  She expected an inquisition about that but, to her surprise, Mr Runcorn merely made a note.

  ‘Lord Northam had recently employed a Mr Hunt as a bodyguard for you, I understand. How did that come about?’

  Guin explained the circumstances, interrupted several times by gasps and whispers from the audience. The adder, in particular, caused quite a stir.

  ‘And none of these attacks succeeded in causing any actual harm to anyone?’

  ‘Physically, no. Mentally, both my husband and I were alarmed, anxious and puzzled. It was very distressing. My husband was convinced that someone was trying to kill me, which is why he consulted Mr Hunt.’ That caused enough of an uproar for Mr Runcorn to threaten to clear the room if he did not get silence.

  When Guin was able to make herself heard she added, ‘As Mr Hunt pointed out to us, we were too close to the situation to see it clearly. As murder attempts the attacks were unfocused and inefficient and the intent seemed to be to alarm and upset us rather than to kill or maim. This, once it was explained, we agreed with, however it left us as confused and worried as before.

  ‘That was the situation immediately before… before…’ She found she had lost her voice, that the reality of why she was here had finally hit her. I was in shock, she thought. That was why I was so calm, why I could even… with Jared, I could… She fumbled for the black-bordered handkerchief that Faith had pressed into her hand that morning.

  ‘Sir, Lady Northam is in distress, she cannot continue.’ It was the Duke. He was on his feet and Sophie was at her side.

  ‘Lady Northam has not yet finished her evidence, Your Grace. However, she may return to her seat and recover herself while we hear other testimony.’ The Coroner sounded less than pleased, but at least he had given her some respite.

  Guin allowed herself to be taken back to the Duke’s seat beside Sophie, who held her hands while the Duke took her place on the other side of the aisle, flustering Mrs Cutler by bowing slightly to her. She was not acting in the slightest, she realised, although Sophie, who was making rather a show of patting her hands and offering handkerchiefs, probably thought she was.

  Doctor Felbrigg was called to the witness chair next to repeat his identification and to give the results of the post-mortem examination.

  ‘Breath slowly, deeply, focus on that,’ Jared murmured beside her as the room began to blur around the edges. How had he realised she was feeling faint? She was holding herself so still, trying so hard not to listen…

  Guin did as he said and gradually things returned to normal and the doctor was standing up.

  The rest of the servants were questioned in turn. Thomas told of the delivery of the sweetmeats and confirmed that the package was intact and appeared to be normal. ‘Nowt was wrong that I could see from the outside, sir. I do think I’d have noticed summat if there was.’ He looked nervous, Guin thought, and his usual careful accent was escaping him.

  The manager of Parmentier’s shop, seeming much put out at any suggestion that his firm had the slightest blame in the matter, testified that the contents of the box were as usual, a selection avoiding marchpane and any very hard centres. No-one, he swore, could have interfered with the box up to the point it left the shop and the delivery boy, produced to give evidence, swore he had not let it out of his sight for a moment.

  Mrs Cutler, stolid and confident, agreed that they had arsenic in the house as rat poison and that it was all accounted for. She listed, at great length and mind-numbing detail, every possible noxious or even faintly dangerous substance on the premises and declared that every one was in its proper place, properly secured and in the expected quantities. Her expression, as she faced the Coroner, suggested that anyone suggesting the case might be otherwise in any household under her supervision would get the sharp edge of her tongue. ‘I have my inventories here, sir, should you be wishful to examine them.’ She gestured towards a pile of ledgers and a sheaf of papers.

  ‘Thank you, that will not be necessary. At present,’ he added ominously. ‘Call Mr Theo Quenten.’

  Theo looked ill, Guin thought. And no wonder. His father was dying, his uncle had been murdered and presumably his own debts and whatever trouble they were causing him had not gone away either.

  He took the witness chair, clutching his exquisite tall hat as though it was a lifeline. But possibly only someone who knew him well would notice anything amiss, she thought. There were dark shadows under his deep blue eyes, his usually immaculate blond hair looked slightly unkempt, but he was still a striking young man. His gaze flickered in her direction and he sent her a tight smile.

  ‘I understand you called upon the deceased on the morning before his death, Mr Quenten.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I came to talk to him about my father, his brother, whose health is very poor. I also wished to consult my uncle on a number of matters.’

  ‘You were close?’

  ‘I like to think so. I was very fond of Uncle Augustus and he always made time for me.’

  ‘And did you see or hear anything out of the ordinary during your visit?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘You went directly to your meeting with Lord Northam and then left the house?’

  ‘I, er…’ Theo’s glance veered towards the waiting witnesses again and then back as though looking to see if anyone would contradict him. ‘No. I had to wait perhaps half an hour before he was able to receive me. Perhaps a little longer. I left immediately after our meeting.’

  ‘And where did you wait? Was anyone with you?’

  ‘I was alone in the library.’

  ‘Very well,
you are dismissed. Lady Northam, are you able to return to the witness chair?’

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Guin found she was quite steady on her feet, although the Duke came to offer his arm as though she was an invalid. Not Jared, she noticed, although she had felt him instinctively gather himself to rise. She only wished she felt as in control of her reactions and actions as he was.

  The Coroner took her through all aspects of the box of sweetmeats in exhaustive detail. What she liked and did not like, how long she had been receiving them, who knew about them, why she did not like marchpane.

  ‘I just do not find it to my taste, sir. It is too sweet. Cloying.’

  ‘And yet you eat other sweet things? You have established your dislike of marchpane from the beginning?’

  ‘Well, yes, sir. At least, I never ate those when they were in a box, and Cook knows not to use it in cakes.’ What on earth was he getting at? Established? ‘I did not tell Parmentier’s to omit them until Doctor Felbrigg had warned me that I should reduce the sweet things my husband was eating. Before then Augustus would often help himself to bon-bons from my box. Those were the ones he enjoyed most, so they were the most tempting to him once he had been advised to avoid confectionary for his health.’

  ‘Can you inform the court how your husband’s will leaves you situated, Lady Northam?’

  Guin went through the provisions. ‘I think I have that correctly. My lawyer, who is here, will correct me if I am wrong.’

  Mr Foster stood, the perfect image of a solemn family lawyer, his red hair pomaded into submission. ‘I can confirm that while Lady Northam has been left very comfortably provided for, she will not be able to enjoy the standard of living to which she will have become accustomed and that all financial support will cease should she remarry.’ He sat down again and Guin, despite everything, had to hide a smile. Bless him, she thought. He has made it clear that I could not have wanted Augustus dead for the money, at least.