Jane and The Wandering Eye

Chapter 8 The Dangerous Mr. Lawrence

Friday,

14 December 1804

I SPENT THE FIRST PART OF THIS MORNING — THE MORNING of Lord Kinsfell’s inquest — in composing my account of last evening at the Theatre Royal, and inscribing it here in my little book. I had determined, however, to spend a few hours after breakfast in the society of my sister Cassandra, embroidering a flannel waistcoat that should serve as my father’s Christmas gift. I am a decided proficient in the satin stitch, and may offer my work to the most discerning without hesitation or blush; and though I detest flannel in general, the damps of Bath in January are so penetrating — and the Reverend’s health so very indifferent — that no other cloth would do. And so I took up my workbasket and sought my dear sister in the little dressing-room that adjoins our bedchambers.

Cassandra’s head was bent over a muslin cap of her own design, intended for my mother.

“So you did not think well of Lovers’ Vows,” my sister enquired, “though the Conynghams were quite in form last evening?”

“The entire company might have played the truant, Cassandra, for all my notice — as I think you very well know. I am no friend to Kotzebue.”

Cassandra was silent at this, her eyes fixed on her cap and her needle flying. “Lord Harold is a very — a very imposing gentleman.”

“Imposing? I suppose he is, upon first acquaintance. But his manners grow more easy with time.”

“And are they pleasing, Jane?” My sister fixed me with a look, part entreaty and part frustration. “Are they such as might be capable of winning your affection?”

“My affection! Indeed, Cassandra, I cannot think that my affection should be necessary to Lord Harold’s happiness. He is sufficient unto himself—”

“Then why do you accept his invitations? Why seek out his society? It cannot be profitable to either your heart or your reputation, Jane. He is a man of whom every ill thing might be said — and has been said — by the world in general. He is accused of the most atrocious part in all manner of affairs — adultery, betrayal, and no doubt treason!”

“Hardly treason, Cassandra,” I observed mildly, “or he should never be employed by the Crown, on affairs too delicate to be breathed. Of the rest, however, I can say nothing. It is true he is regarded as a formidable opponent, in affairs of honour; and such duels are rarely fought without cause.”

“How can you speak so lightly, Jane! I begin to believe I do not know my own sister!”

I sighed, at that moment, for Eliza’s more liberal humour. Cassandra’s goodness may be said to verge, with advancing age, upon prudery; and however respectable my sister’s motives in the present case, her methods recalled the schoolroom.

“And you know that he is far above our station,” she persisted. “So great a man cannot make Miss Austen his object from any other motive than dalliance. You are too wise to play the fool, my dear — though his consequence may be gratifying, and his attention a boon to vanity. You know how you will expose yourself — to the derision of the world for disappointed hopes, or worse.”

“Cassandra! These are serious words indeed! Where can you have heard ill of Lord Harold?”

“From yourself, Jane. But two years ago.”

This brutal truth must give me pause.

“There was a time, I recall, when you did not scruple to name him as the very worst man in the kingdom,” Cassandra continued. “Are you so blinded by elegance and means? Are you so fearful of ending an old maid, Jane, that you would sacrifice the respect of the people you love, merely to go about on the arm of such a man?”

“My dear—” I laid aside the waistcoat. “In the first instance, I very much doubt that Lord Harold intends to make me the object of dalliance. He merely seeks my society on behalf of his niece — who cannot claim a large acquaintance in Bath, and who is sadly grieved by her brother’s present misfortunes. I may assure you that I feel for Lord Harold no more tender sentiment than friendship. I have grown to esteem him with the passage of time, for reasons I am not at liberty to relate; and if the world continues in benighted ignorance of his honourable character, then fie upon the world!”

“But from such ignorance, Jane, the world will include you in its contempt. The warmth of your nature — its impulsive regard — has misled you in the past, to your regret. Are the delights, now, of an overcrowded rout, or of an indifferent play in the splendour of the Wilborough box, worth the risk of such censure?”

She was not to be persuaded; in Lord Harold’s very name she read an evil; and so I threw up my hands.

“We must persist, Cassandra, in dividing our opinions upon the subject. As long as my father and mother decline to censure Lord Harold’s society, I shall continue to accept it with gratitude; and hope that a greater acquaintance with the gentleman, will increase your regard and esteem.”

“That must be impossible, Jane — for I intend no greater acquaintance with Lord Harold.” And at this, she snapped her thread with a vengeance, thrust aside the cap, and quitted the room.

I PUZZLED OVER MY SISTER’S BEHAVIOUR LATER THIS MORNING, as I walked towards Pulteney Bridge. The weak light of a fitful sun turned the limestone face of Bath to faintest yellow. A weak, a dysenteric face, as though the town had languished too long in an unhealthy clime — but I am no ardent admirer of Bath, it must be said, and can never see its beauties in the proper light. I set my heart against the place from the first moment of settling here, and I have endured its customs and frivolities nearly four years, as others might submit to exile. It is in the country that I am happiest; the habits of a simple life most suit my retiring nature; but while my father lives, in Bath we shall remain. In this city was he wed to my mother, and here they suffered their first days as man and wife — so that in the last ebb of fading strength, George Austen has sought comfort in Bath, as another man’s wits might return to childhood.

I achieved the bridge, and spared not a moment for its shops; looked back over my shoulder at the hills and winding crescents of the town; then turned my face to Laura Place, and the Dowager Duchess’s abode. Cassandra should shudder to see me here, I knew — but from whence arose her decided disapproval? From commendable anxiety for my standing in the world — or from envy and fear of desertion? We had grown up together in the greatest love and friendship — my mother had once observed of us as children, that if Cassandra were to have her head cut off, I should beg to have mine taken, too — and any hint of discord in our opinions and thoughts was unsettling in the extreme. But perhaps the spectre of Lord Harold — of his consequence quite dazzling my senses — had caused Cassandra’s nose to turn?

I had dressed with care for this journey to Laura Place, in a rosy muslin and spencer that were not unbecoming. I thought it only right, that the great civility of Lady Desdemona’s attention last evening — and indeed, the condescension of the entire Trowbridge family — should be met with some equal exertion on my part, in paying a morning call in Laura Place as soon as decency would allow. I must confess as well to some suspense regarding the inquest, and an anxiety for the earliest particulars of Lord Kinsfell’s fate. It being now hard on one o’clock, I felt fairly certain of finding Lady Desdemona at home, and well-disposed towards visitors. And so, with an indrawn breath, I pulled the bell.

Daylight revealed the Dowager’s abode as a magnificent establishment constructed of Cotswold stone, undoubtedly designed by Baldwin, and maintained in all the elegance that easy circumstances will allow.[51] The interior, however, was much as I remembered it from Tuesday’s fateful rout — albeit greatly improved by a dearth of heat and company.

I handed the footman my card, and enquired whether the lady was within; he departed to learn the answer; and returned as quickly, followed by Lady Desdemona herself. She was arrayed as though for a ball — in tamboured white muslin, pink slippers, and long silk gloves. A spray of diamonds glittered in her hair. If she had so much as thought of her brother’s inquest this morning, I should be very much surprised.

“Miss Austen! And quite recovered from your injuries of last evening!” she cried with animation. “But how divine! You are just in time to observe Mr. Lawrence!”

“Mr. Lawrence?”

“The painter! He is above, in the drawing-room, about the business of my portrait.”

I blushed in confusion. “I had not an idea that my visit should so incommode the household, Lady Desdemona. Pray, do not tarry below for my sake! Stay only to accept my heartfelt gratitude — for last evening’s amusement, and the pleasure of your company. I shall look for your society another day, at a more favourable hour.”

“Nonsense! You might divert me while he paints! It is the very last word in tedium, I own, to strike a pose for hours together. One’s nose is certain to itch; and to give way to the impulse is quite impossible. Mr. Lawrence is extremely strict on all such matters — I daren’t move an inch! — and he has such a satiric eye. I confess,” she added in a conspiratorial whisper, “that he makes me quite wild with the penetration of his looks.”

And with that, she turned and hastened up the stairs; and I felt myself compelled to follow.

I had heard, of course, of Mr. Thomas Lawrence. I had even gone so far as to gaze upon his more celebrated subjects, having visited the Royal Academy exhibitions of past years in Henry and Eliza’s company. Who can forget his portrait of the Queen, or of the actress Elizabeth Farren, or of Sarah Siddons herself? These are perhaps his most famous pictures; but many a less notorious head has submitted to Lawrence’s gaze, and appeared again as recognisably itself, upon the humble canvas. Of a sudden I wished for Cassandra — who alone of the Austens may claim a talent for drawing. She would have profited from a meeting with the great man, and studied his manner of wielding the brush.

“Mr. Lawrence,” Lady Desdemona said, as she advanced into the room; and I started at finding the object of her address to be a fairly young gentleman, of a fine figure and noble head — no more than thirty, perhaps.[52] I had assumed that celebration in the world of art was predicated upon an advanced age, if not virtual morbidity; and so displayed my astonishment in my countenance. Mr. Lawrence was arrayed in a very fine wool coat, the most fashionable of trousers, a neckcloth assiduously-tied, and a collar of moderate height — which latter suggested, I thought, some soundness of mind. He might rather have been a suitor for Lady Desdemona’s hand, than a painter in oils; and I understood, of a sudden, that a sort of rank in its own right attends a member of the Royal Academy, whom all the world is desperate to secure, that must be denied the fellow accustomed to daubing at innkeepers’ signs, or attempting the likeness of a squire’s prize horse.

“Miss Austen, may I beg the honour of introducing you to Mr. Thomas Lawrence. Mr. Lawrence, my friend Miss Austen.”

“It is a pleasure, madam.” He bowed abruptly and then turned back to his easel. “Lady Desdemona, if you would regain your place I should be deeply grateful. I am never blessed with a surfeit of time, and I have expended today already more than is strictly necessary.”

“But of course, sir,” the lady replied, with stifled amusement, and settled herself in a chair.

“Turn slightly to the left—my left, Lady Desdemona — lift the chin — now gaze at me adoringly, as though I am the only man you could ever esteem — yes, that is capital—” And so saying, Mr. Lawrence reached for a bit of charcoal and swiftly moved his hand across the canvas.

I was prepared to be suitably silent some minutes, but a very little time indeed was required, before I detected the faint suggestion of Lady Desdemona’s form. It was breathtaking to observe the man — so effortless, so certain, was his crayon — and the results were quite extraordinary. While the Duke’s daughter sat with smile fixed and eyes unblinking, save when necessity required, the master painter all but seized her ghost. Twenty minutes, perhaps, and Mr. Lawrence then released her.

“That is sufficient for today, my lady,” he pronounced, with a step backwards to survey his canvas. “I could not improve upon it were I to labour a fortnight.”

“But are we not to work in oils?”

“Lady Desdemona,” Mr. Lawrence said, with an impression of great forbearance, “it is not my custom to take a likeness so immediately as you would wish. I am far too besieged with work. I have come to you from no less a personage than the Princess of Wales, whose portrait is drying even now in her salon at Blackheath; I must wait upon a gentleman of my acquaintance in London tomorrow, among four or five others; and there remains an endless supply of infants whom, I fear, are not likely to grow any younger before their likenesses are taken. The ledger in which I record my commissions is so long, I confess, that I wonder if any person in England is not upon it! You have paid your half-commission; I have taken the underdrawing; and in due course we shall hit upon a suitable occasion for further application.”

“Of course, Mr. Lawrence. I am deeply grateful.”

The painter cast his gaze upon me, and scowled. “Your opinion of the work, Miss Austen? For you certainly stand in judgement of it.”

“No, indeed!” I replied, tearing my eyes from the easel in some confusion. “I am simply all amazement at the rapidity and skill of its execution.”

“But is it like?” Lady Desdemona moved to study her image. “I confess I cannot tell.”

“Be assured, my dear,” I said fondly, “that it is yourself as you look in dreams — and as you will revel in appearing, long years hence, when the bloom of eighteen has quite deserted you.”

A look of grateful surprise, from Lawrence and the lady both, served as my reward.

“HE IS QUITE WICKEDLY HANDSOME, IS HE NOT?” LADY DESDEMONA said in a half-whisper, when Mr. Lawrence’s assistant had folded the easel with care, and followed his master to the street below. “I nearly swoon at the thought of spending hours under his stare.”

“He is very well-looking, indeed, my lady,” I replied, “but who are his parents? His connexions? His station in life?”

“His father kept an inn at Devizes — the Bear, you must know it—”

“Ye-es,” I said doubtfully.

“—but was many years ago declared a bankrupt, and died not long thereafter. Lawrence maintains his mother and sisters, I believe. He lives in some style in Piccadilly, and keeps a studio adjacent.”

“I see. A man of some means, then.”

“I should say! He will charge my father full two hundred guineas for my portrait alone — and he must turn out dozens each year!”

A faintness overcame me. So much money, for a mere likeness in oils! He might be the late Mr. Reynolds himself! “But can you hope to progress upon the project while resident in Bath? Surely Mr. Lawrence cannot mean to attend you here for each of the sittings?”

“No,” she admitted, her brow crinkling. “If I am ever to wrestle the piece from his grasp, I must do so in London. Perhaps after the New Year, when I am spoiling for amusement. Mr. Thomas Lawrence should do nicely for a heartless flirtation.”

I must have registered my dismay, for Lady Desdemona burst out laughing and took my hand between her own. “I have quite excited your anxiety, my dear Miss Austen, and to no very great purpose altogether. Be assured that I have no intention of making a fool of myself over Mr. Lawrence — though I could not blame any young lady who did. He is far too fond of ordering people about, for my taste; and I should not last a fortnight under such management.”

“No, indeed.”

“But even the most cautious sentiment cannot make him any less charming to look upon — nor less respectable in the Dowager’s drawing-room. He was present, you know, at my grandmother’s unfortunate rout.”

“The masquerade?”

“Yes. He came as Harlequin — though in a costume of red and black, unlike poor Mr. Portal. I believe he slipped away before the constables arrived.”

“I did espy Mr. Lawrence,” I said slowly, “now I come to consider of it — he was in conversation with my very dear friend, Madam Lefroy. Are you acquainted with the lady?”

“I have not had the pleasure. She is one of Grandmère’s intimates, no doubt. Is she resident in Bath, like yourself?”

“In Hampshire, to my great misfortune. I can account the loss of Madam Lefroy’s society as one of the chief miseries of having quitted that part of the country.” I said this with feeling.

“And has she sat to Mr. Lawrence, then?”

“I cannot think it likely! She is not a lady of fashion — that is to say, she lacks a considerable estate, such as must be necessary for the meeting of that gentleman’s fees. But she cultivates all manner of artists and literary figures — or did, in the years before her marriage. Her brother is Mr. Egerton Brydges, the novelist.”

“The author of Fitz-Albini?”

“The same — although I cannot think it the wisest piece he has ever done. It was intended as a cleverly-disguised portrait of his early trials and disappointments — though both the cleverness and the disguise were sadly lacking. He managed to abuse several of his dearest acquaintances, and outrage the remainder. I may declare it the only work of which his family is entirely ashamed.”[53]

“I thought it to offer very little in the way of story,” Lady Desdemona observed, “and that, told in a strange, unconnected way.”

“Then let us not waste upon Mr. Brydges another thought. I mentioned him only as an exemplar of Madam’s connexions. She may, perhaps, be acquainted with Mr. Lawrence through her brother.”

Any reply Lady Desdemona might have made was forestalled by the drawing-room door’s being thrust open with considerable violence. The Earl of Swithin strode into the room, his fair brows knit and his blue eyes snapping.

“Lady Desdemona,” he declared, with a click of his heels. “You are well? No — never mind — do not trouble yourself to answer. I observe you are well enough. In such excellent spirits, in fact — despite the deprivation of your only brother — as to have been entertaining the despicable Mr. Lawrence.”

Lady Desdemona’s curtsey was as chill as her countenance. “Lord Swithin. I am all amazement to find you are thus come upon me unannounced. What possible business could bring you to Laura Place?”

“Convenience,” he retorted. “Had you spared a thought from your own concerns, Mona, you should have observed the carters and waggons opposite.”

She studied him with calculation, then crossed swiftly to a window whose prospect gave out on the square. The curtains twitched wide, and we were treated to a vision of her figure outlined against the glass. Then she wheeled to face the Earl.

“And so you have taken the lodgings opposite, for the express purpose of spying upon me?”

“No other house could be hired, for all the money in the kingdom; and I am not in a temper to suffer the abominable accommodations of the White Hart even a single day longer.”

“I cannot believe you are utterly without acquaintance in Bath, sir, that you must hire a palace for the accommodation of your needs! Surely some lady — Miss Maria Conyngham, perhaps? — should be willing to find you room.”

A smile flickered over the Earl’s set features, but there was little of benevolence in it. “Tit for tat, my dear. Miss Conyngham for Mr. Portal. Or should I say — Mr. Lawrence? You are exceedingly fine for so early in the morning.”

“I shall dress in any manner I please, and see whomever I choose, in Laura Place, my lord — though you do overlook my drawing-room. You will be gratified to learn that Colonel Easton has also called upon me this morning. He is recovering slowly from the effects of your pistols. I was happy to observe that though served with shocking brutality by yourself, the unfortunate Colonel remains the soul of gallantry.” She eyed Lord Swithin with a gleam of amusement. “Easton has also got rid of his whiskers somewhere, and looks remarkably well.”

The Earl dismissed the unfortunate Colonel with a wave of the hand. “Clean-shaven or no, it matters nothing. I know you too well, my dear Mona, to regard such a pitiful pup as a rival. But I would counsel you to beware of Mr. Thomas Lawrence. He is a charming rogue, I will allow, and not ill-favoured — but he has a taste for married women, and the ruin of young ladies not yet out. You will have heard of Lady Caroline Upton, I presume?”

“If you refer to Mrs. James Singleton — then yes, my lord, I have had the pleasure.”

“‘And when no more thy victim can endure / But raging, supplicates thy soul for cure / Then, act the timid unsuspecting maid / And wonder at the mischief thou hast play’d,’” Swithin declaimed. “That is from ‘The Cold Coquette.’ A chastening verse, is it not? Particularly for young ladies too fond of flirtation.”

“I am unacquainted with the poet, sir — but I must hope him better suited to his chosen profession, than he appears to be to verse.”

“Unacquainted with Mr. Lawrence? But he was dancing attendance upon you only a few moments ago! That is your painter’s doggerel, my lady, intended as a rebuke to Lady Caroline Upton — who refused his presumption in seeking to elope with her some two years past.”[54]

“That must be the grossest falsehood!” Lady Desdemona cried, her countenance reddening.

“Forgive me — but it is not. I had it on authority from Templetown himself — the young lady’s brother — while he was decidedly in wine. I see that Lawrence has quite recovered from the affair; and from the daughter of an earl, has progressed to the daughter of a duke.”

“He merely takes my likeness for a portrait, Lord Swithin, at His Grace’s commission. It is, after all, Mr. Lawrence’s path in life.”

The Earl laughed harshly and threw himself into a chair near the fire. “Would that he followed his path with greater fidelity. But instead Mr. Lawrence has chosen to play the man of fashion — adopted all manner of intrigue and display — and is sadly embarrassed for funds. He must very soon contract an advantageous marriage, Mona, if he is to survive. Old Coutts — his banker in Town — has pled his case these three years at least, to little purpose. The man’s creditors are at his throat. He will presume upon the acquaintance, do you allow him.”

“I believe, Lord Swithin, that it is you who presume upon acquaintance,” Lady Desdemona replied evenly. Two spots of colour burned in her cheeks, and her eyes were dark with rage. “It is a presumption familiar now these many months; but hardly one I wish to prolong.”

I reached for my reticule hastily. “I have trespassed already upon your kindness, Lady Desdemona. I hope—”

“—that Lord Swithin’s unexpected arrival will not deter me from our plans of walking out?” she hurriedly supplied. “Not at all, Miss Austen. I shall attend you directly. Only stay for the exchange of my gown, and we shall pursue our scheme as planned. My apologies, Lord Swithin, but it is quite beyond my power to—”

“Don’t be such a fool, Mona,” the gentleman replied wearily. “We have a great deal to discuss. I have been to your brother’s inquest.”

Lady Desdemona sat down abruptly upon a settee, the wind quite gone from her sails. Though propriety instructed I should take myself off, I lingered for Lord Swithin’s intelligence.

“Why is not my uncle come?” Lady Desdemona said in a voice barely above a whisper. “I have been expecting him this half-hour. Well, Swithin? What was the verdict?”

“The jury returned a charge of wilful murder against Lord Kinsfell. He is to be conveyed to Ilchester in a few days’ time.”

She uttered a cry, and covered her face with her hands; and silently abusing the Earl for an oaf and a fool, I hastened to her side.

“The jury could hardly do else,” Lord Swithin added brutally. “Death by misadventure — or wilful murder by persons unknown — just aren’t in it. But nothing more shall happen to Kinny until the Assizes, my dear — and they cannot sit until the middle of January at the earliest. That gives your brother several weeks.”

Unbidden, the portrait of a smouldering grey eye revolved in memory. “Was any new evidence presented, my lord?” I enquired.

His cold blue gaze rested pensively upon me. “I cannot undertake to say, having been absent from the rout myself, and thus ignorant of what passed that evening. Lord Kinsfell was called, and questioned about his discovery of the body; and then a Dr. Gibbs, a physician in Milsom Street, who attended the deceased; two of Her Grace’s guests, who seized poor Kinsfell as he attempted to revive Mr. Portal — and one of the chairmen, dragged in off the street by your uncle, Mona, and quite put out at the interruption of his commerce.”

“A chairman!” Her head came up, and surprise warred with hope upon her countenance. “Whatever can Uncle have been thinking?”

The Earl shrugged with exquisite grace. “He thought to show that a murderer might have dropped from the Dowager’s window to an open carriage — which was then driven out of Bath. The chairman professed to have seen a like equipage in Laura Place that night — but could not swear to the time, nor vow that a man had entered it by any other means than the carriage door; could tell us nothing of the occupants, and was indeed of so little credit in his appearance and expressions, that he rather weakened Lord Kinsfell’s case than improved it. I am afraid the intelligence was all but dismissed.”

“Poor Kinny,” Lady Desdemona murmured. “And had he nothing to add in his own defence?”

“The coroner did enquire rather narrowly regarding the nature of his dispute with Mr. Portal,” the Earl said, his regard fixed steadily on Lady Desdemona, “and could get nothing from him but a disquisition on his sacred honour.”

“Kinny? Honour?” Lady Desdemona started from her place and began to turn before the fire, in a manner so like her uncle, Lord Harold, that I half-expected to hear that gentleman’s voice. “Then there must be a lady in the case.”

Swithin smiled; but the expression was quite devoid of good humour. “The lady would not, perhaps, be yourself, my dear?”

Lady Desdemona’s head came up magnificently, and she stared him down in turn. “You are despicable, Swithin. Do you think that if I might aid my brother with any intelligence in my power, that I should hesitate to do so? Your ill nature cannot do you credit. It leads you into folly.”

“Gentlemen are wont to speak of honour when they are bound by oaths or pledges, are they not?” I hastily submitted.

“They are,” Lord Swithin replied, “and are ready, more often than not, to defend such pledges with their lives. So I take Lord Kinsfell’s determination in the present case. I very much fear that he will go silently to the gallows, rather than betray his sacred trust.”

“Oh, Lord!” Lady Desdemona breathed, and pressed a hand to her brow. “Where, oh, where, is my uncle?”

“You have but to enquire, my dear, and he appears.” Lord Harold spoke from the drawing-room doorway. To my most active surprise and interest, Mr. Wilberforce Elliot stood at his back. “Miss Austen — a pleasure. Lord Swithin — an honour I had hardly expected. You are not, I think, acquainted with Mr. Wilberforce Elliot, a magistrate of Bath.”

Introductions were made, and then Lord Harold continued, “You have disdained the wares of the hot-house this morning, Swithin. But perhaps your restraint is intended to pay tribute to my niece’s unassuming simplicity. She is not the sort to take pleasure in gaudy display. You are quite right, I think, to bestow your flowers elsewhere. Others may be less nice in their tastes than Mona.”

“—Except, one supposes, when she is sitting to her portraitist,” Lord Swithin replied.

Lord Harold’s eyebrow shot upwards. “Really, my lord, is that intended as an insult, or a rebuke? Were the lady affianced to you — or even, forgive me, did she regard you with favour — this little display of temper should be accorded as your right. But in the present circumstances it is entirely untoward.”

“Then you may name your day, my lord, and I shall name my second with pleasure.”[55]

Lord Harold smiled condescendingly. “You are remarkably quick to offer a challenge, Swithin — but perhaps you expect me to jump at the chance to show my mettle, like poor Colonel Easton. In this, I fancy, you suffer from a misapprehension. I would never make sport of a fellow young enough to be my son — particularly when I have been as intimate with his mother as I have been with yours.”

The Earl paled, and stepped back a pace. “I would beg you to remember where you are, my lord. Your niece—”

“Oh, will you both have done,” Lady Desdemona cried in exasperation. “What have I to do with matters in any case? You circle each other like two schoolboys on the green, while Kinny sits festering in gaol!”

“And he is unlikely ever to emerge, Mona, if your uncle will have the handling of his affairs,” the Earl retorted contemptuously, and reached for his hat and gloves. “I have no wish to remain where I am served with such incivility. Good day to you, Lord Harold. Your servant, Miss Austen. I trust I will not find you in the Lower Rooms this evening, Lady Desdemona?”

“Whyever not?”

“Would you dance, then, while Lord Kinsfell is deprived of liberty?”

“I am sure I cannot hope to assist him by remaining quietly at home! In such a pass, it behooves the Wilborough family to comport itself with style! Besides — poor Easton is most pressing in his desire to dance.”

Lord Harold smiled, the Earl snorted — and quitted the room without another word.

“Capital!” Lord Harold cried, and gestured the magistrate towards a chair. “We have rid ourselves of a dangerous distraction. Mona, darling, would you be so good as to fetch your grandmother — I require her presence immediately.”

“Uncle,” she said, hastening to his side, “the inquest—! It is in every way horrible!”

“Yes, my dear; but I hope all is not lost. You will observe I have brought the magistrate in my train. His interest has been exceedingly piqued by the notion of an open carriage halted some moments beneath the anteroom window; and though the proofs of a murderer jumping to safety in its depths are impossible to gather, Mr. Elliot is nonetheless willing to reconsider the case.”

“Your servant, my lady,” Mr. Elliot said with an affable smile; and then retrieving a handkerchief from his breast pocket, he blew his nose most energetically.

Lady Desdemona went in search of the Dowager Duchess; and roused from her letter-writing, Eugenie proceeded slowly to the drawing-room with Miss Wren for support. Not five minutes had elapsed, before an expectant circle gazed silently at Lord Harold.

“You remember Her Grace, I am sure, Mr. Elliot,” the gentleman said, “but I do not think you are acquainted with Miss Austen or Miss Wren.”

The magistrate peered at me narrowly, and nodded once. “The Shepherdess,” he said.

“Miss Austen is a particular friend of my niece’s. Miss Wren is so kind as to serve as Her Grace’s companion.”

“Indeed, it is an honour, not a kindness, Lord Harold,” Miss Wren simpered. “When I consider the extent of Her Grace’s affability—”

“Now, then.” Lord Harold clapped his hands together with energetic purpose. “I would propose the amusement of a novel parlour game — an amateur theatrical, if you will. Let us set about the staging of Mr. Portal’s murder.”

“I cannot think that even one performance of a similar tragedy is necessary for our amusement, Harry,” the Dowager protested sternly. “How should I seek another?”

“For the purposes of science, dear ma’am. Mr. Elliot has allowed the seed of doubt to enter his formidable soul, and we must do everything in our power to ensure the seed will grow. Miss Austen!”

“My lord.”

“Please to adopt the attitude of Hugh Conyngham before the drawing-room fire. Desdemona! You shall play at Miss Conyngham. Her Grace shall be, as ever, Her Grace. I shall be Portal. Mr. Elliot will merely observe, I beg, and draw what conclusions he may. And you, Wren—you shall be poor Simon.”

“I shall do no such thing!” she countered hotly. “A more decided want of taste I have never observed. And the Marquis deprived of all freedom, while we sport with his circumstances!”

“Do as Lord Harold bids you, Wren,” the Dowager commanded. She grasped her cane firmly with her left hand, and Lord Harold with her right. “You should endeavour to stumble, Harry, when I lead you to the anteroom.”

“Stay, Mamma — I must speak a word to Mona.” Lord Harold drew the lady aside, and whispered a few phrases; at which she nodded, and grew pink with excitement. “Very well, Your Grace — lead me to my doom.”

The Dowager conducted her son unsteadily to the little salon done up in Prussian blue — and left him reclining in apparent stupor upon the settee.

Delighting in my role, I advanced to the head of the room, adopted a pose by the fireplace, and set about declaiming from Macbeth, with many an inadvertent stumble and fault.

Lady Desdemona made her way to the anteroom door, and effected an entry; Lord Harold emitted a ponderous groan; and before I had accomplished even half the length of Hugh Conyngham’s speech, the lady stood before me once more, to all appearances enraptured by my art. She had achieved the drawing-room by the panelled door’s passage.

At that moment, urged by the Dowager, Miss Wren advanced upon the anteroom; and in all the horror of exclamation and dismay, fell upon the dying Lord Harold as he lay stricken on the blue and gold carpet.

“It is done,” he said briskly, springing to his feet and adjusting the set of his coat, “and with admirable efficiency. I do not think we need enquire whether a lady pressed for time, with agitation to give her wings, could not have managed it better.”

“And the crowd of guests must disguise even Maria Conyngham, despite her costume of red,” I mused. “For I confess that on the night in question, I did not observe Lord Kinsfell’s approach to the anteroom door.”

“Nor did I,” Lady Desdemona supplied. “I was unaware of it until a hue and cry broke out, and I turned to observe Kinny standing over Portal’s body. Any number of guests might have passed from room to room without the majority remarking upon it. But why would you have it be Miss Conyngham, Uncle? Was not she in love with Mr. Portal? She can hardly have served him with violence!”

“Only Miss Conyngham may know the truth of that conjecture,” he replied, his hooded eyes inscrutable. “But I would suggest, Mona, that her precipitate appearance at Mr. Portal’s feet, before the regard of all the assembly — her wanton weeping, and her costume of red — may have been intended to fix in observers’ minds, the fact of her presence in the drawing-room itself. Miss Conyngham forced her person upon our attention only after Portal’s body was discovered — and at such a moment, the scene she played must be intriguing.”

“That’s all very well, my lord,” Mr. Elliot interjected benignly, “but you cannot prove the lady guilty without you extract a confession. And the use of the passage does nothing to advance your scheme regarding the open carriage.”

“True, my good man — but I could not be happy with the descent from the window, until I had tried the passage and found it wanting. I have not found it so. There was time enough and to spare, for the effecting of the deed; and for a lady accustomed to moving about on a darkened stage, the exit along a poorly-lit back hall should be as nothing. She might accomplish it at twice Desdemona’s speed.”

“You cannot prove it, my lord,” Mr. Elliot said again, and scratched determinedly at his club of black hair. “And consider of the risk! For Miss Conyngham could not presume her movements should be disregarded; any one of the guests might have turned in the midst of her brother’s speech, and observed her to enter the anteroom.”

“But you forget, my dear Elliot. Nor could she have anticipated Lord Kinsfell’s passage through the room. Miss Conyngham expected the deed to remain obscure some hours, with Mr. Portal discovered when the rout should have been accomplished and the last of the guests departed.”

“I remain unpersuaded, my lord,” the magistrate said with a smile, “and though I’ve no formal training in the barrister’s art, I cannot believe you’ll find a jury as will agree with you. Do you hold to your open window, and the carriage below, if you will have it the Marquis ain’t guilty — but leave Miss Conyngham in peace, I beg!”

“Would you care to adventure the passage, Miss Austen?” Lord Harold said, ignoring Mr. Elliot’s gibes. He took up a candle and pushed open the door.

We paced the length of the passage connecting anteroom to back hall, and observed the choice of direction — to the left, the servants’ quarters and stairs to the kitchen; to the right, the drawing-room’s far door. Then we returned the way we had come, our eyes intent upon the passage’s floor. Nothing to be seen; not even dust.

“You had hoped for a scrap of fabric, perhaps?” I enquired.

“Preferably in scarlet.”

Lord Harold swung the panelled door closed — and there in the space between door and passage wall, winking in the dim light of the taper, was a small figure in gold.

Lord Harold whistled softly beneath his breath, knelt to retrieve it — and the taper went out, with a parting scorch to his fingers. He muttered an oath and pulled open the door once more, freeing us both from the oppressive dark.

“I must beg your indulgence, Mamma,” he said indolently. “Does this brooch form a part of the Wilborough stones?”

The Dowager turned the pin over in her palm, a slight frown between her eyes. “It does not, my dear Harry. I have never seen it before.”

“Mona?”

She looked at the brooch — paled — and sat down abruptly on the anteroom settee. “Good Lord, Uncle, what does this mean?”

“Perhaps we should enquire of your friend,” Lord Harold replied; but the gravity of his looks betrayed his careless tone.

For what he held in his hand was a snarling gold tiger, its eyes formed of rubies — the device of the Earl of Swithin.