“So Judelet’s lying?”
Her eyes flashed, then dropped to the desk. “No, of course not. There’s been a mistake; the first bill was lost, or the smith never sent it.”
“How did these pots come to be ordered in the first place?”
“I don’t know.”
“You didn’t commission them?”
“No, my lord.”
“Well, if you didn’t and Judelet didn’t, who the hell did?”
“I don’t know, my lord.”
He couldn’t rattle her today. “Who’s going to pay the eight-shilling fee for a lot of pots nobody will admit to ordering?” he demanded, trying hard to sound as if he gave a damn.
She looked at him steadily. “I will, my lord. If you think it’s fair.”
He stared at her until he felt foolish. “Sit down,” he snapped. “Why are you standing over me?” She went back to her chair and sat.
He picked up another paper from his desk, this one a letter on thick vellum stationery. The effeminate scrawl in light blue ink annoyed him, but he schooled his features into affability and said, “Some friends of mine are coming down from London on Friday, Mrs. Wade. Three or four, I think, possibly five, and almost certainly a lady or two with the gentlemen. You may know one of them—Claude Sully. Your late husband’s nephew, I believe. And heir, if I’m not mistaken. Do you know him?”
“No, my lord. I don’t know him.” But she’d gone a little pale.
“Never met him?”
“No. I think he was—at the trial.”
“The trial?”
Her lips tightened. “My trial.”
“Was he? How interesting. I hope that won’t cause any awkwardness between you. Because of the circumstances. Sully’s more of an acquaintance of mine than a friend,” he expanded, for no particular reason. “He knew my cousin Geoffrey—the late Lord D’Aubrey, you know.”
She said nothing.
“I recall that you were reluctant to help me entertain the natives, so to speak. I hope that squeamishness doesn’t extend to my London acquaintance.”
“No, my lord.”
“Good, excellent,” he said, although he knew she was lying. In fact, he was counting on it. “They arrive on Friday, as I say, probably in time for dinner. You’ll have rooms readied. I think we can expect a valet or two in the company, perhaps a lady’s maid as well, so you’ll want to make accommodations for them, too. I’m not sure how long they’ll stay. Let’s plan for three nights and then see where we are. None of this is beyond you, is it, Mrs. Wade?”
“No, my lord.”
“Judelet can organize the menus without your help; indeed, I doubt he’d have it any other way. Things should go smoothly, I can’t think why they wouldn’t. Oh, one last thing. I’d like you to join in the party as much as possible, take your meals with us and so on. Act as my hostess, in other words.” She was watching him through narrowed lids; if looks could kill, he’d be slumped over his desk, stone dead. He smiled at her. “Will that be a problem for you, Mrs. Wade?”
“No, my lord.”
“Oh, good. Then I won’t detain you. You must have a million things to do.”
***
Claude Sully and the others arrived a little after noon on Friday, much earlier than expected. Mrs. Wade, who had to report to the chief constable in Tavistock every month under the conditions of her release, was not at home when the hired coach from Plymouth rumbled over the flagstones, upsetting the rooks and sending the house cat scurrying. Sebastian greeted his friends alone.
There were four of them: Claude Sully, Sir Anthony Bingham, Mrs. Wilson, and Bertram Flohr. He knew them all except Flohr, a fat, morose, sullen-looking fellow with a midcountry accent. While Kitty—Mrs. Wilson—threw her arms around him for a greeting, Sebastian tried to remember if he’d ever slept with her. She looked flushed and disheveled, as if she’d just finished servicing all three of her traveling companions in the coach. He wouldn’t have put it past any of them.
But he was glad they’d come. They were among the most dissolute of his friends, and he looked forward to being amused by their brittle, acerbic wit. The pastoral charms of Devon had begun to seduce him, incredible as it seemed, and he deemed that Sully and the others were just the antidote he needed for all this cloying rusticity.
As usual, Bingham was drunk. “I remember this place,” he exclaimed, wheeling around unsteadily, gaping up at the granite walls of Lynton Hall and the crenelated gatehouse. “Been here, by God. With you, Sully, remember?”
“Of course, you sod, that’s what I’ve been telling you. Two years ago, when Geoffrey was still alive. Oh, say, sorry about your cousin, Sebastian. Hunting accident, wasn’t it?”
Sebastian returned Sully’s smiling, insincere sympathy in kind. “That’s what they say,” he said casually, and led the party into his house.
They laughed at it. Kitty was the least inhibited in her raillery, and in spite of himself Sebastian couldn’t help seeing through her mocking eyes all the Haws and eccentricities he’d learned to overlook. “Bastian, what on earth?” she cried, dancing down the central hall with the men in her wake, throwing open the doors to one drawing room after another, laughing with exaggerated astonishment at their worn and outdated furnishings. She wore her straight black hair loose and nearly down to her waist, and she liked to fling it back from her shoulders by lifting her chin and giving her head a dramatic shake. That reminded him: they had been lovers, for about a month back in ‘52 or ‘53. And she’d found uses for that black hair that had awed and bedazzled him.
They settled in the rosewood drawing room, stretching out on sofas and loveseats, making themselves at home. Soon the serious drinking began. “Where’s that deaf housekeeper?” Sully wanted to know, unbuttoning his yellow waistcoat and loosening his cravat. “Mrs. Apple, Mrs. Pear—”
“Mrs. Fruit,” Bingham said unexpectedly from the floor, where he lay with a glass of claret balanced on his chest. “Stone deaf, couldn’t hear a word unless you roared it in her ear.”
“She retired,” Sebastian said.
“Bugger it,” said Bingham.
“Bugger it,” Sully agreed. “We said things to her when she wasn’t looking,” he explained to the others.
“Right,” said Bingham. “Dirty words, you know, rude suggestions, right in the old girl’s ear. Geoffrey started it. Bloody good fun.” He snickered, splashing wine on his shirt.
Sully got up from his chair and came over to sit beside Kitty on the couch. He was combing his curly blond hair forward these days, Brutus-fashion, to hide his balding crown. Maybe it was the contrast with the ruddier, healthier stock Sebastian was growing used to in Wyckerley, but Sully looked wan to him, soft and almost effete. He had shifting blue eyes and a thin mouth that turned down when he smiled, not up. His expensive clothes were in the height of fashion; he looked as out of place in the seedy drawing room as a courtier in a convent. He had his arm draped across the back of the sofa, resting his hand on Kitty’s neck. “Why the devil are you still down here, D’Aubrey?” he demanded. “What’s the draw? Come, tell us, we want to know what strange allure the place has for you.”
“Yes, tell,” Kitty seconded. “Tony says it’s a woman.”
“Must be a woman,” Bingham affirmed, nodding. “And if it ain’t a woman, it’s a sheep. God knows there’s enough of ’em around here for a bleeding battalion. Of Irishmen,” he added with a coarse laugh, and Kitty giggled with him.
Sully smiled across at Sebastian while he pulled on the low collar of her dress, uncovering her shoulder. From the window seat, Flohr leaned forward, elbows on his plump thighs, eyes slitted and staring. Observing him, Sebastian rearranged his conclusions about Kitty. If she’d bestowed her favors on anyone in the coach up from Plymouth, it hadn’t been on Flohr. Because Flohr, he would bet his last sovereign, was a watcher.
“Well?” Sully prodded. “What’s Lynton Hall got that London in the Season hasn’t?”
He pretended to consider. “Peace and quiet. Healthy air, regular hours. Birds that aren’t pigeons.”
Bingham snorted. “It’s a woman,” he said positively, and turned over on his stomach.
Sebastian was sitting on the arm of the sofa, next to Kitty. She smiled up at him and began to stroke his thigh. Her wedding ring was a band of bloodstones in a gold setting. He watched her soft, small hand move lazily across his leg and listened to the sound her nails made on the smooth tweed of his trousers. He took a sip of his drink. Got up and walked across the room to the piano.
It had arrived a week ago from the London house. As soon as he’d begun to play, he’d wondered why he’d waited so long before ordering it sent down. It felt like an old friend. It made Lynton Hall seem almost like a home.
He began to play chords at random, a quiet accompaniment to his guests’ desultory chatter. Once in a while a bit of scabrous gossip arrested him, but for the most part he didn’t pay attention to their talk. He was waiting for something. He wasn’t sure what it was until Rachel came. Then he knew.
She arrived silently, as usual; he didn’t know she was standing in the doorway until he heard the room go quiet. Bingham was the one who broke the stillness, by saying softly, “What did I tell you.”
She advanced a little way in from the threshold, pink-cheeked, trying to smile, trying to look back into all the eyes that scrutinized and examined her. He tried to see her as they did in her plain black gown and cheap shoes, her unfashionable hair, the wary look in her silvery eyes. Had he thought she was pretty when he’d first seen her? He couldn’t remember now, and the question didn’t interest him any longer. She was Rachel, she was here. For now, nothing else mattered.
Standing up, he said quietly, “Mrs. Wade, these are my friends. Mrs. Wilson; that’s Tony on the floor, Sir Anthony Bingham; Mr. Flohr—sorry, I’ve forgotten your first name.”
“Bertram.”
“Right. And this is Claude Sully. I’d like you all to meet Mrs. Rachel Wade. My new housekeeper.”
They greeted her facetiously. “Well, well, well,” Bingham said slowly, snickering, and Kitty smiled and said, “Oh, the housekeeper,” in a knowing tone. Sully was the only one who bothered to get up. “Mrs. Wade?” he repeated, studying her with acute interest, coming closer. “Would that be . . . oh, surely not. Could it possibly be Mrs. Randolph Wade?”
Her features tightened with dread, but she only said, “Yes.”
“My God.” He was quietly, odiously delighted. “My dear lady,” he breathed. “You murdered my uncle.”
Like hounds scenting a fox, the others came to attention. Bingham struggled to his feet; Kitty put her drink down and stared. Even Flohr got up from the window seat, his round face turning florid.
Why didn’t she deny it? But she said nothing, just stared back at Sully with wide, expressionless eyes. He reached for her hand and began to pull her toward the sofa. She resisted, and in her agitation she threw a veiled glance at Sebastian. He almost spoke before he caught himself. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he leaned against the piano.
Sully put her between himself and Kitty, who was eyeing her with open fascination. “You went to prison,” he said wonderingly. “In Exeter for a few years, as I recall, before they opened Dartmoor. Am I right?”
“Yes.”
“When did they let you out?”
She glanced up at Bingham and Flohr, across at Kitty. Cornered. “On the thirteenth of April,” she answered, almost inaudibly, kneading her skirt over her knees with both hands.
“Gor,” said Bingham playfully, but he was as mesmerized as the others.
“Bloody hell, Claude, you inherited all his money, didn’t you?” Kitty said, figuring it out as she spoke. “I remember now. After the uncle died, you got it all—a fortune.”
“I did,” he smiled, showing pointed teeth. “Do you know, I think this calls for a toast.” He lifted his wineglass. “To you, Mrs. Wade, with gratitude and admiration. Thank you for hastening my inheritance, something I confess I’d often thought of doing myself. You saved me the trouble. Bless you. Oh—but you haven’t got a glass! Shocking oversight. Please, allow me to—”
She withered away from his outstretched hand and managed to stand up without touching him. “You must excuse me, I have—things I should see to before dinner.” Backing toward the door, she dared another quick glance at Sebastian. “My lord?”
“Thank you, Mrs. Wade,” he said dismissively. The gratitude in her eyes recalled him to his purpose. “But you’ll dine with us, of course,” he added pointedly. She made him a short, cold bow and withdrew.
***
“Lydia’s my cousin, you know,” Sully confided, angling his body closer, resting his hand on the back of Rachel’s chair. She couldn’t move away any farther; Bingham sat on her other side, and he was craning toward her to hear Sully’s soft-voiced conversation. “I haven’t seen her in years. You must have, though, living in the same quaint little village, eh?” Rachel nodded once and kept her eyes on her plate. “What was that like? Hmm? Bloody awkward, I should think.”
She murmured something; Sebastian couldn’t hear the words. He wondered how much longer she could push the same piece of trout around on her plate without taking a bite.
“Lydia’s got no use for me. Makes no sense, but she blames me for the fact that she’s practically penniless. As if I had anything to do with the terms of dear Uncle Randolph’s will.” Sully swirled wine in his glass. “Woman’s logic,” he said with the turned-down smile, and Bingham muttered, “Drink to that.”
On Sebastian’s right, Kitty took time off from massaging his calf with her stockinged foot to ask, “How long were you locked up altogether, Mrs. Wade?”
She lifted her head. “Ten years.”
“Good Lord! Wasn’t it awful?”
“Yes.”
Her low, fervent agreement stopped Kitty, but only for a second. “What was it like? Tell us everything.”
She stared back as if the question made no sense.
“I . . .” She put her fork down. “What do you—particularly want to know?”
“Well!” Kitty shrugged her shoulders animatedly. “What was the food like?” she asked, laughing, as if a lighthearted game were beginning. “Did you sit in a dining hall with the other prisoners?”
Rachel sagged slowly against the back of her chair. “No. We took our meals in our cells.”
“Did you have a roommate? A cellmate, I suppose it’s called.”
“No.”
“No? You had to eat all by yourself?”
She nodded slowly.
“What sort of food did you get?” asked Bingham.
Every question was like a knife prick to her skin. Sebastian wondered if they could tell. Not the extent of it, he didn’t think. They knew they were wounding her, but they couldn’t know how much. But she was a novice and they were experts; it wouldn’t be long before they found her out.
“The food . . . was shoved through a trapdoor in the wall. It was always the same.”
“What was it?” .
“Bread and stirabout. Potatoes—”
“Stirabout?”
“A kind of gruel. Meat sometimes. Soup. And cocoa. Six things.”
Sebastian watched them all look down at their plates, smiling self-consciously, mentally contrasting the delicacy and variety of Judelet’s repast with Mrs. Wade’s stirabout and potatoes.
“Well,” Kitty decided, “at least it was filling. At least you had enough.”
Rachel stared at her until Kitty had to look away. Sebastian pushed away a memory of how she’d looked at the magistrates’ hearing. Half starved. A week ago, when he’d taken her clothes off, he could see her ribs.
Sully put hi
s hand on her shoulder; she controlled a start and began to turn a spoon over and over on the tablecloth. “What was your cell like? Hmm? How big?”
It was starting. Sebastian signaled the footman for more wine, and when his glass was full he drank half of it down without pausing.
“It was . . . eight feet by five feet. A seven-foot ceiling of stone. An iron door. Corrugated iron walls.”
“No window?”
“A window. High in the wall. Thick glass. It looked out onto the interior of the prison.”
“Was it cold?”
“Yes.”
“I once had a groom who spent nine months in Millbank,” Bingham put in. “Said the bed was a wooden board. Said you woke up feeling as if you’d been flogged in the night with planks.”
They stared at Rachel, Flohr openly, the rest in secret glances; they were avid now, their curiosity whetted.
“What did you wear?” Kitty wanted to know.
She was growing smaller before their eyes. If they kept at her long enough, would she disappear?
“A dress. Brown, made of serge. A white cap.”
“I’ve heard they pay the prisoners to work.”
“At Dartmoor. Not at Exeter.”
“What did you do?”
“I worked in the prison laundry at first. Then the library. The tailor’s shop.”
“What did you do all day at Exeter?” Kitty again.
It took a moment before she was able to say, “I picked oakum in my cell.”
Oakum. Filthy, tar-covered rope, used for caulking. Sebastian looked at her clean, short-nailed fingers, remembered her calloused palms.
“How do you mean? What’s ‘picking,’ exactly?”
She took a deep breath. “The ration was three pounds a day. Raw rope, thrown in through the trapdoor. We had to pick it—separate all the strands until it was a pile of soft flax. In the evening they weighed it, to make certain we’d finished our quota.”
“How very . . . tedious. There’s no real purpose to it, is there, no reason for it. Wasn’t it tedious?”