Authors: Elizabeth Thornton
Mr. Standish was wrong. The mystery was not resolved in a matter of days. No one knew how it happened, but the rumors spread like wildfire, and each rumor became more fantastic than the last.
“As I heard it,” said Eric Perrin to his wife, “our people are no longer satisfied that Barrington was murdered by a thief who broke into his house.”
They were standing at the rail of the gallery of Carle-ton House, the Prince of Wales’s private palace in Pall Mall. Below them, in the great octagonal entrance hall, a throng of London’s eminent citizens were moving slowly in line toward the double staircase. Helena was enjoying the spectacle. It was not often that ladies were invited to functions at Carleton House. The prince was estranged from his wife and it made things awkward for him when he wished to entertain.
She raised her glass of champagne to her lips and took a small swallow. “How strange,” she said.
Any other woman would have been dying to hear what he had to say. Eric Perrin looked at his wife and wondered what it would take to crack that controlled, unshakable composure of hers. In bed, she was a passionate woman, but even then, she veiled her feelings. He never knew what she was thinking.
He took a healthy swallow from his glass and said carelessly, “It seems that the boy was there when his father was murdered. It’s only now that he is beginning to remember things, and then only in snatches.”
He had the satisfaction of seeing that he had cracked her composure. “He was there? Oh, how
horrible
for that poor boy! And he is beginning to remember things?”
“So it would seem, but it’s coming back to him only in snatches.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means he remembers that the murderer was English and he was left-handed.”
Her hand jerked, and several droplets of wine spilled
to the floor. He smiled and nodded. “Yes, I know,” he said. “I’m English and I’m left-handed.”
There was a huskiness in her voice when she spoke. “Eric, where were you the night Lord Barrington was murdered?”
He did not mince words. “With a woman,” he said. He was watching her closely, but there was nothing in her expression to gauge her reaction to his bald statement. Tipping his glass, he drank it to the dregs. “I met her in the precincts of the Palais Royale. She was French, of course. I don’t even know her name. So you see, I have no alibi.”
A moment passed as she tried to interpret the venom she had detected in his words. Unsure of what to make of it, she said, “Do you think you will need an alibi?”
“You know there is no love lost between Kendal and me. What do you think?”
“But what possible motive could you have for murdering Lord Barrington?”
“Men like Kendal invent motives to suit their ends.”
She felt her hand begin to tremble and turned away so that he would not see it. “Has Gray said anything to you?”
“No. Kendal has not said anything to me. No one has seen anything of him for more than a week.” “What do you make of it?”
“I suppose he fears, now that Quentin’s memory is returning, that the murderer will try to get to the boy, and he’s taking no chances. No one knows where he can be found, not even our own people at the Foreign Office. The rumor is Kendal is waiting for the arrival of some eminent doctor from the Continent who is an expert on disturbances of the mind. This doctor may be able to help the boy regain his memory.”
“There’s one person who will know where to find Gray,” she said.”
“Who?”
“Deborah Weyman.” She nodded in answer to the question in his eyes. “She would never let Quentin go into hiding without knowing where he was. Besides, I’m
more than half convinced Gray means to marry the girl. If he has confided in anyone, it will be in Miss Weyman.” When the silence lengthened, she said, “What is it, Eric?”
“Nothing.” He turned away, and saluted someone in the hall below. “There’s David Banks and his sister,” he said.
She looked over the railing. “I remember him from Paris. He works with you at the Foreign Office, doesn’t he?”
“He does, and no, I do not know whether Banks is right-or left-handed.”
In the Great Hall, David Banks and his sister were also discussing the rumors that were rampant. Beside them was Lord Lawford, dressed to the hilt in white satin breeches, fancy claret coat, and shoes with silver buckles on them. He kept adjusting his neck cloth, as though it were choking him.
Banks was hiding a smile. He knew how much Lawford detested these formal affairs, but when the Prince of Wales did the inviting, there was no refusing without incurring His Royal Highness’s undying enmity.
“Dr. Mesmer?” said Rosamund Banks. “I’ve never heard of him.”
Her brother had. “But surely, sir, he is a charlatan. He’s been thrown out of half the countries in Europe for his heretical practices.”
“So was Galileo,” replied Lawford, bending the truth to make his point, “and his theories have been proven correct.”
“What practices?” asked Rosamund.
Banks answered her. “He puts people into a trance, don’t ask me how it’s done, and tries to cure them of their demons.”
“He has a theory about animal magnetism,” added Lawford.
Rosamund wrinkled her nose. “I don’t see how that can help Quentin regain his memory. In fact, I think it sounds rather frightening.”
Lawford said, “It is drastic, but I suppose Kendal
sees no other way. Marchand, the first quack he consulted, could only take the boy so far, and advised Kendal to invite this Dr. Mesmer to London to treat the boy.”
“You’re very well informed,” observed Banks, quizzing his lordship.
Lawford smiled and said with a touch of condescension, “At the War Office, my dear boy, we make it our business to chase down rumors. It’s a habit that has carried over into my private life. You mustn’t take what I say too seriously, though. I’m only repeating the rumor as it was related to me. Whether it’s true, I cannot say.”
Hours later, in the comfort of his own house, Lawford reflected on the evening just past. He sat before a blazing fire, in his nightshirt and dressing robe, his feet immersed in a basin of hot water, and his dogs reclining comfortably in the crook of each arm.
“It’s surprising how many left-handed people there are in this world,” he told his dogs.
Jezebel licked his face. Salome growled encouragingly.
“I counted fifty at Carleton House before I gave up. Do you know what I think, girls?” He chuckled. “I think there are a lot of people at the Foreign Office who are going to become ambidextrous overnight. Well, I would too. Wouldn’t you?”
Both dogs barked.
“Remind me when this is over,” he said, “that Kendal owes me a big favor. Starting rumors is one thing. Having them circulate with no one knowing who is fanning the flames is not as easy as one would think. And as for the plagues that have descended on poor Lord Belvidere—the slimy bastard-I could go to prison for a hundred years. Oh yes. At the very least, Kendal will be buying me dinner for a long time to come.”
Two long tails thumped ferociously on the arms of the chair.
“I think I shall wait a day or two before disclosing the date of Dr. Mesmer’s supposed arrival. I’d best check that out with Kendal to make sure everything else
is going as planned. What’s that you say? Oh, you may well ask who the murderer is. Frankly, I don’t know. However …” The fingers that were scratching behind the dogs’ ears stilled. “I think Kendal knows, or he has a very good idea.”
The first Deborah heard of the rumors that had taken London by storm was when she returned to Berkeley Square with Meg and the countess. They came back early, in response to a letter from Gray’s secretary, asking if they could give Mr. Standish his lordship’s direction. It was a great mystery, he said, but no one seemed to know what had become of Lord Kendal and his ward.
Though Hart had escorted the ladies, he was not planning to stay. Gussie and Jason were still in the country and he was eager to get back to them. He was sure the mystery of Gray’s whereabouts would soon be solved. His plans changed, moments after entering the house, when it became clear to him that Mr. Standish was referring to more than Gray’s prolonged absence.
“Are you saying that Lord Kendal never arrived in London?” asked Hart incredulously. “You must be mistaken. He wrote to us about Quentin, leastways, he wrote to Miss Weyman.”
“That’s true,” said Deborah. “I have the letter somewhere. I’m sure it came from London.”
“That may be so,” said Mr. Standish. “All I am saying is that his lordship did not come here, to Kendal House. And no one knows where he can be found. I’m
thinking of calling in the magistrates. This is not like Lord Kendal at all.”
They were milling around in the hall as footmen maneuvered boxes and portmanteaux through the doors. At Hart’s suggestion, they moved to the library.
When they were seated, Hart asked Mr. Standish to tell them everything he knew. He did this very concisely, though he was thrown off stride a time or two by their many questions.
At the end of his account, the countess exclaimed, “I knew that Quentin’s mind was affected by his father’s death, but I never knew he was
there
when Lord Barrington was murdered. Deborah, did you know anything of this?”
The question took Deborah off guard, and she answered while her mind was still reeling from the shock of what Mr. Standish had told them. “Yes, yes. I knew. That was why Gray came up to town. He was going to consult with Dr. Marchand, in hopes that—” Suddenly realizing that she might be saying too much, she changed direction. “That he might be able to do something for Quentin’s headaches.”
“That’s true,” said Mr. Standish. “Lord Kendal did consult with Dr. Marchand. He has a hospice in Pall Mall, and I went to see him. All he could or
would
tell me was that he had advised his lordship to consult with a certain Dr. Mesmer.”
This disclosure led to more questions about Mesmer and his work. Hart was shaking his head in wonder when he asked Mr. Standish if he knew where they could find Dr. Mesmer.
“No. I tried to find him, but there is no doctor of that name practicing in London. Rumor has it that he is a foreigner, and that Lord Kendal has sent for him to treat the boy.”
The countess smiled at Mr. Standish. “I am in your debt, Mr. Standish. My son is very fortunate to have you as his secretary. I am only sorry that you had to face all this unpleasant speculation alone.”
Meg leaned forward in her chair. “It must have been
very difficult for you, Philip. You should have summoned us sooner.”
Mr. Standish colored up. “It has not been easy,” he allowed. “I am only sorry that Lord Kendal did not see fit to take me into his confidence.”
Hart said brusquely, “And I am sorry that Gray did not see fit to take
any
of us into his confidence. Unless …” He looked at Deborah with raised brows.
She, too, colored up. “No,” she said, “I know nothing.”
They soon discovered that Mr. Standish had been very conservative in his description of the rumors making the rounds. Over the next day or two, there was a steady stream of visitors to the house, and every morsel of gossip was related at length. Because none of the Graysons or Deborah knew what Gray was up to, they answered all questions vaguely. When some seconded Mr. Standish’s impulse to call in the magistrates, Hart made light of it. Because of Gray’s work at the Foreign Office, his absence might well be connected to matters of state. More than that he would not say.
In private, they were not so assured. They were as puzzled as everyone else, more so when Hart and Mr. Standish combed London, discreetly, and came up empty-handed. No one had any idea where Gray was.
“I am beginning to suspect,” said Hart, “that the rumors are true, and that Gray has hidden Quentin away to keep him safe from the man who murdered his father.”
Deborah absorbed everything and began to sift things through in her mind. She was beginning to wonder if Gray was setting Quentin up as bait to catch the murderer. The thought was chilling. In her mind’s eye, she stacked each rumor like a building block. It was now known that Quentin had witnessed his father’s murder and that the horror of it had affected his memory. It was also known that the shock of the shooting mishap at Channings had worked in the opposite direction. That Dr. Marchand and Dr. Mesmer were celebrated students of the science of the psyche was no secret either. Add to that the description of the murderer as English and left
handed, and it seemed self-evident that Quentin was recovering his memory. Only she knew that she was the one who had told Gray all these things when they had reenacted the murder in the library at Channings.
There was one thing, however, that exonerated Gray from the terrible suspicion that hovered in her mind. If he were setting Quentin up as bait, he would want the murderer to know where he could be found, or there was no point to it. His extreme caution in keeping his whereabouts a secret must mean that he was taking no chances with Quentin’s safety.
The rumors, however, continued to disturb her. How could they have started if Gray were not behind them? How could they be so accurate? Hart was able to reassure her on this point. As near as he could make out, he said, Matthew Derwent had stirred things up inadvertently when he had told his cronies about Quentin’s reaction to the guns going off. It seemed, also, that Dr. Marchand was not as discreet as he might have been. When Sophie Barrington had called on him, demanding to know what had become of her stepson, the doctor had let slip more than he had meant to. After this, the rumors had spread like wildfire.
No, she refused to believe Gray would use Quentin as bait. She trusted him now, trusted that he would never take such chances with Quentin’s life. Deborah thought, hoped, that Gray would get a message to her, if only to relieve her worst fears about Quentin. She saw that Quentin would never be safe now unless the memory of that night came back to him, and he could identify his father’s murderer. Gray must be pinning his hopes on Dr. Mesmer. The murderer must know this and must be waiting his chance to get to Quentin before Dr. Mesmer treated him. The more Deborah thought of it, the more convinced she became that Gray had done the right thing, and she told Hart to stop searching for him. If and when Gray thought it was safe, he would get a message to them.