In the Brief Eternal Silence (32 page)

“Is there a problem, miss?” Jeannie
asked.

“Yes, many, but nothing you have done,
Jeannie, I assure you,” Miss Murdock hurried to reassure her. “I
look quite splendid if I do say so myself, and it is all because of
you, and the Duchess of course, and . .” but she trailed off for
she could not mention the duke as being party to this. Oh, how was
she to walk out on him after this expense, and indeed, how was she
to not?

She turned to go out and downstairs, leaving
Jeannie to her efficient sorting and stowing. Ashton met her at the
bottom of the stairs, informed her that the Duchess had not yet
come below but that Earl Larrimer was in the drawing room if she
wished to join him and that Ashton would inform them when breakfast
was being served. “And may I add, Miss, that you are looking very
bright indeed this morning,” he added in his sober way.

“Why, thank you, Ashton,” she was surprised
into saying. She looked down at her new dress as she added, “I feel
like such an imposter.”

“Tsk, miss, you look exactly as you are. A
young lady, bright and healthy and vivid. Now where is there any
sham in that?”

She smiled, something inside of her relaxing
with his words. “Thank you, Ashton. You always know precisely the
right thing to say.” He moved to open the door to the drawing room
for her and she moved on into the room. Ashton spared an extra
moment to watch her go before once again closing the door behind
her and withdrawing to his post of over-seeing all that went on in
his domain.

Andrew was there, as Ashton had said, and he
looked up from his cup of coffee at Miss Murdock's entrance. As
they were alone, he said with quiet pleasure, “Lizzie, I am so glad
to see you up and well this morning.”

“And you also, Andrew,” she smiled in return.
“Has your mother not come down yet?”

“No. She has a deplorable habit of being late
each morning. I think that it takes her a little longer each year
to achieve the degree of lacing that makes her figure still
fashionable at her age.”

Miss Murdock giggled. “That is quite
indelicate of you, Andrew,” she admonished. “And I for one, can
only hope to look half as beautiful as your mother when I am at her
age, or indeed, even at my age.”

“She would be happy to hear you say so, for
she is still quite vain you know.”

“So I have come to understand, but as it is
really quite harmless, she deserves our indulgence, does she not?
Am I to understand you will be at Almacks tonight?”

“Indeed, yes,” he replied. “And for once I am
not positively dreading it for I think it shall be very amusing to
see you launched this evening.”

“Launched and sunk, I fear,” Miss Murdock
returned and settled herself onto the sofa.

“Nonsense! I think you shall do splendidly.
You may not be the most beautiful, but I wager you will be the most
memorable. It will not go unnoticed.”

“I would much rather go unnoticed entirely,”
she bemoaned. “You can not know how much I am truly dreading this.
The only bright point, and you must forgive me for saying this as I
know you admire him very much, is that your cousin can not possibly
be there for I have had it on the good word of my maid that he is
barred from Almacks.”

“Indeed, he is. But I have always thought it
was rather because they were tired of his snubbing them and thought
it was more seemly to thus snub him back.”

“Oh,” Miss Murdock replied.

“Yes. He has never set foot in the place to
my knowledge, and the ladies in charge did not take kindly to that.
A voucher, Miss Murdock, is not much unlike a royal summons. It is
all right to miss one or two events of the season, but to bypass
the entire season, and year after year, well it is quite
unforgivable. Especially if they suspect that your only pressing
business is to sit at a table in a gaming hell, gambling your
inheritance away instead of going about the proper business of
courting and marrying beneath their helpful eyes in preparation to
passing your inheritance along as is accepted.”

“But I thought St. James spent all of his
time. . . on that matter we previously discussed,” she
protested.

“Oh, do not get me wrong, the fact that he
spent so much time in unsavory places I am sure was a means to an
end, but you can hardly expect the ladies of society to know of
that. To their way of understanding, he is a rake, through and
through, of the most unrepentant sort. And although I think all
ladies secretly love a rake, there are still limits which even they
will not put up with being crossed, and I am afraid St. James has
passed well beyond all those limits in one manner or another. Not
that he has ever much cared.”

“Well, then, Andrew,” she replied with a
twinkle in her eye, “it is up to you to save the Larrimer name from
utter ruin and toe the line.”

He shook his head in mock despair. “It is, I
have come to realize. I could strangle him for that.” And they both
laughed.

The door opened then, and the banging of a
cane announced to them that it was the Duchess even before she
struggled through on the arm of Ashton. “Here, you two,” she said,
her voice tart. “Must I forever find you both closeted together and
sharing in some unseemly mirth? Go on, the both of you,” she said
with more indulgence, “do not let the presence of an old lady
interrupt what ever amusement you have dreamed up.”

“We are merely discussing your other
grandson, grandmother,” Andrew enlightened her, “and it is an
extremely difficult task to find much to be amused about
there.”

“Indeed,” she returned and settled herself in
her customary chair. “Thank you, Ashton. I, however, have had a
missive from him already this morning, and I have found very much
cause to be amused in it,” she confided, her eyes merry. “Very
much!”

Miss Murdock felt the blood drain from her
face and was thankful that Andrew was quick to respond, saving her
the necessity of doing so. “From how lightened your spirits are, I
would say that must be true,” Andrew observed. “Do you care to
share?”

“No. I think I shall not,” the old lady
replied. “For you will find out yourselves in due time and I think
it adds to my pleasure to wait for that moment. Ah, I think it
shall be a grand day. Miss Murdock, may I say that you are looking
very fine indeed this morning?”

“Thank you, ma'am. As are you, I must say,”
Miss Murdock returned, distracted. “I am glad to see that St. James
has somehow found a way to wheedle his way back into your good
graces.”

“Oh, he has,” the Duchess replied. “Quite a
feat when his missive contained but two short lines, would you not
say? And what is all the more pleasant to me is knowing that he did
not send it because he thought it would make me happy, but because,
for once, he had no one else to turn to that could help him on this
matter. And I will see to it! Oh, yes, I shall see to it quite
enthusiastically.”

Ashton tapped on the door at the end of these
words, and then putting his head in, bowed and said, “Breakfast,
milady.”

“Thank you, Ashton. Andrew, would you be so
kind?”

Andrew jumped up to assist her. “Of course,”
he told her.

“And where is your mother?” the Duchess asked
before starting the task of getting up from her chair.

“She is late again, as usual,” her grandson
replied.

“Probably has broken a lace again,” the
Duchess observed.

The three of them went in to breakfast and
although she tried to relax, Miss Murdock was, she admitted to
herself, a bundle of nerves. But she ate with good appetite, all
the same, finding oddly enough, that being roused by St. James in
the middle of the night to drive around in his carriage had made
her quite hungry.

Chapter Fourteen

Somewhat earlier that morning, St. James was
awake, and lay in bed, the sheet covering his naked chest, his gold
eyes studying the soft wavering of the sheers at his window. He
liked the window open a crack, even on the coldest of nights, and
he liked his curtains left drawn back, for he did not like his room
in tomb darkness.

He ordered his thoughts, much easier when one
was not hung over, he was discovering, and decided that he had
three things to pursue that day. Two of which he was not even
certain how to begin to pursue. The third, he concluded, had a
clear course of action, which in an unexpected way appealed to him
very much.

It was always good to be unpredictable, and
this course of action he was settling upon was quite unforeseeable
to anyone who may be in the position of caring to try and guess his
next move. Yes, it had the advantage of being out of character, and
of giving the appearance that St. James' mind was quite taken up
with a different endeavor than the one of trying to find the
murderer of his parents. In reality, it may bring him closer to
that discovery than pursuit of his other two more puzzling, but at
first glance, more promising leads.

After all, his unexpected interest in Miss
Murdock and marriage had brought him the other two leads already,
and as he had only been at this endeavor for three days now, it
would be very foolish, indeed, to drop it.

It was with this thought in mind that he was
interrupted by Effington arriving in his bedchamber and voicing
with some surprise that his lordship was already awake. His
critical eye took in first the dropped clothing his lordship had
worn the night before, as St. James had come in so late that even
Effington had dozed at his post. He clucked in disapproval, began
to pick up the splendid attire of the night before.

“Leave that for now, Effington,” St. James
requested, causing the valet to drop the clothing with
disgruntlement into a chair, “and fetch me some paper and a pen
from my writing table.”

“Certainly, milord,” Effington responded as
St. James stretched in the bed.

“And pour me a drink, and bring it to me,”
St. James could not resist adding.

“It is not yet even nine the clock in the
morning, milord,” Effington advised even as he poured the drink in
a short, disapproving motion. He brought it all the same, guessing
that his lordship would not heed his words. Then he stopped in
mid-stride, his eyebrows going up in a rare revelation of surprise
as he stared at the duke. The duke's face, to be precise.

“Is there something the matter, Effington?”
St. James asked.

“Er, no, milord,” Effington replied. “It is
just, you must have had some sort of accident last night, for your
face is quite red and welted.”

Thus saying, he handed the drink to his
lordship, who sat up in bed, the sheet falling to the loosened
laces of his under attire.

St. James took the drink, sipped from it, a
sherry, the lightest drink that the valet could find that could
still be classified as a 'drink', and he smiled at this little bit
of attempted censorship.

Effington was studying his lordship's face
with interest from this closer vantage. “Funny thing, milord,” he
commented in his most reproachful voice, “this injury seems to be
in the exact shape of a hand. Almost as if you had been
slapped.”

To which St. James said, “How very
interesting. By the by, Effing-ton, I am awaiting on that paper and
pen.”

“Of course, milord,” Effington said, unhappy
at having to be reminded. Still quite distracted by his lordship's
odd injury, he retrieved a bottle of ink from the desk, several
pieces of paper, and a sharpened quill.

St. James took these items, said in an
exasperated voice, “And something to write upon, Effington, unless
you care to kneel on the floor and let me use your back.”

“I do not find that funny, milord,” Effington
returned with an irritated frown. He returned to the secretary to
pick up a large book, a racing annual put out the year before, and
handed it to his employer.

St. James, oblivious to the curiosity that
was eating his valet alive, put aside his drink, settled the paper
on the book, uncapped the ink bottle and paused before writing.

Has it really come to this? he asked himself.
And then, with an unexpected grin, began to write:

Dearest Grandmother,

I need your help. I wish to attend Almacks
tonight and shall need vouchers.

Your loving grandson,

St. J

He folded it and let it lay for a moment, on
the off chance that he should decide that this unexpected turn of
events was not to his liking, but as he only felt a great deal of
titillation to think of the expression on Miss Murdock's face when
he arrived, he decided that no, this was precisely what he wished
to do. Effington handed him an envelope. St. James scrawled an
address, put the missive inside and sealed the envelope with a drop
of red wax that Effington lit and held out for him. St. James
placed his signet into the wax, marking it as his.

“Have the messenger boy I hired run this
around immediately, Effington,” he bade.

“Yes, milord.” He paused for an expectant
moment, obviously waiting for some sort of explanation of his
lordship's strange injury, but St. James only looked at him with
negligent gold eyes. Effington gave a very slight sigh, drew
himself up and said with more authority than he would have dared
yesterday (but of course, yesterday, the duke could not have been
aware of Effington's true worth, but after the splendid outfit
Effington had prepared for him last night, now he undoubtedly was),
“You rest there, milord, and I shall help you dress upon my return,
which will only be above a minute,” he warned.

St. James watched him go, laughing to
himself. The race was on, for he had no doubt that Effington would
go as quickly as was dignified about his task. St. James threw back
the covers, pulled plain tanned breeches from his drawer and a
white cotton shirt with lace at cuffs and cravat, one of many that
he owned. He was into both, although he had left his shirt open,
riding boots upon his feet, and was setting out his razor by a
fresh bowl of water from his pitcher to shave when Effington
returned. “Milord!” he exclaimed, aggrieved. Then he held out his
hand. “Hand me that razor!”