Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave - Stephanie Barron [131]
Sir William cleared his throat, and glanced at his notes. I knew he bore Harold Trowbridge little affection, and wondered how my old friend felt, turning to such a man from need. “Did you, Lord Harold, speak with the Countess of Scargrave in the presence of her friend Miss Austen, on the night of the Earl's death?”
“I did.”
“Would you describe the nature of the interview?”
“It was a business matter,” Trowbridge said dismissively.
Sir William frowned. “A matter for the Countess, and not her husband?”
“As the property I sought to purchase was entirely the Countess's, it was solely her consent that was necessary.”
“And how did her ladyship respond?”
“She very nearly showed me the door,” Trowbridge said, with a thin smile.
“The Countess was not amenable to your proposals?”
“The Countess has long been opposed to them.”
I felt my spirits begin to lift with hope. Perhaps even Lord Harold would speak the truth, when under oath. I glanced at Isobel, and saw that her eyes were fixed upon her enemy as if in a trance; Fitzroy Payne stared at nothing, his thoughts apparently elsewhere.
“And why is that, Lord Harold?” Sir William said.
“Because she does not wish to turn over her property.”
“And what property is that?”
“The property I wished to purchase.”
He is relishing this fool's errand, I thought, gazing at Trowbridge's heavy-lidded eyes; he says no more nor less than he must, and will drive Sir William mad before he lets slip anything that is damaging to himself. But my old friend the magistrate leaned forward keenly, his eyes fixed on the witness's face, as he posed the next question.
“Lord Harold, was the Earl equally opposed to your aims for his wife's property?”
“He was not,” Trowbridge said.
I started in my seat, all amazement. A deliberate falsehood! I looked for Isobel, and saw her sway where she sat.
“His lordship wished to complete the sale?”
“The Earl's object was in every way aligned with my own,” the rogue calmly replied; and at that, I heard Isobel gasp. As I watched, she slipped from her stool in a dead faint; it was as I thought—the strain had been too great to bear.
A murmur arose from the assembly, and Sir William halted before Lord Harold, his questions suspended. Fitzroy Payne leapt to his feet, all solicitude for the Countess's distress; and this, too, should be noted by the assembled peers. He was restrained by the Clerk, and Isobel righted; her wrists were chafed, and smelling salts administered, and she very shortly opened her eyes; but so ill was her appearance, that the Lord High Steward ordered her conveyed from the room, and the proceedings adjourned for the day.
“WHAT CAN BE HIS GAME?” I QUERIED MR. CRANLEY—NOT for the first time, as I turned back and forth before the drawing-room fire at Scargrave House. We were alone, and wasting away the hours remaining until dinner with little appetite. Fanny Delahoussaye seemed much fatigued from her parade before the House of Lords, and had gone above to rest, to Mr. Cranley's disappointment. Madame had no reason to seek my company—if anything, she avoided it, since our contretemps of a few days before. But I had no time to spare for the sensibilities of Delahoussayes.
“Trowbridge has deliberately lied before the Bar,” I declared to the barrister, “and should be cited for perjury!” My tone betrayed my indignation, which was considerable. That I felt responsible for the rogue's appearance at all, I need not underline; and my guilt and remorse only heightened my desire to shake Trowbridge's grin from his insolent face.
“But how are we to prove perjury?” Mr. Cranley asked reasonably. “We have only the word of the Countess that her husband was bent upon fighting Lord Harold. Trowbridge knows as much, and feels secure in his deceit. He may say anything he likes, while the Countess but looks on and faints.”
“There is not a man more despicable,” I retorted bitterly, and threw myself into a chair with less than my usual grace. “Having dispatched Isobel's husband—her sole defender—Trowbridge would send her