Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave - Stephanie Barron [31]
“Yesterday.”
“Have you an idea of the author?”
“We believe it to be Isobel's maid, a Creole girl by the name of Marguerite. She has decamped, and cannot be found, though Isobel sent some trusty fellows in pursuit when her absence was discovered last night.”
“And so the Countess is become afraid,” Sir William said slowly, “that the evil tongue of rumour is unleashed upon the land. A nasty business for one so shortly married.”
“Or so recently widowed. She feels it most acutely,” I said, “and would have a stop to such vicious talk.”
“There are two accusations contained herein,” Sir William said bemusedly, “that she has taken a lover among the peerage, and that she has done away with her husband, with or without her lover's help. One would think there could hardly have been time for all that—she's not many days returned from her wedding trip, I believe?”
“But a fortnight.”
“And so the gentleman must have been in her acquaintance before the wedding, and thrown in her way once again upon her return. There cannot be many such fellows in Scargrave, beyond the family itself.” And with this last, Sir William appeared to have heard the sense of his words for the first time, and was lost in painful speculation. There was but one lord among the Scargrave family now that the Seventh Earl was dead, and so the magistrate took Marguerite's meaning.
“Dear, dear,” Sir William said, turning his gaze once more upon the note, “this does put a rather nasty complexion upon it.”
“Marguerite would have us look to a lord, but does not tell us which,” I said. “She might as well intend Lord Harold as Lord Payne.”
“Lord Scargrave, you mean; for so we must call him, from this day forward. But tell me of Trowbridge—is he a near acquaintance of the late Earl?”
“A very recent acquaintance, I believe.”
“And yet he remains in the household, when all but those with a special claim on the affections of the family, such as yourself, should long since have left. It is like a man of his cheek.”
“It is very singular,” I said, with feeling; I could see no reason for Trowbridge's continued presence at Scargrave, and found him a burden on the entire household.
“Indeed,” said Sir William. “But Trowbridge is a singular fellow. More than once he has pulled the wool over the Crown's eyes in the matter of some sugar duties on his West Indies imports. When last I heard, he was backing opium runners trading for tea in the South China Sea. I should not have thought to find him in Scargrave, and at such a time; I have long thought death to be the only thing the man fears. And what do you surmise is his motive for such indelicacy?”
“I had understood him to be awaiting the Countess's disposition of some business matters.”
“So it is the Countess who is acquainted with Lord Harold. And as a business partner, too. That does give one pause.”
“I believe the term partner to be inaccurately applied, Sir William,” I said sharply. “Lord Harold merely seeks the Countess's interest, but he is very far from securing it.”
Sir William peered at me narrowly, but deigned not to comment. He tapped the poisonous letter and pursed his lips. “If Lord Harold is the man, we must ask what the maid might know of her mistress's business. A great deal, or a very little, depending upon the character of the maid. What think you, Jane?”
“That Marguerite has formed a tissue of lies,” I replied, with more stoutness than I felt. A clergyman's daughter may use wit at times, and candour whenever possible, but conscious deceit is more likely to fail her.
“And to what purpose?”
“With the intent of extorting payment for her silence.”
“I see no request for sovereigns here,” Sir William said.
“I should be very much surprised if that does not appear in the next letter.”
“The one I am intended to receive?”
“So we are told.”
“Not a very intelligent course, surely? For / cannot