The Birth of Blue Satan (39 page)

He turned to her to say goodbye, but she forestalled him. “Please do not concern yourself with my return. I am getting very good at telling fibs. You had best be on your way, yourself. Good night to you, my lord.”

She made him a curtsy, and he was too surprised by her sudden leave-taking to think. But before she got too far away, he called out in a loud whisper.

“Mrs. Kean, which room have they given you?”

She turned. “It is a smallish chamber on the first floor near the queen’s suite. Why do you ask, my lord?”

“Does it face this direction, and does it have paneling that is elaborately carved?”

“Yes.”

He smiled to himself. “That is a very handy room. I hope you find that it suits you.”

“It is far more comfortable than I deserve, my lord.”

“Why do you say that?” He frowned.

“Because none of us has a right to be here.” The tremor in her voice told him of all the shame and anger she felt for her family, and for his cousin Harrowby.

Her sensibility moved him. He doubted that any of the others had experienced similar qualms.

He called softly to her over the grass, “My dear Mrs. Kean, it gives me pleasure to know that you are staying in my house, if being here brings you even the slightest bit more comfort than you had before.”

“It does that, my lord. I cannot deny it.”

“That is enough, then. Good night.”

He watched her cross towards the house and disappear through a garden gate. The pleasure of her company left with her, and he was left to gaze alone on his house, which he could not enter except at night through a hole in the ground.

This evening with Mrs. Kean had helped to raise his spirits, bringing him contact with the world he had lost. But still he was not one step closer to finding his father’s killer. She had helped him thus far, but he had no excuse for asking for her help again. And as her sweet, honest essence vanished in the cool night air, he felt bereft.

He had pored over his father’s papers again, stopping to examine every name and consider its implications. But the same lack of motive held true for all the Jacobites as had held for the Duke. The murder of his father could only have put them at greater risk, for it might have led to the discovery of their intrigues by a Hanoverian supporter. Since his father had not seen fit to draw him into his treasonable activities, none of the conspirators could have been certain of his discretion.

Before learning of his Grace’s engagement, he might have suspected him of killing Lord Hawkhurst and throwing the blame his way to make a clearer path to Isabella. But the Duke had never intended to offer for her, and if he had, he would have been certain of being accepted.

No, there had to be some other person. Someone he had not yet found. Either a wealthy man who had flirted with the notion of supporting the Pretender or a superstitious one who had wanted a talisman of his prince. Or both.

He tried to think of the kind of men the Chevalier pulled to his side. He attracted the discontented of all stripes and managed to give them enough of what they needed to keep them loyal. To the Catholic Irish, he promised religious freedom and put them into his private army. An allowance, paid by the French, kept them in food and lodgings along the French coast.

To the ambitious he granted titles and the promise of land. Both of these motives would stand him in good stead if he ever invaded England, for every man who fought for James Stuart would also be fighting for his own benefit.

The priests who supported him—and there were many—needed no glue to bind them. They secretly published treatises on the divine nature of authority and suffered the consequences of being barred from their posts. Whether rightly or not, it was these men who served the Pretender with the greatest purity of heart. And Gideon’s father had been one to share in their beliefs. If he had been different from the nonjuring priests, it was in the aspect that he would gladly have taken up arms in the struggle for which they only wrote and intrigued.

Gideon knew, however, that his father had always acted with his eyes and his ears wide open. A true Fitzsimmons, he was seldom deceived by things unseen.

Invisibilia non decipient
.

His father had not been deceived by Isabella or her mother. Yet he had turned his back on a treacherous murderer. How? And why?

Had he known the financier or the superstitious man so well that he trusted him?

In this current dangerous climate, a person with a great deal of wealth would have to have a powerful motive to want to overthrow a king. Especially in the cause of one who might never make it to England’s shores. A wealthy man had too much to lose, unless he had a reason that was more powerful than the temptation to keep his riches.

Something told him that his father had courted a terrible risk in attempting to raise money for the Chevalier. Again he wondered if the Duke of Bournemouth knew whom his father had approached.

Gideon went to find his horse, concealed in the woods beyond the ruins. Then, mounted, he made his way down the old monks’ path through the woods and over the abandoned stone bridge towards the inn that was his current home.

He thought of James, sleeping in comfort in the house their father had bought him. Mrs. Kean did not believe that James was a murderer. She had not said so specifically, but he had read it in her tone. No matter. He had realized—stupidly—that it was unlikely that James could have done it.

If he, himself, had not been attacked in London, he might have wondered if his father had not drawn his bastard son into the Pretender’s cause. James might have looked to treason as the only way to establish himself with a peerage of his own. In the tense emotional atmosphere of their confrontation, Gideon had failed to check his brother’s arm for the sign of a wound.

But whoever had killed their father had either followed Gideon to London to attack him or sent a confederate to do the job. On that day, James had found their father dying, had sent for the magistrate, and presumably had remained at the Abbey to care for his father’s body. He had not sent anyone after Gideon to give him the news until Sir Joshua had found him at Lord Eppington’s ball.

Gideon knew that he could not be certain of James’s movements after he had alerted the household. That was one more thing he might have asked Mrs. Kean to investigate for him. But there was something deep inside him that revolted at the notion of hounding his own flesh and blood.

Sir Joshua had made the long ride to London in one day, travelling a good portion of it after dark. The murderer would have followed much closer on Gideon’s heels, but he had not overtaken him on the road. If he had, he might have tried to strike him before reaching London and left him for dead, in the hopes that it would seem he had died from his father’s cut. Since he had not overtaken him, he had been forced to wait in the darkness of Piccadilly for Gideon to emerge, when he could not have been certain he would go out.

This last thought snaked around in Gideon’s mind. The murderer could not have been absolutely certain that he would go out that evening. But he might have been reasonably sure. If he knew the gossip, he would have been aware of Gideon’s intentions with respect to Isabella Mayfield, and many people had known she was to attend Lord Eppington’s ball. Wherever she had gone, he had foolishly followed.

Perhaps the murderer
had
been certain that he would ride out that evening.

The long journey from the Abbey might possibly have been made by one horse, but it was far more likely that his attacker had stopped to change his horse along the way.

And if he had ridden up to London, then he had also ridden down—in which case an ostler at a posting house just might remember him.

But anxious cares the pensive nymph oppressed,

And secret passions laboured in her breast.

Not youthful kings in battle seized alive,

Not scornful virgins who their charms survive,

Not ardent lovers robbed of all their bliss,

Not ancient ladies when refused a kiss,

Not tyrants fierce that unrepenting die,

Not Cynthia when her manteau’s pinned awry,

E’er felt such rage, resentment, and despair,

As thou, sad Virgin!

In the clear Mirror of thy ruling Star

I saw, alas! some dread event impend,

Ere to the main this morning sun descend,

But heaven reveals not what, or how, or where:

Warned by the Sylph, oh pious maid, beware!

‘Twas then, Belinda, if report say true,

Thy eyes first opened on a Billet-doux;

Wounds, Charm, and Ardors were no sooner read,

But all the Vision vanished from thy head.

CHAPTER 19

When Tom came in from the stables the next morning, Gideon told him he had a job for him to perform.

“It will not be easy,” he said, watching Tom’s square face light with the prospect of action.

It had not been easy, either, for Tom to wait for him to have an inspiration, especially penned up in a small inn with Katy, who was trying very desperately not to make eyes at him. Gideon had watched them with a mixture of amusement and pity, and exasperation with Tom for being so hardheaded, when it was easy to see what he wanted.

Tom was hoping they would leave the Fox and Goose before temptation grew too strong for him, but Gideon was determined to stay. Lade had cooperated. He had not tried to sell Gideon to the law. They were close to home, yet hidden. With its out-of-the-way location and its dilapidated appearance, the Fox and Goose did not attract many new faces, and certainly no one who knew them.

His new furniture had arrived, and his rooms were nearly comfortable. Katy had worked wonders with his clothes. Avis was a reliable stable hand. The cellar was full of smuggled French wine.

The only two drawbacks were that they were
not
at home—and that Tom needed a diversion to take him away from a pair of cheerful brown eyes.

“I would do this myself—” Gideon fretted at his own inactivity— “but having travelled the London road so many times, I would surely be recognized. I want you to visit every posting house between Cranbrook and Bromley and see if you can discover anyone who remembers seeing a man riding fast and alone, either on the day before or on the day of my father’s death. If someone does, get the traveller’s name or, failing that, his description.”

“Some of those ostlers and post boys are sure to know me, too, my lord.”

“Yes, but I doubt if they know you’ve left the Abbey with me. Be careful, of course. But until I see your name on a posted notice, too, I think you can say you are travelling on Abbey business, and none will be the wiser.”

“Is there someone in particular you’re looking for?”

“No. But I hope the Duke can point me in that direction. Here—” he handed Tom a letter addressed to the Duke, with money for his expenses— “you can post that once you get closer to London. I’ve asked for a reply to be delivered to the postmaster in Smarden. I am not known in that village, so I can call for a letter there myself. I do not trust his Grace enough to have his reply directed here.”

“You think he knows who killed my lord?”

“I think he may know
of
  him, but does not suspect what he did. I hope he can give me a name. But it is only a guess.”

He could tell that Tom had lost most, if not all of the hope he had had. But he would never let on. As long as Gideon could think of clues, he would pursue them.

“Yessir,” Tom said, making his bow. Before he moved to the door, he said anxiously, “You won’t get yourself tooken up by the law while I’m gone now, will you, sir? This calling at every posting house could take a long time.”

“I promise not to get myself into trouble if I can help it. Be off with you, now, and keep your face hidden and your nose to the ground.”

Gideon allowed three days before riding into Smarden to see if any messages had been delivered for a Mr. Mavors.

But there was none.

He tried to convince himself that the Duke had not yet received his letter and had time to respond, but he was very well aware that there were other reasons why his Grace might have chosen not to. Gideon’s own letter might have been intercepted by the Crown. He had tried to phrase his message in a way as to lead anyone reading it to believe that he was inquiring about the provenance of a horse. If it was read by a government agent, he believed it would still go through, but if an answer never came, he would never be certain it had.

There were other possibilities, too—ones that he did not care to face. The Duke might not know the name of the man the conspirators had approached. Or, he might know it and see no reason to help him. He might fear that in naming the man, he stood a chance of risking his own exposure. Gideon’s gratitude could be counted on, but what was to keep the other man from betraying him?

If the Duke failed to answer him for any of these reasons, he would be left with no leads.

But worse than all of these was the lingering possibility that the Duke of Bournemouth was the murderer. In which case, Gideon had made the same mistake in trusting him that his father had made.