“I must beg leave to present yet another of my brothers, Lord Holbrook,” I supplied. “Mr. Edward Austen, of Chawton Great House and Godmersham Park, Kent.”
Neddie bowed correctly to the Earl, but his eyes were for the Major alone. “An earldom entire. Is that what you would give, Spence, to restore Lord Holbrook’s daughter? Or was it an earldom you thought to gain, by running a thorn deep into the lady’s saddle some hours before she undertook to ride?”
“That is a lie.” Spence drew himself up to his full height. He appeared every inch the cavalry officer; every inch the heir to a noble house. “Rangle, show this gentleman out. He and his sister have trespassed on our patience already too long.”
“Now, Spence,” said the Earl unexpectedly, “that is decidedly unhandsome. The Austens would pay their respects to Immy before they go. And you have not offered them the least refreshment! I should like a glass of strong ale myself after that journey — pray go and fetch it, Rangle. Twelve hours I have been on the road from Brighton, if you will credit it! — and hard going, too, what with all the mud. Thrice we were forced to change horses. Come into the library, Mr. Austen, if you will — and explain what you mean about thorns and saddles.”
“Thank you, my lord — I will.”
Charles Spence remained fixed, however, by the library door, and appeared disinclined to open it. The Major’s looks now were dreadful. “Nothing can be served by canvassing the manner of Lady Imogen’s death,” he said coldly. “It is enough to know that she was brutally cut down in the prime of her youth — and all for gain. Thrace will hang for it, once he is found; I pledge my life on it.”
“I rather think you do pledge your life on it,” my brother agreed. “The Earl has commanded us to sit down, Spence. Will you move away from the door?”
The steward hesitated, then complied. With a smile, Neddie indicated I must precede him into the room, and waited in deference for Lord Holbrook.
“Pray accept my sincere condolences on the death of your daughter, my lord,” he said with a correct bow. “Her murder cries out for justice.”
“Where is that ale?” the peer demanded irritably. “Mr. Austen is soaked to the skin, and this demmed house is so vast and draughty, it requires a legion to staff it. Still they cannot make their way from kitchen to parlour in under a quarterhour. I should not live in this wreck for worlds. It ought to be pulled down — and so it shall be, now Immy can no longer live in it.”
“My lord,” Spence interposed abruptly, and then halted in mid-speech, with an eye for my brother. “I do not think you perfectly understand the beauties of this place.”
“Don’t preach fustian,” the Earl retorted. “I was raised in this barracks, boy and man. Beauties! It is stifling in summer and freezing in winter; and the bill for coal is extortionate. Do not be prating to me of beauties. Now then, Austen — what is this you would say of Charles and the thorn? Speak, man!”
“I think it is rather my sister who should answer you,” Neddie replied, “as she is more fully acquainted with the particulars.”
Being as a stranger to the Earl, I might have hesitated to lay before him so hideous a charge as had formed itself in my brain, for indeed I had no proof — merely a subtle association of ideas, that had wanted only the truth of Major Spence’s relation to Lord Holbrook to harden into conviction. For an instant I nearly demurred. But some thought of that lovely young life so brutally destroyed — and of the man even now being hunted the length and breadth of England — quelled my last doubt. With my eyes fixed on the Earl’s countenance, I began.
“It was Lady Imogen who observed on the day of her death, I believe Charles loves this place better than all of us. I did not know then that her steward could be tempted with the prospect of inheriting the place he had lately seen restored to its former beauty; but I may own that I understand the immensity of that temptation. I, too, have been rootless most of my life, and shifted from lodging to lodging. I have seen my relations established in a security that must appear paradisiacal in comparison with my own. I have known envy, Major Spence, as well as want — but have never been offered the opportunity to amend my condition. I perceive, now, that this has been your downfall.”
“My lord,” Spence said without the slightest suggestion of having heard me, “if you wish to see Lady Imogen interred at Stonings, there is much to do. I cannot like this delay. There will be time to philosophize on life and death once the funeral rites are observed, and Thrace is in the hands of the constabulary.”
“I have an idea,” I persisted, “that you first conceived of your plan during the winter months, as you grew in intimacy with Lady Imogen’s ways. She was charming, and profligate, and on any trip up to Town you might observe her dalliance with a host of suitors intent upon securing her fortune before she should gamble it away. The title and the earldom were entailed upon yourself, a fact you knew; but there was always the danger that the funds to support Lord Holbrook’s estates should be spent before you obtained them, if Lady Imogen was allowed to pursue her ruinous course. Why not marry the chit, and command her purse strings in a tidier fashion? You offered her marriage; she deliberated on her answer. Lady Imogen, perhaps, had doubts as to your character. Major Spence should never be parted from his treasure so easily, she said once; and I know you for a blackguard of old.
“And then, around February when your flirtation with her ladyship had reached a desperate point, Thrace arrived to take the ton by storm. Did you apprehend immediately, Major, that you should be left with only the lady and her debts, did Thrace’s claim to paternity prevail?”
Charles Spence walked deliberately to a table near the window where a decanter of brandy was placed. He poured himself a drink, then turned with courtesy to the Earl, whose affable countenance had acquired an expression of fixed attentiveness.
“My lord?” the Major enquired.
“I should like to wait for the ale,” he returned with a dismissive wave. “Pray continue, Miss Austen. I am devilish fond of stories, particularly when they concern people I know. I should like to hear how this one turns out.”
I inclined my head. “Mr. Thrace was poised to deprive Major Spence of all expectations. Poised, as well, to strip Lady Imogen of property vital to her survival — the jointure of Stonings. Rather than commanding the full power of an earldom and the lady’s income upon your marriage, Major, you were now forced to fight for the right to remain the Earl’s steward — until such time as Thrace should appoint his own. Outright hostility to the prospective heir could only harm your chances. And so you played a deep game — preserving the appearance of dedication to Lady Imogen; establishing the right to call Thrace your friend, and consort with him on terms of easy intimacy; and fomenting, whenever possible, the discord and rivalry between the half-brother and sister.”
Spence tossed off his brandy and grimaced as it coursed down his throat. “Like all ladies’ stories, I fear this one is a horrid romance,” he observed calmly. “We shall presently be treated to a skeleton in a tower and a tomb behind a veil. Cannot I lead you to your beloved daughter, my lord, and continue this entertainment at a moment better suited for the Gothick?”
“It was from Lady Imogen, I collect, that you first learned of Lord Harold’s papers,” I said.
“Harry’s papers?” The Earl glanced at me in a startled fashion. “Thought he left them to some light o’ love by way of payment for services rendered. Heard it from Wilborough myself. Poor old fellow expects to be petitioned with blackmail at every moment. Dashed odd of Harry, my opinion! Must have been devilish smitten with the gel.”