I considered of the Gentleman Rogue and the bearish magistrate, and concluded that despite their apparent differences, Lord Harold and Mr. Elliot might well deal famously with one another. They should each delight in the game of confusing and astounding the other. “You are as yet unacquainted with the magistrate, I perceive?”

Lord Harold inclined his head. “I regret that I have not yet had the pleasure — though I might have forced myself upon his attention this morning. Mr. Elliot was within the household upon my arrival, engaged in an examination of Lord Kinsfell’s private papers. He thinks to find some sign of guilt, I suppose, amidst a drawer of unpaid bills.”

“And your opinion of his intentions towards the Marquis?”

Lord Harold shrugged. “I have formed none to disagree with yours in any respect; but I pay no very great attention to magistrates in general. Mr. Elliot’s task is simple: He does not need to discover Portal’s murderer, but only to make a case against my nephew. If the truth is to be found, it is unlikely to be at Mr. Elliot’s undertaking.”[35]

“Have you seen Lord Kinsfell, my lord?” I might almost have looked upon the Marquis himself, I thought, in gazing at his uncle; but for the differences of age, the two were remarkably alike in form and countenance. When last I saw Lord Kinsfell, however — borne away to gaol in all the inelegant discomfort of his Knight’s apparel — the outrage of his sensibilities was writ full upon his face. Lord Harold, I surmised, should never betray a like emotion, even were he kneeling before the block in London Tower. His lordship wore inscrutability as other men might their court dress, assuming it when occasion demanded.

“I went directly to the gaol upon my arrival in Bath,” he replied. “Simon will not remain there long — the inquest is to be held on Friday, the conclusion of which must be beyond question; and he will then be conveyed to Ilchester, to await the Assizes.”

An inquest. But of course. I knew too much of the painful rectitude of coroners’ juries to believe them capable of imagination regarding events. Once such simple men as the coroner should summon were told that Lord Kinsfell was found standing over Mr. Portal’s body with a knife in his hand, they must return a verdict of wilful murder against him.

“And how are the Marquis’s spirits?”

“Too low, I fear. He was much sunk in melancholy and despair, and was arrayed, as yet, in the garb of a knight. My first object upon returning to Laura Place, was to charge a servant with an exchange of clothes.” Lord Harold turned abruptly to his greatcoat, and fished among its pockets. “And now we come to the chief of this murder’s oddities, Miss Austen. Pray attend to what I am about to show you.”

He drew forth a small object wrapped in brown paper, and laid it in my lap. “Open it, if you please.”

I undid the parcel with eager hands. And there, winking dully in the candle-flame, was the portrait of an eye — dark grey, heavily-lashed, and fully as arresting as the roguish ornament my dear Eliza had borne about her neck. It was an oblong pendant the size of a guinea, strung on a fine gold chain, and quite surrounded by seed pearls — beautiful, and undoubtedly costly. I lifted the thing and dangled it before the candle, at a loss for explanation. The eye returned my regard, as stormy in its expression as paint and art could make it.

“My nephew tells me he found this resting on Portal’s breast, quite near his wound, as though left by his murderer in silent witness. Simon hung it undetected about his own neck, and succeeded thus in bearing it away to the gaol.”

“But why did he not leave it for Mr. Elliot to discover?” I exclaimed. “For surely this miniature can have nothing to do with Lord Kinsfell! Indeed, its existence might divert suspicion from his head!”

“I cannot offer an explanation.” Lord Harold’s voice was heavy. “But I surmise that Kinsfell has not told us all. No more intelligence of the portrait or its meaning could I wring from his lips, than the plea that it be prevented from falling into the magistrate’s hands — and from this, I must assume he would shield another, to whom the portrait points. He consented to place it in my keeping solely out of fear of its discovery while he remains in gaol.”

“And does he expect you to shield that person also? Or are you at liberty to solicit the magistrate, where Lord Kinsfell would not?”

“Having failed to entrust the eye to Mr. Elliot then, we cannot with impunity reveal it now,” Lord Harold said thoughtfully. “Mr. Elliot would be forgiven for believing it a foolish fabrication, and accord it no more significance than the anteroom’s open window. No, Miss Austen — if we are to fathom the portrait’s significance, we must do so ourselves.”

“Only consider, my lord, the wonder that its disappearance must have caused,” I murmured. “Our murderer expected the portrait to be revealed — to point, perhaps, to the incrimination of another. But not a sign of the bauble has the magistrate seen!”

“Then we may hope the villain’s anxiety will force his hand,” Lord Harold replied with quiet satisfaction.

I turned the portrait again before the candle-flame, and felt the movement of the eye’s gaze as though it were alive. “It is a lovely thing, and must be dearly bought. I should think it far beyond the means of most.”

“The setting is very fine, the pearls are good; and the portrait itself is excellent. I have known Mr. George Engleheart to charge upwards of twenty-five guineas for a similar likeness — and that would never encompass the jeweller’s bill. Such a bauble would indeed be well beyond the reach of the common run. It is to Engleheart in London I must go, Miss Austen — for I believe he keeps a log-book of his commissions; and if this pendant fell from his brush, he will have recorded the identity of its subject. Such knowledge should be as gold, in revealing the meaning of Portal’s death.”

“Stay!” I cried, and sprang to my feet. “Of what use is London, when the foremost painter of such miniatures is already come to Bath?”

Lord Harold surveyed me narrowly. “Of whom would you speak?”

“Mr. Richard Cosway! I made his acquaintance this very morning, while promenading in the Pump Room. He intends a visit of some duration — three months, I believe. I have only to enquire of my sister Eliza, and his direction is known!”

“Capital. We shall call upon him tomorrow — let us say, at two o’clock. Have you leisure enough to pay the call?”

“My time is at your disposal, my lord.”

“That is very well, Miss Austen, for I would beg another favour of you. There is an additional visit I feel compelled to make.”

Lord Harold sat down beside me and reached for my hand. The intimacy of the gesture quite took my breath, and I fear my fingers trembled in his grip. He said, “We must go to the Theatre Royal, as soon as ever may be. I expect the magistrate to search Mr. Portal’s lodgings, but I do not think he will soon consider the manager’s offices at the theatre itself. A perusal of Portal’s private papers might tell us much.”

“His papers?” I said with a frown. “Surely there can be no occasion for such an abuse of privacy.”

“I have known a good deal of blackmail, my dear Miss Austen,” Lord Harold said drily, “and I cannot help but observe the marks of its effect throughout this unfortunate history.”

“Blackmail!” I cried, freeing my fingers from his grasp.

“I sense it everywhere in Richard Portal’s sad end. Lord Swithin’s anxiety regarding some letters, overheard by yourself in the Pump Room; Lord Kinsfell’s argument with Portal, and his assertion that the man was a blackguard; his own reluctance to speak fully of events that evening; and now, the curious portrait, returned like a bad penny to Portal’s breast. Blackmail, Miss Austen — as plainly as such dark arts may be seen!”