“A chairman!” Her head came up, and surprise warred with hope upon her countenance. “Whatever can Uncle have been thinking?”

The Earl shrugged with exquisite grace. “He thought to show that a murderer might have dropped from the Dowager’s window to an open carriage — which was then driven out of Bath. The chairman professed to have seen a like equipage in Laura Place that night — but could not swear to the time, nor vow that a man had entered it by any other means than the carriage door; could tell us nothing of the occupants, and was indeed of so little credit in his appearance and expressions, that he rather weakened Lord Kinsfell’s case than improved it. I am afraid the intelligence was all but dismissed.”

“Poor Kinny,” Lady Desdemona murmured. “And had he nothing to add in his own defence?”

“The coroner did enquire rather narrowly regarding the nature of his dispute with Mr. Portal,” the Earl said, his regard fixed steadily on Lady Desdemona, “and could get nothing from him but a disquisition on his sacred honour.”

“Kinny? Honour?” Lady Desdemona started from her place and began to turn before the fire, in a manner so like her uncle, Lord Harold, that I half-expected to hear that gentleman’s voice. “Then there must be a lady in the case.”

Swithin smiled; but the expression was quite devoid of good humour. “The lady would not, perhaps, be yourself, my dear?”

Lady Desdemona’s head came up magnificently, and she stared him down in turn. “You are despicable, Swithin. Do you think that if I might aid my brother with any intelligence in my power, that I should hesitate to do so? Your ill nature cannot do you credit. It leads you into folly.”

“Gentlemen are wont to speak of honour when they are bound by oaths or pledges, are they not?” I hastily submitted.

“They are,” Lord Swithin replied, “and are ready, more often than not, to defend such pledges with their lives. So I take Lord Kinsfell’s determination in the present case. I very much fear that he will go silently to the gallows, rather than betray his sacred trust.”

“Oh, Lord!” Lady Desdemona breathed, and pressed a hand to her brow. “Where, oh, where, is my uncle?”

“You have but to enquire, my dear, and he appears.” Lord Harold spoke from the drawing-room doorway. To my most active surprise and interest, Mr. Wilberforce Elliot stood at his back. “Miss Austen — a pleasure. Lord Swithin — an honour I had hardly expected. You are not, I think, acquainted with Mr. Wilberforce Elliot, a magistrate of Bath.”

Introductions were made, and then Lord Harold continued, “You have disdained the wares of the hot-house this morning, Swithin. But perhaps your restraint is intended to pay tribute to my niece’s unassuming simplicity. She is not the sort to take pleasure in gaudy display. You are quite right, I think, to bestow your flowers elsewhere. Others may be less nice in their tastes than Mona.”

“—Except, one supposes, when she is sitting to her portraitist,” Lord Swithin replied.

Lord Harold’s eyebrow shot upwards. “Really, my lord, is that intended as an insult, or a rebuke? Were the lady affianced to you — or even, forgive me, did she regard you with favour — this little display of temper should be accorded as your right. But in the present circumstances it is entirely untoward.”

“Then you may name your day, my lord, and I shall name my second with pleasure.”[55]

Lord Harold smiled condescendingly. “You are remarkably quick to offer a challenge, Swithin — but perhaps you expect me to jump at the chance to show my mettle, like poor Colonel Easton. In this, I fancy, you suffer from a misapprehension. I would never make sport of a fellow young enough to be my son — particularly when I have been as intimate with his mother as I have been with yours.”

The Earl paled, and stepped back a pace. “I would beg you to remember where you are, my lord. Your niece—”

“Oh, will you both have done,” Lady Desdemona cried in exasperation. “What have I to do with matters in any case? You circle each other like two schoolboys on the green, while Kinny sits festering in gaol!”

“And he is unlikely ever to emerge, Mona, if your uncle will have the handling of his affairs,” the Earl retorted contemptuously, and reached for his hat and gloves. “I have no wish to remain where I am served with such incivility. Good day to you, Lord Harold. Your servant, Miss Austen. I trust I will not find you in the Lower Rooms this evening, Lady Desdemona?”

“Whyever not?”

“Would you dance, then, while Lord Kinsfell is deprived of liberty?”

“I am sure I cannot hope to assist him by remaining quietly at home! In such a pass, it behooves the Wilborough family to comport itself with style! Besides — poor Easton is most pressing in his desire to dance.”

Lord Harold smiled, the Earl snorted — and quitted the room without another word.

“Capital!” Lord Harold cried, and gestured the magistrate towards a chair. “We have rid ourselves of a dangerous distraction. Mona, darling, would you be so good as to fetch your grandmother — I require her presence immediately.”

“Uncle,” she said, hastening to his side, “the inquest—! It is in every way horrible!”

“Yes, my dear; but I hope all is not lost. You will observe I have brought the magistrate in my train. His interest has been exceedingly piqued by the notion of an open carriage halted some moments beneath the anteroom window; and though the proofs of a murderer jumping to safety in its depths are impossible to gather, Mr. Elliot is nonetheless willing to reconsider the case.”

“Your servant, my lady,” Mr. Elliot said with an affable smile; and then retrieving a handkerchief from his breast pocket, he blew his nose most energetically.

Lady Desdemona went in search of the Dowager Duchess; and roused from her letter-writing, Eugenie proceeded slowly to the drawing-room with Miss Wren for support. Not five minutes had elapsed, before an expectant circle gazed silently at Lord Harold.

“You remember Her Grace, I am sure, Mr. Elliot,” the gentleman said, “but I do not think you are acquainted with Miss Austen or Miss Wren.”

The magistrate peered at me narrowly, and nodded once. “The Shepherdess,” he said.

“Miss Austen is a particular friend of my niece’s. Miss Wren is so kind as to serve as Her Grace’s companion.”

“Indeed, it is an honour, not a kindness, Lord Harold,” Miss Wren simpered. “When I consider the extent of Her Grace’s affability—”

“Now, then.” Lord Harold clapped his hands together with energetic purpose. “I would propose the amusement of a novel parlour game — an amateur theatrical, if you will. Let us set about the staging of Mr. Portal’s murder.”

“I cannot think that even one performance of a similar tragedy is necessary for our amusement, Harry,” the Dowager protested sternly. “How should I seek another?”

“For the purposes of science, dear ma’am. Mr. Elliot has allowed the seed of doubt to enter his formidable soul, and we must do everything in our power to ensure the seed will grow. Miss Austen!”

“My lord.”

“Please to adopt the attitude of Hugh Conyngham before the drawing-room fire. Desdemona! You shall play at Miss Conyngham. Her Grace shall be, as ever, Her Grace. I shall be Portal. Mr. Elliot will merely observe, I beg, and draw what conclusions he may. And you, Wren—you shall be poor Simon.”

“I shall do no such thing!” she countered hotly. “A more decided want of taste I have never observed. And the Marquis deprived of all freedom, while we sport with his circumstances!”

“Do as Lord Harold bids you, Wren,” the Dowager commanded. She grasped her cane firmly with her left hand, and Lord Harold with her right. “You should endeavour to stumble, Harry, when I lead you to the anteroom.”