Lord John and the Brotherhood of the Blade by Diana Gabaldon
"She wrote to break off your understanding?"
"Yes, yes, she sent a note this morning...." Sir George fumbled at his pockets, searching, and eventually produced a crumpled bit of paper, which indeed said nothing beyond a simple statement that the countess regretted that she found their marriage impossible.
"I am not a handsome man," Sir George said, peering rather pathetically into the looking glass above the sideboard, and making a vain attempt to straighten his wig. "I know I am nothing to look at. I have money, but of course she does not need that. I had quite expected that she would refuse my proposal, but having accepted me...I swear to you, Lord John, I have done nothing--nothing--that might be considered reprehensible. And if I have somehow offended her, of course I should apologize directly, but how can I do that, if I have no notion of my offense, and she will not see me?"
Grey found himself in sympathy with Sir George, and baffled by his mother's behavior.
"If you will allow me, sir?" He gently turned the general toward him, unbuttoned his waistcoat, and rebuttoned it neatly. "They, um, do say that women are changeable. Given to fits of irrational behavior."
"Well, yes, they do," the general agreed, appearing a little calmer. "And I have known a good many women who are, to be sure. Had one of them sent me such a note, I should merely have waited for a day or two, in order to allow her to regain her composure, then come round to call with an armful of flowers, and all would be well." He smiled bleakly.
"But your mother is not like that. Not like that at all," he repeated, shaking his head in helpless confusion. "She is the most logical woman I have ever met. To a point that some would consider unwomanly, in fact. Not myself," he added hastily, lest Grey suppose this to be an insult. "Not at all!"
This was true--his mother was both logical and plainspoken about it--and gave Grey fresh grounds for bemusement.
"Has something...happened, quite recently?" he asked. "For that is the only circumstance I can conceive of which might explain her taking such an action."
Sir George thought fiercely, his upper lip caught behind his lower teeth, but was obliged to shake his head.
"There is nothing," he said helplessly. "I have been involved in no scandal. No affaire, no duello. I have not appeared the worse for drink in public--why, I have not even published a controversial letter in a newspaper!"
"Well, then there is nothing for it but to demand an explanation," Grey said. "You have a right to that, I think."
"Well, I thought so, too," Sir George said, exhibiting a sudden diffidence. "That is why I came. But I am afraid...the butler said she had given orders...I do not wish to make myself offensive...."
"What do you have to lose?" Grey asked bluntly. He turned to Tom, who had been making himself inconspicuous by the door, intending to tell him to have the countess's lady's-maid come down. He was forestalled, though, by the opening of the door.
"Why, Sir George!" Olivia's face lighted at sight of the general. "How lovely to see you! Does Aunt Bennie know you're here?"
She almost certainly did, Grey reflected. Whatever her present mental aberration, he was sure that his mother was still sufficiently logical as to have deduced the likely effect of her note, and would almost certainly have noticed Sir George's carriage drawing up in the street outside; it was elderly but solid, and of a sufficient size as to accommodate several passengers, and a small orchestra to entertain them en route.
That being so, she had probably also decided what to do when he did appear. And since she had given orders not to admit Sir George, the chances of Grey inducing her to come down from her boudoir and speak to the general without the use of a battering ram and manacles were probably slim.
Whilst he was drawing these unfortunate conclusions, Olivia had been eliciting the purpose of Sir George's visit from him, with consequent exclamations of dismay.
"But what can have made her do such an unaccountable thing?" Olivia turned to Grey, her agitation surpassing Sir George's. "We have sent the invitations! The wedding is next week! All of the clothes, the favors, the decorations! The arrangements for the wedding breakfast--everything is ready!"
"Everything except the bride, apparently," Grey observed. "She has not had a sudden attack of nerves, I suppose?"
Olivia frowned, running her hands absently over her protruding belly in a manner that made the general turn tactfully away, affecting to reexamine the sit of his wig in the looking glass.
"She was a bit odd at supper last night," she said slowly. "Very quiet. I supposed she was tired--we'd spent all day finishing the fitting of her gown. I didn't think anything of it. But..." She shook her head, mouth firming up.
"She can't do this to me!" she exclaimed, and turning, headed for the stairs in the determined manner of a climber about to attempt the Hindoo Kush. Sir George, openmouthed, looked at Grey, who shrugged. Of them all, Olivia was likely the only one who could gain entrance to his mother's boudoir. And as he had said to Sir George, there was nothing to lose.
The general, relieved of Olivia's blatantly fecund presence, had left the looking glass and was pottering round the room, heedlessly picking things up and putting them down at random.
"You do not suppose this is meant as some sort of test of my devotion?" he asked, rather hopefully. "Like Leander swimming the Hellespont, that sort of thing?"
"I think if she had meant you to bring her a roc's egg or anything of the kind, she would have said so," Grey said, as kindly as possible.
Olivia had left the door ajar; he could hear raised voices upstairs, but could not make out what was being said. The general had halted in his erratic progress round the room, and was now staring at a potted plant in a morbid sort of way. He put out a hand to the mantelpiece, touching one of Benedicta's favorite ornaments, a commedia dell'arte figurine in the shape of a young woman in a striped apron. Grey was moved to see that the general's hand was shaking slightly.
"You are quite positive that nothing has happened?" he asked, more by way of distracting the general's mind than in actual hopes of discovering an answer. "If there was an event, it must have been quite recent, for she was fitting her wedding gown yesterday, and she would not have done that, if..."
The general turned to him, grateful for the distraction, but still unable to conceive of an answer.
"No," he repeated, shaking his head in bafflement. "So far as I am aware, the only thing of note that has happened to anyone I know in the last twenty-four hours was your own adventure at Tyburn." His eyes focused suddenly on Grey. "Are you quite recovered, by the way? I beg your pardon, I should have inquired at once, but..."
"Quite," Grey assured him, embarrassed. He could see himself in the glass over the general's shoulder, and while the night's sleep had improved his appearance considerably, he still sported a number of visible marks, to say nothing of a rough stubble of beard. "How did you..."
"Captain MacLachlan mentioned it, when I saw him at my club last night. He...ah...was most impressed by your courage." There was a delicate tone of question in this last remark, inviting Grey to explain his behavior if he would, but not requiring it.
"The captain and his friend were of the greatest assistance to me," Grey said, and coughed.
The general was now regarding him closely, curiosity momentarily overcoming his worry.
"It was a most unfortunate affair," he said. "I knew Captain Bates quite well; he was my chief aide-de-camp, some years ago. Did you--that is, I presume that you were acquainted with him, also? Perhaps a club acquaintance?" This was put with the greatest delicacy, the general plainly not wishing to appear to link Grey in friendship with a convicted sodomite.
"I met him briefly, once," Grey said, wondering whether the general was aware of the political machinations behind Bates's trial and conviction. "A...most interesting gentleman."
"Wasn't he," the general said dryly. "He was at one point a fine soldier. A great pity that he should end in such a manner. A very sordid affair, I am afraid. I am glad, though," he a
"Tyburn?" a shocked voice said behind Grey. He whirled, to find Olivia staring at him, mouth open in astonishment. "You were at Tyburn yesterday?" Her voice rose. "It was you who seized the legs of that dreadful beast, and was set upon by the crowd?"
"What?" Tom, who had tactfully retired to the hallway, appeared behind Olivia, eyes popping. "That was you, me lord?"
"How did you hear of it?" Grey demanded, attempting to hide his discomfiture by dividing an accusatory glare between his cousin and his valet.
"My maid told me," Olivia replied promptly. "There's a broadsheet circulating, with a cartoon of you--though they didn't have your name, thank God--being drowned in the mud of perversion. What on earth possessed you, to do such a--"
"So that's what happened to your uniform!" Tom exclaimed, much affronted.
"And why were you at Tyburn in the first place?" Olivia demanded.
"I have not got to account to you, madam," Grey was beginning, with considerable severity, when yet another form joined the crowd in the doorway.
"What the devil have you been doing, John?" his mother said crisply.
There was no help for it. So much, Grey thought grimly, for trying to spare the feelings of his female relations, both of whom were staring at him as though he was a raving lunatic.
The countess listened to his brief account--from which he carefully omitted Mrs. Tomlinson and his own visit to Newgate--then sank slowly into a chair, put her elbows on the table among the breakfast things, and sank her head into her hands.
"I do not believe this," she said, her voice only slightly muffled. Her shoulders began to shake. Sir George exchanged appalled glances with Grey, then made a tentative move toward her, but stopped, clearly not sure whether any attempt at comfort might be well received. Olivia had no such compunctions.
"Aunt Bennie! Dearest, you mustn't be upset; Johnny's all right. Now, now..." Olivia hovered over the countess for a moment, patting her shoulder. Then she bent closer, and her look of tender anxiety vanished suddenly.
"Aunt Bennie!" she said reproachfully.
Benedicta, Dowager Countess of Melton, sat up, reached for a napkin, and mopped at what were clearly now revealed to be tears of laughter.
"John, you will be the death of me yet," she said, sniffing and dabbing at her eyes. "What on earth were you doing at Tyburn?"
"I was passing by," he said stiffly, "and stopped to see what was happening."
She cast him a look of profound disbelief, but didn't take issue with this remark. Instead, she turned to Sir George, who had not ceased to gaze at her since her appearance.
"I owe you an apology, Sir George," she said. She took a deep breath. "And, I suppose, an explanation."
"Oh, no, my dear," the general said softly. "You owe me nothing. Not ever." But his heart was in his eyes, and she rose and came to him swiftly, taking his hand.
"I am sorry," she said, low-voiced but clear. "Do you still wish to marry me, George?"
"Oh, yes," he said, and without taking his rapt gaze from her face, lifted her hand and kissed it.
"Well, I'm glad of that," she said. "But I shan't hold you to it, if you should change your mind as a result of what I tell you."
"Benedicta, I would take you bankrupt, in your shift," he said, smiling. His mother smiled back, and Grey cleared his throat.
"Tell us what, exactly?" he said.
"Don't presume upon my good nature," his mother said, turning and narrowing her eyes at him. "Part of this is your fault, telling feeble-minded lies about being run down by mail coaches. I thought you were trying to hide the fact that you had been attacked again. Without cause, I mean."
"Indeed," Grey said, provoked. "Being attacked by a murderous crowd is quite all right, while being attacked by a random footpad is not?"
"That depends upon whether the attack on you and Percival Wainwright was random," the countess said. "Must we stand here in the midst of stale toast and kipper bones, or may we repair to a more civilized spot?"
Relocated to the drawing room and provided with coffee, the countess sat beside Sir George on the settee, her hand on his arm, and looked at Grey.
"After your father's death," she said, "I went to France for some time. Within a month of my return to England, I received three proposals of marriage. From three men whom I had reason to suspect of having been involved in the scandal that took your father's life. I refused them all, of course."
The general had stiffened at this, the happiness of his renewed engagement fading.
"From whom did you receive these proposals of marriage?" Grey asked, before the general could. His mother's eye rested on him.
"I decline to tell you," she said briefly.
"Do you decline to tell me, Benedicta?" The general's tone was somewhere between outrage and pleading.
"Yes, I do," the countess said crossly. "It is my private business, and I don't want the two of you--or the three, I suppose, since one of you would certainly tell Melton and put the cat among the pigeons for good and all--to be poking into things that should be left alone. There may be nothing at all--I hope that is the case. If there should be any mischief afoot, though, I most assuredly don't want it to be made worse."
Sir George was disposed to argue, but Grey succeeded in catching his eye, whereupon he subsided, though with an expression indicating that his acquiescence was momentary.
"Did the journal pages have anything to do with these men?" Grey asked. "A page from my father's journal was left in my brother's office," he explained to the general and Olivia. "And, I rather think, another was sent to you, Mother?"
"As you so cleverly deduced, yes," his mother said, still cross. "Neither page referred to any of these three men, no. But your father did discuss things with me on occasion; I knew that he had suspicions regarding at least two of them. That being so, there was a possibility that he had written down his suspicions--perhaps with evidence confirming them--in his journal."
"Because, of course, the journal disappeared after his death," Grey said, nodding. "Do you know when it was taken?"
The countess shook her head. She wore a simple calico gown, but her hair had not yet been dressed for the day and was simply covered by a linen cap. Her color was high, and Grey thought it no wonder that the general was smitten; she was tired and strained, but undeniably was handsome for her age.
"I never thought to look. It was...some time before I felt able to read any of his--of Pardloe's journals. Even then, I thought it likely that you or Melton had borrowed it. Who else would want it, after all?"
"A man who thought he might be mentioned in it, to his disadvantage," Grey said. "Why the devil is he scattering pages of it round at this point?"
"To indicate that he has it," his mother said promptly. "As for why...I assumed that it was the announcement of my marriage to Sir George that precipitated the action."
Sir George jerked as though she had run a drawing pin into his leg.
"What?" he said incredulously. "Why?"
The countess's fine-boned face showed the effects of what had likely been a sleepless night, but a glimmer of ironic humor showed in the curve of her mouth.
"You may be willing to take me in my shift, my dear. I did not think that the proposals I had received were based upon simple desire of my person. That being so, they were based upon one of two things: my money and position--or the possibility that I posed a threat to the gentlemen in question, by virtue of what they supposed I might know."
Grey rubbed his knuckles over the stubble on his chin. The countess's money and position were considerable; her Scottish connexions were not so powerful as they had once been, in the wake of the South Sea scandal and the failed Risings, but the Armstrongs were still a force to be reckoned with.
"Were any of these gentlemen in a position to be tempted by your assets?" Grey asked.
Olivia was young, but not stupid, Grey reflected. And while she seemed not to have been damaged by her earlier engagement to a Cornish merchant prince named Trevelyan, the affair had evidently taught her a few things about the workings of the world.
Benedicta nodded approvingly at Olivia.
"Very true, my dear. But while one of the gentlemen in question could undeniably have used both money and influence, the other two were sufficiently endowed with worldly goods that they could certainly have done better for themselves than a widow past childbearing."
"So you assumed that their motive was to discover whether you were indeed a threat to their safety--and if so, to prevent it," Sir George said slowly.
The countess nodded, reached for her coffee, and, discovering it to be cold, put it back with wrinkled nose.
"I did. But I refused them, as I say, and continued to live quietly. One of them returned to press his suit, but eventually he gave up, as well."
The countess had not, so far as Grey knew, ever even considered remarriage, until she met Sir George.
"I can see why the journal pages should be distressing to you, Aunt Bennie," Olivia said, frowning. "But what purpose could they be intended to serve?"
Benedicta glanced at the general.
"At first, I wasn't sure. But then John was attacked and beaten in the street, to no apparent purpose, which alarmed me very much." His mother's eye lingered on Grey's face, troubled. "And when I thought it had happened again yesterday...I became sure that this was a warning, a threat to prevent my marriage."
Grey was thunderstruck.
"What? You thought--"
"I did, no thanks to you." His mother's look of concern had altered to annoyance. "I didn't want you killed next time, so I thought I would break the engagement and let it be publicly known. If there were no more such warnings, I would know that my deductions were correct, and I could proceed on that assumption."
"Whereas if you broke your engagement and I was consequently murdered in the street, you could reform your hypothesis. Quite." Heat rose in Grey's face. "For God's sake, Mother! When--if ever--did you propose to tell me any of this?"