‘Although there are always one or two who will hang on, when all the family want to do is take off their uncomfortable shoes, have a large brandy and either sigh in relief or retire to their rooms to weep,’ Lady Radcliffe remarked. ‘It is usually an embarrassing second cousin once removed, plus one or two of the local spinsters who seize on the chance to escape their lives of genteel poverty for an hour or two.’ She had smiled indulgently. ‘I always send them home in a carriage with a basket of treats.’
Meanwhile the ladies were tucking into the little snack with enthusiasm and it certainly lightened the atmosphere. I went to fetch cups of tea for Lady Jordan and Arabella which gave me the opportunity to study the Prescott ladies more closely.
I had to agree with Lady Radcliffe’s assessment of Mrs Horace Prescott as a foolish creature. She had crammed an abundant figure, which would have been handsome if left to its own devices, into a gown better suited to a slender debutante and was reclining on a chaise, dabbing at her (dry) eyes with a black-trimmed handkerchief while holding forth to a crushed-looking female – whether a companion or cousin escaped me – on how devastated she was. She struck me as an unlikely Lady Macbeth figure.
Mrs Alexander, though… I watched her dispensing tea, talking graciously to anyone within range. Oh yes, she was going to enjoy the title she never thought would be hers. But would she kill for it? Was I looking at a woman so cold, so scheming and ruthless that she would stab an earnest, decent man through the heart? But if it would never occur to her to do such a thing for herself, or her husband, what about for her sons?
The elder would now inherit the title in due course and his brothers would benefit from the general enrichment of the family in both cash and land. And prestige.
‘So sorry.’ A willowy blonde jostled my elbow causing the tea to slosh into the saucers. ‘Clumsy of me.’ She gestured to a footman. ‘Do take these and – who were they for? – Take two fresh cups to the ladies seated over there.’ She turned back to me. ‘You are Lady Radcliffe’s companion?’
This was Clarissa, married to Marcus, the eldest of Alexander’s sons. She was the probable future viscountess. I had only been introduced by name, so she had clearly leapt to conclusions. ‘No. I am a friend of the family. A very distant connection from Boston in America. Cassandra Lawrence.’
I held out my hand and she took it, almost visibly recalibrating my status from paid companion to family friend. She would have to learn more subtlety for her future role, I thought.
‘What a tragedy,’ I said gravely. ‘Lord Tillingham had such a promising political career ahead of him, and he was a most charming gentleman, from what Adrien has told us. You must all be devastated.’
‘It was a terrible shock.’
That was better, I thought. She had managed to evade an opinion about the murdered man entirely.
‘It must have been. And creating such a change in the future for you and your family,’ I sympathised earnestly. ‘Such responsibilities.’
‘I am sure we will cope,’ she said, through tight lips and glanced across the room to where the men were beginning to come in.
I could not decide whether she was annoyed at my tactlessness – which was quite reasonable – or because she had something of a guilty conscience at feeling pleasure at her family’s enhanced prospects, or whether she knew or suspected that someone in the family was responsible for the crime.
‘Of course you will,’ I said, and made my escape. I wasn’t going to extract anything useful from her in that setting, I decided, looking around for a familiar face and spotting Jerald Prescott. At least he appeared suitably subdued and bereft, although I was withholding judgment on whether that was because he had lost a relative or a source of hand-outs.
He was gazing across at Miss Jordan and gave a start of surprise when I came up beside him and spoke. ‘Mr Prescott.’
‘Er… Miss Lawrence, is it not?’
‘Yes. We met when you came to your unfortunate cousin’s house that day.’
‘Mmm,’ he said, his gaze returning to Miss Jordan. ‘It is a dam– a confounded mess,’ he burst out suddenly, turning to look at me.
‘Yes, grim,’ I agreed. ‘Bad enough that Lord Tillingham should die so young, but for it to be a murder…’
‘It might have been an accident,’ Jerald said.
‘Surely not? There was no weapon on the scene, so he could not have slipped and fallen on a knife or some such thing. And, if someone else was involved, it seems highly improbable that they should have entered and left so secretly and were involved in a fatal accident in the middle of that.’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’ He sounded much younger than his age, which I guessed at about twenty, a few years younger than Adrien, compared with whom he seemed decidedly immature.
He had hunched a shoulder and was looking at Miss Jordan again.
‘I wonder what will happen to her now,’ I mused.
‘Bella? Oh, she will do the Season next year,’ he said. ‘Lady Jordan won’t lose the opportunity to snare another title,’ he added, with something of a sneer.
‘It will not help her prospects, I presume, her being that much older. She must be nineteen now.’
‘Just,’ Jerald said. ‘It was her birthday two weeks ago.’
‘You seem to know her very well.’
‘We all grew up