The Elsingham Portrait

Eleven


Several hours after Kathryn had left London for Crofton, Lord John came striding down the hallway toward his lady’s bedroom. He had passed a miserable night. For a while he had been unable to get to sleep, rehearsing in his mind the things he had said, and hadn’t said, and should have said, to that beautiful devil he had so foolishly married. Icy rage alternated with corrosive contempt, to be succeeded at length by the blackest despair he had ever known.

When finally he dropped into an uneasy sleep, he had a dream. In it, his door opened and a radiant Nadine came to him, her lovely arms open, such loving promise on her face as he had never seen even during their honeymoon in Paris. He had leaped out of bed to take her in his arms. Just as he was about to kiss her, her face changed and became . . .

He awoke with a cry, not knowing whether the face in the dream had horrified or delighted him. It was past ten o’clock. He had intended to rise much earlier, dress, eat, and then escort his wife to Ireland, by force if necessary.

He ordered his hovering valet to pack for a short trip, sent an order to the kitchen that a light breakfast was to be brought to her ladyship’s room in half an hour, sent another message that a footman was to be dispatched to procure two tickets for the Irish mail packet, and that his traveling coach was to be ready to leave within the hour. He called Paget back one final time, ordering him to notify one of the maids to attend her ladyship in fifteen minutes. Then he dressed himself and went to his wife’s room.

As he strode down the hall, he was trying to banish from his mind the uneasiness which the dream had left with him. He took the key from his pocket and unlocked milady’s bedroom door. In an instant all memory of the dream was gone. The room was empty. He went into her powder closet, even opened the huge armoire he had brought her in Paris—“large enough to make love in,” she had said, teasing him. She was not anywhere.

His furious glance lighted upon Bennet, entering the bedroom with a solemn face, and his anger found an outlet. “Where is she?” he demanded. “How did she get out? I thought I told you she was to be left alone—!”

“Is her ladyship gone, then?” asked Bennet calmly. “Is that a note she’s left you?” Walking quickly to the bed, she bent and picked up a folded paper lying partly under the ruffled valance.

“Let me see it!” snapped his lordship.

She handed it to him and watched as he read it

“She’s gone to Ireland with that creature!” he said, anger mingling with another emotion he refused to identify. “Well, good riddance. Of course I’ll have to make sure she really gets there, and doesn’t turn up in Brighton or Paris to dishonor my name further!”

Bennet surprised him “Take shame to yourself, Master John,” she said in the very voice he remembered from his youthful escapades. “You’ve driven that poor pretty child right into the arms of the wickedest creature I ever knew.”

“Driven her! She was running to perdition before I ever laid eyes on her—and God knows how many she’s corrupted on her way! I know of two she’s worked on—Randall Towne and yourself! Didn’t I see you with her just a few hours ago, working black magic with her damnable drugs?”

“For shame, sir! ¼Twas a poor bewildered child trying to find herself, and I there to show her, as gently as I could, where her true place was. Look you now, Master John, the ‘damnable drug’ I was giving her,” and Bennet held out the little brown bottle. And I hope the good Lord forgives me, she thought, earnestly, for I know what I know and I’m trying to do things for the best.

Lord John was looking at the bottle. It was empty, dry, and clean.

“I washed it last night,” volunteered Bennet, without mentioning what time.

Lord John stared at it, sniffed, upended it, then threw it in a corner. Bennet was going to chide him for this show of childishness, but a careful look at his face dissuaded her. She had never seen quite that look on his lordship’s face, and she knew enough to be quiet.

Lord John was no fool, and he suspected a trick, but the evidence he had, pointed to the truth of Bennet’s analysis of the situation. After a minute’s thought, he glanced at her. “If Lady Nadine has in truth gone to join Donner, I shall have to follow and make sure she is safely settled at Brionny Keep.”

“You’ll surely not leave her ladyship in that creature’s care?” protested Bennet.

“Of course not. I’ll give the woman over to the nearest magistrate for trial, and then set up a decent couple, man and wife, to look after her ladyship. I planned to do so all along.” He turned away wearily, to meet his valet who was hurrying along the hall. “Well, Paget?”

“Everything you ordered is in train, sir. Your breakfast, your traveling coach, your luggage packed and stowed in your coach, the tickets for the Irish Mail will be here by the time you’ve eaten, and a maid has her ladyship’s tray prepared—” He broke off to look past Lord John to Bennet standing in the center of the room.

“Thank you, Paget. You have been as efficient as ever,” said Lord John quietly. “Her ladyship has already left. I shall be meeting her at the dock.” His face was calm and imperturbable, as was Paget’s, but Bennet wondered with a sudden pang how many times Lord John had had to make just such quiet-voiced excuses, and to whom.

“Lord Peter and Mr. Towne are here, milord,” said Paget. “I asked them to wait in the morning room. Shall I tell them you are engaged?”

“No, I’ll see them,” said Lord John heavily. He turned to look over his shoulder at his nurse, and tried to smile. “Thank you, Bennet. You’ve helped me. And thank you for your kindness to—her. Stay here for a few more days and enjoy your holiday. It hasn’t been a very pleasant one so far.”

“God bless and keep you, Master John” whispered Bennet. “And her, too.”

“Amen to that,” he replied huskily, and went down to meet his waiting friends.

Over a breakfast that none of them ate, he shared as much as he had to of the problem which faced him.

“I would not speak of this even to you,” he concluded grimly, “except that I need your help. That devil may not have taken Nadine to Ireland. If she’s not at Brionny Keep, and I have to look elsewhere, I’d be glad of your assistance.”

Lord Peter got up at once. “I’ll go home and pack. Can you spare the time to pick me up on your way to Liverpool?”

“Of course. And you, Randy—will you enquire at the posting houses and at the ports for France? In case she’s gone to Paris?”

“I will,” said Randall, and went out without another word. Lord Peter hurried after him.

Lord John stared at the door through which his friends had gone. Then he put his head in his hands and sat at the table for a long time.