I dare say that my words are peevish and cross — and I recognise my demon, jealousy. To have Fanny Delahoussaye's fortune and looks, and hone of my own sense and wit, would be an unbearable exchange; but when I see her ready assumption of marriage, her effortless reaching towards that estate, I must own that I should like to stand in her place for a few hours together. I cannot know what it is to be beautiful and possessed of easy means; my conquests have ever been made against the better instincts of the men in my acquaintance, a tribute to my lively mind and good humour. But what woman is willing to accept such a victory as this, unmarried as I remain, in the face of good looks and fortune?

Later that day

I HAD NOT BEEN IN THE SITTING-ROOM AN HOUR WHEN a footman appeared with a summons from Isobel. I hastened to her side.

“Dear Jane!” my friend cried, reaching a white hand to me from her chaise longue; “I begged you to remain at Scargrave, only to desert you for the comfort of solitude. I fear I have made a sad hostess.”

I glanced around Isobel's bedchamber in some surprise; in this room, at least, Scargrave's musty ghosts were banished. In anticipation of his bride, the Earl had refurbished the apartment with elegance and taste; its furniture was light and pleasing, fresh paper graced the walls, a fire burned brightly in the grate, and the image of Frederick, Lord Scargrave, gazed down upon his wife from a gilt frame above the mantel. A book and a saucer of tea stood companionably on a table at Isobel's side; all was quiet and order. I understood, now, her unwillingness to appear in the chilly rooms below. But the comfort of her boudoir had done little to raise her spirits; indeed, an unaccustomed languor spoke from every limb, and by her ravaged looks, I knew sleep had escaped her these few nights past.

“Never could I reproach you in such an hour” I said, dropping to the floor at her side. “Do not trouble yourself about me. Your nearest relations have been at pains to ensure my comfort. But tell me, Isobel, how may I be of service to you? May anyone hope to relieve such melancholy as this?”

“Jane, do not tempt me to thrust aside my sorrow,” the Countess replied bitterly. “It is the last honour his wife may offer poor unfortunate Frederick.” She turned her eyes upon the hearth, her red hair undone and hanging in a curtain about her face, and suffered in silence a moment. Then she sought my hand with her own and gripped it fiercely. “But to melancholy, dearest Jane, I fear I must add a greater burden. And in this, I fondly hope, you may indeed be of service.”

My aspect was all curiosity.

Isobel handed me a slip of paper. “This misbegotten note arrived by the morning post. I hardly know what it is about; and I would have your opinion.”

The letter bore Isobel's direction, was sealed with such cheap wax as the taverns provide, and written remarkably ill.

“There is no signature,” I said.

“That is not the least of its oddities.”

“Putting aside, for the moment, the accusations it contains,” I said, glancing at Isobel over the paper's edge, “we must endeavour to learn what the note itself may tell us. It is clearly written by a person of the serving class, on common paper with cheap ink; a person of little application in the art of writing, to judge by the formation of the letters, and for whom English is not the native tongue. From the tenor of the message, we may conclude that the author is of French origin; the word soupçon, inserted for suspicion, being the strongest indicator. From the reference to the Saviour, I must infer that the writer is female, and probably of the Church of Rome — for a man is hardly likely to be so pious when accusing his mistress of murder.”

“Jane!” Isobel exclaimed, sitting straighter on her chaise, “you have managed marvellously! I might almost think you wrote this letter yourself.”

“Indeed, I did not. But I may venture to guess who did.”

“By all means, share your apprehension.” My friend's voice trembled with eagerness.

“Your maid Marguerite,” I said soberly. “Have you seen her since this letter arrived?”

The Countess's face was suffused with scarlet, then overlaid with a deathly pallor. “I have not,” she answered unsteadily. “Marguerite attended me this morning and has been absent ever since. I assumed she felt all the burden of this unhappy house's misery, and would leave me to endure it in solitude.”

“I fear she had worse in train.” I glanced at the travelling clock on Isobel's mantel; it was close to the dinner hour of five in the afternoon, and the December dark had already fallen. “We shall not find her in the neighbourhood by this time.”

“But, Jane, what can have caused Marguerite to charge me with such cruel deceit?” Isobel's warm brown eyes filled with tears. “I, the murderess of my husband! It is impossible!”

“She does not lay the blame upon you alone, my dear,” I said slowly. “There is another to whom she refers.”

“The tall lord,” Isobel said, faltering. “It must be Trowbridge she speaks of.”

“To what purpose?”

“To what purpose is any of it?”

“She cannot have been thrown very much in his way,” I said reasonably.

“Indeed, she has not.”

“Then, my dear, we must consider her as indicating another.” My tone was brisk, but I awaited the effect of my impertinence with some trepidation.

There was an instant's silence as Isobel sought my meaning. Then she raised her eyes to mine with perfect composure. “Fitzroy Payne?” she said.

“I think it very likely. He is more of the household, and thus more likely to have encountered the maid.”

“You may have the right of it.” The Countess's fingers worked at the fine lace of her dressing gown, as though by sorting its threads she might untangle this puzzle. “It is like Marguerite to add the small aside of Fitzroy having ‘looked through her.’ I more than once observed her make the gesture against the evil eye when his gaze chanced to fall upon her; she mistrusted grey hair in one as yet young, and avowed that it was the Devil's mark.”

“Was the maid so susceptible to fancy then, Isobel?”

“Marguerite was ever a superstitious, foolish child, the result of her island upbringing.” My friend's eyes met mine, and her gaze was troubled. “I suppose the violence of my husband's last illness has given her some misapprehension, which, with time, has become a terrible conviction of evil.”

“Undoubtedly the case,” I said gently, “but the result may be no less injurious to your reputation and well-being, Isobel. The maid threatens to inform one Sir William. And who is he, pray?”

“Sir William Reynolds,” Isobel said. “The magistrate.”[15]

“Not Sir William Reynolds, formerly of the King's Bench?”

Isobel shrugged and looked bewildered. “I cannot undertake to say, Jane. The man is a stranger to me. Have you known such a gentleman?”

“Indeed, and all my life,” I declared with eagerness. “The barrister I would mention is a dear friend of my father's — the acquaintance having been formed while both were yet unmarried, and but novices in their respective professions. Though the name is so very common, my Sir William and yours may be strangers to one another. Has he been resident very long in the neighbourhood?”