“Are you quite alone, then, Duchess?” Eliza enquired, her voice all concern, and bent to clasp the beringed fingers she was offered. “I have brought you my favourite sister[38], Miss Austen of Bath, only recently arrived in Town. She has been intimate these past weeks at Scargrave Manor; where I believe your dear brother recently visited as well.”

“Harry?” the Duchess said with some asperity; “I cannot pretend to know whose houses or whose beds Harry has visited last. But I am obliged to make your acquaintance, Miss Austen, and to see you none the worse for your recent encounter with my brother.”

All amazement at her vulgarity, I murmured something in reply, and took the seat the Duchess offered.

“Now,” she said, settling her hands comfortably, “you must tell me all you know of the scandal.”

“The scandal?” I said, affecting ignorance.”

“Regarding Scargrave's death,” she returned impatiently. “Is it true the young rogue who was his heir has been enjoying the favours of the Countess?”

It was plain that the Duchess felt complete frankness to be her reward for admitting me to the elevated circle of her acquaintance; and my discomfort must have shown on my face. I knew not what to say. Matters of such a delicate nature should not be tossed about for amusement; and yet, I had come for just this sort of information myself. Eliza rescued me.

“My dear cousin is an intimate friend of the lady,” she murmured, leaning forward to offer the full force of her charm; “and Your Grace cannot expect her to betray a confidence of so serious a nature. But I am under no such compunction; and I may relate that the Countess and the present Earl are even now locked away in Newgate prison. They were brought before the Assizes soon after Christmas, and remanded to the House of Lords for trial.”

“No!” the Duchess said, slapping her hands on her lap; “and Bertie” (by this I took her to mean her husband, the Duke) “will have to hear it in the Lords. How extraordinary! We must send for Bertie at once. For I am certain the trial shall not be long postponed.”

“Indeed, it is to be scheduled among the first items of the new session's business,” I ventured. “His Grace is not in residence?”

“Lord, no,” she replied. “He and Trowbridge have been over in Paris nearly a fortnight, about some wretched business with the West Indies trade. I begged off at the last moment — can't abide Buonaparte, you know, nor that slattern he calls his wife. Intelligence is not her strong suit, and her taste in clothes—”

“How adventurous of His Grace,” Eliza broke in. “Very few of his countrymen should risk a trip to France, when hostilities have been suspended so little time.”[39]

“I am of your opinion, and told the Duke the same. ‘If that upstart invades while you are away, my dear,’ I said to Bertie, ‘you shall be thrown in prison, and I shall retire to the country.’ Of what worth is a concession to trade with the French Indies, when the word of the dictator cannot be trusted? They should content themselves with trading among good English subjects alone. Buonaparte has tried to strangle the flow of British goods, but he shall not prevail while we hold our colonies in the Caribbean.”

“How refreshing to hear politics discussed by a lady,” Eliza murmured, with an ecstatic look; “and how I envy your husband's chance to visit once more that unhappy country! It will live forever in my memory as the most poignant, and beloved, epoch of my past.” She looked down at her gloves, and managed a tear; the Duchess was instantly all sympathy.

“How could I be so cruel as to remind you of such horrors! Forgive me, my dear — and you, too, Miss Austen.”

“And so Lord Harold went directly from Scargrave to Paris,” I said. “He cannot, then, have learned of the Countess's recent misfortune.”

“Indeed, not,” the Duchess said, “but I shall write to Bertie directly. Neither he nor Trowbridge would wish to miss the event, of such importance to the peerage.”

“I fear; Duchess, that we must leave you now,” Eliza said tearfully, as though overcome by bitter memories of the past; “but we have so enjoyed our little visit.” She rose in a manner that suffered no protest, extended her exquisitely gloved hand, and turned for the door, myself in her wake.

Behind us, the Duchess rang a bell, and at the door's silent opening, we were pleased to find a footman waiting to conduct us to the street. Without a guide, I am sure that even Eliza should have wandered lost about the corridors, surveyed by Wilborough ancestors scowling from their frames.

Once freed of the oppressive rooms, with their weight of conscious elegance, my cousin breathed a sigh of relief. “Poor Honoria is an unfortunate old frump,” Eliza said, mounting the carriage step in a swirl of green silk, “but she told us what we desired to learn.”

“And in exchange, we may expect her to trample Isobel's name in all the best houses,” I rejoined. “I must suppose it impossible that Lord Harold murdered the maid, however, as he was clearly abroad at the time; and so must look to others for the Countess's relief.”

“It is not beyond belief, you know, that Trowbridge dispatched a cutthroat in his employ,” Eliza mused, smoothing her shawl as the coachman shut the carriage door behind us. “A man of his power and means could do so from anywhere in the realm, at any moment.”

“Possible, but unlikely,” I said thoughtfully. “He should then have to trust to the man's secrecy until his own return from Paris, and trust is a quality quite foreign to Lord Harold's nature. I think 1 must consider others as more likely.” I turned to her with renewed concern. “Eliza, does the memory of France pain you so much?”

“I shall never cease thanking Fate for throwing France my way,” she said, as the carriage wheels began to roll. “By going to the guillotine, the Comte did more for my future than he can possibly have appreciated. He has saved me from many a bore in recent years, and so his death was not entirely without purpose.”

I RETURNED TO SCARGRAVE HOUSE TO FIND FANNY DELA-houssaye and her mother entertaining a young gentleman by the name of Cranley — a barrister, no less, but suffered to pollute Fanny's presence in deference to his new duties, they being the defence of Isobel and Fitzroy Payne. He rose with alacrity at my appearance, and bowed low over my hand; a fellow possessed of a cheerful and open countenance, and the aspect of a gentleman.

“I understand you are intimate these many years with my honoured opponent,” he said to me.

“Sir William Reynolds? He has long been a friend to the Austen family.”

“And an enemy to every hapless criminal before the Bar,” Cranley rejoined with spirit. “Though Miss Delahoussaye offers it as her opinion that he is, perhaps, now past his best efforts.”

I saw with impatience the sheep-like look of admiration he cast Fanny's way; she had wasted no time in enslaving the poor man to her charms. She was dressed this afternoon in a gown I confess I coveted — black and white striped silk, with braided frogs. When I had expressed my admiration, however, she had declared it to be hopelessly out of fashion and suitable only for wearing before the family. I did not dare think what her opinion of my own attire might be, and forbore to praise her finery the more.

“I should never underestimate Sir William,” I told the barrister, as Fanny coloured and looked conscious; “even at less than his best, he is decidedly very good. But that is not what you would hear, Mr. Cranley, and I should speak more to the purpose. Tell me what you would know.”

“Does Sir William believe himself secure in her ladyship's guilt?”

I settled myself in a chair by the hearth — the carriage ride from Wilborough House had been quite cold — and removed my gloves and bonnet, handing them to the maid who waited by my side. “As secure as he need be,” I told the barrister. “You know that he must only prove a case in the minds of the assembled peerage, to see the Countess hang.”