“Indeed,” he replied, commencing to pace before the fire; a well-made young man, with the quickness of his wits readily upon his face. “Her ladyship is damned by the evidence. Only the maid might have saved her — by admitting guilt, or throwing it upon another — and the maid is dead.”

“This would seem to be Sir William's happiest point,” I observed. “For he would have it that the Countess dispatched Fitzroy Payne to slit Marguerite's throat, precisely because she could incriminate her mistress.”

“I have been to see the Countess in her cell,” Cranley told me.

Fanny shuddered audibly, and her mother cast her an anxious look.

“Mr Cranley,” Madame said reprovingly, “should not you conduct your business with a gentleman of the family? Such words are not for the ears of young ladies gently bred.”

The barrister immediately looked his remorse, and allowed as it was true; but I intervened with decided purpose.

“Being both less gently bred, and less youthful, than Miss Delahoussaye,” I said, “I should dearly love to discuss the Countess's case.” Madame looked her outrage, and summoned her daughter with a gesture; and so the ladies departed, and left me in command of the room.

“How was she?” I asked Cranley, when the doors had closed upon them.

“As might be expected,” he replied, with becoming solicitude. “Her ladyship is in the lowest of spirits and possessed of little hope; and nearly driven mad by the disreputable conditions in which she is lodged. The Earl bears it somewhat better; but he is a gentleman in any case, and would face any misfortune with as much equanimity as he might the greatest blessing.”

“A more accurate description of Fitzroy Payne I should not have managed myself. You have captured his essence.”

The young barrister regarded me sombrely. “You are convinced of his good faith in denying these charges?”

“I am.

“I would that the Countess were equally sanguine.”

“I know that she doubts the Earl,” I began, in a faltering accent.

“Doubt’ is hardly the word to describe her feelings. I should say the Countess is convinced of his lordship's guilt.”

“That is Trowbridge's doing,” I replied, with discomposure. “He has worked to divide them at the moment they most require support, for the mere pleasure of seeing their ruin.”

“Trowbridge? Lord Harold Trowbridge?” Cranley was all amazement. “How can he be involved in this?”

“Wherever evil is done, he appears like a sort of mascot.”

“But how has he worked upon the Countess?”

I began to tick off the scoundrel's methods upon my fingers for Cranley's edification. “He has informed the Countess of the new Earl's insolvency, and of his dissipation — in ways that to her have been convincing. Fitzroy Payne is in want of money, and she now sees his indebtedness as a motive for murder; worse still, she believes him to have deliberately incriminated herself in both the killings. She had hoped the Earl would use the power of his considerable fortune to defend her Barbadoes estates against the predatory intent of Trowbridge himself — but in this she has been bitterly disappointed. Fitzroy Payne has no fortune to lend. And finally, Mr. Cranley, Lord Harold has revealed to her the existence of Payne's mistress.”

Cranley's countenance was puzzled. “And why should such a woman concern the Countess?”

I hesitated. “My dear sir,” I said, “as an intimate to all our affairs, you cannot be kept in the dark. And you shall hear it soon enough in London's drawing-rooms, I fear. The Countess believed herself the beloved of Fitzroy Payne, while still her husband's wife; and though she assures me that no impropriety of action occurred between them, the impropriety of such sensibility shall convince the public of it in very little time.”

“This is a bad business,” Cranley groaned, his hands on the mantel and his head hung towards the fire; “as bad as ever it could be. Neither of them has a witness to their actions at the time of the maid's death; the Countess was alone in her rooms, while the Earl was walking about the Park, as he freely said. Neither can explain how the handkerchief came to be near the body or the scrap of paper on it. And now Lady Scargrave is so mistrustful as to cast suspicion on every one of the present Earl's actions.”

“My poor Isobel,” I said slowly; “all her faith is blasted.”

“Certainly not her faith in you,” the barrister replied, brightening somewhat. “She charged me to share my counsel with Miss Austen, in the belief that I should benefit from the same.”

“I wonder at her confidence,” I replied. “But for me — had I destroyed the note and secreted the handkerchief — the Countess and Fitzroy Payne might yet be at liberty. She has every reason to hate me.”

“I doubt she should have escaped suspicion in any case,” he rejoined, “when Sir William is so fiercely opposed to her cause.”

Indeed, Isobel's life seemed destined for misery. “What do you intend to do?” I asked Mr. Cranley.

“I hope to find the murderer before the day of the trial,” he answered with determination, “and present the case for his guilt as my charges’ best defence. For you know I shall have no opportunity to attack the edifice Sir William shall build. He shall do his best to make the walls of guilt seem thick and high.”

“I shall bend my best efforts in a similar vein,” I assured him, “and share with you any discoveries I might make. But if I might offer a word—”

“Anything, Miss Austen.” He drew a chair forward, the better to attend to my words.

“Sir William is sure to urge the notion that Fitzroy Payne was desperate for funds, and that his circumstances left no recourse but the murder of his uncle. Can not you find some facts to the contrary? Others in the family must have had equally pressing motivation; and yet they did not fall under suspicion. And then there is the matter of Lord Harold Trowbridge.” I told him briefly how that man had benefited by Isobel's misfortune.

At that, the dinner bell rang; time had flown, and I had not even dressed.

“God bless you, Mr. Cranley,” I said, rising and extending my hand. “I shall do everything in my power to aid you. But I would ask of you a favour.”

“You have but to name it, Miss Austen.”

“Convey me tomorrow to the Countess's cell. I would know better, by my own eyes, how she fares; and Fitzroy Payne as well.”

“Newgate is no place for a lady,” the barrister said, his doubt in his voice.

“Fiddlesticks!” I cried. “You know very well, Mr. Cranley, that visiting the condemned has become a sport for the best society. If Newgate is fit enough to lodge a Countess, it is fit enough for me to call. I shall expect you after breakfast.”

Chapter 17

The Hothouse Flower

2 January 1803

LONDON'S AFTERNOON FOG CURLS NOW BEYOND Scargrave House's many windows, blotting out the forms of carriage and horse as they pass in the street below. There is a like obscurity in my soul, a darkness bred of too much sadness; I have spent the better part of the morning enshrouded in perpetual night, in the depths of Newgate prison. That I rejoice in my deliverance from that place, I need hardly add, but for my heartache at leaving Isobel a prisoner within its walls. But I carry something of Newgate with me still, in the grime and odour of its interior, which sits heavily upon my person.

I have ordered a hot bath, the better to rid myself of the unwholesome stench. Part refuse, part excrement, part human despair, it is noisome, indeed; and I was driven so wild by the foetidness during my return in Mr. Cranley's coach, that I barely stopped at Scargrave House's door to shed my pelisse and bonnet before hastening upstairs to my room. That the Earl's smart Town butler, Simmons — as unlike poor Cobblestone in his youth and vigour as Scargrave House is to the Manor — detected a certain ripeness in my scent, I little doubt, from the curling of his nostrils as I entered; he held my outer garments with the tips of his exquisitely gloved fingers, and hastened to pass them to a housemaid, with a frosty injunction that they should be “brushed.” Brushed, indeed! A se'nnight's immersion in hot lye and ashes would be unlikely to rid them of Newgate's pollution. But I had dressed in my oldest things, foreseeing how it should be; and could hardly lament the loss of so small a part of my wardrobe in such a cause.