“I had not been long abroad when it became clear to me why Madame had fenced with me so guardedly — why, indeed, a port attached to the property should be so valuable. She had nothing less in train than the betrayal of the British Navy — and she intended to be paid for it twice. Having bartered the port to me, she should as readily offer it to Buonaparte — and trust that the French Navy should discourage any thought I might have of pressing my claim. I returned in haste to England, intending to play her like a fish until she should betray enough to incriminate herself; and she very soon waited upon me at Wilborough House, to learn my decision. She had a new impatience about her that I judged to arise from fear; though what had caused her to become anxious — when the trial of her niece was so nearly achieved, and my own suspicions so closely guarded — I could not comprehend. But I have since learned from Mr: Cranley that you, Miss Austen, precipitated her unease.”

“Though I fixed upon her too late, and lacked any proofs,” I admitted.

“And but for her attack upon you, we should still lack them,” Sir William told me.

There was a rustle from the corner, and all our eyes turned to the murderess. She struggled with her bonds, her glittering eyes fixed upon me. “Meddlesome girl!” she cried. “But for you I should have prevailed! But I assure you, Miss Austen, I regret nothing I have done, except my failure to dispatch you earlier.” Her eyes shifted to Sir William and she smiled cruelly. “You think yourself very clever; old man, in catching me; but we both know who the clever one has been. It was who charged the maid with poisoning the Earl, and then slit her throat to ensure her silence; and you were susceptible to my diversions — the handkerchief, the note in Payne's handwriting — and charged others with my crimes.” Madame let forth a piercing laugh. “How I rejoiced, alone in my room at night! You were fools, all of you. My discovery came about by the merest accident. That I failed at the last makes not a whit of difference — in affairs of great moment, one wins or loses by the cast of a die.”

“As your patron Buonaparte undoubtedly taught you,” Sir William said dryly, “knowing that in the end, it was you, Madame, who should hang; and he who should survive to play at dice another day.” He turned to me and patted my hand, his aged brown eyes gaining something in their warmth. “Lord Harold's words might have brought a charge of treason against this lady, my dear Jane, but they should not have solved for us the unpleasantness at Scargrave Manor. For that, we needed you. I only regret that you endured such peril to achieve your Countess's freedom.”

I knew not what to say, and so took refuge in my dearest concern. “Isobel shall go free?” I enquired, looking from one man to another.

“On the very morrow,” Sir William assured me, “and Fitzroy Payne with her.”

A feeling of exquisite joy overwhelmed me, and I closed my eyes a moment; but of a sudden, I looked for Mr. Cranley. “Poor fellow!” I cried. “To be denied your day before the House of Lords!”

“It might well have been the ruin of my career,” that worthy said wryly, “for I certainly had no defence to offer.”

Chapter 25

Jane's Afterword

20 March 1803

No. 4 Sydney Place, Bath

I HAVE HAD NEWS TODAY FROM SIR WILLIAM REYNOLDS, OF Madame Delahoussaye's trial before the Assizes only a few days past; the proceedings were brief, as expected, and she has been sent to her Maker this very day. I should feel a depth of pity for her, had she not stood by with complete equanimity while Isobel faced a similar fate; and there is the image of foolish Marguerite Dumas, grimacing horribly in her unlooked-for death, that will not depart from memory. The snow is falling today, late in season, and I am cast back afresh to the dusky shed in the paddock, and the dark blood pooled in the straw; and though I think Madame well departed from this life, I offer a prayer for her eternal soul.

I have recovered fully from my own misadventure; the marks on my throat have faded; and I have determined to avoid all proposals of marriage in future, in the fear that my refusal should precipitate another spate of killing at some country house or other. The rest of the Scargrave party are not so sanguine; and like every novel of manners written by my contemporaries, this story has ended in marriages all around. Poor Fanny Delahoussaye was the first to assay that happy state — she ran off to Gretna Green with Mr. Cranley while her mother still sat in Newgate prison, and now publishes the news of her expectant condition with hardly a blush. That she had vowed never to marry a barrister, is happily banished from her mind.

Mr. George Hearst received a handsome Scargrave living under the terms of the late Earl's will, which he has effectively traded for one in Newcastle. He has repaired to the north with his Rosie, who bids fair to make an excellent curate's wife with a bit of schooling and gentle attention.

Though Fitzroy Payne is restored to Isobel's good opinion — and in so decided a manner as must make her blush with contrition and shame — he and the Countess are not yet joined in matrimony. The wounds of their past experience remain too raw. There is the weight of public opinion to be braved as well; for though they are saved from the noose, and all the indignities suffered in the weeks before their trial, they remain the object of much speculation. Isobel has retreated from society altogether, while the Earl devotes his attention to securing a suitable overseer for his estates in the West Indies. He has embarked on a plan of visitation to that region in May, and urges Isobel to accompany him; and my friend has not yet told him nay.

Isobel remains in her late husband's London house, the bitter memories of Hertfordshire and Scargrave Manor being as yet too strong. She is freed of her debt, as Lord Harold said, having received from that gentleman a large package of cancelled notes a few days after her liberation. The knowledge of her aunt's betrayal, against the extent of Frederick's goodness, has made my friend sober and sad; but she is young, and possessed of wealth and beauty, and cannot forego living for very long. With time, and forgetfulness, I believe Isobel shall find happiness again in the parity of Fitzroy Payne's mind and youth.

And Lord Harold Trowbridge? A curious man. To have held his high esteem — as I clearly did — is an honour I only understood when our acquaintance was at its close. He is everywhere misunderstood, mistrusted, and disliked, except by those who need his services; but he commands a fearful respect. I have said in the past that I should rather spend an hour with the notorious than two minutes with the dull; and my taste is proved again to be unerring.

I have here a letter penned in Trowbridge's hand—To the light angel—that contains a single phrase only. My dear Miss Austen, it says, we may take this as a lesson: It required a woman to divine what a woman had wrought.

THE END